His hand now free again, he groped at her breasts, her eyes wide as he painfully squeezed and kneaded them, pulling her jumper up over her face, tearing at her silk blouse, the buttons popping as the delicate top disintegrated. He reached back, pulled a knife from his pocket, and severed her bra straps, the bra clip unable to prevent the final disrobing of her breasts. His face wild, his chest heaving as his breathing accelerated, his pulse rate soaring, Keelan fumbled with the belt of his pants and quickly forced his jeans down exposing his throbbing manhood.
He wished she could see it, see what was coming, but the jumper was held over her face. Later, she would both see it and taste it, but for now pure release was at the forefront of his thoughts. He dropped on top of her spread-eagled body, his heavy weight forcing the breath from her. He jabbed at her unsuccessfully, forcing her legs further apart, thrusting at her painfully two or three times until he found the opening he was looking for. He groaned as his swollen cock pushed deep inside her. The woman’s body tensing, she bit into the jumper that covered her face. Two shallow strokes were followed by long deep ones, his body tensing as he ejaculated into her after only a few seconds, his head held back, and a manic grin on his face. He slumped down, spent, sucking on her dark nipple as he felt himself getting hard again. He smiled. Life was good.
CHAPTER 5
The driver rocked gently in the seat of the David Brown tractor as it trundled down the country lane towards Little Farringdon. The Range Rover would have been a better option, but it only had a half-tank of petrol whereas the 2,000-litre tank of diesel on the farm was still three quarters full. He slowed down as he approached the A361, checked for traffic to his left, although he wasn’t expecting to see any, and then swung right heading south towards the two lakes. He picked up speed; a plume of smoke, lifting the weather flap, shot up from the vertical exhaust mounted at the front of the engine. In a couple of minutes, he had crossed the River Leach and passed between Roughgrounds and Horseshoe Lakes. The large roundabout that led to the small village of Lechlade-on-Thames was visible ahead. He checked that his shotgun lying on the floor of the cab was easily accessible, and adjusted his face mask and the hood of his sweatshirt. He patted the dog’s head at his side as the animal’s eyes locked onto his, looking for reassurance. On reaching the roundabout, he turned right, ignoring road protocol that required you to circuit the roundabout clockwise: traffic was almost non-existent these days. Even before the nuclear strikes, fuel was in very short supply, limiting the movement of vehicles. Petrol and diesel stocks had been reserved for the forces and essential services although, as a farmer, he had received a reasonable allocation of diesel fuel. The battle for the protection of Ukraine, Poland and West Germany had quickly assumed priority, with supplies being diverted to feed the ever hungry tanks and armoured vehicles of the British Army allocated to the NATO forces rapidly despatched to the Continent. What fuel was left in the UK had been only enough to last a few days, but then Armageddon struck. With over 300 megatons of nuclear detonations shaking the British Isles to the core, the need to fuel their family cars was the last thing on people’s minds. By then, it was too late to run.
The road took him past a housing estate on his left, and he observed the houses, looking for any signs of a threat. Most of the surviving occupants had left, moving to one of the large encampments set up by a Regional Government Centre. There they sought food, water and shelter. The blast wave from the 500-kiloton nuclear warhead that had devastated the RAF base at Brize Norton, which surged across the village, had shattered all of the windows, lifted many of the roofs, leaving their homes open to the elements. Although the wind had been blowing in a north-westerly direction, taking most of the contaminated fallout away from the village, changes in weather conditions and shifts in wind direction meant that some contaminated particles had still dropped onto the village and surrounding areas.
At the end of the road, Tom continued north-west, along a narrow lane that led to an allotment area belonging to a garden centre. The tractor bounced across the cultivated strips of land. Tom kept the wooded area to his south, skirting the village until he was able to approach it from the north-west. On arrival at his chosen position, he parked up. The tractor was pretty well hidden from the small village, and it was less than a 200-metre walk to his final destination. The wind had been blowing towards him, driving the sound of his approach away from the built-up area, helping to conceal his arrival. All being well, he hadn’t been heard. Although he would have preferred to have used the Range-Rover, even if fuel had been plentiful, he doubted it would have made it across the churned up fields. Completing the entire journey on foot would have been even better, but he would have been exposed to the contaminated air for too long. And, anyway, he wouldn’t be able to carry enough supplies in one go on foot. Although three weeks had passed since the dropping of the bombs and missiles, the polluted ground and radioactive particles in the air would still expose him to danger if he stayed out for too long.
He climbed down from the tractor. “Here, boy.”
The collie jumped down from the cab, sniffed the air, and took a turn around Tom’s legs before sitting to his master’s left.
“What can you hear, eh, boy? What’s that?” Tom’s voice was muffled through the surgical mask and scarf wrapped around his face, his eyes peering through the goggles that were better suited to scuba diving.
The dog’s ears pricked up, twitching like miniature radars searching for sound. But Sam remained where he was, panting steadily, his pink tongue flicking out occasionally over his black nose.
Tom patted him. “Good lad.”
Tom moved through a sparse copse and headed for the large building he could see through the gaps in the trees, the spire of the parish church visible in the distance. Tom and his dog followed the hedge line, Sam sniffing the hedgerow, leaving his scent when he smelt the conflicting odour of another animal. He scooted out in front, checking the ground ahead but never more than a few metres, before circling back.
“Good boy.”
He adjusted the double-barrelled shotgun in the crook of his right arm as they walked the last ten metres.
“Wait.”
Sam stopped immediately and was instantly on the alert.
“Seek.”
Sam ran forward, sniffing the air, while Tom waited. Sam toured the area, checking an outhouse and the other side of a low wall that crossed their path, breached by a small but open gate. The dog gave out no danger signals, his black tail wagging freely, pleased to be out of the confines of the farmhouse.
The two made their way around the back of what was once a hotel, passing between the rear of the building and one of two tennis courts. Tom doubted guests would use them again for many years to come. The owner was a good friend of his, and was now holed up in the farm with his and Tom’s wives. They took it in turns to rummage for supplies, one of them always remaining behind to ensure the farm’s and their families’ security. The hotel was far from safe, having been ransacked on numerous occasions. But the looters had never discovered the hidden cellar which held a small supply of dried and tinned food that would have been used to feed the twenty or so guests when the premises had been open for business. The village housed roughly 2,000-plus people, but most of the inhabitants had fled further north during the latter part of the war, conscious that the military airfield would be a likely target if the UK was attacked. Those that remained, no more than a dozen, were ensconced in their own properties, eking out their remaining meagre provisions. The small village shop, hotel and post office had been stripped bare. This unknown food source was all that was left. It had remained undiscovered, so far. He’d had little contact with the locals since the missiles struck, bar one family. The parents, along with their four sons, one a teenager, the other three in their early to late twenties, were seen as the village bullies. They also had a daughter and two cousins living with them. They had confronted Tom only two days previously as they scoured the houses searching for food and water. Fortunately, he had been away from the hotel at the time, and a blast of pellets over their heads caused the cowardly group to run. Deep down though, he suspected their paths would cross again as the family were forced to widen their search radius as starvation started to take hold.