“Dickheads,” scowled Doug.
Keelan cast his eyes over the three that had just beaten up the intruders: Todd Withers, Milo Gill and Mickey Wicks. Doug Salt moved to Keelan’s left, a big smile on his face. “That’s them told.”
“Let’s get out of here,” ordered Keelan.
After spending a few minutes gathering anything that could be of use, particularly any food and water, all five exited the main entrance of the prison. The generators, still operational, provided enough power for some of the key functions, the security doors for one. For the first time in years, the convicts now found themselves on the other side of the reflective windows that lined the control room. The reinforced prison windows had survived the ferocity of the tail end of the blast wave that had struck Wakefield.
All took a deep breath, savouring the outside air rather than the smell of sweaty bodies, disinfectant and stale cooking. But there was a taint in the air, their overpowered nostrils unable to immediately discern the smell of ash, dust and lingering death.
Keelan crouched down next to a wall on the left, peering over at scattered beer barrels in the backyard of a brewery next to the arches of the railway viaduct that ran alongside it. “What the hell’s that smell?” he uttered.
Salt crouched down next to him. “Smoke. Smells like someone’s had a bloody big bonfire.”
Milo Gill joined them. “Christ, there must have been a hell of a fire after the bombs.”
Salt rubbed his foot in the layer of grey ash and dust on the concrete path that ran down towards the shuttered vehicle entrance of the prison behind them. “Look at this shit. Been more than a bonfire.”
“Hey, a brewery.” Gill pointed in the direction of the large brewery sign on the building opposite.
“Never mind that,” scowled Keelan. “We’ll find some more salubrious surroundings later. Let’s just get away from here for now.”
“We need to change out of these,” suggested Salt, pointing at his grey prison clothes.
“Good point. I always said you were a smart fucker, Salt,” Gill complimented him.
“Let’s do it.” Keelan waved them forward. “Watch out for the Filth,” he warned.
They all ran across the road and headed down Parliament Street, red-brick brewery buildings, streaked with black soot, either side of them.
“Here’s a pub,” called Mickey Wicks, the fourth member of the group, pointing to a small pub on their right, peering through a broken window.
“Yeah, somewhere to sit and wait for the Filth,” growled Salt.
“Keep moving,” snapped Keelan. He beckoned them forward, the sound of glass crunching beneath their boots and trainers.
“It looks like it’s been looted,” observed Todd as they moved past it.
The five men reached a T-junction. Keelan quickly scanned each way, also glancing back over his shoulder ensuring they weren’t being followed. “This way.” No one questioned him.
The group headed down Westgate, passing beneath the steel span of the rail bridge above. On either side of the street were abandoned cars, either left for lack of fuel, electrics burnt out from the effects of Electro Magnetic Pulse, a by-product of the nuclear bombs, or just burnt out along with the blackened line of shops.
“Where is everybody?” wailed Todd.
“It’s like a bloody ghost town,” joined in Mickey.
They stopped at a crossroads allowing Keelan to get his bearings. Drury Lane was to their left, the darkened Theatre Royal opposite. Ahead, they could see a church spire.
“Keep going. We’ll head for the church.” Keelan had decided.
“Going to wash away your sins, Stan?”
“Shut it, Todd!”
“Hey, only kidding, Stan.”
They passed more shops, either burnt out, looted or both. Still no people. They looked hungrily at the fast-food cafés, disappointment coming quickly as they discovered the state of those differed little from the rest of the shops on the grey, dust-covered street. Just as they arrived at fork in the road, Marygate forking left while to the right there was an open-plan shopping precinct, Salt, hearing a noise, brought them to a halt before shoving them towards the shopping centre. “Get out of sight,” he yelled.
“It has to be the cops,” panicked Milo.
They had no sooner run for cover when they heard the roar of vehicles coming from the direction of Marygate and the Bull Ring. Salt urged them to take cover inside one of the shops, the glass fronts and doors blown or burnt out. Just as Milo was dragged in cursing, a green army Land Rover, followed by a Saxon armoured troop carrier, came into view turning right onto Westgate, heading away from the concealed escapees. Perched in the back of the open-topped Land Rover, two masked and helmeted soldiers looked out, scanning either side of the road, their assault rifles pointed where the soldiers perceived there to be a potential threat. Clouds of dust swirled behind the vehicles as they sped away, hiding them from view as they continued with their patrol of the city.
“Fuck, that was close,” whined Milo.
“Move your ass a bit quicker next time,” snarled Keelan.
“It’s not just the Fuzz we have to worry about,” suggested Salt.
“Do you think they’re headed for the Nick?” asked Mickey.
Keelan nodded. “We need to find some cover where we can lay up and get our bearings. Plan what we do next.”
“And food,” added Milo.
“Alcohol for me.”
“You can fucking wait, Todd. Priority is cover, food and water. In case you haven’t noticed, the place is in a world of shit,” Salt retorted.
Salt led them deeper into the shopping complex. Most of the buildings were without roofs, and most of their contents were covered in black ash. All of the shops had been rifled and picked clean of anything edible. Primark had also been ransacked, but the five escapees managed to find enough smoke-blackened clothing, but unburnt, to replace their prison garb. It was also a relief to acquire some warm clothes: the cold was starting to bite. After a brief discussion, the decision was made, by Keelan and Salt, to head further out of the city, find a location where they could hold up in relative safety, and, more importantly, secure some food and water. They headed north, looking for the wealthier districts, choosing the streets where the houses appeared larger and more presentable.
“There’s someone in that house.” Withers pointed as he watched a figure dart through the front door of the double-fronted Victorian house at the end of the road.
“Did they see us?”
“I doubt it, Doug. They weren’t looking in our direction.”
“As good a place as any to lie up for the night, Stan,” suggested Doug Salt.
“Agreed. Let’s get a bit closer.” Keelan led the group forward, the five men keeping close to the mix of hedges, fences and walls that bordered the affluent residences that ran along one side of the road. The dwellings opposite mirrored those. All of the houses, some with large bay windows, had their panes shattered, but at least they weren’t like the blackened carcasses that occupied the greater part of the inner city.
Ground Zero, south-west of the river, the site of the 500-kiloton detonation, had obliterated the area out to a radius of three kilometres. Further out to the west of the city, where a second bomb had struck, various levels of degradation had occurred relative to the distance from Ground Zero. In the area of Ossett and Lupset, a firestorm had swept through the city. Although the fire brigade, who had placed their tenders in a place of relative safety prior to the strike, had attempted to tackle a few of the fires, the conflagration was such that they had little impact, and after four firemen were killed, the teams were withdrawn. The high levels of radiation were also a concern, so it was agreed the firestorm would be left to burn itself out. Now, a twenty-five square kilometre area of the city consisted of blackened structures with no windows and the roofs open to the elements. The local authority in charge had no idea of the number of deaths, but had calculated that it would be in the region of 30,000 dead and over 40,000 injured. Many who had initially survived had since died of their wounds, from radiation sickness and/or starvation. Bombs had also been dropped on Leeds, Bradford, Dewsbury, Huddersfield, Barnsley and Castleford.