“Command has collapsed. We’re on our own,” Commander Taylor, the man who ran Dover Castle, proclaimed to the crowd that had gathered within the church. The structure was fortunately well-kept by the previous caretakers of the castle, and apart from the odd cobweb, it could comfortably fit the hundred or so souls that sat among its pews.

The commander’s words set the room abuzz. Everyone whispered to their neighbors, speculating what this meant for them and how much longer they could last.

“As the nearest base to the nuclear test, we’ve been given a final mission to investigate the crash site of a surveillance plane that had been launched specifically to observe the explosion. Even though the UN as an organization no longer exists, we need to know if the bomb was able to take out the London Nest,” Commander Taylor surveilled the room, looking with particular intensity at his warriors, who would be the ones sent on any mission like that.

Florian found Andrew, whose face looked pale. This certainly wasn’t the routine scavenging run that he’d had in mind for the day.

“S-s-sir, does it even matter anymore? It’s not like we can launch another one,” another warrior stammered, his young face belonging in a high school, not in a makeshift suit of armor.

The commander shook his head. “It’s out of our hands. Some countries still remain, and their governments are working to find ways to seal the Nests. The New York Nest and the Paris Nest were second only to the London Nest, and what little we know of America indicates that they’ve got it barely contained. France is even worse off. The government’s somewhere off in Gascony, and they’re running out of places to run to.”

“I know that none of you wanted this life. But right now, each and every one of you is a soldier. Not of the UK, not of the UN, but of the world. It’s our duty to see to it that we deliver this information to the French,” Commander Taylor said loudly, inspiring some courage among the warriors. The speech did little to bolster Florian’s spirits.

After fielding some questions, the crowd at the church filtered out, returning to their daily duties. The warriors marched to the barracks to find their weapons and prepare for the excursion. The farmers – all four of them – returned to the modest fields that had been set up within the castle walls. Florian watched them scurry about, watering the wheat that had just begun to turn a golden color. It wouldn’t be long before it was ready for harvest.

It didn’t take him long to make it to the smithy from there, but when he opened the door to the storefront, he saw someone he hadn’t expected to be there in a million years. Commander Taylor himself, a man who rarely set foot outside his keep, waited in front of the other four smiths. Getting the idea, Florian swiftly fell into line.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Cale. I’ve come to ask your forgiveness, gentlemen, for I will be sending one of you with the warriors,” the man said, infusing sadness into his voice. Florian’s mouth fell into an “O” shape.

“Sir, we’re smiths. None of us have ever fought before,” George exclaimed, stepping slightly out of line. The commander stared at the smith until George returned to his space, though the smith did so without breaking eye contact with the military leader.

“Mr. Cale has had experience with the wolves,” the commander glanced at Florian’s missing leg, “and will therefore be joining the expedition.” Florian’s heart beat fast, but despite the blood rushing through his ears, he heard the other men’s sighs of relief.

“Sir, I’ll die out there! I can’t run, and I haven’t wielded these weapons before,” Florian cried out, but the hardening expression on Commander Taylor’s face brooked no discussion.

“Today, we are all soldiers, Mr. Cale. It’s time for you to do your part in protecting our stronghold.” A part of Florian – a large part of Florian – knew that the man had come not to ask for additional support, but to find cannon fodder. The commander left, then, no doubt to continue his warpath through the castle.

The other men of the smithy had made themselves scarce, with only George remaining behind to give Florian a strong hug. “I’m sorry, my boy. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Florian’s heart threatened to fly into a rage. “I’m taking my mace, and I’ll take whatever armor you can spare.” As George ran into the smithy proper, Florian called after him, “and a new peg!”

It didn’t take long for George to assemble the gear, and he had brought out far more than Florian had thought the man would. The mace was there, along with a chestplate, bracers, and a helmet. It was a warrior’s ensemble, and it would have fetched a king’s ransom in Dover.

“George, don’t you need some of that to make quota? I can’t imagine Commander Taylor is going to be happy with this,” Florian looked at the older man with concern. George’s usually jovial expression was far from such now.

“What’s he going to do, kill me? If he wants weapons and armor for his men, he needs me right where I am.”

Florian nodded, grateful that his boss would be willing to risk so much for him – for he risked much, even if he wouldn’t admit to it. Suiting up didn’t take too long, not with George’s help, and when he strapped the mace to his side, he felt like the human reincarnation of a battle tank.

Florian slowly navigated to the door, learning to balance the weight across his foot and his pegleg. “Thank you, George. I hope you’ll understand that I’ll need a couple days off,” Florian joked.

George smiled, a grim one, but a smile nonetheless. “Of course, Florian. You just make sure to come back to Dover safe and sound. Are you sure you can actually use that thing?” he nodded to the oversized mace.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”