Scott looked on, keeping his grin to himself, knowing earlier what the major was only now coming to realise. In this miserable world we now find ourselves in, some happiness can’t be a bad thing, he thought. The major had lost his wife to cancer over three years ago, and the officer had concentrated fully on his military career in an attempt to block out the pain he felt at her loss.
“Maajoor Redfern,” she emphasised his rank, “you flatter me. The biscuits aren’t home-made, just yet.”
“Are the preparations going well?” asked Scott, taking some of the pressure off his flustered OC.
“Far better than anyone expected. The people are great, really wanting to make it a success.”
“They have a vested interest,” Alan reminded her.
“Ever the cynic?” She laughed out loud, and the two constables smiled as they looked over as did one of the CPSs. Things couldn’t be too bad, thought all three of them.
“We’d best be checking the troops, sir,” Scott reminded the Major, wanting to rescue his officer from any more blushing.
“Yes, Sar’nt Major. Well, Alison, we’ll leave you to your task and catch up with you later at the RGC.”
“I look forward to it,” she said, beaming, recognising the effect she was having on him, and pleased about it.
The two men gave her a relaxed salute and walked back down the line. After a quick chat with Baxter, who was now wide awake after realising it was his commander’s Land Rover close by, they returned to their vehicle to continue the rounds of their area of responsibility.
CHAPTER 16
Keelan crawled out of the upturned Commer van. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face. His right eyebrow had split open as his head smacked into the window, shattering the glass. He finally eased his legs out and was able to move to a crouch, flashing lights in front of his eyes warning him not to stand up. He looked up at the bank the vehicle had rolled down, then back at the battered van, realising he was lucky to be alive. He heard cursing from the back of the van as Salt, stooped but uninjured, made his way round to where Keelan was situated.
He slumped down next to Keelan. “What the fuck happened?”
“Bloody Withers, that’s what happened. Tried to dodge round a car, but was too thick to realise that he might need to slow down. And here we fucking are.”
“What about the others?”
“Who gives a fuck?”
There was a sudden scream, one driven by immense pain.
“We should check it.”
“Be my guest,” responded Keelan. He rubbed a blackened hand across his forehead, leaving a dirty streak across his pale skin. “If I move, I’ll pass out.”
A second scream, followed by a third, echoed through the confines of the van, and Salt crawled around Keelan’s legs, lowering his body to peer through the open driver’s window. The sweaty face of Todd Withers looked back, his body suspended upside down, held in place by a length of the seatbelt that had wrapped itself securely around his leg. He was desperately trying to reach round with his right hand to release the belt, but every time he moved, excruciating pain travelled up his shattered left arm. Salt noticed the arm for the first time, bent at an impossible angle. He looked across towards the passenger seat, seeing Milo coming round, upside down, but securely strapped into his seat, his legs resting on the upside down dashboard.
“Milo, you OK,” he called.
The only response was a groan.
“Right, Todd, I’m going to cut away the belt, so you need to be ready to break your fall.”
“Can’t you help?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“My arm’s fucked, Doug. If I move it… it hurts like hell.”
“I have no choice, you have no choice. We have to get you out of here.”
“Can’t Stan help?”
“He’s injured as well. So, get ready.”
Salt extracted a clasp knife from the pocket of his outer jacket, pulled it open, and started to slice through the webbing of the belt. “Get ready.”
He continued to saw at the seatbelt, the fabric parting with each movement of the blade. “Any minute. Better brace yourself.”
Todd used his good arm, pressing it against the roof of the van, ready to decelerate his fall and protect his damaged arm.
Milo groaned again, his eyes flickering open, sudden panic as he realised that he was suspended upside down, trapped.
“It’s OK, Milo buddy. Once I’ve finished with Withers here, I’ll come and give you a hand.”
The blade sliced through the last few centimetres of the belt, the fabric suddenly parting, dumping Todd on the roof in a sprawl of arms and legs. Todd screamed again and again as his right arm did the job of buffering his fall, but it forced him over on his left side, onto his broken arm, two white pieces of jagged bone poking through his sleeve testament to the severity of the damage done. Under the current circumstances of no doctors or hospitals, his limb was broken beyond repair. Salt had no option but to drag the man out. Screams quickly followed. Todd lay on his back, moaning with pain, supporting his shattered arm.
“Stop bleating,” complained Keelan.
Salt came over and whispered in Keelan’s ear, “It’s pretty bad. He ain’t going to get that fixed easily.”
“No bloody hospitals, that’s for sure. Where’s the nearest town anyhow?”
“Oxford, I reckon. Hospitals are out, Stan. They’ll have been hit along with everything else. How you doing?”
“I’m OK.”
“I need to go and give Milo a hand. He’s strung up like a chicken.”
Keelan laughed but quickly put his hands to his head as lights flashed before his eyes. Salt left him and went round to the other side of the van to help Milo.
After leaving the cottage in the early hours of the morning, Keelan insisting they made some headway and find a more permanent base, they had continued their journey south, keeping west of Leicester, Northampton and Milton Keynes, only approaching the M1 or M40 to get fuel. That had been a disaster, coming under fire the minute they got within 200 metres of the M1. So, they tried further down and were able to syphon enough fuel from a number of cars to continue their journey towards Oxford. Groups of survivors, moving north and south, had been passed during their travels. Many looked emaciated, and all looked ill, pale faces behind their scarves and mufflers. Keelan and Salt ensured that no contact was made. They only came across two patrols, both small-scale, a mix of police and army and no more than ten men, but had managed to avoid them at the last minute. Apart from the altercation during their first refuelling attempt, they had only been fired upon a second time when the four men approached a defended village. Anarchy appeared to be the order of the day. But the four men wouldn’t be continuing the journey with their current transport.
Salt helped Milo out and, apart from being shaken up, like Salt, he was unhurt.
They moved away from the side of the stricken van, keeping a distance of about fifty metres, the smell of petrol fumes a worry. Being the only ones capable, Salt and Milo had volunteered to extract their food and water and other items they had collected since escaping from HMP Wakefield. It was now sitting in a pile in the middle of the circle of four men. Salt doled out some food while they debated what to do next.
Milo looked at his watch: the time was three twenty. “We need to get some shelter. It’s bloody cold enough as it is now.”
“We do,” agreed Salt, handing Milo a bar of chocolate. “The question is where.”