scrabbling around for the grenade that had just been tossed inside.
“Fetch!” he heard the man shout as he dropped. The hatch slammed shut. Henrik could hear the driver’s voice shouting something, but he wasn’t listening – he was still looking for the grenade, not caring that he didn’t have the pin, nor that he couldn’t toss it out of the top anymore...
There it was!
Henrik was actually reaching for the thing when he realised it was too late; he’d taken too long, there was no way he would survive. Just before the explosion came, a phosphorus blast that would set off all the ammo and cook the entire inside of the tank, the cigar fell from Henrik’s open mouth, one of the few times he’d ever been without one in his adult life.
And, it was safe to say now, the last.
B ILL AND M ARK finally made it down the field.
Even from a distance they could see the smoke from inside the woods, curling up into the air. On the outskirts the bikes were left abandoned, one jeep limping off at a snail’s pace with maybe three or so people inside it. Of the tank there was no sign, but they could both see where it had pushed its way into the green.
“Judas Priest!” whispered Bill as they drew even closer. “Better wait out here, lad.” Mark was having none of this, and Bill had to admit he’d earned the right to see how this thing had played out. They both had.
So, following the trail of the Challenger’s tracks, they made their way into the wood. It wasn’t long before they came upon the remains of the metal beast. Bill made the mistake of opening the hatch at the top and looking inside.
“Trust me, ye don’t want to see in there,” he warned Mark before the boy got any ideas.
“It’s over,” said a voice from behind them, “there’s nothing to see here.”
Bill and Mark spun around, and spotted Robert.
“Sound like a copper,” commented Bill.
“Go home. It’s over.”
Mark was still looking from the tank to Robert, but the man was trying desperately to avoid his gaze.
“They’ll be back,” Bill told him. “If this De Falaise thinks he’s lord of the manor. And there’ll be a lot more folk needin’ help, an’all.”
“Go home,” Robert repeated and began to walk away, into the trees. Mark’s next words made him stop.
“What home?”
The man in the hood, with his back to them, hesitated only briefly. Then he blended in with the green.
CHAPTER EIGHT
D E F ALAISE STOOD on the balcony, hands on the rail, and surveyed the city below him. There was a glass information plinth – cracked, but still quite readable – which told him exactly what he was looking at, or the major landmarks at least: The view from Castle Rock, south to west, from what had once been the Inland Revenue building, disused now, to Wollaton Hall. Built for Sir Francis Willoughby in 1588 (the year of the Spanish Armada’s defeat), the hall was almost as saturated with history as the site on which he stood.
De Falaise’s initial explorations of the castle and its grounds had taught him much about this place, all of which had earned his respect and confirmed that it was the best location he could have possibly chosen to mount his takeover.
Surprisingly, the castle had been left relatively untouched by those still alive in the City. As expected, there had been some vandalism – such as spray paint on the side of the castle and various colourful phrases inscribed on the wooden doors of the souvenir shop, as well as defacement of the busts that guarded the door. Lord Byron would definitely not have been happy that they’d turned him into a buffoon with a moustache and a red nose. And the vandals had done some damage inside, too, beginning with the shop – its contents strewn about the place: books about the castle shredded, plastic figures torn from their packaging.
Once it was ascertained that nobody was in residence, De Falaise had insisted on taking his initial tour alone. The ground
“Fetch!” he heard the man shout as he dropped. The hatch slammed shut. Henrik could hear the driver’s voice shouting something, but he wasn’t listening – he was still looking for the grenade, not caring that he didn’t have the pin, nor that he couldn’t toss it out of the top anymore...
There it was!
Henrik was actually reaching for the thing when he realised it was too late; he’d taken too long, there was no way he would survive. Just before the explosion came, a phosphorus blast that would set off all the ammo and cook the entire inside of the tank, the cigar fell from Henrik’s open mouth, one of the few times he’d ever been without one in his adult life.
And, it was safe to say now, the last.
B ILL AND M ARK finally made it down the field.
Even from a distance they could see the smoke from inside the woods, curling up into the air. On the outskirts the bikes were left abandoned, one jeep limping off at a snail’s pace with maybe three or so people inside it. Of the tank there was no sign, but they could both see where it had pushed its way into the green.
“Judas Priest!” whispered Bill as they drew even closer. “Better wait out here, lad.” Mark was having none of this, and Bill had to admit he’d earned the right to see how this thing had played out. They both had.
So, following the trail of the Challenger’s tracks, they made their way into the wood. It wasn’t long before they came upon the remains of the metal beast. Bill made the mistake of opening the hatch at the top and looking inside.
“Trust me, ye don’t want to see in there,” he warned Mark before the boy got any ideas.
“It’s over,” said a voice from behind them, “there’s nothing to see here.”
Bill and Mark spun around, and spotted Robert.
“Sound like a copper,” commented Bill.
“Go home. It’s over.”
Mark was still looking from the tank to Robert, but the man was trying desperately to avoid his gaze.
“They’ll be back,” Bill told him. “If this De Falaise thinks he’s lord of the manor. And there’ll be a lot more folk needin’ help, an’all.”
“Go home,” Robert repeated and began to walk away, into the trees. Mark’s next words made him stop.
“What home?”
The man in the hood, with his back to them, hesitated only briefly. Then he blended in with the green.
CHAPTER EIGHT
D E F ALAISE STOOD on the balcony, hands on the rail, and surveyed the city below him. There was a glass information plinth – cracked, but still quite readable – which told him exactly what he was looking at, or the major landmarks at least: The view from Castle Rock, south to west, from what had once been the Inland Revenue building, disused now, to Wollaton Hall. Built for Sir Francis Willoughby in 1588 (the year of the Spanish Armada’s defeat), the hall was almost as saturated with history as the site on which he stood.
De Falaise’s initial explorations of the castle and its grounds had taught him much about this place, all of which had earned his respect and confirmed that it was the best location he could have possibly chosen to mount his takeover.
Surprisingly, the castle had been left relatively untouched by those still alive in the City. As expected, there had been some vandalism – such as spray paint on the side of the castle and various colourful phrases inscribed on the wooden doors of the souvenir shop, as well as defacement of the busts that guarded the door. Lord Byron would definitely not have been happy that they’d turned him into a buffoon with a moustache and a red nose. And the vandals had done some damage inside, too, beginning with the shop – its contents strewn about the place: books about the castle shredded, plastic figures torn from their packaging.
Once it was ascertained that nobody was in residence, De Falaise had insisted on taking his initial tour alone. The ground
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