Paul Kane - Arrowhead

"She's not fuelled," Bill called to him, "but I daresay I can scrounge up some aviation fuel from around here somewhere. They used to have demonstrations all the time."

"And how do you intend on getting it out of here?" said Robert, asking the obvious.

"Same way they got her in." Bill pointed down. "She's on wheels, look. Once we clear some space, we can tow her through the hangar doors. Bit of an effort, which is probably why no bugger else's bothered, but it can be done."

"This is insane," said Robert.

"More insane than what you're plannin'?" Bill asked, not expecting a reply. "Look, we've got the element of surprise – that bloody Frenchman 'asn't got anything that flies."

"As far as we know," Robert pointed out. "That doesn't matter – the sniper will shoot you out of the sky before you can get close."

"I may look as rough as a badger's arse, but I'm pretty nifty once I get up there. Besides, while the bastard's shootin' at me, he's not shootin' at anyone else."

Robert had to concede that. At the same time he also had to wonder just why Bill was so eager to launch himself – literally – into this suicide mission… not that he could talk. Was it because he felt bad about what had happened to Mark? Or did he really think he could pull it off? Robert didn't question him, just helped Bill to get the chopper out into the open, using the jeep to tow it from the hangar. The side caught on the nose of a plane that was a little too close for comfort, but in the end they managed it.

"We should have brought more men," Robert complained to Bill.

"An' take 'em away from their trainin'? They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it's like I said: a surprise."

After that Bill filled the chopper with fuel they managed to scavenge: enough to get the thing home – and both of them – plus stocks of it for the Nottingham run. Robert stared at the flying machine in front of him. He'd never flown before, apart from three or four holidays abroad with the family. He definitely hadn't been suspended above the ground in a bubble and didn't relish the prospect now.

"It'll be fine," Bill assured him. "A doddle. Tell ye what, I'll show ye."

And he did, beginning with the main differences between how a plane and helicopter fly: one creating lift by angling the wings, the other by manipulating the rotor blades to change the angle at which they meet the air. He took Robert through the pre-flight checks, explaining briefly what the main controls did – from the collective control stick through to the cyclic control joystick and, finally, the tail rotor pedals on the floor. "So, no accelerator?" enquired Robert, only to get a groan from Bill.

Next he walked Robert through the instruments, stopping when he noted the man stifling a yawn. It was as if Bill needed an outlet for all this information, like he'd been bottling it up inside for years and it was all coming out now he had a captive audience. "Anyway, ye get the general idea. Time to go."

He made Robert strap himself him in, warning him that it had been a while since he'd done this.

"How much of a while?"

Bill didn't answer, instead he put on the earphones and instructed Robert to do the same. With nothing else to occupy him, and more to take his mind off what was about to happen than anything, Robert watched Bill as he started up the chopper. Bill patted the instrument panel that lay between them. "At-a-girl." When he noticed Robert looking at him, he explained: "They can be very sensitive, needs a light touch. The biggest mistake new pilots make is to 'over control'."

Robert had to admit, the take-off was incredibly smooth. Even so, he gripped the end of his bow, squeezing tightly until they were up in the air.

It was an odd sensation and Robert wasn't sure whether he loved or hated it. He thought that it would be interesting to fly the length of this land, see what had become of it. See who had survived where – and what had been destroyed.

It was a land worth fighting for, Robert finally realised as he saw it stretching out in front of him in all its beautiful patchwork glory. It was a land worth keeping free. If ever the human race was to get back on it shaky legs again then men like De Falaise had to be defeated.

"All right?" asked Bill beside him.

"Just drifting."

"Aye," said the ruddy-cheeked man, coaxing more speed from the chopper as they headed back to familiar forest terrain.

Once they'd landed on the outskirts, Robert and Bill made their way back to the camp to find new faces waiting for them. Strangers in their den. Robert's first instinct was to bring up his bow, but Jack raised a hand, jogging over to explain.

The men and women were from communities the Sheriff had terrorised, communities Robert had been trying to help. Though these were new, and small, they represented the first seeds of rebuilding this part of England. The people that made up their number had found each other, in spite of all the odds, and built new friendships, relationships and homes. Now those they cared about were in danger and they wanted to do something about it.

"We found them gathering at the forest's edge," Jack explained. "They're volunteering, Robbie."

"For what? To kill me in my sleep?" Robert said, slowly lowering his bow.

"Mills were just one man," Bill threw in. "Look at 'em, they've had enough of bein' scared. They want to fight."

Jack nodded. "They want to help."

Perhaps they do at that, thought Robert. "Okay then, start training them up. But first, see if any of them have combat experience. You never know, we might drop lucky again and find another member of the TA or something. Or, who knows, maybe even a Kung Fu clergyman or ex-professional wrestler?"

Jack laughed, clapping Robert on the shoulder. "We might at that." He began to walk back to the crowd, then remembered something. "Oh, I think Mary's been waiting for you to get back. She wants a word."

"What about?"

Jack shrugged. "None of my beeswax, Robbie. None of my beeswax."

"Best not keep the lady waitin', then," Bill told him.

Robert didn't have to look far to find Mary – she was just outside of camp, practising with her own bow and arrow, aiming for a target notched on a tree trunk. She was holding the weapon awkwardly, her aim off. Robert came up behind her quietly, so quietly that she started when he reached around and took hold of her arms.

"Robert!" she cried, turning round. "I wish you'd stop doing that, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

He could feel Mary shaking and regretted not announcing himself. He still wasn't quite used to how stealthy he'd become. "Sorry, but the way you're holding the bow… May I?" He could feel her arms relax slightly, the muscles still bunched but more flexible, allowing him to guide her aim. "Don't think about the shot too much, just let yourself feel it. Feel the arrow against your fingers, that's how you're going to guide it to the target." Robert brought up her bow arm a touch, bending down to look along her line of sight, squeezing one eye shut to get a better view. "Nice… Nice…" he murmured. "All right, now just pull the string back, feel the tension building. Can you feel it?"

"Y-Yes."

"Now just let go." She did. The arrow didn't hit the carved circle dead on, but it was pretty close. "There, you did it."

"Yay me."

Robert let out a small laugh. "Yay you." He realised that even though the arrow was embedded in the tree, he was still holding Mary's arms, his chest pressed up against her back. He moved to step away, but she moved with him. She was quivering again, but this time it wasn't because of the fright.

Robert was trembling too.

"You took off before I could talk to you this morning. About Mills, about what happened," she said. "Tate told me about it."