Jessamy Beech Ch. 06: Gloucester

"Half a mile's still a long way when there's an army of assholes out for our blood," said Mpenzi grimly. She fixed Alison with an intense stare, "good work though."

A few minutes later, after once again checking the main road was clear in both directions, Mpenzi crept out of the pub and scuttled across to the shelter of an upturned flatbed truck. She motioned for the others to follow. Jessamy had to virtually force Alison out the door and accompanied her as they joined Mpenzi.

In that way they made their way slowly and cautiously through Gloucester's back streets. Covering each other's advance and sprinting quickly across open ground between wrecked vehicles and rubble piles. And all the while listening. Though they heard the sound of distant gunshots and one or two screams, they saw nothing of their pursuers.

"Harry Potter," said Alison suddenly, as she and Jessamy crouched in withered undergrowth waiting for Mpenzi's signal to cross Gouda Way.

"What?"

"Harry Potter," Alison repeated, "s-some of the Harry Potter f-films were shot here in Gloucester Cathedral."

Jessamy wasn't really listening. She snapped irritably, "Who the fuck is Harry Potter?"

Realising that it was perhaps not the best time to be discussing the fictional boy wizard, Alison Nethybridge shut up. Less than ten minutes later the three women crept cautiously into the cathedral's grounds ...

. . .

There had been a place of worship on the site for over 1500 years and it was perhaps a testament to the craftsmen and builders who'd constructed it that the cathedral had withstood civil war, world wars and most recently Thanatos, virtually unscathed.

Much of the cathedral's impressive stained glass was missing. Chunks of smashed masonry and pieces of stone carved gargoyle littered the overgrown lawns outside. Small meteorite strikes had destroyed sections of roof, leaving parts of the interior completely impassable and the cathedral's Undercroft Restaurant had been flattened by a huge fallen oak tree. But the walls of the cathedral still stood. It had survived the test of time.

Staying alert and low, Mpenzi and Jessamy crept in through the cathedral's main doors - solid oak now splintered and hanging lop-sidedly from great rusted iron hinges, and a modern set of glass doors, now shattered into a million fragments across the stone floor, crunching under their booted feet. There were a thousand places a sniper could be lying unseen, or a band of opportunist crazies awaiting the right moment, thought Jessamy.

Alison followed, nervously peering around the vast empty space down the sights of her Glock handgun. Jessamy knew from personal experience that she'd be feeling vulnerable after her ordeal and had insisted she carry it. Dust motes danced and pirouetted in the beams of greyish light filtering in through ragged holes in the vaulted ceiling. Smashed pews lay strewn around like matchwood, along with dozens of mangled camp beds.

In the early days of Thanatos it had evidently been used as a hospital or temporary accommodation for refugees. While Mpenzi searched for a door to the stairwell into the 200 foot high tower, Jessamy and Alison hunched down keeping watch, next to an enormous marble slab set into the floor.

"Do not go gentle into that good night ..." Alison began.

"What?"

"I'm reading the inscription," she said, pointing to the slab, "do not go gentle into that good night; Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light ... Dylan Thomas."

"Who?" asked Jessamy.

"Dylan Thomas. Famous Welsh poet. Didn't you have books on your island?"

"As a matter of fact no. My friends Snook and Calgary taught me to read and write," Jessamy tried to imagine what the place had looked like before the strikes. Even in its current slightly dilapidated state, the cathedral was the most magnificent building she'd laid eyes on.

"Strange," Alison whispered, "this one looks newer than ..."

"Ssh!" Jessamy hissed. Across the nave, Mpenzi signalled to them. She'd found it. A tiny wooden door set into an alcove. 'Tower Guided Tours - £7' said a laminated sign pinned to it. Jessamy and Alison hurried over as Mpenzi held the door ajar.

. . .

The stone spiral staircase was beautifully constructed given its age and the nature of the basic tools the masons had had at their disposal. It wound its way around and around a central column as it climbed, with a cast iron handrail to grip in the semi-darkness. After a few dozen steps, Alison was already panting, "Don't you th-think we should slow down a bit? We're making a lot of noise."

Jessamy considered that. The sound of their boots on the stone steps, their breathing, and their loaded bergens scuffing against the ancient walls all contributed to quite a racket. If there was anyone waiting on the roof, they'd be getting plenty of warning, "You're right. Sergeant Mpenzi? We should slow down, take it quietly."

Mpenzi nodded.

A couple of landings provided brief rest stops, a welcome respite from the 269 steep steps. But eventually, they reached another door ... with daylight spilling in around its edges. Jessamy pushed the handle down and eased the door open a crack, "I can't see anyone," she whispered back at the others.

In the cramped stairwell they would have to go through in single file. Jessamy hated this part of the job. She raised her SA80 and cautiously used the gun barrel to nudge the door open ...

A loud clapping of wings startled her, almost making her open fire. Her heart skipped a beat as a flock of tatty looking pigeons took flight from the lead covered flat roof in front of her. They'd made it.

"Nethybridge," ordered Mpenzi, scanning around, "set up comms. Call for immediate extraction from this location. They should be able to touch down in the car park out front."

Alison nodded and pulled out the battered radio, while Jessamy and Mpenzi went to the ornately carved stone parapet to survey the city spread out below.

"You do realise that if the crazies realise where we are, we're fucked?" Mpenzi asked, " one way up, one way down."

Jessamy nodded.

"Sorry about Seoras," Mpenzi continued, "he was a good man. I could tell you liked him."

Jessamy peered out over the city to avoid Mpenzi's eye. To the north and east the city's edges blurred into a range of undulating hills, the Cotswolds. To the south, the dim sunlight reflected on curves and meanders of the distant River Severn as it flowed into the Bristol Channel while to the west, the hills of the Forest of Dean rolled away to for miles to the foothills of the Black Mountains across the Welsh border.

"Bit of a wasted trip, eh?" Mpenzi continued.

Knowing what she'd learned from Bromden in Keswick, Jessamy wasn't so sure, "If intel says there's a bunker here, then they're probably right. We just haven't looked hard enough."

"Pfft. What does the brass know?" Mpenzi motioned towards Alison, "what happened last night?"

"Weitzman caught her alone, got a bit frisky. When she pushed him away he tried to rape her. Seoras shot him. She's shaken up but she'll be okay."

"Woodvale, this is Scavenger One. Are you receiving me?" Alison crouched in a corner clutching the handset with a worried expression.

Jessamy peered over the parapet towards Kingsholm Stadium. Had she spotted movement? Or was it just the scrawny fox she'd seen earlier?

"Woodvale, this is Scavenger One. Are you receiving me?"

Static.

Mpenzi shook her head and began checking her ammunition in preparation for heading back down to the ground.

"Woodvale, this is Scavenger One. Are you hearing this?"

"Scavenger One ... is Woodva ... breaking up ..."

"Yes!" Alison squealed, "Woodvale, this is Scavenger One. Can you boost your signal?"

Jessamy and Mpenzi waited, holding their breaths.

"Scaven ... this ... oodvale. Where are you?"

Mpenzi nodded as Alison looked up at her, "Woodvale, our search has been unsuccessful. Extraction point is compromised. Request immediate extraction from new location."

There was a moment of silence from the other end, then, "Negative Scavenger One. We are under attack from a large force of Reivers. Need all available air support. They have overrun Cumbria and are advancing south."

Jessamy paled. Cumbria?

"Ask them about Threlkeld," she blurted.

Alison watched her face for a second, saw the look of dread in her eyes, "Woodvale, is there ... any news of Threlkeld?"

"Scavenger one, one of our scouting missions flew over a couple of days ago. Everything in the area around Threlkeld and Keswick has been completely laid waste by Reivers. No survivors as far as we can tell."

Merida. Ross. All the other villagers. Dead? Jessamy cursed herself for not staying. She'd abandoned her best friend and her brother to who knew what horrible fate.

"... Sorry Scavenger One, but you're on your own ..."

As Alison finished the call, Mpenzi shouted from the north parapet, "Shit! I think the assholes that hit us last night have called in reinforcements. We're going to have company!"

Far below, just passing the old stadium, a small convoy of vehicles crept along the debris littered road from the direction of Innsworth. Tied to the bonnet of the lead vehicle, a bulky black pickup, three corpses still dressed in bloodied MTP uniforms - Weitzman, Sikorsky and Seoras.

Walking alongside, Jessamy estimated between forty and fifty men and women armed with both firearms and bladed weapons peered around. Searching ...

Hunting.

"They're coming this way," Jessamy murmured.

"Yeah," Mpenzi nodded.

"What do we do?" Alison asked in a quavery voice.

"We can't take on this lot and we can't just stay here and hope they don't find us," Mpenzi considered their options for a moment, "we need to run for it. Get down the stairs a-and away from the cathedral as fast as we can."

Jessamy had never heard Lupita Mpenzi sounding afraid. And that scared her more than anything.

"Run? Run where?" Alison whined, on the verge of panic.

"South," answered Mpenzi, "away from this lot. Let's go."

Leading the way, Mpenzi hurried back to the spiral staircase and headed down.

Their situation was grim. An army of murderous crazies only a few minutes away. Their food and ammunition running low and helicopter rescue from Woodvale out of the question. Their mission was a failure, and to top it all - Merida and Ross were either dead ... or prisoners of the Reivers.

Jessamy choked back tears as she clambered down into the darkness after Mpenzi and Alison ...

THE END OF CHAPTER SIX

"I'm no' feedin' ye if that's what yer after," shouted the spotty jailer. Outside the cell's high, narrow window, the sky over Kirkwall was growing dark. It would be night soon. Their last night, if Keaton had anything to do with it.

"I didn't expect you to," said Jessamy in a low voice, "it's just that ... if I'm going to be executed tomorrow I'd like to look my best and ... well ..."

She indicated the dried rivulets of blood on her face and clothes.

"There's running water in the sink," mumbled the youth in a surly tone and turned to leave. So much for the legendary bounty hunter and war hero Jessamy Beech, he thought.

"Wait," called Jessamy, "I don't suppose you could bring some soap and a towel, could you?" she slowly unzipped her softshell as if preparing to undress, arching her back to push her chest forward. Not taking her eyes off the youth's face for a second.

The jailer gulped, "I'll ... see what I can do. But no funny business okay?"

Jessamy smiled, "Okay."

"The wee shite probably doesnae know what soap is from the smell of him," whispered Hamnavoe as soon as the youth was out of sight.

"Ssh," hissed Jessamy and quickly stripped out of her softshell and stained t-shirts. She stood shivering, naked from the waist up but for her sports bra, noticing with dismay the angry purple bruises over her ribcage from numerous kicks.

Seemingly interminable minutes later, the jailer returned and handed a towel and a bar of some greenish soap made from seaweed through the bars. His eyes went wide as he noticed Jessamy's state of undress. She smiled her most charming smile, "Thanks ever so much ... sorry, I don't know your name ..."

"D-dougal."

"Thankyou Dougal. I'll make sure I tell Mr Keaton what an ... attentive jailer you've been."

Hamnavoe coughed, simultaneously muttering, "Bollocks."

Jessamy worked up a lather with the soap and washed the blood from her face and neck with long, slow hand movements. Tracing the lines and contours of her celtic tattoos with her fingertips. Working steadily downward she soaped the tanned skin of her shoulders and throat. Dougal watched, like a hungry dog watches someone with a pocketful of biscuits.

"Ouch," winced Jessamy, "I think I've got a bruised shoulder too. Your militia men were really quite rough. If I take this bra off, would you soap my back for me please Dougal?"

Without waiting for a response, she turned away and slipped her sports bra off over her head. She giggled as she passed the soap behind her to Dougal, "It must be quite chilly in here, my little nipples are stood out like corks."

Dougal simply stared with a dopey smile. His hands, trembling with anticipation, dropped the soap and he took a while to find it again in the gathering gloom of the cell block. Jessamy backed up to the cell's bars, pulled her dreadlocks to one side and presented her naked back to him, "Be gentle please Dougal, I'm a bit sore."

Dougal licked his lips, "Alright, but no funny business, okay?"

"Of course not," Jessamy purred, "if you do a good job, I may let you do the front as well."

That was all the invitation the young jailer needed. He eagerly stretched a hand through the bars and started lathering Jessamy's smooth back ...

With one quick movement, she spun around, grabbed Dougal's hand and snapped two of his fingers. She roughly yanked his arm towards her, slamming his face into the metal bars with a resounding clang. He collapsed to the concrete floor, out cold.

Jessamy crouched down, reached through the bars and hooked the keyring from his belt.

"Nice tits JB," observed Hamnavoe.

She ignored that and tossed him the keys, "Make yourself useful, unlock the cell doors while I get dressed."

"What's to stop me hightailing it out of here and leaving you locked up?" he asked as he unlocked and opened his cell door.

"Because I believe ..." said Jessamy, pulling on her t-shirts, "that under that fuckwitted wankerish exterior you're actually a good person."

Hamnavoe didn't respond, but quickly unlocked Jessamy's own cell. They dragged the unconscious Dougal into one of the empty cells and locked him in.

"Now what?"

"We get off the islands and go after Trevithick," Jessamy answered. Or real name Admiral Dale Fredrickson, she told herself.

Hamnavoe shook his head, "We havnae a clue where the fucker's gone. He could be anywhere on the mainland."

"Was there somewhere Trevithick holed up while he was here on Orkney?"

"Yeah," Hamnavoe listened at the door leading through into the main part of the old police station, "he used an old flat on the way to Hatston Pier. He's no' gonnae be there though."

"No, but there might be something that'll give us a clue."

"We've got to get there first JB."

. . .

It took almost four hours to get across Kirkwall. The militia were all out, quelling any trouble from the restless locals, leaving the police station deserted. Jessamy and Hamnavoe sneaked out a rear fire exit and from there found their way to Trevithick's flat near Hatston Pier, keeping to the shadows and avoiding people.

Neither of them were in a fit state to move fast or put up a fight. They both knew that if they were discovered, they were dead. Hamnavoe knew where the murderer kept his spare key and quietly let them both in to the seedy ground floor flat. Ideally they needed to be far from Kirkwall when the militia discovered Dougal and raised the alarm.

"He's cleaned the place out," whispered Hamnavoe.

Cupboards and drawers in the mismatched furniture had been opened and emptied. Dirty crockery sat in the sink, along with empty food packets and tins. But that wasn't what had caught Jessamy's eye ...

"Take a look at this," she called Hamnavoe into the flat's only bedroom. Above a sagging bookshelf, scrawled in red paint across the wall was a message ...

EVERYONE WILL DIE

"What the fuck does that mean?" Hamnavoe asked.

"I was hoping you'd know. It doesn't sound good," Jessamy examined the few scuffed paperbacks lined up on the shelf. One in particular caught her eye, with fluorescent green post-its marking several pages.

"This is useless. We better go before it gets light," Hamnavoe moved towards the door.

"Just a second," Jessamy flicked through the book. Quotations from famous people about life, love, politics, religion ... and death. One quote was highlighted, each word carefully underlined. A couple of lines from a long dead Welsh poet on the subject of death:

Do not go gentle into that good night; Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

She'd seen this somewhere before. It had been read aloud to her. This was somehow important.

"JB? We should be going ..."

"Quiet," Jessamy hissed, "let me think."

Death ...

She recalled what Bromden the scientist had told her almost twenty years earlier on board the wreckage of Air Force One, about the giant rock that threatened all life on Earth, "It was named Thanatos after the personification of Death in Greek mythology. The asteroid would pass very close by but would just miss us ..."

This was a quote about death. Thanatos ...

Realisation came like a nuclear explosion inside Jessamy's mind. She knew exactly where she'd seen these words. Gloucester Cathedral. She glanced at the message scrawled on the wall above and was filled with dread.

"JB, what is it lass? Ye look as if ye've seen a ghost?" Hamnavoe peeped warily through the threadbare curtains at the street outside.

"How could I have been so fucking stupid? I know where Trevithick's going. And I know why ..."

COMING SOON - CHAPTER SEVEN: THRELKELD