Force majeure 1 purgator.., p.17
Force Majeure 1.Purgatory, page 17
part #1 of Force Majeure Series
“What have you been tasked to do?”
“Bodies first. Then clear any houses still with a roof. Once the village has been sorted, houses will be allocated to families.”
“That will be an improvement, won’t it?”
“Too bloody right, Captain. You’ll be glad to get out of that bunker as well, I’m sure.”
Alan pulled his face mask down below his chin and laughed. “Yes, there’s cosy and there’s suffocating. Were you in the forces?”
“Yes, sir, REME. Ten years, came out about ten years back.”
“Fancy a change in role?” Alan asked on the spur of the moment.
“What, put on a uniform again? Not bloody likely.”
“Different ballgame now, Eddie. It’s no longer just about soldiering. We’re protectors, project managers, guides, engineers, taxis, you name it. We will fulfil whatever role is required to protect the community, those that are left, that is, and ensure our survival.”
Eddie rubbed his chin.
“You don’t have to give me an answer now, but think on it.”
“I’ll do that, Captain, but best be getting my lads moving or they’ll be skiving and dropping me in it.”
“If you change your mind, come and see me at the bunker.”
“Will do.” With that, the man swung his shovel onto his shoulder and bellowed at the nearest of his work parties, moving them on to their next task.
Alan turned round and headed back to their temporary HQ. He’d seen enough for now, and meeting Eddie had restored some of his faith in the remaining survivors of this region. As he made his way back down the street, he reflected on their current circumstances and the recent briefing by the senior members of the RGC. They were coping, but it was more than likely there were more stragglers out there somewhere. It was estimated that less than 10,000 people in the county of Wiltshire had survived the nuclear strike. Many of those would be sick or injured. Survivors had slowly drifted in from as far afield as Swindon and the much nearer town of Salisbury. Considering communications were almost non-existent, survivors had heard by word of mouth that government help could be sought from a centre near Chilmark. Alan felt sure that even more survivors would drift towards where it was believed help was on hand. With limited food available, there were tough times ahead.
He acknowledged one of the work teams as they shambled out of a house having cleared it of dead bodies, and he walked down the path of the front garden. He passed through the doorway, the door itself hanging on one hinge. It was fairly light inside with no windows or curtains to block out the light. A few of the houses had been turned into fortresses, their owners boarding up windows and building internal shelters for their families. But to no avail: the detonation had been too close, and the blast just ripped through the meagre defences, turning the town into a ghost town. He climbed the stairs and looked up at the tile-free roof, the trusses in place, but the roof tiles probably scattered for miles across the county. The intention was to repair as many of the houses as possible, rehouse the population, and get back to some form of order. It would be a big job. He headed back downstairs and exited the building.
Alan made his way back to the temporary headquarters where he found Corporal Thompson and Sergeant Saunders in the final stages of making a brew. After a hot cuppa and a chat with a few of his soldiers, whose morale seemed high, he, along with Sergeant Saunders, made a move.
“I’ll leave you in charge, Corporal. I suggest you leave the police to oversee the town, and you complete a couple of patrols in the local area. Not too many. We always need to be conscious of our fuel state.”
“Leave it with us, sir. Can we get some fags issued tonight, sir?”
“I’ll check it out, but cigarettes are a commodity that will eventually run out.”
“I’ll give up in the new year,” the corporal responded with a laugh.
Alan turned to the sergeant. “Let’s go.”
Both pulled their surgical masks back up over their mouths, pulled their netted scarves up around their necks, and headed outside into the cooler air.
Saunders shivered. “Is it me sir, or is it getting bloody colder?”
Alan buttoned the top of his jacket. “When we’re on our own, call me Alan. We’re in a different sort of world now, and everyone’s future is much more closely linked. And, yes, the temperature is definitely dropping. Don’t get excited, but you’ve been given your Warrant and Corporal Thompson will get your three stripes.”
“Sergeant Major Scott Saunders… has a nice ring to it. And you, sir… Alan?”
“I now have the field rank of major and our beloved colonel is a brigadier.”
“And the pay to go with it?” chuckled Scott.
“It will be in your bank account tomorrow.”
“What’s the sudden reason for this?”
“It seems that the rank of a brigadier is the authorised position for the head of the military in our new world order. Elliot is now the regional governor.”
“Why the change?”
“Comms with other regional centres is non-existent, apart from the one further north, and they sound like they’re in a sorry state. So, Elliot has the authority to take on the mantle of governor for this region and can form his own top table.”
“We already have that, don’t we? Seems a bit of a palaver.”
“It does a bit, but it’s about making a more permanent organisation, I suppose. Come on, I want to pay a visit to the camp.”
They jumped into the Land Rover, and Scott steered the vehicle along the track they had negotiated earlier. Turning left onto the road, they picked up speed, creating some dust, but it was behind them and away from any people. Passing Quarry Copse, the trees now nothing more than blackened stumps, they made their way south. They passed a farm on the right, the nuclear explosion having wreaked havoc to the buildings, literally shredding the farm buildings, leaving nothing but skeletal structures. RAF Chilmark was next on their left — an RAF base no more. Now, it was nothing more than a pile of rubble centred on a 100-metre crater.
On arrival at the camp, they drew up close to washing-up area, where another element of the newly formed labour force would be responsible for assisting with the food preparation, serving, then washing the cooking and eating utensils after the two main meals of the day. Another Land Rover was already there, parked in an area allocated for transport assigned to move supplies to and from the feeding centre. A soldier was sitting dozing in the front of the vehicle, his SA80 clutched in his arms, lying across his chest.
Alan and Scott, the sergeant major promising to speak to the soldier on their return, made their way down the line of workstations that made up a section of the feeding station. Alan was amazed how incredibly big and complex it was, particularly considering the devastation that had recently struck the country, and the disorganisation that followed. He took his hat off to the RGC administration that, once they’d been given the go-ahead by the regional governor, had got the facility up and running so quickly. On their far right, two large ovens were spewing out a steady stream of smoke, the cooks baking as many loaves of bread as they could. Bread would be a key part of the survivors’ fare for the foreseeable future, so long as the ingredients kept coming, that is. The smell of freshly baked bread was somewhat comforting, reminding Alan of what had existed before. But he knew that circumstances were far from being on a par with what once was. On their immediate right, the two soldiers walked past a line of tables. These were being used to prepare the food. Initially Alan thought that the half-dozen labourers were busy peeling potatoes and vegetables but then he realised they were actually scrubbing them, not wanting to waste a precious commodity by throwing part of it in the bin. There were no pigs to feed, not yet anyway, he thought. The workforce appeared to be happy, chatting to each other across the tables as they got on with the task in hand, pleased to be away from the squalor of the encampment, the activity taking their mind temporarily off the predicament the survivors in the UK found themselves in. Experiencing a sense of organisation also gave them hope for the future. Planning and coordination constituted an element of the old Establishment that would protect them and take care of their needs for the foreseeable future. A few CPS officers wandered along the length of the preparation area, ensuring that food wasn’t being stolen by the workforce preparing it. On Alan’s left, a line of serveries were in the process of being cleaned, ready to serve the population under their control: a half pint of stew per person for their evening meal. The wind shifted slightly, and the smell of cooking wafted over from the boilers, set up not far from the bread ovens.
“Doesn’t smell too bad, does it?”
“They’ll be hungry enough by the time they’re finished, they’ll probably eat anything,” replied Alan.
“I have to give them their due, having this set up in such a short space of time. Where have these supplies come from?”
“Some of it was stored in the main warehouse. The rest is from the government stores.”
“Won’t we need to start guarding that soon?”
“Not until we start to use it in earnest. Very few know of its existence, apart from half a dozen at the RGC. And me and you, of course. That’s why we use our lads to collect what we need from there.”
“How much is there?” asked Scott as he adjusted his scarf to keep the chill off the back of his neck.
“Not sure. But I believe there is at least a thousand six-pound tins of corned beef and the same again with 140-pound sacks of flour. Oh, and sugar and cooking oil.”
“Bully beef, lovely.”
“We’ll be glad of it in times to come,” responded Alan with a smile, acknowledging one of the CPS officers as she passed the two soldiers.
“Leave that until the civilian warehouse is emptied first?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Makes sense.”
As they arrived at the far end of the complex, two police constables, standing alongside a water tanker, guarding it and the food store, saluted Alan and greeted Scott.
Discipline is holding up well, thought Alan. Alan returned the salute. “All quiet, Constable?” he asked, casting his eye over the officer’s uniform. What little light there was reflected off the silver chain of his whistle attached to the barely recognisable tunic beneath the warmer layers on top. His peaked cap was battered, and the black and white check was now more of a shade of grey. The only thing denoting that he was in fact an officer of the law was the grimy yellow fluorescent jacket with ‘POLICE’ in large letters across the back.
“Yes, sir, they’re as good as gold.”
“How many of you are here?”
“Just the two of us along with four CPSs.”
“Will you be reinforced later?”
“So we’re told,” answered the second police officer. “A washing area has been set up over there.” He pointed to a small stand of trees 200 metres from the feeding station. “Once the workers have had a chance to clean up a bit, the force from the village and the rest of the CPSs will join us here.”
“Anticipate any trouble?”
“Not this time, sir. They’ll just be pleased to have their first decent hot meal since the bombs. In weeks to come, when the working day is increased and the rations prove barely sufficient, there may be some bother.”
“It’s the non-labour force workers we have to worry about, sir,” added Constable Bryant.
“Why’s that?”
“Their rations are a lot lower, Sergeant. When they see that the workforce are getting more than them, they’ll kick up a fuss.”
“Good point,” agreed Alan. He didn’t bother to inform them of Scott’s new rank. It wasn’t important for the moment. “Something we’ll need to keep our eye on.”
Just then, Alison appeared from inside the food store. “Ah, Captain Redfern,” she said with a beaming smile that could be identified even behind her face mask.
Alan excused himself from the two police constables and turned towards the sound of her voice.
“Hey, you’re OK there, sir,” whispered Scott.
“I can soon have you busted down to the rank of private, Sergeant Major,” responded Alan. But without malice.
“Hello, Alison, you’re away from your usual territory.”
She pulled the surgical mask down, her smile still showing strong, a hint of pink lipstick adding to the attraction Alan felt in his stomach. “Afraid you’ll miss your tea and biscuits, Captain? No fear, I’m only helping out for a couple of hours.”
“What job have you got?” Scott asked.
“Just giving them some tips on how best to organise getting the food from the preparation area to the cookers, then to the serving tables.”
“Perhaps we should join the queue and test out the food,” suggested Scott.
“It’ll be a long wait, Sergeant. We’ll have nearly 4,000 people queuing up here.”
“It’s Sergeant Major now, Alison, although I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve made a mistake promoting him.”
“Likewise, sir. Should you really be made up to major?”
“My, my,” interrupted Alison. “Does this mean I’m now chief cook and bottle washer?” She laughed.
Alan gulped, feeling a constriction across his chest as her laugh played with his senses. “How about head chef?” he offered, barely able to get the words out of his now dry mouth.
Scott looked on, keeping his grin to himself, knowing earlier what the major was only now coming to realise. In this miserable world we now find ourselves in, some happiness can’t be a bad thing, he thought. The major had lost his wife to cancer over three years ago, and the officer had concentrated fully on his military career in an attempt to block out the pain he felt at her loss.
“Maajoor Redfern,” she emphasised his rank, “you flatter me. The biscuits aren’t home-made, just yet.”
“Are the preparations going well?” asked Scott, taking some of the pressure off his flustered OC.
“Far better than anyone expected. The people are great, really wanting to make it a success.”
“They have a vested interest,” Alan reminded her.
“Ever the cynic?” She laughed out loud, and the two constables smiled as they looked over as did one of the CPSs. Things couldn’t be too bad, thought all three of them.
“We’d best be checking the troops, sir,” Scott reminded the Major, wanting to rescue his officer from any more blushing.
“Yes, Sar’nt Major. Well, Alison, we’ll leave you to your task and catch up with you later at the RGC.”
“I look forward to it,” she said, beaming, recognising the effect she was having on him, and pleased about it.
The two men gave her a relaxed salute and walked back down the line. After a quick chat with Baxter, who was now wide awake after realising it was his commander’s Land Rover close by, they returned to their vehicle to continue the rounds of their area of responsibility.
CHAPTER 16
PURGATORY | GROUND ZERO +24 DAYS
NEAR OXFORD
Keelan crawled out of the upturned Commer van. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. His right eyebrow had split open as his head smacked into the window, shattering the glass. He finally eased his legs out and was able to move to a crouch, flashing lights in front of his eyes warning him not to stand up. He looked up at the bank the vehicle had rolled down, then back at the battered van, realising he was lucky to be alive. He heard cursing from the back of the van as Salt, stooped but uninjured, made his way round to where Keelan was situated.
He slumped down next to Keelan. “What the fuck happened?”
“Bloody Withers, that’s what happened. Tried to dodge round a car, but was too thick to realise that he might need to slow down. And here we fucking are.”
“What about the others?”
“Who gives a fuck?”
There was a sudden scream, one driven by immense pain.
“We should check it.”
“Be my guest,” responded Keelan. He rubbed a blackened hand across his forehead, leaving a dirty streak across his pale skin. “If I move, I’ll pass out.”
A second scream, followed by a third, echoed through the confines of the van, and Salt crawled around Keelan’s legs, lowering his body to peer through the open driver’s window. The sweaty face of Todd Withers looked back, his body suspended upside down, held in place by a length of the seatbelt that had wrapped itself securely around his leg. He was desperately trying to reach round with his right hand to release the belt, but every time he moved, excruciating pain travelled up his shattered left arm. Salt noticed the arm for the first time, bent at an impossible angle. He looked across towards the passenger seat, seeing Milo coming round, upside down, but securely strapped into his seat, his legs resting on the upside down dashboard.
“Milo, you OK,” he called.
The only response was a groan.
“Right, Todd, I’m going to cut away the belt, so you need to be ready to break your fall.”
“Can’t you help?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“My arm’s fucked, Doug. If I move it… it hurts like hell.”
“I have no choice, you have no choice. We have to get you out of here.”
“Can’t Stan help?”
“He’s injured as well. So, get ready.”
Salt extracted a clasp knife from the pocket of his outer jacket, pulled it open, and started to slice through the webbing of the belt. “Get ready.”
He continued to saw at the seatbelt, the fabric parting with each movement of the blade. “Any minute. Better brace yourself.”
Todd used his good arm, pressing it against the roof of the van, ready to decelerate his fall and protect his damaged arm.
Milo groaned again, his eyes flickering open, sudden panic as he realised that he was suspended upside down, trapped.
“It’s OK, Milo buddy. Once I’ve finished with Withers here, I’ll come and give you a hand.”
The blade sliced through the last few centimetres of the belt, the fabric suddenly parting, dumping Todd on the roof in a sprawl of arms and legs. Todd screamed again and again as his right arm did the job of buffering his fall, but it forced him over on his left side, onto his broken arm, two white pieces of jagged bone poking through his sleeve testament to the severity of the damage done. Under the current circumstances of no doctors or hospitals, his limb was broken beyond repair. Salt had no option but to drag the man out. Screams quickly followed. Todd lay on his back, moaning with pain, supporting his shattered arm.
