The room was a mess, and he had to step over a collapsed RSJ, a lintel, and clumps of rubble to make any progress. He soon found what he was looking for. Shards of glass crackled beneath his boots as he approached the smashed cabinets, bending down to peer at them. The building above him groaned, and pieces of plaster and other debris decorated his shoulders. He looked up, the beam of light from his torch reflecting off the cloud of particles swirling about the air. He was ready to make a run for it if there was the slightest sign of movement above him. The three-storey parade of shops, on the outskirts of Croydon, had caved in as a consequence of the blast created by the nuclear missile that had struck the Biggin Hill Airport, east of London. Bill had thought it unlikely they would be able to access this particular shop, such was the devastation in the area. But, after three days of hard digging, his group had come up against the wall of the shop he particularly wanted.
The structure above him seemed to have settled, and he relaxed slightly, but always ready to sprint for the opening should the mangled mass above him show signs of collapsing. I’ll be out of here like a shot, he thought. He managed to gain access to one cabinet, the others crushed by the sheer weight of the remains lying on top of them. Bill played the beam of light across the shattered cabinet, a smile spreading across his face when he saw the five shotguns lying on their sides amongst the splintered wood and jutting shards of glass. He grabbed the first one, pulling it out, and dusting it down. It looked in good nick. On checking the other four, three seemed OK, but the fourth had a badly bent barrel. He smiled to himself. It was a great find. “Got them,” he called back to Vincent. “Pass the bags through.”
Bill made his way back through the debris and took the two bags that Vincent was stuffing through the hole.
“Both of you come through, you can help me load. But be careful. It’s a bit dodgy in here.”
“Are you sure it’s safe, Bill?”
“Get in.”
Vincent, followed by Aleck, climbed through the gap that Bill had made earlier and scrambled their way to where Bill was waiting.
“Here, hold the bags open.”
Vincent held the first of the zip-up sports bags open, and Bill loaded two of the shotguns followed by boxes of cartridges, cleaning kits and anything else he thought might be useful. Then he filled the second one. With two bags full and a satisfied smile on Bill’s face, they clambered out through the hole. The three men then made their way back out, scrabbling down the route that led them through the tunnel, supported by blocks of masonry and other large chunks of debris, they had come through earlier. All three were relieved when they reached the exit.
It was late evening, and they stepped out under darkened skies. Bill shivered. Now outside again, the sweat, a consequence of the exertion in the tunnel, dried on his skin, chilling his body. Extinguishing their torches, Bill led them away from the collapsed building, crossing the road to pick up the three concealed bicycles, still there where they had left them.
During the cycle back to their destination, they stopped every few minutes to listen and watch for signs of any other inhabitants of the city on the move. They were in foreign territory, and Bill would be much happier once he was ensconced back in his tower block, amongst his own people. Twenty minutes of cycling later not only warmed them up again but found them approaching their base, their home. They were close now, and Bill could see the shadows of two of his men patrolling the outside of the building: one with a pickaxe handle, the second with a vicious-looking carving knife taped to the end of a broom stale. Each would also be carrying a clasp or cook’s knife as additional protection. Bill continued to watch as they turned the corner, walking away from the three men. He would wait until they completed their circuit. He had no intention of taking them by surprise.
Bill scanned the twenty-four-storey block, the odd flicker of light where elements of the eighty-two souls inside had probably grouped together to socialise, wrapped in scarves and thick jackets to keep out the cold. It was their home, their sanctuary, and their fortress. With these shotguns, he had a real chance of maintaining the security of those inside, protecting them from the marauding gangs that were intent on rape and pillage.
“We moving, Bill?” asked Vincent.
“No, we wait,” he snapped in response. “The guards will be back round soon.”
A further five minutes saw the two men saunter around the opposite corner and head for the covered porch that led to the main entrance of the building. Inside were two more of his guards, waiting to take their turn in protecting the building and its occupants from attack.
“Let’s go,” he hissed and sprinted from behind the building, wheeling his bike alongside, heading for the entrance to the tower block.
“Jake, Malcolm,” he called out to the two men, not wanting to startle them and risk getting a cook’s knife in his gut.
“That you, Bill?”
“Who did you think it was? All quiet?”
“Not a peep. Had a few kids scavenging around, but we soon fucked them off. Got them then?”
Bill held up the bag that had been hanging from the handlebars of his bike. “Yes.”
“Sound. We can better defend ourselves next time that mob try it again,” Jake responded.
“We’ll leave you and get these inside.”
Vincent and Aleck followed Bill as he headed deeper into the covered main entrance, the once glass-filled doors now boarded up with just a small slot in the wood to allow the men inside to see who wanted to gain entrance.
Bill hammered on the door with the butt of one of the guns and was responded to with a “Who’s that?”
“Bill and the boys returning.”
A light shone in his face as the man inside checked him out. Then there was a clatter on the other side as the braces and barriers were removed allowing the single door to be opened. A small gas lamp flickered in the entrance hall, and two men hovered either side of the door, on the alert for any tricks.
“Boys. We have a bit more security now.” Bill indicated the shotgun he was carrying.
“That’s a relief, Bill. Well done, you guys. Do we get them tonight?”
“We need to clean them up and sort out shells and the like first. First thing tomorrow, I promise.”
The two men smiled. Although they knew it was necessary to keep watch over the block both day and night, it was a scary experience keeping out some of the mobs that roamed the streets. The shotguns would be a welcome addition to their armoury.
“Right, lads, we’ll leave you to it.”
Leaving the bikes in the reception area, Bill, Vincent and Aleck made their way up the stairs, tiring quickly. It was a long climb to the twelfth floor, the six passenger lifts no longer operable. On reaching the level they sought, Bill pushed the door, to what was now his control room, open. Two females, a thirty-year-old single mother of two and a teenager, were in the process of brewing tea using a small gas camping stove off to the one side. In the centre, a large conference table was strewn with maps and papers, and, along one wall, a further array of maps depicting the streets of Croydon and the surrounding area. The tower block, which they currently occupied, was marked on the map and ringed in green. A second circle, out to 200 metres, and two hatched areas, marked in red, also adorned the map. The hatched areas of New Addington and Fieldway were considered no-go areas and housed one of the gangs that had attacked them two days previously. The first green circle was the area they deemed a no-go area to others, their territory, an area they protected as best they could. The second ringed area, in red, they would patrol and keep an eye on, but wouldn’t put up a fight to hold. Bill saw it as no-man’s-land. There were also numerous yellow and orange hatched areas: yellow for heavily contaminated, and orange for areas they wanted to investigate to scavenge for food and other essential supplies.