Arrowland

THE AFTERBLIGHT CHRONICLES

ARROWLAND

www.abaddonbooks.com

An Abaddon Books[
^TM
] Publication

www.abaddonbooks.com

[email protected]

First published in 2010 by Abaddon Books[
TM
], Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-300-7

ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-299-4

Editor: Jonathan Oliver

Cover: Mark Harrison

Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

The Afterblight Chronicles
^TM
created by Simon Spurrier & Andy Boot

Copyright © 2010 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

The Aferblight Chronicles
^TM
, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

For Richard Carpenter, as much of an inspiration now as he was back then.

'Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow,

To shoot, and that he would fain;

The stranger he bent a very good bow,

To shoot at bold Robin again.

"O hold thy hand, hold thy hand," quoth Robin Hood,

"To shoot it would be in vain;

For if we should shoot the one at the other,

The one of us may be slain."'

-
Robin Hood Newly Revived

(Traditional Ballad)

Chapter One

The first sign they were in trouble was when a crater the size of a garden pond appeared ahead of them.

There had been very little sound until that moment - then an almighty bang which hurt the ears. This was accompanied by a rocking of the vehicles they were directing up that particular stretch of road.

Mick Jamison, in charge of the lead truck - or, as he called her, 'Stacey' - pulled on the steering wheel to avoid the smoking hole, then glanced in his mirrors to see his companions doing the same. Those using horses and carts, however, had to calm their animals first - not an easy task when none of the animals were used to loud noises. A couple reared, kicking back at the carts and riders.

Mick snatched up his radio, but it hissed static. "Jesus," he said, looking through the windscreen and spotting the tail of another mortar winding its way down to earth. This one struck the side of the road, but had just as much impact. Even with all his years of experience - before and after the nightmare known as The Cull - he struggled to control the tons of metal and cargo.

This hadn't been part of the deal. Actually, there hadn't even
been
a deal. Unlike his jobs before the virus, when he'd been employed by the large haulage companies to transport goods, there was no paperwork for this gig. Back then it had been a nice, relatively safe job - the only danger being from other, less careful drivers on the motorways. People who took chances, nipping in and out of traffic at ridiculous speeds, driving all night without taking stops when they felt tired. But in all his years in the delivery trade, Mick himself had never been in a single accident. He'd certainly never been fired upon.

These were different times.

He'd realised that when the people in his neighbourhood had started dropping in the streets, bleeding from every orifice, coughing their guts up onto the pavement. He'd realised it when he'd reached his girlfriend's house and found her-

That seemed such a long time ago now, years beginning to feel like decades.

If he'd been left in any doubt that things were different, the gangs and cults roaming the streets had soon changed that. At first only disorganised handfuls, then in greater numbers as they'd banded together for a common cause: mayhem and destruction, making the most of the lack of authority figures.

Some had even come from overseas to wreak havoc, like that insane Frenchman they'd heard about - De Falaise. In pre-virus times, he would have been locked up for doing what he did, attempting to take on the mantle of Sheriff of Nottingham. As if that hadn't been bad enough, there had been that Russian, the self-styled Tsar, a year or so later. Mick had lost friends to him and his forces when they invaded Britain, cutting a swathe through towns and villages.

Yes, he had friends - even in these bleak times.
Especially
in these times. Because just as there were those who gathered together to cause chaos, there were others intent on bringing some semblance of normality back to these shores. It was how the markets had started, how he'd become involved in them - stumbling on one particular outfit not far from Wickham. He was impressed that communities had pulled themselves together enough to produce their own food, replacing what had been taken for granted before. Impressed that they were cultivating links with their neighbours, using a barter system now that money was obsolete.

The markets and trading system had been steadily growing, so when Mick got wind of the fact that folk were also delivering these goods, picking up the traded items in the process, he offered his services - and his truck. He'd felt like a bit of a spare part all this time, on the road, hiding out in Stacey's cab and living on whatever he could find in out of the way places, scavenging whatever fuel he could from abandoned vehicles; some days even wishing he'd caught that virus along with the rest of 'em. At least now he could make himself useful, doing the only thing he'd ever really been good at. He was working for - and with - good people; helping to make a difference, perhaps even helping turn things around.

Then came reports of convoys being attacked by armed raiders. These weren't like earlier encounters, small parties chancing their arm in the hopes of coming away with a vanload of fresh beef or eggs; easily driven off by the weapons they carried to protect themselves. No, these guys were well organised and extremely well armed.

Up until now, they'd been lucky. Mick and his mates hadn't come face-to-face with them. He could fool himself into thinking it was just like old times on the open road again. If you ignored the fact that due to the scarcity of diesel, some of the transportation had to be of the old fashioned live variety.

That luck had just run out. On their way up through Corbridge, towards the Scottish border, they'd suddenly become the target of those legendary raiding parties. Mick recalled the pattern: first creating confusion from a distance, an attempt to cut off the route ahead; next cutting off radio communications, probably with some kind of jamming equipment.

Then they would attack.

And if the stories were to be believed, not many of Mick's group would survive.

Another mortar fell to the right of Mick's truck and he grappled with the wheel again, almost tipping the vehicle over - clipping the edge of this new crater but not falling into it. Some of those behind were not as fortunate, or as skilled. One truck, being driven by a guy Mick had known only a few months called Jed Elliott, tipped into the first of the holes head-on. It was now stuck there like some kind of mole burrowing into the ground. Mick thought about stopping, but saw something in his mirrors which made him press down on his accelerator instead.

Jeeps and motorcycles - quite obviously military issue from their colour - had joined the party, skidding down hillocks on either side of the road. A couple of the jeeps had no roofs; mounted on top were huge machine-guns, spitting out bullets as the raiders opened fire. They raked the road ahead of one particular cart, and the two horses pulling it broke free of their reins, running for freedom, leaving both driver and cart at the mercy of the raiders.

If they had any.

Already the lead bikes had caught up with the truck behind Mick's. Riding on the bikes were pairs of raiders, one handling the steering, the other clinging to the back. Both were dressed similarly, though: goggles over their eyes, breathing masks over their mouths, wearing thick, leather gloves and boots. Some kind of dark tartan Mick wasn't familiar with flapped in the breeze, overlaying the combats beneath. And at their hips hung what appeared to be claymores, with rounded guards over the handles.

As he watched, one bike pulled alongside the truck and its passenger fired some kind of hand-held harpoon, like he was hunting a landlocked metal whale. A length of rope unfurled with it and the next thing Mick knew, the raider had leapt from the bike and onto the truck, swinging from its side. The raider launched himself forward, until he came level with the driver's door, then grabbed hold with his free hand before letting go of the rope. Next he produced a handgun and shot out the window. The driver, a woman called Kimberly Johns, looked terrified when the glass shattered, but at least she was still alive. Mick saw her reach over and bring up the rifle she always carried in her cab, but before she could use it the raider had tossed something inside. Within seconds, the cab filled with smoke, and the truck began weaving. That explained the breathing masks. Through the smoke, Mick saw Kim's outline slump against the big wheel, and gradually the truck ground to a halt.

Again, he knew he should stop - but Mick had problems of his own. More bikes catching up, two flanking him, both carrying raiders with similar harpoons. They were going to pull the same stunt on him. "Shit!"

He sped up, but his vehicle wasn't meant for racing. They could outrun and outmanoeuvre him easily. That didn't mean he should just give up, though. There were alternatives to running, and he wasn't going to let them take Stacey without a fight.

Mick lined up one of the bikes in his mirror, making sure it was directly behind him. Then he stamped on the brakes: not enough to tip the truck, but enough to cause the bike to slam hard into the back of his trailer. With a certain amount of satisfaction, he noted the dislodged raiders sprawled across the road, their bike laying a few feet away from them.

Another two bikes joined the remaining one on his tail. Mick accelerated again, but already they were firing their harpoons - up and into the top of his trailer. At least two of them swung over. Mick heard them trying to break into the back - then their footsteps across the top of his truck, heading for his cab.

Unlike Kim, he didn't carry a gun, had never used one in his life and didn't intend to start now. But he was far from unarmed. Even back in his early days, he'd kept his trusty baseball bat - a holiday present from a cousin, now long dead - down the side of the seat. His fingers curled around the handle. Mick didn't know how much use it'd be against bullets or gas canisters, but if even one of those raider bastards stuck their head in here, they'd get one hell of a shock.

Mick flinched when he heard the gunfire, however - waiting for the bullets to pierce Stacey's cab.

Then him.

Ceallach held his bike straight, but off to the side of the truck in front of him.

He'd seen what this driver had just done to Ròidh and Machar back there, braking so that they'd run slap bang into the truck. Ceallach glanced across at Garbhan, on the bike running parallel, and Flannagan riding his just a little behind. They'd deposited their kinsmen onto the truck: Neas and Osgar were hanging by their harpoon ropes, while his partner, Torradan, had climbed on top to see if he could take out the driver.

Neas had smashed the lock and Osgar pulled up the back of the truck, which rolled into the trailer's roof. Ceallach watched as the pair peered inside. It was a fine haul today, the back of the truck filled with sacks of potatoes, crates of cabbages, carrots, tomatoes and cucumbers. If an army marched on its stomach, then they would be going far.