“And what about Todd?”
“If it wasn’t for that twat’s lousy driving, I wouldn’t have this bloody lump on my head, and we wouldn’t be in this position, would we?” exclaimed Keelan.
“What do we do about Todd?” asked a concerned Milo again.
Todd was drifting in and out of consciousness. There was little they could do for him beyond draping a blanket over him to keep him warm.
Keelan bit into his bar of chocolate. “We got some painkillers from the house in Wakefield. Soon as he wakes up, he can chomp on some of them.”
“Yeah,” agreed Milo. “It’s a start, but how do we fix his arm?”
No one responded, engrossed in their task or their own circumstances.
Salt shuffled through their supplies and pulled out a tin of beans. He peeled the lid back and dug in with a spoon he always kept in his pocket. “We gotta move though.” He slurped cold beans from his spoon, the smell triggering hunger in the other two who also grabbed a tin each. “We can’t stay here. We need shelter before it gets dark.” The sound of Salt’s spoon clattering around the tin as he tried to scoop up the last few beans left. “How you doing, Stan?”
“Head throbs like shit. Where are those tabs?”
“Erm… the small rucksack, I think. I’ll take a look.” Salt rummaged around the pile in front of him, pulling out the rucksack where he had stored the first-aid kit taken from the first house. “Here you go.” He chucked a pack of painkillers over to Keelan, along with a bottle of water. “So, it’s quarter to four. We need to move, lads. Light’s starting to go.”
“I’ll give it a go, Doug, but my head’s still fucked up. Give us a hand.”
Salt helped Keelan get up and, quickly examining the gash above his left eye. Finding a roll of bandages in the rucksack, he soon wrapped a dressing around the wound. “I’m no Florence Nightingale, but it’ll do. I’ll take a look at Withers.”
Keelan swayed on his feet a little; then leant in closer to Salt. “If he don’t come around, we can’t carry him, and we can’t stay here.”
Salt nodded in agreement and walked over to Withers where he was joined by Milo.
“Come on, Todd, you lazy bastard. We need to get moving,” Milo encouraged him.
Todd’s eyes flickered open, the agony clear as he accidentally moved his shattered arm. He fainted again.
“We’ll have to leave him.”
“We can’t leave him, Doug, it ain’t right.”
Salt grabbed Milo by his lapels. “Listen. There are no doctors, no hospitals, and no hope for him. He’s not going to keep up with us, and with those bloody bones sticking through his flesh, it’s bound to get contaminated.” Salt let him go.
“Just don’t seem right,” complained Milo, but without conviction.
Salt turned back to Withers. “Todd, mate. We need to move. If we can find some wheels tonight or tomorrow morning, we’ll come back for you. We’ll leave you some water to keep you going, and an extra blanket should keep you warm.”
There was no response.
Belongings were gathered and shared around, with Milo and Salt carrying the bulk until Keelan had a chance to recover. They took one last look at Withers before heading back up the slope the van had previously careered down. Once on the road, Salt took them left. It didn’t really matter which direction they took: it was more important to find some cover and doss down for the night. By five thirty it was dark, and it was only thanks to Salt’s height and good night vision that they spotted a barn close to a gated entrance to a field. It was a quarter full of mouldy-smelling bales of hay, but it was still a welcome refuge. Keelan was staggering by the time they got there. What blankets they had were shared out, and after nothing more than a swig of water and another tin of baked beans each, they crashed.
Salt lay awake for a few minutes longer than the other two, his thoughts on survival. How the hell are we going to get through this? he thought. One conclusion he had come to earlier on in the day was that they were not going to survive on their own. He would talk about his proposal to Keelan tomorrow.
CHAPTER 17
Tom woke up shivering, the sleeping bag having slipped off his shoulders during the night. The camp bed creaked slightly as he shuffled into a more comfortable position, pulling the sleeping bag further up his body, seeking warmth. He checked his watch: ten past three in the morning. Too soon to get up, so he lay there with his arms behind his head, the sleeping bag up to his chin. He could hear the gentle breathing of his wife, Lucy, on a camp bed next to his, and a slight wheeze coming from their daughter, Mary, on the other side of Lucy. This was their second morning in the farmhouse. They’d arrived in the early hours of the previous day after fleeing their burning home, escaping the psychopathic Reynolds family and their successful attempt at burning them out of their home.
He lay pondering their future, fighting back the panic that often welled up, threatening to engulf him. Even if they had been able to stay at the farm for a few more months, he knew it would have been just a very short-term option. If he and his family, and Andy, along with his wife and son, were to survive, they needed assured water and food supplies, access to medical treatment, shelter and security. He wasn’t yet sure how that was going to happen. He was just a farmer. His skill was in arable farming as opposed to animal husbandry, although he did have a few sheep and cattle to keep his hand in. He believed there were two directions in which the future of the country, and even mankind, could evolve: Either an appointed administration would appear out of the ashes, take charge and lead the United Kingdom through what was undoubtedly going to be one of the darkest periods in the country’s history or, worst-case scenario, the regional government structure, put in place for an event such as this, was decimated, along with the other RGCs across the country, and would fail to surface let alone lead the people of the UK toward a better future. Tom was sure that, without the support of a recognised administration, people would be left to fend for themselves in a country that would quickly run out of food. He was certain a large percentage of the population was dying from the effects of radiation and other major injuries, and, no doubt, diseases such as cholera and typhoid would take hold only exacerbating the situation. Then there’s the cold, he thought, shivering. Trawling the Internet for every scrap of information about the possible outcome should Russia and NATO push the button, Tom had been horrified at what he discovered: a climate with temperatures likely to descend so low that the suffering would only be increased and the capacity to survive severely reduced. There would eventually be no fuel, no vehicles, no power, no hospitals, no food, and no vaccinations against the old diseases such as measles, smallpox and polio. His mind raced, and he forced himself to snap out of it. His focus had to be on planning for the future and an assumption that their two families would be on their own. He pulled his arms back inside and, pulling the edge of the sleeping bag even higher, fell into a fitful sleep.
The four adults peered at the map laid out on the large farmhouse kitchen table while the two children, Mary and Patrick, lay on their camp beds, keeping out of the way and staying warm. A decision had to be made as to the next and, hopefully, final destination. Tom savoured his cup of hot coffee, feeling it warm his insides as the liquid slipped down his throat. Surprisingly, as it was at the epicentre of half a dozen nuclear strikes at Oxford, Gloucester, Worcester, Coventry, Milton Keynes and Northampton, the farm had most of its windows intact, but it was still cold. Tom had resisted the temptation to light a fire, the smoke and the smell identifying that the house was occupied. He didn’t want to attract any unwanted guests. He felt certain that the Reynolds family wouldn’t be able to pursue them. Any vehicles left at the other farm had been disabled, something he did every night before they locked down. Only their escape vehicle was ready for a quick getaway.