Insidious Valour, page 19
“General chitchat,” Hannah dismissed, adjusting her shirt and reaching for her tray.
Cassy observed her movements around the tiny space of the cell. Nothing seemed out of place other than Callum’s mood to leave. “Have you been saying anything to make him want to kill you?”
“The kid isn’t armed,” Hannah pointed out. “But I can promise you, I haven’t said anything that would make him want to harm me. Your partner was very clear about those rules.” She took a bit of bread. “Even if it’s clear you’re all on edge. I could very easily say something to wind you up into giving me a quicker death.”
“Why would we be on edge?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you. Ryan was clear.”
For all intents and purposes, whatever message Ryan had implanted in her head seemed to have worked. Still, there was a nonchalant attitude that Cassy couldn’t put her finger on, and she really didn’t trust it.
“There would never be any point trying to get any truth out of you, would there?”
“My, my, Cassy. Whatever do you mean?”
“The things you do, or why you do them. You’re just set in your own preservation.”
“Well,” Hannah answered, wiping crumbs off her jumper, “when you get threatened with a torturous death instead of a quick one, and the person making the threat is the guy who once set hundreds of men, women, and children on fire… it’s best to listen to him.” She pushed the tray back through the opening. “And seeing as you have a long shift down here today, are you sure this is the foot you want to start off on?”
Something bugged Cassy about that question. There’s being nice, and then there’s this. What is this? “Fine.” She crossed her arms and stared Hannah down, saying nothing.
Now wasn’t the time to talk. It was time to observe and see what the true motive behind the prisoner’s eyes was. The mood from Callum this morning had alarmed her, and whether she was just being paranoid, she needed to figure out what had happened.
Ryan had truly rubbed off on her, and she was starting to trust her instincts.
34
Ryan hid his pain behind a tired smile as he stepped into the cafeteria, though his effort to hide the limp was all in vain. He held a sleeping Alfie in his arms as he greeted everyone. Teddy teased him about Drinker being the reason for the injury, though Ryan tried to claim it was the slip that was the main cause. Everything ached. His back was forced rigid, and neither his neck nor hips would allow him to turn sharply. His calves and thighs weighed heavily after the boggy, five-kilometre run.
The waft of fresh soda bread thankfully pulled him towards the hot counter like a tractor beam, where he helped himself to a loaf and a small bowl of corn and thyme rice.
“I’ll promise I’ll go easy on ya tomorrow.” Drinker winked at him from the other side of the counter.
“The fuck you doing in the kitchen?” Ryan asked, peering through and seeing his own daughter kneading dough on the back counter.
“Cassy told me your daughter is quite the baker, so I wanted to learn.”
“Is that so?” Ryan frowned with a grin. “Maisie, whatever Uncle Drinker tells you about our training outside, it’s a lie. I kicked his ass.”
Maisie giggled softly and turned back to her bread.
“This is actually my batch of bread.” Drinker pointed to the small selection from where Ryan had just taken a roll.
Ryan bit into it, screwing his face up. “Doesn’t taste as good as Maisie’s. Hers tastes like love and care. Yours tastes like haggis and alcoholism.”
“You can tell me that when I’m kicking your ass tomorrow,” Drinker joked, leaning palm first on the counter and lowering his voice. “Just so you’re aware,” he whispered, “the walk-in freezer is making some weird sounds.”
“Weird how? Is it the motor or the fan?”
“Fucked if I know. Do we have anyone here who could identify it?”
“Yeah, me. I fitted the newer parts a couple of years ago. I didn’t think they’d start burning through this quickly.”
“Must be the cold. I’ll keep an eye on it and give you an update before I go to bed.”
“Nice one.” Ryan nodded, hobbling over to the nearest table and setting his bowl down. He dipped the bread in the rice and took a huge bite. His bread isn’t that bad, to be fair.
Alfie stirred in his arms, then let out a tiny yawn and clutched to Ryan’s chest.
“You can only wake up when Mummy comes back up,” Ryan whispered, softly bouncing him while trying to eat his own dinner. After successfully finishing his meal one-handed and keeping his son asleep, he said good night to everyone and headed out the back side of the cafeteria into the maintenance corridor. Next to the two-story vats of rainwater was a collection of smaller workspaces where the vineyard’s soap, toothpaste, and detergent were manufactured.
Ryan ran his fingers across the storage cupboards, whispering to himself what was inside each one. “Chemicals… glassware… kitchen parts.” He stopped at the third door and creaked it open. On the highest shelf were the three extra motors for the walk-in fridge, and only one more remained for the freezer. They had never been used, and even though they were the correct parts for their particular units, he didn’t know if they would be functional after all this time.
Rennes would be able to help out. They can surely supply you with new equipment, Ryan’s brain pinged rationally, almost catching himself off guard with the optimism that had been offered.
The weeks of silence had given the impression that they were truly cut off and alone. Ryan had been mentally preparing for when the last of the salvaged food expired. Eight years was the maximum for dried rice, and even though they had started to harvest their own, the feeling of being self-sufficient bore heavily on his thoughts. They were only one bad harvest or crop disease away from starving to death.
Many discussions had taken place about what to do in that scenario, and as silly as it would’ve sounded to anyone on the outside, they couldn’t bring themselves to kill their own animals for food.
It wasn’t just Ryan who felt like this—everyone had agreed. Luckily, it had never come to that in the early years of the war, and they had all worked around the clock between every harvest to ensure their survival. They hadn’t yet had to kill to eat.
Will we still feel the same if it actually comes to that? Should we start hunting animals on the outside?
Ryan had been standing still for minutes, eyeing up the freezer motor. He shook his head and snapped out of his haze, looking down at his sleeping son.
“It’ll never come to that,” he explained to Alfie. “We’ve done enough so far, and if it comes to shit, Rennes will have to bail us out. They owe us that much.” He reached into his pocket and dug out the smart radio.
The screen flashed, only displaying the time. No missed calls. No messages. No signal.
He let out a heavy breath, closed the storage cupboard and headed back to the cafeteria, ready to pass Alfie off to Cassy and begin his night shift on the top floor.
The soft, long exhale that passed out his nose was calculated. It was precise. Ryan felt his nerves calm and his body relaxing. The butt of the L96 no longer pressed into his shoulder, but more, it became an extension of him.
The heavy-duty rifle felt lightweight in that zen-like moment, with his right cheek resting softly against the stock and his whole focus through the scope.
If only it was daylight, and I had a clear shot at the practice targets, Ryan thought, moving his eye away. Half a mile away, dotted around Maidhill’s southern ridge and western slope, mop buckets stood atop fence posts. The ideal sniper practice. Since the first week of the targets being set up, no actual sniper practice had taken place, with a fear of a waste of ammo. The recent trip to Lewes meant the practice could resume, so Ryan spent the night going over the posture and composure techniques Rook had taught him when he’d been temporarily stationed at the vineyard.
If anything, Ryan credited himself for trying to constantly stay focused and positive during these quiet moments, as there was always something knocking around in his thoughts to bring the guilt and hate back.
The sniper targets themselves were a source of guilt, too. Ryan had set them up with his nephew, Lyndon, only a couple of weeks before Hannah killed him. One bullet. One case of misidentifying Lyndon for Ryan, and he was gone. The blond dreadlocks they both wore had been the cause for this.
Every time Ryan looked in the mirror and saw his hair, he hated it. One of his own features was the sole reason his nephew was buried outside and Ryan was still alive. He’d contemplated cutting them off, shaving his head, but it felt like a cop-out. He’d rather confront it and remind himself why his anger must be aimed at the people causing harm and not himself.
His chest began to tighten as he felt the negativity drowning him again. It was becoming relentless. Every day. Every hour. Every quiet moment. Letting out another long, soothing breath, he moved his head back to the scope and pulled the rifle tight. The calmness didn’t come, though, and his instincts went on high alert. Something was wrong. Something was different. Something had changed.
One of the monitor displays flickered in Ryan’s peripheral, so he sat the rifle aside and pulled the laptop towards him. Monitor Three was dully lit but with enough moonlight to make out figures moving. They were slow and multiple. He opened Monitor Three to full view and leaned in, but the figures were too blurred under the tree’s shadows.
More animals? He reached out for the handheld radio. He’d alert Drinker whether it was a threat or not. He flicked between the other monitors, trying to find any movement or disturbances. Nothing. He lit a cigarette and pulled the radio to his mouth.
A sound stopped him. One that would’ve woken everybody. A sound they hadn’t heard for a long time.
It wasn’t a gunshot, a bomb, or the haunting cackle of a laughing Termite.
It was the church bell in Maidville town centre.
35
The signs around Maidville were to aid any survivors in seeking refuge, and they all read the same. The message was clear: not to approach the vineyard, but to ring the church’s bell if they were in need of assistance.
They were messages of hope and a promise they could rebuild. Faint glimmers of hope before the Termite War began. No one had rung the bell in need of assistance for over two years, and the only new visitors within that time had bought nothing but death for Ryan’s people.
No longer than ten minutes after the bell’s ringing, everyone had woken. Weapons were distributed, and families and children were secured in the cafeteria. Ryan ordered a full lockdown and preparation for an attack on their home. He paced across the top floor, thinking of ways they could deflect any assault on their grounds while keeping his eyes on the monitors.
Cassy joined him not long after, and no effort to try and calm him worked. Everyone was dumbfounded as to why they were yet to send out a search party for any survivors. “If you leave those people out there any longer, they could die,” Cassy warned as she watched Ryan pace back and forth across the restaurant floor.
“You’re sure everyone is awake and armed?” he asked, deflecting from her initial comment.
“I’ve told you already that they are.”
“Good.”
“Look,” Cassy huffed, “if you’re not going to go out there, Drinker and Dominic said they would do it themselves.”
“They don’t get to make that call,” Ryan snapped.
“Actually, no. It’s you who doesn’t get to make that call.”
“Me? You all nominated me to make the tough decisions that no one else could, but now you’re all just going to ignore what I’m saying?”
“In this situation, yes. We nominated you because you were the guy who believed we could rebuild. You were the guy willing to go out of your way to save people and help those who needed it.” She looked her fiancé up and down. “This…” she pointed at him. “This is not that person.”
“Last month, you were begging me not to go outside our grounds anymore, but now you’re eager for me to go out into what could be an ambush?”
“Maybe I’m not that scared of you going out anymore. Maybe I’ve seen how you can survive, and knowing if you go out there, you won’t be stupid enough to walk into a trap. Maybe I know you’ll come back, either helping people or killing those who threaten us.” She approached him. “I know you haven’t been the same since Lyndon died, and I know that it eats you on the inside that you have to keep his murderer alive. I know you feel lost without Mikey’s advice and not knowing how Steph is recovering.”
“What’s that got to do with this so-called mutiny against me?”
“What it’s got to do with it is that the choice to save these people wouldn’t be to spite you. It would be to remind you of who we are and who you made us to be,” she explained. “I need you to remember that because we need that version of you. If you have to kill people out there, fine, do it. But if there are people to save, then give them a chance to keep living.”
There was a certain matter-of-factness to Cassy’s demeanour. She was still very much the voice of reason in his life, but she had lost that innocence in her large, brown eyes. She wasn’t as scared anymore, and right now, she was willing to make the tougher decision, even if it meant going against her fiancé. For all Ryan knew, he was looking in a mirror now. She was beyond fed up with everything they were facing, but she was willing to make the right call. The tougher decision. She was everything he had helped everyone else become.
Now wasn’t the time to let anyone else suffer because of his paranoia.
“Only Drinker and me go out,” Ryan said. “Dominic watches the top floor. You watch over Hannah. Everyone stays armed until we get back.” He zipped up his parka. “I’ll be down with the torches and flares. Tell Drinker to get the fold-up stretcher, medical bag, four bottles of grape water, and one of the handheld radios. We leave in five minutes.” He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you.”
* * *
The half-moon shone against the snow-covered buildings of Maidville, radiating a dull purple glow as they pushed towards the church. Ryan had shown Drinker the alternative route, avoiding the main carriageway to the high street altogether and taking the back route through the school’s rugby pitch. After that, they climbed down across the railway track and clambered up the opposite bank, vaulting over the mesh fence and coming up behind the high street.
They surveyed the ground for any rogue footprints, finding nothing in the back roads. Once they exited the side road, they reached the high street, shining their torches quickly over the middle of the road.
Multiple footprints and different sizes. Some weren’t even adults. Drinker kept his gun aimed at the windows around them while Ryan followed the fresh prints, none of which led astray or off the path. Parts of rooftops creaked around them as they carefully moved over the snow, finally coming into view of the church on their right side. They crouched behind what remained of a bench and looked through the gate towards the open double arches of the main door.
Faint sobs, whimpering, and shivering could be heard with the distinguishable sound of a mother trying to comfort their child.
“You, in the church,” Ryan called, bringing an almost instant silence to the commotion inside. “You need to answer two questions, and you have to be honest. If you lie to us, we will either open fire or just leave you here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, we understand,” a thick, male, Birmingham accent replied.
“Question one: how many of you are there?”
“Sixteen. Six adults and ten children.”
“Okay, question two: are you armed?”
Ryan knew this answer always took longer, and if it wasn’t an instant ‘no’, it meant that they were in possession of a weapon.
“We have two pistols,” the answer finally came.
“Okay, I need you to slide them out the front door and leave them on the path. Once you do that, we’ll enter. Keep your hands where I can see them and stand side by side.”
Two Glocks eventually slid out, stopping a few inches into the snow. Ryan nodded to Drinker, and they both moved cautiously towards the door, picking up the pistols as they went. They held their torches under the barrel of their guns and flicked the lights on as they entered.
Ryan did a quick head count as he kept his distance from the survivors. Six adults. Ten children. “Drinker, sweep the rest of the building, just in case anyone is hiding.”
“Aye. Got it.”
Ryan kept his torch on the group. The children and women were terrified and freezing. “Are any of you seriously injured or need medical help right this second?”
None of them answered, but the man stepped forward, hands still in front of his chest. “We’re so cold. We need to get them to your vineyard.”
“Once my man has done a sweep of the building, and we see you’re telling the truth, we can leave. How did you know how to find us?”
“We were told to find this town during our escape.”
“Escape from where?”
“Sheffield. The stronghold. It was attacked by some outsiders, and then a group of security staff turned their weapons on us.”
“Who told you to come here?”
“Our driver. He was given orders by the team coming back from Scotland.”
“The team from Scotland? Why had they come back to Sheffield? Did they complete their objective?” Drinker asked, shining his torch in the man’s face.
“We don’t know. Everything happened so fast. All we know is that the orders were to find Maidville and someone called Ryan. We saw your signs a few towns back. We followed the instructions and rang the bell.”
“Where’s the driver who bought you down?”
“He had to drop us a couple of towns away. One of the other transports came under attack, and he needed to provide assistance.”
