by Vance Huxley
“Rambo? Come on, sis, you know I’m not that keen on the blood and guts stuff. This just encourages the rest to think of me like that.”
Sharyn burst out laughing. “I was too busy producing a Womble for Daisy. They really are recycling old kids programmes now.” She waved the rags. “These were delivered, so hard luck. Now get them on.”
Getting them on was both difficult and easy. Easy because it consisted of tee shirt, jeans cut off at the knee, and a stocking for round Harold’s head to represent Rambo’s bit of rag. Difficult because he had to get feet and arms in it while avoiding all the holes and slashes. Harold’s Army boots and a huge cardboard knife finished the look, by which time Daisy was bouncing around shouting “Guy, guy” so it was time to go.
Keeping track of Daisy round a bonfire was a cripes job that took two Uncles and her mum. She was entranced by the Guy, a creditable attempt at a Wild West cowboy with a bandana over his face and big cardboard sixguns. Luckily racing around and trying all the various attempts at toffee this and candied that wore Daisy out. An hour later Harold carried her home and Womble was put to bed with Karen as babysitter. Stewart must have been there as a Karen-sitter.
The dancing afterwards wasn’t quite cripes, since both Sal and Holly were careful not to get into a clinch. Or not a proper one, though all of the girl club except Celine, Alicia and Trish claimed a slow Harold dance. Trish was an honorary member as she lived alone. All the men claimed slow dances here and there and Jon and Billy probably managed to dance with the entire girl club. For the only two eligible but unattached teenaged lads that was a real triumph.
The rest of the men had also made an attempt at a fancy dress so Harold didn’t feel too conspicuous. Casper went for fairy lumberjack. Harold’s cardboard knife didn’t outlast the highland fling, reel or whatever it was. Then some halos and horns and Casper’s wings were shed during the attempts at a Russian kicking dance and a can-can. Liz sniggered when she claimed her slow dance.
“Worked out who volunteered this?” She tugged the stocking round Harold’s head.
“Cripes. It’s actually someone’s stocking? I thought it was, well, a new one?” Harold tried to decide if it was or not, and tried to remember if it looked used. Though he wasn’t sure how to tell.
“Not a chance. Maybe we all wore it for a few minutes, just so there weren’t any fights?” Liz tugged it again. “You’ll have to look properly afterwards, to see what sizes it might fit.”
Harold was still wondering if Liz was winding him up when the bonfire burned down and everyone collected their baked potatoes from the ashes and went home. He wondered hard enough to not have bad dreams.
The following day everyone went back to serious scrounging and building, though the whole of the enclave seemed more settled. Halloween, Guy Fawkes and dancing were normal, even without fireworks.
Chapter 12:
Armageddon
Casper inspected the stretch of wall between two houses. “It’s not very strong without any mortar, even two bricks wide. A couple of kicks and it’ll fall down.”
“So don’t kick it.” Harold looked out over the stretch of cleared land to the first ruined houses. “That bastard came over the rubble line too easily. If it had been a wall he might not have tried.”
“You can’t bring Gabriela back, Harold. This way we’ve lost these back gardens.” Casper kicked moodily at the house wall. “I sweated buckets digging some of that.”
“We’ll still plant crops, Casper. This way we’ve got twice as much open ground to shoot the bastards because that side of the gap, the ruins, is the boundary. Anyone who steps out of there is a target.” Harold waved at the houses either side. “Once we’ve boarded the windows facing that way and maybe bricked them, we’ll be a lot safer.”
“I know.” Casper looked along the wide, clear stretch. “Though this took a lot longer than expected without machinery. Nearly two months.”
“Not non-stop, because we had both Halloween and Guy Fawkes.” Harold smiled in recollection, because he still didn’t know quite how much of the Halloween kissing was real. Nor whose stocking that might have been. “We also brought in a lot of food and also all those fridges and freezers. On top of that my little group have brought in a lot of vital supplies. I certainly feel a lot happier about winter now.”
“So does everyone else, because they might have bitched a bit but everyone has helped. Even most of the wounded.”
“According to Patricia we were insanely lucky with that. The bullet that hit Curtis must have hit a brick or something first because it barely broke the skin. Emmy says that Curtis is wondering if he actually broke his leg falling down.” Harold crossed his fingers for luck before continuing. “Finn’s left arm might never be right again but so far he can still use the fingers of that hand. Patricia says he should be clear of any risk of infection now. Straight through the meat and not deep is a lot better than through a big blood vessel or bone.” Harold had seen that sort of hit.
“Matthew must have been living right as well because the hit wasn’t his shoulder, just the big muscle above his collar bone. Ha! Just! A fraction of an inch down and it would have smashed his collarbone and Patricia says she can’t deal with that sort of injury.” Harold sighed. “Not even from handguns.”
“Yeah, I saw what that big rifle of yours did. Scary. Maybe Gabriela’s guiding angel was one of the swords and hellfire lot and gave us a hand?” Casper sniggered. “Or maybe one of the old gods of lust considering how Curtis is luring Emmy into his greenhouse with that limp of his.”
Harold thought that if any god was involved it was one of old ones, the nasty interfering sorts the Romans, Greeks, Norse and Celts had. “However it worked, I was really pleased to see everyone out and about so soon.”
Casper grinned. “Well not Rob and his nurse, though maybe he’s ashamed of the wound.”
“Maybe he’s really enjoying the nursing. Anyway, being shot through the love handles is a cause for celebration, not shame. If Rob had been a lean mean type that could have hit something vital or at the least he might have got blood poisoning. Though he still reckoned the cleaning hurt like hell.” Now Harold smiled.
“I can only sympathise. If I’m wounded just finish me off. Don’t let Patricia clean the wound.” Casper gave a mock shudder.
“She apologised profusely, but that was the only way to wash through and make sure there was no crap in there. Patricia just hasn’t got the facilities and she did keep the wounds, all of them, clean.” Harold thumped Casper gently on the bicep. “So hard luck, wimp, you get doctored.”
“Fairy, not wimp. You’re the wimp. Liz says so. That talk of yours really did wonders. She’s fitting spikes to a length of steel to put across the entrance at the moment. In case someone tries to ram the improved barricade aside. That or she’s started an artwork project.” Casper looked down the line of houses now connected by lengths of impromptu wall. “Someone could ram a car through here.”
“Not a car, because the rubble would stop them. Maybe with a van.” Harold looked out across the gap. “If we manage to tear the houses down, we can lay a low heap of brick about twenty yards out.”
“I thought we’d just removed one heap because it was a bad idea?”
“We used that to build the wall. Now we want a wide low one we can shoot right over even with the crossbows. One that will strand a van like a giant sleeping policeman would.” Harold pointed to the entrance. “We need those garages down next, so there’s a gap from the main road to our first houses.”
“Hellfire Harold. How bad do you think it will get?”
“Maybe like the continent? You saw the news. Most of the major population centres in the UK are fenced in now, but over the channel is worse.” Harold looked back at the houses and people behind him, and the bypass looming over the lot. “You saw the TV, I assume. The last pictures out of Lille showed it burning. Skinheads from Germany are invading France to help their brethren, and several immigrant areas in Pa
ris have declared a Holy War. Plus half of Europe are starving and heading for the only country that grows its own food, France.”
Casper grimaced. “Yeah, the TV said that and about the Navy making sure none of them get across the Channel or North Sea. The religious war thing and the colour wars will be ugly. We’ve got areas of Britain where there’s a lot of immigrants so what do you reckon?”
“There’s not so many here, or anywhere outside London.” Harold fell silent because London was bad news. The Army had blown up the junctions on the M25 and literally walled London in.
“Bradford or Leicester could be bad.” Casper grinned. “For the skinheads and general race hate assholes. I reckon they’d be really outnumbered in Leicester and some of those Sikhs and suchlike are feisty buggers.”
“Maybe the minorities will make enclaves? A lot tend to live in communities anyway. Sort of local majority to offset being a minority?” Harold smiled. “You’re a minority.”
“What, an Orchard Close of fruits? They’d die out in a generation.” Casper chuckled. “Though they might not. A lesbian friend of mine had a kid without a father. She found a donor, then used a turkey baster to get her girlfriend pregnant during a night of passion.”
“They’d never find enough basters.”
“You might on your travels. Are you going out again tonight? I still don’t like the idea for two reasons. First because you go at night and second because only six of you go. Though you do bring some good stuff back.”
“Essentials. I’ve found lots of bits needed for loading bullets, for instance, even if a lot of the powder has gone, and a good bit of dowelling for arrows. Last run we found needles and gut for Patricia to sew up wounds. Patricia doesn’t care if those and the instruments were from a vet’s. She’s going through the drugs to see what’s useable on humans.”
Harold tone darkened. “So far we’ve found enough medication to keep those like Karen and Mary, Finn’s Mum, more or less all right. That’s getting harder and already some people are deteriorating. Patricia sorts through what we find for equivalents but she’s not a doctor.”
“I already know the answer to the second objection. You won’t take more people because you won’t weaken this place again.” Casper had a little smile. “So are you going tonight?”
“No, because I have been told very firmly that it’s Daisy’s birthday and there will be Uncle-Harold story and also Uncle-Casper story tonight. Or else. Kids are damn scary when they’re determined. Even at four – oops, five.” Harold grinned. “I found a dozen colouring books and some crayons a couple of trips ago so the present is sorted.”
“I have donated candles for the cake, from my personal stocks. Pink ones. Put candles for cake on the essentials list because others will want them.” Casper grinned. “Pink for me because I have a reputation to uphold.”
“We can render them from tallow? That’s how they used to be made. I wonder how bad this will get?” Harold almost swore in disgust at the current state of things and remembered that he didn’t do that now. Manners were important in a small community and swearing was dying out here. “It’s awful out there now.”
“The local radio reckons it’s got bad enough for civil action.” Casper nodded at Harold’s look. “Yeah, shooting on the streets and the people are going for civil action. There’s talk on the local radio of a mass march on the city centre to demand food supplies and payment of redundancies and unemployment pay. Toby’s got his CB working and there’s the same messages on there, and some are from places like Manchester and Liverpool.”
“Christ, good luck with getting here from there.”
“The local radios from nearby cities are talking of the same idea, a day of action in all the cities, not travelling. If there’s enough people marching the assumption is that yobs will leave them alone. Most of the ordinary folk who’ll march probably already live in some sort of protected estate or a similar arrangement, so they’ll have baseball bats and suchlike.” Casper looked up at the bypass. “If the government sent in the Army they could clean the place up by running over the worst enclaves. The ones where the real assholes are concentrated.”
“Finding them would be easy because the news keeps putting pictures of the worst ones on the TV. If there’s enough Army left to actually deal with them.” That depressed Harold, since he knew the government had deliberately run down the Army. “Well, now this is done, I’m off to help with the orchard.”
“Be careful. Part of it is the back garden to the girl’s club and several are wondering out loud.” Casper had a big grin now. “About just what sort of hugs you give when there are no witnesses.”
“Don’t you start. I’d dearly love to know where the speculation started. I’ve already given two hugs where there was a bit too much happy afterwards for how sad they were supposed to be. Sal looked bloody triumphant.” Harold frowned. “She was sober this time as well.”
“They’re taking bets on who gets a hug next.” Casper’s eyes widened. “Ooh gossip, is it only hugging?”
“What do you think? I’ve got a nosy sister remember? Now stop winding me up.” Harold grinned. “Or tell me what the betting is and we’ll clean up. You place the bets and I’ll hug.”
“That’s prostitution, being paid for it.” Casper laughed. “Or I think so, even if you’re only hugging.”
“Is it prostitution if I enjoy it?”
“That just makes it a vocation instead of a profession.” Casper smirked. “I’ll listen out for the odds. Now go on, get off to the orchard. At least Emmy is occupied now she’s got her patient. She’ll be all fixed up for hugs now.”
“I’ll remember that.” Harold headed off with a smile because it really was funny. He wouldn’t ever bet on doing so but Harold had now ended up hugging four more of the girl club, all in tears when they ‘found’ him.
Though none wanted hugging in the prospective orchard with all the rest around, it seemed. Harold spent several hours digging and planting, and headed home for the party.
A party attended by a dozen adults as well as Hazel, Toby, Veronica and Alfie. The guest of honour loved her home-made cards and the musical chairs. Followed by jelly, some precious, rare ice cream, and sponge cake with butter icing and five pink candles. Butter and sugar were both getting scarce, and all the real milk was gone so the milkshake tasted a bit odd. Daisy didn’t care. It was a party, her party.
After her two stories Daisy finally settled down, or at least she went to bed with a colouring book. Hazel, Toby and Alfie went off with Betty to play computer games which was their version of a party, while Veronica went home. Harold, Sharyn, Casper, Liz and Sal settled down to watch TV and relax. Or as much as possible once the news came on. “That’s Leeds. I recognise Leeds castle. Oh crap.”
* * *
“What the hell happened?” Casper had asked but they were all wondering the same thing. On the screen a mass of screaming marchers were running right over a line of police despite the gunfire. Men and women went down and then the police were buried in a mob. Moments later the captured police weapons were turned on the reserve lines behind, and the rest of the police broke and ran.
Liz was incredulous “They’re just wrecking the place.” A section of the mob had charged across the approach and into the castle, and flames leapt from the windows. “The council have their offices there, so how can that happen?”
“It’s a rebellion, an uprising. Worse than rebellion, they’re not trying to take over. The bloody lunatics are burning the whole city.” Sharyn’s voice was quiet and horrified because the camera had pulled back to give a wider view. Lines and swathes of fire were moving across Leeds, clearly seen in the darkness. Here and there the lines stopped and spread out, engulfing a whole area.
“It’s Armageddon.” Harold was aghast. “This doesn’t happen in England. People march and protest and yes, these days they riot. But not like this. Yobs and hopheads shoot at police. The coppers aren’t overrun by a mass of ordinary looking men
and women with guns and pikes. Christ, they really have got medieval pikes.” From the castle no doubt but the long sharp blades and vicious points just looked all wrong even in England.
“It’s Lille, and Paris, and Toulouse, and Antwerp. Those cities we saw burn, when the ethnic and religious violence broke out.” Sal frowned. “That isn’t ethnic violence in Leeds. There’s all colours in that crowd.”
“Maybe that comes after, when the survivors try to live in the remains.” On-screen a retail park was a blazing chaos of burning vehicles and superstores and a swarm of running figures. “See, they’ve started already.” Harold was right. Among those looting or burning, two groups had clashed and people were sprawled on the floor as they parted.
Casper was pale. “We’ve got a march tomorrow, according to the local radio. The day of action. Surely they’ll call it off after this.” Onscreen a fireball rose, and a caption came up.
“Analysis suggests a gas mains had been broken and ignited. The gas pipeline into the city is being turned off as a safety measure.”
“Gods, this is recorded. It must have been happening while the radios were talking about the marches. That means they’ll go ahead.” Sal’s voice was hushed.
“The police will meet them with barricades and blocked streets and weapons locked and loaded. It’ll be a massacre.” Sharyn shuddered. “Then what happens to the places the marchers come from? When darkness falls and there aren’t enough people to man the barricades?”
“The smarter ones will run for the boundaries. They’ll try to slip through the fences, or maybe storm an exit.” Harold swallowed hard. “Tomorrow, first thing, we seal the entrance properly. Forget the moving road block, the vehicles. We take the metal doors off the garages out there and build a wall.”
“Then what? We can’t just hide or we’ll run out of food.” Liz glanced at Harold. “I hope you aren’t going into something like that with six people?”
