seventeenth century. But in the end it was a very easy decision.
The sign on the motorway showed that they were nearing their junction, and Tanek radioed to the rest of the convoy that they would soon be branching off for their target. Their truck led the way into the city itself, down roads that were more densely packed with abandoned cars: so much so that one of the Challengers had to overtake and plough them out of the way, parting the metallic sea like a khaki Moses. It made sense for this behemoth to be in front anyway, now that they were heading into potentially hostile territory again.
The vehicles made their way into the middle of the city, but saw very little in the way of action until they’d almost reached the bus depot, passing red brick buildings, some with square windows, others arched, many with looted shops below. The square grey building, which looked like it housed a multi-storey car park as well, was obviously being used as some sort of HQ. And the people inside, who leaned over and started firing at the vehicles, were also quite well armed.
Bullets pinged off the tanks, the trucks and the APCs, as the motorcycle escorts zipped just ahead of the shots.
De Falaise radioed to Henrik, driving the tank up front. He could imagine the man, still chomping on one of those cigars he loved so much, loading a live shell and then working the tank gun so that it pointed at the depot. The thunderous roar that accompanied the blast was deafening. It took out a chunk of the building’s side, and with it most of the people who’d been firing at the vehicles. When the smoked cleared, a blue sign with a white ‘P’ on it was dangling from the corner of the wounded building.
More gunfire, this time from the ground level. Men and women emerging from the white classical-looking buildings to the left. De Falaise’s men returned fire using the range of rifles they’d amassed which, even in their rookie hands, were more than a match for cannibalised handguns and shotguns. Some hostiles were even using air rifles!
The skirmish lasted all of ten minutes. It was obvious that, as elsewhere, no one was anywhere near ready to fight such a potent foe.
That proved to be the case again as they carried on up towards the market square, its fountain long-since dried up. Packs of armed people used the city’s buses and trams – some of which had been tipped onto their sides – for cover. More shells from the tanks caused them to calm down and a series of rockets were launched at the square’s council house, cracking the grey-green clock tower dome and the pillars that stood out front, while the stone lions guarding the entranceway looked on. Its inhabitants raced from the building, fleeing like mice from a skirting board. They held their hands in the air, not saying a word as De Falaise’s men took them prisoner. Each would be offered the same ‘opportunity’ to serve in his employ.
Onward they went, trampling what little resistance they encountered like a size fourteen boot stamping on an ants’ nest. To De Falaise’s surprise and delight, he found the main object of their campaign virtually untouched. Not one person appeared to have had the same notion as him, to use this as their base – when it seemed such an obvious candidate. They entered through the black metal side gates round the corner from the main arched gateway, letting their vehicles inside.
Once his men had established that there was nobody in residence, De Falaise and Tanek stepped out of their Bedford to survey the area. The gardens were in turmoil, now that there was nobody to maintain them: in fact they were creeping over onto the path, snaking their way towards his future residence. To his right, De Falaise spotted a war memorial, the names of the dead who’d fallen in action. And he could just see some steps behind all the foliage, beneath which were two archways set into the rocks.
But there would be time to explore both the grounds and the
The sign on the motorway showed that they were nearing their junction, and Tanek radioed to the rest of the convoy that they would soon be branching off for their target. Their truck led the way into the city itself, down roads that were more densely packed with abandoned cars: so much so that one of the Challengers had to overtake and plough them out of the way, parting the metallic sea like a khaki Moses. It made sense for this behemoth to be in front anyway, now that they were heading into potentially hostile territory again.
The vehicles made their way into the middle of the city, but saw very little in the way of action until they’d almost reached the bus depot, passing red brick buildings, some with square windows, others arched, many with looted shops below. The square grey building, which looked like it housed a multi-storey car park as well, was obviously being used as some sort of HQ. And the people inside, who leaned over and started firing at the vehicles, were also quite well armed.
Bullets pinged off the tanks, the trucks and the APCs, as the motorcycle escorts zipped just ahead of the shots.
De Falaise radioed to Henrik, driving the tank up front. He could imagine the man, still chomping on one of those cigars he loved so much, loading a live shell and then working the tank gun so that it pointed at the depot. The thunderous roar that accompanied the blast was deafening. It took out a chunk of the building’s side, and with it most of the people who’d been firing at the vehicles. When the smoked cleared, a blue sign with a white ‘P’ on it was dangling from the corner of the wounded building.
More gunfire, this time from the ground level. Men and women emerging from the white classical-looking buildings to the left. De Falaise’s men returned fire using the range of rifles they’d amassed which, even in their rookie hands, were more than a match for cannibalised handguns and shotguns. Some hostiles were even using air rifles!
The skirmish lasted all of ten minutes. It was obvious that, as elsewhere, no one was anywhere near ready to fight such a potent foe.
That proved to be the case again as they carried on up towards the market square, its fountain long-since dried up. Packs of armed people used the city’s buses and trams – some of which had been tipped onto their sides – for cover. More shells from the tanks caused them to calm down and a series of rockets were launched at the square’s council house, cracking the grey-green clock tower dome and the pillars that stood out front, while the stone lions guarding the entranceway looked on. Its inhabitants raced from the building, fleeing like mice from a skirting board. They held their hands in the air, not saying a word as De Falaise’s men took them prisoner. Each would be offered the same ‘opportunity’ to serve in his employ.
Onward they went, trampling what little resistance they encountered like a size fourteen boot stamping on an ants’ nest. To De Falaise’s surprise and delight, he found the main object of their campaign virtually untouched. Not one person appeared to have had the same notion as him, to use this as their base – when it seemed such an obvious candidate. They entered through the black metal side gates round the corner from the main arched gateway, letting their vehicles inside.
Once his men had established that there was nobody in residence, De Falaise and Tanek stepped out of their Bedford to survey the area. The gardens were in turmoil, now that there was nobody to maintain them: in fact they were creeping over onto the path, snaking their way towards his future residence. To his right, De Falaise spotted a war memorial, the names of the dead who’d fallen in action. And he could just see some steps behind all the foliage, beneath which were two archways set into the rocks.
But there would be time to explore both the grounds and the
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