VI - Casualties
Leave the body for the time being in a trench, or cover it with earth.
Within four hours, the last device has hit the UK.
Within four hours, the population has dropped by some fifteen million people - it continues to fall. The entire country smells like a barbecue. The sky is fat with ash, and those who live choke on those who have died.
The largest undamaged town on the mainland is now Dudley, in the West Midlands. Its population of 150,000 breathe something of a sigh of relief as they step out of their shelters. They also breathe in the remains of Birmingham. The Mayor of Dudley (quite beyond his remit, but communications with the Midlands RSG are cut) orders troops to defend the town hospitals and food warehouse.
In Newcastle, rescue efforts begin in earnest. The Fire Brigade has been ordered not to attempt to fight fires - the appliances' key role is now water transportation and decontamination. Despite this, some firemen look upon the inferno south of the river and resolve to do something - they didn't join up to hide in quarries whilst their families roasted. Merely getting close to the firestorm is extremely difficult - many roads are blocked. Upon reaching the outer reaches of the firestorm, the paint peels off the red engines. One Green Goddess simply bursts into flames itself. Hacking their way into overturned cars and family homes, the firefighters put their breathlessness down to exhaustion and stress - in fact, they are asphyxiating, and several simply fall asleep inside burning buildings or upon bubbling tarmac. Their actions are noble and heroic and foolish. 40% of the Fire Brigade's water reserve is depleted fighting the blaze.
Most of those with shelters remain there, as ordered by the BBC's Wartime Broadcasting Service.
The police (and even some units of the Fire Brigade and Ambulance Service) now receive their weapons - a grab-bag assortment of anything that could be begged, borrowed or stolen from anywhere from Army garrisons to museums.
Rescue services and exposed survivors within a five mile radius of the Hebbon and Ponteland blasts now begin to receive a lethal dose of radiation - for now though, its symptoms (mostly vomiting and exhaustion) are indistinguishable from shock.
The walking wounded - mainly suffering from broken-glass cuts, broken bones and burns - begin shambing towards one of Newcastle's three hospitals - overwhelmed will not begin to cover it (as will be explored later on).
The last nuclear weapon to detonate during The Exchange is unseen and unheard by anybody - it bursts just as it hits the waves of the South Atlantic. It is unknown whether this is a Russian miss (Ascension and the Falklands were both spared) or a NATO miss (though what the intended target for this weapon could have been is unknown).
*
The County Controller is desperately trying to contact his colleagues up and down the country. All that can be picked up from London is heavy interference (although many in the bunker swear that they are hearing screaming). During the first day, radio operators are only able to receive snippets of panicked correspondence - no actual contact is made; each control is simply shooting its panicked messages into the scorched air. As it happens, Newcastle Civic Centre has been lucky - the copper spire has been severely damaged and every window is gone, but the Hebbon blast was far enough away that the structure itself stands - short of concussions (some) and shock (all), those in the bunker are physically unharmed. It is clear to see from the looks in their eyes, as markers are placed on boards and circles on maps, that these men and women are far from undamaged. With his head still seeping into a bandage, the Controller did his best to balance composure with compassion as he does the rounds about the bunker - a firm hand on the shoulder, a promise that it'll be alright. The Controller thanks God every moment that his wife crashed her car last year.
*
For the Shopkeeper, the end of the world smells like baked beans - he has eaten remarkably well since the attack. As it turns out, he is overstocked. His wife's heart went with the sirens. He offers a spoonful of the cold red Heinz to the other figure in the shelter - she gives her refusal with silence. Ah well, thinks the Shopkeeper, licking his lips. All the more for me.
*
The Constable doesn't remember being picked up by a police van - indeed, the whole period is a blur of radio voices and shouting. He thinks he hears that the HQ at Pont. is gone, but honestly, he's not sure. His memories become coherent right at the point where he is issued a revolver. It is not until he feels the strangeness of the weight in his hand (he has never held a gun before) that he truly realises what is going on. He bursts into tears - a harsh slap from a Sergeant does little to soothe his nerves. Nevertheless, he gets back into the van and heads towards ground zero. A gas mask would be nice, but he settles for a scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose.
As the policemen disembark, there are already soldiers at the edge of the destroyed area. They watch 'survivors' stumble through the smoke. A naked, brown figure drags a mashed leg up towards the soldiers. The mouth makes movements as if to speak, but only phlegm and teeth come out. A single shot rings out and the hairless head implodes. Only by the jewellery fused around her arms could one have worked out that this was a young girl. A few bodies lie uncovered, but the Constable notices a relatively clean pair of blue trousers and black boots hidden under a duvet. He doesn't realise that he is now staring; he is brought back to reality by a passing gas-mask - 'one of your lot, mate - he wouldn't shoot so... so the Captain just did him.' - there is a moment of absolute silence as the Constable takes this in - his brain is racing to find a reply - anger, probably - instead, he finds himself stuttering incoherently. The soldier gives him one last look - from his eyes, it looks like he could be sorry - then again, it could just be fatigue. Somewhere nearby, a car goes up. He has been out of it for minutes, and turns to realise that the column of police and troops have moved on into the smoke. He jogs ahead, searching for them. Choose the fucking cowboys.
*
The Old Man and his Wife never used to hold hands in public - that was an affectation for teenagers courting, and the newlyweds- that had been the Old Man's view. Still, they hadn't really much choice now. They didn't know where they were going - naturally, the Old Man hadn't planned this far ahead. So far, someone had crudely bandaged up both their faces; someone else had stolen the last of their bread. They wandered, hands stooped low in front of them like children hunting Easter Eggs. Suddenly, the Old Man heard a mouse voice - was she singing? - yes, an old Vera Lynn number - Heavens, that takes me back! Subconsciously, the singing helps them both - the Old Man can feel, really feel - even stronger than the hand holding - that his wife is still with him. He isn't much of a singer, but he finds that a low and croaking voice is joining in.
The song finishes in a bout of coughing. The pair's senses haven't been honed yet, but it is impossible to mistake the sound of a weapon's click.
