Tide of Souls, page 15
"I've been fucking shot, you Jock dickhead."
He was OK. I inspected the wound. "You're lucky. Just a crease." For the second time that day, I broke out a wound dressing. "Get Hassan to take a look when his brain's unscrambled."
He nodded. Lightning flickered through the cockpit canopy; a roll of thunder followed.
"Fuck," said Mleczko at last. "What a cunt of a day."
We all stared at him for a moment, and then I began to laugh. It was a jagged, wild sound. Chas was laughing too, even Parkes. Only Hendry didn't join in; he just looked at us from over the bodies of his friend and of his CO, and we fell silent.
"Sorry, Sir." I said at last.
He just shook his head and slumped into the vacant seat beside Cannock.
I smelt burning. I remembered what I'd seen outside and suddenly I knew. I leapt outside and stamped on it.
"Fuck. Fuck!"
"Sarge?" Mleczko was jumping down, followed by Chas.
"Robbie?" Chas came over. I'd fallen to my knees beside the remnants. "What's up?"
"I'm an idiot," I said. "A total fucking idiot."
"What?"
Despite the rain, only a few charred scraps were left. Paper.
Tidyman's face earlier when I'd asked him about the location. Surprised, as if I should've known. No fucking wonder. "He had this all along. Probably in his pocket. And I didn't even think to look."
Chas seemed to click. "Oh shit!"
"What?" Mleczko looked from one of us to the other.
"Windhoven's location. Just my guess, but I'd put money on it. It was right under our noses all the time."
A mad part of me was glad of it. Opt out, drop out, fuck them all off and piss on their chips. But that couldn't be allowed, not now. For better or worse, like it or lump it, I was a soldier again. I was back in command.
There was a groan from inside the Chinook. Stiles sat up, rubbing his head.
"Fuck..." he said faintly. "Anyone got an aspirin?"
"Obviously, Sir, you're in overall command here now." Hendry's fingers fidgeted around the glass. I sat with him, Chas and Ged in the farmhouse kitchen.
"Squadron Leader Tidyman put you in control on the ground, Sergeant. Until we're airborne, I see no reason to change that. Quite frankly, I wouldn't know where to start."
"Thank you, Sir." I turned to Ged. "We can set up barricades on Pendle Row - slow them down if they come back in any numbers. And all around the island," because that was what it was now, "as well."
Ged nodded.
"For the time being, I've posted lookouts, and the Landrovers will make regular sweeps of the area. We'll get stuck in tomorrow. We'll need to evacuate the houses on Pendle Row, move the occupants elsewhere, maybe use some of the farmhouses -"
"Make yourself popular," chuckled Ged.
"I can live with that. Pendle Row's the front line. We'll use the Inn as an OP, put one of the Minimis there. Install a permanent lookout on the Hill - that way we can monitor the whole area for signs of attack. We'll need help from your people too - there's a lot of ground to cover. We'll give you fellas some basic training on the SA80s and Minimis."
"You sure that's wise, Sarge?" Chas's eyes flickered to Ged. "No offence, mate."
Ged shrugged.
"We need any defenders able to use any available weapons. We'll keep the Gimpy and the blooper mounted on the Dinkies -"
"You what?"
"Sorry, Ged. The general purpose machine gun and the grenade launcher mounted on the Landrovers. We keep them in reserve at a central location, so if the shit hits the fan, they can go straight in to do some heavy fucking duty back-up. Make sense?"
Ged nodded. After a beat, so did Chas. Hendry sipped his drink.
We talked a bit more, and that was it. Ged rose, nodded and made for the door. Hendry got up to follow, then hesitated. He waited till the door had closed behind the big man, then glanced from me to Chas. "Er - a word, Sergeant?"
"Sir."
"In private?"
Chas shrugged. "I'll be through there." He went through into the front room.
I turned to Hendry. "Sir?"
"Sergeant... I just wanted to say, my report on what's happened here..."
Fuck.
"I'm going to put in it that Squadron Leader Tidyman was killed in action. By the creatures."
"Sir." Something more seemed to be called for. "Thank you."
"I don't know if any of his family will have made it. They all lived in London, you see. His wife, their children, both his parents."
"Christ."
"I know he didn't... handle the situation well, but I served with him, and he was a good man. Better than you saw. He deserves to be remembered... well, you know."
"Sir." It wouldn't be the first time a few white lies'd gone in a report. And if it kept me clear of a court-martial, I wasn't complaining. "Appreciated."
Hendry nodded and went out. Chas came back in. "What'd he want?"
I told him. Chas picked up the whisky bottle.
"Go on, then."
He passed me a glass. "You reckon they'll be back?"
"What do you think?"
He pursed his lips and nodded. "I think they'll be back."
"Aye. Me too." We clinked glasses. "So what do you think?"
"I think we can hold out here a while. Till we can get out to Windhoven. Wherever it is."
"And if it's still there."
"That too."
"You don't sound too enthusiastic about it."
"I don't like the idea of leaving the villagers in it."
"Think I do?"
"But you'd do it."
Chas leant forward. "We have a job to do, Robbie. You know that. Like it or not."
"Yeah."
"Look, it's not like... it's not like that time."
Sand blowing across the desert road. The fading echo of the rifle shot.
"No?"
"No. We'll be training them up, maybe even leaving them some kit. They're not gonna be left in the lurch. They'll make out."
"You reckon?"
"Yeah, I do." But he didn't meet my eyes. Then he looked up and grinned. "Did a good job today though, anyway, Jock."
"Sergeant Jock to you, grotb -"
Outside, there was a shout, then a panicked yell, and then a shot.
"Fuck!" I bolted for the door. Behind me, Chas yelled my name, feet thumping on the floor.
I burst outside and nearly cannoned into Hassan. A body lay at his feet, the top of the head gone. It wore combats, although you could barely make them out under the filth.
"The fuck happened here?" I heard Chas yell.
"Just came at me, Corp -"
I flipped the body over. Alf Mason stared back up me with dead, clouded eyes.
We'd buried him in a grave at the far end of the meadow - him, Tidyman and Cannock. But here he was.
The other two had stayed where they'd been put. For them, at least, it was over.
Chapter Fourteen
The next afternoon.
Parkes had been trying to raise Windhoven on both the contact and distress frequencies, but got only static in response. The sky was thick with dark cloud. The storm had passed for now, but a couple of times lightning flashed far off in the distance, and a faint crack of thunder would roll in.
Stiles was huddled in a corner of the farmhouse's living room with a microwave lasagne, a dismembered bread roll, and a can of Special Brew, avoiding eye contact and rocking to and fro. He hadn't spoken, except to request food or alcohol. If I'd expected a fount of wisdom, I'd be disappointed. But if the powers that be had been convinced about him, they'd have a sent a full platoon, maybe a company. More likely some senior brasshat or MOD bod had thought of him at the last minute.
Still, I did my best. "Dr Stiles?"
He took a gulp of beer.
"Doctor, I need to know what's happening. We were sent to fetch you. Please. What is it you know?"
He took another gulp of beer.
I kept trying. After a while he started to hum tunelessly. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked to and fro. Sweat slicked his forehead. When I tried to speak, he hummed louder. I gave up. After a few minutes, he stopped, unwrapped his arms, and drained the can. Then he breathed out, looked into my eyes and said: "Can I have another one, please?"
The food situation wasn't so bad. As well as having stocks of it in the village, we were in farming country, with plenty of sheep, chicken and cows, plus wild rabbits. Most of the animals had survived, so we weren't looking at starvation just yet. On top of that, we had provisions of our own.
For now, though, the locals were using up frozen food before it went off. Result - large amounts of stews and casseroles were being knocked together. So at least it'd be a while before the freeze-dried Army rations came into play. I still had nightmares about the shepherd's pie. In the first Gulf War, the Yanks had called their rations MREs. Officially, it stood for 'Meals Ready to Eat'. The troops preferred 'Meals Rejected by Ethiopians'.
I decided to climb the Hill and scope out the terrain. Tidyman had had a pair of field glasses, which I'd appropriated (Shiny Kit Syndrome again.) Besides, it might be fun.
Jesus fucking Christ!
If I'd thought I was out of condition before, I knew it beyond doubt after making that ascent. The path up the Hill facing Barley was practically vertical.
The climb took me twenty minutes. By the end of it, my leg muscles were howling and my lungs felt sandblasted. I sat down at the top to enjoy not being in agony for a minute or two, then stood and got out the field glasses.
Visibility wasn't great, with a thick mist rising off the water spreading out in all directions. Fells rose clear of the surface, a scattering of islands. How many were populated? I remembered the folk waving to us as we flew in. Did they have guns? Would that be enough?
If I hadn't already killed Tidyman, I would've by now for not warning us about the bites. Alf might not be dead if we'd known that. Taken precautions. At least we knew now.
Still, now we knew it took more than just dying to turn you into a nightmare. It was the bite; the bite or the water.
God knew what in the water. I looked down towards the meadows. In the distance, I could see the nearby reservoir. It should be usable. All the same, I'd given instructions that all drinking water be boiled before use.
But what about the water the animals drank?
Not a productive line of thought.
Still, in a way I was starting to enjoy myself. Other people's problems are always easier to deal with than your own.
I looked across the hilltop, saw someone standing by the thick white stubby plinth of the trig point. I was reaching for my P226 before I realised who it was.
I walked over. "Levene."
"Sarge."
"Anything to report?"
"No Sarge." Stupid question; if there had been my PC would've been quacking like Daffy Duck.
I handed him the field glasses. "These might come in handy."
"Thanks, Sarge." He looked out towards the village. "Sarge?"
"Yes?"
"Something to report."
"What?" My hand on the gun again.
"There's a boat out there."
"A fucking what?"
"A boat. There, see?"
He passed me the field glasses. I focussed in. There it was. Small. A dinghy. In the waters off Barley Road. Two occupants. Both women. One was rowing hard, wrenching at the oars, her back to me. Trimly built, chestnut hair in a bob-cut. The other lay slumped across the floor of the dinghy, feet propped on the stern. I couldn't see her face. She was very small, slender. A child?
Also, very still.
The dinghy shifted in the swell, turning side-on. The girl's head lay in the other woman's lap. I zoomed in. Her face was grey. There was a crudely-dressed wound on her arm. Then the other woman was turning the dinghy so her back was to me and the girl's face was hidden once more.
I felt something cold move inside me. "Got your radio?"
"Sarge."
"Alert them down in the village."
By the time I reached Pendle Row, I could hear screaming. As I ran in, gunshots rang out. Fully automatic fire. Parfitt, with the Minimi. Mleczko and Hassan running from the Pendle Inn, Billy in their wake. Andrews and Akinbode ran down the Row - later they told me they hadn't been able to get a clear shot at the girl through the hedgerows along the roadside. I waved them all back.
The dinghy bobbed, abandoned in the water. The woman lay huddled near the top of the road, crying out as bullets ricocheted about her. Behind her, the dead girl thrashed on the tarmac. I yelled up at Parfitt.
"Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fucking fire!"
I ran in. The dead one was still making sounds. I aimed at her. She stared back, frothing blood, eyes ablaze. She was just a kid. Had been.
One shot. Dead centre in the forehead. Her head snapped back. Her body went still, a last, rattling breath escaping in a sigh.
I remembered the live girl and spun to aim at her. Checked there were no bites. Safetied the gun and helped her up, led her back towards the village.
Not straight away, though; the woman insisted on stopping to look at her friend's body. Never a good plan. Just gives you bad dreams.
Believe me.
We took her back to the farmhouse. Hassan checked her over and pronounced her in reasonable health; Jo sorted her out with a change of clothes.
She wove a little as she went, still cold and shivering, and I reached out to steady her. She shrugged me off. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I don't need any help. Which way is the toilet, please?"
She went off fast, not looking back. There was an outbreak of sniggering from Hassan and Parfitt at the bottom of the stairs, who'd wandered in to cop an eyeful, not to mention Billy, who'd wandered in after Mleczko, gawping and giggling. I ignored them and got some stew reheated for her.
Stiles was still rocking in his corner. Now and again he'd grimace, as if at a twinge of pain, or cock his head as if he'd heard something. He was cradling a bottle of gin and taking nips from it. When not doing that, he'd roll another cigarette from the tobacco tin he'd dug out of his filthy jeans.
When she came down, her face was scrubbed clean and her hair tied back with an old shoelace. She mumbled a thank you when I handed her the stew. Otherwise she didn't speak.
Parfitt and the others were still eyeing her up. "Shouldn't you be at your posts?" I demanded.
"Sarge," said Mleczko.
"Well shift your bloody arses, then. Now."
The door bumped shut in the wind, Katja looked up. Glanced sideways at me, and smiled for a second. I felt a warm flutter in my chest.
"Try to eat something," I said to her quietly. "Keep your strength up. You've been through a lot."
Her head snapped up. "How the hell do you know what I've been through?"
I noted her accent for the first time. Eastern or Central European. I had to admit, I liked it. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes bright, her hand shaking.
I leant back in my chair. "I think we've all been through a lot, last couple of days."
She glared a moment longer, then nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry." She said it awkwardly, looking away, chin up. I thought of a cat, proud and territorial.
"Forget it. I'm Robbie McTarn." I didn't give my rank. Time was, it'd've been second nature. I stuck out my hand.
She saw it and smiled, maybe despite herself, then shook. Her skin was smooth and soft, but her grip stronger than most women I'd known. "Katja Wencewska."
"That Polish?"
Her eyes narrowed. Shit. Maybe she'd been an illegal before the flooding. "Just asking," I said. "One of ours is called Mleczko. Polish family."
"Ah." She nodded. "It's Polish. I grew up in Romania. A long story."
And clearly not one she planned to tell. Fair enough. It hardly mattered now.
She ate. At first she was forcing herself but before long she was doing it with real hunger. I wasn't surprised. I didn't know how long she'd been rowing for when I'd first seen her, but from the speed and fury she'd been putting into it, it must have taken its toll.
There was only silence in the room, except for her eating and the odd little noises from Stiles's corner. So as she ate, I told her my story. Some of it anyway. I didn't tell her about the desert road. I don't tell anyone about that. But I told her about the redcaps coming to my door, why we were here, and what had happened - Tidyman, the nightmares attacking.
Katja put down her fork and looked over at Stiles. "What is it that he knows?"
"Search me, hen. No-one saw fit to tell us, and he's not talking." I felt anger flickering up in me suddenly. "One of my men is dead, plus one pilot -" I didn't mention Tidyman because I couldn't care less about the sod "- and the whole reason for the operation sits on his arse stuffing his face and getting pissed. Isn't that right, Stiles?"
He flinched. He'd been looking in our direction; now he looked away.
"Please don't." I looked at Katja. "It's not his fault," she said. "I know it's difficult, but he didn't ask you to come."
"Difficult? You don't know the half of it, hen."
"I know more than you might think. My father was a soldier. Special forces, yes?"
I nodded.
"So I know something of it."
"And what about you?"
"What about me?" She met my gaze full-on.
"What happened to you?"
She didn't speak for a few seconds. Then she shrugged and forked more food into her mouth. "I survived," she said. "Just me. That's all."
Stiles had stopped fidgeting. He was looking over at us both. At her.
As I turned back to Katja, he spoke.
"They're calling me," he said.
"Who?" I asked. He didn't react. He was staring at Katja.
She glanced at me, then back at him.
"Who?" she asked.
"The voices. The souls. All the dead."
He wouldn't say anymore than that. He just stared at her, and her back at him. I don't know what he saw there - more than just a pretty woman, I'm sure of that - or what she saw in him. But after a moment, she went to sit with him. Waiting for him to say more.
