Wanstead cleared his throat. “You are fine men, and I’m grateful to have your assistance. I trust you’ll direct your people wherever they are needed, Mr Mass.”
Mass cricked his neck and took a step towards Wanstead. “You and me have issues left to discuss, but first we need to survive. We’re on the same team for now, and I’ll be doing whatever I can to keep Portsmouth standing. You make sure you do the same, Colonel.”
Wanstead nodded, showing neither fear nor offence. “Until later then, Mr Mass. Good luck. Truly.”
The colonel took off, barking orders into his radio. Mass grabbed Smithy and pulled him towards the walls. Together, the two of them raced over to a tatty white Transit van and climbed up on top of it, and then onto the wooden pallets piled on top. Peering over the walls was disheartening. Thousands of demons teemed throughout the ruins surrounding the docks. They leapt over abandoned vehicles and emerged from dark alleyways. Men and woman fired from the upper windows of several buildings, inflicting massive casualties. More explosions lit up the distance. It was like the storming of the beaches in World War Two, thought Mass, except they were the Germans and the demons didn’t care about losses. There was no way to damage the enemy’s morale. They would just keep coming.
And the Germans always lose.
The fighting was too far away for Mass’s and Smithy’s shotguns to have much of an effect, so the two of them just stood and watched for now, biding their time. So far, Portsmouth had the best of the fighting. Machine-gun fire rattled off across the city and rifles cracked in their hundreds. Demons screeched and wailed in agony. Already their bodies littered the rubble. What concerned Mass was the darkness beyond the docklands where the searchlights faded and night took over. What existed there, beyond what they could see? Another thousand demons? Another ten thousand? A million? And what of Crimolok? Where was the ancient beast responsible for every single death during the last year? Was it watching Portsmouth fall? Or was it coming to crush it with its own hand?
“Hey,” said Smithy, pointing, “is that Rick? I was wondering where’s he’s been.”
Mass looked towards the nearby ruins. There, Rick strolled casually towards the demons. He raised his hands and threw out a bolt of pure white light, striking the centre of a car park a hundred metres away and obliterating a dozen demons. The few parked cars almost tipped over from the blast, before dropping back down and bouncing on their suspensions.
“Not bad,” said Mass. “Wonder how long he can keep that up for. Do angels get tired?”
Smithy frowned at him. “You really think he’s an angel? Then why is he alone? Why didn’t God send a shitload of them to help us out?”
“Politics,” said Mass. “I never understood it before and I don’t understand it now.”
“I hear that.”
They watched while Rick continued his onslaught, throwing out bolts of light and sending pieces of demons up into the air. The rifle fire was endless, a constant drone, and the larger guns shook the earth. Demonic screeching howled throughout the city, and a biting wind billowed against the buildings and the people.
This truly is the end of the world.
A primate leapt out of a nearby alleyway within shooting distance. Mass felt a jolt of adrenaline and called out, “Mine!” He aimed his shotgun, pulled the trigger, and the primate flew back into the alley with a screech. It re-emerged a moment later, peppered bloody but still able to move.
“Let me finish the job.” Smithy shoved Mass’s shotgun away and lifted his own. He aimed, fired, and the primate’s skull splattered the wall behind it.
Mass huffed. “I weakened it first.”
“This ain’t a jar of pickles, dude. I just owned your ass.”
“It’s gonna be a long night. Don’t do a victory dance just yet.”
Smithy replaced the cartridge he’d just fired and shrugged. “Fair enough. It’s one–nil, then. Ready to play?”
Mass shouldered his shotgun. “Hell yes.”
13
All great leaders suffered defeats. It was taking those defeats and turning them into victories that sorted the great from the mediocre.
This is my Dunkirk. A necessary defeat.
The enemy had handed Thomas a sound defeat, but he had fallen back with a thousand of his men, ready to fight another day. Disaster was behind them now. D-Day lay ahead. Victory would come.
This isn’t the end. It’s merely the end of the beginning.
Thomas estimated that the thousand men following him through the fields, combined with the fifteen thousand remaining in Portsmouth, gave him every chance of defeating the enemy. They would stand behind the walls and repel whatever came. The only challenge would be getting these thousand men home. This land had become enemy territory.
The enemy were everywhere, all along the roads and teeming through the countryside. Thomas sought to avoid fighting whenever he could, but it was unavoidable at times. His men had used most of their ammunition pushing their way towards Portsmouth, and they had been moving at an almost constant run, knowing that the bulk of the enemy was still behind them. If they could travel quickly enough, they could make it back to Portsmouth without being cut off from safety. Scant few miles remained; they had been rushing across the landscape for the last three hours. It was possible the enemy was yet to reach Portsmouth, but the more Thomas saw demons on the road, the more he knew it was unlikely to be true.
The enemy army that had attacked Winchester was large and cumbersome. There was no way it had moved faster than Thomas and his men, which meant there was time to warn Portsmouth and prepare for war. Thomas estimated five or six hours before the bulk of the enemy’s forces reached the city. He could be there in two.
Tony was right. We should have fallen back.
Self-doubt plagued Thomas, and he kept picturing his former
