The slug fired by the corporal close behind took Kenny in the back of the head, tore a jagged hole through his skull and spewed brains and blood out of his forehead; threw him forward so that when his own pistol exploded the bullet flew harmlessly into the air.
Walters dropped to his knees. A glance behind him told him the whole story; he had seen it before, it would happen again, a boy's nerve giving out, an animal gone berserk and having to be put down.
The throwbacks turned, the Escort started to slip. One of them wasn't quick enough, screamed as it rolled over on to him. The others scattered, found themselves caught up in a hail of pistol and rifle fire. A blonde bearded male crumpled up, clutching at his stomach, was dead before he rolled over. Another had his throat torn out as though it had been savaged by a fierce dog.
The soldiers alongside Sergeant Walters were lying on their stomachs firing, those directly behind him kneeling, the rear ones shooting from a standing position.
Seven or eight dead lay in the foreground, the rest leaping up on to the rampart, running agilely along it. More shooting, a fairground game now; you collect your prize when they're all down.
Only three left, stopping because there was nowhere else to run. Sitting ducks. A single shot and the far one crumpled. Two to go. It was target practice now.
The last two jumped, defiance in their wild shrieks as they leaped into space. You found yourself listening, counting, wincing in anticipation of the crunch far below.
Sergeant Walters rose to his feet, dusted himself down, a half-smile on those swarthy features. 'I guess that about wraps it up, Corporal.'
'The kids, Sarge . . .'
Walters turned slowly, saw how the youngsters were bunched under that awning, half-raised his pistol.
'We still need more prisoners, Sarge.' The other's tone was nervous, his voice quavering, staring at the bloodied shot-up corpse of Kenny King, the lad from Wakefield. He had ended up that way because he couldn't stomach massacring women and kids. And you were the one who shot him, Corporal! They said they needed kids as well. To experiment on.'
What experiments? Oh, Jesus Christ Alive!
'Yeah, they do need kids.' Walters lowered his weapon. 'Round 'em up. Take 'em down and put 'em in the van with the others.'
The sergeant noted with contempt the way some of the rookies moved to carry out his orders. Fuck 'em, they weren't paid to think, to reason. Just to obey. He watched the way they took the children down the ramp, almost reluctantly. We don't want to do this to you but if we don't then we'll be court-martialled. They're the enemy, you fuckers, prisoners-of-war. And when we get 'em back to base in Hertfordshire they're going to be guinea pigs, injected with Christ-knows-what. They'll either live or die, they've got two choices, 'Hurry along there, you lot. We don't have all day.'
The sergeant's stomach knotted, felt like he'd got an appendicitis coming on. He couldn't have, though, because he'd had his appendix out, peritonitis when he was a rookie, like this rabble, on the Rhine. That kid had come close to chopping him, a matter of a second, maybe two. He'd buy the corporal a drink in the Mess tonight. Or maybe he wouldn't, the others might see it as a sign of weakness. You saved a colleague because it was your duty, and for no other reason. He'd do the same for any of them and not feel anything personal, just see that it went down on record.
On the drive back he would scribble out his report Just a brief encounter: attacked by the enemy hurling cars off a rooftop, fought to the last. The corporal would countersign it. And if any of those fucking rookies had anything to say they would be court-martialled. The country was in a State of Emergency, you couldn't afford to be squeamish. Soldiers were trained for battle, and in battle you killed the enemy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DON'T TOUCH me, Jon, please!
Sylvia tensed, every nerve in her body rigid, tried to think of a plausible reason which she could put into words. I've got a headache. Husbands had given up believing that one twenty years ago. It's the wrong time of the month; he knew already that it wasn't. I'm too tired. She'd once told him that sex was better when you were tired because you were more relaxed.
She bit her lip, resisted the urge to knock his hand away. Please don't touch me. I don't want you, I want my own husband back because he's out there in the dark and cold. Alive. Oh God, Eric's alive.'
Jon wanted her tonight and there was no way short of a determined physical resistance that she was going to stop him. She groaned, eased her legs apart. Shut your eyes and think of England. No, think of Eric.
It was Eric in the darkness of her bed. It had to be; everything else had just been a bad dream. No, it wasn't Eric's feel, not his way. Her mind flipped back to the other morning and suddenly her whole body began to prickle and tingle. There had been no fear because it was Eric ail right. Not even rape because she had been more than willing. So strong, so fierce, every thrust so meaningful.
Jon was lying with his full weight on top of her now. His naked flesh was repulsively smooth, his strength barely that of a callow youth. She turned her head away, tried to avoid his lips. Screw me then and get it over with; let me be back with Eric.
No way was she going to make it to an orgasm. She let him ride her, her feelings beginning to slip away like a piece of driftwood going out with an ebbing tide. Sobbing softly to herself. Oh, Eric, I want you. I don't care what they've done to you, I just want to be with you.
j3imly she was aware that they were no longer coupled, that he was lying facing away from her. Oh how I hate you, Jon Quinn. This is all your fault. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be here now, I would be out there with Eric; like him\
Her mind was made up. She would go to her husband. Not now, maybe not tomorrow. But before the winter set in and trapped her here with this man who only wanted her body.
Day after day Eric Atkinson had squatted up on that slope watching the smallholding below him, virtually an aerial view, the cottage a matchbox house, the two people dots which he scarcely recognised. Only the woman.
He had moved further back up the slope almost to the fringe of the big forest. Fear ate into him day by day, the knowledge that the hairless male had the means to kill him instantly if he got close enough, indeed he had almost done so already. He saw him shoot a rabbit on the edge of the patch of ground where he grew his vegetables. Unbelievable, terrifying.
The coney had been grazing a row of cabbages, had not heard the man's approach. Its ears went up and it bounded away, a blur of grey at full speed.
Bang!
The report echoed, the hills taking it up, magnifying it. Atkinson started, almost fell back, clutched at his ears trying to shut it out.
Bang. Ba..ng...ba..aaa...ng. Like thunder rolling before a storm. But he could not take his eyes off the scene below. The rabbit stopped as surely as if it had run into an invisible barrier, rolled over on to its back, the white of its belly uppermost, legs kicking, the motions growing weaker and weaker until finally it was still.
The man walked forward, not hurrying^ confident, the death-stick cradled under one arm, reached down and retrieved the dead creature by its back legs, carried it back towards the house.
Eric watched him until he disappeared inside. Still heard the killing sound.