by Peter Hall
After showering, he sat in the lounge and tried to relax whilst rehearsing how he would answer questions from Gibson and Fellman. Over the past hour, a bank of grey clouds had covered the sky and a light rain peppered the windows. One woman hurried to bring the laundry in off the line. Three other women prepared dinner in the campervan’s tiny kitchen. So far, every woman Cal had seen was young and attractive—surely not a coincidence? They all wore skirts―another oddity. Even Cal could detect their mood was subdued. There was no banter or small-talk between them. The atmosphere was stilted and business-like. Tendrils of anxiety uncurled inside Cal’s guts. Something seemed very wrong with this setup.
A tall, slim woman served him chilled white wine and snacks while he waited, but there was no attempt at conversation and she avoided eye contact. She returned later to top up his glass.
“Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“My name? Sabine, sir.” Her accent was very French. She straightened up and brushed long black hair from her face.
“There’s no need to call me, sir. My name’s Cal.”
He smiled and held out his arm to shake hands. Sabine looked behind her, and assured that nobody was watching, tentatively shook his hand quickly. Her obvious nervousness gave Cal the willies.
“I suppose it must be nice, living with all this luxury?” Cal said.
“Yes, sir. It is very good. Is there anything else you would like?”
“Would you like to join me with a glass of wine?”
The surprise on her face was unmistakable. “No thank you, sir. Is not allowed. Please, I must go to help with the cooking. There is much still to do.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, scurrying to the kitchen.
What was that all about? She wasn’t just wanting to get back to do the cooking. She seemed nervous, maybe even scared. Why can’t she have a glass of wine? This doesn’t feel right. What the hell have I stepped into?
Gibson strode in a few moments later, wearing a dinner jacket and bow tie. It struck Cal how much he resembled Joseph Goebbels―one of Hitler’s closest henchmen. Cal had seen Goebbels in old newsreels. Gibson had the same hawk-like face and sloping forehead. But the similarity in the way he moved was the most striking―he strutted and remained aloof, confident of his authority.
“Ah, good. I’m glad to see you’re being taken care of. Personally, I like to start with something a little stronger. Sabine! Whisky, if you please.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
She appeared a moment later with a glass of whisky with ice.
“Good. I’m glad you remembered the ice this time. And draw all the curtains, will you? Can’t you see it’s dark outside?” He turned to Cal. “Takes ages to get them trained,” Gibson chuckled. “But it’s worth the effort.” Gibson meant for Sabine to hear the comment, and Cal felt embarrassed for her.
Gibson took a sip of his drink. Colonel Fellman entered the motor-caravan wearing a dress uniform. He shook the rain off his jacket and ordered a gin and tonic, then sat down with Cal and Gibson.
Cal attempted to relax, despite his internal agitation. Everything he knew of the British Forces in Afghanistan came from books and documentaries. If Fellman started reminiscing in any detail, Cal would find it difficult to maintain the deception.
The two hosts began by talking business and making plans for the next few days. Sabine served entrees of caviare with French toast. She opened another bottle of wine and poured each of them a glass.
Gibson slurped. “I do enjoy a good Sauvignon Blanc. The scent always reminds me of freshly mown grass.” Cal noticed Fellman smirking to himself.
Cal was a caviare virgin, and the experience came as a surprise. The fishy, salty beads slid around and under his tongue, and he took a generous gulp of wine to rid himself of them. That was something from the old world he would not miss one bit. He noticed Fellman grinning at him. “How do you find the caviare, Cal?”
“Er… It’s not something I’m used to, I must admit.”
Gibson crunched toast and chewed fish eggs appreciatively. “It’s not the best. But we all have to make sacrifices.”
Since when was caviar and white wine a sacrifice?
Gibson resumed talk of their forthcoming activities, which provided the perfect opportunity to launch into his vision for the future—his pet subject and something Fellman must have heard many times.
“You see, Cal. People need organising. I’ve always thought so, and the Yellow Death has proved it. We’ve had an entire year since the fall of civilisation and what has been achieved? Absolutely sod all. Groups are still wandering about like lost children and using—in fact, squandering—precious irreplaceable resources left over from a time of plenty.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that point,” Cal said.
“We’ve found shops where much of the stock has been ruined simply because some selfish person left the door open.” It was obvious Gibson was enjoying himself, thinking he had an appreciative audience.
“Now I know everyone needs to eat, so they should take enough to survive. BUT NO MORE! And they have a responsibility to make sure their actions don’t cause destruction of what is communal property. Unfortunately, some people have gone feral. They act like every day is Christmas.”
A delicious hammy aroma wafted over from the kitchen. Pots, pans, and crockery clanked as preparation came to a head. Cal’s stomach growled in anticipation.
Gibson drained his glass. “We’ll move on to the red now,” he shouted to the kitchen. “And we’re ready for the main course.” He dabbed his napkin on his lips.
“Do you know what I did before the Yellow Death, Cal? No, how could you?. Well, I was the Chief Executive of Devon County Council. I have experience of organising, of managing people and budgets and resources. That’s exactly what we need right now—somebody bringing organisation to the chaos, whilst we still have something left to save.”
He looked towards the kitchen. “What’s taking them so long?” Another large swig of wine. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. There’s no central or national government any more. So it’s up to the regions to govern themselves. I must be the most senior official that survived in Devon, so it’s my duty to take charge.”
Cal resisted the urge to mention the minor point of democracy and elections, not wanting to annoy Gibson.
Sabine returned and waited while Gibson tasted a sample of the red wine and nodded to show it was good enough to be poured.
“Most of the old laws no longer make any sense—we don’t need parking fines or television licences any more, eh?” He chuckled. “So, I’ve been writing a set of regulations that we can all live by. I’m also creating a body of men to enforce those regulations. We’ve already started leaving posters at every shop we come to, warning against looting. People can take essentials, but no more. And they must leave property secure. But that’s only the start. When the new rule of law is complete, I’ll distribute copies all over Devon.”
So far, Gibson’s words seemed reasonable, yet Cal still felt tense. Perhaps it was Gibson’s absolute confidence that he had a right to impose his views on everyone else. Several questions popped into Cal’s mind. How could settlements survive without stocks of food to carry them over winter? When did building up a reserve of supplies become hoarding? What would be the punishment for disobeying? Cal was more than aware that his own activities in creating caches would fall foul of Gibsons’ new regulations.
However, he bit his tongue, feeling that his tentative relationship with Gibson would not last long if he started asking awkward questions.
“It sounds like you’ve got this well thought out,” Cal said. The main course arrived. Gammon and pineapple with mashed potatoes, peas, and green beans.
“Well, this looks fantastic,” Cal said. “I haven’t eaten like this for ages.”
Gibson looked down at his plate. “It’s not bad. All canned, unfortunatel
y, but that will change. I hope in a few months’ time, settlements will be producing fresh food. Sabine! English mustard, quickly woman!”
“Yes, Sir. Coming right up.”
“She always forgets something,” Gibson said.
Cal probed further into Gibson’s plans. “I assume you’ll trade some of your canned goods for fresh food from the communities?”
Gibson and Fellman both smiled.
“Trade? I don’t think so,” Gibson said. “Obviously, keeping an organisation like mine running will be expensive. This is only the beginning. I have over a dozen men who’ve committed to the cause, but if we’re to establish law and order throughout Devon, we’ll need hundreds. We’re looking for a place to create a permanent operational base. Somewhere that can be self-sufficient and with good roads.”
“And a river,” Fellman said.
“Oh, yes, of course. One of my men used to be an engineer. We’re planning to have full electricity at the new headquarters. There’ll be solar panels and wind turbines, but that’s no good on a windless night, eh? Anyway, my engineer chappie says that if we’re near a fast-flowing river, he’ll instal a hydro-electric plant. As much electricity as we need twenty-four-seven. Not bad, eh? There’s no reason at all why we have to degenerate into the Stone Age.”
“Certainly not. That sounds great,” Cal said.
“Anyway,” Gibson said between mouthfuls of food and sips of wine. “As I was saying, it’ll take significant resources to govern the whole of Devon, so naturally, we’ll expect the settlements to make a small contribution as taxes.”
“What if they don’t want to pay the taxes?” Cal said.
“Ha! My dear boy, taxes are never voluntary,” Gibson said.
Fellman gave one of his sneer-grins. “That’s where I come in.”
“Indeed,” Gibson said. “My security forces will be available to defend any settlements from incursions and threats. Those same security forces will also be essential to maintain order. Every government needs the ability to back up its words. However, I doubt it’ll be necessary to use strong-arm tactics. I’m sure most people will see the sense of what we’re doing. We shall ask for a very modest contribution for bringing order and security to the region. Personally, I expect most settlements will be overjoyed to see organisation being restored.”
Of course. A new Government demanding taxes is just what everyone has been missing.
“Tell me, Cal,” Fellman said. “Where exactly were you stationed in Afghanistan?”
Here it comes. This is where things might get difficult.
Cal took a sip of wine to give him a few seconds to collect his thoughts. “Camp Bastion mainly, though we did a few stints in-country. To be quite honest, I doubt if I could remember, or pronounce the names of the compounds we stayed in.”
“Camp Bastion,” Gibson said. “Well, there’s a coincidence. Isn’t that where you were stationed, Dick?”
“Yes, indeed.” Fellman said. “Although it’s not that much of a coincidence. Half the bloody army lived there.”
Well, that’s just brilliant!
“I hear conditions were quite harsh there?” Gibson said to Cal.
“They were quite basic, of course. We slept on camp beds and the toilets were pretty rank, but we made do. The worst times were when they burnt the waste matter from the latrines. Just poured petrol on it and threw a match to it. The smoke and stench kept the Taliban away better than any guns we had. But any soldier who expects five-star luxury is in the wrong job.”
It was the first of a long series of questions that Gibson put to Cal. Fellman stayed quiet, but studied Cal closely. Cal sensed Gibson was testing him, whilst Fellman listened for any discrepancies in his account. If Cal said anything that gave his lies away, Fellman chose not to reveal it.
After a while, Gibson changed tack again. This time he directed questions at Fellman, asking him about his time in the army and particularly Afghanistan.
What’s going on now? Why is Gibson asking Fellman these questions? Could it be that Gibson’s testing Fellman? After all, Gibson only has Fellman’s word about his military career. Maybe Gibson doesn’t trust his own right-hand man?
Cal studied Fellman as he answered Gibson’s questions, looking for signs of uncertainty or deception.
The answers Fellman gave were reasonable enough, but they were vague—just as Cal’s had been. Nothing Fellman said would show he had not been in Afghanistan as he claimed. Nevertheless, he was tense and stilted. His eyes darting from side to side. He paused before answering the questions and tried to change the subject. Soldiers often swapped anecdotes about army life, but Fellman remained reticent, saying as little as possible and avoiding points of detail. Cal became increasingly convinced Fellman was hiding something.
Sabine cleared the plates and brought dessert. Treacle sponge pudding with thick creamy custard. It was absolute heaven. She refilled the wine glasses.
As he consumed the sweet goodness, Cal pondered on what had just transpired.
What is Fellman hiding? He seems to have military knowledge. He knows more than you can get out of books—such as the nicknames soldiers give their kit. It’s possible he was in the army, but never went to Afghanistan, or any combat zone. Has he been lying to Gibson for the extra kudos of being in battle? Perhaps Fellman used to be an army administrator, or in the catering corps? There’s only one other explanation that makes any sense…
Cal almost choked as the idea occurred to him.
What if Fellman had been a Territorial? A weekend warrior who exaggerates his career to impress people? After all, that’s what I’m doing.
Cal suppressed a smirk. Poor old Gibson thought his second-in-command was a hardened combat soldier and instead, his soldiers might be led by a solicitor, or a baker. Gibson had questioned both Cal and Fellman in each other’s presence. He was probably hoping that if one was lying, the other would spot it. But since they were both lying, neither would take the risk of outing the other.
Glasses of cognac came next. Gibson lit up a large cigar, Fellman took a cigarette. Cal declined. Although Cal restricted his alcohol consumption as much as possible, his head was muzzy and he had to concentrate to follow the conversation. He had seen his hosts knocking back the booze in quantity, so hoped they were both in a worse state than he was.
“When do the women eat, Royce?” Cal said.
“Oh, they’ll have a bite to eat later, I suspect. You don’t need to worry about them, they can fend for themselves. That’s one bloody thing they can do well—cook, eh?”
Gibson and Fellman laughed.
Gibson took a long drag of his cigar. “In all seriousness, Cal. Our society—before the plague,” he belched. “Well, quite frankly, it was corrupt. Rotten to the damn core. It was well overdue to collapse. If it hadn’t been the Yellow Death, it would have been some other pandemic, or global warming, or nuclear war, or the sodding Muslim terrorists.”
Gibson interrupted his diatribe to pluck a sliver of errant tobacco off his tongue. “Trouble is, we’ve forgotten the natural order of things. Look at the natural world, for instance. Males and females are designed for different roles. The males hunt and the females take care of the young. That’s how it’s been for most of human history and we’ve prospered and grown because of it. It’s only recently we’ve turned everything on its head. Giving women the vote was one of the worst decisions ever made. Give them a sniff of power and they wanted more. Eventually, we ended up with women working whilst good men sat at home, idle. Kids brought up by childminders and coming home to empty houses. Who benefits from all that? God did not design women to be leaders. They’re not lacking in intelligence, but they let their emotions control them.”
He stopped ranting to puff his cigar vigorously and slurp his brandy. His eyes were fixed in the distance, lost in his own drunken macabre thoughts.
Cal's mind spun, and not just from the booze. This world view was so outrageous, crazy and just plain wrong. There were so m
any examples in the natural world where females were the dominant gender, such as hyenas and spiders. Humanity had struggled for millennia to develop a society where human rights and equality were enshrined in law. Gibson proposed to sweep that all away on the basis that it was unnatural! Nevertheless, Cal forced himself to stay quiet. Arguing politics with a rat-arsed bigot would have no good outcome.
Gibson assumed Cal’s silence was a sign he was agreeing with the discussion.
“I’ll tell you, Cal, it’s no coincidence that after thousands of years of growth, civilisation collapsed less than a hundred years after we started giving women more rights than men. AIDS was the warning. A completely new sickness with no cure, spread by promis… promiscru… promiscuity and homosexuality. AIDS became an illness of the morally corrupt. It wasn’t the decent, hard-working white middle classes that were affected. Only the queers and the fucking liberals. They died in their millions. AIDS was a preventable disease. We knew exactly how it was transmitted and how to avoid it. Yet it ravaged Africa because the blacks couldn’t keep their dicks to themselves. Well, good riddance. AIDS killed no one who was worth a damn.” He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis.
Gibson suppressed a belch. “Would you like a coffee, Cal?”
The question took Cal by surprise. Gibson had been in full ranting mode. “Er… yes. Thanks. Black, please.”
“What Royce is trying to say,” Fellman said, more calmly. “Is that we believe it is necessary to get back to traditional values. Christian family values that served us so well for hundreds of years. The Natural Order. The organisation we’re creating is more than an attempt to bring a degree of order. We’re not just glorified quartermasters. We intend to introduce a sense of morality to our future society. Something that was sadly lacking in our previous so-called civilisation. We’ve tried multiculturalism and liberalism and—quite frankly—it didn’t work. We had a sick society. Sick! This is our chance to start afresh based on time-honoured principles.”