by Vance Huxley
Three hours later, dusk was gathering as the shadows lengthened. The fighting had moved on to a hamlet two miles away before a repair crew finally arrived. The truck had been delayed because the road had been cut, temporarily, in three places, and two burned-out trucks had to be pushed clear. The engineers immediately set up their lights and started on the repair.
Close to the stone wall in a nearby field, hidden by the gathering darkness, earth heaved up as Reivers dug themselves and their weapons out of the soil. They’d volunteered to put Kendrick’s theory into practice.
* * *
Far to the south, almost as far as Edinburgh, a young man stepped back from the crude periscope with a big sigh of relief, his face pinched with cold. “Arbroath.” A low cheer greeted the one word, quickly dying away because his audience were cold and exhausted. They were also wet, stank of stale sweat and sick of breathing air that smelled of puke and piss. A line of bicycles without wheels ran down the old fuel tank and its twin, driving the chains that turned the crude propellers. The Ugly Duckling was almost on target. “Nearly there. We could reach from Kirkcaldy but if we can get another ten miles? We can use Aberdour Golf Course to set up properly, then every single one will be on target.”
“What day is it Marvin? Are we on time?” Some repeated the question while others tried to answer until Marvin raised a hand to stop them, a big smile splitting his face.
“We’re in plenty of time, even if the tides and currents push us back a wee bit. Dinnae worry, we’ll deliver the message. Happy Mayday, ye furrin basteds.”
“Drinks all round.” That brought real laughter because the only potable liquid on board was boiled water, stale after the voyage. “A double, on me.”
“Let’s get past Kirkcaldy, then ye can all hae a double. We’ll light the barbecue a couple o’ days after.” That even raised a laugh from the people curled up on inflatable mattresses, trying to sleep between shifts on the bikes. Water sloshed back across the floor, soaking the bedding again, but nobody complained about cold or wet anymore. Every single volunteer was driven onwards by grief and hate, and the hope of getting some measure of vengeance. Unseen, unsuspected, the Ugly Duckling crept slowly south, safely hidden beneath the cold grey waters of the North Sea.
* * *
The Cabal:
Owen banged his gavel on the table repeatedly until the rest of the Cabal turned away from the screen. The whooping and cheering died away, leaving smiling faces all around the table. With the sound muted, the screen carried on showing planes and helicopters swooping down on fleeing civilians and fighters, followed by tanks smashing barricades and blowing up houses. “That is very impressive, but there is still the rest of the country to deal with.” Despite his tone, Owen had a big smile because Joshua’s idea had worked out very nicely.
“We’ve killed a dozen of their commanders.” Vanna beamed triumphantly. “My snipers are right up with the front line, shooting anyone in charge, civilian or fighter.”
“You haven’t got the two important ones.” Joshua didn’t like Vanna’s shooters, cold-blooded killers with rifles but not real snipers. He hated having to insist on their deployment when the foreign army units complained, and thought the British Army might actually refuse to allow the killers near their units. “It would help if they didn’t shoot women and kids for fun. Then important targets wouldn’t know the real snipers were waiting.”
“That’s practice to keep them sharp. What does it matter? Everyone we catch is going straight to a processing centre.” Vanna shrugged, completely unrepentant. “We’d shoot them all on the spot but that would use up too much ammunition.”
“Save your ammunition, because the troops at the front might need a lot more than expected.” Joshua picked up the controls, changing the picture. A tank sat, apparently unscathed while nearby a truck burned, surrounded by sprawled uniformed figures.
“We knew there would be opposition, but as long as the armour keeps blowing it away we can’t lose. A few casualties don’t matter.” Maurice sounded dismissive while several of the others shrugged or murmured agreement.
“But the tank can’t move forward to blow anything away.” The picture changed, to show a length of track laid out behind the tank. “Those bodies aren’t soldiers, and most aren’t tank crew. That is the repair crew, and whoever hit them passed up a dozen chances to ambush soldiers. The Reivers weren’t after body count.” Joshua zoomed the picture in. “Those men will be hard to replace, while some of the equipment on their vehicle is both expensive and specialised. With luck this is a one-off, but the man on the spot didn’t think so.”
“Send more helicopters or soldiers to protect the repairers.” Vanna pointed at the screen. “Surround the repairers with civilians so the Reivers can’t hit them.”
“Mortars, home-made, and short-range so there wasn’t time to get into cover, or for a helicopter to react. The Reivers know what we do with prisoners, so they’ll consider hitting a human shield mercy killing. The tank crew did best, probably from bitter experience. They rolled under their vehicle as soon as they heard the incoming. A mix of shrapnel and fire, nothing likely to dent steel, so unless one dropped through the hatch the tank would shrug them off.” Joshua sat back and looked around the table, but none of the others were worried enough. “Don’t you understand? This is very clever tactic. If we can’t repair in the field, every damaged tank or APC will have to be transported back behind the lines, south of Inverness. We have more armour, but we daren’t put it all into the front line or there’ll be no reserve. The advance will be slowed to a crawl.”
“But they’ll still keep advancing, the soldiers?” Joshua nodded, reluctantly, so Vanna sat back with a big smile. “So what’s the problem? We don’t need a reserve with the line of steel in place, and anyway the Reivers can’t raid for food while they’re protecting civilians. As long as they move a few miles a day, the tanks will reach John O’Groats before the snow comes again. On the way they’ll slaughter the Reiver fighters.” Others joined in to agree. Throw everything into the attack. Speed didn’t matter as long as the troops kept moving north. What was the point of keeping battle tanks in reserve, when the Reivers didn’t have any armour?
Joshua gave up because none of the other Cabal members understood. Any defence line needed a backstop, a fast-reaction reserve force, while every field operation needed some leeway, time to deal with the unexpected. He’d been working on having a month in hand, at least, but not now. Now he’d be forced to rotate his reserve armour through Inverness and up to the front, along a long, vulnerable supply line as the soldiers pushed north. Normally he could secure a supply route, but too many of these Reivers were prepared to die as long as they cut the supply route for a couple of hours. The Reiver’s huge stockpiles from looted Mart convoys would have been converted into explosives over the winter. The suicide bombers would keep coming as long as the Reivers had volunteers.
While the others congratulated each other, Maurice amused them with pictures of fights between enclaves. Joshua ignored them, working on a way to mitigate the Reiver’s latest move. He’d send the transporters forward immediately, with the reserve armour, before more tanks were stranded. They’d travel in pairs, with the tanks aboard fully armed and crewed to protect themselves and the lorries. The line of steel had better hold, because that reserve armour was supposed to be the emergency response if it was breached. A quick check showed Joshua the transporters were scattered all over the country, another delay.
While he worked on the orders, Joshua could hear the others laughing about the big fight over the diesel lorry. He’d seen those reports, with some footage. His analysts had highlighted several gangs showing distinct signs of military competence. The city residents wouldn’t be anything like a rabble when the time came. He made a quick note to push harder for Henry’s idea to be adopted more widely, giving more of the less violent a refuge because they’d probably be the best led fighters. The murderers leading other gangs, those Maurice encoura
ged, tended to concentrate on the killing rather than discipline or strategy.
* * *
Cyn Palace:
Despite the big meeting, none of the surrounding gangs wanted to join the Cyn Palace five for joint planning. Instead, a very reliable pair, Marcie and Davie, went around the local area and plotted all the differences between the supplied map and the reality on the ground. Davie might not have had many years in the Army, but he had more experience of urban battlefields than anyone else here, and he certainly wouldn’t betray Marcie. Hopefully Judge, and the people on that stage, could adapt their overall strategy to suit the alterations. Sin kept remembering the request about radios, and wondering if Harry Corporal Miller still remembered Cynthia and the Cyn Palace. She couldn’t dance in a broom cupboard again, or not with him, but Harry wouldn’t know that until he arrived.
7 – Offers and Options
A sense of abnormal normality settled over Orchard Close. The General and his army were still out there, a huge steel-plated other shoe that might or might not drop, but any immediate danger from the neighbours had eased. The Hot Rods were keeping quiet, hoping everyone left them alone, while to the north the Geeks had invaded their neighbours and were winning. Despite rumours of an alliance while trying to get the tanker, Wellington had captured an estate belonging to Kurt’s Kutters and held it. Kurt was missing, presumed dead, leading to other rumours there’d been a fight, not an alliance. Harold kept quiet about the surge in firearms the Geeks wanted him to repair. Between the repairs and what Vulcan told him about Wellington slaughtering Kutters, Harold felt sure Kurt was one of the heap of stripped bodies.
There were several small celebrations in Orchard Close as the news spread about Darwin, tempered by a few regrets that they hadn’t killed him themselves. The recovering Riot Squad were very happy when the Geeks paid for gun repairs with new crossbows, though Caddi had also donated quite a few. Between crossbows, pistols, machete-type blades and Rambos, the forty-three new recruits were learning plenty of ways to kill a man, even if they might need several tries to finish him off. Those too badly wounded to practice properly, along with anyone else the Coven could round up, repaired the damaged armoured vests that Harold hadn’t sold to Dealer. The expanding Riot Squad either altered them to fit or wore extra clothes underneath to pad them out.
Now that Henry could sit and keep her company, Liz used her lovely new forge to ramp up the production of crossbow bolts and produce new helmets. Henry held things for her, sometimes, though the wicked smile when Liz told Casper stopped any further enquiries.
Casper had started a few rumours, though he seemed oblivious. Some people had noticed that he sort-of had a personal nurse. Although Casper had pulled the crossbow bolt out of his leg, the big thigh muscle would take a long time to heal. Josh, a quiet refugee from the Murphies, volunteered to fetch and carry. When Josh moved in and slept on Casper’s couch a few wanted to know if he needed a muzzle, like Fury, while others looked for any hint of a romance. As the days passed without any fuel for the rumours, most people settled for Josh being a friendly, helpful type.
Casper definitely needed help when Harold decided that sections of the walls needed to be higher. “Cripes, Harold, we’re still thickening some of them. How high do you want?”
“A lot higher, but only along those stretches. Just a couple of bricks thick, front and back, as long as nobody realises the centre is hollow. If we’re going to be attacked they’ll go for the lower sections so we can concentrate our gunfire.” Harold almost mentioned Dealer, and his emphasis on Caddi not needing a way through the walls. Dealer must think someone else would try and there weren’t many candidates. If the General had a lorry ram there wasn’t time to raise all the walls at full thickness. “We’ve got plenty of guns, but not enough people for a wide front.”
“It’s a good job my apprentices survived, but if I’m supposed to hide what we’re doing I could do with a couple of magicians as well.” Both apprentices had lived, but only one would be actually building because the other had his arm in a sling. “I hope you’ve got some trainees for us cripples to boss about, and another half million bricks.”
“Ask Josh to wield the whip if its needed. Better yet, get him to drive my pickup and bring more bricks.” Harold left it at that, and hoped Casper understood that using a vehicle meant urgent, please. Despite the electric cars and the bowser, diesel still wasn’t being squandered.
* * *
Midmorning, Harold took time off to deal with one outstanding item. Now that Roller had accepted the new boundary, the newly liberated estate needed to know. Before leaving, he checked with some of the scouts who’d been watching the place. “Has anyone visited them, from either the Hot Rods or the GOFS?”
“Nope. We kept out of sight, like you said. Everyone is just getting on with life. There’s a youth and a bloke who stand by the entrance when someone drives past. The crossbow and machetes from the guards we shot have disappeared someplace, but they aren’t on show.” Beverley smirked at her next thought. “The residents seemed quite pleased when we carted all the bodies past them on the way to the border. I don’t think they’re upset about the old landlords.”
“No firearms? Not even crossbows?” That seemed careless to Harold, and dangerous for the residents.
“Just the Hot Rod weapons, which are probably tucked away someplace nearby. The pair on the entrance are unarmed but I reckon a lone scroat getting heavy with them would get a shock, probably through the chest from the nearest window. They’ve got the message about not being Hot Rods, because nobody has been weeding the big strip of land Caddi forced them to farm.” Beverley looked curious, but she wasn’t very old and the Murphies had been relatively benevolent landlords in some ways. “Why don’t they keep weeding and grow the stuff for themselves?” She paused, thinking, so Harold waited. “They think we’ll take it?” He nodded. “But why, when we’ve got Emmy’s rolling acres?”
“Because they’ve never seen them, and they expect no better from a gang. Caddi didn’t let them stray far from home or even scavenge from the ruins. Do you fancy coming with me to give them the good news?” Harold laughed at the enthusiastic nodding. He laughed more often since Mercedes had adjusted the sleeping arrangements.
After all the worrying about diesel, and insisting everyone walk when possible, Harold still couldn’t get used to the electric cars. The lack of noise felt eerie, especially at any real speed. Within minutes the three cars arrived at the small group of habitable houses Caddi had ‘rented’ to the occupants. Sure enough, the youth and bloke came out of a nearby house, although they didn’t try to block the road. Behind them someone must have been spreading the news because more people were gathering.
Harold quickly assessed the estate, which consisted of twenty-three houses surrounded by a low heap of rubble. The fifty-one residents lived in the habitable fifteen homes, split between two half-streets that were joined by a rough track. One street consisted of semi-detached houses, while detached houses and bungalows lined the other section. Even the latter were fairly basic, looking a long way from new with some windows that were sealed with plywood or planks. The salvaged plastic wrapping fastened to several roofs looked really strange.
Harold pulled himself back to the job in hand because the poor sods in front of him didn’t know what to expect. “Hello, I’m Harold, from Orchard Close. Why is there plastic on the roof?” He bit that off and stuck out a hand. “Sorry. It just looks odd, with all the spare tiles laid around.”
“Callum. They’re not our tiles, are they?” The older man looked wary but let a little sarcasm leak through.
“Cripes, didn’t Caddi let you fix the houses? Miserable git.” Nate, another of the usual scouts watching the place, looked from house to house as realisation dawned. “I thought you were just, well, that you didn’t care what the houses looked like.”
“Even if we didn’t care about the looks, we definitely care about the draughts and the leaks.” Callum took a deep
breath and asked the big question. “Are you here for rents?”
“What for? They’re not my houses.” Harold couldn’t help smiling at the sudden cautious calculation in Callum’s eyes. “The last landlord is dead, so I suppose its finders keepers. How much of the ruins around here do you claim?”
“Claim?” The bloke opened his mouth four times, and four times he said nothing. He finally got out, “None, because we can’t keep it. Which means the houses are yours or belong to the first arse who turns up with a gun.”
“Nate, give Callum a gun.” As the youth held out a pistol Harold nodded towards it. “Now you can claim it, or join us. Before you decide, you’ve seen the border?” A ripple of nods, mutters and chuckles from the small crowd was answer enough. “Roller took over the Hot Rods. He’s agreed to that border, so nobody will be coming round here to give you grief. There might be the occasional loner or small group trying to steal women or food. If you’ve got somewhere we can sit and talk, I’ll explain the options.”
“Do you mean that? We have options? Caddi’s lot reckoned you’re a rogue SAS sniper, really bad news.” This woman looked over the young men and women with Harold. “At least your people believe in basic hygiene. I’m Millicent, and you can use my front room.”
* * *
Ten minutes later Millicent, Callum and half a dozen other residents had heard Harold’s quick and nasty explanation. “So we can be independent and do whatever we like, or we can join you, and do as we like except we shouldn’t abuse each other or steal each other’s food. In the second case half a dozen of us go to your place for training, and you leave us half a dozen guards until the trainees return. No rent, but if we want guns or guards we pay for them with food or work in your fields. We keep all our coupons, and you’ll lend us a car if we want to come on the Mart runs.” Millicent hesitated, then asked. “What’s the catch?”
Harold smiled, hopefully reassuringly. “None, but it probably won’t be quite as simple as that. Basically we didn’t set out to conquer you. Now we don’t want to rule you, but don’t want to leave you helpless. Any suggestions?”