Paul Kane - Broken Arrow

"I'm sorry," Adele told him, sensing the mood. "I don't mean to ask so many questions. I'm just curious about what happens here." She took his hand. "Forgive me?"

"Er… Yeah, of course." Jack could feel the colour rushing to his cheeks.

"Listen, how about you give me a bit of time to freshen up — then maybe we could grab a bite to eat? God, that sounds so normal doesn't it? Sounds like what people used to do."

"It does."

"Okay then. Meet you in the dining area in about an hour?"

Jack nodded.

"And listen, thank you Jack. You've been really sweet to me." She leaned in and kissed him, before running off to the nearest entrance.

Jack beamed from ear to ear. "You're very welcome, little lady. Very welcome indeed."

It was a good few minutes before his thoughts returned to what she'd asked about: Robert. And Jack wondered how he'd got on himself, and whether his trip had been worthwhile.

The guards weren't that surprised to see the horse come trotting up St James Street. Robert had already checked in with Rangers positioned at the city's edge, telling them not to inform the castle yet, just his people at The Britannia .

"They'll only want to join us, and I'd rather this was just you and me, Reverend," he'd told Tate by way of an explanation. "I don't want Mary being placed needlessly in danger here." He'd registered the holy man's look of fear when he said that, possibly the only real time he'd ever seen Tate scared.

Robert tried to tell himself that these were just men whose minds had broken, probably during or after The Cull. It would have been an easy thing to slip into madness back then; he'd come close himself. But Tate's words about The Devil, about worship and sacrifice, had spooked him. Any kind of organised religion bothered Robert, but one which called for the death of innocents… He'd hidden it, but when Tate had been talking about Hell, Robert suddenly had a mental image of flames, of fire licking up around him.

His house burning to the ground, torched by the people in power trying to contain the virus. Robert's family, dead inside.

The lake he'd dreamed of at Rufford, ablaze and then-

The market square where he'd confronted De Falaise finally, their crashed vehicles catching light; the fire spreading out across their battlefield.

In spite of what Tate might think, Robert did like him. More than that, he respected him. They might never agree about their chosen professions — Tate would say callings — but the man talked a lot of sense. Depending on how you looked at it, Robert either owed him for making him face up to his responsibilities, or was the catalyst for everything that had happened since: leaving Sherwood, being put in charge of the Rangers, becoming a figurehead for something much greater than he could ever be.

Robert pushed all this to the back of his mind as they approached the hotel entrance, its glass doors cracked but still in place — the steps stained a faded red with blood that had long since dried.

The guard there, Robert searched for his name, it was getting much harder these days, the more his team grew — Kershaw, that was it — stood to attention. Robert thought he was going to salute and he'd have to go through that whole business of reminding them they weren't in the army. He wasn't their general.

" You just don't see it, do you? I'm no better than De Falaise."

Robert swung down off his mount, then helped Tate from the saddle. The holy man was stiff, and it took him a moment to regain the feeling in his legs. Robert tethered his horse to a nearby handrail.

"I'm here to see the prisoners, Kershaw," he told the guard, pulling down his hood at the same time.

The guard swallowed hard. "We… we thought it best to tell you when you got here. There's been a problem."

"Problem?"

"The men watching them tried to stop it but… Well, I think it's probably best you see for yourself, sir." Kershaw waved a hand for Robert and Tate to enter. They were met inside by another of Robert's men — and this one he did recognise. It was Geoff Baker, the man he'd left in charge of this improvised jail, having been a warder in a real prison for years until the virus struck.

Geoff ran a hand through his thinning hair before offering his apologies. "It all happened so quickly, there was very little we could do."

"What did?"

"Go easy," Tate said. "Give the man a chance to explain."

"They did it all at once. We managed to get to one of them, but…"

"Geoff, talk to me."

Instead of saying anything else, Geoff took them to a storage room just to the right of the lobby, past a huge wall-length mirror, and unlocked the door. Inside were several bodies, stacked on top of each other, all wearing the robes of the Morningstar cult. Robert looked at Geoff, confused. "They committed suicide, Rob."

"What? How? You had them secured, right?"

"Two or three swallowed their own tongues, another one managed to get one hand free of the ropes and tear his own throat out."

"Dear Lord," whispered Tate.

"One tipped the chair over that he was tied to, angling it so he struck his temple on the side of a nearby table. Another actually lifted up the chair and ran at a wall, hard enough to smash his own skull in."

Robert was having difficulty understanding. He'd never had to deal with these kinds of prisoners before, people who would gladly end their own lives rather than divulge any information.

"But why weren't you lot keeping an eye on them?" There was more frustration than anger in his voice, but Geoff reacted as if chastised.

"We were doing our best. I don't exactly have a full staff here," Geoff reminded him, his tone hardening. "And when a crisis crops up out there, a portion of my men always seem to be called away even though they're vital for guarding this place."

Robert nodded. "Point taken. You say you managed to get to one of them, though?"

"Yeah. We've been keeping him dosed up to try and stop him from doing anything similar." Geoff gestured for them to follow him.

"Just one moment," Reverend Tate said. He made the sign of the cross at the door and closed his eyes.

"Why are you wasting your time with that?" said Robert. "They don't want your help, and they definitely don't want to go to your Heaven."

"We're all God's children, whether we've strayed from the path or not. They deserve the chance of forgiveness. Of mercy."

Robert could see he wouldn't be argued with.

They left the room behind and headed for the stairs. Tate had trouble with these, but refused both Geoff and Robert's help, intent on climbing the two flights himself. Finally, they made it to what had been the bar area, an expanse of carpeted floor that once contained comfy chairs for residents, but now only boasted tables which ran into the restaurant section. On either side was a long glass window — the left one cracked in places — and the bar at the back was smashed to pieces, graffiti sprayed across the walls, probably by someone during or after The Cull who'd come looking for booze.

At each corner of the room stood a Ranger with a bow and arrow primed, keeping an eye on what was taking place. It was lunchtime, Geoff explained, and as they didn't have the time and resources to feed each prisoner individually, they had to do it en masse , bringing out vats of stew from the reclaimed kitchens located beyond the restaurant. Robert had to admit, it didn't look very appetising, but it was all they could manage under the circumstances.

There was a shout as one of the inmates spotted Robert and Tate. Then a figure broke away from the rest of the prisoners, making a dash for Robert. Immediately, bows and arrows were raised and the man stopped before he could reach his target. They needn't have worried, as Robert had his bow primed too, an arrow snatched from his quiver the second he sensed trouble.