G. H. BRIGHT

 

THE WOODMAN, EBOLA, modified for reasons not fully understood at first, wipes out 90% of Humankind.

For those that did survive, Ebola, known as The Death to those that lived, is the least of their worries. 

 

BOOK ONE IN THE WOODMAN SERIES.

 

Amazon Paperback version

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Woodman-Book-One-Roads/dp/1496024958

 

Amazon E-book version

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Woodman-Roads-Hell-ebook/dp/B00BK9V3PQ

 

     THIS IS A CONTINUOUS SERIES, WITH THE THREAT OF MORE BOOKS TO COME (ALTHOUGH THESE WILL BE

     STAND-ALONE STORIES) CONTINUING THE STORY OF LIFE AFTER THE LIGHTS GO OUT.                                                                                                   

 

To purchase, please use the buttons on the right.

 

 

 

DIFFERENT COVERS USED ON SMASHWORDS BOOKS.

 

                         SMASHWORDS Cover by G. H. Bright. AMAZON Cover by AMAZON & G. H. Bright.

 

                           YOU TUBE TRAILER. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7pL2JoS-kY#t=64

 

 　

Ebola has spread across the globe taking 90% of human life with astonishing speed.

Those that it mercifully leaves alive are a mixture of good and evil. Duke Woods, the Woodman, faces the challenge head-on and tries to bring peace to a ravished world. 

 

Published 2013

　

Copyright © G. H. Bright 2000

　

The Woodman.

Book One.The Roads of Hell.

 

All persons, events and descriptions within this work are fictional and are the work of the above named Author.

 

The locations are real (with the exception of the city inside the hill & Duke’s home) and relate to the south coast of England

　

 

Psalm 23:4

"Even though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil."

 

PROLOGUE.

The nice man coughed as he entered the plane, hand over mouth, no one reacted to the few flecks of blood because they didn’t see them and he didn’t say anything about them. The stewardess tried to help him as he stumbled but he politely brushed her away.

By mid flight he was coughing more and more, and people were starting to take a lot of notice of him. The stewardess wondered at her sudden headache and why she could not shift it.

When the plane touched down at Heathrow the gentleman left the plane complaining of sickness. Six hours later he was in hospital with suspected influenza. Within twelve hours he was coughing up blood in an isolation ward, and it was more than just a few flecks of blood. His skin erupted in boils, which subsequently burst, spraying the helpers in blooded fluid.

Twenty-four hours after he stepped on that plane he was dead. Covered in his own blood and vomit, his organs turned to mush, he stopped screaming and choking on his own fluids and internal parts and finally gave up the fight for life.

The man was on day four of his infection when he boarded the aircraft, but the rest of the world was about to begin day one. Many would not make the four days!

   Over three hundred and fifty passengers and all the staff that got off that same flight ended their day coughing. Most went home, some went to the doctors, and others simply changed flights and jetted out again from the worlds busiest airport, destinations unknown. Within twenty-four hours they were either gravely ill or dying, unsuspectingly spreading the virus as they went.

   Everyone they met, touched, spoke to or passed by, coughed themselves to sleep that night. Some of them got up the next morning, many did not. Those that made it through the night spread the disease to others the next day, and it took only another full day for whole countries to become infected.

As cars and trucks went out on the road and trains ran on their rails, as kids went to school and adults went to work, the killer within them struck out at them all, indiscriminate in its quest. News came in from around the world, all reporting the same thing. People coughing, bleeding profusely and dying. Reports of agonising deaths, each and every one of them, covered the globe, and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

What the World Health Organisation, WHO, at first thought was influenza spread like wildfire. Twelve hours after the man was admitted to hospital in London it had become clear that this was not influenza but a virus known as Ebola. Identified or not, it was sadly, by that time, already too late to do anything.

   Millions filled the Internet chat rooms with statements of hysteria, but that didn't help anybody, either. Panic set in, riots ensued and even though quarantines were set up, nothing stopped the march of Ebola. Those brave souls treating the sick joined them in their own deaths. The Zaire strain of Ebola, the most deadly strain of the virus had become airborne. It raced around the world, continuing to mutate as it went. All surfaces were suspect. A grab rail on a bus became a transmittable surface for death. Water globules in the air breathed out by an infected person quickly sought out another potential victim and the odds of survival became virtually zero. The virus changed as it went along, stronger with each and every day, the incubation period dropping from around twelve days to two days, tops. There was a hope the cold climates might not be to its liking but that proved wrong. The governments asked that people stay calm but that, naturally, didn’t work, either.

   No one could have done more than W.H.O, but for many it was never going to be enough. The old and the infirm dropped quickly, but so did some people who looked to be fit and real fighters. The virus was not picky!

Ebola, once trapped in the jungles of Africa was now loose in the world. This horrendous killer had one goal, the destruction of mankind and it carried out that task with alarming speed.

 

On day two of the outbreak, Mark Smith, an unassuming young man with a great future ahead of him, realised he was not well. He blamed that bugger behind him on the plane, the one who coughed his way across the African continent and Europe. ‘I must have flu,’ he conceded, trying to get up from the couch. His head spun, the world went over and he was sick on the rug before the fire. Sam would go mad. She was due home soon, expecting a meal made for her, and she was going to hit the roof seeing that.

   Mark thought about cleaning it up, and then he drifted off. When he woke, with severe pain in the gut, the puke was still there. He was hot, so very hot, and sweaty too. He dropped his hand from his face and saw red blotches on his skin. What the hell were they? Mark tried to sit up, found it impossible and rolled onto his side instead. He hit the floor hard, the pain that wracked through him almost made him pass out.

Focusing on the task at hand, Mark tried to get up, get to his knees and remove the phone from his pocket. He needed help and he needed it now. The phone slipped from his grasp and he threw up again.

   The next thing he remembered was waking up in bed. Sam was there beside him holding a cool flannel to his forehead. Mark tried to speak but she put a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t speak, baby, doctors on his way.’

When the doctor arrived he immediately rang for an ambulance. He was told they were too busy and the patient would have to make their own way to hospital. Mark started to convulse, shake erratically and scream out for Sam. 'I'm blind,' he screamed. 'Oh my God, I’ve gone blind, Sam!'

   Later that night, when the doctor had left, saying there was nothing he could do, but he would get an ambulance, Mark died in Sam’s arms. His death was not violent; he slipped away in a coma knowing nothing of it. The virus having taken far more than just his sight, ensured his heart stopped pumping blood around his body, and he faded away. Sam joined him the following evening. She was not so lucky. Her death was violent, shaking and scared; she died in the bed next to Mark. The baby she carried aborted and she died from kidney and liver failure as the organs turned to mush and leaked from her body.

At about the same time, the doctor, having got nowhere with the promised transport to the hospital, and having seen many other such cases, wondered at his temperature and why he felt so sick. Then he saw the news on TV, discovered the boils on his chest, and knew he was going to die.

 

Amy Perkins thought of the man on the flight the day before. She knew he must have had the 'Winter bug', the one that gets so many schools shut down every winter in England. That’s what this was, the Norovirus. And that silly sod gave it to her.

Yet she knew somehow, this was not really the winter bug at all. It didn’t give you such pain and aches, did it? Every muscle in her body hurt. Her legs, her arms, it was even difficult just keeping her head up, and as for her stomach...

Everything was an effort. Finally she managed to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. It was more of a stagger, gripping the wall and a small table for support, but she made it. Amy wondered if any other flight crew had this. She’d ring Patty and see how she was. Patty had more to do with the man so she most likely had this too, and worse.

The television was still on in the other room, she hadn’t switched off last night, and she was distantly aware of someone saying something about Ebola, whatever that was.

   Amy rubbed her left eye, gripping the sink with her right hand, and noticed, as she pulled her arm away, a smear of blood on the back of her knuckles. Her arms were blotchy, too. She mused over the blood in confusion. Then looked in the mirror and screamed!

Blood oozed out of the corners of her lid and the right eye looked ready to follow. As Amy screamed, she was sick. A torrent of bile, blood and something else jettisoned from her. She collapsed to the floor, on her knees, supported only by her right arm. She stared at the pool of sick with disbelief. What was that? She had no idea what she was looking at was her throat lining. The pain told her there was something seriously wrong and terror seized her as she was sick for a second time. Her tongue burnt, actually felt like it was on fire, and more unimaginable things came out of her mouth. Something pressed against the back of her teeth. Amy opened her mouth and a red blooded thing plopped onto the bathroom rug.

If she had more time and her brain was functioning rationally, Amy would have realised her tongue, no longer attached, had exited her body. Amy was too busy breathing in her own blood and body mush to think of that.

   She died in abject agony on her bathroom floor, laid in her own blood and internals.

 

Roland Hargreaves was on the same flight. He had travelled, as his pharmaceutical reporter’s job required and expected, to Zaire, Botswana and South Africa, where he caught the flight to Heathrow. He took the underground to South Ealing, then changed to the District line and got off at Chiswick Park. Entering his flat, he made sure everything was all right, checked his mail and showered the grim away. He took another Tube ride; this time to Earl’s Court and then the Circle line to Paddington.

Roland had every intention of going into work. He usually did go in after a flight. He’d write up his notes then take the rest of the day off. It was an agreement he and the boss had, and it worked well. The magazine article would have to wait today, however. Roland did not feel good at all. Roland clutched his stomach constantly and his nose ran, as well. He became hot, his vision blurred and he found it hard to swallow. He phoned in, just about got the words out that he did not feel at all good, and he told the boss he would write it up at home and send it in via e-mail. The boss wondered why he didn’t always do that, wished him well and said ‘See you tomorrow.’

   Roland made the return trip feeling unwell and sheepish. He always went in to work, even when he could work from home he never did. He missed the buzz of the city and meeting his work mates. Roland lived alone, had done since the wife walked out, and he needed human contact.

Putting the key in the lock and giving it a turn, Roland opened the door to his flat. That was the exact moment he shit himself!

Roland, embarrassed as hell, swung round, looked to see if anyone had noticed and slammed the door shut. He made it to the loo with a shuffle, clutching his stomach, and reversing up, dropped his trousers and stood there in complete horror.

   Doctors say you should look at your poo for signs of blood. Roland looked at his blood for signs of poo. He collapsed on the floor of the toilet, tears streaming down his face. He noticed the tears were red but that didn’t matter any more. He was lost in a world of pain and horror. Unable to breathe and swallow, Roland died on the toilet floor clutching his abdomen in agony and crying for his estranged wife.

   With the amount of flights in and out of Heathrow every day, Ebola had a swift and comfy ride to the four corners of the earth. These people, Roland, Amy, Mark, the doctor and the unnamed man died and no one cared. No one cared because they did not have the time to care. They were too busy wondering what the hell had hit the human race.

 

The three hundred and fifty plus passengers on that flight met and infected over three thousand people that first day. They infected thousands more that they met and did not meet, leaving their sweaty imprints on surfaces of all kinds for others to pick up. Those thousands infected tens of thousands more. At the end of day two, millions had become infected and the world grew quiet. By day three it was all but over. It was so easy for the virus. It's simple math!

   To Ebola it was as if all its birthdays had come at once! Ebola became the child in a toy shop, the bull in a china shop and the assassin of almost the entire human race.

Survivors clung to whatever sanity they had left. As it quickly became an annihilation of biblical proportions, isolation and desolate areas became the main thought and priority of many. Keep away from others at all costs!

The rotting bodies littered the streets, offices and homes, shops and pubs, cars and trains. They died where they dropped; the hospitals overflowed with the dead, churches became the last vestiges for many, with bodies floating on a sea of blood, flowing into the streets. Law and order broke down rapidly, it became a case of survive at all costs, sod everyone else.

In these few short days of destruction the mud was flung near and wide. The Americans said it was the Russians setting off a virus by accident. Hard core Muslims blamed the Christians, and everyone sided against the Jews. Whites blamed Blacks and Arabs, too, and riots broke out everywhere. Looting, fires and murder became commonplace as people fought to stay alive and away from each other, protecting their little piece of turf.

   The Ebola virus had escaped from the jungles of Africa, boarded the plane inside the man, and become airborne in more ways than one.

   The air conditioning system on that plane with the unnamed man on board did very well, carrying his blood flecks and snot speckled coughs around the plane continuously.

One day there was seven billion living breathing people on planet earth. Then there were mere millions, spread out all across the globe.

 

By day four the planet effectively fell silent. The power supplies went on for a while longer, the Internet stayed right where it was, but nobody much used it. They were too busy dying or trying to stay alive. Barricading themselves in or taking flight, most people had no time to sit at a computer and chat. When the lights finally went out many people ended their lives anyway.    They could not face a future as bleak as that. With no mains power all electrical essentials stopped working, too. No support, no hope and no answers. For many, that was just too much to bear. The prospect of a long cold future held nothing for them.

For those that did survive the world was an alien place. Chickenpox Rickets and Polio came back with a vengeance. Starvation, murder, poisoned by their inability to cook food properly and sanitise water, death from broken bones and cuts as well as being hunted for food, was the life for many now. Mankind had regressed thousands of years from the electronic age of consumer consumption. Hand to mouth became the order of the day.

The nice man who boarded that plane and who wouldn’t hurt a fly, kick-started the near destruction of the human race, and he didn’t even know it.

1.

 

Three years later

Duke Woods heard the men before he saw them. From the sound of it, and they made a lot of it, there were three people coming his way and they were in a hurry.

He had seen three dirty, shabby men yesterday as he crossed a road. One man was swarthy, one short and thin as bones, emaciated, and the third, tall and almost as thin as the other. Duke took in details like that rapidly. His life sometimes depended on it, just as it seemed it might right at that moment.

The men had stood and stared at him from a distance as Duke crossed in front of them. Now it sounded as if they had caught up with him and he would just have to fight, like it or not.

The morning had started well, Duke having spent a restless night in the boughs of a tree, had just had breakfast with a squirrel sharing his meagre meal, and having had a bad nights sleep, he was thinking the day might be somewhat better.

His longbow and quiver of arrows sat propped at the trunk of the oak in which he had slept. His small backpack, which he carried and never wore on his back, sat before him, and he sat cross-legged sharing nuts and berries with Mr. Red Squirrel.

On the other side of the oak tree there was a river, fast flowing and full. The far bank was home to many more trees, some evergreen, others starting to bare all as the leaves fell. The view across the water was nonetheless dark and foreboding. To each side of Duke, stood thick impenetrable forest of fir tree, cutting out the light autumnal breeze, and making a natural fortress barrier.

It should be mid-autumn, but winter was coming early. Duke knew that. Birds that fly south had left long ago, well before their normal migration times. Berries, plants and animals all behaved differently, staying hidden or coming out early, ready for a hard winter which Duke thought might be only days away.

In front of Duke, the only route to where he was, evergreen bushes grew and swept to each side, creating a wall and barrier to the tree line. This, therefore, was an area easy to defend and an area that could also easily become a trap.

At the first sound of the men crashing through forest, the squirrel had darted off, up the tree, round and round he went, disappearing into what was left of the green canopy above.

They won’t have tracked me, thought Duke, as he ran his hands up and down the wood of the bow, warming it prior to use. They found me by luck alone, of that I’m sure, Duke mused.

By the time the lead man came through the undergrowth Duke had his bow pointed directly at him. The raggedy guy came through a gap in two-meter high evergreens, and Duke loosed the arrow straight at his heart.

The other two burst through the gap, hot on his heels, pulling up short as they saw their comrade fall. Another arrow already nocked and ready saw the emaciated man take a hit in the chest and the third man dropped his weapon and screamed for mercy.

The man was as dirty as the others, skinny, sweaty and carried many more weapons besides the sword he dropped.

The weapons they carried said more about them than anything else. Swords, from a museum perhaps, rusted and old, now lay in the dirt along with two of the men and a crossbow.

They were scavengers, taking what they want, and to hell with everyone and everything else.

'Come on lad...don't let's be hasty, huh?' said the skinny man, moving his knives around his belt toward his back and out of view. As if that would fool anyone!

'Back up and let me pass,' was all Duke said.

'I don't want no trouble, son.' He edged around behind the body of the first man, and kicked his friend for good measure, just to make sure. 'I'll just stand here, out of the way.'

Duke bent down, shoved breakfast into the backpack, never taking his eyes off the thug, and stood again, aware at all times that the guy was likely to do anything but just stand there.

Holding the bag in one hand and the bow in the other, Duke made to move off, between the bodies and evergreens, and away from this evil.

'We only wanted to talk...'

'Don’t make me laugh...'

'It’s true, son! We didn't mean you harm...just wanted a little chat, that’s all.'

Duke might be young, but he was as world weary as a man twice his age. As Duke made for the gap in the greenery he drew level with the first of the two downed men. The skinny man pulled a knife from his waistband. Duke flicked his arm out and the nock of the longbow, the pointed tapering end, caught the man in the right eye. Duke pushed forward, dropping the bag and producing a knife of his own and drove it deep into the man's gut. The man dropped to the ground, a sucking sound the only noise, as Duke's knife pulled free. The man sat on his knees, clutching his face and gut as blood ran between his fingers.

'You take on The Woodman, and you need to know what you're doing...' Duke said, as the man tried vainly to feel his lower wound with his probing fingers inside his own body. The words seemed strange to Duke yet perfectly normal at the same time. The man stopped fingering his wound when Duke spoke, and his good eye stared at Duke. A questioning look crossed his countenance. He tried to speak but only blood came out, and then he fell, face down into the forest floor.

Duke removed his arrows from the bodies, checked the men for anything usable and, taking a fold-up spade from his bag, dug a large hole as best he could. It was hard going with roots everywhere, but he would not leave them to rot out in the open.

He wove his way through the woodland, the calls of wildlife coming back all around. Birds sang, a woodpecker drummed, and all was well with the world again.

Duke Woods, The Woodman, now that father was dead, was six feet tall, twelve and a half stone and well defined. His blonde hair and blue eyes gave him a soft look but his usual manner spoke differently. There was nothing soft about Duke Woods.

He hated his given name. Duke had always been something he had disliked. Named after a movie star of old, 'The Duke', John Wayne, he always felt he had far too much to live up to. Now with father gone, he had something far greater to live up to as The Woodman, but he saw it as his destiny, and very valid, unlike being named after a movie star. Duke would not shrink from that destiny, heavy as the weight of that duty and name might be. It seemed strange that The Woodman was no longer father, but the name had to go on, Duke knew that.

Duke would much rather have father alive and kicking, and walking beside him as always, but that was not to be, and never again would be. Duke would now carry on the good work the name invokes.

He wore an old green combat jacket and sandy brown jeans, with military style boots on his feet. Duke blended into the woodlands and that was just how he liked it. That was one reason he was still alive. Duke lived in forest; he was part of it, too. His hair colour was a weak point perhaps, but covered by hood or thick with twigs, many had not seen him until too late. He much preferred to be nice and helpful to people he met, but he was not averse to killing those who do harm. The three he buried being a case in point. Father might be dead, and that knowledge gave Duke sleepless nights, but the name still lives on. Long live The Woodman!

 

2.

 

Duke's father, the original Woodman, had built a house, half in and half out of a hill, deep in forest surroundings, with Duke’s help, naturally. They had lived there since long before the world fell silent. Duke knew nothing else really, his earliest memories bar two, faded to leave only father and he, and their woodland home. They travelled at times, when the seasons allowed and the times dictated they should, but for the most part they lived their lives together deep in the green foliage of forest.

A town, really little more than a village, held the only other memories for Duke. He knew he had lived there once, visited some times after the move to the forest, and he knew those visits stopped for good about the time of The Death. He also knew his mother died there when he was very young, and that he must go there again now with the news of father’s death and the coming of an army. This was something he had to do. Personal feeling did not come in to it.

Coast Town, as it was now known was in mortal danger and The Woodman had a duty to warn the people of the impending doom.

The only other people Duke felt anything for were the woods people, the forest dwellers, but they weren’t expecting a visit from this army. Coast Town had that honour and Duke had enough connection to the place to feel he had to warn them. He owed his father’s memory that much at least.

It was a connection father and he shared with Coast Town that, tenuous as it might be, would see him being pulled back there regardless of the connection he had to the woods people.

Every year since The Death, Duke and father met other forest folk, some living as they did, within the forest and woods of England, others existing in small villages and farms at forest edges. These folk were their real friends.

They came after The Death, so father and Duke were there already to greet and help them. As a result, father and Duke, Woodman Junior, were treated like royalty. They knew how to make fire, how to build structures, to hunt, to cook and to live off, and live with the land. They showed the new folk how to tell north from south, which stars were which and how to collect water, look after chickens and milk cows.

They gave hope to many as they fled built up areas and the congestion of what had been their normal lives The Woodman and his son passed into folk-law almost immediately The Death came.

The longest day of the year was meeting day, when all would gather and swap goods and stories, share food and drink home-made ale and remember the good old days before The Death came. Duke would be going alone next year.

Christmas day was initially recognised as well. The shortest day, almost, and the remembrance of the Lord combined with the coming of winter, were celebrated in good fashion. But it quickly became obvious that travelling in such cold and often snow filled days was not worth the aggravation and danger it brought. It was therefore dropped in favour of a single summer meeting instead. Duke and father celebrated alone and at home each Christmas.

Every year at the day long meeting of the woods people, well into the night, the talk would turn to arguments of one kind or another, and the reasons for The Death were often the cause, but it was all part of the fun to young Duke. The Death was the name given to the outbreak, it fitted well, like the Black Death before it, and it was a descriptive name.

All anyone really knew was that, regardless of it being a virus or a manmade killer, it had affected them all. Many of the forest people had lost family and moved away from civilisation and, of course, all their lives had changed dramatically and forever.

Fast and furious, The Death came to all, claiming the many and sparing the few.

Duke thought of the army of The Black Pope, the army that now headed for Coast Town, and how and why such a thing could even exist. If this army is not stopped, Duke knew, it would change everyone’s lives yet again.

As if The Death had not been horrendous enough, this new terror had flowed across the land like an unstoppable tide headed for the coast. An insane man, for there is no other word for him, calling himself The Black Pope, leads an army of hundreds. They march and fight under pain of death, the proof of which young Duke had seen. The Black Pope, surrounding himself with henchmen who do his bidding, thrived on the pain and fear of others. His personal bodyguard are all like him, criminals of the worst kind. Rapists, murderers, paedophiles, murdering schizophrenic psychopaths, they all escaped or were let out of mental institutions when The Death came.

These were the men responsible for father's death. They will be responsible for many more deaths if they are not stopped. Only one man killed father but they were all to blame.

Duke knew they moved slowly, and he had plenty of time to warn Coast Town as he moved swiftly through the trees and not along congested roads. He planned to enter Coast Town, give them the warning, and then return to bury father. Coast Town would have ten to fourteen days to prepare, at the very least, and he was sure they could defend themselves with ease, so he felt no guilt at not staying there.

There was still something about going to Coast Town that worried Duke, something intangible but nevertheless real.

Duke needed to swallow down his fears of the past and his own sorrow, and warn Coast Town that hell was on its way!

 

3.

 

The woman had watched in horror as her children were brought forward. Three little boys forced to watch their mother being raped. The fight had gone from her after the fifth man. She gave herself up to the act. Face down and naked, she was lost in her shame and degradation. But then, to have her sons forced to watch as well...she begged them not to look but they were forced to do so, anyway.

Her husband had been dragged here too, to see what happens when someone defies The Black Pope. She was way beyond shame by the time he was dragged in the door. Anne had already taken herself to another time and place. It was the only way she could endure this torment and hellish act.

Anne was in a village church, tied to a table, where men took her one after the other. They used each and every hole as they saw fit. Some of them came back at her again and again not content with raping her just the once.

The small crowd, also forced to watch, was bad enough but when her sons' were dragged in she was immediately sick. Panther, the right hand man of The Black Pope, had then dragged her husband in.

He had forced Pete against the large doors, quickly closed by others of his kind, and held him there whilst nails were driven into his hands and feet, crucifying him on the old, dark wood doors. Anne, rallying one last time, surfacing from her dreamlike state, tried to make eye contact with Pete, and tried to say sorry, but her head was held in a vice like grip and turned away from him. Pete's screams drove her insane, and she was close enough as it was, and when she saw her boys still there, their little faces scrunched tight by large gloved hands forcing them to look, and the tears rolling down their cheeks, she fell over the edge of madness completely.

The small group of people there were forced to watch it all. They were the witnesses to this punishment.

The thirteen men raping her made sure the crowd took it all in.

'You see what happens when you disobey me?'

All eyes shot from the scene of horror and focused on the man speaking. He stood near the door, dressed head to foot in black leather, with a mocking grin on his face. His podgy flesh folds and small eyes made him look almost pig like, not that anyone would tell him that. The Black Pope thought he looked more like a world famous French general.

He had been scared on the left side of the face from a knife attack in the secure wing of the hospital he had called home for eleven years. It ran from the corner of his eye to his chin. It ruined his good looks. Unless in profile, like on a coin. Then, in relief, he did look a little like Napoleon.

His balding head had wispy grey hair, stuck down flat with sweat, and his short fat body looked almost comical in leather. There was nothing remotely funny about the man, though.

'You understand now? Do you realise, you cannot leave?'

He walked slowly along the line of people, his people, his army of beaten men, women and children.

'She tried to leave, and look what happened to her!'

He pointed an accusing finger at Anne and motioned for the rape to continue.

Panther stepped forward and cut her free from her bonds and dragged her backward, so as to fall on to the floor. He then walked to her husband and, grinning, ran the knife through and around his stomach. Anne tried to crawl to her children, blind to the horrors her husband endured.

Panther stepped back from Pete and allowed the intestines to fall. The wet smack of innards on wood floor, and the steam rising from the mess, didn't register on Pete's face. His heart gave out as the knife had gone in. He was dead before his guts hit the floor.

Anne, alerted by the strange noise, threw her head back and screamed. She sank to the floor sobbing, begging to be killed, and pleading for this to end.

Panther approached her again. She didn't care. There was nothing he could do to her that had not already been done. She had been raped, buggered, and used for an hour. Anne no longer cared what happened next. As long it resulted in a quick death, she would endure it.

Panther gripped her hair and yanked her head up, forcing her to kneel before him. He undid the buttons on his leather trousers and sank his hard black member into her mouth. She should bite down, sink her teeth in, deeply, but Anne no longer had the strength to do anything. Panther, until now, had not touched her at all. Panther and The Black Pope had stood back and let the other thirteen men have their fun.

Anne was too old for Panther, really. He preferred them young, the younger the better. Late Teens was generally too old for his tastes, and Anne was considerably older than that.

He finished with her, forcing her head forward, ramming his manhood into her throat as he shot his load into her. Then he stood back and slapped her across the face.

Anne was on her knees, naked, in front of her children, with her dead husband behind them and she was praying for her own death. She thought her fight had left her before, but she knew it had now finally been spent. Just get this over with, she thought. Get this over with and let my boys go.

The Black Pope came up behind her and pulled something down over her face. She tried to breathe, found her lungs burnt and realised he was suffocating her. Anne did not fight, she needed death, it seemed so inviting. It was the only logical way out of this nightmare.

Her view was grubby and smeared, the well used bag causing her last sight of her boys to be distorted and sad.

As the life left her body and The Black Pope twisted the plastic bag tighter about her neck, cutting the air off completely, she heard him whisper something in her ear.

Just before she faded away, just before everything went black, she heard him say what he was going to do to her three little boys...

 

 

For more feedback see the feedback drop-down.

 

5 STAR Review

by Caroline C

Thoroughly enjoyed The Woodman. Fast paced book which keeps you turning the pages. Well done to the author. Just hope nothing like Ebola happens in real life, wiping out whole communities at a time. Can't wait to read book 2 to see what happens to Duke.

 

4 out of 5 Stars

By Lex A

Author G.H. Bright has written an excellent post-apocalyptic novel that resonates with verisimilitude and true to life characters. Set in a fictitious version of the United Kingdom, the story begins after a global outbreak of a mutated Ebola virus that killed a very large majority of the world’s populations.

    Duke Woods, aka The Woodman, is among the few survivors. A loner, who had lived most his life in the woods with his father, Duke is an unforgettable character that starts this story as a seventeen year old boy and almost immediately, circumstance and violent life or death situations make him a man. Duke is a gentle soul with strong personal beliefs and a stalwart defender of good against evil.

 

5.0 out of 5 stars Another good one! 29 Mar 2014

By Debbie M

Format:Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase

This book carries on logically and brings in different story lines to keep the reader interested. I for one am looking forward to Book 4 and feel an epic film in the making!

 

5.0 out of 5 stars A film in the making - surely? 7 July 2014

By Debbie M

Format:Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase

I smiled as I swiped to the last page of the last book of the series - All four have seen me through two holidays and I have been totally gripped throughout! I know I have probably posted a review before but hey - I wanted to say well done again - and for those who haven't started the books yet - what are you waiting for???