Brother in the Land (12 page)

‘That's so you'll remember to tell your mates – stay away from Kershaw. Even Spacers don't forget a boot in the kisser.' He pointed the gun upwards and fired a short burst. He waited a few seconds, then squeezed off a single shot. Then he took my arm and began steering me towards the road. I was too busy trying to keep the blood and snot out of my mouth to take much notice. The next thing I knew he said something I didn't catch and left me there on the tarmac.

It's not true what they say, that there's some good in all of us. Not after nukes, it isn't. Still, there must have been something in old Booth. It goes to show you never can tell.

I don't know how long it would have been before we considered ourselves ready to have a go at them. Quite a while, probably. We were trying to get hold of some proper vehicles, something to match their APCs, but we never did. What happened was, they poisoned the well.

Branwell blamed himself afterwards, but I reckon he'd done all he could. He'd realized some time before that the well was the key to our survival outside the DC's camp. It had the only clean water for miles around, except for the well at Kershaw Farm. He'd put a day and night guard on it: two guys with Submachine-guns, relieved every four hours. Whenever the guard changed, the guys who'd finished their spell carried water back to the house. They were the only people allowed to take water from the well, except for the odd groups I mentioned before; those still living in the ruins.

Anyway, they came in the middle of the night, without vehicles. Just a commando-squad, I suppose, moving silently and carrying poison. When the relief went out at six they found the guards with their throats cut and some empty containers that had had weedkiller in them, paraquat or something. Old Branwell knew all about weedkillers. He reckoned it'd be weeks at least before the water would clear itself, if it ever did. He realized there was only one chance for us now, we had to take Kershaw Farm.

Branwell asked to see me. I didn't feel like going. I'd been laid up for two days, ever since I'd got back from my encounter with Booth. My jaw was one big bruise and Kate, the nurse, reckoned I had a couple of cracked ribs. I was all strapped up and feeling sorry for myself, even though everybody said I was lucky they hadn't shot me. I got off my bed and went through to the big room.

Branwell was there, with Rhodes and some others. They had this map on the table, an Ordnance Survey map of Skipley and the surrounding area. I joined them and Rhodes gave me a dirty look.

Branwell said, ‘Now then, Danny: here's where your recent unpleasant experience can be turned to good use. We need to know a bit about the layout up at the Farm.' He tapped the map where Kershaw Farm was shown, a cluster of minute buildings on the edge of the moor. I bent over it, wincing from the pain in my ribs.

‘Well,' I began, feeling daft. They were all watching me as though I was Field Marshal Montgomery or something. I tried to recall everything I'd seen during that unreal walk with Booth that might have ended in my death. ‘All this is surrounded by a double fence, with lights over it.' I circled the Farm with my finger.

Rhodes made an impatient noise. ‘We know that,' he snorted. ‘We can see that from the outside.'

Branwell gave him a sharp look and said, ‘What about the buildings themselves, Danny? Can you tell us which buildings are used for what?'

‘Hm.' I chewed my swollen lip, trying to remember. ‘The house itself has offices in it. Rooms that have been made into offices. One is the Commissioner's office. Then there was one that said “Food Officer” on it, and another to do with health. There's a kitchen, and I think I heard kids upstairs somewhere.' I knew I wasn't doing too well. I could feel Rhodes' sarcastic eyes on me and I flushed.

‘It's all right, Danny,' said Branwell. ‘Just take your time and try to remember. You were under a great strain at the time. We all appreciate that. What about the soldiers?'

I frowned. ‘There were some huts. Here, I think. They're not on the map.' I pointed to an empty bit among the buildings. ‘They were long, and new-looking, and there were a few men in radiation-gear hanging about outside them.'

Branwell nodded. ‘That sounds about right. Did you notice any vehicles?'

‘Yes.' I recalled this part vividly, and pointed to an area between the farmhouse and where the camp now was. ‘Here. There were some APCs, some trucks and some cars, all parked together on a concrete pad. ‘A motorbike, too.'

‘Did you notice any well?' put in Rhodes. I nodded. ‘It's in the yard. Right by the house.' I bent over the map. ‘Here.'

‘Aha!' Branwell, who had been scrutinising the map closely, straightened up. He glanced at the men and women round the table. ‘Do any of you notice anything?' He was smiling. They looked at him blankly. All except Rhodes, who smiled faintly and nodded, looking at the others with his mocking eyes. Branwell said, ‘Tell them, Keith.' Keith. I'd often wondered what the K was for.

Rhodes smirked, enjoying his moment. ‘Everything that matters,' he said, ‘Is concentrated at one end of the yard, the eastern end. And the soldiers are at the other. Look.' He pointed. ‘The house, the well and the vehicle-park; all here at the east end of the yard. If we take the east end, we've cut the soldiers off from their vehicles and their orders, we've got the Commissioner and we control the water supply. They've no option but to surrender!'

Everybody started talking at once. My ribs were killing me. Old Branwell asked me a couple more things, then told me I could go.

I wandered back to the room I shared with nine other men. They were all out and I lay on the bed, thinking about the coming fight and whether I'd still be alive at the end of it. If it hadn't been for Ben, sleeping upstairs, and Kim out there somewhere, I don't think I'd have cared much either way.

Thirst is a terrible thing. I'd never thought much about it before. Branwell rationed what little water we had at the rate of a cupful a day for everybody. By everybody, I mean all the members of Masada, and anybody else who showed up.

Rhodes went mad. ‘Don't dole it out to all and sundry!' he raved. ‘Save it for us. We've got to keep our strength up.' Branwell let him rant, and carried on as before. Most of us were on his side. When the water in the buckets ran out, we started on the shower-tank.

It was April, and warm for the time of year. On the second day, some people drank from the well and died. We had to put a guard on it again. People started drinking from puddles, sucking in radioactive muck that would kill them slowly. A few went and gave themselves up at the camp.

We worked flat out. We had a Land-Rover and three cars. We fitted armour-plating over the windscreens with eye-slots, and mounted a heavy machine-gun on the Rover, and a spotlight too. There were two motor-bikes; we made rough side-cars from them out of scrap and put machine-guns on them as well. There was a rocket-launcher with one rocket. We fitted that to one of the cars. Apart from that, we had about twenty automatic rifles and submachine-guns. The rest of us would have to make do with shotguns, pistols and a hotchpotch of home-made weapons. There was even a crossbow.

It was on the fourth day that Ben disappeared. I'd been across at the factory all day, helping get the vehicles ready. It was starting to get dark when Branwell came running. ‘Danny!' he called from the loading-bay door. ‘Danny, come quick! The little lad's gone!'

It was the thirst. What happened was, the old man gave everybody their cup of water after breakfast each day, but he kept Ben's on a high shelf so he wouldn't drink it all at once. That morning, Ben had complained, and Branwell had tried to explain that it was for his own good. Ben had sulked and, at some point during the day, left the house. Branwell hadn't noticed his absence, being too busy planning the assault on the Farm, until, at dusk, he realized the kid hadn't asked for any of his water.

I was frantic. The old man organized search-parties with flash-lights and whistles. Kim came. She spoke to me, telling me not to worry, but I was so distraught I hardly knew she was there. I was thinking of all the disasters that might befall a little boy out there in the dark. When the parties started leaving I didn't go with them, I set out alone, having begged Branwell to let me take my pistol.

As night fell, it grew cold. I'd stripped off most of my padding during the morning and now had on only shirt and trousers. My teeth chattered as I went, and I couldn't tell how much of it was cold, and how much fear.

I went right through Skipley. Except for the occasional shouts of the searchers, the ruined town was still. I moved through the rubble-strewn streets at a half-run, calling Ben's name, and soon the search-parties were far behind me. I didn't know where I was going. I was in too much of a state to work to a plan. It must have been some sort of instinct that took me in the right direction while everybody else floundered about miles away. Either that, or sheer coincidence.

I was on this long road, Canal Road, though there was no canal now. I was loping along, breathing hard, the pistol in my hand. The buildings thinned. There was a long stretch of rough grassland, waste land really, where houses had been cleared a long time ago. It was one of those places where
travelling-people used to park their caravans and tether their shaggy ponies, where other folk came at night to dump their old mattresses and three-piece suites. Anyway, I was hurrying along this road when I saw a light.

I stopped. It was a fire, on the low ground to my left, where the old canal ran a hundred years ago. There was a smell on the wind, a sweetish, smoky aroma that made my parched mouth water. Somewhere, down there among the debris and dying grass, somebody was cooking meat.

I left the road and moved onto the slope, silent on my canvas shoes. I went half-crouching, the pistol gripped tightly, across the slope and down. I don't know what I meant to do. Ask a silly question, perhaps. Have you see a little boy pass this way. Or maybe I hoped for a mouthful of meat. I don't know. I crept up behind a clump of withered elders and looked down into the place.

The fire was in a ring of stones. Two men sat cross-legged before it. There was one of those things over the fire, made from sticks – a spit, with a lump of meat on it.

Behind them was a shack with a sack hanging over the doorway, and beyond that stood an old, cream caravan with boarded-up windows. As I watched, the sack was pulled aside and a woman came out of the shack. She was fat, with long black hair and a man's overcoat. She came and stood by the fire. One of the men said something and she laughed.

The smell of the meat was driving me crazy. I couldn't see any weapons about, and yet I didn't show myself. In these times, a man with food was like a lioness with her cubs, he was liable to attack any intruder on sight.

As I stood, undecided, I became aware that somebody was moving on the slope above and behind me. I crouched into the black thicket and screwed my eyes into the darkness. My scalp prickled.

Two people were coming down. One carried a bundle over his shoulder. The woman by the fire heard them, and called in a harsh whisper, ‘Syl? Terry?' Her companions started to their feet. One of them jerked a handgun from among his rags.

‘Yeak, okay.' A woman's voice. They were close now, the
firelight glancing from hands and faces as they came down. I shrank into the shadows, biting my lip, my hand clammy on the pistol-butt. I could see them plainly, and it seemed to me they need only glance in my direction to see me. I held my breath, resolved to slip away if the newcomers passed me by.

As they came fully into the firelight, I saw what it was the man carried, and almost cried out. It was Ben. The little guy hung limp over his shoulder. The man had a hold of one leg, and the kid's head bumped against his back as he walked. I crouched, staring incredulously as he strode by. The shock must have switched my brain off. As soon as he'd passed I leapt to my feet and yelled, ‘My brother! He's my brother!'

I was lucky they didn't gun me down on the spot. As it was, I'd forgotten all about the woman. Before I knew what was happening, the two guys by the fire had handguns trained on me and the woman was on the slope behind me with a club in her fist.

‘Stand still!' The two men crouched, glaring at me over their weapons.

The woman behind me said, ‘Your brother, is it? Well, you'd better go down then, hadn't you?' She brandished her club. I raised my hands and walked down onto level ground.

The guy with Ben had put him on the ground by the fire. The kid's face looked dead white and there was blood in his hair. The other woman, the one who'd been there all the time, knelt beside him. I looked at her. ‘Is he all right? Where'd they find him?'

The club-woman prodded me in the back with her instrument. ‘You keep your gob shut!' she hissed. She smelled horribly. She was upwind of me but I could smell her all right. One of the men laughed. I looked at him. His face and hands were filthy, his beard and hair matted and dusty-looking. I looked from one to another of them. Dirty faces in the firelight. Something about them. Weird, shifty eyes. I shivered.

The woman by the fire said, ‘He's hurt. Bad. You better come look.' She laid a paw on his cheek, rolling his head over to one side.

My mind wasn't working. Frantic with worry, I moved
round the fire and fell to my knees by the kid's head. Too late, an alarm shrilled in my skull. The guy who'd laughed, laughed again, and the woman with the club was right behind me. I threw myself sideways, knowing it was futile. Somebody shouted and then the guns started firing.

I flung myself across Ben's body. The kneeling woman gave a sort of grunt and toppled over with blood on her face. The man who'd carried Ben crumpled forward and landed on the fire. A shower of sparks slammed out from under him and the lump of meat rolled onto the grass.

I heard another shout and twisted my head round. Rhodes was on the slope, his face shining in what was left of the firelight, hosing the camp with submachine gun-fire. There was someone else, too, shooting from a different angle. Bullets slammed and whanged all over the site, raising puffs of dirt and little spurts of shredded turf. I spread myself over Ben's motionless body and pressed us both close to the earth.

It seemed to go on forever. Every second I expected the impact of bullets tearing into me, flinging me off my brother's helpless frame. I lay with my eyes screwed tight and my teeth clenched, rigid, wondering what there could be left to shoot at. After a long time, it suddenly stopped and I was left with a ringing in my ears. I opened my eyes and sat up.

The place was a shambles of torn, bloody earth with ragdoll-figures on it. The man in the fire was starting to cook and when I caught sight of the club-woman I was sick down my clothes. The man with Rhodes was a woman. She came over, slinging her gun, and went down on one knee. She put her ear to the kid's mouth, straightened up and said, ‘He's all right, I think. Best get him back to Kate, though.'

Rhodes had gone to the riddled caravan, kicked the door in and stuck his head inside. Now he crossed to the shack and kicked it over, stamping about on the remains till they were flat. A mouse couldn't have survived inside. He came and looked down at me. I knew he'd have something to say. Something sarcastic. I'd acted like a pillock and deserved it for once. I looked up from wiping puke off my jeans with grass. I'd get my bit in first.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘You saved our lives.'

‘I know.' He kicked a bright shellcase. ‘And used up precious ammo in the process.' I was about to retort on the unnecessary duration of the firing when he added, ‘From now on, Lodge, I suggest you stay near the house. And keep your precious brother with you, unless you want him to end like that.' He nodded towards the wrecked fire. The dead guy's clothes were smouldering.

I didn't know what he meant. ‘Him?'

‘No, not him,' snarled Rhodes. He moved the half-cooked lump of meat with the heel of his boot. ‘This. The kid was nabbed by Purples, you great looby. Another hour or so and they'd have eaten him.'