As he turned, the man deliberately slipped and fell to one knee reaching for something in his jacket. Patric did not hesitate and thrust his spear tip into the man’s neck. A long red spurt of blood followed the spear tip as Patric retracted it from his neck, and the man fell backwards into the snow, a pistol falling from his hand.
‘Joanie, quick, now, let's get out of here!’
She leapt up and joined Patric, not believing what she had just witnessed. She would never have believed that Patric had it in him. Patric grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the exit.
‘We have got to get away from here, now!’ he blurted.
They hurried away from reception and staggered against the wind up the hill and into the park. Luckily, none of the gang were on guard duty – it was too cold – and so they tramped unimpeded across the park to the main road. He dragged and pulled Joanie to force her to move faster. She was clearly in shock!
‘We need shelter,’ gasped Patric.
Across the road was a row of small, narrow terraced houses. Some displayed the tiny flickers of candles in the windows, so he picked an empty property and approached the first floor – the ground floor was covered. Unbelievably, a window was ajar, so he shoved Joanie in, followed quickly himself and slammed the window shut.
They both collapsed to the floor trying to catch their breath. Patric could feel the sweat between his clothing and body, and as it cooled, so did he. After five minutes or so, he got up and checked if the house was empty. It wasn’t. A grim scene greeted him downstairs. An old woman was frozen to death on the kitchen floor and her pet dog stood over her, growling fiercely. The dog was in the process of feeding itself from its mistress’s arm. Patric, completely revolted, backed away from the dog and exited the kitchen, shutting the door firmly – not wanting to suffer the same fate. He had also been hoping to access food in the kitchen, but that would have to wait.
So he returned upstairs to the bedroom, where he lifted his now shivering wife into bed, fully clothed. He scoured the other bedrooms for blankets, piled them on top of Joanie and climbed in beside her.
She was completely overwhelmed by the nights’ events and close to hysteria. It took Patric a good twenty minutes to calm her down and she eventually dropped off to sleep, in a state of deep shock. He lay next to her, contemplating just exactly what he had been forced to do to make good their escape. He could not believe that society had broken down so quickly, and that he had probably just killed a man – or maybe two!
It took him an hour to drift off into a disturbed sleep.
Temperatures that Saturday night dropped to minus twenty-three degrees C. and there was no heating in the old, poorly insulated terraced house which temporarily sheltered the Silvers. Their inner clothing was soaked in cold sweat from the nights exertions, and the blankets were hopelessly inadequate. Their chances of surviving the night were remote. Nonetheless, at around 6am, both awoke to their first real day of intense cold.
They weren’t the only ones.
Day 7 – Downing Street, London – 6:00pm
Sir Ian James had long given up trying to stir the new Prime Minister out of his grief-induced inertia. He was more than mildly surprised by his reaction to the crisis. The PM had crumbled incredibly quickly and would certainly not be continuing as the country’s leader, even if the UK survived this mess. A week into the storm and the United Kingdom was a shadow of its former self.
The snow was more than eight feet deep as an average and much deeper where drifting had occurred. Communications with support and supply agencies across the country had long since failed. Lack of electrical power prohibited most of the daily activities modern Britons take for granted. In short, this meant that the Prime Minister’s office, his government and parliament were of no use. In any event, it had long been recognised that this was now strictly an individual survival situation and that nobody could rely on anybody else for assistance – whatever his or her plight. Consequently, 10 Downing Street was in the same predicament as every other property in the land. In fact, they would have been appalled at the acts of anarchy occurring across the land.
Contact was maintained with a few select outposts with specially adapted phone lines or radio links. Sir Ian spoke with HM The Queen on a daily basis, discussing options and passing on news. Life at Sandringham was as tough as anywhere, except that stores of food and fuel were not in short supply. The servants confined to the big house were the lucky ones – for although they didn’t know it yet, most of their families were dead already. In addition, there was a plethora of Royal Protection Officers who occupied their time by making the house secure and warm. The family itself struggled bravely on in relative luxury and HM The Queen kept them all in check. They were isolated but safe and would probably remain so until the storm passed. Sir Ian was greatly comforted by this news, as he calculated that a strong Royal Family would be essential for national recovery when the thaw came – as it surely would.
He also had a line to Brussels, and received daily updates on the situation. The Met men in Belgium related satellite information regarding the weather and it did not make good listening. The low-pressure systems surrounding the UK were still firmly in place and, if anything, deepening. The Mediterranean, Germany, the Balkans and Sweden were bathing in icy sunshine, as was the United States eastern seaboard. Huge high-pressure systems surrounded the UK blocking movement of low-pressure. The upper ‘jet’ had shifted north and was pointing at Iceland, leaving the upper air over the UK in a stagnant mess. Brussels could provide no estimate of when the storm might move on.
There were also severe problems caused by the weather in France, Belgium, Holland, Norway and the Channel Islands. Coastal regions were being affected by the snowfall and high winds, resulting in a mass human migration eastwards. The English Channel was almost totally vacant. Shipping was unable to pass through safely and had to divert many hundreds of miles out into the Atlantic. There were also indications that the sea was beginning to freeze around the UK coastline. Clearly, no assistance could be sent as conditions were just too bad. Of course, international interest was immense. The entire world followed the snowy fate of the United Kingdom with a macabre fascination – a sort of ‘Schadenfreude’. It was the lead story on every TV news bulletin and front-page news around the world. Baltic region states, normally snow bound, couldn’t understand why there was a problem, and tropical nations couldn’t comprehend it for completely different reasons. However, as little news was coming out of the UK, it was all very ‘samey’ each night and in some ways the world was losing interest. The only truly concerned viewers were the 3.5 million ex-pat Brits living round the world, who spent their time worrying intensely about their loved ones, who may well be perishing in the snow and cold. However, there was little they could do but wait for the weather to break.
UK citizens in France and Benelux trying to reach home were in a tricky situation. Many were holed up in hotels and boarding houses across France, causing financial and logistical embarrassment to their hosts. There were no flights into the UK and prospective passengers were being turned away from airports and ferry terminals. The Eurotunnel Port at Calais was under four feet of snow.
Most people couldn’t believe that the weather could possibly last and each day their hopes rose, only to be dashed by midday. It was fast becoming almost a major refugee situation, with many ex-pat Brits running out of cash, as connections to UK banking institutions failed. Diplomats abroad at Embassies and Legations were working overtime to help desperate Brits in need of funds and accommodation. Tempers were running high and incidents of violence were becoming commonplace, as desperation and frustration set in. Many people had just the clothes they stood up in and were totally unprepared for this crisis. In addition, they were extremely worried about friends, relations and colleagues in dear old Blighty. Of course, in many cases the local French people took in ‘guests’ for the duration and this helped enormously but only scratched the surface. Eventually, the French govern
ment had to step in to ensure that British ‘refugees’ were properly accommodated for the foreseeable future.
Sir Ian tried to relate this chain of events to the PM, but received only vague acknowledgement of the facts and little or no feedback.
Downing Street, therefore, could do little for a country in the firm grip of a terror far more powerful and unpredictable than any enemy they had ever faced before.
Day 8
Sunday 22 December
West Willoughby, Lincolnshire – 6:35am
George Brayne, sixty-seven year old ex-Harrier pilot and now guardian to Chris Davies, orphan of the snow, had spent the past day considering his options. He had promised the boy that he would launch a rescue attempt to find his mother and grandmother, who had gone missing in the snow six days earlier. It had been a condition of making the twelve year-old stay with him, whilst Brady and Jane made their bid for safety. He didn’t have the heart to tell the boy that there was little or no chance of finding his relatives alive – although he suspected that the boy already realised that it was a forlorn hope.
Consequently, he had to dream up an alternate solution. He had decided to dupe the boy, and this is why he now stood halfway up the stairs at 6.30am. Making sure Chris was still in bed, he stamped as loudly and heavily as he could, and at the bottom of the staircase he carefully threw himself to the carpet. He screamed loudly and waited for a reaction from Chris as he grasped at his ankle. He placed his head in an awkward position against the banisters and feigned serious injury.
Chris quickly appeared, open mouthed, at the head of the stairs.
‘George, are you OK? What happened?’
George moaned theatrically and opened his eyes.
‘I slipped and fell. I think I’ve hurt my ankle. Quickly, help me up and get me to the sofa.’
Chris flew down the stairs, and helped a now limping George to his feet, across the lounge, and into his easy chair in front of the dwindling fire.
George whimpered melodramatically and held his ankle.
‘Chris, be a good lad and fetch me a cold cloth from the kitchen, which I can wrap around this ankle.’
‘Right away George!’ and Chris sped away to the kitchen, whilst George smirked to himself. Phase one complete, now to put the rest of the plan into operation.
For the rest of the day George had Chris running about like a blue-arsed fly. Lighting the fire, cooking breakfast, running errands and generally completing needless tasks to distract him from the rescue attempt. It was the next day before Chris got a chance to bring the subject up.
‘George, I know your ankle is painful, but when do you think we can try to rescue my mum? You did promise.’
George spoke in earnest.
‘I know Chris, I made a promise and if at all possible we’ll make the attempt as soon as we can. But I’m not a young man anymore and this ankle is quite bad. It could be days before I can travel – especially in this weather. Even you can see that I can't go out in this storm with a bad leg, can't you?’
Chris frowned.
‘Yes, of course, but how long can we wait? It's been over a week now, and my mum might be in real trouble. Can we start a plan at least? You did promise, and if we have a good plan we can start as soon as you are fit, can't we?’
George nodded and agreed. It was the least he could do for the boy.
‘OK Chris, fetch my local area map from the study, and the laptop and my old nav bag from the dining room. That should be enough to get us started.’
Chris assembled and delivered the kit immediately, and within five minutes the planning was underway. His mother’s last known possible position was Frieston, which lay four kilometres distant, slightly west of north from West Willoughby. Not an insurmountable distance, but challenging non-the-less. Eight kilometres there and back, so a nitestop would be required. They could travel in a straight line because of the snow – but finding the two women was the main, and probably impossible, problem.
George explained all of this to Chris, but the boy was adamant – they must try. He had an aunt in Frieston – in Hough Road. Maybe they were there.
‘Have you got the address, Chris?’
‘Yes, it's No.10, Hough Road.’
George tapped it into his Sat Nav and discovered that the house was 4.13 km in a direct line in pedestrian mode. Job done. Within another hour, the plan was complete, with plastic map wallets prepared for both of them.
‘OK Chris, as soon as I’m fit, we’ll set off. I reckon I can travel the four kilometres once the swelling goes down. Right, how about a nice cuppa?’
Chris smiled and strode purposely into the kitchen to light the gas for the kettle. He’d forgotten if George took sugar, so he bounced back into the lounge and found him standing up, stretching his legs with no sign of pain whatsoever. Chris pulled up short, and reversed unnoticed out of the room back into the kitchen. He was mystified and angry. Why was George doing this? Obviously there was nothing wrong with his ankle – and then it suddenly dawned on him - he's faking!
George hadn’t seen Chris, so was none the wiser when he returned with the tea. Chris was unusually quiet and excused himself, allowing the oblivious George to have a nap, which he duly did.
Two hours later, George awoke from his snooze and called out for Chris. There was no immediate reply, so George gave a good shout, and sounded the old car hooter they had been using as a signalling device. There was still no response from Chris, so George got up gingerly and started a search. Maybe he was locked in his room asleep, or perhaps he'd even had an accident. Anyway, he searched the entire property and by now had completely forgotten to limp. It was only when he returned to the kitchen that he saw the scribbled note on the dining table.
‘Dear George, I’ve gone to get my mum. I know about your ankle. Chris.’
‘Oh dear God, no! What have I done?’ George was panic-stricken.
He rushed upstairs, and realised that indeed Chris had departed via the upper window. His rucksack, Sat Nav and the map case had gone, as had his ski kit and outer clothing. He was definitely gone. George rushed to the window to see if he could spot him, but visibility was only a few metres. The boy was away and it was entirely his fault. George was distraught, and furiously racked his brain for a way to get the boy back. However, the weather was still atrocious; he had no Sat Nav, no skis, no proper clothing and no map. It would be suicide to venture out unprepared and it was getting dark. There was no possibility of an immediate departure. He could do nothing to help the boy. George slumped onto the bed, collapsing like the old man he was, and wept violently with self-pity.
Meanwhile, Chris was halfway to Frieston. He had learned well from Brady and had made excellent progress. The Sat Nav in pedestrian mode had taken him straight to Carlton Scroop, where he picked up the road to Normanton and Caythorpe. Frieston was this side of the village so only another 2.5 kilometres to go. It was getting dark, but he reckoned that he’d be there in another hour – in twilight. So he plodded on at a steady pace, following the basis of the road, even though the houses on either side were all but buried in snow. They provided a good guide and soon he was at the humpback bridge just one hundred metres from the Hough Road turn. He could even see the row of houses that were Hough Road, and picked out his aunts’ house, which had a cockerel wind vane on the chimney. Just five minutes and he would be there. He would see his mum and grandma again.
He was cutting the corner to the left of the bridge, which was obviously there for a reason. It crossed a deep defile, which had water running through it for most of the year. As a result, the snow was deeper here and more unstable, and as Chris took his shortcut across the invisible stream, the snow collapsed and gave way, swallowing the boy up.
Chris, with the added weight of his rucksack, sank like a stone and snow piled on top of him. He didn’t even have time to cry out, and within a heartbeat was buried alive, immobile and powerless to dig himself out. Suspended in a snowy grave, mercifully, he died quickly and painl
essly – as his mother, grandma and aunt had all done five days previously.
George Brayne sat in his armchair in front of the fire and started to weep once more.
Day 8 – En-route to Boston – Noon
Brady woke early, whilst it was still very dark, slunk out of bed, so that he didn’t disturb Jane and checked the weather.
It was still snowing.
Brady stoked the fire that continued to glow faintly in the gloom, and it quickly revived after a couple logs were thrown onto the dying embers.
He settled down in front of the fire and considered the journey ahead. Brady consulted his skeleton plan and tried to work out how many more days of travelling remained. Today would take them through Sleaford, out onto the main road to Boston and into Heckington. That would take them over the halfway stage from their start point in Grantham, so it would provide a serious psychological boost. Then on to Swineshead Bridge, Hubberts Bridge and into Boston itself, after four further days march. They could rest up in Boston for a couple of days, maybe, but it all depended upon the weather. Today was Sunday the twenty second of December and it had been snowing for eight days straight, with barely a break. Surely it had to stop sometime!
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 34
