Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  Many thousands of others had headed to the east coast, to harbours and ports to seize as many small craft as possible. Even though the Air Forces of the humans were frequently attacking these quays and marinas, not all of the boats were destroyed, and consequently many were commandeered by the mutants and held in readiness for the new moon.

  'The Rook' had one other asset which increased the chances of success. After the Tennessee incident and before the MOAB was dropped, the freighter’s cargo had been plundered, and heading east were over twenty thousand of her acolytes in possession of handguns, rifles, and machine pistols. Each mutant with a weapon was accompanied by a partner who carried one hundred rounds of ammunition.

  'The Rook' used her telepathic prowess to instruct the horde in the use of these arms and she planned to use them in the vanguard of any attack.

  The mutant army would be irresistible.

  ***

  Chloe and Brady continued to keep abreast of events and were encouraged to read about the carpet bombing in the UK. Although they were appalled at the destruction of their country, they appreciated that it was task that needed to be completed if the mutants were to be stopped.

  However, Chloe was still concerned:

  ‘Now that Lord Irvine has retreated into Breton and is clearly determined to set up a new British state despite the zombie threat, don’t you think we should go and just see what's going on?’

  Brady was not entirely convinced.

  ‘Chloe, if we go back, they will arrest us and we’ll end up in jail. We certainly can't fly in. There are no flights into Brittany from Spain. So how do you suggest we get there in any case?’

  Chloe had the answers:

  ‘Well, firstly, we’ve changed our names and appearance. I'm Kim Steyn and you are Peter Blindt – Dutch. They won't even be looking for us. And I've thought of a brilliant way to get to Breton – by motorhome or caravan. We could easily buy one locally and travel up through Spain and France. If we cross over towards the Basque region and travel via Biarritz and the west coast, we could be there in a week – or less.’

  Brady was surprised. Chloe had obviously been thinking about this a great deal, and he didn’t want to reject her suggestion out of hand. After all, she wasn’t a child anymore. She had grown up a great deal over the past six months.

  ‘I hear what you're saying, but do you really want to risk everything and put yourself in the path of a very dangerous threat?’

  Chloe’s reply was circumspect:

  ‘I'm not certain, which is why I'm discussing it with you. I certainly couldn’t do it without your support. It's just an option, that's all.’

  ‘Why don’t we wait to see what happens to the mutants. If they are destroyed and restricted to the UK, we could possibly consider the risk. I think that we should wait,’ counselled Brady, not really wanting to leave the relative safety of Spain. He was enjoying his sojourn on the Costa del Sol.

  ‘Ok,’ sighed Chloe, ‘let's give it a few more days.’

  ***

  Slumped into an armchair not five metres away, Ann Fletcher could not believe her luck. She had been relaxing in Jorge’s Café taking coffee and croissants, when Brady and Chloe walked in. As Jorge welcomed them like old friends, Ann had had time to raise her newspaper so that her face was hidden.

  She had listened to their conversation with interest, remaining hidden from view. Actually, she wasn’t sure whether they would still recognise her. She had only spotted Chloe and her blonde hair after a double take.

  Ann was intrigued as she observed the couple and eavesdropped.

  ‘Returning to Brittany,’ she thought, ‘I would never have dreamt it….but the more I think of it…the more I like the idea.’

  When Chloe and Brady departed, Ann waited a few moments, donned her sunglasses and floppy sun hat and took off in pursuit. She followed the pair at a distance, blending in with the other holidaymakers. She didn’t have far to go. Brady led Chloe up to the third level of the Cabopino Port complex and they entered an apartment on the top floor. She noted the number and exited the building unseen.

  ‘Bingo,’ she muttered, ‘that was easier than even I thought it would be. Perhaps it's time to send another e-mail and see what sort of response I get.’

  ***

  The transfer of power from Brussels to Breton was well underway.

  UKRA staffs had been working tirelessly over the past weeks setting up the HQ in Quimper, southwest Brittany. The Bretons and M. Zadou, the new Premier, had liaised and co-operated with their new countrymen, displaying very little animosity or ill-feeling. Occasionally, the odd aggrieved dissenter would cause problems, but the local authorities seemed to quell opposition with masterful compromise and conciliation. On the whole, the handover was going as well as could be expected.

  The staff manning the UKRA building in Brussels had been allocated housing as a priority. British airliners were transferring personnel at an increased rate and it was expected that the relocation of UKRA administrators would be complete within a week. There were thousands of vacant British owned holiday rental homes in the area which had been standing empty since their unfortunate landlords had perished in the snow. It was these that the new British Bretons occupied rent free.

  Local furniture outlets quickly grasped that all of their Christmasses had come at once. Each new occupant was given a generous cash allowance to beef up the sparse holiday furniture and household appliances. If anything, the DIY outlets profited even more. The supermarkets were flooded with new Bretons stocking up with domestic provisions for their new homes.

  Almost everybody was happy. Very happy, indeed!

  No sector more than the car salesmen. Over three thousand new vehicles were purchased by the UKRA Treasury Department and sales of fuel rocketed.

  It was the same old story.

  Townsfolk who lived near to British military bases didn’t always fully realise the economic benefits of having thousands of civil servants or soldiers and their families pumping cash into the local economy.

  They would grumble constantly about the ‘bloody British’ but regretted their rash complaints bitterly when millions of Euros suddenly dried up when the local camp closed.

  The new Bretons were being rehoused throughout the region, and wherever they landed, any initial disquiet was overcome as the shopping and spending began. Much of it paid for with the relief funding held in Switzerland which had been transferred to the British authorities in Breton. It was theirs after all.

  Lord Irvine had occupied his new suite of offices on the twentieth floor of the newly sequestered government building, and was settling in to his new job as joint Chief Minister of Breton with Premier Zadou, his French counterpart.

  Zadou realised the benefits of this mildly unholy alliance, and was extremely pleased with the outcome. If it hadn’t been for the mutant threat, the world would have been a particularly agreeable place.

  The mutants were indeed an enormous spoke in the works, but his assessment of the situation was similar to Lord Irvine. He didn’t expect the horde to reach Breton in the near future – if at all. The combined military forces of Europe were pounding the hell out their enclaves – and even if an invasion was successful, it would surely be near Calais – not down here in Bretagne. Surely, it was just too far for them to travel across open water. There had been extensive pictures on TV and in the newspapers of warships blasting the damned creatures out of the water as they attempted to set sail for France from Britain.

  For the time being he was content to concentrate on building the new independent state. It was clearly the best option.

  Bretagne was free of France – at last – and had a purpose built Armed Force to defend its borders. He had thousands of new citizens who would populate and cross-fertilize his country, and he had a huge source of new income which would make Breton a rich and powerful nation after the mutant threat was smashed.

  Indeed, Premier Zadou was a cautiously happy man.

  The bo
rder between Breton and France had been officially designated and approved by Paris, and was already being semi-monitored and protected by British forces. The troops were far happier defending road blocks and crossing points than having to fight mutants. It was boring work, but these people needed some respite.

  The new border ran from St Malo in the north, across the A54 motorway, round Fougeres and Rennes, down to Nantes and round to St Nazaire, and then on to the southern coastline. Small military encampments were being set up along the border, covering every major road into and out of Brittany. The complete border security system would take several weeks to set fully in place and no doubt, some illegal breaches would be successful.

  It was expected that some of the fleeing French population might try to gain entry into the relatively safe enclave of Breton, but the British military had already effectively prevented wholesale incursions. And even those who successfully crossed into Breton were soon discovered and promptly bussed back to France. After the Germans made the decision to prevent entry to their country and the masses realised that returning home was the only sensible option, the flow into Breton reduced to a trickle.

  One of the first tasks of the new joint administration was to issue Identity Cards. All Brits and Bretons with an address in the new state could apply for and received the new card. In essence, this preceded the new passport which would take a time longer to produce and distribute. Anyone without the new card would not be permitted to enter Breton.

  Millions were printed and distributed to the population. Each was given a unique programmable and readable square QR barcode tied to the specific individual, and could be read by interested parties on demand.

  An entire department was set up to create these ID cards and they were distributed from banks, post offices and local council offices, where the QR code was inserted. The locals were extremely happy to adopt the procedure, as it gave them added security against the swarms of refugees fleeing from the mutants. It was a very simple application procedure – full name, date of birth, address and old national insurance number. No photo was required as the QR could be refined in due course to hold additional personal information. However, it would take several months to introduce a foolproof system, and thus the government was allowing a period of grace to allow everybody to obtain a new card. This temporary amnesty would last three months and allow some legal and authorised entry to the new state. For example, British refugees may well still be in transit from all over Europe, travelling to relative safety from the transit camps and enforced provisional accommodation. In addition, it may be that non-British tourists or asylum seekers may want to enter Breton to experience and perhaps join its new future. After all, it wasn’t a prison camp!

  Overall, the transition was proceeding smoothly. It wasn’t perfect, but the two nationalities settled down to a sort of uneasy compromise. There was a lot of sympathy for the plight of the British and the Bretons realised that their independence from France would have a price. In the final analysis, it was an equitable deal.

  ***

  John and Eve Stubbins, their children and Bryan Wester touched down at Quimper in an Easy Jet Boeing-737 on Tuesday afternoon. The flight was full of medical staff – doctors, nurses, administrators - and some patients. All of the ex-UK based in-patients in Brussels would be transferred to the new medical facility over the coming weeks – if not sooner – but only by air, as the roads remained chaotic.

  The Stubbins and Bryan were transported to their new house in Quimper, recently vacated by a French family who had declined the offer to remain. They had been recompensed and re-housed in France and were probably now seriously regretting the move. However, it was far, far too late for second thoughts.

  There was only one problem with their new home. There was little or no furniture. The old occupants had spirited it all away to France and that first night was spent on the floor in sleeping bags hurriedly purchased at the local ‘Bricolage’ – or DIY store. Luckily, John’s swish new company car was waiting in the driveway, and with a handful of cash the family spent the day stocking up on food and immediate essentials. The next weeks would be spent refurnishing the property from top to bottom – Bryan’s job would be to ‘hump and dump’.

  ‘It looks like you’ve found your new purpose in life Bryan. I hope you like shopping!’ Eve joked. ‘We just won't have the time to wander round shops picking out fridges, beds and tables. You will also have to be our chauffeur, as you’ll need the car for getting about when we are at work. In addition, as if that is not enough, you’ll have to supervise the children. Did you read the handout given on the plane with information about the local area and the procedure for obtaining ID cards? You're going to be a busy man!’

  Bryan smiled.

  ‘I'm not complaining in the least. You don’t have to worry. I’ll get this place set up in no time and will look after the children.’

  This remark drew open-mouthed glares from the two teenagers.

  ‘It's alright, kids,’ interjected John, ‘before you start back at school, I'm sure that you can be of great assistance to Bryan. We all need to pull together. So no nonsense, please, from either of you!’

  The children knew not to argue or protest. John was a fair man, and deep down, the kids knew the score. It was a time of severe stress for all concerned, so they would, indeed, pull their weight.

  John and Eve had orders to report for work at the new hospital at 9am the next morning, where they would be inducted into the new system, and where John would take over as the new Chief Medical Officer in due course.

  They didn’t have much time to settle in, but were happy enough to comply with any new instruction.

  Their heads were spinning, but by now the feeling was becoming commonplace. Perhaps, they thought, this might just be the beginning of a permanent new life.

  Only time – and mutants – would tell!

  ***

  Ann Fletcher took a taxi into the local urbanisation of Riviera and was dropped at a computer store. She sought advice on how to access the internet on her i-phone and also purchased a tablet. Within thirty minutes she was sitting at a café, using their free Wi-Fi and sending a secret message to Chloe. They had discussed this option whilst in the USVI and had set up an unremarkable g-mail address, which was only to be used for sending obscure situation reports if they ever had to split up and evade the authorities searching for them.

  They had devised a simple code for transmitting an individual’s location whilst sitting by the pool one afternoon. They tried to teach Susie the system, but she had taken little interest as she was usually so drunk or spaced out, little could penetrate her increasingly addled brain.

  So Chloe and Ann had invented a basic system of communication, which had greatly helped Ann already. Their only previous exchange had led Ann to Marbella, where she had successfully traced Chloe and Brady.

  Now it was time to make further contact.

  The code was simple enough. A maximum four cryptic words to be used, each designating a separate meaning.

  Firstly; the sender’s situation. Was she on the run, cornered or stable?

  Secondly; country of residence.

  Thirdly; specific location.

  Finally, if necessary, proposal to meet and location.

  So Ann devised her message – slightly obscure of course, so that a casual observer would have no idea of the meaning. They considered the risks of their account being hacked by the CIA or MI5 as negligible. There were millions of g-mail accounts around the world every second, and even if their messages were intercepted, the cryptic nature would probably confound any pursuer.

  In short there was little chance of discovery, but a few precautions couldn’t hurt. The message read:

  ‘Marathon. Gaudi. Martini. ABBD0F.’

  Satisfied with her work, Ann sent the e-mail.

  ‘Marathon’ indicated that she was still running.

  ‘Gaudi’, that she was still in Spain.

  ‘Martini’ t
hat she was in Fuengirola. The Martini Bar was a favourite watering hole that Ann and Chloe had frequented.

  ‘ABBD0F’ transposed into numbers - 122406 – noon on the 24th of June. It was an invitation to meet at the Martini Bar the next day.

  Now all Chloe needed to do was to check her e-mails.

  ***

  Chloe did just that at around 8pm that evening.

  She had already accessed Ann’s previous message and imagined that she was still cruising in the Caribbean. However, when she logged on and read Ann’s latest missive, the hackles on her neck rose.

  It had taken a few minutes to decipher the message, but when she was certain of the correct meaning, she fell back in her chair and muttered an expletive.

  ‘Shit!’

  Brady was sitting opposite, sipping a G & T, waiting for the sun to set over Gibraltar. They had a spectacular view of the old British colony from their balcony, and the vibrant display of yellow, reds and oranges was a nightly treat not to be missed.