by Guy N Smith
It was difficult to differentiate between rust and dried blood. Nobody was really looking closely. Occasionally a severed human limb was found beneath a seat. Vans were on hand to take these away.
The death rate from Weedspray poisoning had slowed. The majority of the victims were already dead. The numbers could only be estimated, as a great many of the corpses had already been consumed by fire. Possibly the true figures would never be known.
Mass funerals were already in progress, as many as a hundred cremations an hour taking place. Where possible, corpses were identified by such means as blood donor cards, driving licences, and other documents. Those corpses which had no such information on them were photographed before being committed to the flames. Relatives would be given the chance of tracing their missing kin in due course. It was imperative, though, to dispose of all the dead as quickly as possible.
Drinking water was now readily available. The volunteer forces were assigned the task of distributing this at various points throughout the suburbs. Queues were orderly. Many had already taken the advice given to them over loud hailers and drunk from their hot water systems without ill effect. The crisis was past.
The city's water supplies were turned back on, and in accordance with instructions taps were left running. In every street the sound of gushing water could be heard as the deadly weedkiller was flushed into the drains and sewers.
Only the fires remained.
Tongues of flame licked high into the smoky sky amidst showers of sparks, the intense heat seeming to increase day by day. Buildings glowed redly with the heat, bulged, collapsed. New Street, Corporation Street, Colmore Row and Victoria Square formed a rectangle of total destruction.
Then came the water: thousands of gallons pumped from the canals. Day and night it was sprayed continuously on the fires. At first the flames showed their contempt for the liquid - sizzling and hissing their defiance, still devouring the city's core with an insatiable hunger.
After three days the progress of the flames was checked. On the fourth they were being driven into retreat. Another forty-eight hours and total saturation was winning the battle. Blackened sodden ashes floated down the flooded streets, and the smoke pall had dispersed.
The weather was changing too. From the west came dark cloud formations and driving winter rain. The last of the flames were doused in a torrential downpour. The “Battle of Birmingham” was won. All that remained now was to clear up the mess; and to rebuild.
The Prime Minister addressed the nation again, the first time for over a week.
‘I am pleased to tell you that at last the state of chaos in the city of Birmingham has been brought under control. The cost of the damage can only be guessed at this stage, but it will run into many millions of pounds. However, the city can, and will be, restored to its former state. Nevertheless, the cost of lives lost can never be met. We may never be able to quote an exact figure, for many of the bodies were destroyed by fire; the loss of life certainly exceeds seven thousand persons.’
‘The Weedspray disaster must never happen again. An inquiry is to begin shortly in an attempt to determine how the poison was allowed to reach the householder once it was known to be in the water supply. Numerous reasons are given why certain precautions were not taken. Would we have been any worse off if the water supplies had been turned off at the outset? I think not. Our volunteer forces proved a mistake, one that we could not rectify once there were no communications within the city boundaries. Certain sections of society, the parasites, took advantage of the misfortunes of others. Crimes will go unpunished simply because many of the perpetrators, as well as their victims, are dead.’
‘Within a few square miles anarchy has triumphed for a short time. Criticism was inevitable: of the armed forces, the police, local government, and of the Government itself.’
‘We, as a party, are in no way deterred. We have brought the situation under control. We did everything possible. And yet there are those who say that the right action was not taken soon enough.’
‘As you all know, this afternoon I asked the House for a vote of confidence. By now you will be aware of the result of that vote and, regretfully, I have to inform you of my decision to call a general election …’
The defendant had been tried by jury and found guilty. There always had to be a scapegoat. The Prime Minister knew it, and accepted the fact. The population would cast their votes, their feelings either establishing or destroying the present Government.
Blythe had attempted to telephone Margaret on three successive days. Each time there had been no reply. Not that he had expected any. He didn't even know what he would have said had she answered him.
He did not even know if he was going back home. He thought about Carol still in bed back at the hotel; and about Margaret. He tried to make comparisons. It was impossible: two women, totally unalike. But they had not always been so. Margaret had been young and attractive once - sexy, too. Marriage had changed her. He had played a part in that.
It would happen to Carol too. A few years and it would be the same story: other women, affaires, domestic quarrels. She would change; he wouldn't. Just a rerun of the old story.
God, his head ached. It had been throbbing for days. He was sweating, too, in spite of the cold. He walked across to the lift in a kind of trance, a faraway sensation in which he was a spectator to both his own actions and those of other people.
A green light showed. He pressed a button. The doors slid slowly back and he stepped into the small cubicle. More buttons, numbered ones - he tried to remember which floor he wanted. Four, of course. His brain was reacting slowly; slow-motion thinking.
The lift glided to a halt and the doors opened. A long corridor stretched ahead of him, each door bearing a number. He had to pause again. They all looked alike. Fourteen, or was it fifteen?
He decided on fourteen, opened the door hesitantly, almost guiltily. The curtains were still drawn but it was light enough to make out a few details. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. He recognised the sleeping form on the bed: Carol.
Closing the door behind him he walked unsteadily to the window and drew back the curtains. It was raining hard outside, lashing the panes of glass.
He turned away. A tall dressing table mirror faced him. He studied his own reflection, scarcely recognising the flushed and blotchy features.
A sudden surge of panic: he tore at his shirt buttons, breaking the threads, exposing the muscular hairy torso. He caught his breath when he saw the mass of red spots, and almost fell, holding on to a chair for support.
‘Ron!’ Carol Evans was sitting up in bed, an expression of fear on her face. ‘Whatever's the matter?’
He watched her carefully in the mirror. He didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to speak, and also he had no idea what he was going to tell her.
‘Ron. Something's wrong.’
‘I guess you could say that.’
‘But what? You … you haven't drunk some of that … poisoned water, have you?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. Somehow he managed to smile. ‘It's all gone now. Down the drains. Everybody's safe. I was just thinking about that driver chap. What was his name? Tamberley or Timberley, or something like that. Just look at what he achieved. He destroyed a whole city and brought the Government down as well. Even the Trotskys couldn't manage that. Not so efficiently, anyway … all at one fell swoop.’
‘You're rambling on like you're delirious. That headache you've had these last few days …’
‘Yeah, that headache. All part of it.’
‘Part of what?’
‘Remember that warehouse place? The one where that tramp was.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘And Paul Merrick?’
‘Look, you're talking in riddles. I'm going to phone for a doctor.’ She threw back the bedclothes, revealing her nakedness, and swung her legs to the floor.
‘Carol.’
‘What?’
Ron Blythe stood faci
ng her, peeling off the rest of his clothes. She caught her breath as she noticed the cluster of red lumps spreading right down to his abdomen.
‘Ironic, isn't it?’ he laughed harshly. ‘We've survived just about everything that was going in that living hell. We even dodged the Thirst. But it took just one bloody diseased old tramp to …’
He watched her dress, noting the way she trembled, the feverishness with which she handled buttons and fasteners. Then she was gone, and he was all alone.
For most people one long nightmare had ended. For Ron Blythe another was just beginning.
Epilogue
A hare crouched in the grass verge on a narrow, twisting mountain road. Its long ears were erect, listening; picking up the faint nocturnal sounds.
Deep in the forest above a vixen screamed its mating call, a harsh long drawn-out tortured cry that echoed across the whole of the valley below. The hare trembled and almost panicked.
The night had an atmosphere of death about it. Even the soughing of the wind in the trees was hostile, bringing with it the scent of enemies.
The acute hearing of the gentle brown animal picked up the roar of the heavy engine, and it felt the ground vibrating long before the twin headlight beams cut through the blackness. The creature was familiar with passing vehicles, accepting them if not understanding them. By day the traffic was harmless. By night it was a fearful proposition: evil ogres that came and went, sometimes leaving death in their wake.
The hare shivered as the full force of its fear began to build up. It had watched from a safe distance as stoats and weasels hypnotised a feathered audience with their antics. In much the same way the hare succumbed to the deadly charms of car and lorry headlamps hurtling through the night.
Irresistible: Pied Pipers of death, their music the snarling engines and swishing tyres; blinding lights that dazzled and beckoned.
It saw the headlights as the huge articulated truck rounded the bend and heard the brakes protesting as the driver attempted to check the speed on the sharp incline.
Nearer … nearer.
The hare rose off its haunches, quivering. It began to move slowly forward, off the grass and on to the tarmac. One bound took it to the centre of the road. Another would have taken it to safety. Instead it squatted, eyes dilated, blinded by the oncoming lights, ears flat, deafened by the noise. Every sense was numbed into inaction.
Some deep instinct urged it to leap the remaining couple of yards whilst there was still time, but there was no coordination between brain and limbs. Even Nature herself could not come to its rescue.
The animal continued to squat there, knowing that this time death was a certainty. It had known all along. The message had been in the wind.
The driver saw the crouching form, and checked his instinctive foot movement towards the brake pedal. He laughed softly to himself. For one fleeting second he had thought it was a sheep or a dog. Instant relief - only a hare; nobody bothered about hares.
He did not even feel the bump as the heavy wheel crushed the animal to a barely recognisable pulp of blood and fur. He might even have missed. But he knew he hadn't.
A few minutes later he had forgotten all about the incident. Away to his right the ground fell away sharply to the glistening black lake which filled the valley below: the Claerwen Reservoir.
The driver changed gear. He recollected vaguely having read something in the papers some time before about that particular stretch of water. He tried to recall the incident. Some bloke had gone through the fence with a tanker. Lack of concentration, he decided. He might even have gone through himself if he'd braked for that hare.
Moreover, all these curses shall come upon thee, and shall pursue thee, and overtake thee, till thou be destroyed.
Deuteronomy 28:45
The End
Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.
This ebook is the fifteenth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.
The list of books so far published is :
1. Werewolf by Moonlight.
2. The Sucking Pit.
3. The Slime Beast.
4. Night of the Crabs.
5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.
6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.
7. Return of the Werewolf.
8. Bamboo Guerillas.
9. Killer Crabs.
10. Bats Out of Hell.
11. The Son of the Werewolf.
12. Locusts.
13. The Origin of the Crabs.
14. Caracal.
15. Thirst.
The next book will be :
16. Death Bell.
"The long deserted Caelogy Hall in the small village of Turbury has new residents. Martyn Hamilton keeps his gates locked, installs a fierce alsatian and shuns all contact with the village. He also installs a bell in his chapel, a bell which rings with a frequency that jars the senses, changes peoples' character and brings on brain haemorrhage and death. Even the deaf are able to hear it. People start dying, going insane and nothing they can do seems to have any effect on their chances to stop the bell."
To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue
Best regards,
Guy and all at Black Hill Books.