by Guy N Smith
Henry Peters sat down at the foot of the wide staircase and gazed at the dead all around him, wondering just what he was going to do. He was here now, living because he had hidden in his own house instead of responding to the calls for help. He should be lying stiffly in this very hospital, dead, along with everyone else. But he wasn't. He was alive and well. And he had no right to be.
An hour passed. Two. Nobody came. The East Birmingham Hospital might have been a desert outpost, plundered by raiding Bedouins. A massacre. Peters had read Beau Geste in his youth, a novel that had made a great impression on him. The dead had been propped up at the battlements in order to fool the tribesmen. He was the legionnaire now. But the enemy would not be returning this time.
It was towards midday when he heard somebody come in through the main doors, the sudden rush of fresh air wafting on his face.
Henry Peters stared: three people; two men and a woman, the latter carrying a child in her arms, wrapped in blankets. The doctor did not get up. He felt more weary than ever before in his life. He nodded, tried to smile, and watched as they picked their way around the bodies to reach him.
‘There's nobody left except me,’ his voice came flat and expressionless. ‘Everybody's either dead or gone away.’
‘We need help.’ The girl addressed him. ‘This boy is dangerously ill.’
‘I'm sorry.’ Peters genuinely meant it, but there was no point in raising false hopes. It was the cruel truth. ‘I'm afraid there is no antidote for the poison. Everybody knows …’
‘But it isn't weedkiller,’ Carol Evans said slowly, swaying with exhaustion. ‘It's typhoid!’
Peters stood up. Her voice echoed and re-echoed inside his weary brain. Typhoid … typhoid … typhoid …
The strange thing was that he believed her. He didn't know why. If she had said it was blackwater fever then that was what the boy in her arms would have had. She was that kind of girl.
‘We'd better find somewhere to have a look at him,’ he said. ‘Let's try the operating theatres.’
A strange silent procession: an old man, a young girl carrying a child, and two men.
They found a theatre with only two dead in it, a couple of drop-outs who smelled of meths.
‘Perhaps you two gentlemen would be kind enough to remove … those.’ Peters waved a hand at the corpses and, as Blythe and Cummins began dragging them out into the corridor, he wheeled a large trolley into the centre of the room.
‘Put him on there, please,’ the doctor said, pausing to wipe his glasses. ‘I'm afraid it's not very hygienic, but it's the best we can do in the circumstances.’
He pulled back the blankets and stared at the flushed face of the child, saw the blotches and spots, and knew that the girl had been right. It was typhoid. There could be no doubt. He undid some of the clothing and placed a stethoscope on the small chest.
‘How long has he been like this?’ he asked.
‘He's been unwell for a few days. It broke out properly yesterday evening.’
‘I take it you're his mother?’ Peters glanced at Carol.
‘No. His mother is one of the poison victims. We just took him along with us.’
‘We'll do what we can for him,’ Peters sighed, relieved that the girl wasn't the mother. It made it much easier. Or at least he hoped it would. ‘I'm … I'm afraid his chances are slim.’
They found some linen in one of the cupboards, and Carol made up a bed on the operating table. No way were they going to put Paul Merrick in a ghoulish ward of death.
‘Look,’ Cummins spoke for the first time. ‘We've done our best for the kid. Now let's get the hell outa here.’
‘You forget one thing.’ Peters turned from the table on which he was dispensing some drugs. ‘Any one of you could go down with typhoid at any time. You are also potential carriers. I strongly advise that you stay here. For the time being, at least.’
Cummins' hand went beneath the lower folds of his sweater, but Ron Blythe spoke first.
‘It is imperative that I contact the authorities outside,’ he said. ‘I'm a research chemist and I have some vital information for them. Information which could save lives. We have already come across one case of typhoid in the city. Doubtless there are others. There are bound to be with decaying corpses all over the place. I don't think our movements will make much difference. We shall certainly surrender ourselves into quarantine once we pass through the checkpoints.’
‘I can't stop you from going. I'm only a doctor advising you,’ Henry Peters smiled wanly. ‘But perhaps the young lady would like to stay. I could do with her help, as well as her moral support.’
‘The girl goes with us,’ Cummins hissed, and the .45 revolver appeared in his hand.
Peters stared. There was no trace of fear in his expression only contempt, and slow recognition as he looked at the gunman. ¥
‘I know you,’ he whispered. ‘The axe killer.’
‘The price of fame,’ Cummins laughed. ‘Now, enough of this buggering about. I've let you have your way long enough, Blythe. Now we're movin' out. Fast.’
‘I'll do what I can for the boy, Miss … er …’ Doctor Peters followed them out into the corridor.
‘Evans. I'm sure you will.’ Carol glanced back. ‘And … if we make it, I'll come back and look you up.’
Peters went back into the operating theatre and closed the door. He glanced at the boy and shook his head slowly. It was doubtful whether Paul Merrick would live until nightfall. Once again the doctor was faced with the prospect of watching and waiting for death.
Chapter 15
The Barnt Green checkpoint was situated on the A441, two miles south of Alvechurch. Crowds lined the roads, forming into a straggling line some ten feet wide. Occasionally fighting broke out between those jostling for places, but mostly the gathering was orderly.
The human race, in general, are optimists. These bedraggled citizens of Birmingham felt that it was only a short time before they would be allowed to pass through the barriers. Temporary quarters would be found for them in and around Redditch. Camping sites would be acceptable. The weather was mild enough for the middle of November. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after … There was bound to be a delay while preparations were made. Thousands of homeless could not just be turned loose into the countryside.
Six foot high barbed wire fences stretched across the fields on either side of the road. Every fifty yards there was an armed soldier, a regular in khaki denims - an unbroken line.
Nobody was allowed within twenty yards of the checkpoint. If you had a valid reason, an excuse that might get you out, you called for permission to speak to the officers at the gate. There was always somebody trying it on. Mostly they were told to get the hell back to the main queue. One or two made it, high-ranking citizens with credentials to prove their status; but only if they had a reason for leaving ahead of everybody else. Council officials and other local government officers of a high rank were usually in luck. A couple of politicians who had got caught up in the flood of terror were allowed out. They belonged to the right party, the one which the checkpoint commander supported.
Hard luck stories fell on deaf ears. Proof of every story had to be produced. There were neither explanations nor reasoning. Every decision was positive: black or white, but no grey.
An identical set-up was in force on the eastern boundary, only here there were fewer people in the lines. Stone Bridge Island on the A45, only seven miles from the scene of the Ham's Hall inferno, cut off the escape route to Coventry. Nearby Packington Hall had the appearance of a barracks - tanks, armoured cars, and RAF helicopters lining the extensive grounds.
The crowds had thinned over the last two or three days. Many were camping out, living rough in the cordoned-off countryside around the beautiful village of Hampton-in-Arden.
A line of combat-clad men were filing slowly through, each one being checked. Credentials, such as they were, had to be produced, scraps of paper bearing the details of the volunteer soldier
s with a rough physical description and a signature. The army demanded a counter-signature before they allowed these men through. Recalling troops from a disaster zone had its problems. You knew how many had gone in, but it was anybody's guess how many came out.
A sallow-faced volunteer glanced furtively about him as he stepped up to the narrow exit, avoiding the searching looks of the regular soldiers.
‘OK chum. Sign on the bottom line.’
A biro was produced. The man took it, licked his lips, hesitated.
‘Get a move on, mate, or we'll be here till Christmas.’
Slowly the signature was made, each letter being formed carefully, too carefully, with frequent reference to the written name above. Suspiciously the guard looked at it. His eyes narrowed, his mouth hardened.
‘This isn't your signature, chum. What's the game, eh?’
The other stepped back, his darting gaze taking in the watching guards, the crowd behind him.
‘I'm Tom Wilson,’ he muttered. ‘I swear it!’
‘Well, we'll soon find out. Step this way, please. And let's have that rifle.’
The man claiming to be Wilson passed over his rifle and stepped through the barricade. Two soldiers came forward, one on either side of him, gripping his arms and hustling him towards a large shed some ten yards away.
‘OK, OK,’ he blurted out as panic swept over him. ‘I'm not Wilson I … took the uniform off a dead soldier. But I swear I didn't kill him. Honest, I didn't!’
The prisoner was taken into the building. Yet another ruse to escape from Birmingham had failed. A dozen or more identical attempts were foiled daily at each checkpoint. The soldiers were experienced in picking out the guilty ones. Only a handful made it to freedom.
‘Next please.’ The sergeant at the civilian point was becoming bored and irritable. Only two out of the last fifty had been able to prove legitimate reasons for leaving the city. It was a waste of time, he decided, listening to all the stupid fabrications. Now he was cutting their stories short, telling them to get the hell back where they came from.
‘Name?’
‘Blythe. Ronald.’
‘And how do you qualify for privileged treatment?’
‘I'm a research chemist.’
‘So are hundreds more. They're staying put.’
‘I work for Weedspray Limited.’
‘And who the hell are they?’
‘The firm who made the weedkiller which is in the water supply.’
‘Oh, yeah. They probably employ thousands of guys like you. They all ought to be made to drink their own fucking product.’
‘Look,’ Blythe had difficulty in controlling his temper . ‘I need to contact the authorities.’
‘You're doing that right now. Me!’
‘It's imperative that I speak to water authority officials and leading army personnel.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I could be of some help in saving lives and helping to put the fires out.’
‘Everybody's got ideas. We'll have a suggestion box installed. Come back tomorrow. No, on second thoughts, don't bother.’
‘Every hour means more lives lost. At least let me talk with somebody.’
‘You are, china. And I'm gettin' fuckin' bored. You ain't even makin' me laugh.’
‘Let me write a letter then.’
‘Sure. You do that. And don't forget to stick a stamp on it.’
Blythe licked his lips. Two more soldiers and a policeman had moved across. All of them were armed.
‘Now, are you goin' to piss off, mate?’
‘All right,’ Ron Blythe sighed. ‘I'll leave it for now.’
‘And what's your story, pal?’ The sergeant was already looking past Ron Blythe, beckoning the next man in the queue to come forward.
‘Well?’ Cummins grunted as Blythe rejoined the convict and Carol Evans.
‘No go, I'm afraid.’
‘Fuck it. What do we do now?’
‘Right now,’ Blythe pointed to where a huge pile of second-hand tents stood by the side of the road. ‘we help ourselves to a wigwam and enjoy life redskin style. And then we think again.’
In silence they took their tent, together with some groundsheets, and tramped into the adjoining field. Tents were pitched everywhere, haphazardly, some erected firmly, others flimsily by people with no experience of camping. Fortunately there was no immediate threat of the wind rising. The weather was still unnaturally mild for the time of year.
It took them twenty minutes to put up the canvas structure. Spreading their groundsheets on the grass they crawled inside.
‘At least we'll be able to get food and drinking water here,’ Blythe said. ‘I note they're doling it out quite liberally. I reckon by now most of the folks must be camping out on the outskirts. Only the looters are staying behind. We should have come here in the first place. Maybe we would have done if we hadn't got caught up in all the rioting.’
‘D'you think the worst of the danger is past?’ Carol asked.
‘Frankly, no. Folks don't desert their homes just like that. There's those who will stay behind, sticking it out until it's too late. That's why they ought to be told about the water in the tanks. And the sooner they start using canal water on the fires, the better.’
‘Why didn't you tell that sergeant? Maybe the message would have got back.’
‘No chance. They've heard so many theories they don't want to listen to any more.’
‘How will they ultimately clear the weedkiller out of the water supply?’
‘It'll take time, but it's fair to assume that as the stuff went through the Claerwen outlets in a slick there isn't much of it left in the reservoir now. It'll just be a question of clearing the pipes. That can be done by draining. But the fires need to be checked first otherwise there'll be nothing left of the city.’
‘But that don't solve my problem.’ Mike Cummins tapped Blythe on the chest. ‘And you've got to get all three of us out, bright boy.’
‘I'm working on it. I figure that within a week or so they're going to begin evacuating these camps. They've got to find homes for the people first, though.’
‘Sure. And they're goin' to investigate everybody. Just like they're doin' now. They're goin' to take advantage of the situation to check on every single person. Anybody who's skipped the law or gone into hiding will be pulled in. They've never had a chance like it to clean up a city.’
‘I expect a few fish will get caught up in the net.’
‘Well, this is one that's goin' through. And you're goin' to see to it, Blythe.’
‘I'm working on it, as I've said before. You might try doing the same, Cummins, and use your brain instead of your brawn for a change.’
The days were shortening now, and by four-thirty in the afternoon the smoke haze was blending with the approaching dusk into nightfall. Long queues were forming at the food counters. A bowl of soup, two slices of bread, and a pint of fresh water per person was the official quota. Further water supplies were obtainable between 9am and midday. Beyond the barriers was a large Red Cross tent. Medical aid was being given to the sick, but the majority of poison victims did not live longer than a day or two. Not many made it this far out of the city centre.
‘Maybe we could fake the sickness and get through,’ Carol Evans mused as the three of them lay on their groundsheets in the darkness of their tent.
‘They're wise to that one,’ Ron Blythe grunted. ‘Somebody tries it on every day. Unless you're a mass of walking weeping ulcers all you're likely to get for your trouble is a bang with a rifle butt.’
They lapsed into silence. For the first time in many nights Ron and Carol were sleeping together. Cummins lay across the entrance flap, every sense alert, dozing only briefly from time to time. He was taking no chances on the other two running out on him.
‘Oh, God, how much longer before we're out of this, Ron?’ Carol whispered, her lips brushing those of the research chemist.
‘I don't know.’
His arm came round her, pulling her close. ‘If only all my credentials hadn't been destroyed when the Action Committee headquarters went up, we could walk right out now. Nobody's hurrying. They don't need to. Within a week the weedkiller will have taken its toll. All those who are going to die anyway will have done so. The survivors will be folks like us. From the authorities' point of view there's nothing to be gained by evacuating people who are in the process of dying. What's more, they couldn't cope with them. Of course, they haven't thought about typhoid yet. When they find out about it, it'll be too late. In some ways it would be better if the “Great Fire of Birmingham” cleaned it all up.’
‘It's a ghastly thought. And … and when we do eventually get out, Ron …’ she stammered.
‘Yes?’
‘What … what about … us? I mean, well, I'm not pregnant, like I thought I might be when I met you. If that makes any difference …’
‘I'm not just going to walk out on you, darling.’
‘What about your wife? Your marriage? Your kids? Can you just turn your back on everything?’
‘I told you how things were between Margaret and me.’
‘I know, but you've had a lot of time to think things over. I'm only a girl picked up in the heat of battle. What's going to happen when it's peacetime?’
‘I'm not going back to my wife.’ He spoke earnestly, bitterly. ‘I've made the break now. It was what I needed, something to keep us apart for a time. As far as Margaret's concerned, and everybody else for that matter, at this moment I'm officially listed as dead. Don't forget, everybody believes I was in that building with Broadhurst and the others when it was burned down. There were no survivors.’
‘A lot of people will take advantage of all this to lose their identities and start life afresh elsewhere.’
‘No,’ Blythe said. ‘I've too much on my conscience. I've got to live with all this for the rest of my life. There's no place big enough to hide me. And, anyway, I've still got work to do. But I can start all over again, with you.’
They welcomed the pitch darkness of the tent, the thick canvas shutting out the fiery glow of the burning city. It cut them off from their captor too. Although Mike Cummins was only a few feet from them, apart from his heavy breathing he might not have been there at all.