UK2

by Terry Tyler

  I asked Dex where they've gone, and he said they've been transferred to a new centre in rural Lincolnshire, called UK Mercia.

  "It's all part of UK2, but it concentrates on agriculture. Don't worry, Flora; you know Alex, Erika and I have everyone's well-being at heart, and I felt that Ollie and Glenn might be a better 'fit' for Mercia; it suits those who have a problem with the rules and regulations in Central."

  "Do you think maybe Paul and Davina's family might be better off there? Because Paul is having a few problems with the rules and regulations, isn't he?"

  He nodded, as if he was giving my suggestion real consideration, which was nice. "You're right, Flora. I think they may well be. I'll have a word with Alex."

  A couple of days later I'm home alone again, making the finishing touches to Davina's cushion, when she turns up in a terrible state because she's told Paul about Avery being pregnant.

  Oh no!

  "He wanted to know why she keeps being sick and I couldn't lie to him, he's my husband, and now he's stormed off to find Zack, and I don't know what to do! Please, will you come with me so we can try to calm him down?"

  I'm all warm and cosy inside our flat, I've been tired today, and I don't see what I can do to help, anyway. "I don't know, I—"

  "Please! Julie won't get involved, nor will Suzanne and Naomi, and I don't know anyone else well enough to ask, I just need a bit of moral support. Paul's so fond of you, if you talk to him I'm sure he'll see sense."

  So I put down my work, and dress warmly in my cape and long leather boots. The cold late November air hits me as we walk outside; I've always hated being out at night, and Zack is in Rez 6, which about one and a half miles away. Davina says Paul is walking because they don't have the credits for petrol, but he can walk much faster than us so I don't see how we're going to get there in time anyway. If only Chester was here he could drive us; it's his third night out this week, and I'm not very happy about that, either, if the truth be known.

  The nice security guards smile at me as we walk past.

  "You take care out there, Miss!" says the older one, Grant. "Where are you off to?"

  It's only 8pm, so we're allowed to be out; Davina starts to say something about it being none of his business, and I have to shush her up.

  I tell him. Not about Avery, obviously; I just say that Davina's concerned because her husband has an issue with someone in Rez 6, and we want to make sure the discussion stays civil.

  "Sounds like you could do with a bit of back-up," he says, and tells his friend to hold the fort. "Come on, I'll take you there myself."

  I am so relieved I want to throw my arms around him. We get into his little open cart, and trundle through the empty streets; the cold night air is biting even at low speed, and I nestle my face into my hood.

  "Have a little nip of this." He passes a hip flask back to Davina; when he pulls it out of his pocket I notice he's got a gun. They scare me, but it makes me feel safer, at the same time.

  The Rez Zones are set far apart. There is probably a quarter of a mile between each one, because eventually the spaces between will be filled up with shops and businesses, but right now they're just empty sites with the occasional shell of a building, and it gets more scruffy and mucky the further we go. The roads are laid out like a grid, but there's nothing in them. It's creepy and eerie driving along these funny pretend streets, like being on a film set, not a real town in which the houses and buildings have grown up over the years. The only sound I can hear, apart from the whirr of the cart, is the odd bit of shouting from people wandering along the streets.

  There's a chance we might get there first, even though Paul's had a head start.

  "Here we are," he says, as we turn a corner. "Rez 6. Do you know which block he's in?"

  "I don't know. He's a single lad," Davina says.

  "6C, then." Grant pulls into the entrance, and shows his pass.

  "Bit of noise from C," says the guard. "Fella said he wanted to see a mate so I let him through; gave me a couple of beers for my trouble. Dunno if it might have been a mistake."

  There are lots of lights on in Block C. People looking out of their windows, onto the communal garden at the front.

  We're too late.

  Paul is outside, on the grass, kneeling astride a boy I presume to be Zack, and he's punching him in the face.

  "Oh, Christ Almighty," says Grant, and gets out, dashing over to them and shouting something into a radio.

  "It's okay," someone calls out. "We've pressed the alarm. The CETs are on their way!"

  Davina leaps off the cart and rushes over to where Grant is pulling Paul off Zack; I follow, but hang back because I'm scared. What if someone throws a punch and it hits me by mistake, and hurts my baby?

  Davina's terribly upset, trying to put her arms around Paul, but Grant has a gun to his head, and he's trying to reason with them, asking them to calm down—and then the CETs arrive, and it's all loudspeakers, lights and shouting, and they put Paul in handcuffs and lead him away.

  "Wh-where will they take him?" I ask Grant.

  "Holding bay, love. Couple of secure rooms at the back, give him a chance to calm down."

  "He's going to be locked up, like a prisoner?" Davina starts screaming all sorts of terrible things at the CETs, then she collapses into my arms, which is hard because she's about four inches taller than me, and I'm wishing, so badly, that I had never come out tonight.

  I need Chester.

  I need my mum and dad.

  Chapter Twenty

  Doyle

  UK Central

  November 29th, 2026

  I'm keeping my head down.

  Surprisingly, I was invited on a few more recruitment trips after my first lacklustre appearance, and I made a bit more of an effort because I liked getting out and about. But it was so hard not to tell the truth how great life isn't, in Central. It could be, but it's not a caring community, it's an oligarchy. Verlander, Erika and the rest of the in crowd don't giving a shit about the workers as long as they keep building, keep cleaning, keep collecting supplies and growing food.

  They keep us ignorant; no information about the outside world is imparted, apart from stories about dangerous Outliers, and there is nothing to read or watch aside from fantasy, romance and action adventure.

  I couldn't tell the inhabitants of the settlements that safe walls, hot water and nights sitting in front of a TV screen are worth losing their freedom, so I just told them about the good things, like the flushing toilets, and the school (sorry, 'Learning Zone'), now up and running with some great teachers who actually care about the kids, though they are only allowed to teach the UK2 curriculum. And yes, Lennie's army provides excellent security. But I'm not keen on this new Contract Enforcement lot, who leap straight in the minute there is any unrest; some are too keen to press the buzzer. And the Juno programme is just spooky. Twenty-odd pregnant females now, all attending classes to tell them how to bring up their kids, UK2 style.

  Shades of Hitler Youth.

  You want to live at Central, you do what they say, wear what they say, even though you could find better stuff for yourself if only individual scavenging was allowed. The clothing brought in by the Collections teams is as per Alex Verlander's directive, and it doesn't leave much room for individuality. Jeans, t-shirts, combat pants, hoodies, fleeces; serviceable workwear, for both sexes. Verlander says it's to promote a sense of unity, much like the 'branded workwear options' for the Hub staff.

  Sure it is.

  There is nicer stuff in the Hub stores, but only the lucky few, like me, have access to it. I dress down, in jeans and black. I want to blend in.

  We're expanding. We have UK Mercia, with more planned; I believe work has begun on UK North, for which swathes of the North Yorkshire Moors are being levelled.

  I'm keeping my head down.

  I don't want to end up in UK Mercia, not since Barney told me more about it.

  "Basically, when we clear out the settlements north
of Birmingham, the normals come to Central and the plebs go to Mercia."

  "How do you decide who's a pleb?"

  "How d'y'think? For 'plebs', read 'immunes who were less likely to get the vaccine than you are to get into Erika's frillies'." He laughed at his own wit. "Anti-government protestors, thick bastards, unemployed, criminals. The scumbags who turned over the vaccination units to get their shot. Anyone what don't want to behave."

  I haven't been invited on any more recruitment trips since Barney complained to Verlander about my lack of enthusiasm.

  At least he was honest about having made this complaint.

  "I need someone who can do a bit of cheerleading for me, not keep trotting out his 'yee-hah, a flushing khazi' story. People don't want to hear about you shitting in the woods. It don't paint a very pretty picture."

  Fair dos. I guess I have told that one a few too many times.

  I'm keeping my head down because troublemakers from Central end up in Mercia, too. A van load was taken up just recently. A group from a camp in Cornwall who kept breaking curfew to (horrors!) visit each other's apartments after 10pm, and these two lads called Ollie and Glenn from Lindisfarne. Glenn took his chip out, and made a right mess of his shoulder.

  "He's bloody sharp, Al is," Barney says, with a chuckle. "He says, 'Mercia is for folks what have difficulty settling into the routine of Central'. He says it like he's doing 'em a favour, and has 'em believing it, too."

  "So what, is it more laid back?"

  Barney finds this most amusing. "You're joking! It makes this place look like Club Med!"

  "What do you mean?"

  He shrugs. "Some folks don't appreciate nothing. For fuck's sake, you give them a safe place to live, plenty to eat and nice khazis so they don't have to shit in the woods like the whole world knows you did, and all they have to do in return is play ball. Anyone gets sent to Mercia, they deserve it. Then they'll find out what hard work means."

  I'm horrified. "But don't they earn certain rights through the work they do here? Who's entitled to say how anyone else is allowed to live?"

  "The people who've sorted out this mess, that's who. Without UK2, them troublemakers would be dead inside ten years."

  I don't make the point that some communities are managing just fine, working it out for themselves, because I don't want to find myself on the list for transferral to UK Mercia.

  I'm a big girl's blouse, I know.

  In the old world, before BDC, I was a cocky kid who dabbled in a few areas of commerce to the right and left of the law. I dealt with all sorts, and I wasn't scared of anyone or anything, not even when I should have been. But I'm scared of that smiling snake Verlander, and whoever is behind him.

  I'm wary of Dex Northam, too. Eric Foster and his group were right about him.

  I'm keeping my head down.

  December 3rd, 2026

  I'm at my desk, checking up on those who are SOBS, to be observed every two hours, their movements recorded. Reports to be submitted to Big V.

  It's going to be a long day. I have no less than forty-three people's activities to log, forty-three positions to record every other hour for eight hours, which means I have to stay on the ball. No lapses of concentration.

  When I get to Paul Lincoln, I can't see his red dot. Or his daughter's. His wife and son are not on SOBS; I alert Akram and Zack, my team leaders, to tell me if anyone can shed any light on the family, but both report back that no one has any sighting of them.

  It's 10am. Paul should be working on Juno 2, his wife in Supplies, his daughter in the Grow Zone, and the son should be at school.

  But they're not there.

  The Lincolns have gone.

  I don't know, I feel a special attachment to the people from Lindisfarne, because it was by far the coolest community I've visited, the most beautiful place, and, of course, my mate Travis is there.

  I go see Verlander.

  "The Lincoln family from Lindisfarne; yes, they've been transferred to UK Mercia; sorry, I should have updated the SOBS list." He doesn't look up, just carries on scouring the reports I put on his desk last night.

  "Can I ask why they've been transferred?"

  "No." He looks up. "Is there a problem, Brian?"

  I'm skating on thin ice after my major crapness on Recruitment.

  I've got to keep my head down.

  "No. I just wondered."

  I go back to my desk.

  After my eight hours at the screen I want only to lose myself in a fantasy world, preferably one that includes hot blondes and dragons, but Barney pays me a visit. I don't know why he keeps coming round, it's not like we're buddies; I think he enjoys trying to wind me up. Or perhaps no one else will talk to him.

  I let him in because I can't be bothered to think of a reason not to; he walks straight to my fridge and gets a beer out without being invited.

  "Off up north again tomorrow," he says, and flops back into my armchair, putting his feet up on the coffee table. I take a last, wistful glance at Daenerys Stormborn, and press pause.

  "Yeah?" I go get myself a beer, too. Something about Barney's presence makes me want to drink.

  "Yeah! Doing the North East, having a little tour around for a few days, see if we can root out all the smaller hideaways round the coast." He picks at his nails. "Including your pal's place up Lindisfarne, 'course. We'll get the rest of 'em down here, don't you worry."

  "Why can't you just leave them be? They're happy as they are."

  He rifles in my fruit bowl and puts his meaty mitt round a bag of dried apple slices, again without asking. Wanker. They're my favourite.

  "Come on, Bri, you know the answer to that. You go easy on these little settlements, next thing you know they'll start demanding independence. Well, no frickin' way." Chomp, chomp, on my apple slices. "They've had their fun, now it's time to get with the programme. We don't know what they're doing up there. They could be worshipping Satan, or forcing young girls into marriage with the elders. Didn't you never see them documentaries about weirdo religious communities on Netflix? They do all sorts. Fucking group sex, polygamy, you name it."

  I laugh. "Lindisfarne's not like that. They're just ordinary people." I'm about to say 'like you and me', but I hope for their sake there's no one like Barney up there. "So what's the plan?"

  He upends the bag and chucks the last of the apple into the gaping red maw that is his mouth, chews for a while, and swallows before answering. He burps, and winks at me. "It's Terminator time!"

  "What are you going to do, force them at gunpoint?"

  He wags his finger. "Don't you worry about your bum-chum and his pals, we're a bit more subtle than that. We ain't herding no one into trucks, the army tried that with the refugee camps at the beginning, and it all went to shit. As Al says, the essence of UK2 is people working together 'cause they have the same aim. Like, of their own volition, innit. We're just going to be more persuasive this time, that's all."

  He won't be drawn on what he means by that. He looks so smug and determinedly secretive that I end up laughing.

  "Come on, tell me! What's the big secret?"

  But he just jumps up, punches me in the arm in what I think is meant to be a playful fashion, and wanders out, pinching another beer from my fridge on the way.

  The next day, Verlander appears at my desk. Standing too close, as usual.

  "Barney tells me you're not happy about the clearance of the Lindisfarne community."

  I look up. "The clearance? You're actually going to clear it?"

  He smiles, and I feel that steely grip on my shoulder. "Eventually, yes. You know that."

  I think of Travis, and Lottie, and the other people I spoke to, if only briefly. Phil. Martin. Lottie's pretty mother, who was with Dex, though she never turned up here. I can't do much, but I've got to speak up for them.

  "Can you not just leave them be? They're not dangerous, they don't want to start a resistance movement, they just want to live in peace. Why is that such a problem?"


  He sighs, loudly. "I have a hard task ahead of me, Brian. Like anyone given responsibility, I have superiors to report to. I am required to get UK2 into working order. Later, when life gets easier, people can be allowed more freedom. But right now the Outliers have to be brought into the fold, so we can reform, rebuild, renew. You can see that, surely?"

  It's a nice spin.

  December 4th, 2026

  This morning I watched Barney leave with several members of his team. They have a convoy: two huge transit vans, a minibus, a couple of army trucks. They mean business.

  What I wouldn't give for a mobile phone to warn Travis.

  I need to get out of here. I need to stop being a wuss and think of a way of getting out, without ending up in the next van bound for UK Mercia.

  December 10th, 2026

  Madison got back three days later; she 'liberated' a community living in a Northumberland manor house, but Barney and his gang travelled on to the coast, and do not return until today; he's had a busy six days.

  I'm given the job of taking down names and escorting them to the holding bay.

  Amongst what he describes as their 'good haul' are eighteen from Lindisfarne.

  A messed-up looking guy called Clay, with a girl called Zoe.

  A man called Toby and his son, Nolan. A woman called Carla with her teenage daughter, Millie; they're both tall, blonde and good-looking. I hope Millie's too young for the Juno Initiative.

  Another family: Clive, Mel and a rowdy kid called Bradley.

  A couple with an unrelated teenager: Becky, Jamie and Dakota.

  Five other adults: Ray and Will, Wendy, Julian and Jenny.

  A nurse. Abbie.

  I vaguely remember most of them, but I definitely remember Abbie. She said there was no way she was leaving Lindisfarne because they needed her medical knowhow.

  We need it here, too; I wonder if she was forced.

  Barney's grinning at me. "Went well. Very well indeed."

  "Not that well," I can't resist saying. "Only eighteen from Lindisfarne. That means there must be thirty-odd left."