Brady looked at an alarmed Jane and shrugged. He had half expected survivors they encountered to be highly protective of their shelter and supplies. There was absolutely no point in confronting such people, so he turned away and headed towards Sleaford, where they would have to find an empty house on the edge of town. Luckily, it was only half a mile and they reached their objective without further incident. There were houses on both sides of the road, so Brady picked a detached house set well back with no lights showing. They trailed up the garden and approached one of the bedroom windows, at which Brady knocked firmly.
As he did so, the snow on the roof shifted slightly and some fell upon his head and shoulders. He knocked again, and as there was no reply after two minutes, he decided that this would be their nightstop location. With the small hammer he carried he smashed the double glazing in the area of the release catch. The window opened outwards, as more snow fell from the roof and Jane climbed into the bedroom. Brady passed in the poles and skis, followed by the sled, which they dragged roughly through the gap and into the house. Brady checked the ground for anything they might have dropped outside and as he turned to climb in through the window, the huge bulk of loose snow from the roof came tumbling down in a mini-avalanche, burying him completely.
It also partially blocked the bedroom window and the shockwave knocked Jane back into the house.
She clambered to her feet and gasped.
There was only an eerie silence.
Jane scrambled to the window and pushed the snow blocking the gap aside, which of course only covered Brady with more snow. She didn’t know what to do next, but she knew she must act swiftly if she was to rescue him alive from his snowy tomb.
‘Brady, can you hear me, BRADY?’
Nothing.
She had to dig him out and quickly.
She turned to look around the room and spotted just what she needed. A set of antique brass fireplace irons sat in the corner of the grate. She grabbed the pathetically small shovel and opened the other window, which had less snow lying against it. She forced it open and pushed the snow away from the building, using a pillow from the bed as a battering ram. When she could get out of the window, Jane swung her legs out and started shovelling the pile of snow off and away from Brady.
There was a immense pile, and some of it was in icy blocks, which she shoved aside using her hands. She scrabbled about in the snow for what seemed a very long time, but was actually only a couple of minutes, until at last she saw the gloved hand of Brady just under the surface. She cleared the snow away from his arm, working his way up to his face which she freed, so that Brady was able to gasp in some air. She ripped off his goggles and lifted up his balaclava, so that he could breathe more easily.
‘Brady, Brady, are you alright? Say something.’
It seemed that Brady was unconscious. She had to release him as rapidly as possible, so she started to dig Brady out with renewed vigour. It took her ten minutes of frantic digging to free Brady’s limp frame and be in a position to pull him towards the window. However, she didn’t know if she could haul him over the snow and into the room. Although there was a good ramp up to the sill, Brady was a big man and she was dog-tired after all of this exertion. Then a thought came to her. She had a small bottle of brandy in an outer pocket of her rucksack, which Brady had insisted upon. She returned inside, found it and climbed back outside. She lifted Brady’s head, pinched his nose and forced a slug down his throat.
Thank God! Brady choked, coughed, spluttered and came round.
‘Jesus, what happened?’ he gasped after a few seconds.
‘You were buried for nearly half an hour. I thought you were gone. Come on, are you strong enough to move inside. Quickly, let's get you into the warm.’
Jane helped Brady slowly to his feet, fed him another tot of brandy and pushed him through the window. He rolled into the room and collapsed onto the floor. Jane followed him in and slammed both windows closed. She surveyed the room whilst she sat on the edge of the bed. A lot of snow was lying around. She should get Brady somewhere dry immediately.
‘Wait here! I’ll check that the house is clear, and come back for you.’ In all of the excitement she hadn’t forgotten Brady’s warnings concerning security.
She scooted out of the room, adrenaline driving her actions and made sure that the house was empty, which it was. She opened the door to another bedroom and transferred all of the kit across the corridor, humping the sled and drawing on all of her inner strength. In the fireplace was a pile of logs ready to be lit. She took a box of matches from the hearth, and lit the newspaper stuffed in at the bottom of the wood and after making sure it was burning properly, she set about getting Brady into this room.
When she returned to the entry bedroom she found Brady sitting up and smiling, glugging from her brandy flask.
‘No permanent injuries, then?’ she quipped.
‘I’ll live,’ he grimaced.
Jane lifted Brady to his feet and in the corridor helped him remove his outer clothing, which she dumped with hers on the floor. They went into the dry room and Jane drew up a small armchair into which she pushed Brady. The fire was starting to burn well and would soon be giving out life sustaining heat. She sat on the bed and collapsed backwards.
‘Give me a slug of that brandy, please. I need it. I’m bloody exhausted. You’ll have to be more bloody careful in future. I can't go through that again!’
Brady laughed.
‘Thanks. But I think we have been really lucky up until now. We’ll have to be much more cautious in future when we are burgling people’s houses!’
They both laughed again.
‘Right,’ said Brady, taking control again, ‘time to think about food. Check if there's any gas here first. If not we can rig something up using the fire. See if there are any more logs downstairs, whilst I sort out the clothing – it needs to be dry and warm for tomorrow.’
Jane gave Brady a sideways glance and arched her eyebrow.
‘What did your last slave die of?’
Brady smiled and pointed at the door.
‘Come on; look sharp, it’ll be totally dark soon. See if you can find any candles downstairs. I’ll recce up here.’
Jane trotted out and down the stairs. It was a big house but devoid of life. Photographs showed an elderly couple and lots of children – probably grandchildren. Perhaps they were away for Christmas? Anyway, she concentrated on her tasks and discovered no gas. There was plenty of food in the cupboards, so she gathered tins of meat, chicken stew, beans, ravioli, soup, peas and potatoes. She lumped them all into a large casserole dish from the oven, and with some kitchen implements carried them upstairs grabbing three giant Christmas candles from the living room. Brady had gathered up the wet clothing and it was now hanging over the back of a clothes drier he had found in the airing cupboard. The fire was roaring now, and Brady had found a supply of logs in bedrooms three, four and five.
He would now have to fix up a cooking platform over the fire. He did this by arranging logs into a stand and plonking the casserole straight on top. He opened all of the tins of food brought up by Jane – except the ravioli – and tipped them all into the pot together.
‘That should do the trick. Can you find some bowls, spoons and a set of oven gloves. Don’t want to burn myself. See if there's any rice to bulk it up with as well while you're at it. Oh, and don’t forget a wooden spoon for stirring.’
Jane gave him another old-fashioned look, but skipped downstairs again and fetched all of the items requested by Brady, also liberating three more candles from the dining room. Miraculously, the fridge was still cold and it contained milk and eggs – still fresh! That would do for the morning and hot cocoa was now a possibility. She grabbed a small pan, found some cocoa powder in the cupboard, took the milk from the fridge and raced back upstairs, where she found Brady lighting candles and tending the casserole. It smelled great.
He had drawn the curtains and moved a large Welsh dresser
across the gap for insulation. He had also fetched another three duvets to bulk up the bed. It seemed he had assumed a shared night! But Jane didn’t really mind that.
When the food was ready, they had set up a small table and shared a candlelit supper for two in front of a blazing fire. It was very pleasant indeed, and after opening two bottles of red wine from the rack downstairs, they became quite merry and were almost able to forget their predicament.
When bedtime came, there was no embarrassment. Brady stoked up the fire and turned the outer clothing around on the horse. Jane undressed, and wearing pyjamas she found in a drawer, jumped into bed. By the time Brady climbed in next to her five minutes later, it was only 8.30pm, but Jane was fast asleep. Within seconds, Brady had joined her.
Another day survived.
Day 7 – Brighton Campsite – Midnight
For three or four days life had continued on the campsite under the close scrutiny of the warden, Cliff Beaton. Two families had decided to leave the safety of the campsite, despite warnings against their decision and had departed on Thursday morning for the railway station. They were never seen or heard of again.
That left fifty-six people on site and they had been coping fairly well. Rotas had been strictly adhered to and Cliff had very little discipline to enforce. People were generally playing the game. Partnerships were working and the mutual support system was an invaluable source of reassurance to the campers.
Food and water were lasting well, topped up regularly from treks to the local shops. The SPAR was now mostly empty and a trip to Sainsbury was attempted, which should have allowed camp stocks to be substantially increased. However, they had run into an unfriendly group of armed men near the shop and had been warned off in no uncertain terms – so they wouldn’t be returning. This presented a short-term problem which Cliff was working on – although it wasn’t urgent, as he estimated that a full weeks’ supply of food remained.
The shower block continued to function well and there was enough fuel and power to keep it running for another month at least. The biggest daily job was clearing access to the block. Snow continually blew drifts towards the entrance, so all able-bodied men were scheduled for shifts of snow shovelling. Although they had their own vans to keep clear of snow, most didn’t complain as it gave them a focus during the long boring days trapped inside.
All National Grid electricity had long since failed, as had internet access, television broadcasts and mobile phones. Contact with the outside world was restricted to the food expeditions, and that didn’t bring much. They had heard from a fellow food scavenger that the snow was expected to continue for another week at least and the campsite took no comfort in that forlorn hope.
Patric and Joanie sat in their 'van and made the best of a dire situation. Quite frankly, what was the alternative? There was no point in trying to move on foot – they would surely perish in the snow. They were safe here and they had the camaraderie and support of their fellows. Their personal supply of gas had run out, but Cliff had fixed up a spare bottle and connector as promised. All Patric had to do was keep the access port clear, which was a monumental job in itself. He compared it to painting the Forth Bridge!
The snow and wind were almost relentless and after five days people were getting worn down. Morale was beginning to sap out of the campers, as the true enormity of the situation slowly dawned upon them all.
On Friday afternoon, one of the female campers had a stroke and died within minutes. The retired doctor could do nothing and the lady was laid out in one of the spare shower blocks. Her husband now had to cope alone. To make things worse, that afternoon, the food trek returned minus two of its number. They had completed the shop at a small Tesco Express in a garage, when a group of thugs armed with clubs attacked them. Their bags of food were stolen and two of the party were actually seriously injured or maybe even killed. They had to be abandoned where they lay and Cliff had led the remainder back to camp by a circuitous route, so that their position wouldn’t be compromised. Clearly, the men’s families were devastated and had to be moved in together for support purposes.
As a result, food recces had to be abandoned and Cliff realised that their position was now highly precarious. If the local population discovered their location, things could get very rough. They had hot water, food and shelter and if the murders today were anything to judge by, local ne’er-do-wells could cause untold disorder.
He called a meeting in the shower block for the remaining fifty-three souls and explained his reservations. In the final analysis, sadly, it might end up as every man for himself, and if they were invaded by locals they might be forced to take desperate measures. He outlined a plan which involved individual self-defence measures, which relied on restricting access to each 'van. He suggested that a knife affixed to a broom handle might suffice and amidst gasps, Cliff reinforced his views.
‘People! This is a matter of survival. Life or death! Us or them! It may never happen, but we must be prepared for a desperate defence. If they get you out of your ''van, you won't last an hour. Be ready. I will be!’
The campers filed back to their ’vans and many did take Cliff’s advice including Patric who constructed two very good spears – one for Joanie and another for himself. He also had a baseball bat for close combat. They also kept permanently well wrapped-up, ready for unexpected forays into the snow.
As it happened, these preparations were well advised. The forage party had indeed been followed. It wasn’t difficult after all. There weren’t exactly many footprints in the snow to follow and a couple of the local youths had tracked the party back to the campsite. They had watched and observed for a short while before reporting back to their leader, who had his HQ at the Sainsbury in town. He decided to act aggressively against the campsite and a plan of attack was devised. However, the reasoning was flawed. He imagined that these people were a threat to his criminal activities, which he considered a matter of personal survival. He also wanted their assets to protect his own mob. What he didn’t know was that the campsite infrastructure was close to collapse anyway. Cliff the warden had been economical with the truth regarding diesel and gas – it was all but gone and their survival time was now strictly limited. Anyone remaining at the site would only survive a few more days in their flimsy ‘vans before the cold pervaded their personal sanctuaries.
Nevertheless, the campsite had settled down for the night by 10pm, but at midnight the vanguard of the attack force trudged across the park. There were over fifty well-armed men – some of whom had shotguns.
They streamed down the hill past the wreckage and smashed down the door to reception, where they discovered the food stocks. Leaving two men to start loading up four large sleds with the supplies, the remainder dealt with the wardens’ vans first. It came as a complete surprise to Cliff Beaton, and as he stood up to defend his property he took two barrels to the chest.
His wife was dragged outside, clubbed and thrown into the snow wearing only her pyjamas and socks. It took only ten minutes before she slipped into permanent unconsciousness.
In the meantime, the gang proceeded from 'van to caravan simply knocking on the habitation doors. As the occupied doors opened, the residents were dragged out, and/or shot and cast into the storm. Women and children alike were not spared. There was no mercy. These were desperate people and each 'van was duly re-occupied by two of the men.
Slowly but surely the invaders dealt with all of the vans, except one. Patric and Joanie were closest to the shower block and were the final target for the ruthless mob. Patric had heard shots fired and had sprung out of bed, stirring Joanie into action. They dressed quickly and waited. They had already packed two rucksacks with essential items for an escape. By the time the men reached the 'van, Patric and Joanie had already vacated it and slammed the door. They had staggered across the connecting road and into a clump of dark bushes, and were sheltered from general view. The men arrived after five or six minutes and rapped on the door of their 'van. When no one answ
ered, they just walked in and two men remained behind, whilst the others looked around for Patric and Joanie. When they spotted no one, the remaining six or seven thugs moved into the shower block and shut the door.
‘This is our only chance,’ whispered Patric, ‘Let's go.’
They crept out of the bushes and rapidly made their way to the campsite exit, where they saw the two men loading the sleds.
‘We need to get past those two first. Wait here!’ snapped Patric.
Joanie cowered at the side of reception, whilst Patric crept forward and waited just to one side of the reception door. The two men came out together carrying large boxes of food. As they went down the steps with their backs to Patric, he barked violently -
‘Stop there!’
The two men dropped their boxes and turned round to face Patric. Before they could react, Patric lunged forward and stabbed the smaller man in the thigh with his improvised spear, causing him to scream and fall backwards down the steps. The other chap stared in horror and raised his hands.
‘Turn around, pal….slowly does it,’ demanded Patric, who was now shaking in his boots.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 33
