Insidious valour, p.1
Insidious Valour, page 1
INSIDIOUS VALOUR
Daniel Munro
Also by Daniel Munro:
Book 1) The Taste Beneath
Book 2) Diseased Intentions
Copyright © 2024 by Daniel Munro
Daniel Munro has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and patents act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover art rights belong to Dean Gaida.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, resold, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.
This novel is a work of fiction. Characters and incidents are entirely fictitious, and do not resemble any people, living or dead.
Contact:
Email: authordanielmunro@hotmail.com
Instagram: author_danielmunro
Website: www.authordanielmunro.co.uk
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-99993786-5-3
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-99993786-6-0
For Kevin, who smiled and fought throughout.
Loyal father, partner, son, brother, and friend.
Contents
I. No Signal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
II. Full Circle
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
III. The Rat and The Cheese
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Part I
No Signal
Ryan staggered into Medical Room One, pulling the last metallic splinter from his left shoulder as he landed hard on the armchair, trying to steady his breathing and make sense of what happened.
He leaned forward, spitting blood on the floor. “What you saw…” he winced, talking to the semi-conscious stranger in the gurney, “…it was real. All real.” A familiar glare threatened to take over his stare as he watched the person in front of him. It’s always fucking real.
From the cafeteria, orders were yelled as positions and lookout points were delegated amongst the members of Penbrook Vineyard and the newest batch of survivors.
“We’ve faced them before,” Ryan continued, attempting to cover the fresh gash that ran down his left bicep. “They’re called Termites.” He paused, replaying the image of the swarm that had just tried to ambush them. “That’s what they were nicknamed by their captors—Termites—a workforce designed to do nothing but build, work, fight, then die.”
A box of ammo clattered across the corridor floor outside of the room. Two people rushed past to fortify the winery’s western fire exit.
“And the speed you saw them run… it wasn’t your eyes playing tricks on you. They’re strong. I’ve seen them throw wooden spears through metal barriers.” Ryan winced, sitting forward while massaging the nubs on his left hand where his ring and pinkie fingers used to be. “This power they possess is the result of adrenaline build-up, and the only thing that keeps that from being released into their system is the consumption of human meat…”
The stranger on the bed tried to open their mouth, and a croak escaped their bloody, bruised lips.
“Don’t talk. I’ll ask the questions.” Ryan sat forward. “Use your eyes. Blink once for yes. Twice for no. Do you understand?”
One blink.
“Good.” Ryan exhaled with relief, then asked, “Do you know who sent this wave of Termites after you?”
1
Six Weeks Earlier.
* * *
“I’ve got it!” Drinker shouted from inside the boiler room’s dark space.
“Okay, tighten it,” Ryan acknowledged through gritted teeth. His thick gloves provided virtually no protection against the ice-cold copper piping. One of his blond dreadlocks got caught in his grasp as he tried to hold the foam in place. There was a quick ripping of duct tape as the foam insulation tightened around the water pipe.
Ryan released his grip and stepped out from the cramped space, taking his gloves off and rubbing his hands together for warmth. On his left hand, the space where his little and ring fingers should’ve been screamed at him in some kind of phantom pain.
Drinker exited the boiler cupboard, looking comfortable in his usual black T-shirt and urban camo pants. “I can tell you’ve never spent winter in Scotland,” his Glaswegian accent teased with rhetorical sarcasm.
“I wouldn’t go to Scotland in winter even if I was on the run from the law,” Ryan replied, rubbing his green eyes. He shut the door and looked up to the ceiling, seeing the damage they had caused to the medical corridor to insulate the water pipes. The whole of the winery was being prepared for the extreme winter conditions. “How much is there left to do?”
“Just the medical rooms left,” Drinker said, scratching his dark goatee before rubbing his newly shaved head. “Then it’s a case of solving the new problem.”
Ryan nodded silently, kicking some of the ceiling debris across the tile floor before placing the scissors and duct tape on the medical trolley and wheeling it down the corridor. He was raging inside, beyond pissed off with everything life was throwing at them.
In the wake of an assault the previous month, part of the winery’s ceiling had collapsed during repair, crushing their reserve supply of corn oil. They barely had enough for the people the winery already accommodated, but with the arrival of more survivors, they were doomed to run out before the next batch was pressed, filtered, and then mixed. Without corn oil, they wouldn’t be able to run their generators or boilers, and the winter was only getting colder with every passing hour.
Ryan stood still, gripping the trolley tightly with his remaining fingers. Frustration burned deep inside of him.
“You okay?” Drinker asked, stopping beside him.
“Yeah.” Ryan sighed, letting go of the trolley and taking a deep breath. He nodded to the final stretch of pipes above them. “You okay to make a start on these? I just need to go for a smoke.”
“Aye. Nay bother.”
“Thanks.”
Ryan walked back through the medical corridor and pushed the door open to the cafeteria, which was eerily empty compared to normal. He grabbed his white parka coat, tied his dreadlocks back, and pulled the hood up, heading straight through the canteen kitchen and out the fire exit.
Nearly a whole foot of snow covered the vineyard’s grounds, and the soft downfall didn’t look like it was stopping anytime soon. Gazing into the ocean of white, the only company Ryan had was the taunting reminder that he was losing his fight to keep everyone safe—a responsibility he had taken on himself since the very first day of the war. His eyes felt compelled to look towards the graves of their most recently lost loved ones, but his shame wouldn’t let him acknowledge their existence.
“Fuck!” he bellowed, leaning back against the wall and sliding down to a sitting position. He could’ve used a cigarette at this moment, but mostly, he needed to get away from his tasks and let the angst out of his system. The outburst echoed well into the distance, and then the silence came back; he sat alone in the lifeless void that was his world now.
His temples felt like they were being compressed into his skull, and his heart rate pushed blood around his body so hard that his hands were paralysed from the anxiety. Everything inside him screamed to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was already in hell or if God was laughing at them.
They were running out of corn oil, expecting more survivors who they had to feed, and preparing for the next attack, which could come at any moment. An attack from an unconfirmed amount of mindless drones, all under the command of the former SAS commander, known as Admiral Caven. They would tear through the vineyard’s defences and take everyone alive—for one of two purposes. Reproduction or sustenance. If the rumours of this army’s size were anything to go by, it would be a clean sweep, no matter the defence they put up.
There was only one bargaining chip the vineyard had, and they currently held her captive in the winery’s basement. Admiral’s daughter, Hannah—the woman who killed Ryan’s nephew.
Every passing day and the simple task of just feeding and keeping her alive was like a slap in the face. The bitch knew how to wind people up, knowing she was the only reason that Admiral wouldn’t just decimate the vineyard when it came to it. She was the key to finding a solution for peace, but that peace would be based on a lie. Ryan would never let them live. None of them. He knew the peace would only last until Admiral’s men had regrouped and attacked the vineyard again. How many more of us have to die before I learn? Ryan taunted himself, pounded mentally into the grou nd by his decisions and the loved ones lost.
He sat for minutes, blank, smothered by the nothing that was life now. Snow fell in silence around him, but nothing was peaceful or serene about his thoughts. A part of him died when he buried his nephew, Lyndon. It was the part of him that allowed him to mourn.
He was running on fumes and nothing but pure determination to keep everything functioning and his people safe. His soul may have been broken, but his will to keep fighting was his main source of energy. He turned his head right towards the front of the vineyard’s grounds. The most able-bodied of the community had worked through the morning snow, erecting gazebo structures over the vegetable patches, but all had paused and looked in his direction after his vocal stress relief.
Do not let them see you like this, he encouraged himself and stood, waving to the workers before stepping back inside, gearing himself up to finish insulating the pipes. As he opened the door, his intrusive thoughts begged the question that was really taunting him.
Did I bring this on us?
Ryan’s footsteps were slow and heavy as he climbed the stairs to the top-floor restaurant with a fresh cup of tea in hand to begin his all-night security shift. He zipped up his jacket and walked to the window that surveyed the front of the vineyard’s grounds. He wiped the snow off the nearest table and looked out into the night’s darkness, taking in the newest change in colours to the sky. Everyone had long grown accustomed to the multi-coloured sunsets of purple, red, and orange—but it was the night sky that displayed something different now. Shades of vibrant red flickered across the jet-black clouds with small tinges of green. Just another natural phenomenon since the war ended with no viable explanation.
After pulling a chair out, he reached into his pocket and took out his smart radio, a newer device similar to that of a smartphone from before the war. It was a gift from Drinker’s former commanding officer, Lieutenant Adam Harper. The former marine served as the vineyard’s direct correspondent to the European Alliance, a newer central government that was trying to rebuild the continent, and claimed it would help defend the vineyard when Admiral came for them.
Ryan tapped the smart radio’s flat screen and checked the time. 19:35.
Two of the generators powered down, leaving only the exterior spotlights to light up barely fifty metres of space on the outside. The restaurant fell into darkness, and the outside illumination was hampered by the continuous snowfall.
Ryan slowly sipped his tea and gazed out into the hypnotic downpour, hoping the snow would pass quicker than it suggested it would. At least, he was trying to focus on the snow. The problems inevitably came rolling back and bogged down his thoughts, playing like a broken record. Corn oil. Hannah. The new survivors.
What made all this worse was that they were keeping Hannah’s imprisonment a secret from the European Alliance. It had to be kept quiet so Ryan could play his hand when Admiral Caven came for revenge. That decision presented another problem: did they tell the new survivors about their prisoner or keep it a secret?
On the one hand, they risked one of the new survivors telling someone in the European Alliance, of which Ryan knew Admiral still had people on the inside. On the other hand, if they kept it a secret, and one of the new survivors found out… there would be no trust, and chaos would follow. He was reluctant to both decisions.
One problem at a fucking time. Ryan leaned forward and held his face in his palms.
His heart jumped when the smart radio started vibrating with an unknown number flashing on the screen.
“Who the fuck?” he stuttered while his brain raced. He snatched the device and answered, “Who is this?”
“Ryan?” a familiar American accent replied.
“Harper?” Ryan exhaled heavily. “Why is your number withheld?”
“Sorry. All our devices were rebooted last week. It was an attempt to see if anyone else here had the hardware to hack our systems.”
“I see.” Ryan sat back again. “Did you have any luck with that?”
“Everyone’s clean,” Harper confirmed. “How are you coping with the weather?”
“Everyone’s working hard to keep everything functional. We’ve done what we can for the animals, crops, water, and heating. We don’t know if we have enough corn oil for when the other survivors arrive.”
“Well, that’s what I’m calling you about.”
“The weather?”
“No, the new arrivals. They won’t be with you as soon as we’d scheduled. We’ve relocated them to our three strongholds, where our aid workers will keep them secure during the winter,” Harper reported. “We’re recalling all our infantry and armed forces from the relocation programme.”
“Recalling… For what? What’s going on? Is Admiral coming now?”
“He isn’t coming for you. We’re going for him. We’ve found his supply ship, a Venezuelan cargo vessel off the coast of Portugal. We have his location. We’re preparing to capture or kill them. We’re going to end this.”
“Wha-er, how?” Ryan asked, stunned. “When?”
“That part is classified. I’ll keep you informed as much as I can,” Harper explained. His tone was firm and determined. “This is just to let you know that you don’t have to build up your food or energy rations just yet. Take care, my friend.” He disconnected.
A dumbfounded Ryan stared at the smart radio, unable to move. Seconds blurred into minutes. Minutes blurred into hours. He didn’t want to believe any false hope. He couldn’t be that naïve. That kind of blind ignorance could get you killed. Yer, against his own better judgement, he felt lighter, the constant knot of his stomach had eased, and the room didn’t feel as dark.
They can end it?
He refused to validate the happiness that dared to surface. A thought that terrified him.
The happiness that attempted to gnaw at his protective shield wasn’t due to the fact that the end of the fighting might be in sight or that they didn’t need to start spreading their resources just yet. It was because, should Admiral be defeated, Ryan could kill Hannah without consequence.
The notion should’ve made him sick. Until just over a year ago, he’d never killed an unarmed prisoner, but now, after he’d been forced to pull himself off shifts watching her in her cell through fear of losing his cool and putting a bullet in her… now he wouldn’t have to worry about doing something stupid. Now, the tables had turned, and soon, he might not have a reason to keep her alive.
I am a monster.
He knocked the thought from his mind, wondering what he should tell his people. After swallowing a mouthful of cold tea, he sat the smart radio on the table and picked up a handheld radio—it was a more traditional-looking device with an antenna and number keypad.
“Drinker? Can you get everyone ready for a meeting before they go to bed? I’ve just received some news from Harper.”
2
A thick cloud of steam and the aroma of basil soap greeted Ryan as he entered his family’s private quarters. He was puzzled as he wasn’t expecting anyone to be in after breakfast. His fiancée, Cassy, was supposed to be guarding Hannah while both of their children were being looked after in day school.
To the right of their bedroom, the bathroom was open. He closed the main door behind him and spotted Cassy’s clothes sprawled across the floor. The sound of scrubbing became apparent as he approached, even above the pouring water.
