But he had a duty to warn them about what they were up against.
Tony slumped against a road sign as he passed it. The cold bite of his own blood vexed him along with the chill of morning air. Somewhere down the line he had dropped both his rifle and handgun, and he was now armed with only a knife. Any demons would have an easy time finishing him off, but it would probably be unnecessary. He was bleeding all over. His neck was torn along the collarbone, the skin flapping. A second wound bled on his chest, deep and painful. He located various other cuts on his face and shoulders, hands and wrists, but it was his chest and neck that worried him most. If he didn’t find help, he would eventually bleed to death or die of infection. He needed a medic, or enough supplies to take care of it himself.
He lifted his bloody hands and saw that they were shaking. He tried keeping them still but failed. For a moment, he feared he wouldn’t be able to walk again, but once he got one foot in front of the other he was able to move at a steady pace.
It would take him a week to walk to Kielder, or longer. As much as he loved a good hike, he didn’t think he could make this one. Even if his wounds were taken care of, he was too weak and vulnerable alone in the open. He needed transport, but driving was a reckless pursuit, prone to dead ends whenever the wreckages grew insurmountable. The safest and easiest route was always through the countryside – fields and country lanes. The problem with that, however, was that most vehicles – if you could even get one running – couldn’t cope with the terrain. Tony thought about trying to find a tractor or a Land Rover, but then he suddenly found something even better.
A village came into view ahead. The very first building he encountered was an old social club. Two wooden picnic tables stood out front, broken pint glasses littering the pavement at their feet. Propped against one of those wooden tables was a ‘scrambler’. The British Army always used to keep a few of the lightweight motorbikes around the bases for fun. They were quick, nimble, and small enough to lift whenever the terrain got tricky. They could get you up a mountain or across a shallow river. The lone scrambler outside the social club was like a gift from the gods.
If the thing starts.
Tony limped over to the motorbike and lifted it away from the table. He wondered who’d left it there, and imagined a young lad seeking safety at the social club. That the motorbike was here suggested the young lad’s body might be inside the building. Tony would need to find it in order to get the key.
Except the key was in the ignition.
“You’re joking me?”
Whoever had parked the bike had been in too much of a rush to care about removing the key. That person had probably died months ago, but their actions had given Tony a chance of making it to safety.
He turned the key.
The whiny engine came to life. Tony angered it by twisting the accelerator. The scrambler was alive – and ready for an adventure.
Tony’s vision blurred, and he had to wait for it to pass. Once he was sure he wouldn’t keel over, he straddled the small motorbike and kicked it forward into a roll. The engine throbbed between his thighs, growing warm. Despite the heat, Tony shivered. He was still losing blood and he was now in a race against time. If he drove all day and into the night, he might make it to Kielder in twelve hours. That was if he encountered no demons, no impassable obstacles, and didn’t bleed to death en route.
“I always did like a challenge,” he muttered to himself, and laughed grimly. “On your marks, get set…”
Tony twisted the accelerator and took off, leaving Portsmouth a doomed memory behind him.
They had fifty men. It wasn’t enough, but if Mass could strike at the right targets quickly enough, he might be able to convince any responding forces to stand down and join him. From his early morning inspections, conducted from the roof of an empty warehouse, there seemed to be an equal mix of Thomas’s and Wickstaff’s people. The problem was that the men with the guns were all Thomas’s. Wickstaff’s loyalists had been disarmed.
The women from the farm had all been fed and housed, surprisingly by the opinionated old fisherman named Mitch. He’d also helped Mass and the others remain hidden while they took a breather. Mitch was a fool with a thoughtless mouth, but he was apparently kind at heart. The women were safe, but Mass suspected they understood the dangers ahead as well as anyone. Crimolok and his army was headed for Portsmouth. The fight was coming. At least for now, the women could enjoy some food and warmth without the fear of assault. If Mass had achieved nothing else, he had at least given them that.
Tox came through on his promise of being connected. The men in charge of the area’s stockpiles were indeed his friends, and they had offered Mass and his people as much food and drink as requested, including booze. It would be insane to get drunk, but Mass allowed himself one beer. He’d earned it.
Damien stood on the rooftop nearby, so Mass approached him. “Anyone spotted Wanstead yet?”
General Wanstead was, according to Damien, in charge of Portsmouth during Thomas’s absence. That made him their number one target. Mass didn’t savour the thought of assassinating someone, but he knew it might come to that. It very much depended on the kind of
