by Guy N Smith
Mike Cummins emerged into the street, picking his way around burning timbers and taking care not to step on broken glass. His eyes streamed and smarted. The denser smoke made it impossible to discern his surroundings, but it made no difference. Direction was immaterial. First, he needed somewhere to rest up. Food would be welcome, drink, only if it was canned or bottled. And after that he had to find a way to get out of Birmingham. But first things first.
He had no idea how long he had been walking, frequently, dodging into alleyways to keep out of the way of rampaging hooligans and vandals. Many of the buildings were deserted, the owners and tenants having embarked upon a futile pilgrimage to find a place of safety. Any house would do. There was little chance of finding food or drink overlooked by the looters, anyway.
Cummins experienced a sensation of being abroad in a nocturnal jungle inhabited by wild beasts. The sky above the smoke haze was unreal. It was not cloaked by a mantle of darkness even though night had long fallen. But the shadows were pitch black, hiding the activities of evil men and their deeds.
He chose his refuge at random, just one of a block of pre-war terraced houses. As he stepped through the entrance porch and located the uncarpeted stairs he knew that the place was either bedsits or flats. The chances of anybody being at home were remote, but he could not afford to relax his usual vigilance. Revolver in hand, cocked, he began the ascent of the staircase, testing each step carefully, silently cursing the creaking boards. His finger rested on the trigger. Any movement anywhere, and the slight pressure would be increased. The dead didn't harm anybody. The living might. He was taking no chances.
Above all, his new found sense of freedom predominated - euphoria. The city was a bloodbath. Everybody was killing. Murder was a way of life. Maybe somewhere he would find an axe …
He heard the voices before he reached the landing. Two people: a man and a woman.
He tensed, thought about retracing his steps, but dismissed the idea. Maybe they had food and drink. The possibility of finding nourishment in an inhabited apartment was far greater than in an empty one.
He moved forward. The voices died away. He paused. They might have heard him. Well, in that case there was nothing to be gained by hanging back. His fingers found the door handle. The door yielded, then opened.
From where Cummins stood he could see the interior of the room plainly outlined in the glow from the window. Again he was reacting swiftly. A couple in bed. The man, naked, was getting out, coming towards him.
The convict eased back the hammer of the .45. It clicked loudly, a menacing metallic sound.
‘Stay right where you are,’ he warned. ‘I can see you clear as day. Try any thin', and you'll get one of these slugs right through your guts!’
The two men faced each other in silence. Cummins relaxed a little as he saw Blythe's hands go up. The girl in the bed watched in shocked silence.
‘Any means o' lightin' this place?’ the convict asked gruffly.
‘There's the remains of a candle in that saucer on the table.’ Ron Blythe's voice was low. ‘And there's a stub of candle in the cupboard over there.’ He decided that it would be better to face the present crisis in the light rather than in the eerie orange semi-darkness.
‘You get that one alight.’ The barrel of the Webley was trained unwaveringly on the naked man's chest.
Carol Evans leaned across and tossed a box of matches on to the table. The research chemist's hand shook slightly as he lit the remnants of the tallow. An unsteady jerky flame flickered and grew.
‘Keep right there and don't make a move.’ Still covering them with the gun, Cummins backed to the cupboard, pulling it, open with his left hand and stealing a quick glance inside. He saw the white tallow cylinder lying there on the shelf alongside the last of the cans of shandy. There was also a tin of spaghetti.
‘Livin' in style, eh?’ He picked up the candle, lighted it in the flame of the other one and stuck it upright in the saucer.
Recognition and horror showed on Ron Blythe's features as he saw the intruder's face in the light. There could be no mistake. The man's photograph was in the newspaper which lay there on the table.
‘You're Cummins, aren't you?’ he asked.
‘The axe-man in person,’ the other said and gave a mock bow. ‘And what d'you propose doin' about it?’
‘There's very little I can do about it. I'd like to get dressed, though.’
‘You stay as you are for the moment. I always did fancy visitin' one of these nudist colonies.’ Cummins glanced towards the bed, his eyes taking in Carol, her nylon negligee having ridden almost up to the tops of her thighs. ‘How come you aren't starkers, too, sis?’
‘It's too cold.’ There was defiance in her voice. For one moment she thought that he was going to order her to strip.
However, he crossed to the cupboard again, and returned with the tins of shandy and spaghetti, and a can opener. He pushed them across the table to Ron Blythe.
‘Open them,’ the convict grunted, and once again the gun was levelled, fully cocked, finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Blythe obeyed, and with his free hand Cummins lifted the shandy to his lips, tipping it back, the contents gurgling in his throat, his eyes never once averted from the other two. Finally, he dropped the empty can to the floor, and belched loudly.
He picked up the spaghetti. Solid lumps were slurped into his mouth, some of it trickling down his chin and dropping on to his sweater. He belched again.
‘That's better.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, pulling a chair towards him, sat down. ‘Now I guess we'd better have a chat.’
‘I can't see that there's anything to talk about.’ Blythe's nakedness added to his feeling of helplessness. ‘You've burst in here and stolen the last of our supplies. We've nothing else to offer you.’
The gunman's glance rested on Carol Evans again and he leered. She shrank back.
‘Maybe, and maybe not,’ said Cummins, laying the revolver on the table, his hand resting against the butt. ‘But I figure you're intending to get the hell out of this place.’
‘So are millions of others,’ Blythe laughed harshly. ‘We're in the same boat as everybody else. Folks are dying in the streets, the hospitals are under military guard because they can't take anybody else, all communications have come to a standstill, and if anybody tries to jump the cordons they're shot down. That's the position, Cummins. You might have broken gaol, but you're still a prisoner. And if you've any idea of taking hostages, forget it. The authorities aren't going to concede to your demands in order to try and save a couple of lives when people are dying in hundreds by the hour.’
‘But you've got plans, haven't you? You haven't just holed up here like a couple of warehouse rats.’ The convict's eyes narrowed.
‘We're going to try something,’ Blythe replied. ‘But at this moment we haven't decided just what.’
‘Then we'd better start makin' a few plans, hadn't we?’
‘I'd've thought a guy like you would have preferred to go it alone, Cummins.’
‘I got to likin' company, lately,’ the other said, and his eyes rested on Carol again. ‘I've been in solitary too long. I've developed a kind o' gregarious instinct.’
Blythe was shivering with the cold, his skin goose pimpling.
‘Look, I'd appreciate it if I could get dressed.’ His teeth chattered as he spoke.
‘Oh, all right.’ Cummins picked up the gun again. ‘But don't try anything.’
Ron Blythe took his time, his brain working quickly as he donned shirt, trousers and a pullover. The odds against himself and Carol surviving had been low before the axe killer's appearance. Now they had hit rock bottom. But the Weedspray chemist was not prepared to give up. Their only chance lay in reaching the headquarters of the action committee. Even if it meant taking Mike Cummins with them.
‘All right.’ Blythe seated himself opposite their captor. ‘We do have plans, and I don't intend changin' em. Even f
or you.’
‘Let's hear 'em.’
‘My name's Ron Blythe. I'm one of the chemists who formulated the weedkiller which at present is rapidly diminishing the population of this city.’
‘They lock some killers up. Others they let walk around free, eh?’
Blythe flushed and retorted. ‘This isn't the time for wisecracks. As you doubtless know, nobody's being allowed to leave Birmingham. However, up until a short time ago I was working with the action committee in the city centre. Due to certain events I got separated from them. My current plan is to try and rejoin them, and to persuade them to ship Carol to safety somehow. We've tried to make it to New Street already. Unfortunately, we had to resort to a tactical retreat. We intend to try again.’
‘I'll be pleased to join your expedition into the great unknown.’
‘Well, it looks as though I have no choice but to take you along. But I'll not be responsible for what happens to you if we make it. The present law enforcement brigades will, in all likelihood, shove you straight in front of a firing squad.’
‘That's a chance I'll take,’ Cummins grinned. ‘But don't forget this, Mr Blythe. I'll be travelling with the girl here. Any tricks on your part, and you won't be screwing her again, not unless you like shagging stiffs!’
‘You're a bastard.’ Blythe's cheeks were white with anger.
‘More than likely,’ Cummins laughed. ‘Never did know who my real parents were. Not that I'm particularly interested in finding out. But your girlfriend gets the first bullet if you try to pull a fast one on me. Don't forget that.’
Blythe nodded. He looked across at Carol. Her wide eyes met his, and a brief smile flickered on her lips. She knew the score. They had no alternative other than to take the killer along with them.
‘We'll take this with us,’ Cummins picked up the half can of shandy that Ron had put aside the previous evening. ‘It's pretty parched out there, from all accounts. And the sooner we start, the better. We'll take advantage of what's left of the night.’
Ten minutes later they blew out the candle. Blythe led the way down the stairway with Carol behind him. Mike Cummins brought up the rear, revolver in hand.
People walked aimlessly about the streets. Men, women, and children - many were already in the early stages of Weedspray poisoning. It was unfortunate that the majority were aware of the fact; worse still, they knew that nothing would be done about it. Only death would ease their suffering. Some had already reached the madness phase. Bystanders were assaulted without warning. Sometimes it took three or four people to restrain a single madman … or a soldier's bullet.
Ron Blythe walked slowly, Carol's hand in his. He ignored the constant urging by Mike Cummins to hurry. There was nothing to be gained by hastening to a quick death. The most important thing was to remain inconspicuous, blend with the crowds, and avoid contact with the militia.
‘Please, mister, my mum needs help.’
Blythe pulled up abruptly. A boy, no more than ten years of age, stood in the porch of a house they were passing. His clothes were torn and dirty, his face grubby and tear stained.
‘Please, mister. My dad's dead and my mum's ill.’
‘Never mind him,’ Cummins hissed. ‘We can't afford to waste time …’
There was something about the boy which appealed to Blythe's sympathetic nature. He remembered a film he'd once seen at a very early age: The Mudlark. Snatches of it came back to him. It was about the only time in his life that he'd cried at the cinema. And now this kid, an urchin in a slum area, jogged his memory.
‘I'll go in and see what I can do.’
‘Don't be a stupid bastard. There's nothing anybody can do.’
‘I'll go and see.’
‘You won't. You'll …’
‘Now listen to me, Cummins. You might be Mr Big in our little set-up, just because you have a gun. But remember this. Without me, you don't stand an earthly of getting out of Birmingham alive.’
‘All right.’ Cummins clasped Carol Evans by the wrist. ‘But the girl stays with me. Just to make sure you come back.’
‘OK.’ Blythe was relieved. It was better that Carol stayed outside. He did not know what horrors lay within that house, and he preferred not to subject her to them. He turned to the boy. ‘Take me to your mother, son.’
The house smelled of vomit and urine, and the small windows did not allow much of the fiery night sky to infiltrate. He followed the boy down a narrow corridor, twice banging his shins on protruding obstacles. A door was opened at the far end, and by the flickering flames of a coal fire he saw that they were in an untidy living room. Unwashed clothes littered the floor and table. A large mongrel dog was stretched out on the frayed rug and, even as Blythe hesitated, he saw that it was dead, stiff with rigor mortis.
A pile of blankets on the sofa moved, and he caught his breath as he saw the face. At some stage in her life the woman had been attractive. Now her finely cut features were disfigured with clumps of ulcers, white pinpoints in the centre which expanded as they filled with matter. The right eye was dull and lifeless. The left reflected the pain which she felt.
The boy stood back, looking from Blythe to his mother, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘Please help my mum, mister.’
‘Water,’ the voice croaked, scarcely audible. ‘Give me water.’
Ron Blythe nodded. She had but a few hours to live. A further dose of Weedspray was immaterial. If anything, it might hasten her end.
A stone sink stood in the corner, chipped and stained. He found a beaker on the shelf above and went to fill it, holding it beneath the cold tap. There was no rush of water. Just a few drips.
He knelt down, struck a match, and located the stop cock beneath the sink where he expected to find it. It was already turned on. But no water was getting through the pipes.
‘Water … please.’
‘Just a minute.’ He turned the hot tap, and a steady stream of lukewarm water flowed out, almost filling the beaker, then glugging and petering out.
Even as he turned to pass the drink to the dying woman on the couch, realisation dawned on him. Household water supplies had been cut off. Oh, Jesus, why wasn't that done in the first instance? Probably the water authority had only just thought of it. Or maybe it had been impracticable. In all probability there were thousands of hot water tanks in the city full of safe water. Not enough to solve the problem, certainly not to fight fires with, but it could save lives. That was something else the people had to know. The sooner he rejoined the action committee, the better.
‘More … water.’
He took the beaker from the outstretched diseased fingers.
‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘But it appears that the water has been turned off.’
The woman fell back, a gesture of utter despair. The boy was crying openly now.
‘How long's your daddy been dead, son?’
‘Not long. Yesterday. He's upstairs in the bedroom.’
A common enough situation. Thousands of corpses were lying untouched in city houses. It was fortunate that the weather had now turned appreciably colder. Even so, Blythe reflected, disease would spread. Weedspray would be but one problem. There was also typhoid; a contagious disease which would cut through the survivors like a scythe through grass. One wouldn't even need to drink the water to die.
‘Can you do anything for my mum, mister?’
Blythe's lips were compressed together. How the hell did you tell a ten year-old kid that in a very short time he was going to be an orphan?
‘Have you a grandpa or a grandma, son?’
‘Yep … but they ain't 'ere any more. They've gone away.’
‘I see. What about your friends? Their parents?’
‘Most people've gone away mister.’
Oh, Christ, what do you do now? Blythe filled and lit his pipe, the fragrance of the tobacco pleasantly welcome in the foul odour of the house. He couldn't help the woman. Nobody else would be interested; the health service
had virtually collapsed under the pressure. He could not leave the boy in this house of death. There was only one alternative - to take him along with them.
‘Tell you what son,’ he spoke kindly, dropping a hand on to the youngster's shoulder, adopting a fatherly attitude like he used to do with his own children. ‘I've got a couple of friends outside. How would you like to come along with us? You'd be safer than staying here.’
‘But what about my mum, mister?’
Oh, hell! Blythe bit on the nylon stem of his pipe. He glanced again at the boy's mother on the sofa. She was lying very still. Holding his breath he moved closer and leaned over her. One eye stared sightlessly up at him. Her breast was no longer rising and falling as she drew tortured breaths.
Blythe turned back to the boy. ‘I'm afraid … your mommy won't be needing help now, son.’
The boy was silent for a few moments as the words sunk into his frightened and bemused mind. Then, suddenly, he flung himself at Blythe, clinging to him, giving vent to his grief. The small body was wracked with sobs.
‘What the bleeding 'ell's keeping you?’
Ron Blythe whirled round at the harsh words. He saw the outline of Mike Cummins' huge frame in the open doorway, the firelight making the cruel features seem even more malevolent than before. Carol Evans was behind him.
‘Well, son, would you like to come along with us? You'd be a lot safer than stopping here on your own.’
‘Don't be a fool, Blythe,’ the convict rasped. ‘We ain't takin' kids along with us. Leave the little bugger here.’
‘Shut your goddamned trap, Cummins!’ Blythe yelled. ‘I agreed to help you, but I'm not leaving this boy behind. And don't forget: without me, you don't stand an earthly of getting out.’
‘I've got the girl.’
‘But neither of us will be any good to you dead, and the sooner you get that through your thick skull the better. Now, the boy comes with us. Got it?’
‘All right. But you're a stupid bloody idiot.’
‘What's your name?’ Blythe asked the boy who still clung to him.
