“Stop bleating,” complained Keelan.

  Salt came over and whispered in Keelan’s ear, “It’s pretty bad. He ain’t going to get that fixed easily.”

  “No bloody hospitals, that’s for sure. Where’s the nearest town anyhow?”

  “Oxford, I reckon. Hospitals are out, Stan. They’ll have been hit along with everything else. How you doing?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “I need to go and give Milo a hand. He’s strung up like a chicken.”

  Keelan laughed but quickly put his hands to his head as lights flashed before his eyes. Salt left him and went round to the other side of the van to help Milo.

  After leaving the cottage in the early hours of the morning, Keelan insisting they made some headway and find a more permanent base, they had continued their journey south, keeping west of Leicester, Northampton and Milton Keynes, only approaching the M1 or M40 to get fuel. That had been a disaster, coming under fire the minute they got within 200 metres of the M1. So, they tried further down and were able to syphon enough fuel from a number of cars to continue their journey towards Oxford. Groups of survivors, moving north and south, had been passed during their travels. Many looked emaciated, and all looked ill, pale faces behind their scarves and mufflers. Keelan and Salt ensured that no contact was made. They only came across two patrols, both small-scale, a mix of police and army and no more than ten men, but had managed to avoid them at the last minute. Apart from the altercation during their first refuelling attempt, they had only been fired upon a second time when the four men approached a defended village. Anarchy appeared to be the order of the day. But the four men wouldn’t be continuing the journey with their current transport.

  Salt helped Milo out and, apart from being shaken up, like Salt, he was unhurt.

  They moved away from the side of the stricken van, keeping a distance of about fifty metres, the smell of petrol fumes a worry. Being the only ones capable, Salt and Milo had volunteered to extract their food and water and other items they had collected since escaping from HMP Wakefield. It was now sitting in a pile in the middle of the circle of four men. Salt doled out some food while they debated what to do next.

  Milo looked at his watch: the time was three twenty. “We need to get some shelter. It’s bloody cold enough as it is now.”

  “We do,” agreed Salt, handing Milo a bar of chocolate. “The question is where.”

  “And what about Todd?”

  “If it wasn’t for that twat’s lousy driving, I wouldn’t have this bloody lump on my head, and we wouldn’t be in this position, would we?” exclaimed Keelan.

  “What do we do about Todd?” asked a concerned Milo again.

  Todd was drifting in and out of consciousness. There was little they could do for him beyond draping a blanket over him to keep him warm.

  Keelan bit into his bar of chocolate. “We got some painkillers from the house in Wakefield. Soon as he wakes up, he can chomp on some of them.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Milo. “It’s a start, but how do we fix his arm?”

  No one responded, engrossed in their task or their own circumstances.

  Salt shuffled through their supplies and pulled out a tin of beans. He peeled the lid back and dug in with a spoon he always kept in his pocket. “We gotta move though.” He slurped cold beans from his spoon, the smell triggering hunger in the other two who also grabbed a tin each. “We can’t stay here. We need shelter before it gets dark.” The sound of Salt’s spoon clattering around the tin as he tried to scoop up the last few beans left. “How you doing, Stan?”

  “Head throbs like shit. Where are those tabs?”

  “Erm… the small rucksack, I think. I’ll take a look.” Salt rummaged around the pile in front of him, pulling out the rucksack where he had stored the first-aid kit taken from the first house. “Here you go.” He chucked a pack of painkillers over to Keelan, along with a bottle of water. “So, it’s quarter to four. We need to move, lads. Light’s starting to go.”

  “I’ll give it a go, Doug, but my head’s still fucked up. Give us a hand.”

  Salt helped Keelan get up and, quickly examining the gash above his left eye. Finding a roll of bandages in the rucksack, he soon wrapped a dressing around the wound. “I’m no Florence Nightingale, but it’ll do. I’ll take a look at Withers.”

  Keelan swayed on his feet a little; then leant in closer to Salt. “If he don’t come around, we can’t carry him, and we can’t stay here.”

  Salt nodded in agreement and walked over to Withers where he was joined by Milo.

  “Come on, Todd, you lazy bastard. We need to get moving,” Milo encouraged him.

  Todd’s eyes flickered open, the agony clear as he accidentally moved his shattered arm. He fainted again.

  “We’ll have to leave him.”

  “We can’t leave him, Doug, it ain’t right.”

  Salt grabbed Milo by his lapels. “Listen. There are no doctors, no hospitals, and no hope for him. He’s not going to keep up with us, and with those bloody bones sticking through his flesh, it’s bound to get contaminated.” Salt let him go.

  “Just don’t seem right,” complained Milo, but without conviction.

  Salt turned back to Withers. “Todd, mate. We need to move. If we can find some wheels tonight or tomorrow morning, we’ll come back for you. We’ll leave you some water to keep you going, and an extra blanket should keep you warm.”

  There was no response.

  Belongings were gathered and shared around, with Milo and Salt carrying the bulk until Keelan had a chance to recover. They took one last look at Withers before heading back up the slope the van had previously careered down. Once on the road, Salt took them left. It didn’t really matter which direction they took: it was more important to find some cover and doss down for the night. By five thirty it was dark, and it was only thanks to Salt’s height and good night vision that they spotted a barn close to a gated entrance to a field. It was a quarter full of mouldy-smelling bales of hay, but it was still a welcome refuge. Keelan was staggering by the time they got there. What blankets they had were shared out, and after nothing more than a swig of water and another tin of baked beans each, they crashed.

  Salt lay awake for a few minutes longer than the other two, his thoughts on survival. How the hell are we going to get through this? he thought. One conclusion he had come to earlier on in the day was that they were not going to survive on their own. He would talk about his proposal to Keelan tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 17

  PURGATORY | GROUND ZERO +24 DAYS

  NORTH-WEST OF OXFORD

  Tom woke up shivering, the sleeping bag having slipped off his shoulders during the night. The camp bed creaked slightly as he shuffled into a more comfortable position, pulling the sleeping bag further up his body, seeking warmth. He checked his watch: ten past three in the morning. Too soon to get up, so he lay there with his arms behind his head, the sleeping bag up to his chin. He could hear the gentle breathing of his wife, Lucy, on a camp bed next to his, and a slight wheeze coming from their daughter, Mary, on the other side of Lucy. This was their second morning in the farmhouse. They’d arrived in the early hours of the previous day after fleeing their burning home, escaping the psychopathic Reynolds family and their successful attempt at burning them out of their home.

  He lay pondering their future, fighting back the panic that often welled up, threatening to engulf him. Even if they had been able to stay at the farm for a few more months, he knew it would have been just a very short-term option. If he and his family, and Andy, along with his wife and son, were to survive, they needed assured water and food supplies, access to medical treatment, shelter and security. He wasn’t yet sure how that was going to happen. He was just a farmer. His skill was in arable farming as opposed to animal husbandry, although he did have a few sheep and cattle to keep his hand in. He believed there were two directions in which the future of the country, and even mankind, could evolve: Either an appointed administration would appear out of the ashes, take charge and lead the United Kingdom through what was undoubtedly going to be one of the darkest periods in the country’s history or, worst-case scenario, the regional government structure, put in place for an event such as this, was decimated, along with the other RGCs across the country, and would fail to surface let alone lead the people of the UK toward a better future. Tom was sure that, without the support of a recognised administration, people would be left to fend for themselves in a country that would quickly run out of food. He was certain a large percentage of the population was dying from the effects of radiation and other major injuries, and, no doubt, diseases such as cholera and typhoid would take hold only exacerbating the situation. Then there’s the cold, he thought, shivering. Trawling the Internet for every scrap of information about the possible outcome should Russia and NATO push the button, Tom had been horrified at what he discovered: a climate with temperatures likely to descend so low that the suffering would only be increased and the capacity to survive severely reduced. There would eventually be no fuel, no vehicles, no power, no hospitals, no food, and no vaccinations against the old diseases such as measles, smallpox and polio. His mind raced, and he forced himself to snap out of it. His focus had to be on planning for the future and an assumption that their two families would be on their own. He pulled his arms back inside and, pulling the edge of the sleeping bag even higher, fell into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  The four adults peered at the map laid out on the large farmhouse kitchen table while the two children, Mary and Patrick, lay on their camp beds, keeping out of the way and staying warm. A decision had to be made as to the next and, hopefully, final destination. Tom savoured his cup of hot coffee, feeling it warm his insides as the liquid slipped down his throat. Surprisingly, as it was at the epicentre of half a dozen nuclear strikes at Oxford, Gloucester, Worcester, Coventry, Milton Keynes and Northampton, the farm had most of its windows intact, but it was still cold. Tom had resisted the temptation to light a fire, the smoke and the smell identifying that the house was occupied. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted guests. He felt certain that the Reynolds family wouldn’t be able to pursue them. Any vehicles left at the other farm had been disabled, something he did every night before they locked down. Only their escape vehicle was ready for a quick getaway.

  His wife caught his eye and smiled, pulling the blanket tighter round her shoulders. He smiled back, and then glanced at their other two friends, Andrew and Madeline. Although not as resilient and resourceful as his wife, Madeline was reliable, and as for Andrew, he had complete faith in him as a fellow survivor. Tom felt sure that the four of them, plus the two children, as an extended family unit, had every chance of surviving whatever adversity came their way. He focused his attention on the map again.

  “Right, we’re here.” Tom tapped a point south of Chipping Norton. “About thirty kilometres north-west of Oxford.”

  “Glad you recced this place, Tom.” Andrew sounded thankful.

  “It was always a possibility we’d need somewhere else, but I never thought it would be because someone chose to burn us out.”

  “Still, it was a good call.”

  “We’re grateful to you, Tom,” added Madeline.

  “Where next though?” mused Tom.

  “Why not stay here?” Lucy suggested.

  “Tempting, but I think it’s too close to Birmingham and Coventry. At some stage, any survivors will start to drift out from the cities as food and other supplies run out. I’d prefer to go south, probably more south-west.”

  “Where had you in mind?” asked Andrew.

  Patrick came in from the sitting room opposite. “I’m still hungry, Dad.”

  “Not now, son,” Andrew responded. “We’ll have a bite to eat before we leave.”

  “Are we moving again?” Patrick grumbled.

  “It’s necessary. Now, please leave us to get on.”

  Shoulders slumped, Patrick left and went back to the other room, closely followed by Sam. Tom patted the collie as he trotted past.

  Tom continued. “I was thinking of somewhere around Exmoor National Park. Not in it, but on the outskirts.”

  “Wouldn’t we be better off heading north? Scotland, maybe?”

  “I’ve considered that, Andy, but discounted it for a number of reasons. First, it’s a long way, and we would be dependent on getting fuel on the way. What we have isn’t enough, even with the jerry cans, to get us that far. Secondly, we’d be on the road for a long time, exposing ourselves to we don’t know what. And I’m a bit worried about the weather. I’m sure it’s going to get a lot colder than it is now, and going north would be inadvisable.”

  “How much colder?” asked Madeline.

  “I’m not really sure, Maddie. What little reading I’ve done suggests that, with millions of tons of dust being shot up into the atmosphere, sunlight will be blocked for many years to come. Without the heat of the sun, it’s going to get damn cold.”

  “Oh no,” she groaned. “It’s bad enough now.”

  “It’ll get worse, but we’ll find a way to keep us all warm, angel,” Andrew consoled her.

  “That’s why I like the location chosen,” added Tom. “Lots of woods and forests around there. Fuel for heating and cooking.”

  “We still need a farm though,” suggested Andrew.

  “Or something similar. But what we will need to do is gather the tools to help us grow food.”

  “We can still forage for food until then.”

  “We can, Maddie, but so will everyone else. Supplies are going to diminish, and it’ll get tougher to find food. We need to start preparing to fend for ourselves.”

  “There’s bound to be police and army out there. Didn’t the Government always have emergency stocks of food for situations like this?”

  Tom put his arm around Lucy, pulling her slim shoulders close into him. “Could well be. Our planning will be for nothing, and I’ll be the first one to cheer,” laughed Tom. “As we head south-west, we can suss it out. If we come across any administration, we can get an update. OK?”

  She placed her head on his shoulder, reassured.

  “Really hungry, Mum,” whined Mary, her turn to pressure the parents for something to eat.

  “I’ll prepare us some food while you finish planning our journey.”

  “OK, love.” Tom squeezed Lucy’s shoulder again, and she got up to prepare a meal.

  “Do you want a hand?” asked Maddie.

  “No, you’re OK, I’ll manage. Patrick and Mary can help if I need it. Come on then, madam.” She placed an arm around Mary’s shoulder. “Let’s get us all fed.”

  “So which way?” asked Andrew, wiping his thick beard with the back of his hand after taking a deep drink of his coffee.

  “We go back across the A40, keeping west of Lechlade. Probably best to go via Bibury.”

  Andrew pointed to a point on the map. “West makes sense. We have to keep away from Brize Norton here.”

  “Probably still heavily contaminated,” Tom agreed. “It’s where next I’m unsure of. We have to avoid the Cleveland Lakes, but traversing right takes us too close to Cirencester, and left we would have to pass between Cricklade and Swindon.”

  “Do you think Swindon’s been hit?”

  “Bound to. We know there’s some hi-tech industry there, and the Russians would have known that too.”

  “But not Cirencester, surely.”

  “Possibly. But Gloucester, Oxford and Bristol are bound to have been hit, and hard probably.”

  “We could swing west of Cirencester.”

  “But that’ll take us closer to Gloucester and Cheltenham.” Tom laughed. “Checkmate then.”

  “What are you worried about?” asked Lucy who came back into the room carrying foodstuffs to make some breakfast.

  “Contamination, for one. The closer we go to where there’s been a strike, the hotter the contamination will be.”

  “And undesirables,” added Andrew. “We’ve seen what the Reynolds family are capable of. There could be far worse out there.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tom. “There’ll be people out there sick, injured and hungry. They’ll probably stop at nothing to get what they need.”

  “What about the authorities?” exclaimed Madeline. “Law and order will be one of their priorities, surely.”

  “We’ve seen no evidence so far,” Tom reminded her. “Both Andrew and I have been out on numerous occasions. When I did a reconnaissance of this place, I only came across a few stragglers, but no police or army.”

  “This is the only way we’ll protect ourselves now,” pitched in Andrew, patting the shotgun leaning up against his chair. “If I don’t have that, then this will do,” showing a clenched fist. Andrew was a big man, just short of six foot and with the physique of a heavy weight boxer, something he did a lot of in his younger days. It would be a brave person to take him on. Tom on the other hand, although still fit, spending many hours working his farm, was more slight and a few inches shorter, but would still put up a fight to protect his family.

  “Andrew! Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not vigilantes!”

  “Hey, hey, Maddie. I’m not advocating that we go out there and clean up the streets. We just need to make sure we protect our own families.” He placed his arm around her shoulder, consoling her as best he could.

  “Control will be returned eventually, Maddie,” added Lucy as she placed some plated, sliced corned beef on the table along with some crackers and a tub of home-made butter. “Then we can all go back to our homes and rebuild.”

 

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