“We need food and water,” wailed the crowd.
“We are not currently authorised to distribute food. You will be notified when the time comes.”
“We must have water.”
“You must use your own rations until the food can be released.”
“My children need food,” screamed a mother.
The crowd surged forward another metre, those at the front pushing back, conscious it was they who were getting ever closer to the soldiers.
“Fix bayonets!” ordered the captain.
There was a clatter of steel against steel as the soldiers locked their eleven-inch bayonets into place on the end of their SA80 assault rifles. One bayonet clattered to the concrete slab at the entrance, testament to the nervousness of the men, many of them young, faced with such a hostile crowd. Some of whom may well have family somewhere out there.
“Stay back! Stay back!” reiterated the sergeant, adding to the message the now bayonet-wielding soldiers were giving.
The captain turned back towards his men. Clouds of white, frosty breath emanated from the line of masks as the tempo of their adrenalin-primed hearts increased, their lungs now demanding more air. “Now, follow orders, lads. If this gets out of hand, they’ll be all over us, and the food reserves we have will be ravaged. Any hope those people have out there will be lost. Listen to my commands and be ready. If it plays out right, we can disperse them quickly.” He turned to face the crowd again. “Bravo-Company. Ready!”
The soldiers to a man raised their weapons to the ready position.
“Let us in,” bellowed the crowd.
“Above their heads, take aim.”
The line of assault weapons lifted, pointing at an angle just above the mass in front of them. The protesters at the front pushed back again, finding the strength to move the crowd a few centimetres, before it surged angrily forward again.
“Please move back,” pleaded the sergeant. “We will be forced to open fire.”
“Bravo-Company, stand by.”
The crowd had moved to within two-metres again.
“Fire!”
Crack! Crack, crack, crack!
An uneven volley of shots left the soldiers’ rifles, rounds zipping above the heads of the crowd as some ducked while others panicked, pushing back against the mob, trying to weave their way through the throng, keen to escape, someone else’s turn to be in the limelight. The baying crowd, now in the region of a thousand desperate refugees, regained their confidence and soon threatened the nine soldiers lined up against them. They came back angrier, more determined than ever to have their own way.
“Sergeant.” The captain indicated that Sergeant Saunders should hand him the megaphone. At the same time, he withdrew his 9mm Browning pistol from its canvas holder. He moved back as did his sergeant until they were both in line with the soldiers.
“Food will be distributed when authorised. If you do not disperse, I will order my men to open fire.”
The noise from the baying horde grew louder, and they inched their way closer and closer.
“Bravo-Company! At the crowd, aim!”
The rifles were locked into their owners’ shoulders, and this time they were aimed directly at the crowd. The throng held for a few moments before those at the rear pressed forward again.
The captain turned to his men. “Do not, I repeat, do not open fire without my command.” He turned back to face the crowd, lifted his pistol until it was pointed at a particularly verbose individual, and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot made his troops flinch, the 9mm slug taking the man in the chest, knocking him back into the arms of the crowd behind him. He fell to the ground, lifeless. Blood blackened his blue waterproof jacket, the rabble screaming around him.
“They’ve shot someone.”
“They bloody killed him.”
“The bastards have murdered someone.”
Captain Redfern hissed back to his men, “Bravo-Company, over their heads.” He turned back to face the crowd. “Fire!”
Crack, crack! Crack, crack!
It was enough: the crowd broke into a panic and ran, those at the front trampling over those behind them desperate to escape death. Within minutes, the mob had left the area, returning to the government-supplied tents or their own makeshift accommodation made up of plastic sheeting and blankets.
“That was a close one, sir. You did the right thing.”
“I had no choice, Sergeant Saunders,” whispered Captain Redfern. “There was no guarantee that the men would have obeyed my order to fire into the crowd. It was a gamble.”
Sergeant Saunders nodded in agreement.
“Right. Everyone back, secure the gate, and I’ll report to the controller.”
The men dispersed, going back to their normal duties of guarding the complex from within the fence line. Captain Redfern headed towards the bunker entrance, passing between the high concrete walls that led him through the blast doors. He clattered down two sets of concrete steps until he arrived at the lower level, the hum of the generator to his left, next to the control gear, oil and water tanks. At the bottom of the steps, straight ahead, he entered a small room where he removed his helmet and peeled off his respirator. Next came his NBC suit. It wasn’t ideal, but at least the majority of any contamination wasn’t spread around the complex. When anyone came back in from patrolling the wider area, returning with their protective clothing heavily contaminated, they would change in a room on the upper floor where their outer clothing could be bagged up and showers were available. Once finished, he left the room. Turning left, he made his way down the narrow corridor, popping his head into the main control room that had been set aside for the army and police.
“Still getting rowdy, Alan?” the senior officer, a Colonel, asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re getting pluckier each time. It won’t be long before they become unstoppable. We’ve had our first civilian casualty.”
“It’s only thanks to your perseverance and crowd control that it hasn’t happened sooner.”
Alan ran his hands through his mop of black hair, a sadness in his eyes. “I’d hoped people would see sense.”
“The police have handed out notices, and we’ve both explained to them that food will be distributed in a few days’ time.”
“I know, I know. Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“The men OK?”
“They’re fine, sir, but I have my doubts that they will open fire if ordered.”
“Only time will tell.”
“Is the warehouse still secure?”
“For the moment. Like you, they’ve had to resort to shooting.”
“Anyone killed?”
“No, not this time.”
“Principal officer still adamant we wait?”
“Yes, Alan, there’s no shifting him. It makes sense though. We know that a good percentage of the community stockpiled food and supplies prior to the strikes. We have to force the public to use those up first.”
“Next week, then?”
“Yes, more than likely.”
“We need more men for the next time they have a go.”
A corporal, sitting at one of the four desks in the four by three metre room, a large map board with a chart of the area of Chilmark pinned to it behind him, held up a sheet of paper. “Looking at the latest sick list, sir, that’s something we won’t have.”
“How many?” asked the captain.
“Two more down.”
“Permanent?”
“They’ll recover in a couple of days, but then… ”
The corporal didn’t need to say any more. Many of the soldiers suffering from radiation sickness would have a period of calm before the effects of the dose bit deep and their health deteriorated further until death finally overcame their fight to live. The majority had received some exposure as a ramification of the radioactive fallout. But, ensconced in the bunker, many were initially protected as a consequence of the ventilation towers covering the entire U-shaped block, filtering out the contaminants in the air. But, at some point, the occupants of the Regional Government Centre, as an upshot of their assigned duties, had to venture outside. Each carried a dosimeter, recording their exposure. The scientists, part of the local governmental team, would then check, record and monitor each individual’s exposure readings.