XIV - Materials To Use For Your Fallout Room And Refuge
For blocking windows, doors, halls, or passages.
Following the Army's seizure of control of Newcastle (a move taken due to the apparent incapacitation of the civilian controller), the new military commander launched Operation ISIS. Conceived in only a matter of hours, the plan stemmed from a belief in some circles that dissident Irish elements were responsible for a number of the incidents that had plagued the security forces since the attack; although no blame had been levied upon such groups before, the Acting Newcastle County Controller now informed the Police and Army that IRA cells were responsible for everything from the Freeman bombing to the violence in Felton.
Oh god I'm so sorry what have i done imsosorry
No evidence has been found to suggest that this was the case; indeed, even pre-war, the IRA presence in the North-East of England was insubstantial; a couple of botched firebombings at a gasworks and the Metro Centre Retail Estate the only two confirmed actions. This author has been unable to ascertain whether the Army was working on flawed intelligence, or whether some within the local chain of command were working with ulterior motives; naturally, we will never know.
Through the corridors and he hears them echo
Resistance to the plan by the security forces was vociferous, but stopped short of actual mutiny; the local commander was known to take a hard line towards insurrection, and both the Police and the Army had seen members executed for refusing to follow orders following the attacks. Indeed, some supported the new 'controller' following his heavily publicised reintroduction of rations for 'infants under six'; this was seen by many to justify whatever other more questionable orders that occurred.
Therefore, tragically, the plan went ahead.
Realistically, there were few if any Irish terrorists active, or even around, in the region at the time of ISIS. Those with even the slightest marks against their name had long since ended up on the Isle of Man (with all that this entailed) following Operation ANTONINE during the Transition-to-War. Quite apart from this, there was no definitive list of 'Irishmen' in the area. Using pre-war records, a few were identified and taken away; more were taken away after, infamously, the food list was scanned for 'Irish-sounding' names - more than one man found themselves waiting for hours in a food-queue only to be hauled away by soldiers once he reached the end.
Down the stairs - his feet don't touch the ground
Agriculture commences in earnest; there are few experts and a lot of wasteage of pre-war stock occurs; large swathes of the countryside (especially those near air or radar bases) are still unusable. The surprising lack of arable land prompted the lowering of the maximum roentgen limit for land to be farmed. The extreme dearth of fuel means that traction engines are re-introduced where available (few draught animals are used, due to the scarcity of feed). Most of the work, therefore, is 'V-powered'.
There is less daylight than there used to be, and it's dirtier.
Prewar, Gosforth Park hosted a middling-level racecourse. Just opposite the event car-parking, however, lay a series of unremarkable wooden buildings. These, it transpired (the local authorities had only rediscovered this during the build up to the attacks) had been there since the 1950s and were to serve as emergency hospitals following any 'atomic attack'.
They had been used to store lawnmowers.
Still smelling of petrol and wet grass, these buildings had been rapidly 'refurbished' only the day before the attack. The detritus thrown out, beds had been hastily assembled and some basic first aid equipment bussed in. Interestingly, the hospital was staffed almost entirely by members of St John's Ambulance; the NHS was overstretched as it was following the attacks.
Round the Back.
With a survival rate of about 15%, the Gosforth Park Reserve Hospital was a calamitous example of taking thirty year old plans and trying to bluff one's way through. It came as no surprise to anyone, therefore (and almost as some relief to the patients; they hadn't yet heard about the Freeman) when, during Operation ISIS, the building was converted to an interrogation centre to process 'terrorist suspects'.
Said suspects were held over the road at the racecourse proper; although imprisoned only by some chain-link fencing left on-site, escape was discouraged by the sheer amount of armed men surrounding them. Combined with this, the men were being starved; over a loudspeaker, they were told that, once they had revealed their 'ringleaders', they would be free to go.
They would have confessed was there anything to confess to.
*
A fire escape is barged open. There's a Transit idling with its lights off. Thrown in the back and the men get in after him. Soldiers?
Police; he can see the blue uniforms as the interior light joins the engine in ignition. He slumps down on a chair and clutches his shoulder. A big lad jumps next to him and throws him to the ground.
'Looks like that's your welcoming committee...sir.'. At the front of the hospital, four camouflage jackets with balaclavas stride towards the entrance. They've axe handles in their hands. He pulls himself up to the window (against the big lad's resistance). He sees the men and he faints.
*
When he comes to, it's warm - warmer than he's been in a long time. He's covered in a jumble of itchy blankets, and there's a real wood fire crackling in the corner. With his one arm, he gropes for a lamp; instead, he knocks over an untouched glass of water. It smashes.
Well, thought the Controller, I suppose I'm not dead.
Gently, and with a little knock, the big bedroom door opens.
Oh god no it's a soldierohno
'I hope I'm not di-disturbing you s-sir'; the Lieutenant takes his hat off to reveal a mop of yellow hair - 'how are you f-f-feeling today?'
'Well-' what does one pip mean again? -'...Lieutenant, I think I can safely say I've been better' - a weak smile.
'Excellent, sir' - the boy goes to pull up a chair - 'm-may I?'
'Of course; I wonder though, my boy, if you'd mind telling me what the hell is going on' - the Controller surprises himself with his language; oh well, we are at war I suppose - remembering something - are we at war?.
'You were sh-sh-shot, sir' - the Lieutenant forces it out, now awkwardly cross-legged on a big oak chair - 'we don't know who-who I'm afraid - they had to take your ' - the boy stares at his boots as he tries to force out the next sound. The good hand on his shoulder - 'It's alright, son, I know.'
The Lieutenant brushes his hair from his eyes; he is struggling to choose his words. The Controller sits up straight and beats him to it - 'Who on earth is running things then?'
The Lieutenant is not looking at the Controller, he talks into his hands as they fidget across his worried face - 'W-w-we are - the army is, I mean'
Now the Controller's face is worried too - 'the army? That can't happen - that shouldn't happen; how did that happen?'
'I-I don't know h-how to say this, sir, b-but you're dead - officially, th-that is'
Wide eyes - 'What?'
'Our c-commander told us you d-died of your injuries; I o-only overheard the order to go and... get you p-p-properly; I hear the Police got you just in time'
Again - 'What? Why did - why is your commander doing this?'
'He's not a b-bad man, sir - he's just c-c-c' - really struggling with this one 'c-confused.
The Lieutenant explains the situation as best he can; he tells the whole truth but tries to absolve the Officer; he's just 'confused', after all.
'A-and so after we came and got you, I-I couldn't go back, so I c-came here'
'Who's we, son? And where's here?'
'It's the p-police, mostly; but a f-few of us, too - we just c-can't sit back while he d-does' - looks at the floor 'while we do what w-we're doing'
This makes sense, thought the Controller - there was a simmering resentment between the Police and the Army since the attack; no cop had forgotten being suborned as near auxiliaries to the army - no masks, no choice.
A quick silence, and then the Lieutenant remembers the second question - 'Th-this...' he waves his hand around 'it's a farmhouse...b-belongs to one of the policemen; the ch-chief inspector I think - w-we've just been using it as a s-safehouse I suppose. Which is where y-you come in'
'Me?'
'W-we need to put you back, sir; get you back to Newcastle. You're the only o-one we can use; it's your job after all - they w-won't accept it unless they see you in the flesh'.
The Controllers heart sank; he had been feeling ill but now he felt sick - he thought he had got away from all of it. He deserved it - after all he had been through - all he had done; he deserved it.
Looking into the boys eyes, though (after he managed to catch them), he couldn't say no - not after all he'd risked for him.
'Alright son' - an even weaker smile, it might have looked like a grimace - 'England expects'.
'I only h-hope my c-commander can understand, sir. H-he got me... he h-helped me through all of this.'
*
'You will talk, of course, and then I'll stop'.
'I swear, man, I don't know about no fucking IRA!'
'Of course you don't!' a pace stick, three times - big red welts already forming on the man's face.
The Officer steps back and lights another cigarette - it takes a full half a minute to work the match with all the shaking. It's just like a big shed in here, with one chair in the middle, and a sweating, bleeding man tied to it. A couple of soldiers look nervously on from the door.
'I wasn't born yesterday, 'man' - I've done this before and I've seen shit like you crack. Make it easier for all of us and just tell us what you know.'
'I'm telling you' - coughing and spluttering - 'I don't know anything'
'For fuck's sake!' - The Officer is now sat astride the poor man; he takes a draw on his cigarette and then twists it to the butt on the man's cheek - as it burns, he repeats himself 'Tell. Me. What. You. Fucking. Know'. The Suspect just keeps screaming. The Officer has exhausted himself, too, from all the shouting. He steps back and sits in the corner. He looks up at the man; battered and panting, he pulls at the handcuffs- he wants his hands only to hide his face.
A wave of pity hits the Officer's heart. He gets up to undo the handcuffs. Something stops him; he is thrown back in time - A Grenadier Guard was shot dead today in Northern Ireland. The nineteen year old private...'
Now it's the Officer who's screaming - he runs at the man in the chair full force, tackling him; the man would now be staring at the ceiling if the Officer wasn't right on him. Punch after punch after punch after punch and the Officer doesn't even know where he is - he is crying, the man is crying ,the two soldiers are crying. He punches the man until his own knuckles bleed. He stands up, runs his hands through his hair. 'Tell me what I want to know!'
'Sir!' - one of the privates plucks up the courage - 'you've knocked all his teeth in, sir - he can't...he can't speak'.
Nothing in the Officer's eyes. 'Oh well, then' - He pulls out his service revolver and just empties it at point blank range; the first two still miss. The second couple don't.
'Sir! - what the fuck are you doing?'
Twisting round, the gun almost in the young private's mouth - 'my fucking job' -he emphasises the next word '-private! Now you do yours and just shut the fuck up!'
The Officer falls down into the corner again and puts his hands in his ears and closes his eyes and he still hears it and he still sees it.
*
He knows he made a promise but he just can't he just can't he just can't not again not after what happened not after what he had to do the door wasn't even locked and no-one saw him and now the Controller's just running through wet grass and running through brambles and running through mud and puddles and his face is cut and his shirt is torn and his dressing's coming off but he just can't do it not again and he doesn't know where he's running but anywhere's better than that bloody bunker language again but he just doesn't care not anymore and England expects and theres a stitch in his side and he tastes blood but he just goes and goes and goes and he's not run like this since school and he's not run like this since ever and he trips and he stumbles and he gets back up and he runs and he runs and he's not going back he doesn't deserve that no-one deserves that babies don't work and he runs and he runs and there's a stream and how's he going to cross that but he will and he will and he jumps and he trips and he's down.
It doesn't take long for the footsteps to follow him. It's that young Lieutenant - the Controller realises that it's the first time he's seen a soldier without a gun since it all started.
A well-meaning little hand on his shoulder - 'I'm sorry, sir'.
