Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Some questions have been asked in the House, and it is my duty to answer them to the world at large. First, why were Birmingham household water supplies not turned off sooner, before the Weedspray gushed from the taps? Simply, because to have done so would have created an identical situation to the one which now exists in the city. Rioting would have begun sooner, and the city would still have to have been closed off. Also, we were not sure about this poison. The chances of it reaching the consumer were small. We gambled … and lost.’

  ‘What is being done to help these citizens? Everything possible. Unfortunately the fires and the riots are preventing help from being sent in. All communications are severed. I was asked why helicopters could not be sent in to fight the flames from above. Well, it would be like trying to extinguish a blazing building with a garden hose.

  ‘Why is the city cordoned off? I am accused of condemning the people of Birmingham to death. I tell you here and now, that if we allowed these rampaging mobs to infiltrate our other towns and cities - many of these people already driven mad by the weedkiller - then the violence would spread. A nationwide breakdown in law and order would follow. We must confine the madness to an area in which it is manageable.’

  ‘Is the end of this unprecedented time of terror in sight? Alas, I cannot answer that. None of us know. I only wish I did. If there was some means by which uncontaminated water could be transported into the city I believe that the end would be in sight.’

  ‘Finally, I wish to make it clear that I am not on the point of resigning, as certain newspapers have implied. To do so would be an act of treason on my part, a betrayal of the people of Birmingham. I will fight on until the end. But I implore you, every one of you, to keep clear of the cordons which have been set up. Sightseers are already hampering our police and volunteer forces.’

  ‘Keep away. There is nothing to see.’

  The following leader article appeared in the issue of The Times, dated 8 November 19—:

  It would seem that the government is adopting a policy of laissez-faire in the Birmingham holocaust. Each day brings fresh horrors, and nobody really knows the full story. Low-flying aircraft and helicopters have been unable to ascertain the extent of the fires because of the smoke pall which restricts visibility.

  There are reports of atrocities being carried out by troops within the city. Many of these soldiers are volunteers with little or no military training, and it is clear that the situation is hopelessly out of control.

  It is impossible even to estimate the death toll. Certainly it runs into thousands, and now there is the danger of disease spreading from decomposing corpses.

  Something must be done in the very near future.

  Some effort should be made to evacuate the survivors, but no steps so far have been taken towards this end. The government insists that the trouble must be contained within its own confinement. They seem more concerned with ensuring that nobody leaves the city than in aiding the sufferers. Relief funds have been set up, but to date it is not clear how the money is to be used.

  The Cabinet held another emergency meeting last night, but so far no official statement has been issued.

  Another televised broadcast, this time by the Leader of the Opposition:

  ‘We can only speculate on the outcome of this terrible disaster but, most frightening of all, is the inefficiency and inconsistency shown by the Government. Lives must be saved, not sacrificed, as is happening at the moment. The troops, such as they are, are moving freely about the city; yet reports show that their attitude is one of hostility not only towards looters and rioters, but towards the average citizen.’

  ‘The killings must stop. The fires must be extinguished, only then can we begin to clean up the mess, the first step towards a return to normality.’

  Everybody knew what had to be done. But nobody knew how do it.

  Chapter 13

  Brick dust and ash swirled in the atmosphere like a desert sandstorm. People moved about aimlessly, peering through the daytime gloom with bleary eyes. Corpses were in evidence everywhere. The cries of the wounded were to be heard from all quarters, tormented souls in a living hell. New Street, once a main artery of the city of Birmingham, was now virtually destroyed - unrecognisable. Even the enemy bombers in the war years had been unable to achieve such a degree of total destruction.

  The crowd which had gathered to watch the inferno was gone, buried beneath the falling office blocks. Only the dead and the dying remained. And four other people: two men, a girl, and a young boy, standing at the foot of Bennetts Hill, handkerchiefs tied across the lower half of their faces.

  ‘Well, that's that.’ There was a note of resignation in Ron Blythe's voice. ‘Two days to get here, and when we arrive there's nothing left. The Action Committee headquarters has disintegrated. Hardly a brick left intact. And from what that guy up the road was telling us, the committee went with it.’

  ‘It was bloody stupid coming here in the first place,’ Mike Cummins said as he gripped the .45 revolver beneath his oversize woollen sweater. ‘We're in it up to here now, Blythe. Well, let's have some more suggestions. We can't hang around here - we'll suffocate.’

  ‘We can't stop here,’ Ron Blythe agreed. ‘We'd better start moving back slowly the way we came.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ's sake!’ Cummins growled. ‘We're just goin' round in circles, getting nowhere.’

  ‘We've got to go north. It's our only chance. We're about three or four miles from the nearest barricades. If we go south, it's seven or eight, and there's more people going south than north.’

  ‘We'll never get past the army. You said that yourself. So what the hell are we going to do when we reach the checkpoint?’

  ‘I'll think of something,’ Blythe said, already moving away. ‘First, we need to get clear of the city centre. Secondly, we need to find somewhere to hole up for the night. There are plenty of deserted houses. If we can find one that's got a full hot water tank then we stand a good chance of getting some uncontaminated water. It's too much to ask that we'll find food. The city will have been pretty thoroughly looted by flow. Shelter and water. Then tomorrow we'll move on and try our luck.’

  They threaded their way in single file through the chaos; Blythe in the lead, Carol Evans close behind him, holding Paul Merrick's hand, and Mike Cummins bringing up the rear. The axe killer was still alert, as wary as a beast of the jungle, watching for any signs that the others might try and escape from him.

  It took them the remainder of the day to cross Colmore Circus and drop down to Shadwell Street. The sky was darkening above the smut clouds, the reddish glow of the fires a sinister overhead background.

  They crossed a stretch of waste ground. Once it had been a car park. Vehicles still remained, but the majority were being used as living quarters by the homeless - a macabre, silent, holiday encampment where nobody spoke or acknowledged one another's presence. Groans were coming from the interior of some of the vehicles. The poison victims were left to themselves, to die alone. Nobody bothered with them. Self-interest and survival were the order of the day.

  Something glinted blackly beyond the area: water, dirty and uninviting, debris littering the surface.

  ‘That's the way we'll go,’ Blythe snapped. ‘Some of the way, at least. Follow the canal. We'll cover greater distances than through the streets.’

  It was more difficult than they had anticipated. In places sheer brick walls came down to the edge of the water, and often they had to make a wide detour until they came upon a stretch of tow path again.

  ‘If only we had a boat,’ Blythe muttered mostly to himself. ‘Any dilapidated old barge would do. We'd work the locks ourselves.’

  ‘Doubtless others have thought of that,’ Carol replied wistfully. ‘And it still doesn't solve the problem of getting through the military cordons.’

  ‘We'd better find somewhere to hole up for the night.’ Ron Blythe pulled up. The narrow path disappeared again.

  ‘These look lik
e warehouses. I've no idea where we are, but we'd better take a look around.’

  They scaled a low wall and dropped down on the opposite side. It was obviously a loading bay of some kind. A row of vans stood at the far end, their doors hanging open, some ripped off. The looters had been and gone. There was little point in searching for food.

  Doorways led from the yard into the huge building. Every entrance had been forced open. Blythe stepped inside and struck a match. Metal drums glinted in the light: paint - thousands of gallons of undercoat, primer and gloss. Untouched. Even the thirst-crazed mobs had no use for paint.

  ‘Maybe there's a night watchman's quarters somewhere,’ said the research chemist, his voice lacking conviction in the flickering blackness. ‘Let's take a look around.’

  They moved from one wide storage area to the next. Everywhere was in pitch darkness, and there were no windows to allow the fiery night glow to penetrate the interior.

  Blythe had only a few matches left. He used them sparingly, the rest of the time walking with outstretched hands, groping blindly. Once he tripped and fell over a small wooden crate. He cursed and picked himself up.

  ‘We're just wasting our time.’ Cummins came out of the dark. ‘Better if we try and find our way back outside.’

  ‘Listen!’ It was Carol Evans who whispered. ‘I heard something. Over there, in front of us.’

  They stood listening, and then they heard it: a series of low moans, agonised groans and wheezing of breath - the rattle of phlegm in a human throat.

  ‘We'd better take a look,’ Blythe muttered, and struck another of his remaining few matches, stepping forward as it flared up.

  A few yards further on they found what they were looking for, a partitioned wooden watchman's cubicle. The match burned low and he struck another. By its light they saw a man, huddled against an empty crate, head sunk low on his chest; lying by his side was a large rubber-cased torch.

  Blythe grabbed the torch and switched it on. A powerful white beam illuminated their surroundings.

  ‘Well, at least we've got light. Now, let's have a look at our friend here.’ He shone the torch on the man on the floor.

  The head moved, looking up at them. A mop of dirty grey hair fell to the shoulders. The lower half of the features were covered by a matted unkempt beard. His toothless mouth gaped, and so did his staring frightened eyes. The sparse body was covered with filthy rags which emitted the sharp smell of urine and stale sweat.

  ‘The night watchman,’ Carol breathed. ‘I doubt it very much.’ Blythe knelt down, studying the man closely. ‘More likely a tramp who has found his way in here.’

  The man moaned again. They studied him from a distance, a despicable specimen of humanity which did not, invite closer inspection.

  ‘He's poisoned,’ Cummins grunted. ‘Ulcers all over his face.’

  Blythe moved to within a foot of the tramp. ‘They're not ulcers. More like spots. Definitely not weedkiller ulcers.’

  ‘Water,’ the mouth moved in a whispered plea. ‘Out there. Plenty. In the … cut.’

  ‘The cut?’ Carol looked at Ron.

  ‘Slang for canal.’ He shone the torch on the old man's face again, the pupils widening in the dazzling light. ‘So he's been drinking out of the canal. I wonder …’

  ‘What's wrong?’

  ‘Let's get out of here quick,’ Blythe said and turned, pushing the others back towards the tiny doorway.

  ‘Why so much of a hurry?’

  ‘I wouldn't swear to it -’ Ron Blythe's features were deathly white. ‘- maybe I'm wrong. I hope I am, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘That heap of living garbage has all the signs of … typhoid!’

  ‘Oh, Jesus God!’ Cummins stared in disbelief. ‘You can't be serious.’

  ‘Like I said, I could be wrong. But one way of getting typhoid is by drinking foul water. Also, with bodies rotting all over the place, the odds are that there'll be an epidemic anyway. Without a doubt there are corpses rotting in the canal too.’

  They found their way back into the open yard. Even the foul atmosphere was refreshing after their recent discovery.

  ‘We'll look for a deserted house.’ Blythe helped Carol and Paul Merrick back over the low wall.

  They found an unoccupied terraced house about a hundred yards from the paint store. Lights showed in several windows on the opposite side of the street as the survivors of Birmingham huddled down for the night with kerosene and tilly lamps and candles.

  ‘This one will do,’ Blythe said, stepped forward and tried the door. It was unlocked. ‘We'd better search the place first. We don't want to bed down with any more horrors.’

  A search revealed that the house was empty. No humans were to be found, either alive or dead.

  ‘We'll lock the door,’ Ron Blythe said, noting with some relief that a key rested in the inside lock. ‘At least we'll have some warning if anybody tries to get in. That way we won't need to mount a watch.’

  There were three beds upstairs, an old-fashioned iron-framed double in the front bedroom and a camp bed in the rear room.

  Cummins removed the revolver from where it had been stuck in the waistband of his trousers and held it loosely in his hand. ‘The girl and me'll take the double,’ he said. ‘You sleep on the camp bed, Blythe. The kid can please himself who he kips with.’

  ‘I'd rather sleep on the floor.’ Carol Evans' voice was hostile, defiant.

  ‘Now look here, sis.’ The axe killer grabbed her roughly by the arm. ‘You forget. You ain't got no choice. You'll be safe enough. If I'd've wanted to screw you I'd've done so before now. But I got more important things to think about, like gettin' out o' this hell hole. Now that we ain't got no Action Committee to ferry us out, it's everybody for themselves, and I'm makin' sure that we all stick together. If Blythe gets any ideas about runnin' off, then he's got to leave you behind. And he knows what will happen to you then. So I figure he'll stay.’

  ‘We stand more chance together than singly,’ Ron Blythe said. ‘Do as he says, Carol. But I warn you, Cummins. Any funny business and I'll kill you, even if you do have a gun. Now, let's try the hot water tap downstairs. We might just be lucky.’

  The tank yielded almost three pints of stale tepid water before it gurgled and gave out. Nothing but a few drips came from the cold tap.

  ‘Should be safe enough.’ Ron filled four chipped mugs as he spoke. ‘Ugh! Worse than flat beer.’

  Half an hour later they retired for the night. Paul Merrick chose to share Blythe's bed. He felt safer that way. The boy was terrified of Cummins, fearful of being left alone in the dark with the escaped convict.

  Blythe draped a comforting arm around the orphan. Paul was sobbing softly to himself. He was hungry. He also grieved for his mother, a fate he shared with thousands of other children in the city.

  Blythe awoke with a start. The nocturnal blackness in the room was no longer tinged with the orange glow from the fires. A murky greyness, the city's substitute for daylight, Streamed in through the window. He knew instantly that the morning was well advanced. He had overslept.

  He slid off the bed, taking care not to wake Paul. The boy needed as much sleep as he could get.

  Cummins and Carol were in the kitchen when he entered, seated at the table. They were chewing, although there was no sign of any food.

  ‘Try one of these,’ Cummins said and tossed a foil-wrapped sliver on to the table, ‘Chewing gum. There was a packet in one of the drawers in the bedroom. We've kept a piece back for the kid.’

  Blythe munched steadily on the small wafer, his saliva glands immediately responding, revitalised by the spearmint-flavoured juice.

  ‘It'll help,’ he smiled. ‘No doubt all the machines in town have been raided.’

  ‘Found something else, too.’ Cummins' eyes narrowed as he reached down behind his chair and lifted up a small wood chopper. ‘Out in the coal shed in the yard.’

  ‘An axe!’ Blythe's expression was g
rim as he remembered the details of the other's horrific killings. ‘Isn't a gun enough for you, Cummins?’

  ‘This is much better,’ the killer laughed softly. ‘Much, much better. So just make sure you behave yourselves.’

  Paul Merrick appeared in the doorway, rubbing his bleary eyes, an expression of relief on his face when he saw the others.

  ‘I … thought you'd gone.’ He ran to Carol and flung his arms around her.

  ‘Don't worry, we won't leave you.’ She kissed him, consoling him. ‘Look. We've got a piece of chewing gum for you.’

  ‘We'd better be moving,’ Cummins stood up, tucking his revolver together with the small axe into the top of his trousers and pulling his sweater down to cover them.

  ‘We'll head back to the canal,’ Blythe said. ‘and follow it as far as we can. If we don't meet with any trouble we could be at the barriers in a few hours.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We'll play it by ear. But at least we'll know whether or not we can get out.’

  There was no more to be said. They set off in silence, and ten minutes later they were back on the narrow tow path.

  Spasmodic bouts of gunfire were to be heard from all directions. The Battle of Birmingham, militia versus looters, still raged. Above it, a background noise, steadily growing in volume - a dull persistent droning.

  ‘What's that noise?’ Carol asked.

  They stood listening. Louder and louder it came, now drowning the gunshots, and directly overhead. They stared, straining their eyes, but the smoke pall was too thick. Visibility range was twenty yards at the most.

  ‘Helicopters!’ Blythe had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Dozens of 'em.’

  ‘But what the hell for?’ The instincts of the hunted criminal were uppermost in Mike Cummins. The revolver was half drawn, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

  ‘Could be any one of a thousand reasons.’

  Briefly they caught the occasional outline of a helicopter above them. Then something else: a mushroom-like shape floating lazily, drifting in the windless sky, away to their left.