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    All the Laird's Men
    All the Laird's Men
    All the Laird's Men
    Ebook70 pages58 minutes

    All the Laird's Men

    By Tabatha Wood

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Corporal Hopkins just wants to go home. After many years serving with the Laird’s Men, he deserves his freedom. But while the long war that fractured New Britain may be over, Raiders in the Scottish forests still pose a deadly threat.

    Charged with dismantling a roving horde, Hopkins and his elite unit are outnumbered and woefully unprepared for the real horror that awaits them. From the shadowy depths of the great Loch Ness, an ancient evil is rising.

    When the battle for survival in an unforgiving country never ends, Hopkins knows it doesn’t matter which side you’re on. In the darkness, everybody bleeds the same.

    PLEASE NOTE: This book contains themes of violence and strong language throughout.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTabatha Wood
    Release dateAug 22, 2020
    ISBN9781005252144
    All the Laird's Men
    Author

    Tabatha Wood

    Tabatha (TL) Wood is an Australian Shadows and Sir Julius Vogel award-winning author of weird, dark, speculative fiction and quiet horror from Aotearoa New Zealand.A former English teacher and school library manager, their first books were nonfiction guides for professional educators, published by Bloomsbury Press. They now tutor from home while also working as a freelance writer, translator and editor.Tabatha strongly encourages the use of writing and creativity for positive mental health, and is the founder of Well-Written, an online group which supports writing for wellness. Tabatha’s work is often inspired by their lived experiences. When they’re not writing, they like strong coffee, soft cats, and spending time by the sea.You can read more of Tabatha’s stories, essays and blog posts at https://tabathawood.com.

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      Book preview

      All the Laird's Men - Tabatha Wood

      Acknowledgements

      WHILE WRITING MIGHT be a mostly solitary endeavour, I have received the support and advice of a great number of people while bringing this story to life.

      I am both blessed and incredibly grateful to say that there are far too many to mention them all, so to avoid the risk of leaving anyone out, I want to acknowledge everyone who has been there for me at any stage of the creative process.

      There are, however, four people in particular, without whom this book would be a very different beast. Shayne, Cassie, Penny and Jim – thank you all for your invaluable feedback and your constant encouragement.

      As always, I give all my love and appreciation to my amazing husband, David, my two wonderful children and the cat.

      This story is a strange little love letter to my Scottish heritage, to old places where I’ve lived and loved, and to my dearest Nanny. It feels only right that I dedicate this to her.

      Sorry about all the swearing, Nanny.

      All the Laird’s Men

      THIS IS WHERE IT ENDS. In the darkness. Where the souls of the slain still linger in the dirt, and the black air echoes with screams. He can hear them in the shadows, hidden by the trees. Demons come to drag him down to Hell.

      His chest feels hollow, his pulse too deep, booming like a bass drum inside his skull. He wonders if others can hear it too. If his own heart might give him away.

      His stomach drops and twists in knots. Serpentine and sour. Every limb feels heavy, as hard as stone. His ragged nerves are raw. He should be used to this by now, but each new mission seems so much harder than the last. 

      He grips his weapon with shaking hands. His finger stutters on the trigger. He tells himself to ease off and relax before he shoots a friendly by mistake. The freezing air makes his chest feel tight. He can’t breathe. He feels smothered. Lightheaded. 

      The Sarge says something, low-voiced, at his shoulder. He struggles to hear the words. His ears feel full, like they’re stuffed with dirt. Perhaps they are. He’s been crawling through mud and sodden leaves for what has seemed like hours.

      Take them all down. Leave none alive. Did the Sarge say that, or someone else? It doesn’t matter. He knows it’s time.

      Time to nut up or shut up. Shit or get off the pot.

      He takes a deep breath. Holds it steady.

      Steady... Steady... And release.

      They move as one, creeping like thieves under the cover of night. Kirkman crouches on his left, Thatcher to his right. The rest of the team is close behind. An elbow rams into the small of his back. No doubt one of the eager rookies, fresh to the fight and naive. Young soldiers with grooves cut into their helmets. Scratches that tally their shots. They wear them with pride, like badges of honour. Notches on a bedpost of slaughter.

      Those days are far behind him. The war has gone on too long. He doesn’t bother to count his kills any more. There’s no space left to leave a mark.

      There’s a flurry of movement up ahead, and he smells them before he sees them. A miasma of blood and sweat and faeces – a cocktail of disease and neglect. They move with a purpose, growling like dogs, a mass of snarling teeth and wild eyes. One after another they emerge from the nest, their numbers far exceeding what he’d expected. They gather and surge like a tidal wave, as they drench the platoon in death.

      Screams of agony explode in his head – not his own, but the pained shrieks of his friends.

      He’s trained for this. He knows what to do. Instinct takes over and he fires.

      He rolls to the tree-line and lies flat to the ground. Concealed by the bracken, he disappears. He pulls the butt of his rifle tight to his shoulder. Peers through the scope on the gun. The swarm moves swiftly, engulfing the land. He draws an X on every target with the crosshairs.

      He feels calm now. In complete and total control. He exhales and takes aim at the horde.

      Their end is swift and sudden. He takes each one down with precision. Shot in the head or pierced through the heart, every bullet he fires finds its mark. Like marionettes with their strings cut through, their bodies split and purge. They sprawl in the mud, broken and torn. Their blood draws dark rivers in the dirt.

      When it’s over, he surveys the carnage. Thatcher and Kirkman are long gone, as are the rest of the troops. Only he and the Sarge have survived the assault. Together, they pick up the pieces of their dead, rendered mute in the face of such loss.

      Later still, although the memories still feel fresh

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