Tom made his way through the open door, the crunch of broken glass seeming disproportionately loud as he entered. He stood still and listened for a few minutes. Nothing. Moving back to the doorway, he called Sam over. “Here, boy. Good lad. Stay, stay. I won’t be long.”
The dog lay down across the entrance, doing his master’s bidding: not waiting for the command to round up sheep on this occasion, but acting as sentry. The days of chasing sheep were over. The small flock Tom had on the farm had been found dead: three weeks in the open, exposed to high levels of radiation, and finally killed by the poisonous fodder. But Sam was getting used to this new role. Tom made his way inside, comfortable that Sam would warn him of any intruders. He flicked on his torch. Although there was sufficient light to move around, with parts of the roof missing and chunks out of the walls, the deeper inside he went the less light there would be available. Tom found the large kitchen in the centre of the hotel and moved the square table, positioned at the far end, to one side, pushing it up against the kitchen range. He then rolled up the large piece of lino, lifting the kitchen table legs up, using them to hold the coiled covering back in place. A hatchway, leading down to the hotel’s only cellar, was now revealed.
Tom wasted no time. Lifting it up, he made his way down the stone steps that led to this inner sanctuary where Andrew, the owner, had stashed various stocks of food. They had both agreed at the outset that, should the war escalate and there was a breakdown in control, they would join forces and hide out at the farm. When the bombs and missiles struck, they had left what stores there were at the hotel as a reserve or in case looters overran the farm and a fallback position was needed. He placed the shotgun on a shelf off to the side, peeled back his hood and positioned the elasticated straps of a head torch around his forehead and across the back of his head. His arms were now free, and he immediately got to work. Tinned goods were the target for today. His plan was to carry two dozen boxes up to the back door, then bring the tractor up, and stack them quickly onto the rear loader, limiting the time he stayed in the area. He got to work.
Tom eventually dropped the last box but one, this one full of catering packs of tinned baked beans, and was about to turn and get the last when he heard a low growl from Sam. Tom ran back to the cellar, making his way down into the cellar quickly where he retrieved his shotgun before making his way out and back to where Sam was still growling.
“What is it, lad?”
The dog’s hackles were up, teeth slightly bared, and the throat rumbling continued. Tom stood alongside the collie. The dog was now in a low crouch, poised to defend his master against a potential assailant. Tom stroked Sam’s black and white coat. The six-year-old looked up at him, reassured by his master’s presence.
“Good lad. Steady now.”
Tom crept from the room, peering around the door frame. It was clear. He edged his way south-east along the outer wall, clutching his shotgun, until he reached the corner where he took a peek to the left. The sound of a crash emanated from a building across the way, followed by the sound of a splintering door. Sam, who had been following close behind, bared his teeth again, the throaty growl increasing in intensity.
“Steady, lad, steady.”
Tom brushed the dog’s hackles down. He saw movement as two young men exited the building, probably one of the few houses not yet looted by the Reynolds family. Sam must have heard their scavenging activity. Tom watched as the two moved north, deeper into the housing estate to continue their scavenging.
Tom sighed with relief: the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with those two. “Let’s go then, Sam. Get our stuff and bugger off home. What do you say, eh?”
The dog’s ears pricked up at the sound of ‘home’ and he trotted after Tom, returning to where the boxes had been stacked, and then back inside the hotel. Securing the hatch and returning the linoleum and table to their original position, Tom left the hotel. He cut across to where he’d left the tractor, knowing that speed was now of the essence. Sam leapt into the cab, and Tom followed him. The engine started first time, and he manoeuvred the farm vehicle towards the hotel, reaching it in only a couple of minutes. He spun the tractor round and reversed up to the door until the hydraulic hitch, supporting a loading platform, was in the right position. Tom jumped down, commanding Sam to stay in the cab, and proceeded to stack the boxes of tinned food onto the platform. He was near completion when a sharp bark from Sam alerted him, but looking up from his task he saw nothing. About to place the last box onto the tractor’s loader, he saw one of the two men he had seen earlier running towards him. He recognised him immediately as Ryan. At six two, although quite skinny, the young man had a reputation for meanness and had recently served three years in prison for GBH.
“Hey, old man, what you up to?” Ryan called out. “Hey, bro, we’ve caught ourselves a looter,” he hollered back over his shoulder to his brother Brian who had also appeared on the scene.
Tom dropped the box, and the contents, tins of tomatoes, spewed out as the cardboard container caught on the tractor’s mechanism at the rear.
“Shit,” he said to himself, suddenly realising the shotgun was back in the cab.
Ryan was within metres now, picking up speed, intending to charge the middle-aged farmer, take him down, and steal the contraband. Brian, slightly weightier than his brother and suffering from a minor learning difficulty, lumbered after him, wanting to join in the sport that he felt sure would ensue. Tom prepared himself for the onslaught, cursing his stupidity. Ryan launched himself at Tom, the six-footer dominating Tom’s shorter stature. Tom, catching a hint of red from the corner of his eye, picked up a tomato can that had caught up on the loader, and swung his right arm, the tin clutched in his hand, with every ounce of force he could summon up behind it. The can connected with Ryan’s eyebrow, splitting the skin, blood flowing freely, causing the young man to stagger to Tom’s left, collapsing onto the ground, reaching out and taking Tom down with him. They landed in a heap, Tom winded, Ryan dazed.
Tom saw Brian pounding towards them, knowing he needed to act quickly if he was going to come out of this alive. As Brian lined up with the tractor cab, Sam launched his agile body, his front paws colliding with the brother, knocking him sideways and down. Brian quickly scrambled to his feet, Sam’s powerful jaws grinding the man’s arm between his sharp teeth. Brian, screaming in agony, tried to yank his arm free of Sam’s grip, dragging the dog away from the tractor. Tom wasted no more time as he heard Ryan groaning, and saw him clutching his bleeding head, slowly regaining his senses.
Using the now dented tin, he struck at Ryan again and again, pounding the man’s skull until the tin was shapeless and had split at the seam, tomatoes and tomato juice mixing in with the congealing blood. He got to his feet just as he heard a yelp and saw Sam flying through the air after being booted by Brian who was now rubbing his mangled arm. Brian looked up and caught Tom’s eye, a mixture of pain, fear and hatred etched on his face as he got ready to charge. Tom kicked off first, sprinting for the cab, and heading around the side opposite to where Brian had also made his move. Tom got there first, grabbing the shotgun, spinning left as Brian made his way around from the front of the bonnet.