Dark Ages. John Pritchard

wide open – he would catch her. She had to hide, and wait for him to pass.

      Despite its gaping window holes, the hulk was dank and smelly. Animals had pissed in here – and maybe died, as well. She ducked into the doorway, and put her back against the crumbled bricks. Litter rustled underfoot. The grainy dimness clung to her like glue.

      She froze, and strained her ears. The camp was silent.

      Then she heard a scraping noise that made her hairs stand up.

      A rusty and abrasive sound, from somewhere very close; perhaps the nearest empty house but one. She visualized an iron bar, being drawn along the brickwork. A hunter trying to winkle out his prey.

       Oh God, help meeeeee! Oh God!

      The silence settled down again. She swallowed, like a spasm. The pause went on for minutes. He must have gone inside the house, to search its filthy shadows. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move: across the darkened shell, towards the window. Reaching it, she peered carefully out.

      Nothing for a moment; then she glimpsed him – a blob of deeper darkness, moving back into the road. His shadow flickered on the barracks block – then peeled away, and struck off on its own.

      It took another moment just to realize what she’d seen. A power-surge of fright blazed through her nerves. Two of them were searching for her now.

      The first one started up the road. She recognized his shabby, muffled outline. The cowled head turned from side to side; the starlight winked off metal. It glinted on the bar or implement that he was holding. Fran just stared – then clasped her mouth, and slowly backed away. Oh Jesus, he was carrying a sword.

      He struck the blade against the road: it rasped, and scattered sparks. The other shape was rooting through the long grass by the barracks. The stars reflected dully off a helmet of some kind. Fran was seized with disbelieving horror. They might have been two phantoms, from the ancient earthworks all around this place.

      Except that they were real, and closing in. She dragged her gaze away, and tiptoed back towards the doorway.

      Something furtive shifted in the corner.

      It might have been a rat, but she just bolted anyway. Or tried to – but her joints had stiffened up. The minutes she’d spent standing still had almost crippled her. She pitched out through the doorway – then caught herself, and fled across the road. Trying to get clear of them, before they could react – but then another shape emerged, from one of the outbuildings. Squealing now, she veered around it, ducking as it aimed some kind of club. She heard it snarl behind her – and then her ears were full of her own heartbeat, as she struggled up the slope towards the crest.

      She felt them scrambling after her, and whimpered with despair. The night ahead had neither depth nor distance. She staggered on, and seemed to make no progress.

      Then she saw the vehicles – three moving sets of lights. They looked to be heading for Half-Moon Copse. She put on a spurt. All three were towing trailers, and their sidelights were bright orange. Cruise support – an ADVON unit, maybe. She never thought she’d look on them as saviours.

      As she panted to catch up, they seemed to sink into the ground and vanish. Within moments she had lost her way – the darkness looked the same in all directions. But there was the Plough, rising clear of the gloom – so that way must be north …

      Even as she wavered, she felt the shadows coming at her back.

      She swung around and saw one: heading straight towards her, in a grim, relentless line. She turned to run – and heard a knocking sound, insistent as a knuckle on a buried coffin lid. A string of tracer bullets seemed to float across the range. And then they speeded up and hurtled past her, cracking and wailing blindly through the night. She threw herself forward, sobbing: hitting the dirt before she even saw it.

      The shooting stopped abruptly, its echoes fading off towards the stars. The hiss of her ears filled the silence that followed. Until the blackness stirred again, just twenty yards away. Stirred – and then came scurrying towards her.

      She gave a little shriek, and scrambled upright. Escape was all that mattered now – the live rounds as irrelevant as raindrops. Sobbing for breath, she kept on fleeing. Oh please, she thought, beside herself. Oh please …

      The stutter of machine guns came again. Globules of coloured light went streaming through the darkness. Instinct tried – and failed – to change her course. Then she tripped, and plunged into the grass.

      A burst of shots stitched up the ground behind her. She heard a pig-like grunt and squeal. Squirming round, she realized her pursuer had been hit. He kicked and rolled; then started crawling forward. Relentless as a crippled dog. She hauled herself away on hands and knees.

      The rounds were coming single-shot now. She recognized the crack of Armalites. Another vague shape foundered in the darkness.

      And then the glare of headlights, right ahead.

      ‘Cease firing!’ someone yelled.

      She risked another glance – still scrabbling forward. Beyond the spreading halo, the darkness of the range lay undisturbed. The shadows were still out there, she could sense them. But hanging back, now. Lurking in the gloom.

      The vehicle’s lights approached her like two glowing pairs of eyes – the amber sidelights well outside the headlamps. Its width gave it away at once: a Hummvee armoured car. She watched it taking solid, crouching shape behind its stare. The gunner was a looming silhouette against the stars.

      Running out of strength at last, she cowered like a rabbit in the lights. The Hummvee stopped, and men came stalking up on either side. She recognized their camouflage and German-looking helments, and almost started weeping with relief.

      ‘Jesus, it’s another goddamn peacenik,’ someone said.

      ‘Help me … please.’ She struggled to sit upright.

      ‘Back off. Get the cops to deal with her.’

      ‘Stupid bitch. You coulda got your stupid head blowed off.’

      ‘Hold it. Jesus, hold it. She’s been hurt.’

      The man who’d spoken slung his Armalite and started forward. The others stood around her in the stagnant lake of light. A couple had their rifles still half-aimed.

      ‘Watch yourself.’

      Ignoring that, he hunkered down and tried to check her head-wound. Despite herself, she wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened for a moment; then relaxed and hugged her back.

      ‘Shh, girl. It’s okay. Did you get hit?’

      ‘Someone chasing me …’ she sobbed.

      ‘Where? Back there?’ He looked over her shoulder. One of the others raised a torch, and shone it further out into the dark.

      The American smelt earthy. The cowling of his gun was hair-dryer hot. Easing back, he tried a winning smile. ‘Target dummies – that was all you saw.’

      ‘Dummies? They were moving.’

      ‘Uh-uh,’ said another Yank, ‘there’s no one else out there.’ Fran looked round. The man was peering through binoculars of some kind.

      ‘That’s a thermal night-sight, hon,’ the first man told her wryly. ‘Sees body heat. Ain’t nobody can hide from one of those.’

       Unless they’re dead already. Dead and cold …

      ‘You crazy, girl?’ a third man said. ‘This here’s a firing range.’

      ‘Our car crashed,’ she said brokenly. ‘Back down by Greenlands camp. My three friends need an ambulance … right now.’

      They helped her to her feet, and led her past the ugly armoured car. The ‘Whiskers’ Blazer squatted there behind it, its