Infidel's Corner Page 4

  Summanus looked down and pouted his lips. “You have armour and an automatic rifle. They don’t.” He then stared at the fearful man. “Spread out,” he cried.

  The militia dispersed into a wide formation of three units. Summanus led the centre position. Poised to advance, Summanus watched for eight minutes between the trees. Battle was declared when he took the first step.

  His thirst for blood and its anticipated quenching gave Summanus an open-mouthed grin. He sealed it before any dribble could soak his stubble.

  Archers stood in wait on the other side of the forest. Their predetermined range and landing sites awaited any trespassing. A lead Bowman received confirmation of Summanus’s position. “Two-hundred yards,” he cried. Bowmen and women raised their arrows on the right incline before simultaneously releasing them.

  None of Summanus’s men had expected such an attack. The arrows descended onto unprotected heads, shoulders, and legs. Arms raised in a criss-cross formation, preferring they get stapled together.

  Instead of reloading, the archers dazed at one another as the eerie screams of their victims filled the air.

  Sallace witnessed their faces turn white and shudder with guilt. The lead Bowman couldn’t snap some out of it. Sallace stepped out from the forest. “Fire again or you’re signing your family’s death warrants,” he screamed.

  Sallace’s words struck home. A second volley was released. Few hit their target as Summanus’s forces ran for the forest’s shielding, leaving the injured behind.

  Summanus’s militia paused within the forest to catch their breath. Leaves sizzled in the wind. Their fears heightened until even Summanus had a taste. Groans of the dying haunted their senses until it withered into silence.

  Inch by inch did they advance into the forest. Open grassland ahead, the militia desired nothing more than to reach it.

  A handful attempted to make a dash for the exit when a barrage of shots rang out either side of Summanus. The situation became clear as men screamed, “They’re in the trees.” All weapons snapped towards the treetops.

  While distracted, Sallace’s ground troops swung their rifles from behind the trees and opened fire. The militia’s attention returned to the ground when those in the canopy fired again. Buckshot shells couldn’t pierce enemy vests. Above their foes, heads became the easy target. Each shot could down multiple opponents.

  The mercenaries fired frantically into the air. Summanus failed to coordinate his men. Confusion and disarray quickly ensued.

  Summanus received a bullet to his right leg and crawled over his fallen comrades mixed with splattered brain matter. Summanus’s retreat spurned a full rout. He demanded that the fleeing men carry him. One heeded his call, dragging Summanus from the forest.

  Sallace refused to give chase. Their decisive victory was hard to believe. Over twelve hundred of Summanus’s militia were dispatched to their two dozen. Weapons and ammo dropped by Summanus’s forces belonged to Sallace.

  A few days later, an ideal and vacant area was chosen as the place of permanent settlement. It was surrounded by hilly terrain instead of a moat, and farmland outside of that. Secret lines of commerce were established between the northern cities and Scotland. The new realm would remain on guard for further reprisals.

  Back in London, Summanus returned to Westminster Abbey with a bandage and crutches. Despite the pain, he grovelled on his right knee before the Archbishop.

  “You had three thousand men at your disposal. How was this insufficient?” asked the Archbishop.

  “They played dirty. This is the nature of Infidels.”

  The Archbishop stood sharply from his throne. “It is you that played dirty,” he shouted before turning away from Summanus. “Thanks to you, the people are questioning my authority – executing people without trial. You have killed three of my spies and caused millions in damage.”

  “Collateral damage is always a risk.”

  The Archbishop tilted his head back and spoke as though to himself. “All this, and for what?”

  “I can return with a larger army and,” –

  “No,” the Archbishop firmly declared. “You’ve done quite enough.” He returned to his seat.

  “You’d let them live?”

  “For now,” said the Archbishop. “I believe they could prove quite useful.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “So long as we blame the Infidels, we can do anything,” said the Archbishop with a grin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fourteen years later

  A twenty-year-old Mezox stirred to life. The night’s gambling and moonshine had resulted in yet another sorry state of physical and financial woe.

  Against the wall of an alleyway, he evaluated the night’s events. Thoughts tended to wade towards the past. Hard to snap from, he was locked into a state of reminiscence. It began with the learning of his mother’s death at the age of six. And months later, his father’s arrest during the purges. He spent two weeks learning to survive without adult supervision before his father’s return.

  Alex’s career was overhauled. The particle accelerator had gone. All efforts had steered exclusively towards the development of weapons technology. A refusal of the new conditions would have seen him incarcerated indefinitely.

  For Mezox, although his father was back, he remained alone and isolated. Alex was either at work or in his garden shack. Little time was spent with his son. However, Alex did push Mezox towards the sciences. With few opportunities elsewhere, Alex had the connections to exercise a little nepotism, and assure some future for his child.

  Mezox was attentive and hard-working until the age of twelve. He held an intricate understanding of the universe beyond his years. This part of him was hidden from the friends he became engaged with. So-called friends that lured him into a gang. It was a sense of belonging, and of fear and excitement that kept him wanting more.

  Out on the streets, he learnt to fight, gamble and drink. He held few regrets and pondered little for another life.

  Up and more alert, a pounding headache stalled his progress. He wiped patches of crusted blood from his nose and cheek. All around him were homeless families settling down for the coming night. Motionless bodies had remained so for weeks. Not all were dead, but they stared aimlessly nonetheless.

  In need of further recuperation, his bed offered the most tantalising option. The Church handed out bread to the homeless every morning and evening. Penniless, the handful of crust became his dinner.

  The Thames overflowed with human excrement. Understandably, he had no desire to remain anywhere near it.

  Music pounded the ears of everyone throughout most residential areas. His home was of high-rise flats and tensions. Neighbours fought over who would choose the night’s thumping selection. Mezox casually strolled past gangs and their squabbles.

  Seven flights of graffitied stairs left him struggling for air. Once recovered, he knocked on the door of a shared apartment. A flatmate answered, but his smile neutralised upon seeing Mezox.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, moron.”

  The man spoke in a calm manner. “They evicted you a week ago.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” protested Mezox, but paused after realising he’d heard the term ‘evict’ not long ago.

  “You didn’t pay a pound in rent for four months.”

  “Come on, Brian. Give us a chance. You know I’m going through a rough patch.”

  “You’re out of chances. Stay with a family member or something,” he said before re-entering the apartment and slamming the door.

  Mezox continued to plead but to no avail. The door clicked and all hopes of a comfy night’s sleep had faded.

  On the stairwell, he weighed the few options available to him; another evening of gambling and drinking, or test his father’s mood? The latter was his favourite, but the long walk had delayed any immediate action. The former could result in his death.

  The journey allowed him time
to adequately sober up and appear less dishevelled. Environmental conditions offered no help. Fires and pyres burned the night away. Soot and ash rained across the city. It fell like snow. Street dwellers held or strapped a layer of cloth across their mouths. Some would stagger with difficulty, but those passing nearby continued unsympathetically.

  It took an hour for Mezox to reach his father’s quiet cul-de-sac. Smothered in flakes of ash, he knocked on the door.

  Alex answered with a smile to begin with. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because I’m the only one that visits?”

  “What do you want this time?” asked Alex with his arms folded.

  Mezox dropped his greeting grin. “I have nowhere else to stay.”

  “Kicked out again, huh?” he said before turning back into the hallway. “I guess you could stay tonight.”

  Mezox entered, knowing his father would relent. Family photos still adorned the entry’s walls. He followed Alex into the living room.

  Alex shuffled the cushions on his sofa and said, “I hope this meets your expectations.”

  “What happened to my old room?”

  “It was converted into a study.”

  Mezox accepted the fact and sat on the sofa.

  Alex fetched two sheets and wished his son good night. However, one question persisted in his mind. “Why do this to yourself?”

  “Do what?” replied Mezox while unfurling the covers.

  “You know, getting into trouble.” Alex stepped back into the room. “You could have a career, steady income and home – like this. And yet, you prefer this…instability.”

  Mezox paused in thought. “Well, I’d guess that once you’re in, there’s no escaping it. It’s the only life I know.”

  “But only it’s not. You could leave it all at this very moment if desired.”

  Mezox chuckled. “And how would that work?”

  Alex sat next to his son. “The same as it always goes. Get a job.”

  Mezox’s eyebrows lifted. “When over seventy percent of people are unemployed?”

  “Our assistant passed away three weeks ago and” –

  “And work for you? I know you’d love that,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Yes, I would love that, but so should you.” Alex watched as Mezox gazed at the floor. Satisfied his son was lost in a world of contemplation, he stood and walked away. At the door, he stalled again and turned to Mezox.

  “You don’t have to tell me the answer. If you feel your life’s better getting pissed, then I want you gone by morning.” He turned off the light and left Mezox to think it over.

  That following morning, Alex found the sofa empty. Disappointment took hold until Mezox emerged from the kitchen with a cheese sandwich.

  “I can’t promise this’ll be easy,” said Mezox.

  “I know,” said Alex. “But don’t let your idiot friends come into play this time.”

  “Again you ask that I forget about them?”

  “Do they provide lodging, at least for the night?”

  “No,” Mezox almost shamefully answered.

  “How about money or food when you so need it.” Mezox had no reply. “Just what I thought. Therein lays your answer.”

  Alex abandoned Mezox for work. Alone in the home, Mezox’s true intentions would be revealed once he returned.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The technician

  Over the week, Mezox would sneak out on occasion to illegally obtain a tipple, downing it while Alex slept or ventured off to work. It took away the boredom and loneliness. And best of all, no one else knew of his location to chase after debts.

  His father wasn’t oblivious to the drinking. On the plus side, Mezox had restrained his urges to gamble, although it had little to with personal choice. There was too little money and room to seek another loan.

  After a week of lounging around his father’s, Mezox had an interview with facility’s director.

  In the reception, a tall man in a suit confirmed Mezox’s identity before dropping a four-hundred-page contract on the table.

  The director took a seat and said, “You don’t have to read it all.”

  Mezox opened out the first page. The director shunned away from him as though in a huff.

  Alex sat adjacent to his son, nodded and silently gestured for him to sign it. From the context read, it detailed the legalities of patent ownership and site rules. However, his father’s experience was available to guide him. He signed the document to Alex’s relief.

  The director seised the contract and said, “You’ll begin tomorrow.” Then, pointing his finger at Alex, he continued. “He will learn fast, and I expect to see results.”

  “Yes,” Alex complied. “A new demonstration will be conducted tomorrow.”

  The director turned and left with a neutral expression.

  Alex held off the experiment as some initiation for his son. Unsure of his enthusiasm, a practical demonstration would enhance any first impressions.

  Mezox’s one disappointment was the low pay. He could barely afford a loaf of bread for each hour’s pay. However, if his team were to achieve good results, all would receive a bonus, including the technician.

  Mezox began the day with mixed feelings. He shared breakfast with his more cheerful father. They ate butter on toast.

  Upon arrival, he would learn to sign in reception each morning, walk down a corridor with rooms to the left, and enter another passage halfway down. At the end of this dark chamber was a set of double doors. An empty warehouse awaited him on the other side.

  Inside wasn’t much brighter. Lights hung high and wide like stars at dusk. Coloured lines ran parallel to each other across the floor. To the left, and in the distance, a balcony encircled an office with a storeroom underneath. Metal stairs led to the upper unit where two security personnel were perched, overlooking the test site.

  On the adjacent wall, segregated workstations permitted different teams to develop new ideas. Alex had placed a backpack upon his chair as others began to arrive. He introduced Mezox to his colleague named Kalu. Kalu was a man in his 60’s who’d also escaped the African continent during the Empire’s rampage. He’d retained a robust Nigerian accent but spoke at a smooth and steady pace.

  Aware of the day’s plan, Kalu kicked it into gear by taking a target plate and positioning it downrange in a decanted blue-lined lane.

  Alex fetched the prototype. Keen to see the device, Mezox followed his father. A six-foot long, one-foot-wide cigar-shaped item was trundled from the storeroom. The laser was carted half-way down the warehouse and plugged into a protruding floor socket. It buzzed with a mild, high-pitched tone. Kalu returned to adjust for target acquisition.

  The director stood twenty feet behind them. “Just ignore him,” Alex suggested.

  Mezox was surprised when his father handed over the firing button. Unplugged, he got a feel for it by simulating the activation process.

  The trigger was re-attached and the test initiated. The weapon buzzed into life as the pitch lowered, but louder.

  Mezox depressed the trigger to its first stage, releasing a guide beam. It drew the metal’s free electrons towards it. Full depression of the button fired the destructive shot that resembled a lightning bolt. Its purpose was to overwhelm the structural integrity of the target. It produced the crack of a whip that echoed for several seconds. Pieces of metal radiated out and crashed as though coins were thrown across the room.

  The director stood, stroking his chin with uncertainty. “How often can you repeat a shot?” he asked.

  “Every seven seconds,” Alex reported

  “That power,” he said pointing at the target. “But I want that every second, at the very least.”

  “Then increase my input allowance, at least seven times.”

  “You don’t need it,” insisted the director as he walked away.

  Alex shook his head in disbelief before looking at his son. “This is normal, but you get used to it.”
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br />   Mezox wondered, “Does this mean we get a pay rise?”

  Alex relied on the stubborn arrogance of his peers. It meant they wouldn't receive the technological capabilities desired, allowing him to overcome moral concerns. Ahead of his competitors, he settled for slight modifications over long stretches of time.

  Alex’s attempt to impress Mezox appeared to work. Mezox would conduct himself in a timely and constructive manner while fulfilling his work criteria. However, weeks passed without another practical experiment. He would idle as other teams performed their tests on a frequent basis, although less impressive. The to-and-fro of fetching tools and materials began to annoy. Inside the storeroom, he started to ogle and inspect other devices.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Director

  All employees had a single break in their day. At midday, and in the Director’s presence, one must return five minutes before its conclusion, despite the forty seconds walking distance. All would rush to break for those precious seconds.

  Their canteen housed one of the site’s few televisions. There were two channels to choose from; regular news and a propaganda channel for the Church as its second.

  On one particular break, Mezox sat with Kalu while his father argued about stale cheese. The news reported on explosions heard outside a separatist realm that he’d heard little about. Their ‘Godless ways’ were to blame for infighting. With toast in his mouth, he attempted to gain some understanding.

  Kalu broke Mezox’s focus. “What is it with you and your father?”

  Mezox glanced over, lowering his eyebrows and shrugging. “Come again?”

  “First your father, now you. You’re obsessed with that place.”

  “I wonder how they know what transpired there, given they’re reporting from miles away.”

  “They may have spies or defectors.”

  Mezox gave credence to the idea and continued his viewing when Kalu continued.