The Last Sunset (11 page)

“Aw, come on. How was Ah tae know the bastards
would come today? This wasn’t supposed tae happen until the twenty-first.”

Macsorley still looked wretched, and smelt of
stale whisky and cow-dung, but he seemed to be sobering up. Fast.

“How’s the head?”

“Like Ah’ve been drinking two-hundred-year-old
whisky.”

“Aye? Serves ye right.” The corporal indicated
Macsorley’s S.L.R. “That magazine’s empty. Load with a fresh mag.”

“D’you think Ah’ll need it? D’you think they’re
gonnae come again?”

“Well, they haven’t legged it, so Ah figure it’s
only a matter of time… Ah just wish Ah knew what the hell they were planning.”

It wasn’t long before his wish was granted.
Macmillan saw a puff of smoke appear above the nearest thatched roof. A musket
ball pinged off the outside wall. This was followed by a second shot, and then
a third, as other carefully positioned infantrymen opened up a steady fire on
the cottage. Before long some of the balls were whistling through the open
window and door, ricocheting off the far wall.

“You’ve no’ been making too many friends around
here, have ye? Ah mean, these guys just haven’t warmed tae you at all.”
Macsorley kept well away from the window. “Maybe we should get the women out of
here.”

Macmillan shook his head. “Don’t be stupid,
they’re hardly gonnae be any safer out there. Go and talk tae them but, bring
them over tae this near wall where they’ll be out of the line of fire.”

“What about Achnacon?”

“The old guy? Aye, bring him too. If ye cannae
wake him, drag him over.” He nodded towards Rae and Ferguson, who remained
unconscious in the corner. “Get those two numpties on their feet as well, in
case we have tae break out of here.”

Outside, the flare of the muskets was becoming
more and more prominent in the fading light. Even without the tell-tale flash,
Macmillan could clearly make out each of their attackers. Soldiers who were
trained to wage war in tightly packed ranks had no reason to conceal
themselves, so long as they believed they’d cornered a group of rebels armed
with smoothbore muskets.

He settled his sights on a soldier positioned on
the roof of the nearest cottage. He was about to squeeze the trigger when the
musket fire slackened, and then suddenly died away to nothing.

Macmillan peered into the gloom. “That’s it now,
just cut yer losses and sod off back to yer wee fort.”

“Thank God for that,” said Macsorley. “Ah didn’t
fancy the idea of…” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Uh oh.”

“What’s up?”

“We’re on fire!”

“What?”

“We’re on fire! They’ve set light tae the roof!”

Macmillan could see it for himself then. At
either end of the cottage, smoke was billowing from the blackened thatch. As
the musket fire broke out again he realised the sniping had only slackened off
while the thatch was being fired.

Until that moment the women had been trying to
tempt the master of the house back to consciousness. Now they hauled him to his
feet and began to drag him towards the door.

“Mac! Stop them!” Macmillan yelled. “They’re
dead if they go out there.”

Before the soldier could intervene the women
encountered the mound of corpses. They veered away and came to a frightened
standstill beside Macsorley.

“Mac, tell them we’ll get them out of this. Tell
them tae concentrate on wakening up Achnacon.”

The corporal bounded over to Rae and Ferguson
and dragged them both onto the floor.

“Aw, whassamatter here, eh?” Rae snarled like a
disturbed grizzly. “Whatrafuck’s goin’ on?”

“Save it!” Macmillan snapped. “The place is on
fire! The redcoats are outside!”

“Redcoats…?”

“Wur on fire…?”

Bloodshot eyes widened in horror as they took in
the thick smoke billowing out of the thatch above their heads. Macsorley
meanwhile had managed to calm the women down. All looked expectantly at
Macmillan.

“Mac, we’re gonnae have tae take on those guys
out there, otherwise they’ll slaughter us as we go out that door.”

Macsorley swallowed horribly. “What d’you want
me tae do?”

“Okay, Ah’m gonnae start from the window. You
clear the bodies away from that doorway. Let me know when you’re done!”

The shooting outside had died away now;
Macmillan had no doubt they were waiting for the occupants to come spilling out
of the cottage. He searched out the redcoats whose positions he’d marked
earlier. They remained as he’d left them, muskets at the ready, like antique
targets on a firing range. His sights settled on the face of the soldier he’d
reprieved earlier; he gave the trigger a gentle squeeze and the familiar crack
of the S.L.R. lifted the redcoat clear off the roof. Before his body had
reached the ground Macmillan had marked his next target.

Like a deranged sniper he continued to mark and
shoot, mark and shoot, firing round after round at the would-be execution
squad. By the time he’d run out of targets the scale of his actions had removed
any sense of guilt or accountability.

By now the roof beams were well ablaze. Rae and
Ferguson had made their way into the middle of Achnacon’s family group, drawn
there by some blind herding instinct. Both looked as though they’d woken up in
someone else’s nightmare. Dumbly they stood and watched as Macsorley struggled
to clear the corpses from the doorway, while flaming stalks of bracken rained
down on them.

It was now that Achnacon’s bovine resident
decided that enough was enough. Bellowing with pent-up terror the animal charged
out of the byre, towards its only exit from the inferno. With one sweep of its
horns it knocked Macsorley out of the way, then bulldozed the corpses before it
as it careered out of the cottage. Its appearance drew a ragged volley of
musket fire, which only enraged it further. With horns swinging from side to
side the animal charged towards the nearest group of soldiers, who immediately
took to their heels. The others wavered, uncertain whether to reload or engage
with the bayonet. In the end they did neither. The maddened animal swung this
way and that, launching itself at anything it didn’t like, and it did not like
the redcoated soldiers with their strange-shaped hats and carrying those noisy
sticks.

The women of Achnacon took advantage of the mayhem
and followed their saviour out of the cottage, still supporting their
unconscious chieftain. Rae and Ferguson were swept along with them, like
sleepwalkers in a crowd.

In an instant all had melted into the gathering
darkness.

As soon as Macsorley was clear of the inferno he
dived to the ground, rifle at the ready. What remained of the enemy, however,
was now in full retreat, pursued by Achnacon’s deranged milk-cow.

Inside the cottage Macmillan threw the weapons
and ammunition box through the window. The heat was so intense he could feel
his hair smouldering. As he looked around to check nothing had been missed he
heard the sound of wood cracking and knew the roof was about to give way.

Macsorley bellowed at his corporal to get out.
Too late, the main timbers broke apart, collapsing into the building with a
loud crash. Smoke and flame billowed out of the doorway. For one moment
Macsorley considered battling through the flames, but he knew he’d be
committing suicide.

At that moment something began to materialize
from the wall of the cottage, like a moth emerging from its chrysalis.
Macmillan had taken the only remaining exit from the inferno, and was
struggling to pull himself free from the window. He was heaving with all his
might but had become wedged in the narrow opening. Macsorley grabbed his N.C.O.
by the collars of his combat jacket and added his weight to the struggle.

“Bloody pouches,” Macmillan grunted. “Shoulda
taken them off…”

“Breathe out! Empty yer lungs!” Macsorley hauled
with all his strength, but his N.C.O. seemed to be cemented into the wall. He
could see the first flicker of pain in Macmillan’s face as the flames began to
lick around his legs.

“Mac. Listen tae me,” said the corporal, his
eyes bright with fear, “Ah’m finished. Pick up yer S.L.R. Put one intae the
head. There’s no other way…”

Macsorley recoiled, his eyes widening in horror.

“Mac, ye cannae leave me like this…”

Macsorley picked up the rifle and levered a
round into the firing chamber. He pointed the weapon at the corporal’s head…

“Get it over with!”

Macsorley dropped the rifle. “No! This isn’t
right…”

With a roar of anger he grabbed hold of
Macmillan’s combat jacket and levered both his feet against the wall of the
house. “Come — on — ye — fat — swine,” he intoned fiercely. “Move — yer —
horrible — carcass…”

Macsorley could hear Macmillan screaming, and
then felt something give. He adjusted his footing, and slowly, steadily, as if
he were easing a bung from a barrel, he pulled the soldier to safety.

As Macmillan fell on top of him Macsorley rolled
his corporal over and over on the damp ground to smother any flames. Then he
peeled off his burnt clothing and footwear. The soles of his boots were like
melted liquorice.

Above them flames licked around the edges of the
empty window, searching for their escaped prey.

“How are ye, Corp?” Macsorley asked.

Macmillan was trembling with shock, but he
didn’t seem too badly burnt. He held up his combat webbing, which Macsorley had
torn in two as he’d pulled the corporal free.

“…Stubborn wee article,” he muttered.

With a satisfied smile Macsorley took off his
tartan phillamhor and laid it over Macmillan. His own uniform had gone up in
flames but he could scrounge another plaid from Achnacon tomorrow.

Somewhere on the darkening hillside above he could
hear Rae and Ferguson calling to each other, like two lost souls.

Sam awoke to a world shrouded in mist. This
wasn’t the mist with which he was familiar; the gentle salt-laden fog that
drifts into San Francisco bay, like the sweet breath of the Pacific. Instead,
this was something bleak and cold, that chilled him to the bone.

A few yards away, Shawnee lay face down on the
wet heather. For one terrible moment he thought she was dead, but as he turned
her over she twitched like a puppy in the midst of a bad dream. She woke with a
last, frightened jerk, staring at Sam in wide-eyed panic, before the fear began
to melt from her face.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

“I dunno. I know something… terrible happened,
but…” Sam took in the grey moorland around them. “We were on vacation, in
Europe… Scotland… but I don’t recall anything like this.”

Shawnee struggled to sit up. “Glen Laragain! We
were in Glen Laragain! We were hurrying, trying to get away, from… from…”

It came back to them both then: That searing
sky; the hellish explosion that had risen into the heavens before their eyes;
the final horror as an arm of fire had reached down into Glen Laragain, as
though Satan had resolved to incinerate the last shreds of humanity.

“Oh dear God, Sam…” The terror was back in her
face. “It was like the end of the world!”

She shivered as he put his arms around her. She
felt tiny and fragile.

“I don’t understand. We’re still in Glen
Laragain, yet it’s all different.”

“None of it makes any sense. How come there’s not
even a scorch mark, for God-sakes? Where did all this mist come from? And why
is it so freakin cold?”

Shawnee’s trembling began to ease as she drew
some warmth from Sam. He took off her backpack and pulled out a little quilted
anorak, which he draped over her shoulders.

“I figured the nights might get cold in
Scotland, so I packed these.” He dug out a similar anorak from his own
backpack. “Shoulda got matching pants as well, huh?”

“Sam, you don’t think what we saw coulda been a
vision of the future? I mean, if a lotta people have seen images of the past
here, then maybe it works both ways.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I dunno. It’s
possible, I guess. It’s just, what the guy said on the radio; everything that
happened after; it all kinda made sense, y’know? But there’s something else
been bothering me. Listen, can you hear that sound?”

She turned her head to one side and listened
intently for a few moments. “Yes I hear it; running water.” Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God! It’s running water! In Glen Laragain!”

“Yeah. There doesn’t seem to be a whole lotta
global warming around anymore, does there?”

They rose to their feet then, gazing fearfully
around them, like two children who’d woken up in the dead of night.

“Next year; what say we vacation somewhere nice
and safe, like Egypt, or Afghanistan.”

Sam helped her on with her backpack. “We need to
locate that cottage we started off at; then get back to the car.”

They set off hand in hand; following the
contours of the land as it gradually fell away towards the east. Ground that
had been crisp underfoot was now damp and boggy. Soon they encountered a path
that ran parallel with the burn. Here the water ran clear and pure as it
cascaded along well-worn channels.