They were now a kilometre from the town where the 400 labourers, being transported the seven kilometres from the camp, would start work. A workforce of 200 had also been dropped off at Fonthill Bishop to start work on clearing ground ready for planting some winter crops. Fifty had been tasked with tidying up the camp, and another fifty had been taken to a large farm south of the village to make repairs and get it ready to act as the agricultural base for the RGC and receive any animals they could find once scavenging started in earnest.
“There’s the digger,” indicated Sergeant Saunders.
A yellow JCB, with a large dozer at the front and bucket at the rear, was parked up on the outskirts of the village. It was being guarded by a security patrol of two soldiers and two police constables. The driver was sitting in the cab.
“Pull over alongside the JCB,” Captain Redfern ordered.
The Land Rover stopped, and the convoy behind ground to a halt. One of the soldiers by the JCB came over and saluted.
“Where do they want us then, Corporal Thompson?”
“A few hundred metres further up, sir. We’ve allocated a slot for the heavies to park up.”
“Good, jump in the back and show us the way.”
“Sir.”
Corporal Thompson went around the back, indicated to the driver of his vehicle and the driver of the JCB to follow, then climbed over the tailgate and gave Captain Redfern directions. “There’s a track up on the right, about one hundred metres, where the trees end. Turn down there, and you’ll see an open field on the left.”
“Right, let’s go then.”
Sergeant Saunders pulled away slowly, giving the convoy behind a chance to follow their lead. After about a hundred metres, they swung right and followed a hard-packed track for about half a kilometre until they reached an open piece of ground off to their left.
“There, sir,” Corporal Thompson pointed to a large area of tarmac on the edge of a grassed field, “that’s where we can lager the vehicles. I think it might have been a small warehouse or something.”
“Good spot, well done.”
Sergeant Saunders steered the Land Rover left, bumping across the grassed area in a large arc, the vehicle ending up facing the convoy, stopping, allowing Captain Redfern and Corporal Thompson to jump out and direct the convoy as it drew closer.
Corporal Thompson called out to a driver whose scarf-covered face was jutting out of the cab window. “Go forward 200 metres, then swing left and go to the far side of the tarmac area.”
The civilian driver of the MAN nodded and accelerated away. Seconds later, the next vehicle in the convoy, driven by a soldier this time, came alongside.
“When the lead vehicle swings off to the left and parks up, pull up alongside it, this side of it, but allow a good twenty-metre gap.”
“Corporal.”
Then came the two buses and a second Land Rover, followed by two civilian trucks with the JCB as tail-end Charlie.
As the workforce debussed, the gang leaders, one for each group of thirty, shouted and cajoled them into some form of order. Alan’s small force, six soldiers, four police constables and eight CPS officers, Civilian Police Support, also split up. The army unit would remain together as a quick reaction force (QRF) in case there should be any trouble amongst the workforce that the civilian security element couldn’t handle. The QRF would also need to be prepared for any intrusion from an outside force: unknowns coming from outside the RGC’s county boundary.
Once shovels, picks and plastic body bags had been offloaded, the gangs, led by one of Dylan Wright’s men, headed north-west towards the outskirts of the town.
“Don’t envy those poor bastards,” said Corporal William Thompson. “Their first day on the job, and they’ve got the body-bag detail.”
“Someone’s got to do it, Will,” responded Sergeant Saunders.
“I know, Sarge, but the smell! Makes you want to heave your guts up.”
“They have surgical masks,” Captain Redfern informed him.
“They’ll help, but not much, sir.”
“I’m going to take a stroll and check things out. Keep half the QRF here to watch the vehicles. Do you have somewhere we can use as a temp HQ?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the corporal. “We’ve found a house with a roof that’s not too bad. And no bodies.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Frog Lane sir. We’ll take our Land Rover up there now. Park it outside. That’ll guide you.”
“I’ll join you for a brew in thirty.”
“Do you want someone with you, sir?”
“No, Sar’nt, I have this.” He held up his SA80. “Just send the Land Rover to find me if there’s any trouble.”
“Sir.”
Captain Redfern adjusted his face mask, then headed towards the road where the tail end of a work gang was just disappearing in between two buildings before they turned left along the High Street. He followed on, hearing the Land Rover driving north across the field followed by Sergeant Saunders in his vehicle as they too headed towards the centre of the village, but by a different route.
Alan was soon amongst the houses on the high street, and by the time he got to Frog Lane, he could see the two Land Rovers manoeuvring in the drive of a requisitioned house, about 200 metres from the T-junction. He continued up the High Street. The work gangs were already getting to grips with the gruesome task assigned to them. He gagged slightly. Corporal Thompson had been correct: the stench was pretty bad and getting stronger by the day as more and more bodies decomposed. The death toll was rising with individuals, succumbing to radiation sickness or their injuries on a daily basis. Many came to the town, perhaps to a house where they had lived, to lie down and die.
Four men, each holding a corner, carried a heavy black plastic body bag down the front path of one of the houses, unceremoniously dumping it on the edge of the road. He watched as another group of thirty men, interspersed with women, a gang leader who urged them on led them further down the road. The community that had survived the blast and the subsequent after-effects were moving into an era where responsibility meant recognition, and recognition meant guarantees for your family and the opportunity for perks if they ever arose. The group shuffled along the road, clouds of dust forming around their grubby footwear as they kicked up accumulated debris. Spades, shovels and pickaxes were resting on their shoulders, the new tools of their trade. Like Alan, they had scarves or other items of clothing wrapped around their heads to keep out the cold. Alan suspected that, by the end of their four-hour day, much of their outer clothing would be discarded as their bodies warmed up as a consequence of the physical work they were involved in. Due to there still being contaminants in the air, it had been decided to limit the work period to four hours for a couple of weeks, increasing it as the contamination levels dropped and more of the village was cleared of debris. It was not a healthy option being exposed for so long a period of time, but the choices of the regional government were limited if they were to survive. They needed to be ready for the winter, that was no doubt on its way, and to replace their diminishing supplies of food. Although just after seven in the morning, the sky was overcast and grey, but not just with clouds of moisture. The majority of the content was dust: millions of tons of it kicked up by the worldwide nuclear catastrophe. Everyone, without exception, caught Alan’s eye as they shuffled past. The looks weren’t hostile, but neither were they friendly. He and the army and police were unknown factors. The confrontations outside the RGC in the early days, crowds pleading for water, begging for food and medical aid, seemed to have been forgotten. There was a sense of a truce. How long that would last, Alan was unsure. But he certainly wasn’t their enemy. On the contrary, his job was to protect them.