The Village King by Eddie McGarrity

at his tea. She lifted the mug up. “Any milk?”
    “You killed most of our cows,”
said Stephen coldly.
    The Sergeant blinked
acknowledgement. She put down the mug and unhooked her helmet strap, took it
off and placed it on the table across from Morgan’s silver pistols, which lay
with the grips facing her. She kept the rifle slung over her right shoulder but
thought better of it and laid it up against the cans. Stephen introduced them
all to her. He could tell she realised that if they had wanted her dead, she
already would be. The Sergeant introduced herself as Lucy Pullman.
    “Sit down, Sergeant Pullman,”
said Stephen. “Please.”
    Pullman sat down and sipped her
tea. “I prefer coffee.”
    Stephen smiled. He glanced up at
Alana, who was leaning against the worktop and watching Pullman intently. He
wanted to ask her now what she thought of the Sergeant, realising he valued her
assessment and was beginning to rely on it. “Tell me about your unit.”
    “Ragtag group,” said Pullman.
“Some aren’t even soldiers. We pick up strays as we go along.”
    Stephen thought of Phil and his
two dead friends back at the farmhouse. “Are you a soldier?”
    Pullman nodded. “Lancashire and
Borders. Afghanistan, 2014. Back here when the virus took hold. Battle of
Grangemouth.” She sat back and shrugged. The oil refinery at Grangemouth had
been destroyed in a battle for control in 2016. The part she was leaving out,
Stephen realised, was five years of being a Sergeant in Morgan’s Unit.
    Stephen leaned forward. He looked
at the silver pistols on the table, then straight at Pullman. “How would you
like a promotion and some proper soldiering?”
    “Depends.” She returned Stephen’s
stare but she stayed sat back in her chair. “What have you got in mind?”
    Stephen gestured around the room
as if it were the whole village. “These are British citizens. Do your duty.
Protect us. Don’t leech off us.”
    Pullman thought about that. “How
are you set up? Where’s Rory?”
    Stephen said, “Suzanne’s in bed.
Rory is our business. We’re going to create a council; that’s your government.
We’ll have judges; there’s your judiciary. Gary’s the General. Alana’s Chief
Constable. Karen runs the stables. And you’ll be the Colonel.”
    Pullman looked at them in turn.
Karen was smiling but everyone else was dead serious. The Sergeant asked
Stephen, “And what do you do round here?”
    Stephen sat back and said
nothing. He stared at her and never moved.
    Pullman closed her lips and
Stephen saw her throat constrict as she swallowed. She took a sip of her tea.
“And the men?”
    “I’ll help you get them into
line, and you answer to Gary, but you run the unit the way you see fit. You
train the rest of the villagers up as a militia.”
    “What do we eat?” Pullman was
pushing now for concessions.
    “Eat your fucking horses for all
I care,” said Stephen, knowing they clearly needed a base for winter, and that
he held all the cards. He spoke more softly when he saw Karen frown. “Or go and
catch more deer. Trade with the villagers for vegetables. They’ll be glad of
the venison.”
    Pullman sat up. She pulled her
body armour. “OK,” she said simply.
    “Can you get the men in line?”
Alana asked.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Pullman
said, sure of herself. She seemed tough to Stephen, having survived all this
time as the only woman in a small army.
    “Let me ask you some questions,”
said Stephen. Pullman nodded agreement. “The horses, guns, equipment. Who owns
it? The unit or the individual soldier?”
    Pullman’s expression told Stephen
she hadn’t thought about. “British Army, I guess.”
    “Well here’s your first order,
Colonel,” said Stephen. “The Chief Constable is taking possession of everyone’s
kit until we’re sure they can be trusted. Except yours. You keep yours. Morgan,
Weaver and Baxter; you and your men can bury them but their kit and horses
belong to me.”
    Pullman