by Neil Davies
Now on his own, he pushed himself forward, his mouth set in a tight line of grim determination. In the past year, he had allowed himself to grow lazy, unfit. His legs ached, and his breathing was harsh and heavy. But he wasn’t riding for the exercise. He was riding because of the fox.
It would not leave his thoughts alone, the nagging suspicion that there had been something else, something more than just the fox in that hedge. Why had the fox run? He had been too far away to startle it, but perhaps there had been something, or someone, closer?
An hour after he watched the fox run across the field, he had walked to the hedge, cautiously, nervously. There had been nothing there, nothing but dead wood, dead grass and one or two hardy mushrooms pushing through the ash-like soil. But the feeling would not leave him. The feeling that he had seen more than a fox.
Not too long ago, in the deserts of Afghanistan, his team had been heading towards a target, keeping to the shadows in the deep wadi they had chosen as their route. Moments before hell opened up around them, he had felt they were being watched, that someone else was nearby. Only two of the four man team had fought their way out of that wadi, and he believed his survival was due, in part, to his shouting a warning and seeking cover a second before the first shot of the ambush was fired.
The feeling earlier that day, standing in the field watching the fox, had been similar. Frighteningly similar.
Now he rode the bike that had stood against the wall of his shed for more than two years, unused, rusting. It squeaked, it groaned, it left a trail of red-brown flakes in its wake, but it was faster than walking, and his destination was too far to stroll.
#
As the entrance to the camp came into view over the rise of the hill, he breathed a sigh of relief. Larton Army Camp.
The gatehouse looked deserted, windows broken, trailing wires evidence of the hurried removal of the computer system. Looters probably, or perhaps a speedy strategic withdrawal. He liked to imagine the army had calmly, but quickly, gathered their things and moved to a more central location. But as he stared at the smashed glass, the wind-blown litter spreading across the concrete entryway, and as he smelled the acrid waft of urine that a sudden change in wind direction blew his way, he knew there had been nothing calm or organised about the camp’s desertion.
He and his neighbours had heard rumours that the armed forces had fallen apart after The Incident, but for a long time he refused to believe it. The military would hold itself together, however depleted they might be. It would be the army who would bring the supplies to the survivors, who would provide medical aid. But they never arrived, and the rumours spread. A few words of news from a wandering survivor would expand into, often wild, tales. But an element of truth remained.
The British Army was no more.
The barrier to the camp was down, its worn but still discernible red and white striped pole offering only minimum protection without the armed guards to patrol it. It was no problem to squeeze past with the bike.
At first, as he walked slowly between the long, low concrete buildings lining the main roadway, he looked left and right, staring through shattered windows into dark, shadow-filled interiors. But the desolation, the emptiness, depressed him and he soon fixed his eyes straight ahead.
It had been over ten years since he had last been inside this camp, but his memory was good, and he knew where he needed to go. He had thought about it before, but the fox, the feeling with the fox, had finally forced a decision on him. He needed to be prepared. In case he was right. In case something really bad was on the way.
#
Steve Lawrence and Julie Frances walked their bikes onto the top of Thurstaston Hill. The deep red sandstone, underlying so much of the area, had remained untouched by The Incident, but the blackened gorse between the pathways, and the scorched holes gouged out of the rock were a stark reminder.
Julie stopped at a low pile of shaped stones, all that remained of the plinth that had once stood there, while Steve wheeled his bike a little further on, laying it down on the path and reaching into the brittle, dead gorse at the edge.
"What have you found?" asked Julie.
Steve lifted a twisted, blackened square of metal from the gorse, turning it back and forth in his hands.
"It's the old bronze map that used to be on the top of that thing, I think." He pointed to the stones scattered at Julie's feet. "Too much damage to read it now."
"We should keep it," said Julie. "A bit of old memorabilia."
Steve thought for a moment, and then threw the metal back into the gorse.
"No point. We should concentrate on the future, not the past."
Julie sighed. It worried her sometimes how quickly Steve had thrown off his old life. Occasionally she thought it was a defence mechanism, his way of dealing with the horrors of a year ago, but she wasn't convinced. He had just turned 18 when The Incident occurred, she almost 22. Could such a small age difference really have such an impact? She could not, would not forget the past. People she cared about had died. The world as they had known it had ended. How could she forget that?
"You're thinking again," said Steve, stepping up to her and putting a long, thin arm around her shoulders. "I've told you before, it's not good. Thinking."
She smiled. "Some of us were cursed with brains that think. Not something you need to worry about, Steve."
He laughed and quickly kissed her on the cheek.
"Let's not hurry home," he said. "There's no rush. What do you say?"
Julie looked up at the clear sky and across the mud-flats of the River Dee, now little more than a small stream trickling towards the sea. The Welsh coastline was a misty silhouette on the horizon, the peak of Moel Famau, blasted and stunted, too faint to see. A keen wind blew across the hill, but not enough to be any real problem. She knew the weather could change quickly, but it looked good for now.
Deciding she had made him wait long enough, she returned his kiss and nodded. It would be nice to spend the day, perhaps even the evening, up here, just the two of them. If there was one thing that was an improvement since The Incident, it was the ability to enjoy true solitude, true privacy. What more could young lovers ask for?
#
It had taken longer than John expected to break the lock on the armoury door. Finding the armoury itself had also taken more time, even though he believed his memory to be good. He had known it was buried in a specially dug out cellar beneath one of the buildings, through a small rabbit warren of tunnels, but he had not expected to forget which particular building it was. Fortunately, only five buildings were in the area he was certain he should be looking in, but typically, it turned out to be the very last one he tried.
The first bit of good news was that the way in was still accessible. He had been worried he would find it collapsed. The second bit of good news was that it had not been looted. His investigation of the buildings above ground had prepared him for the worst. Each had been ripped apart by survivors looking for food, weapons, anything that could be useful. At least two of the buildings had makeshift campsites in them where people had squatted in the past. He had seen no one. He hoped they had all gone.
The door into the armoury itself was locked with a heavy-duty padlock, but at least it was just a padlock. There was an electronic lock on the door as well, but sometime in the past year it, like everything else electrical, had lost its power and died, fortunately with the locking mechanism open. The padlock had finally succumbed to brute force with various pieces of metal debris from above, but it had taken a long time and left him sweating and aching.
The light was beginning to fade as he hefted the bag full of weapons, explosives and ammunition onto his shoulder and made his way back through the tunnels. It was almost more than he could carry, but he wanted to be prepared, and he didn't want to have to make this journey again soon.
He was almost at the entrance to the building above when he heard voices and jerked to an abrupt stop.
People, at lea
st two, not far ahead of him. In the building or the tunnel? He could not be sure.
The relatively narrow tunnel gave no place to hide, and no other direction to go other than back down towards the armoury. If he did that, he would be further from the entrance, and even more trapped than he was at present. There really was very little choice.
The voices were coming closer, now definitely inside the tunnel. A strong scouse accent was raised in frustration, bordering on anger.
"There's a reason for these fucking tunnels, okay? They didn't dig them for fun, right? I'm telling you there's something good, something worth hiding, down here, and I'm going to find it."
Shit, thought John. That's not all you're going to find in a minute.
He again considered retreating back down the tunnel, but, sooner or later, they were going to reach him, corner him. Might as well get it over with.
Placing the heavy bag quietly on the floor, he took two, three calming breaths and waited.
Two men turned the bend in the tunnel just ahead of him and staggered to a stop, staring, open-mouthed, at the stranger before them.
The one with the scouse accent, perhaps in his mid twenties and dressed in ragged jeans and a more ragged hoodie, was the first to recover.
"Who the fuck are you?"
John smiled slightly, trying to stay calm. He was out of practice, but he tried not to think about that.
"I have the same question," he said, pleased at how relaxed his voice sounded, muffled by the earth walls of the tunnel.
"What's in the bag?" said the second man, older than the first, and with a smooth cultured voice that surprised John.
He scolded himself on his lack of observation, noting belatedly the ripped, but once expensive, suit worn by the speaker.
"Personal stuff," he said. "Nothing of interest to you."
"I think we'll take it all the same," said the younger man, pulling a short bladed knife from his waistband.
I really am out of practice, thought John. I didn't spot that knife until now.
"Shall we just get this over with?" he said, annoyed with himself.
The man with the knife lunged forward, stabbing towards John's stomach.
John parried the knife hand with his arm, grabbing the wrist as he did so. There was no time for subtlety, and he roughly shoved the armed man into the tunnel wall, twisting the wrist as he did so, feeling the knife drop. He punched the man twice, quickly, in the back of the head, each blow pounding his face into the wall, wrapped an arm around his neck, landed two more punches into the kidneys and dragged the man down to the ground. One final punch to the head guaranteed he was out, and John quickly jumped back onto his feet, spinning to meet the clumsily swung punch of the older, suited man.
He blocked the punch easily, grabbed and pulled, driving a knee upwards. As the man doubled over, gasping for breath, John brought the side of his clenched fist down on the base of the skull. The man's legs folded beneath him, and he sprawled alongside his equally unconscious companion.
John, while happy with the relative speed with which he had dispatched the two aggressors, was far less happy with how out of breath he now was. Promising himself he would devise an exercise regime, he grabbed up the bag and hurried on up the tunnel.
As he made his way to where he had parked his bike, he kept his eyes moving, searching for more people. He saw no one. Balancing the bag of weapons precariously on the handlebars, he cycled out of the old army camp as fast as he could.
It didn't matter, he told himself. He had what he came for and was unlikely ever to see those two men again. He should forget about them. But the brief violence had stirred old memories of Afghanistan and Iraq, and that, along with the shaking in his arms and legs, was something much harder to forget.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Attack
Julie Frances eased herself from under the persistent lips and hands of Steve Lawrence. She frowned at the darkening sky.
"It's getting late, Steve. We should be getting back."
Steve rolled onto his back, frustration evident in the erection he made no attempt to hide, straining the front of his jeans.
"No one's going to care when we get back, if they even realise we're gone. The nights are warm, there's no one around here anymore. We can do whatever we want, for as long as we want."
"For as long as you want, you mean," said Julie, reaching out a hand and stroking her fingers over the bulge in his jeans. "Or as long as you can last."
Steve smiled. "It's going to be a long night then."
Despite her worry at the growing darkness around them, with no street lights or house lights to break the blackness, and only a weak half moon in the sky, Julie smiled.
#
Annie Thomas stared out of her bedroom window at the half moon, hanging like a drowsy eye in the clear night sky.
At least that's not changed, she thought, although John Roundtree had said some reports told of a permanent glow in the sky around London. He had heard that the glow was so bright, those people still living some miles from the city no longer recognised any distinction between day and night. John Roundtree had told that to her dad.
John.
She liked John. She couldn’t really remember him from before he left for the army, but since his return, and particularly this last year, he had been a helpful neighbour, and a great support for her dad.
Her dad was all she had left.
She fought hard to think of her mum as she wanted to remember her, a happy, laughing person, always loving, always caring. She wanted so much to forget the memory of the twisted, lifeless thing that she and her dad had buried. That was not her mum, not the woman she knew and loved. She wondered how her dad coped, how he remembered her.
Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. Why was she getting upset? She needed to be stronger than this.
I wonder how John copes on his own? I wonder if he's ever thought of finding someone?
She found the thought tightened a knot in her stomach, and she pressed a hand to her abdomen through the long T-shirt she used as a night-dress, to quell the feeling.
She knew John liked her. In the last few months, however, she thought she had noticed a change in his attitude, his manner when they were together. He was less talkative, unwilling to look at her for too long. She suspected why that might be. She was not totally naive about such things. She had dated enough boys before.
A lamp in John's bedroom next door flickered to life behind closed curtains. She closed her eyes, thinking of him, so close. Her fists gripped the bottom of her T-shirt and tentatively began to pull it up past her thighs, over the gentle curve of her abdomen.
She let it drop, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly very conscious of the open window. The knot in her stomach twisted another turn, and she was unsure whether it was from fear or excitement.
#
John sat on the edge of his bed, patiently loading bullets into the second of twenty clips spread around his feet. He stared at the 9mm Browning High Power automatic on the duvet. He had once promised his father that he would never keep a gun in the house, that there was no need. Guns were a part of his job, not a part of his life here. His father had been frightened of guns, worried what might happen if he should ever have any grandchildren in the house.
He paused in his loading, closed his eyes tight to hold back the threat of tears. The last year, and now the fight at the camp, were enough to convince him to break his promise. After all, his father was no longer there to be afraid, and there never had been any grandkids to worry about.
He raised a hand to his face, scrubbed away the tears that had finally broken through, and grumbled "shit" to himself. He raised his head and growled at his reflection in the dressing table mirror.
I am a soldier. I have no personal life anymore. I am only what I was trained to be.
He grabbed the automatic off the bed, slammed the clip into it, and loaded a round into the barrel.
#
&nb
sp; His name had been Graham when he was alive, that much he remembered. His surname was a blur, but he remembered his first name was Graham. No one called him Graham anymore. They had no use for names in his people. They were all as one.
When had he died? How long had he been dead? How long had be been reborn?
He had no answers to these questions and, in truth, didn't feel the need for them. He was as he was now. He was one with his people, one with The Givers of Life.
He ran clumsily from the cover of the dead bushes, his legs aching from lack of use, and crouched behind the solitary concrete post that marked the dividing line between the fields and the garden. The post moved in the earth as he placed a hand against it, a beetle scurrying over his fingers from a crack in the concrete and disappearing in the darkness. Cool air found the hole in his cheek and chilled his rotting teeth.
He reached the front door in a curious combination of walk and shuffle, and paused, darting concerned glances around. A faint glow to one side told him that someone was still awake, but otherwise there was no movement.
No sign of life.
He thought he heard an owl in the distance. A bat squeaked by overhead.
He turned his attention back to the door. How to get in? He shrugged, wincing at the pain that shot through his shoulder, wondered whether he had been this unfit in life. He raised a hand and knocked lightly on the frosted glass and waited, quietly confident that the simplest way was most often the best way too.
#
Chris Thomas heard the knock as he was preparing to blow out the candle and make his way upstairs to bed.
After a moment's hesitation, he decided it was probably one of his neighbours calling round for something. A curious time to do it but, nevertheless, it happened. And it was more likely than a stranger being in the area. They hadn't seen any strangers for quite some time.
He walked to the door with a heavy sigh. He could see a shape out there, but it was impossible to say who it was. He would not recognise his best friend through that frosted glass. He turned the latch.
