Bill had heard rumours of the things going on in Europe, men who made De Falaise look like a novice. There were actually a number in France, apparently. Just as long as none of them came over to these shores again…
But that was always a possible threat. And when Bill got a call like the one he was answering this morning, he had to wonder. A lookout at Whitby lighthouse had spotted something coming in across the ocean. Several large somethings to be precise which looked to be separating out. "Can ye give me any more to go on?" Bill had asked over the crackling static. What came back was unintelligible — had he heard the word ships? — and they'd lost the signal not long after. It was still not a great way of communicating, but at the moment it was all they had, short of smoke signals or semaphore.
Bill had been en route within the hour, though it would take him a lot longer to reach his destination from where he'd been on the other side of the North York Moors. It wasn't necessarily bad news. Perhaps someone was trying to make contact to trade with them? That would open things up even more, make life easier for a lot of people. If supplies in the UK were dwindling, apart from those people were growing or farming themselves, then there was sure to be more abroad, wasn't there?
He had to hold on to that hope, because the alternative was too terrible to think about.
Several large somethings…
Tankers, freighters, ferries?
Or warships?
Inside the cockpit, Bill shook his head. He'd been conditioned to think like that, was letting his past experiences influence him.
(But didn't he still wake up in a cold sweat some nights after looking down the cannon of a tank? Standing there pointing his shotgun at the metal monstrosity which, in his nightmares, had features — pointed teeth and glaring eyes?)
You couldn't go through something like that without it affecting you. Nor could you look on the aftermath of a battle, see the bodies on either side, and not have it haunt you.
(The pain bit into his pelvis now. It felt like that olive-skinned bastard's crossbow bolt was still lodged in there sometimes.)
Wait and see… wait and see.
He did, but as he flew closer to the coast, coming in low as he had done through the city on the day of the castle run, he saw the smoke rising from one particular location. It was a community he knew, had traded with, and the irony of its name wasn't lost on him either.
In terms of line of sight, Bill had the advantage over them at the moment — as the angle down to the bay meant those at the bottom couldn't really see him. Landing quite a way from the upper entrance, the buildings at the top giving him some cover, he powered down the chopper and grabbed his shotgun, tucking it under his long winter coat as he got out to investigate.
He worked his way down the sloping, winding King Street. The picturesque quaintness of the buildings should have been a thing of beauty, especially with the light dusting of snow they had on them at the moment. But Bill was just filled with dread. It was a steep trek downwards — though not nearly as hard as it would be to get back up again — and when he was close enough, Bill saw where the smoke was coming from. Down by the dock of the bay itself. The buildings there — including the white Bay Hotel — had taken heavy weapons fire, scarred black where shells had hit them.
And then he saw the bodies.
Judas Priest, not again!
Who had done this to such a small, inoffensive place? More importantly, why? What had they ever done to anyone, either before or after The Cull?
Bill saw a handful of figures. People still alive. His heart sank when he spotted they were wearing uniforms, grey in colour with fur hats that covered their ears. And they were carrying machine guns. A patrol left behind to guard this spot after… after what? It was obvious from the track marks in the snow leading from the dock, up towards the wider New Road, that military vehicles had barged their way through this village. An army. Another fucking army! Before he could wonder how they'd offloaded the vehicles and men from the sea, then simply disappeared, there was a voice shouting from behind him.
Bill didn't need to turn to know it was another one of the soldiers. And he was drawing attention to the rest with his bellowing.
Both the tone of voice and language was distinctive. Russkies, Bill said to himself. What in the name of fuck's sake are they doing here?
"Turn around!" demanded the voice again, this time in broken English.
Slowly, Bill did as he was told, but at the same time he brought his gun up from under his coat, finger squeezing the trigger even before he was fully around. The loud bang coincided with his first glimpse of the soldier, barely out of his twenties, but hefting a deadly AK-47 that would have cut Bill in half given the chance. The shotgun blast hit the man in the chest, knocking him clean off his feet. Bullets from the machine gun pinged off a wall to Bill's left, the soldier's finger automatically pulling back, but his aim completely thrown.
As the first soldier fell, Bill risked a look over his shoulder at the others below, rushing up the incline to take him out. He fired another cartridge at them, causing the group to scatter.
Then he ran towards the felled soldier as fast as he could. Ignoring the blood being coughed up by the wounded trooper, he reached down and grabbed the Kalashnikov, swinging it around at the others.
"Welcome to England, Comrades!" he shouted before crouching and spraying them with bullets. They hadn't been expecting that, apparently, because they all went down fast, barely getting a shot off. "Like t'see a bow an' arrow do that," he muttered under his breath.
Bill reloaded his shotgun, then rose, holding both weapons out in front as he traversed the slippery road down to where the soldiers lay. He was well aware there could be more in hiding — it was what he and Robert would have done once upon a time — but felt the risk was worth it for information. He'd killed some of the men, he could see, on approach, he'd only injured others. When he reached one of the soldiers who had multiple leg wounds, he picked up his booted foot and brought it down on the man's thigh.
Then he pointed the twin barrels of his shotgun in his face.
"What are ye doing here, Red? What d'ye want?" he asked him through clenched teeth. The man shook his head, so Bill leaned more heavily on the thigh. There was a howl of pain. "I'm not a patient bloke. Tell me!"
"Poshyol ty!" Bill had no idea what it meant, but the way the man spat this out told him he was getting nothing.
"Fair enough," said Bill, taking his boot off the wound long enough to kick the man across the face.
He made his way a little further down the slope, to the dead locals. The fact there were women and children among them eased his conscience somewhat about the killing he'd done that day.
Then he heard the groaning. One of the 'dead' was trying to speak. Bill whirled around and immediately went over, getting down on the ground beside him. The man was in his thirties, with a kind face. His thick woollen jumper was stained crimson where the soldiers' bullets had eaten into him.
"Easy lad," said Bill, and though it would leave himself vulnerable to attack he placed the man's head on his knee. "What happened 'ere?"