“I’m scared, Mum,” came a whimper from the back.

  Andrew peered over his shoulder and made eye contact with Patrick. “We’ll be alright, son. You just stay put.”

  “We could always backtrack and come at it from the other end of the village,” suggested Maddie.

  “If there’s someone there, they’ll still hear us whichever way we go, if they haven’t already. We really need that fuel. We’re burning it just sitting here, and we’ve a long journey ahead.”

  “Let’s take a walk then,” said Tom as he clicked open the door, swinging it back on its hinges as he stepped out, a shotgun, broken open, clutched in his right hand. Once out, he checked that the two shells fit snugly in the breach and locked it shut, the satisfying clunk boosting his confidence.

  Andrew exited from the passenger side, and Tom leant back in the cab. “The four of you stay here. Andy and I will take a look first.”

  “The first sign of trouble and you get back here fast, you hear,” pleaded Maddie.

  Lucy, sitting opposite, patted Maddie’s knee. “We’ll be OK, Maddie. The doors will be shut, and I have this if we need it,” she comforted her friend, holding up a single-barrelled shotgun.

  Maddie nodded. The two children, who had been monitoring events, sidled up closer to their mothers.

  Tom and Andrew closed the windows and pushed the driver and front passenger door closed, a satisfying click confirming they were secure. Lucy reached over and locked both doors from the inside, sitting quietly with her shotgun resting on the back of the driver’s seat, ready if and when it was needed.

  Tom moved across to the right of the road and Andrew to the left. Both had pulled up their face masks and covered most of their faces with a scarf. Each day appeared to feel colder, and the families were forced to wear numerous layers of clothing to keep the bitter cold out. The Land Rover, which didn’t have the best heating system in the world, was proving to be a luxury when travelling.

  Their shoes crunched on shards of glass, the shattered shop windows testament to the ferocity of the effects of the nuclear explosions in the surrounding areas. Although none had struck the village, the strikes on Bristol to the south-west, Corsham, the home of the old government emergency headquarters, to the south, would have been blown into oblivion by the Russians, ensuring that it couldn’t function if the British Government had reinstated it, will have impacted on the village. Swindon to the east and Gloucester and Cheltenham to the north had all attracted attention from the Russian’s nuclear bombs and missiles. Tom glanced through a shattered shop window that had once been a thriving greengrocer’s but was now filled with splinters of glass and stripped of any item that could be eaten. He looked across at Andrew who nodded as he too peered through a shop window, which was a florist no more. The bikes were now about 200 metres ahead, and Tom gripped the barrel of the shotgun more tightly, raising it a few inches and pointing it in the direction of the dumped but seemingly not abandoned bikes. One hundred and fifty metres and he could clearly see that the bicycles had been used for carrying the trappings, bedding, clothing and the like, of whoever had ridden them.

  The road widened slightly, and Tom went around the right-hand side of one of the spilled market stalls, the thick plastic sheeting, still pinned to the supports, blocking his view across the street, contact lost with Andrew across the road. He panicked slightly but was soon past the obstruction, and Andrew acknowledged him once they were both able to make eye contact again. One hundred metres from the bikes, and he looked back towards the Land Rover, the reflection off the windscreen making it difficult to see the occupants inside.

  They’ll be fine, he thought. Lucy was a smart cookie. She would watch over Maddie and the two children.

  “Tom,” Andrew hissed.

  Tom looked back round and saw Andrew jerk his head in the direction of the bikes. Four men and two women had appeared from the town hall, the two women remaining on the steps. The four men moved toward the bikes and stood amongst them, watching Tom and Andrew as they approached. Broken glass crackled beneath Tom and Andrew’s feet, breaking the silence, the disturbed dust forming a grey layer on their shoes.

  Fifty metres away and Tom called out to the strangers. “Hello there. My name’s Tom and this is Andrew. We were on our way to get fuel when we saw the bikes on the road.” Tom scanned the faces as he talked. None wore any protective masks, but all had some form of scarf and headgear to protect them from the bitter cold. He would hazard a guess that the four by the bikes, all fairly slim, medium height, were in their early to late twenties. The two women on the steps perhaps older, bulkier, less confident, one shifting from foot to foot nervously. Tom felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He had a bad feeling about this.

  “Er, Colin. My name’s Colin. How come you have a vehicle?” responded the nearest of the group of four, a West Country accent apparent.

  Andrew and Tom stopped walking. “It’s my farm vehicle.”

  “Yeah, but how come it’s working?”

  “It’s quite old. Seems some of the older vehicles are still drivable.”

  Tom and Andrew were now roughly six metres away from the nearest of the group, Colin.

  Colin moved a little closer. “Are you carrying food and water?”

  “We have some, enough for our families,” replied Tom warily.

  “That’s a bit greedy, eh, lads?” Colin looked over his shoulder, and the three by the bikes moved forward, forming a semi-circle opposite Tom and Andrew.

  “Look,” said Tom, “we don’t want any trouble. We just want to get some fuel then be on our way.”

  “We could always sell you some petrol.”

  “We need diesel. Is there some still in the garage’s tanks?”

  “Sure,” responded Colin, “there’s loads.”

  Tom and Andrew looked at each other, both knowing that he was lying. There would have been thousands of long vehicle queues right across the country and drivers taking their cars far and wide, desperate to get their vehicle tanks topped up. Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen again, and he knew they had to get out of there, and quick.

  “That’s OK,” Tom answered. “We’ll leave the fuel to you and just leave the village.”

  Tom took a step back, Andrew following suit.

  Colin took a step forward, the other three copying their leader. “Now, that’s not very polite, is it, boys? We offer them some of our valuable fuel, and they just want to do a runner.”

  Tom heard sniggers and muffled laughter beneath their scarves, balaclavas and makeshift clothing. He looked across at Andrew and continued to back away, keeping the barrel of his gun pointed low, but aiming in the direction of the men blocking their way forward. Andrew also backed off, his shotgun mimicking Tom’s.

  “Wait!” called the man whom Tom had now classified as a thug and thought would fit in well with the Reynolds family. “We’ve not finished our discussion.”

  “We’ll leave you in peace,” responded Andrew. “And be on our way.”

  Both men took another few steps backwards.

  “He speaks. You might want to reconsider. Take a look behind you.”

  Both Andrew and Tom spun round, fear gripping both of them when they saw their wives and children standing at the front of the Land Rover, guarded by four people. Tom wasn’t sure but they appeared to be four males. Mary’s desperate need for the toilet had been the chink in the armour, the vehicle door open long enough to allow the four men access to the Land Rover, seizing Lucy’s shotgun, and taking Tom’s and Andrew’s families hostage.

  Tom swung back round towards Colin, who he now felt sure was the leader of the group, or was it gang, and raised the barrels of the shotgun, aiming it directly at him.

  “I wouldn’t do anything foolish now. All we want is your food and water. Oh, and your vehicle, and you’ll be free to go. Can’t be fairer than that, can we, lads?”

  The men with Colin grumbled their agreement.

  “But we need that to survive,” gasped Andrew.

  “So do we,” the gang leader hit back.

  “We can’t survive without food,” pleaded Tom.

  “We’re not animals. We’ll leave you something to get by on.”

  “And what if we don’t give it up?” Andrew challenged him.

  The man held up his arm and waved it in the direction of the Land Rover back up the road. Both Tom and Andrew quickly turned, seeing Maddie brought to her knees with an arm violently twisted up her back. A scream reached their ears.

  “OK, OK, you’ve made your point. Tell them to stop.”

  A grin obvious beneath his scarf, Colin looked at Andrew, and he lifted his left arm this time and waved it. Maddie’s arm was released, and she was allowed to stand again.

  “Glad you’ve seen sense. Now, this is a bit of a stalemate. Yes, you’ve got the guns, but we have these,” he waved a knife in front of Tom’s face, “but more importantly we have your family at knifepoint. We could easily kill all of them before you could stop us. Yes, we could be killed as well, but I can guarantee you that your children won’t survive.”

  There was silence for three or four seconds, Tom’s mind racing, searching for a solution to get them out of this and keep his and Andrew’s families safe.

  The leader broke the silence, his voice menacing. “You’re running out of time, Grandad. Do you want me to make your mind up for you?” He went to lift both arms up when Andrew shouted, “Stop!” Andrew then placed his shotgun on the floor and looked at Tom, the pain in his eyes clear. Tom knew he had to follow suit. The options that had raced through his mind moments earlier were now obsolete. He too bent down and lowered his gun to the tarmac road. He stood back up, his shoulders drooping, and turned to check his family were still there.

  “Good, good. Now move back ten feet. We don’t want you changing your mind just as things are going so swimmingly now, do we?”

  Tom and Andrew shuffled back as commanded, defeat sapping their strength, leaching away any thought of action.

  “Danno, Shifty. Get the guns, now.”

  One from the leader’s left and one from his right, moved forward warily, still uncertain that Tom’s and Andrew’s capitulation would continue. Without taking their eyes off the two intruders, they crouched down and picked up the two shotguns. Only then did their demeanour relax, and jokes started to flow between them.

  “Cut it,” snapped Colin. “Let me have one.”

  Danno reluctantly passed him the shotgun he had in his possession. Colin then indicated for the rest of the gang to bring the men’s families forward. The minute they arrived the two children attached themselves to their respective fathers’ sides, seeking their protection. Their mothers joined them.

  Tom knew they were in deep trouble the minute the leader spoke next. “Right, you two women get over here.”

  “Yeah,” sniggered Danno, “fed up of fucking those two slags.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” snapped the leader angrily.

  “You said you wanted our food and Land Rover,” responded Andrew, his voice shaky.

  “We do,” said the leader. “But we want some fun first. Then you can go on your way. Now, take your kids over to the steps leading up to the hall. Move it!”

  Tom started to move towards the steps, Mary clutching his coat as her mother was prevented from joining them.

  “You can’t do this,” growled Tom angrily, shaking Mary off and making a beeline for Lucy.

  The butt of the shotgun hit him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, forcing Tom to drop to his knees.

  Bang.

  Colin fired a shot into the air and bellowed at Tom and Andrew, “You fuckers try anything again and I promise you that your kids’ll suffer.”

  * * *

  Bang.

  Glen dropped his drink, the mug bouncing off the mudguard of the Land Rover, the contents splashing over his combat trousers. His HK weapon was immediately up and at the ready. “What the hell was that?”

  Rolly had also reacted, dropping to a crouch, lifting his gun, and quickly scanning a 180-degree arc to his front. Greg and Plato, who had been adjusting the equipment in the back of the trailer attached at the rear of the Land Rover, also dropped to the ground, ready to react to any potential threat.

  “Not far away,” responded Rolly. “Shotgun, I think.”

  “Yeah,” called Plato. “One o’clock from your position.”

  Bang.

  “Definitely a shotgun,” confirmed Greg. “It’s bloody close as well, a hundred metres maybe. Do we investigate?”

  Glen thought for a moment before he spoke. “I reckon. We need to know what’s going on in this godforsaken world. Rolly, Plato, stay here and protect our stuff. Greg and me will take a look-see.”

  Glen placed his HK G36 on the bonnet of their vehicle, pulled on his personal load carrying equipment (PLCE), patted the extra magazines secured within it, and picked up his HK again. He also grabbed an MP5 and a radio out of the cab. “We’ll take comms this time. If you need to move out, I’ll give you a rendezvous point, and we can meet up there.”

  “Roger that.” Both Rolly and Plato confirmed they understood.

  “Let’s go, before we miss the action,” Greg said impatiently.

  Glen grinned. “Come on then before you piss your pants.”

  He took the lead, running quickly through the trees in the large back garden of the house where they had set up for the night. Ahead, the elongated houses spread out in a hammerhead shape, the front of the houses and shops facing out onto the High Street. They clambered over a low fence, spotting a gap between the two buildings on the other side: a narrow passageway they were certain would lead them to the High Street. Glen slowed, looked back, and checked Greg was with him and ready. He indicated to Greg through hand signals that they would move to the end of the passageway, and then stop and observe before they went out onto the main road. Glen sidled along the left-hand wall and soon signalled to Greg that he had spotted something. Glen edged further along toward the end of the building, stopped, lowered himself to the prone position, poked his head around the corner, and scanned the street. Movement opposite in front of what could be a town hall caught his attention. But his full view was blocked by the metal frame of a market stall, blown over on its side and pushed up against a shop front, its plastic covering tattered and torn. Glen waved Greg forward and, once his friend was on the opposite side in position to cover him, he scooted across the footpath until he was up against the side of the plastic-sheeted stall. Now he was in position to provide cover for Greg as he moved forward and joined him. With Greg covering his six, Glen crept forward at a crouch, shuffling through the, until now, undisturbed dust, trying to keep the movement of it down to a minimum, thankful he was wearing a surgical face mask. He stopped and listened, then shifted position again, advancing along the right-hand side of the stall, more and more of the town hall coming into view the nearer he got to the front. The closer he got, the better the angle and greater the visibility of the activity that was materialising out to his half left.

  Glen quickly assessed the situation, a skill he had learnt during his eleven years with the regiment, where a split-second decision was often necessary and could mean the difference between life and death. A man was on the ground, hands held up in front of his face defending himself as the person towering above kicked him repeatedly. A few metres away, a second man stood with his hands on his head, a shotgun barrel being waved threateningly in front of his face while, behind him, two young children, possibly a boy and a girl, clung to his coat. Glen looked slightly right as he heard sharp voices and saw two people being dragged up the steps of the municipal building. One shorter and possibly chubbier than the other was pleading with her captors and pointing in the direction of the two children, but her pleas fell on deaf ears and their custodians continued with their task of getting the two individuals to the top of the steps and into the building. Glen knew instinctively why the two women were being dragged into the bowels of the prominent building. His face reddened in anger and he keyed his handset.

  “Golf, this is November. Go left. Three X-rays outside with four Yankees. Seven X-rays with two Yankees on steps.”

  “Roger, on way.”

  “Romeo, this is November. Once contact made, move to location 100 metres west of High Street.”

  “Roger,” responded Rolly, the phonetic letter, Romeo, taken from the first letter of Rolly’s name. As Greg and Glen had the same initial, the last letter, November, was used for Glen.

  “November, Golf. In position. Three X-rays still outside. Seven X-rays now in hall.”

  Glen focused back on the people out the front of the town hall, and slung his HK weapon over his shoulder, changing it for the silenced MP5.

  “Golf. Go silent. X-ray with three Yankees left, and X-ray with single Yankee are yours. X-ray on steps is mine. RV top of steps.”

  “Roger.”

  “In five… ”

  “Counting.”

  “Four… three… ”

  Glen counted down to himself.

  “Two… one… go!”

  He thrust down with his thighs, launching his body up and forwards, appearing at the front of the collapsed market stall at the same time as Greg appeared out front to his left. Both shuffled forward in a gait that suited them, a stride that allowed them to keep their weapons steady and on target, yet enabled them to move quickly.

  Phut. Greg fired a shot from his Welrod silenced pistol, the bullet taking X-ray one in the side of the chest, knocking him sideways. Mary, seeing the man who had been threatening her father violently knocked to the ground, cried out and clutched her father even tighter. The remaining two X-rays, alerted by Mary’s wail, spun round to see what had caused the girl to cry out.

  Phut. Greg’s pistol jerked again in his two-handed grip as he fired at X-ray two, the person who had been standing threateningly over Andrew. The 9mm slug hit the man in the shoulder. Greg cocked the weapon again, and the second round smashed through the man’s oesophagus, forcing him to the ground, his hands clutching at his throat as he fought for breath. Greg then turned back round, putting another bullet into X-ray one, before holstering the now nearly empty pistol and swinging his LMG up to the fore, the sling round his neck keeping it steady, his finger on the trigger ready to open up with the machine gun. In the meantime, Glen, who had the greater distance to cover, had run on ahead towards the town hall and fired a short three-round burst from his suppressed MP5, spinning X-ray three round before the man, or woman, fell prostrate to the ground, sprawled face down, sliding down the hard, blood-smeared steps. Glen accelerated, breaking into a run to get fully across the road, then taking the steps two at a time. Someone appeared at the entrance to the hall, perhaps sent to investigate the outburst from the young girl.

 

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