Chapter 4
Over the following months, civilisation gasps its dying breaths. All contact is lost with the international community. The United Kingdom’s local councils and infrastructure implode.
In a last desperate bid to cease the spread of the virus, the deteriorating government orders military air strikes on domestic soil. First, using conventional warheads to destroy roads and bridges, and then resorting to an experimental bio-toxin (in an attempt to minimize further damage to infrastructure).
London, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Cardiff, Glasgow and Edinburgh are amongst the major cities that are hit with what is deemed as the ‘final solution’. Hundreds of thousands of both infected and uninfected are slaughtered. Some of those who survive within the sanitised zones begin to develop disturbing side effects. The spread of the virus is unaffected.
Cities and towns across the country are ravaged by unchecked fires.
Hinkley Point B Nuclear Power Station in Bridgewater, Somerset goes into meltdown and churns out a vast radioactive cloud that moves across southern England. Hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing southern towns and cities are irradiated. Shortly afterwards, a working central government simply ceases to exist.
Over four billion people die from the virus worldwide. In the United Kingdom, forty-five million die and, of the survivors, many are affected by the bio-toxin attacks and are transformed into insane husks of humanity with only one driving force – to feed … on whatever they can find. Over time, these creatures become known as ‘Crazies’. Of the human survivors, seemingly immune, millions die from starvation and disease, secular and gang violence or at the hands of crazies.
Global and national communication channels completely break down, leaving only isolated radio transmissions and localised word-of-mouth.
Of the second generation, miscarriages and infant deaths rise 500% above pre-virus figures. Humanity hurtles into a rapid decline. Nature reclaims the planet.
Twenty years on …
A rusting old pickup truck with black smoke churning from the exhaust slowed to a halt in front of a BP petrol station. The sign was thick with muck and weeds and wild grass were growing from cracks throughout the forecourt and amongst the pumps. An equally decrepit Ford Transit van pulled up behind it. Both had mesh secured to windows and steel plate welded over wheel arches, doors and front grills.
Several men and women in ragged homemade clothes made of wool and hide jumped out of the vehicles into the cold drizzling morning. They scattered in twos, one of each group clutching a blade or club and the other a scraggy bolt action rifle or double barrel shotgun.
One group entered a DIY store across the street, while others checked out the petrol station and derelict houses nearby.
Several minutes passed as the fine rain threw a glistening sheen over the rusty idling vehicles. The temporary quiet was shattered by a gunshot. The groups from the store and the petrol station rushed back into the street, weapons ready, shouting to one another.
“What is it?” a stocky man with a big belly and a grubby ‘Black Cats’ baseball cap shouted. “Crazies?”
The man and woman who had been searching the houses reappeared through a doorway across the street. The man was wrestling a stick-thin old man out of the door with the woman covering with her rifle.
“Found this un hiding in there,” the woman said, jabbing the barrel of the rifle towards the muttering grey-haired man. “Think he’s worth a bob or two with the slavers?”
The Black Cat man walked over to them, shouldering his own rifle. “He’s a skinny un and old, but might be worth summit. Hoy him in the back.”
“He was babbling somethin bout bein a pilot before the shit,” the man added, puffing from exertion.
“Pilot, eh?” Black Cat hurried over to the dazed old man and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Pilot’ll make much more! Hey, old man, what you mean pilot?”
“RAF Flight Lieutenant Camden,” the old man uttered in a clipped, public school accent.
The woman, barely out of her teens, asked, “What the fuck’s a Raf?”
Black Cat stepped back and scratched his hairy chin. “Royal Air Force, you dumb bitch. This old timer used to fly for the military.”
***
An icy breeze ruffled the ice-dusted woodland and wild hedgerows. The cloudless sky was a vibrant powder-blue and a bright glowing sun hung low on the horizon. A light morning frost layered the moss and weed covered track that used to be a road many years ago.
The track leading into Newton was only wide enough for single-file fighting through the brambles, long grass and undergrowth. Any trace of a road was lost completely. The houses that used to be known as High Newton were burnt out husks, lost amongst sprouting trees and virulent climbers and weeds. Only partially jutting, mossy walls remained poking out of the woodland.
The horseshoe of stone houses was largely unchanged. Roofs and windows had been patched up over the years due to storms or wear and tear and, where there had once been lush closely cropped grass, there was now a covering of gravel, beech pebbles and scattered cracked and uneven paving slabs. Here and there, a few tufts of grass and scattered weeds were the only reminders of its luscious heritage.
The Mitsubishi Shogun sat rusted on wooden blocks at the side of the small remaining section of cracked and mossy road. It was missing all doors and the bonnet, but the leather seats inside remained, albeit cracked and split. Most of the dials and instruments had been ripped out over the years, but the steering wheel remained, worn smooth. Weeds and grass sprouted up from gaps in the rusted metal floor where carpeted flooring had long disintegrated into nothing.
Two small weathered fishing boats lay moored high up on the beach, one ancient pre-virus factory made and the second, a roughly handmade timber affair. Handmade oars, lobster pots and fishing nets lay piled up inside them.
A Land Rover was parked where the broken path met the sand. It may have once been bottle green, but the bodywork was heavily rusted with repair patches criss-crossing every inch of metal, leaving only a few faded green patches to hint at its glory days. There was no spare tyre and the four in place were worn virtually completely bald. Inside, apart from having been stripped of all refinements, it appeared in a remarkably robust condition.
The door to the end cottage on the right hand side leg of the horseshoe opened and two young men trudged out into the chilly morning, their homemade leather moccasins crunching gravel underfoot. They were both solidly built, but the first was stockier, while the second was slightly taller.
“Hang on, Rob man,” the second said, running his hands through his thick jutting black hair in a vain attempt to tame it.
Rob snorted and shook his head. “Kyle’s got the only lass who’s remotely our age, mate. Why bother?” As if suddenly self conscious, he scratched at the gingery facial hair on his chin that was still some way away from becoming a fully fledged beard.
“Well, we can live in hope!”
The two men – perhaps late teens – trudged down onto the small section of road and on to the beach, their breath pluming in front of them in the cold air. They both ruffled the collars of their sheepskin jackets, almost in tandem.
“You reckon she’s ready for the test run, Joe?” Rob asked with a mix of excitement and trepidation.
“Hell yes. Ready as she’ll ever be!”
“Old man Storey woulda been proud of us,” Rob said, his smile turning reflective.
Joe clapped him on the back and said, “This is gonna be so cool.”
They angled towards the sand dunes where several weathered old beach huts adorned positions overlooking the sea. The once vibrant colours were long faded and peeling and, where trimmed lawns and paving once would have been, now only masses of dune grass and weeds grew up around the edges of the simple wooden summer houses.
***
“Kyle!” the rasping voice of James Taunton shouted from the living room. “Where are you going, boy?”
The young man paused at the front door, cringing. He was tall with an athlete’s physique, still noticeable through the woolly jumper and faded, frayed jeans with a collage of deerskin patches.
With a sigh, he said, “I’m meeting Heather before we head out for the hunting trip.”
“That’s all you ever do these days, boy! Sniff around that Hawthorn girl like a lovesick puppy.” The harsh voice punched through the closed door of the living room at the end of the hall.
Kyle’s jaw visibly clenched, but he kept his mouth closed and barged his way through the front door and out into the courtyard. A young woman was leaving the Hawthorn cottage and waved as she noticed him. She was petite with alabaster skin and long, curly chestnut hair.
Seeing her settled his mounting anger immediately.
“Hey, pet,” Heather said as she drew closer, her broad smile gleaming in the morning sunshine. There was a slight Scottish lilt to her soft-spoken voice.
“Hi, Heath,” he replied and wrapped his arms around her small frame. They kissed briefly, then Kyle turned away and led them arm in arm down to the road.
“You okay?” she asked, frowning and staring at his set jawline.
He forced a smile, but looking at her rosy-cheeked face, he found it impossible to prevent it transforming into a genuine one. “Yeah, just the old man again. Old bastard’s constantly on my back.”
As they reached the road, Heather gently tightened her arm around his waist and perched herself on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Try not to let it get to you, pet.”
Kyle nodded, but then caught sight of Rob and Joe heading up into the dunes. “Those two nutters are off to test drive that latest piece of junk of theirs,” he said, changing the subject.
Heather smiled, recognising the tactic, but allowing it nonetheless. “I think they prefer eccentric.”
“Aye, well as long as they’re back in twenty minutes.”
“You’re such a slave-driver. Paul and Ritchie aren’t about yet anyway.”
Kyle glanced over his shoulder back at the cottages. “Trying to get this lot organised is a pain in the arse.”
“Starting to sound like your dad,” Heather said and winked.
Kyle glared at her, but the anger dissipated immediately. “That’s not funny.”
***
An old weather station lay atop the cliffs on the old footpath between Newton and Beadnell known as Newton Point. A stone wall surrounded the building and its outhouses. The cream-painted brick walls were chipped and peeling and the sturdy radio mast had been converted into a rudimentary watchtower. A wooden ladder led up the inside of the mast to a wooden platform a third of the way up, complete with a roof and waist-high walls.
Two figures walked out of the yawning dark gap where the door used to be. One was a short, chubby teenager with long baby-blond hair blowing out of the bottom of his brown woolly hat and the other was an older, scrawny young man with long matted brown hair.
The older tapped his friend’s shoulder to get his attention. When the younger turned, the first spoke slowly and signed at the same time, “Ritchie, we should head down to meet the others now.”
Ritchie grinned at him and said, “Oh-kay, Pau-lie.” His rubber-like lips over-emphasised each syllable.
Paul glanced back into the weather station and muttered, “Drat.” Turning back to Ritchie, he said and signed, “Wait here, Ritchie. I left my bag.”
The chubby boy nodded and started fumbling with the buttons on his sheepskin as Paul disappeared back through the doorway. As he finished buttoning, he started to wander towards the edge of the cliffs. His moccasin feet shuffled through the long grass, kicking at a tuft here and there.
A squawking “Kraak!” rose up from a thick clump of grass close to the cliff’s edge. Oblivious, Ritchie shuffled on, moistening then smacking his lips.
A couple of feet away, a flurry of movement in the grass caught his attention. “Ahhh!” he said in wonderment, stepping closer.
“Kraak! Kraak!”
Suddenly, with an agitated flutter, a roseate tern swept up from the grass, its pale grey and white wings flapping wildly in the boy’s shocked face. The boy cried out and staggered backwards, immediately stumbling over his own feet.
He fell to the ground hard, hitting his head off a rock hidden amongst the grass.
“Ritchie!” Paul cried as he walked out of the weather station to see the commotion. Casting his leather satchel aside, he sprinted over to his fallen friend. The bird banked away and dropped down off the edge of the cliff and out of sight.
Ritchie was holding his head, grimacing with tears in his eyes.
Paul knelt down in front of him and gently put a hand on the back of the boy’s head. The woolly hat was damp and sticky with blood. “I’m sorry, Ritchie,” Paul said, choking back tears. “I shouldn’t have left you. God forgive me.” This time he signed as well.
Sitting up, still holding his throbbing head, Ritchie looked back at him and smiled his broad, ever-forgiving smile. “Oh-kay, Pau-lie.” He grabbed his friend’s hand in his two small podgy hands and squeezed it tight.
***
The Tecumseh 20hp engine – recycled from an old tractor mower – spluttered into life with a hard tug from the manual starter cord that had been rigged up to it. Joe gave a thumb’s up as the balsa wood propellers at the front of the rudimentary wooden-framed bi-plane started turning rapidly. Painted crudely in white paint along the flank was, Dickie Bird.
Sat in a light-weight bucket seat stolen from a go-kart, Rob turned to look at his friend standing behind him where the engine sat between him and the tail section. “Yes!” he yelled above the spluttering clamour. Dirty smoke was bellowing forth from the crude exhaust, blackening his friend’s face.
“Chocks away!”
“Aye, aye! Hold ya horses! Remember the bloody balloon episode!” Joe shouted as he bent down to pull the wooden blocks away from the bald bicycle tyres. Immediately, the device lurched forward away from the beach house-cum-workshop towards the crest of the sand dune and the waiting forty-five degree, forty foot drop.
“You’re off, mate! Good luck!”
“Woohoo!” Rob screamed. “This is it! This is the one!”
The homemade tractor-cum-go-kart-cum-plane juddered and rattled towards the drop off with Rob gripping the two ropes that controlled the rudder and flaps. As the edge approached, he pulled down an old pair of scratched black plastic sunglasses that had been fixed to his head with a large rubber band.
Joe started jogging after him, shouting, “Come on!”
It bounced once where the thick grass tufted at the crest of the dune and then, with a stomach-churning wrench, the machine was airborne. Both men squealed with delight as it floated in the air, almost frozen, for a moment. Then, as soon as it had left the ground, it suddenly dropped like stone.
It had only been a few feet from the 45 degree angle of sand rolling down to the beach below, but when the tail heavy plane hit the sand, it instantly snapped in two, causing the flimsy engine housing to break apart and send the entire engine tumbling off to one side with the rest of the tail.
“Oh SHIIIIIIIII–” was all Joe could hear as he ran to the rim of the dune and caught sight of the now nose heavy remains flipping forward.
The balsa propellers hit the sand and instantly shattered one after another as the rest of the machine tipped end over end with Rob still clinging on to the useless ropes. The machine continued to break apart, scattering debris along the way and tumbling until Rob landed sat upright still in the bucket seat and still holding the two now severed lengths of rope.
Joe scrambled over the edge, half sliding, half jumping down the steep slope to join his friend at the bottom. Half laughing, half concerned, he was shouting, “Rob! Rob, you alright, mate!”
He reached the bottom, kicking half a wing aside, to see Rob staring forward with his makeshift goggles skewed to a comical angle. Slowly, he turned his head to look at his panting friend. “Did you see that?” he said simply.
“Hell yeah I saw it! You flew!”
Rob flipped the goggles over his head and his wild eyes stared at Joe. “I flew. I fucking flew! Did you see that?” They both stared at one another for a moment longer then burst into fits of laughter.
***
Rob and Joe were still laughing as they walked back to the road where Kyle, Heather, Paul and Ritchie were waiting for them. Maggie Taylor was standing with them with Ritchie’s head bent over, looking carefully through his shaggy hair.
“What happened?” Rob asked as they approached, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
“Ritchie took a little tumble,” Maggie said. “Bumped his noggin. I’ll take him to Jana to see if he needs any stitches. You’ll have to go on your hunting trip without him this time.”
Paul shoved his hands in his pocket and bowed his head. “Yes, aunty.”
“Make sure you wrap up warm and look after each other.” She allowed Ritchie to raise his head back up.
Paul glanced at his friend and mouthed, sorry to him, then repeated, “Yes, aunty.” With that, Maggie led Ritchie arm in arm back to the cottages. He looked back, briefly, to wave at them, his smile ever present.
“Yes, aunty,” Kyle muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes, as Maggie drifted out of earshot.
“Kyle, please,” Heather said evenly, flashing him a disapproving look.
“Aye, you tell him, sis,” Rob said and laughed.
Joe laughed with him and added, “I can’t believe you’re letting your girlfriend come along on one of our hunting trips, like.”
The girl switched her glare to Joe’s smoke-smeared face, saying, “I’m older than Paul, and the same age as you.”
“Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist, sis.”
Without turning, Kyle said, “Give it a rest, Rob.” Squeezing his girlfriend’s shoulder briefly, he added, “It’s okay, Heath. You’re coming and that’s it.”
Changing the subject, Paul said, “So how was the test flight?”
“Flight?” Kyle said and laughed. “I think the technical term is test crash, isn’t it?”
“Rob was airborne for at least ten seconds. It was awesome.”
As they stood talking, they noticed a couple walking back along the beach at the water’s edge. A border collie was trotting along beside them, its wet fur covered in sand. They were hand in hand, chatting nonchalantly to one another.
As they approached, they noticed the group and waved. Andrew Hawthorn, although now in his mid fifties, had aged well, with only subtle wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead, along with a receding hairline and a minor balding patch on his crown. His face had a healthy glow from walking in the cold morning breeze.
Annette’s long black hair had strands of grey running through it, but she too, wore her age lines well on her rosy face.
“You boys off on your hunting trip?” Andrew asked as the dog trotted up to Rob, wagging its tail eagerly with bright, happy eyes.
“Yeah, Dad,” Rob said, stooping to pet the collie, “Hey, Cody. But we’re taking Heather this time n all.”
“Bout time you let your sister join you,” Annette said with a smile, revealing a gap where one molar had been. Noticing Ritchie’s absence, she added, “Isn’t Ritchie going along with you?”
“He had a fall up near the weather station, Missus Hawthorn,” Paul said rather timidly. “Aunt Maggie is taking him to see Missus Denton to see if he needs a few stitches.”
The couple stopped by the group. Andrew glanced momentarily beyond them and High Newton to the sea of treetops that swept across the horizon. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be fine, Paul; don’t worry. Just be careful out there, okay?” Without giving them a chance to answer, he added, “You got the key for the church?”
“Stop fretting, Dad,” Rob said, but smiled all the same.
The group left Rob’s parents to head along the track towards High Newton. On the way, they stopped off at a small steel sheeting-roofed church with a simple wooden cross nailed above a boarded up arched window. The faded blue wooden walls were cracked and blistered and a black signpost announced St Mary’s Church in faded white lettering with illegible notices pinned below it, probably announcing the next service or bring and buy sale.
They all shuffled through the gap in the stone wall where the gate used to be to the simple porch entrance. After Kyle unlocked the door, he, Rob and Joe stepped into the dark and musty interior. The single room used to comfortably house a hundred, but now it was shuttered and filled with boxes and equipment lined up against the wood-panelled walls Engine parts, fridge freezers, cookers, bicycles, outboard motors, canned and dry goods, barrels, cleaning products and clothing.
The three young men headed straight for a cleared area where several bows (one a composite, the others simple crafted willow ones) with leather quivers, knives, spears and rucksacks were huddled in a corner, placed on and leaning against the one remaining pew.
“Wish they’d let us take the shotgun,” Joe muttered unhappily.
“No point,” Kyle replied with little interest, “we’ve only got about eight shells left for it anyway. We used the rest up on target practice – at least we got to do that.”
“We should do one of our long range foraging trips when the weather gets a little better,” Rob said.
“Aye, haven’t done one of them for ages.”
“Yeah, well, no sense thinking of that now,” Kyle said, dismissing the banter and grabbing two heavy rucksacks. “We’ve got some game to catch.”
***
As the five friends began their trek into the woods, the rising sun roused more activity in the small settlement. Tom and Jana had joined Andrew and Annette in the courtyard as Cody sniffed and scratched around the weeds and bushes by the edge of the road.
“Looking like a pretty measly crop this time, Andy,” Tom was saying as he scraped his worn and battered old boot against the gravel and pebbles. He had filled out around the waist and was greying around the temples. His fair skin, too, had weathered over the years.
“Well, hopefully the boys will come back with some extra pickings, as well as a few kills,” Andrew said and chewed the side of his mouth.
“How’s Ritchie?” Annette asked Jana.
As a former dental nurse and first-aider, Jana had been given the role of village doctor many years ago. “He’s okay; no need for stitches, but he took quite a knock, poor thing.” Glancing over her shoulder, she added in a low tone, “Mister Taunton is getting worse. It’s a cancer, like the one that took Jennifer five years ago.”
Annette sighed and rubbed Jana’s shoulder with her gloved hand. It was a simple gesture, but it seemed to renew the younger woman’s flagging spirit. “How’s he coping?”
“Not very well. He’s so angry all the time. I just don’t know how to talk to him. He takes it out on Kyle pretty bad. It’s heartbreaking.”
“He’s been like that since Jenny died,” Andrew said, glancing towards the Taunton cottage. Wisping smoke was rising from the chimney.
“He was always a bit of a miserable bugger,” Tom added, but didn’t smile at his poor attempt at humour.
“Kyle reminds him every day of what he’s lost,” Jana said. “It must be really painful for him.”
“It must be breaking poor Kyle’s heart too,” Annette added. “But at least, Heather is there for him. She seems to be really good for him – really calmed him down.”
“Aye, he had a lot of anger in him before, but you’re right, the fire in his eyes seems to have abated somewhat.”
Tom grunted. “You should’ve been a poet, mate.”
“It’s a tragic story – a promising career scuppered by the whole end of the world thing.” With a wry smile, Andrew added, “Such a cliché.”
“Well, at least you haven’t lost your sense of humour or sarcasm, honey,” Annette said, kissing him gently on his cold cheek.
Tom glanced up at the clear sky and said, “Well, I suggest we take to the boats and make use of the lull in the weather.”
***
The expansive subterranean room was inadequately lit by overhead strip lights that threw shadows into the extremities.
A grand mahogany conference table was the centrepiece and the men and women sat around it appeared gaunt and pinched in the poor artificial light.
The former commander of 209 Signal Squadron – now, General Carlton – sat at the head of the table, next to a flat screen monitor with a crackling image of a bloated face staring eagerly.
“So we are sure that this former RAF pilot is telling the truth about the bio-toxin and its whereabouts?” Carlton asked, his expression furrowed. The years had shrunken his features and thinned his hair to isolated wispy grey strands.
A figure leant forward from the shadows. “I know we have significant problems with the population, immigration and with maintaining control of both the populous and clans, but surely there must be another way.”
“We’ve heard enough of your liberal bullshit, Rafe,” the face on the flickering screen grunted.
“With all due respect, Chairman–”
“Don’t try that with me, Rafe,” the Chairman interrupted. “This development is a Godsend and will be the answer to all of our problems. We have to sacrifice a few for the greater good.”
“The greater good?” Rafe echoed with marked disdain.
“I know a man who works the northern trade routes,” Carlton said finally. “If this is the council’s final decision then I will arrange it through an intermediary.”
***
The day’s gillnetting between the two boats turned out to be not unsuccessful. Their haul consisted of flounder, coalfish, plaice and shrimp, along with a couple of adolescent lobsters.
A breezy dusk was settling over the village as Andrew, Tom and two other men wearily dragged the two boats back up onto the sand. A bank of grey clouds was drawing near from the west.
The wind rippled through Andrew’s hair as something caught his attention from the corner of his eye. Turning towards the rutted track that led to High Newton, he noticed two lights approaching. They looked like … no, that was impossible.
“Guys,” Andrew said, his gaze fixed on the approaching lights. He was rigid and still, apart from a brief flick of his hand to sweep a few strands of hair out of his eyes.
“What is it?” Tom asked as he and the others looked out towards the track. “Jesus, is that really–?”
“Bloody looks like it.”
The two bobbing lights drew nearer and gradually, above the breaking waves and the rustling of the trees, a new sound could be heard. An engine.
“This could be–” the burly man to Tom’s side started.
“I know,” he answered sharply. “Best break out ‘old Bess’ and the other weapons and be ready.”
The vehicle made slow progress along the footpath-sized track, giving plenty of time for the rest of the village to be alerted. Thirteen people were gathered at the bottom of the courtyard, waiting. Tom, standing in front with Andrew and the two other men, held ‘old Bess’, James Taunton’s old shotgun. Ignoring Jana’s pleas to stay indoors, James stood behind them, thin and stooped and leaning shakily on a walking stick. Jana and Annette were either side of him, Jana holding a blazing lantern in the rapidly fading light and Annette holding tight to the rope lead that held Cody at bay. The collie had the rope stretched taught with his neck extended, rigidly staring at the approaching lights.
Andrew and the other men held a variety of clubs and gardening tools, with one in front sporting a gleaming two-handed claymore sword jammed into the gravel with his hands clasped tight around the cross-hilt.
They looked like a raggedy bunch, with homemade, worn and patched up winter clothing and dour features, but they emanated a solidarity and strength that was impossible to ignore.
The vehicle finally juddered into view, crashing through the last of the weeds and brambles. It looked like an old Land Rover, but had been customised with metal-plating along its flanks and wire mesh over the windows. A crude plough-like blade at the front had enabled the driver to force his way through the overgrown track. The vehicle had at some point been crudely painted black, but now the scratches and dents outweighed the remaining paint.
The Land Rover ground to a halt a few yards in front of the group of villagers. They all visibly tensed and the man with the claymore yanked it free of the ground and propped it over one shoulder.
“If this turns ugly,” Tom said quietly, “we rush at them with everything we’ve got. We’ll have the edge in numbers, regardless of what they’ve got.”
“Aye,” Andrew uttered grimly, adjusting the grip on his battered cricket bat. Its blade had split, with a portion missing down one side, but it would still hopefully do the job.
“Could’ve done with the boys being here too,” the man with the claymore added.
The engine died and both the driver and passenger doors swung open.
“Easy,” Andrew said edgily as a low growl rose up from Cody.
A man in his early forties jumped down from the driver’s side. A wide, muscular frame was compressed inside a faded black combat jacket and trousers. His bristling brown crew-cut was parted by an old scar running from forehead to crown. His flat face and equally flat broken nose was given a more contoured appearance by a bushy brown moustache. A pistol was strapped to his thigh and he held an MP5 carbine loosely by the strap in one hand and the other was raised, gesturing for the villagers to hold their fire.
The second man was older – late fifties – with more grey than brown left on his head and a slim, angular face. Dressed in corduroys and a plaid shirt, he looked somewhat out of place with the dogs of war reject, but Andrew hardly noticed. Instead, Andrew’s eyes grew wide with recognition.
“Gary?” Andrew asked incredulously. “Gary Johnson?”
The age and fatigue across his old friend’s face seemed to recede instantly. “Andrew, my old friend; it really is you.”
Tom and several others in the crowd glanced from the newcomer to Andrew. Tom asked, “You know this guy?”
“Hell yes!” Andrew exclaimed, shoving his bat into the hands of a man beside him and stepping forward to pump Gary’s hand. “My God, Gary! How are you? How the … what the …” He struggled to find the words.
Gary laughed and allowed his arm to be yanked enthusiastically up and down while his driver slung his carbine over his shoulder and visibly relaxed. “It’s a long story, my friend. A long, long story.”
A young woman jumped down out of the rear of the Land Rover. She had short, spiky crimson-dyed hair with a stud in her nose. She wore an ancient cracked black leather biker jacket and skin-tight leather trousers that accentuated a well toned body.
“And this is my daughter, Tara,” Gary added.
Andrew greeted the young woman then, glancing over his shoulder to the bewildered villagers, he said, “This is Gary Johnson. Annie, you remember Gary – worked at the Environmental Protection Agency down in Middlesbrough.”
Annette stepped forward, her own expression expanding in recognition. “Yes, I remember!” She handed Cody’s lead to a rather bemused Jana and Andrew stepped aside to allow her to give him a hug. “Sorry, Gary.”
Gary laughed again and the warmth in it was infectious. “No need to be sorry, Annette. It’s been over twenty years.”
Annette immediately went from Gary to Tara and gave her a warm embrace too. “Lovely to meet you, Tara. You were only a baby when we last saw your father.” Tara looked somewhat uncomfortable with the embrace and took half a step backwards as soon as she was released.
“Err, pleased to meet you too, Annette.”
With that, the remaining villagers lowered their rag tag assortment of weapons. Tom broke old Bess over his arm and stepped forward to join them.
Tom took the newcomer’s hand. “Tom Denton. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. This stout fellow with me is Stuart Mullan.”
“Y’alright,” Stuart said with a thick Glaswegian accent.
Clapping Gary on the back, Andrew said, “Let’s get you guys a cuppa and then you can fill us in on everything.”
The three newcomers along with the entire village filed into the Ship Inn where Maggie and a couple of helpers quickly went to work on brewing tea and preparing a light snack for their guests.
The villagers sat around them, hanging on every word, utterly transfixed. Only James Taunton appeared wary and standoffish.
As steaming mugs of tea arrived, Gary started to recount their story. “We’ve come from Middlesbrough – or the Black City – as it’s now become known as.”
“There’s still a city?” Tom asked, amazed.
Gary nodded impatiently, as if surprised that they didn’t know. “The only one, as far as we know. We managed to keep the power station operational after you left, Andrew. The others all died off one by one, but with Reg’s help and a few others we managed to keep ours going.”
Andrew couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Hartlepool Power Station is still operating? And Reg? Reg is still okay?”
Gary smiled again and took a sip of his tea. “This is lovely tea. Thank you …”
“Maggie,” Maggie said and beamed with pride. “We grow our own tea – several varieties – tobacco too.”
“To answer your questions, Andrew: yes and yes. Reg has been keeping the fires burning and lights blazing all these years. Boro has become something of a beacon in the darkness, held together by the power station under the rule of a mixed bag of former local authority and military personnel.”
“Are you saying that you have some kind of working government down there?” James asked, frowning.
“Sort of – it’s all localised around the Boro area and it’s not really a government as such, more a despot dictatorship, but yes, it’s a government of sorts.”
“Despot and dictatorship?” Andrew said with a hint of concern.
“Doesn’t sound like a good combination to me,” Tom echoed.
“No, it’s not.” He glanced around the room then settled his attention back on Andrew. “That’s why we left. There’s a hell of a lot of in-fighting for control and the Authority’s rule has become progressively more hard-line as the years have gone on. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so decided to get out. Stuart here kindly agreed to help me.”
“But how the heck did you end up here?”
“I remembered how you would talk about your holiday home up here. I spoke to Reg and he told me that this is where he thought you had come. I decided to give this place a try for myself and look up an old friend.”
“Unbelievable,” James said flatly.
Andrew flashed him an irritated glance. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe it’s really you!”
Taking another sip of tea, Gary said, “To be honest, I can’t believe it either. On the journey up here I had pretty much convinced myself that we’d find the village deserted or burnt down and no sign of you. I’m astounded that you’re still here and doing so well, by the looks of it.”
“We’ve got a wonderful little community,” Annette said and squeezed Andrew’s hand.
“Have you got room for three more?”
It was Andrew’s turn to smile. “Everything is voted upon here, but I can’t see it being a problem at all.” He glanced around at the attentive faces around the room and found no disagreement from anyone except James. His disapproval was blatant.
“Everyone has to chip in and do their bit of course,” Tom added.
“We’ll do more than our share,” Gary replied in earnest.
“Aye,” Stuart said with a curt nod as he tucked into a sandwich.
Tara glanced at her father, with what looked like a brief frown then turned to Annette and Andrew and offered a warm smile.
***
The five friends returned an hour later as Gary, Stuart and Tara were unloading the Land Rover with the help of Andrew and Tom. A couple of the cottages were empty, so their bags were being taken inside one of them.
Annette and Jana were doing their best to sweep up the dust and muck and give the place a vaguely homely atmosphere. Fires in the lounge and dining room had been lit to take the chill off the long uninhabited home.
The friends were introduced to the newcomers immediately and Gary delighted at how Rob had grown into such a strapping young man.
Rob and Joe stared at Tara rather sheepishly, suddenly shy and awkward. As Kyle smiled and introduced himself, Heather felt a twinge of jealousy. Annoyed at herself, she quickly suppressed it to introduce herself and say how great it would be to have a new friend in the village.
After the brief introductions, the friends left them (reluctantly for some) to it. They took their slim pickings from the hunting trip to Maggie for distribution. The haul consisted of a couple of sacks of wild vegetables – mixed greens and potatoes mainly – six rabbits and a rather scrawny wild sheep that was slung unceremoniously over Joe’s shoulders.
***
Stuart left Gary reminiscing with Andrew in the pub and headed back to the cottage. He had a feeling that Tara, as a reluctant member of their little expedition, would be staying out of the way there.
He was right.
Tara was sat at the kitchen table, brooding over a cup of tea.
“Might ah have a word?” Stuart asked genially enough.
“No. Fuck off.” She didn’t look at him.
A twitch in the corner of his eye was his only reaction. He casually walked up to her and in one blur of movement gripped her by the throat and hauled her out of the chair. Yanking her gasping to his face, he said, “That wasnae very nice.”
“Hurting me! My Dad–”
“Shut it an listen, bitch,” Mullan growled, nose to nose with her reddening face. “Where’s Samuel?”
“Wha–?” Tara gasped, clawing at his powerful grip around her throat.
“Daene play games with me, eh? I’ve got games of me own ah can play with a feisty wee bitch such as yae.” He leered at her and tightened his chokehold.
The look sent a spasm down her arching back as she fought to get away from his corrupt breath. “I don’t know! Helen sent him away and told him to get rid of it! That’s all I know!”
Stuart stared into her wide, blinking eyes for a moment then relaxed his grip slightly, allowing her several rasping gulps of air. “When yae get back tae Helen, yae tell her tae call her lapdog back or ah’ll butcher the pair of yae – aftae I’ve had ma fun of course.” With that he thrust her back into her chair and turned back to the door.
Clutching her angry-red neck, Tara muttered, “Bastard.”
Stuart paused in the doorway and glanced back over his shoulder. With a smile, he said, “Aye, that’ll be right.”
***
The paddock behind the horseshoe had been fenced off to house the village’s meagre collection of livestock; five white and brown Lynton goats, three particularly shaggy Blackface sheep, a Middle White sow, a tired old Ayrshire cow and an equally ancient looking Exmoor pony that had become inseparable, and a dozen hens. This motley group milled around the field with coups, a sty and a small barn along one side. The morning’s light frost had failed to harden what was mostly a quagmire.
Off both sides of the paddock were the village’s allotment gardens that were home to pollytunnels and ramshackled greenhouses.
The hour’s work of mucking out and spreading fresh feed had brought up a healthy sweat on Rob and Joe’s foreheads. Several times, the work had been stalled in favour of a quick impromptu wrestling match, the signs of which were caked all over their jeans and jumpers.
Rob wiped absently at a smear of mud across one cheek as they squelched and plodged back to the gate. “That Tara lass is something else, eh?” he said and smiled to himself.
Sniffling noisily at his runny nose, Joe nodded and said, “Yeah, but you don’t stand a chance, mate. It was plainly obvious that she only had eyes for me.”
“Bollocks.”
As they reached the gate, they noticed Tara walking along the muddy path towards them. She was carefully picking her way, jumping from one dry clump of grass to another.
“Speak of the devil,” Joe muttered, then loudly said, “Morning, Tara!”
She glanced up and immediately slipped off one island clump into a gooey puddle. “Shit!” she snapped, pulling her leather boot free of the dripping muck. “Thanks a lot.”
“Sorry,” Joe said, subduing a laugh as she teetered on one foot while trying to wipe her muddied heal on a clump of grass.
Closing the gate behind them, Rob went over to her and offered her his arm for support. She took it without a thank you or a kindly glance. He caught sight of a jealous glare from Joe and offered him a sly wink in return.
***
The old church creaked and groaned in protest at the rising wind outside. The orange flame flickering in a lantern hanging from a rusty hook was the only source of light. Dust disturbed from the rafters fluttered down onto the heads of Rob, Joe and Paul.
Rob was sat amongst the disassembled parts of the Tecumseh engine from Dickie Bird. His face was smeared with grease and a screwdriver was gripped between his teeth. Joe was sat on a crate scribbling into a notepad, glancing up every now and then to look at the engine in thoughtful silence. Paul was sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a weather-beaten hardback of the Oxford Press Holy Bible.
Rob sat back and plucked the screwdriver from his teeth. “I was thinking I might ask Mister Johnson if I could take Tara for a walk.”
Joe and Paul looked at him. Joe frowned, but it was Paul who spoke first. Crinkling his face, he asked, “Why?”
It was Rob and Joe’s turn to stare at Paul. “What do you mean why?” Rob asked incredulously. “She’s a major hottie!”
Paul shook his head and, dropping his gaze back to the bible, muttered, “She’s just a girl.”
Rob and Joe looked from Paul to each other. Shaking his head, Rob said, “I worry about you sometimes, mate.”
Paul ignored the remark, but Joe continued to stare at Rob. “How come you get dibs, eh?”
A little defensively, Rob said, “Because I thought of it first.”
As they stared at each other, the door swung open and clattered against the wall. The gusting wind drove Tara into the circle of the lantern’s gloomy half-light.
She was bedraggled and out of breath, but both Rob and Joe were on their feet in seconds and smoothing down creases in clothes and wayward strands of hair.
Paul merely glanced up, shook his head and went back to his reading.
“Hi, Tara!” both Rob and Joe said in unison and then immediately shot each other an irritated glance.
Tara barely noticed as she staggered further into the room whilst spitting a leaf out of her mouth. “What is with this fucking wind?” she asked no one in particular.
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad this time of year,” Rob said and offered her a companionable smile.
As she composed herself, Tara’s gaze lingered on Rob and she managed to return his smile. “So, what you boys up to?” she asked finally.
“Oh, just repairing the engine for our plane,” Rob said with a nonchalant shrug.
Joe’s eyes darted to Rob then back to Tara. “It’s a project we’ve been working on for a few months,” he added.
“Oh, right,” Tara said, unimpressed. “You’ve got black on you.” She waved a finger at Rob’s face.
Cursing under his breath, Rob grabbed a grubby rag and rubbed at his face.
Joe managed a smile and, while Rob was momentarily distracted, said, “What do you think of Newton so far then?”
Tara shrugged and sat down on the edge of a cluttered work bench. “What do you people do round here for fun?”
Rob opened his mouth to speak, but Joe beat him to it. “You people?”
Tara shrugged again and Joe felt a twinge of irritation. “You know – you people – country people.”
“We’re not some dumb hicks you know,” Joe said then flinched at the harshness in his tone.
Rob glared at Joe then injected, “We go hunting; we have dances in the pub and sing-along contests. We sometimes put on plays or watch old films on a video player that we’ve got hooked up to the genny. There’s loads to do!”
Tara was listening intently as Rob listed the activities, ignoring Joe’s anger. “Dancing? That sounds cool.”
Paul glanced up from his bible and caught Joe’s furrowed features. He rolled his eyes then returned to the book.
***
A couple of days passed as the newcomers acclimatised to their new sedate setting. There was a level of suspicion and distrust, which was to be expected, but overall (apart from one notable exception), the three travellers from the last remaining city in Britain were greeted with warmth and hospitality.
After some initial hesitation, the villagers soon wanted to know everything and anything from the outside world. It seemed suddenly that the village had been cut off from some possible civilisation all these years and everyone wanted to know what they had been missing. Most of their questions were answered with a simple but not unapologetic no. Questions like, do you know whether there is any form of central government in place, trade with other cities or other countries or whether the crazies had died out. The answers were no, no, no.
Kyle, Rob and Joe were all extremely interested in Stuart Mullan, and especially his firearms. He even offered them a closer look of them, being careful to strip out the magazines first.
Handing the carbine to Kyle first, he said, “Nine millimetre Heckler and Koch MP5 carbine. Sixty round twin mag capacity with three settings – single, two to three round burst and an ass-kickin fully auto sustained fire, giving yae an awesome eight hundred rounds per minute.” Stuart broke out into a grin at the amazed expressions from his audience.
Kyle begrudgingly handed the robust weapon, smelling of gun oil, on to Rob, who, after close inspection, handed it to Joe.
Next, Stuart drew his sidearm. After a quick release of the magazine and the chambered round, he handed it to Kyle. “Nae this beauty is a forty-five calibre Colt M1911A1, with a chequered walnut grip. Only got a seven round mag cap plus one in the chamber of course, but boy can yae feel em! These puppies started tae go oot of general service in the US in the late seventies. Their replacement, the M9, carries more rounds and has better accuracy, but call me old fashioned, ah just love the kick of a forty-five.” His expression was almost wistful as he described it as if it was a close friend.
***
A cold afternoon breeze ruffled Tara’s hair as she trudged out onto the beach, hands thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket. Her expression was dark and her eyes were downcast as she kicked a stone into the lapping water.
The sounds of gulls blending almost melodiously with the ocean helped calm her troubled thoughts, but she was far from content.
“Hi,” a voice called from behind her.
She spun round, casting an angry glare that just about managed to conceal her fright.
Joe raised his arms in defence on seeing her annoyed expression. “Sorry. Just … being friendly.” He offered her a weak smile.
Some of the anger dissipated. “I’m not in a very friendly mood.” She didn’t mean her words to sound so abrupt, but judging by Joe’s wounded expression, that’s exactly how they had been interpreted.
“Sorry to bother you,” Joe managed before quickly walking off back towards the horseshoe.
Tara opened her mouth to call after him, ashamed at her behaviour to one of the few people who had been really nice to her. But her lips closed and she turned away, eyes once more focussing on the sand and pebbles at her feet.
Joe kept walking past the cottages and headed along the lane. His mood now matching the new girl’s. “Very smooth. Very bloody smooth,” he was muttering to himself. “Idiot. Pathetic bloody loser.”
***
On the third night, Andrew was taking Cody for his evening walk. The dark sky had filled with angry broiling storm clouds. Icy sleet carried on the cold wind was blowing in from the North Sea. He had walked along the beach and back again, but Cody had refused to cooperate, so was now walking rather moodily along the track towards St Mary’s.
His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his thick leather coat with the collar turned up against the wind as Cody trotted freely just ahead of him, pausing to sniff the undergrowth here and there.
“Come on, boy,” Andrew muttered impatiently.
The dog’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name and he glanced at his master, but then went straight back to his sniffing and scratching. Andrew rolled his eyes and trudged onwards, pausing briefly to wipe icy water from his face with a semi-numbed red hand.
As the dark silhouette of the church materialised out of the darkness, so did the faint glint of a flashlight. Andrew stopped abruptly, squinting through the drizzle and darkness. Cody continued sniffing at a clump of thistles, before finally squatting in front of them.
Andrew glanced at the dog and shook his head in disbelief. “Some guard dog you would make!”
The muffled beam bobbed and danced towards him and Andrew finally spoke up in its direction. “Hello, who’s that?” He felt stupid, but his heart was pounding nonetheless.
“It’s Mullan,” the gruff Scotsman replied with just a hint of surprise.
“Oh, okay,” Andrew said with some relief, but his frown remained fixed.
The big man appeared to leap forward out of the night. The orange glow of the torch had appeared further away than it actually was. Suddenly he was standing in front of him, dressed in his black combat gear with his carbine clutched loosely in one hand and a robust rubber flashlight in the other.
“Andrew, eh?” Stuart said, genially enough, despite looking like he was on a black ops mission in the jungles of the Mekong delta.
“Yeah, hi Stuart.” Andrew shuffled uneasily, then was unable to stop himself asking, “What are you doing out here in this crappy weather?”
Cody had finished his business and trotted over to sniff Stuart’s leg. The big man ignored the dog and glanced over his shoulder back the way he had come. Looking back to Andrew, he smiled and said, “Couldnae sleep, pal. Quite like a wee walk at night in the rain. Gives a man time tae think, eh?” His face appeared pale and haunted in the darkness.
Andrew noticed that the man failed to blink even when cold droplets of sleet struck his eyes. The icy rainwater ran down his face and dripped off his ears and chin from small rivulets and all the while his face remained deathly still. His wide open soapstone eyes remained fixed on Andrews, seemingly willing him to question his explanation.
After a moment, Andrew shrugged and said, “Well, Cody’s finally had himself a crap, so I’ll walk back with you if you like.”
“Aye, suits me,” Stuart said simply and started to walk back towards the village.
***
The next day, Rob, Joe, Kyle and Paul prepared for another hunting trip. Ritchie’s mother, Kim Jameson, had refused to allow Ritchie to join them this time, saying that he was still too fragile after his accident. Heather had agreed to help Annette with a string of chores, so was also unable to join them either. Both Paul and Kyle appeared sullen and grumpy as they prepared their kit for the trip.
The morning drizzle had departed to leave a cold and wet winter morning as the four young men outside the church checked their packs and shouldered their bows. They finished in silence, only their breath catching on the air, as Andrew, accompanied by Cody, walked up the track towards them.
“Hey, lads,” he called to them.
“Hey, dad. We’re just leaving,” Rob replied as he wedged a spear between the folds and straps of Joe’s pack.
“Good, good,” Andrew said almost absently as he glanced back over his shoulder.
Rob patted Joe on the back, saying, “You’re set, mate.”
“Cheers,” Joe said, shrugging the pack higher onto his shoulders.
Andrew seemed to hesitate for a moment, mulling something over in his mind. The four young men turned to look at him, awaiting his usual ‘be careful’ message. Instead, Andrew glanced over his shoulder one more time then said, “Have you lads noticed anything suspicious about that Stuart character?”
The group of friends exchanged puzzled glances. Kyle said, “No, Mister Hawthorn. Not noticed anything. Why?”
Andrew chewed the side of his mouth for a moment.
“Everything okay, dad?” There was concern in Rob’s voice.
His father seemed to shake it off then said, “No matter. Just saw him wandering around out here last night. Don’t worry about it.”
“We can delay the trip if you like,” Kyle offered.
Andrew shook his head and flourished a dismissive wave. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We need you lads to bring in some more supplies while the weather’s still okay. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
***
The four friends left Rob’s father at the church. They walked in silence for several minutes along the rutted track, before Rob said, “You think there’s anything funny about Stuart?” He didn’t aim the question at anyone in particular.
“Bit of a hard man, sure, but that’s why Gary needed his help, I guess,” Kyle ventured.
“You don’t think the whole Boro story is bullshit do you?” Joe said and started frowning. “Maybe they’re just here to steal our supplies and stuff.”
“Well, they seem okay to me, praise God,” Paul muttered.
“Aye, everyone’s nice in your book,” Kyle retorted, striding on and quickening the pace.
Paul’s eyes fell back to the muddy track.
“I dunno,” Rob said, his face still troubled. “That Gary bloke is an old friend of dad’s, but I guess that was a long time ago.”
“Once a friend, always a friend,” Kyle said absently.
Rob had slowed down, lagging behind the other three. He let out a deep sigh then shrugged his pack higher onto his shoulders and picked up the pace. Joe clapped him on the back as he drew along side and offered him a smile.