by Guy N Smith
‘Parachutes,’ Blythe yelled. ‘They're dropping something.’ The descending object was lost to view again. ‘It seemed to have a large oblong container attached to it. Probably water. That's the most logical answer.’
‘Let's go and get some.’ Cummins thrust his gun back into his trousers.
‘Don't be a fool,’ Ron Blythe snapped. ‘We could spend all day searching for a can of water. They'll drop most around the city centre, and keep the people busy. Divert 'em from trying to break through the barriers. We've more important things to think about.’
Reluctantly the axe killer followed the other three along the narrow stretch of stagnant water.
For half a mile or so their progress was unhindered. Then, once again, they heard the crackling of flames and through the filthy vapour ahead of them they saw leaping tongues of fire, fifteen or twenty feet into the air.
‘Now what's going on?’ Cummins grabbed Carol and pulled her back. ‘Looks like the bloody canal's on fire!’
Blythe advanced a few steps, until he could see what it was that was burning.
‘Boats!’ he hissed. ‘My God, just look at 'em. A whole fleet of launches and barges all roped together.’ There must have been a score of them.’
‘Get on back there!’ A figure emerged from the smoke and came towards them, a rifle held at hip level, the barrel trained on them.
- The soldier was a mere youth, dressed in green and brown denims that hung badly on his lanky frame. His face was smoke grimed, the expression one of bitter resentment and hatred.
‘Get back, you fuckers, before I blast you! Nobody goes past here. And in case you've got any more ideas, there ain't no boats left. We've made sure of that!’
It was true enough. Within the hour every vessel would be reduced to ashes, floating on the surface in a thick mulch.
Blythe stepped back slowly. Any sudden movement would be unwise. The uniformed youth had his finger on the trigger and he only needed the slightest excuse to cut all four of them down. There did not appear to be any other guards about. In all probability they had just left this one to watch the blaze, a menial enough task.
‘Hurry up. I ain't got all day.’
Suddenly Mike Cummins moved. Blythe felt a rush of air past his head, and then something thudded solidly into the forehead of the man who menaced them.
The soldier was killed instantly as the axe blade buried itself in his skull. The rifle fell into the water with a splash and disappeared from sight.
Slowly, the dead man sank to the ground, rolled on to his back and lay still, the wooden handle of the weapon which had killed him protruding outwards. The blade was completely buried.
Paul Merrick began to scream.
‘Shut that bloody kid up,’ Cummins snarled and, as Carol began to comfort the boy, the convict knelt down beside the corpse. Bone cracked and split as the axe was pulled clear and hastily wiped clean on the ground.
‘We'd better make tracks,’ Blythe said. ‘They'll put us straight up against the wall if they catch us here.’
‘More'n likely there ain't another soldier within a quarter of a mile of here,’ Cummins said as he straightened up. They just left this kid to mind the bonfire.’
Blythe hesitated, undecided. Advance or retreat? The prospect of instant death lay both in front and behind them.
‘We'd better skirt the canal,’ he said, making an instant decision. They could well have it covered further down.’
Nobody questioned his judgement. But something was puzzling him. He could not quite figure out what it was. Something was wrong, against all the logic of this disaster. Somewhere, in a hidden recess of his brain, an alarm bell was sounding.
Then, as they climbed the grassy bank away from the canal, he knew. Whirling round, he pointed back towards the blaze.
‘Look!’ He could not contain his excitement. ‘The canal. The boats are blazing but the canal isn't!’
‘You're a nut,’ Cummins retorted. ‘Canals don't burn.’
‘But water with a content of Weedspray in it does.’ Ron Blythe gave way to a feeling of euphoria. ‘And that means that there isn't any weedkiller in the canal.’
‘Did you expect there to be?’
‘No, of course not. But it's only just occurred to me. The canals are stagnant. Foul. Full of corpses and typhoid germs.’
‘Then they're no fuckin' use to anybody.’
‘They could be.’
‘How?’
‘The water could be pumped out and used to put the fires out. We've already discovered that the hot water tanks in the houses are probably free of Weedspray. And with drinking water being parachuted in … the end could be in sight. Only in all probability this hasn't occurred to the authorities. We've got to tell 'em. And to do that we've got to get out of Birmingham. Nobody will listen to us here.’
Small parachutes rained down from the smoke-laden sky into the city centre. Some caught on the roofs of buildings and hung tantalisingly out of reach of the crowds. Others drifted into the flames and were lost for ever.
People emerged from their refuges. Fresh fighting broke out over the many five-gallon containers.
Riots which had smouldered in inactivity burst into frenzied flames again. The peacekeeping forces remained in the background, watching. So long as there was no massing of the rioters in an attempt to storm the barricades, they saw no reason to intervene. Let them fight amongst themselves if they wanted to.
But a new threat was adding to the troubles of the calamity-struck city.
So thick was the smoke haze in the heart of blazing Birmingham that nefarious activities no longer had to be confined to the nocturnal hours.
Two men walked down Corporation Street, skirting the worst of the New Street ruins. Combat jackets, trousers to match, crumpled and slovenly - what else could be expected in these troubled times? Only their eyes were furtive, a hint of dark and unlawful deeds to be carried out, a habitual wariness.
People saw them and stepped out of their way. These volunteer recruits had a reputation for ruthlessness that went far beyond that of the regular soldiers. They were best left alone and unprovoked.
At the far end of New Street rose the mighty Rotunda, a circular tower of office blocks that had so far survived the fires. Smoke blackened, a few windows shattered, it stood proud and defiant. Once years ago, a terrorist bomb had exploded at its base. The damage had been slight. It gave the impression of invincibility, a giant amidst the ruins.
Some youths were loitering around the building, but they moved on at the approach of the soldiers. The two men shouldered their rifles and glanced quickly in both directions. There was nobody in sight.
They worked quickly. A canvas haversack was unslung and a square object was taken out, a black box fitted with numerous wires and a timing device. It was handled carefully, placed on the ground. They sweated profusely.
Seconds later the volunteer soldiers were walking back the way they had come. Their pace quickened and as they turned into Union Street they broke into a run. Their furtiveness was now replaced by fear - fear that they might not get far enough away in time. Timing devices made from alarm clocks were unreliable.
They were breathing heavily, gasping loudly with relief, by the time they reached Martineau Square. Seconds later a tremendous explosion shook the entire city centre. The mighty Rotunda shuddered and began to collapse.
The Prime Minister made a television broadcast that evening, his first since the latest Cabinet emergency meeting. The lines on his face were perceptibly deeper, his greying hair less immaculate than usual.
‘I am confident that we are making progress in our attempts to save the citizens of Birmingham …’ His voice lacked conviction, he paused just a second too long to consult his written notes, and he gave the impression of a badly shaken man who was attempting to create a bold front. ‘We are now managing to parachute containers of drinking water into all parts of the city, a programme that will be stepped up, day by day, until there i
s enough for everybody. Our next task then will be to clear all roads and railways so that ambulances and fire engines will be able to travel to and fro freely, bringing out the injured and fighting the fires. It is hoped that within a week or so some semblance of order will have been reached.’
‘However, it appears that certain terrorist groups are taking advantage of the situation and using it as a cloak for their cowardly deeds. The headquarters of our action committee was destroyed by fire, and it is believed that fire bombs are being used deliberately to start such blazes. This afternoon the Rotunda building was devastated by a massive charge of explosive. Fortunately, no lives were lost.’
‘The auxiliary armed force employed in the city to prevent rioting and looting are being infiltrated by these extremist groups, and there is virtually no means of checking on any soldiers within the danger zone. Combat uniforms are too easily obtained and so, alas, are weapons at this time.’
‘Therefore, in the interests of the public, I have no alternative but to withdraw all volunteer forces from inside the cordons which we have set up. From midnight tonight anybody wearing these uniforms within the city boundaries will be liable to arrest and subsequent imprisonment. Duties in the disaster zone will be carried out only by soldiers of the regular army and the police force.’
‘My message to the people of Birmingham is this - stay in your houses if they are still intact. If they have been destroyed, then lodge with friends, relatives or neighbours. Share the drinking water which is being dropped in to you. Do not trouble the soldiers or policemen who will be operating on foot. Their duty is to maintain law and order.
‘Be patient. We will get help to you as soon as we can’
Chapter 14
The mobs which had looted and killed when there was still food and drink to be had from the supermarkets and pubs were now warring openly in the streets with each other. This time the prize was not beer or soft drinks, but large plastic canisters of pure water.
And a new weapon was making its presence felt. Silent and lethal, the Death Disc was claiming its victims by the dozen.
Roughly the size of a 45 rpm single record, this disc was no more than four inches in diameter, made from solid steel, and honed on a lathe to razor sharpness. Easily concealed, it was deadly accurate, and capable of inflicting the most hideous wounds on its victims. If thrown horizontally, it was possible to behead a person. Used vertically, it generally split the skull into two halves.
Its origin was amongst the soccer hooligans on the terraces, and had first been used at a match between Wolverhampton Wanderers and Manchester United, only a few miles away from its present battleground. At the time this weapon had received a certain amount of publicity in the daily newspapers, and then it was seen no more. Until now!
‘Something's happened,’ said Ron Blythe as he stared from the shattered upstairs window of an empty council house.
‘Something's always happening.’ Mike Cummins appeared at his elbow and looked out into the smoke-laden dusk.
Below them two groups of youths were busy insulting each other from either end of the street. Trouble was brewing, but at the moment it had progressed no further than a forest of ‘V’ signs and continuous obscene chanting.
‘I don't mean that.’ Blythe inclined his head towards the threatening factions. One group wore blue and white scarves, the other claret and blue. Even with death and disease ravaging the streets, soccer was still war. City and Villa fans found it impossible to join forces. ‘Look. There isn't a volunteer soldier to be seen.’
‘So what?’
‘They'd've been here by now if they were around. A few shots over those kids' heads. And if that didn't disperse 'em then they'd pick off the leaders.’
‘You're right there, Blythe. What's up then?’
‘Well, we haven't been able to listen to any news lately, but I'd say, for a guess, the volunteer forces have been withdrawn from the city.’
‘What for?’
‘Could be any one of several reasons … like terrorist infiltration. If you wear a set of combat gear and carry a rifle, you're a soldier. In all this, there's no way of checking. On the other hand, they could just have abandoned Birmingham, but I don't think the government would dare to do that openly. There would be too much reaction from the rest of the country. If they were going to do that, they'd sacrifice the volunteer militia as well.’
‘How's this going to work out for us?’
‘I don't know,’ Blythe shrugged. ‘At least we've only one enemy to look out for. Hey, look at these yobbos. They're really spoiling for a set-to. And all because they wear different coloured scarves!’
The two groups were barely twenty yards apart now, hurling missiles at each other from behind improvised barriers of abandoned cars and smashed furniture.
One shaven-headed youth was determined to show his mates that he wasn't scared of the opposition. He stood his ground, spitting and gesticulating. Suddenly he stiffened, crocking back on his heels. The top of his head seemed to lift up like a Halloween turnip lantern with the lid raised. Blood gushed out, crimson rivulets plainly visible against the whiteness of his face. His features contorted with agony, he tore at something that was embedded in the top of his skull. A circular object came away in his hands, followed by a sudden gush of blood. He screamed and collapsed in the road, writhing, kicking, then lying still.
‘God, they threw something that scalped him!’ Blythe breathed. ‘Some kind of a steel disc.’
Cummins laughed. ‘Nothin' to what I could do with this little axe.’ His hand dropped to his belt, resting on the wooden handle of his wood chopper.
‘You're as bad as they are.’ Blythe's knuckles whitened as he gripped the window sill. ‘Violence for the sake of it. Killing because you enjoy it. You're crazy.’
‘Maybe. But the fact remains that we're all sticking together until this little lot is over. Whether you like it or not.’
Steel clanged on steel as more death discs were hurled, the majority bouncing off car bodies and rolling harmlessly into the road. Stones and bricks, too, were thrown.
One of the claret-and-blue gang rose from behind an overturned table, poised to hurl a stone. A disc got him first, pitched low with unerring accuracy, the sharpened edge rising like a jet aircraft leaving a runway, catching him full in the mouth. He was carried several yards by the striking force, tongue and mouth severed, jawbone cracked.
With the coming of darkness the street battle petered out, both sides withdrawing and going their own separate ways. Three dead, five injured - they were left where they fell. Nobody was interested in non-combatants. Tomorrow there would be more fighting, Albion or Wolves fans. There were a few in the city. City or Villa would rule, OK.
‘Ron.’ Blythe turned as he heard Carol's voice, and saw her framed in the doorway, the torch in her hand. ‘I'm worried about Paul.’
‘He certainly hasn't been well for a day or two,’ the research chemist answered as he pushed past Cummins. ‘Maybe it's just a chill.’
‘He's developed a fever and a very high temperature,’ she said. ‘He's got a lot worse this last half hour.’
He followed her into the back bedroom where Paul Merrick was wrapped in some blankets on the bed. The boy was tossing restlessly, his whole body bathed in sweat.
‘What are we going to do, Ron?’
‘I don't know.’ Blythe stared at the boy in the torchlight. ‘He's got a real temperature, all right. Under normal circumstances you'd send for a doctor …’
‘But there aren't any doctors available, and even if there were, they'd have no means of getting here. Paul's in a bad way. I don't know what it is he's got. It certainly isn't weedkiller poisoning. It's … something else … something pretty awful. But if he doesn't get help he's going to …’
‘I wonder,’ Blythe mused. ‘The hospitals are overcrowded, ground to a halt, but surely there must be some doctors still around. And if there are, it's an even bet they'll be doing their stint at the h
ospitals. We might have an awful long wait, but there's more chance there than here.’
‘Now look here.’ Cummins stepped into the room, having overheard the last part of the conversation. ‘There's a slim possibility we might make it out of here tomorrow. But we won't if you stupid buggers are going looking for hospital treatment for some slum kid you'd never seen in your lives before the other day.’
Blythe glanced at Carol Evans. She was white faced, on the point of exhaustion. But her head was held high and her mind was made up.
‘We'll try and find a doctor,’ she said.
‘No, you won't.’ Cummins had the axe in his hand. ‘We'll leave the kid and try to make it out of here tomorrow.’
‘We're not going anywhere without Paul,’ Blythe said quietly.
‘Think again, Blythe.’ The convict's voice quivered with rage. ‘We ain't goin' lookin' for any hospitals or doctors. I'll kill you first. Both of you.’
‘Kill us then,’ said Carol, turning to face him. ‘Use your axe. Show us how you can kill. We're probably going to die anyway, so it might as well be now as tomorrow, or the day after. But we don't go from here without Paul.’
Mike Cummins' arm went back. Carol Evans did not flinch. Blythe tensed, but he knew that he could not jump the killer in time to save her.
‘Go on, kill us both. Paul as well, if that's what you get your kicks from.’
Slowly the axe killer lowered his weapon. He sucked in his breath and cursed.
‘You're the biggest bloody idiots I've ever come across,’ he grunted. ‘But maybe we can make a deal.’
‘Like what?’
‘Carry the kid to the nearest checkpoint. He may be our passport when they see what condition he's in.’
‘And join a queue of several thousand parents, all carrying sick children and babies,’ Blythe sneered. ‘No, it's got to be a hospital.’
‘You're crazy.’