With the worn down soles of his shoes and the mud that ran up his trousers, you could tell that he had been walking for some time. His hair had been shaved down to the scalp and tiny nicks ran across his hands.

If the rucksack that he carried was heavy, he did not show it. He just walked on with it slung over his shoulder. The beaten anorak that he wore despite the summer heat was zipped up to his chin and possessed the scent of smoke that only a burning fire can produce.

Sinclair was a distant dream. The burning fires of Olsen continued to wildly decorate the land some miles behind him, and he doubted that they would ever stop.

Gareth McCall walked along the winding country road. The towering trees that ran along the side of it were long overgrown and their gnarled arms resembled the legs of a thousand giant spiders. It was the corpse lying just ahead in the road that kept a tight hold of his attention. It was a dog, possibly a German Shepherd. A clean cut had been made right down the stomach, allowing a trail of intestines to fall out onto the hard road. Dried blood led from the animal and into the trees, telling Gareth that whatever had performed the ritual had taken some of the beautiful creature's meat into the woods.

He knelt beside the animal, licked his dry lips out of habit as he touched the blood with his fingers to see how cold the body was. It still held on to a little warmth. The tear that ran along the stomach began to bother him; it had been done with a sharp instrument, meaning the hunter had definitely been human. So why leave so much meat and a trail of blood to attract scavengers? Why leave behind the skin when you could wrap it around you during the cold nights?

A trap, perhaps?

Gareth tried to act like a man who hasn't stumbled upon that conclusion. He pretended that he was still examining the beast whilst really he was easing a hand under his jacket in search of his knife. The knife… he had left it behind. His heart began to beat wildly as he remembered that he had been forced to leave the blade within an opponent's lung so he could manage to escape. Gareth was unarmed and alone once more in a world that would only understand the way of the sword until he had cleansed the people of their wrongs.

Regardless of the possible dangers, he followed the trail of blood until it reached the soft earth at the side of the road and became a stretch of disturbed soil that ran deeper into the trees with the tracks of footprints left by two men accompanying it. Whatever awaited him was lying just ahead, and he decided to lift a large branch from the ground that he could use as a club of sorts if the situation required him to do so. For the time being, he used it as if it were a walking aid in case they were already watching him…

And so he walked on with the branch held firmly in his grip as he followed a trail made of disturbed soil and broken twigs that reached out from the greenery like skeletal fingers. His tracking skills were still a wonder to him if he allowed his mind to drift off in such situations. He had been forced to learn such techniques over the years and he continued to do so. Eventually the smell of dry, burning wood captured him. Too near to originate from the ravaged town some miles back. He stopped for a moment to prepare himself for any dangers that might be waiting. Wiping sweat from his brow and again tightening his grip against the branch, Gareth moved silently up the small hill that lay before him and stopped once he reached the top and the clearing of trees that painted it. From where he stood he could see a small fire burning—a circle of small stakes ran around the blaze and leaned ever so slightly towards it in an attempt to cook the meat that had been skewered upon the sharpened points.

Food, he thought, and his stomach shook so violently that he nearly doubled over. He hadn't been able to eat properly for some time, and the roasting organs within metres of him made his mouth water with anticipation. But he remembered that it might well be a trap. Gathering his self control, he tightened his fingers around the branch that he held and lowered himself down to his knees in a bid to see the camp that he had stumbled across whilst remaining hidden behind the leaves and the shadows that surrounded him.

He spotted a total of four sheltering places from his hiding place. Each one was made from sheets of rusting corrugated iron, branches, rocks and torn materials which may have once been fine clothing. They had been positioned amongst the vegetation carefully, making them all appear as piles of trash that would be ignored. Gareth doubted that this had been an accident. Whoever had set about this camp was surely thinking of their survival at the time.

Finally, a tenant crawled out from one of the dens. A tanned man in his early thirties, most probably a line of ancestry running back through the Middle East. Gareth watched as he stretched before approaching the fire, his slender frame suggesting that he was naturally thin and not at all malnourished. But there was one man here. Gareth had followed two sets of footprints…

'His name is Appi,' a strong voice revealed from behind him. Fear invaded every inch of his skin and prevented him from answering… prevented him from even turning to see the face of his killer, the one man who had managed to get the drop on him since the world fell into flames.

'Are you okay?' the strong voice asked. 'Deaf?'

Gareth swallowed and slowly turned in a circle to see a large, bearded man smiling down at him. His fingers were red as roses from blood; a limp rabbit with a broken neck dangled from his left hand whilst a large branch positioned as a walking aid rested firmly in his right.

'I don't want any trouble,' Gareth said in a hoarse voice that he did not recognise as his own. A savage whisper given to him for his troubles. Maybe it would stay with him forever, maybe he would eventually recover. It mattered not to him.

'Well that's good to hear!' the stranger laughed. 'I'm Jeremy Webb, but you can call me Jez. Man by the fire is Appi Koovory. What can we do for you?'

'Nothing,' Gareth replied. 'I was just nosing around. I'll be on my way now.'

'Won't you stop and have something to eat with us?' Jeremy asked. 'You look hungry enough. Not to mention,' he continued, 'that I did hear your belly complaining.'

'I saw four shelters,' Gareth said in the hope that it would prove he was not as useless as he may first appear when it came to surviving. 'Is there enough meat to go around?'

'There is,' Jeremy said sadly. 'Only Appi and me left now. The other two… well, Stuart Scully died last winter. Frank Smith went missing a couple of nights ago.'

'Went missing?'

'Afraid so.' Jeremy nodded as he fumbled into his pocket and pulled out a mashed packet of Marlboro cigarettes. Gareth noticed them and looked at the packet as if it was a bar of solid gold. But in this current climate, it was worth a hell of a lot more than gold. It was worth more than any gem or jewel.

'Cigarettes!' he said. 'Actual cigarettes? I thought that they were gone! Even rolling tobacco and papers are hard to find!'

'Take one.' Jeremy smiled as he handed Gareth a stick of cancer.

'But where did you get these?' he asked as he gladly accepted it.

'There was trouble out on the East road some weeks ago. From the woods, we watched a group of men being marched to a trench and shot. Something was dropped in with them, the trench was filled and then the killers just get into a car and drive away. That's right,' he continued. 'A car. I don't know where they got the petrol from, but the vehicle was actually moving.'

'So you explored the grave and found cigarettes?'

'Three cartons of one hundred.' He smiled.

'You wonder if the killers spotted you? Maybe that would explain Frank's disappearance.'

He heard a branch snap from behind him, realised that somebody was creeping up on him. He turned fast and was ready for battle but his stance remained calm and suggested that the branch he held was solely for supporting his weight. But Jeremy had seen the ease in his movement followed by the sudden stillness and it reminded him of a cat preparing for the final act that leads on to the kill. Appi—the man who had crushed the small piece of wood under his weight on approaching the two—continued to walk towards them without a care in the world.

'That's what I thought,' he sighed. 'You have to be careful more than ever these days, and Frank was too trusting. It's just a shame… He was a real nice guy.'

'But we don't want you to be worried,' Jeremy said politely as he put a hand on Gareth's shoulder. 'You can eat here if you like. Stay in one of the empty huts. I mean, it will be dark sooner than you think and there's no other place to shelter near here that I know of.'

Gareth weighed up his options and asked, 'What's in it for you?' All the time, the cigarette between his fingers grew heavier and begged him to light up.

'Being Christian in a world that doesn't have many nice guys left!'

'Well, it makes sense that I at least go into your camp so I can light my cigarette,' Gareth shrugged. 'If it's no problem, I'll eat what you can spare and leave at sunrise tomorrow.'

'We have plenty to spare!' Appi said with a sudden delight. 'Meat will begin to rot after a day or two. We take all we can though in case of emergencies.'

'That's something I noticed,' Gareth recalled. 'You left a dog without taking its fur.'

'Didn't need it,' Jeremy smiled. 'Leave what you don't urgently need for people who seek such things.'

Such an attitude seemed foreign to Gareth. Had he been imprisoned for so long that he had missed a great calm returning to the world? That would have to be impossible. He had, after all, fought for his very life less than one week ago. So what was it? Had he been going about his task the wrong way for all this time? Maybe the only way to regain order was to destroy the large tribal communities and have smaller groups littered around the country. But such an act would be impossible, surely?

They ate as the sun was setting. The meat was coated in local herbs that had been gathered in advance before it was wrapped in thick leaves and steamed over a smaller fire whilst potatoes and onions finished cooking beside the larger fire. Once they had finished eating, Jeremy collected some moonshine that he had hidden nearby and dealt out some cigarettes to enjoy as the air grew cold and the blue skies gave way for the stars.

'You like that?' Appi asked.

'I haven't eaten that well for a long time,' Gareth replied as he brought the cigarette smoke into his system and allowed it to explore the new surroundings before exhaling. 'How did you learn to mix the herbs like that?'

'I was a chef,' Jeremy answered as he raised the bottle of moonshine to his nose and breathed in the aroma. 'Long time ago.'

'And you?' he asked Appi.

'Ordinary, boring office worker,' he sighed as he lit a cigarette. 'Jeremy's place was situated next door. That's how we met.'

'A different life,' Jeremy chuckled before swallowing a mouthful of his self-made drink and shuddering. He held the bottle out towards Gareth, asked, 'You want some?'

'I don't know. What's it taste like?'

'Death. But it will help you sleep well and keep you warm through the night. Only drawback is that your head will feel four times too big the next morning.'

'So it won't make me go blind?'

'I'm still working on that. I mean, who wants to see this world?' Jeremy laughed dryly and added, 'I got a couple of bottles stashed nearby that should be ready by now. One bottle should get the three of us nicely drunk, easily. You want, we'll drink until we pass out. To tell you the truth, I've been looking for a reason to lose control for a long time.'

'Fuck it. I'll be the reason.'

So the trio drank and smoked as they sat around the fire, always careful enough to throw on enough wood to keep it burning but not enough for it to get out of control. They laughed and Gareth occasionally looked at the full moon and wondered if he would feel any lonelier if he was stranded on that cold planet instead of this one. Was it Ray Bradbury who wrote a story about the Second Coming being found on Mars? Maybe. Mars, he thought. Maybe that was the place he should aim for!

'So, Gareth,' Jeremy grinned as he handed him the bottle yet again. 'What do you miss about our forgotten world?'

Mischa. Mischa, the girl that you loved and then left to die alone. The words burned across his mind but he kept smiling and thought of a more suitable answer to give over a campfire. 'Glamour models.' He smiled.

'Glamour models?' Jeremy laughed and even Appi sniggered to himself. 'You could have said anything, but you chose pretty girls who exposed their breasts in certain newspapers and magazines?'

'You know, when you put it like that, I'm all the happier with my answer. You know what else I miss? Television. Just because the moving images of an attractive woman would give me something to whack off over instead of using my imagination. I swear, I've gone through every scenario my mind could offer right now.'

'You're right.' Jeremy laughed as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the flames of the fire. 'Man, I remember how I could get home from work and type a celebrity name into an internet search engine and find some good pictures. Now I have to go stand behind a tree, muster up the strength to get hard and then go through the old memory reserves for a bit of inspiration. It's crap!'

'How about you, Appi?' Gareth laughed. 'What do you miss?'

'Allah,' he said simply, and the laughter died down. From that point, the mood became reserved and Gareth was glad when it became a struggle to keep his eyes open. He was confident that he was in good company, so he did not resist the need to rest. He just leaned a little further against the tree that acted as his support and fell into a warm sleep.

The first act that Gareth performed in waking was to slap the insects from his face before scratching the inside of his ears to be certain that eggs had not been placed in the inner canal. He sat up, realised that it was still dark and the fire was burning on weakly. A constellation of fine diamonds littered the void overhead but he paid no attention to the ancient sight that was all the easier to see from out here. Both Jeremy and Appi had crawled into their shelters and appeared to be sleeping soundly, whereas Gareth had woken with a throbbing skull and a bladder preparing to burst. On tired legs he walked through the dense undergrowth, certain that it was safe enough for him to leave behind the thick branch that he had found so many hours ago.

He settled for a common lime tree to urinate against. It was a relief that—apart from his head—his body was in a state of numbness from the drinking and therefore he felt little discomfort in taking his bruised penis from his trousers. It was still a chore to look at it, however. He had grown accustomed to the regular beatings that he had received whilst in captivity, but the look of his swollen member still shocked him.

A branch snapped behind him. He buttoned his trousers back up and turned to see Appi approaching him.

'Appi,' he said in his new voice. 'You didn't think something had happened, did you?'

'Why do you never take your coat off?'

'I just feel more comfortable like this,' he replied. It was true—he had no intention of showing countless swastika tattoos to the strangers that he met on his travels. Scars from a personality that he had buried long ago but still feared.

'You know what I think?' Appi asked as he stepped closer.

Gareth looked him in the eyes with caution, the atmosphere between the two bringing back memories of his time in prison. 'I don't know,' he said calmly. 'What do you think?'

Appi struck like a deadly snake—one punch to Gareth's jaw at lightning speed and Gareth was on his ass. Kicks reigned down on him, easily finding the bruises and cuts that he had earned over the previous months as if they were going out of fashion. A kick caught him under the left eye and put him on his back, defeated before it had even begun. He told himself that it would have been different if it hadn't been for the whole incident in Olsen, but he wasn't entirely convinced.

'Poor boy,' Appi sighed as he pressed a foot down against Gareth's chest to keep him down. 'Poor boy all alone in the world.'

'Why are you doing this?' he managed to ask. 'Is it to prove that you're the Higher Power now? If it is,' he growled, 'I wouldn't recommend it. I've met people like that and it never ends well for them.'

'Every day, I would bend over almost a dozen times for Allah,' he sighed. 'Always asking for forgiveness, fasting for longer than others in an attempt to be forgiven. Now,' he smiled, 'I get others to bend over! And there's no guilt at all! None!' He giggled like a mischievous child. 'I keep Jeremy around for the company and the security. Strays like you occasionally come along and satisfy me. Even when you don't, there's always a dead mutt or something to be found!'

'Bullshit,' he spat, and for his troubles, Appi applied a little extra weight against Gareth's ribcage. 'You don't convince me,' Gareth managed to add. 'Shaking, sweating, uneven voice. You're not a regular killer. You won't be able to go through with this.'

'Oh, but I can and will!' Appi sang. 'Frank was always making remarks about me once he suspected that I was queer. Now,' he giggled, 'when was the last time anybody saw him?'

'I knew it.' Those three words brought a sense of relief to Gareth once he realised that Jeremy had spoken them. It was impossible for him to position himself in a way where he could see Jeremy, but he felt the pressure from Appi's weight ease from his body and his potential killer turned away with a gasp. There was a sound of snapping wood and Appi fell back, his nose badly broken and pouring blood across his face. Jeremy stood with hatred in his eyes, a solid branch in his hand suddenly splintering at the end where a piece had been broken right off.

'Did you kill him?' Gareth enquired as he sat up.

'I don't think so,' Jeremy replied as he extended his hand for Gareth to take. 'Should be out cold for a couple of hours.'

'What are you going to do with him when he wakes?' he asked as Jeremy helped him to his feet.

'Just keep him restrained. I'm no murderer. No Judge, no Jury, no God. Who knows—maybe he can become a better person? I mean, he only started acting funny recently. If his mind just snapped, maybe it can be repaired?'

'He confessed to killing your friend. He confessed to killing strangers,' Gareth said as he looked at the man bleeding on the soft forest floor, decaying leaves and pines as his bed. 'Fuck, he even confessed to humping dead animals. You think a man can come back from that?'

'If there's a chance, it has to be taken. Has the disproving of God really thrown us back to—'

'Gareth McCall,' a solid voice said from the darkness. The two men standing in the opening turned but saw nobody else. 'Gareth McCall,' it said a second time.

He licked his lips, tasted copper and found a wound that stung no matter how gently his tongue stroked it. 'What do you want?' he asked. He had slain the people of Olsen, he was certain of that. But the residents of numerous towns could have found reason to hunt him.

There was a sound similar to wood being snapped over a bent knee and Jeremy took a step back. He raised his hand to his chest and pulled it back to reveal fresh blood coating the stains that he had collected out in the woods.

'You want to know what I miss?' he mumbled. 'My wife. But once we were unable to get the insulin for her diabetes, she had no chance. I buried her beside the flowerbed that she loved,' he said weakly as he dropped to his knees, 'and walked away from our home without looking back.'

And with that confession, Jeremy fell into death.

'You faceless coward,' Gareth screamed as he took the branch from Jeremy's hand. 'Come out into the moonlight!' His request went ignored. 'Did you only have the one bullet?' he cried. 'Answer me, you bastard!'

A rustling of leaves came from all sides. Branches snapped in quick succession, the sounds of many guns being cocked echoed between the trees. Gareth's wish was soon granted as he found himself in the centre of a circle made by ten men, each carrying a rifle or shotgun. He swallowed, tried desperately to recognise but one of the faces and failed. A fat man charged at him from the left, so Gareth swung the branch towards him and managed to hit him hard in the jaw. He was not fast enough to escape the second man, who came from behind and hit him across the back of the head with his rifle. Gareth's knees buckled and the world turned black as he fell forward.

'We want him alive!' the team leader hissed at the gunman who had struck him. 'Alive and not paralysed! You heard what Combes said about him!'

'That's why I thought it best to take him down with one.'

'Well, we'd better hope that he can get up. Restrain him, throw him in the van and we'll bring him back to the manor.'

They bound his wrists with cloth that they had taken from the dens at the campfire before carefully carrying him along the path whilst one man put another bullet into Jeremy and two into Appi. His limp body was placed upon a soiled mattress in the back of a waiting van and then the journey back started with the angry roar of an engine, a noise that had been long forgotten by many.

When Gareth regained consciousness, he tried to hide the surprise that he had in being both alive and in an active automobile. He ignored the circle of worn faces that looked down on him and instead sat up to look out of the window. The sun was still rising, giving a morning sky that shone down across fields of beautiful yellow roses.

'Told you that he'd survive,' he heard a hunter whisper.

And if I die now, he thought, at least I have such an amazing resting place.

The van turned onto a gravel driveway and continued to run towards a sprawling white mansion. Triumphant fountains stood amongst well-maintained flowerbeds, ornate cherubs were posed along the grounds. And what made it all the better was the fact that electric lights assisted in illuminating all of the beauty. When order crumbled, the people found themselves with free electricity and water because the companies responsible for distributing the power no longer existed. But many people had destroyed the streetlights and power cables in the first riots, perhaps in a desperate bid to save themselves from the torture of having to see one another again. It is impossible to commit certain acts and then look at yourself in the same way ever again.

The van stopped, the engine rested and the back doors eventually opened. Two men with rifles slung over their shoulders leaned in and pulled Gareth out, their comrades slowly piling out one by one.

'His wrists are bound good and tight,' one of the men said as they examined him. He looked up at Gareth's face and said, 'Walk into the manor and follow the music. Don't try anything funny. We'll all be out here and if we hear anything, we'll run in and shoot you. Understand?'

Gareth turned to the home, saw the grand oak door that stood ajar and nodded. 'Follow the music,' he repeated.

'Off you go then,' the man said as he patted Gareth on the back and nudged him in the right direction. Things had not been this unpredictable for many moons. Even torture becomes predictable—there's only so many times that you can find the energy to beg a captor not to prod your urethra with a nail file or to raise your testicles just long enough to place a rat-trap beneath them. That had all become a leisurely walk in the park—this was like crawling beneath twisted razor wire that coated a battlefield.

He entered the home. Music was coming from one of the far rooms on the ground floor. He walked softly, listening closely until he was certain that it was PJ Harvey playing on the stereo. It wasn't the worst artist to sing you into the beyond and this certainly wasn't the worst place to die. Gareth finally reached the door from which the music came and pushed it open. He entered a majestic dining room with a polished wooden floor and a table large enough for twenty people that had been covered in fresh fruit and vegetables as well as roasted chicken, lamb and beef. A round, small man sat merrily at the head of the table. A shotgun leaned against the chair beside him as company.

'Ah,' the man said as he ate, his accent carrying an aristocratic tone. Gareth knew that the man's joys were real but his accent was fake. Like so many of the leaders he had come across, the man had changed his sound in a bid to be a "real" leader. 'I recognise you! It's good to see that I was correct. But then,' he smiled before taking a bite out of a chicken leg, 'you have to be correct if you want to stay in charge! Take a seat. Help yourself to something to eat.'

'I don't understand,' Gareth said as he sat at the table and merely glanced across at the food whilst his eyes searched for a knife or anything else that could be used as a weapon. He wondered if his thoughts were too occupied with this surprise banquet to spot an instrument that he could use to bargain for his life.

'Tell me,' he smiled, 'what do you want me to explain?'

'Everything.'

'Everything? Ha! Well, that is quite a task. Firstly, my name is Combes. Does that mean anything to you?'

'No,' he replied.

'Well, I was a farmer. All of the men in my family had been farmers, from father to son for generations. And it was getting harder, what with the supermarkets wanting to sell milk cheaper than their rivals and still make a profit. Then milk wasn't enough. Vegetables and meat had to be cheap. Do you know who suffered?'

'Farmers.'

'That's right. And the machinery we used? Ran on oil. Oil prices kept going up. It was as if God had signalled us out for some kind of punishment.' He laughed before taking a sip from a glass of dark red wine that Gareth had failed to notice earlier. If he absolutely had to, he could always break the glass and use it to remove the madman's throat. 'But then we all found out God was nothing more than a fantasy and people went a little crazy. Everybody but me. Which is lucky, seeing as I had guns and so did my friends. We all had a fair amount of petrol hidden away for emergencies too! You know what we went and did?'

'No,' Gareth said.

'We went to the police station and slaughtered every one of them before destroying their radios. Last thing we wanted was for the army to find out what was going on in our small town. Then we headed to the supermarkets. We took everything edible and shared it out amongst ourselves before giving the remains to the townspeople. Then we shot the supermarket workers. Then we shot the bankers. The people whom we spared were told that, as farmers, we would see them with food as long as they were loyal.'

'And the people who worked in petrol stations?'

'We forgave them.' Combes smiled. 'It was not they who made the prices, and the fuel had been cut off regardless. Do you know how the whole of Britain got her fuel?' he asked. 'One pipe. I have people searching the country for that one pipe. The power that it can offer is undeniable.'

'Whose home was this?' Gareth asked. 'What had they done that saw them being killed?'

'The house was empty,' Combes said. 'A tourist attraction. Of course, it is obvious that we won't be seeing paying tourists for a while. Have you heard about Buckingham Palace and the other Royal homes?' he suddenly asked. 'For a strong country, it is a must that you communicate with your neighbours and fellow governors. Word reached me that the Windsor bloodline had finally ended. The parasites are dead, the homes occupied by new leaders. In fact,' he smiled, 'the only survivor was the young Prince Harry. But why kill him? His blood was of a different ancestry, as far as one can assume.'

'Why are you telling me this?' Gareth asked. The shotgun at Combes's side was too far away; no other weapon had presented itself. He was forced to listen and be carried on into the plotting of a mad man.

'Of course—I am sorry,' Combes apologised sincerely. 'I do tend to wander off the point. But as I said—it is important to have strong links with those who rule next door to you. And one of the people whom I enjoyed a friendly relationship with was a man named Daniel Foy. Now, Mr Foy was the self-appointed Mayor of a pleasant town named Olsen.'

Gareth's heart missed a beat at the very mention of the town. He had never left it behind, after all. The fire still raged on, the storm inside him fanning the flames until they would eventually engulf the very earth.

'Some months ago,' Combes continued as he took an apple from a nearby tray and began to slice it into thin strips using a gleaming knife. The rays of the rising sun found the blade and reflected a call into Gareth's eyes. The knife was the answer, but he had to find a way to take it as his own…

'The guardians of Olsen captured an outsider intent on bringing down civilisation as we know and love it. An outsider with dreams of destroying society.'

'Society?' Gareth laughed. 'People are killed in the streets! People attack each other for no reason at all!'

'And is this a new development?' Combes asked, and he allowed the question to fully penetrate Gareth's mind before he continued his speech. 'Leaders have stepped forward. Order is being regained. We have rulers who do not tax the weak and assist the wealthy. Wars in foreign lands are not to be. Wars in this land seem doubtful.'

'It must depend on how you look at it.'

'Indeed. Unfortunately, a small number have set it upon themselves to destroy the great leaders who have stepped up from the ashes. And how are they going about it? With religion, the very thing used to imprison man and justify wars since we created it! I hear talk of a family named Woolley who are setting up religious camps in the West, where youngsters are taught that it is right for them to feel guilt for sins that they were apparently given at birth by a loving yet vengeful God. A God that wrote their life story whilst they grew in the womb. So tell me,' he laughed, 'where is their free-will?'

'I'm sorry,' Gareth smiled, 'I don't know where you're going with this. I think you've wandered off the subject again.'

'No,' Combes said sorely, 'I have not. I tell you that order is a moment away. But some will not accept this. It is rumoured that collected bands of terrorists are sweeping across the land and trying to force the urge to worship a ghost back onto the people. Such a man was captured in the town of Olsen. That man was you, Gareth McCall.'

'Me?' he chuckled. 'I don't know what you're on about.'

'You were bound and gagged, were you not? Blindfolded and beaten constantly. I have seen the ink that coats your arms, Gareth, for I too assisted in your torture on several occasions. In fact, it was I who kicked at your heart whilst you swore that we would all burn!' Combes sighed and revealed, 'Daniel was a dear friend of mine. Then suddenly we lose all contact with Olsen and her inhabitants. An investigation finds that a small town of two hundred has been turned to ash, every resident dead. But the cellar where the prisoner was kept was empty.'

'It was a town of two hundred and twenty,' Gareth said coldly. 'And the people died in my name and Daniel Foy cried as he begged for you to save him.'

'And I believe that.' Combes grinned. 'I've had small groups following you from time to time and you always travel alone. You're in no group. You have no allies. So what I need to know is how did you exterminate an entire town?'

'One by one,' he replied simply.

Combes allowed his smile to fade for a heartbeat before it returned with a dry laugh. He rose to his feet and approached Gareth with the knife in his hand. Gareth refused to stare at the glistening blade. Instead, he accepted his inevitable death and stared right through his enemy.

'I want order, just as much as you do,' Combes explained. 'These groups out to spread the word of Christ will just drag us back to the darker years. Surely you can see that?' The album on the stereo finished and Combes briefly looked over his shoulder at it before continuing. 'You do not know how many attempts have been made on my life by such people! They have attacked the townspeople! Innocent men and women who merely wish to continue with their lives!'

'Under the rule of a murderous farmer who adopted an upper-class accent once he was in charge? I've seen this behaviour before… the delusions of grandeur.'

'The only difference being that those have lost control before losing their lives—a mistake that I care not to make. So far, we have beaten the insurgents. But we too lose men. Not just the lives of those who take guns against the enemy, but the lives of innocent children who happened to be in the area. Tell me, Gareth, what were those children guilty of?'

'What is it you want me to do?' Gareth asked.

'Rule under me. You crave order—I offer you the chance to see it as you desire it to be. All I ask in return is that you act as bodyguard to my wife and I. Once she falls pregnant, I will step down and you shall be in charge until my heir reaches maturity.'

A wife, Gareth thought. Kill Combes and his wife to prevent a dynasty from starting. Take my chances with the armed men outside. Once they're inside, they won't be able to move as freely.

'I will be in charge?' Gareth asked.

'Until my heir reaches maturity. You will hold meetings with the other leaders, Gareth. You will help this country remain one of calm and peace. But first, you act as my bodyguard and aid.'

Gareth licked his dry lips, raised his hands and said with a smile, 'Cut me free and introduce me to the wife.'

Combes looked Gareth in the eye and said with a smile, 'And on this day, the tide really did turn against the insurgents,' as he severed the cloth that bound his wrists. 'Now,' he said as he turned away and tossed the knife onto the table, 'follow me. I shall introduce you to my wife.'

'I'm right behind you,' Gareth replied as he lifted the knife from where it had landed and eased it up his sleeve as a magician hides a card. He followed Combes up a winding staircase, never fully listening to what the dictator was actually rambling on about.

Combes stopped at a closed door and whispered, 'I'm not sure how to go about this. You see—I want her to always feel safe, so she has little idea of the troubles that we face. I've never informed her about you or your kind in great detail.'

'There's no real importance in a name, anyway,' Gareth smiled. 'Only the actions of a man can run on through time.' They were words given to him long ago. Words offered by a man who had helped change Gareth for the better. It was a shame that the man was dead now.

The beady eyes of Combes widened and a large smile spread across his rotund face. 'Astonishing. Now,' he said, 'let me introduce you to my beautiful wife.'

He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it as he stepped into the room. Gareth followed him closely, preparing to bury the blade into his back before killing his bride and lying in wait for his men to storm the stairs. The wife had her back to the men as she faced a large window, the rising sun bathing her in a way that made it appear as if she had an angelic halo at her head. A delicate blue ribbon of soft silk ran through the back of her hair and Gareth assumed that it was a hair-band of some kind that was designed to be worn low.

The feeling of cold steel brushed against the palm of his hand.

'My darling,' Combes announced. 'This is an old friend of mine.'

Gareth was prepared for anything… or so he had thought. What he hadn't been prepared for was to see the bride turn towards them and be revealed as Mischa, the silk band covering her eyes. His breath was stolen from him and a single tear welled in his right eye.

Mischa, he thought. You're alive.

She raised her hand and stood patiently as she waited for somebody to take it and lead her in the right direction. 'Forgive me.' She smiled. 'As you may have already guessed, I am unable to see.' There was an undertone of shame in the apology—her blindness something to be ashamed of for reasons Gareth did not know.

Gareth merely stood in silence as Combes took her hand and affectionately kissed the back of it before leading her forward. Her smile twisted a little, implying that she felt uncomfortable with the fact that the new arrival was remaining silent. And thanks to Combes, Gareth found himself standing but inches from the love whose death had rested heavily on his heart. But she wasn't dead… He could see her now, smell her fragrant skin and soft hair.

He tried to talk but words would not come right away. Finally, he managed to say in the voice that he had been given so recently:

'Good day to you, Miss. My name is Jeremy Webb.'

A look of bewilderment flashed across the face of Combes, but Gareth refused to acknowledge it and instead admired the vision of beauty that stood before him. A beauty for which the angels were destined to sing and the wise men would forever write sonnets in her good name.

'I'm happy to meet you, Jeremy.' She blushed. 'How do you know my husband?'

The question hit him hard, pressed a boulder to the back of his throat that was difficult to swallow. 'From long ago,' he responded. 'I've just made it back into town.'

'It's safe here,' she smiled. 'I'm sure you'll like it.'

'So am I,' he chuckled. 'So am I.'

'Mischa,' Combes said, and the sound of another man saying her name made Gareth tighten his fist around the cold blade until he felt it bite into his skin and draw blood. 'Breakfast is ready. Let's go.'

She turned towards the sound of his voice and said with a smile, 'I can smell a full roast. Was this to impress your friend?'

'Yes,' he laughed. 'We weren't sure what time to expect him!'

'Well, he's here now,' she beamed. 'You're not going anywhere, are you?'

'No,' he said. 'Not this time.'

Combes led his beautiful wife down the stairs and Gareth watched them disappear into the dining room. He loosened his fingers and allowed the bloody knife to drop at his feet, a steady drizzle of blood coating the steel. If it was an omen, the warning went unnoticed.