Paul Kane - Arrowhead

So he has friends, then? Javier mulled. As he suspected there was no way he'd been able to do all this on his own. No matter, I'll fry the lot of them. He brought up his weapon one final time, then felt something hard pressing into his cheek.

Javier's eyes swivelled left and down. They traced the end of the shotgun to another man. "How do," said the ruddy-faced man in the checked shirt and tank top. "I'd be droppin' that about now if I were ye. We don't want no accidents, do we? Nice and slow."

The Mexican began to lower his weapon, which the man with the shotgun took off him.

"When De Falaise learns of this, you will all be in big trouble," grumbled Javier. Even to his ears, it sounded lame.

"That so?"

Javier nodded, but the ruddy-face man just laughed. The battle – the hunt – was over and they'd lost. Javier knew it, his enemies knew it. But the next thing he knew was blackness, as the man turned the gun around and hit him hard with the butt.

Once they'd dealt with the fires and tied up all prisoners left alive, the trio turned their attentions to Robert.

He had barely said a word; just sat propped up against a tree, eyes staring out from beneath his hood. They knew it had been the incendiary from Major Javier's weapon that had done this to him, but none of them knew why. None of them dared to ask. Instead, they discussed what should be done about De Falaise's men.

"I know what I'd like to do to that one," said the Reverend Tate, leaning on his stick. He pointed across at Javier, still spark out and helpless as a baby. A complete reversal of the last time they'd met. "He took a friend of mine away, killed another."

Bill nodded. "Aye. But could ye really do that? A man of God and all?"

"An eye for an eye, the Bible says." But Tate conceded the point. "All right, maybe just a bit of a pummelling, then."

"I'm worried about Robert," interrupted Mark. They both looked at the boy who'd brought them here today, who'd sent word that De Falaise's men were on their way to the forest and that Robert might need their assistance. In spite of the fact the man had turned his back on them earlier on that week, Bill knew that he owed him a debt. And when news reached Tate, even though he hadn't met the man, he came. Maybe it was partly for revenge – a concept he wasn't supposed to believe in – or was it something else? To meet the man who'd taken on De Falaise's troops at the market, the person that people in neighbouring villages and towns were already talking about. The Hooded Man. Someone they might be able rally behind? A figurehead?

A hero?

He didn't look like one at the moment.

"Perhaps I should talk with him?" offered Tate. "I'm used to it after all. Giving counsel. I can be quite persuasive when I need to be."

Mark and Bill both shrugged, then watched as the holy man walked over to the tree where Robert sat gazing at nothingness. They could just about hear the conversation between the two men, which was woefully one-sided to begin with. Tate introduced himself, explained what had happened in Hope, the things Javier and some of his men had done there, when all the community had really wanted was to start over again.

That had done the trick, woken Robert from his stupor. "Start over? There is no starting over. No forgetting the past."

Tate frowned. "No one's suggesting we should forget what's gone before, my son. It's just that-"

"Don't you understand, there's no going back!"

"And where would you go, if you could?" asked Tate, resting on his stick. "To somewhere before the virus, hmm? To save someone you loved? Is that why you're out here all alone?"

Robert's lips were a straight line.

Tate waved over his shoulder. "And those people back there, Mark and Bill, do you not think they would give everything they have to turn back the clock? Don't you think they lost people they loved as well?"

"It's not the same," Robert said. Then, more quietly: "Not the same."

"How can you say that? For each and every one of us, it's personal. I lost parishioners, people I cared about a great deal," Tate continued. "And for a time, the briefest of times, I almost lost my faith as well."

"Faith," huffed the man in the hood.

"That's right. Don't think I haven't questioned what all this was for, what it was about. But still I have to believe there's a purpose to it. That something good might come out of this yet."

Robert looked up, the shadows disappearing from his eyes. "What purpose, what good?"

Tate shook his head. "I honestly don't know. But I do know one thing, if we stand by and let men like De Falaise have their way, then this world hasn't got a chance."

"What exactly do you expect me to do about it?"

Tate leaned in further. "I saw what you did back there, or at least some of it. And I heard about what you did at the market, the people you helped. In spite of what you might say, I know you care. Now, you have a choice. You can turn your back on them." He looked over at Bill and Mark once more. "Even though they came here today to warn you, to help you. You can turn your back on everything again, in fact, detach yourself from the hurt, from caring about anyone ever again. Or…" Tate paused. "Or you can save them. You can lead them. You can stop De Falaise. Now, ask yourself what the people you lost would have wanted you to do."

Robert didn't answer Tate, he just sat there deep in thought. Then he got up. Trying hard not to catch Mark and Bill's eyes, the hooded man strode over to where the prisoners were tied up. He examined their faces one by one, the men he'd attacked, those who'd fallen foul of his traps.

One of them, a soldier Robert had last seen dangling from a net, stared at him. He couldn't have been more than twenty.

"Please don't kill us." The young man spoke with a Southern accent.

Robert pulled down his hood. "You want me to let you go, is that it? So you can return to De Falaise?"

The youth thought about this, then shook his head. "Not after what he did to the others. The men you let go last time…"

Robert remembered what another young man had told him in similar circumstances, almost in tears. "Please… please don't hurt me, I had no choice. He was going to kill me; kill us all." Then Robert looked across at the other troops, saw that they were terrified of the same thing.

"You did these things, joined De Falaise's army, because you had no choice, right?"

He nodded.

"Okay, now I'm going to give you one," Robert told him.

The youth looked puzzled.

"What's your name?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he replied: "Granger."

"All right, then, Granger. I'm going to offer you, offer all of you, a choice." He looked back over his shoulder at Tate. "You can join me… join us. Help take down De Falaise, provide information so that we can put an end to his operation. Or you can take your chances out there."

Tate limped over to join him. "Hold on, what are you doing? This isn't what I meant. They were sent here to kill you, Robert."

"They're scared."

"They can't be trusted," argued the Reverend. "They've committed terrible acts."

"Many of them because they were forced to. Because De Falaise rules through terror, not trust." Robert undid the bonds that held Granger. "If we're going to do this, that's not how it'll work here." Robert held out his hand. "So, what do you say?"

Granger looked at the outstretched hand, as if not quite sure what to do, as if nobody had ever shown such faith in him before.

Then, finally, he reached out with his own scarred hand and shook Robert's.

It had been rich pickings that day.

In the front seat of the truck, Savero nursed his rifle and smiled. De Falaise would be more than happy with the hoard his unit were bringing back to the castle. As specified, they'd started up near a place called Worksop a few days ago and wound their way down the map, back towards Nottingham. De Falaise – as per usual – had guessed correctly that the most productive communities had actually sprung up away from the major towns and cities, in countryside like this. It made sense for people to gather together out in rural areas, away from the attention of the gangs and violence that characterised the larger, urban localities. These were the communities using a network of markets and trading to get by. England had indeed been thrown back to the Middle Ages in some respects, to a time before rail networks and airports. People had to be self-sufficient, which suited De Falaise and his army well… because they weren't. Why bother, when they could just go around creaming off food, clothing and any other useful items they might want from less well organised – and less well armed – factions?