CHAPTER FIVE: THE MERRY MEN

Deep in the woods of Salisbury, where nature was beginning to claim the very outskirts of that border it shared with London, a few men were eating around a fire. They used to be the most important men in the country, once upon a time.

On a log sat the Prime Minister- Richard Maxwell, busying himself with sharpening a wooden steak.He was a stout, stocky man, whose reputation filled in that gap left his diminutive stature, somehow making his presence even larger than life. He was dressed in a white button-up and some basic protective gear, as requested by the man sat next to him.

Sergeant Zachariah Collins also had that looming air to him, achieved mostly through his brawn and composure. Ramrod posture, sleeves rolled up all the way to show off his affectionately dubbed "artillery guns" is actual firearms were mall, discreet things- a MI9IIAI handgun, painted black with a matte finish was holstered underneath his right arm. The iron sights were painted green, and its magazines were in the pockets of his plate carrier vent. Collins actually detested the little pistol, he would have preferred his Desert Eagle, but the gentleman at the campfire made clear that the big stupid thing wouldn't get his anywhere. Attending to tonight's dinner was Agent Stephen Johns, who held the position only in name. He was in fact the head of operations for MI6, who had long since forgotten his days of exploding pens and womanising for a stable desk job and a potential knighthood to look forward to. Of course that wasn't to be- but his experience in discretion and other aspects of espionage had given him a strange de facto leadership he found he enjoyed much more than being called "sir." After all, who else could tell the Prime Minister to go hunt us a squirrel. His unique status was summed up in his clothing- a black funeral suit with a red tie, which seemed to actively repel dirt as if by magic.

If only it had managed to repel Collins. Johns hated the SAS man in the same manner a teacher would dislike a particularly annoying student- stuck in a position where to act on it wasn't going to happen, for his own sake.

"Hey Bond," the Sergeant explained, looking up from the magazine he had snatched out of an old corner shop they had passed some while ago. "Dinner ready yet?"

"Is it in your mouth?" Johns asked, with more exasperation than he would have deemed appropriate..

"Nope, that's why I'm asking. When's it ready?"

"It'll be ready when it's ready."

Silence from Collins, as he licked his thumb and turned a page.

"Right... when's it ready?"

"Give it five minutes." Johns said, biting back a groan.

"That's what you said five minutes ago."

At this, Richard seemed to snap but of whatever trance he was in, throwing the wooden stake into the fire after inspecting it with his hands.

"Sergeant let the agent just get on with the cooking, please." He said, oddly gently given who he was talking to. Collins murmured some sort of affirmative response, returning to his issue of Guns and Ammo.

Johns gave Richard a glance which simultaneously conveyed deep gratitude and a sort of "get a load of that guy" smugness, before removing the squirrel he had been spitroasting from the fire, giving it a onceover.

"Sergeant- you'll never believe this. You've practically won the lottery."

"Whuh?" Collins asked, his gaze still fixed on a picture of a particularly impressive submachine gun.

"Dinner's four minutes early. You want the head of the squirrel?",

"I'll take that, actually." Richard cut in, just as Collins was about to open h

mouth.

"Right," A small, slick wet noise as Johns. drew his knife, cutting the desired appendage off. He used a balisong- a small, gold plated instrument that Collins despised almost as much as he did the hand gun Johns had lent him.

"I'm getting the legs," Collins blurted out, "And a bit of the torso too."

"Trying to make me go hungry?" Johns asked

"Maybe,"

"You'd better hope not- Just remember who carried us through that scouting trip today." Johns grinned.

"I'll give you that. Fine. What's so important about this bunker we're headed. to again?"

"It's a government one." Johns said, as if that explained it all.

In response to the dumbfounded expression of the sergeant's face, Richard piped

chimed in.

"It's basically where the whole virus came from.. err- remember that doctor?"

"You mean the midwife who took a bullet out of me in Yorkshire?" Collins asked, with raised eyebrows.

"No, he wasn't actually a doctor."

"But he said his name was-"

"I know, I was there as well."

"Wish I wasn't." Johns said, with a hint of something akin to mortification.

"Can't argue with that. As I was saying," Richard continued "It's one of our

government bunkers-"

"Yeah, but how's that make it different to our one?" Collins asked.

"I'm getting to it." Richard shifted in his seat, scooting slightly closer to the fire. "Dr. Derwent lives there, and we need to see him."

At this, the other two mean experienced a similar reaction of complete repulsion. They had heard about the doctor- nowadays, who hadn't? It was unanimously assumed that the fellow had starved to death, or simply killed himself after seeing what his experiments did to the world.

But, as Richard knew, the doctor wouldn't be keen to perish so soon. He had heard rumours of activity inside that little Salisbury bunker, of which they were only a mile south from.

If it was true, Dr. Graham Derwent was alive, kicking, and still just as maniacal. As much as he hated calling a former colleague that, it was the only word that fit -ted such a man, if he could even be still considered human

"We do not need to see him." Johns said, shaking his head- slowly, looking as if he had seen a ghost.

"Steve's right. I'M only gonna see him if I have a rocket launcher with me, as well as a decent squadron with me." Collins said, unusually quiet.

"We have to. I want to see if the guy's alive or not." There was a certain edge to Richard's voice.now, a tone that signified that this was him closing the subject. Johns recognised this. He knew Richard would have some sort of plan B, surely, so going along with it would. be the beat course of action.

Collins recognised it as well- but didn't want to bother with it. But this was like muscle memory for him- he mustn't disobey his superiors. He nodded slowly, almost thoughtfully.

"Fine.. you got my other guns in the duffel bag, right Rich? Me and Steve's goggles

as well?"

Richard nodded, half-solemnly. "Everything I could grab from the weapons locker back n our bunker. I got your AK, my S and W, and-"

Johns cut in, a bit too calmly. "Don't worry about me, I should be fine."

"You're armed with a knife, Steve." Collins's tone was gruff, unamused.

"Ah-ah-ah. That knife's the tip of the iceberg, Sergeant. There's a lot you're not seeing."

"Ehh sure whatever- just take your stupid 1911 back. Keep the silencer and all, don't need it. I'm getting my Deagle back. And my Beretta." Collins said, tossing the pistol to his sharp-suited colleague, before reaching over to grab the bag from Richard.

"Now, let's have a look-see here..."