Glen moved forward to join Rolly. He could see numerous pairs of eyes looking up at him, peering out of their own home-made masks. Some had surgical masks tied on with string; others had what looked like a piece of gauze sandwiched between thin layers of material. They could breathe through it, and it would provide them with some protection from the contaminated dust, although for many the damage had already been done. He recognised their fear, fear of the imposing figure he must have represented in his camouflaged uniform, with his black respirator cowled with a hood.
He pulled back his hood and peeled off his mask, seeing the figures visibly relaxing, though only slightly. Looking at the ragtag group sitting in a semi-circle around him, he asked, “Who’s in charge here?”
All of them turned and looked at a middle-aged woman, probably in her late thirties, dressed in what can only be described as a pair of ski pants with a matching jacket, a coat wrapped around her shoulders for additional warmth. Her blonde hair was straggly and lay about her shoulders, a one-inch line of mousey hair along the roots indicative of it not being her natural colour. Even with a long narrow burn scar down the side of her face, she was still a relatively attractive woman and exuded a strong character.
“Am I allowed to stand, soldier boy? Or will you shoot me too?”
“Yes, ma’am you can stand. Don’t forget, you fired on us first. What’s your name?”
“Ma’am is fine. You did come into our camp with weapons. But to show you how friendly we all are, you can call me Judy.”
“Thank you, ma’am, Judy. I’m Glen. This man with me is Rolly, and covering our backs is Greg and Plato.” Glen turned and called over to Plato. “Bring the Land Rover a bit closer in so we can keep an eye on it.”
Plato left, equally concerned that their vehicle and the valuable supplies on board were at risk.
“You have food?”
“Some,” responded Glen warily. “What do you and your friends do for food, and why are you up here and not down in one of the towns or villages?”
“So many questions, soldier boy.”
“Glen, please.”
“Glen it is then.” A small smile showed through the thin layer of grime. “We have some food, but not much. Any you can give us will be very welcome. As for the towns? Full of miscreants who just want to steal our food and take anything else they want, if you know what I mean.”
It was Glen’s turn to smile. “Is that why you fired at us?”
“That was a mistake. Someone let fly, and everyone followed suit. I’ll speak to that individual later. So, my apologies for that. Saying that, we came off far worse. You have killed a number of our group.”
She turned as a figure on the ground behind Greg groaned. “What about the injured? Are we allowed to help them?”
“Off course. And we’ll help you with your wounded.”
“Much obliged.”
Greg moved and crouched down next to the groaning man shrouded in thick clothing, the red patches showing he had been hit at least three times. Glen looked across and Greg shook his head.
“He won’t make it?” she asked.
“Unlikely. Greg, check out the others. But keep your eyes peeled.”
“Will do, boss.”
“You their boss?”
“Only by agreement. So, what do you do for food and water?”
“Water we get from streams and rivers. As for food?” She waved her arm in the direction of the line of abandoned vehicles. “When the people fled from the towns and cities, they stocked up with all sorts of goodies. One car had about 200 gold sovereigns in it.” She laughed. “Gold. Some good it’ll do anyone now.”
Rolly sauntered over and Glen asked, “Everything OK?”
“Yes, boss. The wounded have been patched up.”
“He speaks. Now, who might you be, soldier? Kind of cute, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Glen turned and glanced at his friend. The glow of crimson showing between the SAS soldier’s helmet, and the scarf wrapped around his neck.
“Rolly, my friends call me Rolly.”
“Mmmm, rolls off the tongue.”
Rolly scowled at him as Glen let out a chuckle. Rolly hissed, “Not a word, not a bloody word.”
She became more serious. “Will they survive?”
Glen looked over at Greg and raised his eyebrows.
Greg responded. “Best if they had some antibiotics. But keeping the wounds clean and changing dressings regularly will contribute to their chances of pulling through.”
“Thank you both.”
“It’s the least we could do.”
“How many… dead?”
Rolly answered this time, lowering his head before responding, conscious that he was responsible for at least two of the deaths, “three.”
Judy didn’t respond immediately. “It’s the world we now live in.”
“So where do you get your food from?” Glen asked again.
“From these,” she pointed to the vehicles again. “We reckon the line of traffic stretches for fifty miles or more. We have up to the horse box,” she pointed north, “back down to the overturned caravan.” This time she indicated south. “We think a few thousand vehicles in our patch, maybe as many as ten.”
“Why the limit,” asked Rolly.
“We have the Brummies down thataways and the cockney sparras up there.”
“Cockney sparrows? Londoners, I take it,” suggested Glen.
“Yeah, bloody pain they are. But we defend our territory and they defend theirs.”
“What happens when the food runs out?”
Her shoulders slumped for the first time. “Then the fighting gets worse.”
“How many are you?”
“We were forty-five, but you soldier boys have reduced that some.”
“Where are the rest?”
“Hiding. We don’t have many weapons.”
“You have an automatic.”
“Yeah, we found it in a Range Rover, along with about 200 bullets. The one thing that’s kept the buggers around us at bay. Until you lot came along, that is.”
They heard the growl of the Land Rover being manoeuvred closer to the embankment on the west side of the motorway.
Glen turned to Rolly. “Get Plato up here, and bring up any medical supplies Greg might need. But stay with the Rover, let’s keep it secure.”
Rolly walked towards the edge of the motorway.
“We’ll help you get your wounded comfortable.”
“That would be appreciated, Glen. We have some first-aid kits we found in some of the cars, but the nurse we have with us could do with some guidance on treating gunshot wounds.”
“Let’s go and take a look then.” Glen waved at Greg, indicating they were coming over.
A crowd, now some thirty-plus, were slowly gathering around the wrecks that had become their homes, and they moved aside as Judy led the way. She instructed four or five to gather any wounded and take them to the hospital. Both Glen and Judy weaved in between various cars, passing two Ford Transits lying on their side, a Leyland Daf, a people carrier and even a Bentley, although it had seen better days. The two of them, trailed by the group, Greg keeping his distance watching over Glen, eventually arrived at a coach that had managed to stay on all of its four wheels.
“Our medical centre, hospital and maternity ward,” his guide informed Glen.
Plato was making his way through the crowd. “Where do you want me?”
“They’re being brought to the coach.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Can you and I have a chat first while Plato and Greg continue to work their magic?” suggested Glen.