by Vance Huxley
Another man went in to collect the furniture. “Shit, it’s not up to much, just a camp bed.”
Corvette didn’t care because he’d just been thrown a lifeline, no matter how flimsy. “So we’ll take everything and throw it in there. Suitcases, sleeping bags, whatever.” More tents were pulled open or slashed and despite the orders, some refugees objected. A child began crying, some torches were turned on, briefly, and the noise grew.
* * *
“Tilly? There’s Hot Rods among the tents. I daren’t shoot in case I hit one of the refugees.” Gemma didn’t say the rest, about the kids in the tents.
“Run, get the others. We’ll line up, ready to fire when they come clear.” Tilly peeked through a gap in the top of the wall, only gaps like an old castle rather than loopholes because this wall wasn’t as high or as thick. She tried to count the Hot Rods but couldn’t get better than way too many. She heard the other seven Demons arriving and passed her instructions. “Shoot them when they reach the trench, while they’re trying to get across.”
Her plan lasted about thirty seconds as beds, then suitcases and packs, began flying out from among the tents and landing in the trench. While she frantically reassessed, more landed, and Tilly realised the Hot Rods were concentrating on two places. “Beverley, get some of the plastic containers full of paraffin, the ones for emergency lighting. Has anyone got any of those hot pipe bombs, the ones Barry made for setting stuff alight?” Tilly really, really hoped Ru hadn’t taken all the bombs.
“There’s one bomb, but just the standard boom sort.” Nate sounded torn between cautious and smug. “But I kept a fire bomb from the visit to Beth’s. Will that do?”
“Perfect, you naughty thieving git. Tape the other bomb to a container of paraffin. That’ll spread it at least. I’ll chuck my bloody lighter if I have to.” Tilly felt reassured by the ripple of sniggers.
“Here, four musket reloads tied up in a bandage from the First Aid. If I light it and throw, that’ll flare hot enough I reckon.” Several others bodged up something similar to set the paraffin alight.
“Here they come. Wait for it. Try to miss the tents.” Tilly really hoped she could. She lined up on a man at the end. As he gathered himself to jump onto the beds she called, “Fire!” and pulled the trigger. She barely glanced at the result, too busy reloading, but what she saw looked like success.
The Hot Rods stopped, stunned, then someone yelled, “Now, before they reload,” and the men threw themselves forward.
“Bombs!” Tilly dropped her musket and dragged out the revolver, one of only two pistols left in the Annex. She emptied all six chambers into the crowd trying to cross in front of her. Someone else emptied the other revolver at the other crossing place, while others heaved the bombs and paraffin over the wall. Men screamed and shouted, bullets came back and one of the Demons flew backwards to land in a crumpled heap. Tilly dropped the empty pistol, picking up her second musket to fire at a figure trying to pull himself out of the trench. Explosions split the night, flames roaring up as more muskets fired until voices out there called the men back.
It wasn’t over yet, because the Hot Rods were using the flames to aim at the defenders. The gangsters were more confident now, realising there weren’t many firing back. Within minutes they realised the Demons didn’t want to hit the refugees. “Come here lads, in front of the tents. The girlies won’t shoot the little babies, will you?” Corvette’s voice taunted Tilly, more so because he was right. Another Demon spun away from the wall. There were too many pistols and shotguns out there and not enough here in the Annex.
It didn’t happen straight away, but the knowledge grew until it became cold, hard certainty. Tilly had twelve muskets but there were already only five people left to shoot them. Nate was only hit in his shoulder but the Hot Rods wouldn’t close to Rambo range. “Cease fire. Keep down, load all the muskets and crossbows.” Tilly worked along the line of fighters, arguing, pleading and in the end ordering. “Wait until they try again then aim where there’s two of them, at the thick of the crowd. The second body will stop the bullet before it hits the tents. Once we start, don’t stop. Keep shooting until it’s over—us or them.”
Loading didn’t take long, with cranking the crossbows taking up most of the time, but the Hot Rods hadn’t been idle. They’d dragged out more beds, luggage, tables and chairs, clubbing several of the refugees when they tried to hang onto their belongings. Other refugees tried to get their goods back, until the gangsters shot one. The Hot Rods waited for the fire to die down, shooting when a head showed inside the Annex or jeering when nobody fired back.
A quick glance told Tilly she daren’t wait because the flames were nearly gone. She needed the light to shoot by. “Three, two, one, fire!” She’d no idea how the others managed, but Tilly aimed at the men and mentally blanked out the tents behind them. Five 20 mm lead balls smashed through the group. Seconds later another five smashed through, once again where the men clustered, some of the balls hitting two men. The five crossbow bolts were deadly accurate, as were the following three; a point of honour with Demons.
The Hot Rods reeled as half of them were killed or wounded in seconds, their return fire wildly inaccurate. Before they’d really recovered another musket fired because Nate, and three non-fighters from nearby houses, had taken over the loading. More screams rose from among the Hot Rods and the tents until the yelling from the tents took on a different note, changing from fear to anger.
The first man to charge out simply grabbed a Hot Rod and launched both of them into the trench. The woman behind him tried to push her victim in, then fought for his weapons as another three refugees piled in to help her. The gangsters pulled their machetes, trying to drive the refugees back but it was already too late. By the time the first Hot Rods turned their pistols on the tents, shooting wildly, the refugees were already in among them, kicking, biting, scratching or stabbing with kitchen knives. It wasn’t long before someone realised the dead gangsters all had much better weapons.
The Hot Rods were hard-bitten, experienced fighters, the type who would have normally slaughtered a mob like this. Now, with the enemy already among them, with anything up to five attacking each man, and after the hammer blow of the muskets, the fighters broke. First one, then more men turned and ran for the walls and the darkness. Behind them they left the survivors even more outnumbered, enough so that training and armour no longer mattered.
“Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire.” Tilly didn’t really need to repeat herself because, like her, the others had stopped. None of them could pick out a target in the swirling mass of struggling bodies. The mob concentrated in fewer places until those still fit enough charged off up and over the wall, waving steel and baying for vengeance. Behind them the survivors moaned and cried and then the first mother came out of a tent, wailing as she held out a small, still shape. Tilly dropped her musket. Her hand went to her mouth as her stomach heaved, and she turned away and ran.
* * *
Across Orchard Close guns bellowed and steel clashed, the night torn apart by flame and piercing screams. There were no battle lines. Women, and men on both sides, died before they found out who was friend or foe, some from friendly fire because nobody took any chances. Here and there, once they realised just how many residents in the houses around them were armed, Hot Rods seized hostages. Sometimes desperate residents were enough to save the day, sometimes the hostages died with their captors, and in a few cases the Hot Rods surrendered. None were allowed to escape.
By now many of Ru’s surviving fighters were wounded, but as each group of gangsters died, the nearby fighters joined the Demons. Again and again the Riot Squad regrouped, relatively fit fighters replacing the dead and crippled. There’d been no chance for Harold to win a firearms exchange so too often the shields met guns, but if the survivors could still stand and hold a weapon they kept going. The Riot Squad carried their own pistols and crossbows but had to worry about hitting the residents in the surrounding hous
es. Sometimes the Riot Squad had a clear shot, or there were enough people in the houses around, residents with a weapon, to pin the gangsters until the shields closed in. Elsewhere the Hot Rod guns took a terrible toll, but once the shield wall made contact the result was always the same. The Riot Squad became almost exclusively women, because even as the shield line ran into contact and the Rambos went in, the gangsters were shooting at the taller spearmen and women. None survived to learn just how dangerous the line of smaller women with shields could be.
Despite their casualties, the Riot Squad kept reorganising into disciplined squads, while the Hot Rods splintered and died. When Harold and Ru met over the bodies of the last organised resistance and the fighting finally died away, not a single Hot Rod had made it out of the main enclave. The refugees from the tents straggled back from their pursuit, exhausted and grieving but satisfied that none of their attackers got away. There were no prisoners in the gardens, but elsewhere Hot Rods tried to trade their captives for freedom. Nobody wanted to let them leave so calls went up for recognised leaders to negotiate Hot Rod surrenders. As the last few invaders finally gave up, one man supplied a little much-needed humour.
The gangster was willing to surrender, eager to surrender, as long as Harold promised to keep Liz away from him. Most of those who heard about it laughed because they all knew Liz couldn’t fight, but then word spread about the state of the other two Hot Rods. Right now Liz didn’t care about the bloke; she stayed firmly fixed on getting Henry some medical attention. Patricia gave her the good news, once she’d replaced the padding with a dressing. Henry would have a bad headache but he’d live, though the crossbow bolt would stay where it was until Lenny had time to take it out. Right now the paramedic had too many patients who were dying, and little hope of saving them all.
* * *
Dawn was breaking as Harold limped up to Orchard Close, after a fast march to kill Caddi’s drivers and collect their vehicles. He stopped just inside the gates, looking slowly around with a sense of despair. Bodies, both gangsters and residents, lay scattered in the street. The bullet holes, the shattered doors and windows and the pools, trails and spatters of blood across the street, paths and walls told a gruesome story: a story that had ended for too many of those calling Orchard Close their home.
Orchard Close survivors, all wounded but heavily armed, came past Harold and out of the front gate. Each one escorted a pair of Hot Rod prisoners, who were dumping dead Hot Rods in the potato field. The stretchers carried by residents were moving more slowly, gently, carrying Orchard Close wounded to the hospital. Lenny and Patricia had the skills to deal with fairly serious wounds, but some of these were well beyond their capabilities. Other wounded fighters were being helped into Cherry Tree House, where Celine, June and Janine had taken over a downstairs flat as an emergency clinic.
Despite the bloodshed and deaths Harold was relieved. He’d half-expected a helicopter gunship and napalm to top off the chaos and gunfire in the darkness. Orchard Close had survived, but too many of the defenders might still die from their wounds or infection.
2 – Chasing an Ambulance
Like Harold, many of the other fighters who were still on their feet were shattered, exhausted. Some simply sat down where they were and slept, while others were almost dragged towards a bed by friends or concerned neighbours. A succession of people pushed Harold towards his house. He should go and get cleaned up, see Mercedes, eat, drink and try to sleep, while those who were fitter and less tired took over.
One of those pushing, Doll, promised nobody would be going soft on the Hot Rods in the interim. Ever since the drugged blonde had woken up, laid in a guard house tied hand and foot, she’d been looking for an excuse to kill a Hot Rod. Most of those who’d been given Trev’s sleeping draught were also wide awake and in a foul humour. Those who’d been targeted by Caddi’s squads and forced to sit, helpless, while Hot Rods threatened their loved ones, were murderous. At least the Hot Rods had been careful with their captives, because Caddi wanted slaves to work for him and women to sell. Despite that, two of the drugged guards would never wake up again, while Gayle had been giving the last two oxygen and hoping for the best.
Sharyn spoke to Harold as he came in, quickly and quietly; an update on Mercedes, Casper, and the kids. His bed, the carpets and all the bodies had already been taken out, the floors scrubbed, and a three-quarter bed had been brought from the girl club for Mercedes. Harold took his food and drink through to his bedroom, where he found that someone had put an armchair next to the bed. Mercedes seemed to be sleeping, but he sat holding her hand and talking quietly between bites, telling her what had happened. There were things he had to do, Harold explained, and he’d rest enough to get them done, but he promised to rest right here. Harold smiled as Mercedes opened her eyes. She tried to smile back, winced, and slowly closed her eyes again.
Even as he smiled, Harold berated himself. He’d gone and done it again, let his guard down and cared for someone, and this time he’d actually thought she’d be safe. Worse, he really had given his heart to Mercedes, completely and utterly. He’d encouraged her and that had killed her.
Sharyn had just told him that Lenny daren’t even try to find out where the bits of bullet had gone, let alone dig them out. There was a soft patch where Caddi punched Mercedes, so the broken rib had been driven inwards. The jagged end might be in a lung, or plugging a big artery, so Lenny daren’t try to move it. The paramedic didn’t have the skills and thought any attempt to operate would just kill Mercedes quicker. Now Harold would spend as much time as possible with Mercedes, until she died. After that there’d be all the time in the world to sort out the other shit because he’d have no distractions, not ever again.
* * *
After eating Harold dozed for a while, but jerked awake at every loud noise. Eventually, after Mercedes had roused enough to whisper, “Hi” before drifting off again, he gave up on rest. He threw himself into the rescue work, in most cases moving the bodies of friends and neighbours. Tilly caught up with him, to apologise for the dead in the tents, but Harold had already seen them and the three dead Demons in the Annex. He’d also seen the number of dead Hot Rods, and heard about how many ran off, and Ru had told him she’d only left eight to defend the Annex. Harold told Tilly she’d done the right thing, the only thing she could, but it didn’t make much difference. Ru limped off to pour beer spiked with vodka into a distraught Tilly, pass hankies, and sit with her until she passed out.
Ru needed something to keep her away from the surviving Hot Rods. Her friend Wamil lay on the edge of death, with so many wounds and broken bones Lenny daren’t even try to operate. He thought even moving her from the stretcher could push a bone or bullet through something vital. The tall, quiet woman had been comforting a small group of women and children when bullets came through the window, killing a boy and wounding a girl and her mother.
According to eyewitnesses, Wamil ran out the door, calling on the six men to stop shooting. The Hot Rods hadn’t fired, probably hoping to use her as a hostage because Wamil obviously wasn’t a fighter, but when she reached them Wamil plucked her Katari from inside her sari. For the first time ever Wamil struck with her full strength, her blade, hands, knees, elbows and feet tearing the group of heavily-armed gangsters apart. By the time any of the Riot Squad could reach her, Wamil’s opponents were too distracted or badly injured to put up a fight.
Wamil should have died because she’d had no shield or armour, but her battered body still clung to life. Despite her martial arts skills, in among six men she couldn’t dodge everything. Too many blows from maces and machetes had hit her before help arrived, as did a crossbow bolt and two bullets. Now Ru wanted to stake out every Hot Rod survivor for the crows and seagulls, which were already swooping down on the bodies. The younger teenagers were keeping the birds from the Orchard Close casualties, until a house could be organised for a temporary morgue.
More people intercepted Harold, a good few of them wanting a word
with Trev, the man who drugged the guards and let Caddi in. Harold told them to join the queue, though he really did feel tempted to let the women or the crows have him. Before that Harold wanted to know what other secrets Trev had given up, if he’d been the General’s spy as well and if he had any accomplices. With a bullet through his hips Trev wouldn’t be running away, so it wasn’t urgent.
Pete, Tessa’s little brother, had told Caddi about Harold being a clerk, not SAS, but he wouldn’t be going far either. Harold wondered if Tessa would intervene to save her brother but when he mentioned Pete, Tessa told him her brother wasn’t a problem. He had enough things that were problems, so Harold let it drop.
The three Hot Rods who took over the hospital and captured Patricia and Lenny, one survivor from the forge, and those who surrendered other hostages meant there were nine virtually unharmed prisoners. There were also two wounded who both insisted they could work. There’d been other wounded Hot Rods, captured during the fighting, but every survivor who couldn’t work had been triaged by the Riot Squad. Bethany swore it was only to save Lenny time and medicine, but at least nobody seemed to have tortured them first.
* * *
As the litany of dead and severely wounded rolled in, first the antibiotics then most of the other medical supplies ran out. Harold could only see one solution. Mercedes was only one of a list of badly injured, most of whom still had a bullet, bolt or shrapnel still inside them. At the very least gangrene would kill them, because even the highly illegal military medical kits sent down by the soldiers on the bypass had run out. Boiled water just wasn’t going to be enough. Orchard Close couldn’t even restock with ordinary disinfectant, bandages, plasters and painkillers from a Mart, not for another four days. Dealer wouldn’t be bringing antibiotics for another fortnight.