Hooded Man (40 page)

“Please... Please let me go.”

“You are already
His
,” he whispered to her.

Then he eased her suffering.

It helped to think about it that way, that he was putting them out of their misery, for that’s what life here had become. That’s what life here would always be until the arrival of their master. “Then this world will be a place of joy and happiness. For those who are loyal,” his fellow Servitor had promised.

His fellow... Yes, that’s how he’d begun to think of himself. The memories were growing harder and harder to hang on to. Why should he want to? With each machete blow he reigned, with each sacrifice he made, he became more like the others in his order. Born again, dead men who attended. No guilt, no pain, no emotions.

And though as time went by, rumours grew of a resistance building in numbers, of another Hooded Man gaining power in the region,
their
numbers were also burgeoning. In the end, he would pose no threat to them. To their purpose.

There could only be one faction in charge.

He still dreamed of the fire, but now he knew who the figure was. The one he obeyed, without question, without-

(
“Mike? Mike... are you all right? You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it was just a nightmare. Just-”
)

Without thoughts of the past, of who he had been.

Because he knew what he was, what he’d always meant to be.

He was Servitor.

And he served.

For Simon Clark. Mentor, master of post apocalyptic fiction, and friend.

“Nothing’s forgotten.

Nothing’s ever forgotten.”

Robin of Sherwood,

by Richard Carpenter

CHAPTER ONE

I
T WAS A
blood moon. A hunter’s moon.

And she was most definitely being hunted. As she ran down the road, almost slipping on the icy surface, she looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see her pursuer, but she knew he was there – and he was close.

The light from above gave the snow-covered streets a crimson tinge. She pushed on, dodging the rusted carcasses of vehicles that hadn’t been used in an age. Not since before the world went to Hell – and you could actually believe you were there tonight. Once, this road would have been jam-packed with motorists making their way through the city. Now it was simply full of memories and ghosts.

It was a different place, and it wasn’t safe anymore to be out at this time of night. She knew that, yet she’d ventured out anyway. Clutching a bag holding a half-dozen cans she’d managed to scavenge from various shop storerooms, she was beginning to wonder if it had been worthwhile. After all this time, most of it had already been picked over by the starving survivors of the virus. There weren’t that many, granted, but they’d been living on their wits and whatever they could find for a long while.

Folk had raided houses first, homes on the outskirts – rather than head into the towns and cities; where gangs of thugs had banded together, hoarding the lion’s share of food and other items. Only those stealthy enough to creep in and out could get away with it.

Or at least that had been the case before...

Word had reached people far and wide that the gangs were no longer in control. That they were being driven out. Whether it was true or not, nobody could confirm, but when people are hungry enough, they’ll believe anything. She’d believed it. And she’d risked her life because of it.

Now she was paying the price.

She ran as fast as she could, skidding as she turned a corner, legs everywhere. Looking up, she saw it: a dark shape on top of a hill, the edges defined by the glowing red sphere overhead. A castle; the very heart of the city. For a moment she considered making for it, but she knew she’d find no refuge there. Whoever was following just out of sight would surely follow her there, too. She’d be trapped.

Might be help up there? Might be someone who could –

She shook her head. There was no-one living there, no lights, not a sign of life at all. No, her best bet was to try and lose her persuer in the narrow streets.

She heard footfalls behind her – boots crunching the snow. She had to keep moving, didn’t have long before they caught up with her. Pulling the bag in close to her chest, like a mother cradling her baby, she ran into the labyrinth: a warren of houses that seemed to be leaning in to watch her progress. It shouldn’t be too hard to get lost in here, to hide until the hunters had passed by.

Another quick glance over her shoulder told her it would be harder than she thought. Now she saw him, and if he was revealing himself, the hunt was almost at an end.

The man was wearing a hooded robe, which prevented her from getting a good look at his face. She caught something glinting, something the man was raising up.

A knife, twenty inches or more long. She’d seen their like before in old horror movies back when she was in her teens, usually wielded by masked killers. One slice could cleave someone in half.

If he had been alone, she might have reasoned that this was just some nut, using the apocalypse as an excuse to live out his fantasies. But there were more where he came from. Many more.

They emerged from the shadows, all hooded, all wielding those deadly weapons. She froze. Her situation was so much worse than she’d imagined. The lead figure came closer, reaching a hand up to pull down his hood.

She let out a gasp when she saw his face – or what there was of it.

Perhaps this place wasn’t only populated by ghosts, but by the living dead as well? The skull was white – or at least would have been were it not for the moon’s glare. The eyes were sunken and black, merely sockets from which this thing stared out. In the middle of the forehead was a symbol she couldn’t quite discern, etched into the bone.

I’m going mad. I must be.

When she finally found she could move again, the apparition gave her feet wings. Head down, she sprinted faster than ever: up one street, down another. The ground beneath her was still treacherous, but somehow that didn’t matter anymore. She lost her footing a couple of times, but ignored it, desperately trying to get away from the nightmare behind her.

Rounding a final corner, she let out gasp. It was a dead end. The houses seemed to lean in closer.

Looking to the left and the right, she thought about trying a few doors, bobbing inside the buildings now mocking her. But she’d be just as trapped inside as she would have been back at the castle.

Instead, she headed back up the street, in the hopes she might find a way out before the dead men arrived. She’d taken only a few steps before her exit was cut off.

A figure appeared at the mouth of the street, seemingly materialising out of nowhere. Then, seconds later, others joined him. She counted ten at least. The leader, slightly taller than the rest, began to walk towards her. She backed away, knowing that she didn’t have much street left before she hit a wall, but in no rush to meet her fate.

“P-please... Please, just leave me alone...”

He took no notice – they took no notice – approaching now as one, swinging their machetes.

“What do you want from me?”

The dead man at the front paused, contemplating this question. Then he answered in a hollow voice: “Sacrifice.”

They didn’t want her physically, as so many had before. Didn’t want to paw and molest her – why would dead men want that? They wanted her to join them; to become one of them. To give up her life so that she could exist forever walking these streets, preying on the warm blooded. Maybe living forever wouldn’t be so bad?

But what if, when they killed her, she stayed dead? Or, even worse, went to a place that made this look like Heaven – as impossible as that might seem? She looked again, searching for a way out, a way up perhaps?

Then she saw another hooded figure on the rooftops. The bastards were up there as well! She was well and truly finished. The hunt was over. Bowing her head, she sobbed, accepting the inevitable.

One of the walking dead fell. At first she thought he might have slipped on the wintry ground. Blinking tears from her eyes, though, she spotted something sticking out of his shoulder. Something long and thin and feathered.

She traced the shot back to the figure above her. Even as she looked up, he was falling, legs bent to take the strain of the landing. The shape rose, standing between her and the dead men... except she knew now they weren’t dead at all, not if an arrow from this man’s bow could fell them. This man who wore a hood just like her enemies.

He waved her back, then plucked another arrow from his quiver. He’d nocked it and fired quicker than she had time to register, already reaching for another.

Two more of the ‘dead’ men dropped. But that didn’t stop others taking their place, charging at her rescuer. He had time for just one more shot, but it went wide – his aim spoiled as he avoided a blow from one of the swinging machetes. Too close to rely on his bow, the hooded figure let go of it and pulled a sword out of his belt. He first blocked one machete swipe on his left, then another to his right. Metal clanked against metal, but the man seemed as quick with the sword as he had been with his arrows.

As she watched, he pushed one of the robed men back, headbutting a second – dropping the man like a stone. A roundhouse kick sent a third into the wall, and she heard a definite crunch of bone. But he couldn’t be everywhere at once, in spite of how it seemed. A couple broke through, machetes high, ready to be planted in her.

The hooded man punched one attacker in front and elbowed another, before swinging around and chasing after the ones making for her. He leapt and landed on them, taking them both down just inches away. She fell backwards, landing on the snow, bag falling from her grasp.

The three men struggled to their feet, and the hooded figure narrowly avoided a machete swipe to the stomach, arcing his body and bringing his sword down to meet the challenge. No sooner had he thrown off one man than he had to meet the other’s blow. The force knocked him back, hard, into the wall. A flash of gritted teeth, and he slid the hilt up to the man’s hand as they struggled to force the weapons out of each other’s grip. The stalemate was ended when the first assailant, now recovered, swung again; but the hooded man dragged the figure he was locked onto around, creating a human shield, and the sword buried itself in him instead. The injured man fell to the ground, but her hero wasn’t quick enough to avoid a punch that caught him a glancing blow on the chin. Shaking his head, he brought his sword up and into that first attacker, the point emerging from his back.

Breathing heavily, each puff turning to steam in the night air, he looked across at the woman and she caught just a glimpse of the intense eyes under the cowl, searching her face. Then she saw one last glint of metal just behind him, a machete whipping through the air. She didn’t have time to scream or point, but he heard the sound anyway... just not in time to do anything about it.

The machete halted in mid-air and the blade quivered. As she lifted her head she saw what had stopped it. A large wooden staff, held by an equally large man. He was wearing a cap and sported a goatee beard.

“Whoa there, fella,” said the big man, with a trace of an American accent. “That’s enough of that.” Taking one hand off the staff, he punched the robed man in the face, knocking him clean out. The machete clanged to the floor.

Beyond the giant she saw others: his men. The hooded man’s. They were armed as he was, with bows and arrows, with swords. They were grabbing hold of her attackers, pinning them against the wall. Two or three of her assailants who’d been taken down by the stranger seized their chance to get up and barged past the newcomers, shouldering them out of the way.

“Don’t just stand there,” the large man barked, “get after ’em!” Then he held out his hand, helping her saviour to his feet. “Don’t worry, they won’t get far.”

“They’d better not,” said the man in the hood – a hood she realised was not attached to a robe, but part of a winter huntsman’s jacket (sliced across the front where the machete blade had almost cut him).