Hooded Man by Paul Kane

cry, then spun on his second attacker. Clive saw Javier raise his gun, but Tate grabbed his arm. The two men wrestled for control of the weapon. Other soldiers were coming across to help, but not quick enough. Javier was struggling to bring the pistol up, Tate attempting to stop him – but it was obvious who was winning.
    “Please! This serves no purpose. Can’t you see that?” Tate shouted.
    The figures were just fuzzy outlines to Clive now. Then there was a sharp bang, followed by a scream from Gwen. Tate fell back, leaving Javier standing above him.
    He’s killed him , thought Clive, that bastard’s killed the Reverend . But then he was aware of a cold sensation spreading over him. His sight was no longer fuzzy, it was dim. Fading. There was a pain in his temple, only the briefest of twinges. But there was no time to register anything else.
    Clive didn’t feel himself toppling over – though in the final few milliseconds of his life, Tate’s words echoed all around him. “Everything happens for a reason.”
    He was at a loss to understand this one, he had to admit. He’d never see Sally or Luke, never see Gwen again: never hold her in his arms, feel her lips brushing against his.
    Clive wouldn’t feel the loss now, but she would. He knew she’d mourn him, and he was truly sorry.
    But none of that mattered anymore. It was all going black, completely black.
    And never before had he realised the true significance of what he’d thought earlier.
    Life was indeed good.
     
     
    “Y OU EVIL... EVIL thing,” the Reverend Tate hissed from the floor, several rifles trained on him. “He was a good man and now...”
    Javier walked over and looked down at what he’d done. Clive Maitland’s brains were spilling out onto the sign he’d helped to make, the name he’d given to this place. “There are no good men anymore. And there is no hope.” A tight smile played on his lips at the double meaning of his words. Turning back, he said: “It is fortunate for you that you are a man of the cloth; it is bad luck to shoot a holy man.”
    “May you burn in Hell for what you’ve done.”
    Javier snorted. “Look around you,” he said, pointing to the fires with his still smoking pistol. “We’re already there, together. Now, if you will excuse me.” He nodded to the men to pick the catatonic woman up off the ground, her eyes still fixed on the dead man. “Put her in one of the jeeps.”
    Two of the soldiers grabbed Gwen by the arms, dragging her up and along the street.
    “Christ who art in Heaven,” said Tate, “how can you allow this?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked since the virus had struck, but the first time his faith had been shaken in such a way.
    Though Tate thought he detected Javier flinching when he’d mentioned the Saviour’s name, the man ignored his words and made to follow his men.
    Tate clenched his fists and repeated his question, looking away from Clive’s body as he did so, towards June and the children Gwen and Clive had been looking after – both now in tears. Then he thought about what Javier had said. That there were no good men left, that there was no hope...
    And prayed to God that he was wrong.

 

     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    T HE LAKE STRETCHED out ahead, a mirrored surface. He was walking around the edge of it, strolling along without a care in the world. Rich green foliage surrounded him, and across the other side of the lake, trees whispered in the faint breeze. Robert took in the view, breathed in the sweet air.
    He looked down at his hand and found something in it. He was clutching a brightly-coloured ball. Robert frowned as he examined it more closely. There was barking to the side of him. Now Robert saw Max, waiting for him to throw the object. Robert pretended to toss the toy for him, laughing when the dog began to scamper after nothing – then he threw it for real.
    “Fetch!”
    The ball swerved off to the side and landed in the lake, but it didn’t matter: