The Forever Man
Book 2: Axeman
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Chapter 1 Book 2
Toilet paper. Twin ply. Super soft.
Nathaniel grinned to himself.
And coffee. Made with a machine. By a barista. Strong, bitter, honest to God coffee.
Thousands of years of human endeavor. Countless millions of man-hours of invention had been wiped out by the pulse. Computers. Space travel. Brian surgery. And what did the forever man miss the most? Something soft to wipe his ass with and a mildly addictive hot beverage made from the roasted seeds of the Rubiaceae bush.
Nathaniel’s horse stumbled slightly. Weary from the days riding. Snow crunched like broken glass beneath its hooves. The air resonant with the fragrance of pine resin and ozone overlaid by the subtle steel smell of newly minted snow. Gusts of wind shivered the trees, shaking clumps of white from their laden boughs. A giant baker dusting the land with icing sugar. Breath steamed from Nate’s open mouth in clouds of condensate, leeching the warmth from his core. Puff the magic dragon.
Winter had come across the land with a speed that baffled all. And it was the harshest winter in living memory. Nathaniel had heard theories that the unprecedented level of cold was brought about by the fact that there were no longer any factories left in the world. Nor heating of any sort. The cattle population had been decimated and there were no cars to fill the atmosphere with carbon monoxide. Global cooling had become a reality.
It had been about three months now since the first electromagnetic pulse had struck the earth. Destroying all electronic and electrical equipment in an orgy of solar destruction. And the pulses had continued on a daily basis, apparent by the almost constant glow of the Aurora Borealis, or Northern lights, in the sky that was caused by the massive amounts of gamma radiation in the atmosphere.
But, apart from smashing mankind back into the dark ages, the gamma rays had also had another effect. Somehow they had changed marine master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan’s DNA structure. They had enhanced his speed, strength and, most of all, his ability to heal. He was now capable of sustaining fatal wounds and recovering. Although, he was still able to succumb to normal disease and starvation. He wasn’t sure about drowning. Unfortunately he still felt pain. And normal common garden fatigue. But then one doesn’t look an immortal horse in the mouth.
Nathaniel glanced down at the back of his left hand. The pink scar stood out like a brand.
He had dreamed of Stonehenge and druids one night and one of the druids had cut the symbol into his hand with a sickle. When he had awoken it was there. An ancient Traveling women had told him that it was the sign for Infinity and he had been marked as The Forever Man. And then she had shown him some a small magik trick. Conjuring up fire with though alone. She had told him to practice this every day as he had the gift. He had been doing so for almost two months now but to no avail. If the entire world hadn’t become so topsy-turvy he would have dismissed her as a weirdo but given the current circumstances he was loath to do so. She had also instructed him to go north to seek his destiny. This he was doing. And, in lieu of any other plan, he was happy to do.
The marine decided to stop for the night and looked around for a likely spot, finally deciding on a fallen tree a little way off the beaten track. He hitched his horse to a tree, took out his collapsible shovel from one of the saddlebags and started to clear a spot next to the fallen tree, shoveling the snow aside and forming a low three foot wall in a horseshoe shape. When he had finished he spread a tarpaulin on the ground and then a couple of fur blankets. The blankets were black mink, as was the cloak that Nathaniel was wearing. He had come across a specialist fur shop in one of the small towns that he had traveled through and he had helped himself to a half a dozen black minks. Then, with clumsy male stitching, he had converted two of the coats into a full-length cloak. The other four had become two separate blankets. It amused him that his little bivouac now contained over one hundred thousand dollars worth of fur at pre-pulse prices.
He spread another tarpaulin over the walls to make a low roof. Then he collected wood and kindling and built a small fire close to the entrance. The fire would keep the shelter warm and keep predators from coming inside. After that, before the light went, he placed five rabbit snares in likely looking places. Finally he took three skinned and dressed squirrels from his saddle bags, spitted them and placed them over the fire to cook whilst he took the saddle off the horse and rubbed it down before putting a blanket over it.
After he had eaten, Nathaniel fell into a deep and restful sleep. He awoke the next morning about half an hour before sunrise, stoked the fire and went to check the traps. Two had been successful and he took the rabbits back and skinned and gutted them. For breakfast he threw a couple of old potatoes into the fire and then he melted some snow in a pot for drinking water.
Finally he packed up, got back into the saddle and continued on his unplanned way.
As the day wore on he started to pass more and more houses. He stopped to check a few but they were mostly empty. And those that were not empty contained only corpses. The lack of food, drugs and heating had taken a massive toll on the survivors of the initial pulse and now, a mere three months on, Nathaniel estimated that a full fifty percent of the population were dead. Over thirty million people.
Even so, he had expected to find some people in the houses. But the area was dead. Totally devoid of humanity.
Late that afternoon he came across the reason why. According to his map he was standing outside the rural village of Acton-on-vale. But what he saw in front of him looked nothing like a rural village. Running left to right the entire area was fenced in with steel reinforced concrete blast panels. Three meters high. Every one hundred yards a scaffold observation post rose another meter above the fence. Each observation post contained a soldier armed with a light machine gun. Far to his right he could see a steel gate. The gate was open and five armed guards stood in front of it. They were dressed in MTP camouflage and carried the SA80Mk3 assault rifles. One of them was already walking towards Nathaniel, his weapon brought to bear.
Nate dismounted and walked slowly towards the soldier, one hand on the horse’s reins and the other held up above his head.
The approaching soldier seemed satisfied that Nate meant no harm and he lowered his rifle.
‘Can I help?’ He asked.
‘Just passing through, lance corporal. Stopped to admire your wall.’
‘You’re welcome to come inside and take a look,’ said the soldier. ‘All are welcome as long as they obey then rules.’ The soldier stared at Nathaniel for a moment and then asked. ‘Is that a military uniform under your cloak?’
Nathaniel nodded. ‘Master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan, United States Marine Corps.’
‘The soldier came to attention, shouldering his rifle. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I wonder if I might insist that you accompany me inside, sir. The Brigadier has ordered that all military personnel be introduced to him before they go on their way.’
Nate shrugged. ‘Lead the way, Lance corporal.’
Nathaniel led his horse and followed the lance corporal to the gate. When he got there two of the soldiers barred his way.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the one. ‘You need to check in all weapons before you go inside. We’ll keep them safe and issue you with a ticket. Also, we’ll take care of your horse. No horses allowed inside the perimeter.’
‘Fair enough,’ conceded Nate. He pulled back his cloak and unholstered two sawn-off double-barreled shotguns that rode in hip holsters. Then he unsheathed a rifle from the horse’s saddle. Finally he removed his double-headed battle-axe from the loop in his belt and handed it to one of the soldiers, then he hitched back his cloak so that it hung down his back, exposing his rank flashes. The soldier raised his one eyebrow but refrained from comment.
They wrote a receipt out in a small carbon book and gave Nate a copy.
‘With me, sir,’ said the lance corporal.
Nate followed him as he walked through the open gates and headed towards the center of the village. He saw a few soldiers walking around and one or two civilians but on the whole, the place seemed remarkably empty.
‘Where is everyone?’ He asked.
‘Working,’ answered the lance corporal.
‘Where?’
The soldier didn’t answer and Nate couldn’t be bothered to push him. He would ask the Brigadier.
Eventually they came to a massive Victorian rectory. Two armed men stood at attention outside the front door.
Nate and the lance corporal mounted the stairs.
‘Someone to see the brigadier,’ said the lance.
The guards waved him through. The lance opened the front door and ushered Nate in, closing it behind him.
The entrance hall was huge, Persian carpets were scattered across the mahogany floor, large oils of landscapes and horses lined the walls. A fire crackled in the walk in fireplace and the light from thirty or more candles reflected off the stupendous crystal chandelier.
The lance carried on through the hall and down a corridor, stopping at the second door and knocking twice.
Within seconds the door was opened by a tall, stooped, gray haired man sporting the uniform and flashes of a warrant officer class 1.
‘Visitor for the brigadier, sir,’ announced the lance.
The warrant officer nodded. ‘Thank your, lance corporal. I’ll take it from here.’
The lance swiveled on his heel and left.
The warrant officer waved Nate into the room.
Nathaniel marched into the center of the room and came crashing to attention in front of the warrant officer and the brigadier. A short, wide man with cropped black hair and bristle moustache. He was dressed in combat uniform with his rank slide on his chest as opposed to shoulder badges. On his hip a Glock 17.
The marine whipped up a solid parade ground salute, stood at rigid attention and bellowed in his best master sergeant voice.
‘Marine corps master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan reporting as requested, sir.’
The brigadier’s face registered his approval. ‘At ease, mister Hogan.’
Nathaniel raised his right knee parallel to the floor and slammed it down as he shifted to the ‘at ease’ position, hands behind his back, thumbs interlocked, left in front of right.
‘Stand easy, mister Hogan,’ continued the brigadier.
Nathaniel relaxed almost imperceptibly apart from the fact that he now looked at the brigadier as opposed to straight ahead.
‘So, soldier, what brings you here?’ Asked the Brigadier.
‘Simply passing through, sir.’
‘We’re looking for more soldiers, particularly non-comms. Could we interest you in staying?’
‘With respect, sir,’ answered Nate. ‘I would prefer to continue my journey.’
The Brigadier nodded. ‘Fine, but I insist that you stay as our guest for two or three days. Take a look around, see what we’re all about. Mayhap I can change your mind. Mister Clarkson here will show you to your quarters and issue you with the necessaries.’
Nate crashed to attention once more. ‘Thank you, sir. Much appreciated.’ He saluted again and followed warrant officer Clarkson out of the room.
Clarkson led him to the next room and ushered him in. He went over to a desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers, signed a few and handed them to Nate.
‘Here you go, mister Hogan These are permission slips. The yellow ones are for a day’s accommodation, I have given you three. The green ones are for food. One meal per slip. I have allowed you two meals a day, breakfast and supper. Come with me and I’ll show you to your digs.’
Nate followed Clarkson out of the house, past the armed guards and down the road. Once again it struck Nate that there were next to no civilians present. He didn’t bother to ask Clarkson where they were, figuring that he would find out later.
The snow had been cleared from all of the roads and pavements and there was no litter. Even the street signs had been cleaned and polished. All of these obvious pointers to the fact that the village was being militarily run.
After a few turns they came to a small Victorian terraced cottage. Clarkson opened the front door, which was unlocked and showed Nate in.
‘Here you go, old chap. The water is running, we’ve set up a gravity feed tower, cold but drinkable and fine for washing in if you’re a complete Spartan. Please feel free to wander. If you’d like to go outside the perimeter one has to get permission from the Brigadier, I’m afraid. The officers mess in the village hall, sure that you can find that by yourself. Any questions?’
Nate shook his head. ‘No, sir. All self-evident. Many thanks. Oh, maybe one, what about my horse?’
‘Shouldn’t worry about that, mister Hogan. The chaps will take good care of it.’
The warrant officer left, closing the door behind him as he did.
Nate took a walk through of the cottage. Two rooms downstairs, a sitting room and a kitchen. Off the kitchen was a small shower room and toilet. A stiff towel was hanging over the rail.
Narrow stairs to the first floor. At the top another two small rooms. Both rooms contained double beds. On the one bed was a set of linen. Sheets, a blanket, single thin pillow and a duvet. There were no personal items to be seen and Nate wondered what had happened to the previous inhabitants.
Nate decided to take a shower first. He stripped down in the bedroom and laid his clothes out on the bed. His spare clothes were in his saddlebags on his horse so he would have to make do for the meanwhile.
Naked he walked down stairs, went into the bathroom and turned the shower on. The water was ice cold, only a little above freezing but Nate stepped in, grabbed the sliver of soap and, puffing and blowing, scrubbed himself down and rinsed off. He rubbed himself dry with the rough towel and jogged back up to the bedroom to get dressed, pulling his mink coat tight around his shoulders until he had warmed up. Then he strapped on his boots and went outside.
He simply started to meander about the village without any special purpose. After a couple of turns he came across a large military tent pitched in a front garden. Steam billowed out of the side of the canvas structure and a strange smell of vinegar and sugar and fruit wafted through the air. He walked over to the open front of the tent to take a look. A single armed guard stood in the entrance. When he saw Nate he nodded, obviously aware that he was around, but he said nothing.
Nate peered in to see a long row of villagers working over large catering pots that were suspended above cooking fires. Opposite them were another group of people working at a preparation table, slicing vegetables, peeling fruit, measuring and weighing. It didn’t take Nate long to realize that they were pickling vegetables and turning fruit into preserves for the winter. Planning ahead. Everyone had their heads down, working hard, so he didn’t talk to anyone. He simply watched for a short while and went on his way.
On the outskirts of the village in what looked like a horse paddock, he saw a large group of children, eight years to around twelve, marching around the arena. Instead of rifles they carried tools. Spades, garden forks, picks and shovels. A corporal called out time, berating those who fell out of step and complimenting those who marched straight and proud. The children wore khaki shirts and trousers and each had a square badge on their chest. A flag with a red cross of St. George and a sun and a moon in the top corners. On their right sleeves a small rectangular flash of white with the words, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few”.
The sight sent a shiver through Nate as memories of school history lessons and photo’s of rows of Hitler Youth Children flashed through his mind.
The corporal saw Nate watching and beckoned to him to come over.
‘Greetings, Master Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Taking a look at out budding troops, I see.’
Nate nodded. ‘Very impressive. Do they learn to shoot?’
‘Oh yes. Field craft, weapon craft, doctrine, fitness, survival training. The Brigadier says that these are the future of our new world.’
‘When do they get time for schooling?’
‘They receive rudimentary reading, writing and arithmetic skills. The Brigadier believes that too much focus on intellectual pursuits will be damaging to their development as soldiers. Some of the more feeble ones, ones of less physical strength, are selected for more cerebral offerings.’
Nate kept his face devoid of expression and simply nodded and went on his way.
Next he came across a group of four civilians, a man and three women of indeterminate middle age. Standing near them was an armed soldier. Two of the women were sweeping the snow off the roads and sidewalks and the other two were polishing the road signs. The soldier nodded a greeting but the civilians kept their eyes downcast and avoided looking at him as they concentrated on their menial tasks. As Nate drew away he heard one of them coughing, a deep wracking cough that sounded like the precursor of real problems.
Nate continued his aimless stroll, noting that all of the sidewalks and roads were clear of snow, the signs all polished and the fences newly painted. The village was in parade ground condition. No longer a village and now an obvious military base. Once again he wondered where all of the inhabitants were.
He walked alongside the blast wall until he came to one of the sentry towers. It stood four meters high and was constructed from steel scaffolding. A ladder ran up the side to the platform.
Nate gave the sentry a shout. ‘Hey, soldier. Mind if I come up?’
The soldier peered over the side, took in Nate’s rank and gave a thumbs up. ‘Help yourself, sir.’
Nate shimmied up the ladder and stepped onto the platform. The area was around six square yards, three-foot high railings and a 7.62 mm machine gun mounted on a swing mount that was attached to a steel stanchion.
The marine nodded to the soldier. ‘Nathaniel Hogan, marine master sergeant.’
‘Private Johnson, sir. Surrey territorials.’
Nate pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered. Johnson accepted with alacrity, a huge grin on his face.
‘Thank you, sir. Ran out of these over a month ago. Commissioned officers only.’
Nate lit for both of them and then gave the rest of the pack to the private.
‘Here, take them. I’ve got more.’
Johnson slipped the pack into one of the pouches of his webbing, his face still agrin.
The two soldiers smoked in silence for a while and Nate surveyed the land. About six hundred yards from the rear wall he could see a group of people working in a field, scraping the snow to one side and digging up something that looked like potatoes. Three armed guards stood close by them. He also noticed small groups walking through the forest. Groups of threes and fours. Each with a soldier.
‘What are they doing?’ He asked Johnson.
‘Laying traps, sir. Rabbits, birds, small game. The meat is brought back and either used straightaway or smoked and salted for storage. Also general forage, wild carrots, tubers, fruits. The Brigadier has set up a system. We need to be fully self sustaining ASAP. No relying on old generation tinned foods and such, sir. We are the new generation.’
Nate dragged on his cigarette. Said nothing.
‘These people owe a lot to the Brigadier,’ continued Johnson. ‘We were on exercises in the area, using the local base, only a couple of hundred of us. The bulk of the boys were in Afghanistan when the power went. Within a day the Brigadier had a plan, reckoned that the base was indefensible as well as being unsustainable. So we decamped to this village. If it weren’t for us it they would all have starved. Now we have food being stored for the winter, running water, defenses. The continuation of our civilization. And it won’t stop here. In time we can expand, bring more people under rule. Make more people safe.’
Nate nodded. Whatever he thought, it was obvious that the Brigadier had achieved a great deal in a small amount of time.
‘Right then,’ he said to Johnson. ‘Thanks for the info. See you later.’
He climbed back down the tower and continued his circuit of the wall finally ending up at the village green.
There was a large army tent erected in the middle of the green and he could see through the entrance that it was full of trestle tables and a variety of chairs. Most of the tables were full of people sitting down and eating and there were still long queues at the chow line as people waited patiently, bowls in hand, to get some sustenance.
Nate could smell the food from where he stood and it seemed to consist mainly of boiled turnips, potato and cabbage. Way in the background a slight smell of meat. Probably rabbit. The villagers looked lethargic, faces pale and movements slow. Whenever he caught someone’s eye they immediately looked down, their faces showing obvious fear.
The marine contemplated missing dinner as the smell of the turnips was turning his stomach but he hadn’t eaten since that morning so he figured that he had better try to get something into his belly while he had the chance.
He continued past the green to the village hall where Clarkson had told him the officers mess was. The front doors were closed and he let himself in. The first thing that struck him was the atmosphere. Someone, a young girl it seemed, was playing a piano in the corner. Classical renditions of pop songs. The place was well lit with candles and mirrors and a fire crackled away in the hearth, filling the place with warmth. And the smell of the food immediately made his mouth water.
Fried chicken, mashed potato with butter, peas, gravy, corn. There were bottles of red wine at the tables as well as jugs of water and fresh fruit juice. It was as if he had entered another world. A world of privilege and power. And then he realized; that is exactly what he had done. Outside were the new world peasants. The grubbers of dirt and the wielders of plows. And in this room were the leaders of the elite. Soldiers. Warriors. Men with power.
Nathaniel took a deep breath and walked into the room.
The brigadier, who was sitting at the top table, saw him and beckoned to him.
‘Mister Hogan. Join us.’
Nate walked over and sat down next to the commanding officer.
‘So, mister Hogan,’ continued the Brigadier. ‘You’ve had a good look around. What do you think.’
‘I’m a sergeant, sir,’ responded Nate. ‘Not my job to think.’
The Brigadier smiled. But only with his lips, no humor touched his eyes. ‘I give you permission to think. Go ahead.’
‘Very efficiently run outfit, sir,’ said Nate. ‘Not sure if I’d want to be a civilian.’
The brigadier raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘Well, sir, never been one for grubbing in the dirt and surviving on turnip soup.’
The brigadier nodded. ‘I see. You appear to have come across the lower echelons being fed. The tent on the green. Yes,’ agreed the brigadier. ‘It’s a tough life for them. However, better than being dead one might say. But what you do not know, mister Hogan, is those were only a part of the community. The lowest and least skilled of the village. There is another kitchen closer to the gates where the middle echelons are fed. Those are the people with more discernable skills. Blacksmiths, engineers, farmers, farriers and such. Their fare is substantially better than turnip soup.’
‘As good as this?’ Asked Nate.
The brigadier laughed. ‘Of course not. We are officers. The enlisted men get similar food, no booze. But the middle echelons get a meat ration and bread with their soup. An adequate amount of calories to survive and to work.’
‘There seem to be many empty houses, sir. Casualties?’
‘No,’ answered the brigadier. ‘Thanks to us there were very few casualties in the village. We’ve had, perhaps, a ten percent die back. Diabetics, people whom were on various life giving drugs that ran out, the elderly. The empty houses are part of the new order. One is assigned housing depending on ones usefulness to the community as a whole. The lower echelons share housing. Four to a room, male and females separated. The middles echelons get their own house, ranging from a three bedroom for the farrier down to smaller one or two beds for farmers and assistants. The doctor has a very decent digs as does the priest.’
‘As do you, sir,’ interjected Nate.
‘Yes, I am the commanding officer. My place used to belong to a city trader. Now he is one of the lower echelons. Good for nothing but wielding a spade. No discernable skills whatsoever.’
‘And what are the empty houses for then?’ Enquired the marine.
‘Newcomers, such as yourself,’ said the brigadier. ‘We accept all comers, interview them, allocate them a job and in return they get food, shelter and safety.’
Someone put a full plate of food down in front of Nate and he concentrated on getting it inside him. The brigadier sat silently for a while, sipping on a glass of red wine. After a minute or so he stood up. Immediately everyone in the room stood to attention.
The brigadier waved them back down. ‘As you were, gentlemen. I grow weary and shall take my leave.’ He left the hall followed closely by his two armed guards and everyone sat down and continued with their meals.
Warrant officer Clarkson, who was sitting on Nate’s left side, offered the marine a glass of wine. Nate nodded his thanks.
‘He’s a great man, you know,’ said Clarkson. ‘What you see is just the beginning. Soon we shall start to expand our net. Bring in more villages and towns under us, set up communications via fast horse. Expand the central army to include a militia. Create centralized farms and production units. Everyone will have equal access to food and shelter.’
‘Except for the military,’ rejoined Nathaniel.
‘Well, obviously, yes. For any civilization to achieve, one must have a ruling class.’
Nate said nothing.
‘You seem skeptical, master sergeant.’
‘I don’t know if skeptical is the correct word,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘Perhaps incredulous is closer.’
‘Why?’
‘Military rule? Armies are run to fight wars, not to rule civilizations. Look at Hitler, Adi Amin, Stalin, Genghis Kahn. Power can be gained by the barrel of a gun but never held.’
‘You misunderstand, master sergeant. We do not seek to conquer. We seek to help. We have no political agenda at all.’
‘War is the continuation of politics,’ argued Nate. ‘And before you say that you aren’t at war let me tell you – you are. What would happen if you stood your soldiers down and disarmed them?’
‘Obviously there might be a breakdown of discipline,’ admitted Clarkson.
Nate snorted. ‘A breakdown of discipline? The people would rise up and slaughter the lot of you.’
Clarkson shook his head vehemently. ‘No way, master sergeant. They understand that what we are doing is for the best. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. As I say, a few may become a little undisciplined but not much more.’
‘Bullshine,’ said Nate. ‘They won’t even look a soldier in the eye. They’re all living in terror. While you have taken their houses and split up their families and dine on fried chicken whilst they subsist on turnip water. Wake up, man.’
Clarkson had gone pale with rage as he stared at Nate. ‘Master sergeant,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed. You are no longer welcome in the officer’s mess. Please leave this instant.’
Nathaniel stood up. ‘I’m sorry, mister Clarkson. I didn’t mean to offend. Especially after being given such a welcome. It was churlish of me in the extreme. I shall leave first thing in the morning after extending my thanks to the Brigadier.’
Nate bowed and walked slowly from the hall and into the night. A light snow was falling; little eddies of wind causing it to swirl about the marine’s head like moths around a flame.
He took out a cigarette, cupped his hands against the wind and lit up. Then he walked back to his digs, deep in thought. He didn’t know why he was so riled up. Most of what Clarkson said was true; the bulk of the villagers would have died by now if left to their own devices. The brigadier had created a safe haven in a world gone mental. The bulk of the villagers were eating, albeit subsistence rations. But the whole thing stank like a nine-day-old kipper. Sometimes, just because you could do something, was no real reason to go ahead and do it. One thing was for sure; the brigadier was on one huge power trip. Nevertheless, thought Nate, whilst the situation was not to his liking it wasn’t actually broken. People were safe and alive, far be it for him to blunder in righting wrongs that were not even considered wrongs by many of the people involved.
He arrived at his digs and stood outside for a while, dragging on the remains of his cigarette. As he finished, the door of the cottage three down from his crashed open and two soldiers stepped out. Between them was a young girl. Perhaps fifteen or maybe sixteen. It was hard to tell in the dark but it looked as if she had been weeping. Behind her was an older man, gray hair, spectacles.
‘You can’t do this,’ the older man said. His voice a desperate plea.
‘Brigadier’s orders,’ replied the one soldier. ‘Now