Broken Arrow

North-East, away from Nottingham and all the memories it held, good and bad.

Bill had really thought things would turn out differently after the fight for the castle had been won. He and Jack began taking care of things while Robert recovered — again, Bill hadn't been the one in charge, merely gave that impression to old and new recruits alike. For a while everything was okay, until The Hooded Man was back on his feet, dishing out the orders. And for some reason — Bill couldn't for the life of him work out why — Robert had decided to just lock up all the weapons that they'd confiscated from De Falaise's troops. Now they sat in the caves, rusting away, when Robert's men could be using them to really make a difference: to keep the peace, just as Bill had done with his shotgun at those markets. It stood to reason, didn't it? At least it did to Bill. But could he get Robert to see it? Could he bollocks.

There was no way he was staying after their last bust up — too many things had been said in the heat of the moment, including Robert still laying the blame for Mark's capture at Bill's feet. How long was he supposed to go on punishing himself for that? Okay, he'd cocked up — but he'd thought the boy would be safe enough with a whole group of armed men looking after him. How was Bill supposed to know that the Frenchman would begin rounding up people to execute unless Robert turned himself in? Mark had forgiven him, hadn't seen anything to forgive, really. So why couldn't Robert?

'One of these days ye goin' to come a right old cropper,' Bill had shouted at Robert. 'An' I hope I'm there to see it.' He'd stormed out of the castle and — bar saying his brief goodbyes — hadn't hung around much longer.

He'd determined to start afresh, maybe see if he could encourage more market networks to start up, if they hadn't already. It had been hard at first, relocating to another area, but he'd soon found out who was who, and what was what. So fast, in fact, it had amazed him. Yes, there were some markets operating, but they were nowhere near as organised or well run as the ones he'd known. Bill recalled visiting one, drawing strange looks from some of the stall-holders (in fact the stalls were little more than things scattered randomly on the floor). They thought he might be there to cause trouble, especially when they spotted his weapon, but he'd soon assured them he meant no harm. 'There's quite a bit o' potential here, if everyone pulls together,' he'd told them.

Word spread, and soon Bill had found himself in exactly the position he hadn't wanted to be: running things. He had a team of personal helpers — no, more than that, they were his friends. Ken Mayberry, for example — a former social worker who now handled timeslots for the markets; chipper Sally Lane, who along with her boyfriend Tim Pearson (he hadn't been her boyfriend before the plague, in fact Bill remembered her telling him she'd been married, but that was happening more and more, people pairing off), they were in charge of location scouting. It was still sensible to steer clear of big towns and cities, just as they'd done back in Nottingham, so venues now included village community centres, playing fields and even some car parks if they were in relatively isolated places.

Bill and his team had set up shop not far from Pickering and had a radio network of marketeers — as Sally called them, though that always made Bill think of pencil moustaches and swashbuckling — that took in a good chunk of the upper east coast. He was managing to keep the chopper fuelled and thus kept an eye on what was happening. They'd branched out recently into ferrying goods up and down the coast, using rowing boats or whatever else they could get their hands on. Bill had even seen one ingenious soul using a RNLI boat; well, it might as well be put to good use.

Bill had heard rumours of the things going on in Europe, men who made De Falaise look like a novice. There were actually a number in France, apparently. Just as long as none of them came over to these shores again…

But that was always a possible threat. And when Bill got a call like the one he was answering this morning, he had to wonder. A lookout at Whitby lighthouse had spotted something coming in across the ocean. Several large somethings to be precise which looked to be separating out. 'Can ye give me any more to go on?' Bill had asked over the crackling static. What came back was unintelligible — had he heard the word ships? — and they'd lost the signal not long after. It was still not a great way of communicating, but at the moment it was all they had, short of smoke signals or semaphore.

Bill had been en route within the hour, though it would take him a lot longer to reach his destination from where he'd been on the other side of the North York Moors. It wasn't necessarily bad news. Perhaps someone was trying to make contact to trade with them? That would open things up even more, make life easier for a lot of people. If supplies in the UK were dwindling, apart from those people were growing or farming themselves, then there was sure to be more abroad, wasn't there?

He had to hold on to that hope, because the alternative was too terrible to think about.

Several large somethings…

Tankers, freighters, ferries?

Or warships?

Inside the cockpit, Bill shook his head. He'd been conditioned to think like that, was letting his past experiences influence him.

(But didn't he still wake up in a cold sweat some nights after looking down the cannon of a tank? Standing there pointing his shotgun at the metal monstrosity which, in his nightmares, had features — pointed teeth and glaring eyes?)

You couldn't go through something like that without it affecting you. Nor could you look on the aftermath of a battle, see the bodies on either side, and not have it haunt you.

(The pain bit into his pelvis now. It felt like that olive-skinned bastard's crossbow bolt was still lodged in there sometimes.)

Wait and see… wait and see.

He did, but as he flew closer to the coast, coming in low as he had done through the city on the day of the castle run, he saw the smoke rising from one particular location. It was a community he knew, had traded with, and the irony of its name wasn't lost on him either.

In terms of line of sight, Bill had the advantage over them at the moment — as the angle down to the bay meant those at the bottom couldn't really see him. Landing quite a way from the upper entrance, the buildings at the top giving him some cover, he powered down the chopper and grabbed his shotgun, tucking it under his long winter coat as he got out to investigate.

He worked his way down the sloping, winding King Street. The picturesque quaintness of the buildings should have been a thing of beauty, especially with the light dusting of snow they had on them at the moment. But Bill was just filled with dread. It was a steep trek downwards — though not nearly as hard as it would be to get back up again — and when he was close enough, Bill saw where the smoke was coming from. Down by the dock of the bay itself. The buildings there — including the white Bay Hotel — had taken heavy weapons fire, scarred black where shells had hit them.

And then he saw the bodies.

Judas Priest, not again!

Who had done this to such a small, inoffensive place? More importantly, why? What had they ever done to anyone, either before or after The Cull?

Bill saw a handful of figures. People still alive. His heart sank when he spotted they were wearing uniforms, grey in colour with fur hats that covered their ears. And they were carrying machine guns. A patrol left behind to guard this spot after… after what? It was obvious from the track marks in the snow leading from the dock, up towards the wider New Road, that military vehicles had barged their way through this village. An army. Another fucking army! Before he could wonder how they'd offloaded the vehicles and men from the sea, then simply disappeared, there was a voice shouting from behind him.

Bill didn't need to turn to know it was another one of the soldiers. And he was drawing attention to the rest with his bellowing.

Both the tone of voice and language was distinctive. Russkies, Bill said to himself. What in the name of fuck's sake are they doing here?

'Turn around!' demanded the voice again, this time in broken English.

Slowly, Bill did as he was told, but at the same time he brought his gun up from under his coat, finger squeezing the trigger even before he was fully around. The loud bang coincided with his first glimpse of the soldier, barely out of his twenties, but hefting a deadly AK-47 that would have cut Bill in half given the chance. The shotgun blast hit the man in the chest, knocking him clean off his feet. Bullets from the machine gun pinged off a wall to Bill's left, the soldier's finger automatically pulling back, but his aim completely thrown.