Nuclear Midnight

by Cole, Robert

  ‘This confirms our suspicions,’ Marcus summed up. ‘The eight largest cities in England and Wales still have areas of severe contamination.’

  Everyone's eyes turned to a short, lean man in his mid-forties with a pair of reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His name was Arthur Kenwell a Londoner who had formerly worked in a nuclear power plant near Bristol, and never allowed anyone to forget that fact. Arthur's imperious glance took in the circle of expectant faces before he wriggled into a more upright position in his chair and started talking.

  ‘Ah well,’ he clasped his hands together in front of him. ‘As you all know, before the war I was engaged in researching more efficient ways of deriving non-destructive forms of energy from nuclear power.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘In retrospect it proved rather an inconsequential exercise. However, I did gain some expertise with radiation and a rough knowledge of the type of nuclear warheads in each superpower's arsenal. From what Alex has been telling us, the radiation is intense and localised. This can only mean the Russians used what are commonly termed ‘dirty bombs’ on all the major cities. These bombs are designed specifically to leave behind long life isotopes such as radium 226, strontium, 90 and caesium 137, which not only remain dangerous for years, but, also become incorporated in the tissues or the bones and cause cancers.’

  ‘But what would be the point of such bombs,’ a ginger-haired man asked. ‘Surely the immediate effects of their bombs, and the subsequent radiation would be enough to ensure almost total death in the cities.’

  ‘Why, my dear chap,’ said Arthur, taking off his glasses and setting them down neatly in front of him. ‘At first glance, I would agree, it may seem like an overkill situation. But if one thinks about it, it's not such a ridiculous idea, in fact it's rather ingenious. After all, the sooner a nation can reoccupy its industrial areas and start manufacturing goods; the sooner it will recover. By contaminating the cities for as long as possible, the aggressor can ensure that he gives himself a head start in the post war race for domination.’

  ‘But surely the radiation would be everywhere and not just localised?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I think what you have been seeing is drainage effects,’ he answered confidently. ‘Several years have now passed since the holocaust, during this time most of the radiation will have been washed into underground streams or reservoirs, or concentrated in gullies and minor depressions. This would give rise to discrete pockets of radiation all over the city. I’m sure if you had had more time and taken more readings, you would have discovered this effect yourself.’

  Alex, who couldn't recall whether he had been walking over depressions or gullies when he registered these high counts, sank back in his chair and kept quiet.

  ‘Well as always, Arthur has given us all much food for thought,’ commented Marcus, falling into the now customary role of filling in the awkward moments when discussions had gone flat. ‘In your opinion, Arthur, when do you think the radiation will be sufficiently low enough to allow people to re-occupy the cities?’

  The great man shrugged, then threw himself back in his chair in an exaggerated gesture. ‘It is too difficult to estimate,’ he said, rubbing his chin as though he was performing some complicated calculation in his head. ‘Unless a very exhaustive study of each city is taken, we will have no way of knowing what type of isotopes have been left behind.’

  ‘But the radiation levels Alex obtained were so high,’ another man interrupted. ‘Surely these long-life isotopes you're talking about won't be present in sufficient amounts to cause such high readings?’

  Arthur met this new challenge head on. ‘You still don't understand, do you? Strontium has a half-life of twenty nine years, Cesium two years; both are specific decay products of fission bombs. If the Russians had wanted to, they could have designed bombs capable of producing long-life fission products which could contaminate a city for centuries.’

  His persuasive manner and the depressing scenario plunged them into silence once again.

  ‘All right then, if we can't repopulate the cities in the foreseeable future, do you think scavenging parties could collect material from them without running a serious health risk?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘If the area was monitored beforehand and they had adequate protective clothing, I see no problem,’ Arthur replied.

  ‘We're running low on fuel and building materials,’ Marcus continued. ‘I suggest, therefore, that a party should be outfitted and sent to either Liverpool or possibly Birmingham as soon as possible.’

  The motion was passed unanimously and the committee moved on to discuss the types of materials needed and the easiest city to reach. After some further debate, Liverpool was chosen and the size and date of the scavenging party was fixed.

  Alex listened to the debate politely and offered his opinion when called upon to do so, but to his surprise he was not asked to participate in the expedition. He was just collecting his notes before leaving when Marcus motioned him to stay.

  ‘Mr. Rawling,’ Marcus cut through the general chatter that had broken out, ‘may I ask, have you intercepted any further radio messages from other countries?’

  A short, squat man with a broad face and flat, ugly features looked up. ‘Yes, several in fact, from various parts of Europe; and, of course, from Ireland, which having received only a few bombs, has been broadcasting continuously. However, it's obvious they consider Britain beyond help. They refer to us as a nuclear wasteland, would you believe.’

  ‘What about the ones from Europe?’ Marcus urged, bringing him back to the point.

  ‘Rather weak signals on the whole. They seem to be attempts by the remaining factions of governments to calm the survivors. One mentioned that several cities are to be abandoned because of an epidemic carried by a rat plague. I suspect they may be in an even worse state than us.’

  ‘Nothing from further afield?’

  ‘None we could pick up with our receivers.’

  ‘I see.’ Marcus leaned forward on his elbows and began tapping with the base of his pen on the table top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘the world picture is naturally very hazy, but I think we have to assume international devastation, and possibly a world-wide nuclear winter causing massive crop failures. If every industrialised country has suffered equally like ourselves, it follows that our main priorities must be to increase our own strength and concentrate on finding any other sizeable communities which may be able to help us.’ He switched his attention to Alex. ‘You have not, I believe, encountered any signs of organised military force on any of your trips?’

  ‘Other than a few ragged bands of men dressed in military uniform, I've seen no evidence of any military activity for over two-and-a half years now,’ Alex replied.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ a well-spoken man beside Alex said. ‘Tell me, do you have any explanation as to where they could have gone?’

  ‘It’s puzzling,’ Alex admitted. ‘Some may have deserted. But I suspect many more must have died in the flu epidemic. Their work camps were a perfect breeding ground for the virus.’

  ‘And no drivers have found any organised communities?’

  ‘None larger than a few hundred people.’

  ‘But no drivers ever came back from Scotland,’ Marcus broke in.

  Alex nodded his agreement. ‘We've lost six drivers in five months. It's possible some group there is capturing or killing them, or, more likely, they have been caught by exiles.’

  ‘Would you be willing to find out for us?’ Marcus asked.

  The question startled Alex and he stared at Marcus with his mouth open, then looking around at the other members of the committee, he suddenly realised what the previous discussion had been leading up to.

  ‘I suppose you have thought all this out beforehand?’ It annoyed Alex that he should be asked to go out again so soon.

  ‘Yes, we discussed it before you arrived,’ Marcus replied. ‘We’d not be sending you out on your own,’ he added quickly, seein
g Alex's grim expression. ‘You would have at least three or four of our best men with you and extra guns and ammunition. It is essential that we know what is going on up there as soon as possible. If there is another community of comparable size to our own, we need to find how advanced they are and whether they are friendly. If they are not, we may have to divert more of our resources to defence. They may already know about us from the drivers who have disappeared.’

  Alex nodded slowly. He could see the logic of it. All the drivers had gone missing in the same general area of north England. Parts of Scotland, even more than Wales, were likely to have escaped direct bombardment, and it was quite possible that a large community could be extending its influence there.

  ‘Why not send a large armed force up there instead of me?’ he asked.

  Marcus frowned at that. ‘How do you think they'd react if they saw a small army marching towards them? We want their friendship, Alex, not another war on our doorstep. We've discussed this matter at length and decided that with six successful missions under your belt you have the necessary expertise and good judgement we need for such an assignment.’

  That endorsement, Alex well knew, left him with no escape route. ‘When would you want me to start?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘Within a week.’

  ‘A week!’

  ‘We’ve already delayed this trip till your return,’ Marcus replied. ‘We can't afford to set it back any further.’

  Alex leaned back, closing his eyes briefly. If he didn't agree, he would be sent under orders anyway, and that way he would lose any leverage he might have had. Besides, he had known some of the missing drivers personally. Their disappearance, coupled with what he already knew about the area, left an intriguing puzzle. Something very strange was happening in Northern England.

  ‘All right, I'll take the job,’ he said, ‘but only under certain conditions. Firstly, I want to pick all the food and supplies myself.’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘I want the use of that new long base Land Rover you have recently repaired, and I want to choose my own team.’

  ‘Marcus looked as if he was going to challenge this last demand, but then seemed to change his mind. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘as long as I have the final say on whom you select.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I want total charge of this one. You said just now that you trusted my judgement. It's important to me, Marcus.’

  ‘Very well, you win,’ Marcus agreed reluctantly. ‘Choose who you want, but if they don’t want to come with you I won't have them forced. If they drop out, you'll go with the men of my choice. ‘

  Alex finally agreed to this arrangement.

  The engine of the Land Rover was still rough idling. Terry figured it was the spark plugs misfiring. After scavenging another set of spark plugs from a second Land Rover that was now used for spare parts, the engine idled much more evenly.

  Terry had only recently been placed in charge of the mine's workshop facilities. He was now responsible for the service and maintenance of the mine's fleet of transport vehicles, a job he did well and enjoyed immensely. This was a man who, on the surface, struck most people as hard working and intelligent with more than his fair share of initiative and ambition. Just the type of person the community was crying out for. But underneath the ostentatious goodwill and community spirit, there lurked a darker side. He came from a depressed area of London and from his school days onwards he had been a natural rebel.

  His father was a mechanic, who stimulated his son’s interest in cars from an early age. By the time Terry was thirteen, he was already a practised craftsman. By fourteen he was dodging school to steal parts off cars to fence. By eighteen, by which time he had taken an electronics course, his talents extended to burglar alarms and home wall safes. But Terry was too smart to continue stealing and he set himself up as a fence and made a comfortable living for several years. At the age of twenty three, however, his chequered past had caught up with him and he was jailed for three years for burglary, car stealing and receiving stolen goods. But with the holocaust, the slate had been wiped clean. Terry and a group of inmates had struck out for the west in the immediate aftermath, but by the time he had reached northern Wales all the members of the gang had either died or disappeared. He had stumbled across the community by himself. With his knowledge of electronics and mechanics he had been eagerly accepted.

  ‘Hey, Terry!’ one of the mechanics called. ‘I’ve bypassed the ignition, but this truck still doesn't start.’

  It was that idiot Jefferson, a former sales clerk who was all at sea in this field. ‘Just a minute!’ Terry finished wiping his hands, then walked over. He was now in charge of eleven somewhat dubiously qualified mechanics. Although he could have occupied himself entirely with administration work, he liked to get involved.

  The man removed his head from under the dashboard of a Toyota truck as Terry came up and gave him a cheery grin. Terry did not respond in kind.

  ‘This looks okay, but have you checked the battery?’

  ‘No,’ said the other man sheepishly.

  ‘Then don't bother me until you've checked everything,’ Terry said angrily.

  The man gave another stupid grin and quickly shuffled out of sight around the front of the vehicle. Terry returned in disgust to completing his checks on the Land Rover. He was no longer the wild youth he had been before the war. He had learned how to conceal his impulses and channel negative feelings to more useful ends. His reward had been the responsibility for this workshop. He was making himself indispensable to the community now; one day, he reckoned, he would be almost immune from its laws. He would control and rule, rather than be controlled and ruled. This power over people, he found exciting and he wanted it more than anything. Only individuals like Alex fathomed his true nature, and not always consciously. In Alex's case, it manifested itself as a clash of character, Alex's painfully honest, uncompromising approach to life, against Terry's subtle scheming. They saw in each other everything they inwardly loathed; everything that was at variance with what they were. Two such opposites could never be friends. The peace between them often bordered on open conflict.

  In the afternoon of the following day, Alex persuaded Cliff to accompany him to Anglesey where he hoped to find Roy and another man called Wayne Fletcher. Cliff adopted his usual wry expression when Alex said he would explain matters when they were all together. Roy had been living on the island for nearly a year now and had recently been placed in charge of a large wheat crop. He had been brought up on a farm and liked the idea of combining his building work with farming. Wayne had been a farm labourer before the war and was now Roy's right hand man.

  It was close to sunset when they reached the island, and they passed hundreds of hooded figures plodding back to the settlements after spending all day in the green-houses. An alarming increase in skin cancer had made such garments essential for all outdoor workers. Probably there had not been such a concentration of hoods on the island since the Druids lived here, a couple of civilisations before, Alex mused.

  Alex shifted into second gear and drove through the outskirts of a recently completed village. Only four months before it had been deserted land now it was filled with rows of clay brick houses. According to Roy, each of these buildings had been designed to have one large dormitory containing twenty beds, a communal living room with a log fire and a communal bathroom. The larger and longer buildings were the kitchens and mess halls where food was rationed out three times a day.

  This village was typical of a new breed of settlement under construction by the committee, part of its master plan to enshrine its socialist based system in bricks and mortar. No favouritism, no luxuries, everyone working the same hours for the same food and shelter; the only concession was that families with children were placed on a short list for a separate room. Another of this world's ironies, Alex thought. A war against such a system had created the perfect conditions for its implementation.

  Roy and Wayne were living in
one of the few pre-war houses near the centre of the settlement, along with eighteen other men and women. Cliff knocked on the door and a small West Indian girl let them in. The two men were in the living room talking to several members of the household. They sprang up with delight when they saw Cliff and Alex. Roy hadn't changed, unless perhaps he was even stronger and larger than when Alex had seen him last. His thick, brown beard and brawny arms gave the impression more of a bear than a human. Wayne was very different; small and wiry, with a wispy beard and matted brown hair that had probably not seen a comb since the war. Always gaunt in appearance, with a triangular shaped face that tapered to a cleft jaw, his appearance was almost sinister, yet he possessed a warm nature and his mind was quick and sharp.

  After a few minutes of discussing pleasantries, they all trooped upstairs to a small bedroom overlooking the street where they could be alone. Wayne stepped up to a small, highly polished cabinet and produced four glasses and an old wine bottle filled with a clear liquid.

  ‘Freshly distilled potato wine,’ he announced, proudly waving the object in front of them. ‘A bit rough, but the best our local stills have been able to produce.’

  He filled each glass half-full and handed them around.

  The wine turned out to be considerably worse than anyone had anticipated. Coughing and a burning sensation right down to the stomach seemed to be the usual result of taking a medium sip. In spite of this, however, no one's thirst seemed to be impaired.

  With the opening of the bottle a more light hearted mood descended on the company, diverting them from Alex’s request for a serious talk. Cliff embarked on his favourite pastime of running down the committee; acting out, with some exaggeration, the mannerisms of the various members as they went about making their decisions. Wayne joined in with his own sharp wit, spicing the absurdity of the situations Cliff conjured before them. The men laughed long and hard as all the strain and frustration of their lives seeped then blasted forth in unrestrained guffaws. The pompous, the petty minded, the bureaucrats were all ridiculed in turn, the laughter acting like some huge emotional sink. Before the war Alex would have frowned on such a scene and thought it bordered on hysteria, but most social gatherings these days had this slightly frantic air about them. When criticism could earn expulsion, laughter behind closed doors was the only outlet for freedom left.