Down: Trilogy Box Set (127 page)

John called Kyle over. “William, meet my brother, Kyle, who is also not from here. Kyle is a gunsmith, one of the best I’ve ever met. There isn’t a pistol or long gun he can’t fix or fabricate. Kyle, show him what you’ve got in your pack.”

Kyle opened one of the backpacks and began laying out its contents, about a hundred cotton-wrapped parcels ranging in size from a square inch to a square foot. He unwrapped one of the larger ones revealing a deeply imprinted rubber mold.

William examined it carefully. “A mold, yes, I see.”

Kyle unwrapped a smaller one and handed it over.

“Tell me, gunsmith Kyle, are all of these molds for one weapon?”

“They are,” Kyle answered.

“And what is this gun called?”

“It’s an AK-47.”

William repeated the name slowly with a lilt, as if it were a magical incantation, and asked about its attributes.

Kyle spoke almost lovingly about the rifle. “The AK-47 is the single most successful weapon of modern times. It’s a rifle with two modes. In semi-automatic it fires one round with each trigger pull. In automatic it fires a burst as long as you hold the trigger down. It holds thirty rounds in a detachable magazine. It rarely jams, even when it’s wet or muddy. It’s been called the freedom-fighter’s rifle because it’s cheap to make, reliable, and cheap to manufacture. I’ve got molds for all the parts including the magazine parts and assorted screws. I’ve also got molds for the bullets and a press to make them. What we’ll need from you is your best quality steel to do lost-wax casting.”

“You know what that is?” John asked William.

“I do know the method and I have used it before. How many of the AK-47s do you wish to manufacture?”

“About thirty-two,” Kyle said, “eight for each of four groups of the SAS. We’ve brought five sets of molds to speed up production. We’ll also need about a hundred magazines and several thousand rounds of ammo.”

“Ammo?” William asked.

“Sorry, ammunition, bullets,” John said. “But here’s the thing. These bullets contain the lead bullet and the gunpowder all in a single cylinder. To set them off a firing pin strikes a primer at the bullet’s base. The primer needs to hold an explosive chemical. We’ve brought a scientist with us, a chemist who knows how to make it, but we’ll need to find the starting materials. That’s Professor Nightingale over there.”

The chemist was sitting under a tree looking pale and worn out but he gave a chipper wave.

William removed a rag from his apron and blew his nose into it. “These AK-47s sound like mighty weapons. I’ve heard modern men speak of guns that can fire rapid-like but no one I know’s been able to tell an old forger such as myself how to construct one. And here you are, molds in hand. Tell me, John, what is it you intend to do with these guns?”

“We’re going to try to stop an invasion.”

William took up the challenge of feeding his hungry guests. After wondering how to stretch his forge worker’s meager rations to meet the needs of so many, he had a brainstorm. It was common knowledge down in the nearby village that King Henry had ordered William to use the village as target practice to test the accuracy and range of his new singing cannon. It had been John who had slipped extra powder into the charge, sending the cannon ball sailing over the village and splashing harmlessly into the river. William personally went down to the village to let them know that their savior, John Camp, required sustenance for his party and, though poor, the villagers emptied their larders and casks to honor their hero.

A cart from the village, pulled by a pitifully thin horse, lumbered up the hill to the forge. A handful of rough-looking men and one thin woman in a threadbare dress unloaded the provisions. The woman was perhaps sixty, though she was so weather-beaten it was hard to tell. Initially she was frightened of the strapping young soldiers and refused to make eye contact. Emily seemed to scare her less and the woman managed a timid hello. But for some reason, she immediately seemed comfortable around Professor Nightingale. She asked him his name, made him a plate of food, and poured him a cup of ale. For his part, he politely eschewed wrinkling his nose at her rancid body odors and asked her name.

“Mrs. Smith,” she said. “Eugenia Smith.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Eugenia,” he said, extending a hand. “Ted Nightingale.”

“How can live men come Down?” she asked in a whisper so only he could hear the question.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he replied. “I’m a scientist and I’m not sure I even fully understand it.”

“Then why have you come?”

“It seems our world is under attack from your world. Something needs to be done about it.”

“You’re sick, are you not?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am. How did you know?”

“The color of your skin, the yellowing of your eyes. My own mother had the yellowing before she died.”

“I’m afraid I am dying,” he said with as much insouciance as he could manage. “Final adventure of a thoroughly interesting life.”

“Well, I hope you don’t find yourself here when you pass,” she said. “There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wish I could have taken back my wickedness.”

The visitors and the forge workers spread out on the grass and ate bread, cheese, and dried meat. The soldiers kept to themselves. John sat in a circle with Trevor, Emily, Kyle, Nightingale, and William talking about the logistics of getting their castings started.

“We can begin tonight if you’re up to the task,” William said.

“Sooner the better,” John said.

William had the iron ore ready, plenty of wax, and a supply of casting plaster.

“Might we talk about the primers?” Nightingale asked, energetically, revived by the meal. “I’ll need a supply of lead as a precursor for lead styphnate.”

“No shortage of lead,” William grunted. “We make our musket shot with lead.”

“Excellent, excellent,” the chemist said. “Now I’ll need a supply of nitric acid. Best if you have it on the shelf but if not, I’ll have to synthesize it.”

“What is this nitric acid?” William asked.

“The old name for it is aqua fortis. Or perhaps you know it as spirit of niter?”

“Sorry, I’ve no idea what you speak of.”

“Do you know of any chemists or even alchemists in the environs?” Nightingale asked.

William could only stare at him blankly.

“Oh well, we’ll have to make it then. If you have gunpowder, presumably you have potassium nitrate, also known as saltpeter.”

William brightened. “Saltpeter. That we do have. Comes from bat droppings in caves.”

“Yes, that’s right, good. And I presume laying hands on some good-quality clay is not problematic.”

“Clay? Ha. Plenty of that.”

“White clay, actually.”

“We’ve got white, red, brown, whatever sort of clay contents your heart.”

“Then all I’ll need is a bench to work on, some glass vessels, lead, white clay, saltpeter, clean water and a source of heat.”

“Have a look in there,” William said, pointing to the orange glow coming from his forge. “There’s all the heat a man could ever want for.”

John leaned over and said to Emily, “Today’s gone about as well as expected.”

“Not for Trooper Jones,” she said.

“Every time these men go on a mission they accept they might not return.”

“I’m not hardened to it like you are,” she said.

“Thank God you’re not.”

“I expect we’ll have some pretty awful days too,” she said, “but the sooner we cross the channel to find Paul, the better.”

“Amen to that.” He got up and pulled Kyle to his feet. “Ready to get to work, baby brother?”

Kyle took a few crooked steps, getting his stiff knee loosened up. “That’s why I’m in here in this ridiculously weird place.”

Heath was giddy. Benona was the prettiest woman he’d encountered since arriving on Earth and he licked his cracked lips like a salivating wolf.

“Stay back,” he warned the other rovers. “This one’s mine.”

Monk was nearly legless with drink but he put a hand on Heath’s shoulders to make a plea. “Come on, Heath, after all we’ve been through you and me, the least you could do is give me a little taste of nectar.”

“Fuck off,” Heath bellowed. “All of you. I’m having her all to myself. Right here on the pavement. Right now. What’s your name, blondie?”

Benona could hardly get the words out. “I know who you are.”

“Who am I then?” Heath asked, coming within inches of her face, his hands almost twitching at the prospect of squeezing her fair flesh.

She took a step backwards and felt the building wall blocking any hope of escape. “You’re from Hell.”

“Pretty and clever, but that’s not the full story, dearie. I’m from Hell and I’m going to spend the rest of the night raping you and once I get my appetite back I’m going to eat your pretty lady parts.”

She closed her eyes and thought about Polly. Her ears filled with the noise of her own pounding blood. Then the sound seemed to morph into a high-pitched squeal.

The car was speeding down Kingsland Street when the brakes locked and the tires lost a layer of rubber. It jumped the curb and slammed into rovers, tossing bodies like ten-pins.

Heath wheeled around to be splashed in the face by the blood of one of his men. Some of the rovers who stayed on their feet began running. The car came to a halt on top of a pile of bodies and a man got out. He began slashing his way through the confused and drunken sods who hadn’t yet fled, making his way toward Heath.

Before the man got there, Monk grabbed Heath by his shirt and pulled him away.

“Let’s be gone!”

Heath wasn’t a man to flee danger but he was too drunk and stunned to stand and fight. At least ten of his men were dead or wounded; the rest were disappearing down the dark road. He let Monk pull him away and soon he was running too.

Benona’s eyes were still closed. The sounds she was hearing were horrific, the peril paralyzing. Finally she willed her eyelids open, prepared for her last earthly sight.

What she saw was Woodbourne, a bloody cleaver falling from his hand.

She collapsed into his arms. “Brandon, it’s you. Thank God.”

“Where’s Polly?” he asked. “Is she safe?”

“She’s at home.”

“Then let’s go home.”

Peter Lester was at his desk at 10 Downing Street piling papers into his ministerial red box. He tested its closure and fretted about it being overstuffed to the breaking point.

His principal private secretary entered and took over the task.

“Leafing through the papers the secretary said, “Many of these documents are on the secure cloud, you know.”

“I like to have hard copies,” Lester said, inspecting his desk drawers and pulling out a few personal items.

“There will be printers in Manchester,” the secretary said, leaning on the briefcase and snapping it shut. “There. We have it.”

“What work space will we have?” Lester asked.

“The Lord Mayor of Manchester has graciously offered you his rooms at Town Hall. Other city councilors are expected to follow his lead for the benefit of the cabinet. If not, we shall insist. Her Majesty’s government will be in cramped quarters but we shall make do. The speaker of the commons is already complaining but …”

“That man complains for the sake of complaining,” Lester said.

“I don’t disagree. The opposition—well, they will no doubt be particularly unhappy with their accommodations. Vacant commercial space, as I understand.”

“Can you imagine if Churchill had to put up with all these spineless wingers during the war?”

“I shudder at the thought.”

“And what of the royal family?”

“The queen
et al
are finally on route to Balmoral. Quite reluctantly. Her parents refused to move from the palace during the Blitz.”

“This enemy is a damned sight worse than the Nazis, if you ask me,” the prime minister said, red box in hand. “All right, let’s turn off the lights and lock the doors.”

The decision to relocate the government functions to Manchester had been taken at the morning Cobra meeting. London was no longer safe; all public transport had been suspended. The evacuation had slowed to a trickle. The best estimates placed the number of evacuees at five to six million of the eight million who called Greater London home. Around the hot zones, the proportion of leavers was highest. Those who stayed were mainly the poor, disabled, and elderly who couldn’t or wouldn’t get to evacuation points, skeptics and conspiracy theorists who doubted the narrative, and the childless who, with only themselves to protect, bet they could weather the storm. TV coverage of evacuation camps on military bases that showed wild overcrowding, minimal services, and embittered evacuees dissuaded many from leaving their homes. Yet reporters who ventured into affected parts of London were describing scenes of barbarism and carnage. The net result was a population caught between a rock and a hard place. For those who elected to shelter in place, London was far from hospitable. To be sure, there was electricity, water, and gas but the only stores remaining open were a few mom and pop businesses that eventually sold out and could not get re-supplied. Hospitals were closed, having sent patients and staff elsewhere and emergency services were not responding. Army units patrolled key installations, museums, and landmarks but the Metropolitan Police and other Home County forces, other than elite armed units, were assigned to keep the peace at evacuation centers. On occasion, a squad of soldiers or a unit of armed police happened upon an assault in progress and when that occurred they sometimes struggled in the heat of battle to tell citizens from Hellers. Shooting at anyone who ran away could have disastrous consequences and the rules of engagement kept shifting. But by and large, Londoners who elected to stay behind were on their own to deal with the invaders.

What had begun as a trickle was now a torrent of Hellers pouring into the city. As word spread throughout Brittania, the dead flocked to the hot zones for one more chance at life. On arrival, some were meek and awestruck at the sight of the sun and the trappings of modernity. They wandered about London, searching dustbins for food and timidly entering houses, retreating if they were occupied. But others were determined to satisfy all their lustful desires and they proceeded to terrorize whomever they encountered in homes and on the streets. The worst were the gangs of rovers who took what they wanted and when they were ready to move on, left behind empty cupboards and pools of blood. In the more rural areas where farmers kept shotguns, Earthers sometimes fought back. But for the most part, a party of Hellers was as effective as a swarm of locusts in consuming everything in sight.