THE FERALS HAD MOVED OUT OF Darlington and settled into the complex of hotels and restaurants at Scotch Corner, the famous junction of the A1 and A66 that had been the accepted gateway to the North for generations.
The sensible Mavis Wilburn, one of the committee members of the thriving and growing community based around the market town of Northallerton, gave Yank and the Blues this latest intelligence. Northallerton wasn’t a part of the federation but a close ally. Richmond was the next major town north, just below Scotch Corner. Mavis said its inhabitants were worried.
‘Even with King Arthur to lead them,’ she said, with a straight face.
Yank smiled.
Richmond was at Haven’s frontier. The town and surroundings were run by a group headed by Arthur Dobson, local historian who claimed to be the reincarnation of King Arthur. Legend said the King and his knights slept in a secret chamber beneath Richmond’s 11th century castle, awaiting the call to awake at a time of greatest need. Dobson’s forename and ownership of a big sword inspired him to interpret the legend to his own elevation. Not many believed him, but he was an excellent and benign administrator.
In the aftermath of the plague, many strange leaders making equally strange claims had arisen. York had produced the charismatic Brother Abraham, now part of Haven along with his flock. The New Army in Redemption claimed Prince Harry. As Reaper had said, each to his own. Haven tolerated King Arthur and had friendly, if distant, relations with his ‘subjects’.
Mavis said, ‘They stayed ten days in Durham City and a week in Darlington. They simply ran wild, my dear. No sense of responsibility. You would have thought they would learn, after all that the world has been through. They pillaged, took slaves and women. They set fire to Durham Cathedral, if you can believe that. A most beautiful building, and now much of it destroyed.’ She shook her head. ‘Vandals, dear. Simply vandals.’
‘And Arthur’s worried?’ said Yank.
‘They’re next in line and so very close. Then they will probably come here. After that, they’ll march into Haven.’
‘Maybe they haven’t heard that we fight back?’ Yank said.
‘Perhaps they don’t care.’
Yank studied a map again, although she new the lay of the land. The A1 was a blue ribbon that cut straight through Yorkshire, south to north. Northallerton was to the east of it; to the west, a mere five miles from Scotch Corner, was Richmond.
‘We’ve had a look at them from a distance,’ said Mavis. ‘Charlie and Brian are still out there, keeping an eye. They reckon there are about a hundred and twenty of them armed – mainly men, but some women. Plus slaves and camp followers. A total of about two hundred and fifty.’
Not bad odds, Yank thought: eight against a hundred and twenty. Maybe if she offered them terms, they might surrender.
The four Range Rovers containing the Blues crossed the A1 and drove to Richmond. They crossed the river into the town, the castle dominating on their right, and drove into the cobbled and sloping Market Place, the large central area that was the main car park. A few abandoned vehicles remained and vegetation had started growing in places. The buildings that fringed the square – shops, pubs, restaurants, banks – were a reminder this had been a thriving tourist town. In the middle of the Market Place was a medieval church that had been converted into a regimental museum for the Green Howards, a pub and restaurant. Beyond it was a distinctive obelisk market cross.
An elderly man came from the museum and waved. They stopped and Yank got out to talk. She had only previously visited Richmond twice and didn’t know him.
‘I’m Anna. We’re Special Forces from Haven.’
He shook her hand, holding on as if grateful at her arrival. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘Thank God you’ve come. I’m Gordon Beavis. They left me here just in case.’ He didn’t say in case of what. ‘The women and children are in hiding. Arthur and some of the men are on the Darlington Road.’ He glanced from vehicle to vehicle. ‘Where’s Reaper?’ he said, with a hint of disappointment. ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’
‘He’s on a scouting trip,’ said Yank. She didn’t tell him the scouting trip was two hundred miles in the opposite direction. ‘What does Arthur plan to do?’
‘He’s built a barricade across the road. He plans to resist.’
* * *
The town was compact. Before the plague it had had a population of 8,000, boosted at weekends by soldiers from nearby Catterick Garrison who used its pubs. At the last count, it had about a hundred and twenty people, most of them living to the north of its centre, where they cultivated the golf course and nearby fields. King Arthur headed a committee that met at a round table, as in days of yore. But today he was manning a barricade across the main road that led into town from the north.
The area was residential, the road running past schools and through an estate of semi-detached and detached homes and gardens. This had been a very nice place to live. The barricade was about sixty yards from open country.
Arthur carried a broadsword in a scabbard that hung down his back. The hilt was behind his left shoulder. It looked incongruous when worn with corduroy trousers and a checked shirt. The eight Blues got out of their vehicles and the two groups assessed each other. No contest, thought Yank. The uniforms alone gave the Blues the edge, plus their youth. And that was before you got to the deadly weapons they were carrying. In contrast, Arthur’s hodgepodge of twenty homespun heroes held shotguns, pitchforks and spears that looked as if they had come from a museum. Two carried longbows, one a crossbow and two had handguns. Several also had knives in sheaths at their belts. All were men and ranged from a boy who looked about fourteen, to a tall and thin but gnarled looking chap who had to be seventy-plus. Arthur Dobson was overweight and wore glasses and was in his fifties. He had mutton chop sideburns and a pleasantly rounded face, although it now held an expression of anxiety.
‘I’m Anna,’ Yank said, and they shook hands.
They had met before but only briefly.
Arthur nodded and gripped her hand firmly. ‘Reaper?’ he said.
A girl could get a complex, she thought. ‘He’s on other business.’
Arthur glanced at the other Blues and nodded. Their apparent confidence reassured him. Yank made a visual inspection of the barricade. It was substantial, mainly made from vehicles, some half stacked upon others. A tow truck and farm tractor were nearby and had obviously been used in the construction. Other vehicles lined the road facing back towards town. Escape vehicles. She guessed resistance would be token.
A man came from the far side of the barricade and joined them. He was small, middle aged and wore jeans and a t-shirt and a battered waxed hat like Indiana Jones. He saw Yank had noticed the hat and raised it to reveal a totally bald head.
‘When you’re follicly challenged it’s essential to protect against the sun. You’ll never believe it, but I once got sun stroke sitting outside a pub in Whitby.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brian Jones from Northallerton. Mavis has told me all about you.’ His grip was firm and his smile wry. He was good-looking in an eccentric sort of way. Yank liked him. He was calm and quiet and looked fit from working the land.
‘Brian’s been scouting them since Darlington,’ Arthur said.
‘Me and Charlie,’ Brian explained. ‘Charlie’s in woods above Scotch Corner keeping watch.’
‘One of our chaps is with him,’ said Arthur.
‘We need to talk,’ Yank said to Brian.
‘Please,’ Arthur said. ‘Come into my office.’
He held an arm out indicating a set of patio furniture in the nearest garden. The three of them sat round a white plastic table. Arthur sat down only when he had removed the broadsword from its scabbard and laid it on the table in front of him.
‘Impressive,’ said Yank.
‘It’s really only ceremonial,’ he said, slightly abashed.
‘Tell me about Scotch Corner,’ she said to Brian.
‘There are service areas on both sides of the road,’ he explained. ‘They’ve picked this side for their camp. The Holiday Inn is this side, plus lots of facilities and a caravan park. They’re in a convoy so they need space. Twenty white vans – some of them pulling caravans. A dozen mobile homes, two enclosed trucks, one open truck, eight 4x4s, and a Bentley.’
She was impressed that he was so specific.
‘What sort of weapons?’
‘Shotguns, rifles, handguns, crossbows. We reckon up to ninety men and perhaps thirty women are armed with something. They also have sub-machineguns. Like Uzis? Not that I’ve ever seen an Uzi, except in the movies.’
‘Uzis make a lot of noise but aren’t very accurate. It’s a close quarter weapon. How many do they have?’
‘Maybe a dozen.’
‘Have you identified the leader?’
‘Not one hundred per cent.’
‘The Bentley?’
‘That’s what we thought. It’s used by a bloke in a designer suit. Hardly looks like a gang leader, but he obviously has authority. He’s in his forties. He also has two very attractive women with him. They carry Uzis. I don’t know if they can use them but they look the part. He has a driver, a small bloke, who’s never far away. Then there’s a big bloke. Jeans, biker boots, black leather jacket. About thirty, a lot of hair and a black beard. As I said, he’s big, but he carries no excess weight. Looks dangerous. He drives a Nissan 4x4 with huge wheels and has a sawn-off in a holster on his hip. We’ve seen him with a girl but, if it’s a relationship, she doesn’t appear to be too happy about it. She’s young, blonde, quite probably a recent captive. When he speaks, people jump.’
Yank smiled, sat back and ran a hand through her short spiky hair. ‘You and your friend have been thorough,’ she said. ‘How long have they been there?’
‘Three days. It seems as if they were waiting for others to catch up. Looks like they had foraging parties out going through outlying villages on the way.’
‘But they are all there now?’
‘Looks like it. And probably ready to move on.’
‘But which way?’
‘If I was a betting man, I’d say this way.’
‘How long have you been watching them?’
‘Since Durham. I saw them arrive. They caused havoc. Some people tried to talk to them, come to an arrangement, but they weren’t interested. They killed the men that resisted, took what women they wanted. Some took refuge in the Cathedral. They set it on fire. They have slaves. It’s that sort of group. But they should be careful. Too many slaves can spark a revolt. The balance gets out of kilter. Quite a few made a run for it from Durham. I helped where I could. Sent a few families to Northallerton, some here. Some opted to head for the Dales where there are fewer people and fewer stockpiles to pillage.’
Yank said, ‘If there’s a lot of them – a big caravan of vehicles – they must be slow on the road.’
‘I watched them enter Durham, I watched them go into Darlington. Same method. The 4x4s and the open truck go first. Mostly fighting men, a few women. Fighting women. The sort you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark night. They go in and establish a base. Impose themselves. Then the rest of the vehicles follow. The rest of the armed ferals are spaced throughout the convoy and two of the white vans bring up the rear. They carry half a dozen each.’
Brian and Arthur had accepted Yank was the professional without demur but she couldn’t very well command the men of Richmond. Not that she wanted to. She had a military background with her time in action in Afghanistan and knew more than the basics about how to pick a battle and when it was best to avoid one. But this situation was dictating a conflict, whether she wanted one or not. What would Reaper do? What would Sandra do? She ran her fingers through her short spiky hair and smiled to herself.
They weren’t here so it was academic. It was what she was going to do that was important, and at least she had more army experience then either of them. But Afghanistan had been a war and this was survival and a different kind of fight where, sometimes you could not wait to consider morality and peripheral casualties.
‘Have they sent anybody to scout Richmond?’ she asked.
Arthur said, ‘Not that we know.’
She looked at Brian: ‘How about your way?’
‘One car went as far as Catterick, saw the damage, and went back.’ The soldiers who had survived the plague and who had remained on base, had blown up any equipment they couldn’t take when they had headed south to join Harry.
‘So we still don’t known which way they’ll jump.’
‘It has to be this way,’ said Brian.
‘I agree,’ said Arthur.
She stared at Arthur. ‘If it is, what will you do? Fight?’
He frowned and dipped his head. ‘My heart says we should but I know it would be suicide and there’s no glory in that.’ He stroked the blade of the sword. ‘I had thought that if we gave them a show of force they might go somewhere else and leave us alone. They’re bullies, after all, and bullies prefer to avoid a fight where they might get hurt. But the more I hear,’ he glanced at Brian, ‘the more I realise we would be better hiding until they’ve been and gone and try to pick up the pieces later.’
‘I hope you’ve got a good place to hide,’ she said. ‘They only need one prisoner to tell them where you are and then you could all be slaves. Or dead.’
He shrugged. ‘We’ll make a show at the barricade. Maybe it will deter them. If it doesn’t, we’ll get away. We have the cars ready and it will take them time to move that lot.’
Yank thought he was talking sense, although she didn’t put their chances too high of remaining undiscovered in their hiding places. The forces at Haven would put up a better fight, but it would be costly. And as Reaper often said, the one commodity this world couldn’t afford to waste was mankind. The fewer good guys who died, the better. The ferals? That was a different matter.
‘I’d like to take a look at them myself,’ she said to Brian. ‘Can you take me?’
‘Of course. We can drive most of the way and walk the last mile.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
They got to their feet and Arthur re-slotted his sword into its scabbard with a deftness born of practice. As they walked towards the barricade, the young boy shouted: ‘Rider!’
The Richmond home guard milled around anxiously, Arthur trying to calm them. The Blues unslung their carbines and stepped to the barricade. Yank peered through the shattered glass of a broken car window. A man on a motorcyle approached.
‘It’s Dick Mason!’ the boy shouted, and the home guard relaxed. He was their own scout.
Mason rode the machine through a garden and round the wrecks that blocked the road.
‘They’re moving,’ he said, before even dismounting. ‘Charlie’s still up there but they were getting ready to move when I left.’
‘Which way?’ said Arthur.
‘This way.’
‘How long before they get here?’ Yank asked Brian.
‘It will take them time to get organised. They’ll want all the vehicles packed before any fighting men leave. Maybe an hour?’ He took the motorcycle from Mason and stepped astride it. ‘I’ll find out.’
‘Here,’ said Yank. ‘Take this.’
She handed him her Clansman handheld radio. He slotted it on his belt, nodded, and rode off without another word.
Yank turned to Dobson, who looked less than majestic, despite the sword.
‘Arthur, I’m going to need your help. Make me a gap to get my cars through. We’re going to the tree-line to check the lie of the land.’
A gap at one side of the road was soon ready. Yank climbed back into her vehicle and led the Blues up the road. They stopped sixty yards away at the tree line on the left that marked the end of the housing complex. To the right there were four more houses before the flat countryside began. It wasn’t perfect for an ambush but it would have to do.
‘What are you thinking?’ Jenny said.
‘We either fight or run. And I sure as hell don’t like running.’
‘There’s a lot of them.’
‘They’re little more than soccer hooligans.’
‘I’ve seen soccer hooligans,’ said Kat. ‘Not nice.’
‘Arthur called them bullies and he’s right,’ said Yank. ‘Give them a bloody nose and they might go somewhere else.’
‘A short, sharp, shock,’ said Kev.
‘Exactly. Hit them hard, make them think twice. Consider the alternatives.’
‘So what do we do?’ said Jenny.
Yank looked around again and pointed to the last two houses on the right. ‘The upstairs windows of those houses need breaking,’ she said. ‘Kev and Nina, the end house. James and Gwen, the one next to it. Smash all the windows so it looks like they’ve been wrecked, then pick your positions. They’ll be your firing stations. Check the back doors are open for escape. Through the back yards to the nearest road. We’ll place a Rover there for a speedy getaway. I’ll brief you in fifteen.’
A metal gate led into the field opposite and she crossed the road, pushed it open and stared at the tree line from this side. It was dense and afforded cover but no height advantage, unless they climbed the trees, which was never a good idea unless someone had a death wish. The field was also edged with a low stone wall that would provide shelter for the enemy. They needed height. They needed the tractor.
‘Jenny, get the tractor from the other side of the barricade. I want it in this field.’ She stared down the empty road that curved away across flat countryside. Green fields beneath blue skies across which floated a few scattered fluffy white clouds. A beautiful day. For a battle.