Back inside, he poured a whisky and then lit a fire in the kitchen stove to warm the place up and to cook on later. He looked at the bags of coal and wood in the alcove; there was still a reasonable supply, but he would have to start making trips to locate and fetch more wood soon. Collington Wood, just over the railway line off Westcourt Drive, was less than half a mile away and he could get plenty there, but it would be a lengthy process. He thought it unlikely that he would find enough dead wood there to sustain him over the years, which would mean cutting down trees, bringing the wood back and storing it for months before it was usable. Not a good idea, he thought.
No, what he needed was a supply of ready-seasoned logs. Where did the previous owners get theirs from? He had an idea and went out to the hall. In a drawer in the telephone table he found an address book and flipped through to the “L” section. Sure enough, there was a handwritten heading- “Logs”- and underneath it an advert cut from the Yellow Pages stuck in with tape. The listing was for a farm near Hooe, about four miles away. He found that it was marked on the Ordnance survey map, and also that there were several other farms in the vicinity of Hooe and Gotham.
He decided to take a trip over there sometime soon and load up with logs. It also occurred to him that any farm would surely have its own supply of red diesel for tractors and other farm machinery. That would be great; he could fill up the truck when it was getting low and also fill some jerrycans to have at the bungalow. Red diesel was a low-tax fuel used for agricultural and other non-road-going vehicles, and for heating and generators. It was the same as regular diesel but had a red dye mixed in to make it easily detectable by the authorities, and had been half the price.
He was aware of his predicament regarding fuel and using the Land Rover. Any supplies that he found would have a finite life before they were all used up- once they were gone there would be no more. Although it was a diesel, the Land Rover was a heavy vehicle and wasn’t as economical as a car would be. He needed to restrict its use to when he needed either its load-carrying or its off-road abilities. Despite the plans that he was putting into action for survival and self-sufficiency, he knew there would still be many occasions when he would need a vehicle; whether for transporting things that he couldn’t carry, or for scouting missions further afield.
He thought it might be a good idea to find a small, economical diesel car to use, for those times when he didn’t need the truck. He wrote it down in his notebook, and while flipping back through previous pages he saw the word “genny” scrawled down quickly. He remembered the portable generators he’d seen at Halfords: with a good supply of diesel he could run a generator when he needed electricity. He would collect a couple on his next trip out, along with some more fuel containers.
After cooking and eating his meal he read through some of his books on survival, crafts and growing vegetables, making notes on a few things as he read. An interesting piece in one book told how you could make a long-burning survival candle using vegetable fat- the sort normally sold in solid blocks or tubs and used in baking. He was aware that his candles would be a short-lived commodity and that it would be difficult to find more, so this was useful to know. He was tired after all his work over the last few days, but it felt good to be getting things done, so he went to bed early.
Three miles away in a pub on the Pevensey Levels, three men- two brothers and a cousin- decided between them that in the morning they would leave the pub for the first time in about three months. They hadn’t heard any vehicles go past for at least six weeks and it was time to see what was happening in the world outside, and to see what they could find. Their food was nearly gone, they were stir-crazy, and they had drunk every last drop of all alcoholic beverages in the pub, its storehouse and its cellar.
The Star Inn, on Sluice Lane at Normans Bay, was an ancient building dating back to 1402, although it wasn’t used as an inn until the mid-sixteenth century. Until the mid-nineteenth century it had been a well-known meeting place and hide-out for smugglers; in particular the notorious Little Common Gang. The Pevensey Levels was a large area of ancient marshland between Eastbourne and Bexhill, with a vast network of streams and drainage channels, and now a National Nature Reserve and Site of Special Scientific Interest. The pub had been a popular place for families to visit, especially in the summer months or when the weather was good, though there hadn’t been any visitors except the three men since the pandemic began.
When the plague hit Eastbourne, Bexhill and the surrounding areas they had fled their homes in Eastbourne and decided to hole up at The Star Inn until it had all blown over or was safe, as they thought. The pub was fairly isolated in the countryside away from urban areas, so they had thought it would be a good place. They had filled two vans and a pickup truck with all the food they could get, by purchasing, looting or threatening behaviour; taking advantage of the chaos and panic that was sweeping everywhere to get what they needed.
All three men were thugs and brutal characters, with a string of criminal convictions between them. Adjacent to the pub was a small development of twelve chalets and they checked these first to see if anyone was around; looking through windows they saw that all were either uninhabited or had been vacated. They had knocked at the pub’s door, pretending to be nice, concerned citizens from Normans Bay, and asking if they were okay or needed anything. Their act only lasted long enough for them to ascertain that the owners weren’t infected and then they had killed them with a shotgun and buried their bodies out back.
Once inside they had boarded up the downstairs windows and locked the doors. They painted signs that said “CLOSED. PLAGUE. KEEP AWAY” and fixed them to doors and walls that could be read from the road. After that they had settled in, made themselves at home and stayed there for three months, doing little except drink. They weren’t particularly bright, but they’d had the sense to use all the food in the fridges and freezers before the power failed, and there was a stream beside the building that supplied them with water.
But now they had run out of nearly everything and it was time to venture out. Being where they were, and with no media to inform them, they didn’t know what the situation was. They decided to go to Bexhill in the morning to see what they could find in the way of food and drink.
The elder brother with the beer-belly was the dominant one; he looked at his brother and cousin. ‘You never know- we might even find some women left alive to have some fun with!’ The other two just nodded and grinned.
Seven
When the man got up in the morning the overcast sky had gone and the sun was shining. The conservatory was already warming up nicely, so he sat in there with a cup of coffee, thinking on what to do next. While there he checked on the progress of his seawater evaporation experiment. Three days earlier he had put some seawater into a shallow dish on the window-ledge to let it evaporate and collect the salt that would be left behind. Although he had a good store at the moment he wanted to test this out as a way of obtaining salt in the future. As it had been overcast recently it was taking a long time to evaporate, but he could see salt crystals forming around the edge already. He smiled to himself; now the sun was out it wouldn’t take much longer to finish evaporating and then he would taste it.
He decided his first act of the day would be a bathe in the sea as he was feeling rather grubby. While unpacking after moving into the bungalow, he had found the box of liquid travel soap he’d bought months earlier. It was supposed to lather in salt water, which normal soap wouldn’t do, so he thought he’d try it. He got undressed and put on his dressing gown and a pair of sandals to walk down in.
The sea was cold- only eleven or twelve degrees Celsius- and he sucked in breath sharply as the waves broke on his legs. Undeterred, he dived in and swam around for a while before fetching the bottle of soap. It didn’t lather as well as normal soap in fresh water, but it was okay and did the job. He climbed out and put his gown back on, feeling cold but refreshed, and walked back to the house. After drying himself and put
ting on warm clothes he got some food ready for a breakfast of pancetta and baked beans with some flatbread.
He’d taken to using the wood-gas camping stove and the Kelly Kettle for cooking and boiling water during the day, as he wanted to save the petrol and butane gas for when he was low on logs for the stove. Both were extremely efficient, requiring only a few handfuls of twigs from the garden, which he collected and stored under the porch to keep them dry. The wood-burner in the kitchen he wanted to use only in the evenings to warm the place up and to cook on.
He went into the hall to put on some shoes as the floor was cold and stopped suddenly, listening; he thought he’d heard a vehicle. Yes, there was definitely a vehicle in the road, coming from the west. He went into the lounge and peered through a gap in the curtains; a Toyota pickup came into view, moving slowly. There were three men in it; two in the cab and one standing in the load area riding shotgun- literally. He could see the gun in his right hand while he held onto a roof bar with his left, and didn’t like the look of them at all.
He heard them shout something and then the truck suddenly revved and lurched forward, moving out of his line of sight. In a few seconds there was a squeal of brakes and tyres as it came to a sudden stop and then a shotgun blast, followed immediately by a woman’s scream. He ran out to the hall and picked up a shotgun, checking it was loaded, then grabbed a handful of cartridges, put them in his pocket and went out the front door.
The woman had been unsuccessful so far in finding a suitable place to move to. Nothing she’d seen had matched the criteria on her list of things she wanted or needed in a place, so over the last two days she had widened her search area and today was looking at houses along South Cliff. She emerged from a house on the north side of the road and stepped out onto the pavement. Immediately, she heard a shout and an engine revving and spun to her right, seeing a truck bearing down on her. She turned and ran the other way as fast as she could. Just as she was about to turn off the road into a large garden the truck stopped sharply behind her. There was a loud blast followed immediately by agonising pain down her right leg. She staggered, wavered and limped away as fast as she was able. It was supposed to have been a warning shot, but the idiot hadn’t counted on the spread of shot and several pellets had struck her leg.
The truck came closer and stopped; she heard the doors open and close and looked back to see two men approaching. There was no way to outrun them so she turned and stood facing them, a large claw hammer in her right hand, held down by her side. The men stopped two yards from her.
‘Drop the hammer, bitch,’ said the older guy with the beer-belly. She just stood there defiantly, glaring at them.
‘If you don’t drop the hammer, my cousin up there will blow your foot off.’ She didn’t have much choice, so dropped the hammer.
‘That’s better! How are we supposed to have some fun when you’ve got a dirty great hammer in your hand?’ His brother next to him laughed. She knew exactly what sort of fun they had in mind, and was damned if she’d let it happen; she’d rather die first.
She groaned and leaned forward, reaching her right hand behind and under her jacket to the small of her back. Her hand came to rest on the long wooden handle of a small hammer in her back pocket, which she always carried with her. Beer-belly took a step towards her, reaching out. She stood up straight and raised her left hand, distracting him. His eyes moved to her left hand and with lightning speed she whipped out the hammer with her right and swung it at his head, delivering a staggering blow. It was only a lightweight 4oz ball-pein hammer, and many people might have laughed at it as an effective weapon, but the effect was like being shot in the head with a .50 calibre bullet. It punched a big hole right through his skull and he dropped like a stone; dead before he hit the ground.
‘You bitch!’ screamed his brother, and lunged at her. She spun around and tried to run away but her injured leg hampered her. Before she had gone four paces he was on her, punching her to the ground and kicking her. She curled into a ball to protect herself. At that moment there was another blast from a shotgun, and the cousin in the back of the pickup tumbled over the cab, bounced off the bonnet and landed on the ground in front of it, a huge bloody hole between his shoulder-blades.
The man came out of his door and peered cautiously over next-door’s hedge to see what was happening. The truck was stopped fifty yards or so down the road. A short distance ahead of the truck was the woman he’d seen on the beach a month or so before; she was holding her right leg and he could see blood on her fingers. The two men from the cab were walking towards her, while the third stood in the back of the truck pointing the shotgun at her.
He didn’t want the woman to see him and give him away inadvertently, so when she looked down he moved quickly into the middle of the road to put the truck between them and advanced quietly down the road towards the scene. The guy in the back of the truck was too intent on what was happening in front to pay any attention to his rear. He reached the back of the truck and halted, raising the shotgun to his shoulder, undecided what to do and with his heart pounding. Shit, shit, shit! He could see what was happening through the Toyota’s rear and front screens.
When the man lunged for the woman he saw her lash out with a hammer and the guy fall to the ground. He heard the other man scream “You bitch!” and saw him launch into her with his fists and feet, and the woman falling to the ground. He aimed between the shoulder-blades of the guy in the back of the truck and pulled the trigger. He felt the kick of the stock against his shoulder and saw the man tumble over the cab. He stepped a few paces to the right and forward, to see the other guy looking down at his cousin, confused, and then turn to look at him. He saw the guy’s hand move to his pocket and pulled the trigger to fire the second barrel. The shot hit him in the centre of his chest and he flew back over the woman lying on the ground, landing just beyond her.
He broke open the shotgun and the two spent cartridges ejected with a puff of smoke. He pulled two more from his pocket, inserted them into the breach and closed the weapon, then moved cautiously forward. The woman sat up, looking at him; she had tears in her eyes and the pain was evident in her face. He checked all three guys; they were dead as dodos.
Adrenaline was coursing through him and he was shaking. He was just a normal guy; he’d never even fired a gun before- apart from at the alarm-box the other week- let alone shoot someone. And yet he felt no remorse for the men; as far as he was concerned they were scum and deserved what they got.
The woman gave him a weak smile and then her face clouded over with anger and she turned away slightly. ‘Bastards! Fucking low-life scumbags! I mean… Jesus!’ She shook her head, wincing in pain, and then looked at him again. ‘I’d have been in deep shit if you hadn’t turned up! I can’t even bear thinking about it… Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I’m so sorry, and I’m just so glad I got here in time.’
He knew exactly what they’d had in mind and felt disgusted. He was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say and just stood there looking at her. She looked to be in her late thirties; she had short brown hair and a nice face, with a wide mouth and laughter lines around her eyes.
In an effort to take her mind off what had just happened and get her thinking of something else, he coughed and said ‘Um… D’you like coffee? Only, I was just about to make some when I was interrupted. I’ve got Kenyan, Columbian or some nice strong Javan.’
She gave another weak smile and kind of snorted. ‘I haven’t had a good coffee in months; I’d love some.’
He swung the shotgun by its strap onto his shoulder, reached down and helped her to her feet; she was around 5’6” with a curvy figure. She staggered a bit and then got her balance. As they passed the body of the guy she’d hit with the hammer, she said ‘Scum!’ and kicked it with her good leg, then looked at him and nodded. With his left arm around her waist and her right arm around his shoulder they walked up the road.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s
not far and you’ll be okay. We’ll soon have you patched up.’ She just grunted in response.
They continued on towards his place and he could feel the adrenaline wearing off. ‘I’m James; or Jamie, if you like.’
‘I’m Jane; pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
They reached the bungalow and he helped her inside, through the hall and into the kitchen. She sat down on a chair at the table and he took the shotgun off his shoulder, propping it against the wall by the door.
‘Would you like a shot of something stronger before your coffee?’
‘Oh God; yes please!’
He took a bottle of whisky off a shelf, got a glass and poured her a stiff measure. She downed it in one and he poured her another, which she drank half of.
‘We need to take a look at that leg of yours. We’ve got to remove the pellets as soon as possible and wash the area and treat it, to stop infection.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she replied, with no great enthusiasm.
‘If you go into the bathroom and take your jeans off, there’s a bathrobe on the door. I’ll put some water on to heat.’
She nodded and he helped her to stand up, then she limped to the bathroom. She took her jeans off, wincing in pain, and suddenly felt a bit self-conscious of her hairy legs. She hadn’t really thought about it in the months on her own, but no man had ever seen her with hairy legs before. She shrugged and thought Don’t be stupid, Jane!
He busied himself with the stove and kettle, then got his first-aid kit from a cupboard and took it into the conservatory, putting it onto a low table next to the sofa. When he came back into the kitchen she was standing there in his robe.
The Hoffmann Plague Page 6
