Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

Glass splintered in the uniformed man's face. A large sliver gouged his cheek and the top lip was split in two. Blood poured freely and for one moment he hesitated, cruel grey eyes reflecting his physical pain and the hate which bubbled, and then boiled over.

  The rifle was reversed again, this time the butt fitting snugly into the crook of his arm. The barrel came round in an arc, and stopped within two feet of the other's head.

  The coloured man froze, his features suddenly grey with fear. Possibly he could have grabbed the weapon that threatened him and diverted the course of the leaden missile of instant death. Instead, for a fraction of a second he cowered, aware that his life had ended. He never heard the deafening report. A blast of flame seared his face, a sudden blinding crashing pain in his head, and even as the force of the bullet threw him backwards he was dead.

  The heavy body hit the bar; straightened up. The face was gone, and in its place was a bloody pulp. The dead man pitched forward and sent a couple of chairs spinning before he hit the ground with a dull thud of finality.

  The stench of cordite was heavy in the small room. Those who had been compelled to watch the brutality coughed and choked. Someone was being sick. But nobody made any attempt to leave.

  ‘You bastards will never learn.’ The soldier was swinging his weapon in an arc that covered everybody, possibly anticipating a sudden rush. Blood was pouring from his cut face, saturating the combat jacket. Crimson bubbles formed on nostrils and lips. ‘Anybody tries anything, they get the same. Don't anybody try to leave.’

  He backed slowly to the door and then disappeared out into the street. There was a shocked silence within the cafe. Everybody was staring at the dead man, unable to believe that a single bullet could wreak such havoc.

  ‘The swines are using dum-dums,’ a small man in the far corner was the first to say, as though reading everybody else's thoughts. ‘You don't have no chance if one of them hits you.’

  The dark-haired girl moved forward, shaken, yet acting calmly. She ignored the remains of her attacker, and knelt down beside the still form of the man who had attempted to come to her rescue. Her slim fingers stroked the back of his head, noting the large swelling behind his right ear. He groaned softly, and his eyelids flickered open. Her loud sigh of relief could be heard all over the room.

  ‘Thank God,’ she muttered. ‘Thank God you're still alive.’

  Ron Blythe grinned painfully and raised himself up on one elbow. He saw the crumpled form of the man with whom he had grappled, and grimaced at the sight of the featureless face.

  ‘What … who did that?’ he asked weakly, turning back to the girl.

  ‘One of the soldiers,’ she tried to smile. ‘But don't worry about him. He asked for it. You got off lightly. I thought for a moment you were going to get shot as well.’

  Ron's head ached fiercely, and for a few seconds he had double vision. Then it cleared. He felt sick. It might have helped, and in all probability he would have succumbed to the urge to vomit. Except for the fact that this girl was stroking his head and holding his hand. Even in these circumstances he found himself attracted to her.

  ‘We'd better get away from here,’ he muttered, and was surprised to find that he could clamber to his feet.

  ‘The soldier said that everybody was to stay here,’ she said as she supported him, an arm around his waist. ‘Look, you'd better sit down.’

  ‘No.’ He glanced around, saw the dozen or so people standing watching him. ‘Just one soldier, was it?’

  ‘Yes. He was hurt, too. That guy smashed a glass in his face.’

  ‘Then it's hardly likely that he'll be standing across the street waiting to gun down anybody who emerges from here. More likely he's gone in search of a tin of sticking plasters.’

  ‘He'll need more than that. A few dozen stitches, more like.’

  ‘Which gives us a bit of time before his mates come round to sort us out properly. Come on, the sooner we aren't around, the better.’

  Blythe walked unsteadily out through the open door, the girl hanging on to his arm. Nobody else followed them. The soldier had ordered them to stay in the cafe, and remain there they would. Such was the present demoralisation of the general public.

  Blythe glanced up and down the dingy street. Abandoned cars were everywhere. But there was no sign of life.

  ‘I don't know where the hell we're going,’ he tried to laugh but his head was hurting. ‘At least, not for the moment.’

  ‘I've got a bedsit about half a mile away,’ she said. ‘A lot of the houses are deserted, anyway. We could take refuge almost anywhere, but maybe it would be best to go somewhere that's familiar. Also, I've got some cans of shandy hidden in the cupboard.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ He allowed her to lead him along. ‘If nobody's found them in the meantime.’

  ‘I still haven't thanked you for what you did. It was very brave of you.’

  ‘I didn't achieve much. All I got was a crack on the head and ensured that that guy got killed.’

  ‘He asked for it. I don't feel the slightest bit sorry for him.’

  ‘You're callous,’ he grinned. ‘By the way, I don't even know your name.’

  ‘Carol Evans.’

  ‘Mine's Ron Blythe. And now that we've got to know each other I might as well tell you the worst about myself. I'm a research chemist engaged on toxic sprays. I'm also the guy who completed the formula for the weedkiller which at present is rapidly wiping out the population of the city of Birmingham.’

  ‘It wasn't your fault that that tanker crashed into the reservoir, though.’

  ‘No. But it doesn't make me feel any easier about it. In the meantime I'm working with the newly formed action committee trying to find some kind of solution to the problem. So far we haven't achieved anything. And to make matters worse I've got myself stranded in the midst of rampaging mobs and trigger-happy peacekeeping forces. Damned stupid of me. My sister-in-law was one of the first batch of victims taken to hospital. I knew she wouldn't live, but I had to find out what happened to her.’

  ‘It's understandable,’ her voice quavered. ‘My boyfriend worked at Ham's Hall. I don't know what happened to him. There are hundreds of bodies which they'll never find …’

  Ron slipped an arm around her. She moved closer to him. They might have been a courting couple, young lovers out for a stroll. For some minutes they walked on in silence.

  ‘This is it.’ She pointed across the road towards some three-storeyed terraced houses. ‘Number 342.’

  The house was silent as they entered, their footsteps echoing on the uncarpeted wooden stairs. They entered a room on the top floor. Barely furnished, it had only the necessities. An old gas cooker, a chipped washstand, a utility table, and a three-quarter bed.

  ‘Phil used to sleep here at weekends,’ she admitted freely.

  Blythe nodded. He hadn't thought for one moment that she was a virgin. Not many girls were nowadays.

  ‘I don't come from round here,’ she went on, closing the door and turning the key. ‘My home's up north. Wigan. I met Phil on holiday last year, and moved down here to be near him. I suppose I'll be going back up there … if and when I can get out of Birmingham. And if I can avoid being poisoned!’

  She busied herself preparing a frugal meal: bread, some soft margarine, cold spaghetti. There was no gas to cook with. Supplies had been turned off for the safety of the public.

  They ate in silence. Neither of them were hungry. They knew that they needed food. Most of all they needed the shandy, a half-pint can shared between them.

  When they had finished Ron Blythe filled and lit his pipe.

  He blew out clouds of smoke and for a while both of them were submerged in their own thoughts. It was Carol who broke the silence eventually.

  ‘I suppose you're married,’ she said, and averted her gaze as she spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘and I suppose if I told you, in this situation, that my marriage is on the rocks, it would sound a bit corny.’


  ‘Not necessarily,’ she smiled faintly. ‘So many marriages are crashing these days, that it's more or less become the accepted thing. I take it you still live with your wife?’

  ‘I don't really know. Obviously I'm not doing so at the moment. I've tried to telephone her several times, but there's no reply. And now with all communications in and out of Birmingham severed, I've no chance of making contact.’

  ‘Don't you want to go back to her?’

  ‘Yes and no. Yes because of the kids. No, because I can't stand any more of the way we've been going on. I guess I really don't understand myself. I've had a few girlfriends lately. Nothing serious, just brief affairs. But it didn't help matters.’

  ‘Most men have an extramarital affair sometime in their lives.’ She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘I was going out with a married man in Wigan before I met Phil. I guess the affair matured me, if nothing else. People talked, and one day his wife came to see me. She was nothing like I'd imagined. Really glamorous. She'd done some modelling at one stage in her life, too. And yet her husband preferred me, or rather he kept on telling me that he did.’

  ‘Margaret's not bad looking,’ Ron Blythe shook his head slowly, ‘- but this last year or two she's got a bit complacent. Sex doesn't mean a lot to her nowadays, and if she puts on a bit of weight she doesn't bother to get it off. Sex is a funny thing. The strongest force in the world. Take our tanker that caused all this trouble. Without sex it wouldn't've happened. The driver was knocking off a bird out of his area so he used our truck as his transport. If he'd found a mistress nearer, or his wife had satisfied him enough at home so that he didn't need to look elsewhere, we wouldn't be in this mess now.’

  ‘Don't you fancy trying to get out of Birmingham? Leaving it to sort itself out and going back home to Margaret?’

  ‘I've thought about it,’ he smiled wistfully. ‘My life is full of disasters. They just follow me around.’

  Suddenly they heard shouting outside in the street - angry voices, running feet; someone was screaming.

  Ron was first at the window, Carol peering over his shoulder. In the gathering dusk they saw a dozen or so figures, formed into a semi-circle, and one lone youth, his back to a tall red brick wall, standing at bay. In his hand he held a bottle. It was impossible to see what it contained, but it was safe to assume that it was some kind of drink. An uncontaminated liquid.

  ‘Thief,’ somebody shouted.

  ‘It's mine,’ the other yelled back, pointing at one of the throng. ‘He stole it from me, and now I've got it back.’

  ‘Liar!’

  They were moving in on him menacingly. None of them were yet out of their teens. They baited their intended prey, not hurrying, each one of them thrilling to the situation. They were invincible. Each would be protected by the others. The law would never be able to pin the blame on any single one. A dozen iron bars, as many pairs of heavy boots - it would be impossible to determine which had dealt the fatal blow. That way it was easier for any who might have a conscience. You were never really sure. And with football matches curtailed they had to find some way of relieving pent-up frustration.

  ‘I tell you it'smine!’

  ‘Liar!’

  They were closing in.

  ‘It's all yours, then!’ With a defiant yell the trapped youth flung the bottle high into the air. Heads were upraised, watching it sail beyond the second-floor windows of the nearest houses, checking, and seeming to hover as it reached the apex of its arc, then plummeting downwards.

  There was a scurried rush to intercept it, hands outstretched in anticipation of a catch, fielders knowing that this was the last ball of the game, win or lose.

  The bottle crashed into the road, exploding on impact as the gassy contents were suddenly released, splinters and fragments flying in all directions. A moment of shocked silence was followed by roars of anger, drowning the scampering rush of the fleeing youth as he made a last dash for freedom.

  Like a pack of lusting deerhounds the mob overhauled him, burying him in a heap of frenzied seething humanity. Blows from fists and feet rained down. Garments were ripped into shreds and cast into the road like scraps of unwanted paper now that the hounds had their hare.

  ‘Oh!’ Carol Evans' fingers dug deeply into Ron's arm. They're stripping him. Beating him to death. Isn't there … anything we can do?’

  ‘We wouldn't stand a chance, and even if we did it would be too late by the time we got there,’ the research chemist muttered. ‘We must just pray that they don't know about our little cache of shandy.’

  The mob backed off their victim. Naked, except for his socks, he was writhing in agony in the road, doubled up, clutching at his groin with bloody fingers, left to die on his own as his attackers turned away, sauntering almost unconcernedly now that vengeance was theirs.

  ‘They've … they've …’ Carol was deathly pale as her companion steered her away from the window.

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted. ‘They did all of that. Like wild beasts. That's what they are. They've been doing this sort of thing in isolated instances on football terraces for years.’

  Gradually the yells of the youth in the road below died away to silence. For him it was all over.

  Darkness came. Carol and Ron sat at the table, silhouettes in the deepening gloom.

  ‘I've got a couple of candles in the drawer beneath the sink,’ she said. ‘D'you think it's safe to show a light.’

  ‘It's no more dangerous than having people think that premises are deserted and ripe for looting,’ he murmured. ‘I've no doubt there are many thousands of candles burning throughout the city. But we'd do as well to draw the curtains just in case there's anybody watching from the house opposite.’

  He crossed to the window while she fumbled with candles and matches. In the distance the sky was a deep orange as though lit up by a magnificent sunset. But the sun had already set. Black smoke hung in a cloud to the west. Very faintly, barely noticeable, there was a smell of burning in the atmosphere.

  ‘It took fire to destroy the Plague of London,’ Blythe muttered as if to himself. ‘but no way is it going to help us.’

  They resumed their seats at the table, a stub of candle fixed into a saucer flickering between them. Blythe picked up a newspaper which lay in front of him, the last edition of the Mail before publication had ceased. Idly he turned the pages, wafting the flame of the candle as he did so. The girl watched him intently.

  He paused in his hasty browsing, staring at a head-and-shoulders photograph of a man. The features were strikingly cruel, the eyes seeming alive even in the hastily produced picture. Narrowly set, the brows were hooded, giving a hawk-like appearance. Thick lips drawn back in a leering grin. The whole expression was one of contempt for the world at large. Deformed, outsize ears, flat broken nose.

  Bold type headlines stretched across the whole width of the page -

  CUMMINS GETS LIFE

  ‘And the sooner they bring back the death penalty, the better.’ There was venom in Carol's voice as she spoke.

  ‘I quite agree with you,’ Blythe replied. ‘Especially for the likes of him. He's mad, but he ought to be put out of harm's way for good. Three killings with an axe, and two rapes. And he's laughing at us all. You can see it in his face. The Press have nicknamed him “Chopper”.’

  He scanned the account of the trial briefly, and then read aloud the concluding paragraph: ‘Mike Cummins will be taken from Birmingham’s Winson Green Prison to begin his life sentence in Broadmoor.’

  ‘And they'll need a fleet of armoured cars to keep the crowds from getting at him,’ Carol Evans muttered.

  Blythe glanced at the date on the top of the page. Ten days ago. He wondered if the madman had been taken from the city before all hell had been let loose. Serve the bastard right if he was still in town. Make him drink the water. Leave him to suffer.

  ‘What are your immediate plans?’ Carol asked nervously almost as though she was afraid of his reply.

  ‘Well.’ H
e folded the newspaper up again before answering her. ‘I doubt if many people in Birmingham have immediate plans other than basic survival. I don't know, quite frankly. Maybe I'd stand a better chance of getting back to headquarters under the cover of darkness. I might dodge the troops, but I'd probably get knifed or mugged.’

  ‘Can't you approach a patrol tomorrow and get them to give you an escort back to the action committee?’

  ‘Some chance,’ he laughed mirthlessly. ‘I don't have any means of identification on me. It's all in my desk back in New Street. Blokes are trying all sorts of dodges on the troops now that you don't even get a chance to state your case without immediate documents to show them. They either lock you up or throw you back into the street.’

  Carol stood up and began to don a duffle coat which had hung on a peg behind the door.

  ‘It's getting cold,’ she shivered. ‘and there's no way of remotely heating the place these days.’

  Blythe glanced at the bed. Even in these stark surroundings it looked warm and inviting. So did Carol Evans, only more so. He tried to push the idea of any involvement out of his mind. He did not wish to add her to the trail of broken women which he had left in his wake.

  ‘Well?’ She stood watching him, hands thrust deep in the pockets of her coat.

  ‘Well, what?’ He glanced down at the Mail again.

  ‘Are you staying or going? Tonight or tomorrow?’

  ‘I haven't made up my mind. I don't see the need for a snap decision this minute.’

  ‘You're welcome to stay the night. More than welcome.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiled, glanced across at the bed and back at her again. ‘I'd appreciate it. In fact, I'll accept your offer. A couple of blankets and I'll be quite happy to kip down on the floor.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won't. There's a bed there that is reasonably warm and fairly comfortable. A bit on the small side for two people, but if you don't mind the crush …’

  ‘You don't know what you're letting yourself in for,’ he said, and liked the way she blushed in the candlelight. ‘I told you. I've had lots of affairs. My wife is the only woman I get into bed with to go to sleep.’