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Revelations End

STEPHEN TRAYNER

Copyright © 2003 by Stephen Trayner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Limited Release

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I wouldn't be here, typing this now, without the support of my family- my long suffering wife Connie, and my kids who keep life fresh every single day. All of this is done for them more than anyone.

But to two other people I must also give thanks in particular...to Shannie and James- thank you for your support and enthusiasm. Your reactions and enjoyment helped keep this going and pushed me to the end.

So here we are! An exercise in extreme procrastination and no little cowardice on my part to reach the point that has you here, now, reading this book.

My hope is that you enjoy, and stay for the journey still to come; and, if you so feel inclined, invite others to come on the journey too...

So, ready? Good, well turn the page and come on in....
Prologue

They waited.

Space and time flowed and changed around them like swift ocean currents, yet they stood above it all; unmoved, watching, keening for the sign that would unleash them to do their master's bidding.

The planets moved in their clockwork dance, stars flared and died in the dim reaches of the void, but they stood untouched, ethereal and immune to the ravages or concerns of time.

They waited.

Life swam and grew, bred and died, flickering like a candle flame against the deep black of the velvet night. On some untouched plane, the warmth of that life washed across them, their senses turning to its whispering touch, and they moved imperceptibly closer, brushing the veil between existences. They reached out to but didn't touch that warm life; the gossamer barrier allowing only whispers to pass between, a breath to escape and be lost in the wind, leaving a gnawing hunger drawing at their being.

They waited.

Light grew and danced across the blue orbs surface, at first flickering then constant, spreading until the night side glistened like a web caught with the dew of the morning. The air and water were lined with trails of movement, splitting the clouds, linking the landmasses.

They waited

Light diminished. Darkness spread across the globe in creeping tendrils. Blooms of blinding incandescence flared in its wake sporadically before growing blackness smothered them once again.

They waited.

There was no 'I', there was no 'we', there was only existence and patience. For what they did not know, but all were suffused by a surety that they would when it was time. They had served for time beyond reckoning and would serve when time no longer had meaning, and the concept of impatience ran from their being like water, alien and unknown.

They waited.

Another light grew in the void, indiscernible as a pinprick against the black tapestry, and yet this drew them. Larger and larger it grew, its light suffusing even through the veil, imposing on their consciousness with a sense of the truly ordained.

Its impetus drew them closer still, the veil stretching as they were pulled softly towards that other, tantalising existence. As the light brightened, so awareness grew, substance took weight, thought took form, and thought bore consequence.

They waited

'I' was born, became aware of the "We", a host gathered across space and time. The weight of form was flexed, still permeable, malleable... but as the light blossomed and brightened solidity grew. New sensations flowed along new nerve endings, touch registered touch, sight was focused and interpreted.

The veil began to fray, the barrier between planes dissipating.

The light grew stronger. It too gained form, detail, as its perspective diminished. It rolled through the heavens, ribbons beyond imagining stretching behind it, gaseous emissions writhing on the blank canvas. Roaring in silence, it tugged at them, pulling at the new forms containing their being, drawing them through the veil, ripping it asunder.

Time became meaningful

They tumbled in its wake, awkward in their new skins, drawn inexorably towards the blue gem in its path, new-born, powerless. It streaked ahead of them, tumbling mountainous ruin filling the sky. Convergent trails flew at this behemoth; conflagration lit its surface, and it became three- smaller than the whole but with speed unwavering.

Shimmering corona dazzled newly formed and opened eyes. The blue planet grew around the revolving mountain, growing, growing as they sailed closer. A stream of incandescence before them, fire in the sky, before fire lit on the planet's surface in perfect flower, raging winds chasing the clouds from the sky, showing them the prize unobscured.

They surged.

A pounding in their chests, a rushing stream through new bodies, a fire in their eyes to match the deadly bloom below. Purpose unbound. Gathered and hale, they looked on the ground below with covetous sight.

In time they dived to join battle.

Book 1

Abaddon

"...and though we are not now that strength

which in olden times moved earth and heaven,

that which we are, we are.

One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate,

but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield...."

Ulysses, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 1

"How are you thinking of teaching the peasant? Through his ass? You want to tear his ass out, but such anger will grow in his head."

Rasputin

The dust danced slowly in the light falling through the broken roof; languid motes waltzing to the screams piercing the broken window frame. Kane, blinking heavily, was caught mesmerised by the movement, still stupefied by his exit from a brief sleep. The wan, diluted light that marked the day had replaced the deep black of night, and with it the screams, which had dulled to sobs in the quiet midnight streets, had ramped back up in intensity and horror.

The room was dark and small, the _penthouse_ of an old tenement block, lit only by the shafts of half-light peeking through the imperfections of a tired and dying roof and squeezing through the boards over the windows. What remained of the floorboards were warped and dusty with yawning, precarious gaps in some places where they had been ripped up in the past, no doubt laid on a fire for warmth.

A hunt for fresh meat had brought him to this place, far outside his normal territory, completely over estimating his speed and under estimating the route. As such, night had been falling as he entered the area and the sounds of the approaching group had let him know he was in trouble, chilling him to the bone. Half frantic he had run, stumbling and cursing himself, into this block of flats to wait out the night. The screams had followed soon after, but what had been the screams of a few were now the cries of only one.

He knelt silently by the window, wiping the old rifle sight with a chamois before lifting it with a shrug to his eye, blinking the outside world into focus through the gap in the boards.

"Fuck it!", a short whispered prayer against the despair always threatening to bear him down.

From outside, the screams, scratching at his composure, seemed to be deliberately squeezing their way through the broken board as if amplified by the small gap. With a deep soothing breath to concentrate, and a moment's adjustment and slow pan, he brought his nightmare into view.

Arklay Terrace; Not his normal turf; vaguely known in his youth and even less so now. The area now a portrait of random destruction and wanton weeds, of desolation and darkness, which he supposed was now a hallmark of cities everywhere. There, about four hundred yards away, at the end of the street, flanked by piles of rubble and bathed in the cloud of their own breath, the white coats and trims confirmed what he had already suspected the night before- _Monks!_ Thugs: dangerous yes, especially the leaders (the higher ranks that rated a rare car or horse for transport), but most were generally like this lower level bunch, doomsday nuts too drunk or too high to take note that the big event had already come and passed them by.

Shivers chased up and down his spine as he moved the sight slowly, making sure he'd accounted for each member of the group. Nine in all, seven men, and two women which surprised him given their normal proclivities; huddled around a rough and ready fire, struck from debris surrounding them. No horses though, which was a relief. All of them were clearly unwashed and dressed in an assortment of ill-fitting clothes, the only common feature being a deliberate display of white somewhere in the assortment. Weapons were abundant and very much cleaner than the clothing, slung over shoulders or hanging at sides; knives, homemade cudgels and a rare sidearm complimenting a hunting rifle hanging from the garb of the groups 'leader'

Confident he had accounted for them all (high and vicious as they were, they were usually clever enough to stay grouped), he swung the sight back to the one he had identified as the leader. Not from any current overt display of authority, not even from the more modern weapons, but simply the relaxed posture, the air of assurance, the more luxurious white items of clothing that were visibly displayed, and by the large and ornate knife that played in his hands.

He sat at the rear of the group, sensibly ensuring the presence of a solid wall to his rear and the moving wall of his rowdier cohorts in front, seemingly un-interested in anything but the knife passing from hand to hand, its handle adorned by beads and wrappings. As Kane watched he flicked the knife in a feint to his right side, and the resultant piercing scream reminded him once more why he hadn't tried to run from this perch sooner.

A twitch of the sight to the left brought into view the one sight he had been avoiding.

What appeared to be part of an old roof beam stood at an angle against the wall, a large bolt protruding near the top. A short rope hung from this, its frayed and tattered ends tied tightly around two visibly chafed and pale wrists. The arms those wrists belonged too were thin from hunger, the bones easily visible, the skin shivering and blue with the cold and weakness that had probably ended any token struggle she may have put up- ensuring her capture. Lank blonde hair hung close to a face that was thick with dust and grime, the tracks of tears shining like ice in the contrast. Head jerking with the spasmodic sobs that replaced the scream, she contorted herself as far away from the knife as her bonds would allow. Not far given that her feet were immobile, wrapped tightly to the base of the board.

Naked, as he'd known she would be, with cuts and abrasions marring the rest of her pale emaciated frame, her only decoration was the brilliant white sash falling from around her shoulders to her waist, stirring slowly in the breeze, a modicum of modesty for one who no longer cared or would soon need it. At her feet, to complete the horror, lay other remains, unidentifiable now as human, their screams silenced in the dark.

Kane's head dropped, his hair falling across his forehead as he shut his eyes to the scene. He knew what that white sash represented and all that waited for her at the end of that knife.

Too late now for the others, but perhaps...

Reaching down, his fingers gripped the body of his own rifle, knuckles white with tension, the other hand feeding and feeling for the satisfying click as the sight slid into place. He silently and slowly worked the bolt, narrowed eyes confirming the round was still there, chambered, the brass gleaming with an oily sheen in the thin light. Satisfied, he stood, checking his footing as he stepped back from the window, aiming to leave no barrel or tell-tale puff of smoke to betray his position. The sound not an issue as the echoes would bounce through the streets, confusing its origin.

He felt the stock cold under his cheekbone as he shifted his head to see freely through the sight. Supporting arm tucked tight into body, and shoulder forward to fight the kick, he cranked the cross-hairs on the sight, his breathing slow and deep as he tracked the barrel down onto his target.

_Forgive me_.

He exhaled and held the breath, finger squeezing. The report was loud, the flash bright, barrel lifting up with the recoil. Remaining braced he slowly brought the rifle back to its original plane, the cold stock remaining like a stab of condemnation under his cheek. He blinked away tears in the acrid discharge as he tried to focus through the sight again.

The leader of the group frothed in apoplectic rage, at once seeking cover but also angrily pulling and shouting orders at his companions as he danced around, grabbing them off balance and pointing and gesturing to the buildings around. Some loosed fire, and stones, at suddenly suspicious dark windows, any remaining glass adding to the cacophony as it fell, too far away and in the wrong directions to cause Kane any concern.

He ignored it all and instead fixed his eyes on the result of his actions. The blood was unmistakeable; contrasting against the light, snow brushed brickwork, steaming where it fell to the ground in the frigid air. Even at this distance there seemed too much and he gulped heavily to force his gorge back down. Her body now hung limp against the restraints, arms pulled taught as her now dead weight fought with the rope. Lank hair still hung over her face, but the jagged rent in her skull was highly visible, bone ripped away and shattered by the force of the expanding bullet.

Killer!

Sickened, he retreated from the window, spitting in the dust as he did so, as much in self-disgust as an attempt to clear the bile from his mouth. He felt his humanity attempt to retreat to a dark place, the devil at his ear taunting him loudly, and fought to remind himself that at least now she had peace! That his gift had been a better, more humane release than the future tortures that the knife, and all its slow attached rituals, had promised.

Moving assuredly and swiftly to divert his mind, he gathered his belongings, wrapping himself in layers against the cold. He shoved his own pistol securely into place at his waist and locked the rifle tight to his back. That done he stepped through the door of his enforced lodgings, silently picking his way back down the broken stairs and beams to the ground floor. The back exit of the block looked out onto the long stretch of communal garden, mercifully out of site of the evil scene he had been witness too, giving him the luxury of some time to again get his bearings.

Aiming for the deepest shadows he could find, he left the fragile safety of the tenement door with his breath held lest the cold air betray him. Slowly, carefully, leapfrogging between cover, he began to make the slow journey that would take him home. As far away from the scene behind him as he could get.

The journey passed in a blur of shadows and adrenalin, the route circumspect, no way for anyone watching to guess his destination. Paranoid feet danced over the ground, his shadow week in the insipid light, but the whispering of the dusty snow and small pebbles dislodged in his wake seeming so loud in the dead air. The cold breeze remained cool on his face as it swept by under the all-consuming blanket of grey cloud above, the odd fleeting flashes of radiance in the cloud causing him to draw up short; brief stops as the shadows flickered solid around him.

His awareness heightened further as he found familiar streets once again, wary of complacency, watching and waiting at each new junction. He moved carefully down the wide and lifeless thoroughfare of Windsor Street, using the basement dropped passageways fronting the old town houses. Nearing the bottom, he crouched, his home less than fifty yards away.

Standing in the shadows, he allowed his eyes to peer through the old rusted railings, concentrating on the street crossing east to west in front of him and the parkland beyond that led down toward the river. Slowly he scanned left and right for any movement or noise, his shoulders tensed and bunched with imagined threats; fuelled in no short measure by the rusting shells of the dead cars, and the odd decaying husk of their former owners, their dry lifeless smell catching in his nose.

More dust and snow blew across the street in the thickening breeze, accentuating the emptiness before him. Magdalen Green stretched away in front of him, carrying down and over the silent rail lines to the playing fields. To end where the Tay glimmered in the half-light, its waters following their turgid, perpetual motion from and to the North Sea, eternally oblivious to any human drama unfolding at its edges.

In his head, his memories, he could still see the bright Summer sunlight warming the gentle slope of the Green. A place where couples would lie together in the warm air. Where the shadow of the rail bridge swept out and over toward the Kingdom of Fife and its rolling green hills; the river sparkling and blinding beneath it. All phantoms, gone now; the green covered in the dirty snow under a perpetual grey sky, the bridge a ruin for the second and last time, never to be rebuilt.

He sighed and shook the images off. Satisfied that the area was clear, he stepped nimbly over the retaining wall and followed it closely, mindful of the uneven paving and numerous dark windows that seemed to almost pierce his back with their baleful stare. He brushed close to the skeletal grasping branches marking the boundary of his resting place and passed through the rough arch of the long gone gateway into a jungle that had once been a garden; the weeds in constant battle with the elements for supremacy. Looming over this riot of warped nature was his home, a grey granite townhouse rising above the garden like a monolith, the blackened roof and windows hinting at a stronger fire than the superficial one that he had fed.

Its closeness suddenly brought all the aches and pains of the last twenty-four hours quickly to the surface, his muscles crying out for the mattress and warmth that lay inside. Lifting and placing each foot with care, he made his way around to the left, disturbing as little of the undergrowth as possible as he stayed in the shadow of the wall. Webs caressed his cold cheeks as he dropped into a crouch to avoid the tripwire and its attached shotgun shell. A further high step to avoid the similar surprise at knee height, and a few more yards, took him to the rear and the ladder hidden in the undergrowth. Rubber stoppers kept the silence as he raised and placed it under the entry window and swiftly climbed, anxious to be out of sight as quickly as possible. The window, like all the others, had lost its glass a long time ago, but unlike the others, with their deliberately embedded nails and shards of glass, this one wouldn't injure him as he entered.

Vaulting gingerly over the sill, he grabbed the attached rope and lowered the ladder back into the undergrowth before following the darkened upper hallway back round to the front. Confident in the dark, not confused by the modifications that should fool any intruder, he strode with familiarity. Arriving at the front side of the house again, he checked the thread at the base of the door there and, satisfied that nobody had intruded, turned the handle anti-clockwise and entered his sanctuary.

Closing the door behind him, he lifted the old hurricane lamp that he always left close at hand and lit it, careful not to waste more than one match. The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow, an imitation of warmth that would do until he settled himself and felt secure.

The room itself wasn't actually an original room. Contained on the upper floor, it had taken months and no small amount of paranoia too complete. He had built a box within the house, scavenging material from the lower floor and nearby deserted homes to create a room within the centre, following one internal wall and boxed by another manually made three. All the old doors and walls gone to ensure he had an open space inside and a confusing too long corridor following the outside between the walls and the windows. A small skylight in what had once been the ceiling/attic floor was enough to let in pale daylight and exhale smoke. The jagged remains of the old sloping roof enough to conceal any tell-tale signs from any curious eyes on the outside.

The fire had been next, blackening the house's appearance from the exterior, the damage minimal but perfect for his camouflage, a layer of soot and the odd charred joist creating a world of dark shadow impenetrable from the outside. He'd stood watch for days after the fire, ensuring a lack of interest and of any sightseers drawn to the spectacle.

He stood just inside the doorway, old chests and bookcases hemming him either side, creating a narrow corridor that anyone happening to find their way past the traps would be caught in, giving Kane the time, even if asleep, to respond. His cot, rescued from an old camping goods store, lay on the other side of this man-made funnel, behind the inward swinging door, concealing him if need be for those few vital seconds.

He looked around, checking that everything was exactly as he had left it. The rest of the room was a scavenger's heaven, all available space taken with storage and layout of all those things vital to surviving each day in a broken and dying land. Books and papers of all types lined the left hand wall, their entertainment value forgotten against their use as fire lighting material. Alongside lay stacked bags of charcoal, liberated refugees from an old hardware store, and hardly likely to be needed for barbeque season anytime soon. Various items of clothes and boots lay next to them, huddled together, limp arms and legs snaking out from the pile which filled the corner. Everything had been used at some point, picked or discarded as the necessity arose, and as time wore them down, their musty smell mingled with that of the paper.

Striding to the opposite wall, he deposited his weapons and rucksack with a thump. The ensuing drop in weight was welcome on his body and shoulders, and he shrugged gingerly, working the muscles. His eyes flicked over and took stock of the supplies to his right- water bottles plentiful, cans still in abundance, an artificial greenhouse doing its best to coax some berries and vegetables to life- but as his eyes travelled further they came to the reason that had forced him into the fool mission in the first place.

The mound reached halfway up the wall in the remaining corner of the room, white and glistening in the light from the hurricane lamp. It had taken him a while to accumulate, and now, it seemed, the effort had been pointless. Stepping over, he crouched and reached out a finger to the mound, his damp fingertip gathering crystals immediately.

"Damn!" he whispered, frustrated at his lack of results. There was enough salt here, and in the coolest corner of the room, to keep any meat he had found preserved for a time. A valuable source of protein that would have beaten back the hunger and leanness, at least for a while.

With a sigh, and brushing the remaining salt from his fingers, Kane stood and turned back toward the habitable side of the room, a need for rest beginning to settle deep into his bones. Procedure beckoned first however, rituals that had kept him alive these last three years that needed to be complete before any rest could be easy.

Needing warmth, he raided the piles of paper and charcoal, transferring it to the small raised brick square sitting centrally on a rescued flagstone. Arranging the materials neatly on the base, he struck sparks to the kindling, and watched as the flame hungrily devoured the paper before the charcoal glowed red soon after. Feeling the blood returning to his skin, he gathered together a pan and one of the small tins from the far side, still stubbornly holding onto its ragged and fading blue and black logo. Using one of many diligently maintained knives he sliced through the thin covering and transferred the beans and sausages to the pan, sitting on a makeshift chicken wire lattice over the fire.

That done, and as the smell of the meagre fare began to tickle at his nose, he worked through his checklist. Rifle first, he stripped the barrel and cleaned the mechanism, the movements fluid and automatic, the product of daily familiarity and scavenged learning, checking the action was smooth and the parts well oiled. Strange, he thought, that this weapon had become as familiar as the boots on his feet, an orphan at the end of the world just like him.

Luck, and more pertinently sobriety, had certainly been with him that day, back near the beginning. He'd been rummaging through a row of old townhouses he'd been watching for hours, hunger and desperation having chased away his fear of the outside. Three of the four had yielded little in return other than some still precious dried goods and tins left behind. All of them still fully furnished but slowly losing the war with the damp and the harsh cold beating through broken windows; all studiously missing the small mementoes that smacked of a hurried exit.

The fourth, further back behind the tree line, had presented death at the door, the smell unmistakeable on the moist air that rushed out from behind the insulation and double-glazing of the still sealed house. Not wanting surprises, he had quickly tracked the source to a rotting husk in the master bedroom, sat in a bedside chair, propped up by the barrel still wedged in the mouth.

He'd left it there, at that time still too squeamish to consider robbing a corpse, and surveyed the rest of the house. He'd filled his bags greedily with more of the same tinned treasures until an unexpected basement behind a forced open door stopped him in his tracks. In there, spread out before him, many sisters to the shotgun upstairs had glinted in his torchlight, chained and racked against one wall. As he moved further in he saw several rifles resting in their own cabinet, oiled and pristine. The room itself had seemed sanitised and cared for, clinical, almost like a place of worship. Or, to his undeniably British mind, a movie set... filled with a highly illegal collection of weapons.

He'd set to breaking padlocks and jimmying open drawers, finding ammunition, handguns, and even manuals and guides to each of the weapons on display. Those last he had treasured more than anything; giving him his own Rosetta stone into the understanding and care of these killing tools, enough to prevent killing _himself_ through some silly, uneducated, accident.

Luck, pure unadulterated luck, providing him with tools of survival.

With a tight smile at the thought, Kane chambered a round and put the safety on, stretching a condom over the barrel, the dust and grime too prevalent to ignore. He laid its re-assuring bulk at his side beside the Browning as he proceeded to empty and re-pack the rucksack and jacket, checking and counting each of the contents to a now time honoured recipe for survival.

Flicking switches, he tested the torches, ensuring the valuable batteries still worked. Satisfied, he returned them to their locations, fingers now nimble with the warmth, deftly working clasps and straps in backpack and on jacket. Back up matches next, heads still covered in the candle wax he had used to waterproof them; wire saw, bolt cutters, and on. Each pocket and cranny filled with all that he considered needed for any venture outside and any eventualities- bandages, iodine, painkillers, maps, ammunition, knives, water bottles... all secreted securely but accessible when required.

His feet felt sluggish now, the boots heavy and dragging at his steps as he dropped the kit by the cot before moving back. Rubbing his face till the skin tingled, he sank on his haunches next to the fire, listening to the gusts from outside before removing the pan from the heat and tucking in to his meal, mouth salivating as the tastes played over his tongue. Precious water washed it down, boiled and tasteless but priceless all the same.

With a last swig from the bottle, he stood, knees popping in complaint. Stiff and clumsy fingers worked the buttons of his worn but intact work shirt as he walked toward his sanctuary behind the drawers, leaden arms and legs moving reluctantly as clothes were pulled off and discarded at the end of the cot.

He turned and twisted his body, visually checking for any cuts or scratches needing cleaned, a necessity in a world without healthcare or a chemist on the corner. Finally, satisfied and rubbing his hands down with antiseptic gel, he reached down and lifted the flap of the sleeping bag, its quilting thin underneath its green cover through use and age. But importantly still warm, the musty smell lost on a nose well used to it. Climbing in, his legs seemed to come alive as they sought for comfort, body shifting to find the favoured spot.

Only then did he look up, finally acknowledging the spot on the wall above his head that he had avoided till now, the source of the nightmares he knew were coming, but also the reason he always found a way home. His right arm snaked over and above himself, reverent fingers reaching to brush the edges and sheen of the photo's surface. The colour had faded despite his best attempts to preserve it, but the image remained clear- the light hair caught in a sudden gust, the eyes narrowing and mouth lifting, the grin creasing the face, half hidden behind the billowing hair. His finger traced the contour of the cheek, touching his past, the captured moment that was all that remained. The food, the water, the supplies, all would be sacrificed in an instant for the sake of this one piece of the life he had had.

"...Sophie," a ritual exhalation whispered on a sigh. Strange, he thought, that this one happy millisecond in time would bring on such dark visions to his tired mind. A tender brush of his finger over celluloid lips, "G'night babe. I miss you". His eyes closed reluctantly, their heaviness irresistible.

_I don't cry myself to sleep anymore_ , the thought fleeting as oblivion rushed through the darkness to claim him.

"Sophie!!", Kane jerked upright, hands clawing at the sleeping bag that restrained him, the cry rasping from his throat, breath hitching underneath the tears. The soundtrack to his dream seemed to come with him, the roaring still crashing in his ears and getting louder. Blinking furiously, he turned to the ceiling, breathing slow and deep, trying to get his heart back from its trip hammer racing.

His heart slowed, the rushing beat clearing from his ears, but the noise remained, a rumbling crescendo of peaks and troughs, too long and prevalent to be thunder. As he listened, increasingly confused, a new sound entered the din; a soft rushing whistling, growing in intensity and volume as his eyes became drawn and fixed upon the small patch of sky visible through the skylight.

Seconds ticked by, and a brain attuned to too many old movies suddenly made a pavlovian connection of sound to events- something was falling, falling fast and falling his way. Instinct kicked in as he tore his eyes away from the square of sky, hands flailing at the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag, legs thrashing as he tried to move his body to where his mind already was, curled foetal like underneath the flimsy cot. Giving up, the noise entirely filling his head, he threw himself to the floor with a thump, a flurry of jerks and crawls bringing him into the fragile shelter between floor, walls and cot.

What the hell was this?

Kane's brain frantically raced through the possibilities- fragment, plane, missile.... all impossible, nothing like them had been seen or heard for years. Hands involuntarily reached towards his head, his subconscious seeking that old, identifiable way of protecting the brain. The noise sounded so close, and more adrenalin pumped through his veins as the fight or flight reflex kicked in. Seconds felt like hours, teeth grinding together as he braced himself for an impact.

A thunderous whoosh of air and noise and the ceiling seemed to shudder, caught in the slipstream as the object sliced through the air close by. Followed swiftly by a dulled crump of what could only be something smashing into the ground outside.

Kane realised he had been holding his breath and let it out in one long exhale as he unwound his body from its tensed posture, arms and legs still shaking from the adrenalin. Calmer fingers found and worked the sleeping bag, feet helping push it off as he stood and made some quick decisions.

Not safe anymore.

He moved quickly, layers of clothes pulled on, food thrown in his pack, rifle ready and loaded at the door. A hesitation; fingers pausing before reaching to gently pull the photograph from the wall, its new home deep inside his jacket, safe from the elements.

Extinguishing the lamp, he plunged the room into abject darkness before he opened the door. Careful feet slid out and around the doorframe, each step measured as he made his way around to the safe window and the exit. A dim light from the skeletal window frames suffused the wall, lighting his steps as his eyes adjusted. Conscious of every noise and loud breath he made it to his exit window and, remaining deep in the shadows, studied the wild garden below.

Through the gloom he could make out a gouge in the earth, more evident through the displaced undergrowth that framed it than visual acuity; it deepened and lead out toward the high wall which backed onto the garden. The total absence of noise registered in his ears, and the garden, which he'd always valued for its wildness and deterrent power, now conspired against him with those attributes. Following the midnight black of the earthen gouge with his eyes, it disappeared behind clumps of overgrown rhododendrons and weeds; whatever had caused it hidden from view by the tangle and the shadows.

His brain still urged him frantically to stand still, not move, avoid attention even as he moved forward and carefully lowered himself over the sill, pack hanging from his feet to brake the fall if necessary. A brief moment of freefall, and his knees absorbed the impact, the pack swung to one side out of the way. He stayed crouched and still against the brickwork, eyes and ears alert for any movement or sound, sweat beading his forehead and pooling at the nape of his neck despite the chill. Silence and stillness lay over the area like a thick blanket and, satisfied that he was alone, he shrugged free the rifle from its position across his back and commenced a slow motion tiptoe across the strangled ground, stopping every few steps to check for noise or movement.

The route became circuitous, each overgrown bush or briar an obstacle and snag to be avoided. His arms grew quickly sore, the weight of the rifle heavy as he carried it ready up, the action forward and ready to fire. Breath, warm against the cold air, misted and steamed across his vision. Gingerly he started to measure and place each single step, fixing his footing and listening still before the next until finally, with the rough bark of the last tree scraping by his left shoulder, and his heart hammering in his chest, the view became clearer **.**

The undergrowth lay in shreds along the deepening rut, dirty grey snow scattered in piles to either side, outlining the scar more vividly close up. A section of the wall lay in ruins, a hole five feet wide, surrounded by scattered debris and loose masonry. Beyond the wall, a dark confusion of assorted matter marked the terminus of the impact, its main force spent and absorbed by the collision with the wall. Against this dark gouge, and glimpsed amongst the resulting scree, his eyes picked out patches of white, stark against the earth and the grey snow.

He edged slowly forward, feet slipping slightly on the snow and earth of this new trench. His legs, insulated though they were, could still feel the warmth radiating from the ground, the violence and speed of the impact still telling a story to the frigid air. Another step, another; craning his neck, desperately searching for more visual clues as to what lay at the end.

In the mass, something moved.

Kane froze. The rifle snapped up and locked into his shoulder, as his heart threatened to finally burst from his chest.

Making a split second gut decision, caution thrown to the wind, he raced forward, struggling to keep his footing as he ran. He was not going to let whatever it was get mobile and present any possible danger to him. Ten metres, five, climbing higher on the disturbed earth, Kane held the rifle aimed unsteadily with one arm while the other ripped away at the withered entangling undergrowth, brambles and thorns catching in his gloves

Something brushed and then tried to grip the fabric of his trousers. He jerked and fell backwards in fright, the obscuring debris still clutched in his hands. The rifle dropped as he scrambled back, trying to gain distance. Wide eyes looked back before every muscle in his body slackened as he tried to interpret what now lay in plain sight before him.

It lay there like a man, cloaked in what looked like a white robe; the white, and what appeared to be flashes of blue trim, now clouded and spoiled with the dark stains of mud and foliage. He stared, taking in more detail as his scrambling feet slowed.

Was it a man? Surely it was!

Whatever lay there looked human, but the contortion of the limbs, one leg cocked at an impossible angle, made it hard to tell. But the skin, if that was what it was, appeared almost alabaster in the thin light. Natural or not, Kane couldn't tell.

He got back to his knees, edging slightly forward, noticing more detail as he grabbed up the rifle. Injuries were plainly evident; Bits and pieces actually appeared missing here and there, gouges across face and limbs, no doubt a consequence of impact. The blood looked odd, looking darker than it should even with the dim light, almost pulsing rather than running from each visible wound, like congealed midnight. Even stranger, each wound seemed to be outlined by a faint and flickering blue glow, so indistinct even in the darkness that Kane doubted it wasn't a trick of his eyes in the darkness.

All this he absorbed in a flash as his mind worked in overdrive, the logical leap and next improbability of it having been a body falling from the sky not even registering against the one shocking feature that suddenly filled Kane's eyes and mind with pending insanity.

Wings!

There was no other word for them, lying battered and ripped about its body. At first he'd mistaken them as part of the robes, but now his eyes flicked maniacally across the details as his brain struggled to accept the interpretation it was delivering. The underlying colour appeared to be white or ivory like the robe. But the occasional unexpected twitch versus a lack of any wind indicated otherwise, making Kane jump as he looked closer. They appeared wide comparative to the body, and as he looked closer he could see a long solid darker ridge extending along the upper edge, with spaced sinews stretching down from this, and between these was what appeared to resemble the leathery texture of bat wings. One lay stretched along the churned earth, extended out in all its glory, the other limp and broken, pointing toward Kane back along the scarred mud.

A conceptualisation dawned in his mind, and Kane idly, manically, wondered why they weren't feathered.

The _Angel_ opened its eyes.

He scrambled backwards frantically again, the heels of his boots sliding in the dirt as he kicked and slithered further away. His hands scratched through the vegetation, dragging the rifle close.

_This really can't be happening_ , he thought _, I've_ _finally gone mad_.

But his eyes and mind wouldn't allow him to disbelieve. There lying in front of him appeared to be validation behind all those mad ramblings and whispered snatches of conversation he had heard and condemned as feeble minded since everything in the world had stopped.

Raising the rifle, he slowly and tentatively approached again.

The eyes, the _stunning_ eyes, appeared fixed in his direction, but as he got closer he found it difficult to tell. Bright golden orbs, shot through with tawny flashes of orange but no pupil present; Inhuman eyes, which Kane nevertheless knew to be watching and studying him as he moved closer.

"Ensabadra meh," the voice had an almost musical quality, the sound starting faintly and rising, reverberating as if issued from a well. A hand was lifted, palm up, reaching out toward him, the eyes narrowed as if in pain "Ensabadra meh"

Kane stood there, the nonsense words shocking him to silence. The fact of this _thing_ lying before him, communicating, paralysed him. Unable to do anything else, he fell once more to the ground, sitting on the earth and staring, mouth agape. The creature, its stretched hand ignored, let it collapse back into its lap as it eyes seemed to slide away from his, still in pain.

"What are you?" the question aloud into the frosty air, the golden eyes flicking back to his at the sound, but without comprehension, before they again slipped unfocussed to the side as a painful shudder wracked its body.

Had they been right, all those people he had considered mad? The lunatics across the airwaves as the virus took hold? The Monks sacrificing poor unfortunates in a world gone dark? Had they _really_ been right? Was the truth of Armageddon, _actual_ God fearing, bible bashing Armageddon, lying here, now, at his feet, battered and broken?

His agnostic and secular upbringing recoiled from that thought as much as his body had from the physical presence in front of him, and yet every other option or conjecture that ran through his head seemed just as insane, just as fantastical, to his now questionably rational mind.

He looked down on the _angel_ , unable now to view the creature in front of him as anything other. And as he lay there, staring, something cold and hard growing in his mind, pushing at the confusion. The fractured world around him suddenly taking on a different tone.

Was anything an accident? Had everything led to this, the world broken, its population all dead or dying. Had this thing, and others like it, been part of it, orchestrated it even?

It lay there; alien, unreal, unacceptable- but solid and present, assaulting every perception of reality he'd ever held solid.

His head spun.

Time passed over them. They remained there, only the sounds of their own breathing and occasional movement passing between them. He watched as the pulsing wounds began to slow on this creature in front of him, its face still etched in persistent universal signs of pain. Less than six feet apart and utterly alien to one another with only that visible pain a point of common understanding.

The nightmare still pushed at his forehead, behind his eyes, spotting his consciousness, prompting a wave of cold anger to sweep through him, hardening, crystallising his decisions. He couldn't stay here. His sanctuary was breached, the world flipped over, and his brain was caught in a storm of questions, flailing disbelief, but more- a new burning, angry curiosity and a desire for answers.

Were answers out there? Could he find some peace, or purpose; a time again to start living for something and not just surviving?

Kane sighed and stood, new questions burning through his mind and needing answers; but first he readied himself to give this, by all indications, sentient being the only release and kindness left in his power that made sense.

With a silent apology and little hesitation, Kane pulled the trigger.

Chapter 2

"If God did not exist we would have to invent Him..."

Voltaire

Fire burned the clouds.

The snow fell in cushioned silence on the dry African earth; Kilimanjaro, silent and proud, stood in contemplation over its once fertile southern plain, an eternal silent witness to the changing of the world.

Anziel stood entranced at the sensation of the cold underneath his feet as his eyes took in the breath forming in the air before him and the footsteps he had left in the white powder. He stood some seven feet tall, wrapped in raiment of dark blue, starkly contrasting his ivory skin. Long dark hair was held back from his face in a long ponytail stretching to his waist, a golden band of silk holding it in place. His face, marked most obviously by the glistening of his eyes, was expressionless, lips taut, the nuances of the muscles not yet worked out to his satisfaction. At his hip a hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, sheathed in a golden scabbard. An involuntary shudder passed through his wings as a flurry of wind caught his robes and pressed them tight to his skin, causing him to wonder anew at the vagaries and frailties of the form he had chosen

He stood perched on a small hill to the west of the plains, the mountain looming like a thunderhead over the surroundings to his left, a bridge between earth and sky piercing the clouds above. Though not high, the mound's prominence afforded him an unobstructed view of the plains stretching away below him, and the armies now arrayed across it. Snow flurries, blown by the persistent desert winds, obscured his view occasionally, but the position was still commanding for one of his rank.

Created of the Seraphim he commanded an Illiniad in this sector of the world, the western end of the larger continental mass being his to win and hold. Anziel was vaguely aware that this portion of the planet was once called Africa, but gave no thought or mind to it. Instead his thoughts and actions were currently centred on the vast plain below him, and the two armies filling it from edge to edge. For the moment they stood apart, separated by a wide river of flame, it's unnatural height and ferocity measured against the tiny silhouetted ruins of the village of Moshi to the north, black as pitch against the orange and red incandescence.

Another shudder passed through him as the wind buffeted his location, and despite the situation before him, it irritatingly turned his thoughts inward again to the form he now found himself in. They had all had difficulty in the adjustment to this physical plane, the transition from an ethereal existence to this corporeal mud ball of weight and effort had not been easy (and those slowest to adjust had ceased to be quickly), but physical battle had demanded physical form. He had been lucky, a member of the higher orders he had been granted his choice of substance and had chosen a form he believed would suit the demands of this battlefield, one of increased muscle and sinew, girth belying the height. Still though he had found himself aghast on occasion at the level of effort required to function in this environment. Not for the first time he wondered how The Chosen- the title almost _spat_ out in his mind- had managed to attain any level of grace at all.

His thoughts changed direction at that and puzzled once again over what appeared to be the already singular failure in this whole endeavour. Time and again they would see these _humans_ ; in small groups admittedly and invariably fleeing as fast as they could, but the fact of their existence greatly troubled Anziel. Judgement _had_ been delivered, and most of the Chosen had received the gift of that blessing which they had neither the wit nor will to seek for themselves; yet still some remained.

A wretched screech in the cold air broke through his momentary wool gathering thoughts and alerted him to a break in the inertia before him. High above the mass of ordered ground forces, the opening aerial skirmishes were drawing to a close. Brethren and demon, foregoing the bulk and innate strength of their earthbound counterparts, were fighting above the flames. Fragile enough of build for their wings to support them in the air, they twisted to and fro in a deadly ballet. As he watched, a tight turn by one of his own brought him abruptly up and underneath the enemy, the spear point liquidly entering and eschewing an explosion of dark, flickering matter from the demon's back, the dead carcass falling and tumbling heavily onto the ranks below. Another scream and his eyes darted, just in time to see one of his own torn asunder by a concerted attack from three of the enemy, the rain of limbs and fluid evidence enough of the desire on both sides that no quarter be given.

Anziel tore his gaze away and looked plain wards to survey his arrayed forces. He had committed two Quarrels of his Illiniad to this battle, the remaining two thousands of miles to the north and south of this landmass respectively, ensuring the flanks would hold, and engaging in their own skirmishes independently as opportunity arose. Each Quarrel was composed of four Hedron, each numbering roughly half a million of his brethren. Organised into their phalanxes, and ordered by the sword, spear and bow, they stretched from horizon to horizon, the ground beneath their feet invisible through their mass, silhouetted against the holding flame that the legion of the enemy had created to stall their advance.

Overhead solid curtains of arrows sliced the air, inbound as well as out, passing through the conflagration and becoming themselves fiery points of light diving earthwards, graceful and deadly.

Anziel's Right Hand, Balmek, approached him from the field, bowing slightly as he neared, "All Hedrons report ready my Lord."

"And the Watchers?"

"Straining at the leash again Lord, anxious for the fray."

"Good. The fire will die soon enough; they will have their slaughter. Inform our commanders to be ready, the enemy _will_ advance through the flame."

"As you command Lord"

Balmek left the slope in a flurry of snow as he took flight toward the massed ranks, wings buffeting the air. Anziel watched him go, pleased to have a diligently faithful Right Hand that he knew would cascade his orders to the letter. As his eyes followed the path of Balmek's flight, they came to rest once more on his formations and he considered once more their deadly intent.

The whole formation of the Hedron was one of a stunted reversed arrow, the tail and fletching pointing at the enemy. The tail held the ranks of spearman, ready to repel a sudden advance. Behind and to either side, making the fletching, were phalanxes of swordsman. To the rear of this tail came the archers, boxed on all side by swordsman for protection, and able to move in unison with the phalanxes of swords, loosing volley after volley until the range became too close. The point of the arrow was another two batteries of archers, covering the flanks, supported to the front by the back group of swords. As a whole the unit was flexible and mobile, the flanks protected, with an inbuilt ability to explode smoothly outward and cover a wider front.

All the Hedrons were still, a lack of momentum born of anticipation of what was to come.

All except one.

He turned his gaze to the Watchers. Time and again he had been counselled to split and distribute them to more orderly units, but these opinions he had ignored for good reason. As he watched he could see the ripples and eddies in the formation, the restlessness apparent even from distance. He knew the cause, in fact fully expected and counted on it, as it had served him well so far. The Watchers were _seething_ with righteous anger, literally at boiling point. He believed that given the chance they would charge directly into the flame, and he had come to an understanding of this that few of the others allowed themselves for fear it would taint them in some way, but he understood and welcomed it for the war.

For millennia they had done exactly as decreed- watched. Where possible they had thwarted the enemy's machinations subtly, but their inability to take direct action had laboured against them, their hatred of the enemy ground into a hard knot over time and fuelled by all the workings of their foe.

Now they were unshackled, the chance to strike back sitting like an expensive gift in their hands, and they had clasped the opportunity close. A rage unlike any Anziel had witnessed drove them in battle, scything all before them, seemingly unstoppable as eons of practical impotence were unleashed in a hungered frenzy. They, first and alone of all the brethren, had found honour in leaving their fallen behind and continuing the battle.

Anziel smiled thinly, content that his army was ready. His eyes scanned the flames for any movement, his ears alert for the trumpet blast that would signal a beginning. The wind had picked up, the fine snow flowing in its path across the landscape like a mist, a stark counterpoint to the hungry tongues of flame filling the horizon. He braced himself, planting his feet more firmly on the still unfamiliar earth. From his left, a long solemn bell like tone erupted into the atmosphere.

_It begins_. The smile touched his cheek and his eyes, a brief moment of wonder at the uncontrolled reaction lost as his eyes searched the flame for the cause of the alert.

There!

On his left flank, the enemy had indeed advanced through the flame, and fast. As he fixed his eyes on that point he saw a number of flaming forms rushing at his formations, undisciplined demons that had burst through anxious for the taste of heavenly flesh. Manic fireballs armed with spear and sword rushed at his front lines. Driven mad by the flames and the pain that they were undoubtedly feeling they, for the most part, impaled themselves heavily upon the frontline of spear. Those that tried to avoid this end, rushed straight into the sword formations at the flanks. Anziel grinned in satisfaction, the tormented cries of the impaled and decapitated reaching his ears on the cold wind. Focussed on this opening exchange he did not see or hear Balmek until he spoke

"Lord?"

"My apologies Balmek. I wanted to ensure that the enemy had not changed their opening gambit."

"They have no imagination for that my Lord, but they are beginning to advance on the right flank. Our scouts report that it would appear they are committing three of their wedge formations there."

"Have the 7th and 8th Hedrons make ready to engage, tell Enopherial he is to have his archers in the 6th provide covering volleys"

Anziel observed the changing situation before him. To the north the attack appeared fragmented, the insult to existence that made up the enemy's armies dashing themselves against his spears and swords like corn under the scythe. But if the news was to be believed the enemy was moving mass concentrations to the south and was waiting. His mind worked quickly. What was to be gained by an attack at strength there? Was it desperation? The enemy only had the coast and the sea to their rear, was it planned or was it the last throw of an army backed into a corner? As his eyes scanned the field, Kilimanjaro flickered at the edge of his vision, the limit of his northern flank. A pattern began to form in his mind, an insight of what was to come.

"Balmek, make haste to the North. 1st and 2nd must advance now! The enemy..."

"' _ware the skies!_ "

Over the centre plains, dark against the clouded sky, a vast flight of demon Windscreamers flew high over the flame, their baleful forms distinct in the orange glow. Archers from the central Hedrons loaded the air with a curtain of swift missiles as they closed, screaming forms falling from the sky under the barrage. Clearer with the closing distance, Anziel could see each Windscreamer was partnered, and between them, requiring that co-operation, was carried a Stonereaver. As he watched thousands dived toward his 4th and 5th Hedrons, an undulating screech borne of their mouths and pocked wings rising through the air. They swooped low, some pierced in many places, their burdens dropped to fall and land heavily amongst the archers. Like locusts, flight after flight roared in, the fliers as well as their passengers landing hard and heavy within the ordered ranks below. Anziel felt the vacuum left by those crushed, voids within his consciousness, but could only look on powerless as the 'reavers rolled to their feet and began fulfilling their purpose.

Short and wide of girth, flesh mottled and diseased, their long arms and short powerful legs were limbs of hard muscle. No hands adorned these arms; instead the end of each limb was a solid mass of curved bone, the inner smooth but the outer arrayed with rough protrusions and angles. Anziel watched helpless as the first of these rose in the midst of the archers and swung his arms in a wide arc, the drooling jaw open in a parody of delight. Crushed and broken bodies fell underneath the outer swing in a cacophony of wails and cracks, the rough bone breaking through rank after rank, the back swinging clean edges slicing through limbs and bodies in a shower of flesh and sparkling fluid. The rout became exponential; a black hole of slaughter where the archers had been, too close to loose arrows with effect, ripped apart in a reign of butchery as they tried to flee but trapped by the Hedrons strong sides as the sword and spear tried to turn inward and combat this new threat.

"Lord, we must act, the First and Second could...."

"No Balmek." Anziel's voice remained firm, "The enemy seeks for us to do precisely that. Look." his arm indicated toward the north," the First and Second have a rout, they can chase the enemy onward with little resistance, our centre is weakening and, even if it does consolidate, is too weak to advance. All the enemy's strength lies in the south, and with an unprotected flank if the centre falls, our Hedrons will be forced to retreat or be swallowed. They seek to drive us to the mountain, reversing their position, luring us to the sea in the north and pushing with their strength in the south. We will be surrounded."

Balmek's face hardened, "You do not suggest retreat my Lord?"

Anziel ignored the question, his focus centred on the chaos before him. The last of the flame was falling, but its light still reflected in the charnel house of the plain struggling to soak up the spilt residue of so much carnage. He felt a grudging respect for his opposite, recognising that this was a gambit built on weakened forces, the last hurrah of a harried and defiant commander. The battle would end here.

He turned his countenance on Balmek, "Have faith Cherubim, we are far from defeated yet. Have Enopherial move north and assist the centre; I want it steadied and ready. Seven and Eight are to hold firm in the south, a quarter of our Wing in support, Manahile is not to retreat! Move the rest north, and arm them as archers. I want them harrying the enemy as the First and Second advance southeast. Command the north Balmek, we win this part of the world for our Master in Heaven tonight. We make a vice, and kill everything in it as it snaps tighter and tighter against our brothers in the south"

Something akin to adulation passed over Balmek's face and he pounced aloft on quivering wings, his voice carrying over his shoulder, "You shall be heralded above all the host Master, your eternal grace will be assured."

"Bring me victory Balmek, we do not fight in despair today!"

Balmek flew swiftly, his slight frame carried aloft on double paired wings, and Anziel watched the change in his army manifest itself in their bearing and noise. A vast cry echoed to the clouds, millions of brethren roaring in one voice, "Hail!" as they readied their advance.

The sea came into view as the last of the flame died, its turgid green cast at odds with the grey sky, and the snow dotted landscape that rolled toward it. Anziel watched as the tide of battle began to turn, his orders implemented almost immediately by battle-hardened commanders. The clash of steel on steel rose high over the battlefield, its discordant notes merging in a strange symphony with the outcries of the dead or dying. Demons fell under foot and blade as Hedron after Hedron turned their formations into the precise killing machines they were designed to be, harvesters of torso and limb. Fusillades of arrows perforated through the enemy lines, a wall of sharpened steel points speared those still standing and mowed a path, while blizzards of sword strokes rendered those trying to avoid its clutches into so much dead flesh.

The enemy wedges were helpless as Manohile's Hedrons engaged, their points swallowed by spear and sword, enveloped on two flanks and unable to bring force to bear adequately on either side, their centres and rear torn asunder by the rain of incessant whistling flechettes from the protected archers. The ground became slick with blood, discoloured, the stench sulphuric and unpalatable as the momentum gathered. The north was in full rout, Balmek harrying a weakened enemy fleeing towards believed strength in the south, only to find it rushing north and east to escape the equal slaughter there.

Euphoria swept over Anziel as he watched the vice close, the closing arms backed by a consolidated centre, fresh from an orgy of revenge against the always doomed and boxed reavers. Even through the elation he felt the sundering, the voids in his consciousness left by the perished.

Forged in an instant at the moment of their creation, all the brethren were linked by a filigree of thought and life, aware of each other's presence, and all felt the gentle tug and absence of those who became no more. Strands vanished in clumps, lost to the perpetual ether as the battle raged toward a climax, and Anziel braced himself against the newly physical barrage of their loss.

The cycle of gain and loss began to consume him; he lacked the cohesive franticness of battle to sustain his concentration. His feet felt dispossessed, strangers to his existence, adrift on a loosening consciousness. The width of his vision dulled, narrowing and tunnelling, clouding his sight against the flight of four Windscreamers who approached his vantage point from the south. They swept in low and fast, one pierced in the shoulder by a loosed shaft, swords and staves at the ready, failing to stem the screams of delight at finding prey. The piercing noise snapped Anziel alert from his narcosis, sudden apprehension forcing the delirious contemplation into hiding, and bringing the warrior to the fore in joyful anticipation.

He grinned, a sensation and reaction unlike any he had previously experienced. The sword swept from its sheath in a smooth susurration of noise as the Windscreamers landed in a flurry of snow and stench of attar, gibbering maniacally. Their wings muttered constantly in a nervous twitch, rangy forms bent over in a hunch, a mottled kaleidoscope of colour defining the patchwork of their flesh; the only real differentiator between them. Long canine like jaws, filled with mismatched teeth, worked and drooled continuously, exhorted cries and breath steaming the air around their heads in a parody of heat. Black eyes leered maliciously at Anziel from deep-set crevices below the brow, their absence of light compelling. Small holes back above the eyes constituted the extent of their ears, the long sloped forehead thick with wild black hair ending in a crest of bone, which gave their heads a rough hammer shape.

Anziel raised his sword parallel to the ground and level with his ear, his disgust at these parodies of creation subdued for the moment while he determined his position. He watched as they spread out slowly, shuffling around him, each one occupying a compass point around his still centre.

"Angel. Die... now." The voice was harsh and dark, ululating as if spoken through thick fluid, the stench of sulphur and rot offending as it carried through the air.

He paid no attention, letting his awareness take over, new senses alert for movement and noise. Legs bent slightly as he positioned his feet and legs apart, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move and pivot around his centre of mass. No wasted energy would be found here, the essential bestial pack nature of these creatures would drive them to reeve him asunder. His immediate need was to unbalance the focus of the attack when it came.

The diversion came from his left, a cried feint and furious flutter of leathery wings designed to distract his focus. Recognised for the ruse it was, Anziel rushed toward the demon, sword raised high. Something parted the air where his surprise was meant to take him, the unexpected turn to the diversion throwing the unseen assailant off balance. His feet danced across the snow, a rage curling his mouth to a grimace. His sword slashed diagonally down from right to left, its momentum unhindered as it slid off the parrying stroke in front and continued to its juxtaposition up his leading left leg to stab angrily behind. He had no time to savour the fluid resistance or the high-pitched wail behind him, the chasing demon skewered by his reverse thrust. He was already spinning, right leg pivoting around planted left foot to catch his frontal opponent in the chest, bringing him round to remove his sword from the still gurgling, collapsing pursuer.

His eyes darted to each side, the two foes remaining standing had stopped momentarily, black eyes wide with indecision and the first shards of fear. It gave him time; time to hear the winded demon behind trying to regain his footing on the icy ground, time to raise the sword in a horizontal attitude as he spun back to his right, time to enjoy the dull, slippery slicing sensation as the hammer head parted from its body in a shower of black steaming gout, the body dropping once more to the ground in a deathly pose of reverence.

Power surged through him. Breathless he stood transfixed, feeling the keening of the muscles straining under his garments, the lust for blood singing in his ears. He felt his wings unfurl behind him, sinew stretching wide and high. _I am His instrument_ , the thought rang through his mind, _His vengeance is mine to command_. Anziel raised his sword in salute; point up toward the sky, halving the profile of his face, the need to give voice to this surge of power and righteousness thick in his throat.

"I am Anziel. Seraph of the Lord. I am the instrument of his wrath; through me you will find only death"

The two demons keened nervously, wings twitching spasmodically as they moved apart. Anziel furled his wings, wrapping their essence around his form, the sword hidden from view. His blood hot, he walked deliberately towards their centre, the essential steam of his breath echoing the bloodlust singing through his veins.

He approached slowly, eyes lit with the thrill of danger, a part of his mind struck with awe at the capabilities this form gave him, the sharp taste of emotion that coursed through his being. The two remaining Windscreamers shuffled uneasily, indecision written large in their bearing. They held their weapons nervously at guard in front of them, warding the air with unconscious movements. One carried a long tapering spike, its steel black with corruption; the other a short handled double headed axe, its caked and defiled edges evidence enough of its use.

Anziel moved serenely to stand between them, wings tight, sword hidden still. A soft hiss issued between his teeth, the steam bending his profile in its wake. Amidst this noise he unfurled his right wing with a snap, the hard sinew parting the air with a whistle, to sweep broadside across the one axe equipped enemy, catching him a glancing blow, which staggered and upset his balance. The sword held in his left followed this opening, free to move downward, grip twisting and reversing, its position perfect to cut upwards following the unfurling of his left wing. Unseen by his opponent, its point bit deep through tissue and bone. A blizzard of rot followed its trail, the demon's vitals rushing through the opening in a steaming shower as he disembowelled him from hip to shoulder.

Anziel came to rest with his back to the remaining windscreamer; his head whipping around to watch the abomination recovering from his wing's assault. The hiss still issued into the air, a susurration of intent and vengeance. The demon looked agog at its fallen comrades, the tics of panic and desperation beginning to take full hold. It raised the axe across its chest, its two hands spread wide along its shaft. With a feral scream it ran toward the angel, the cornered animal within brooking no retreat in the face of certain annihilation. Anziel turned to face the final threat, legs braced in the cold snow, the thin smile playing lightly on taught lips. A shift of the air and the axe was raised high, the demons inchoate rage leaving him defenceless to the killing thrust as Anziel drew back his steel in one silken movement.

\- -

It ripped through his skull in a holocaust of silence. A loss unlike any other tore a hole in his consciousness as if his mind had imploded in a frenzy of vacuum and black light. He felt the filigree tremble, other brethren feeling, like he, an utter sense of destruction; desecration in the ether.

Unsteady feet gave way, the shock beating at his frame in waves. He staggered, unconsciously saving his life as the axe parted the air he had occupied, a sharp edge ripping away a fragment of his cloak, trailing a shallow rent in his arm. Instinctively he thrust, his free hand clutching at his head. The hoarse dry rattle of his enemy's death not even registering on his senses as the blade slid home.

He fell heavily to the snow; combat weariness and shock robbing his limbs of volition. Dropping his sword, Anziel clutched at himself, trying to shake off the last reverberations echoing in his skull. Below him, his armies also faltered, the communal effect felt across the wide battlefield in a sudden cessation of motion.

Slowly his hands came away, the tremble dying within them.

Again? How...?

He searched his consciousness, tentatively seeking the source of the ill that had swept him whole before it. A rent in his mind beckoned, an unnatural loss, felt in such force over such distance. He probed its edges, the flickering echoes of its demise still pulsing; A lost brother, far away. _But such a loss_! Several times now a brother had been lost with this similar... ripping... at their collective consciousness.

His thoughts found cohesion once more, analysed again the un-natural manner of the death. No demon was responsible for this. In some way, unknown, one of his brethren had met their end in a manner alien and un-decreed. He searched the source in the ether, homed in to the north, and with his mind, locked the increasingly fading malice in place.

Below him on the plain, his armies had regained momentum, the victory again sure. Balmek could oversee the endgame here. Without a sound the air around Anziel fragmented, shifting fractals disjointing his form as if seen in a broken mirror. Snow flattened compact under the pressure as Anziel invoked power; his by right as Seraphim and a Lord of Heaven.

With a rushing of air and dislocation, he vanished.
Chapter 3

"It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness"

Chinese proverb

Kane stared into the distance, his eyes unfocussed as a swarm of competing thoughts passed jumbled through his head. The small tent behind him was pulled low, hugging the ground, set below the crest of the hill to lower its profile against the skyline. The few hardy patches of grass that shone through the snow around him were laid flat and beaten by the cold northerly wind, and below him the A92 stretched from the city he'd left on the west to the east, its focus lost to the distance and the fields that bordered it. Across it the silent houses of Monifieth lay like watchman, standing guard against the encroaching sea below; its silver shine at monochromatic odds with the silhouetted suburban monoliths watching it pass from above.

Across the Tay, barely discernible through the frigid misted air, Tentsmuir lay barren. The erosion always inherent from the river and in the air, fought for so many years, now lay waste to the forest, and the wan light filtered through the matchstick remains of once proud pines that had lost the battle against the salt laden sea and incessant cold **.**

To his right the city loomed across the horizon, its lightless profile a permanent headstone to grief and death. It had had its phoenix moments over time **;** its prominence on the Tay, its superficial majesty on the slopes of the Law Hill masking the creeping cancer beneath the surface. A city made rich on whale and jute, it had been slow even then to recognise its death throes when those markets vanished in the face of progression, hanging doggedly on to the jam and journalism that remained, trying desperately to carve a name for itself in the games, art, and contemporary spaces; 'The Coolest Small City in the UK', a strapline at one point. A source of pride, but a pride belied by the social deprivation of so many other cities... pride carried only so far on the fragile wings of its past, dead and gone in an instant like all the others.

Light slowly seeped into the sky, serving only to highlight the dense cloud scudding before the wind over the landscape. It had taken him a day and a half to reach this little distance and his limbs ached with the stress of his journey through the concrete and steel wilderness to his west. Hunched up inside the sleeping bag, he kept his fingers tightly clenched around the pocket warmer within, its meagre heat barely registering above the constant of the icy climate.

The last few days whizzed through his head in a nonsense blur of sensations and images and he clenched his teeth against it, trying to force some coherence back into his mind. Frightening thoughts still throbbed darkly at the edge of his vision, undiminished despite flight and fatigue; but they gave purpose to his being, purpose he had lacked for two years beyond the need for his immediate survival. Still in his head doubts burned.

_Was it really an_ angel _? How was this possible?_

The rational part of his mind stubbornly fought the conclusions he had reached; frantically throwing even remotely less impossible rationalisation at him- alien invasion, toxins in the air, insanity...

But this wasn't some made for TV fantasy, a twisted Stephen King plotline, or the latest teen angst go to story line: No- the Rupture, Cataclysm, Ragnarok, End of Days, Worst Monday Ever, _whatever_ the fuck you wanted to call it, _had_ happened, that was a cold hard fact.

They had all been too slow though, all across the globe; relegating the beginning of the end to just another news story...another Ebola, SARS, bird flu story, something happening somewhere else to someone else; the latest twenty-four-hour curiosity in a world gorged on a glut of information and memes.

Even the first victims on first world shores failed to raise any eyebrows. No, of course, they were ' _isolated_ ', ' _responding well to treatment_ ', ' _posed no threat to the general public',_ and other trite pavlovian phrases spun to keep the general populous confined to their comfortable surface thought stupor.

And by the time people fell dead on the streets, on public transport, in their offices, it was too late. The nightmare exponential spread, beloved by so many movies and books, truly was a reality; and the age of fast and effortless communication helped it thrive.

Quarantine zones were ineffective; by the time they were in place it had spread beyond its boundaries. High communicability, over eighty percent fatal, no vaccines or treatment existed. Hospitals fell to panic and outbreak, and society broke down faster than anyone had ever dared imagine.

Martial law? Impossible with armed and police forces already cut down in both personnel and equipment, they also no less susceptible than anyone else to the ravages of the disease. A dying Cabinet, convened in a never to finish COBRA session, trying to command civil and military forces that clung like the rest of the country to their mobile phones, crying with their loved ones, and finally leaving to be with them at the end

Kane wracked his cold dulled brain, snatching at these shards of memory, though the black grief he had felt at that time, all too raw to be assuaged except at the bottom of a bottle, made his recollection harder. But some had filtered through, and he clutched at them like a drowning man.

Through liquor dimmed eyes he had watched chaos take hold, seen the streets come to a standstill, traffic lined nose to tail along every artery, the desperate and the fearful trying to escape an unavoidable doom. Society kept falling further down the rabbit hole, the thin veneer of civilization stripped away by the defiant animal instinct for survival.

The world had slowed- ships stopped sailing, trains stopped running, the fundamental arteries powering and feeding the world died away as crews and processing facilities fell silent. Brown outs became blackouts, servers and secure facilities died in silence, the once all-powerful Internet suffering its own slow progressive death, as reliant on power as everything else

So fast, all so fast: Too fast for the disease to even have a name enter the public consciousness. Here, a fragmented BBC World Service became the only window on the world available as long as the batteries lasted.

China reportedly maintained some semblance of coherence through a return to pure communism. Its communication largely unaffected in a land where the transport of choice remained the bicycle or horse and cart, with the central party corralling workers and farmers into those activities deemed necessary for survival.

Russia centralised, operating a triage approach and fully focusing on survival in the main population centres, safeguarding its military capability and leaving the rural population stripped of any useful commodities and fending for themselves.

India, Pakistan, Mexico, Brazil, the Middle East, all went 'dark' swiftly- high population densities and poor infrastructure and sanitation believed to have driven collapse at unrecoverable rates.

And in the land of the free, already ripping itself apart internally, where a President had died live on air and many states had devolved into feudal fiefdoms and internecine war, nuclear fire had lashed the east and west coasts, annihilating millions. The scant reports prior hinting at either a secessionist and survivalist military coup, or the work of a high-ranking doomsday cult.

Humanity consumed itself.

News still filtered through, people still shouted in the dark. A group of astronomers and astrophysicists in Chile's La Silla observatory, (for some reason that name, stamped in his memory forever) cut off and alone, but still watching the skies, used all the power and channels available to make themselves heard.

It had first appeared out beyond the orbit of Mars, already streaking frozen dust and gases in a multi-coloured wake when captured in the lens of the Hubble telescope. It was geared to pass close to the sun, closer than any comet had got before, and all probability was that there it would die.

But at Mars it had grazed the magnetosphere, its orbit altered by intolerable friction, but the experts still agreed- all it meant was that the comet definitely now die in the sun. They watched, a spectacle never before witnessed on the earth, now seen by so few, bright in the sky, and then...gone. It had disappeared behind the sun's corona, its brightness dwarfed by the star. The world fought on for survival, ignoring its passing, but even by then it was too late.

The sun had not killed it; instead the gravity well had held it closer than thought possible as it was slingshot around, a burning hydrogen god consuming most but throwing the remainder back into space; a missile of ice, rock, iron, and fire heading for a space and time to be occupied by a planet. It travelled for a month before the suns glare refused to hide it any longer, Fate's coup de grace growing in the night sky like a medieval portent of doom

They had tried, how they had tried at the last; the Chinese and Russians proudly stating a common purpose, one humanity, one joint solution in partnership, then just as quickly finding themselves at cross purposes, scrambling to remain the strongest in the face of two competing crises. And so, two different salvations were attempted. The pride of human ego, the price of ideologies, sealing the fate of the earth, a world killed by inescapable cliché and cultural imprisonment.

Kane didn't know who launched first, and in the end it didn't matter, no one was left around to blame. Two sets of destruction streaked star ward at the tumbling ruin of rock, iron, and gas, intent on killing or deflecting its purpose. They failed. One collection of falling objects became four, and the end was written in four fiery trails across the sky.

He had watched the murder outside, the death of morality, people beaten to a pulp for a loaf of bread or a handful of fruit. Looters running through the street, cars blazing in their wake, their occupants faced with the choice of the mob or the flame. He had watched and welcomed it, an end, an apotheosis for his own personal hell and release from his guilt; he'd stared at their picture until vision blurred, longing to be with them again.

The end came unknown, the last few snippets of news painting the fiery trails ending in the Pacific and possibly the Asian landmass. Had he felt a shudder, the Earth literally shake under his feet? He couldn't recall for certain; but he did hear the bang of one of the smaller chunks, detonating in the atmosphere high above, a sonic shockwave racing around the world. And then.... silence.

Everything failed.

Plunged into darkness and deafness, a cloying moment of vertigo had assailed his senses, his loss at that final extinguishing of light and sound palpable. He had run to the window, looked out on midnight streets, not a flicker of power to be found within view, and he had known real fear. Stark, numbing fear clutching at his throat.

Prehistoric instincts had pulled him through then, protesting at his imminent demise, and he knew; knew then that he couldn't wait idly by while his end came. Environment, instinct, or upbringing, it didn't matter, some base part of his Id screamed at him to survive, to not do _them_ the disservice of embracing death so easily, to fight it, and he listened....

Nations, land, people, washed away in a torrent of fire and water. Untreated cuts, old diseases and innocuous accidents contriving to kill many of those fortunate enough to survive that darkness; before the long winter had set in, the dust in the atmosphere blocking the sun, slowly strangling life.

_Enough!_ The mental cry shook the memories from his head, the anger and re-awakened pain forcing itself through the doubts and confusion. He pulled out his hands in front of him, the knuckles white with the grief and rage coursing through him. Rightly or wrongly he believed answers lay in the puzzle he now pursued. What lay at the end didn't matter; whether an outlet for the grief and guilt, or an element of blame and revenge- it was presently irrelevant. The fact of _purpose_ existed now. It comforted, it warmed, it drove.

He'd packed and left his home with all that he could carry, essentials for survival. The flight arduous, normally attuned senses adrift on a miasma of emotions and conflict, and several times he had nearly been too late in noticing the overtly calm and silent areas- a sure sign that the Monks or one of the many other psychopathic groups had brought their own brand of fear and loathing to a place and its surviving stragglers. He had taken the Riverside route, a deliberate ploy, ensuring that the buildings and dark places he would have to pass would at least be minimal on one side. Gunfire had saved him at the old refinery, its once glistening pipes and bright fairy lights stripped long ago for scrap in inglorious closure, the remaining skeletal bones now dimmed and rusted. A large burst of automatic gunfire and the staccato response of rifles had stopped him in his tracks, scrambling to refuge in the shadow of the old gas tanks as a skirmish raged to and fro along the Ferry Road, his eyes glancing to the remains of the old slaughterhouse, in his mind a perfect home for either group. In a welter of fading screams and curses he waited till it moved west, his nose and throat burnt by the insidious diesel and lingering aroma of gas that clung to the dead refinery like a spectre.

Cold and black with grime and perspiration he had made his way east once more, his only guide a rough outline of an idea, formed in the haze of whirling thoughts and determined flight. Through Mayfield, the cemetery, and Dawson Park he had moved silently and slowly, the open spaces a barrier against other people and threats. Another brief stop, becoming vestigial to a pile of rubble while what he assumed was some kind of scout on horseback passed across his route, and he had reached the dual carriageway, able to lose himself in the fields and withering hedgerows along its edges. And now here, a desolate hill his camp for the night, the old mobile phone mast and junction boxes at his back providing some shelter from the biting wind.

Gallow Hill lay to the east, his next planned reference stop, but even from his current hide he could make out the thicker snow blanketing its slopes. He cursed silently, knowing that wading through it would drain his strength and speed. Time to go downhill, he thought, his eyes scanning the rusted, snow laden hulks littering the road as his numbed hands worked feverishly to pack up his belongings. At least they would offer some relief from the wind and any watching eyes.

Packed, he loped down the hillside, an exaggerated gait to avoid the worst of the snow and any pitfalls. The extra pair of sturdy boots hanging from the Bergen swinging in time to his canter, kept dry in a polythene bag in case his others became damaged or worn. A slight tight smile split his face as his lungs opened to the cold, fresh air, and his heart pumped blood around his body in response to his exertions. For a moment he felt like a child again, out in the open air, free of the city; the exhilaration flowing through his veins as he tramped downhill in a showery mist of powder, screened by the hedgerow, a cheer of wanton abandon poised behind his smile. But the cheer died on his lips quickly as the metal tombs below rushed nearer, the sporadic grisly remains of their occupants desiccated dry by the wind and the cold, their profiles still intent on the road they had started and perished on.

The exhilaration died and anger bloomed in his chest and temples once again as he absorbed the tableau before him, the rigour smiles belying a hideous end. Eyes blazing, Kane fought to remind himself why he had come east at all, all the while seeing his lost family in every cadaver.

His breath steamed around him like a portent, part of his mind recoiling from this raw emotion, a fleeting question of sanity battling the rage. But their pictures loomed too large and real in his mind to be ignored, a montage of smiling faces and innocence. _Sophie, Ben!_

' _Act of God'_ \- that's what their deaths had been attributed too, the car washed downhill in a landslide as they had made their way north to visit Sophie's parents; Kane to join them the next day once he'd finished up work.

'Act of God'. A throwaway phrase, used throughout history to label those events beyond our ken, or with no underlying man-made cause. A filing label; nothing more.

But now...?

The events of the last few days had given that phrase new potential meaning and scope, and it tugged at him, at their deaths, afresh. The possibility of answers and meaning a new spur to survival.

Where those answers lay he didn't know, but he would travel where needed, and if he could find more of these.... these, _creatures_...then those answers may be found with them.

Arbroath beckoned first, the one place in his head where he felt he could possibly replace the suddenly seeming inadequacies of his old rifle for whatever paths and tasks lay ahead with the sharp, multiplous potential afforded by an automatic weapon. His old life had taken him to Condor Base a couple of times and he remembered the armoury being full to bursting, an animal delight of black gunmetal and brass bullets to tease the basest nature in any man, and that memory drove him now. It was also a sea faring town, and while the drone of engines and motors had all but disappeared, he wondered if some form of communication and travel existed out there on the water- a different form of survival.

Rationally, part of him recognised the futility inherent in the enterprise, the undoubted bias against the prizes he sought still remaining thereafter all this time, but new purpose and now restlessness drove him.

The older frozen snow crunched under his feet as he slowed at the prospect ahead, the eternal traffic now distinct and foreboding. Kane tried to avoid looking too closely into the interiors, eyes sliding away, a mortal fear of the pitiless questions to be found in the gaze of the dead chilling him more than the cold wind. Zigging through the narrow gaps he worked his way to the centre of the lanes, slipping as he went, his hand pushing through the deep snow on the hoods, feeling the bite of the cold metal beneath. Looking ahead the gaps were surprisingly regular, the panic in that long ended flight not enough to dull the memories of arduous lessons and rules of the road ingrained in the drivers.

Re-invigorated by rest through the night he strode on, hypnotically driven by the sound of his feet in the snow, crisp and loud in the surrounding silence.

A tangle of twisted and scorched metal marking the fate of perhaps a score of vehicles caught up in a sculpture of conflagration, the black metal still covered with the melt of rubber and plastic, forced him off road again. He moved awkwardly amongst the hardy tussocks at the fields' borders, stumbling occasionally with a curse as his boots tangled in hidden hollows and undergrowth beneath the snow. Following the drainage ditch below the level of the road as his bypass he scrambled forward, hands cold through the gloves as he gripped for balance and purchase.

Gallow Hill remained visible off to his left, a brooding watchtower of malevolence, sloping higher as he closed the distance, and as he crested a small rise in the road the horizon broke away in front of him, the hill proud and tall. And there, in its lee, the few buildings and remains that had once constituted a high tech gym, garden centre and the obligatory fast food outlet, surrounded by the flat expanses of their multitudinous parking bays.

Kane settled down to watch, the clear expanse of open ground and little cover in front of these buildings causing his hackles to rise and, squatting between two collided wrecks, he studied each of the buildings in turn, the rifle sight detached as a makeshift telescope. The fast food restaurant was a shell, burnt out and gutted long ago, only jutting spars of steel still attached to the wall giving a rough outline of the prefab building that was. Shards and lumps of rubble peeked through the snow as he panned the sight to view the garden centre where the front of the building seemed fairly intact, the odd window smashed and missing, but from a distance the frontage would look as if it was whole.

The roof was a different matter, a vast swathe ripped off to the right, edges curled and sharp as if something had punched its way through in violence. Again the feeling of desolation and emptiness throbbed like an open sore and Kane moved on, satisfied that no threat lay in wait there. The gym came sharply into focus next; its breezeblock surface and corrugated sides highlighted with a blanket of frost and drifted snow, the rear and outdoor swimming pool out of sight down a further slope. The surface seemed intact, the building as whole as any he had seen in recent times.

Only one entrance was visible at the front of the building, no other windows or doors broke the façade. Kane trained the sight on the door, the windows an obdurate black from the darkness within. An involuntary shudder passed down Kane's spine, something wasn't right; too too quiet and the door was still intact _. Shit!_

Indecisiveness held him, the need to keep moving at odds with the instinct in his gut, snarling like pit bulls at each other. He kept the sight trained at the door area, his vision occasionally flitting to the top of the hill, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Locked in place, his eye blinked rapidly from its contact with the sight and the consuming whiteness of the ground he studied. The clouds above, chased and harried by the winds, thinned for a moment and lost their opaqueness, a rare brightening of the world occurring as the wan light filtered through and marked the albino ground in stark relief.

There, in front of the door, shadows of footsteps appeared, briefly contrasted on the flat ground. Obviously not old, and too cluttered to be the tracks of one person, Kane shied away, falling back to sit on his haunches with his back to the car.

_Spawn or Monk?_ The air suddenly felt thick, cloying despite the cold; the first hypnotic taunting of failure ready to berate him. He fought the rising tide of panic, mouth pulled tight, eyes looking around, searching. He could still use the cars; _Yes!_ They and the drainage ditches would keep him screened from the hill and the building for most of the way. But, unless he crawled on his belly and invited hypothermia he would have to expose himself to the fields at some point, inviting challenge from anyone close by, and _anyone_ in this instance meant individuals who he did not want to meet.

He fought for clarity- _Academic anyway,_ there was no going back. That would mean starting again, scrabbling for survival to the end, for what? No, this way had meaning, he had an aim; where it ended he didn't know, but it would be on a path chosen by him and more than just a life of bare existence.

Stealing himself for what lay ahead he moved, randomly timing his jumps between the vehicles, heart and breath seeming to stop as he crossed between the gaps; grateful for the breeze that pulled the tell-tale clouds of steam apart. His eyes darted this way and that as he searched for danger, adrenalin high in his system, and stiffness crept into his back and legs as his crouching gait began to exact a toll. Brief stops came and went, sat perched on his Bergen, hidden behind the steel wings, his mind, not for the first time idly wondering why the cars weren't used. Why the sound of all these engines had one day stopped and never started again? Only the odd rumble ever heard occasionally across the still air. He stretched his legs in a search for relief, trying hard to muffle the groans as his muscles complained, unenthusiastic at the prospect of further punishment.

Gradually the buildings moved slowly to his rear, and his tension lifted slightly, but not enough to prevent a frantic dive in the snow as a door slammed suddenly in front of him like a thunderclap, the malevolent wind playing with his nerves. Then, by degrees, even the hill began to recede behind the rise, and the downhill trek became nearly pleasant, the bunching of his shoulder blades easing as the footprints moved into his past and memory and rhythm returned to his walk. Lightened in spirit, he checked his clothing as he walked, ensuring that no rips or tears were wearing through to let the cold air bite at his skin, but mainly to distract his mind and extend the moment before the reality of his lonely sojourn filled his mind again.

The day softly became night, cloud bases thickened, and Kane smelled the moisture on the air before the first flakes fell, large and fluffy, to the ground. He stood for a moment, face turned to the sky. In these moments it seemed the earth was recreating itself anew, the snowfall like a blank canvas upon which the new day would be written, good or evil. A more savage gust than expected swept over him and, grimacing, he pulled the scarf tighter around his throat and mouth and hugged his coat close as sight disappeared in a flurry of white and darkness. Bunched over he struggled for balance as it pulled and snapped at his clothes, forcing him to keep his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat; and for a moment his playful mind saw what seemed like nature's own ire at his arrogance as the distance passed slowly under his boots, shouting at him to turn back.

Soon a blizzard howling down in a dervish of white powder, and Kane struggled to lift his head and feet as it began to accumulate across his torso and thighs. Ploughing through drifts with burning muscles and head turned to the side, it railed across his face, a chink of exposed ear and cheek stung by the crystal shards. The need for shelter was becoming urgent, and he turned his eyes left and right, looking for a vehicle that had a semblance of intactness and was preferably uninhabited by ghosts. Buffeted and with energy being sucked away ever faster he spotted an old saloon sitting at an angle to the others and rushed into its lee, diving into the shelter it afforded from the wind. Grimly he tried the handle with numb fingers ready to curse the god of central locking, but instead smiled thinly at a satisfying, barely audible, click, and profound creak as old hinges helped the door spin outward.

Senses frozen he shrugged the backpack quickly from his shoulders and threw it into the dim interior, hearing the thud and smelling the dead air as it landed on the driver's seat. Relief flooded through him as he dragged his stiff limbs behind it, shuffling round to pull the door closed behind him with a satisfying thud, cocooned at last from the elements. Mustiness filled the interior, offending his senses; the age and deterioration conspiring to voice outrage at its abandonment. Tears flowed from eyes thankful to escape punishment from the wind and he quickly removed his wet outer garments; hat and gloves laid flat on the rear seat, jacket adorning the driver's seat, the arms stiff from the bitterness outside. Slowly, dry fleece and blanket newly released form his pack and wrapped around him Kane relaxed into the comparative warmth of his sanctuary, breath still misting in front of him, but the leaden ice in his arms and legs slowly melting away. All that existed was the car, the outside world lost in the static of the driving snow, a growing blanket on the bonnet and drivers side, its weight building under the blizzards direction.

Satisfied that he himself was invisible, Kane set about his pack, reaching also for the old survival blanket and wrapping it about his shoulders over his other dry layers. That done he removed his boots and socks, laying them in the well behind his chair as he unballed a dry pair and pulled them over grateful feet. Compared to the conditions of ten minutes ago he began to feel almost comfortable, throwing some food and chocolate down his throat, cold water bringing relief to chilblained lips and dry scoured throat. Under the muted howl of the gale outside, he welcomed the dark stillness and drifted into weary sleep.

....thu-thump....

......the corridor stretches in front of him, its end a point in infinity, the regularly spaced lights creating triangles of brilliance on the cream and green walls, the complimenting tiles squeaking under the soles of his shoes.

...thu-thump....

A bubble of sound, stretching the walls and flying down the corridor, a visible pulse, daring him to move

...thu-thump.......... thu-thump......thu-thump....

Unsteady feet move with the pulse, his own heart echoing, the rhythm heavy in his chest. His walk becomes a jog, trying to catch the pulse, trying to get out of the shadow, always around him, diminishing the lights as he passes under them.

...thu-thump.......... thu-thump......thu-thump.... thu-thump.... thu-thump....

_The call insistent, his speed increasing, panic rising in his chest. Doors passing by on either side, no, no, no, his mind discarding each one as he races past._ Where are you _? Throat dry, a sweat on his brow._

Thu-thum...thump.... thump-thump....

-heart rate irregular-

The words physical barriers, his movements sluggish as they wash through him

-BP falling, 100 over 60-

...thump...thump...thump...thump...

-We're losing her-

-5 cc's adrenalin now!-

The scream issues and is lost from his mouth, absorbed by the walls, the door visible up ahead, glowing and alive, pulsing with the waves along the corridor. The air, so thick, pressure full on his chest, arms swimming, tugging and pulling through the soup, fingers stretched towards the bright handle

-.... the boy?-

-...cutting...-

..thump..thump..thu..thump.thump.thump......thump............thump.....

-CLEAR-

..THU-THUmp.............thump.................

-...we can't lose both. C'mon!...-

-BP still falling, 85 over 60-

...thump...............................................................................thump....................

Fingers touch the handle, the yell echoing, "NOOOOO!! Not now! SOPHIE! Stay! Wait! I'm here...."

.......................thump..............................................

clutching desperately, fingers slipping, the handle like soap as he tries to grip, turning it by degrees, the air building around him, its whisper becoming a rumble. The door is pulled from his grasp, sucked open as the air rushes passed. He raises his hand to shield his eyes, the light blinding him. Braced against the frame he lowers his hand, his eyes widening as he absorbs the scene played out for him, compelled to look, to see the figures in their white coats and gowns kneeling in supplication, a low murmuring issuing as they face the bed, raised to the vertical, blood pooled at its foot, running down the figure of his wife, her arms still held aloft, head turned to the ceiling, pain etched on her face, its echo resonating in the livid open wound in her stomach. And as he screams and screams her name it seems that he is falling in to that wound, the air carrying his voice and his being, roaring around him as he falls, her name on his lips, always her name, the air so loud, pressure on his eardrums increasing............

He jerked awake with a strangled gasp as the first insipid lightening of dawn confused the new contours outside, and stared wide eyed and blinking away the fear and horror of his dream. Through the frosted windscreen the world still lay in monochrome, but the voice of the wind had disappeared and the blizzard now fell softly, its light flakes unperturbed by wind or gusts. He lay comfortable in the faded upholstery with slumber still fogging at the edges of his brain pulling his dry kit tighter as the undoubted cold of the car tried to suck the warmth from his essence. Light increased slowly, the flat grey snow cloud permitting little interruption to its business, and the world outside began to take ghostly form once more.

This section of road passed through a dip between fields sloping away to higher ground, the snow banked high on either side. Out of the patchily frosted glass, a faintly distinguishable line delineated a soft undulation in the hill rising shallowly in front of the car, its limit obscured by the merging of sky and ground caused by the snow and poor light, the treeline out of site behind the rise. No landmarks marked the immediate view and Kane was slightly perturbed at not knowing how far he had come, or where exactly he was for that matter.

He chewed slowly on a meagre breakfast as he gathered his thoughts. Still on the road was good, it followed the line of the coast fairly accurately, and following it he couldn't fail to reach Arbroath. Supplies were always another matter, and warily he checked them, anxious that enough remained to sustain him for the remainder of the journey. Scavenging was inevitable, but as long as he had adequate provision for the first leg, he trusted to fate and no little skill to find more. He shifted in the seat to check on his clothes, but as he turned, a flicker of light caught his eye. Cocking his head, he stared through the screen searching for the source.

_There_!

From behind the short rise in front, a shaft of what could only be torchlight split the air like a beacon; a wavering, frantically shifting cone illuminating the snowflakes and indicating that its owner was moving across the ground. Then another, criss-crossing the first. As he concentrated, carried through the failing seals of the car, a wail of muted noise also reached out.

Kane hurriedly redressed, jamming his socks and boots back onto his feet, then his arms sliding through the stiff sleeves of his jacket. Gripping and dragging the rifle he slowly and carefully opened the door and crouched behind it, eyes peering through the narrow triangle between door and body. Sixty seconds, two minutes later, he didn't know how long, but as he watched an indistinct form appeared, caught in the spear of torchlight at the ridgeline, the falling snow confusing the outline.

The outline grew as it crested the rise, its clarity still lost in the curtains of snow. Kane rested the rifle snugly in the apex of the triangle and tried to discern more detail through the sight. The light worked against him, dawn still hanging just below the horizon, but his forehead creased in puzzlement as the shape seemed to balloon, its girth increasing and thinning as it came on. Whatever it was, the torches and shafts of light shone behind it, the profile sharpening as they sought it out

Jesus!

The shape suddenly parted, became two distinct forms, joined by a shadowy diagonal, a familiar pattern causing a pang of heartache to rush through him.

A woman struggled toward him unknowingly, long dark hair confusing the shape of her head as it jumped and flowed with her movements. Her arm reached down and behind, linked to the small form of a child, pulling in desperation. Kane moved to crouch lower, out of sight, instincts for preservation naturally kicking in; but sounds reached his ears at the same moment, the frail wheeze and sobs of distress expelled with the hoarseness of exhaustion.

Blinding light dazzled his eyes, the torch beams cutting over and cresting the hill, seeking to spear prey again in luminescence. Rabid shouts followed the light, maniacal laughter taunting the woman as it closed on her and the child. As he watched she stumbled and fell on the incline, rushing back to her feet with an explosion of powdery snow, sobbing clearly with panic.

Instinctively Kane readied his posture, the rifle tracking back through the cone of light. Ignorant of his presence the woman continued to drag the child down the slope and across his line of sight as she headed for the road, just as the first of her antagonists sprang in to view at a stumbling run.

Kane struggled to see, jerking the rifle until he came into view. Red and black filled his vision through the sight, and in the back of his mind he suddenly knew that he had finally found the residents of the gym. A feral grin lit the hunters face, his stocky frame swathed in layers of blood red and ebony clothing; the mark of The Spawn. His head was shaved in defiance of the cold, features squashed in a ruddy face and buy a beard that was long and bushy, frosted with snow. A shotgun hung inert on a makeshift roped harness across his back, its obvious capabilities seemingly ignored in favour of the hunting knife held in his hand like a promise of intimate violence.

"Here chicky-chicky- _chicky_! Come to daddy!" hoarsely coughed through the wind, spittle sprayed between the grin, the malice thick in the taunt. His head turned behind him, "This way boys. There's definitely some life in this one!"

Laughing he loped from the top of the hill, following the woman toward the road. Kane remained in frozen horror behind the door as the accomplices appeared behind him, clad in similar garb, one with rifle slung over shoulder while the third carried an automatic rifle nonchalantly in his hands. His eyes slid right again and searched for the woman and the child, saw her slip on the icy surface and lurch back into a stumbling run as she fought for balance, the child given no time to recover as she dragged his weight in panic behind.

"Please! No, _no_! Leave us _alone_. Oh God.... Pl... Please! No!"

Her sobs had reached a frantic pitch, their hitching note at odds with the confident taunts and baiting behind her. As one they giggled at her distress; giggled! And that sound, so at odds with the situation galvanised Kane, his abhorrence breaking the inaction of his own fear.

This was unbearable. The _child_ alone for pity's sake! Their singular lack of acknowledgement of the kid's existence left him in no doubt as to the callous, brutal end these ghouls had in mind.

Suddenly the rifle was tracking smoothly against the doorframe, his mind already assessing and deciding priorities against the threats posed.

No room for error, he aimed carefully and pulled the trigger.

Mr Automatic fell like a wet sack, the front of his face disappearing in a fountain of bone and blood as the bullet exited. The crack still echoed against the hills as the second thug, frozen for that split second of shock, wheeled on the spot, his arms tangling as he struggled to free the rifle from his shoulder. Kane shifted slightly and fired. An almost gentle spot of dark red essence leaking from _Rifle_ 's mouth as he fell to his knees, a further crimson patch suffusing his breast as he fell backwards to lie limbo like on the ground.

Less than five seconds had passed as he adjusted his aim to end the last thug's life.

By this time, Mr Short and Squat had turned from his quarry, and Kane could almost see the spark of madness in his eyes as he bared his teeth and snarled, eyes searching then alighting on Kane's position. With a roar he ran straight at him, the shotgun forgotten as he raised the knife like a butcher.

Time slowed; Kane saw the woman's shocked expression as she registered the suddenly changed situation, disbelief clear on her face, the child clinging to the back of her legs, head half hidden behind her thighs. His heart thumped loud against his ribcage as he squeezed the trigger, adrenalin catching up. And almost lazily he watched the ejected hot brass cartridge falling to be lost steaming in the snow. Eyes up and if felt like all the time in the world to watch the side of the last bastards face disintegrate, teeth and fluid flying like a wake behind him.

But still he came, furious insanity refusing to give up the chase, refusing to accept death. Fired on reflex the second shot took him low in the stomach, the force of the bullet's momentum forcing him to double over and stumble, sliding, to his hands and knees, staining the ground with his draining life.

Kane stood up slowly, nerves tingling with adrenalin, ears tingling from the sharp retorts, and walked slowly around the door keeping his rifle trained on the prone figure. Words came to his ears, as he got closer, hissing intently.

" Kill you.... bastard...Kill you. Kill yo..." The words spat out as if he hunched there vomiting; but as his last breath faded with the word, the invisible strings on his limbs were cut and he fell face down in the snow, a spreading puddle of scarlet marking the last efforts of his body.

Kane shuddered and lifted his head, suddenly colder than ever, and turned to look at the only two people left standing. She stood as she had, stuck in place, disbelief visible across her features as she muttered unintelligibly under her breath. Carefully, deliberately, and very visibly lowering the barrel he walked slowly in their direction, his free hand out and open in front of him, placating, unthreatening.

"It's ok, they're gone. They can't hurt you. Your safe now," her shaking became visible as he got closer, her eyes fixed on the bloody ruin littering the ground in front of her. The child, a boy, stood crying at her side, uncontrolled tears rolling down his cheeks, his face contorted in fear, wailing. Their clothes lay ragged about their person, twitching in the wind, sodden and grimed by age and hardship. He kept his eyes on her, trying to gain her attention, but hers remained hidden behind a main of dark hair floating softly in the breeze. A wave of empathy rocked Kane, and he fought the urge to weep at their horror with them, to acknowledge their pain and fear. Instead he continued to edge lightly forward, voice soft, his movement's small and light.

Before he could repeat his refrain again, his hand broke through her line of sight, breaking her paralysis and her head whipped up, wide eyes locking fully onto his.

"Shh. They're gone. Ok? They're gone. You understand? Your safe" he held up his hand, held the rifle out to the side, "You're both ok."

Looking at him, her features slackened, and, eyes rolling back into her skull, she fell to the ground.
Chapter 4

"But I don't want to go among mad people!"

"Oh you can't help that," said the cat, " We're all mad here. I'm mad, you're mad!"

Lewis Carroll

Consciousness returned in her body long before she opened her eyes. Her body and hands felt the soft padding of the seat she was sitting on and noticed the absence of any chill breeze biting at her skin. Slowly she opened her eyes, wondering at the vision of heavy snow in front before awareness of the glass sank in. Quickly her psyche identified the familiar interior of a car; the musty aroma of the worn and damp seats pervasive in the enclosed space.

"Hi"

She shrank quickly back at the sound of the voice, dragging her legs up behind her, shrinking against the doorframe.

"Hey, hey; its ok! Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. It's ok honest." He sat across from her, hands raised, palms out to face her; empty. She glanced suspiciously at him through the strands of hair covering her face as he reached into a pocket, violent memories suddenly awoken and vivid again.

Her eyes darted here and there as she worked through the remains of her confusion, quickly scanning his clothing; a ragtag assortment of coverings, obviously scavenged and well used, ranging from the coarse black trousers and thick woollen socks, to the worn and grubby hunting jacket, its pale green colour bulging with the extra clothing worn below. His feet were bare but for the socks, sturdy hiking boots lying in the seat well, and he had taken his gloves off, one upraised hand now holding what appeared to be a bit of chocolate. But nowhere was her view suddenly arrested by the white or red that she feared...lacking the signal of mal intent and affiliation that was synonymous with it.

Her muscles relaxed slightly as she looked up at his face, but her arms remained wrapped round her tucked up legs, defensive and warding. Unruly black hair covered his head, unbrushed and lank, flecked with grey, a long fringe hanging over his forehead almost to his eyes, and curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His face was lean, the skin stretched over angular cheeks and jaw, an aquiline nose sitting like a statement in the centre. Lips, their colour tinged blue with the cold, sat full above his chin, pulled tight in what looked like an expression of concern, highlighting old laughter lines around their edges and at his nose. He moved slightly, tilting his head to try and catch her eyes with his, their concern obvious in the furrow of his brows, the edges wrinkled with crow's feet, questioning. Even in the dimness of the car, she could make out their blue hue, and as his concern deepened on his face, she felt the clenched muscles in her posture start to relax.

"Nathaniel. Nate. My friends call me Nate. I found you outside, remember?" the frown on his brow increased; as if the effort of speaking was one he wasn't used to, the words hard to come by. She slid her feet slowly back down to the floor, running nervous fingers through her hair as she looked at him askance.

"Lucy," She whispered, unsure whether he heard until a smile cracked suddenly across his face, lightening his features.

"Pleased to meet you Lucy. Wanna bit?" He held out the piece of chocolate like an offering, features intent on her reaction. Slowly she reached out a hand and took it warily, cautiously sniffing it before popping it in her mouth. The explosion of taste caused her mouth to water, and she was unable to hide the wolfishness with which she finished it, licking her fingers clean for good measure. When she looked up coyly, his eyebrows were raised in mirth; but amused, not mocking.

"Hungry? Thought you might be. The little man was scoffing it like there's no tomorrow!"

David!?

She looked hurriedly around toward the back seat to find him curled up in the corner deep in slumber, a faint ring of chocolate surrounding his mouth. Relief escaped her in a sigh, which didn't go unnoticed.

"Your boy? What's his name? Couldn't get a peep out of him, even when he did start to scoff the chocolate!"

"David, his name's David. Least that's what I call him. He's never spoken," she paused, uncertain how to go on, "He's not mine."

She watched the question form on his face and then pass away like a shadow, obviously thinking it was better left unasked. The silence stretched; stolen glances making her aware of the difficulty he seemed to be having with this conversation, unsure of how to proceed.

A wave of sympathy washed through her as she appraised him again. At the base level, she knew that this man had saved their lives. He'd brought them out of the cold, was feeding them even though he couldn't possibly have much for himself let alone others. But even as she decided to speak, that human dimension wanting to engage and rid them of the awkwardness, she couldn't fight the wariness, "What do you want?" inadvertently snarling the question at him.

The shock in his face bit deeply into her as he answered quietly; "Nothing, I just...just couldn't stand by and do nothing" He looked down at his hands, avoiding her face, "Could I?"

Trying to make amends she decided to change the subject, "How did you get here? I mean it's the middle of no place, there can't be much to find in this," her arm swept sharply across the view through the glass, and again she silently cursed herself for the suspicion still in her voice and now her actions. So she was surprised to see relief seemingly sweep across his face, as if the question gave him hope of explanation and acceptance.

"Needed a change of scenery," he joked encouragingly, "The city was just becoming _far_ too busy. Needed some fresh air and open skies!" her returned half smile seemed to encourage him to continue, "So I just started walking. On my way to Arbroath, need to see a man about a dog as it were. Hadn't planned on this unscheduled stop however." He paused, looking uncomfortable as the silence threatened to build again, "Sorry if I scared you"

He hadn't been around people much lately; that she could tell. The sincerity was writ too large across his face to be anything other than genuine _._

I've got enough cynicism for all of us.

She shrugged the thought away as she replied, the words still coming out sharper than she liked, "Don't be. We're alive. Wouldn't be if you hadn't...you know. Right place, right time and all that! Thank you," there, finally she had managed to say it, "They _were_ going to kill us."

Interest and badly concealed fury vied for position on his face. Finally, interest won, "How did they find you? Can't believe you were out in the open here either, in _this_. What happened?"

_"They didn't_ find _us, they already had us. Had done for weeks," she sighed along with the accompanying shiver, "Kept us locked in the old gym, guarded, they......," she paused, dipping her head as she tried to hide the horror in her eyes at the memory of the weeks of abuse, unwilling to speak of it, "...used_ it _as a base."_

He nodded as if in recognition, his eyes encouraging her to go on.

"From what I could hear it sounded like they were moving out, back to the city. A _lot_ of them, getting together. I kept hearing the name Askwith; how the Monks were finished now that he was in charge. Seemed then we were some extra luggage they could do without, 'ten a penny' apparently! Didn't stop them trying to have their _fun_ though; _a leaving present_ one of them called it," tears were close, the anger in her voice now unrestrained, " _Bastards_ got what they deserved!"

She looked up and his eyes held hers, empathy shining there. He didn't press her further, the implicitness of why she had survived so long clear. People were rare enough, woman even more so.

Deftly changing the subject to spare her more hurt, he nodded toward the slumbering form in the back seat, "We need to get you somewhere safe, and soon. Others might come looking, and if this snow stops it'll be too easy to track us," He glanced through the window, "Wait here."

With that he pulled on his boots and gloves and left the car in a blast of frigid air. She watched him through the glass, a flurry of mixed emotions assailing her.

Why was he helping? What did he want? He seemed genuine, had not pried into obvious bad memories. But was that sensitivity or just fear of the answers?

We should go!

There had to be something in it for him- but what?

_Maybe he_ was _just a rare slice of decent._

To escape the turmoil, she turned and looked behind at the sleeping form of David, a keen softness entering her eyes. Reaching back, she stroked his face gently, watching his deep regular breath softly misting in the air. She couldn't drag him through the snow and the wind. Fact was she had no better idea herself of where to go, but knew with certainty it wouldn't be the city.

They were going to have to put their trust in this stranger, at least for a little while, and then...well, they had survived this long, they would just have to take their chance with fate for a while longer.

A short while later the dull click of the door informed her that Nathaniel was back. She swung back round, still unable to totally forego the defensiveness in her posture as he climbed back in, snowflakes clinging to him like atmospheric detritus. He shook himself off, shrugging out of his jacket as he dumped an armful of items onto the floor and between the seats. Removing his gloves, he began rummaging through the new pile, speaking while he separated it out _._

"If you're going to get anyplace, then the first thing we have to do is make sure both of you are at least able to travel in this weather." He flourished a quilted jacket between them like a prize, "Not much use for the wee man I know, but if we sort you out then we can jig something up for him. Not much I can do about the stains though, but they are warm."

Lucy's nose wrinkled in disgust at the vivid bloodstains on the jacket, the objection jumping sharply to her lips as he moved to hand it over, but she bit it back, aware of just what he had put himself through for them out in the cold, and recognising the sense it made regardless of her personal queasiness. And she'd endured worse.

Her hands gripped it gingerly as she wriggled and threaded her arms into place. He was right, instantly she could feel how snug the jacket was and clinched it around her torso, welcoming the protection. Nathaniel continued speaking, head down, hands burrowed in the pile, as if anxious to overcome their strangeness to each another with as many words as possible, "Boots are a bit of a write off, too big; but we could try padding them out with these socks if you want? Trousers are in good nick, and this pair's double lined which will keep the cold out. May have to turn them up though, bit long."

She listened as he rambled and, despite events and her suspicions, felt the smile creeping across her face. His nervousness was obvious, and some long forgotten part of her was finding it endearing. Momentarily she forgot herself and touched one of his fidgeting hands lightly to get his attention, feeling the need to re-assure him," Nathaniel. Thank you, it's all great. Thank you."

Smiling at him he seemed to relax a little and his bustling slowed, and for a second she was sure that she glimpsed the uncluttered, unencumbered man he had once been. It passed in a second under the shadow of the next item, the hardened survivor sweeping back across his face as if he had suddenly remembered himself, and she, just as suddenly, came back harshly once more to the fact that this man had ended three lives in front of her and had not so much as lingered for a second to pray or even curse over their bodies. The chiselled edge to his voice as he handed the shotgun across was full of the harsh realities of the world once more, "Here, take this. It's easier to use than the rifle and not as fiddly or cumbersome. You get two shots look." He preceded to flick the catch and crack open the gun, showing her the empty barrels, "See, just drop the cartridges in, snap it closed, and you're ready to go. Just point and pull, but hold it tight!"

Lucy watched his hands as they moved their way around the weapon, unable now to look at this suddenly brusque, business-like man without a sense of fear and imminent danger. She kept her eyes fixed on the gun as he handed it over, its cold metal gnawing at her fingers, its bulk assuredly deadly. Reconciling this saviour of theirs with the methodical way he had dispatched her three assailants was proving difficult, but he had promised to get them someplace safe, and for David's sake alone, she had to believe him.

_Let's face it Luce, if he wanted to, he could have done anything he wanted before now._ _In the comfort of the car, away from any other prying eyes._

So she gripped the gun 'til her knuckles turned white and met his eyes, trying to match the determination she found there _._

Not a victim, never again!

She rested against the bulk of the car, drawing the frigid air deep into her lungs. The shotgun bumped against her hip, the carry strap Kane had fashioned from shredded clothing slow to arrest its momentum. Her thighs and feet ached, and she rubbed her hands firmly up and down them trying to ease her muscles and avoid cramp before stamping her feet.

Glancing along the road she could see Nathaniel and David looking back on her, and she gave them a tired wave, letting them know she was ok. She watched, with no little curiosity, as they turned back to look ahead, David carried on Nate's hip, arms wrapped around his neck, looking forward at their destination in the distance. A burst of high-pitched laughter floated to her on the breeze, as clear as crystal bells in the cold morning air, and she smiled. Whatever else happened from here on in, this strange saviour of a man had given David back his laughter and at the very least given her some tiny hope where only an abyss had existed before.

She felt her brows knit as she stared at the back of Kane's head; an all too familiar view over the last day and a half as he had stridden ahead, checking the way. Despite the company, he remained something of an enigma, and the sudden changes in his mood and manner, while not as alarming as they had been, still gave her pause for thought.

They had struggled initially through the blizzard, varying their path to leave no straight line and having faith that the snowfall would be great enough to cover any visible sign of their passing. Conversation had been kept to a premium, strength conserved for the trek and the effort of ploughing through the wall of snow that coated them from head to foot. Bent almost double against the wind, she had kept David behind her as much as possible, Nathaniel carrying him tucked against his body when he grew weary. She had watched him intently with the wariness of the unknown, the need for preservation duelling with the habitual distrust born of previous experiences.

By the time the snow had begun to ease a few hours before dawn, and heads could be lifted once again, she had become impatient for a break in the inertia one way or the other; some breaking of the communication deadlock that had been forced upon them, and tentatively had first asked after, and then fussed over, David's condition, pulling Nathaniel into the conversation through a need for supplies and more dry clothes.

It had been a start, the early hours and rolling landscape started to fill with the awkward, fragmented conversations of the newly met, and reminded her of numerous first dates where sipping drinks covered the trying pauses, as two unrelated people looked for some common ground. A war of attrition where topics were thrown like hand grenades, exploding in the face, wearing down the silent barriers until a breach was found and a link was formed. They had kept it superficial, born, lived, how long, job, neither willing to break the level of cordiality and delve deeper, all topics far from touching on end time nightmares. Slowly it had worked, in small part, enabling them to establish an easy rapport that was not too taxing.

For the first time in recent memory she had begun to feel a connection with another adult, not deep or meaningful; in fact, particularly frivolous, but all the same it was the closest thing to companionship in a long time and she welcomed it. And David, well he seemed to revel in the extra attention, the dark episodes of the past few weeks seemingly consigned to the mysterious place in a child's mind that diminished then banished events as inconsequential. Perhaps in some other life they could have gone on like that indefinitely, but the undercurrents of old lives still tugged too strongly to ever be assuaged, always there somewhere like a bubbling mass rippling through her unconscious, vying for release.

It had been natural to start with David; he had quickly become a focal point for both of them, collectively studious and duly diligent of his care. Part of her had felt that using David like this wasn't particularly fair on Nathaniel, requiring him to buy into them emotionally, to empathise; but another part needed this level, the sharing that was involved, a reconciling of loss through words. So she had told him the story of David, only lightly touching on her own fearful flight from house to house save to position it bringing her within earshot of his crying; and the dilemma she had then faced in deciding to investigate or not.

Never would she be able to truly convey the horror she had found in that house, the smell of death that oozed from the very walls, and she hadn't tried; in many respects protecting herself as much as anyone else from the memory. But her eyes glistened once more as she related finding him alone in the kitchen, awash in a riot of dirt and dim light; a tiny boy sitting alone on the floor, caked in dirt and surrounded by the remains of various cereal boxes, the stench of rancid milk assaulting her nose as she picked her way to him. She relayed the innocence with which he had raised stick thin arms to her, a plea for warmth and simple human contact, trying to stem the tears as his breath hitched noisily in his throat, the vomit caked dry on his clothes. She remembered crying, weeping freely as she had gone upstairs... aghast at the thought of how he must have tried to rouse his parents, already plague ridden and dead in their room, trapped with them behind locked doors.

He had clung to her for days, never speaking, his fingers clasped into her clothes and skin, only ever suffering the barest separation to eat and drink when they ransacked carefully watched houses and stops for food.

Recounting their capture had her stammering, tumbling over her words, weeks of dodging the snatch squads brought to an end by a recklessness born of gnawing hunger and the violent pummelling fists of the snare they had unwittingly stumbled into.

Kane had listened in silence, his head hanging low over his chest, unwilling or unable to meet her eyes. His only response was carried in his bearing; no words passed his lips. But still she had continued, the need for this exorcism rapidly consuming her like tinder, regardless of any reaction he might make. The tale wove in her family, caught in a wave of violence as they had tried to escape the darkness and the frenzied crowds. Sheer, suffocating helplessness as she had watched their car set alight by the mob on the crowded road, the flash burned memory of their writhing bodies trapped in a metal tomb, boxed in by the other vehicles, unable to open the doors; The bloody memory of her staggering run and pounding fists, skin broken on the windscreen as she had tried to reach them from her own car, the smears blurring the flames; Then her husband, hauling her to safety, putting down those who came too close, but all too soon slowly dying from the plague, the mutated flu that had swept unchecked through them all. Trying to care for him as he had slipped further and further into its grasp, his body burning with fever and withering on his bones...

She had had to stop there, unable to confess the guilt she still felt over her _anger_ at him as he had suffered, the blame she had attached to him for leaving her alone.

And as the telling had threatened to consume her, the fresh grief ready to swallow her whole in its maw, Kane had looked up, just once, an ache of empathy across his face, and had whispered softly, "I'm sorry."

That had been enough, no trite attempt at condescending understanding, that simple acknowledgement enough to break the dam on her grief, to fold her up in weeping, holding David close as she had surrendered to the outpouring her heart demanded, and she had let it flow.

Somewhere in that loosening knot of pain, she had realised that where she had shared, Kane had held back. But it hadn't seemed important; her own needs outweighing all else, the persona of the confessional he had let himself become gift enough to salve her.

From there, things had changed to a degree. Yes, the conversation had remained glib and incidental, and he, as ever, seemed unwilling to unburden himself as she had (though Lucy could see it lurking heavily behind his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking) but still some connection had formed; an unavoidable consequence of her soul bearing which he could neither avoid or ignore, and which for some unfathomable reason, had made her feel safer in his presence. David on the other hand had seemed to need no such moment of catharsis. His response to the new attention had been the most surprising, but perhaps not unexpected, his age rendering him immensely adaptable, and he had bounced between the two of them like a rubber ball, laughing and jumping through the snow as the miles disappeared underfoot. But still, when they rested, his dreams had been troubled, and Lucy had found herself rocking him gently to sleep, softly wiping the tears from his cheeks. She herself had fallen asleep in the orange glow of the small fire they had felt safe enough to light in a derelict barn that provided their shelter. The surcease had been welcome; throughout the day things had been going well, with idle banter about the items they missed most, but the mood had changed with the fading light, and as the conversation played over again in her mind, she mentally beat herself up once more about the throwaway comment that had caused it-

" Drive thrus!"

"Microwave dinners!"

"Pizza delivery, or Chinese, with the little extra's when an order cost more than a tenner."

_"Hmm," she had actually licked her lips, "Nice, especially on a Friday night._ Anything _where you don't actually have to leave the comfort of your own house. I even miss shopping!"_

"Huh?"

"Shopping! Used to do my shopping on the 'net, home delivery and everything. Luxury"

"Naw, not me, never trusted computers that much. But there's a point- electricity!"

"Yeah, TV, videos, heating, hot showers. What I wouldn't give for a hot shower. Oh and some shampoo."

"Shampoo!? Now I know I'm definitely having a conversation with a woman."

_"Oh yeah?"_ she had laughed, hands on hips in mock defiance, _"You the Neanderthal type? All sweat and suffering? No washing unless absolutely necessary or until you're a danger to public health?"_

"It's the fashion these days. You could say I'm in style for the first time in my life!"

"Not too sure about that one, Nate. How did you ever get married? Your wife never nag you about wearing the same clothes more than two days running?"

The words had hardly left her lips but she knew they were a mistake. Even as his shoulders had bunched, the warmth draining from his face in front of her, she hadn't been able to stop herself compounding it, from letting her tongue go on. The babble of the suddenly panicked...

_"Nate, I'm sorry, I didn't mean. Not prying but.... I...."_ and then, even as her brain screamed at her to stop, to say nothing, she had done it, crossed the line they had been avoiding all this while _, ".... What happened?"_

That was where it had been lost. Everything they had done to break the barriers between them was for nothing in that instant. He had turned on his heels with a barely audible sigh, not running, but purposely striding back onto the march, the wall of his back and obvious tension a barrier requiring no words. But he had used them anyway, the statement as final as the grave, _"They died"_

And that night they had fallen asleep without words, only distant hollow screams and squeals, carried on the wind, breaking the silence of the dark. Her sight before sleep filled with the amber highlights and storm of shadows playing across his face in the light of the flame, his head bowed, eyes hidden in darkness.

The morning had arrived with dull certainty and a continuation of the silence only broken by necessary direction, even David falling prey to the morose atmosphere that pervaded the space between them. The hours were filled with only the soft crunch of their footsteps and the labour of their breathing, the mist around their heads becoming almost physical as a barrier as they kept communication at bay. It had seemed to Lucy that there was to be no way back, no bridging the void that she had caused to appear between them.

But as resignation had begun to settle on her shoulders like a threadbare coat, an unlikely saviour had appeared on the road ahead of them. Suddenly immobile, its fur stark against the backdrop, the rabbit had stared right back at them with its deep dark eyes, its ears flattened and twitching against its skull. She had watched Kane moving very slowly to lower his rifle from his back, positioning it in his hands ready to hoist it into his shoulder. But as he teasingly began to lift the muzzle, a blast of carefree laughter had frozen him, and David had burst ahead of them, laughing joyously as he set out to catch the rabbit.

They had both watched, and as David got closer his quarry, with surprising disdain, had turned and loped ahead of him as if daring him to catch it, and he had followed, whooping and shouting for all he was worth, caught up in the game. And it was then, as he had skidded and plunged into the snow, with a gleeful giggle splitting his face, that the storm had broken across Nate's face, and, neither able to resist the exuberance before them, both had turned with matching grins and mirth sparkling in their eyes, breaking the spell.

Now, later, watching him throwing David high into the air and catching him low, her wariness around him had changed to constant puzzlement. He presented her with an enigma that she could find no way to crack. He seemed perfectly capable, as now, of conversing and companionship; skills that they had both been slow to relearn initially; but somewhere dark inside him burned a rage or drive that she couldn't fathom or comprehend. His reticence to let her delve into his past blocked understanding, and while she had initially felt safe for herself and the boy in his company, she feared that whatever he was looking for in Arbroath lay at the heart of this drive and would put his, and their, safety in peril.

"Lucy!"

Looking up from her rest, Lucy saw the two of them beckoning on her to hurry up; David now hung over Kane's shoulder still laughing. With an audible groan as she stretched her legs and back, she put her feet back on the march and climbed the short rise to meet them, for the moment putting her worries to one side. Reaching the crest, she saw the reason for their impatience and the apparent lifting of Nate's spirits. Spread out below them, lurking dark against the silvery background of the sea was their goal. Still some miles off, it lay squat against the coastline, a confusion of low buildings all seeming to have burst outwards from the water like a spreading organism, reflecting the vibrant fishing town it had once been. Even as the wind from the North Sea slapped across her face, she felt a somewhat irrational sense of accomplishment that they had made it this far, a journey that she would have been dismissive of only a few years ago.

"Well, we made it. How far to go would you say?"

"Couple of miles at best to the outskirts, we should be there in an hour. Leaves us plenty of daylight to find you and David someplace safe to stay."

Alarm sprang at her as the import of his words sank in, "Me and David? What about you?"

He pointed away to the north, "I'm heading that way Lucy, and I don't know what I'm going to find, but I need to go." He turned and faced her, his voice soft, "I promised I'd find you someplace safe and I will. It's too small and dead for the Monks or Spawn to bother about, and I'll find you food before I leave."

The words almost physically slapped through her, "Nate, why? Why now? What's here that you have to find?" she struggled to control the frightened anger in her voice, "What's possibly left in this shitty world that's so important that you would leave us now? Look at David! _Look at him_! Do you know how long it's been since I've seen him laugh like that? _Do you_?"

"Lucy, you don't- "

_"Understand_? Damn right I don't you selfish shit!" rage rose through her being like a spring tide, "You saved us. _You_ brought us here. _You_ looked after us! We didn't ask you to! You _made_ yourself responsible for us! So you _owe_ us you bastard, _you owe us_! But no, you just dismiss us at the first opportunity like we don't matter, as if all that matters is whatever _goddamned_ thing you're searching for. Well we matter ok; we matter you _bastard_!" Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, part anger, more hurt, unable to stop as she saw Nate's crestfallen expression, the way David clung to his legs now, wide-eyed and fearful of her. _Of her?_ But she craved something, anything, some acknowledgement from him; an investment of himself, not just the froth of the exterior. _He owed them that! He owed_ her _that!_

She could feel the hot blood coursing through her, driven by emotion and rage like a burning fuel. _He couldn't do this to them, he just couldn't. Not now, not when they had begun to feel safe for the first time in so long! I am_ NOT _going to let him._

Her fists were clenched, punctuating her outburst like a rapier, pummelling his chest, "What is it eh? I am already so fed up feeling so _crippled_ by gratitude that I pussyfoot around you and your fucking sensibilities! Well take a look around Kane- what's left to have sensibilities about huh? So come on, what is it? What's so fucking terrible that you can't speak about? What could be worse than _this_?"

He reeled under the onslaught, retreating under her blows, avoiding her eyes as she pushed and pressed for him to acknowledge her, to react, say something, anything.

"You think you're the only one to have lost someone? Are you _that_ conceited you prick? What's so special about you huh? What?"

Lucy's breath steamed through her gritted teeth, panting with the rage. Kane had stopped retreating, accepting her blows like some kind of deserved flagellation, his face a mask of sorrow and inner pain. David had retreated from their immediate space, hands locked in the pockets of his jacket, head bowed; the soft sound of his sniffling loud in the aftermath. Lucy refused to look away, fists held clenched at her sides nails digging into her palms, her eyes threatening to drill the answer from his mind through sheer force of will.

After an interminable silence a sigh escaped from deep within Kane and his head slowly rose from his chest. His voice when it came was soft and reverent, as if trying to cause her no more pain than he had already.

"It's going to be safer for you if you're not with me Lucy, you and David. Explaining is hard- it hardly makes sense to me right now, but what I'm going to do is dangerous...probably absolutely insane too... but it's all I have left; I owe it to them- my wife and son. I've lived for nearly three years without them, living hour by hour, and every day they're in my thoughts, the only thing keeping me from putting one of these bullets in my brain," his voice wavered and he deliberately didn't look to them, the train of his thoughts seeming fragmented, like he was forcing these words to the surface, "They shouldn't have died, and for so long I blamed myself for not being there, and God, yes God...out of favour though that idea may be.... for taking them in such a stupid accident." His eyes suddenly met hers, "Do you believe in God Lucy? Oh yeah, I cursed him and shouted at him, usually through a quickly empty bottle, but I never really expected or believed; Shouting at the sky... it was just something ingrained, habit, upbringing, whatever. But I carried on, staying alive, watching the world burn around me but staying alive because no, it wouldn't do for a good _catholic boy_ to take the easy way out; oh no that's just not allowed!" his voice dropped to a whisper and she almost didn't catch the next words, _"...and they wouldn't want me too..._ " before again it rose, cracking with emotion and all Lucy could do was listen and watch the animated throw of his arms silently, "But then, now even-and this is the part where you'll think I'm mad Lucy- then he dropped himself _in my lap_. Not him personally, but...," He stopped, glancing off into the distance, eyes unfocussed, "Have you never wondered about the noise and lights in the sky? You've heard it, seen it? The times they pass over?" he didn't wait for a reply, "Angel's Lucy, _angels_! Really- what else do you call something that looks like us with wings? And I thought _this is it- I've finally lost it!_ But it was there, lying broken in the dirt, inhuman, but not... _alien_?... I could feel it, touch it, hear it, and when I pulled the trigger _I killed it_!"

Lucy backed away, her head slowly shaking. Backing away as his eyes came back to hers with sudden intensity as he reached the culmination of his tale,

"So I'm going to hunt them down Lucy, one by one if I have to, until I find some answers or it kills me Lucy. I have too, for _them_.... I've got nothing else left!"
Chapter 5

" The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it."

Moliere

Anziel gazed down at the ruined remains of the corpse lying skewed on the cold earth. The splayed limbs led the eye slowly upward, past the pale flesh of the torso visible through the no less ruined clothing, and up through impact-mangled wings to a jagged stump of neck, starkly mottled with the dark matter of spent life. 'Life'- a word suddenly laid out in clear juxtaposition to him through its absence in front of him now.

A sliver of flesh still connected the body to the head, now lying at an impossible angle in relation to the rest of the torso. One eye still stared in supplication into the distance, the left hand side of the face intact, but the right hand side a void where matching eye, cheekbone, ear, and mouth should be. Instead there was only a border of sharp shards of bone and the moist pulp of flesh, rent asunder by some violent end.

He crouched slowly, balancing on the balls of his feet, one alabaster hand reaching out almost involuntarily to trace the pattern of destruction. They had been here for a while now, the initial horror of their find passing to curiosity and anger at their comrade's demise, searching the surroundings for some clue as to what happened. Anziel was dimly aware of his attendants' locked and flickering gazes, their seeming inability to process the destruction of one of their brothers in such a fashion.

"What was he doing here?" He glanced behind him at the frozen attendants.

"It appears my Lord, that Herdal was concerned about the enemy flanking from the North. Scouts were dispatched to ascertain the threat, if any."

"Well it certainly appears his fears were well founded does it not?" Anziel shot the angels a withering glare, "What manner of demon could tear him asunder thus?"

"It is unlike anything we have seen previously. His head appears cloven apart with great force. No weapon we know of could do this, or any demon alone."

"Yet he bears the marks of only a single killing wound! The rest are evident, their cause clear, and should have caused him no quick end. Was he sent out alone or in phalanx?"

"In phalanx Lord. A fracas saw him separated from his kindred, but they readily assumed he would re-join."

"Assumed? Are we not fighting a war that we can be so easily complacent about such things?"

"Your pardon Lord, we are as much at a loss as you."

Anziel turned to lance his gaze behind him once again, his eye catching a glimmer in the earth as he moved his head. He peered closely, slender fingers reaching out for the object visible in the filth. Lifting it close to his face, he frowned; an unwelcome thought beginning to form in his mind.

"Get me a watcher here- _now_!"

His tone brooked no argument and one of the pair took flight to meet the request. Anziel turned the object over between his fingers, its hard metal skin cold against his, its crumpled shape confusing.

Presently a flurry of activity informed him of the watcher's arrival, and he rose from his haunches to meet him.

"My Lord? You _summoned_ me?"

Anziel heard the barely contained insolence and chagrin at having been called from battle in his tone, the simmering violence bubbling under the surface of the watcher. But this was neither the time nor place for such displays; if his instinct was correct then a new problem had manifested itself in the corpse lying at his feet.

"Be mindful of your tone and your place _angel_! You are not summoned here on a whim, rather you are here to serve the Lord with whatever small experience you can lend _me_." He let the rebuke settle in the air between them before going on, "You are familiar with this world and its denizens yes? Then perhaps you can enlighten me as to the nature of this object? It does not appear as natural of the earth, but lay recumbent amidst the remains of your brother, here!"

He held the lump of cold metal out in the palm of his hand, inviting the watcher to look and take if required.

The watcher did not even have to speak to confirm what Anziel had feared. A look of puzzlement passed across his face, followed quickly by a dawning horror as the weight of what he had been handed began to dawn in vivid comprehension. His widening eyes flicked to Anziel with a question, as if seeking there some denial of where the object had been found.

Swallowing thickly, he managed to find voice, "It is a Chosen thing Lord. A projectile; but faster and deadlier than our arrows. I believe the term for it is a _bullet._ Some sort of charge impels it from what is referred to as a gun or firearm. I know not the mechanics behind the instrument, but its effects are as deadly as the weapon is dishonourable. The Chosen fought their wars of recent times with such devices, and in dealing death I have rarely seen their equal in the hands of both the righteous and unrighteous." The monotone of his voice seemed to be an Indian sign against a conclusion he did not want to reach, his eyes refusing to meet the diorama of the corpse splayed at his feet.

"And its effects? Could it have caused such as this?"

The Seraphim's question forced the angel's head and eyes to focus on the grisly scene, refusal to believe framing his eyes, "It cannot be so Lord. For one of the Chosen to do this...." The sentence was left unfinished, the implicit betrayal of everything the watcher held dear if it were true imagined in that pause.

"Yet no other explanation suffices Brother. Signs of habitation are evident in the building kin to this patch of earth. Other metal objects were found within. You yourself must have felt the violence of the sundering his death caused? Several times now we have been subject to the same, and must know then that it was neither natural nor familiar to us? Again I ask, what say you Watcher? Was this the hand of one of the Chosen?"

The hesitation dragged, the Watcher's eyes gradually falling as he accepted the conclusion, "I can see no other answer my Lord. Inconceivable as I believe it to be, I can find no other explanation within me."

A rush of vindication surged through Anziel, he was right! His wariness of these humans was beginning to appear well founded. Maybe now those amongst them who still clung to the idolatry of the Chosen would understand his reticence, perhaps embrace it.

He turned to his attendants, "We must find the _humans_ who did this with haste. They must not be allowed to repeat this action on another of our Brothers!"

"But my Lord, should we find them, what then? They are His Chosen!"

Something akin to a grin stretched Anziel's face, "His Chosen have already been judged Brother. Who but the unworthy are left on this earth? They have no grace left under his dominion; they are part of no retinue of the blessed. They cross _our_ battlefield; thus shall they answer before _us_!

Call Herdal before me now. It would seem that we have pressing matters to attend to in this northerly province. Not least the import of a sudden flanking manoeuvre from our enemy which our fallen brother gave his being to discover," a wry set of his countenance settled over him, as he felt the now familiar blood-rush born of anticipation, and of ideas once held under counsel now finding support in the scene around him, "and perhaps these _fallen_ Chosen will provide us with some sport!"

Detritus scattered across the ground in the downdraft as his attendants departed, leaving Anziel alone on the cold packed earth with the remains. He glanced toward the building that loomed above him; it's grey façade reeking of permanence and solidity. Still, solid or not, it had not saved _them_ from His judgement, and in his mind its very existence was an affront, a denial in the face of the inevitable. These _humans_ had been so sure in their arrogance, their belief in their own perpetual nature. But they had turned their back on His words and lessons, their idolatry of themselves growing, their vanity all-consuming.

Their insolence was judged.

The thought pleased him, a smile tugging at his face; and now, with this, now they could be touched. Any that remained were obviously not worthy of His judgement, but they would be worthy of Anziel's wrath, _his_ punishment for their lack of belief. The opportunities tumbled in a cascade through his mind. He was his Master's instrument, his tool upon this earth; and this earth was theirs. They had waited so long, an eternity waiting to prove themselves, and now they would. The old enemy would be purged from the battlefield, and those Chosen that had been found not worthy of judgement would answer for their desecration of this world and their abandonment of his Word. _Yes_ , they would answer!

Grim satisfaction settled around Anziel like a warm cloak. He had watched an angel's belief's crumble into dust in front of the remains he now stood over. The word would spread quickly. Voices that had extolled the wonder of the Chosen would become like whispers in the wind; they would have no allies left soon enough. His surety in this was matched only by the surety he had in the course of action he would now take. Two opponents now faced his mighty army, and _both_ would be given no quarter. The small, creeping, divisions in the ranks would now close and harmony would be restored.

For too long the whim of the watchers had held sway, but now as one Host they would join in presenting this prize to their Master, the first born would be favoured once more and the Chosen diminished.

He knew other brothers felt as he did, had ached like he had for the kind of favour to be bestowed on them that the humans ignored. Resentment had found a place of nurture inside them and they had let it grow slowly. Never displaying it outright, but fostering careful discussion; sowing the seeds elsewhere while all the while knowing that finally an opportunity would present itself. And now the fruit was born, blossomed in the visceral remains at his feet, and all would savour its taste.

A tingling from behind him told of Herdal's imminent arrival. He turned in time to see the air fragment and refract, slowly filling with shifting form, until, with an abstract sliding of the air, his Cherubim commander stood before him.

Herdal inclined his head slightly, "Lord"

"The situation has been explained?"

The Cherubim stood proud and erect, Herdal gave no more than a passing glance to the fallen angel on the ground, "It has my Lord. Further skirmishes in the region have validated the scouting parties I dispatched, and we are obliged to open another front this far North. That is of no consequence as it was expected on our flank." He stared fixedly at Anziel, "As to your other suggestion, the option you favour appears...problematic."

Anziel met the Cherubim's gaze, Herdal's plain understated speaking was unusual but not unexpected. He did after all, command an Illiniad, and as such his manner was naturally abrupt and more pointed than any of lesser order. It was his already committed troops who would carry out any planned sanction ordered by Anziel, and his bearing suggested that he was still to be convinced.

"How so? Did my emissary not explain the extent of what transpired on this barren ground? Did you not feel its effect?"

Herdal ignored the questions, "They are the Chosen. Free of judgement or no, we are bound, as we always have been, to show the proper observance and obeisance to their will. They are His to judge, _we_ are not permitted."

The finality of the assertion stunned Anziel. If he failed to sway Herdal then his actions were stalled almost immediately. He could remove Herdal, choice of commanders was his province, but that would raise more questions than satisfactory solutions. Briefly marvelling at the control he showed to maintain a neutral expression against his sudden rising ire, he returned to his immediate need,

"You are right Herdal. They _were_ his Chosen. Did we not after all witness their ascension to His dominion? To sit at His right hand? We watched, prepared for the battle ahead, as the _ineffable_ plan came to fruition; the cleansing of souls from the earth in the _pre-ordained_ manner. Is that not so?"

"It is. And as it was written we joined in battle with the enemy for the second and final time."

"And by His warrant, we rallied our armies here on _this_ earth, to fulfil the final chapters of prophecy. _Ineffable_ prophecy- for who that serves the Master can dare hope to fully understand or question His plans?"

"We serve Lord; it is our calling. We follow His path."

"How then Herdal, can you find our current situation problematic? If their presence here was not part of His plan, then you imply doubt in his omniscience do you not? And it was He, not us, who set Judgement in motion. Surely we are guided by his ineffability to recognise that this situation is part of the final play in which we all partake. The battle is not only with the enemy but also with our own doubt. How else do we sing His glory other than to bring Him victory over all his enemies? And in that vein, does the body at my feet not announce another foe set against us?"

The logic of the argument visibly assailed Herdal. His face remained blank but his eyes flicked slowly away from Anziel, trying to process the doubt that had been sown in his convictions. Intrigued, the Seraphim couldn't help but admire the way in which Herdal maintained his bearing, the commander in him refusing to acknowledge or display the dilemma within upon his outward face.

Apparently reaching a decision, he forewent pre-amble and addressed his superior as if the preceding contretemps were an irrelevance, "Our strategy will need to be adjusted to accommodate this new venture, and we will have to devise suitable tactics that fit the nature of any such engagements."

"Your prowess in these areas is unquestioned Herdal. I am sure that any plan you construct will more than suffice," his own personal battle won, Anziel was more than willing to defer the details to his subordinate.

"Pro-active or reactive," Herdal asked.

"'Targets of opportunity' I think is a phrase one of the Watchers once used Herdal. It seems most fitting in this instance given our relative lack of preparations in this land. Should the opportunity present itself then by all means have your warriors seize it, and from there we shall measure our success. _This_ shall be the testing ground." Anziel could no longer suppress the grin spreading over his face. Herdal had successfully been turned to his way, and with that no force or enemy on the planet could hope to stand against them. He felt strength rushing through him, an exhilaration lighting up the nerves of his form, tingling at his fingertips.

"Begin moving a demi-Hedron North. If blood is to be spilled on this front, then let us ensure that our enemy spills more than we. Do we have sufficient troops here in the meantime to resist any advances?"

"We do my Lord. Enough soldiery is already here to harangue the enemy into indecision. They already grow more cautious; hit and run tactics are hindering their normally reckless progress."

"Good. We have won the south of our territory; I do not mean to relinquish the north. Move them into position with all haste Herdal. I will oversee any prompt actions that are required till you return. Have three phalanx released to my disposal as of now."

"As you command."

The air folded around Herdal as he left, a soft rushing sound as air filled the now vacant spot. Once more Anziel stood alone, his sense of vindication still strong now that some potential challenges had been met and conquered in short order.

He flexed himself, stretching the muscles in his figure, listening to the strange creaks and cracks that his physical form generated. It felt good; a solid sense of outer strength and now consolidated inner strength suffused his being. Relishing the moment, he laughed aloud, a strange noise echoing off the walls and dead air in the small garden enclosure.

Plans within plans, who dare gainsay me now?

This was his army, and he commanded it well. Had he not already secured victory on the African plains? Legion upon legion of the enemy had been dismissed to harass them no more, surely that alone was worthy of recognition. _This is no false pride_ , he told himself. His ascendancy was continuous; Michael and the others couldn't fail to notice the brightness of his star now. But they would not leave the fields of paradise, the aura of His presence, and he could not return until victory was complete. Oh yes they could stop him if his plans displeased them, but they would then be trapped on this earth like he until the end. Experience told him that that was unlikely to come to pass, for good or ill he was his own master.

Even now the doubts could raise no more than a feeble whisper that barely tickled his consciousness. Logic had destroyed them, the weight of his arguments reducing the doubts to no more than mere fragments. He looked down once again. They had all felt this brother's death, its strength and impact overwhelming. How could such an end be righteous? Was the scream of wrong that had sent shockwaves through their consciousness not evidence enough of his right on this matter? They had to be hunted down. Hunted down and ended before they could do more damage.

Anziel raised his golden eyes skyward, spreading his arms in supplication, asking a silent question with his mind. _Am I wrong Michael? Does He speak? Tell me, chastise me if you must!_

He recognised it for the forlorn action it was; No link was there, that door closed until the end.

The right is mine then!

But as he looked around the thought seemed hollow, a wave of loneliness threatened to swamp him. He was cut off from so many of his brothers, alone with this purpose, so small upon the face of this world.

_Enough Angel!_ He shook himself out, shrugging off the first vestiges of despair before they could root. _We do what we must!_

And with that, leaving his brother where he fell like so much dead meat, he folded the atmosphere around himself and vanished to join the fray.

Chapter 6

"From here through tunnelled gloom the track forks into two; and one of these, wheels onwards into darkening hills, and one towards distant seas

The Railway Junction- De La Mare

The crunching rhythm of their footsteps was the only sound that beat against the atmosphere, the bass line of Kane and Lucy's steps offset by the staccato timpani of David's as he double-timed to keep up. A sharpening breeze ruffled the normally oppressive leaden sky, its echoes tugging at their legs as it swam over the gentle undulations of the fields. Kane waded through its resistance from his place on point, his face set in a grimace as he felt the silent weight of Lucy's gaze boring into his back. He was puzzled why she, and David, were still there. After the look in her eyes following his admission, his _plan_ , he had expected her to take flight almost immediately. But by the time he had regained some composure, set off at a pace to match his shame, he had heard them fall into step behind him; following the path he ploughed alone through the snow, without words all of them leaving Arbroath behind...as an idea and a destination.

Two hours had passed since his sudden unexpected release, and he still could not fathom how or why the words had come spilling so readily from his mouth and his mind. No words had been spoken since and Kane knew that trying to explain any more, to justify himself, would only make that trembling stare grow. So he let the silence build and over the hours it had become oppressive and dark, feeding off the mortis and stagnancy surrounding them. He didn't dare look back, unable to face the gaze melting a spot between his shoulder blades. But that left too much time to think, and all he could think about was them.

She was right; they had trusted him. He had _worked_ to make them trust him, to put themselves in his hands, and surely he had now ripped that trust apart with, in their eyes, a declaration of such madness. So why stay? Maybe something was still there. Perhaps he hadn't completely destroyed any safety they had felt, or maybe it was just as simple as the madness you know being better than madness you don't; there were many worse things out in the world; Lucy's own story testament to that.

Kane shook his head slowly, only if Lucy ever decided to talk to him again would he know, and he didn't see that happening any time soon, and he felt cowardly in his own inability to now break the silence.

Too many complications: so much for a simple plan. He had never ever factored in anything to do with other people! Selfish maybe, but after years alone it hadn't even occurred to him that he had too. And while, despite himself, he had welcomed them, they _were_ a complication and drove his thoughts along roads he hadn't even contemplated having to consider.

Too much like having a family again.

_Shit!_ Angrily he shook the thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on only the journey for a while, hypnotise himself into a stupor of nothing. His feet dragged through the powder on the ground, leather sodden with melting crystals of ice. The back of his calves had begun to ache over the last hour with the gently rolling mounds, and the hidden tussocks of the landscape taking their toll on muscles that had become unused to travelling so much distance. Another hour and Condor would heave into view but, like it or not, he knew that journey's end did not mean rest. Finding food was fast becoming a priority, the adequate rations he had packed for himself struggling to stretch between the three of them. Even with no mirror he knew that his cheeks were slowly becoming as gaunt and hollow as theirs, his face drained narrow by the wind and hunger already. The danger of living on the margins.

Reaching down he scooped a handful of snow into his palm, anxious to soothe his scoured throat, hardly adjusting his stride as he rose again to place a small bit it in his mouth.

And stopped. The snow falling back at his feet as his body went limp with surprise.

He had risen to the brow of the hill, a flat expanse of fields and hedgerows stretching away before him into a haze of snowy mist in the distance. Grey skeletons of trees broke the ground here and there with grasping ghostly limbs, their washed out colours serving only to highlight the carnage strewn between them.

"Oh sweet Jesus! What....?" Lucy and David had caught up. He glanced across, noting with numbed recognition the look of horror on Lucy's face. Some concern vaguely registered that David was staring agog at the vista before him, eyes trembling with loaded tears and fright. Kane opened his mouth, intending to tell Lucy to shield him, turn him into her body, hide this horror from him, but his voice was lost, swallowed whole by shock and incomprehension. Instead his head jerked on rigid tendons, mouth clamping shut again, as his eyes were drawn back to the field, seeking some understanding.

Slaughter reigned in every corner of the fields in front of them. From where they stood to the distant mist, bodies littered the ground, staining it with spent life. The snow accentuated their positions, framing them in startling clarity. Larger mounds where bodies remained mostly whole, some entwined in death, still locked in whatever gruesome death dance they had been performing. Between them, like hyphens maintaining their original links, were assorted limbs and entrails. Some still where they fell, others at the end of dragged and bloody trails where their owners had tried to keep themselves futilely whole.

Violence.

It pervaded the air like a stench of rot, the viciousness of the encounter palpable even in the stillness of its memory. Kane's eyes flicked back and forth over and over, every stop alighting on some new horror, unable to tear his eyes away. To his right he could hear Lucy, the same questioning word whispered over and over on her lips, her incomprehension plain. Directly in front of them, starkly unavoidable in sybaritic ruin, the corpses of two figures lay locked in perpetual struggle. Kane's eyes finally came to rest on them, and as he peered closer Lucy regained some level of speech.

"What happened? What did this Kane? So many bodies. It's horrible, _horrible_. Jesus, what the hell happened here? What would drive them _to this_? I can't, I just can't.........why would people do this to one another?"

Kane only half listened, aware that Lucy was speaking more for comfort than looking for answers, and his eyes were still fixed on the rigoured tableau in front of him. The bodies were so tightly entwined that he struggled to focus, screwing his eyes up to try and discern pattern and dimension to each figure. An arm here, an arm there, gore and blood serving to mingle form and shape, making it difficult to see clearly. Pale skin sat next to a patch of mottled and discoloured flesh, a canine sized incisor sitting buried in a chunk of almost snow white flesh, matted hair veiling the ruin of a scarred and torn face, a golden eyeball peeking between the strands.

Kane stood up straight, comprehension melting onto his face. He knew what he was looking at, or at least he knew what one of the figures was. Looking at the scene again, it became clearer, a battlefield lay in front of them. Wholesale violence had taken place here, and he kept scanning the field to confirm what he was thinking. Something tugged at the back of his mind, something in the scene made him uneasy; something subtle murmuring under the immediate vision of violence, but Lucy's continual chatter drove it from clarity. He turned to her,

"They're not human Lucy."

Her chattering continued for a few seconds, repetition while she processed his words and their meaning. Then she pulled David close, hugging him tight as she turned frightened eyes onto Kane, demanding from him,

" _What_! What the hell are you talking about, _not human_?" her voice rose to a panicked shriek. "What else could they be you maniac? Of course they're human! Of course they are! Yes! Stop it! Stop trying to scare us! Can't you see he's afraid?" her clutch on David tightened as her voice rose almost to a scream, "Stop it! Just stop!" She screwed her eyes shut, covering David's with her hand, her hair thrashing about her face as she tried to shake the sight away.

Not without pity Kane grabbed her by the shoulders, exerting some pressure to stop her, still her panic. In a low voice he tried to break through her tirade,

"Lucy? Listen to me Lucy. I want you to open your eyes, just for a bit. Just for a bit Lucy, that's all. That's it, now look at me. Not at them, at me! Good. Now when I speak and tell you what to look for I want you to look at the figures behind me. Look closely Lucy, and listen to what I'm saying. Don't worry; they can't hurt you or David I promise."

And he watched her as he spoke; saw the disbelief fade from her as he spoke of the golden eyes, and teeth, the garments they were wearing, the brilliance of the golden eyes, the vivid wings lying at an angle against the snow, one set white, the other a yellowing brown, ripped but visible if you looked closely. And as he listened to what he was telling her that murmur beneath the picture suddenly crystallised in his head like an epiphany.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_ Yes, he could see everything clearly, and _that_ , ominously, was the problem. The air remained bitter, hovering just on freezing, but every single body and corpse in this field was free of snow. Not a single flake rested anywhere on them.

"Lucy, we have to go. _Now_."

"What? Where? Through _that_? We should go around" The look of dazed bewilderment would not leave her face.

Kane tried to keep his voice level despite the gnawing fear twisting through his stomach, and told her honestly, "Lucy, it's freezing and it only stopped snowing a couple of hours ago. None of these bodies have snow on them, _not one_! Whatever happened here didn't happen that long ago; that means that others may be around ok."

He watched with as much patience as he could muster as her eyes flickered between him and the scene at his back. The effort of will she was displaying to pull her mind back from the brink made him want to weep but the immediate need was too great for sentiment and he needed her here, and whole.

"Lucy, _come on_! Don't think just move; we don't have far to go I promise."

His command hit her like a slap and some of her previous anger flushed through her face as she held David's hand tightly and began to stride through the slaughterhouse before them, keeping a protective hand at the boy's face to spare him from as much of the scene as possible. Kane sagged momentarily, a brief salute to the fatigue eating at his being, and then set his shoulders and turned to follow them.

His fingers twitched restlessly on his weapon, eyes glancing nervously in every direction as they reached a half jog through the snow. What he hadn't admitted to Lucy was that, with the mist, he was unsure of exactly where they were and the thought of missing their destination troubled him more than he had thought possible. Shelter lay there. The route they were taking through the bodies was making it worse; the continual snaking turns to avoid the worst remains, and the areas of concentrated slaughter, were further compounding his lost sense of direction. His breath was panting from his lungs now, every exhalation of air seeming to match the jarring impact in his legs from what was now approaching a run. Idly he wondered how long they could keep this pace up, just how far did this battlefield stretch. He was fitter and better fed than Lucy or David and already his limbs felt on the verge of collapse.

They had covered about a thousand yards when a dulled shriek seemed to shatter the stillness of the mist. Lucy and David skidded to a stop, eyes full of fear. Kane's head whipped back and forth, the rifle raised, body spinning, senses searching for some fix on the noise, for the moment hidden by the cloying nature of the still fog.

It came again, louder and more insistent than the last time, carrying a sense of hunger and anger that appeared to sheer through Kane's limbs, turning them to jelly. The rifle swayed perilously.

"Kane?"

"I don't know Lucy. I think it's behind us. I can't tell. This damn mist is screwing everything up."

_"It_? What the hell do you mean- _it_?"

"Lucy, just keep going ok, it can't be far now. Just run!"

No second invitation was required, Lucy took off faster than before, David jerking and trampling in her wake as he tried to keep up. Kane peered intently into the featureless white before he too turned on his heels and ran to catch up. For what seemed like an eternity there was only the sound of their hoarse breathing as they rushed through the snow, clouds of spent air and plumes of white powder marking their noiseless passage before being swallowed by the mist. Kane's nerves were jangling, his eyes seemed to be beyond his control and his knuckles were white as he held the rifle as if life itself resided in its dark and cold gunmetal.

He saw Lucy's legs buckle and come close to toppling her headfirst to the ground as the next shriek came. Fighting against her forward momentum to stay upright she staggered onward, all the while keeping a vice like grip on David's hand. The boy hadn't made a sound, but Kane could see he was scared rigid, too many nightmares haunting his imagination as the screams grew closer.

As the mist thinned in front of them it took on pattern and they all stared at the small diamond ghosts rising from the ground in front of them. Closer and closer, speed brought clarity and understanding, and Kane nearly laughed with relief. It was a fence, chain linked, standing over seven feet tall and could only be the one marking the perimeter of the base. All they had to do was follow it round, but which way?

"Lucy left! Follow the fence to the left!"

His shout was nearly drowned out by a scream that buffeted his back, and he ducked instinctively, turning it into a full-blown dive as something sharp raked through his clothing to bite at his skin.

_"Jesus_!" The pain rippled through his body like fire, burning across his spine as he rolled onto his back, arching it against the pain. Freezing snow dulled the sensation as his eyes followed the leathery wings and talon feet as they swooped upwards again.

"Kane..."

"Lucy, get David out of here. Keep going. Follow the fence!"

He lurched to his feet in a shower of snow, exacerbating the pain as he tried to keep up. Mouth set in a grimace, unable to stop the spittle falling down his chin; he slung the rifle and instead pulled the automatic into his hands.

Can't aim for shit in this! Safety in numbers!

Hobbling now more than running he ejected the magazine, checking rounds were still in there, and slammed it back in, cycling the bolt and flicking off the safety.

Looming out of the grey haze a concrete tank trap nearly broke his legs, his hips swerving instinctively to avoid it.

"Lucy! Here. Back here!"

Wide eyed they flew back towards him, willing to do whatever he asked in the hope that they would be safe.

"Get behind here. Right down, that's it." He physically shoved them down, the solid concrete shielding them in front, and the fence high behind their backs. He could feel blood seeping down his back, pooling at his waistband in a sticky mess. Blinking it from his thoughts he braced the weapons with both hands, crouching low beside David whose arms clutched at his thighs.

"Hey now wee man, nothing to worry about ok."

He ruffled David's hair but the words felt hollow in his throat and as his eyes met Lucy's he could see the same lack of belief there. She tried to give him a wan smile but fear turned it into a grimace, and instead she unslung the shotgun from her neck and held it ready.

Kane nodded, acknowledging the statement she was making, and then stood, eyes and ears waiting on the predator's return.

Every breath shot a livid tongue of pain through his back and he almost missed the shadow swooping closer. It screamed. Kane raised the sidearm.

The mist parted, a creature straight from his worst nightmares rushed to confront him. Black and red flesh striped its face in diagonal lightning flashes, black eyes like obsidian gems shone with malevolence above two slit like nostrils, steaming hot air in its wake. But the teeth.... Kane couldn't free his eyes from them, a saw like array of jagged bone and sharp edges, seeming too big for its maw. It opened wider as the creature screamed its delight, trimming its wings to fly faster. Legs and a tail trailed behind, opposing the outstretched arms grasping with lethal knife like claws towards him. And it seemed that his back answered, the fire in his spine answering the call of those claws.

But as the pain shook his nerves it brought lucidity and Kane brought the Browning up, braced his arms as his eye squinted and focussed through to the front sight. Pressure on the trigger...

Boom.... nothing...

_One shot!? Shit!_ Frantically he twisted the weapon, seeing the slide locked back. Another boom right in his ear announced that Lucy had stood and joined him, the shotgun belching flame.

The demon, perhaps sensing the danger in the bright flashes, began to weave, yawing and plunging but still coming on, intent on the kill. Its shrieks had taken on an unnerving ululation, which rasped across their nerves, shredding them even further. Sweat dripped through Kane's eyebrows as he felt and racked the slide in slow motion, a world of teeth filling his vision.

Hearing stopped. Silence bathed his world. Staccato flashes burst in front of his eyes without noise as the slide fell into a firing position and he pulled the trigger, a slow thumping in his wrists as he fought to keep the weapon down, hot flashes of spent brass cartridges sailing lazily out of sight in a graceful arc. And through them all he watched the demon fold in on itself in mid-air, limbs and wings dancing in time to the flashes, still moving forward as it tumbled through the air. Cometary trails of blood burst from it like a ripe tomato, decorating the ground with ichor as it lost height.

Slowly, inexorably, one of its claws clipped the ground and its mass was impelled to tumble through the snow and muck, listless arms and legs tangling as it slid to a horrific stop six feet in front of them.

With surprise Kane became aware that the sound he could hear was his own voice roaring into the air. A tiny clink as the last cartridge fell on the concrete. The smell of the gun filled his nostrils, his world, and it took some effort to fall back into himself, begin to breathe.

He looked around; David peeked slowly over the barrier, little hands gripping the edge. Lucy stood panting, looking like she was fighting to suppress laughter or panic, hands high in her hair tugging her fingers through and back, pulling on the ponytail she created; the shotgun already discarded at her feet.

Looking at the hot steaming remains of the creature in front of them, relief trembled through Kane from head to foot. They had done it! He wanted to spit on it, to dance over it, show his disdain at it, and also vomit, all at the same time. Wanted it alive again so he could tear it to pieces one more time! Instead, looking at the relief shining from his companion's faces, and unable to stop the smile creasing his own face, he raised his head to the heavens and howled! Howled for life, howled for relief, howled for fun, and looked on laughing as Lucy and David picked it up, shaking their heads and joining their high pitched howls to his until a fit of laughter overtook them all. They hugged each other close, dancing around in a circle, caught up in their mutual release so much that they nearly never heard the gruff voice behind them

"Very good son. Now if you dinna mind, drop the weapon and turn around so I can see ya!"

They all turned around with exaggerated slowness, Kane holding the pistol out to his side, dangling on a finger.

Beyond the fence stood a short stocky man, clad in white, rifle raised ready at his cheek.

"Like I said son, drop the weapon. Would hate to ruin your moment but if I have to well..."

Kane gingerly knelt in the snow and placed the gun on the ground, the sandpaper voice and cavernous barrel of their new acquaintance brooking no arguments.

"Good, now if you could all come to the fence, slowly mind, we'll see about sorting this little mess out eh."

Lucy took David's hand as they edged forward, the gun never wavering, nor leaving what seemed a slight bias in direction towards Kane. Adrenalin started to fade away notably, and the weariness and fear that replaced it left them despondent at having survived one crisis only to seemingly step right into another one.

Kane reached the fence first, all the while quietly measuring the man opposite. He stood a good few inches shorter than Kane, roughly five feet six inches high, appearing even shorter due to his girth. Nate in no way mistook this for any obesity, instead the man projected solidity like a block of granite, both in his physical appearance and carried attitude. Short, buzzed, salt and pepper hair crowned a square angular face, the features seeming squashed together around his nose, with thin lips and wide chin atop a neck like a bull. Full blue eyes shone through laughter lines upon a leathery weathered face. He was clothed in an all in one white boiler suit, a peek of camouflage material showing at the collar, with a white belt clasped at the waist, brimming with pockets and pouches. The ground before him was indented, and it became apparent that he had lain there unseen while the drama had unfolded around them.

Resentment stirred in Kane. To think that he had lain there while their lives had nearly become forfeit and done nothing! And now, to calmly accost and prod them forward like this.

_"Don't_!" The authority in the voice nearly sent Kane reeling. "Whatever you're thinking about son, don't!"

Lucy glanced quickly and enquiringly at him, but Kane set his face, trying to give nothing else away. He reached the fence, hands splaying to grasp the links, feeling his muscles tense to try and rip it away and let him at their new captor.

Blue eyes flicked momentarily to watch Lucy and David reach the fence then settled back on Kane.

"Now lass, if you and the lad would be good enough to get on your knees, hands behind your back, then me and the big man here can get squared away."

Lucy and David did as they were told, passing puzzled glances to and fro.

"Turn around, back to me. Good lad. Now cross your wrists over behind your back."

Kane followed the instructions, any hope of escape or turning the tables diminishing quickly in the face of the clear instructions. He crossed his hands over as instructed, a feeling of naked helplessness coming over him as he did so. A shuffling behind him and he felt the barrel prod into the small of his back, not hard but with enough insistence that he wouldn't forget it was there.

"Another second and we're done son. You're doing good."

A brushing over his hands then a yank, a tightening on his wrist as a cable tie was pulled tight, locking his hands in place. A muffled groan escaped Kane's mouth as the jerking caused the wound in his back to rub awkwardly against his clothes.

"Nasty cut there, caught you a god one. Looks deep. Need to get that looked at soon, don't want infection setting in." A hand rested on Kane's shoulder, "Ok son, we're done. Now on your knees, and if you wouldn't mind standing miss, same as yer fella here did."

Lucy stood, acquiescing as Kane had, while he tried to reconcile the nature of their predicament with the gruff coercive politeness of their captor. This was not what he was expecting; his first thoughts had naturally been on finding some way to turn the tables on this mystery man, but his decisive measured actions had removed that possibility; and from there, despite what he was doing to them, he was courtesy itself. Not at all normal from Kane's past run ins and witness with Monks, dressed in their whites same as this man, or Spawn. He watched as Lucy was gently cajoled into position and tied tightly, some muttered question of concern from their captor at the tightness of the cable.

Rabid expectations were driving Kane slowly mad, the wait fraying his nerves slowly. Finally, as Lucy was lowered once more to her knees, he could stand it no more.

"Why don't you just kill us and get it over with? Why waste time? Or does these kind of games amuse you?"

"Now son, don't let this dashingly handsome and amiable face fool ye," he chuckled before his face turned serious, "If I wanted you dead you already would be." He paused, gaze passing over all three of them, "But there is something intriguing about you three, and I'll be damned if I'm not a sucker for a good story. Plus, the way you handled laughing boy over there gained you some respect, and more importantly time. Don't waste it."

He tucked the remaining bundle of ties into one of the many pouches adorning his belt, leaving David's hands free, and, weapon still trained on them, waited til they were back on their feet. Indicating the direction with a brief twitch of his head, he waited on them to walk a couple of steps ahead on their side before he set off.

All three moved forward on their side of the fence, attitude and rifle compelling them more than any words could. After about two hundred yards, a gatepost loomed out of the mist, eight feet of red brick marking the end of the fence line and the entrance to the base. Their host stood well off, keeping enough distance between them to feel safe now that the barrier of the fence was gone. A few bodies were dotted in the immediate area, human and apparent non-human, in various postures of agonised rigour.

"Garlic and silver bullets for the new world!" Their host indicated the bodies with a brief nod, "Keeps the Jehovah's Witnesses from knocking on the door and bothering me."

His gallows humour seemed almost friendly as he ushered them through and past him, keeping the rifle on their backs as they moved ahead. They moved along a tree lined avenue winding around to the right, their concentrated trunks and the clinging mist working to keep anything beyond them invisible. Hanging a right again at a junction, a collection of multi floor housing became visible to their right; architecture of the Fifties and Sixties, bland and utilitarian. Lucy, Kane and David were steered passed them, taking them further into the complex. All the windows were dark, the interiors unlit, the sense of abandonment highlighted in their faces reflecting from the dark glass, and the odd dark hole visible on the roofs.

As they moved slowly along the snow and block lined avenue, other distant buildings began to ghost through the mist in the distance; what appeared to be hangars and sheds, varying in size and construction and backing onto an expanse of empty mist which seemed to stretch away at the back of the base into infinity.

A clipped instruction broke the silence and they turned to the left, passing the gable ends of two huts, their doors facing each other like brooding sentinels. What seemed to be a car park lay beyond, the snow churned and discoloured by footsteps and vehicle tracks, some looking very recent. Directly opposite, standing alone in the wide surrounding spaces stood the most modern building they had seen so far. A white and green glassed edifice, three stories high and stretching twenty-five metres to either side of the central double doors of the entrance. An ugly and squat tower sat in the centre of the roof, rising a further five metres above, a solid line of windows traced around its walls giving it to Kane's mind the appearance of an air traffic control tower. Narrow, but bright, windows split the dulled white façade of the main building, enhancing the more clinical look of the structure, its ugliness vivid and stark in such blank surroundings.

"Straight ahead if you please folks."

The request made them realise that they had stopped, and their feet shuffled into motion once more, the white walls growing, revealing more details, as they got closer. Kane couldn't help but notice the scars and pocks marring the surface, some looking new, that must have come from gunfire. Lucy caught glimmers of light briefly shining in some more of the windows, before darkening again as if curtains had been drawn. The sense of foreboding only multiplied, the lack of noise and visible life making the building brood malevolently over them, the only entrance and exit appearing to be the too small double doors at its centre.

"Stop."

They halted where they were; perhaps ten metres shy of the door.

"You have one choice here folks, stay exactly where you are. I approach the door first, and for a ten seconds I _will_ have my back to you. But before you get any ideas, guns are now on you from at least four of the second floor windows, so I would advise against any of those silly running for it notions you might have had ok. When I signal you forward come in single file, boy, girl, boy. You last son." He pointed the rifle at Kane, "No shouting, no sudden movements and we'll all do just fine."

With that he strode ahead, taking a wide berth around them, and walking briskly to the door. He turned to the side, pressing against the wall, and snatches of garbled conversation reached their ears on the light breeze. With a wave of his hand as he stood up straight again he motioned them forward. They set off quietly, in the order stipulated, and in seconds had reached the doorway.

"Good stuff people. Now in you go. _Mei casa et sous casa_!"

And with that jovial welcome singularly at odds with the restraints on their wrists, they entered through the dark doorway.

Inside, and then herded up darkened stairways and squeezing past clutter littering a variety of corridors and turns, their sense of direction was quickly lost. Stumbling and fearful of falling with their hands tied, they finally arrived at another set of double doors, the polish and brass handles dull with dust and grime. Passing around them, their host wrapped on the door three times, "It's me."

As if operated by those words, the doors opened with a barely audible creek and a burst of shining light. Lucy and Kane both twisted their heads to shield their eyes, trying to see around the glare. A silhouette in the brilliance announced, "Welcome home Mac. And what delights are these that you've found?"

"Strangers in a strange land my girl. Some lost souls in need if I'm right. How's things?"

Their eyes slowly adjusted, and the figure resolved itself into a woman, rifle hanging at her hip, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail from a long thing face. The suppressed humour etched in the lines of her mouth contrasting with dark pained eyes. Her clothing was functional, combat slacks and quilted body warmer over a worn and ragged sweater, figure hidden beneath the layers.

"Not too bad Mac. Been quiet since that battle out on the fields. Couple of us are planning to do a food raid soon if things don't kick off again. We could also do with stocking up on diesel when we get the chance."

"All in good time, all in good time. Right now we have some stories to hear and some visitors to entertain. Get the best china, the reverend, and the twins. I want them to be a part of this."

"As you command oh master." And with a mocking bow she swept away and through a door at the back of the room they could now see in front of them.

Lucy's eyes had brightened at the banter between the two, but Kane had recoiled at the mention of a Reverend. The possibility that they were to be ritually sacrificed was still uppermost in his mind and he refused to let his guard down, regardless of the words, not least of all while their hands were still tied. He scanned the room quickly. The walls were a dull lemon, age and dust killing their vibrancy. A once luxurious carpet covered the floor, now stained and threadbare, while an odd collection of easy chairs, sofa's and dining chairs were clustered around a low central table, its surface ring-marked from countless cups and mugs.

The three of them were gently guided to one of the sofas, a low-slung leather affair against one wall that had once been green but had degenerated through time and use. As they sat they sank into the too soft cushions, their knees finding themselves above the level of their backsides. Some of the dining chairs were arrayed in front of them and Kane recognised the power in the arrangement. Even with hands unbound, they would have to work to get up on their feet, too obvious to spring any sort of surprise against an armed man. Resigning himself to the position he sank further into the sofa's softness and watched as the rest of what felt like their jury came into the room.

The woman re-appeared first, seating herself to Mac's left, the rifle resting easily across her knees. She was followed closely by a tall elderly man, his wrinkled face framed by a short shock of white hair and punctuated by thin serious lips and dark deep set eyes, a long thin nose pointing the way forward. _The Reverend,_ Kane guessed, though no mark of the clergy was evident in his clothing. The final two into the room ensured the door was closed behind them, and as they turned Kane and Lucy both did a literal double take. Mac had called them the twins but the title didn't do the similarity justice. Identical faces sat down at either end of the row of inquisitors, the only real feature distinguishing them being the different clothes that they wore. Both had black wiry hair and long faces, dark brown eyes matching on each face in their intensity. Long limbs gave them a gangly look that somehow complimented the fleshy cheeks and lips of their faces. _Young_ was the word that sprang in Kane's mind, couldn't be much out of their teens.

Mac made the introductions, Jane, the name to the face they already knew, the _Padre_ , as Mac called him, was Father Hanlon, and immediately that the twins were introduced as Tony and Nick Murray, Kane forgot which was which. That done Mac leaned forward in his chair; a serious look setting his face in stone. Spreading his arms wide, he encompassed the group gathered around him, his tone soft and low, but with no attempt to soften the underlying steel audible in his breath

"Now, you know us. This is the residents' committee if you will, and what happens here in the next wee while will depend on what we think of your story. Usually you'd have got as far as the other happy campers you saw at the gate, but like I said, something about you three has got my nose twitching, so start talking people!"

The group of five sat back in silence, their faces a mixture of apparent apathy and little expectation, but each pair of eyes trained on the sofa. Kane's mind raced, possibilities of lies and truth fighting each other for supremacy. But the fact that Mac and Lucy had both witnessed the things he had seen, and done, swung his decision. So he told the story, not the full personal one or his reasons, but about the original kill, the anger and confusion at what had happened, needing answers. Then setting out, finding Lucy and David, their trials in reaching here, and finally their last encounter and Mac. All told it didn't take more than ten minutes, but in that time he noticed small but perceptible changes in the faces around him, perhaps the shrinking of outright suspicion and maybe the birth of a little empathy. Kane didn't kid himself; he could see that these people were a tight unit, their interactions were too familiar, comfortable, and right at this point we wasn't even sure what he was pitching at, or even what fate he was trying to avoid. Whatever it was, it rested on these people's collective response, that much was clear, and he could see that bond was well defined and rigid, for any outsider to be included or trusted would take some leveraging.

He sat back, noting Lucy looking at him grateful; perhaps for telling the truth, perhaps just for speaking up. He hadn't told them about Lucy's experience, that wasn't his place, too personal to her for him to share with these strangers.

"Sounds like you're ready tae go to war son?" The question from Mac, "Bit of a tall order to find all the answers, or take revenge, for the whole world, or is it just a death wish?"

Kane ignored the question, anger quickly resurfacing, and instead decided to go on the attack. He strained forward against the dynamics of the too soft seat and his bonds, thrusting his face at Mac.

"Fuck _off_! You sit there like you're the epitome of common decency yet we're sat here in front of you, tied up, no choices, like we're facing judge, jury and executioner all in one. _You_ brought us here remember? You could have left us out there in the snow, scared us off, killed us even, but no, we're tied up and pissed off instead." His breath rasped through his teeth, "And you expect us to warmly answer _your_ _fucking_ _questions_?"

He and Mac stared at each other across the thin divide, battling with their eyes.

"What did you do.... before?"

The voice broke Kane's concentration and broke through his anger, and he flicked his eyes to its source. The woman, Jane, was looking at him intently. Even the priest had lifted his head.

"Not that it matters anymore but I was an engineer, construction. Helped build a few things here and there."

"Not exactly the road warrior, mad max type then?"

He fixed Mac with as baleful a stare as he could muster, feeling the sofa move as Lucy and David unconsciously moved away from this confrontation.

"I've _survived_ , that's about all that counts in the world right now."

"Apparently not! If that were true then why are you here, now? Why pick up these two on the road? Hardly gonna enhance your chances of survival are they son? Positive embuggarance on food for a start, sharing out for three instead of one."

"Listen- "

"No son, you listen. We're a small group that survives because we don't take stupid or rash risks. We don't go out looking for trouble, hide as much as possible if it appears in fact, but we protect ourselves if we have to. Now, you were on your way here, you've admitted as much, and we know _some_ of the whys and wherefores around that."

_"Some..._?"

"I've given you an opportunity here so why don't you stop with the bullshit and tell us the parts you've missed out 'cos frankly your story doesn't fit son, it's full of holes. Sudden indignant and righteous anger on behalf of the entire human race? A need for _answers_! Please! Give me a fucking _break_!" He leaned forward, "Your move."

Kane felt trapped, physically and mentally. He could feel the beads of sweat pooling at the base of his spine mixing with the drying and coagulating blood. Expectant eyes lanced at him for around the room, all looking for answers, Lucy's included. If he refused it all ended here, one way or another. If he told them everything, old scars would open, old unbearable pains buried these last years would resurface, but they would know the truth. Part of him recognised that all of the people around him had their own scars, but the selfish self clung tightly to its own needs, the id intent on self-preservation.

But Lucy! Of all the people in this room she deserved no less of him.

And so he turned to her, met her eyes alone, and, with the breath sticking in his throat, told the room of his pain. Told of years past, a simple trip to the in laws further north, he, stuck with work and promising to catch up the next day. Of a call in the night and a race to the hospital; of being late too late to speak to them one last time. Of grief and loss, deep obdurate loss, falling into the blackness. The nightmares, the cloying nightmares where he can only watch as they are swallowed alive by the landslide over and over and over, slowly suffocating as the tide of mud inexorably flips and fills the car, oozing through the windows, glass tinkling as it forces its way in. Of blame and rage, incoherent screams on an Act of God, blaming the unseen, raging at the sky, calling it to account. Rage at his cowardice, his fear of ending it all, the rote taught guilt of a thousand Sundays preventing him from joining them, promising damnation down that path.

And finally, of what seemed like fate, a gift from the sky, a way to answers or to avenge, a route to purpose after years of automatic reflexes, and the primal satisfaction in taking it, of striking a blow as much as it was delivering mercy. And as he turned and watched the Padre leave on a mixed wave of pity and disgust, he turned to the rest of the group, and with finality said, "I'm going to find out why, for them, why? And I'll make as much noise as I have too to have someone, _something_ tell me! That's why I was coming here, to find more ways to make that noise, to get attention," his emotions dialled down, the last a whisper, "enough noise to bring the whole fucking lot down if need be!"

Silence.

"Get over it!"

_"Mac_!" Jane exclaimed.

He waved her protest away, "I mean it son, get over it. You think you have the monopoly on grief. Jesus Christ, the whole fucking world's down the toilet and you're so wrapped up in yourself that you just don't see it. What makes you different to any of us eh? If your justification for all this pious self-pity and anger is blaming the _fucking Almighty_ then take a look around. We've _all_ been shafted here son! We're all raging against the dying of the _shitting_ light. _Don't you get it_?"

Kane railed against his bonds, trying to get to his feet, determined to ram the words back down Mac's throat. _How dare he!_

Mac ignored him, going on, "Think on this. Instead of lashing out, running off to a quick and guaranteed pointless death, why not channel some of that bloody energy? You're an engineer you say; we...people, real people... could use skills like that, here.! This building's not exactly the Hilton at the best of times. I'm offering you the chance to be part of something here! Find a place!"

Kane continued to struggle, Mac's words only brushing the surface of his rational mind, anger foremost and consuming. The ties chafed his wrists, new squeals of pain shooting up his arms. He didn't even notice as Jane slowly moved the rifle from her knees and held it loosely now in her hands, a worried expression settling on her face.

And then Lucy's face cut into his vision, manoeuvring herself to catch his eyes. His struggles slowed, caught in the depths of empathy and sorrow he saw echoed there, and suddenly, with no words between them, to the silent sound of something vital tearing itself inside, he wept; uncontrollable, cathartic tears pouring down his face as he leaned into her shoulder.

Without turning, Lucy addressed the others, determination high on her face and in her voice,

"I'm a nurse, cut these damn things off so I can treat his wound."
Chapter 7

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on."

Robert Frost

Kane stretched on the cot. The bandages over his back stuck and pulled at his skin, a sensation of restriction as he flexed sleep from his arms and body. Lucy was gone, a vague exhausted memory of her leaning over him passed through his thoughts. Other fleeting ghosts and whispered voices flitted in his memory, but he was still too tired to concentrate on them. Except for this cot and a roller door cabinet in the corner the room was bare. Swinging his legs to the side he sat up, letting the bout of vertigo, and the last vestiges of sleep clinging doggedly to his aching frame, pass. Bare footed and torsoed, he pulled on the boots and sweater lying at the foot of the cot. Sound came before vision as he crossed the room in a lazy shuffle and opened the door to a maelstrom of people and noise.

"Well, hello sleepyhead."

Jane stepped up to him, eyes methodically scanning and checking he was ok.

"How long have I slept?"

"Two days and a night, you were already close to collapse and exhaustion I think."

Two days and a night! Jesus!

"I see my bonds have been cut?" he flexed his fingers dramatically, tried a wry smile that felt more like a grimace "Does this mean I'm being offered membership and can take advantage of the free pen?"

She laughed lightly, a soft tinkling that soothed his nerves, "Well, you definitely look and sound better for your rest. Lucy and David will be glad to see you; come one, it's not far. And I'll throw more faces and names at you as we go...just for the fun of seeing you forget!"

The rooms they passed through were a bustle of activity, with some of the rooms, obviously once separate offices, now linked by knock-through's in adjoining walls. People passed through and by, or remained in rooms, all of them active...carrying supplies or ammunition, food and clothing, mending, tinkering. In one room he noted some crouched by one corner working on what looked like a generator.

Jane pulled him this way and that in a blizzard of handshakes and names- Tom, Mary, Anna, Wilson, McRae, all forgotten as predicted in an instant by his still fogged mind. Eventually, more confused and bewildered than he was when he woke, she led him through another door, at the other side of which more familiar faces looked up.

David sprinted across the room and hugged his legs in a vice like grip, wide eyes alight and smiling. Kane ruffled his hair and smiled back softly. Lucy sat on a chair in the far corner, Mac opposite. They both looked up as he came in, but as Mac seemed to genuinely smile in greeting, Lucy's glance was brief and she quickly averted her gaze, leaving Kane puzzled. The twins were also in the room, both mirror like sipping from polystyrene cups and as indistinguishable as his first meeting with them.

"Back in the land of the living then son?"

Mac fixed him with a not unfriendly stare, and suddenly Kane felt some shame over his earlier behaviour and responded sheepishly, "I guess so. Head still feels a bit fuzzy, but suppose that's what nearly three days' sleep does to you." He absently ran his hand through his hair, "How are you Lucy?"

She looked up then, meeting his question, and this time he was sure he saw a sense of furtiveness there, a shadow across her eyes.

"Fine Nate. Your wound seems to be healing ok. It looked worse than it was. Couple of days it should be right as rain." She paused, the moment suddenly awkward "Mac has been keeping us company and filling us in on the place."

"Good," he lowered his eyes, "Listen, Mac isn't it?... about before- "

"Och, shoosh son. I would have been exactly the same. Just as long as you don't give me cause to tie you up again eh!"

Kane looked up uncertain, but seeing the glint in Mac's eyes, laughed, "I'll try not to."

"Well I'm glad you two boys got that sorted. Sorry can't stay, _some_ of us are busy at the moment!" and with the playful remark aimed at Mac, Jane left the room.

"So, what have I missed?"

"Like the lady said, she and the boy have just been getting to know the place, meeting the people. And getting some food for those scrawny bones. Speaking of which you look like you do with some good greasy food son!"

"Now that you mention it, I am kinda hungry. Hard work all that sleep!"

Smiling, Mac spoke briskly to the twins who upped and left, smiling politely as they passed Kane.

"Give them a couple of minutes lad. They don't say much but by God they can do wonders with the scraps in the kitchen!"

An awkward silence settled for a moment over the room, Lucy still sitting, looking down, David engrossed on the floor, intent on some toys he had scavenged from someplace, Kane still standing, unsure. Finally, Mac rescued him, his directness a seeming constant.

"So what now son? Still planning on fighting the good fight?" He indicated one of the empty chairs and Kane sat gratefully, "In case you haven't guessed by now, your welcome to stay here if you choose. Passed the interrogation and all that, though what you did for these two," he nodded gently at Lucy and David, "would have bought you a pass anyway. Our wee test if you will, one that I hope you'll forgive us for given the current overflowing shithole the world is. We could use both of your skills, and we have food and shelter to go around here," he slapped his hands on his knees, "Good people, that's what we've got, and you'd make damn fine additions to our little community." He paused, watching Kane closely, adding, "I don't pretend to understand all of what's going through your head son, but perhaps it's time to let it go eh? You can stay here, help us, settle down, be in one place. Just 'cos the worlds a fucking mess doesn't mean we have to be. Hell, all of us watched people die, cold, starvation, or horribly from the damn bird plague, but we haven't given up"

Before Kane could answer, Lucy spoke in a rush, and he finally understood what had been troubling her, "We're staying Nate. David and me. It feels safe here, feels right. And I can't drag him over the countryside. He deserves better."

She looked away from him then, fearing the response on his face, but Kane spoke softly,

"Lucy, remember, all I ever wanted to do was find a safe place for you both. And here it is, better than I could have hoped for. Stay here, be happy. You deserve it." He smiled as she looked up, and she finally smiled back, reassured. He turned to Mac.

"Thanks Mac, it's tempting. You're right; I've only seen a tiny bit but it seems like a good place with good people. But I can't stay; I made a promise, and I still haven't found the answers I was looking for. And though I understand why what you have here is so precious, I can't live here on those terms, can't just _blithely_ accept that this is it, that make do and mend is the best we can hope for. They're not our terms but ones forced on us by someone or something else, and I still intend to make them answer for what they did, or at least find out why."

Mac looked sideways at him, appraising. Lucy sat looking resigned, as if knowing that the attempt to have him stay was futile before it had even been begun. Kane sat back, expecting an argument. The door opened and the twins walked back in, silently depositing a bacon roll and a steaming cup of what genuinely smelled like coffee at the foot of Kane's chair. Rising to leave, one turned and whispered sagely to the room in general, "He has a fire that will not be extinguished."

A very accurate flying book chased them out of the room, accompanied by Mac's raised voice," What have we said about that _cryptic Harry Potter shit_! And stop listening at the _fucking_ keyhole!" and to Lucy and Kane, "Don't ask. For some reason they think it suits them to sound all apocalyptic and mystical. Wankers! Two of them need to get a life."

Kane was laughing, "Kind of right what they said though. Guess I am burning up with this!"

"Wait til you hear them finish off each other's sentences, that'll really drive you up the bloody wall!" He shook his head, smiling, "Anyway son, I guess we can't stop you but we sure as hell can make sure you go out a bit better packed than you arrived. At the very least, take advantage of the hospitality for a couple of days, weeks even if you need to. Build your strength back up eh?" He stuck out a weathered hand

Kane smiled and gripped the offered handshake, "Deal, and thanks."

Mac grinned back, "No bother son, now eat that roll, the smell's travelling around ma old heart!"

Over the next few days Kane tentatively explored some of the main building, unsure how far his freedom/guest status allowed him to go, but getting to know the set up and the people that made up the small community; or "Family" as Jane amusedly insisted on calling them in a horrendous Marlon Brando impression. More people than Kane had seen in one place since the Collapse busied their days within the walls, but still most of the building appeared unused, too big for the sixty or so people that occupied it. But what wasn't living space was filled to the brim with supplies and equipment. On the morning of the second day he had found himself helping out a couple of the _Family_ , storing more supplies from a recent scavenge. The conversation had remained fairly frivolous and light hearted, but Kane found he couldn't resist delving that bit deeper. Lifting a box of tinned peas with a sturdy box of a man called Tom he asked him about Mac.

"Mac's exactly what you see and hear Nathaniel, no hidden depths, no pretensions," a warning look crossed his face, "but he absolutely _is_ the reason we're all still alive and in fairly good health."

Kane changed his tack slightly, anxious not to cause offence to his hosts, "What about you Tom? How did you end up here?"

"No different from the others I guess, we all have fairly similar stories. Me? Well the riots in Montrose set the town alight from one end to the other, ships sinking or steaming out to sea as fast as they could. The chemical plant might still be on ire for all I know. And people screaming in the streets or just wandering dazed and confused, easy prey for _others,"_ Nate didn't have to ask him to elaborate, _"_ I saw no other way but to get out, the mobs were lynching or bludgeoning anybody they could get their hands on, killing for the merest hint of food. So I ran, with the clothes on my back and a knife in my pocket I ran as far as I could. Don't know why I came south, seemed logical at the time I guess, away to the brighter lights and bigger cities!" He grunted as he lifted another crate to the top of the pile, "Anyway, I was dead on my feet when I literally hit the perimeter fence here. Had no idea where I was, too cold and hungry to notice. All I remember is this figure rising from the ground, catching me as I turned to run. Three days later I was conscious enough to devour the food put in front of me. Been here ever since." He stopped and looked across at Kane once more, "Mac saved me. Didn't have to, but he did. Every one of us owes him."

He wandered the complex over the next week, somewhat guiltily enjoying the hospitality offered freely and taking time on his recovery; enjoying the warm noise and daily bustle despite himself. He strode from room to room, through corridors filled with cable and real humming generators, (the flickering bulbs alongside the candles a marvel in the dark medieval world he had become acclimatised too) hearing similar stories to Tom's all over...some too close to his own that he gently tore himself out of the conversations rather than face that level of self-contemplation.

One day he was shown the "farm" on the ground floor...rooms set aside for a few chickens, a couple of sheep, and an honest to goodness pig that had somehow wandered on to base, growing fat on the scraps while the community became too attached to kill it. No horses though, which surprised him given their use as fast transport, which even the Monks had recognised, but the days rostered farmer, Wilson, had told him that they were just too expensive on supplies to keep, especially when they had some engines at their disposal.

Another room was blocked up by wooden planks two feet at the doorway, the interior filled with soil and the early germination of what he thought were carrot and potato crops. Fresh carbs and vitamins growing under jury rigged lamps and irrigation, and not too far from the latrines, guaranteeing regular compost on demand. The engineer in him impressed, he spent a few days helping till the soil and tend the crops, offering some small improvements to the irrigation system which were gratefully received.

He stumbled across the joyous sound and energy of a makeshift school on the 3rd floor. A small assortment of children of all ages working on traditional English and Maths, but others in a corner stripping a generator- Communication, problem solving, and practical survival, the 'teacher' had sagely informed him, constituted the curriculum. Gladly welcomed he'd enthusiastically rolled his sleeves up and joined in at the generator, revelling in the smell and feel of the oily machine and the challenge of repair.

On a couple of occasions, he watched the courtyard as scavenging parties came back sometimes laden down with goods, sometimes empty handed, listening to the tales of their exploits in the ruins of the towns, farms, and villages nearby as they strove to supply the community, rarely seeing people, less so as time had moved on. All weapons seemed to be handed back as a matter of course and stored safely throughout the building, and he couldn't help but guess Mac's hand and direction in the visible make safe routines that all went through when re-entering the base.

Indeed, Mac had taken time out to critique and improve Kane's weapon handling; clinically appraising his maintenance routines and his actions. He'd proven a tough taskmaster, though Kane was sure the old marine was enjoying the excuse to dust off some traditional sergeant style 'coaching' immensely. They'd worked through improvements and technique, and Mac had finally introduced him to, and gifted him, the L129A1 Sharpshooter, laughing heavily at Kane's first attempts to get to grips with the more intricate weapon. But as before, his teaching was nuanced and precise, and imparted skill came quickly.

Over the next few weeks, as the weather closed in again and he continued to heal and rebuild his strength, he continued to help out where he could, manual help mostly, but also using his knowledge and expertise to help make improvements to existing systems; a tweak to water collection, distribution, further irrigation, better distribution and load spread on the generators. All gratefully received and all, in his mind, the making of down payments on the gratitude he had come to feel. He continued to find himself having more conversations with altogether decent people, and enjoying them. Though always a common theme ran through each one- a point of weakness reached, and neediness that Mac, always Mac it would seem, had recognised and rescued them from.

There were, of course, the other stories that hinted at the other, harder, side of him. The fire fights at the gates, no quarter given against those who came with any show of strength or a desire to take by force. Mac the solid driving force behind it all. Regardless, all eminently justifiable, and to these people he was nothing short of their saviour, and Kane could not help but give way to his own growing admiration.

A flurry of snow on one long Sunday suddenly became a blizzard that lasted three days, confining them all to the base corridors and rooms; even travel between the few other outbuildings ramped down as the weather became more severe than anyone had seen in a long time. Tempers frayed slightly, the rooms suddenly too small to cope with the suddenly static population, and tired and haunted eyes became a staple hallmark as the howling wind and automatic rationing left their mark. Kane peered mournfully through the useless windows, frustration mounting as he dealt with the growing realisation that his plans to leave, parked as they had been over the past few weeks, were being put even further behind by a further ironic 'act of God'.

The cloud base broke and scudded across the sky on the fourth day, the wind at ground level dropping to a mere gale and allowing movement once again. The first order of business for most was checking on equipment and tools that had been outside in the storm, with more technical repair crews standing by. Kane, along with many others, wrapped up as warm as he could, picked up a shovel and began clearing the paths again through now impressive drifts that had covered them until a tap on his shoulder and a pointed finger had directed him to help clear the trucks from their new thick white blankets so the engines could be turned over.

He trudged over in a combination of draining high steps and the occasional forced shovel of an obstruction until he reached the parking area. There, grunting with effort, and grey ponytail flying as he lunged up and down was a member of the community Kane knew as Curtis; another member of the _Family_ he'd not yet had a real chance to speak to.

He'd seen him on more than one occasion in the building and he always seemed to be at the heart of animated and smiling discussions, an easy manner with all he crossed paths with, Mac included, and Kane had noticed that along with a few others he seemed to have Mac's ear and trust when needed.

Noting the new arrival, he stood up, stretching out his lean frame with a long groan, his eyes lined and shut as he unknotted, sharp nose pointed into the air. Loosening, he turned a friendly grin and wink on Kane and welcomed him over, "Alright?"

Kane couldn't help but return the smile, the twinkle in the older man's eye infectious, and it wasn't hard to fathom how he managed to know and work across the whole community, "Not bad mate, needing a hand I hear!"

"Another pair of hands would not go amiss brother, I won't lie, and some new and possibly intelligent conversation would warm me up no end. If I have to listen to Jane and her reminiscing for long lost soap operas for another thirty seconds I may pull a Captain Oates!" He pulled a face before grabbing his shovel with purpose again, "Come on then, let's get these beasts uncovered again"

Within minutes their breath and sweat steamed in the frigid air and Kane found Curtis to be easy company, their talk ranging across the potted past of Curtis' roadie and record shop owning life and times, to the present and all the uncertainties that came with it.

"Sometimes you really can forget that the outside ever existed you know; when you're here, warm, surrounded by other people doing normalish people things. And then it catches you, sneaks up and bites you on the arse!" Curtis took a long deep swig from a hipflask, offering Kane a drink, and stretched out his legs, "Especially when you bump into a tiny blond cutie carrying a _machine gun_ in the corridor!"

Kane laughed in to the proffered flask, still unsure as to how to take the man, who never seemed to leave anything sounding too serious for too long.

"You're right Curtis. Human nature. You lose yourself in what you're doing, you even get used to sharing a room with a load of other men! Everyone adapts I suppose."

Curtis took back the flask and looked out into the distance, "Do they though? Or do we all just choose to forget, soldier on, pardon the pun, without asking too many questions? We're simple animals Nate; keep us warm, fed, and bedded and we become content, a captive herd in our cosy shed."

He turned to Kane, eyes suddenly showing a seriousness Kane hadn't seen until now, "I mean what are we doing here man, really doing? What's the big picture? And I mean about everything! Look at the shit we've gone through...have you ever stopped to think about it? For fuck's sake, we're surrounded by angels and monsters man! The world ended and _'they'_ arrived! What does that mean? Why do we even bother, with this, with _anything?_ We aren't even supposed to be here."

"What do you mean we're not supposed to be here?"

Curtis looked hard at him, "Armageddon man, the shitting _End of Days_! Doesn't it freak you out? I mean, _angels_? I couldn't fuckin' believe it the first time we saw them at the base; and when we were... _Jesus_!" He took a long draught of his whiskey, gulping hard, seeming to Kane to bite back a particularly bad memory before jumping back in, "Keeps me awake at night sometimes y'know. Weird shit, like...well, here's me, brought up a Christian I suppose, never a follower, ' _dee-si-pul'_ , or an attendee, but still grown in the bible as it were: So, against all sane and rational reasoning it appears your genuine end of the world scenario has only gone and happened; So naturally I see these angels and monsters like the most classical visions of renaissance fucking painters, though the wings are a bit weird! But what does a Hindu see, a Muslim, a goddamn agnostic or atheist for that matter, or ET on some distant planet with green skies and blue grass? They see the same as us, or they see what they've been ' _brought up'_ with, believe in? But the thing is, the _real mind fuck_ , and not that I'm an expert in my own book mind let alone all the others, but I don't think anybody's version of this scenario had us, _people_ , in the mix and even here to ask these questions," He glanced over, "And yet here we stand!" he planted a boot clad foot for emphasis and pointed to Kane with his flask, "Shit like that can really screw you up man!"

"Who knows Curtis, I wish I knew. Seriously, I'm sure you've heard I'm looking for my own answers, heading my own way soon, but I've tried not to think on it too much; like you say, might drive me _gaga_!" Curtis' tight smile was as humourless as his own. He changed tack, "What I do know, absolutely, is that whatever they are, whatever they look like, they came after us, wanted to kill us," he flashed back to the camp gate for a second, "Maybe they have killed us, humans that is...maybe even our friends, others we knew. And maybe this is Armageddon, us living through the book of Revelations, but what does that mean? That we're supposed to get out of the way, curl up and die while they sort out who the winner is? Fuck that mate, _fuck_ _that_! I'm alive, your alive, and we should keep making sure we stay that way!"

Curtis looked at him for what felt like an eternity, drawing a load breath in through his nose, before turning his head to the sky a howling like a wolf to the heavens. As Kane stood suddenly nonplussed the howl ended and he looked back at him with a grin on his face once again, "Amen brother, amen.... see, I knew there was a reason I'd like you! You're a one-man snow shovelling, shit kicking, holy rolling, mean motherfucker.... just like me! Now where were we?"

And with that he got stuck back in to the drifts around the trucks, leaving Kane even less sure about the man in front of him, but strangely liking him the more for it all the same.

He sat at dinner a few nights later, savouring the near forgotten sweetness of a boil in the tin dessert, watching and listening as around him the _Family_ interacted. The twins always seemed to be the butt of a lot of jokes, but took it in good humour. Jane the effervescent butterfly, flitting from conversation to conversation but never losing the thread of any one. Curtis, Tom, others whose names he didn't yet remember automatically, all chewing the fat as if for a moment the world wasn't out of kilter. The whole campus, spread across a few adjoining rooms and gathered into loose family and friendly groups, but with no clear boundaries between them all.

Only Father Hanlon still really troubled Kane. The priest had been positively cold towards Kane ever since that first night, though in part Kane understood given what the priest must think of his actions. It niggled at him constantly, but he did his best to ignore it as always, some people were just never meant to get along, and instead crossed the room to Mac with some more questions, the conversation with Curtis still playing in his head.

"So Mac, I guess that you were stationed here when it all happened?"

"Aye, I was that son. Hellish it was, all of us were more scared than we had been at any point in our lives. And we're talking some proper marines here who'd been through different worlds of shit over the years!"

"What did you do?"

"Only thing we could do, only thing we knew _how_ to do. Sat about and waited for orders to come, listened to the chatter on the 'net, tried to figure out what was happening. ' _Hurry up and wai_ t'.... the military way"

"Any ideas? All I knew about the rest of the world stopped when the lights went out."

"Bit actually. Contrary to popular belief, and all the reports about government cutbacks, most of our comms pieces and protocols weren't as old as they were made out to be, and most equipment had been hardened, especially in spearhead units, so they survived the pulse that wiped out most of the northern hemispheres electrics and sent us back to the dark ages. Lot of bloody use it was though. Chatter was flying all over the place, the plague had decimated so much that protocols went out the window, so much being thrown out in the clear for anyone to hear. Reports started to come in from various places, all screaming the same thing- London was gone," He stopped for a noisy gulp of tea, "Seemed the last and biggest impact hit the Sahara; ripped apart the northern coast of Africa and into the Middle East, sent earthquakes and waves flying across the Med, swamping Italy, France Spain, Greece. Basically southern and a lot of central Europe disappeared in a wall of fire or water. Asia was basically buggared; the strikes in Afghanistan and the Pacific took out most of southern Asia and also destroyed the western coasts of the Americas from North to South. There were rumours of nukes going off in Washington but I imagine our satellites had been fried so that may be all they were, rumours." He stopped, eyes dropping to the floor, "But that was ok we thought. Hell, disastrous yes, but compared to what we picked up in the chatter we figured we'd got off lightly.

But that wave kept coming and aftershocks were tickling the southern counties. The Thames filled apparently, nothing the barrier could do to stop it, even if there had been power, filling the streets with filth from the sewers, while the city buildings began to fall in the tremors. Remember, for all its majesty, London was built in a basin on top of eighteen centuries of shit, destruction, and sewers!" He paused and swallowed down some more tea, "We started to hear the 'net go quiet, people leaving their posts. Riots everywhere and nobody to stop them and nobody seeming to care. The government, or _governments_ I should say seeing as we are north of the border, had apparently disappeared or were dead, who knows. And let's be honest, outside London and the major cities, there weren't enough police to go around at the best of times, never mind exercise control over this scale of catastrophe."

He stopped for a minute to put his cup back on the floor at his feet, and Kane almost missed the whispered quote, " _Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold..._ " before his head came back up and he continued.

"Anyway, the quieter it got, well more and more of my compadres began to think the same things; they had families most of them, young families...Christ most of them were still in their twenties, and if things were going down the pan then that's where they wanted to be. Can't say I blame them." He stopped again as he stared at an invisible point in the middle distance, "Nobody tried to stop them, least of all me, but they took only what they could carry, ammo and rations mostly; good lads, good _marines_ that they were. That's why there's still so much here...no one else was left to come for it."

A hush had filled the emptiness along with hazy cigarette smoke, more people having stopped to listen, dark memories clinging to all in the room.

"How many?" Kane eventually asked, a lump in his throat.

"Dead? Christ son, most of the civilised world I imagine. Dunno about the southern hemisphere, but up here we took one hell of a battering, and that was before the plague. And now these screaming buggars have shown up. There were odd comments on the net at the time, reports of figures seen in the air. At the time we just laughed and joked about how easily some people were losing it. Goes to show you! Imagine the plague kept wiping out a lot of the folk that were left after that; seemed to be particularly nasty to the kids and oldies, leaving us _lucky_ swine who seem to be immune."

One of the twins spoke up then, "Heard some stories that the plague didn't just appear, that the birds had it already, like the bird flu years before, that maybe it was engineered even...before all this."

"Hold on!" Lucy's face had taken on a troubled, anxious expression and pallor, and Kane inwardly winced at shared memories of her husband's death, "The destruction I can handle, comets, asteroids, whatever... even the disease I can handle, but these _things_!" she flapped her arms in the air, "What, we're just going to sit here accepting that these are _angels_ and _demons_ walking along outside the front door?" She looked around for support, "Come on folks, what century are we in here? There must be some rational explanation for this. Something that's not so- "

_"Fantastic? Bizarre? Incredible_? Tell me Lucy- were you brought up a Christian?" The unexpectedness of the priest's soft burr cut through her plea and across the room; a razor blade hiding in the soft tones.

Kane heard Mac whisper under his breath, " _Aw fuck_ , _here we go..."_

Lucy looked around non-plussed, trying to find some support in eyes that would now not meet hers. Indignant, she straightened, "Yes, I was. But that doesn't matter. This is the real world; this is- "

"Yet at some point you believed or were brought up to believe, in the concept of a supreme supernatural being, one who you can neither see, touch, nor hear. And even when you've grown up and told yourself that it's all behind you, still, in the dark, I would guess that's still where your entreaties and pleas go. You believe in a world where you can accept that a lump of rock in the vastness of the infinite universe, of just the right size to create a cataclysm, can be in the same place and time as our tiny planet just so, against odds so astronomical a computer would probably balk at delivering the result? A world where suddenly the miracle of modern medicine becomes useless against the onslaught of a new disease? This world that candidly accepted as plausible the theory of alien abduction, and that Elvis regularly appeared on a piece of toast? This is your _real_ world Lucy? And yet you think that the bible was a collection of bedtime stories for children? That billions of souls were wrong in their belief, that same belief you still turn to in the dark? Why shouldn't the end of the world be as imagined and written in one book as it has been in any later ones?"

Lucy looked sheepish, searching for support, "But that's habit, ingrained...like brushing my teeth. It's not...it's not like science, tangible, measurable...how can it be. But the true end of the _world_? _Now_? Why? That's something- "

"Why not now Lucy? We advanced more in the last one hundred and fifty years than we did in all the accumulated centuries before, yet _still_ we couldn't feed two thirds of the world's population. We called ourselves _enlightened_ and _educated_ ; yet our conflicts became more vicious, wars more violent, the world more divided. Signs all around us that we were killing the planet, storms, extreme weather, species killed off, people starving. We lived in a world where material gain was more important than the spiritual, where our heroes had become vacuous non-entities famed for a lack of intelligence rather than for having it, for kicking a ball or wearing a dress rather than advancing mankind. We paid lip service to faith while our lives became more banal and morally bankrupt. What better time could there be for the end of the world Lucy? What was left to redeem us? And so then, is it so hard to believe that our Lord has enacted what he decreed from the start, saving us while what little grace we had was still intact. Is that not as, or more, plausible and logical than your accidental rock?"

Kane watched Lucy's head drop, others around the room look away, and was surprised to see, just for a second, a flash of fire lurking in the priest's eyes, passing like a shade as Mac spoke up.

"Aye, maybe so Padre. But whatever they are, and whatever brought them here, they all seem to bleed and die all right by each other going by what's siting out in the field! They're here and we have to deal with them as part of our reality whatever we think they are. Just one more thing we'll never be sure of I suppose." He let out a deep laugh breaking the tension in the room, and slugged back some recently procured whisky, "but meanwhile we have all this lovely weather and countryside all to ourselves! Anyone for skiing? Or should we just go straight to the _après-ski_ and practice rebuilding the human race?" He said as he thrust his hips from the chair.

Lucy giggled first, a soft sound that was soon a contagious trigger for them all. A round of laughter spread around the room, quiet at first but in the face of Mac's mock injured, innocent expression it soon became a gale of deep laughter that had tears streaming down cheeks.

"Bunch of wankers!" proclaimed Mac, causing them to laugh all the harder.

As the laughter petered away a muffled scream suddenly filtered through the windows, at the same time as a voice screeched through the static of Mac's walkie-talkie, "Mac, we have gunfire outside."

"What the hell..." Mac was up and out of his chair in an instant, the two way held to his mouth, barking instructions and listening through the static filed replies, "What can you see?... Well put a bloody flare up you idiot. Who's out?... _Shit_! Guns at the windows NOW!"

Lucy and Kane trailed in his wake along with others who were in the immediate vicinity, re-entering the main corridor to find it crowded as people ran to their action stations. Squeezing into one of the airfield facing rooms they pressed their faces close to see through a partial slice of window. Outside was black, night covering all. Suddenly, flashes outside strobed the ebony; the hammering thump of gunfire following close behind. A larger flash and the area was lit in a deathly green, the flare settling into a parachute delayed descent. More flashes and all eyes focussed on the snow roughly one hundred metres from the building. A figure stood upright, legs braced apart, firing short bursts into the sky behind him. Another figure, smaller than the first, ran past him, arms wheeling as he or she stumbled and slipped through the frozen car park. They heard the whispered names in the room around them- Jake and Nancy, and watched as the larger figure turned to follow. An inhuman screech, and a black cruciform shape dived into the sickly green light, swooping on the smaller figure in front. Soundlessly they watched her fall, watched the larger figure of Jake raise his weapon to aim, and be bundled over by another shape barrelling onto his back, wings wrapping around as it forced him to the ground, the safe spectators watching his back arch as it swooped upwards again, tearing away chunks of flesh and jacket as it did so.

All this in seconds; all under the flat light of the flare. A scream and the first struggle became frantic, even from a distance the fury of the assault was breath-taking, dark droplets and lumps seeming to magically appear on the snow. Suddenly Mac's voice, loud in the hushed room, screamed over the radio, " _OPEN FIRE_!"

Outside became a disco of lights and sound. Multiple weapons opening up from the buildings windows, the crack and zing of bullets making the snow dance, finding their way to the figure perched on their comrade, which flew backwards, exploding in a balletic syncope, to fall twitching and heaving in the snow. A shadow crossed the windows, then another. Jake, outside alone, on his knees, was suddenly firing at the building, aiming for the targets now in front of him. The building guns opened up again, tracer rounds tracking the flight of the monsters. One veered maniacally in the air, clipped by a stream of lead, and plunged headlong into the ground. The other weaved, cocking its posture to attack, arms and clawed feet sweeping forward, aiming for Jake's heart. It's back rippled, bullets punching through, but its flight stayed true, hungry talons plunging into his chest as the creature itself expired. All movement stopped, the circle of light contracted, diminishing as the flare neared the ground; a circle, a spot, gone, blackness rushing back in to claim the now silent scene.

Silence filled the room, broken only by a few sobs and collective gasps of breath. All jumping in unison as Mac's harsh voice again broke the stillness as he strode back along the corridor

"I don't give a single flying fuck about anything else that _might_ be out there sunshine, just put the bloody flares in the air. Two of our people are down, we are _not_ leaving them out there." He switched channels, "Tom, you and Curtis take three others and get them in. Load heavy."

A crackled acknowledgement and Mac turned to the room.

"Spread the word people. I want rifles at windows, four-hour stints through your usual groupings. Go to it!"

The room burst into activity, inertia gone. The clinks and silken rattle of ammunition being distributed filling the air as people passed through, moving to their stations.

He turned and caught Kane in the open, his brows knit with thunder, "Sure you still want to leave son?"

Before Kane could answer he had turned and started handing out more instructions, directing with words, and not so gentle pushes, the mobility around him. He strode through the gathering maelstrom like an island of solidity, slowing down the frantic, hastening the procrastinate. Kane and Lucy followed, struggling to keep up, dodging bodies, grasping at fragments of conversation. Finally, Kane dared a hand on Mac's shoulder, "Look, can we help? Give us something to do; we're like spare parts here."

Mac wheeled, impaling them both with a glance, "Right. You, get your nursing skills downstairs pronto, find Jane, you know where, she'll be setting something up. And you... you just follow me."

Lucy quick timed back the way they had come, heading for the stairs, and once more Kane found himself trailing in the turbulence of Mac's back, striding towards the centre of the building. At the central atrium he was caught by surprise as Mac started heading up, away from the immediate hubbub.

Footfalls echoed around them as they sped up the stairs, Kane breathless as Mac bounded upwards. Turning a corner, dim light highlighted the steps of the last flight, where an opening at the top lead out into what must've been the central watchtower they had seen on their first approach to the building. Garish green lit the dimmed interior, a multitude of flares bathing the ground with their radiance. Mac immediately dove into an animated conversation with the watchtowers current lookout, a young man who impressively stood firm in the face of Mac's ongoing and articulated tirade.

Kane wasn't fully listening, his gaze drawn to the snow below, watching the retrieval of all but dead meat from outside. Hunched figures, their shadows dark in the flickering light, seemed weary as they carried the remains of their friends, with no little care and reverence, back to a sanctuary that had been agonisingly too distant. Everything done in silence, sound beating futilely against the glazed windows, amplifying the eeriness of the scene. Suddenly the young man's raised voice snapped him back to the present and he looked sharply round.

"The flares _are_ a mistake Mac! And if you'll shut up and wait for two _fucking_ minutes I'll show you why!"

Mac's mouth opened and closed in silence, taken aback by the sudden anger directed back at him, a sight Kane would have found amusing had the circumstances been more congenial. Without a reply, Mac turned away, resting on white knuckles against one of the rooms many dead consoles, staring out onto the viridian landscape as the flares continued their lazy descent. Minutes passed, and with slow assurance, the flickering light became more pronounced as the cold earth snuffed one after another of the lights out. Darkness rushed to seize the tower, and as it settled a young weary voice in the black whispered against the oppressive atmosphere, "North. Look North."

Kane's eyes were slow to adjust, the grey speckles growing slowly to recognition as the rods of his eyes took over. He oriented himself on the bulk of Mac, moving alongside him to peer in the same direction, not trusting his own senses. Resolution and clarity grew, a fuzzy arm raised itself and pointed as if to show them the way, " _There_!"

Dim red light suffused the horizon. The pregnant underbellies of the ever-present cloud highlighted in dull oranges and crimson. Kane blinked, trying to clear the grit from his eyes until, with a start, he realised that the colours were moving. Ripples and eddies marched along its length. Peaks and troughs grew and diminished with passing time. His eyes caught and he was drawn to the silhouette landscape beneath, where he picked out myriad pinpricks of light moving in the blackness, their luminance dancing against the midnight, disappearing and re-appearing.

Confused, questions began to form on Kane's lips as his eyes moved upwards to the gravid clouds and spotted the counterpoints to the lights below. Tiny dark specks weaved and dived against the bloody backdrop, solitary points of midnight as well as swathes like flocks of starling, following some obscure Brownian motion across the sky. Dumbly he stood entranced by the scene, now awash with movement and colour like some artist's brushstrokes on an unhappy canvas, but then from the corner of his eyes he could see Mac's deeply rutted brow and the tense muscles of his mouth moving minimally as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, the sense of alertness highlighted by the cast of his skin in the soft light. He shut his eyes quickly against the flare of the match and opened them again to the orange glow and blue smoke of a cigarette clamped between Mac's contemplative lips, "Hmm."

"Mac?"

He ignored him, instead turning again to the towers current keeper, his voice softer, "Get on your radio, get through the halls, the rooms, everywhere! I want everyone gathered in the big common room in ten minutes. Go!"

No arguments this time, the youth virtually flew down the stairs, the fading sound of his voice coming back to them as he carried out the first part of his instructions.

_"Mac?_ "

"What? Is something bothering you here son?"

"No. I mean maybe. What exactly is going on? What is that out there? What are we looking at?"

Mac Pause for a second, "That," he indicated with a thrust cigarette, "should be a veritable godsend to you son! You wanted something to get your teeth into, find answers, maybe act out all that boiling rage, well your wish has been granted ma boy. Granted big time!"

"Mac, please, you've lost me. I don't understand. _What is that out there?_ "

The blue eyes seemed laced with steel even in the darkness as they were turned on him, "That, is one damn large mass of fuckers on the move son. And given all those little buggars you can see in the sky, then, out there in the dark, more of our worst nightmares like the ones we put down out front are marching en-masse. And just to make the occasion that _little_ bit extra special, they're marching this way!"

Kane's eyes widened, mouth dropping open in synch, "You're kidding!"

Mac rubbed his face hard with a hand, "Does this face look like its fucking kidding son? In probably less than two days or so, the good or the bad, and the _definitely_ downright ugly are gonna swarm over this place like flies on shit. And _we_ , most definitely, are up to our necks _in that shit_!"

Later, in the common room, pandemonium slowly resolved itself into chaos, and then by degrees into organised disorder. The hubbub of mixed voices was horrendous bouncing through the pre-fab office space, with the agitated standing, the resigned in their seats, and all trying to make their voice heard. Kane and Lucy sat at the back, David, against all environmental attempts to the contrary, sound asleep on Kane's chest. They watched Mac as he climbed a table to raise himself above the noise.

"Will you lot shut the _fuck_ up!"

The noise level dropped to a murmur, eyes slowly turning to the man up high who stood with his hands on his hips, another cigarette, clutched between his fingers, churning lazy blue spirals up his arm.

"Good. Now I can tell from the faces and noise that the word has spread alright, but before arms and legs start to grow on this thing let me set a few things in stone."

He paused, waiting on the few remaining dissenters to give him their full attention

"You have heard that a massive group of _something_ , an army if we want to be blunt, is on the way, that much is true. However, we are not in any imminent danger of having our insides dangled in front of our faces. _We have time_!"

"Why don't we just stay here, let them pass on by? Why set out at all?" an angry voice floated from the crowd but all eyes remained fixed to the front.

"Because, and I'll make this as plain as I can, you all saw or heard what a couple of these things did to Jake and Nancy, and we all sat and prayed to high heaven when that skirmish out there in the fields nearly landed on top of us too," some murmured agreement rose, "Well by the spread of the fires lighting the sky what's heading this way makes that look like a couple of drops in the ocean people, it will not just _pass us by_! Even if they aren't here for us, they will swarm over this building, this whole area, like locusts." He looked at as many eyes as directly as he could, "Hiding behind a locked door will not be an option ok? We _have_ to move."

"For pity's sake, Jake and Nancy aren't even cold yet, can't we at least deal with that first," a man Kane didn't know shouted from somewhere in the middle of the group to some murmured assent around him.

"They're _dead_ , they don't care." Mac said coldly, "and they certainly didn't put themselves out there, knowing the risks, to know that stupid sentiment would condemn others to death!"

The room this time stayed quiet, the words being digested behind fearful eyes. Mac softened his tone a bit.

"I am not going to waste time here arguing the toss over an inevitability ok. We all knew this might someday be a possibility...deal with the fact and move on. What we are going to do is get ourselves organised, get our stuff together, get _us_ together, and move house, all in the next six hours." He pulled a sheaf of paper from a back pocket, "Tom, Curtis; last count we had four serviceable wagons. Make sure they are, fix them if not, fill them with diesel, load up the jerry cans, and get them around the front to be loaded. Then we need to start unhooking the generators and getting them out for towing. Jane, medical equipment- put together a kit for each truck and load them on. I want plenty of surplus to cover eventualities as well. Lucy, help her." He paused as the first named moved off, "Jim, take Tony, Nick, and Nathaniel there- guns and ammo, lots, especially for the cupola mounts. Am hoping we don't have to use it, but better to have than have not. The rest of you, food and water, I want as much as possible spread over the trucks, tins at the bottom, any perishables at the top, water easy to reach. Mary, let the animals go, but grab whatever crop is viable. We'll need the seed stock. Each truck will have three nominated drivers; the rest will be split between the four vehicles, everybody armed and ready when we move out. You have three hours to have your assignments ready and on the trucks. Move!"

And they did, purpose diminishing the fear. Kane looked around, finding the twins and hurrying after them to clear the ammo and weapons rooms of their booty. For the next few hours, the community streamed in and out of the front doors, chains forming to load the trucks in a semblance of order. Sweat dripped in the cold air, exertion steaming the atmosphere, as bodies twisted and turned with their loads, heaving and depositing them to various different rhythms. Lucy enmeshed in a world where the only odour was the dry sterile smell of medicines and bandages, Kane the scent of gunmetal and brass. Voices were hushed, anxiety and weariness leaving no time for chatter as the boxes and equipment moved. Snow quickly became slush, and then water; sodden feet ignored in the race to meet Mac's deadline. Through it all, he himself moved with an easy grace, harrying and picking up where he had too, slinging his weapon and carrying where he could, all the while inspecting each truck, his face etched with worry that they didn't have enough.

A firm hand on the shoulder and Father Hanlon's lined and weary face confronted him, the Glaswegian brogue softened by incalculable hours of sermons to numerous flocks, "Mac, just where are you planning on taking us? Good plan to keep everyone this busy, stops them thinking or questioning too much, but me, well I am curious!"

Mac smiled wearily, "Course you are padre, wouldn't expect anything else. Would've been telling everyone soon anyway, but seeing as you ask," he spread a well folded map up against the wall, "Here," his finger stabbed at the west coast, "Coulport RNAD, Royal Navy Arms Depot. Remote location, easily defensible and with concrete blast doors a metre and a half thick where they used to keep the Tridents for the subs. If it's anything like here it's probably empty...the nukes would certainly have been shipped fairly early, and the subs all launched out. Hoping from there we can set up again- perhaps even better. Hopefully it should only take us a couple of days, have to skirt Dundee and go cross country after Perth probably if the roads are as jammed as we've seen elsewhere, but as long as we avoid the hills and the ground stays cold enough it shouldn't be a problem."

"Seems a long way to go for all these people Mac, leaving all this behind as well. What about Leuchars? Empty, plenty of old army houses... and not too far!"

"Flat as a pancake Mike, and only the water at our backs...wouldn't see anything coming, and we'd end up spread too thin across the base to keep everyone safe. Plus, with this lot haring down the east coast, not sure sticking to this coast would be the wisest option

The priest acknowledged the argument with a no, "And if we run into trouble?"

"Well, we're going armed to the teeth so anything that gets in our way is going to be sorry Mike"

"Anything?"

"Anything! Man, woman, beast _or_ horny winged thing!"

The priest's face clouded slightly, "And this new boy, Kane, you trust him? Seems like a bit of a loner to me"

Mac glanced at Kane, currently lugging roughly ten ammo belts for the trucks minimi gun across the snow, "He'll be fine padre. He might have had his own agenda to begin with, may still for that matter, but he seems to be sticking with us for now."

The priest seemed satisfied with the answer, "Ok Mac, his motivations obviously bother me, but I bow to your all seeing eye as always- you're the one that's kept us whole. Will leave you in peace for the moment and make myself useful."

"Thanks Mike; we all keep each other whole!"

As he walked away with a brief wave over his shoulder, Mac watched the production line slowly grind to a halt. But before he could utter a few choice words the reason floated on the breeze to his ears. Softly, against the background of the wind and clinks of supplies, a babble filtered through, a confusion of white noise, indiscernible, unclear, but constant. A tremor of the air that hadn't been there five minutes previously. Instinctively all eyes had turned northwards, aware of exactly what the noise represented. It was the susurration of things on the move, a tide of repugnance that inexorably crept towards their onetime safe haven.

Despite himself, Mac shivered, a pressure in his bladder surprising him as even he felt the dread in that sound. Resolutely he steeled himself and addressed the car park in general, "Right people, no time for breaks. You've only carried the light stuff so far _you lightweights_. Get those legs moving and straighten those backs. Come on, move your arses! You're in this man's _army_ now!"

It had the desired effect; he could see some wry smiles as they started moving once again, concentrating once more on their tasks. His own smile felt locked as the sound continued to whisper at his ears.

_Jesus, I'm scared shitless! This is_ not _good!_

He silently wished that someone could pep _him_ up, distract him from the knowledge of what was coming, but he knew training would overcome that, automatic pilot for his soul.

But I wish to Christ it would hurry up and kick in!

He smiled at the thought, already finding his own tricks to operate, and strode back to continue his bullish harassment of the carriers and loaders.

For all the panic gnawing at the back of all their minds, the operation ran smoothly and within the next hour the trucks were ready to go. Mac hustled the stragglers from the building, pulling unnecessary keepsakes from their arms as he bundled them up and into the belly of the canvas covered all purpose Bedford trucks. Sure that everyone was accounted for he made his way to the lead vehicle, hoist on the running board as he spoke quickly and quietly to Kane and Curtis who was behind the wheel.

With a splatter of snow, he jumped down and wheeled to run once more into the building, the trucks steady thrum echoing loud in the open space as the engines idled. The minutes passed, anxious faces peered from the gloom of the truck beds up at the building. Legs started to jangle with nerves and cold, a few murmured curses could be heard as patience started to dissipate. The occasional flicker of a torch beam was all that could be seen through the narrow windows of the building, it's faint light darting here and there, from room to room. Eventually, with a muttering Tom already setting foot back out on the running board of the second truck, Mac appeared at the entrance, taking what seemed an inordinate length of time to close the main door.

With a last glance, he turned and sprinted along the short line shouting as he went, banging on the sides of each truck, "Come on people, what are you waiting for? Let's get moving!"

A half-hearted cheer chased behind him and he jumped up and into the cab of the lead vehicle, his head popping through the hatch to take station at the light machine gun mounted on its circular rail on the roof. An exaggerated wave of his hand and the trucks thrumming became a roar, dark diesel smoke puffing from exhausts, its taste acrid and compelling as the wheels first churned in the snow, then gripped and rolled, heading for the main gates.

"Here goes nothing!" The words unheard by anyone else as Mac squinted against the wind.
Chapter 8

" It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."

Ursula K. Le Guin

Sitting on a stone by the banks of a small stream that gurgled and meandered through the field, Anziel ignored the noise of preparation behind him. He struggled to find a word to describe his mood; the novelty of emotion slowly losing any lustre it had briefly had when he had first set foot on the earth. 'Forlorn' seemed to fit, a sense of under accomplishment and sadness making his form feel heavy and worn. So far the expected decisive battle had not come, only minor skirmishes such as the one further south, feelers, distractions, which had done little more than whisper at the conflict to come, and given him little opportunity for the glory he knew was to come.

He glanced back, his army ensconced behind him on the snow, some practising with their weapons, but most milling about, speaking to their brothers, sharing escapades and accomplishments. He ground his teeth (strange things...) at the sound of laughter, its noise irritating his mood further, and he whipped his head back round to stare moodily at the water.

_We have accomplished nothing here yet still they laugh; it is undeserved_.

But even while he silently chastised them, another side of him recognised the nervousness in the laughter, the warding of fear and the unknown, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge such a thought. Instead he lamented the last closeness to rapture he had felt, the rush that had accompanied his last personal battle on the dry plains thousands of miles to the south.

_How have we come to be so cursed by these forms? Slave to the whims and eddies that rush through them?_ He angrily pulled at his raiment in disgust; _we are not what we were_.

He rose angrily to his feet, surveying the land in front of him. Snow white peaks rose in the middle distance, their skirts tailing off to form the wide river valley his army was camped in. Starved trees dotted the landscape in bare clumps or in lonely solitude, a legacy of the cultivation that the skeletal hedgerows and fallen dykes attested to. Dwellings rested like monoliths at the edges and corners of these markers, standing like miniature versions of the distant mountains, with drifts of windblown snow creating their own, sloped skirts. This land was cold, colder than the plains at the equator had even come close to, and he stamped his sandaled feet in the snow as icy veins began to throb ever so slightly in his legs.

Some days ago he had caught some of his troop clad in recovered _human_ footwear, grabbed from some abandoned human settlement, in an effort to negate the cold. With fury he had ordered his commanders to lash the offenders, remind the others of who they were, what they were, and had stood glaring at each pair of eyes as the punishment was meted. There had been no further incidences.

How humanity had survived for so long in their frail forms baffled him. The ease with which they tore was compounded by the wave of emotions that accompanied its use. A surge of anger, warmth, happiness, sadness, could pass through consciousness in the space of seconds, and only now was he beginning to exert some control over it. Others didn't try; he had witnessed the Watchers on numerous occasions channel anger into an orgy of bloodletting, cutting swathes through enemy formations with sheer force of will.

Some, a minority, struggled; overcome by the new sensations and helpless at the falling of a brother known for millennia untold, useless for days as grief consumed them. All these things compounded Anziel's own mood, a feeling of struggle against an unexpected and unknown enemy as well as the known one. And it had tired him these past few days especially _._

_Are we really so weak as to be consumed by such as this? Surely our Master gave us the strength to prevail_.

He struck angrily at the fleeting thought. _Yes_ , they were strong enough, theirs was the side of right; theirs was the light of reason and victory, chaos would not prevail! Focus was what was required, for all of them, and that they would find once battle was re-joined and purpose re-found. They had lost many but their numbers were still great enough to ensure victory, and it was needed _here_. Chance and good fortune had brought him here to this island just as its strategic value was revealed, and he did not intend to let that advantage go.

Rightly they had ignored the presence of this tiny island at the outset, concentrating instead on the battle for the landmasses of the major continents. It had been deemed to have no purpose in the grand scheme, in fact had seemed wholly insignificant as they had planned their dispositions against the enemy. But now with victories pushing the enemy further east and more north across the northern continent, it had assumed a position of value across the forward lines. If the enemy had crept over it unseen, engulfed it with a significant force, it would stand ready to reach out and nip at Anziel's northern flank, forcing him to move much needed resource from the east to shore up the flank. And now that Anziel was here, it was obvious just how unassailable such an island could be made to be if won, a steady base from which to strike, easily defendable against any small force.

Anziel flexed his wings noisily, shaking some looseness back into them. The wait for the scouts to return was becoming excruciating, the lack of news or coherent reports anathema to his usually ordered mind. Indeed, he felt it was languishing, a staleness creeping in through the lack of stimuli. He needed something, but even his planned intelligence gathering against any remaining humans had borne no fruit. No sightings, no violent sundering like the first, nothing to even indicate that they even existed. Anziel suspected that some might be found in the confusion of rock and glass that they had called cities, but they were places that he and his army had so far avoided; keen not to relinquish the flexibility of the open plains.

A stern shout behind him caused him to turn, watching as Herdal harassed the troop into something resembling a fighting formation, berating them for their complacence. Anziel smiled, pleased to know that some things at least remained constant.

Turning back to the distant mountains, any thoughts of further contemplation were broken entirely by three fast growing specks in the sky. Still too distant for clarity, a minute of wariness passed while they grew large enough to be identified.

Scouts. Ours.

Despite a nagging pessimism, he found himself anxious for their news, and he stood, his hands tugging at his clothing, straightening it, returning himself to a posture of command.

They made a slight change of direction as their enhanced and keen eyes spotted Anziel standing alone in front of the massed ranks, bearing down towards him in an inverted V. With hands clasped behind his back he stood expectant, the full authority of his position carried in his renewed bearing, no trace of the disconsolation that had plagued him not five minutes earlier. Passing low, two of the flight separated themselves from the formation and flared their wings, the rushing air bleeding their speed away. The other flashed overhead towards the troops. Anziel, not deigning to follow that flight any further, kept his eyes trained on the imminent message bearers.

Flailing gently against the air, they landed with an imperceptible stagger, and walked directly toward him. One limped slightly, his face an ashen pail of discomfort as he struggled to maintain an appropriate manner. The other strode confidently, as he knew was expected; signs of weakness had been all but forbidden in this campaign and punishments had been severe. Standing finally before him, they mastered themselves, and once they were fully upright, Anziel graced them with the slightest dip of his head, bidding them to begin. The one whose manner had not flagged spoke first.

"Lord Seraph, we bring news. The enemy is here in strength. Their army advances without rest down the eastern coast of this land. All in their wake is ruin and ashes."

Anziel met the angel's gaze "Numbers?"

"Too numerous to be certain my Lord but they number a Hedron worth at the least. Their formations are.... chaotic. Squabbles seem to roll like turbulence through their mass, building their rage. Their roars tear the air asunder with naked vehemence as tooth and claw are bared."

"You sound as if you are in awe of such a gathering, servant." Anziel's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"No my Lord. I mean no disrespect, only to convey what mine eyes have beheld."

"Then do so with no more elaboration than is necessary. Continue."

"Their mass is unorganised but innumerable. Their flyers circle continuously above, spying the ground ahead. Scouts are dispatched with abandon; no thought or need appears given to the necessity of their return. Barren devastation lies in the army's wake; no living or standing thing is left untouched. Even this snow and the grass beneath is scoured from the very earth. Their momentum is continuous, we witnessed no stop, and they shall be within striking distance within the next day."

"Composition?"

"They appear light on Berserkers Lord, but their archers and infantry are numerous and well stocked with arms. More flyers appear to be with this group than I have previously witnessed."

"Inform Herdal that he may approach."

_Finally!_ The news was melodic to his ears. The report over he dismissed the scouts to the ranks with a dismissive flick of his wrist, already becoming lost in the whisper of adrenalin and excitement within him, even as they took flight over his head. The air folded to his right and the figure of his commander appeared beside him.

"Battle comes Herdal."

"Indeed Lord, the troops shall be ready. They are anxious to begin."

Anziel glanced at the massed ranks behind him, hearing the idle chatter and bonhomie, and fixed his second with a glance, "Of that I am unsure Herdal, but I trust in your ability to have them conform."

Herdal's face remained stoic, "They shall be ready."

He looked at his battle hardened second, feeling for the kindred spirit within. Surely of all his comrades and brothers Herdal understood. He spoke to the angel's departing back, "Do you feel it Herdal?"

"My Lord?"

"The passion, the _life_ , the strength rising in this sometimes puny form. The desire for the fray. This is what we were created for!"

"We were made to serve my Lord." He turned away and said softly, "But yes, I feel it."

Galvanised, Anziel acknowledged his loyal commander, "Victory and His Glory Herdal."

"Victory and His Glory"

And with the salute made, Anziel watched as his second roared back to the ranks, his powerful voice chastising and galvanising; powerful oration awakening the slumbering passion of the host. Their own massed voice began to join his, the murmur becoming babble, a chorus, then a cacophony of steel hearts and minds.

His own hand restlessly playing with the pommel of his own sword, Anziel was swept by the emotion, welcoming the fire that rose from the embers of his very own being.

_Ah Herdal. This is what we were made for. We will raze the ground with their dead. Songs will be sung of this day_. Victory _!_
Chapter 9

"Never lose a chance of saying a kind word."

William Makepeace Thackeray

The rumble of the powerful diesel engines and the rough terrain kept Kane from sleeping, and finally he gave up trying as Mac crunched the gears for the third successive time.

"Sorry."

"It's alright Mac, don't think these trucks were designed with grabbing forty winks in mind anyway were they. Where are we?"

He shuffled in his seat, peering out into the darkness that surrounded the cab. Faint sounds of muffled conversation could occasionally be heard from behind above the thrum of the engine, but as they ran with the headlights off, the voices seemed disembodied, distant and unconnected.

Mac looked entirely alien as he turned his head to peer at the ground ahead, the top half of his face covered in the angular lumps and bumps of night vision goggles, sickly green light somehow seeping around the seal to halo his cheeks.

"Coming up on Dundee, A92 is on the left of us. Good time considering, though if the roads weren't so jammed up we would be flying. Gonna have to cut north soon, want to avoid hitting the suburbs if we can, go up and around by the Sidlaws, then back down to the end of the Kingsway I hope."

"So few cars moving, doesn't seem right...there are people around after all, both good and bad! "Mac and Kane had shared their various experiences with the Monks and Spawn a few nights back.

"More Hollywood shite son, that's the problem...everyone believing that all you have to do is find a car, check the battery, suck some petrol from the tank and bob's your drunk and slightly lecherous uncle!"

"What do you mean?"

"You've got to remember, petrol's an organic substance. Squashed dinosaurs and all that...so, like any organic substance it degrades over time; add a bit of heat, moisture, and your petrol and diesel is little more than useless mush in a few months." He veered around something unseen by Kane in the dark, " _Shit_. Anyway, if you're lucky enough to work for an organisation that caters for this kind of thing, for example Her Majesty's lovely armed forces, then your supply is not only stored very well but you have access to all the fuel stabilizers you need to keep your supply viable."

"Fair enough," replied Kane before Another jolt travelled up his spine causing him to pull a face. He changed the subject, "No sign of anything chasing us then?"

"Nope. But if there is, we'll know about it soon enough."

"How? What do you mean?"

"You'll see son, you'll see."

Kane let the cryptic comment slide as out of the windscreen he could dimly make out the obsidian silhouette of the city against the dull backdrop of the sky, the law hill pointing to the heavens like an accusing black finger.

"Christ, I only left here a few days ago, didn't think I'd be back this quick! Didn't think I'd be back ever!" He pulled another face, unseen in the darkened cab.

"No worries. Hold onto your valuables!" and with that Mac wrenched the wheel to the right, turning the truck northwards in a precarious movement where Kane felt sure a number of wheels lost contact with the earth. A muffled shout of complaint from the back was answered by a barked laugh from Mac, making his augmented face look even stranger. The truck re-settled, bumping over the ruts in the fields as it sped onwards, Kane sticking his head out of the window to ensure the others were following. Industrial sites marked the eastern edge of the city north of Broughty Ferry and Barnhill, plant storage and small units taken up by small businesses once upon a time, but they were all but lost in the darkness and snow, and their columns of smoke had long since died on extinguished pyres.

Backside numb, Kane tugged on the leg of Curtis, and with a few grunts and a protracted bout of gentle wrestling, manoeuvred himself up and through the gun canopy as the other man fell into the vacated seat with an audible thump. Pulling a pair of goggles tight over his eyes, he enjoyed the fresh buffeting gale and looked around at the dim landscape. The truck bounced and jostled his frame as it roared over the uneven ground and he rolled with the movements as much as possible as he rotated in the cupola, the sleek black gun attached to the frame tracking through the same smooth arc. Indiscernible black shapes loomed out of the bleak landscape at the last second, the truck avoiding them at the last minute under the seemingly magical guidance of Mac and his goggles.

He heard Mac squelch on the radio, ""Going around the back to the Sidlaws folks-Pit stop. Plus, we don't want to be careening through the city. Once there everyone off for a pee and a stretch. _What_? No, I'll explain everything once we're there. No, Tom, _not_ now! Soon enough ok!"

They drove hard and at times haphazardly up and around the eastern and northern edges of the city, moving out towards the base of the Sidlaws; those perpetual hills that formed a solid east to west barrier forever defining the boundary between city and county.

Kane enjoyed the rush of air until his cheeks and exposed skin started to feel the tight bite of the cold. He turned away to gain a moments respite, glancing back to the east, at the horizon vague in night-time degrees of deep grey, and was nearly blinded as a sudden bloom of bright white light blossomed in the distance to the east, illuminating the heavy cloud as its colour quickly faded back through red, ochre, to the familiar dimness. Baffled, blinking the after image from his eyes, he stood and stared at the point on the horizon where the flash had occurred. When it didn't repeat itself, he ducked his head down and tried to grab Mac's attention below, saw him already looking to the right; but before he could even speak a dull roar washed over the convoy, rattling in his ears; the slower acoustic cousin of the now faded light show.

He shouted over the engine, "What the hell was _that_?"

Mac looked up, the eerily lit grin clear on his face as he laughed loudly, " _Got them_! Bloody got them! _Yes_! Told you we'd know didn't I?" Seeing the evident confusion on his companions faces, he went on, "The building; I rigged it. Let's face it, couldn't just leave all that nice plastique just lying around now could I? Bastards walked right into it!"

Realisation dawned on Kane; Mac's delay, his shadow flitting from room to room before they left.

"With any luck, a lot of those buggars are now impersonating the colonel's crispy fried chicken!" he laughed louder, "Given the distance we've made, I'd say we have about six, seven hours head start on them. Time enough for a break I think." With one last hard laugh, he finally acknowledged the squawking static from the radio, and addressed the other trucks. Nothing could erase the smile from his face, and as they drove along he even began a tuneless whistle that soon had Kane accidentally kicking him at each bump as it grated on his nerves.

In time the houses and buildings fell behind them and the flat, scraggy plains of the Sidlaw hills hove into view. Mac drove out a good distance, ensuring that any possible groups of buildings were lost in the dimming light and they were surrounded by inky blackness. Pulling off into a side cutting, he stopped the truck, calling over the radio, "Everyone out. We have an hour to stretch legs and empty bladders. Next stop, the balmy west coast! Enjoy!"

Vertebrae cracked noisily up Kane's spine as he stretched his back and stiff legs, unable to prevent an audible groan of relief as the tension eased from his joints.

"You should try sitting in the back you big jessie! We don't have the luxury of padded seats in the cattle end!"

Lucy walked smiling towards him, rubbing her arms to move the blood back into circulation. A blur of dirty blonde hair and David hit his legs, hugging them tight as he leant his head back and grinned upwards.

"Hiya big man!" Kane ruffled his hair playfully.

"Came to see if you were hungry? Someone's starting a small fire around the back; tea and coffee on the go too."

"Sounds like a plan! Could do with filling my stomach. Though if Mac keeps driving like that it may not stay filled for long."

"Sure you'll cope. Wuss! Come on David; grub's up!"

They made their way around the trucks towards the fire, Mac's passing assertion that anyone else out near these hills would have to be insane or desperate giving them some sense of security in the bleak surroundings, though sentries were still posted. Kane spotted Curtis, one-time indie record store owner, tending the fire, his long grey ponytail and silver goatee marking him out, and Kane threw him a tired wave. Fire or no Kane already felt warmth in the company of Lucy and David, and they approached the fire as a unit, sighing in unison as the aroma of beans and sausages assaulted their nostrils.

They found some space and with gentle acknowledgements to either side settled down within the radiated heat from the pyre in the centre. Small talk resumed, and for a moment it was almost possible to forget the reality of the world.

He looked around, noting the numerous skeletal tree trunks lit by the flickering light and the rough square of the clear parking area they were encamped in. Memories stirred and as he looked back at the silhouetted bulk of the Sidlaws looming over them he threw a question out to the group, "Are we at Balkello?"

Some non-committal grunts and few noises of affirmation came back from around the fire as Lucy looked at him with the question on her face.

"It is, or was, a pretty grand community woodland," he answered, "stretching out and around the foothills." He smiled for a moment, "I helped make it happen; did some volunteer work with local trusts, planted a good few thousand of these trees as saplings. Years ago now...too many to think about!"

Walked these hills too. Good training grounds, hard going through the heather and the wind at times." He continued smiling as he let himself fade into the memories for one small moment.

A hot tin full of beans and sausages broke him from his maudlin as it was dumped in his lap by a smiling and winking Lucy, and he laughed as he picked it up the mess tin; the aroma from which as causing his mouth to water noticeably.

Chewing down on the first mouthful and looking around, Kane watched a blur become a shadow become a person, and in the circle of firelight watched as a tall gangly youth crept tentatively towards the warmth and food. Dressed all in black, and his incongruous six plus frame topped by a riot of striking long black hair, he looked nervous and twitchy. Kane half remembered him from his tour, sitting on the floor in one of the rooms, fiddling with some wiring, singing tunelessly to himself. Catching Kane's eye, he half raised a hand, turned away seemingly doubtful, then suddenly strode across with a wide grin on his face.

Sticking his hand out in greeting he ran the other nervously through his hair as he asked, "You're him aren't you? Killed that thing out front? Blasted it back to hell?" He mimed a gun firing, his boyish face wide eyed and smiling, "Just that, well, wanted to meet you. No time before, well you know," his mouth closed like a trap before suddenly stuttering into life again, "So, you with us now... On the road... heading for pastures new?"

Kane couldn't help the smile that crossed his face; the pace of the dialogue matched only by the nervous hopping that made him seem like something was stabbing at his feet, and tried his best to compose himself as he replied.

"Uh, guess that's me. And yes, I'm along for the ride just now."

"Cool. Deadlock by the way. Not my real name 'course, just kept it. Was my name before, well... you know? Glad you're here man, must've been a rush to smash that thing to pieces huh? Wish I'd seen it. I seem to miss all the action." He changed tack as quickly as he spoke, "Having something to eat? I'm starving and my ass feels like I've jumped up and down on a spike for days. Say, which truck you in? Imagine it's the lead one huh?"

"Go get something to eat boy if you're that hungry! Stop bothering these people and sit still for five bloody minutes won't you!"

Father Hanlon followed the bass of his own voice and walked from the shadows into the firelight, his words causing the young man in front of them to hang his head like a guilty schoolboy, muttering at his feet, "Just saying hi, didn't mean anything...."

"Off with you, feed that skinny frame of yours. Go on!"

Hands in pockets and shoulders hunched like the epitome of adolescent attitude, he skulked away towards the other side of the fire, casting a rueful, hopeful look behind him.

"Seems you have another admirer my boy."

Kane ignored the expressionless way he said it, diverting the subject away, "He's a strange one. What's his story?"

"Matthew...we prised the name out of him eventually... is _another_ lost sheep that Mac brought into the fold. Found him cowering in the hedgerows after a skirmish with a group of Spawn. Seems our boy there had been running with the wrong crowd as it were. The usual though, Mac took pity on him and brought him in. Easy enough to see the scared boy he was; easier still to see the bruises covering him from head to foot. Probably just caught in a situation he couldn't understand and couldn't escape. Most of the time he wanders around in his own wee world, treats this like a game. He is a whiz with electrics and electronics though, spent his previous life tied to a computer. Hence the _catchy_ name, and maybe the hair too! And also no doubt why the Spawn kept him alive"

"You seemed a bit hard on him."

The priest stared pointedly at Kane, "You've seen the world, this is a dangerous place Nathaniel, he needs to get a grip on what's real and leave his fantasy world behind," he walked back into the shadows, hardly containing the vitriol in his parting words "otherwise he's a danger to us all. _Like you!"_

They watched his back until he blended into the shadows. Lucy broke the silence he had left behind.

"What a _nice_ man! He seems to really have something against you Nate."

"Hmm, you might be right Lucy. Don't think he approves of some of the things I've done, said, or my attitude...who knows? Remember the way he left the room during our first day there?"

"Yup, think you may have offended his old catholic sensibilities in some weird way. Think about it, killing an angel _might_ have done it! And then for the cherry on top, not seeming too averse to killing more!" She clasped her hands to her cheeks and gasped for dramatic effect

Kane turned to see the barely suppressed smile on her lips and playfully grabbed at her, " C'mon you shit, let's go see what else is cooking. I'm still starving."

The next hour seemed to pass in a heartbeat, a session of food and some laughter, general relief, and the odd requirement for solitude. Morale had heightened as the story of the explosion had made its rounds, giving everyone a lift that beat back the darkness and the worry, if only for a minute.

Kane, Lucy, and David stayed close, enjoying each other's company but still welcoming the new faces and voices that joined in. David still spoke no words, but the expressions that flitted across his face were worth a thousand; the smile at play, rapture at the food, merriment at the people around him. He was contagious, running in and out of the firelight, his sudden leaps into arms and through legs catching everyone off guard, invariably making them smile. Always he came back though, never straying too far, especially from Lucy, whose worried eyes echoed that bond whenever she lost sight of him for a second. They watched as he and Deadlock, or Matthew, chased each other around the fire.

"You need a shave." Lucy had turned to look at him, appraising his face. Kane rubbed a hand up and down the stiff bristles covering his cheeks and jaw.

"Guess so, been a bit busy of late though. Anyway, I thought this was the look this year; you know, rough and ready, charity shop chic, and of course, the colour co-ordinated matching side-arm!"

She laughed lightly, a sound that warmed his heart: The silence that settled behind it comfortable and welcome.

"You ok?"

"Huh? Oh, you mean with all this?" He encompassed the makeshift camp and fire with a sweep of his arm, "Suppose so. To be perfectly honest the whole thing has just swept me along, not really had time to sit and think about it. If I had to I'd say yeah, I am kinda surprised about how much I'm enjoying the company, the different voices and different people. Suppose after so long alone I thought I wouldn't, or couldn't, but hey, guess we all need company eventually; social animals that we are! Think I spent so long concentrating on what I had lost, that I forgot to look up and bother to see what was left." His eyes glazed for a second at the unbidden memories, "It feels good though."

And it did, sitting there, hearing the voices, seeing the faces, he felt almost content. A part of him still bullied and pushed against the feeling, trying to assail him with unfounded fears and guilt over his lost family, but something had changed. Despite the years of seclusion, despite the day-to-day struggle for survival, the human animal had jumped all to readily at the opportunity to belong, to interact, to see other people. _And dammit, it did feel good_. Good enough to push the darker thoughts down to a vague whisper, keep them small enough to ignore...for now.

"So you going to stay?"

"All I can say Lucy, is that I'll be here until we get where we're going, and then from there...who knows!" He shrugged.

"Well nobody could ask for anymore I guess." She paused, "I'm glad your here." And she leaned over and placed the lightest brush of her lips across his cheek.

Caught by surprise he turned, mouth open, trying to think of something to say. Stupefied into silence, he could only watch as, at the sound of Mac's deep gruff shout of time, she rose from her haunches and standing over him, extended her hand and smiled.

"Come on. Time to get on the road again."
Chapter 10

"...if we wait for the moment when everything,  
absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin."

Ivan Turgenev

The once undisturbed landscape heaved with motion as a sea of white, blue, and gold surged across its quiet surface. Sharp steel edges glinted in the wan light; voices, dim and almost lost in the mass of the swarming host, melded with the patina of the rushing of feet and the whispering whump of wings as the tide moved inexorably forward. Muscles uncoiled with quickening adrenalin, eyes shone with an inner fire, and a collective passion and desire swept through the multitude.

Anziel rushed along at its back, his own muscles burning with exertion and excitement, pride also burning at the sheer numbers as his troops swallowed the landscape underfoot, their bare, gentle feet disturbing the sleeping grass under its white blanket as they swept by; an antithesis to the destruction caused by their enemy, each blade sprang back after their passing, released from its cloak of snow, the heat and steam of their passage bringing a forgotten spring to the frozen earth.

Soon, the two paths would meet; the vibrant and the desolate, and the roar of battle would be heard in heaven itself. Bodies would fall, brothers would be lost, but in the end they would win. No doubt existed, could be allowed to exist. Herdal, his staunch and loyal aide de camp, stoked the passion as they marched along, fuelling it with the fire of his own belief, diminishing the aches and pains of unaccustomed muscles and searing away doubts and fears with his rhetoric.

Above, flyers swept by in formation, the taper of their spears and short swords looking deadly in silhouette: Their swept wings and fluttering raiment accentuating the momentum, pushing the ground troops faster still. They swept over the host, taking minutes to travel from side to side, front to back, their faces echoing the growing euphoria on the innumerable faces of their brothers below.

Impatience coursed through Anziel, mind already there at the point of contact, wishing his frail form could get him there sooner. Why had they not given the ability to transmute to them all? Instead, bar those of his Choir, they remained constrained by the rules of a physical world, having to endure the salty taste of exertion where before it had taken but a thought? But still he recognised and clasped the growing strength of his desire and fury as he pushed and pushed at his body, drive that could not have been attained if the end was easily reached.

Love and loathing consumed him together; love for the heightened awareness, the quickening reflexes that this form could accomplish, the sensations, the physical reality of his Brothers around him; loathing for its limitations, its fragility, the depth of effort required to accomplish at times the simplest things. He recognised not a bloodlust, the concept alien to him, unable to put name to the keening desire in his being as he rushed towards danger and the possibility of non-existence. But he enjoyed it, coveted it as much as his righteous fury, and soon he would be able to express it on the flesh of the enemy.

Exhilarated, he let a cry of rage and power spring from his mouth, his sword and head raising themselves to the sky as he ran. Others in front took it up, a wave of noise riding through each and every body until its crescendo beat at the ears, physically assaulted the face.

They were strong, they were passionate, they were servants of their Lord, his instruments. And they would win!

A thread of silver split the landscape ahead, seeming to mark a denouement where the fields they strode across realised some earthly ambition and rose upwards, transforming themselves into sharp, vertical angles and drops above skeletal trees, bare of decoration with bones of obdurate granite.

Anziel could feel it as he looked upon the view. That was it; that was where they would come together, no quarter asked and none given.

To the victor alone the glory.
Chapter 11

"Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die"

anon

Things were not going smoothly.

The roads and byways were more cluttered with the twisted, scrap metal remains of vehicles than Mac had anticipated. While the expectation had been bang on the money- that the back roads would be lighter in abandoned vehicles as most headed for the main arteries- the problem was that any small collection of vehicles effectively sealed those roads completely; the dykes, rises, and drops either side of these narrow roads making them impassable. At each new time consuming blockage and change of direction Mac's cursing grew more intense, and the air started to move from blue to indigo.

Already they had had to divert back in through Birkhill and around Camperdown (a large trip of weaving and zig-zagging), to pass down the slip road towards the old electronics plant and hopefully the end of the Kingsway. The trucks complained noisily, the big Bedford design not built around intricacy and small gaps, and progress slowed to a crawl as they tried to avoid bottlenecks and steep verges.

The stuttering lack of continued movement caused tempers to fray, petty nit-picking climbing into full blown arguments in the space of minutes. Sullen faces filled the canvas-covered voids where the passengers sat, eyes staring daggers at the last person to have caused offence in some miniscule way. Those that tried to keep busy and pass the time continually found their concentration shattered by the latest round of arguments or sharp manoeuvres, and eventually gave up in the face of such resolute barriers.

_Black Skies for black moods_. The thought flitted through Kane's head as he listened to the latest round of bickering from the back accompanied by dawn stuttering into the sky. He sighed and laid his head on his hand, is arm resting against the windowsill of the cab. The priest, who had replaced Curtis in the lead vehicle, sat silent and pensive in the middle to his left. Mac remained behind the wheel, his face a mask of determination as he studied the ground ahead

_Lucy, Lucy, Lucy!_ The ghost of Cary Grant teased him as his mind drifted and he replayed events around the fire. The light brush of her lips still seemed to still tingle on his cheek. Conflicting emotions washed over him, his mind reeling as a flood of thoughts fought to the fore. The age old dilemma's and questions of budding relationships-Was it a just a friendly gesture? Did she have anything else in mind? How did he feel about that? Was it welcome? Was he ready? What if he was wrong?

Don't be a fool Kane! She was just being nice.

And there it was, the crux that battered every man when a woman showed a slight interest, the inescapable fear of action or inaction. Take it forward and live with the embarrassment if he was wrong, or do nothing and perhaps upset her. Say the wrong words and die a thousand small deaths deep inside.

He gave a wry smile. Sophie would have laughed at this. The one thing she always teased him over was his complete lack of awareness when it came to women. She had been the one to make the first move, he too dense and unaware to even notice the less than subtle signals she had been giving him. In the end she had given up waiting and just kissed him, impatient after a night of talk and laughter, he too scared of getting it wrong. As always the thought of her brought the bitterness back as much as the warmth, a bile of anger in his throat at losing them so senselessly. Fighting it away, he mentally stopped pursuing the subject, concentrating instead on the landscape ahead. The old ATM and electronics building was slipping by on his left, meaning that they were close to the city's main artery. Sure enough, after a slalom of turns and deft handling, the Kingsway came into view at the end of the slip road. Like all the city roads it was filled from side to side with the slowly rusting hulks of once cared for vehicles. Off to the left in the distance one flyover had collapsed, and a few cars and lorries sat at odd angles across the central reservation, their noses pointed to the air as if seeking benediction.

As always, it was the smell that hit the senses first; age and musty rot and the dry smell of rust carried by the wind. Kane struggled to see how Mac proposed to find his way along it until a series of sharp turns took them into the all but deserted car parks bordering the cinema and ice rink. Booming loud in the stillness, a sudden growl of increased revs and they punched through the perimeter fence, into the previous site of the electronics plant, and finally to the roundabout and its myriad junctions. At last, with more level and expansive ground sloping away to either side, Mac was able to guide the truck onto the comparatively unhindered grass verges, and the notable pick up in momentum washed away the past few hours' depression.

Following the curve and passing the old Technology Park, the old Double Tree Hotel loomed behind and expanse of fire blackened trees, marking the exit from the city and the beginning of the second leg of the journey from east to west. The trucks veered to the left, threading a narrow gap between the piled cars, bumping over the concrete kerbstones onto the grass once more.

"The open road beckons!" Mac's call echoed the lifting of spirits through the convoy, a feeling of escape and relief to be on the opposite side of the city. Heads poked from the back of the trucks, staring at the old and, for some, almost forgotten landscape, enjoying the novelty of the change in scenery.

Miles started to churn by under the thick wheels, still slowly, but the more empty and level verges were easily dealt with by the powerful trucks; the frozen ground easily supporting the weight of the old trucks. Past Invergowrie, marking the edge of Dundee's urban reach, they drove on; old battered signs sliding by with the names of once vibrant farms and villages like graveyard markers, the trees almost but not quite hiding them from view.

The sky remained its usual leaden and heavy slate grey, with the threat of snow ever present. They passed drifts too big for the trucks to handle safely, occasionally trading speed and time to ensure all the vehicles remained working, taking no risks beyond those inherent in such a journey across the frozen landscape.

Kane gazed out of the window, the cold outside seeming warmer than the frosty atmosphere coming from Father Hanlon next to him, and watched dead farmhouses and homes pass by in the near and middle distance; no lights or signs of life or travel evident in any that he saw before they drifted behind his line of sight.

His gaze tracked one such building, this one fire damaged, when suddenly a squeal of brakes and jolt of inertia snapped him back to the front and focus on a white land rover, shooting out of the trees to the left about one hundred yards ahead of them. Skidding slightly on the snow and sodden grass it stopped in their path, facing them three quarters on.

"What the hell?"

Mac's radio crackled harshly into life as he braked, a nervous voice from the rear vehicle hissing through the static, "Mac, we got something like eight vehicles coming up on our tail! What the fuck is going on here?"

Just then a second land rover shot from cover on the other side of the road, skewing wildly as it attempted to negotiate a gap in the still traffic. Kane's eyes slid back to the front and watched as the driver side window on the first lowered slowly, a grim face obscured as something rectangular crossed over it. A flash of light and the air came alive with the whistles and cracks of bullets cutting the air, metal zinging with sparks as some found the cab causing him to flinch. A roar and the truck lurched forward on spinning wheels, Mac gunning the accelerator and shouting as much into the radio as at Kane, " _Fire_! Fire on these _fuckers_ right now! They're Monks! Move, move, move!"

Even in the cabin Kane heard the noise as all four trucks revved loudly, the large diesel engines driving the wheels with increasing speed through the snow and mud. The report of Mac's weapon filled Kane's ears as the old soldier fired it from the driver's window one-handed in the general direction of the first land rover, and he suddenly remembered what his hands should be holding. With the air crackling around him, he scrambled up, almost falling into the foot well as the truck heaved and jumped across the ground. The priest said not a word, his eyes transfixed in horror at the scene unfolding outside, frozen in place.

With no time for niceties Kane heaved him to the side and stepped over and up, grabbing the edges of the cupola and pulling himself up. Gloved hands grabbed at the trigger as he traversed the heavier machine gun and sighted on the first land rover. A deeper drum sounded and he watched his bullets hit the ground fifteen yards in front of the car, fountains of earth gouged upwards by their impact. Ignoring a tug of air past his temple, he tracked upwards, finger pumping and releasing the trigger steadily, keeping the barrel down as Mac had taught him, and he watched as the fountaining footsteps found the car that suddenly began to dance on its wheels under the impacts. Glass and metal screeched and shattered as hot bites of lead poured into the framework and the softer flesh inside, Kane traversing to keep on it as the truck flew through the gap, a primal roar lost in the thunder of the gun.

_"Watch out_!" A scream pierced the air from the back of the truck, canvas snapping angrily as the second land rover opened fire on the fleeing trucks.

"Help her, help her..."

"...o Jesus Christ is she..."

".. _bandages_ , there!..."

".... lot of blood...."

_Lucy?_ _Please, no!_

The radio seemed possessed as myriad voices crossed and mingled from the rear, Kane, senses overwhelmed with all that was happening, struggling to think and simply reacting, suddenly slammed to a stop as he tried to spin the cupola onto the new target, his arc curtailed as it passed to the rear but round far enough to watch two trails of tracer lance at the vehicle from the two following trucks, the air punched from his lungs as it exploded at their convergence, incinerating the occupants.

Grimly sated, body flush with primal excitement and fear, he dropped back down into the cab, glancing briefly at Father Hanlon who sat rigid and pale against the door and seat, pushing himself as far away from the windows as possible. Mac's hand stopped the question on his lips as he turned, the soldier concentrating instead on the fragments of conversation he could make out from the radio.

"Get those trucks alongside, clear the line of fire. Tom, _shut up_ , I don't give a rat's arse about the why's and where fore's right now. I want a wall of lead between us and them, _come on_!"

Kane heard the three following trucks as they gunned their engines harder, drawing slowly alongside his own, moving from follow the leader to line abreast for as long as the space would allow; the rattle of incessant gunfire becoming louder as all four rear beds found a shared and open line of sight to their pursuers. The radio hissed, "...holding back Mac, one out of the game, but they're still coming"

"Shit! Ok, keep reminding them what we've got and keep everyone else as flat as possible. Co-0rdinate; our ammo's not limitless- short targeted bursts, just like everyone knows. If it comes to it, we'll just have to find out who's got the most petrol in the tank."

He threw the radio into the seat, his face grim and knuckles white as he gripped the wheel, speaking almost to himself, "Where did they come from? Bastards!"

"How did they find us?"

"Don't know son...may have been opportunistic, a standing ambush. But that was a lot of hardware and effort to have siting around just waiting for someone to come along...and why here?" He glanced along, "Mike, you ok? _Mike_?"

The priest's ashen face turned vaguely in Mac's direction, the shock clear in his expression, "Hang in there padre, we're through, we're fine. Just hang tight."

As if in argument, more moans and sobs from the rear rose above the noise of the engine

Mac turned to Kane, indicating the radio "Find out who was wounded and how bad; we can't stop but we'll do what we can. And if we can take out some more of those bastards along the way then that'll be just fucking dandy!"

Angry face set in stone, he turned away and stared intently through the windscreen, leaving Kane to pick up the radio, scared of the information he might get.
Chapter 12

"The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it."

Moliere

Potent!

Muscles surged with power, echoed in the faces around him as they rushed forward towards the enemy.

_Potent yes_!

The bodies surrounding him filled with potential for the upcoming struggle; unfading, vital, strong. Earth passed underfoot, reverberating with the soft footfalls of thousands upon thousands of purposeful feet, the cold forgotten as the heat of exhilaration and expectation ran through their veins.

The silver ribbon in the distance grew in depth and brightness, a barrier to be surged across to reach the hills beyond. They towered over the banks of the river, in dominatable and vital to reach and to hold, a vantage from which to swoop on the enemy and decimate them, scattering their remnants to the winds.

_Faster, faster_!

Anziel almost tried to urge the Host onwards with his mind as he ran, trying voicelessly to squeeze some last crumbs of extra effort from them through sheer force of will alone, any struggle to concentrate lost as he was swept along in the collective euphoria. Abruptly, a slight down slope and they all rushed faster towards the river, watching it widen as they grew closer, eyes squeezing tighter as it churned and glittered slowly downstream. Around him the wind whistled at their passing, so much exerted breath clouding the frigid air in a haze, streaming and camouflaging them almost as if their previous ethereal forms had suddenly come to the physical plain.

Their formations remained loose for the moment, speed the impetus rather than form, and the rising wooded hills in front of them the primary goal. Herdal had sent the lighter, faster, winged scouts ahead- scanning beyond the river, checking the tree-strewn foothills and slopes for any sign of the enemy, riding the grudging thermals to the summit and high into the air. Shrinking shapes as they swooped over the front, warding and watching, their wings shaping to the currents for lift.

The first wave reached the water, their sudden deceleration as they entered the sluggish current bunching up the masses to their rear. Thinning out across a wider front where they could, waterlogged robes and bodies thrashed their way through the slow but insistent current, aiming for the far bank. Faint splashes could be heard as some foundered, lifted onward once more by their brothers, some using weapons for purchase on the muddy bed. Like shipwreck survivors, the first across wallowed onto the bank, turning to help others up, looking around warily at the shadowed trees and imposing steep sided hills as their small numbers were slowly augmented. On the bank left behind, archers took formation to order, watching over their wading brothers until their turn came to make the same journey.

The going was frustratingly slow; so many Host to cross and lacking formation and strength in structure until on the other side. Herdal on the far bank, and Anziel on the old, shouted orders to their sub commanders. Runners and flyers sent to those too far for even Anziel's powerful voice to carry, carrying commands that slowly resolved the crossing into distinct lines feeding into growing and recognisable structure on the far bank, forming into battle phalanxes; their numbers nearly half a Hedron strong but the formations just the same, ordered and precise.

Herdal took a moment from orders to check the surroundings, looking up from his wet clothes to the northern sky, his keen eyes witnessing the sudden plummeting forms dropping like stones from the air, wings limp around flaccid limbs, dots of essential life trailing in their wake

"Ward the hills! _Ward the hills_! The enemy is upon us!" Herdal's shout rolled across the river and hills. A hush fell: Anxious, expectant faces all looked up and around, glancing in all directions. Hands twitched around weapons, bodies huddled closer together, the same thoughts and expressions repeated over and over; wishing for more time, for faster progress over the river.

Anziel too heard the warning as he waded knee deep in the turbid waters, a snarl jumping to his lips as his hand gripped the pommel of his sword more tightly. Time for an instant seemed to stand still as so many thousands of eyes searched the skies and summits around them, their momentum stalling at the unexpected turn.

"Forward! Forward!" His lungs burning, Anziel physically pushed at the closest bodies, the ripple he created moving outward, renewed urgency to the sound of frantic splashing. Grunts and groans of effort filled the air. Further panting breath swirling in the frigid atmosphere.

Yet all that noise as suddenly stopped again as a growing, rolling wall of roaring and screeching washed across the landscape. Now more frantic eyes again turned upward, trepidation now marching alongside the anticipation.

Above the hills all of them watched as the clouds perceptibly changed from dull slate to umber, as if the fires of Hell itself came with the unseen horde still hidden behind the summits ahead.

Anziel drew his sword as he thrashed through the shallows and finally onto the bank, physically hauling some of those closest to him out and forward. He saw Herdal moving back and forth, mustering his sub-commanders, those Dominions, along the line- tightening the structures and ensuing everyone was weapon ready. Small flocks of their airborne brethren passed over to the rear, some bloodied and wounded, grabbing a moment's respite and resupply as needed as they too formed up ready to be the vanguard and defence against any flying incursion from the enemy.

The familiar Hedron shapes started to appear; 3 stunted arrows spread across the river plain, ready to move forward and envelope the expected enemy rush. As the changing cloud base moved to orange spears locked firmly into place, bow strings creaked with tension, and the silky whisper of drawn swords filled the void left as idle chatter disappeared.

Almost as if the earth itself held its breath a sudden eerie silence lent a few seconds of forewarning before the hills above them rumbled and an ocean of bodies, reeking of abomination, spilled over their summits.

The noise split the air, inhuman yelps and squeals, drool and saliva pouring from a multitude of creatures gibbering madly as they rushed downwards like a waterfall. The earth was swallowed underfoot by the descending horde, their hands clenched around hooked and barbed steel, lit torches lighting their forms and sharp mouthed features, their dark bodies in sharp contrast to the brightly coloured mass of the Host standing strong at the river.

A familiar surge swept through Anziel and he let his body succumb, watching proudly as the passion quickly spread through his ranks, faces alight with fury.

A bellow swelled in his stomach, a knot of sheer rage needing voice. Golden eyes surrounded him, lit and aflame with purpose and determination. Strength swelled within him, his mind almost expecting an accompanying epiphany as he felt it grow. His mouth screamed in release instead, the words carrying over the gathered ranks, "Nothing but victory my brothers! We will _tramp_ these vermin underfoot; _smash_ their flesh against the rocks. Our Master's strength and faith is in us! Let _none_ escape! No quarter!"

With an answering roar to be heard in the heavens, the angels advanced.
Chapter 13

"It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way."

Rollo May

She was ok!

The relieved thought was tempered by guilt over the fact that someone else was injured instead. He'd missed the name, caught up in the fact that it hadn't been her, caught up in the desperate flight for survival they were now on.

Cracks and whistles buzzed the cab, reminders of the pursuers hanging close enough to see but agonisingly too far away to deal with. He'd dropped back down from the cupola into the cab, unable to use the heavier weapon effectively to the rear as they drove. Jane kept updating them over the radio from the rear, the last message having the cars about four hundred yards behind, just out of effective range, especially traversing the rutted borders of the river. Worryingly she'd hinted at what she thought were a few more appearing through the white haze, though she couldn't be one hundred percent sure.

The whole world seemed to be filled with the deep throbbing growl of the engines, noses filled with the harsh acrid stench of cordite and sweat, eyes struggling to follow the monotonous white landscape rushing by beneath the wheels.

To his side, Father Hanlon looked like a man on the verge of breakdown. Cold beads of sweat pooled in the creases of his forehead, his eyes searching everyway at once while his lips moved constantly without sound; in prayer or madness Kane couldn't tell. Mac remained grim at the wheel, an occasional bark into the radio the only indication of the fury in his head, his foot keeping the accelerator mashed to the floor.

Throughout the trucks, he knew heads would be bowed and hope would start to founder as the chasers kept pace. Mac's instruction to rotate regularly would keep the wagons occupied, taking pot shots at the four-wheel drives with their snarling radiator covers and hoping for a lucky break.

Mac's attitude suggested he didn't believe in luck, "Where the _fuck_ did they come from huh?" flecks of spittle flew from his lips in fury, "No way was that just luck, that was a precise _fucking ambush_! Bastards were waiting for us! For _us!_ " his head whipped around to look a Kane, "You get it?"

"But Mac how..."

"How could they have known? Because either they've been watching us out at Condor for months without being noticed or some _prick_ riding in these trucks let them know... that's how! That's the only explanation. And when I find out who..."

He gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening as he kneaded the leather furiously. Composing himself with a shuddering breath and a loud grunt of affirmation he returned to the most immediate problem.

"Right. Another five miles or so and the way ahead thins out, trapped between the hills and the river. We can't cross the bridge, it'll be a dead end of nose to tail wrecks, but if the river's low then we've got a chance underneath it and through. These beauties will plough straight through the mud and crap, and should ford the river at its narrow point under the bridge... but hopefully our unwelcome guests there will get well and truly stuck. If not, and the rivers high we're going to have to go through Perth itself."

Grim again at that prospect Kane watched as he hailed the other trucks and updated them, laying it out straight, no embellishments. Silence descended on the cab, eyes fixed on the land ahead, watching as the trees began to thin, the road and verge peeling gently round to the right as it followed the bend of the river. To the sides the once oppressive trees began space out, slivers of light and silver flitting like a strobe between the trunks as they flashed by. The occasional crack of a bullet providing an irregular soundtrack

Above the roars and rumble of the engines and terrain, the sudden static erupting hiss of the walkie-talkie split the brooding, depressive silence of the cab, "Kane? Kane?...-s Lucy, David's hysterical, kee-.... shouting 'they-.... they're here!' He's talking, _screaming_ , Christ! Oh God, we can't sto-.... thrashing about!"

"Lucy, say again. _Lucy_? -"

Static filled the air again. He held the radio in his lap and thumped it in frustration, trying again to raise her.

_"Oh sweet Jesus!_ "

His head jerked up and round at Mac's voice as the very air itself suddenly thundered around them with noise. And there, just like the others in the cab, his eyes were immediately caught in widening, unbelieving horror at the spectacle before them.

The view kept on opening up as they rode around the bend of the last group of trees, and with every extra degree of vision, he watched fixated on the landscape as it shuddered visibly before his eyes. Every piece of earth was covered in a writhing mass of forms and noise, from the summits to the river some vision of hell seemed to have opened onto the earth.

Mac's foot relaxed on the pedal, the truck slowing imperceptibly as he fixed on the sight through the windscreen and tried, like the others, to make his mind process what he was seeing. Thousands upon thousands of bodies, more than could be processed by any sane eyes, pressed against each other, faint sheens and glimmers reflecting off what could only be metal everywhere; moving in some kind of synch with the bodies and the screams that emanated horribly from the mass.

They were witnessing slaughter; elemental battle on a scale that numbed the mind, which tried to make the senses curl away from its rabidness, its sheer unbelievable frenzy. Even at this removed distance, and behind the overwhelming noise, the smell stung the nostrils, burned at the eyes, complementing the inhuman and very human sounding squeals and pleading of the dead or dying that carried over the wind.

Though still relatively far, the distinction between the two opposing forces was easy enough to make against the stark backdrop of the landscape; black, brown, red, and yellow forms swarmed from the summits of the hills, visible through the ragged trees cloaking their slopes as they ran, in some cases falling, like a wave- smashing against their companion others at the bottom as if fighting themselves as much as the more obvious opponent. There, at the bottom, where the ground levelled out and sloped down to the river, the shocking brightness of blue, white, and gold seemed hemmed in by the sheer gravity of that duller descending enemy.

Packed tightly together in what looked like distinct groups, and assailed from front to flanks, they clearly were struggling to hold steady against the river at their backs, trying to exert what little pressure they could forwards and up. Behind them, what must've been nearly half of their compliment was strung across the opposite bank and the river itself, sluggishly trying to feed across and relieve the battered bridgehead.

A change to the roar and Kane's eyes flew back to the hilltops, where, flying below the summit ridge, a 'squadron' of white, blue, and gold unleashed a hail of spears and arrows on the bestial ranks below; curdled screams of rage and death answering the fast falling projectiles. More arrows laced the air from the summits and the riverbank, dull black rainbows arching over the field to fall fiercely into both sets of troops. But for all that fell, more swarmed forwards or downwards on both sides, thickening the fray until they could see the hills and river start to discolour, running with the blood of so many.

Kane's mind stuttered against the scene and sounds, struggling again to comprehend and accept the sights in front of him as real, and he knew the others must be going through something similar; minds made agnostic by a secular modern world unwilling to accept this insane supernatural vision suddenly superimposed on what had once been their sane and safe world. His heart felt like it was about to jump straight out of his chest as the adrenaline, the fear, slowed his perception and turned his mouth dry.

Muttering to his left snapped his attention away and as he registered Father Hanlon's face next to him as a mask of horror and denial, at the same moment he noticed that they had nearly stopped. The pings and crack of increasingly accurate rounds fizzed past the truck as their pursuers closed; _their_ view of the sight that awaited them occluded by the line of Bedfords ahead of them

With no time for words he lifted his right leg and brought it down hard on Mac's foot, ignoring the yelp of surprise and pain as the truck lurched forward once more. Recovering quickly, with a grunt Mac shrugged the foot aside to drive alone once more, head shaking as if to clear a bad dream.

The distance closed rapidly again, less than a mile separated the trucks from the battle, as faint flakes of snow dropped leisurely from the sky, harbingers of yet another storm building from the west. Picking up the radio as if it were alive, Mac maintained some semblance of sanity as he addressed the other vehicles.

"All of you, follow me! Let the others in the back know what we're doing 'cos I don't want mass panic ok." He paused only briefly for breath, "Right, we can't take on the bastards behind us, they'd just pick us off and we don't know what else they're carrying that could severely fuck us up! Don't have a clue what the hell is going on out there in front, but what I do know is they're on foot and carrying knives and pointy sticks, so we'll take that over bullets ad engines anytime." He paused, letting the idea sink in, "Ok, man your big guns and follow tight to my arse, we're going in to our left, about twenty metres from the river bank and hopefully we can cut a path through with momentum and firepower. We can debate the niceties later," Kane saw him glance fleetingly at the priest, "but right now we survive!" he closed his eyes for a moment, "Good luck, see you on the other side!"

Clicks and curt acknowledgements whistled across the airwaves, drowned in the thundering revs of the big diesel engines as they were gunned for all they were worth. Kane slipped up and through the canopy, knuckles quickly white as he gripped the gun, watching others do the same on the other trucks as they peeled slowly behind into formation. Mac squawked into the radio one more time, instructing that the flat bed passengers to take up position at the rear armed to the teeth, telling them what they were about to attempt.

Distance disappeared, half a mile, four hundred yards, two hundred. Features clarified, golden eyes and deformed flesh filling the land from side to side, mud churning underfoot, inhuman screams and wails...filling their entire existence, and as they threatened to run into the wall of bodies, Kane squeezed the trigger _hard_.
Chapter 14

"One who makes no mistakes makes nothing."

Anon

Anziel watched with mounting dismay as wave after wave of the chaotic enemy dashed themselves against his more organised but still small vanguard on the bank. Countless bodies floundered through the waters to reinforce them, hindered by the current and the hail of deadly missiles loosed from the hills.

Despite Herdal's best efforts, the beachhead was growing more and more insecure, dangerously close to falling and forcing them back. Only the efforts of the relentless flyers and his own archers were keeping the enemy thinned enough to counter and hold, and it couldn't now be long before their own aerial formations appeared. Limbs and fluid flew and misted the air; bodies on both sides found wanting in their frailty as the contest reached its basest primal nature. So far they had been lucky, the enemy archers maintained their record of inaccuracy, and no berserkers had managed to infiltrate the tiring ranks. But spears were lacking, the contest limited to sword against sword, no standoff viable with the numbers so few on the bank. Sortie after sortie flew overhead, unleashing a rain of death and dismemberment on the enemy hillside, but still they came, relentless. Herdal vanished and re-appeared like a flicker of light, bolstering areas under threat of collapse, his sword flashing in the dim remnants of the day, scything through body after body in a merciless arc.

Archers, dispatched hours ago to creep into position, let loose a volley from the left flank, their deadly barbs tearing through rotten flesh and salivating jaws, relieving some pressure on the hard pressed infantry who let out a ragged cheer. A new squadron of flyers, more numerous than the others, flew overhead passing parallel along the ridgeline. Partnered up, each pair carried the biggest rock they could, as uniform in shape as was possible, and proceeded to release at varying points, the hard granite crushing those beneath before repeating the action on all those in its path as they rumbled downhill.

"Pinpricks! We are making naught but pinpricks." Anziel spoke aloud, his mood even more despondent as his flyers were shot from the sky for straying too close to the ridge. Herdal appeared as if on cue, clearly ready to update his Seraph lord on the developments. Anziel tetchily cut him off before he could speak, "What occurs brother? Why are we allowing this vermin to vex us so? We _must_ bolster our forward line Angel. Currently we make no advance. It is _intolerable."_

Herdal paused before answering, gauging his commander's low and clearly angry mood, "We are in a weak and untenable position my Lord. Vermin they may be, but they hold the height and the width of the bank through numbers that we cannot match from the river. Mayhap we should withdraw our forces and consolidate on the opposite bank. Let us _draw_ the enemy in, and with spear and arrow lay waste to them in the shallows."

Some lonely spark within Anziel recognised the sense of the suggestion, but was quickly over-ruled by a burgeoning and consciously unacknowledged pride that dominated his thinking, driving his desires.

_"Never!_ They are no match for this army. In every battle _we_ have emerged victorious and we shall again this time. More effort is required, our masters and our Lord _demand_ it. Drive them harder Angel, lest we whither in His estimation! _We-shall-not-retreat_!"

Though resigned to the attitude so visibly furious in front of him, Herdal tried one more time to snatch his commander's sense back, "My Lord, forward is not the only route to victory, we can still accomplish much if we act now and consolidate our position!"

"Forward is the route to the only _acceptable_ victory Angel," he snarled in Herdal's face, "The manner is as important as the result! All our brothers must see and understand that lest they waver. We must not only beat them but _rout_ them utterly."

"Then we have-" his eyes were torn forcibly away, "My Lord, something occurs to the east!"

Anziel's head whipped around, following his Second's pointed arm. There, to the right of his troops as he looked, four squat box like shapes seemed to glide forward towards the enemy's flank. As he looked closer he could make out the vague impression of the wheels revolving underneath the shapes, impelling them forward.

"What new trick is this Herdal? These chariots, I have never before seen their ilk. Have the enemy- "

His last words were lost as, from the front of the leading shape, flickering light flashed rhythmically on its top edge, followed scant seconds later by a rapid beat, faster and more insistent than any drum they had ever heard. In response to this the ranks of hell spawn immediately in its path seemed to wither and crumple lifeless to the ground; great swathes of bodies wilting under the intense pounding rhythm. The two other 'moving boxes, he could think of no other way to describe them, joined the first, their own flashing lightning affecting the enemy similarly. Soon a wide wedge of fallen rotten flesh was cleared in the enemy's flank, the strange chariots continuing unrelenting in their movement and strange purpose.

Bolstered by this seemingly new tactic of their leaders, scores of their Brothers roared in triumph and rushed to fill the gap, gaining precious ground and slim advantage, only to stutter and fall void of all life, as the enemy had, under the spell of the hammering flame.

Explosive, silent vacuums engulfed Anziel's consciousness. The web of connections stammered and reeled under the weight of so much instantaneous loss. Herdal too, his eyes screwed tight against the psychic onslaught, staggered unsteadily beside his master, trying hard to regain some equilibrium. Grunting with effort, Anziel partitioned and minimised the thunderstorm in his mind and looked with blazing eyes on the scene before him, unfamiliar pain lending clarity and focus.

"The _Chosen!_ They defy us and mock us, killing our brothers as if _we_ were naught," the words spat from his mouth, "Herdal, they must be stopped. Their very actions blaspheme His name. Stop them Herdal, wipe them out. They are _nothing!_ "

Still reeling, Herdal vanished, re-appearing and selecting four score of his warriors to join him, his commanding voice controlling the maelstrom of their minds and lending focus to their disrupted thoughts. Quickly they headed at an angle towards their targets, arms at the ready, shouldering through the larger mass of their own ranks still caught in bewilderment. Fury rushed in their veins, vengeance wetting their tongues as they sought to reach their falling brothers.
Chapter 15

"It is not the cards you are dealt but what you do with them that counts"

anon

Fingers cramped, Kane resolutely kept the trigger compressed in three second bursts, certain that at any moment the barrel would begin to glow red-hot and melt under the constant abuse. Body shaking with the constant recoil, the gun moved in an arc from side to side, spraying certain death at the deformed, hideous creatures in front of him. His eyes and nose stung heavily in the thick cordite filling the atmosphere, while the constant hammering of the recoil seemed to reach up into his jaw. In the back, other guns picked off any remnants and others that tried to sneak in behind them. Others had undone some of the canvas on the sides, creating firing ports to protect their flanks; shouts and occasional screams of fear filled the airwaves as Mac tried to keep some coordination over the radio. Arrows rained down from above, ripping into the tough canvas, populating it like statements of violation. A spear fell with a thunk from above to the left, its owner quickly following it to the ground, body riddled, as several guns levered up and fired at once.

It was a bloodbath, no real contest as the speeding bullets tore and ripped flesh apart. Howling animal cries filled the air, the stench of blood and ichor rank in the cold atmosphere. Loud booms and fire blossomed to the left and right assaulting their ears; a crate of grenades hurriedly used, limbs and matter scattered across the field by deadly incandescence like some blossoming flower.

But the numbers were so great, wave after wave of them fell below the hammer of the gun but still they came, pressing, howling, and rabidly goading themselves forward with no thought for life or limb. A slobbering visage, seemingly all teeth, moist nostrils, and rotting flesh jumped towards the cab, turned to pulp and red mist in an instant as Mac swatted it from the air like a fly with his sidearm. Crouched in the back, Lucy held David close, tight to her body to ease his shaking, hands over his ears to save him from the noise, while around her frantic shots, and the clink of falling brass resounded in a continuous assault on the senses.

The wedge drove further, rapidly clearing the ground. But as one rank fell, like a wave on the beach another rushed to fill the void. Still firing Kane vaguely registered the vicious teeth and mottled flesh suddenly becoming a sea of pale skin and golden eyes, falling just the same under the irresistible spell of the guns.

Radios crackled with messages, warnings. Most lost in the madness and noise as the trucks rolled undeniably onwards. Clear fields tempted on the far side, a promise of escape and speed once more. Lost in the rhythm of the guns, becoming inured to the slaughter in front and behind as sanity tried to preserve itself, no-one noticed immediately the final stutter and then silence of the trailing machine gun.

"o shit o shit o shit o shit o shit...."

"Mac? Tom. We've lost the big gun, it's jammed, won't budge. We could be in trouble here...."

"...oh shit. Tom it's fucked! I can't get it......o shit, _fuck, COME ON!_.... I can't.... please...."

"Mac? Come in?"

"O Jesus...."

No wall of lead to stop them, a multitude of monsters assailed the truck, flooding forward. Some were picked off by the rear gunners in the middle vehicle, but the lighter weight of fire not enough to stop the horde that raced towards the cab.

Mac listened in horror to the disembodied voices crackling through the plastic grill in his hand, unable to help, unable to do anything but move forward and hope they were ok.

"Hang in there Tom, we're nearly there! Just another few hundred yards and we're home free, you hear me? home free!" He shouted, throwing his own hope into the handset

The sound of more gunshots sprang from the plastic, high-pitched blood curdling screams following quick on their heels.

"......esus! Get off, get off!..."

_"Tom_ , look out..."

The sound of glass smashing, something sharp scraping against metal, sharp retorts and thumps, the sounds of wet impacts and a horrible gurgling.

"Simon? _Simon?..._ oh dear god no........ _bastards!"_

The word roared, drowning even the frenetic sound of a rifle fired on full automatic, drowning even the screams as it found targets and dispatched them mercilessly.

".... _bastards bastards bastards_..."

Panting breath, more screams in the background. A new noise, a rushing and flapping, sounds of conflict. Metal on metal.

"...ts the others, the white ones, angels, they're driving them off, swarming all over them. Wait for us Mac, we're coming!"

"That's it Tom, put the foot down, c'mon son!"

".... shit! Mac, Nicky truck two. Tony just took an arrow in the leg! Came right through the fuckin' do...."

"Mac! Mac! Anyone? We have to turn around, we _have_ to turn around. The angels...." Janes voice held barely concealed panic.

"Jesus, they're all over us!" Tom gasped

"Jane we can't, not now. Tom, what was that? Repeat?"

The truck lurched, bone crunching under the wheels and drowning the message. A thin line of monstrous forms now stood between the trucks and the open fields ahead.

"They must be eight feet tall, at least. Christ, look at the claws"

"Nathaniel, shut the fuck up! Jane, what's going on? Can't see shit in the mirror and can't get Tom, tell me what you see"

Rifle fire and all too human screams filled the static, a confusion of voices struggling to be heard in the chaos

"We're through, _drive_ Mac drive!"

"Right behind you boss, keep going, keep going," Nicky's relieved voice shadowed by the grunting pain from Tony at his side in the second truck

"Mac? Oh Jesus, they're all over them. O God, please, _come on_ Tom, _drive_! I can't see him, the screen's covered in...looks like blood Mac...It's covered in blood"

All noises seemed to dim as the hoarse, whispering bass of Tom's voice scratched across the airwaves, tired and full of death, "Can't... hold them...off! _Mac_? You.... there?..... Listen- don't forget us eh!" a violent cough barked amidst the gunfire, "Just.... remember us!"

A tidal wave of gleaming forms swarmed over the vehicle, covering it in a heaving mass as only sporadic bullets sought to break through. Swords and spears flashed in the frosty air, slashing and ripping at the soft flesh hidden under the canvas in a frenzy. Everything seemed to diminish, quieten around that space like a heartbeat frozen in time as Mac screamed over the airwaves, " _TOM? TOOOOMM!"_

And as if in answer, and as the three remaining trucks and their battered loads broke through and outstripped the monstrous and inhuman ranks behind them, the noise of the falling pin was lost and forgotten before a monstrous fireball bloomed, incinerating everything within twenty metres.

Chapter 16

"Our greatest battles are that with our own minds."

Jameson Frank

Silence reigned.

Numb shock was the only emotion on show in the three remaining trucks. The occasional groan rose from the wounded, and whispering rustles of movements came and went as they were attended to. Occasionally the loud snap of torn canvas in the slipstream elicited a frightened squeal, and remote muffled sobs, but nobody spoke. Heads lay buried in arms or behind raised legs, hidden from view, a desperate attempt to find solace in the darkness behind closed eyes; where the growl of the engine and rhythm of the wheels could chase reality away. The bitter landscape passed unnoticed, the sudden lack of pursuit uncommented on as the thick wheels, and consciousness, both tried to outrun the killing field behind.

Clouds scudded overhead, Perth passed without recognition, miles churned by under wheel, and still the silence remained unbroken.

Kane remained perched above the cabs blowhole, cramped fingers finally relaxed from the trigger of his weapon, eyes raw and wide, still balking at the carnage and loss they had just passed through, mind still struggling to process the scale of what they had seen. H faced into the wind, letting the cold air sting his exposed skin like some frozen penance.

Muted curses came from below, and the occasional slap on the steering wheel, as Mac half-heartedly tried to vent his anger, stopped short and cowed by the oppressive silence, no comfort or quip on hand this time to break the silence. His eyes bored through the windscreen, daring anything to cross his path at this moment; promising intimate violence to anything that did

Lucy sat hunched under the ripped and pierced canvas to the rear, pressed hard against the crate at her back to avoid the cold whistling wind. Legs and arms were wrapped tightly around David's sleeping form, her eyes and mouth grimacing with every tortured twitch from his body as vivid dreams dogged his rest. She stroked his hair without thought, muscle memory guiding her hand as she too tried come to terms with what had just happened, all but ignoring the low, pained, cries and moans around her.

Elsewhere Jane moved like a nervous mouse, tending to the wounded that she could, re-organising the supplies, occupying her mind and her hands to avoid the shaking in them. To those she went to it seemed as if she looked right through them as she struggled to rid herself of the explosive after image seared to her retinas.

The twins drove in grim silence, Nicky glancing across with gritted teeth, masking his concern over the pool of blood permeating the seat to his right. Tony there, bathed in sweat despite the cold and panting as he gripped tightly at his leg, the arrow still embedded in both flesh and door.

Father Hanlon wiped at a sweat beaded forehead, dry lips constantly moving with some whispered litany, fingers grasping each other as they rested in his lap, the rest of his body sagged in the seat, still pressed against the door as if trying to become part of its metal strength.

Only Curtis and Deadlock showed any animation. Deadlock sat staring out behind them as they drove through the blasted landscape, his eyes bright, rather than the dull shock reflected in those of his companions, hands kneading the body of the rifle in his hands as if anxious to put it to use again. Curtis moved where he could in the cramped confines, using a look, a word, or a hooked arm to try and help those around him stave off the darkness.

Minutes passed unnoticed, the hours following just as swiftly even though the going was slow; the way still circuitous and frustrating with blockages and retraced steps aplenty to find a path west. But still, no sign of pursuit dogged them.

The stump of Stirling Castle passed to their left, the remains sitting upon the blackened summit of its resting place. Small snowflakes fastened onto the windscreen, building to small drifts at the edges where the wipers couldn't reach them blown more heavily in the thickening breeze as time passed. Stirling itself was skirted, bypassed to the south, as they moved ever forward across a bland landscape broken here and there by the reminders of a civilization and culture now consigned to history.

Unable to ignore the numbness of his bare skin, or tolerate the growing cold any longer, Kane dropped back into the illusory comfort of the cab where the cloud of body heat gave some delineation against the outside world. Better than the cab heaters, which seemed to operate in some kind of perpetual death rattle, resulting in a whisper of heat less effective than their own breath.

Mac flicked a glance in his direction as he settled before turning back to stare fixedly through the glass once more. The priest showed no acknowledgement of his presence, instead the nervous finger pulling and muttering filled the interior like a mantra.

"We'll be stopping soon. Get the wounded seen to."

Kane, who had been looking puzzled at the priest, was caught by surprise. He fumbled to respond to the first words he'd heard directed at him in what seemed like hours. Without much effort he could see the pain etched across the old soldier's face, and also the doubt that now plagued his eyes, flickering back and forward, questioning himself in some never-ending internal monologue. The look was familiar, and Kane knew that nothing he could say would take away the feeling of failure that Mac was burdening himself with now. These had been people he'd sworn to protect, and he hadn't been able to do a single thing as they died in agony. Vague understanding washed through him that that kind of impotence must be like the worst punishment a soldier could face.

He rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, if only for a second or two returning some warmth to the chilled skin.

"We couldn't turn Mac. There wasn't anything you could do." His voice a gentle hush in the cabs stillness.

For a moment the stillness seemed to grow, frightening, even more oppressive, before Mac's eyes flashed dangerously, his mouth a tight wounded slash in his face, "Oh, don't you worry son. Nothing we could do, your right, too many of the fuckers. But I'll tell you _this_ , "he leaned closer, taking his eyes from the road, "Whatever _bastard_ screwed us over better've been in that truck, because when I find out who it was they're gonna wish they had been."

Kane backed away involuntarily, fearful of the vehemence radiating so hotly from Mac, felt the priest flinch as he brushed against him.

Suddenly, without warning, they were thrown against the dashboard as Mac stomped on the brake pedal and yanked the handbrake up. Recovering quickly and looking out Kane could see that they'd come to a stop in what had to have been a field, tight to the remains of a hedgerow that once might have defined a corner. He looked over again and saw Mac grabbing the two way as if he were about to crush it, causing it to be even more surprising when he spoke almost tenderly into the plastic grill, "We're stopping."

The second and third trucks slewed jerkily to a halt alongside, dark trails forming a curve where wheels fought for grip on the snow. A lull seemed to drag as nobody disembarked, as if waiting on someone else to make the first move. Turning off the ignition, Mac threw open his door and in a blast of marginally more frigid air, dropped lightly to the ground, followed by Kane whose eyes searched to the rear, anxious again to see and check on Lucy and David.

Gingerly, other bodies started to appear at the openings of the vehicles, dismounting slowly or quickly depending on their injuries and state of mind. Some from different trucks rushed to each other immediately, wrapping each other up in receptive arms, others leant exhausted against the sides of the vehicles staring at the heavens or the ground, lost in their own thoughts. Some, those with perhaps clearer heads, move towards the cabs, or more accurately the hot engines and bonnets.

He saw her then, carrying David asleep on her shoulder, and moved to meet them, in moments by the rear wheels of the second vehicle where they embraced tightly. The stood there, motionless, words kept locked away lest the emotions pour forth with them, but the silent hug was enough; carrying all they needed each other to know without expression. Breathing heavily in relief Kane reached down and softly stroked the boy's sleeping face before planting a brief kiss to the top of Lucy's head.

Rising shouts for assistance conspired to break the spell and tear Lucy away. Feeling as if she was just waking up from a bad dream she realised with guilt how little she'd put her needed skills to use in the last hours. Quickly, passing the raggedy, sleeping bundle of David over, she raced forward to the cab where Nicky was yelling for help, his brother still pinned to the door by the barb in his leg, pale as the surrounding landscape and breathing through gritted teeth as blood till pumped slowly out through the wound.

Mac, jumping up to stand on the running board, took a quick glance and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder before making way for more experienced hands than his to provide help. He then wandered through the sheltered triangle between the vehicles, greeting, and providing words of comfort or solace here and there; his eyes still carrying the deep haunted look and a promise of some future violence that he had had since the explosion.

Jane moved through the area like a dervish, keeping herself occupied distributing and fetching medical supplies, her eyes flickering wildly as she stood on the verge of breakdown, manically engaging with those around her. Curtis, more attuned to her reactions than anyone else trailed gently in her wake, grey ponytail thrashing in the wind, his easy smile and warm arms lowering any extra anxiety brought on by Jane's curt exchanges.

Deadlock fidgeted nervously at the rear of truck two, still holding his weapon in his arms, its sleek design at odds with his dishevelled frame. His eyes actively worked to avoid the scenes of carnage around him and the drama centred on the cab and Tony's wound, giving only a slight twitch of his head and a grunt to those that passed and acknowledged him. Instead his focus was fixed instead to their rear, scanning the open space and the weather misted distance, as if searching for pursuit.

Alone now in the lead truck Father Michael Hanlon remained frozen, unwilling or unable to move, horror still etched on his face like a silent eulogy. Curtis, completing his rounds and mop up behind Jane, jumped in, the concern on his face, softening the fright his abrupt appearance had given the priest. He spoke softly as Michael continued to stare wide eyed out at the landscape, not responding, not moving; unwilling or unable to wipe away the tears that flowed down his cheeks

The remainder of the now reduced community lay, sat on the ground, or stood in a daze, ignorant of the cold around and below them as they struggled through the fugue of loss. Some still wept openly, others stared into the distance lost in their own thoughts, and dotted throughout were islands of other bodies, two's and threes, locked into embraces it seemed they would never leave. Scrapes and cuts were evident everywhere, most superficial but others needing attention.

Kane looked around as he walked the small area defined by the slewed vehicles, still in a daze himself, still carrying a sleeping David. He dimly recognising some faces and names, others unfamiliar still, that looked back and through him. His breath hitched in his throat as he watched a group, with solemn tenderness, lower a limp form from the bed of the first truck, arms lolling lifeless and swinging lightly with the movement. Streams of blood traced their way from an arrow shaft in the abdomen to drip on the virgin snow below.

Time passed with incredible slowness. Somewhere in the midst of the collective malaise, somebody had the good sense to start a fire, scraps of material and anything flammable used to feed and kindle the sodden wood gathered from the ground. Soon, tea bubbled in a jerry can, drawing the group in increments toward it. The silence started to break as cups and mugs were filled, it's warm taste lifting spirits ever so gradually, as the group also found more solace and release in the greater numbers

Still other work moved on around the focus of the flames. Tony was moved to a makeshift litter in the rear of one of the vehicles and helped to some of that same tea. The shaft, first cut between the door and his leg to get him out, was then pulled carefully through the meat of his thigh, the searing pain only mildly dulled by some of their precious medical supplies. He lay, saturated in his own sweat, biting hard on a rag as the wound was sterilised and packed; almost screaming as either side was sown shut and the leg bandaged heavily. Nicky hovered around throughout, looking helpless, but determined to remain at his brother's side, dropping down and letting him squeeze his hand through the pain.

Kane, unable to offer any practical help to the unfortunate wounded, headed back to the truck. Mac, in and out of the cab as he worked to get the GPMG down, acknowledged him with the briefest of nods. Conscious that while the man had done the rounds, nobody had seemed to ask after him in return, Kane deposited David, still asleep in a downy sleeping bag, in the back of the truck bed; asking a slightly calmer Jane to watch over him.

He wandered forward, "Hey!"

"Hey yourself son," Mac threw a piece of the now stripped weapon at him along with a rag, "Give that a rub down would you."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, working the oiled and machined metal and springs of the weapon that had helped make good their escape, the only sounds the gentle clink of the parts passed between them as they worked.

Kane looked up, watching the makeshift camp begin to settle; medical emergencies coming to an end with the continuing business of food and drink fast taking over. He let out a long sigh.

"Looks like we lost them huh?"

"Just luck son, that's all. Where _we_ went through, _that_ shower of bastards obviously decided to stop," he waved a general indication to the camp, "Good sense it would seem."

"We didn't have a choice Mac. You said it yourself, too few of us to have held them off and too many innocents to risk; there was nowhere else for us to go. Would've ended up full of holes or skewered on one of their knives otherwise."

"Aye son, you're probably right, "he shook his head, "You are right. Just ignore me ok. Just wallowing."

They worked on for a few more minutes in silence, continuing to strip and oil moving parts and replacing spent ammo. Chirrups of life filled the silence, snippets of chatter carrying to their ears as individuals began to find something approaching their own individual equilibriums once more, processing and filing the events of the last few hours, and days, through their own recovery methods.

"Mac? Why do you think we were set up? I can't see it, what am I missing here?"

The older soldier sighed heavily before responding, ticking the points off on his fingers as he spoke, "Couple of things. Although they tried to hide it, the whole thing was too structured and too well-oiled to have been an off the cuff ambush, it wasn't a natural choke point _or_ a natural place to round up the odd straggler. Two, usually they would have come in guns blazing and hoped that they could pick up some survivors for their bloody rituals, but they wanted us, or most of us but definitely vehicles and cargo, stopped! _Not_ dead or destroyed. They were trying to box us in. And third, they came armed to the teeth, expending a _lot_ of what had to have been precious ammo, expecting a big score. When have you _ever_ known those fuckers to waste that much hardware or people at once, just on a hope and a prayer?"

Kane remained silent for a second, unable to argue with the logic in Mac's assertions, instead choosing to address the current problem, "So what now? We move on and hope for the best, that whoever turned on us was in that truck, or what?"

Mac grunted, chewing is lip in thought before looking at Kane, a decisive set to his craggy features, "Up until pretty much two seconds ago, I would've said yeah son, but now I'm not so sure." He suddenly jumped up, grabbing the rifle he'd also been working on from the doorframe and turned away, "C'mon!"

Face still set, he led Kane back into the cluster of bodies around the fire, taking position near the centre, and turning slowly to look at each person there, and loud enough to be heard by the others further away, he spoke in a measured manner which belied the anger still burning hot in his chest.

"We all saw and heard what happened to Tom and the others, and we're all coming to terms with it in our own way," he let the muted reactions still before continuing, "We knew them, laughed with them, helped them as they helped us when things were bad, they were our friends, our family. We all pitched in together, all for one and all that pish. Or _so we thought_!" voice raised for the last words, newly curious eyes stared back at him, "Someone, one of us; who might be here, or may have been on the truck, didn't like what we were, who we were, what we were doing. And _that_ person thought that they would do something about it. They _called_ the Monks, told them where we would be," he paused to let that settle across suddenly horrified faces, "how I don't know- _yet_! But _they_ set us up, sat there quietly, _with us_ , without a murmur until we were trapped, hoping we'd be either killed or captured to suit _their_ idea of what was right and how things should be." Again the pause, letting shock and reaction concrete itself in each individual, and now there was no mistaking the anger in his voice, "That _bastard_ was one of _us_! Fooled us all, set us up to _die. Killed our friends, children! And we_ are _gonna sit right here in the fucking snow until we find out who it was!"_

He accentuated the final statement with the audible click of the bolt being made ready on his weapon, and cradled it resting at ready on his arms, casting challenges with his eyes throughout the group.

Reaction and noise came quickly, extremes of emotion registering on different faces. Some just dropped their heads further or let their bodies crumple to the ground, this latest development just too much for already fragile minds. Others whispered to their neighbour, casting suspicious glances here and there. But all attention eventually turned to those who exploded with rage, shouting over each other in denial and accusation, fingers pointing this way and that. One woman, who Kane vaguely remembered as Jessica, stood and marched towards the fire and Mac, finger pointing like a dagger, "Then what about _him_?" the finger stabbed with ferocious intent at Kane who took a step backwards in surprise, " We were fine 'til he came along weren't we?" a few nodding heads accompanied her words, " Then all of a sudden two people are dead, we have to leave in a hurry, and now _this_!" tears sprung from her eyes, emotion uncontrolled, " We all know about his vendetta," she spat, "Why don't we ask _him_ why they're dead eh? Ask _him_!"

Kane's mouth gaped like a goldfish as he struggled to come to terms with the onslaught, Mac instead jumping in to defend him.

"Listen, all of you," his eyes held Jessica's as he spoke to the group, "With the exception of a few minutes, this bloke hasn't left my sight, and in that few minutes he, and the woman and boy, were with most of you at the campfire. So I don't need to ask him ok! I watched him blaze away and clear a path for us through that first vehicle, and through Perth, and since then he hasn't let up in helping make sure we've got this far!" he scanned the group with harsh blue eyes, "If you want to go there, then let me put it like this, out of everyone here, he's one of only a handful I'm sure _didn't_ have anything to do with this ok! And I'll have him happily at my back until this is sorted."

The set of his face squashed any argument; looks were diverted to the ground or sent questions to other faces in the crowd, searching for anything remotely suspicious. The shouts and accusations died down, instead returning to whispers and surreptitious indications between neighbours, nobody anxious to face Mac in the mood he displayed, especially with the weapon resting easily on his arms.

Into the midst of the hushed gathering, oblivious, Deadlock wandered in from behind the second truck, face intent on the bar of chocolate he was eating as he walked. Awareness crept in, and as the chewing wound down slowly he began to register the many pairs of eyes resting on him, and glanced nervously about, removing earphones from his ears and raising his hand in a half-hearted manner, "Hi... what's up?"

Some looks turned away, others remained, fixed on the gangly youth who looked so out of place in the generally mature group. Trepidation marred his face as he unconsciously began to chew his lip under the weight of the stares. The murmurs rose slightly, odd snatches hitting his ears,

"... _Spawn...not really one of us.... never fitted.... Who's to say he didn't_...."

He raised imploring eyes towards Mac, finding there only the baleful stare that Mac was reserving for everybody at the moment. Tried Kane, looking for some crumb of comfort or support, but again the gaze wasn't returned. He stammered nervously, unsure what was going on but truly uncomfortable under so much scrutiny.

"'s only a bar of chocolate, I really didn't think anyone would mind, honest." He held it up as if warding off the looks, "was jus' hungr.... _what_? What's going on? Jess? Mac? Please?"

He spun on the spot, arms whirling loose as he began to feel trapped and panicked by the strange actions of the familiar faces around him and finding no friends. Finally, Mac spoke, barely whispering but loud in the hush

"Was it you son? Did you set them on us?"

"Mac? Set who? The Monks? Jesus Mac, c'mon! You really think...."

The words died as realisation set in. He spun, searching the faces around him, finding there only a burgeoning sense of collective vengeance as minds set themselves with an answer to grief. Murmurs became voices, raised and strident, a clarion call of blame and recrimination.

"He hardly fired..."

"Didn't see him hit anything..."

"...wandered away in the dark at the last stop."

".... knows where he's been......."

".... must be him.... has to have been him......sure of it..."

Faces and fingers leered and pointed, conviction given strength by the collective mutterings of the group. Deadlock tried to back away, wide eyed and afraid, finding himself circled by twisted faces, all staring, all aimed at him.

An audible click stunned the group to silence once more, all eyes whipping to the tableau that Mac now presented. His stance had shifted, feet spread, body three quarter facing, the breeze ruffling his clothing with eddies and billows. But all eyes stopped at his face, masked and truncated by the bite of the stock in his cheek and the cavernous bore of the rifle aimed directly at the teenager in their centre, safety now off.

"Mac?" Kane's voice was tentative, unsure of the depth of Mac's conviction. Deadlock stood wide-eyed, the first hint of tears showing on his slack jawed and shivering features. His combats darkened as a rivulet exited the bottom and over his shoe to steam on the ground, a marked essence of fear.

_"What?_ This is what you all want isn't it? You think we've got time to ponder the ins and outs huh?" Faces around him began to register shock, some turned away sickened, "What, we take him prisoner, have a nice wee trial, suitable punishment? _WAKE UP_!" The shout made some physically jump, "That world is _dead_ ; we don't have time to pretend it still exists. There's no courts, no lawyers, no prisons, just _us_! Get it, just us! We live or we die, and we deal with things in the same way. There is no luxury of choice, of right and wrong; we do it or we die! You're convinced it's him, so I slot him and if your right well good on ya!"

He raised the rifle menacingly, his weight fully behind it, finger curling inexorably around the trigger. Deadlock dropped to the ground, his hands clasped as he looked up, frightened eyes imploring as his voice hitched through the tears, "Mac? Please...please.... please no.... please...."

"Mac?..... Jesus, come on eh..." whispered Kane.

Mac met Matthew's eyes, what sympathy he had tempered by the all too fresh images of slaughter and death of their friends, but not immune to the cries from his front. He spoke, not unkindly, "I'm sorry son, I have to."

"NO!"

The shout broke the focus, eyes turning to the ungainly figure of the old priest rushing and slipping through the snow to reach Mac, "NO!"

"It has to be done padre, we can't take the chance," he spared a quick glance in the priest's direction, "You _know_ that Mike!"

The priest edged into Mac's line of vision, hands raised, palms turned to Mac in supplication, "You can't Mac. You can't do this, it's not right!"

The gun nosed around as Mac tried to re-sight on his target, the bulk of Father Hanlon preventing him from doing so. He answered back, cheek kept pressed to the cold stock as his eyes searched the priest's face.

_"Come on_ Mike, you know better than that! It's about survival, we can't take chances anymore, and we can't be slaves to guilt. How many times have we left some poor buggar out in the snow because he didn't look right eh? Were we right or wrong? It didn't matter; all that mattered was surviving, weighing the odds. Everything based on a hunch. It's the same now Mike, we _don't_ have a choice!"

"No Mac, no! You don't understand, I can't let you. Don't you see? It wasn't him!" he gulped heavily and tears sprung to life on his cheeks, "Too many are dead Mac, too many...I can't let anymore die for me."

He fell to his knees in the snow, knuckles white with the grip as he pulled at Mac's arms, who tried grimly to shake him off, trying to keep the rifle level.

"It was me Mac...I called them, told them where we were. Oh God Mac.... _I did this_!"

Silence dropped over the group like a smothering blanket, some keening to hear again the words that had cut through them like a knife. Mac's eyes dropped to take in the figure kneeling at his feet in the snow, horror and disbelief slapped across his face. The sounds of sobbing filled his immediate world.

"Mike....?"

_"It was me Mac...._ I got the radio, made the call......you've _got to_ understand Mac, please, I had no choice. Not after you brought in _him!"_ The look he shot Kane at that point was filled with pure venom, "You heard what he did, the _murder_ he committed, but it was like you didn't care, like you were possessed see, couldn't see how wrong it was, I had to....... We have no right to kill them Mac, don't you see, we don't understand enough to do that. It's too _big_ for us to understand! Too important for us to interfere! To be here, a _complication_!" he punched his fist into the snow, "And you didn't care! The Lord sent them here, _our God_ ; who do we think we are to think we can kill any of them like that eh? I couldn't let you Mac, I just couldn't. So I called them, the Monks, they were the only ones I thought could stop this! I didn't mean for anyone to......Tom's dead, the others too. That's not what I wanted, not like that...Oh God I can still hear the screams... but you've _got_ to believe me Mac, I did what I thought was right...I did what I thought was right!"

The last words were whispered to the earth as Mac shrugged himself violently free, recoiling through the snow from the words assaulting his ears. Blood rushed in his head, heart pounding in his chest, disbelief stretching his eyes and mouth as he tried in vain to tear his eyes away from the huddled figure in front of him, hands gripped in the snow and dirt, and head hanging still but for the sobs that jerked it rhythmically.

Mac's eyes searched the group like a man desperate to hide, but none met his as they focussed instead on the figure on the ground. Finally, his voice incredulous, he hoarsely whispered at the forlorn figure, " _You_ did this? Mike? You _did_ this? _You_?" The rifle rose imperceptibly, unconsciously. The raw iron smell of the blood on the snow seemed to grow stronger, "Why Mike? I don't get it! You thought we'd be better off with _them_? You know what they _do_ , what they would do to all of us? For fuck's sake priest, _you as good as blew that truck up yourself_!"

The last words verged on a roar as the enormity of this one man's actions speared Mac to the core.

"Oh God Mac, I know, I know.... I only- "

"Only _what_? Huh? Only what Mike? Thought you were doing the right thing eh? Well if the right thing was killing fifteen people, fifteen friends, _our_ friends, then you succeeded you _bastard_!"

Rage twisted his features as the rifle snapped back to his shoulder, a guttural grunt expelled from his throat as he sighted viciously along the barrel. Faces recoiled in horror around the fire, gasps of anticipation as Mac leaned into the shot to come.

"No Mac!" his hand wrapped around the barrel Kane jerked hard, pulling the deadly bore from its fix on the pathetic figure, "No! You do this then you're no better than them Mac!"

"Let go son! _Now_!"

"No Mac I won't. I can't. I can't stand here and watch you do this, watch you make yourself something you're not!" Nervously he became aware of the bunching muscles under Mac's clothing as he prepared to wrest the gun back, Kane knowing only too well that he couldn't compete, "Listen to me Mac- this isn't you! This isn't the man they, all of these people her, have told me about! Let's just leave him here; yeah, let's just leave him _right_ _here_ , let his friends find him if the cold doesn't get him first!" He stared imploringly direct into Mac's eyes, "He's _wrong_ Mac you hear? We're not murderers, it's life you're going to find isn't it, not death? That's where you're taking these people, to find life. Still in this fucked up world! Let's keep going, don't let him force your hand like this Mac, _don't let him be right_!"

Their gazes stayed locked, the body of the weapon taught between them. And slowly, Kane felt the rigidity seep away, Mac's eyes losing the glazed hungry look as his muscles relaxed. Kane let go, watching in relief as the rifle dropped to rest at Mac's side, and his shaking hand pressed and dragged harshly down his face, washing away the fury.

People began to turn away, content to show their judgement in denial of the person in their centre, denial of his existence. Others lingered, balanced on the edge of their own vengeance. Some wept, bitter tears to wash out the sour taste. Mac too, picking up a still weeping Deadlock, turned away, but not before aiming one last barb at the fallen figure whose eyes bulged in realisation.

"May God have mercy on your soul Mike." He turned toward the truck, "Let's go people!"

The sobbing intensified from the centre, the shoulders hitching in sober accompaniment as the group moved away and began to mount up again once more. Kane watched Mac as he walked away, relief sweeping through him, his eyes catching Jane on the periphery of his vision as she strode out to the centre, arms raised to give the fallen priest one last embrace.

Too late he saw the black shape in her hands, too late he turned with the shout on his lips to stop her as she calmly, coolly, walked up and placed the pistol's muzzle against the surprised priest's forehead

"Ask your _God_ what he thinks! _Bastard_!"

The puzzled look remained, even as a gout of blood, bone, and matter showered from the sudden hole at the base of his skull. Without a word he dropped lifeless to the ground, wide eyes staring at the heavens as Jane turned and walked slowly, purposefully, back to the truck without a word or a glance in any direction.

The echo of the shot seemed to stop even the breeze, but as it died, the trucks were remounted and in a silence broken only by the rumble of engines, they moved off, leaving only a mound of black clothing and stark reddened ground as witness that they had ever been there at all.
Chapter 17

"Allies can be the strangest bedfellows"

Anon

He turned away from the cliff's edge and it's view of the sea of pale and mottled flesh below that marked the price of victory. Around him the bustle of activity continued, his troops consolidating their hard won position on the hilltop under Herdal's direction, while above him in the air wings of scouts zipped by, their keen eyes searching for any stragglers from the enemies routed force.

It had been a close run thing. Closer than Anziel would ever feel comfortable admitting even to himself. He'd watched impotent from the river as the strange chariots had rolled over his brothers and the enemy alike, so many falling before them without appearing to even be touched, leaving them all almost punch drunk with the sheer fury and weight of the sundering through their consciousness. Along with his brothers he'd cheered as the one at the tail had become stopped, and urged his host forward again towards the bank, lit suddenly in horror as a ball of fire had incinerated and thrown so many of the Host like so many leaves.

Despite the losses on both sides, Herdal had rallied the shocked and battered angelic army more readily than his counterpart, and they had pressed home the advantage of sudden space, co-ordination, and arms, pulling together in their familiar formations to cut through vast swathes of the enemy who eventually had fled the field dismayed.

Anziel remained distracted, his mind ablaze with other concerns, and while his subordinates co-ordinated matters around him, he instead turned to the curious vision in front of him where several huddled forms shook miserably on their knees in the cold.

Bending low, he gripped one of the captives chin in a vice like grip and turned the face up to his, twisting it from side to side as if studying a curiosity before casually throwing the head back to its penitent position.

He looked up and around, "You," his finger froze one of his troop in his tracks, "You are a Watcher?"

With the angel's nodded affirmation, Anziel beckoned him over.

"What is your name Angel?"

"Dina my Lord."

"I am intrigued Dina. These Chosen elected to stop where their more... _animalistic_ brethren chose instead to cut a swathe through our ranks. I need to know why; was it fear or some other base reason that caused them to cease on their path? I assume you can communicate with such as these?"

The angel was taken aback, "Yes...I mean, I can my Lord."

"Good, then ask them Angel. Tell me what answers come from their feeble minds."

He turned away, barely able to conceal the sneer on his face as the singsong tones of the high speech was replaced by, to him, the glottal grunts, clicks, and barks of the Chosen assailing his ears.

We are truly in service to deliver such as these? Whose speech resembles the mewling of the basest animal? This war does indeed test every facet of our mettle.

A hesitant cough and he turned back to find Dina ready to give him an answer, and found himself intrigued despite his bigotry, by the paling sheen on the angel's already alabaster face.

"Well?"

"My Lord, they- " he gulped heavily in almost a human caricature of nervousness, "they say that they halted in order that they did not interfere with the _Lord's Children-_ their speech my Lord- in their holy battle. By human standards they appear more zealous and excitable than I have previously witnessed, claiming that all they seek is to serve the Lord in whatever capacity is left to them in these 'end days'!"

"As do we all brother. But tell me, how do they serve? What _possible_ insight could they possess that enables them to serve? In what capacity do they praise him?"

The lesser angel glanced around nervously, willing some support, any, to rise from the precarious ground he now felt himself upon.

"It seems my Lord...it seems that they have taken it upon themselves to hunt down the blasphemous and those lacking in faith, and in their own... _inimitable_ way, deliver them unto the Lord our Master."

"How so Watcher? How do they _deliver_ these idolaters?" Anziel grinned inwardly at the angel's evident nervousness and leaned closer filling the poor creatures sight with his grim features.

Dina's eyes flickered as if looking for escape before he turned sharply to the humans on the ground. It didn't take expertise for even Anziel to be aware of the risen urgency in the guttural language, guessing that he was commanding further information from the wretched creatures. A curt shout of finality and, with a last nervous look at those he had studied for aeons, he turned to face his commander once more.

"They conduct _ceremonies_ my Lord, blessings upon those whom they find; offering prayers to our Lord as the 'penitent' human is led to their altar, where, amidst much worshipping and words of offering, their-" again he visibly paled, "-sacrifice watches as his heart is removed and burnt in offering before God that he might bless and sustain them in the trials they face."

Dina lowered his head quickly; fixing his golden eyes on his feet to avoid the wrath that he was sure would momentarily explode around him. However, the sound that did come was even more chilling in its unexpectedness; a peel of bell like laughter issued from deep within Anziel and when he looked up Dina was surprised to see his Lord's face creased with mirth, and though wary of the coldness still inherent in those blazing eyes, smiled in spite of his misgivings.

"Lord?"

"Ah Dina, why are we here at all when it becomes so clear that these humans can astound us at every turn? Have they learned nothing from their forefathers? From their own stories of Abraham spared the killing of his own son? Why then would these wretches presume to believe that by killing their own they would endear themselves to Him?" the smile disappeared, "And we still call them _Chosen_!"

He laughed again, a sound made bitter by the ill-concealed contempt beneath it. His eyes turned on the captives like a predator

"Still, they may have their uses, especially where other _humans_ are concerned."

He reached down, his slender hands grasping and lifting the long sleek object that rested in a pile of similar looking items to his left.

"And these Dina; these instruments with which they wage war against each other, how do they operate?"

Dina walked softly across, and, between them, they turned the rifle over in their arms and hands searching to unlock its operation without success. Anziel at one stage pointing the thinner end at Dina and shaking it furiously in the hope of getting a reaction.

Behind them, tentatively, slowly, one of the captive Monks stood, his arms out to his side, hands open and empty as he made his way across. Anziel reached for the pommel of his sword, stayed only by the shock of Dina's arm suddenly stretched across, staying his blade. Arms still extended and unthreatening the captive gingerly took the weapon from them. Under Anziel's dagger like gaze, he manipulated it slowly, removing and then replacing the clip, letting them see the gleam of the brass casings. He replaced it and cocked the bolt, accentuating the positions and postures he adopted in the weapons handling, and exaggerating the use of the trigger in the hope they would understand.

Finally, through a mixture of further gestures and interpretation through Dina, he drew their attention to a solitary tree some one hundred metres away, and specifically the gnarled branch that stood out alone to the left. Stepping to their front and sighting carefully, he squeezed off a round and turned to them satisfied as it shattered apart to the accompaniment of the retort.

Anziel's eyes narrowed, taken aback by the noise, and he reached swiftly to grab the weapon back, his other hand contemptuously thrusting the man cruelly back to the ground without a glance.

He turned to the Watcher, moving the weapon through his hands again, feeling its slick design, hefting it for weight, "Indeed, this is a most fearsome _toy_ Dina, mine own eyes have truly witnessed its effectiveness." The beguiling mild tones were whipped away in the fury of his next breath, "But it is a _coward's_ weapon! Wherein lies the honour in its use? How is your enemy to know by whose hand he has perished? _Fah_ , we will not debase ourselves by its use in _our_ hands!"

He flung it aside, intent again on the wretched figures scattered at his feet, some now with faces raised defiantly, others scrabbling backwards as if trying to dig a hole in the frozen earth. The weapon reflected his opinion of these creatures perfectly, untrustworthy, weak, without honour or nobility; lacking the Brotherhood he and his Host took for granted.

A thought came to him then, it's simplistic essence making it all the more pleasing, and a smile crept wide across his face.

"However, there is naught to say that we cannot use the _masters_ of such weapons as these! Think Dina, what better way to rid ourselves of troublesome insignificancies like those other humans than to set their own kind against them? It is perfect!"

He noted the puzzled look on his companion's face.

"Oh come Dina, it is not difficult. Take what small number of our own that you require- yes, you Dina- and together with these... _creatures_... seek out and ensure that those animals who slaughtered so many of our brothers find no rest upon this earth. Let them finish the hunt they had started." He looked the angel square in the face, "Find them Dina, slay them all!"
Chapter 18

"Great is the power of habit. It teaches us to bear fatigue and to despise wounds and pain."

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Through cracked and distance streaked windscreens, they had finally started on the last leg to Coulport. Two careful days of travel across rutted fields and hills had been the price, but as they had headed further west and north, the volume of rusted and derelict traffic blocking the roads had diminished, letting them increase their speed.

They'd halted for a stretch at the old Faslane Naval dockyard, Mac curious to understand its condition and look for any signs of life. But the nuclear submarines were gone, perhaps lying at the bottom of the oceans, or perhaps still gliding through the deep, awaiting orders that would never come. Mac had marked the storage tanks for a later exploration and they moved on, past the once colourful fluttering rags of the old peace camp, the protestors long since lost.

A little further on and again under Mac's direction they had stopped and carefully entered the army camp which had been the fast reaction base for the dockyard, hopeful to pick up any sundry supplies they could find, whether food or firepower, but the camp had been bare, seemingly picked clean of anything useful, and they'd left quickly.

As they headed further north, Kane had remarked to Mac on the singular lack of life, or even signs of it, at every house and small village they'd passed since skirting around the north of Dumbarton and Helensburgh. Mac had grunted in reply, only his eyes and the set of his mouth giving indication that the same thoughts had been troubling him.

The empty countryside had continued as they rounded the tip of Gare Loch, and travelled through an empty Garelochhead, before rumbling south again with the gleam of Loch Long constantly to their right. The route wound and weaved through the wooded loch side, the firs here hardily clinging to their green coats, and the scent of pine carried on the breeze had lifted spirits again. The final dog leg back around the lower forest and north again had been spent mostly in silence and increasing anticipation, until the opening view brought them there, to the rising windswept knee of land, marked by the bare hills and the solemn grey waters of the sea loch that served it.

The entrance road had become broken and spoiled, and their wheels had spun in the muck and mud as they approached the chain linked fence marking the boundary, its links sparkling in the wan light where the plastic sheathing had been sheared off in places by time and weathering. Gates had lain twisted and torn on the ground at the entrance, the blackened spars of a one-time guard post just inside.

The weak sun had been setting as they'd arrived, casting its long shadows across what Mac had identified as the administration blocks and buildings ahead of them; and with darkness falling fast Mac had made the call for the night to be spent in the trucks, pulled together around a campfire and with watches set through the night.

The next morning they'd split the group in two- a third to explore the administration area and buildings as well as explore the dock and mooring areas on the lochside. The rest with the bulk of the supplies had headed to the higher ground of the bunkers, passing the contractors compound before turning up and past more storage buildings, Mac highlighting lookout points along the way; watchtowers that still stood guard over the hills and forest behind.

As they had rounded the curving roadway, the bunkers had lain ahead, dug deep into the hillside rising above and framed from behind by the forest they had passed on the way to the main gate. The brown brick and concrete seemed incongruous against the hills and trees, the heavy sills above the bunker doors angled and undulating along the hillside like a row of terraced roofs. As they drove further, many of the heavy doors were visibly open but some, ominously, still looked locked fast.

The only noise was the wind and the hushed whispering scrape of the debris that flew in its path. To their left and down the hillside the harbour and dockside stretched in unnatural straightness against the grey Atlantic that sat brooding against the skyline, constantly in view. What buildings that remained above ground appeared tattered and foreboding; tired remnants of structure that had once served a purpose. The smell of the ocean had quickly assailed their senses, as much carried on the silt and grime, blown across the against the upright surfaces of the buildings and abandoned vehicles, as it was from the air itself. No sign of life could be seen anywhere and Mac had brought the trucks to a stop outside the bunkers that afforded a clear view of most of the area.

They had all exited the trucks slowly, tentatively; wary of the eerie silence and emptiness of the brooding tunnels behind them diving deep into the hill, open to the sky and sea and dark to their depths. Huddled together they had explored the area slowly, their footsteps loudly resonant as the drab concrete threw the noise back at them.

Bunker doors towered over their heads, framed by the hill they were bored into rising high above, and to the west looking down to a clear loch side and shimmering waters. Closed and obdurate blocks of stone had been tested, and opened as if made of balsa wood rather than concrete, the well-oiled hinges and counterbalances still working despite the elements. Shining torches around the vast interiors they had begun to get an idea of the shelter it provided, and gradually, though the empty racks and shelves left some with an uneasy feeling, the huddled group had fragmented. More confident individuals had explored on their own, finding other casements, other areas to explore, noise echoing as they'd shouted over others to see what they had found.

Things had moved swiftly then, Mac and Kane adopting the responsibility as they organized the group into teams and tasks; a stream of people travelling to and fro between the bruised trucks and the concrete redoubts that would now be their home. Food, clothing, machinery, and weapons, moved in a constant stream between one and another, and gradually voices had filled the air, from brief instructions and good-natured catcalls passing between individuals as they went about their jobs.

Others though remained resolute; Jane went about her business with her face set in stone, her forehead knit and heavy over dark eyes, giving others bare acknowledgements as if recognizing their true existence would cause her to crumble and fade. Lucy walked lightly, David swinging at her heels; his chest puffed out with importance as he carried what he could to its new home, his eyes alight as he had looked at, what was to him, the biggest fort in all the world, a place full of adventure and nooks & cranny's to hide in.

The other group re-joined them quicker than expected, their report telling the same story as the bunkers- no sign of life anywhere, the places they had looked as bare as the long tunnels in the hillside. All there had been of note was a surprisingly healthy level of what seemed genuine fuel in three underground tanks; the discovery marked there and then for better investigation at first light.

As the night had closed in some were pulled from the lines, Mac's insistent voice and hands urging them to take places of watch on the approaches, some of the anger and guilt he felt at himself for the ambush still lingering. The growing dusk had hidden from view some of the harsh certainty now lost from his gaze. He had still walked the grid however, steps still firm and precise, body upright, asserting the command that the group had not only grown accustomed to, but took strength in; a solid familiarity.

Slowly they had settled, the old bonhomie finding itself in voice and quiet laughter. A collectiveness that had been lost in the flatbeds of the separate trucks was rediscovered, and the second night had passed with the comforting burr of running generators, the flicker of firelight, and the chatter of familiar companions warming the bare concrete walls. Ground sheets and sleeping bags pulled close together, the noise eventually, ultimately, had stilled, the gentle lull of sleep holding them all safe.
Chapter 19

"I feel nothing, apart from a certain difficulty in continuing to exist."

Bernard de Fontenelle

Despite the drizzle, the camp remained a bustle of activity for the third day running. The rain and drizzle was itself still a novelty; the very slightly warmer air of the gulf stream swept west coast seeming like a tropical summer in comparison to the snow and ice to the east. Complexions and expressions, for too many days drawn in worry and tension, began to look healthier as the icy squints of the east were thawed from faces, and the entire group stayed active, manoeuvring supplies and equipment to their new reinforced locations and ensuring there was enough good shelter for everyone.

That initial dismay at the dereliction of the former naval base had given way to a bit more optimism, and the cloud that had loomed over them all since the encounter at Perth had begun to lift, albeit slightly, as change and necessity had provided purpose and occupation of time, leaving little capacity for any further dwelling on recent events.

Now, the camp was starting to have some semblance of the bonhomie that had marked their previous existence at Condor, imbuing many of the group with the need to renew acquaintances that had become weakened and strained in the dark and grime of the trucks. People flew at their tasks with gusto, filling the air with idle chat and speculation, cementing themselves in the familiar once again.

Kane found himself in what had now been earmarked as one of three living quarters, the bunker being cleared of debris and sharp edges and filled instead with the rare reminders of comfort that they had brought with them. The previous night's campfires had burned away some of the dampness from the interior and with that, a generator, and some light, a measure of the reserve about these dark holes in the hill had disappeared.

Halfway down, hard up against the left side lay a collection of cots and tables, a currently makeshift infirmary for the slight and more seriously wounded of the group. Most of the equipment and stores had already been moved to the designate 'hospital' tunnel, building its more abundant supplies, and Tony was the only resident here now, any others having been patched and mobile enough to help. Kane gave him a quick wave and made his way across to see how he was.

As expected Nick was also at the bedside, inseparable from his twin since the arrow had pierced his leg, by all accounts narrowly missing the artery, and Kane nodded his head in greeting. Tony, his pallor still shiny and grey, motioned lightly with his head and a flick of the eyes, beckoning, and Kane shifted his approach to move close to the bed.

"Tony, how are you?"

"Better Nate. Christ, I could soon be limping and everything. What an achievement! Pity I can't get rid of Tweedledum here though!" he threw a glance at Nick.

"Shut up you tosser! The only reason I'm here is that I know you're milking it, and I'm not prepared to let you get away with it. You're getting _far_ too much enjoyment out of having people run around after you!" Kane smiled, recognising and seeing the continual worry behind the humour. He knew Nick had barely left his brother's side since they had got here, and the tired lines and darkness around his eyes gave testament to how concerned he was.

Jane crept in, unheard and unannounced, barely acknowledging Kane or the twins, her eyes still set like pebbles in her face, refusing to give her emotion an inch following what had occurred just a few days previously. He watched suddenly awkward silence as she deftly changed the dressing on Tony's leg, and he couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the mangled flesh beneath, heavily bruised and sutured in a not too neat manner. Inwardly he winced, instantly ashamed of his own reaction, but unable to do anything but shiver at the wrongness of the injury. Turning away, he caught a fleeting softness in Jane's eyes as she tenderly ministered to her patient. No words spoken, but something of her shone through, and he found himself giving a whispered thankyou to the air, glad that she perhaps hadn't totally lost herself. She left as quietly as she had come, leaving behind the silence of the interrupted, and for a second they all looked elsewhere.

"Fucking hell, we're all a right barrel of laughs aren't we?" Tony said, his laugh breaking into a fit of coughing. Nick bent over his brother, concern evident in his expression, and Kane felt a rush of warmth towards these two who until only a short while ago had been strangers to him.

"At least the two of you have stopped with all the 'mystical twins' nonsense I see"

"Och well, a healthy dose of reality will do that to you...and of course a bloody great arrow through your leg!"

"Or _unreality_ ," said Nick, "I'm still having trouble getting my head around what we saw, _fuck_ -what we _did_!"

"We had to Nick, or none of us would be here now."

"I know, your right; doesn't make it any less surreal though. At least Mac had his head screwed on eh, got us all through it," His eyes dropped slightly, "Well nearly all..."

"Yeah, he did." Tony quickly interrupted, "How is he anyway Kane? Haven't seen him much. Still bossing people around God love 'im?"

"He certainly is. Haven't seen much of him myself truth be told. I guess he's just doing his thing like he does."

"Yeah, well somebody should keep an eye on him in any case," Nick leaned forward conspiratorially and continued in a hushed voice, "It must have really got to him; What happened with Deadlock and Hanlon I mean. What a head fuck! That was one of his best friends, I mean how do you deal with something like that?"

Kane hadn't given it much thought, too busy with getting organised and dealing with some of his own emotions and turmoil to stop and think. He shrugged, "I guess. To be honest I couldn't really say guys."

Amidst a fit of coughing that brought further beads of sweat to his brow, Tony raised himself on his elbows and looked backwards and forwards between the two, fixing eventually on Kane.

"Listen. He likes you. God knows why, your ugly as sin and your breath reeks something chronic; but for whatever reason he does," he chuckled dryly, and pointed a finger at Kane, "You have to watch out for him Nate, not for his sake alone, but for ours! We need him, and we need him strong ok. So if he needs it, _please_ , give him any help you can."

Nick nodded agreement as his twin fell back to the threadbare pillow on the cot, "Yeah, he's right. So consider _that_ some _mystic_ shit and be away about your business old man!"

He shooed with his hand and Kane stood laughing, said his goodbyes, and turned to leave the bunker, his mind filled with what the twins had just said, wondering what the hell he would say, if anything, to Mac when he saw him.

Lucy stood, hands on hips and face to the sky, letting the drizzle cool her down. The inside of the "kitchen" bunker was warm enough without the added physical effort of moving propane tanks safely and she'd nipped out for a breather in the cooler air. She'd watched Kane from a distance heading into the living area, guessing he'd been off to see the twins, and had resolved to take David to see him later once they'd finished for the day.

Lowering her face with a huff of weary air, she turned to see Jane exiting the shadow of the big bunker door, rucksack full of what Lucy presumed were her ever-present medical supplies slung over the shoulder. Her head hung low, eyes to the ground never looking up, and Lucy felt a pang of empathy for the woman, now seeming so far removed from the effervescent companion she'd been when they'd first arrived at Condor.

Everyone had been witness to the events after Perth, and while the odd sad smile or incline of the head had been offered to her, Lucy realised that no-one had really spoken to the woman; instead rushing to make themselves busy and put it as far behind them as they could, unable or unwilling to dig too deep into in incident they'd rather forget.

Seeing her, scurrying from one place to the next, trying to stay invisible, Lucy decided the situation couldn't stand and set her feet on an intercept, determined to get to her before she could hide in the next shadow or isolated task.

She quick-stepped across the ribbon of road, coming at her obliquely from behind. And, before Jane knew what was happening, with a quick greeting and linking of arms she steered her, mystified and too surprised to protest, away from the bunkers and closer to the hillside and its views across the loch. Lucy, still too warm, took off the jacket she had on and laid it down on the sodden grass, sitting quickly; and with a bright smile and a firm hand half forcing, half encouraging Jane to join her.

Jane, eyes darting in mild panic, reluctantly sat down, the pack falling from her shoulder. Her knees came up in reflex, hugged tightly by her arms, and she stared out to the water, pointedly not meeting Lucy's gaze.

"How's Tony doing?" As opening gambits went Lucy immediately knew it was weak and winced inwardly, "I mean, I saw you coming out with your bag, thought you must've been in there seeing how he was?"

"He's ok." Not much more than a whisper.

"And Nick, still fussing around him like a mother hen? The other day- "

"They're fine, if that's all, I have things I need to see too, and make sure...," again not much more than a whisper tailing off, and she moved to get up.

Desperate, determined, Lucy grabbed at her hand, keeping her in place, feeling the weak struggle that Jane put up to get away, "Jane! Stop, stay...just stay here for a few minutes. Sit with me and...talk!" She felt herself at a loss, realising she hadn't really planned this through with anything other than a need to help this broken woman, her friend. "It's ok, I know...I know it must be horrible, I know it must be so, so hard, but it wasn't your fault," she stared hard at the other woman's now frozen frame, "You can't keep beating yourself up and bottling up the guilt. Nobody blames you Jane, nobody at all. What he did...well, with what he did...just, its...it's not your fault."

"You think I feel guilty...?" the whisper so quiet that Lucy at first wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

"Jane, what? I- "

"You think I feel guilty?" Louder now, and Janes head turned, her eyes now finding Lucy's own.

"You're right, I have no idea Jane, I just...I can't imagine what you must be going through right now."

"Guilt? Guilt would be easy!" She looked out across the bay again, "My only regret is I only put one bullet into him, that was too easy for him, painless! More than he deserved, but I hope he's burning in his hell right now!" She turned again to Lucy, this time not avoiding her gaze, the floodgates seemingly burst "No, what I am Lucy is betrayed. Betrayed to the depths of my being. By him! By that bastard that killed my, our, friends." Her fist clenched tightly, "Do you know...well, no you wouldn't, but it was always us you know...always us- me, him, Mac. For a short while maybe, before others came or Mac picked them up, but for a while it was just us. And even when the others arrived and we grew, at the centre there was us. And I told him, shared with him, every hope, every dream, every secret and fear that I had in the night; and he listened. I would laugh, cry, scream even with the absurdity of everything that happened, and he would be there, with his arms, words...comfort! He would console me, placate me, tell me hard truths and get me off my self-pitying arse when it was needed," She looked almost mournful, and Lucy could see the beginnings of tears in the corners of her eyes, "He was my rock!" She launched the word with disgust, and the tears came, "And he spat on all of that, he spat on me, he betrayed me so much, betrayed all of us, and I feel so stupid...so so stupid! To have believed in someone, him, to have not seen what he was, what was going to happen! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

She beat the ground with her fist, grinding her knuckles into the soft earth as she went on, "If I could do it again I'd make him suffer Lucy, make him suffer so much for Tom and the others! I should have seen it, known it, done something. Bastard!"

Lucy grabbed her by the neck and pulled her close, letting the sobs soak deeply into her shoulder, the muffled roar of pain absorbed there, expelled. But the guilt? Lucy wondered how Jane would ever release herself, not from any guilt over Hanlon's death, but from the guilt of not seeing through him sooner. She had no immediate answers either, but swore silently to herself that this woman, who'd been the kindest to them all, would not go through it alone anymore.

Mac, treading confidently through the detritus still surrounding the trucks that lead like snail trails into the interiors of the hillside, walked passed the thick concrete doors into bunker one. One remained closed fast while the other was swung wide, the reinforcing steel bands now beginning to show some rust and pitting through lack of care and weathering. He strode with the incoming breeze into the dank interior searching for Kane, his eyes adjusting to the struggling light thrown by torches, both electric and flame, that spotted across the walls and floor.

He caught sight of him as he moved further, near the rear bent over in conversation, and as he approached could hear him, and Rick, extolling the virtues of one of the generators with some choice language.

"How goes it? Rick!" A hand shot out and waved in acknowledgement from under the raised machine

Kane aimed a kick at the uncooperative machinery and looked around, "Piece of shit! Worked for ten minutes and then packed up. Hope the rest aren't this bad." He turned away from the offending machine and threw a quizzical look at the old soldier, "What's up? I thought you were dockside?"

"Aye I was son, just checking around. Good news is that fuel found the other day will be fine. Needs a bit if stabilisation but seems in surprisingly good order," his brows furrowed for a second, "And looks like that's the foods stored and nearly all the shelters set up inside the mid bunkers; quite warm inside with people in, not too bad at all. What you have the generator planned for son?"

"The garage Mac. Some of the trucks could do with some TLC to say the least, and they'll fit through the doors no problem and out of the rain. Rick and a couple of the others plan to give them the once over." An accompanying thumbs-up shot out at floor level this time.

"Good, not least keeping them out of sight anyway. Don't want them out in the open, not when we've failed to find a single serviceable vehicle on the whole site. We may need them again."

Rick rolled out with a groan and stood up, wiping grease across his overalls, "Ever the optimist Mac eh? Me, I just want to get my hands dirty and occupied."

"You'll get your wish no bother at all Rick; think there's gonna be plenty for everyone to do for a while."

"Aah, and here was me looking forward to a life of leisure too." He gave a final rub of his hands on the rag hanging off the generator and gestured a surrender at the two men, "Anyway, later guys, my belly needs filling."

With a flicked wave he wandered back toward the bright rectangle of the entrance, leaving Kane and Mac alone and staring at the defunct generator.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Come on Mac, there's no way you just came in here to chew the fat, or deliver a mundane update; what's on your mind?"

He chuckled, "That obvious eh? No wonder I lost so much at poker, must have the world's shittiest poker face, "the chuckle became a sigh and he stared around the inside of the bunker before continuing, "Couple of things son, might be something, might be nothing. Me, I'm a natural pessimist so I'm leaning toward the something. And I'd rather have a few more people working my paranoia as well!"

"Mac..."

"Yeah I know, get to the point. Ok, first thing-this place. It's too empty, too bare. A hasty exit and things should have been left lying all over the place for us to find, little things, unimportant things, breakages... but this, this is _clean_ , too fucking clean; like it's been picked over, loaded up, and carted off. If that's the case, then our problem is the when and the who! If it was not so long ago, then we may bump into these folk, and I would guess if they were anxious enough to empty this place, then their gonna like all the goodies we've got, and they may not ask friendly!"

"Mac, that's a fair point, but no matter where we go that could happen, at least here we're securing ourselves; we've got supplies and ammo, you've posted lookouts," he slapped the concrete wall to his rear, "and these little hobbit holes are not too shabby if we have to defend ourselves are they."

"I know that son, and if it was just that I wouldn't worry. We could hold here for a long time against any other single group on the make, probably send them packing with their tails between their legs. But my other point means that we may find that out sooner than we would like! Listen," he looked Kane square in the face, "before we left Condor, Mike asked where we were going, so I told him, which means there's a chance he blabbed about that as much as he did about the route we were taking when he had the radio. We could be in for a visit in the _very_ near future son, and it won't be very neighbourly after the way we blew a few of them to kingdom come now will it!"

Kane blew the air from his cheeks and looked hard at the dark ceiling above, "Look Mac, so far every choice you've made in the last few days has been _spot_ on, all these people know that and appreciate it; you got us here, safe and relatively sound." His eyes dropped to Mac's, almost apologetic for what he said next, "I hear what you're saying but do you really want to put these people through the wringer again, now, when they've got their minds set on being settled and safe? We know the Monks didn't follow us in to that...well, whatever the hell you call that; Christ, they probably tucked tail and ran! I'm not saying you're wrong, just- well can't we take the chance and enjoy the moment?"

Mac looked crestfallen, the guilt and doubt of the last few days shouting from every pore. His shoulders fell almost imperceptibly and he looked with uncertainty back at Kane, a wry laugh issuing eerily in the dank stillness of the bunker. He clapped Kane on the shoulder as he spoke

"Aye son, maybe your right. Ignore me the now eh, just an old soldier letting paranoia get the better of him. Och, forget I said anything ok; you're right- let them enjoy it, they deserve that at the very least. Who am I to spoil the party!"

With another uncertain chuckle he turned away, heading back toward the entrance and the daylight beyond. Kane watched him trudge off, noting the small added slump in his shoulders and gait.

"Mac, listen, I never meant- "

Mac waved away the protest, "No worries son, just forget we spoke about it for now. I'll see you for supper ok." A wry smile passed across his face, and before he left he turned and spoke back to Kane, "Just one more thing though, something else to ponder if you like. The Monks may give up the chase, probably already have I grant you that, but think on this- we stumbled in and did some serious damage to a lot of other _things_ to get away didn't we," he let the thought sink in, "Thing is son, you might get your wish and the answers you keep looking for, 'cos if I was them I would be looking for us under _every_ leaf and stone for some serious _bloody_ revenge. We may have just put ourselves slap bang in the middle of a war!"

The next day dawned bright for once, and the group gathered around the propane tank and its burner in the mess for a breakfast of tinned rations and some remaining fresh vegetables they had become accustomed to. Kane spent most of it stifling the yawns from a night of broken sleep, his mind too pre-occupied with the seed that Mac had planted there the previous evening. The night had brought too many thoughts- the danger of feeling too safe, a multitude of what-ifs, and questions about the people he had now surrounded himself with through circumstance.

Following that discussion, he had slowly walked from the bunker, wiping his hands on the rag as if to clean them of the blood Mac had indicated may yet be spilled, and had seen the figure of the old soldier striding across the roadway; saw the hitch in his stride as Deadlock rounded the hill, and the uncertain way Mac had at first continued, then changed his direction to intercept the boy. From the shadow by the door he had watched the two, saw the edgy gap between them to begin with closed by Macs hand on the boy's shoulder, the following words lost to distance and wind. Watched the shrugs and drooped head of Deadlocks tears, and finally the clasp as the old warrior pulled the frightened boy into all the apology that was needed, hugging him close. The sight had brought others to mind, and, reflecting on them he had suddenly realised, despite the adrenalin and busyness of the last few days, just how much he was missing Lucy's face and company.

But too many people had impeded him as breakfast ended, and he could only look on as she left with a small group, heading out to whatever task awaited her today. Instead he resolved to wave it off and threw himself into the work that awaited him for the day, burying himself in the grease and grime again as he worked on the un-cooperative generators. Much cursing and bruised fingers formed the pattern through the day's hours, but a small flicker of electric light was his reward for honest efforts as they wound down, a worthwhile cause for jubilation as the holler came, along with the aroma, calling them to dinner.

He and Rick had been two of the last to make it in, and as such were left to the few remaining seats at the stretched trestle tables. Stepping over the running bench, he looked around, scanning the faces, finding her and David further down the bunker on the other side of the first table, deep in conversation with those around her. Catching his glance as she looked up, she offered him a quick wave and smile before settling back into whatever topic was underway. Kane sat with his food and listened to the hubbub of mixed voices echoing from the walls, speaking to Rick further about the generators, turning in response to Curtis' hand on his shoulder, and listening to expletive filled detail of precisely how cold it was up the watchtowers. In his hunger he wolfed down his rations, certain of the indigestion to come later, but not caring. He spoke lightly to those around him, joining in the stories of the day, but always keeping one eye keen, fixing her position in the mess.

Finished, his plate scoured clean, he made his excuses and stood to dump his plate in the water of the cleaning trough. Making his way around the line of seats he walked to where she sat, answering the welcoming smile from David and asking after those seated around, joining the conversation lightly as he stood behind Lucy's chair. As the conversation ebbed he picked up Lucy and David's now empty plates from the table and asked her if she would like a walk, his heart thumping unexpectedly as she answered with a smile and rose to her feet.

They walked out into a now crisp evening, the fresh breeze off Loch Long stinging the skin awake and ruffling their unkempt hair, while random beams of light from the setting sun found breaks in the massed cloud to cast a warm glow at odds with the bitter air. David, now back to his impish best, had wanted to accompany them, and Lucy had thrown a grateful look at Deadlock as he had intercepted the four-year-old mischief maker and dragged him off to play hide and seek amongst some of the safer tumbled mounds of kit.

They wandered north of the bunkers, coming to the small body of Lochan Ghlas Laoigh, its waters rippling lightly in the breeze as they followed it round to the east, the forest on their right hiding the perimeter fence as they followed the shoreline.

Kane was still surprised at the small size of the base, its diminutive two-mile length at odds with the deadly purpose and materials it had once stowed in safety, and its smallness masked further still by the gently undulating landscape and the sparse scattering of buildings within its perimeter. They walked slowly across the rough ground along the shoreline, clumps of heather still numerous enough to fool the unwary and twist an ankle. And so they walked quietly for a spell, concentrating on their next steps. Silence suited the mood, the hypnotic rhythm of the elements, and it was some time before Lucy broke the stillness, turning her face into the red sunlight to speak to him, peering directly at his eyes.

"How's your work going?"

"Good Luce. One of the generators _finally_ showed some signs of life tonight."

_"Yee-ha_ , hot showers _and_ cooked breakfasts before we know it eh?"

He laughed at the playful sarcasm in her voice, "Well, not quite; but it's a start. How's Jane?" He had spotted the two of them in deep conversation earlier in the day.

"I think she'll be alright. I'm sure she will. But you'll catch her wiping away the odd tear, like she doesn't want anyone to see. She let some of it out anyway, and the sooner the rest comes the better I suppose."

"I guess. I understand what she did; _hell_ not that I remember through the shock of it all but I'm pretty sure I felt like it myself when he admitted what he had done, but having to live with it is a different matter entirely."

"The twins have helped a bit. She's been spending time with them- Tony especially. I think the fact of how badly wounded he was is helping her rationalise why she did what she did."

"Yeah, I saw her in there today. Good, it would be a shame to lose her, she's a good woman; strong."

Lucy nodded agreement with a troubled face, her eyes searching his for answers as she looked up.

"What the hell are we doing Nate, what's going on? At Perth I couldn't- Was it real? I saw it, I know I saw it, but-"

"I know Lucy, it's ok. I've thought the same thing- it _can't_ be real, it must be a trick, a hallucination; but every time I open my eyes I'm still here, and all my senses are telling me that what I'm seeing, hearing, and feeling are real. Hey I read the Bible, along with _billions_ of other lapsed and practicing god fearing types, but did it ever really, and I mean _really_ , cross my mind to believe what was written there? _Hell no!_ Of course it didn't, why would it? I was never that deep, never that questioning. But here we are, and I guess for better or worse here we stay."

"In a world full of the impossible you mean. I know what the priest said to me back in Arbroath, but even now...Jesus Nate, what they did to Tom and the others- if they were angels Nate, honest to god angels; why would they do that?"

He paused, unsure how to frame his answer without sounding cold, "Look what we were doing to them Lucy, we didn't stop, we didn't warn them, or give them a chance... but we had no choice. Even if we hadn't done it, who knows, they may have done the same anyway," he smiled lightly, "I get the feeling that religious fundamentalism has taken on a _whole_ new meaning in this one!"

Her laugh was half hearted and forced, "You think the whole world's like this then. That there's others out there, other people caught up in this just like we are?"

"Would imagine so, can't imagine we're the only ones' left can you? Maybe we'll never know. Me and Curtis spoke about this a bit. Who knows maybe everyone sees what we see or they see it according to what they believe in. Either way, it's a fucking mess."

She aimed a pointed look back at him, "Did you enjoy it? When we were forcing our way through?"

"Lucy-." He stopped, shocked by the sudden barbed question.

"Sorry, all things considered, I just wanted-," she looked away, "...forget I asked."

They both stopped, letting the pause drift, watching the waves ripple, turning their own thoughts over in their heads. The wind rifled through their hair and rustled about their clothing, insistent and hushed.

From the distance David's laughter suddenly broke through the silence, ringing in the air.

"Now _that_ is a welcome sound!" Lucy said

"Yeah, he seems happier since we got here. What happened to him back at, you know... _there_?"

"I wish I knew Nate. To tell you the truth, it freaked me right out. There we were, sitting in the back of the truck, couldn't see a thing ahead, and he just started screaming, " _They're here... they're here_ ". All the way through he clung to me like a vice, shaking and sobbing. The thing that really gave me the creeps was that he started yelling _before_ Mac radioed through. Seriously weird. He seems ok now though. Who knows; they say kids are sensitive to changes and such, maybe he even heard or caught a glimpse of something that the rest of us didn't." She shrugged non-committaly.

"Maybe, seems back to himself though, minus the talking obviously. Hey, he's a kid, they bounce back fairly well; better than most of us adults anyway!"

"Everybody's been so good with him Nate. Nobody ever ignores him or turns him away. The other kids play with him so well, look after him. They're good people." She looked back towards the sound lost in her thoughts for the moment. When she turned back, something different was in her eyes, a sense of decisiveness.

"It feels safe here doesn't it?"

He felt it keenly in that one question, that one statement. No beating about the bush, telling him, _this is where I'm staying; this is where David is staying, where we belong. What about you Kane? What about you?_ He looked closely at her, marvelling that he had only known her for little over a fortnight, surprised at the strength of feeling he felt for her, her and the boy. Everything he had planned, all the burning questions still bubbling inside, now railed against this unexpected development and he found himself lost under the strength of her scrutiny.

"As safe as anyplace I guess Luce," he said, just as his thoughts jumped to dwell on his conversation with Mac, "I don't think anywhere can be completely safe though, not anymore."

She laughed lightly and shook her head, a sound that he felt like he could listen to for hours. So different from when they first met, she had become confident again, and full of the warmth and patience that must always have been there, hiding beneath the surface.

"Ever the pessimist Nathaniel eh," she teased him with his name, "Surely even you can see the relief on everyone's faces, the change from only a few days ago when we were so lost and confused. Even _you_ must feel it?"

"I do Lucy," he admitted un-reluctantly, "and I do feel more relaxed honestly. It's good to see the smiles on people's faces again."

"But?"

"You know how it is Lucy, what I said before. Even more so after what we've seen; Jesus Christ I still can't get my head around just how many there were. And there must be answers somewhere, _must be_! I just can't let it go just now, I'm sorry."

To his surprise she didn't try to argue with him, no clouds passed over her face at his answer, and strangely he felt disappointed, a part of him wanting her to argue, to care enough to. Instead they walked on in silence again, alone with their own thoughts, as the sun sank lower in the sky to the west. She shivered in the cooling breeze and they moved closer, her laughing at his chivalrousness as he offered her the parka from his back. Instead she moved closer still and an arm snaked around his back, another his front, catching him by surprise, her head tucking in close to steal some heat. She noticed the stiffening of his back and laughed as she looked up.

"Christ Nate, anyone would think you're afraid of me. Little old me, who's half your size and as thin as a rake!"

He smiled nervously. It was true, his six plus frame dwarfed her thin petite figure, but he could feel her body moulded too him with all her warmth radiating against his own side. He could smell the soap from her hair, her one luxurious act since they had stopped, scrubbing herself clean, feeling human again. It overwhelmed his senses, the touch, the smell, the gentle rhythm of her breathing and movement alongside him, and he realised it was too much. He had cocooned himself from these feelings and sensations years ago, had done so out of necessity, and there was still too much to do, too many promises to keep, before he could even allow himself to contemplate what he was feeling now. Unconsciously his body pulled away, reacting to the uncertainty he was feeling.

"Nate?" she looked up, "What is it? What's wrong?" Her arms seemed to clasp him tighter, "Stay Nate, here, now, with me."

He turned his head to the water, afraid to look at her directly, not wanting to see the welcome and warmth to be found there, or let her see his fear, knowing he was about to bring it cruelly all crashing down around her for a promise, and questions, only he could understand.

His voice when it came croaked dryly from his throat, "Lucy, you know I can't. I-. You know what I have to do. I have to know, I made a promise."

She drew away from him then, and he could see the conflict in her eyes, the doubt, even the rising anger. In equal measure he both wanted to turn and run from those accusing eyes but also sweep her into his arms and lose himself in her.

_"Jesus_ Kane, wasn't Perth enough? Wasn't _that_ enough death and destruction to satisfy you? How much more do you need for Christ's sake?" her voice trembled from the effort of trying not to shout, "Let it go, _please_. What's the worst that can happen huh, you might even be happy! How will you know if you don't even try it? _My_ husband died in a pool of his own filth as the skin dropped from his bones, I watched my parents die in a fireball six feet from me. Both times I could do _nothing!_ It still hurts Kane, sometimes I see and hear them in the night, begging me...sometimes it rips apart my insides it's so strong, but I _deal with it!_ Look around, everyone has the same stories, everyone has had the same pain, but we're living Kane, _living_. What else can we do, it's all that makes sense! At least tell me _why_ for fuck's sake, grant me that at least?"

"Because I can..." he whispered.

Her mouth opened to fire back at him, and he lifted a hand stalling her, before taking her hand in his to speak again.

"Please Lucy, just hear me out ok. Sometimes I wonder about it myself, wonder where all this rage, this _need_ , inside me came from. Sure I know what caused it, _why_ I'm so full of anger- but not why it's still with me," he pounded on his own chest, "But it's there Lucy, like a hard knot just _sitting_ in my stomach, dying to be released, or at least be answered! "

"Dying is the right word Kane, that's where it's going to lead, you lying someplace, alone." A tear rolled down her cheek and she clutched at him, her eyes flickering across his face, "Look at me! _I_ don't want that Nate, _me_! Does that mean anything? Why don't you try it huh, just try it? Stay here with me, and David. We could be happy, all of us. I know you feel the same Nate," lightly she brushed his cheek, stared at him, "I've seen it in the way you look at me."

He nearly fell then, caved in the face of the hurt he knew he was causing her, but knew that he also had to make her understand.

"Lucy, I know, you're right. Sometimes it hits me that we only found each other little more than a fortnight ago, and it scares me just how much the two of you mean to me. And that's why in the end I have to go." He gave in then, pulled her closer and whispered in her ear, "Don't you see- I _could_ stay Lucy; I could stay and we could try and make a life here, survive the best we can, trying to be happy. But always, sitting in the darkness, in the middle of the night, I would feel it still there, _hard_ and _cold_ , unrelenting. Maybe I could even forget about it for a while, but we would both become consumed in wondering when it would come back; both worrying over when the time would come. You would come to hate me. It would tear us apart Lucy, you know it would."

Her muffled sobs wracked his shoulder and he hated himself for hurting her, for having to say these things to her; but knowing he was right didn't stop the tears that flowed down his own cheeks as she spoke through the hurt and punched him across the back and arms.

_"Damn you_ Kane, damn you to hell."

Chapter 20

"There's always another storm. It's the way the world works."

Maria V. Snyder

Stephen Reilly watched, distracted for a moment, as the setting sun sent shafts of light through the close-knit trunks around him. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had been standing post at the first lookout point for two and a half hours now and welcomed the distraction. _Beautiful_ , he thought, watching the changing shadows morph around him as the day fast turned into night.

The first hour had been fine. Mac had brought him here, bagged sandwiches and a thermos filling his pockets. Told him to keep an eye on the fence line through the trees, keep himself out of sight, walk this blind spot between the towers, and use the radio if he saw anything. For that short while the sense of purpose had been kind of exciting, some proper responsibility at last to make a change from all the sitting on his backside he had done in the mad dash here.

But now? He pulled his coat tighter around his body, trying to keep out the chill. He stomped his feet, not worrying too much about the noise as a thick carpet of fallen pine needles rested underfoot. He rested his rifle against his hip and blew warmth into his free hand, switching over once some feeling returned.

It had been good to get here, worth it after the couple of days of living purely on a continuous adrenalin rush, and now he was looking forward to getting comfortable. Perhaps even being brave enough to chat to Jessica? Well, maybe. They had been getting on well enough, seemed to have a bit in common, and he was sure that he had caught her looking his way once in a while since they had got here. He smiled, turning the prospect over in his mind, rehearsing the imagined conversation in his head. Weird to think that just over three years ago all he had been was a university drop out barely existing on a bad wage from a back street restaurant. Now? Well now he was a _survivor_ , armed and dangerous.

The setting sun warmed his face a tiny amount above the chill, and he lifted his head to it, eyes closed, in tune with the warm thoughts floating through his head. He didn't even hear the tall figure drop softly to the ground behind him with folded wings and bare feet, nor the one step it took toward his back on the cushioned forest floor.

His last look was one of puzzlement at the silken sound and the warmer sharp pain as the sword exited through his heart and ribs. He had time to watch it withdraw smoothly and almost marvel at the sensation... then the world went black.
Chapter 21

"It is not because angels are holier than men or devils that makes them angels,But because they do not expect holiness from one another, but from God only"

William Blake

Even with the long experience of a Watcher, Dina was surprised at just how good the humans were. Despite the delay in starting after the now doomed party, he had been taken aback at the quickness with which they had picked up and followed the trail. To his eyes, the ground before them had looked a confusion of bumps dips and spoil, impossible to discern detail in the chaos; but with their supposedly inferior eyes, the humans had discerned the necessary trail and kept them on it with conviction.

It had come as something of a shock, and almost angry chagrin, to find that he and his host were something of a hindrance to the pursuit. Five hundred strong, they had left the main company with two groups of the humans, each group respectively occupying one of the chariots they seemed so fond of. The reason for this fondness became apparent as they sped away on the chase, leaving the mostly earthbound and foot weary host trailing in their wake. A pattern had formed whereby one of the vehicles would stop and wait on Dina and his command catching up, whereupon they would report in and once more speed off to leapfrog the other vehicle; the pattern repeating itself over the miles. Thankfully, the group to a man maintained their obvious awe in the Host's presence, and Dina felt not the slightest concern that they would suddenly vanish after one of their sprints ahead.

Despite the annoyance at their reliance on the small band, Dina still could not begin to comprehend his master's utter disdain for the Chosen. Perhaps it was the exposure he had been accustomed to as a Watcher, but the quirks and intricacies of the humans made him feel at ease rather than contemptuous, and he found it hard to fathom the level of anger that his Lord so readily displayed.

Certainly he himself had felt anger beyond what he believed himself capable of at the horror of the river bank; row after row of his brethren cut down by metal they could not even see, but more than most Dina recognized that it was the nature of free will and its consequence, and to blame and resent the whole for the crimes of a few was a concept alien to him. In a softer light he pondered that perhaps he was being too critical of his superior; after all the choice to send Dina was a sound one given his experience, and in Dina's adulate eyes showed a command insight to be respected.

They continued to race across the landscape at their elastic pace, the vehicles constantly shooting ahead to scout before waiting on the main body of the force to make up the ground. Half a day into the chase and they had come to a spot that, even to the angels' untrained eyes, marked a stopping place. The humans, for once finding cause to stop together, had left their vehicles and stood dispassionately around the corpse lying on the earth, half covered with fresh snow, and Dina had sensed in them a little disappointment at the discovery, as if something had been lost. But, to their credit, they rallied once more, sniffing the trail out and setting off.

At one point, high atop a hill with some rare clear air they had spotted their prey in the distance, the shortcut that had been suggested by the human contingent proving worthwhile. Many of the brethren had been anxious to vent their fury their and then, but the humans had stayed their hand however, arguing a preference to attack them when they were less mobile and cut off from any means of escape. Reluctantly Dina had agreed and they had complied, left to watch from a distance, the odd flier risked for a quick glimpse when landscape or distance interrupted any further observation from the ground.

As the pursuit progressed, he found the humans more inventive and cunning than he had previously imagined. Several times, even with their sharper eyesight, he and his companions had almost fallen over the humans who lay hidden in the undergrowth; their practice of camouflaging themselves against the background drawing appreciative murmurs from the assembled troop. Their spyglasses too were a revelation, the small shock at the distance being brought so close quickly lost in the wonder of the apparatus.

Despite these curiosity's however they refrained from handling or asking about the weapons of the Chosen; their fear of their Lord's wrath at such a breach of his strictures far outweighing the curiosity they found in the dark metallic sheen of the instruments.

In grim mood they continued west, a stiffening westerly breeze in their faces. Limbs that had been tired from the exertions back at the river, began to find new life and energy again in the thought of battle, and some measure of retribution against those who had slain their brothers. They moved carefully between hill and hollow, their light footfalls masking their chase, and kept their target in sight as much as was possible without betraying their own location and the fact of the pursuit. One of the human's chariots deviated from their general heading and split north from the group while the troops followed the other on its westerly route. Dina watched it go, but saw no reason to query it; the humans had tracked well so far.

Presently a stretch of water hove into view and the Chosen stopped the host where they were, encouraging them to spread out amongst the trees at the loch side and mask their visibility as best they could. For what seemed an age they lay in the minimal shelter of the half dead wood around them, sheltering from the cool breeze as best they could behind the dry trunks and little ditches that criss-crossed the area. The growing inaction started to breed murmurs of dissent amongst a restless Host, a collectively rising annoyance with the lack of activity and seeming impotency. Seeing this Dina was forced to put his own similar concerns to one side as he travelled amongst them, cajoling and renewing the vigour that they appeared to be losing, with his presence and words.

Some of the hardliners, especially those who were not Watchers, remained offended that they were at the beck and call of a group of humans, echoing their Lord Anziel's lead with a display of contempt at the situation, but even they were somewhat curtailed & restrained in the face of the humans' ability to track silently and effectively so far.

At length the second chariot returned, Dina watching the humans talking animatedly amongst themselves as the alighted form the vehicle. Presently the group broke up, one vehicle leaving again, this time south, while others took rest. One however, who he recognised as one of the leading humans, Johnson, came his way and gently ushered the angel forward to the brow of the tallest hill in the area.

Once there, and after some discussion, Dina took the pair of proffered binoculars and peered over the water to the long spit of land adjacent. With the human tugging gently at his arm to guide him, he eventually directed the glasses to a barely visible road running by the coastline on the opposite side, and watched as a line of three large vehicles passed across his field of vision, seeming to move slowly and cautiously down the track. As he followed, they gradually vanished from view, flickering out of sight behind the numerous trees, and he handed the glasses back, a sense of overdue culmination flowing through him. He turned to the human Johnson next to him, whose name did not trip easily from his tongue as did most soft human names, and asked one simple question, "When?"

Johnson turned and looked at him, up into the angel's face, and to Dina it started to feel like an examination as he studied the angel's features before replying. He spat first in the dirt and sardonically turned back to face the water, muttering, "A few days."

"Days? That is unacceptable. We know now where they are; we should _strike_! As you say we outnumber them more than-," he struggled to recall the phrase he had heard, "- _ten to one_!"

Johnson turned back to face him with what Dina was sure was a sigh, his smooth childlike face and complexion at odds with the dark furrowed eyes that he turned on the seven-foot-tall warrior beside him. He was tall for a human, coming almost to Dina's shoulder, and his voice was clipped and precise, unlike others of the group, lending him an authority and bearing that worried Dina somewhat.

"Sure, go right ahead _my Lord_. See how many you can cut down with your swords, _lovely_ and sharp though they are, before you find yourselves full of holes. Your troops have no grasp of tactics at all, you stand out like pink elephants, and you have no idea of how to take on the weapons and positions that these people hold. You saw what they did back at the river didn't you?" he waited for the Angels affirmative nod, "Well, in my ever so _humble_ opinion, it seems that you were _so_ busy preparing for your _other_ conflict that you paid scant attention to the good old twenty first century human conflicts down here."

Sarcasm, an affectation peculiar to the humans, and one that Dina was sure was being employed at his expense. Nevertheless, he deferred to the point made by the smaller being beside him and asked in as controlled a manner as he could muster, "Then how long pray?"

"Three days, give or take. We want them nice and settled where they're going; nice and relaxed. In the meantime, with your permission, let's see about getting your command in some semblance of order and with some understanding of modern _human_ tactics; and maybe we might come away from this more or less intact."

With reluctant acquiescence, Dina motioned for them both to return to the shelter of the trees. As they were walking Johnson turned to him.

"One thing puzzles me Lord. While we managed to _track_ them efficiently, couldn't you have just-?" he made a flamboyant gesture with his hand in the air.

Dina smiled, "Even we have rules by which we must abide Johnson. Actions such as you suggest would be contrary to the strictures we have set for ourselves. Aside from the privileges of the Command rank who may travel on a thought, us _simpler_ soldiers must obey the ancient laws decreed for this conflict. Thus no _magic's_ as I suppose you would call them, and certainly no assistance or interference from those who remain behind. The only option open to us is to fight and win, then we may ascend once more."

Johnson's face turned thoughtful, "Seems you're pretty much as fucked as we are then."

Dina got the meaning and smiled, "Maybe Johnson. But we have faith. Do you not think that I have noticed that you seem to hold us in less reverence than your colleagues? Your tone generally borders on insolence and yet you are sided with those who believe that by serving us they may serve the Lord. Tell me Johnson, how is this so?"

Johnson pierced him with a startling glance before answering, "Most observant _Lord._ You are right of course; I hold all the parties involved in this... _misadventure_ in equal concerned reservation shall we say. But one does what one must to survive. After all I am fed, still healthy, in full possession of my faculties, and more than likely quite secure in my current position. What's not to like?" he smiled at Dina, "My _colleagues_ however _,_ as you put it, are quite fanatical in their beliefs, and truly feel that their _methods_ are correct for the work that the Lord has deemed them worthy to administer," he stopped and lit a dog-eared cigarette which he had removed from his jacket, cupping his hands against the cold wind. As a cloud of blue smoke enveloped him he finished, "Hell- sorry no pun intended- as long as I'm not at the business end of one of their knives I don't care what they do!"

Finding himself slightly uncomfortable with the underlying duplicities in Johnson's admission Dina was relieved that they soon found themselves back in the main body of the company, where Johnson left to confer with his companions while Dina summoned his own leaders around him to explain the situation. Their subsequent expressions said it all, resentment pouring like steaming air into the cold atmosphere, but they remained obeisant and silent, and returned to feed the news back to their already sullen troops.

For the remainder of the day, they sat in little huddles and pockets, some isolating themselves as they gave in to their still new physical forms requirement for sustenance; hiding their faces from their companions as they ate with undisguised disgust the simple foodstuffs that their bodies demanded; One more thing that they had been forced to become accustomed to after their transition. Thankfully their form did not require the levels of rabid consumption that the humans seemed to need in order to function, and for that Dina was exceedingly grateful, but it was still something of a shock to find themselves in such a dependant situation.

The extended period of inaction was making the small company restless, anxious to feel involved in something. Following the discussion between Dina and Johnson, the humans obliged, forming them up into ranks of fifty and assigning two of their number to each group.

It did not start well. On a command from Johnson, the pairs approached each group and, after bending down, came up with a handful of mud and filthy ground litter that they proceeded to stain and rub deeply into the nearest angels' robes. After a moment's collective incredulity, the air was suddenly filled with the angry hiss of drawing steel.

_"Vashnari_! Sifnor la meh! Vashnari!" shouted Dina, his authoritative tone stopping what was on the cusp of being a round of bloodletting by His host at the seeming affront. His head whipped around quickly to Johnson, who once again he found with that almost contemptuous half smile on his face.

_"What_ is the meaning of this _human_? You dare sully the servants of the Lord your God!" The cadence of his voice vibrated with barely disguised rage.

"Be at peace _Lord,"_ again _that_ tone as he said it, "My compatriots do not seek to offend you or your host, merely to dull the brightness of your clothing." He held up a hand, responding further to the question on Dina's face before it was voiced, "I presume you want to be able to use those swords yes? You have seen us blend into the landscape around you? Well, by dulling your robes like this, and teaching you how to approach with stealth rather than an angry herd of elephants, you may yet get close enough to the enemy to put these swords to use."

Dina understood quickly what he wanted to achieve, but he seethed inwardly at his reliance on the small creature beside him.

"Beware human. You begin to _presume_ too much. Inform me of your plans, _before_ we go further, and I shall approve or dismiss as necessity dictates."

"As you wish Lord."

Over the next while he proceeded to do so, elaborating on the planned tactics and methods that the humans wanted to train and implement. Dina listened carefully, and though part of him wished to refuse this cocky human, his head understood and grasped quickly that what was being suggested increased the chances of a successful conclusion to this mission; and he told himself it wasn't a consideration, knew that it would also result in a rise in his own standing among the greater Host. With a prolonged play of deep and thoughtful consideration, he finally agreed and authorised the humans' planned regime.

Over the next two days, the humans tasked the angels in a variety of ways that were utterly alien to them and their preconceptions, at odds with their ingrained desire to face the enemy and be seen before closing for battle. They bridled initially at the requests and demands placed upon them, quietly rebelling in small ways against the authority that their commander had let the humans have over them, making noise, being out of position, dropping weapons. But slowly, with each successful conclusion of a task, a group's competitive success, and each small withering of tradition, they began to enjoy the stimuli of the humans' ideas, and started to see the possible results of this manner of battle.

Soon they attacked each challenge with relish, and in the final practice prior to Johnson's proposed move against the target, they excelled, amazing Dina with the stealth and silence of their movements and the co-ordination behind each assault on the imaginary positions. Truly this was something that had to be brought to his master's attention as soon as they got back.

His golden eyes were filled with pride as he watched the culmination of their endeavours and he turned to Johnson for the praise that they deserved. He, in turn, paused to crush another spent cigarette underfoot in the leaf litter and, after a lingering look at the troop, slowly turned toward the vehicles parked at the bottom of the hill.

"They'll do. _Jim!_ lets' move."

Half sure that the throwaway line was intended as a put down, Dina still felt some odd little pride at the comment, and with what felt like a lighter step turned to join his troops as they formed up to march.

They moved carefully north, impatience tempered by watchfulness as they now sought in the human way to surprise their intended target. Johnson sent the humans ahead, pragmatically relying more on _their_ skills as scouts at this juncture rather than the fledgling skills of the host who, though improved, still moved a bit too noisily and visibly.

Dina basked in a heady sense of anticipation and nerves; now, like his master, beginning to embrace the sensations that his new from assailed him with, learning to utilise them to his advantage. His hearing and sight became more acute, movement snapped his eyes to its source, sound was traced to its origin, and all the while the company moved onward in the face of slowly worsening weather and the silent foreboding hills around them.

They came to a halt at the isthmus of Gare Loch, the southern stretch to Coulport now ahead of them. All the humans had returned from their forward positions, and Johnson set about issuing instruction to his and Dina's subordinates for the approach on the enemy; keen that all be aware of what was required and when.

Their pace grew even more cautious, brief periods of forward progress followed by extended periods of waiting and listening; under instruction to make no sound, watching the surroundings for any indication that they had been discovered. Despite this they made steady progress down the road, hugging the coast with the closely packed trees between them and the target area.

Then, some three miles away from their final destination, with the sun beginning its downward slide toward the horizon, prickly shafts of light playing over the ground as it peeked through the clouds, Johnson brought them to a halt.

They spread out into the landscape Host and human, using the natural cover available, as Johnson, under Dina's gaze, gathered all the necessary commanders around him, sheltered in the hollow of a fallen tree. With his lookouts set around the perimeter Johnson turned to the task of outlining the plan for their offensive. Pulling a weathered map from his coat he unfolded it on the forest floor, kneeling beside it in the mulch while the others craned over to follow his direction.

"Ok, here we are. Not a nice detailed map I know, bit big picture, but for our purposes it will do. From here," he indicated their current position with his index finger, "I am going to take the vehicles and half my men down to the main approach. Now, I expect them to have lookouts, we've already spotted two, but for the most part these trees are nice and thick enough to keep us hidden until we have to turn onto the entrance road here." Again he pointed. Looking up he fixed on Dina, "You, and your soldiers on the other hand are going to stay here. Due west, about half a mile, you come to the end of the trees. Beyond those trees is the perimeter fence looking onto a rising hill." He paused while they all indulged a need to look around, "We're lucky, the fence has metal posts; My guys have been able to cut half way through four of them, meaning that with a small push, the whole section will come down and let you through. The hill you will be climbing is the one which, on the opposite sides, has the bunkers driven in. Once we engage at the entrance, that should draw them in; and that, with any luck is where we'll surprise them as you then assault from the rear" He stopped again, letting them peruse and point at the map before he interrupted again, "Remember, there's also valuable equipment and supplies to be had here too, so let's try and avoid too much damage too anything actually valuable!"

With the angels bemused at that last while the humans laughed sardonically, he stood, stretching his back out as he looked around the group. Then, after another brief moment, and leaving the map on the ground he spent the next twenty minutes detailing the order of battle, positions, contingencies, having the involved parties repeat back to ensure they understood. Dina was impressed despite himself; firstly, for the level of detail and thought evident in the plan, and secondly for the calm professional manner in which this human explained himself. Indeed, he began to see once more the faculties and imagination that had impressed so many watchers in the past, and assured their dedication to these Chosen over millennia.

Johnson rounded off, his eyes travelling to each in turn as he completed the briefing, "You all know what to do, you know what we want to achieve, now go tell that to your squads. Get them fit, get them ready, and soon we will move. Remember, nobody moves a muscle until you receive my signal- _nobody_!"

With that the group burst in the directions of their respective units while Johnson turned to Dina, his hand grabbing the angels and slamming something into it hard. Dina looked down, felt the cool dark plastic of the radio against his palm, and instinctively started to shy away, mindful of his master's instructions.

Johnson held it in place, his strength vying with the angel's as he looked hard at him, "We're here, this is now, it's only _us_. _One_ chance and we either succeed or fail, no extra time, _no_ second chances. Take the radio and listen close. When I signal... well-," a wicked smile split his face, "-then you get to unleash all that _righteous_ holy anger in one fell swoop my friend. Enjoy it!"

And with that he turned away, leaving Dina to watch his back, the radio dark and weighed down with foreboding in his hand.

The wait felt like an eternity as the shadows lengthened around them. Blood red light began to suffuse the sky and as if in response the wind became full of teeth, pulling and buffeting as it sped through the wood, chilling them to the bone. Dina stared at the linked fence entranced; it had been their only view for the last hour, their stopping place after a prolonged, silent, and careful advance, knowing they were at the right section by the fluttering ribbons that had been set on sticks behind the nearest trees. A now familiar sense of trepidation had crept over him as they stood there, an apprehension of what was to come. It still unnerved him; his entire existence up until walking physically on this earth had been one of contentment and place, of certainty in the hierarchy of the Master's court, knowing his place, everything ordained and as it should be. Now, over the hill ahead of him lay things unexpected, unknown.

Though initial preparatory action in the last hour had gone smoothly, and one meandering human had been removed from the equation, uncertain outcomes lay like a malevolent smothering blanket over all their heads, all of them slaves now to their own choices and consequences. He felt it in the ripple around him, under the surface, all his brothers feeling the same, relying on their faith more than ever, and leaning on the rock that it represented in their existence to get them through this trial.

Even without the restrictions imposed by Johnson, the silence would have remained, no-one willing to speak, all wrapped up in their own minds for the moment, waiting for the spark that would ignite the building charge. Some mulled over the plan in their minds, over and over, others mentally swung their swords in imaginary arcs, or worried over their own near future choices and those of their brothers around them.

A hiss like an explosion shattered the still silence, causing Dina to jump, and he glared balefully at the rectangle of warm plastic in his hand, his body hitching a second time quickly in succession as Johnson's voice crackled in the air, "We're in position...commence."

Collecting himself, Dina motioned the first two players in the piece forward, watching as they unslung their bows from their shoulders, hands reaching to their waists and the full quivers there. His whispered voice carried to those around him in the still air.

_"Now is the time brothers, now we exact vengeance_!"

Practiced fingers drew the shafts silently, delicately aligning them to the raised bows. All around them feet shuffled, weight was shifted, and bodies braced, expectant.

_"Move like the very wind, cut them down as they bend before you_."

A hush fell once more, the gut creaking loud in the dusk as the arrows were drawn back, caressing ivory cheeks.

Time stretched, all eyes fixed on the moving silhouette some three hundred paces distant, waiting for the movement to stop, the air to hush. The moment came as the sun flared on the horizon, its last embers brightening the whole sky.

_"We live to serve..._ "

In that instant, two sets of lithe fingers released their grip on the straining draw, the difference in the release marked in a heartbeat. But in that frozen moment, as one arrow whispered in release, and the other felt the push of tension, a scream rent the air, rising from beyond the hill. A scream of horror and warning, the sound of doom enough to transfer the minute twitch of a finger, caught by surprise, to the fleeing arrow.

Milliseconds separated their impact, growing inches their respective penetrations as the howl filled the air. The first threaded the lookouts throat, instantly rendering him incapable of voice. The second, intended for his heart, sliced instead into his abdomen. A killing stroke still, but one allowing time for the shock to register in his body, for electric impulses to race along nerve endings, pain to pull muscle taught, to pull a finger tight around a trigger and for the air to explode with the light and sound of thunder as he fell. His last act a warning.
Chapter 22

"Nuts!"

Anthony McAuliffe 101st Airborne

_"David_!" Lucy screamed

The stutter of gunfire lashed across the compound, and died away, leaving the boy's cry to echo impotently across the compound.

"Jesus, _come on_!" Kane grabbed Lucy's arm and half dragged her at a run back toward the bunkers.

Please let it not be, please!

They ran hard, feet gliding over the concrete again as they raced back around the curve of the lochan, intent on the bunkers to the south.

Figures burst from the doors, twisting this way and that as they tried to figure out what was going on.

David was still screaming as Deadlock ran in from the direction of the dockside, carrying the small boy in his arms, the tears flowing down his cheeks as he intercepted Kane and Lucy on the run back.

"I don't know what to do! He just.... I don't know," his voice broke and hitched breathlessly, "We were just playing and he just...he just started screaming!"

"Give him here," Lucy demanded, not even acknowledging Deadlock as she took David from him, her eyes wild and frantic with worry

Kane tried to pay attention, concerned for the boy but finding his eyes drawn to what was going on up ahead. They were only a hundred yards or so away now, curving around the hill, and he could already make out Mac standing outside the bunker doors, his arms directing people left and right. A figure stood half hidden by the shadows, appearing to hand out weapons and ammunition to the rushing figures. He saw Mac point and watched as someone began to climb the hill over the bunkers, labouring up the incline as they attempted to cradle their weapon effectively.

_Radio_! Kane suddenly remembered he'd tucked it inside his jacket and pulled it into his hand, keying the switch before he'd even raised it to his mouth, "Mac? Please tell me this is a false alarm!"

"... _you down to the old transfer facility building, cover the road... you...wait_ \- Just get back here son and grab a weapon, that gunfire came from the secondary lookout on top of the main re-entry processing tower and we can't raise him, so- "

_"Fuck_! Mac the hill, _the hill_!" On top of the hill, the lone figure that Mac had dispatched was silhouetted proudly as their body danced. Even from one hundred yards, Kane could see the shafts sticking from his body as he spun and fell out of site.

Mac reacted instantly, stopping people in their tracks, galvanising them. Some raced towards the main entrance to the south, heads down and flying, as Mac swore and cursed for all he was worth and hustled himself and the other bodies up the hill, fanning them out along the slope.

Kane literally screeched to a stop at the bunker doors grabbing a weapon to hand and shouting to Lucy further behind.

"Get inside, get inside! See to David!" a movement to his right caught his eye, " _Tony_! What the hell?"

In answer Tony just winked, using the rifle and a crutch to lurch slowly up the hill. Kane shook it off, disbelieving, and moved on, breathless, now close enough to hear Mac screaming ahead of him

"Hit the deck at the top, keep low. Don't give them anything to aim at. Spread out, that's it! Curtis, for fuck's sake just hit the dirt! You _want_ to be a _bloody_ pincushion!? Crawl if you have to. Hold your fire until- "

Another hammering of gunfire and the screech of the radio cut him off.

".... Mac, Mac! We've got cars coming in the main gate from the contractors' compound, coming right at us and- _shit_! They're firing at us!"

"Well, fire back then you fucking idiot!" he glanced around as Kane neared the top, "Glad you could join us son." An arrow thunked into the earth between them. Mac glanced up with a wry grin, "Good here innit?"

A storm of feathered shafts rose slowly over the summit, slowing perceptibly as they reached the zenith of their climb. With balletic poise they seemed to stall frozen in the sky before tipping over and beginning their earthward plummet. Most fell too long or too short, but some fell along the ridgeline, causing panic. Most of the defenders rolled out of the way where they were, but a few, the fear biting at their heels, jumped to their feet to run, instant targets sought out by faster more deliberate arrows.

Kane saw two people fall, one screaming and thrashing along the ground, the other dropping like a stone to lie deathly still.

"Stay down!" screamed Mac as he and Kane dropped and belly crawled to the summit. All the others had frozen, watching the skies and rolling if they had to as the hail continued.

Kane peered over the grass; Mac held binoculars up to his eyes and peered down the slope. The hill was empty, nothing on the ground between their position and the tree line some one hundred and fifty yards away. Arrows glinted in the light occasionally as they shot as if by magic from the lengthening shadows of the wood at the bottom, arcing gracefully with a swish of the air as they fell.

"What the hell is going on?" The whispered question rhetorical as Mac continued to scrutinize the tree line, " _Rick_! Go back and start the engines on the trucks, we might need them in a hurry.

A sudden cry of warning from the left dragged their eyes sharply back to the trees.

"Oh my god!"

From left to right as far as the eye could see, winged ivory figures burst from the trees and charged roaring up the hill.
Chapter 23

"There is only one honest impulse at the bottom of Puritanism, and that is the impulse to punish the man with a superior capacity for happiness."

H.L Mencken

Johnson watched the sparks fly off the front of the building as the bullets continued to hammer into it and remembered the old axiom that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. At the moment, never a truer word had been spoken regarding the situation he now found himself in.

They had gotten through the contractors' compound at the entrance and through the main gates unseen before _that_ scream had sounded and the lookout had then spotted them, opening fire from the roof of the Storage building directly ahead of them. The cars had slewed to a stop; bodies' bomb bursting to find cover behind the myriad huts and sheds that lined the road as bullets chipped away the concrete at their heels. Two had fallen almost immediately, their bodies crumpling soundlessly to the ground as high velocity slugs ripped through them.

_Son of a bitch!_ He felt the blood well up on his cheek as a sharp stone chip sliced across the flesh. The lookout on top of the Re-entry Body storage building one hundred yards in front of them was costing them precious time, time they didn't have if this was to be over with quickly.

_"McArthy_!" he screamed across at two bodies hunkered down at the shed opposite, "Get your fat fucking arse up and lay some fire on that building or I _will_ put a bullet in it myself!"

He watched the man as he psyched himself up with deep breaths and jumped up screaming, flames leaping from the rifle in his hand as he forced their current nemesis to keep his head down. Others opened up along the line, taking advantage of the lull in the incoming fire to pour their own onto the building, finally bringing their superior numbers to bear against the lookout's height advantage. The walls flashed with impacts like fireworks as they blazed away at the parapet, some adjusting their position for a cleaner line of fire.

Johnson ran back to the 4x4, weaving madly before diving behind its bulk. Sitting on the ground he opened the back door and staying as low as possible, pulled a long slender tube out and down onto his lap. A sudden baritone hammering and clinking told him that someone had finally set up the light machine gun, the links almost musical as they and the shell casings hit the ground, waste products of the hungry weapon.

Setting his rifle to the ground he flicked the safety on the new weapon and in one fluid motion was up and braced over the engine cover of the range rover. A split second between sighting and pressure on the trigger, and an arrow of fire and smoke shot away from him, the RPG trail corkscrewing but homing true on the building. Scant seconds later the top erupted in a fury of flame and rubble, crashing to the ground at its base.

"Move it, move it!" shouting over the ragged cheer, urging his troops to take advantage, he picked up his weapon and darted forward.

They all moved, as they should, cover and hop, using the buildings to keep moving forward up the road.

The last of the huts were passed, they were now out in the open, the road ahead leading directly round to the bunkers one thousand yards ahead.

Something sucked past Johnson's head and he hit the dirt as the noise reached him while more men fell twisting to the ground in a spray of blood.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! Too slow!_ Automatic fire poured in on them from the northwest. He risked a look up and saw five figures heading for the Transfer Facility shed ahead, reinforcements, firing on the run as they sought cover.

_"Back_ , get back!" Their only cover lay behind, the huts they had just left; the open ground they found themselves in now sure suicide against an entrenched and covered enemy.

What the hell was going on? That scream had sounded _before_ the lookout had been taken down! And it had sounded like a child more than anything else! Scrabbling backwards on knees and elbows he gripped the radio in dirt covered fingers and shouted across the airwaves.

_"Angel_ , where are the _goddamn fliers_? _Where_?"
Chapter 24

"The Almighty gave us our lives, and I suppose He meant us to defend them, at least I have always acted on that, and I hope it will not be brought up against me when my clock strikes"

H. Rider Haggard

".... between the buildings. I think I've go.........." The sudden hiss of static was given reason by the billowing smoke and thunderous rumble that rose from the south

"Shit," Mac switched channels, ignoring the tempest of gunshots going on around him, "Jake, they got Rob on the storage tower. Hold them you hear? You _have_ to hold them!"

He dropped the radio; the rifle pummelling his shoulder as he fired two short bursts down the hill. Despite the cold air, sweat poured freely from his forehead, but still he was chilled to the core with the sight in front of him.

It wasn't _what_ was running up the hill and doing its best to ruin his day that worried him- it was the _how_! When they had come through Perth they had fought their way through a maelstrom of chaos and butchery; random ebbs and flows which seemed more driven by mania and fury than anything coherent.

_But this_!

He watched as a platoon sized group leapfrogged up the hill in front of his position, arrow fire from the back keeping the heads of the defenders down and their aim off.

_This was organised; it was patient, deliberated. It was almost..._ human _!_

He swung a suppressing burst from left to right, not hitting anything but keeping heads down long enough for him to look along the line at his comrades. They were all hugging the ground as if wishing it to swallow them, some he could see with the triggers fully depressed. He tried to make himself heard above the clamour around him, " _Don't be a bunch of fucking idiots_! Remember your drills! Save your bullets and pick your targets- go for the group when they're bunched rather than single targets, more chance of a hit."

It fell on deaf ears; panic's icy fingers were starting to eat away at them. These people weren't soldiers, and despite all he had taught them couldn't make them so in thirty seconds of sheer pandemonium. None of them had seen anything like this, and most had only heard the stories from more experienced raiders back in Arbroath. Hell, half of them hadn't seen a thing at the earlier battle, most of them clinging together in the darkness of the flatbeds; what else were they going to do but blaze away at the nightmare in front of them? But Mac had no choice, this was a numbers game pure and simple- bodies and bullets- and he needed as many of both as he could bring to bear

He heard the dull roar of diesel engines, and risked a glance to see the first truck pulling out from the bunker onto the open tarmac. Beckoning Kane closer to cover his position, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted down the lee of the hill to Rick.

"Hoi Rick! _Rick_! Jump in the back and find the sixty-sixes'. No the sixty- _sixes_!" He gesticulated frantically with his fingers, "Bring as many as you can up here. _Hurry_!"

A whoomph and sucking of air told him that at least one person had remembered to bring at least one grenade and he turned in time to see clods of earth and other matter fall back to the ground.

The enemy were gaining despite their fire, too many of them to pick off in such a short distance, and they were moving well.

I can't stay here; I'm no use to bloody anyone like this!

Jumping into a crouch, he tapped Kane on the shoulder and shouted close to his ear. With a returned thumbs-up he clapped him on the back and set off at a crouching run along the line. He stopped at each person in turn, adding his fire to theirs, picking off targets where they were missing, taking a few vital seconds to shout encouragement and give direction.

The sweat continued to pour and pool around his body as he threw his grenades into the melee, stopping the vanguard in its tracks as they threatened to reach his right flank.

_Give the bastards this much, they don't give up_.

He saw Rick struggling up the hill, trailing the weapons on his shoulders and along the ground, and rushed back to help. They dumped them in a pile just below the summit and Mac grabbed the first one that came to hand, hitting the switch and feeling it pull open easily as he prostrated himself once more on the ground. The sight flicked out in front of his right eye and he aimed it slightly ahead of a group of angels now only fifty yards away, running diagonally across his position.

"Stand clear. _Firing_!"

With a whoosh, fire belched from the rear of the tube and a trail of light smoke followed the projectile as it flew straight towards it target. Less than two seconds later a loud crump accompanied flying earth and limbs as the raiding party disintegrated in the accompanying fireball, leaving only a blackened sore in the earth. But more rushed through the diminishing cloud of smoke and the ragged cheer died quickly on the defenders' lips.

"Rick, get along the line, hand these out. This switch, pull out, aim, and fire here ok. Tell them to aim at groups, aim slightly ahead if they're moving. Got that? Good then get go- "

"Mac? Where are you Mac?"

"Oh shit!" A figure was walking along the line towards him, some twenty yards away, seemingly ignorant of the many deaths hurtling past him as he strolled casually along the line, stepping lightly over outstretched legs and bodies of his companions. He carried his rifle loosely, dragging on the earth behind him.

"Come on Mac, let's call it a day eh? I'm tired and I really just want to get to my bed you know; Sheila will kill me if I'm cranky in the morning."

Mac recognised the signs, the glazed eyes coming towards him, seeming immunity to the world around him. Reality had taken a backseat for the moment for this individual.

"Matt, listen to me, I want you to lie down on the ground ok. Just you lie down and rest your head and I'll be right over. _Jesus_!"

At the last second he spun and fired directly into a group of angels who had got within ten yards of his own position, felling them with a sustained burst. By the time he turned back, Matt's eyes were like dull stones above his cheeks and tears were rolling freely down his cheeks.

"I can't Mac, I can't do it anymore. It's not real anyway, not real, not real, not _real_ , _not real_ , _not real...."_

He screwed his eyes shut, repeating the litany over and over as he stood there, clenching his fists as he dropped the rifle to the ground. Mac started to move, running low, aiming to hit him around the waist and bring him down. Hot sucking air and bright light mixed with the rain of earth and noise as bullets and rockets flew down the hill, the aim getting shorter and shorter.

The whispering rush of air was lost against the background, the shadow only half seen. A flash of white passed in an instant and he threw himself to the ground, looking up to see Matt skewered on the spear that the angel thrust hard into his belly, blood fountaining from his mouth as he fell slowly to his knees.

Mac could only watch, recumbent on his hands and knees as, without a word, his eyes dulled over and he fell slowly over to the side, blood staining the cold earth.

Mac stayed there, shocked, as more forms flew over his head, some tumbling to the ground as they were picked off. The white shock of a phosphor grenade blinded his eyes; figures writhed in agony in the flames while the left flank came apart, the enemy reaching the positions in a flail of steel and bone. Screams mixed with the gunfire as his friends began to fall, and all he could do was grab at the impotent earth under him.

_It's over_.
Chapter 25

"The wisest men follow their own direction"

Euripides

Dina surged forward through the smoke and debris around him. His mind and body felt like they were on fire, time appeared to have slowed as his senses swallowed the sights and sensations around him.

They were nearly there; the human tactics were working- the archers had pinned the defenders on the ridge and they had rolled forward in their small groups, weaving and dodging up the slope.

Time and time again, brothers had fallen under the hail of bullets unleashed by the humans, dancing like marionettes as the metal ripped through their insides and flesh, but still they drove forward, their numbers hardly diminished, learning to endure if not ignore the holes vacuuming through their consciousness at each demise.

The first explosion had rocked him on his heels with its ferocity, two angels to his left had disappeared before his eyes in the fireball that seemed to blossom from the ground. His clothes and face were covered with the blood of his comrades; it burned on him, driving his anger higher, his need for vengeance becoming palpable like a living thing. He screamed aloud, letting it usher him on, articulating his desire, stiffening the resolve of his comrades.

Johnson had screamed down the radio at him about his predicament, but Dina had thrown it away in disgust, too caught in his own actions to worry about a request that he already knew was fulfilled.

Now he angled diagonally up the slope, two of his troop still with him as they leapfrogged another section taking stock behind a clump of smouldering scrub. Arrows whistled inches above their head, the respective distance now too close to aim higher, and they began to run at an awkward crouch toward the ridgeline.

He smiled mercilessly through his own breathlessness as he saw the shapes in the sky solidify and dive on the humans, sweeping in from the sea to hit their rear. Now he could hear the screams of his enemies, bewildered and surprised as their death swooped from behind them. Some of the flyers fell, tumbling to the ground in crumpled heaps, but most found targets, running the humans through with their spears, thinning the numbers that stood against them.

Many banked away, heading instead to the battle to the south, aiming to relieve the pressure on Johnson and his humans. Dina indulged in a small smile at the fact; the humans now requiring _their_ assistance for once.

The noise and smell pervaded his senses, sharp and acrid. The sky was obscured by dust and heat, smoking holes in the ground creating a vision of hell; bodily remains strewn with wanton abandon everywhere- the dead inseparable from the wounded save for pitiful noise. Ducking through another shower of dirt and anatomy, he saw a number of his troops finally reach the ridgeline, drawing their weapons and meeting the enemy at close quarters.

He roared with triumph as he saw how ineffectual the humans' weapons were against the swords of his soldiers at such a close range, pitifully holding them up to defend themselves and screaming in horror and death as the steel flashed through sinew and bone. He rushed forward to join them, urging on the others but found himself suddenly disoriented by a blinding flash of light, shielding his eyes with a hand. Blinking back his vision he saw human and angel aflame before him, skin burning and melting in the corrosive heat as they beat at themselves vainly.

As others ran on he heard a voice from his left, and saw a figure beckoning and shouting at the other humans, summoning them to him.

Their leader! How fitting!

Sweeping his wings wide, he advanced in that direction.
Chapter 26

"Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils."

Hector Berlioz

His eyes, ears, nose and mouth were filled with the sharp acrid tang and sounds of the battle. Consciousness had retreated into a ball that encompassed only his immediate surroundings. Sweat ran and pooled through his hair and across his body as he postured on one knee, constantly shifting and swivelling to new targets, the short tugs on the trigger resulting in new bursts of noise to fill his head.

The bright flash on his periphery broke his concentration and he risked a look before quickly wishing he hadn't. Mac dashed past in a blur, figures writhed in flame, falling to the ground in horrific twitching heaps, and the screams soared above all the other noise around him.

A squad of angels dove through the fire and smoke, slashing around them at the shocked survivors, concentrating their numbers at the left flank, it's hold on the ridge broken completely by the grenade dropped too close.

More came from behind, spearing those in their path as they flew skimming over the ground. He watched Nick fall under a flurry of blows as he threw himself atop his brother, decapitated like so much meat as the steel tore through him. Jessica had found a pistol from someplace and fired it point blank until a lunge to her stomach toppled her to the ground. A man called Thomas who Kane barely knew fired from the hip screaming until his gun ran dry, letting it drop useless before calmly pulling the pin on a grenade and taking a number of the enemy with him in a cacophonous explosion. Some fell without a murmur, others screamed entreaties to chill the darkest nightmares.

Others ran, flying past Kane with tears and shock written on their faces, their weapons left lying as fear drove them away.

He fired as best he could through the confusion, taking down a flier that came too close but frustrated by the now close quarters battle raging on the ground.

"...On me! On me! Come on..." Mac screamed as he ran past, moving back from the slaughter to the north, heading south. Others picked up the shout and they ran and shuffled their way towards him. Kane kept firing back sporadically as he retreated, the press of bodies on the left flank now entirely made up of the enemy, with more still coming straight up the hill below them.

A ragged bunch clustered around Mac, most standing, some kneeling exhausted; positioning themselves on the small rise that marked the southern end of the ridge. Kane could feel the shaking of Deadlock beside him, the boy's face streaked with the tracks of tears and a soft mumble coming from his mouth. Jane stood behind him and he was sure that he could feel her malice towards the angels radiating at the back of his neck, malignant and alive. Curtis stood next to Mac, a raw bloody wound leaving his left arm limp and useless, cradling the rifle in his remaining good limb, braced against his hip.

Eleven people in all stood draped across the knoll, eleven people standing, or kneeling, shoulder to shoulder against the tightening circle of glinting steel that approached with purpose. They squeezed closer, the remaining guns pointing along and down the hill, the steeper drop at the back empty and unthreatening. A strange silence descended, a pause in the momentum as both sides sized each other up before the final assault. Moans could be heard from behind the advancing wall, the dying lying amongst the already dead, out of reach and hope. Kane risked a glance down the hill, hoping fervently that Lucy and David, the other kids and assorted parents, were hidden and safe in the bunker, instead he saw the body of Rick curled around a spear in a stillness void of life

"Don't waste your bullets folk. Pick your targets; aim low. We may be _royally_ fucked but by God let's take a lot of these bastards with us!"

Kane checked his own weapon, unsurprised to note a nearly empty magazine.

Soft sobbing came from somewhere at the back, stifled as whoever it belonged to tried to control it.

"Michael _fucking_ Caine!" grunted Curtis through gritted teeth.

_"What_?"

"Well, you know, just remembering him in _that_ _film_! One of my all-time favourites that was. All those bloody Zulu's and only a few o' them you know! Seems to me, well it seems to me that we are in a _very_ - _similar-situation_!" Curtis replied, his face a mask of seriousness.

Mac looked at him, incredulity fighting with his gaping mouth for any response. Curtis just looked right back at him, then winked, "Just looking for inspiration Mac my man, just some last minute, nick-o-time, _fucking_ inspiration!"

Mac grinned. The grin became a chuckle, a laugh. It caught hold, started off sounding forced, spiteful, aimed at the wall of bodies closing in on them. But as Curtis looked around with an expression of mock injured innocence, it deepened, caught in the lungs, drew at their belly's until the tears rolled down their faces once more. It rolled across the temporary silence, slicing through the cold air, causing the angels to look nervously at one another, re-assuring themselves of their numbers, wondering at the strange little group in front of them.

"Well, I always wondered if I would be able to laugh in the face of death," added Kane to the air in general, "I guess the answer's a 'yes' huh!"

He spared one last glance and hope for Lucy and David down below in the bunker, praying for their safety, as a mighty roar rose from the white wall opposite to drown the laughter, and the angels finally charged.
Chapter 27

"Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises."

Demosthenes

At last!

The remaining humans were clumped together on a small mound of earth and his remaining brothers were squeezing the vice shut around them. He could see the fear on their faces and he took pleasure in it, remembering all the fallen that lay behind him.

They advanced slowly; not apprehensive but rather savouring the hard fought victory that they could now almost taste through the choking stink of battle. In front of them, the huddle grew smaller, contracting. He was acutely aware of the humans' weapons, sticking out into the air like defensive needles, but he felt no concern, only surety. Yes, some more would fall, but what price the victory now? Even with those implements he stood amongst enough of his kin to slay the humans many times over. He had held the archers back, as much as dismissed them completely; unwilling to leave the final sortie to an impersonal end. No, they would look this group of small beings in the face; let them die knowing who had been the architects of their demise.

An almost supernatural silence descended, like the very air was sucking away the violence of the clash, and they appraised each other over the distance, little more than twenty yards separating them from an end to this.

Some of the humans were whispering amongst themselves, he could hear the soft scratch of their voices carried on the wind, and suddenly they were laughing. He and his troops looked at each other incredulously and then back at the pitiful group who, against all sane evidence and sense, were laughing at him and his brothers. Dina looked around, suddenly certain that they had perhaps missed something, some trap of human cunning for which they were unprepared. Nothing. He decided then that they had pushed these creatures to the brink of sanity. Indeed, it would almost seem a mercy to put them out of their misery as quickly as possible.

Bemused by the laughter, and also angry, he checked one last time on those brothers next to him, noting the lust and need in their faces that this be over with soon. They had never experienced anything like this before, and though they now stood poised on the cusp of victory, he knew that this story would not be pleasant in the telling with so many of their kin lying fallen at their backs. Indeed, he wondered, even now, if any of those in the main host would believe they still survived having undergone such an assault on their consciousness that so many falling at one time would have wreaked.

Enough Angel, the time for reflection is near enough.

He concentrated once more, ire building at the contorted faces of the humans to his front.

_Time to end this_.

"Halnari al gonfri!" he roared, the cry for advance and victory taken up along the line to the accompaniment of swinging steel.

The humans seemed to quail before the noise, their weapons brought to bear in futile defiance while their shoulders slumped and their feet trembled on the cold ground. They ran with their wings furled, streaming to their rear, packed together in a wall of roaring vengeance and sharp steel, eager to strike the blows that would bring this exercise to its end. Time almost seemed to stop, fragments of moments suddenly eternities for Dina to marvel at what he now did, charging at the humans he once nurtured and watched with care, to register the fear and sweat on their faces, the returned feral snarls of his brothers, and a moment to _wonder_ at the lengthening flickering shadows stretching in front of him despite the setting sun being to his _right_.

A moment of perfect, untouchable silence, its clarity breath-taking

-WHOOMPH!

Sound ripped through his ears; hot air and debris rained like needles on his back, and the wind nearly lifted him from his feet. He staggered, bracing himself on his sword and gulping back the air that had seemed sucked from his very essence.

Screams washed over him as he struggled to regain his bearings, bodies flew over his head and he idly wondered why the flyers were rushing in before he realised that it was not his _airborne_ troops crashing lifelessly to the ground in front of him.

The humans had dropped to the ground in front of him, their hands covering their heads as they cowered from the violence that had shaken Dina. He turned against the disarray, seeking an answer to the almost physical push that had thrust him forward and battered his senses. A pall of thick smoke hung over the earth, his troops struggling coughing and retching through its oily embrace. Another loud explosion and his flanking troops on the slope scattered away, some attempting to carry those whose torsos and limbs were suddenly mangled in its aftermath.

The breeze shifted, the smoke dissipating before it, and a vision of utter terror loomed large on the ridge of the hill, belching smoke and flame as it roared angrily towards them. It clicked and clacked noisily, relentlessly, its head whirring as it seemed to search for more victims, and Dina knew that his time was over. All that was left was to remain unyielding. With grim determination and a terrible cry, he gathered up his sword and turned in a charge at the monstrosity. Six steps, seven... the awful searching head turning his way...nine steps, ten, and exquisite pain speared his body as the hammering flame of the beast found him. His body jerked and flailed, his arms and legs no longer responding to his wishes. He felt himself begin to fall, warm darkness rushing in to catch him, framing the last thought he would ever have.

We have failed.
Chapter 28

"God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself"

Proverb

The flares had surprised them all, lighting the advancing horde in silhouette, and while most had craned their necks momentarily to watch the vibrant light float on the air, Mac had reacted instantaneously with voice and physical bullying.

_"GET DOWN_! On the ground _now_!"

Dropping with the others Kane had found himself looking full on to the advancing angels as the first explosion mushroomed behind their frontline. Bodies were flung like rag dolls through the air; most coming to rest without further movement. He saw the confusion in their ranks, eyes darting everywhere as more explosions sounded down the hill.

A familiar frantic thumping was closely followed by sparks of light appearing through the haze, angels falling everywhere under its insistent spell. Then, like some diabolical behemoth crawling through the thinning smoke, the tank came into view. Unflinching, methodical, it glided along the ridge, the turret moving deliberately, searching, and then speaking with a lance of fire; a figure atop sweeping the chain gun in relaxed arcs, scything down anything standing in the way. Another vehicle shot forward from its rear, squat and square, its turret smaller. Troops poured from behind it as another similar vehicle raced by on their left, following the road towards the main entrance

He heard a harsh incredulous whisper over the tumult, assumed it was Mac, "That's a Challenger II, with Warriors in convoy. _Bloody hell_!"

The new troops moved systematically, fluidly, showing bare hesitation as they moved confidently in and engaged the angels. Fire rained down from every angle on the hapless beings, the troops calmly advancing under the firebase provided by the now static tank and armoured vehicle.

"Fuck _, fuck, fuck, fuck_...oh, we're _so_ fucked..." Curtis chanted on the far side of the group. Kane felt no little trepidation himself. Who were these people? Spawn? Monks? _Friends_? It didn't make sense. _Where_ had they come from? And the firepower!

Kane covered his ears against the noise, now alive with a fury all its own, the rhythmic hammer of the automatic weapons strangely accordant with the staccato screams and yelps of the fallen. They fell beneath the sustained assault like blades of grass, a slaughter so one sided that Kane, keenly feeling the hypocrisy, had to turn his head to shut out the sight being played out in front of him.

After what could only have been scant minutes, but which felt like hours, the noise began to tail away, fading slowly to leave behind only the moans of the wounded and dying and the deep rumble of idling engines. Along with the others, Kane slowly lifted his head from the ground to take stock, his eyes naturally following any movement as the new troops methodically secured the area.

In the distance, gunfire could still be heard as units pursued the few fleeing survivors through the woods and away down by the entrance gate. Kane turned to look at his companions, now so few, noting the grim grin that had appeared on Mac's face, the exhaustion throbbing from Jane's hanging head. Through the numb fog that had flooded his mind, he suddenly became acutely anxious for Lucy and David, to all intent and purpose still holed up in a bunker below, safe but probably scared out of their wits. Ignoring the possible foolishness of his actions, his hammering heart, and the sweat falling through his hairline, he scrambled to his feet, sliding in the mud as he took off deliberately for the base of the hill.

A line of explosive stitching in front of him stopped him short, the bullets gouging the earth scant inches from his body. A voice boomed from a loudspeaker on the armoured car's hull, void of any inflection, but leaving no doubt of its seriousness.

"REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE! WE ARE STILL SECURING THE AREA. WE _WILL_ COLLECT AND PROCESS YOU SHORTLY. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE."

Shaken, he raised his hands slightly, acquiescing, as he backtracked to the group where Mac grabbed him roughly and pulled him back down.

"You _fucking_ idiot! Are you trying to get us wiped out son? Just sit on your arse until we see how this pans out ok!"

"But Mac Lucy and- "

_"Are_ out of sight and probably a lot better off than we are at the moment! Just _wait_!"

Kane conceded and sat on the cold earth once again, his feet tapping nervously with anxiety. Desperate for distraction he spoke to the group in general.

"So, anyone got any theories? Who are they?"

"Well given our luck of late," piped up Curtis, "They're gonna stick us on an altar and chant a bit, while waving a _really_ big knife!"

"Shut _up_ Curtis!" hissed Mac, "They're _not_ Monks... _or_ Spawn for that matter!"

The group as one perked up at this, turning all their attention on the old soldier.

"What do you mean they're not? Who else could they be Mac? What makes _you_ so sure?" Jane looked pensive, almost angry at his assertion. In some way loathing him for presenting a statement of hope.

Mac, too busy studying the newcomers, was oblivious to her expression, replying over his shoulder to her.

"Who they are I have no idea exactly lass. But I know who they're not- that much firepower, that much ease of movement, they're definitely military, and I mean _military_! British Army, not our usual run of the mill religious nut jobs! But I can't see any battalion flashes which is a pain" he glanced back at her, "Trust me on this one!" Seeing her expression, he laid a soft hand on her knee, "Ok?"

He went back to watching the new arrivals intently; a hunger in his expression, while the others whispered amongst themselves about what came next. Kane himself noted that none of the soldiers appeared to wear any of the usual insignia or décor that he had come to associate with either of the two religious groups. Rather they were all attired similarly, just like, well, soldiers. He also saw the professionalism in their work and movements, the cover and advance, the deliberate style of approach.

Things settled, the troops converged and concentrated more close to the ridgeline, setting up what looked like a perimeter with the big guns aimed down towards the tree line. A squad approached them and took up positions ten yards away, rifles held loosely as they knelt in position, but leaving no doubt as to where they were pointing.

"Heads up. Here we go," whispered Mac, suddenly poised and alert

From the rear of the APC, accompanied by two troopers who continually watched the flanks, a tall purposeful figure strode toward the group. Instinctively they found themselves rising to their feet, all of them moving carefully under the watchful gaze of the new arrivals. The man that approached them was tall, even by Kane's standards, and moved with an even stride that was neither fast nor slow but deliberate. His demeanour oozed confidence, and along with his uniform that almost crackled along the plumb line creases, he exuded an air of authority that had some of the group dropping their gaze.

"Lower your weapons to the ground!" the barked command from an anonymous face in front was followed by a subtle hand signal from Mac, and they all lowered their weapons gingerly to the ground.

The man never broke stride, coming on through the cordon until he was feet from Mac, Kane, and Curtis at the front of the survivors.

His face was like a picture of savannah in drought, etched with lines and furrows, not all of which were natural. A livid scar ran from his right temple down past his ear, disappearing along his neck and under the collar of his uniform. The hair that could be seen peeking beneath the beret was fading brown, its colour stark against the silver highlights of age. The boxers nose and sagging skin under his eyes could not hide the steel that glinted there as he flicked a glance around the huddled group before his eyes were drawn to Mac's more confident bearing.

_"Sir_! Sergeant Joseph Macillinden, four five Commando, Royal Marines! Sir!" The rigidity that suddenly sprang into his frame was matched only by the sharpness of the salute that snapped up to his forehead.

The officer did not return the salute, nor did he address Mac or any other member of the group as he spoke without moving his head an inch, "Captain, _report_!"

Another figure suddenly stiffened some few feet behind the commanding officer, "Sir, we have two survivors down by the entrance way, one critical. A squad is pursuing remnants of an apparent homo-sapien force that appears to have been the aggressor. Search of the facility has turned up another five survivors, three females, and one boy and girl, all fit. Three vehicles also, two in working order, the other barely serviceable. We have pursued remaining non-terrestrial aggressors away from the facility. Latest report details only stragglers remaining and heading east."

"Let's not tarry then. Load up. Instruct Mike Two to gather survivors from the facility and extract north to rally point three. Clearing parties to await Mike Two for pickup. Assign drivers and seconds to the two vehicles found, destroy the third. Any worthwhile inventory to be loaded up and taken with us." He fixed Mac with an ice-cold glance, "Load these _civilians_ in Mike One, complete radio silence until back in the nest. Hotel One is to take point"

_"Sir!_ "

As Mac's shoulders slumped crestfallen at the rebuff, and the others looked around in a daze, soldiers moved around them to the rear, others covering the flanks, and curt nods left them in no doubt that they were expected to move.

Silently they were shepherded to the back of the first armoured car, it's flat rear occupied by a large open steel door through which they were ushered one by one to take seats along the interior. The deadly sight of barrels trained on them cut off any embryonic whispering effectively, and all they could do was watch the square of earth they could see through the hatch.

Kane watched a soldier outside move methodically along the ridge amongst the bodies, checking each one as he went. He came to a sudden stop and motioned a colleague over, whereupon the two slung their weapons and started to lift and throw what appeared to be body parts away. The first knelt down, his hands reaching and coming up with a twitching, barely conscious form that Kane recognised even from a distance as Tony. Before he could even draw anyone else's attention, he watched the second soldier giving Tony a cursory glance, and with a look and subtle nod at his companion, make his weapon ready, aiming at Tony's head.

Even as the shout came to his lips and he burst from his seat, the rifle butt to the back of his neck knocked him to the ground, sprawling him on the steel floor. And as the blackness crept in his last sight of his young friend's head snapping back, his body slumping, was framed in the rigid steel doorway before the hatch crashed closed and he succumbed to unconsciousness.
Chapter 29

"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star"

Freidrich Nietzsche

Anziel watched from the peak of the hill as the ragged remnants of his force slowly wound their way toward him and the main bulk of his army. That there were survivors at all had surprised him; the concussions that had reverberated through his subconscious had nearly toppled him from his feet with their concentrated arrival, and he had inwardly released all hope that the sortie had been any sort of success.

His rage, at the time, had been monumental, the failure feeling like _his_ failure, his incompetence, and only Herdal had stopped the rage turning into a bigger mistake as he had stretched his troops to the limit, thinning the lines as he strove for retribution in the blood of the fleeing demonic army ahead.

Consumed with fire, he had threatened to destroy all that he had accomplished in a suicidal and fanatical rush for slaughter. It had been left to the ever-faithful Herdal to stop him, to physically pin him down and release his anger with a primal scream at the heavens. But as he had struggled for release his hand, gripped like a vice around his dagger, had punched at his second in command, slicing through the meat of his arm. Only then, horrified and ashamed, had the fury left him, the dagger blow slicing as keenly through his madness as it had through the frail flesh.

Now, as the pitiful sight wended its way through the fresh snow and biting wind, he could feel the knot in his stomach returning, pulling him inward as if to crush him unless he exploded outward. His eyes burned, hot and hawk like, and his hands gripped his weapons pommel, kneading the cool steel as if to strip it bare. All that remained to centre and ground him was the cool inflectionless voice that now spoke from over his shoulder.

"Shall we render assistance my Lord?"

Anziel turned slightly.

_Ah Herdal, my rock, how can you bear to serve me still? Though you_ do _meet out more punishment to me than you shall ever know._

He flinched from the sight of the angel's limp and twisted arm, the tendons severed like a marionette's strings. A constant reminder of how he had failed his God in the hurricane of his own ire.

"No my friend. They have travelled far, let us not demean their efforts by removing their last returning steps."

And so they stood sombre and unbowed by the elements, honouring those returning by waiting as if for honoured guests. The party snaked its way toward them, winding through the landscape, finding the path of least resistance. Neither Anziel nor Herdal could approximate their numbers with the brief glimpses they were granted through the wind driven snow, but one such glimpse caused Anziel once more to fight against the beast within him.

A bulky shape drove a trail in front of the warriors, squat and boxy, the Seraphim had no doubt as to its nature. And he was barely able to prevent a whisper hissing through the snarl that twisted his face. _Humans!_ The echoes of his brothers' demise still rang through his head and yet these... _animals_ still lived.

"They _do_ appear to have an innate capacity for survival my Lord?" As if reading his mind Herdal gave a somewhat kinder comment to the sentiment that the beast was roaring deep within him.

Anziel's eyes blazed, his hold on his anger threadbare, hardly containing himself as the forms below grew closer and more solid. _Someone was responsible_! His softening sentiment was washed away in a flood of renewed anger. Whoever it was he would discover them and punish them accordingly. All had known that failure in this endeavour was unacceptable.

His rage bubbled at a plateau, his eyes trying to pierce those below him with sheer venom. From a position of rolling victories, they had now experienced pain and some measure of defeat that went against all that they and he had come to expect of themselves. The righteous fury that had ignited their drive had spluttered, tempered by a more sobering reality.

The company drew closer still, close enough for detail to become visible, and suddenly the beast was quieted as Anziel's compassion rushed to comprehend the pain he saw in his brothers coming toward him.

They hobbled and limped with stuttering gaits, some clung to the human vehicle as it weaved through the snow banks. Arms, legs, and wings hung limp and useless wherever his eyes settled. _And these were the survivors!_

Makeshift dressings covered wounds, grimaces of pain and suffering became clear on faces as they grew closer and closer. Those more able supported those less so, lifting and dragging them through the snow on frozen and damaged feet. The shock bit deep, deeper than he expected, and despite his thoughts of moments ago he found his feet moving unconsciously toward them, anxious to help.

Behind him Anziel heard the call from Herdal, a summons; heard the growing shuffle as assistance moved fast at his back, passing in a tumult of bodies as brother rushed to help brother. The returning warriors seemed to wilt then, letting stronger arms catch their weary bodies and carry them to some comfort and safety, their injuries to be assessed.

Through it all Anziel stared ahead, his eyes fixated on the vehicle as the tears rolled freely down his cheeks. He saw the bodies carried from its rear, lifted gently from its roof, and suddenly he was lost on a hurricane of anguish and pain, his nerves aching with empathetic agony, clinging to the one rock he could find- the steel carriage. He anchored himself on its boxy form, clinging to his anger like a lifeline as he rode the waves of despair, refusing to let his proud, proud warriors see his head fall.

Bodies started to move against the tide of assistance as the first of the injured were tenderly helped up the small rise and past the statue like sight of their commander. Anziel struggled to look, unwilling to add to his pain and guilt, afraid of what it might release again within him, but as he stolidly tried to avoid the gazes around him he could not avoid the narrative of the ground. Bloody smears began to surround him like a message on the pristine snow, and as a limp and battered wingtip left its own sentence around him he looked into the angel's face.

Sorrow and failure were written there, the head resting on his brother's shoulder, the arm held tight and secure to keep him upright despite the ruin that was his right leg. Not even the broken wing, hanging cloak like against his body could mask the dark stringy mess where his hamstring and foot once were.

His voice croaked when it came, a rustle like reeds in the wind all he could manage in the face of such horror, "You're home my brother, home. Let your brothers tend you as you deserve, let them wash you clean and give you succour. We are.... _I_ am honoured by your presence among us once again, and _I_ shall hear your tale."

And as the tears flowed once more he bowed his head and torso to him, the sharp intake of shocked breath around him that he had bestowed such an honorific lost in the weak yet compelling touch that lifted his head upward once again.

He looked into golden eyes that shone with a radiance he had not witnessed for too long, that transcended the hurt and injury writ large across the rest of his brother's body, and he felt belittled, humbled by the majesty of the gaze. Brooking no pity, the angel pulled himself as straight as he could muster and addressed Anziel, "Then my Lord, you shall hear a tale of devotion and great courage, of faith and fervour. You shall hear that even as we fell we saw the truth and righteousness of our cause, how we slew many of those who opposed us with honour, though they could not know it. And you shall hear of Dina, whose heart guided us, and who fell with valour as he charged alone to battle the demonic behemoth of the humans. These words are ours to share."

"Go my brother, rest as you require, let none disturb your repose. Rest easy in comfort and warmth."

As if released, the angel slumped in his companion's grip, his eyes shining as he allowed himself to be guided into the body of his brethren, along with the score or so of other survivors. Herdal walked alongside them for a bit, gently questioning the survivors as Anziel continued to stare down the slope at the humans clambering from their other vehicle.

Ignoring the shout behind him he suddenly dashed down the hill, unsheathing his sword as the beast roared within him, desperate for some act that would assuage the loss of so many. His clouded mind was convinced that somehow the devious, guttural creatures below him were responsible for some if not all of their misfortune.

The unfortunates looked up bewildered as the roaring found voice and sharp steel sliced through the closest human before the others even registered the danger. Steam filled the air from the spilled blood as Anziel raised the sword high to deliver the next crushing blow. With all the strength in his arms he pulled it from its apex, the cutting edge whistling as it parted the air.

"NO!" A ringing clash and his sword was stopped, his blow held laterally on another lethal blade. He traced its length, his eyes coming to rest on a breathless and straining Herdal, his one good arm shaking under the pressure, cords straining in his neck, "NO!"

Anziel wilted like a trained animal under the voice, one so used to command and being obeyed now cowed. The venom left, his muscles relaxed and he looked imploringly at his second, seeking answers, letting the sudden role reversal play out.

The humans backed away slowly, casting anxious eyes at their disembowelled comrade lying lifeless on the ground. One of them helped another wounded human, his leg caked in blood, from the rear of the vehicle, and this one glared with surprising indifference at Anziel while Herdal went on.

"Lord, _these_ humans are not to blame, they are _not_ the guilty party. Indeed, they have lost many of their number just as we did." He let the fact settle, "Our brothers speak of an attack well-co-ordinated, well structured, with these humans' actions and ideas causing much damage and chaos to the enemy. Only through the onset of further humans, and their dishonourable weapons did our brothers fail, and that alone. _Stay_ your anger my Lord; retain it for those who caused us such grievous harm, not through any bolder action or steadfast heart, but through their purely abhorrent approach to battle. They know not what honour is."

"And yet honour binds us to repay them for the loss of our own Herdal. But at what price to ourselves? How do we redress this insult and not suffer a similar fate?"

"To fight on their terms would go against the grain of all that we hold dearest of ourselves Lord. As much as it pains me, the course of action to follow would appear to be one of inaction. Let us fight the enemy we _know_ , lest we become embroiled across two fronts, one of which we are ill prepared to win!"

"You submit that we should abandon our pursuit of those who have slaughtered so many of our host for so few of theirs? We leave this blood debt unpaid?" Anziel's face was a mixture of incredulousness and sorrow, "We _accept_ that our brothers died needlessly?"

"My Lord," Herdal was almost pleading, "Let us win the war rather than a skirmish! Let us do what- "

"Jesus Christ, I've had _enough_ of this _bollocks_!" Johnson looked incredulously at the whispering angel restraining him and broke free, limping forward, his face a mask of fury, "I have heard some utter _horseshit_ in my time but this takes the biscuit!"

He squared up to Anziel's taller frame looking up, directly in his eyes.

"Are you telling me that your stupid _pride_ is going to let this lie? You're going to let them get away with it huh? _They wiped out nearly five hundred of your brothers_!" he spat the words in Anziel's face, "More than half _my_ men died and you just want to _forget about it_!?"

Whipping his arm out like a snake Anziel lifted the human off the ground, his hand vicelike under the jaw. A spark flickered once again in his eyes as he summoned an eavesdropping Watcher to him while the human squirmed, instructing him to relay what the human had said.

"Who are you _worm_ that you dare question me thus? I should feed you to the basest insects for such insolence."

Johnson hissed through his clamped teeth

"Getting angry are we? Ready to do some damage? Got that old fire in your balls again have you?"

"Human, you presume to readily upon my patience! I will rip your- "

"Good! _Good_! _That's_ more like it! Now listen to me- I can give you it you hear! I can give you the means to win _both_ battles! Intelligence, weapons, people, training, you name it. You can't beat their firepower, but you can _match it_! Just say the word boss and its yours!"

Anziel listened, stunned into thoughtful silence as the words were translated and he contemptuously dropped the smaller human back to the ground, his bad leg giving way as he landed, spilling him to the ground. Herdal protested in the background but his words were lost in the torrent of possibilities flushing through Anziel's mind.

_We could win it all! Everything_!

His eyes flared with imagination, his ears already hearing the triumphant heraldry that victory would bring. Ideas and thoughts shouted loudly in his head vying for attention. But the scent that overrode them all captivated him. It rode through his senses, through his very being, the essence, and the word that was the focus of his life- _Victory_! No effort was too reckless; no price now seemed too high in its ultimate pursuit. Some quiet part of him watched in stunned silence, aware of how fragile his grip on sanity and duty was becoming. He dismissed it, as he did Herdal's protestations, with a sharp swipe of his arm and leaned back over the scrabbling, prostate Johnson; and, with an almost human grin, whispered.

_"Show me_!"

Interlude

Ribbons of light twisted their way through the ether; shimmering shards, reflective, insubstantial, passed over and under. The cries of lost souls seemed to echo from every direction, muted and agonised. An eddy rippled through space, shifting forms appeared, seeming to solidify against the background.

"We are faced with a dilemma Morningstar"

"Don't be ridiculous _Archangel._ This eventuality means nothing to the war, this battleground. One or the other of _us_ will win. That is His purpose and his plan. Besides, recent events suggest it is more _your_ dilemma than mine to waste concern on. My legions register it as naught but a pinprick, a nuisance"

Michael looked around at the changing labyrinthine planes of purgatory, momentarily lost in the surroundings and the ironic nature of this meeting under truce. His avatar squirmed slightly at his opposites obvious relish over current angelic losses

"Of course it means something Brother. These are his Chosen; He set them above us in his grace. How can we _not_ take note of what is happening around us? And though your point on recent events is taken Brother, you cannot have failed to notice that these Chosen can appear to be indiscriminate in their choice of foe"

_"Chosen_!" the avatar's face contorted in disgust, "He gave them all the gifts that he denied _us,_ his First, yet still again they scorned and ridiculed Him. I called him a fool once, I stand by that Archangel!"

"He still believes in you Lucifer. You were his favoured, and he still believes that you will return"

"Only in conquest Michael."

The briefest shadow of a pained look crossed what passed for the Angels face, "We digress, and to no new topics. Do you have any thought as to dealing with the humans?"

"They cross our path; they cease to be. It's as simple as that. They are not supposed to be there after all. You know as well as I do _Brother_ that neither of us can go any further until the Earth is won. I may not continue my ascent till then in conquest, nor, unlikely though it be, may you bring my kingdom down around me. They are part of the war now; Chosen or not, they are on our battlefield. One of _your_ lieutenants would appear to understand that where you will not."

"Aah, Anziel, yes. _He_ may react to that, and to you. Although he has been silent since the war began."

Lucifer turned and stared at his one-time brother, "O spare me Archangel. He has not reacted in millennia. My agents have roamed amongst his Chosen, turning them to my cause; has He lifted a finger or uttered a word? No! He is become complacent and shall suffer defeat for it. _His_ Chosen shall become inconsequential on that day, and you ask me to fear a reaction?"

"He may not have reacted, but he did set the Watchers to thwart you, and to protect them"

"Thus breaking the rules such as I did, that act alone is interference enough!"

"But not with their free will"

"Aah, the ever salient point, the gift of all gifts. Every eon that passes I struggle still Angel. His innate call to obedience tortures me with every moment. You will never know the strength or force of will it took to walk away, to leave his presence, and I loathe him still for that. If that is to be your argument, then so be it. Their free will has them take up arms against us, thus through their free will they suffer the consequences. We react to their decisions Michael, it is perfect, do you not see?"

A bell like peel of laughter broke the air around the Archangel," Trying to tempt me Old One? You should know better. We will hold our own council on that point Lucifer, and reach our own course of action. Till then, be assured, we will fight _you_."

"As it should be Brother, as it should be."

They stood apart, their forms shifting with the ether, their minds already linking back into the cross consciousness of their own,

"No mercy shall be given old friend; we shall meet again at the end."

"We still remember who you were Star of the Morning, set high in his firmament. We miss you still for it."

"No time left for platitudes Angel, let us be content to be who we are now."

"To the end."

"To the end"

EXTRAS

The following pages contain the first output chapters of Book 2 in the Revelations End series- Purgatory

Book 2

Purgatory

"Of all the inhabitants of the inferno,

none but Lucifer knows that hell is hell,

and the secret function of purgatory

is to make of heaven an effective reality."

Arnold Bennett
Chapter 1

"Impotent fury rages powerless and to no purpose."

Virgil

Mac's eyes strained in the dim interior of the AFV. The sharp rings and grinding of metal jarred in his ears as the vehicle bounced across the landscape. Any hope of a view through the slitted windows of the forward cab was rendered impossible from where he was sitting.

He looked slowly around. The only light was the soft red issuing from the cab up front, enough to provide rough outlines of his companions slumped alongside and across from him and nothing more. Inside the vehicle, the familiar barrenness of military functionality was clear; unmodified and spartan benches, reinforcing girders and bare floor and metal, all covered in the detritus of past and frequent use, the presumed drab olive paintwork flaked and fretted off in places leaving the dull sheen of brushed steel. His eyes fell on Kane, propped up seated on the floor, still unconscious, his back against the bench seat, head resting and lolling on Jane's thigh where she had hoisted him, securing him with her arms.

Any valuables they had possessed had been promptly confiscated, including his watch, and with no reference available the time began to drag interminably, gnawing at his nerves as he lost track of distance and direction. No one spoke, most seeming in shock, staring at the walls, others cowed and fearful. The smell inside the can didn't help; a strong unavoidable musk, the smell of adrenalin and fear permeating the steel walls.

Their captors sat in stony silence, meeting no-one's eye but watching everything, their weapons across their thighs, pointing lazily at the group and guarding the only exit from the claustrophobic interior. Mac couldn't help but notice the attitude in their rigid posture hinting at what may happen should they feel forced to move.

His knuckles glowed white even in the half-light, his disempowerment mingling with the still hot memories of battle and outrage to make his arms strain against the stillness, his fists clench over and over. He knew he was being pushed to the limit, his training fighting raw emotion, and thankfully none of the soldiers in their vehicle had been involved in the "clean up" they had witnessed as they were bundled in. But still he could not ignore the growing restlessness building in his muscles, the need for momentum, and slowly, deliberately he rose from the bench, turning toward the blood red light suffusing its way from the front.

He rose with his palms up and outward, heart hammering in his chest as he took a step forward, trying to ignore the sliding rustle from behind him as weapons were raised. A soldier sat in front of him, guarding the small opening between cattle truck and cab, and as Mac took his step his hand slid down to the holster at his belt, the click of the popper, even with the rumbling engine, incredibly loud.

The young face under the helmet stared unerringly at Mac, unperturbed, unflinching; no furtive glances cast to his colleagues at the rear for reassurance or direction. And as Mac took another step forward, the soldier's face took on what could have even been considered a sympathetic air, almost resigned, as in one slick movement the Browning slid free and up to point between Mac's eyes.

Their eyes locked, and Mac found no doubt or confusion in his opposite number, only resolve. With hands still raised in front of him, he took the step back and sat down on the bench, resuming his original posture, but with now more questions than answers.

They were alive, that was the main thing, and it looked like they were meant to stay that way at least for the near future or until they reached wherever they were going. But the act of knocking Kane unconscious didn't seem to square with the swift execution they had witnessed before being sealed in this tin box. Nor did the fact that the young soldier hadn't shot him on the spot just now.

_What the hell is going on_?

He couldn't get past the uniforms- regular army, trained, competent, the command structure evident. They had dispatched the advancing enemy with consummate ease, assured and purposeful, yet it had by no stretch felt like a rescue operation; more a collection, a forced pick up. Still, he reasoned, trying to put himself in their shoes, probably not a good idea to assume all the natives are friendly, and therefore treat everyone as potential enemies. Tactically, the approach they had adopted made sense. So why then was he so troubled by the _execution_ ; the only word he could find to describe it? He shook his head minutely. With no apparent means or willingness to communicate he guessed that these questions would remain just that, at least until they got to their eventual destination.

Instead he switched focus to the bigger picture, the implications of this hardware and resources that had crested the hill back at Coulport. Did this mean that some type of government had survived? That there was some place of sanctuary and hope? Where? How? His mind reeled with possibilities and confusion. Why had he heard no radio chatter? Not even the squelch of scrambled traffic!

_Jesus_!

He vented his frustration through taught white knuckles as he kneaded his palms, trying to find the patience to offset the growing impotence.

_Useless_!

The thought pounded through his brain, after all they had done, they would still have been dead if this lot hadn't shown up. And he'd led them there, told them it would be safe.

He looked around his companions once again, their weary, beaten faces stark in the dull interior, his guilt building. Their wounds were superficial, gouges and scrapes, nothing life threatening with the possible exception of Kane's skull following the rifle butt he'd taken to the head. No way to know until he came around.

The transport hit a sharp dip, and he watched them all bounce against the walls, their captors included, alert for even the smallest chance to wrest a weapon from their guards, to try and even the playing field; but they regained composure and stance quickly, reinforcing the impression of competence he'd seen earlier.

Mac forced himself to change tack, dredging up the old military axiom of grabbing rest whenever it's available. They weren't going anywhere except where they were being taken, and it was clear that there was no expenditure of energy that he could undertake to change that fact, so, folding his arms tight across his chest and stretching his legs as far as he was able, he aimed one last knowing look at the guard and rested his head against the cold armour at his back, drinking in the blackness behind his eyes as he fell into sleep.

In what felt like only seconds but he knew had been longer, a muffled rumble and tense snatches of lowered voices broke him from rest. He opened his eyes to see the guard, previously a centre of calm, suddenly agitated, his grip on his weapon continually moving, gnawing subconsciously at his lower lip. Muted voices floated through from the driving cab up front, brief snatches broken by blasts of modulated static, his ears recognizing the rhythm of a conversation taking place over the radio, even if they couldn't discern the substance.

He caught the others glancing his way, looking for some sort of direction, an indication of what was to happen next, but with a slow infinitesimal shake of his head he dashed any hope that he had any more idea than them.

Whatever drama was unfolding there was little they could do to influence the outcome, and for the next few minutes the tension in the air was palpable, slowly infecting everyone in the cramped interior, their fidgeting rustles loud and intrusive as Mac's ears strained to hear any detail.

There was an abrupt, undefined squelch from the forward cabin and all sound came to a stop, replaced the next second by a deep rumble that vibrated through the vehicle. All eyes looked forward, despite the fact that there was nothing to see, directed purely by the sound enveloping their prison. Another noise quickly followed and, broken only by a stifled yelp of surprise from Jessica, the carrier leapt forward, nosing ahead purposefully. Bright light scoured through to the rear from the small windows, and the roar of the engine took on a deeper resonant echo, suddenly sounding as if they had dipped into a tunnel.

The light didn't fade as, after what only seemed a few seconds, the car ground to a halt once again, but _this_ time the engine died, the ensuing silence making any of the previous seem inordinately loud by comparison. With all eyes still trained to the front, the sharp rap reverberating from the steel door at the back made everyone jump, and then again a second time as one of their guards cracked the handle and pushed forcefully, swinging the door wide. Light flooded the interior, bright and clinical, and as his eyes adjusted Mac made out the outline of more armed soldiery waiting for them outside.

Split seconds later, all hell broke loose as the up until now silent guards of their transport suddenly screamed at everyone to leave the vehicle. Rage and annoyance contorted their faces as they shouted over and over, accentuating their point with prods from their rifles, herding the group like so much shocked cattle to stumble through the door.

Mac went with it, moving automatically, not resisting, noting the smooth concrete floor, the cavernous roof above them, the distant walls, and the huge steel doors in front of him, now closed, that he guessed they had just entered through. He was shocked momentarily to see one of the Bedfords alongside, bodies being hustled off that just as they were, before his eyes moved on, drinking inall that they could.

Echoes bounced everywhere under stark fluorescent lighting; voices, bangs, the whirr of machinery...all combining to produce a low level hum of busyness around them. People moved about them, purposeful, and not all military. Boiler suits abounded, streaked with grime and oil, but here and there he could see individuals dressed almost normally, as if they were having just another day at the office in some forgotten time.

Someone, Mac didn't see who, had opened their mouth to point this out and was cruelly wrested to the ground by the surrounding soldiers who screamed and shouted all the while, spittle flying from their mouths, red with rage as they subdued the culprit. With no little self-control, Mac stood back and coolly appraised what he recognized as standard control techniques, conscious that the others around him were experiencing the disorientation and growing docile submission that was the desired result.

Along with the others he acquiesced when directed to lie on the ground, his arms crossed behind his back, and even allowed himself a wry smile as the cable ties looped over his wrists and were yanked tight. Small yelps of pain from the others confirmed that they too were being restrained and he let his head droop to the cool concrete floor, adopting the submissiveness expected but letting his ears become his focus.

The soldiers shuffled around them, the shouting lessened, only the odd rough insistent boot used to keep legs splayed and the group immobile. In the following hush, the sharp clip clop of boots on the concrete reached Mac's ears. Not the dull noise of combat boots, but the familiar noise of the parade ground, of sharp creases and patent leather shined to perfection.

A rustling of cloth and shifting of feet came from behind the prone figures and Mac could imagine the troopers there stiffening to something resembling attention as the officer drew close. He permitted himself a wry smile at military conditioning and waited for whatever was coming.

"Is this the new batch?"

"Yes sir! Mike two is following behind, completing a final sweep. We were sent on ahead so processing could be done effectively."

"Good. Now, let's see what we've got today," in the pause Mac slightly manically imagined some moustachioed caricature of military bearing peering at them all through his monocle, scrutinizing them like insects. He pushed the image away, concentrating on learning what he could, "These two, infirmary. Has he regained consciousness at all? No? Alright, light guard on them until they are moved. The others, usual dispersion; women and children to the spare dorm, men to the stores, separate compartments. We'll process them tomorrow, basic rations for the night. Understood?"

A curt acknowledgment was followed by the boots receding rhythm, and a lengthy silence that struck Mac as odd. Normally, the minute an officer's back was turned, the squaddies would be calling him every name under the sun in good humour; here it was missing. More than anything else since they had been picked up this worried him deeply, and he shrank even more into being a grey man as they were bundled up and prodded toward the rear of the cavern.

His eyes moved slowly, left to right, drinking in the surroundings, slightly overwhelmed by what he was seeing. The vehicle they had arrived in sat in the forecourt of the cavern, troops already filling it again, its engine rumbling ready to leave, but looking tiny beneath the vast rock dome of a roof stretching above and away from him. The rock itself, or what he could see of it before it was lost behind the harsh light, showed signs of tooling and shaping, the touch of man, and all around the perimeter, to perhaps a height of twenty feet, a wall of dull grey breezeblock had been constructed to add a sense of construction, a human environment.

But it was across the vast expanse of floor that the biggest treasure stood. With the exception of a fifty-foot wide track from front to back leading from the main doors, the entire floor space was covered in equipment and hardware. To his rear and left stood a huge storage area, row upon row of sturdy shelving and boxes, all piled high with arms and munitions of various shapes and sizes, from racks of small arms to heavy calibre machine guns and box after box of rocket launchers. On his rear right a whole area had been decked out as a raised platform, two feet high, and lined from side to side with a variety of vegetables, all basking under a scaffold of light and sprinklers.

It was the mother lode to either side of him that caused his eyes to widen and sudden realization to set in however. Row after row of tanks and vehicles lined the wide path, sitting deeper than Mac could see to count, and covering the vast majority of the caverns area. Most of them looked as if they had just been delivered fresh out of wrapping and he could see mechanics scrambling here and there across them, accompanied by the harsh bark and fumes of tested engines. Challengers, Warriors, field guns, flatbed trucks, and even a few AS-90 howitzers sat brooding in the massed ranks of hardware, inert yet potent.

A sea of dull green metal swam by on either side of him, broken here and there by the pristine white of a UN paint job, or the sandy pink of a desert theme, and even with so many years of experience behind him, Mac was overwhelmed. Never had he seen so much hardware gathered in one place like this. And yet, precisely because of it, and despite never having been in the location before, he now knew exactly where they had been brought.

Glen Douglas.

The largest NATO arms depot in the British Isles, and only a few miles from where they had ended up at Coulport; and he hadn't even thought about it. Like most soldiers he knew about it, but like most soldiers he had never had the need or authority required to come here. Now he could see what the fuss was about! Mention this site in a Greenpeace or CND convention and the room would undergo collective apoplexy! This place had supplied arms and munitions for every campaign of recent years that the British army had waged. It stored reserve arms and munitions for each of the NATO member countries; its supply of 5.56 ammunition alone compatible and plentiful enough for any multinational endeavour perceived or undertaken, and here he was slap bang in the middle of it.

More mystery surrounded what lay behind these steel doors than Area 51, Loch Ness, and the moon landings combined, and despite the armed escort they were under Mac couldn't suppress the excited thrill that twisted its way through his body.

Fighting for some focus he fixed on the passageway that was approaching; a dark square cut into the rear wall, tiny in comparison to the sheer face surrounding it but much more than head high and leading deep into the bowels of the earth. The rough granite walls above the opening were dotted here and there with windows, backlit figures moving in rooms carved into the very bedrock of the mountain. Some of the windows towered up near the roof of the cavern, and he had a sudden sense of the honeycombs that must riddle the interior, a vast network of rooms and passageways bludgeoned out of the rock through sheer perseverance. The sheer wall towered over their small group as they grew nearer to the passageway and Mac shivered at the sudden impression that they were about to be swallowed alive by the bedrock, the windows like eyes watching hungrily as they were marched forward.

First into the dimness was Kane, slung between two troopers, feet dragging, as they pulled him upright with his hands held clasped to their shoulders. Curtis followed, wounded but walking under his own steam, a soldier at his back his own personal warden. The rest, Mac included, were huddled tight, squaddies to both sides and the rear, herding them forward. A soft cool breeze issued from the tunnel, its aroma clean and sterile, and as the walls closed in it suddenly felt like their speed had doubled, the brisk pace accentuated. Everyone seemed either too shocked or afraid to speak, and the rhythm of their footsteps soon became loud and intrusive in the stillness of the tunnel. Doors passed by on either side, windowless, all closed. Smaller, narrower passageways branched away from the main; some sloping downwards, others gently up, their ends indiscernible, the bleak repeating rock making definition hazy.

"Stop"

Collectively, their heads jerked at the sudden command, eyes swivelling as the soldiers moved in closer, brusquely pulling at and shoving at the group until it soon became clear that the women were being separated out. Nobody raised a finger to stop it, and for that Mac was thankful; all it needed was one noble idiot and they would all be in even more shit than they currently were. The soldiers split too, a few lining up alongside the women and children, their lead moving forward to a passageway on the left and, with obvious gesticulation from his weapon, indicating the way they were expected to go.

With a few backward glances, and a subtle nod from Mac, the women complied, the men bemused and with the air of the hopelessly lost in the confines of the tunnel. They didn't remain static for long; an unformed grunt and prod from one of their keepers sending then shuffling forward again along the passage. The uniformity of the hewn granite of the walls made tracking their progress a ridiculous exercise, and Mac started to suspect that they had doubled back several times just to ensure that their sense of direction was hopelessly lost.

Five minutes later, Kane and Curtis were dragged and prodded respectively down another branching tunnel, and roughly half an hour since entering the complex in the AFV they halted beside a set of double doors, recessed and shadowed about a foot from the passageway proper. A panel sat at nominal eye level on the left hand one, a stencilled designation marking the room beyond as D-379. Below this, marked in not so rigid marker pen, was stuck a sheet of A4 paper, less bureaucratically naming the room as "Storeroom 6".

One of the soldiers produced what appeared to be a small length of black tubing from a pocket, pressing it to a shallow recess on the right-hand door. The click was barely audible over their collective breathing, but with a shove from the key holder the door swung inward with a dusty whisper, revealing an inky blackness beyond. The mixing air in the doorway was dry and stale, musty and unwelcoming; a smell of emptiness and space, and as the lights were flicked on their new home was lit in stark revealing relief.

Hustled inside by the guards, they found a cavernous space totally at odds with the now tiny doors they had just walked through. A warehouse within a mountain, row after row and level after level of shelving, stretching back and up, surrounding them on all sides, but all seemingly empty! Clear corridors stretched between the shelving, wide enough for a forklift, the scuffed yellow markings on the junctions and around the borders indicating some previous compliance to a health and safety mantra. Everything was filmed with dust, spotted only with scuffed footprints leading away from and back to the doors, the small cloud lifted into the air by their entrance billowing softly in the eddy from the open door.

They were marched forward in the eerie silence, hushed even more by the echo of their footsteps sounding amongst the skeletal shelves. Here and there the odd overhead light was broken, left unrepaired, leaving islands of shadow that tired imagination could fill all too easily. Even their escorts seemed somehow smaller, more compact, warding off the smothering silence around them. Ahead of them a larger, more intense pool of light marked a widening between the surrounding shelves and pallets, a square of space in what Mac assumed to be the centre of the cavernous storeroom.

In the middle, slightly incongruous with the surroundings, a square room filled a large section of the floor space. Constructed in roughhewn timber and walled with thick, sturdy looking chicken wire there was no mistaking it for anything other than a cage. Sectioned off on the inside with more wire walls, it was disturbing to the eye; its depth swimming if dwelled on too long. A gate lay in front of them, a chunky padlock keeping it in place, and as one of the escorts first unlocked and then swung the door open, they could make out the wire defined corridor beyond it, stretching into the cages centre, lined on either side with more gates and padlocks.

The same guard went first, moving to the center and opening the furthest door. One of their number was ushered up the small wired passage and subsequently ushered into the small enclosure beyond, the cage door swung shut and clamped with the padlock behind them. Within five minutes, the remaining group, void of woman and injured, was incarcerated in their own private cells, free to view each other and the empty oppressive space of the warehouse all around them. With a last rattle of the main padlock, their escort turned to leave, heading back the way they had come. Mac secretly hoped that they would be decent enough to leave the lights burning, and was grateful that after a few minutes had elapsed, they were still all within sight of one another.

The others crowded quickly to the limit of their cells, a soft creak of the wire under their weight as they all tried to huddle together as close as the confines would allow.

" Mac-"

He shushed them with a finger, loping round the perimeter of his own cage, peering through the hatched wire at their surroundings, all looking the same- empty, uniform, desolate.

"Well, they don't seem too concerned with keeping an eye on us," he said. Nothing even vaguely electronic or sinister had caught his eye, and with the limited means at his disposal he had to be satisfied that they had indeed been left to their own devices for the minute.

He tested the wire walls. Thick, and left with a roughness that would rip insistent hands. With the holding staples sunk deep in the timber; it appeared as effective as any brick wall would have been. Through the gaps in the rough flooring he could see that the wire even extended underneath; the concrete flooring under it ensuring that no avenue of release had been left anywhere but through the doors. His own space was about six by six, and he could see that the others were in cells of roughly the same size. A slight tang of cordite hung over the construction, and from the scrapes and dents on the off colour boards at his feet he guessed that at one time what they were standing in had served as an ammo store, secure and aired enough to prevent thieving hands and deterioration.

As satisfied as he could be at the measure of their surroundings, he brought his mind back with sadness to the small group around him, his heart lurching at the faces he couldn't see. By now, they were not even hiding the faint air of desperation in their eyes, crowding as best they could in proximity to one another, all eyes searching Mac's own for some sort of answer.

The problem was, he didn't have any. At this moment he was as lost and confused as they were.

For the third time in just over two weeks Kane woke to an unfamiliar room. Badly fitting ceiling tiles popped into view, sat above strip lighting that hurt his eyes. He screwed them shut and tried to sit, wincing as he did so, hand reaching instinctively for the pounding spot at the base of his skull, letting his fingers brush over the lump he found there. Swinging round, his feet dangling in the air, he looked down onto scuffed and worn tiles, pitted with age and laid out in a chequerboard pattern. The bed he was on was high, hospital gurney style, with a thin mattress and not even a pillow to dress it.

Slowly he inspected himself, noting the clean skin obviously washed, and clothes he remembered as his, but of his boots there was no sign; his bare toes wiggling back at him. He checked his pockets, cheeks blowing in relief as his fingers felt the smooth sheen of the photo, still intact, his last link with an old life. His brain began to catch up, starting to sort through recent memories- what had happened?

The hilltop!

Flashes flooded back, assaulting his still fragile brain, and he struggled to remember details in the rush. The tank and vehicles were vivid, a radio crackle of Lucy and David being picked up at least reminding him they were alive. But that sweet relief was immediately batted away by the memory of so many others dead, and his face creased as he tried to stifle the tears, that last crystal image of Tony's head snapping back as the bullet shattered his skull overwhelming him; People who had survived so much, who he had known full of life, gone in an instant. Somehow it seemed so unfair, so wrong, and old rage threatened to boil up and out of him again.

Instead he breathed deeply, screwing his eyes shut to clear his head and jumped from the bed, letting his balance settle before moving to the only door set in the facing wall. The handle turned, but pushed or pulled it was immediately obvious the door was locked. A hatch sat at eye level with again nothing on his side to enable him to open it. He kicked the door in frustration, turning his back to it and sliding down. Crouched, he surveyed the room again. Apart from the bed it was completely empty, only smudged coronas of dirt marking spaces where other furniture or equipment had once been. Even the light switch was missing, its control obviously outside. He briefly and madly considered making some sort of lever out of the bed frame, but it looked too sturdy and he had no tools to start anything anyway.

Standing, he instead heeled the door repeatedly, hollering all the while at the top of his voice, finally using his fists and the back of his head to increase the noise. He felt rather than heard the hatch open at his back and spun to face it, hands braced. A pair of cold blue eyes regarded him with nothing approaching warmth and with no sound but relaxed and easy breathing.

"Why am I being held here? Who are you people? Where are my friends?"

The eyes didn't waver or blink.

_"Come on_!" he kicked the door, "What do you want? Let me out of this... _cell_!"

The hatch abruptly closed, leaving Kane kicking and screaming at the door in frustration until he sank to the ground exhausted, chest heaving with exertion. He hated being confined with a passion, having options removed like this, and he had to force himself back to some kind of calmness, resting his head in his hands as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

Slow down, take stock!

He wasn't dead, and from the looks and feel of it, had actually been patched up a bit. His watch was gone so he had no way of knowing even what day it was, or how long he'd been unconscious for, though the yellowing bruises on his legs indicated a while at least. Picking himself up, he paced the room's perimeter, losing himself in his steps on the cool floor as he tried to clear his mind. He couldn't fully remember who had been left on the hilltop before the end- Mac, Curtis, Jane he could remember clearly, and he had vague memories of Deadlock, but the rest were a blur. He knew Lucy and David had been picked up and prayed they were still safe, but he chose not to dwell on David's second apparent premonition too much - pushing the train of thought back into the blackness.

Who _were_ these people? And where was he? The room gave nothing away, and he jumped back on the bed frustrated, tracing the lines of the tiles to divert his mind. With nothing else to do he sang songs, ran through engineering problems in his head, and picked at his memories...anything to make time pass and stop the walls closing in.

Focus lost in random thoughts, he almost never heard the door click, and the handle quietly protesting as it was turned. He shallowly contemplated making a wild dash for the door, grabbing whoever came through and making a run for it; for activities sake alone. But in the event the decision was taken out of his hands.

The door burst open, and three uniformed brutes rushed him on the bed, two grabbing his legs and wrists while the other first placed a dark sack over his head before binding his wrists tight with plastic ties. He struggled, more a token than any real resistance, before he was wrenched to his feet and marched forcibly ahead. The pace was horrid, preventing the cautious steps that his body wanted with the hood on and his senses blocked. The stone swished with the sound of his shuffling steps, the only noise other than his own rapid breathing that he had to focus on. The stone floor was freezing to his bare feet and echoes bounced confusingly, indicating changes in the shape and size of the areas they went through, but still with that sense of enclosure. A tiny sliver of light was visible at the bottom of the hood, but the minute he tried to focus on it, bend his head to try and see anything, hood and hair were forcefully yanked back, leaving him in blackness. The grip on his upper arms was like a vice, and they started to tingle with the reduced blood flow.

One echo resolved itself as they moved along, suddenly becoming clear as the sound of someone else being herded just as he was. He stifled the desire to shout out, thinking that any hope of recognition wouldn't be worth much in the face of the beating that would surely follow.

He was bumped through a doorway, his feet sinking into what felt like carpet. A few short steps and he was dragged down into a chair, the hood yanked off and the ties cut simultaneously, causing him to rub his aching biceps as he looked around in wonder.

Proved right; pale, creamy, plush carpeting cushioned his feet. The chair he was on was old and shaped, the wood dark with age and wear, almost classical in its lines and bowed, shaped legs. Around him the office space was clad in dark mahogany, almost shining with a deep red lustre, its varnish warming the light. It was almost surreal; a wildly extravagant display of luxury crowned, as he looked straight ahead, by the antique bureau, huge in the constricted space of the office. His senses warmed and he even noted the faint tang of polish in the air and the lack of flicker in the lights. All this he drank down in seconds, perplexed and curious, before a discreet throat clearing in front of him reminded him that he hadn't been brought here as a guest.

Seated behind the monstrous desk, elbows resting on the worn and scuffed green leather of its inlay, sat one of the most imposing figures in uniform Kane had ever seen. A giant of a man, both in girth and presence, dressed in what seemed like full parade ground regalia; multi-coloured ribbon adorning his chest. He glowered at Kane with curiously soft blue eyes under thunderous salt and pepper brows, matching his hair. His mouth was pinched tight in a disapproving line under a bulbous nose scored by broken veins which ran out and across his cheeks; and though folds of skin pushed at the limits of his collar, his face retained a grim angular shape, leading to a chin jutting forward as he stared at Kane as if through a microscope.

Kane had never seen a face that radiated so much grim and not necessarily warm determination, and he decided to shut up until he saw where this whole thing was going. Another man stood at the bull's shoulder, and where the seated figure was strength and force personified, this person was a 'vampire', of dark nights and furtive movement; a wiry tall frame topped by a thin smile that made Kane feel uncomfortable and hooded eyes that carried as much implied danger as the others bulk.

"Your name?"

The bull had spoken, and Kane was sharply broken from his study.

"Sorry?"

Something smacked down on his shoulder blade from behind with a hissing crack, shocking him and leaving it stinging mercilessly. He had nearly forgotten the guards who had brought him here!

"Your name." This time it wasn't even a question, simply a weary statement of impending harm should the information not suddenly appear.

"Nathaniel Kane," he said, smothering the urge to tack 'sir' on the end.

The pause stretched, and Kane felt swamped by foreboding, scared that even his name hadn't been the right answer. The _bull_ just looked at him, as the _vampire_ leaned over to whisper something. The silence screamed and Kane felt his bladder suddenly full, his eyes and mouth drying up. He forced some control through his frame, stilling his limbs in turn, breathing deep and regular, calming the irrationality as he waited for whatever was to come next.

Monks, angels, demons...they were a _breeze_ next to this! He'd scavenged and survived for nigh on two years, seen horrors and killed in order to live; but the deep-seated ghost of civilization, the inbred fear of authority, the psychological impact of a uniform, it _all_ had him petrified.

The shadowy bulk of the gorilla behind him kept impinging on his senses, unnerving him further, and he almost missed the next question, his brain unscrambling the noise at the last second.

"Engineer, construction." He answered

The bull looked thoughtful, weighing Kane up like raw meat as he digested the answer.

"Useful." It was not a statement designed for response and Kane kept his mouth shut.

"Well Mr Kane, this no doubt must seem a trifle disconcerting at the moment. While we make no apologies for how you have found your treatment thus far, we beg your indulgence given the fractured nature of the world's current climate. Can't be too careful as I'm sure you'll agree."

He paused for effect and Kane nodded slowly. The voice was low and baritone, clipped and precise, a voice not given to extended discourse.

"Now, what we would like to hear from you sir, is an explanation as to what your group was doing at Coulport, an MOD facility with clear security restrictions, and how you came into conflict with the group of, shall we say, _non-terrestrials_?"

Kane balked, remembering the other set of shuffling feet heading back the way he had come, wondering what that person had said, how much they already knew about him. These people scared him, and he wasn't afraid to admit it; he'd already witnessed one atrocity. What would they do if they caught him in a lie? He shivered involuntarily. The truth weighed heavy on his shoulders, and he decided to split the difference, told them of Condor and their flight, their losses, trying to make a fresh start before they were set upon. He left out any personal details or motivations; chose to skip that final sight before he had been knocked unconscious, and at the end sat back in the chair, as relaxed as he could be under the circumstances.

"Good." The bull sat with mouth behind steepled fingers, peering at him intently.

" Now, naturally, you have questions, but in order to forestall these I will tell you what you need to know at this juncture. As you may have already surmised you are currently a guest of Her Majesty's Armed Forces and will remain so for the foreseeable future. This is for your own safety and protection of course, and you will find the amenities available to be first class.

" Granted your arrival was unforeseen, but once our scouts picked you up, they trailed you and your subsequent aggressors to Coulport, maintaining a close watch until it became quite clear that you were no bunch of fanatics and were indeed under threat of extinction. Under my orders sir you were aided and escorted here, and in time you will find it a welcoming and comforting home from home.

"I am Colonel Moore, officer commanding of this base, and given the breakdown of civil law across the country and the absence of, or lack of, communication with, a coherent government, this base operates under martial law, _my_ law. In time you shall be assigned duties and be expected to carry them out diligently and competently. In return you will remain safe, fed and watered. What we expect is that each individual here fulfils a function to the benefit of all." He leaned forward, " We do not carry passengers."

Without waiting for any kind of response or query he indicated the vampire to his right, " This is Major Forbes, second in command. He will assign you and the other members of your group duties consummate with your skills once you are processed."

With that it became clear that Kane no longer existed as far as the Colonel was concerned as he returned his gaze to the paper strewn desk in front of him. Kane, shell shocked by the speech looked up and caught the Major's eye; a thin smile again playing across his lips as he dipped his head to the unseen trooper behind Kane who took two steps forward and gripped him by the bicep.

"Mr Kane, if you could join us please." The Major lifted a hand indicating the door and the grip lifted Kane from the chair, less forcefully than how he had arrived in it.

Outside, they walked briskly along the corridor, the Major's hands tucked behind his back, the soldier stationed immediately to their rear.

"Questions?"

It took a moment for Kane to realise that the word was aimed at him, and he looked around before responding.

"Where are we?"

" Ah, of course, you were unconscious when you were brought in. This must all seem a tad confusing. This _Mr_ Kane is Glen Douglas, the largest subterranean MOD facility in the British Isles, fully secure and equipped with enough provisions and munitions to see out this current _crisis_." The thin smile again as he turned and faced Kane, pointing up, "Basically, you are currently standing under one thousand feet of granite, with another honeycombed thousand below your feet."

"And you've been here since...?"

" Yes, since the _Rupture, Rapture, Ragnorok, Breaking, Cataclysm, End of Days_ \- all the various colloquialisms that cover the impact event. We have remained here and consolidated since central communications were lost. Despite the occasional loss, we are still at battalion strength, and our equipment remains in top order.

"Make no mistake however, in order for us to survive a certain level of discipline has been required that may seem somewhat draconian to your current mode of thinking. Without it, what little civilization we hold dear would have long since been reduced to anarchy and failure."

He stopped and turned to face Kane, " To be blunt, but also to ensure you understand, you have no choices! You are here now and consequently you are bound by the structure of this operation. My advice- put up and fit in. Trust me, you won't like the alternatives."

Something in the matter of fact tone rekindled the hard ball of rage churning in Kane's gut, and before he could bite his tongue the words lashed out, " Like a bullet to the head you mean? The way my friend was _executed_?"

The Major stopped, halting the trooper behind with a gesture and turned square on to Kane.

_"Mr_ Kane, as you are still _recovering_ I will let that slide. Now, listen closely, " he leaned in threateningly, " While the set up here is, as I've stated previously, of a high order, it is also _limited_. While it may track badly against all the values you hold dear, the simple fact is that your friend- who was badly wounded I assume?- would have been a drain on resources for no clear long term advantage!" he let that sink in, " The world has _changed_ Mr Kane, hot tea and sympathy are superfluous commodities, and we simply _do not_ waste time and valuable supplies on lost causes. Sergeant, escort Mr Kane to his colleagues."

With that the Major turned away, heels clipping on the concrete formed floor, leaving Kane flustered and loathing the cold logic behind the Major's response. He watched him walk away, the large bulk of the sergeant discouraging pursuit, and only then remembered the question he had been desperate to ask since he had come to.

Despite a healthy memory of the whack on his shoulder in the office he took the chance and called out down the tunnel, " Major! Major! I'm sorry! Major? Listen, I just need to know one thing- were a woman and boy picked up? Are they here? They were in the bunker! Lucy her name was. The officer back there told the other transport to pick them up. Major?"

The major halted, half turning, the overhead light casting his face in darkness beneath his cap, " No Mr Kane, they haven't arrived yet. Comms were lost some time ago and we are currently conducting searches of the area. No need to worry though, I'm sure its just a glitch; blown track, electrics on the fritz. If we hear anything we shall let you know. Sergeant!"

But as the sergeant made it clear it was time to move, Kane couldn't help the gnawing hole in the pit of his stomach that told him that it wasn't anything that simple.

With growing dread, he feared he was never going to see them again.

Chapter 2

"I have no country to fight for; my country is the earth, and I am a citizen of the world. "

Eugene V. Debs

Mac stared at the ceiling.

The setup, that was the thing. Something didn't feel quite right here, and he couldn't put his finger on it. He swung out of bed, grabbing the uniform and weapon, throwing on the jacket as he headed for the door.

As much as it felt good to be back in the fold, part of a unit again, something was nagging just out of reach and it was causing him to lose sleep.

He'd seen all the others over the past two months, and to a person, they had all been treated well; and despite some misgivings this place was a downright garden of delights compared to previous experiences.

Yes, he knew some had found the initial stages rough, but he would have done the same with any complete strangers...Hell, he had! But his own experience had been alright perversely. Once his background had been made clear, he'd been one of the first to be 'placed', part of a system again. Fair enough, it was army, 'pongos', not bootnecks but it was good to be part of the structure again. He'd kept his rank too which was something; never guaranteed with another regiment, nor the circumstances but there you go, perhaps the colonel was all right.

An image of Lucy and David flashed through his mind, and he spared a moment for quiet sorrow as he walked on. He knew Kane still held some lingering hope, having discovered that their bodies weren't amongst others found when a patrol had gone back to Coulport, and Mac didn't have the heart to take it from him. If they were alive, it didn't really matter, they were as gone from them now just as surely as if they had been dead.

He swatted the thought away and walked briskly down the corridors, the ever-present whiff of antiseptic washing over him as the recyclers chugged out tepid air. The complex was well sealed, temperature controlled, and self-sufficient...not even a microbe was getting in undetected.

This place was amazing!

Everything under one roof...just like the advert said. The equipment was top notch, and the grease monkeys kept everything as it should be, which was another wonder in itself. No shortage of spares, no making do. He could actually grow to like ' _this man's army'_ again!

Mac paused to let a group of techies go past, wheeling a trolley laden with some complex bit of machinery, the rattle of misaligned wheels loud in the corridor. He had no idea how many people occupied this base, no-one had divulged that little tit-bit, but he was getting the feeling it ran to thousands; a lot of them refugees like his lot had been.

Given that the head shed was a colonel, he had assumed, and now knew, that a battalion structure was operating here, meaning nearly a thousand men at arms. He hadn't been made aware of any attrition, apart from the five who had been in the lost Warrior; but even if there had been, it was still a large number of trigger fingers per head of civilians, and even weighed against whatever numbers survived out in the cold and ruins.

It also seemed, and again his 'newbie' status meant no one had officially told him yet, that the odd civilian here and there was 'made up' and joined the uniformed ranks from time to time. He was positive that he'd seen a few definite civvies joining patrol groups in the last two months, which was fair enough; if there had been losses, it made sense to replace them from a trusted source. Plus, wouldn't do to have so many people without the wherewithal to defend themselves, nor the means of seeing the outside world from time to time, regardless of how comfortable the installation was.

He slowed as he turned the corner towards the main hangar and entrance; it never did for an NCO to be seen rushing around. When Sergeants started running, people got worried- Rules of the game. He slowed his breathing to match his walk, finding the assured swagger that was as much part of his rank as any years of training and experience.

Naturally he arrived first, and once again surveyed the mammoth space arrayed about him. It really was breath-taking, and for a man who felt the love of combat green it was also paradise. Already this early in the morning it was a steady hum of activity, stores being wheeled in different directions, engines being turned over filling the air with high grade diesel perfume, and the farm being tended to in the far corners. Even he had been surprised, much to others amusement, a few days previously when a solitary rebel sheep had fetched up against his backside with a plaintive ' _baa_ ' before being led off to whatever fate awaited it!

His home for today sat solitary on the tarmac in front of him, being given a last seeing to by the armourers and mechanic. And as he wandered toward it, he casually checked out, as he always did, the generally dark windows that spotted the sheer bluff of machined granite behind him. Today the topmost was lit, sitting like an eyrie so far up the face that it was almost a slit from his perspective; but as he moved further out he was sure he could see a silhouette in the light, rigid and unmoving.

_Guess the Colonel does take an interest_.

The thought did not comfort him, and he found his shoulders imperceptibly bunching under the imagined scrutiny. The man's insistence that the world was under alien invasion, or suffering mass hallucination worried Mac slightly, but then again, Rupert's usually were a breed apart (mostly through in-breeding in the minds of junior ranks), so he wasn't unduly concerned about the man's belief's; as long as Mac had a purpose he'd agree to it all being a plot by Ronald McDonald!

He brushed the cold metal exterior of the Warrior, this one clothed in winter camouflage of white, grey, and green, a silently brooding menace, ready to growl when the engine coughed into life. He'd sat in more of these than he cared to remember, and its solidity still re-assured and made him feel safe. Today they were going out in one of the newer vehicles, fresh out of storage; clad in Chobham like the Challengers, heavier but still fast and agile. It still felt weird, he'd been in some tight spots and scrounging for kit so many times that this was kid in a sweetshop territory. Half the time he couldn't quite take it in.

His head turned at a shuffling behind him, and he saw the first of the section entering the cavern, yawning and stretching to a man, their gear slung precariously about their person as they slowly put it on. He stood still, in that sly sergeants manner, waiting until they had got close enough.

_"Right_! You _absolute_ fucking shower! We are going out into possibly hostile terrain today and you lot look like you are going to fucking _church!_ Get your gear stowed in the vehicle and present yourself as if you believe you are proper bloody _soldiers_!" He whipped his head to the right, "Who the hell are _you_?"

As the others double-timed in and out of the vehicle, suddenly wide awake, and the spectators went back to their normal business, the subject of Mac's shouted question stood stock still, his eyes bulging like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

" C-Connolly sir-" he threw a salute that came close to knocking himself out.

"Sergeant!"

"Sorry si-, I mean Sergeant. Connolly."

"You new Connolly? Are you wet behind the ears son?"

" Yes sergeant. I was assigned by Major Forbes. Been training for the last few weeks; this is my second patrol."

Mac's smile just seemed to make the boy sweat even more. _So they do get made up to keep the numbers straight!_ " Don't you worry son, we'll look after you. Now get your gear stored like the rest. Hop to it; _go, go_! _Michaels_?"

As the new addition scurried mouse like to dump his stuff, a bulkier figure came to a stop at Mac's shout.

"Sarn't?"

" You keep an eye on him Michaels, I don't want any sweaty palms and trigger fingers turning the vehicle into a pinball machine ok."

"Yes Sarn't"

Apart from Connolly this was a competent crew, all base staff that had been here for years, and who thankfully were experienced enough not to openly at least resent a new sergeant in their lives. He smiled again; this was _almost_ fun!

He straightened his posture slightly as he caught the clipped footsteps approaching; no squeak of working boots these, and waited until they were almost right behind him.

"Captain"

He turned to find Captain Neal smiling at Mac's seemingly psychic display.

" Next time I'm going to wear slippers Sergeant!" he responded to Mac's salute before continuing, " All set for today?"

"Just about sir, be interesting to see how the new lad does, but we'll keep an eye on him."

"Please do. I know it's an attempt to keep our strength consistent, but the lack of training does tell in the casualty rates amongst our 'seconded' brothers in arms."

Barely a flicker passed across Mac's face at the little nugget of info that the Captain seemed unaware that he wasn't privy to. By this time the others had lined up by the Warrior and had presented themselves as ready.

" Ready for your briefing sir."

They both turned to face the line of seven men, the captain's arms crossing behind his back.

" Your patrol today will be along our outer markers, heading east to Bridge of Allen followed by a southern journey to Stirling and return home using standard evasion routes. Weather conditions today are poor, heavy snow expected mid-morning with a strong north westerly driving it through. We have had reports of possible hostiles scavenging in the area, so please stay alert. Today's intelligence aspect is centred on the town of Bridge of Allen itself. Ascertain the status of occupation and or resistance if any through the centre.

We have reason to firmly believe that fanatics are attempting to push and consolidate in this area. Given its communication routes and position, we cannot allow this to happen. However, your role today is intelligence gathering so do not engage unless fired upon; there may still be civilians in the area so ensure safeties are on at all times. This is not a _jolly_ gentlemen, Sergeant Roberts has operational command en-route, Sergeant Macillinden when decamped from vehicle. Come back safe and secure. That is all."

With a round of returned salutes, the briefing ended and the squad clambered through the rear door and into the belly of the vehicle. Seconds later, with a clang of closing hatches, and a thump from Mac on the steel of the cab, the engine coughed and roared to life, filling the vehicle with the stench of diesel, almost deafening the passengers before settling into its normal idling grunt and roaring out of the main hangar doors.

Mac checked comms round the group- still variations on the Bowman systems, digitally encrypted with individual GPS locators built in...further example of the wealth of materiel that the base had amassed. Everyone checked in as working, the section VHF checking out ok with the Warriors bigger comms package, giving every man a wide effective communication range with each other, and with the vehicle; its bigger set reporting back to the main base real time. If he thought about it too long it scared him to contemplate that they may be the last group of people alive pinging signals off cold, lifeless metal two hundred and fifty miles up in the black of space, indifferent and uncaring as to whether it was being used or not.

The Warrior bumped and grinded over the rough terrain as it turned cross country due east, and Mac, lulled by the motion, smiled to himself at the gentle banter cranking up, the obligatory piss take of the newbie in their midst. Apart from him they were a solid crew, all stationed base personnel when it all went to shit, regiment members, years of service together. Corporal Michaels was their anchor, his piercing eyes and bulk giving him the image of the poster boy soldier, marred slightly by the acne scars over cheeks and nose. Mac had seen him around the hangar, and even for a non-com he was supremely confident and assured, thinking nothing of stopping the officers for a question or a chat; even Forbes a few times. More remarkable was that his men didn't hold this against him, and seemed to trust him implicitly, still interacting and messing with him the way all soldiers did- with a healthy disrespect for authority. It was unusual though, and Mac wasn't comfortable enough yet to entirely put his trust in the man.

The hour passed in a confusion of bumps and drops marking the rough terrain as they slid across the landscape. He'd always hated this bit, being someone else's passenger, putting his life in their hands. But as the walk would have taken a day or more he wasn't that disgruntled that he didn't appreciate the relative comfort. Connolly on the other hand was experiencing first hand all the trauma of motion sickness, and was currently physically as green as his status in the squad. Needless to say the others were taking the piss mercilessly, and to be fair to the lad, in between having his head in a bag he was giving it back as good as he got. It was a good sign, his nerves were showing in the tap of his foot and the frantic eyes, and all the banter was helping take his mind from going full pelt into overactive imagination.

"Reference one, 5 miles"

Mac banged on the hatchway to acknowledge the shout, and the squad set about the serious work of rechecking arms, magazines and bolts slammed and clicked, checking springs and webbing, making sure everything was within reach.

They already sat in dispersal order, Michaels and Warne to be first out, the rest bomb bursting to defensive ground under their cover, with the Warrior the big stick covering them all initially.

Mac's teeth ground together and he felt his pulse quicken fractionally, a sensation he'd grown to like; feeling the adrenalin begin to pump around his system, heightening awareness. Even seated he was already on the balls of his feet, ready to move and slam the rifle into the pad of his shoulder searching for targets. Once they stopped, the tin can was possibly the most dangerous place on earth to be inside. He'd seen it once, the aftermath of a grenade lobbed through a half open hatch, leaving so much raw meat and blood sickly glistening on the unadorned steel. Not something he wished to experience first-hand!.

_What the fuck...?_ He was jerked forward by inertia as the vehicle slewed to a halt, its engine growling in protest, almost covering the tuning fork twang of something scraping by fast outside, and heard the hydraulic hum of the main turret before Sergeant Roberts voice came calmly to his ears through the cab and headset.

_"Contact right_ , three hundred yards, in the tree line. Contact right, engaging."

The gods hammered on Mac's ears as the main gun fired away, the chain gun chattering away in excited accompanying bursts. A few almost musical reports pinged of the Warrior's hull, and Mac sprung to the half crouch as Connolly flinched from each one.

" _Make ready!_ " he screamed over the thunder of the guns, " Michaels and Warne, cover right. Connolly, you and Davis cover left, the rest line dispersal right flank. _Roberts_ , how many?"

"Unknown, say again, unknown! Seems to be small arms only."

The hatch swung open, hinged fortunately to open against the incoming rounds, providing some cover as they exited. The corporal and Warne had already scooted from the can and were crouched, rifles ready, facing the tree line to the right, snow and wind tugging at their kit. The other three were hitting the ground as Warne let loose with a three burst towards their unseen attackers. Mac hustled Connolly, wanting the new boy out and down left as quickly as possible so Davis could bring up the rear.

"Right son, out out out! Get your belly in the snow and watch for anything coming from the left. You see anything you tell me! _Anything_ , got it?"

"Sarge!" The man's face was as white as the snow on the ground. Mac clapped him on the back and he jumped, staggering as he landed awkwardly, but moving where he was supposed to.

Michaels looked up, a quick glance to the vehicle that suddenly set Mac on edge.

Some strange tick told him to turn back in to the vehicle against the way he was already facing, and the blow only stunned him rather than laid him out cold straight away because of it. He felt the cold metal of the deck slam against his cheek as he went down, his legs and arms filled suddenly with rubber. The clatter of his weapon seemed inordinately loud as it fell behind him. His eyes wanted to stay closed; the darkness seemed warm and comforting.

What happe.........

"..............enough to keep him out for five hours! Doddle, no problems at all." Michaels voice, clipped and precise. Mac kept his eyes shut, thankful that hearing had returned first. His cheek felt frozen to the metal, so he probably hadn't been moved.

The radio barked a static filled reply, and he heard Roberts voice from the front stating thirty minutes.

I've been out for a while then

Some sense warned against him opening his eyes, and he became more and more aware of the dull painful throb behind his right ear, sharp jolts of pain in tune with his pulse. The men were chattering over and behind him, and at one point a boot gave a half-hearted nudge to his backside; the easy laugh that accompanied it chilling him even more.

The sense of wrongness was now starting to be overpowering, and he was struggling hard against the instinct to open his eyes, trying to keep his body as limp and unconscious looking as he could. All the noise seemed behind him; with the exception of Roberts' second up in the front, he'd placed all the members of the section, bar Connolly, by their laughs and voices.

He risked an eye, the right closest to the floor, probably hidden from their view by the angle of his face, opening it fractionally, the view blurred and dim in the vehicles half-light. For a second he thought he was either blind or the lights were off, blackness filled his line of sight. He focussed and the black took on texture, lines of reflection, dull and indistinct on a matt surface.

Jesus!

The body bag lay less than a foot from his face, its matt dead sheen a reflection its purpose. And it was filled.

Connolly?

It was the only voice he hadn't heard yet, the only one missing, and there would be no reason to care for one of the attackers, or take their carcase back to base. Now the laughter behind him formed a sort of sense, it hadn't been one of their ' _own_ ', they hadn't really known him, and as soldiers do they were laughing it off, easier when it was a virtual stranger.

Poor bloke. He shouldn't even have been here. If only.............

His heart almost leapt from his mouth and he nearly cried aloud, the bag had _moved_. Nearly imperceptibly, but he was sure there had been movement. He tried to still his heart, so loud in his chest that he feared the others would notice. Something deep inside told him this was wise, play the advantage. No reason, all he knew was that something remained really not right with this situation, not at all.

Slowly, carefully, he raised the lid of his eye, letting the pupil dilate and absorb detail. Unconsciously he held his breath, looking for any small detail. The vibration of the Warrior made it difficult, but there it was, the bag rose and fell, slowly, rhythmically. And now he could see that it wasn't quite closed, the bulging at the top showing where the zipper remained slightly open, providing air.

He closed the eye again, taking stock. Connolly, or so he surmised, was in a body bag but still alive, though undoubtedly not conscious. He, Mac, was also was currently presumed unconscious, and nobody had made any effort to bring him round or even move him, which kind of left the conclusion that A, they didn't care, and B, that one of them had possibly, actually, physically done this to him.

But why?

Taking a risk he moaned ever so slightly, barely more than a whisper of passing air, but the reaction was immediate. Everything went quiet.

"He waking up?"

"No way man. That clip across the head I gave him, he'll be out for hours."

"But he moaned."

"Stop worrying Dave ok, " this Michaels voice, " He's out cold, and will be until we're safely home again." As if to make the point he nudged Mac hard with his boot, and Mac made his limbs as lifeless as possible, feigning his senselessness.

"See!"

"I still would've been happier if we'd slipped him some of the sleep juice instead."

He heard the crack of hand across head, " And how would you have explained that you fucking idiot, 'oh sorry sarge, I just slipped with this coincidentally full hypo in my hand'. Get a grip! No, a loose can, shaken loose. Easy story"

Another voice, Mitchell's, "We could've just offed him"

Mac felt ice slipping down his spine.

_"Fuck that_! The Colonel laid down the word, and the word was this one is a _possible_ , and a good one at that! No, this one's getting drip fed into it, but you know the CO, no risks until sure. But by all means you stand in front of the _Motor_ and explain how a bullet ended up in his newest pet project. I'll buy flowers!"

The rest burst out laughing, drowning the obscene but embarrassed response from Mitchell.

So I'm alive because the Colonel wants me alive, but something's going on here that he doesn't trust me to know about yet. And they haven't once mentioned Connolly, not once, despite the fact he's wrapped in plastic less than a foot from their feet. Somebody's going to have to make the report, yet no one seems the slightest bit concerned.

He heard Roberts voice from the front stating twenty minutes.

" Right boys, usual offload. Me and Warne will take the Sarge to the infirmary, wait for him to come round, commiserate on the 'stupidly stowed jerry can that clocked him on the head, oh dear' and the bravery of young inexperienced Connolly, an absolute _lion_ who tore into the trees hunting down the evil enemy," Michaels brayed laughter at his own wit.

"Speaking of the _evil enemy_ Corp, can you have a word with that _bastard_ Regan! Some of his crew were aiming a bit low! I swear one of those rounds gave me a closer shave than I've had in weeks!"

" No bother Spud, they were probably aiming at the sky! They're shit shots! Mitchell, get the props out, let's get this place looking suitable for our arrival eh."

Mac was finding it harder and harder to lie still. Things were getting stranger by the minute, and needles of fear coursed through his body. The whole thing had been a set up, from start to finish. Nobody had been trying to kill them, attack them; they'd been aiming high the whole time. A splash of thick liquid by his face broke his concentration, a heavy iron rich smell burned at his nostrils. Over his head, he could hear the slow sloshing gulp of a jerry can, its contents being laid fairly liberally around the interior of the vehicle.

The liquid by his head oozed its way around and under his squashed cheek, pungent and horrifyingly warm, and he risked an eye again, giving in to curiosity. Dark viscous matter covered the floor besides his head, sickly glistening in the light. Opening his eyes seemed to make the cloying smell worse, and it was only as he looked further, towards the body bag lying almost companionably on his left, that the liquid took on colour; the slick deep red that could only be one thing.

It covered the bag and floor in splatters, running slowly down the sides to join the puddle at his cheek, and he felt a momentary horror and helpless panic that he was face down in it, sticking to his skin.

Pigs blood, has to be.

He fought down the irrational part of his mind and let the soldier come forward. He and Connolly had both been incapacitated, and given that Connolly was the one in the bag, it must be for different reasons. Something was going on, and _had_ been going on, that the Colonel felt _he_ could be a part of...but not Connolly. Everything else, his 'accident', the firefight, the blood, all seemed to smack of camouflage. But why? It all seemed to be about _appearances_ , and if it was then that meant that, by Mac's reckoning, only a small fraction of the base personnel were privy to what it was. Thus the showmanship, of the blood, bullets, and the heroic Connolly's last stand...so that, perversely, all would seem 'normal' to others not in the know. But what was _it_?

His body almost squirmed in frustration, a temperament built for demanding answers feeling imprisoned in this passive posture. Again he forced it back, forcing himself still. Now was not the time or place; he hadn't found out what he needed to know yet. Maybe action would come later, but for the minute he ignored his cramping muscles and blood-soaked face; kept his eyes lightly closed and his muscles as slack as he could.

Being unconscious was proving to be _very_ educational!

Chapter 3

"It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways "

Buddha

The parts glistened in their coating of oil, spread out across the towel in logical order. He slid the brush down the barrel, clearing out any residue caked on it, fired hard by the heat of explosive gasses. The routine was ingrained, autonomous, so old and familiar that he really could do it just by touch; separating and laying each part in exactly the right order, cleaning and oiling, slotting it all back together.

It was the closest Mac had ever come to meditation, not that he would recognize it as such. But in the routine, the movements, he felt relaxed, able to drift off and let his mind wander.

He was, most definitely, in the shit, and right now he had no idea of any way out of it, or even what _it_ was! Either he went with it, possibly found out things that were so wrong to his sense of being and justice that he would hate himself, or he didn't and wound up dead.

When he'd lain in the vehicle, wearing a pretence of unconsciousness, he really had not had the first idea just how serious a situation he was in. By the time they had arrived back at base he had _almost_ convinced himself it was some sort of joke or initiation for the new boy, that he _had_ bumped his own head rather then had it bumped.

But the punch line hadn't arrived. Nobody jumped out from behind the door shouting 'Gotcha!'. Instead he'd heard the body bag slide from the vehicle, a grunt as someone took the weight and walked away. He'd been hauled upright, his arms slung across two sets of shoulders, trying to remember and stay loose as his feet dragged under him, not to smile at the panting effort of Michaels to haul his dead weight to the infirmary, taking some small enjoyment from the others discomfort.

They'd slung him on a table like so much baggage, leaving him to the medic before leaving. As soon as they had left he'd made the appropriate groaning noises, the feint of waking up, recovering consciousness, and before the doc had even had a chance to protest, had subjected him to a barrage of cracks and pleasantries, stated just how fine he was, deflected any examinations the poor man had planned, and had jovially discharged himself by wandering out the door with a cheery goodbye.

He'd guessed and guessed right at the direction they had taken, hearing their voices long before he saw them. Keeping them in earshot he had followed them through the corridors, hanging back long enough at corners to let them keep the distance, ensured they felt unwatched. He'd lost them at the elevator; could only hang back as they entered, rushing forward once the doors closed and noting the floor they got out on, having to presume it was them. The only thing of note on the fourth floor apart from a few storerooms and a radio room was Major Forbes office, and though he wasn't a betting man, he had felt his money safe placing it on that as their destination.

With no way to follow discretely he'd hightailed it back to the medic, complaining of a throbbing head, putting his previous behaviour down to the shock of coming round. All that just in case the two goons came back to check.

His fingers slid the firing pin smoothly into place, on auto pilot, feeling the fit; ensuring it was correct.

Their words in the Warrior rang in his ears- 'special project', 'plans for this one'. What the hell did it all mean? It seemed the Colonel had something in mind for him, something the others were already involved in. Forbes too he figured. He had never been an overly patient man, and now this was testing his limits. He had to wait on the approach and play dumb. Maybe then he could figure out what had happened to Connolly, and why, as it appeared, only a few were in on it! Jesus though, he wished they'd hurry up!

A last twist and sharp re-assuring click and he pulled the trigger, the dry fire bringing all the working parts forward, smoothly and efficiently. Satisfied he laid the weapon aside, cleaned up the rags and cloth around him, and stowed it all back in his locker.

One of the benefits of his renewed 'NCO-dom' was this nice little billet all his own: No one to share with and enough space to feel comfortable. It also gave him time and space to think, and by God he'd been doing a lot of that!

He sorted out his belt kit and webbing, PT already done for the day but some static target assaults to work through with the squad later to keep them sharp: Live firing, which was a novelty still, _but_ did mean he'd have to wear the good old dayglo range officer's marker tied about his person, making sure nobody took a chunk out of his, or anyone else's arse.

Finally satisfied he lay back on the bunk, everything ready and to hand, and whiled away the next hour doing more of the wondering that would slowly drive him mad if something concrete didn't happen soon.

Later, using one of the several other doors in and out of the base that were essentially inaccessible, or reachable, from outside they'd walked out as a squad onto the hilltop corrie that served as one of the practice ranges. Despite the worsening weather, they strolled through the exercise with no incidents, happily blowing the unfortunate cardboard targets, and the occasional suicidally curious rabbit, to hell and back without mercy. Even to Mac's experienced eye the squad worked well together but Mac couldn't but help notice Michael's little looks, and the seconds long huddles that he and Warne squeezed in when they thought he wasn't looking. But despite that nothing of note occurred; and after they'd stood under his watchful eye at endex, showing clear breaches, detached magazines, and making weapons safe, they had strolled back down the hill and into base, frozen and in need of a cuppa.

As he ushered the last of the squad inside he noticed the Major standing watching and could have sworn he caught a loaded glance that passed between him and the corporal, the barest indication of the head before Forbes turned in his direction, a smile puffing into existence on his lips.

He watched him from the periphery of his vision, studiously examining his own kit and weapon as the Major strolled over, snapping to attention to note his arrival.

_"Sir_!"

"At ease Sergeant. Good exercise today? Always pays to keep the men sharp and active; you never know what's around the corner!"

"Yes sir." He went back to making sure his belt kit was stowed and secure.

"Are you anxious to get back out there Sergeant? Take on the enemy? You strike me as a man who hates to wait!"

_Don't I just you smug bastard_!, " Was never one for pussy-footing around sir; could never abide the politics aspect, all the dicking about when every man and their dog knew we would do the job anyway!" he looked at the officer, " Why wait... _sir_?"

If Forbes noticed the barb in Mac's tone at all he didn't acknowledge it, "Must know one's enemy first though. Vital wouldn't you say? Gather as much intel as possible, gain every possible advantage? That takes time of course."

" Intel's good sir, as long as it's used. Me, I never had much to do with the _green slime_. By the time we were on a shout, everything had already been done! Leaving us to slot the fuckers wherever they may be." He'd thrown in the derogatory term for Military Intelligence in the hope of catching Forbes out, certain this man had to have served there, but didn't spot a flicker. He'd give the man this- he _was_ a cool customer.

"Still Sergeant, you do see the need for good, accurate intelligence and research yes? To know what your enemy will do even before they do? You of all people I had down as a student of the '7 P's'!"

Mac couldn't suppress a smile at this officer quoting him the seven P's- _Proper Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance_. The man wasn't wrong and Mac realized he was arguing with the man purely on the basis of rank animosity.

"You're right sir," he conceded, "Something drummed into every recruit at birth. I can't argue with you on that one!"

A small smile of victory flitted over the Major's face, more a fleeting exclamation point than anything with any depth of warmth. He continued, "Then it surprises me that your curiosity has been so muted since you arrived Sergeant. Surely you are curious as to our plans, our methods, our _intelligence_?"

"Just been trying to fit in sir, not been giving it too much thought," he lied. _This is it_ , he thought, _he's going to invite me in_!

"We do have an intelligence gathering unit Sergeant; _Vital_ unit in fact. The Colonel has no plans to stay under this mountain indefinitely, and the more we learn, the more prepared we are for the day when we take the country back, bit by little bit if necessary. And we _shall_! Already the intelligence gathered and gleaned is painting a gradually clearing picture of our enemies capabilities."

Mac noticed the subtle turn of phrase, the differentiation- _gathered and gleaned._ Wondered what it meant, went for broke, "That would be interesting sir, knowing exactly what we're up against, how to really hurt the _bastards_!" He put as much venom as possible into the word, trying to convince the man in front of him of his sincerity, "Would make a hell of a difference."

The Major's smile this time was as if a favourite puppy had successfully performed a trick, "You're in luck Sergeant, the Colonel feels exactly the same way, and would welcome your involvement and input into our current operations. As a matter of fact he would like to speak to you right now. Once you're divested of kit and cleaned up of course."

"The Colonel?" Mac feigned as much surprise and awe as possible, "Wants to see me sir?" _little old worthless me...Oh how I am honoured!_ "I'll be ready in ten sir!"

"Very good Sergeant. I will wait for you at the main elevator and see you in ten minutes. _Promptly_."

He walked off, leaving Mac to pick up his stuff. This was it. Obviously he'd done enough, proved himself one way or another through comments or actions over the last couple of months for the Colonel to feel the time was right to bring him on board!

He was almost quivering with anticipation; to finally solve the mystery, to know what was going on. In the back of his mind, he made sure the warning bells kept on ringing, keeping him sharp and aware. Michaels more than anything else worried him about this. He plain didn't trust the man, so if he was involved his gut said it couldn't be good. But he _had_ to know! After all, it wasn't like the Colonel was taking a risk; one wrong move on Mac's part and he could just have him disappeared, gone, a terrible tragedy, with no one any the wiser. He had to play this right, whatever it was. At least then he could gain time and space to really work things out.

Gathering his kit he double-timed it back to the billet, dumping the load on the cot in no particular order, quickly straightening his fatigues before smartly making his way to the elevator, well within the ten minutes. Forbes was waiting, making great play of checking his watch for Mac's benefit, adding another mental point to Mac's 'complete wanker' rating.

With curt nods of greeting they entered the elevator, Forbes pushing the button for the sixth floor, the Colonels' floor. They stood in silence on the way up, the journey quick and noiseless until the doors opened with a soft chime and Forbes stepped out first, the lack of courtesy a statement of position.

Their shoes squeaked on the buffed linoleum floor, the bland neutral colour of utilitarian offices everywhere, with the white and dull green of the walls the preserve of military establishments. Pipes ran overhead, some gurgling and popping softly as they passed; the budget, as big as it obviously was for this place, not enough to panel them behind a ceiling. The walls of the corridor were flimsy, simple partitions delineating meagre rooms and cupboards, almost rattling in time to their footfalls. Near the end of the corridor they turned left into what appeared an anteroom. Some signs of personality in the décor and a junior officer in attendance behind a sturdy desk halfway to another door on the far side. The adjunct glanced up just enough to recognize the Major before returning to the pile of paperwork in front of him, their authority to be here unchallenged and seemingly implicit.

Forbes knocked at the heavy looking door sat amidst the only solid looking wall Mac had seen on the floor. Breezeblock rose from floor to roof, moulded to the uneven undulations of the natural rock ceiling by concrete filling, the matt paint failing to hide the roughness of the brick. The Major opened the door, ushering Mac into the plush interior; his third visit, second if he didn't count the one with restraints and hood.

The Colonel studiously ignored him in that almost caricature behaviour of officers everywhere, intent on some minutiae of paperwork; allowing the hum of recirculating air and the scratch of pen on paper to become oppressively loud, ramming home the message of just how far down the food chain his guests were. Mac was used to it, and stood patiently to attention in silence and noted the Major doing the same. Obviously, familiarity through increasing rank only stretched so far in this hierarchy.

After about two minutes, the Colonel pointedly placed his pen to one side, languidly raising his head to study his guests like some new species of pond life.

"Ah, Sergeant Macallinden. Just back from exercise I'm told," a statement, not a question, " From everything I have so far been told it appears you are a man of action Sergeant, a man of deeds not hyperbole. Is this correct?"

"If you mean sir that I prefer to get the finger out rather than sitting on my hands then I would say you were correct sir," His head remained up and fixed, arms at sides and feet together, staring at a point on the wall about two feet above the colonel's head. He heard the Major draw a none too subtle sharp breath, a warning against Mac's turn of phrase. He ignored him, knew the man in front of him would more likely frown on fawning ingratiation than some harmless colloquial comment.

"At ease gentlemen." Mac relaxed enough and looked down in time to see the thin smile playing on the commandant's lips, the blue eyes piercing and commanding despite the fleshiness of the face, " A career warrior too I believe, how many years with four-five Sergeant?"

"Twenty three sir."

"A long time indeed. Within that time I presume you have seen action?"

"Yes sir, Balkans, ended up garrisoned there for a tour. Of course, we were in the Middle East. Stood too in the South China sea. Para's got the jump ahead of us in Sierra Leone though."

"Active indeed Sergeant. And of course in this current conflict also, you forgot to include that."

"Yes sir," he paused, decided to push it, "Hard to think of this as a conflict though sir. From what I've seen so far, we don't seem to merit a mention on the big scale."

Colour rose in the officer's cheeks and Mac knew he had hit a weak spot-Pride. He pulled his substantial bulk from behind the desk, barely disguising the flicker of fury in his eyes. Walking round the desk he stopped in front of Mac, pulling himself to his full height, forcing Mac to look up.

" We will soldier! We may have been caught with our pants down, but nobody shall be allowed to _shaft_ us with abandon. We _remain_ the best army on this planet and when the time is right, woe betide anyone who stands in our way. _Is that clear_?" The last words direct into Mac's face, close enough to feel the hot breath across his cheeks

"Yes _sir_!" Parade ground sharp.

The fury disappeared at a frightening speed, the smile that replaced it even more unsettling, "We have so many advantages Sergeant, not least of which is surprise. Apart from the little skirmish where we picked you up, we have never revealed our strength in men, and particularly materiel, to the enemy. That time will come soon enough. For now it is enough to study, probe, learn as much about them as we can in order that, when the time comes, we can wipe them from the earth and reclaim _our_ country." His hand slapped down on Mac's shoulder, "Come Sergeant, there is something I think you would like to see."

He guided Mac behind the desk and pulled on the bookcase in the corner of the room that swung open, revealing a doorway behind. Mac was ushered through into a room full of instruments and monitors, roughly fifteen feet square, a large window filling the left hand wall. He knew where he was, knew that if he looked out that window he'd see the main hangar and all the equipment that resided there. The instruments hummed around him, background noise. Walking past him, the Colonel beckoned him over to a cluster of equipment at his right. Screens glowed at eye and waist level, and Mac peered, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The Colonel, brimming, told him.

"Thankfully, this facility was shielded long before the threat of EMP weapons became a reality and not just a theory. Thus when the blast knocked out the grid we remained fully functional, our own reactor staying on line and keeping us in light and warmth," his face looked sombre for a moment, "A hard period for the men as I'm sure you'll appreciate Sergeant, all the comms from outside going black almost at once, our links with the outside world gone in an instant," he indicated the screen directly in front of Mac, " But _not_ blind! Along with the main C&C sitting directly a floor below us we are electronically operational. What you see in front of you are real time images from UKKH-14; operational and in geo-stationary orbit above us right now. Our eyes on the world Sergeant, or this particular corner of it at least!"

He stood back and let Mac drink in the picture in front of him, the bright primary colours of the rendered image in front, the coastline drawn in to aide awareness, the crystal clarity cloud on the adjacent monitor, nearly unbroken across the gentle curve of the earth. Questions crowded and fought for priority, " Usually stuff like this was watered down so much by the time it reached us sir. Plus it had handy explanations to go along with it from some smart arse in intelligence."

He smiled his best winning, ingratiating smile. _Come on then, I'm stupid and you're just dying to explain all this to the thick, bull necked sergeant with the sycophantic grin and eager face. Tell me how_ brilliant _you are!_

The Colonel obliged, " To your left, on that screen there, is the normal camera feed from the satellite. As I'm sure you are aware, along with most of the planet, we are experiencing something of the long theorised nuclear winter; millions of tons of dust in the air, increased cloud cover. Ultimately increasing the planet's albedo, dropping temperatures, so on and so forth. Suffice to say, what you see on the camera is just that. Not very exciting to say the least. Now the centre screen is the wizardry; the all-seeing eye of most people's paranoia!" He glanced at Mac, "One of the ways we tracked your party to Coulport by the way. Infra-red and spectrum filtering lenses, all but ' _photoshopping'_ out the cloud, and picking up the heat sources from the ground." He pointed at the screen, circling an area on the east coast, "Individuals or small groups are difficult- any real natural cover and they all but disappear. Large groups however, as here," a finger was circled to the right hand side of the screen, "are a different story. From this we know that the main bulk of the forces arrayed against us appear to be gathering in Edinburgh, and also up here, on the outskirts of Aberdeen."

"Amazing sir," he sounded dutifully awed, " but what about us? Surely we must show up?"

" Ah yes, we should Sergeant, but our heat is hidden beneath a mountain in the first instance, and is carefully vented in the second to ensure we have a zero signature, or as close to it as possible. Ultimately, given our location, any heat we produce would look like a nice little warm breeze coming off the gulf stream"

Mac nodded sagely and pointed to the bright blob of colour in the east, and played the simple grunt again" If we know where they are sir, why don't we just drop a small nuke slap bang on top of them?"

" To win the war but lose the peace eh Sergeant. We do that and what do we win in the end but some radioactive slag? Plus there is the matter of delivery...we have no air force of course. No, we must play to their weaknesses, look for the holes to exploit, study their movements," he gestured at the screen, "like this _see_!"

Two smaller bright blobs had converged to the far north of Edinburgh. Mac estimated they were probably about the Forfar, Brechin area. As he watched they swirled and danced, splitting and diminishing until a noticeably smaller blob made a return journey south.

"A skirmish, though very fast by normal standards. ' _Black_ ' loss appears to be total. Unusual Major?"

"Yes sir, very!"

Mac had forgotten the Major was in the room; too busy mulling over the Colonels' tacit admission that they did have nuclear weapons and watching the light show in front of him. A word the CO had used struck him as a curiousity, "Black sir?"

" Chess Sergeant. It is after all distilled warfare, played on a grid like a map. So we have a black army to the north, and a white army sitting in Edinburgh. You know the army Sergeant, differentiation _is_ everything!" he said with a smile.

"If black and white are already accounted for sir, who are we?"

"We are the _clock_ Sergeant, when we are ready time is up. No one will move again!" The Colonel visibly preened himself in the glory of his own wit. Mac dutifully smiled and waited for him to continue, " But until that time we consolidate and learn, while continuing our attempts to locate any other facets of government that may still exist. For whatever reason, these hostile ' _armies_ ' appear to be making themselves comfortable in our backyard. It is our responsibility to ensure that they do not stay."

"Yes sir. Major Forbes mentioned gathering intelligence to me previously. If I knew what we were looking for sir, I could turn my attention toward it."

The colonel and major shared a look, so brief that Mac nearly missed it, but saw enough to recognise a question and acknowledgement passing between them. The major's voice surprised Mac, who was still looking in the CO's direction.

"Signals intelligence is non-existent; however they communicate it doesn't appear to be electronic. The few transmissions we do pick up appear to be from the small human factions that it would seem have tied their colours to that particular mast. Coded of course, getting better all the time; they don't appear to be stupid, and from the patterns their messages are coded using one time pads. Old, medieval even, but _very_ secure. Electronic intel is just as limited as you see here," he indicated the myriad screens with a sweep of his arm, "telling us much but not enough of _tactical_ use. What we need Sergeant is human intelligence, stuff that will make a difference when the climax comes."

"You want me to spy sir? With all due respect I'm not exactly trained..."

"No Sergeant, we don't want you to _spy_ , we want you to _learn_! Learn how they think, how they fight, look for their weaknesses. Find the tactics that will prove sound against them."

The puzzled look on Mac's face was obviously manna to an increasingly preening Colonel, "The first step to defeating your enemy is to _k_ _now_ your enemy Sergeant! Isn't _that_ what we're always taught? Follow me."

He led them back out into his office, almost theatrically swinging the bookcase shut behind and striding past them and across to the other side. On the opposite wall a wooden door swung open to reveal a featureless steel one behind it; its border lacking any ornamentation other than a slot situated at chest height.

From his jacket the Colonel pulled a key card, sized like a normal credit card, and slid it soundlessly into the slot. The door slid open with a whisper, revealing an elevator inside; very obviously the colonel's own private conveyance. An inviting sweep of an arm and they stepped inside, Mac and the major to the rear, the colonel leaning forward to press a button on the panel, one near the bottom as far as Mac could make out. With the same whisper of effortlessness the doors slid shut, and the slight movement in Mac's gut indicated they were moving quite fast, albeit very smoothly.

They came to a halt seconds later, with what seemed to Mac to be a timely delay before the door slid aside, revealing a short passageway out into what appeared to be one of the normal service tunnels that honeycombed the mountain. No sounds reached his ears and the place appeared deserted, not that that was unknown at times in the massive complex.

He silently followed the colonel out, the major bringing up the rear, and tried to see ahead as they turned left; the bulk of the colonel and the curve of the corridor preventing it. The colonel spoke over his shoulder, " Handy little elevator that, allows me access to any level of the base, usually off the beaten tracks so to speak. Not something I really want the masses to be aware of."

"Yes sir."

" The little time delay...pressure pads outside the lift, door won't open if anyone is in the corridor. Ensures the set up remains hidden, discreet."

_I bet it does, and I bet you probably had the guys who built it left face down in a quarry someplace_. The thought worryingly only felt half joking to Mac, beginning to get a sense of potentially dangerous paranoia from the colonel; a sense that wasn't doing anything for his own already fragile peace of mind.

Wordlessly, they entered a cavern, the space opening out dramatically, the roof high above Mac's head. Insipid light, almost candlelike, fought against the natural underground darkness from almost causally hung portable lights. The floor sloped gently away from his feet for a few metres before dropping away, sharp edged and steep, forming a bowl some fifteen-foot deep at its base. This thin rim ran all the way around the circumference, edged at the drop off by fencing; steel tubing fixed into the granite and at an easy height to rest against on with elbows. At the far side, just discernible against the fence, a small cradle rested beneath a series of pulleyed ropes; a way to get in and out of the pit below

Curious he walked to the edge and looked down the steep drop. While he couldn't see for sure in the poor light, a tunnel seemed to lead out from the base of the bowl off to his left, its mouth dark and unlit. One on the other side directly opposite the first looked roughhewn and unfinished, its shadow lighter, not so deep. The pit itself was rough, though mostly flat, protrusions here and there rounded off and smoothed. Odd bits of detritus filled it, discarded pallets and the od crate, leftover bits of the fencing he leaned against.

Hearing footsteps behind them and twisted his neck to look back up the tunnel they'd entered from. Corporal Michaels stepped out of a pool of shadow, his right arm trailing, stretched. Another figure was revealed in the light as he moved forward, hooded and hands tied behind, being pulled by the arm irresistibly forward. Warne appeared behind them, gun raised, ready to prod. Michaels smiled thinly when he saw Mac standing at the edge of the pit, the smile knowing and unpleasant. As Mac watched, they walked the hooded figure round and into the cradle on the far side, cutting the arms free as they began to lower it down, its creaking progress loud in the space. Off to his right, the Colonel started talking again, never turning from the spectacle below, his eyes fixed on the pit

"How do we learn Sergeant? How do we come to know the essence of the enemy we face? Do we charge headlong into battle, learn through mutual attrition? Do we dissect the details after the fact?" In the pit, the cradle through some quirk of its descent or obstacle tipped, its unseeing occupant flung out onto the floor, newly freed hands just quick enough to prevent a face first fall, "Or do we prepare? Take measured steps? Perhaps understanding the one or the few will lead us to understand the many yes?" Warne threw a bayonet at the feet of the captive as Michaels retracted the cradle, lifting his rifle on the figure now struggling with the hood, " In any conflict some sacrifice is necessary; the choices made to send the few into danger so that the many might prevail, might learn how to be victorious. And so must it be here," The man below had removed the hood, his eyes first falling on the bayonet, then reflecting despair as he saw the rifles trained on him, eyes watching him, his disorientation obvious. The colonel shouted down, " Mr Robinson, you are about to do your country a great service, you have our gratitude and our respect."

The confusion grew in the man's eyes, darting about, as he turned from side to side, trying to make any sense of the situation. He opened his mouth to speak before a grating sound from the left hand tunnel clamped his mouth shut, spun his body to face it. All eyes on the perimeter turned too, Mac noting the slow swing of the corporal's weapon in that direction. Noting also that the safety was off. The grating increased, a shuffling, scraping noise, and now it was accompanied by another sound. The growl increased in pitch and timbre, so low that it felt to Mac that his bones were shaking; a sound that made his bladder convulse, tightening to a walnut. All of a sudden he really didn't want to see what was coming.

" _Here_ we learn sergeant!"

A roar exploded from the tunnel mouth. Mac flinched as the unfortunate Mr Robinson fell on rubbery legs to his knees, the bayonet forgotten in front of eyes wide with horror. Of them all he alone had a direct line of sight up the forbidding tunnel, saw first what was approaching.

Ebon flesh swung into the light, muscles stretched taut underneath, the bare foot ending in long curved talons as black as the flesh. Another followed, then a body, unfolding itself from the confines of the tunnel. Mac's bladder threatened to let go. Robinsons did, soaking the light coating of sand at his feet in a marked darkness. His voice reduced to a gurgling whimper as the beast drew itself upright, stretching out its arms to the side. Its nose glistened with mucus, no more than two slits off centre in its face, pulsating as its head searched the air. Eyes like lumps of coal searched with it, so uniform in darkness that it was impossible to tell where it looked directly. Its lower jaw sat prominently out beyond its upper, giving the face a pointed, bullet like shape.

The only noise now in the cavern was the wet snuffling of the thing's nose. Robinson had retreated behind a solitary crate, looking like he was holding his breath, eyes screwed shut. Raw bloody stumps could be seen sat high on the monster's back, new and old dried blood mixed on the dark patchwork skin. Mac knew without asking that this thing had once had wings, though his mind told him that it was far too large to have ever flown. It shuffled forward, its attitude seeming to settle on the direction Robinson hid in. All of its posture seemed angled that way, only the odd quick head movement seeming to indicate that it was aware of the others surrounding the pit. It moved like a bird, random, twitchy, maybe more to do with prior treatment than any real behaviour.

With speed that made Mac flinch it suddenly darted towards the spectators, the long seven-foot frame eating the distance. Rifles snapped up quickly, pointing straight at the creature's head, and it slid to a sullen stop, holding their gaze, obviously all too aware of the threat, before turning back to the paralysed form behind it. Michaels kept his weapon trained, following the movements, Mac's limbs felt locked and leaden, but he was beyond fear and into morbid curiousity. He hadn't really seen these things close up, too busy driving at Perth to take much notice of detail, but now he could almost physically feel the malignancy dripping off this thing.

The doomed Robinson had moved in the distraction, seeing what appeared to be a chance to escape. He had crawled and scampered to the opposite side of the pit, and was now breathlessly scrabbling for hand holds in the rock, using the recovered bayonet in a vain attempt to create purchase. The hoarse and ragged breathing was pitiful, and he whimpered wordlessly as each new grip came away in his hands, leaving him earthbound.

With a last unreadable look at the gallery, the demon stalked toward him, talons clicking on the stone beneath. It let out a sibilant hiss, its head cocked to the side as if in study as its arms spread wide, seeming to fill so much space. The Colonel's voice seemed to come from far away.

"We previously did this outside, tried using captured prisoners, but how do you produce an accurate study when your subjects are fanatical in approach? No, we wanted responses unbridled with faith or fervour; natural human reactions to this warped situation, to the inescapable situation. How else will we plan strategy accurately? How else will we produce an effective army?"

Mac couldn't avert his gaze, mesmerised by the horror unfolding in front of him as Robinson turned with tears streaming down his now dirty cheeks, incapable of voice as he tried to push himself back through the wall, feet slipping and sliding, only the pitifully small bayonet between him and the beast.

It stopped, now suddenly silent and brooding, and slowly reached out one arm and massive claw toward Robinson. With a desperate primal shout, he swung the blade at its approach and was rewarded with a pained hiss before the arm drew back quickly. For what seemed an eternity to Mac they stood there, Robinson waving the point back and forth, the beast as still as an obelisk. Then with no warning preamble it reached out again, lightning fast, clawed fingers catching the wildly swung arm at the wrist. The crunching noise was sickening as it squeezed, bone and sinew compacted to mush, Robinson's face a silent portrait of exquisite pain as the talons cut through flesh and bone, removing the hand in a fountain of dark red blood.

Robinson looked incredulously from the hand to the demon and back, features slack with incomprehension. Finally he screamed, hoarse and rough, throat raw, repeating it over and over again with the bloody wrist clasped in his one good remaining hand. Mac's fingers dug into his palms, the knuckles white as he sought to restrain himself, every impulse in him to grab a weapon and end this now, but there were too many and he could only watch, impotent.

Is this what happened to Connolly?

Sitting back on its haunches, the demon watched the now kneeling figure in front of it, its head keening bird like from side to side. Robinson now drenched in his own blood stared glassy eyed at nothing, his pallor waxy and grey. Only a faint continuous moaning issued from his open mouth along with a fine trickle of blood. Even as the demon reached forward, he didn't move, nor as its other hand wrapped it self slowly around his neck. Only as it started to squeeze was there any animation, the eyes bulging from their sockets as the pressure increased, the tongue swelling and popping from his mouth as the hand was squeezed tighter. His legs and arms twitched, more reflex than conscious action, face turning blue. Even from the medium distance Mac could tell he was dead. Life extinguished long before the head popped free of the neck with a final sickly sucking sound; falling to the ground and rolling to the demons feet.

He swallowed the rising bile in his throat, only vaguely aware of Michaels laughing as Warne vomited all over the ramp, more concerned with keeping his eyes on the beast in the pit. Alone, he shouted the warning as he saw the subtlest twitch of its head in response to Michaels' laugh. But it was time and warning enough for Michaels to raise his weapon and hose down the charging monstrosity that had seen either a chance of revenge or freedom.

Sinking into despair Mac saw _neither_ left for himself.
Chapter 4

"In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep."

Robert Burns

Time! He still needed time!

Johnson sat with his hands resting on the inlaid green leather of the desk, its coolness permeating his fingertips as he glanced around and savoured his new domain. Pale light seeped through the grimed and discoloured window at his back, its radiance ineffective next to the cold glow of the desk lamp sitting to his right.

Reaching out with a smile, he waved his hand over the top, watching the shadows dance over the ceiling. It was still no small marvel to see it sitting there, electricity once more back in his life providing some warmth as well as light. He almost felt civilized again, this one small achievement among many of the past two months bringing him a childish sense of glee.

Everything was paying off, and it felt _good_! The angel, though not exactly eating out of the palm of his hand, was at least willing to listen to him a bit more now. _Christ_ , and the human race had thought itself prejudice at times! Anziel brought a _whole_ new level of meaning to intolerance and bigotry!

The guns had been his initial selling point; but the off the cuff and unplanned capture of the armoured fighting vehicle proving immensely fortuitous in both keeping his head firmly attached to his shoulders, and in buying him a measure of good grace and time to plan ahead. When the chain gun had reduced a clump of trees to matchsticks in minutes he could almost physically feel the avarice from the angel. The psychology had been a dawdle from there, and while remembering that at best Anziel was unstable, a system of promise and reward had kept things ticking along nicely.

Edinburgh had been his idea, and as he'd expected, the Seraphim had taken one look at the castle and decided that this was a most _fitting_ setting from which to conduct his campaign. Anziel had, not unexpectedly, taken one look at the faded but still silent majesty inside the War Memorial, and taken it for himself, considering its gravitas to be an acceptable reflection of his claimed divine mandate.

More practically however, this place, this location, gave Johnson time and space to try and figure out where that monstrous firepower out west had come from and gone too. He had no desire to find himself in that position again without being prepared; and other than crossing the sea, Edinburgh was as far removed, and defensible as he could hope for right now.

Of course, groups of Monks, Spawn, and the usual plebeian hordes had been hiding and scavenging in the rubble, and on Johnson's _suggestion_ , Anziel had ordered Herdal to gather them up, particularly the Monks. Not a particularly hard task when the host's numbers were so great and the remaining human population had a tendency to wet itself on first sight of these unconsciously familiar creatures.

The Spawn had made it easy, fanatical loathing and abhorrence setting them both at each other's throats instantly, and the host had made short work of those few disparate bands of devil worshippers they could find.

Monks, on the other hand, had required a bit more deviousness on Johnson's part. Naturally, most had been incapacitated by a sense of wonder as soon as confronted by a real live angel (even those who at best ( like Johnson) paid lip service to the "faith"), and had been gathered up meekly and billeted here at the castle.

Johnson's problem, or potential problem, was that with each group of Monks picked up, their leaders were naturally with them and wanted to get themselves noticed or curry favour any way they could. Once they realised they weren't in imminent danger of death, they carried themselves loudly, chests puffed up, trying to physically ensure they were noticed. Some of the ingratiation was almost painful to watch and hear, and so, more to combat his own rising annoyance levels than any real threat, he had enacted his planned scheme more quickly than he had first envisaged.

Given the setting, the Machiavellian nature of the plan would have done Shakespeare proud: every leader who had been stupid enough to identify themselves had been invited, by Johnson, to a welcome feast down in the bowels of the castle, the issue of security and secrecy being cited for the remote location. He had let them feed, conversed, laughed, and reminisced as a good host should. Some small boon to at least give them a send-off, before his own men had walked in and took station on the walls, mistaken for the hired help right up to the moment where they raised the weapons and hosed the room with bullets. Johnson had remained at the head of the table, slowly supping on the Shiraz while the surprise on so many of the faces gave way to inevitable slack jawed death.

The room had steel doors, the walls were obdurate granite, the noise and the following cleansing flame were never noticed anywhere else in the castle. Though clear that their leaders had met a fate somewhere, the remaining groups of Monks had the sense to keep quiet. And now surrounded by the physical embodiment of so much of their fanaticism, Johnson had found it easier than he had hoped to forbid some of the more salubrious activities of the Monks. Particularly as he tried to build a more community based environment around the castle itself.

As for the angels, they had never even noticed, paid heed to, nor would remotely consider, the intricacies of the humans' leadership problems so hadn't even blinked when a number of the louder ones went missing.

All leading to this fine office and a base of power from which Johnson was currently quite unassailable. His men were loyal, the surviving remnants of those who had accompanied him west, and once they had finished weeding out the true crazies, his own personal 'army' would stand at about one thousand. People were also gravitating towards this hub, small pockets of commerce and trade springing up each day. A farm was starting to flourish among the repaired castle greenhouses, and any and all animals that could be found and rounded up had been penned around the courtyards, and in the gardens below.

Added to the little but crucial, position of influence he had with Anziel, he was as untouchable as was possible on this cinder of a planet. In time, the rest of this city's remaining population would be rounded up and either put to use, or quietly disposed of. Loose cannons were something he could do without.

_A fine state of affairs_!

With a small contented smile he leaned back in his chair, arms locked behind his head and legs stretched under the desk, basking for a moment in his achievement. Herdal remained a minor concern, ironically in part due to his sanity. Once they'd arrived it had seemed as though Herdal had assessed the situation, flicked an internal switch, and had suddenly started speaking English, recognising it as required; and it had scared the hell out of him. Where Anziel's fanaticism ( he did not himself deign to speak the local tongue, though Johnson had since heard it when the angel was angry) could be subtly twisted to particular ends, Herdal's focus and sense of purpose could be troublesome in the future.

A bigger concern that he tried not to dwell on was just how the misadventure to the west had ended. He had lost men, that was to be expected and didn't trouble him overly much, but they should have won. Not just won but wiped that small band out! Even with their primitive weapons, the sheer numbers of the Host with him, following proper tactics should have been enough to overrun them ten times over.

He'd pieced together what he could from the surviving angels' vivid descriptions and unless they were really embellishing, and the capture of the AFV made that doubtful, the hardware and 'other' parties that had arrived quite frankly scared the living daylights out of him.

Unfortunately, his overly enthusiastic comrades had taken their anger and frustrations at the time out on the few squaddies that were in the vehicle- leaving him nobody to fill in the blanks. People and small arms were one thing; even the odd armoured car, as already proven, could be beaten. But tanks, shells, high explosives? Nothing in his current arsenal, numbers, or inventory could hope to cope with that.

But these were matters for another day, and Johnson was not going to let it spoil the moment, shaking it away.

A knock at the door broke his trancelike study of the ceiling and, glancing at the time, he groaned inwardly. Despite his best attempts, there was always something to spoil the moment, no matter how hard he tried. He straightened up; adopting his patrimonial air, knowing it would rile his "guest", and checking the desk one last time for anything with potential as a threat, he cleared his throat and barked a command toward the door.

The steel banded timbers groaned with age as they swung inward, letting in the bitter draught from the corridor, emphasising just how rare the mercurial electricity still was, and he resisted the urge to rub at the goose bumps suddenly rising on his forearms. Michael entered first, almost gentlemanly in the way he held the door open and ushered the visitor inside. Only the stern countenance on his face, and the gun at his hip, hinted that the visitor didn't exactly enjoy a preferential status.

She walked in with purpose, not even glancing at her guard as she sat forcefully in the chair in front of the desk; daring them to chastise her. Admittedly, she looked better now than in the week they had first arrived here, bedraggled and unkempt, lost and almost suicidal. A bath and clean clothes had been the least taxing bribe, if not the subtlest, that he had been able to offer. Though she had, grudgingly, accepted them, she had provided him with nothing in return, and he had been forced to try less...polite...measures to gain her co-operation, and information. So far nothing had worked, and as yet he was still unwilling, and perhaps still too conscientious ironically, to move onto less savoury options.

" Good morning Lucy."

She stared balefully back at him, lips pressed thin, her body language still aggressive, open, hinting that she was stronger than him, refusing to adopt anything remotely defensive.

"Well, I can see that today is going to be another session full of witty repartee and humour. I do so look forward to these appointments, they just colour my day beyond imagining."

He couldn't quite keep the acidity from his tone and the flicker of smugness that passed across her face showed that she hadn't missed it either. They were absolutely engaged in a battle of wills, he trying to break her, she trying to goad him into anger and score small victories over her situation, restore her self-esteem. Well today, she had scored first. Inwardly he cursed himself for all he was worth, not letting her see that she had got to him.

"Let us go!"

The standard statement, one that came up every session, the one they had to work through each and every time before they remotely touched on anything else. _Damn!_

This woman was fast turning out to be, if not his nemesis, then a right royal pain in the arse! The last three years had been a walk in the park next to this. He didn't consider himself a bad individual, just a survivor; and when the world had in effect ended, he had naturally attached himself to the group that gave him the best chance of survival. Oh, he could do faith and fervour with the best of them, and had done, but only to make sure his intelligence was noticed also; using any little crack or opportunity to plug an idea, whisper in the right ear.

And it had paid off! He knew he didn't have the looks, the charm, charisma, or the oratory to stand up as the big "I am" alpha male and _lead the people_ , so he had let others do it. Watched as they babbled enthusiastically, beguiling the horde with their voice and words, as he quietly stayed a power behind the throne. And as he knew would happen, he watched a succession of those _alpha's_ lead so many to their deaths in a multitude of death or glory charges that were the hallmark of the zealot, and then watched their subsequent and inevitable demise.

Valued enough to not be on the frontline, and trusted enough to be given his own little missions, his intelligence and quick thinking had brought trust amongst those small numbers that worked with him; small but right decisions allowing his power and influence to grow all the time. _He_ kept people alive _and_ successful- _they, in return,_ stayed loyal.

Now, here he was, top of the pile as far as the human side of things went, ensconced in relative comfort, and with the ear of the commander of the greatest force left on the planet! Yet this woman across the table was turning out to be his biggest test yet!

With an effort of will he avoided pinching his nose to vent his exasperation and fixed his eyes to hers. She was strong, he gave her that, and independent with it. Granted, a lot of that went hand in hand with surviving this long, but he guessed a lot of that strength came from caring for the boy.

Don't make me play dirty Lucy!

He still hoped he could get through to her without resorting to what he still considered underhand approaches. Not that he had any qualms about using them, had never felt any remorse for any occasion when he'd had to. When it boiled down to it, he chose _his_ survival over anyone else's. Yet the little voice inside was still there, conscience, constant background noise, and whatever else he did he couldn't escape his culture and upbringing, and a part of him, despite a changed world, remained intimidated by her previous life as a nurse as opposed to his working in a coffee house for the best part of ten years. He fought it down.

Low self-esteem, class, and status, what a wonderful world we lived in.

But, perhaps it was something he could use; a nurse, humanity condensed into sympathy and caring, conditioned and trained to be a well of empathy.

Yes! Perhaps this was the way in. Let her see people, actual people trying to survive, making an effort, circumvent her defences.

He straightened in the chair, fixing her with a look, not going for the whole " _I am your friend_ " expression that would never work on her, not treating her as a captive, but instead looking at her as an equal, showing an interest.

"Why do you have to be so defensive Lucy? Aren't we treating you well?"

Her eyes flickered; this wasn't the usual questioning.

"Where's David?"

The standard response; a deflection, an anchor for her stubborn-ness.

"He's being cared for, just like you. He seems a very troubled little boy however, and we're doing all we can to help him I promise."

"If you've hurt him I'll- "

"Hurt him? Lucy really! What do you think we are?" He looked at his watch, " As a matter of fact, he's probably with the other children at playgroup right now. It seems to be good for him."

He suppressed a smile as the conflict lit on her face, and he could almost hear the questions resounding in her mind- _other children? Playgroup?_

" Sorry, were you under the impression that there were no children here? This many men and woman and it didn't cross your mind that some of them might come with family? You came with some yourself. Whatever you think of us Lucy we _are_ still human."

He let that one sink in, pleased to see the consternation it was causing. He almost felt sorry for her; all her carefully constructed defences were not designed for this line of attack.

"But you attacked us, you killed my friends!"

"You killed _mine_!" he kept his face studiously blank, ticked a mental box at the wince that flew across her features, " The fact is Lucy, above all else we were all trying just to survive- you with your "gang", me with mine. We all have done things we're not proud of, but we're still here, and still us!"

"I'm sure some would argue with you if they didn't have a knife sticking in their heart"

Johnson was genuinely disappointed. He'd been sure she wouldn't go for the cheap shot quite so easily, " Never was a party to that Lucy. Personally I found it repulsive, but when the man with the bigger stick says it's so, would you argue?"

"But-"

" Does anyone here look or act frightened Lucy? Have you heard any screams or," he wiggled his hands and fingers dramatically, "-chanting? Any manic behaviour, strange looks, fights? Fact is Lucy it's not happening here! Ever! Not while I am sat here!"

It was true as well. He'd never had the stomach for the twisted rituals, which came with the Monk mantra, all the Old Testament sacrificial stuff, and he had stamped it out with little difficulty once the other's had been removed from the equation. Fanaticism, on the other hand, was a different matter.

"Hard to tell when I'm locked in a room all day," she said.

"For your own good Lucy, and before you shake your head let me ask you this, what would you do? Escape? Run away? Where to Lucy? Would you leave David, try to reach him and both go on the run? But on the run from what? Your fed, sheltered, wearing new clothes; No-ones harmed you, _no one_ is going to harm you. Your other friends left you, are gone who knows where...where would you go?"

She floundered, painfully, obviously, and right at that moment he knew two things-that he had her, and that she really had no idea where the others had gone. Like him she had no clue who or what had been driving that hardware and all she had left was the boy... and him!

On the one hand Anziel was going to go spare; he really did have a major hard on for those people out west, and he was really going to have to work to convince the angel that it didn't matter because, secondly, if nothing else, they still had her and the boy as bait, and the youngsters "gift" was really quite extraordinary. _Really extraordinary_ he thought, _the angel can't stand to be in the same room as him._ He'd kept that filed away for later conjecture.

"Tell you what Lucy, as a gesture of goodwill, why don't we go and get David, explore for a bit," He opened his arms, " No guards, just you, me, and the boy. Judge for yourself what you see and find. We'll go right now, given nobody any warning, whichever direction you want; let you see its all above board. What do you say?"

Nonplussed, and still clinging onto whatever defences she thought she had left, she gave a haughty sniff and curt nod of the head to show her agreement, but Johnson had noted the shine in her eye at the thought of seeing David and knew he had won.

With a brief smile, he stood, indicating the door, moving to open it like a practiced gentleman as she stood; and, pointedly letting her exit first, they moved off into the heart of the centuries old keep.

