I hope you’re everything they make you out to be, Mass, because my bollocks are on the line trying to keep you alive.
Hopefully, Diane was busy taking care of things back in Portsmouth, but no matter what happened in the days ahead, Thomas had an army behind him. It would take a lot of effort and luck to bring him down.
And how was Maddy doing? Had she made it to Kielder Forest? Was she still aboard The Hatchet? Was she dead? Tony hadn’t known the woman long – and was under no doubt that she and Wickstaff had been an item – but he liked her a lot. Their brief exchanges had been the only times he’d felt more man than soldier. Maddy reminded him there was more to living than fighting to stay alive.
I hope you’re okay, lass, wherever you are.
The road ahead opened up. Wrecked vehicles cluttered the verge, most likely shoved there by Urban Vampires on prior missions, but the way forward was mostly unimpeded. Because of Mass’s previous hard work, Tony and his men were able to march at a decent clip without any of the fatigue uneven ground would have caused them. Tony considered rustling up a pair of vehicles but then reconsidered. Far easier to track a target on foot, and too easy to miss clues when whizzing by in a vehicle. It would also give his men too much scope to lose their tail, speeding away and leaving Cullen’s contingent in their dust. No, slow and steady would win this race. They needed to comb the land cautiously, seeking signs that Mass and his men had been through this way, as well as searching for the reasons they hadn’t returned. The last thing Tony needed was a demon ambush striking at their arses. They needed to keep all dangers securely ahead if they were to retain the ability to leg it back to Portsmouth.
As if to cement Tony’s concerns, they encountered a demon around the very next bend. It was alive, but injured. The burnt man staggered along the road, right arm flapping uselessly against its hip. When it spotted the humans, it gave a zombie-like moan and called out, “Eat shit. Eat shit. Eat shit!”
The men chuckled. Demons often shouted things or mumbled this and that. In Portsmouth, people laughed about such things while playing cards or sharing a beer. Theories went that the demons spouted memories of their former selves. It made a certain sense. Tony had heard them call out all kinds of things, including a few Latin words, which he was mildly familiar with only because so many British Army mottos employed the language. The old Sandhurst brass had also enjoyed their dead languages, especially to share private jokes between themselves after a night in the officer’s lounge – and usually at the expense of whichever poor squaddie was trying to please them. Tony missed many things, but thoroughbred officers wasn’t one of them. Men should earn their promotions on the field. You had to earn the right to send other men to their deaths.
Tony gave a hand signal to his squad sergeant – a man with thick black stubble named Pearson – and ordered him to gun down the solitary demon. A single shot leapt from Pearson’s rifle and the demon collapsed on the road. No one rushed to check it was dead, but when they passed, Tony gave it a nudge with his boot. The shot had taken the demon right through the heart. Pearson was an excellent shot. Thomas had sent his best men.
Tony looked back and threw up his hand, signalling to Cullen, a hundred metres back, that everything was okay, no reason for twisted knickers. Then they resumed their march, rounding the bend and finding the next stretch of road clear of further monsters. No vehicles littered the verges on this stretch either, yet several dark patches stained the tarmac.
Bodies.
“What do we have here?” Tony muttered. “Stay alert, lads.”
Tony assumed the bodies were human, but once he got closer, it became clear they were actually dead demons, seemingly bludgeoned to death. Had Mass and his men been through here? Who else could have taken down a dozen demons in hand-to-hand combat like this? A bloodstained rock the size of a melon lay nearby.
No sign of Mass though.
Tony scratched at his forehead, peeling off grime with his fingernails. He voiced his thoughts. “Cullen said Mass’s team left armed to the teeth, so why are none of these demons shot?”
“Hey, Colonel, eyes on this!” Pearson pointed down the embankment on the right-hand side of the road. “We’re looking for a bus, right?”
Tony approached the sergeant and peered down the embankment. In a ditch at the bottom lay a muddy white coach. It was lying on its side and its windows were cracked and caked in gore. Bloody smears marked the bodywork and obscured whatever lettering had been printed on the side – the groping of demons trying to get in. Tony told his men to stand ready while they waited for Cullen and his team to catch up. They should see this. A demon named David had said Mass was in a ‘fallen wagon.’ Could this bus be it?
Cullen approached a moment later with his shotgun raised, eyeballing Tony suspiciously. “Everything good?”
“There’s a coach in the ditch. Is it one of your vehicles?”
Cullen peered into the ditch and then shook his head. “I’ve never seen it before. Mass set out in a van, not a bus.”
“The intel we received about Mass said he was trapped inside a bus. I’m afraid this could be it.” He started down the embankment, wanting to check things out further. “We need to take a look.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Cullen, lowering his shotgun.
At
