by Vance Huxley
*
Orchard Close:
In one of the enclaves with an allegedly stupid name, eight miles slightly south of east from the General, Harold, aka Soldier Boy, held a meeting in his house. The old road sign at the end of the street explained the enclave name. It read “Orchard Close.” Harold wore a puzzled expression that had nothing to do with redrawing maps; he knew next to nothing about all the other battles taking place in the same city. Unfortunately, the whole country knew about Orchard Close because his fighters had been featured in TV news reports, twice. Hopefully most gangs wouldn’t have the faintest idea of which city held their enclave. Harold would have worried much more if he’d realised that the likes of the General had agents of the UK government surreptitiously feeding theminformation.
“Windmills?” He looked around the group meeting in his house, most of his best friends and advisors. Liz the artistic smith, Casper the heavily muscled gay bodyguard, Patty the knitting and crossbow queen, Emmy the six-foot Jamaican sharpshooter gardener, Finn the pistol-toting electrician and Sharyn, Harold’s big sister and the head witch, all looked at the other person present. So did Harold. “Charlie? This is your idea?”
Charlie, a thirty-three-year old erstwhile washing machine repairman, squirmed under their scrutiny. “Sort of. I kept wondering about Glasgow, about why the inhabitants broke out of the cordon and went north into the mountains and snow. It made no sense even after their Marts closed down.” Several others nodded. They’d wondered the same thing. “It’s bad in the cities, we know that well enough even if we’ve still got our Marts to buy food from. Even so, hunger isn’t a reason to leave shelter in winter. Especially since they all went north where there’s no food anyway. Then I suddenly realised.” He stopped, still unsure if this was a good idea, and looked around the circle of faces.
“Cripes, don’t stop now.” Patty grinned as she shook a fist in a mock threat. “Or I’ll get bloody annoyed even if Harold doesn’t.”
Charlie took a deep breath, obviously nervous about how his listeners would take the next bit. “Electricity. One winter when I lived in the Lake District, a storm cut the power over a wide area. The news showed all these villages covered in snow. The Army and RAF flew in generators and lifted out the sick.” Charlie shrugged again, trying to sound relaxed. He hadn’t been here long, and even if Soldier Boy seemed a lot better than the other gang bosses, Charlie didn’t know what would wind him up. Timewasters with theories but no proof might be enough. “It always struck me how pristine those villages looked, all the white roofs with no melted patches. They were too far from the main towns to have gas pipes, so without electricity the houses lost their heating.”
Everyone else concentrated, trying to remember the recent TV footage of Glasgow. Casper gasped, turning to the rest. “Glasgow looked the same on the TV. There were a few columns of smoke where people must have been burning timber, but no other sign of heat anywhere. There should have been big patches, enclaves where the roofs were clear. Cripes, he’s right. The nasty bastards, the government, cut off the electricity. In the middle of winter.” The rest of them stared back at him, realisation dawning.
Patty recovered first, enough to speak. “Cripes, Harold. You said at the time you’d never lead us out of the city into a trap like that, but what if there’s no option?” Silence fell for a moment, as they all remembered the TV showing explosions, marching back and forth over the column of gangsters and innocent refugees. The artillery onslaught hadn’t stopped until darkness hid the swathes of still figures scattered in the snow.
“We won’t have a choice if they cut the electricity. That’s all we’ve got to keep us warm in winter.” Emmy looked and sounded sombre. “We can manage for a bit without the Marts because we grow a lot of our food, but electricity is all we’ve got for cooking, heat and light. We won’t be able to do what you said, make the bastards come into the ruins to try to root us out.” All but one person here had come to the same conclusion. The government intended wiping out the trapped populations, everyone still inside the ruined cities across the UK. So far none of them could work out why.
Harold, Soldier Boy, ex-Army and allegedly an SAS sniper, realised one person didn’t know. “Charlie, you keep your mouth shut about what we say here, okay? You’ll only cause panic among the rest. We’ve made plans but the more who know them, the more who might open a careless mouth.”
Charlie gulped, this wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. “All right, Harold. Cripesing hell, why would the bast…cripes do that? Attack us?”
“Don’t worry about saying damn and blast, bloody, sod or bastard, that sort of thing. Even if you make a mistake, residents don’t get caned. That’s for the visiting scroats, to keep them in line.” Orchard Close fined visiting gangsters who were obscene. For a second offence, the men were stripped, then ran a gauntlet of women wielding garden canes. Any three time offenders became living targets for crossbow practice. Physically molesting a resident meant the offender being gelded, or tied to a lamp post for the crossbow practice. That had more impact than just killing the scroat.
Charlie smiled nervously. “Ah, right, it’s just that a lot of us new arrivals aren’t sure where the line is, so we play safe.” His smile strengthened, reassured by the amused expressions on the others. “Our kids could grow up not actually knowing how to curse, how weird is that? We all use cripes to be safe, and a lot of our women are reassured by the non-swearing. The refugees who arrived before us said about using cripes. Why pick that?”
Harold pointed at the tall, slim figure with the smug smile. “Liz started it. We found it funny and copied her.”
“She’s the carrier.” Patty held up her hands as if to fend off Liz. “I told you, it’s an infection. Each new refugee catches the cripes from the one before.”
“Too late to stop it now. Even the visiting gangsters use it now, just to be safe.” Now Casper looked smug and several of the others nodded and chuckled.
Harold smiled briefly, then sobered. The rest did the same, their humour dying as they returned to the real problem. “The answer to the cripesing question is ‘yes,’ Charlie. We reckon the government will shut the cities down one by one, and kill us all. We’ve no idea why, but we did have a plan for when.” His wry smile admitted the plan had just broken down. “The plan relied on having the cripes’ electricity.”
Charlie still looked cautious, unsure how the gang boss would react to his solution. “I’m not sure about the electric, it just made sense, in which case I might have a solution.”
Harold looked around the others, noting their small nods of agreement. “We are absolutely sure now, even if I still can’t work out why the Glasgow lot went north. Now how does that bring us to windmills?”
“Windmills can be used to create electricity.” Charlie seemed more confident now. “I used to charge up a lorry battery like that, to run my CB radio at home.”
“You mean like the wind farms? We can’t build those.” Harold glanced over at Finn, the electrician. “Can you fix up a super-sized meter bypass or something, Finn, in case we get turned off?”
“No chance. Remember the storm cutting the power? That happened outside the Army cordon, and that’s what they’ll do.” Finn wasn’t convinced by Charlie’s solution. “Even with Charlie’s little windmills we’ll never find enough working car or lorry batteries to run everything. Maybe we can fix up heating with wood fired boilers?”
“What about the fumes, because all the roof timbers and floorboards are full of chemicals?” Liz shrugged at all the stares. “Hey, I’m a smith and paranoid about fumes, but that don’t make me wrong.”
“True, but we can put the boilers outside the houses and run the pipes and hot water inside. That’ll burn a lot of timber, and we’ll lose the cookers, blow heaters and electric blankets, but we won’t freeze. I’m more worried about the laptops, pads and radios, we’ll never recharge them with a few windmills.” Finn wasn’t the only one looking despondent now.
&nbs
p; “We can cook on stoves in garages to avoid fumes. There might even be proper wood burning stoves out there in the ruins. The scavengers can collect plenty of wood from the ruins, rafters if need be. Bernie will have a kitten when we go back out there for the rest of the floors and the roof timbers.” Patty smiled briefly. “I did tell him everything had a use.” The smile developed into a definite smirk. “Mind you, I don’t fancy going all hardy soldier with cold beds. I might have to tempt someone warm to share.”
“We can generate enough electricity with windmills.” Charlie still seemed confident.
“But that would take a wind farm.” Harold paused, brow furrowed in thought. “Won’t it?”
“Not much of one. A couple of those big things from an old wind farm would be enough, if we could get them,because there’s usually some wind.If we stick smaller windmills up everywhere, and charge up everything when it’s windy, I reckon we can manage. It’s a pity there isn’t a river or we could have a waterwheel.” Caught up in his own enthusiasm, Charlie lost his caution completely even though most of those present still weren’t convinced. “Wind will keep us going, even if we might not have electric lights all the time.”
“We don’t need a river for waterwheels, because you’ve just reminded me. A little fan in the downspouts works like a waterwheel, using rainwater or even the water from an upstairs bath or sink. There were commercial versions at one time.” Finn looked much happier now. “I’ll need more drainpipe connections, then the generators can go in them. We could put more in the irrigation pipes laid out into the fields, for when that water is flowing. If Charlie can help with building windmills, we might even keep the electric blankets working.”
“Super. Scavenging for more bits of pipe. At least we won’t have garden gnomes driving us out into mud to plant.” Casper glanced at Emmy, in charge of the hundred plus acres of cultivation surrounding the walled enclave.
Emmy snickered, completely unworried. “I’ll be busy in the warm greenhouses most of the time. Tammy still needs Mummy so I’ll have to stay home to feed her.” She sighed happily. “I’ll think of you out there in the cold and wet, getting scratched by brambles and stung by nettles.”
“You, you, smug momma.” Liz glared at her. “I hate the cold, but not enough to get with child. Be warned, if I suffer, so will anyone working with me.” She brightened, turning to Harold with a triumphant smile. “I should be excused to practice my dark arts in my lovely warm forge.” Oddly, the banter as the group worked through how to combat a loss of electricity took away the shock. Perhaps because this was a problem they could do something about.
*
Elsewhere in the UK, others were taking action to improve their lot. None would affect Harold or his friends, not immediately, but the ripples would spread and grow…
*
The Reivers:
Five hundred miles north of the Orchard Close, a minor flaw in the clearance of Glasgow was about to bite hard. A small band of Glaswegians, the pitifully few survivors of the massacre, had spent nearly two months hiding in the snow-covered mountains. Trained by a few experts, the fugitives left no tracks and minimised their heat traces, eating a mixture of food they’d carried with them and ambushed sheep. Now the food had run out, so the embittered survivors took the direct path to a solution. Beyond the foothills, where the Scottish Highlands finally became the eastern coastal plain, a signal light flickered rapidly in the dim light. Back nearer the hills, crouching in a ditch, a big bearded man swathed in plaid over his padded clothing turned to talk to his scruffy band. “So far so good. Remember everyone, we want food more than blood.”
“Speak for yourself, Bruce. There’s a big blood debt tae pay.” The woman, dressed in the ragged remains of a snowsuit over her thick jacket, hefted a machete. “We all left family dead in the snow north of Glasgow.”
“But first we eat, Maeve, because we have tae be alive to collect on that debt. There’s nae other food left, and I’d like something different tae mutton.” This man wore a raw sheepskin over his quilted jacket. His smile had no humour at all. “Though since they tried tae kill us all, I’ve no problem wi’ shedding blood tae get fed.”
The light flickered again. “That’s the signal. We’re a wee bit too far north, but let’s show these Sassenach bastards why the borders still remember the Reivers.” The burly man in plaid raised a claymore, one of a very few among the horde. Glancing around the group, his bearded face split in a big grin. “As Mel Gibson would hae it, Freedom!” The ragged band, half the survivors of the massacred population of Glasgow, swept silently out of the ditches and clumps of trees and across the strip of overgrown farmland. Behind them the Grampian mountain range loomed, white against the evening sky.
As they reached the sandbagged walls of a guard post, more bearded figures rose to meet them. The greeters waved crossbows and machetes in triumph as the horde finally cheered, having stayed silent just in case surprise was needed. The leader, Bruce, clambered over and approached another plaid-clad man with a beard. “Did they get a message off, Angus?”
The slimmer man straightened from stripping a fallen figure clad in a military-style uniform. “Nae chance, Bruce. These play soldiers have nae met the real thing before, I’ll wager.” His face split in a wolfish grin. “We could do wi’ a few more real soldiers. I’d love tae get the Black Watch into these hills. Half the lads would desert if they found out what actually happened.”
“The brass are nae that stupid. Now let’s clear the other two guard posts, widen the gap. We’ve only got until the next shift change.” The pair went inside the shelter to check the map. Minutes later the two military Land Rovers belonging to the guard post set off, both crammed full of fighters. Their targets were the smaller guard posts north and south of this one. The smaller groups of survivors waiting near each ofthose would loot them before joining the raid. Almost every person left at the first target crammed into the vehicles in the car park and set off east, heading for the unprotected, unsuspecting farms and food stores.
The last to leave, Angus and Bruce, left two men and a woman to monitor the radios and warn the Reivers of any alarm. Their unit, heavily armed fighters in looted uniforms, travelled in a lightly armoured Vector 6x6. The guard post’s Foxhound, sporting a machine gun, escorted them towards the main north-south highway.
*
About thirty minutes later and fourteen miles away, sixteen heavily loaded lorries preceded by an armoured Land Rover slowed. Two military vehicles were parked across the road, blocking the way, and the machine gun on one aimed straight at the Land Rover. Either side, men in uniform aimed weaponry. The officer in the vehicle tapped a man on the shoulder. “Call it in.”
The radio man pointed at the huge sign saying ‘Radio Silence,’ propped against the larger vehicle. “Maybe some of the scum have a radio, boss? I’d rather not annoy this lot, not with all that nasty shit aimed at us.”
“Good point. I suppose that means I’ve got to get out in the cold.” The paramilitary officer opened his door while the rest huddled deeper into their coats. “Spring in Scotland, fucking mid-winter anywhere else.” A figure muffled up in Army weatherproofs came around the vehicles blocking the road, impatiently waving him forward. “Fucking prima donna,” he muttered.
The figure waved him out of the wind, so the officer gratefully headed that way. As he reached shelter he sighed in relief, but a hand clapped over his mouth and something cold pricked his throat. “Hush now laddie, and ye might live.” The officer froze, his eyes widening as the man he’d come to see pulled down his face protection to show a bushy beard.
“Aye, not a normal look in the Army, but shaving didnae seem so important up there in the snow over winter.” The teeth showing in the beard weren’t smiling. “I’m Bruce. Not the Bruce, even if these are as hard a bunch as ever came down frae the hills tae harry the lowlands. Now ye tell me who I have tae shoot so none of those send a message. If they do, I’ll kill ye all.”
“I wasn’t th
ere.” The officer had suddenly realised where any hard bunch out of the mountains had to have come from. The Glaswegian accents coming from inside the vehicle were a big hint. “They were Specials, not normal paramilitaries, and regular Army artillery.”
“Are there any Specials near here, laddie?” Despite his warm clothing, the officer shivered as he looked into the speaker’s cold blue eyes. “Ah left ma Grace and three bairns cold in the snow back there. I’d like tae meet some o’ the bastards put them there.” Others growled and muttered, indicating just how much they wanted a chance at a Special.
The officer would have loved to point this lot towards the Specials and let the nasty sods kill each other, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know where they’re based, none of us do. They’re a nasty bunch and only came for Glasgow, then went back south. What are you going to do with us?” He didn’t like the quiver in his voice but those eyes, and the others he met as armed figures turned to watch him, hadn’t an ounce of pity. With a shock the officer realised some were women.
“Yon lorries are enough tae stock up a Mart. We’re a wee bit short after the winter so we’ll be driving them away.” A trace of humour crossed the bearded face. “That’s traditional for Reivers, driving the stock away. Now who do we have tae shoot?”
“Nobody, I swear. Look at my radio, its short-range so it’ll only reach them, not a guard post. The radio in the Land Rover is the only one that will reach headquarters. The ones on the lorries might reach the nearest guard post.” He stopped as several people shook their heads.
