Free Warhead by Andy Remic Page B

death, from the moment you were born to the moment you fucking die ... programmed, like the most efficient of computer-generated killers ...’
    Carter walked up the dirt track, heading back for his bike and the calming mental sanctuary of his young son.
    ‘I thought those days were gone for me. I thought that life was finally over.’
    ‘Never, Carter. Never.’
    Carter was stripped to the waist, his old combat shorts stained and tattered above tanned legs and scuffed army boots. Sweat gleamed across his well-muscled and heavily scarred torso as he sawed at the thick plank of rough-cut timber, the teeth of the blade slicing neatly through the grain and filling the air with a scent of resin.
    The sun sat, a copper pan nailed to the sky as the engine sound reached Carter and he ceased his work, straightening and wiping a layer of sweat from his face. His gaze moved from the broken fence he was trying to repair to the giggling distant form of Joseph running barefoot across the rocks with Samson bounding behind him to the rear slope at the back of the house from where the sounds of a badly maintained engine intruded.
    The battered black KTM spluttered into view, knob-bled tyres churning sand and pulling to a halt on dipping, leaking shocks. Carter shaded his eyes as the old man climbed free, one leg stiff and nursed by a protective hand, and then limped through the sand and up the three steps to the stone-laid path which wound down to the patio overlooking the sea.
    ‘Sounds like your plugs are in need of some TLC,’ said Carter.
    ‘If I wanted your opinion, boy, I’d ask for it.’
    The shaven-headed old man approached, fearsome and savage-looking. Suddenly his face broke into a beaming smile as his gnarled hand thrust out. Carter returned his grip—surprisingly strong, for the other man was well into his sixties.
    ‘How’s life, Ed?’
    ‘I’ve felt better. My bloody leg is giving me real grief.’
    ‘That bullet still eating you?’
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘You could always see a doctor.’
    Ed looked sideways at Carter. ‘A Nex surgeon? I’d rather have my manhood chewed off by a shark. Anyway, lad, you going to offer an old soldier a beer—or what?’
    Carter grinned, and motioned to the nearby table and bench seats. Ed limped towards a seat, steely blue eyes staring off to where Joseph ran through the surf. Carter retrieved two beers, tossing one to Ed who caught the can neatly in one fist. On one set of army-tattooed knuckles was the word TUFF, complemented on the other hand by CUNT. Carter’s gaze drifted, reading the self-inflicted army script. On the back of one hand it said, ‘Too young to die ’ whilst the other read, ‘Too tough to kill’. Both slogans were smudged and blurred with age, and both wrists had the word ELVIS LIVES inscribed on them.
    ‘How’s the boy doing?’
    ‘Well,’ said Carter, sipping his beer. His guts were still churning from the previous night’s whisky and he acknowledged that beer was probably the last thing he needed. ‘He’s a little monster, mind, always getting into mischief. Poisoned my fish the other day—’
    ‘How did he do that?’ asked Ed.
    ‘Dumped in a tin of sausage and beans, and a pound of butter. When I asked him what he’d been doing, he said he was giving them breakfast. Killed the whole damned tank!’
    ‘Aww. But he only had their best interests at heart!’
    ‘Yeah, not quite the way I saw it when I lost my entire stock. Anyway, listen, Ed, the Nex came sniffing around here last week. Masked and heavily armed. They are going to impose registrations on the island. Left me forms to fill in, the paper-pushing bastards.’
    ‘From assassins to fucking civil servants.’ Ed nodded, grinning maliciously. ‘Pieces of shit, the lot of ‘em. We could always hire a yacht; sail off to sea, avoid the fucking paperwork that way.’
    ‘Well, that’s always an option. Although listening to the engine on your bike, I don’t think I’d entrust my life to