Kamiyo heard Philip grunt and realised someone had struck him in the back of the head. He tried to turn back to get a look, but the man behind him poked the gun into his back. “Keep moving.”
“We are men of peace,” said Aymun.
“Ye’ll be men in pieces if ye dinna shut up.”
They moved through a well-ordered warehouse filled with pallets of food, drinks, and… beer! Christ, they had pallets and pallets of beer, wine, and spirits. Kamiyo almost drooled before they pushed him out of a set of open double doors and into the dimly lit aisles of the supermarket. He wasn’t even a big imbiber but getting rat-arsed sounded quite splendid after so long without an emotional release.
The shelves of the supermarket were only half-full, and after a moment’s inspection, it became clear that all the perishables had been removed. Everything else had been organised fastidiously. These people were efficient and careful. That was why the outside was so neat and tidy. It hadn’t added up earlier, but now it did. Most places Kamiyo had ransacked on the road were scenes of riots and demon attacks. Few places remained in order like this. The people here had taken care of the place. It was their home.
There were about two-dozen people, grizzled strangers with faces like battered shoe leather. These people were survivors like Kamiyo and Aymun, not fortunate bystanders like those back at the castle.
“Wow,” said Philip. “Look at this place.”
Kamiyo scanned the crowd, trying to find a friendly face. “How many of you are here?”
His captor kicked the back of his knees and sent him to the ground. “Shut it! Any questions will be coming out of my mouth, not yours.”
Philip and Aymun were forced to the ground as well. Kamiyo did what he was told and said nothing. He did, however, try to take in as much detail as he could. The first thing he noticed was the smell of bleach on the hard-wearing floor.
Then he took in the survivors. They were a mixed bunch—men and women both, and a few infants, but there were no teens or preteens. They all wore clean clothes and were visibly healthy and well-fed. The supermarket had obviously provided well for them. Despite their easy living, however, there was a weariness to each of them that betrayed past ordeals. They glared at Kamiyo with an undertone of violence. Tribalism. He wasn’t one of them, and people who were not one of them were a threat to what they had. They were Iraq sitting on a stockpile of oil, and he was America.
The man who’d been holding a gun to Kamiyo’s head stepped out in front of him now. He was handsome and strong, with forearms covered in tattoos. His head was shaven, but he wore a thick beard.
“Where did ye three come from?”
“Nowhere,” said Philip. “Why are you doing this?”
Philip’s indignation wouldn’t get them anywhere. Kamiyo took a quick scan of the group, counting numbers and weapons before taking a calculated risk. “We came from a camp in the forest. There are sixty of us.” A calculated exaggeration.
“Don’t tell them anything!” Philip shouted.
“It’s okay,” Kamiyo gave the strangers a subtle smile. He noticed one of them was heavily pregnant. “These are good people, like us.”
“You dinna know shit about us,” said the man with the gun. “So, where’s this wee camp I’m supposed to believe ye have?”
Philip grunted. “Dr Kamiyo. Don’t!”
“Kielder Forest Park, right near here. It’s at the activity centre.”
“I know the place,” said the gunman, taken aback. He ran a thick palm over his bald skull. “There are really people there?”
“Yes! Good people. We’re all staying at the cabin by the lake.” Kamiyo saw Philip’s expression change as he realised he wasn’t giving entirely accurate facts. He seemed to settle and go along with things after that.
“Well, we might be neighbours, but this stuff is ours.” The gunman turned to some others standing behind him. “Tie em up and lock ‘em in the offices. If there’s another group, it might come in handy having some of their people as prisoners.”
Philip leapt to his feet. “No way. We need to get back. There’s going to be an atta-”
The bald gunman head butted Philip and sent him to the ground bleeding and moaning. At the sight of his companion being hurt, Aymun leapt up and tackled the gunman, knocking him backwards on his heels. Not willing to stand by, Kamiyo got involved too. He launched from sitting, and took the gunman around the thighs, lifting him up and sending him crashing onto his back. Kamiyo landed on top and smashed the man in the face with his elbow. Quickly, he was able to snatch the pistol out of the man’s hands.
“No one fucking move!” Kamiyo bellowed, turning the gun and pointing it in the bald man’s bleeding face. All in all, he was pretty proud of himself.
No one moved. Aymun helped Philip off the ground.
The elbows to his face had rattled the bald man, but slowly his eyes stopped rolling about in his head, and he was able to focus again. Then he cracked a smile and broke into laughter.
Kamiyo didn’t understand. He shook the pistol in the man’s face to show this was no laughing matter, but then he realised something was off. The weapon was light, not heavy like he would expect a chunk of metal parts to be. It felt hollow, and as he stared at the barrel, he saw it was not jet black like it first appeared to be, but streaky with flecks of orange showing through from underneath. The gun had been painted black.
“A wee toy,” said the bald man, still lying underneath Kamiyo. “A wee squirter.”
Kamiyo raised his fist to hit the man in the face, but arms wrapped around him from behind and dragged him away. The
