whispered in the faint breeze. Robert took in the view, breathed in the sweet air.
He looked down at his hand and found something in it. He was clutching a brightly-coloured ball. Robert frowned as he examined it more closely. There was a barking to the side of him. Now Robert saw Max, waiting for him to throw the object. Robert pretended to toss the toy for him, laughing when the dog began to scamper after nothing – then he threw it for real.
'Fetch!'
The ball swerved off to the side and landed in the lake, but it didn't matter: Max happily jumped in after it and started to swim. Clamping the ball between his teeth, the dog paddled back to the bank and clambered out. Max shook himself, spraying lake water everywhere. Laughter filled the air. But it wasn't Robert's.
A young blond boy held up his hands to shield himself from the deluge. He was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over. Robert froze.
'Stevie?'
The spray continued, as did the laughter. All Robert wanted to do was join in. He was moving forwards, virtually running towards the boy, who was pulling the ball out of Max's mouth, preparing to toss it into the lake once more. The boy brought back an arm, then let go of the object. It spun in the air, catching the sunlight for a moment, and Max was after the thing before it had time to hit the surface. The blond boy laughed hard again when Max finally splashed into the lake.
Robert was drawing near, only metres away. 'Stevie… Stevie, is that really you?'
'Read to me some more, Dad… please…'
But he could see subtle differences now. As the child turned, the cheekbones were slightly less curved, the brow more stooped, shielding green eyes. This boy was a bit older than his Stevie, as well.
Robert's mouth formed the name, but he couldn't say it out loud. Mark…
No, it couldn't be. Because if he acknowledged that this was the boy he'd met at the market, then so many things were wrong with this picture. And yes, as soon as he'd thought it, Robert saw Mark pointing out across the lake. Except it wasn't filled with water anymore.
Max was bobbing up and down, ball now in his mouth – but he was swimming in a lake of fire. The flames lapped at the dog, but he didn't seem to be taking any notice.
'Max!' screamed Robert, rushing to the bank. The heat from the rising blaze drove him back. The dog, however, was still swimming towards them through it all – its fur all but burnt away, patches of blistered skin clearly visible.
Robert expected to see the men with the flamethrowers at the edge of the lake – surely they must be the ones doing this? But no. Instead, he saw the vague outline of figures, could hardly make them out, except for the fact that they were holding weapons of some kind.
One of them began walking across the surface of the lake, the flames hardly touching him. The man was wearing sunglasses, grinning madly as he approached. He pulled out a pistol, his fingers covered in rings, and aimed it at Max… Except it wasn't the dog anymore, it was something else. Something with antlers…
That didn't seem to matter because the man fired three times without any hesitation, blowing it away.
Now gunfire turned the scene into a war zone. Flashes from across the lake. Robert ducked, turning to see if Mark was okay. The boy was crouching, hands covering his head, tears streaming down his face.
Robert gritted his teeth. 'No. No, I can't. I've got to go…' he said.
'Wait… please… please help…'
Robert turned and began walking away, his back to the scene, to Mark. 'I've got to go. I've got to go…' he kept on repeating, then finally: 'I'm sorry.'
'Help us!' The boy's cry followed him, but Robert had to ignore it. Yet could he? Could he just walk away? Robert began to turn.
There was one last loud bang and Robert jerked awake, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He sat up under the shelter of his home, a much improved and portable version of his original lean-to, adjusting back to reality. Robert inhaled more slowly, reaching for the water he kept by the side of his bed of grass and leaves. He drank greedily.
It had been the same dream – or a variation of it – ever since he'd visited the market, seen Mark. Robert never used to be able to remember his dreams, but out here they were so much more vivid, more intense. The boy had looked just enough like Stevie to affect him, like seeing a ghost made flesh. And now this. If he'd thought he might be going insane before, then this was putting the finishing touches to it.
He would have been lying if he'd said he hadn't thought about going back again. It wasn't that far, and it was almost a fortnight since the last market – he'd marked off the days on a fallen branch, the only time he'd ever bothered to keep a track of the time. He'd stayed away the first week but it was almost Wednesday again, almost time. He could trade some of the meat he had, some of the better meat – there were things he'd seen there that he could use.
Again, he wrestled with his conscience. How could he allow himself such luxuries when his family… If his stay in the woods and the forest was his penance, his time to wait before joining them, why should he make life easier for himself?
He shouldn't. He couldn't.
Yet there was Mark. All Robert could think about was the boy asking for, pleading for his help. It was only a dream, but it felt so real.
Robert put down the water and lay back again. He wouldn't sleep now, he knew that – but dawn wasn't that far away.
He just hoped he could hang on till then.
The market was busy that week, but there was something missing.
Bill Locke knew most of the regulars by sight and there was a stall that was conspicuous by its absence: one that offered fruit and veg, mainly. Sometimes it would be manned by the woman with auburn hair, sometimes the fellow with glasses, sometimes a vicar. Bill didn't know their names because they preferred to keep themselves to themselves, which was fair enough. He wasn't in charge here, after all. Nobody was. This was a free and open market – he just liked to see that things went smoothly, that's all. Keep the peace. It was a little foible of his. Bill guessed that people saw him as the boss because he'd been one of the first to set these markets up, but it seemed pretty logical to him, just an extension of what he'd been doing for years.
It was rare that he'd have to break up any trouble, though. Only minor disagreements about what things were worth. Usually it could be resolved, especially when Bill stepped in, the very sight of his shotgun enough to make people agree on a reasonable settlement.
Apart from the missing stall, everything was relatively normal – the same faces, the same names. Like Mark, the kid who scavenged in the cities and towns for items to trade. He was good at it, too. There was a part of Bill that felt sorry for the lad, left all alone in the world. But Mark was getting by, the only way they knew how. He was the next generation, the ones that would grow up in this world, whatever shape it would eventually take. He was learning early, that was all.
Mark caught him staring, smiled, and offered him a sweet from a bag he was chomping his way through.
'Those things'll rot yer teeth,' said Bill, but took one all the same. 'Better off eating some o' that beef or pork over there.'
Mark pulled a face. 'Next you'll be telling me to eat my greens.'
Bill laughed softly. 'Cheeky bugger.'
The boy stiffened, and at first Bill thought it had been what he said. Then he could see that Mark was attuned to something he couldn't yet perceive.
'What is it?' asked Bill, but then he heard the engines himself. The people with the fruit and veg stall, maybe, showing up late? was his first thought. But they tended to arrive in an estate car. This was the sound of more than one engine.
Before anyone knew it, the motorbikes were in the field – at least a dozen of them, churning up the grass. The open-top jeeps followed next, handling the soft terrain with ease, men hanging from the seats, carrying weapons Bill hadn't seen outside of pre-virus news reports about the troubles abroad.
'This is an illegal gathering,' came an electronic voice, some kind of megaphone system attached to one of the jeeps. 'By order of your new lord and master, High Sheriff De Falaise, all goods here will now be confiscated. Resist, and there will be serious consequences.'
