Force majeure 1 purgator.., p.14
Force Majeure 1.Purgatory, page 14
part #1 of Force Majeure Series
Robbie nodded his acceptance of the role and sat back down.
Bill turned to his right, looking at the man sitting at the end of the row of seats. Trevor had a shock of white hair with a beard to match. In his forties, a chef for one of the city’s major hotels up until the bombs struck, Bill felt he was the ideal candidate to take charge of this critical operation. “Trevor here will take responsibility for provisions. Some of you will be assigned to scavenging teams and will be expected to search for and bring back any food, water or other sustenance that will be of use to the community. Trevor has already started to draw up a list and will provide a marked map for the teams of the likely areas where foodstuffs may be found. I will also take a team out myself. Questions?”
A young man in his late twenties, his wife’s blonde head resting on his lap, spoke up. “What about the soldier boys and other authorities that could still be in control out there?”
“A good question. Mathew, isn’t it?”
The man nodded.
“He can lead one of the teams tomorrow, eh, Trevor?”
“Already on my list, Bill.”
Bill walked towards the assembled group.
“Nice one. So, Mathew, you’ll be taking a team out on a foraging run tomorrow. You OK with that?”
Mathew nodded, comfortable with the decision made and secretly pleased that he had been given that responsibility.
“Now, to answer your question. We’re not really sure what the situation is like out there. We know from our brief forays that there are gangs roaming the streets and they are the real threat. A threat to our home as well. But I’ll come on to that later. As to the Government, we’ve not seen any real evidence of their presence. We suspect there is a regional centre, or a sub-division of it at least, to the south-east, around Crowborough. One mixed patrol, army and police, was spotted about a week ago. But, like us, they will have kept a low profile while radiation levels were high. Again, like us, I’m sure they’ll be more active in the future. No doubt the gangs out there and the military will clash. But, Mathew, you and the other team leaders when nominated are to avoid contact with any local authority and certainly the gangs in the area. We must keep a low profile until we can establish ourselves. I’m sure all are aware of our presence, but so far they haven’t been inquisitive enough to come and pay us a serious visit. But, in due course, they will. And we’ll need to be ready.”
“What about protection?” asked Mathew.
“Each group will have someone assigned for that purpose. Which brings me on to the next point: security.”
Bill walked back to the last of the men sitting out at the front. Trevor sat down, and Simon stood up. “Simon will be responsible for the security of the tower block along with the security of the teams operating outside the building. I’ve given him a team of twelve, and those of you assigned to his security detail will be notified later. They will be given some training in the use of the shotguns we’ve acquired and in the makeshift weapons that are in the process of being made. Simon and his team will take responsibility for the twenty-four-hour protection of this.” His arm swept around the room. “This tower block is all we have. If we lose its protection, we’ll be on the streets and at the mercy of the environment and the thugs. Worst of all, we’ll be without shelter, food and water. Even though Simon and his boys will watch over us day and night, should we be attacked or under serious threat, all will be expected to participate in the defence of our home.”
He scanned the faces, making eye contact with some. “Clear?”
“Yes,” responded half a dozen quietly.
“Clear?!” Bill asked again, raising his voice.
“Yes,” the entire group replied this time, making a more concerted effort to show their commitment.
“Good, we can’t survive in isolation. We need to work together in order to get through whatever will be thrown at us. And, believe me, a lot of shit will come our way. Thanks, Simon, I’ll leave it at that for now. Simon will update us when he’s ready.”
Simon sat back down. Bill looked at the faces staring back at him and felt sure they looked more upbeat, more confident, secure in the knowledge that there was direction from him in how the group would manage the uncertainties of the future.
“One last thing, and then you can go about your business. Sally has promised us all a mug of hot chocolate after the meeting. Powdered milk I’m afraid, but something to look forward to. Is that right, Sally?”
“Yes, Bill,” she confirmed, beaming, pleased to get some recognition.
“Last but not least, Owen.”
The man stood up. Although barely above five foot five in height, Owen was far from slight. His chest and arms bulged inside his shirt and jumper, and muscled legs strained at his jeans. Even his face and neck muscles looked and probably felt like iron. As well as being fitness fanatic before the country’s demise, his job as a drayman, delivering barrels of beer and crates of bottled drinks to the pubs in the area, had ensured his muscles had been regularly exercised and tested.
“Owen will control our internal operations: finalising where people will be housed, our eating arrangements, which will remain collective for a while longer, rubbish disposal, heating, fitting out and so on. Whatever is required to ensure we have an efficient and clean habitat to live in. We’re not completely on top of each other, but it won’t take long for the quality of our new abode to deteriorate and become dirty and unhygienic. That could well lead to disease, illness and death. Rats could also become a serious problem. It’s up to us to work together, OK?”
Most of the gathering nodded their heads. What Bill was saying made sense.
“Are there any questions before I close the meeting?”
A woman in her mid-thirties raised a hand.
“Martha, how are the children settling in?”
Martha had only been with the community for about a week, found wandering the streets with her three children. After being gang raped, she escaped with her three sons while the thugs that had abused her slept in a drunken stupor. Unable to find sufficient water supplies, the five men had resorted to alcohol to satisfy their needs. They had also satisfied a more basic need by holding Martha a prisoner and satisfying their lust. Owen, leading an exploratory team into the city, had come across Martha and her three boys huddled against the skeleton walls of a house, shivering with the cold, dehydrated and hungry. Had she been able to she would have screamed but, such was the shock at seeing the three men and the thoughts of what might be done to her again, nothing left her throat. Philip, her eldest, blocked their way, defending his mother as best he could, a black eye visible where his last efforts to protect his mother had failed and he had paid the price with a beating. However, talking to her softly, plying the family with water and food, demonstrating that they were safe, she eventually came round and returned with them to the tower.
“Very well, Mr… Bill.”
“Martha, just call me Bill please. Your question?”
“I just wanted to thank you for taking me and my family in off the streets. It’s hell out there. We feel safe here, and me and my boys will do whatever to ensure you don’t regret that decision.”
“You’re welcome, Martha.” Bill looked at the larger group. “If we see others in need, and they’re the right fit for us, we will offer them sanctuary here. We don’t want to overdo it and put too much pressure on our supplies, but the bigger we are, the stronger we’ll be.
Right, enough of me talking. Let’s head off to the common room and sample Sally’s hot chocolate.”
The group started to rise to their feet and head towards the door, chatting as they did. There was a lot to talk about. Although there was an element of fear about what the future held for them, there was also the semblance of optimism knowing that Bill seemed to have their future security in his capable hands.
CHAPTER 14
PURGATORY | GROUND ZERO +23 DAYS
BRAVO-TWO-TWO, 22 SAS
Once the troop had left the devastation and gloom of Hereford, the troop had driven east for about fifteen klicks, keeping to minor roads as much as possible until they arrived at Jones’s Wood, where they hid themselves and their vehicle in amongst the trees for a couple of days. Once the Land Rover and trailer were camouflaged, they felt sure they would be hidden from any prying eyes. It gave the soldiers a chance to grab some food, reflect on the day, then get some sack time, but with someone always on stag. But soon they would be on the move again.
“Ready, guys,” called Rolly as the water came to the boil. He poured the boiling water into four black plastic mugs, the smell of coffee filling the air, displacing the dank smell of rotting vegetation strewn across the forest floor. A sprinkling of powdered milk in two of them, Glen and Greg drank their coffee black.
The fallen tree trunk, used as a bench, rocked as Greg sat down heavily next to Rolly. “Pass it here, mate, bloody gagging for a brew.”
Rolly handed him a mug, and Greg savoured the aroma: Nescafe Gold, his favourite. Taking too big a sip, Greg burnt his tongue and cursed, then spilt some on his knee as Glen sitting next to him nudged him slightly.
“Shit, boss!”
“Don’t tell me Rolly’s made hot coffee again?”
“Wankers.”
Plato joined them, having been the last one to put away his gear and stow it in the Land Rover. Rolly passed the last mug to him.
“I hope to God we don’t run out of this stuff.”
“Plato mate, next time we do a supply run, coffee will be at the top of the list, believe me.”
“Glad you’re watching my back for me, Greg,” he replied with a grin. “What’s the plan then, boss?”
“No change. As we discussed last night, we head south,” responded Glen.
“You OK with that still?”
Glen turned and looked at Plato, his expression blank. “Not sunk in yet. But I was expecting it. I suppose that’s helped.”
“What about your parents?”
“Birmingham.”
“Buggered then,” joined in Greg.
“What about you guys? Any family you want to track down before the move south?”
Greg placed his empty mug on the dew-damp ground and held up a hand and looked at Glen. “Let me see.” Holding his little finger: “Parents are dead.” Holding two fingers: “Only child.” Three fingers: “My ex? Well, I doubt there’ll be a need for divorce papers now, or solicitors for that matter.” Four fingers: “Girlfriend? I’ve moved on.”
“Was that the stripper from Saxones?” asked Plato.
“Exotic dancer. I don’t do strippers.”
“I thought you’d have a go at anything,” chimed in Rolly.
“Bloody hell, if I was as fussy as you, Rolly, I’d still be a virgin,” responded Greg.
All four burst into laughter. Plato also had a wife but, like a number of the regiment, he was estranged from her. Rolly was single, born in Harlow, where his parents still lived. But he knew, as did the rest of the troop, that Harlow, like the majority of the London area, would be a ghost town.
“This is surreal. The entire world is in the grip of a nuclear holocaust, and all we can talk about are Greg’s tarts,” said Plato.
This time, the four men were in stitches, and it was only Rolly passing small packets of biscuits down the line, one pack for each of them, that broke the moment.
“Breakfast is served,” groaned Glen. “Plato, take us through today’s route while we enjoy the luxurious breakfast that Rolly has so kindly provided for us.”
The group became serious as Plato ran through what had been agreed the previous day.
“Our biggest worry today is the River Severn. We don’t know what’s out there and what efforts will be made to gain control of any crossing points.”
“That’s if they’re up to it. It could be they’re in too weak a condition to do anything,” suggested Rolly.
“There will always be someone strong enough and who wants to be top dog,” countered Plato.
“We’ve already come across one lot of wankers playing at being God,” piped up Greg, grimacing as he scratched at the heavy stubble covering his face.
“We certainly have. Hence, we pass around the major conurbations. We head south-east, keeping to minor roads until we come to the M50. We’ll cross that, using an underpass. A link for farmers, it allows them access to their fields either side. After that, we can cross the river just west of Deerhurst.”
“The river will be the trickiest,” suggested Rolly. “How far to the motorway?”
“That’s about fifteen Ks,” continued Plato. “A further sixteen takes us to the River Severn, then ten to Bishop’s Cleve, passing over the M5 beforehand. Still want to recce Cheltenham, Glen?”
“Yes, just from a distance. You never know if we have to come back this way in a hurry. We’ve got fuel and rations, but they won’t last forever. We have to restock whenever possible.”
“Yeah,” added Greg. “If we want to stay mobile then fuel will be one of our greatest needs.”
“I doubt there’ll be any of the distribution terminals left, but we can try local garages to start with.”
“Nearest terminal from here is probably Bristol way — Avonmouth,” Rolly informed them.
“There’s always the privately owned pipelines. The terminals may be destroyed, but fuel could be trapped in between pumping stations.”
“Private pipelines, Plato?”
“Yeah, Glen, private pipelines. There’s one owned by Esso, for example, that runs from Fawley to Birmingham. And this,” he slapped a map down on the foldaway table in front of them, “is a map of where they all are.”
“How the hell did you get a hold of that?” asked Greg.
“Do you remember that detachment I was on, testing Government anti-terrorist measures?”
“Yeah, a two-week holiday more like,” mocked Greg.
“I never said it wasn’t.” Plato smiled. “But I pretty much know the ins and outs of the private and Government pipelines in the UK.”
“Sorry to bring you guys back down to earth, but we’ll have to settle for any petrol station we can find in the short term.” Glen looked at his watch which read 0530. “Time we moved out.”
The troop packed up and were on their way by 0600. Taking the smaller country roads, they followed the route outlined by Plato, passing through the M50 underpass without incident. They discovered a route across the River Severn. No effort had been made to control the crossing. In fact, they saw no other signs of life, and the houses on the roadside they did pass looked to have all their windows shattered, were covered in thick layers of dust, and appeared unoccupied. By 0825, the troop was in the vicinity of the next motorway, the M5. Three hundred metres before they came up against the M5, before the road climbed up and over the motorway, they turned off into the undergrowth alongside the carriageway, making sure the vehicle and trailer were well hidden and couldn’t be seen from the road.
“You two, stay and watch the vehicle. Rolly and I will do a recce.”
“I’ll get a brew on then,” suggested Plato.
“How long?” asked Greg.
“Give us an hour,” replied Glen. “That way, if there’s anything of interest, we’ll have time to take a look. No comms, lets keep it low-key.”
“Roger that.”
“Ready, Rolly?”
“Yeah, ready for a leg stretch.” Rolly, lean and rangy, found the confines of the Land Rover constricting for his legs and always welcomed the opportunity to give them a stretch. He grabbed his C8 carbine and exited through the rear door. Glen left the front passenger seat and joined him outside. Like Rolly, Plato also used a C8 carbine, but with Elcan optics and an L17A1 grenade launcher slung beneath it. Glen, on the other hand, preferred his HK G36. Greg’s weapon of choice was the LMG36, a light machine gun with a heavy barrel, bipod and high capacity magazines.
“We’d better mask up. No telling what’s around here.”
“Sound idea, boss.”
Both pulled on their respirators and then dragged their camouflaged hoods around them, ensuring their faces were well protected. Their camouflaged NBC jackets were zipped up tight. They were glad of the extra warmth: there was a biting chill in the air. Glen looked up at the slate grey skies. The cloud looked low, dull and menacing, and not a single shaft of sunlight could be seen. In fact, no glow from the sun was visible at all. He shivered.
“Getting colder, boss.”
“Seems like it, Rolly. Let’s go.”
They left Greg and Plato to guard the Land Rover and all of their gear, and headed east through the undergrowth, climbing the bank that led up to the road. Within a matter of minutes, they were at the edge of the motorway, a steel crash barrier across their front protecting the northbound carriageway. The two soldiers crouched down in the bushes and listened, the only sound their laboured breathing as they sucked air through the filters of their respirators. With the carriageway slightly above them, they could see very little of the road, but the tops of the nearest vehicles were in their line of sight.
Glen nodded, got up from the crouch, and moved forward, climbing the side of the shallow embankment, Rolly watching his back. To his right, Glen could make out the flyover they would eventually cross that supported the minor road over the six lanes of the M5 below it. In front of him, on the hard shoulder, on the other side of the crash barrier, a line of dust-encrusted cars came into view. Immediately in front of him was a people carrier, black privacy glass in the rear side windows. There was no sign of a driver or front passenger. Not that he expected there would be: the car and the thousands of others strewn along the motorway had been abandoned for weeks. He looked over his shoulder, checked Rolly’s position, then indicated he was crossing over and Rolly was to follow. Glen pulled his HK into his shoulder and lifted his right leg, stepping over the crash barrier but not taking his eyes off the vehicles in front. He walked in between the people carrier and an old VW Passat to his right. Both were pushed hard up against the crash barrier.
