Chokehold Read online

  16

  RAF Thornhill

  His chance to speak to Estelle comes a short time later. The group has been fed and watered and billeted in another connected part of the base, and after being left for a couple of hours to rest and recuperate, they’re gathered together in the mess hall to be briefed. He intercepts her as she walks past. “Remember me?”

  She has a look on her face that is part confusion and part concern. Eventually, it gives way to surprise. “Good grief, yes, I remember. It’s Matthew, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were the chap my Mr. Franklin was having so much trouble trying to get rid of.”

  “The one and the same.”

  “Where is he? Is he here? I owe him an explanation.” She sounds hopeful and stands on tiptoes to look over his shoulder at the faces in the crowd.

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “Damn shame,” she says, deflated. “And you … weren’t you the hopeless romantic trying to get back to your sweetheart?”

  “She didn’t make it, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Genuinely I am.”

  He tries to steer the conversation into safer waters. “How long have you been here?”

  “Probably since a little after you last saw me. The CDF already had a presence at this place, so when things started to turn nasty in the camp, we evacuated.”

  “We noticed.”

  “It was necessary. The city was lost the moment we built a wall around it. I tried to tell the higher-ups it was a tactical mistake that played into the hands of the enemy, but when the higher-ups turn out to be the enemy, what can you do? They had a hand in all of this, you know.”

  “I know.”

  She stares at Matt for longer than is comfortable. “So you did it again.”

  “Did what again?”

  “Managed to stay alive against the odds. You’re very resilient, aren’t you? No matter what the world throws at you, you seem to always come up smelling of roses.”

  “Smelling of something.”

  “Quite. You did it, though. The city was destroyed by a nuclear strike, and yet here you are.”

  “Just about.”

  “Well, you look in much better shape than most.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive…”

  Another soldier in fatigues taps Estelle on the shoulder and says something Matt can’t quite make out about. Estelle nods. “Thank you, Jessica,” she says. “Right, everyone’s here. Take a seat, Matthew, and let me bring you up to speed.”

  * * *

  There must be more than a hundred people in the mess hall, but all eyes are on Estelle, who’s front and center. Lighting in here is sparse by necessity, because if even the faintest chink of brightness is seen from outside by one of them, everything could be compromised. The fragility of this place is not lost on anyone. People talk in hushed whispers all the time, making as little noise as they can. Even now, the silence in the room means there’s no need for Estelle to raise her voice. Everyone can hear her.

  “Let me start by saying how pleased we are to have so many new faces here today. We’d all but given up on finding survivors anywhere near the city. We’d almost stopped looking. It must be the best part of a month since we went back out that way. You’re very fortunate we chose this week for Aaron and his team to make one last scavenging trip to the airport.

  “I understand from Darren that you’ve been out of the loop since the camp fell, so allow me to bring you up to date on the current state of the nation.” She pauses as if it’s an effort to recall and repeat. “London was the first to fall. It was inevitable. Only to be expected when you’ve about a tenth of the population of the country crammed into a relatively small space, all doing their best to try to kill each other. Two bombs, apparently, about a week before the rest. Then, as well as your home, we also lost Leeds or Manchester—possibly both, Cardiff, Portsmouth, Edinburgh and Glasgow, Liverpool, we think … those are the strikes we’re reasonably certain about, but it’s all academic, really. Half that number of nukes would probably have been enough to cause catastrophic environmental damage.”

  It’s hard to comprehend the scale. The enormity of the devastation is humbling. “So who pushed the button?” someone in the crowd asks.

  “Another excellent but equally academic question. Ultimately, it doesn’t really matter. There have been conflicting reports. Best guess is that they were all fired from the same sub somewhere in the North Sea, but we have no way of knowing who actually had their finger on the trigger.”

  “You get reports?” Darren says. “There are other groups left like this?”

  “We had some radio contact for a while, but we’ve heard nothing from anyone else since a couple of weeks after the bombs.”

  She waits a moment for the news to sink in. It’s a lot for the new arrivals to absorb.

  “The upshot of all of this,” she continues, “is that we’re operating on the assumption we’re no longer a faction of the CDF but that we are the CDF in its entirety. We’re operating out of two locations—RAF Thornhill, which is where we are currently, and a farther outpost some twenty miles east of here, just outside what’s left of Cambridge. We’re in the process of transferring our entire operations over there. We’ll be leaving here in the next few weeks. There are somewhere in the region of two hundred soldiers based at the outpost, well armed and well equipped and supported by civilians.”

  “Supporting them?” Matt asks. “Supporting them doing what?”

  “What do you think?” a lone voice answers from across the room. “More fucking fighting.”

  Estelle shakes her head. “It’s more than that, much more. Think about what I just told you and how much of the country has been destroyed. In my office, there’s a map with the potential blast zones marked out if you’d care to look, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand the implications of what’s happened here. We’re in a hell of a tight spot. We’re not in good shape, none of us. Even those of you who’ve just arrived and who’ve been fortunate to spend much of the last couple of months underground—and yes, I do consider you fortunate—will already have seen enough to realize that we’re just about dead on our feet.

  “Darren and I had a brief conversation earlier, and I think it’s fair to say we’re of a similar mind-set. We’re all about the long game. What’s left of the enemy will inevitably burn itself out before long, and we’ll be there to pick up the pieces when the in-fighting’s over.”

  Darren turns around and addresses familiar faces in the crowd. “Remember what we talked about when we were waiting in the hideout? About waiting for the war to be over so we can pick up the pieces and start again? I believe we’re in a place to be able to do that, and to do it with the support of the CDF.”

  Matt gets up and goes to leave.

  “Where are you going, Matthew?” Estelle asks.

  “To get some sleep. I’ve heard enough for one day.”

  Darren’s appalled. “You can’t just turn your back on all of this. This is important.”

  “No offense, Darren, but it isn’t, and I can.”

  He tries to get through, but the room is packed, and picking his way between the bodies takes longer than he’d like. Time enough for Estelle to start on him again.

  “Don’t walk away just yet, Matthew. There’s a lot you still haven’t heard.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “Give me a few more minutes of your time, please.”

  His way through is blocked, and the decision’s made for him. He turns around and leans against the wall, its solidity and coolness oddly comforting. “Go on.”

  “Back to the map of the country I was alluding to,” Estelle continues. “All those cities I reeled off a minute ago, they’re all uninhabitable. More than that, the contamination from fallout has most likely rendered much of the rest of our little island uninhabitable. Anyone with even the most basic grasp of geography can work out the p
otential scale of the damage and the implications for what’s left of us. We could stay here, but our feeling is that we’re too close to the center of the country and, therefore, the effects of the bombs that hit to the north, south, and west. Given what’s happened, we believe our best option, probably our only option, is to head east.”

  “Won’t the other side come to the same conclusion?” Kara asks.

  “Almost certainly,” Estelle agrees. “That’s why we’re taking our time and carefully coordinating our next move. You see, the Haters are by their very nature an uncoordinated mob, and the bombs have increased that lack of coordination. We’re exploiting that.”

  “How?”

  “By working as a single cohesive unit and strengthening the Cambridge outpost. Work had already begun to fortify the site long before the bombs were dropped.”

  Aaron clears his throat, then speaks. “Honestly, you’ve seen nothing like this place. It’s so well hidden and well defended, the enemy don’t even realize when they’ve strayed onto our turf until it’s too late. It’s like a black hole, sucking them in. We’ve killed loads of them.”

  “But there are thousands more out there,” Matt says. “Tens of thousands, probably.”

  “And we’ll hold our ground until we’ve dealt with every last one of them,” Estelle immediately replies.

  “You have a habit of making very difficult things sound remarkably straightforward.”

  “Do I? Or is it just that the things I’m talking about actually are straightforward? That remains to be seen.”

  “And what happens when things get tough this time, Estelle? When we were back in the city, you just upped and left.”

  “I didn’t just walk away,” she replies, the authoritative tone suddenly stripped from her voice and replaced with more than a tinge of anger. “I should explain to those who aren’t aware, Matthew and I have crossed paths previously. But don’t you get it, Matthew? I didn’t run away, I came here to get this place ready and to coordinate the Cambridge outpost. And if I hadn’t done that, then when you were forced out of hiding and into trouble today, you’d have been killed.”

  “Sure. You’re right. Thanks for everything,” he says, and he tries again to leave.

  The crowd is getting restless, the level of noise becoming uncomfortably loud. Darren gestures for them to simmer down. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, pointing at Matt, “listen to Estelle. Tell them what happens next, Estelle.”

  “As I said, we’ll move everything to the outpost, then we’ll push on from Cambridge. We’ll create a new forward position, and the process will start again, then again and again until we’ve found ourselves somewhere safe and defendable. It’s going to be hard, and not all of us will make it, but I believe we can do it. This will be our last battle, I’m sure of it, but if ever there was something worth fighting for, it’s us.”

  * * *

  “I’ve always had my concerns about him. He’s disruptive. I worry about the effect he’ll have on everyone else,” Estelle says, talking to Darren, Jason, and Aaron later over mugs of coffee in the relatively civilized confines of her small private office. “We need people to work together. We can’t afford for there to be divisions in the group. It’s divisions that caused all of this in the first place, remember?”

  “I’ll keep him under control,” Darren says. “He’s stubborn, and he’s a loner. I share your concerns, though. My worry is that people will start to listen. You’re offering them a future here, but it’s going to take a lot of effort and sacrifice. I don’t want them seeing him and trying to take the easy way out.”

  “What about that girl? You said they’re close. Can she help?” Aaron asks.

  “Kara? Yeah. I don’t know what she sees in him. She’s pretty smart otherwise.”

  “We should have a word with her. See if we can’t get her to talk some sense into him.”

  “What do you think?” Estelle asks Jason. He’s not listening at first, distracted by the fact he’s where he is, drinking coffee like the end of the world never happened, and also by the map on the wall showing the nukes. It brings everything into sharp focus, seeing how much of the country has been reduced to ash.

  “Come on, Jason, keep up,” Darren says, annoyed. “You’ve known Matt for longer than the rest of us. What do you think?”

  “He’s been through a lot.”

  “We all have.”

  “If you want my honest opinion, I think the guy is struggling. His missus was a bag of nerves, and with hindsight, I reckon much of that was down to him. He resents the rest of us. I think he’s a liability.”

  17

  The CDF Outpost Near Cambridge

  It’s just after dawn, and the countryside is alive with movement. This is the largest and most sustained Hater incursion in weeks. The numbers are relatively insignificant in the scheme of things, but every man and woman in the trenches, every spotter, every member of the support crew, everyone from the youngest civilian right up the chain of command to Chappell himself is concerned that this is something new. Before today, there’s been no question that the enemy fighters who’ve ended up here have done so by chance; wrong place, wrong time. This feels different. These Haters arrived here in a pack. Seventeen of them at least. Their numbers are concerning.

  The corpses are clogging up the trenches.

  Now that the first of them have been dealt with, on the front line, they’re getting ready for the next wave. The enemy didn’t expect a fight here; that much is clear. The camouflage covering the outpost did its job. It was only when a couple of them reached the trench and were killed that the others realized there were Unchanged here. The noise of their deaths rang out like an alarm across the empty fields, and rather than eliciting concern for their fallen brethren, the sounds of Hater killings instead filled the others with excitement, all of them desperate to fight again.

  The spotter can see them homing in on the area where the others disappeared and were dealt with, and from her elevated position, she can also see the soldiers in the trench trying to shift the dead Haters so they have room to fight. She signals for support.

  Moira Kay, Chappell’s second in command, is down at ground level, coordinating the troops. There’s a backlog of bodies to be shifted. She grabs a Hater kid’s feet and drags him away like he’s a sack of coal. The back of his head cracks repeatedly as it bounces along the uneven ground, and he groans with pain. Shit. He’s still alive. He stirs, but she knows he’s too far gone to be any threat. His useless right arm, bones shattered, trails through the mud. Blood oozes from stab wounds. Detestable fucking thing. He’ll soon be dead.

  Dean and Parker are on pit duty. “Might have known it would be you two causing a backlog,” Moira says as she dumps the Hater. “Get a move on, and get these bodies dealt with.”

  “Could do with some more hands; there’s only us and Joseph working,” Parker says.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Moira goes to find more civilians she can volunteer, but stops and doubles back on herself first. She stamps her boot down on the almost-dead Hater’s unprotected face to help speed up his demise.

  “What did she want?” Joseph asks, appearing from behind a huge yellow-painted digger.

  “Just letting us know we’re not working hard enough,” Parker tells him. “She wants to try doing this job.”

  “At least she gets her hands dirty,” Dean says. “More than that Chappell bloke. He just stands up on his platform watching everyone else getting the shit kicked out of them.”

  A distinctive rain-soaked figure runs over to the pit. It’s Peter Sutton. “Moira told me to—” he starts to say, then he slips in the mud and ends up on his backside next to the dead Hater. For a second, all he can do is look down into the mass of tangled limbs below him: hollowed-out faces, collapsed rib cages, punctured lungs, gashes and gouges in paper-thin flesh that allow the insides to spill out, and the stench … Jesus Christ, the stench of all that death and decay. He salivates, s
ure he’s about to throw up … He almost goes over the edge, but Joseph yanks him back.

  “Pull yourself together, man.”

  “Sorry,” Peter says, picking himself up.

  “We can’t risk any weak links in the chain here.”

  “I know. I get it.”

  “You do appreciate the seriousness of what’s happening here, don’t you? If we give those monsters out there any room to maneuver, they’ll be all over us. Show them the slightest sign of weakness and they’ll kill the damn lot of us. You understand me?”

  “I understand,” Peter says.

  Joseph strips anything of value from the Hater corpse. The boy had a little food in his pocket and an improvised blade—nothing much, but everything counts these days. He hands it all to Dean, who climbs up into the cab of the nearby digger and stashes it away.

  Peter’s watching all of this. He looks away as soon as he realizes Joseph’s now watching him. “You stockpiling?” he asks. “Stashing stuff away for a rainy day?”

  “There’s nothing but rainy days now, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Parker says. “Keep your fucking nose out.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Good,” Joseph tells him, leaning in close. “You do and you’ll be next in the pit.”

  “Got it. I don’t want any trouble.”

  Peter pushes the body closer to the edge. He pauses and looks into the dead kid’s face. His eyes are filled with an intolerable mix of pain and hate. He has a boot mark across his cheek and a mouthful of broken teeth, courtesy of Moira. “Like the look of him, do you?” Parker goads. Peter shakes his head and shoves the body over. He stands up and wipes mud and blood from his hands. He turns around to go back to the trench for more, but Parker and Joseph are blocking his way.