CHAPTER 6
10 years AC
Bracton Harbour, Norfolk
Sitting on the foredeck of the boat, secured alongside the harbour’s quayside, Jacob listened to the noises of the night. The rhythmic slapping of water on the hull, the sporadic whisper of a fresh breeze and the clatter and tinkle of loose things teased by the wind amongst the quayside warehouses.
On occasions such as this, on guard duty, there had been times that he’d heard other noises; the haunting echo of a faraway cry; once, the solitary crack of a distant gunshot; often the sound of someone, or wild dogs, rifling through crates and cargo containers in the warehouses.
Less so with each visit, though.
Tonight it was the tide, the breeze and shuffling debris skittering in wind-borne circles and nothing else.
He reached out for the SA80 and stroked the smooth cold metal of its barrel. He’d only ever had one go at firing the thing; a dozen test rounds out into the North Sea. The punch on his shoulder, the bucking in his hands, the crack of each shot - it had been exhilarating. One burst of fire and then Walter had snatched the gun off him saying that was enough. Ammunition couldn’t be replaced, and now he knew how to fire the thing, he was trained enough.
Walter had been part of the community from almost the very beginning; after the crash, back when they lived for several years amidst a cluster of barns. Jacob had been only twelve when the ‘bad men’ arrived. Hungry men, lean men in tatty clothes, some even in army uniforms. He wasn’t certain whether they were really soldiers or not; he remembered some wearing trainers, some had the sort of tattoos he’d never imagined that a policeman or a soldier would have, and no one seemed to be in charge.
They saw the chickens, the pigs. They’d followed the smell of frying bacon and woodsmoke through the thick forest that thus far had hidden them from the world outside.
He shuddered at the memory of that particular day. An initial polite request for a meal and a little hospitality had quickly escalated to something very different. After they’d eaten the bacon, a girl only a couple of years older than him was taken by several of the men to a nearby barn. That was the first. They took other girls and women, one by one. Mum included.
The fighting started soon after. It was probably all over in ten minutes, but to Jacob it seemed like that whole winter morning had been filled with the crack of gunfire, screaming, crying. Seven of the bad men were killed, the others melting away into the woods.
But so many more of their own people had died - mostly they’d been women, girls. It was as if the soldiers had decided that if they couldn’t have them, they might as well kill them.
Leona lost the young man she was with; a tall guy with long hair called Hal. Jacob remembered Hal’s father - he couldn’t remember the man’s name - had used a kitchen knife to make short work of one of the bad men left wounded in the snow. He’d dragged him into the barn and finished him there.
He returned with Mum, helping her back across the paddock, she was covered in scratches and cuts and blood, her clothes ripped, her face a hardened stare. Their little community never really recovered from that morning, and a few weeks later the survivors were split down the middle; those that were going, those that were staying.
Over the years Jacob had often found himself wondering whether those they’d left behind - people who had almost been like extended family through the early years after the crash - had managed to carry on there. Or whether those men had come back as promised and this time finished them all off.
It was certainly a morning no one ever discussed. When newcomers arrived and asked how the rig community started out, Mum always fluffed the question, and Walter usually said nothing.
That day was just over five years ago and Jacob was certain that all the bad men must be long gone by now - run out of things to steal and people to kill, and just faded away. What was left of the UK had to be safe now.
He looked out at the dark skyline. Bracton was just empty buildings, wild dogs and weeds. But London? That’s where the government, the Prime Minister and all the important men lived. He remembered listening to the BBC emergency broadcasts just after the crash mentioning the safe zones in and around the big cities. There were about twenty or so of them; big buildings guarded by soldiers and full of emergency supplies of food and water and taking in civilians who sought their protection.
Yes, some of the zones had gone wrong in the aftermath, he’d heard about that, too many people, too few troops. But surely not all of them? Right?
At least one or two of them must have muddled through, especially in London where there were several of the biggest zones. Surely, by now, they’d managed to get things up and running again; had powered up lights like they had on the rig, perhaps even had enough power to make hot water, to run some street lamps, perhaps even a few shops selling their wares once more. It was possible, wasn’t it?
He smiled in the dark.
It’s inevitable. You can’t keep a great country like Great Britain down. Called ‘great’ for a reason, right?
He knew he was right. He knew something else too. One day he was going to find out for himself.
Soon. One day soon.