by Paul Kane
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS THEIR new home, and they were very proud of it.
Life was good.
Clive Maitland stepped back, took off his glasses, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Although he’d complained before, he’d never worked as hard as he had in the time since the virus. Back then he’d only had paperwork and a handful of unruly children to contend with. Now he was getting this community back on its feet; a new community made up of what was left of many others. He was proud of the fact that he’d drawn them all together, that were it not for his efforts they might have just faded away, not quite sure what had happened to the world, but positive that they wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the new one they’d found themselves in.
They’d lost more than he could ever imagine. Loved ones dying right in front of them, and there was nothing they could do about it. Clive had been single, had never really had a relationship that had gone past the ‘let’s be friends’ stage, and had no surviving family save for an aunt who now lived in Canada. Or at least she had lived in Canada, until the virus caught up with them over there. His Aunty Glenda had been type AB Rhesus Negative, he was pretty sure of that because his Mum used to comment on how rare a group it was.
Much rarer than O-Negative.
In a funny sort of way, though, he’d had the most to lose of all. None of the kids that he’d taught had survived, leastways he didn’t think so; he’d certainly never come across any of them in the post-Cull period. Sometimes he saw their faces in his dreams; his nightmares. Christ, what a time that had been...
He’d seen registration in the mornings dwindle down to virtually nothing. Then again, there were hardly any teachers reporting for duty either. In the weeks that followed it soon became apparent that the human race was facing its toughest test since the floods of Biblical times. Only instead of drowning in water, people were drowning in their own internal juices. It didn’t take a genius to work out what would happen next.
So, when the authorities had tried to round up survivors, burning the dead in the streets or in their houses, Clive had driven away from the towns and cities, his estate car laden with cans of petrol, food, and bottles of water. He’d driven as far north as he could, finding, quite by chance, a tiny little village – if you could even call it that – out in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place they put on picture postcards advertising Britain to tourists. The authorities hadn’t touched it, and Clive doubted whether they’d ever get round to it in time. But, like everywhere else, the dead were in the streets, and they were in their homes.
The stench was incredible, but he’d covered his mouth with a scarf and dragged the bodies from the two main streets – all this place boasted – into one of the fields. Then he’d gone into the houses, carrying out men and women, parents, grandparents (one old man had died alone in his cottage, just sitting in his rocking chair, blood staining his light blue shirt), and children. They’d been the worst of all, because again it brought back scenes of the playground, the classroom. But Clive had to be strong. They weren’t coming back and there was a definite risk of other diseases if he just left them as they were. Diseases that the survivors could catch if they weren’t careful. Wouldn’t that beat all, dying from a secondary virus? The dead would have their revenge after all.
Whether there hadn’t been anyone with O-Neg blood in this village or they’d simply left, he had no idea. All Clive knew was that there wasn’t another living soul here, which suited him fine for the time being.
After burning the bodies, careful to do it in the most secluded spot he could find in case the smoke should draw unwanted attention, he bided his time.
When he’d been a teacher, the most important subjects had always been Maths and English – even the government said so. People who taught stuff like he did were virtually second-class citizens; that’s how he’d always felt, anyway. But what good was Shakespeare right now, and why would you ever need to work out a quadratic equation when faced with the end of the world? Clive’s subject – Sociology – had suddenly been promoted to one of the most important, along with Woodwork and Metalwork (sorry; Technology, as they called it these days), people who worked with their hands. Not to mention the domestic sciences, and those who also knew how to grow food.
Clive was more than familiar with how the structures of society operated; realised that it would be better to sit out all the violence and mayhem which would follow the collapse of reason and logic. Without law and order, without the police and judicial systems, everything would go to rack and ruin. One day, a dominant force or authority might well take control, hopefully for the better good – but meanwhile it was time to build up smaller communities so that the values of civilisation were not lost for ever. It was time to go back to basics.
First things first, Clive had to gather that community. He travelled round other rural areas, searching for survivors. It was in a medium-sized village just outside Derby that he came upon Gwen, a young woman who had also decided to live rather than just give up. He first saw her sitting at a bus stop as if waiting for a number 22 to come along. Thin, but naturally so, she was dressed in jeans and a jumper, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was smoking a cigarette.
“Hi,” he’d called from his car. “Are you okay?”
She took a drag on the cigarette, looking over at him. When she stood up, Clive saw the bloodstained carving knife at her hip.
“Look, I don’t mean you any harm. I’m searching for other survivors.”
There must have been something about the tone of his voice, perhaps the kindness in it – or maybe it was his inoffensive appearance? – that told her she didn’t need to defend herself this time. She’d gone over to the car and, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed inside. When he’d coughed at the cigarette smoke, she’d thrown it out of the window. “Sorry, I had quit before...”
Clive nodded.
She told him her story, of what it was like in Derby now – exactly how he’d pictured it. Gangs of hooligans were in charge, acting like animals. With no fear of reprisals and after seeing people they cared about die in such a horrific way, the darker side of human nature had emerged. Like him, Gwen had been single, and she’d tried to hide away in her house, down a street not far away from the Metro Theatre. There she pretended everything was okay. It was when a trio of men broke in and tried to attack her that she’d had to defend herself with the knife. She’d got out the back window, and run – away from the house, away from the city. That’s how she’d lived since that day, alone, on the run.
As Clive drove, he explained what he was trying to do and asked a) if she wanted to join him, and b) if she would help in the search. Gwen had thought about this for all of ten seconds before replying yes. All she really wanted now was a chance at normal life, or as close to normality as anyone got these days. Clive could relate to that.
Together they’d scoured the outlying regions of Derby, Mansfield, Sheffield. There had been some frightening moments, like the time Clive had stalled the car just as a nutter brandishing a cricket bat had appeared to start battering the vehicle.
“Six... Six...?” he’d shouted as he hammered the paintwork. “Umpire, he’s out, surely?” One look at the man’s wide eyes and slavering mouth told them that he’d lost his mind completely. Fumbling with the ignition, Clive had restarted the estate and backed it up away from him.
However, slowly but surely, they grew in number, bringing the sane and willing people they found back to the safe haven Clive had created for them. As he said to each and every one of them, it didn’t matter what the place had been called before: now the village was named ‘Hope.’ They’d even made a sign, which they planted on the main street.
It was a name Reverend Tate definitely approved of. They’d found the very special man one day, on his knees, praying inside a vandalised church. The thugs that had been desecrating the building were strewn around him. Tate had crossed himself and risen, leaning on his thick walking stick, ask
ing what he could do for the newcomers. When they just stared at the felled men, Tate’s explanation had been, “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.” (Later they learned that the Reverend actually taught self-defence out in the community to the vulnerable. “God helps those who help themselves,” he’d explained, patting his stick. “But not that way.”)
The small, squat man, who walked with a slight limp and looked like he’d probably been bald since his teens, had hesitated when they’d asked him to come with them, arguing that he couldn’t leave his flock. When Clive pointed out there were precious few of those left, and that the new flock he was gathering would need religious guidance, Tate finally agreed.
Clive was pleased he had, because he enjoyed his late night chats with the holy man, who suggested that there was a rhyme and pattern to all of this, that it was part of God’s plans for them.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Tate often said to him, “even if we can’t see what that is right now.”
“You really believe that?”
“Don’t you?” the Reverend threw back at him. “He spared you, spared all of us for some purpose. And I think you might well have found yours, Clive. Your brains, your leadership qualities have saved these people. Saved us all.”
It was true that without him the community of Hope would still be out there, lost. He’d organised them, found out what people’s strengths were and put them to practical use. For example, June Taylor was a former midwife, so she had medical knowledge. Graham Leicester used to work in a garden centre, but as well as cultivating flowers he’d also had his own allotment. Clive worked in conjunction with him, at first taking over one of the large greenhouses they found in someone’s back garden, but then on more ambitious schemes, planting crops out in the fields. This is where Andy Hobbs, who used to be a gym instructor, and Nathan Brown, who had worked as a farmhand one summer, came into their own: ploughing the fields so that Hope would have a good harvest this year. It was only recently, in the last six months or so, that Clive had got wind of the markets where food and other items could be traded, so every now and again they would visit these with produce or whatever else they had to offer. Already, the ‘economy’ – however rudimentary – was getting back on its feet, it would seem, society finding a way of rebuilding what had been destroyed. This also proved an opportunity to touch base with other burgeoning communities.
Though they were small in number, maybe thirty people at most (others were much, much smaller), they all got on and were working towards something together. Without Clive’s influence and guidance there would have been none of that.
And without his pro-action he would never have met Gwen, who, over the course of time they’d known each other, had become extremely important to him. In the days before the virus, Clive doubted that a woman as good looking and kind – and, let’s face it, pretty much perfect – as Gwen would have even looked his way, although she always told him he was wrong. Now, in this bubble, this experiment – a micro community really – he was rapidly becoming her whole world. They’d already ‘adopted’ a couple of the little ones they’d found on their searches, some no more than five or six, alone and scrabbling about for food or water. But one day, Clive realised, there would come a time when he and Gwen might start a family of their own. They’d even talked about asking Tate to marry them. They weren’t the only ones, either. Folk of all ages, were pairing up, whether it was for companionship, or love, or a human instinct to carry on the species.
Which was why he was out here today, working on turning the tiny village hall into an even tinier school. He was fixing up the place with the help of young Darryl Wade. The lad was barely into his twenties, but had been trained well by his handyman father before he’d died – in the hopes Darryl would take over the family business one day. It was this kind of passing down of skills Clive sought to encourage. The world no longer needed IT experts, estate agents or insurance brokers.
Outside in the sunshine, Clive was sanding down the first set of desk tops. He’d been working hard all morning and was looking forward to the communal dinner they would have outside the local pub, with freshly baked bread (that was one of Gwen’s talents) and fresh meat picked up just recently from one of the markets: lamb today, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. And as he placed the glasses back on his head, bringing a figure walking towards him into focus, Clive smiled a greeting at Gwen. All things considered, life was good in Hope, and much better than the alternative.
“Hello you,” said Gwen, carrying a tray of blackcurrant juice across from the house they’d picked out together. She looked over at the desks, then at the work he and Darryl had done on the door to the hall. Gwen nodded, suitably impressed. “Been working hard, I see.”
She placed the tray down and Clive gave her a kiss. She was wearing a flowery summer dress, even though they were barely into the spring, her auburn hair loose, flowing over her shoulders, and Clive thought that he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He slipped a hand around her waist and she placed an arm over his shoulder. They both looked at the hall, knowing that in years to come it would probably become the true embodiment of Hope.
“Who’s looking after Sally and Luke?” Sally was their little girl’s real name, Luke was the one they’d given their boy when they found the poor mite.
“June’s got them; they’re happy enough playing out in the garden. Where’s Darryl?”
“Inside; he’s taking a look at the rafters. Apparently there was quite a bit of rot up in the roof. That’s something else which’ll need sorting out.”
“There’s time,” Gwen told him.
“There is,” he agreed, kissing her again. “For all kinds of things. Gwen, I –” There was a noise in the distance that made him pause. “Do you hear that?”
Gwen cocked an ear. “Sounds like an engine.”
Clive listened again. “Sounds like lots of engines.”
“Might just be someone passing by up on the main road,” she offered, but her expression told him she was worried. They never had visitors to Hope – not even from the other communities they’d made contact with – and that was the way they preferred it.
The noise was drawing closer.
“Does... does that sound like a motorbike to you?” asked Gwen.
Clive took her hand and ran down the street, rounding the corner. The people of Hope had come out of their houses to see what was happening. Andy and Nathan had heard the racket and ventured down from the upper field. Graham Leicester was approaching from up the street, running towards Clive. “Men...” he spluttered, out of breath.
But then Clive saw for himself. They rode up the small street behind Graham, just as Clive had done all that time ago when he first came upon this place. There were three on bikes, the rest in jeeps. All wore uniforms, but as they got closer Clive could see they were a mishmash of Army, Navy and Air Force, British and US; obviously stolen. As were the weapons they were brandishing, heavy duty rifles and pistols. Some looked uncomfortable handling them, others looked very much at home. One of the soldiers on the bikes stretched out a leg and kicked Graham over into the dirt when he passed.
It was now that Clive realised his fundamental error. In seeking to gather together people who could make this community flourish, leaving behind the violent and the psychopathic, he’d left this place wide open to attack. Hope had no defences whatsoever, and they’d been too reliant on its isolated location to shield them from the outside world. Now that outside world had found them, and they were about to pay the price.
Several men climbed from the jeeps, their boots stomping the street. And their apparent leader, his paunch so big he only just fit inside, got out too. Andy ran at one of the soldiers, swinging a hoe, knocking the man to the ground. For his trouble he was hit in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle. He went down hard and stayed there.
The man with the belly waved his hand, giving the signal to open fire. There was some hesitation, but then muzzles flashed, spi
tting bullets at the cottages which housed the people of Hope. These men didn’t appear to care whether there were folk inside or not. Windows shattered, walls were pock-marked. The sign they’d made came crashing down to the ground. From somewhere Clive heard screaming, but couldn’t tell if it came from a man, woman or a child. Gwen held on to him, and he pressed her head into his shoulder, covering her ears.
How could I have been so stupid?
The fat man gave another signal and Clive watched as small objects were tossed at the cottages, and at the pub. Seconds later, the first of the grenades exploded. There followed two or three more, drawing out the rest of the inhabitants of this place. They fell to the ground, covering their heads. Behind Clive and Gwen, Darryl appeared, his mouth gaping open. Then Clive saw June with the kids; she had Luke in her arms, crying, while Sally was holding her hand.
This isn’t what I promised them.
Their leader held up a hand for them to cease, simultaneously pulling a pistol from a holster with the other. “That’s enough,” he shouted. Clive detected a slight Hispanic accent when the man spoke. He walked down the small street, eyes darting left and right, as if daring anyone else to trying something.
“So, people of...” The man looked down at the fallen sign they had made. He chuckled. “People of Hope. My name is Javier. Major Javier. Who here speaks for you?”
Clive made to move forwards, but Gwen tugged at his shirt. She shook her head, but he patted her hand to tell her it was okay. “That would be me,” Clive called out.
Javier looked him up and down, perhaps wondering how such a man could have banded together the group; how he could have commanded such respect and loyalty without the threat of fear. “And you are?”
“Clive Maitland,” he said, trying to toughen up his voice but failing miserably. “And I demand that you –”
“Demand? You demand?” He lifted his pistol and pointed it at Clive, who bit his lip. “Well, let me tell you what I demand, little man. I represent the new power in the region and he has sent me out to meet his... subjects. In fact, he’s sent out many more of his men to do the same. His name is De Falaise of Nottingham Castle, so remember that. In the years to come everyone will know it. Cooperate and things will go smoothly for you. Oppose him, and they will not.”
