Chapter 3

By the time they reached the Seahouses exit, the other front tyre had deflated, slowing their greasy progress still further. Steam had also started to vent from a rupture in the radiator. Grinding his teeth, Andrew battled on, the thought of stopping unthinkable.

Heading down the narrow country road, with farmland, green fields and sparse woodland all around, it was almost possible to set aside the recent images of carnage. The place appeared so peaceful, so untouched. Tom could understand the Hawthorns’ desperation to get to such a sanctuary. As he cradled Jana is his arms, she stirred. Frowning, she glanced from Tom’s concerned face to the cracked and battered windows.

“Nebojte sa. They’re history,” he said soothingly to her.

The small village of Christon Bank was quiet, apart from the lonely cry of a cockerel. A single Land Rover was parked outside the Blink Bonny pub. As they drove by, a light winked on in one of the upstairs bedrooms, followed by a flutter of curtains.

The gloomy light gradually brightened as they pulled off into High Newton-by-the-Sea. Their hearts initially sank. This newer end of the village bore the familiar signs of broken windows and open doors. But continuing through to Low Newton, they discovered that the small horseshoe of houses and The Ship Inn around a well-groomed central green were untouched.

Smoke drifted lazily from a couple of chimneys. The gentle lapping of the ocean on the golden beach a mere fifty yards away and the intermittent squawk of a seagull further added to the feeling of tranquillity.

Gingerly holding her throbbing head, Jana glanced from the sandy beach to the rolling dunes and then back to small cluster of stone buildings. Her hand dropped away from her head, the pain momentarily forgotten. “It’s so … krásny … beautiful,” she said, her bloodshot eyes suddenly wide with wonder.

Andrew brought them to an unsteady halt at the bottom end of the horseshoe and slumped back into his seat. His aching arms dropped down into his lap and he arched his head back, trying to uncoil the knotted muscles. Annette leant over to touch his hand. “You okay, hon?”

He glanced around the quiet little hamlet by the sea and then to his wife. Offering her a genuine smile, he said, “I am now.”

They all clambered out of the battered Shogun to inspect the damage. Scratches and dents peppered the whole of the exterior bodywork, the radiator was badly ruptured, both front tyres were totally shredded and the final section of exhaust was hanging off.

“Well, it could’ve been worse,” Tom said with a sigh as he arched his back. Turning to Andrew, he added, “Good work, mate. Got a bit hairy back there.”

Andrew didn’t care to be reminded about it, so offered a thin smile and turned to look towards the horseshoe. There, gathering in front of the pub, were a small group of people. They were hunched over and shivering in the cool early morning breeze. A couple had flashlights, another couple were holding what looked like bats or clubs and the fifth was cradling a double barrel shotgun, unmistakeable, even in the gloom.

Tom followed Andrew’s gaze. “Welcoming committee?”

“Isn’t that Mister Taunton?” Annette asked, squinting.

“The one with the shotgun? Yes.” After a moment of chewing the inside of his cheek, he added, “They’re going to be understandably wary of newcomers, but hopefully once we show our faces–”

“Hopefully?” Tom asked with growing concern. As if on cue, the group of villagers headed across the grass towards them, a sense of urgency steering them on a direct course, rather than using the paths. There were no smiles or waved greetings.

Tom was suddenly acutely aware that all he had in the way of a weapon was his baton from the power station. Appearing nonchalant, he leant into the passenger door and retrieved his utility belt, which held cuffs, radio and baton. Rather more quickly, he buttoned it around his waist.

As they approached, Taunton, a burly man in his forties with an angry scowl, shouted, “This is private property. No one is allowed in here.” The twin barrels remained steadily fixed on the newcomers.

“Mister Taunton,” Andrew said in a polite tone, “it’s Andrew and Annette Hawthorn. We own number six chalet … remember?”

Taunton stopped abruptly, causing the three men and one woman to jostle into one another. A couple of muffled grunts and apologies followed, causing Taunton to glance behind him with an irritated glare. Turning back, he looked more closely at the newcomers, but maintained his aim. “Ah, yes,” he said after a moment. “I do recognise you.”

Annette breathed a sigh of relief. “Nice to see you again, Mister Taunton. How’s Jennifer and … I’ve forgotten your new son’s name.”

Annette’s warm tone seemed to unbalance Taunton’s guarded disposition. “Err, yes, Kyle is fine, thank you. Eighteen months now.” The barrels dropped down to the gravel and, with that, the others relaxed too.

Annette walked over to him and, gently moving the shotgun aside, gave him a hug. “Good to see some friendly faces.”

Tom stared at her, amazed at her effortless powers of diffusing what could have become a very awkward situation.

“We had a bit of a rough journey getting up here,” Andrew explained. Nodding to Tom and Jana, he added, “These are our friends from Hartlepool – Tom and Jana.”

A robust, matronly woman in her late forties stepped forward, switching her flashlight off at the same time. She offered them all a warm smile and said, “Welcome, dears: I’m Maggie Taylor. You must all be exhausted and hungry. Lets get our new friends into the warmth of the pub and fetch them some of that broth we had last night.”

***

They all trouped into the Sun Inn, Maggie flicking light switches as they entered. The lights banished the grey gloom and threw a warm glow over the polished wood floors and worn chocolate leather seats and mahogany-stained tables.

As Maggie and a short plump man disappeared into the kitchen, Taunton and the others sat down with their guests around two tables by the large bay window that was dressed with luxuriant burgundy velvet curtains.

“So, what’s happening out there?” a portly man in his forties asked from behind a bushy beard and handlebar moustache.

It took twenty minutes to recount their journey from Hartlepool, including details of the military takeover of the power station. Andrew began the account, but everyone added a comment here or further detail there. James Taunton, as the self proclaimed leader, asked frequent questions, delving deeper for as much information as they could offer. They were honest, not holding back a single detail.

Once finished, the room fell silent, the villagers deep in thought, and the newcomers finishing off their steaming chicken broth. As Andrew mopped his bowl with a chunk of homemade bread, James took his hand away from his chin and finally sat back in his chair. “There really is no coming back from this.”

The statement was as cold as it was true. Andrew swallowed the piece of bread and nodded.

It was Tom who took up the mantle. “We need to secure the village. Things are going to get a lot worse out there before they get any better.”

“This disease or whatever the hell it is seems to kill some but not all, but with a total breakdown in law and order many are just running riot,” Andrew added. “As well as those lunatics on the road, we might have to contend with organised scavengers wanting to steal from us too.”

Maggie shook her head at this, her frown disbelieving, but fearful. “The people round here wouldn’t do anything like that. There are good people here.” The last sentence was almost imploring.

“Maggie,” Annette injected, “people may come from out of the area, but even people in this area may … when desperate …” She couldn’t find the words, but her eyes made no further explanation necessary.

“So just what do you suggest, Mister Hawthorn?”

Andrew thought about it for a moment then said, “We need to make it look like there’s no one here – nothing to steal – so that there would be no reason to even look.”

Nodding, Tom said, “The top end of the village – maybe burn it all – make it look like the whole village got torched.”

“Those are our neighbours’ homes, man!” James snapped angrily. “There was some kind of disturbance up there and the few that were in residence left, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back. We can’t just burn them down while they’re away. Even if they aren’t part of the proper village.”

“James,” Andrew insisted on using the man’s first name, despite his refusal to use his, “the next group that come along might not ask for shelter like we are. They may just take it and … well … God knows what else.”

James fell silent, so Tom continued unperturbed. “Once the houses are burned, we could also block up the road to make it impossible for a vehicle to get down here. That would make it even less inviting for someone passing to take a quick look.”

“Yeah,” Andrew agreed, “Fuel is going to become a major problem anyway, so we’re not going to need it. We’re going to have to become self sufficient pretty damn quickly too. Start growing plenty of veg, fishing, foraging; whatever it takes.”

“I hope you’ve been watching Ray Mears then,” Tom said with a smile.

Andrew returned it easily. “As it happens, I’m a big fan of his and one of the things I made sure to nab off my bookshelf back at the house was his Bushcraft Survival and Wild Food books.”

The optimism between the two men seemed infectious. Even James seemed to crack a thin smile.

“Well, we’ve got two first class fishermen here and a few of us already have healthy vegetable patches,” Maggie added with just a small amount of pride. “We also have our resident mechanical whiz, Dick Storey, here.” She nodded to the man with the bushy moustache who offered them a modest smile.

As if that was his cue, Dick said, “I’ve been building up an extensive collection of appliances, materials and spare parts, but we should also salvage what we can out of those top houses before we burn them. We need as much copper piping, wiring, bulbs, motors, circuit boards et cetera as we can get our hands on.”

“Alright, Mister Storey; let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” James said, curbing the man’s bubbling enthusiasm.

Clearly dog-tired, but eager to stay in the conversation, Jana asked, “How many of you are there?”

“Ten; four men, four women and two bairns,” Dick said.

“Fourteen now,” Maggie corrected with her kindly smile.

And everybody knows that the plague is coming

Everybody knows that it’s moving fast

Everybody knows that the naked man and woman

Are just a shining artifact of the past

Everybody knows the scene is dead

But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed

That will disclose

What everybody knows

And everybody knows that you’re in trouble

Everybody knows what you’ve been through

From the bloody cross on top of Calvary

To the beach of Malibu

Everybody knows its coming apart

Take one last look at this sacred heart

Before it blows

And everybody knows.

‘Everybody Knows’ by Leonard Coen