This man was more infuriating than all of his ex-wives put together! Henrik didn't even give him the thirty seconds. He just slipped back inside and fired off a high explosive shell into the woods, hoping to obliterate the insolent fool, but also clearing some space for them to enter. 'Forward!' he shouted to the driver, who reluctantly obeyed.
The hulking thing trundled into the woods.
I will teach this man a lesson!
Henrik would knock down or blow up every single tree in this place to get to him if he had to. He swung the 120 mm gun around and was just about to load up another shell when…
Suddenly there he was, the fellow with the hood, standing ahead of him, bow over his shoulder. He was holding something in his hand, something small and round, like a ball. Henrik watched as the man drew back his arm and tossed it at the tank. It hit the front and bounced off, rolling underneath the Challenger. He felt the explosion, though it didn't rupture the shell of the tank. Damn him, he must have taken grenades from my troops! 'Forward!' Henrik yelled to the driver, but the tank was going nowhere. The explosion had clearly disabled the treads.
When he peered through the smoke all he could see were trees.
The bastard had left him little choice but to come out now, to kill him the old fashioned way. But Henrik didn't intend on using his fists. Picking up his machine gun, he opened the hatch and stuck his head out, mindful again of the fact that the man could very easily fire off an arrow. He scanned the area. If the hooded man so much as moved anywhere within sight, he would be dead.
Henrik was aware of something above him in the treetops, something big. A figure. He ducked back down into the hatch, gun poised and ready to fire upwards. An object dropped into the tank, hard and round. He was still about to fire when his mind registered what had just happened. Henrik's eyes grew wide and he let go of the rifle, scrabbling around for the grenade that had just been tossed inside.
'Fetch!' he heard the man shout as he dropped. The hatch slammed shut. Henrik could hear the driver's voice shouting something, but he wasn't listening – he was still looking for the grenade, not caring that he didn't have the pin, nor that he couldn't toss it out of the top anymore…
There it was!
Henrik was actually reaching for the thing when he realised it was too late; he'd taken too long, there was no way he would survive. Just before the explosion came, a phosphorus blast that would set off all the ammo and cook the entire inside of the tank, the cigar fell from Henrik's open mouth, one of the few times he'd ever been without one in his adult life.
And, it was safe to say now, the last.
Bill and Mark finally made it down the field.
Even from a distance they could see the smoke from inside the woods, curling up into the air. On the outskirts the bikes were left abandoned, one jeep limping off at a snail's pace with maybe three or so people inside it. Of the tank there was no sign, but they could both see where it had pushed its way into the green.
'Judas Priest!' whispered Bill as they drew even closer. 'Better wait out here, lad.' Mark was having none of this, and Bill had to admit he'd earned the right to see how this thing had played out. They both had.
So, following the trail of the Challenger's tracks, they made their way into the wood. It wasn't long before they came upon the remains of the metal beast. Bill made the mistake of opening the hatch at the top and looking inside.
'Trust me, ye don't want to see in there,' he warned Mark before the boy got any ideas.
'It's over,' said a voice from behind them, 'there's nothing to see here.'
Bill and Mark spun around, and spotted Robert.
'Sound like a copper,' commented Bill.
'Go home. It's over.'
Mark was still looking from the tank to Robert, but the man was trying desperately to avoid his gaze.
'They'll be back,' Bill told him. 'If this De Falaise thinks he's lord of the manor. And there'll be a lot more folk needin' help, an'all.'
'Go home,' Robert repeated and began to walk away, into the trees. Something Mark said made him stop.
'What home?'
The man in the hood, with his back to them, hesitated only briefly. Then he blended in with the green.
CHAPTER EIGHT
De Falaise stood on the balcony, hands on the rail, and surveyed the city below him. There was a glass information plinth – cracked, but still quite readable – which told him exactly what he was looking at, or the major landmarks at least: The view from Castle Rock, south to west, from what had once been the Inland Revenue building, disused now, to Wollaton Hall. Built for Sir Francis Willoughby in 1588 (the year of the Spanish Armada's defeat), that was almost as saturated with history as the site on which he stood.
De Falaise's initial explorations of the castle and its grounds had taught him much about this place, all of which had earned his respect and confirmed that it was the best location he could have possibly chosen to mount his takeover.
Surprisingly, the castle had been left relatively untouched by those still alive in the City. As expected, there had been some vandalism – such as spray paint on the side of the castle and various colourful phrases inscribed on the wooden doors that opened into the main souvenir shop, as well as defacement of the busts that guarded the door. Lord Byron would definitely not have been happy that they'd turned him into a buffoon with a moustache and a red nose. And the vandals had done some damage inside, too, beginning with the shop – its contents strewn about the place: books about the castle shredded, plastic figures torn from their packaging.
Once it was ascertained that nobody was in residence, De Falaise had insisted on taking his initial tour alone. The ground floor contained the remains of a museum. Glass cabinets that housed examples of metalwork, ceramics and woodwork, had been smashed, their contents tossed aside. Security grilles over the windows in the shape of branches and leaves remained intact, but ironically useless since the doors had been breached. In one room De Falaise discovered a children's mural depicting an ark, which asked 'Can you Help Noah Find The Animals?' There were bloodstains smeared over the simplistic paintings of a horse, lion, elephant and toucan.
Similarly, the exhibition called simply 'Threads' had been ravaged, the clothes from various centuries broken out of their cabinets and tried on, then discarded as if part of some high street shop sale. Dummies were on their sides, some headless, some stamped on till they were flattened.
But it was on this level that De Falaise also found one of his favourite rooms, containing items from the history of the Sherwood Foresters Regiment. The glass cabinets here had been broken into, as well – presumably so that people could reach what they thought were working weapons inside. Upon finding they were either too old, or merely replicas, they'd left them behind. De Falaise was surprised that they'd also left the rather lethal-looking sword bayonets and knives, but then he had no way of knowing how well armed the people who'd broken in here had been. If they'd already had guns, they probably wouldn't have felt the need for such close combat weaponry.
He'd noted that the case containing the book of remembrance had also been smashed, the book itself thrown on the ground. De Falaise had stooped to pick up the tome, placing it back where it should be, when his eye caught a pair of dummies wearing full dress uniform: red jackets, white shirts, bow ties and cummerbunds. They were standing in front of a couple of silver cups, worthless now. But, if nothing else, this reflected the more civilised side of war. To the victor, the spoils, thought De Falaise absently, making a mental note to come back and check what size the uniforms were.
Parts of the wrecked cafe could be salvaged and used as a mess hall for the men – though as their numbers grew this might have to be reconsidered. In the South Hall he found the long, regal-looking stairs, the white banisters dirty and the grey steps chipped. There were torn posters for an exhibition on the upper floor, which must have still been running when the virus struck Nottingham. De Falaise gazed up at the images showing historical characters who may or may not have existed, but had become legend. The exhibition was all about the latest TV
