Paul Kane - Arrowhead

"Fuel for the tractors. We always made sure we had a good stock in and I've only been using it when necessary. Fields don't plough themselves, you know."

She leaned over to examine his arm and he shuffled backwards, recalling the skull-thing from his nightmare.

"Hey, what's wrong? I've been looking after you for two days now and-"

"Days?" Robert couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Your body needed time to heal itself," explained Mary. "You took a bit of a tumble."

"That's one way of putting it."

"Not for the first time, by the looks of it. I always say that there's nothing a good long rest won't cure and this is a perfect example. Don't worry about what's been happening out there, your men seem to have everything under control. They're still delivering stolen stuff back to people it was stolen from…" Mary thought about this for a second. "If you see what I mean."

"You talk a lot," said Robert.

"Not really, that is not usually. Not that there's such a thing as usual in this case. Sorry, I'm rambling again, aren't I? What I mean is, I think I'm making up for not having talked to anyone for so long, not since my brother…" She let her silence say what she couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Robert said.

Mary looked down. "Yeah, well, I'm figuring that it happened to a lot of folk. Especially talking to some of them around the camp."

Robert nodded. "What were you doing when I woke up just then? Looked like you were making notes or something." He gestured to the clipboard under her arm.

"What? Oh, this…" She took it out. "It was the only spare paper I could find; the back of some inventory or other." Mary turned the board around and Robert saw sketches of himself; not lying unconscious as he had been for a couple of days, apparently, but upright head and shoulder views: one of him with the hood, one without. The one without looked just like him… and again the beard was gone. He took it from her and examined it more closely.

"You're very good," he said.

Mary shrugged. "Had to do something to while away the hours." There was a pause before she spoke again, changing the subject. "Tell me something," she began, then shook her head, not wanting to continue.

"What?"

"No, it's really none of my business."

Robert moved forwards, letting the blanket drop a little. "What?" he repeated.

"Who're Joanne and Stevie?"

Robert's lips tightened.

"I only ask because you said both their names when you were out of it. Practically screamed them, in fact. I asked round camp but nobody's called Stevie and there are definitely no Joannes. No one seemed to know who-"

"You did what?" Robert's voice rose and he threw down the clipboard.

Mary recoiled. "I'm… I'm sorry I just-"

"Just what? Thought you'd try and find out about my past? I hardly even know you!" Robert was edging forwards now, his face red with anger. "I want you to leave now."

"No," she snapped back, folding her arms. "No, I won't. One thing you ought to know about me right off is that I will not be bullied – my father and brother found that out. So did that colonel back there at my farm. Now, I know you came to my 'rescue' and I really do appreciate it, but I saved your life. Twice. You of all people don't get to speak to me like that."

Robert rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Please, I just want to you go." His tone had softened and he was trying hard not to let Mary see him cry.

This change of tack seemed to throw her. "I didn't mean to upset you, honestly. I was just curious, that's all. It's really nothing to do with me."

Robert looked at Mary. He did owe her a lot, but did he owe her an explanation? Could he bring himself to tell anyone about what had happened?

Tate's words rang in his ears, "And those people back there, do you not think they would give everything they have to turn back the clock? Don't you think that they lost people they loved as well?"

Mary had lost her family to the virus, and now her home to fire. What made his suffering any worse than hers?

"I should go, like you said," she said softly. "Leave you in peace."

She made to get up, and he suddenly found himself reaching out a hand and placing it on her arm. Mary turned and looked into his eyes.

"Wait," he said. "I-"

"Robbie! Robbie!" Jack's deep voice interrupted him. It was coming from outside the tent at first, then seconds later it was inside, along with Jack himself. He stuck his head through the gap. "Robbie… Oh, I didn't realise I was interrupting something."

"Mary was just…"

"…checking on the patient," she finished for him. They shared a look of complicity, with just a dash of guilt thrown in.

"I see." Jack seemed far from convinced. "Like the new look, by the way. Very smooth."

"What exactly do you want?" asked Robert.

The big man faced Mary. "Is he up to coming outside, little lady?"

"I'm up to it," Robert cut in before she could answer.

"Good, because I really think you should see this, buddy."

When Mary left Robert threw on some clothes, which he noted had been washed, wincing as his body protested. He probably shouldn't be going anywhere, still needed to rest, but Jack's tone told him that he was needed urgently.

In the middle of the camp a few of the men had gathered around. Slowly, Robert made his way towards them, waving down both Jack and Mary's offers of assistance. Inside the circle was a man, probably only in his thirties, but he looked much older: he was losing his hair rapidly, there were heavy bags under his eyes, and he had a ripe, purple bruise on his forehead. His hands were shaking as he sat on a log, a blanket covering his shoulders. Tate was filling a bowl full of stew from the campfire to feed the man. When he took it, and the spoon, he nodded a thank you to the Reverend. Robert noticed that his hands were still shaking as he took the food and began to eat.

"What's going on here, who is this man?" Robert asked.

"Robert, you're up." Tate turned towards him, concern etched in his face. The rest of the men there did the same, their fascination shifting from this poor wretch to their resurrected leader. It made him uncomfortable, the way they were staring at him: some of them no doubt saying to themselves, So, he can be hurt after all – he isn't invulnerable. Others were probably thinking exactly the opposite, that he'd been caught in the explosion and lived to tell the tale.

"Yes and I asked a question," he replied, trying to deflect the attention away from himself.

"His name's Mills, comes from a community just outside Ravenshead," said Bill, who'd been leaning on a tree at the back. "We just delivered there week before last; De Falaise had left 'em starving."

"He says he's got some very important information," Jack added.

"Okay," said Robert, "I'm listening."

"Allow the man to eat." Tate let his stick take his weight. "He's about ready to pass out."

Mills held up a hand. "It's all right… really… I need to tell you all this…" He looked around at the faces present, then settled on Robert's. "It happened late last night. They… they came without any kind of warning… started… started…"

Robert came closer. "Who came? What did they do?"

"For Heaven's sake, Robert, can't you see the man's distressed!" Tate snapped.

"Yes, I can. And I want to know why."

Mills was choking back a sob. "They took my Elaine. Came into the village and just took her… right out of our house. I'd only just found someone who…" He sniffed back another tear, then said with hatred in his voice: "It was the Sheriff's men."

It still amazed Robert how easily that name had come back into usage, and how rather than some comic strip villain it now stood for everything that was wrong in this world – striking dread into the survivors of the virus. "They've taken people before," Robert commented, not wishing to sound cold but regretting the words as soon as he'd said them.