by Vance Huxley
“I’d rather have Vanna’s men than some bleeding heart soldier guarding my work camps. The scum need a firm hand.” Grace, a tall, aristocratic grey-haired woman, smiled at Vanna who nodded her thanks. “They are also much less fussy than the soldiers about their entertainment.”
“Brothels again? Not in England! I will invoke my veto if it comes to that.”
Owen rapped with his gavel as other voices were raised. “We hear you Nate. Your veto will be accepted if brothels are proposed as an official institution. You have a suggestion, Vanna? That would be a relief if only to stop the squabbling.”
The Asian woman passed out sheets of paper. “Firstly, my special facilities forces shouldn’t be put with Army units or something might slip in conversation. We can use them for distinct operations where a certain ruthless disposition is preferred. Secondly, I can thin out the mart guards. To be honest there are too many anyway now the marts are established. If I pull out the sympathetic ones to use against any attempted breakouts, that will blood them and harden attitudes. They’ll stop joking with the scum once a few have tried to kill them.” She smirked. “Better yet, the ones left at the marts will be even less sympathetic once a few of their friends die.”
“Excellent. That’s what I like about you, Vanna, always looking for the silver lining.” Owen bent over his copy.
Joshua smiled. “I can see a silver lining or two as well. We can train them while containing any badly flooded areas, then once they’re blooded we can use them as shock troops when London is finally cleared.”
“Cannon fodder or at least bullet magnets.” Everyone smiled again and relaxed.
Owen sighed. “That’s the urgent business in the UK dealt with, what about the wider plan?”
Boris, the diplomat, smiled. “World-wide either the local cells have control of the major fleets and air forces, or have diverted them to fighting their neighbours away from anything valuable. While that continues no land forces can affect us in the UK, though we’ll have to keep an eye on Europe.”
Faraz the RAF liaison spoke up. “We are keeping flights over the continent down because of the fuel situation. We might need the fuel here. What the surveillance shows is that too many of the feral population including survivors from the refugee camps are surviving the winter. Worse, some are beginning to organise but we don’t want to use the RAF against units technically belonging to allied nations. That will jar with the official line about rebels and terrorists and worse, some may still have viable anti-aircraft defences.”
Owen frowned and glanced at Joshua, the Army man, who looked worried. “How serious is that, Faraz? Will they survive well enough long-term to be a problem for Joshua when we liberate Europe?”
“Some will, the ones based around portions of various national Armies and especially the remnants of armoured forces.”
“Contact those groups to offer them sanctuary, then we can use them as shock troops, cannon fodder.” The naval officer, Victor, smiled. “If they refuse, the warships blockading the coast can be given the coordinates for a fire mission without actually seeing anyone.” He looked at Owen.
Boris spoke up again. “We can use the survivors of their own governments to get in touch. They are very grateful and relieved at the moment.” He laughed. “Despite their objections, maintaining the credit card system in the UK until we had the cities isolated was a good idea. Our population could still buy food, right up until when we killed a good few and sealed in the rest. Their populations rioted when the money stopped, before they were properly controlled.”
Owen smiled reassuringly. “If we can’t tempt any it doesn’t matter until we have dealt with the UK. Naval forces are the only ones that can reach us here now all the European airfields have been overrun.” He passed out sheets of paper showing the dispositions of major naval facilities and airfields around the globe. A key showed which were held by allies, which were under control by a cabal-friendly government, and which were neutralised by supply problems or local threats. Friendly fleets such as the Australian, New Zealand, Argentinian and Brazilian navies were shown in better detail, with notes on their missions. Owen checked his notes. “If the cells in the USA, Russia and China lose control of the fleets, there are fail-safes in place.”
“The submarines? Will a nuclear attack work if there’s warning? Some ships may escape and just one of those aircraft carriers could screw everything up.” The navy man looked at his own notes. “We haven’t enough totally loyal submarines world-wide.”
Owen shook his head. “No missiles, no warning. The rest is need to know, under local control. Those are not our concern, only in that they will not interfere.” Everyone at the table nodded or otherwise signalled their understanding.
“Which means we can concentrate on the UK and South America, or south of the Amazon.” Victor sighed and sat back. “That’s a relief.” From the relaxation and expressions around the table, everyone else felt relieved as well. The other conspirators would deal with their own parts of the globe, and none were likely to impact the UK. This cell of the cabal, the legally elected government as far as the rest of the country knew, set into the general business of running the UK. Or at least they tried to turn this mess into the sort of country they had planned for.
As the meeting broke up Vanna and Grace barely hesitated on the way out, except to answer Owen’s raised eyebrow with faint nods and tiny smiles. The master plan had remained more or less on track, but a squeaky black wheel needed fixing and they had the people to do it.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the small enclave labelled Orchard Close, a hundred people continued trying to build some sort of life out of the chaos while protecting themselves from the neighbours. Their chosen leader, Harold aka Soldier Boy, feinted before smacking a wooden machete aside. Around him another dozen residents of Orchard Close prodded, feinted and thrust to practice for when they had to use a real machete. Harold knew the surrounding gangsters used machetes like clubs with a sharp edge in a fight. Harold’s people, who generally weren’t heavily-muscled homicidal maniacs, needed some finesse if that time came.
Doll, a twenty-one-year-old blonde, set herself to try again. Harold wondered how many of these trainees would freeze in the real thing, pull the stroke rather than kill a fellow human. He wondered the same about those who had learned to fire a pistol or crossbow. He worried because the city had descended into ruins ruled by armed gangs, so Harold needed people who really would shoot.
“Sorry.”
“No Doll, that’s good. I relaxed and got careless, so you nailed me.” Harold rubbed his chest and smiled. “Being stabbed, even with a bit of wood, will remind me to be more careful.” The blonde beamed and set herself again, with her wooden practice machete ready. All the trainees loved any proof they were becoming more dangerous. Doll for one really did intend serious harm to anyone else trying to kidnap her nineteen-year-old sister, Matti. Twice had been well past too many attempts. Patty the twenty-five-year-old demon knitter also wanted a chance to stick some unsuspecting scroat for real, but the local gangsters were too wary of her outsize crossbow to give her an excuse with a machete. They already knew Patty wouldn’t freeze or even hesitate.
“You’re lucky.” Billy rubbed his arm. “Alfie hit me and he’s got more muscles than Doll.” Billy smiled hopefully. “I’d rather tussle with Doll?” As one of the men in their late teens Billy definitely meant that.
“No, you’ll learn to defeat a stronger attacker by using his brute strength against him.” Harold looked round the rest where all the trainees were mismatched to represent facing the usual gangster attackers. “Remember, the smaller of the pair must be faster, more agile, sneakier.”
Billy scowled. “But you’ve taught Alfie all the sneaky stuff and he’s stronger than me as well, which is embarrassing because he’s only sixteen.”
Harold looked round the rest and they chorused, “Try harder.”
“I know, so when I meet some scroat who doesn’t know this s
tuff he’ll be dead meat.” Billy sighed. “I wouldn’t mind, but Alfie can get his bruises kissed better and I can’t. I know, try harder. I could move into Cherry Tree House?” Alfie blushed scarlet while the rest teased Billy about who in Cherry Tree House, a block of single flats, might kiss his bruises. Then they set into bruising each other.
* * *
On the way home after practice Harold answered greetings from several of the latest arrivals coming out of unexpected houses, houses containing longer-term residents. The new refugees and those in the initial mad exodus from the chaos of the city centre were mixing, becoming one group. Louise, a reclusive graphics designer in her thirties, had asked two younger single women refugees to move into her house when Celine moved out. Celine, in her late twenties, felt that she would hasten her mental recovery from rape by taking a single flat in Cherry Tree House to be more independent.
Other residents had moved about to get a better fit for house-share as more refugees trickled in, escaping from the gang-controlled enclaves that had sprung up. Any refugees came past the main gates, headed for the Army post sealing the way out of the city. When they were turned back someone in Orchard Close would ask if the rejects wanted sanctuary. At least the numbers of single women wanting sanctuary had dropped because the Army asked some women if they wanted help. Those who accepted were taken away in minibuses, for treatment according to the TV.
A voice interrupted Harold’s musing. “Harold, just the right person. Could I have an air pistol please?”
“Of course Alicia. I thought 003½ had taught you to use a real pistol? You can have a nine mill once you show me you’re accurate?” Harold smiled. “It’ll stop them better than an air pistol.” Twenty-three-year-old Alicia worried about the maniacs getting over the wall again, having barely escaped as her block of flats was overrun.
“I might ask for one of those as well, because 003½ really is a good teacher with that single shot pistol of his.” According to a spy novel that had been found, assassins used pistols that fired two-two rifle bullets. Fifty-year-old Finn now had a James Bond style nickname. Alicia hesitated. “You know I’ve moved in with Abigail?”
“Yes, to help with her kids and give her some rest.” Abigail had arrived worn down with stress and lack of food. Now breast feeding her new baby and dealing with her three-year-old son kept her exhausted. Alicia used her spare coupons to buy the best food available at the mart to help Abigail, since the marts didn’t stock baby formula or a vast number of other items now deemed non-essential.
“That’s why I need an air pistol to hunt rabbits, ducks, pigeons, and maybe geese.” Abigail shrugged. “If I shoot them they’ll go into the food stocks at the canteen, but I thought I might be able to make a case for a nursing mother getting the richer parts such as hearts and livers and that.”
“Go for it, or actually come with me for an air pistol. We’ve got oodles of pellet ammunition but try not to waste too many.” Harold sighed. “I don’t know if we’ll ever get any more.” As they set off Harold tried to inject some caution. “You can’t just go off hunting at the drop of a hat. Only go when there’s a big party scavenging or checking the borders.” Orchard Close claimed an area of abandoned buildings that stretched at least a mile in every direction.
“I know but I can walk in sight of them, yet far enough away to get a chance at any undisturbed birds or rabbits.” Alicia frowned. “I thought all those armed groups coming through had stopped, Harold?”
“They did for a while but now there’s a few more and these seem desperate. Be very careful not to get far from the scavengers. The groups we’ve seen are heavily armed but usually run because our scavenger parties outnumber them.” Harold gave Alicia an air pistol and a tin of pellets then headed for the canteen because there were GOFS, Gods of Fire and Steel as one of the local gangs had called themselves, visiting. The armed groups were coming from GOFS territory to the west, so Harold wanted to ask questions.
* * *
He found the man he wanted in the canteen, enjoying a beer. “Hi there Cy.” The GOFS fighters visited Orchard Close, their neighbours along one border, so they could buy home brew beer and rat-free burgers or stew. The gangsters tended to stay well behaved while they did both because of the draconic penalties for misbehaving, and their bosses weren’t sympathetic if they didn’t. The GOFS leaders called by sometimes to stock up on beer, and didn’t want the supply, or their gun repairs, jeopardised by a randy idiot. The income helped Orchard Close to buy more essentials from the mart to avoid having to eat rat or cat themselves. “Still trying to get a date with Patty?”
The GOFS gang member didn’t look amused. “Ha, very funny. It’ll be easier to get a date with her crossbow. Does she sleep with it?”
“Cripes, how would I know? Why would I risk life and limb trying to find out?” Harold sat down next to him.
“We know we’re in Orchard Close when someone says cripes. Or not quite because we sometimes use it for a joke.” Cy grinned. “Practice so we don’t become crossbow practice.” Cy referred to the Orchard Close penalty scale for obscenity – a fine for a first offence, then caning, then spending time as a moving crossbow target for three time offenders. Physically molesting Orchard Close women could mean gelding or being tied to a lamp post for the crossbow practice, if the woman didn’t simply stick a crossbow bolt in the offender herself. Drastic penalties, but needed since many visitors had no such restrictions on their behaviour when back home.
Harold frowned at him. “You should be practicing your shooting, considering the nasty sods you keep letting through into our territory.”
“We try.” Cy frowned as well and put his beer down. “There’s a steady trickle of small groups coming now. We do shoot them if they get near any of our people, but otherwise we let them through because they just want to get away from the floods.”
Harold frowned, puzzled. “There’s a lot of them. How big are the floods?”
“They were our neighbours to the north. It’s all underwater along our border now with at least two small gangs fighting to control any dry land that’s still left out that way. We reckon they’ll all have to leave eventually as the water rises. The mob the other side of the flooded bit are like your lot, sort of normal. They’re taking families but not letting any nasty bastards join up which only leaves one option when the water gets too high. Gofannon reckons once the rain stops the water will find a stable level, hopefully without coming further south.” The GOFS soldier sighed. “Some of our estates, the ones we protect, have been attacked and robbed.”
“I thought you took coupons from those people to stop that?” The gangs charged anyone living in any habitable housing in their area protection money, paid in coupons or goods.
“We do, which is embarrassing. That’s why you aren’t seeing many of us coming for a beer. Gofannon has doubled the guards on each estate and we’ve got an emergency response squad poised to go at any time. There isn’t the spare manpower to hunt down all those who come straight through.” Cy shrugged. “Though the armed groups coming through also stop the Barbie Girls taking liberties in our territory which is good.” He looked round. “Unfortunately that means they don’t visit you which is a shame. The Barbies that like men are usually up for some cripes on an overnighter.” He chortled. “Told you we use cripes.”
Harold laughed. “A bit out of context but yeah, that works. The other bit explains why the Barbies stopped coming. I’d wondered if we upset them but my love life isn’t on the radio.” The Barbie Girls had the only local radio station powerful enough to punch through the government interference, pumping out a mixture of rock music and scurrilous gossip.
“No, they stick with describing Caddi and his alleged antics with various animals and kitchen implements.” Cy smiled and picked up his beer to toast an imaginary broadcaster. “Someone there has a filthy imagination. Hopefully she’ll visit here for a stopover once the flooding stops.”
“First the rain has to stop.” They both lo
oked glumly at the rain outside.
* * *
Though the continuing rain wasn’t the problem a fortnight later. Harold, Soldier Boy, the ruthless ex-soldier feared and hated by the surrounding gangs, pleaded with his big sister. “I don’t want to go to a dance, Sharyn. Especially the Valentine’s dance. It’s too soon.”
Sharyn stood braced with jaw jutting obstinately, one hand on her hip and the other proffering a tie with a big red cloth heart pinned to it. “No it isn’t, and even if it is you’re going. I will not come back to hear you ranting again.”
“I don’t rant.”
“Not much. After the Guy Fawkes bonfire you were stomping up and down waving your arms about, blethering on about squirrels, abused women and soldiers.”
“That squirrel business is er, codswallop.”
“What about the rant at Christmas, about the government having a new plan to drown us all? Or at New Year, when I came home to a lecture about how there seemed to be fuel for lorries to cart soldiers about but refugees were traipsing through chest deep water because there was none for boats?” Sharyn waved the tie again. “Put it on. The girl club know you’re off-limits and so will whoever you walk home.”
“I’m not walking someone home.”
“This might be brutal but Holly has been dead nearly six months. This part is definitely cheating and unfair because I know the answer. Do you think she’s waiting for you or watching over you?”
Harold’s reply was inaudible.
Sharyn cupped a hand to her ear in a theatrical flourish. “Pardon?”
The second “no” sounded just as sullen, but louder.
“No, because you are a dyed in the wool atheist which means she’s dead, you’re sad, but life goes on. No happy lies, you said, well no sad ones either. Now our enclave, the people who rely on you to keep them safe, need to see their mighty leader has recovered and is up to the job.” Sharyn suddenly grinned. “I’ll get Liz to come and beat on you?”
