VII - Food Consumption
Plan meals carefully so that there is no waste.
It is almost four days after the attack when Newcastle's regional government is able to fully plan for the food issue. The reason for this delay is twofold; firstly, the civil authorities have simply been too overwhelmed by the shock of the situation and too busy trying (with varying degrees of success) to get a grip on the scattered groups of emergency services and armed forces - most have been acting largely on the initiative of junior army officers. Secondly, it has taken the best part of a week for information about remaining food stocks to trickle back to the powers-that-be. With radio communication sketchy at best following the attack (this is not, as some had speculated, the result of 'electro-magnetic interference', but rather sheer physical damage caused to sensitive equipment thanks to the nuclear blasts) police motorcycles are sent to the various sites to re-establish contact. The lucky ones make it to their destinations. Some find that the routes to their destinations are simply impassable and turn back. The unlucky ones ride straight into high fallout zones and do not live to relay what they find.
These errant despatch riders are not the only ones succumbing to radiation in the days after the attack. Indeed, this is another major problem stemming from the difficulties in communicating with regional controllers. Whilst fallout officers now have a fairly clear idea of what areas are receiving what dose, it is another thing entirely to relay this to the various 'rescue' services, let alone civilian survivors. Especially ominous are the areas of 'fallout black' that crawl eastwards from the Hebburn and Ponteland bombs - extremely short exposure to these areas is an almost guaranteed death sentence. Ironically, it is the emergency services that will suffer the most from radiation poisoning in the immediate aftermath of the attack. Whilst most military units are NBC prepared, the police, fire, and ambulance units that now act as their de facto auxiliaries are woefully underdressed for the occasion. Coupled with this, their roentgen meters are increasingly scarce and unreliable. Conversely, those civilians who have survived H-Hour are mostly undercover - even their makeshift 'bed-fort' shelters provide a better protection against floating nuclear dust than nothing at all.
The small Scottish village of Blair Atholl (and the castle which dominates it) is now one of the more secure locales on the face of the Earth - it transpires that the Queen had secretly made the move northwards following the first tactical detonations in Germany. Even then, she was reluctant. With a fine balance of deference and urgency, however, her aides convinced her that the 'Blitz spirit', although admirable, was no defence against megatons. She spends most of the days now alone in her chamber, mourning Prince Philip, who died of a heart attack on hearing about London. Her privacy is protected by the Royal Duties Force, a mix of infantry and light armour which is now one of the best-organised and most complete military units in the United Kingdom.
There are too many useless mouths in Britain. After almost a week, a decision is made. Food will be withheld until H-plus two weeks. Nominally, this is the time needed to get distribution up and organised. The real reason is more pragmatic. After two weeks, those who are going to die of serious injuries or creeping doses will be dead. There is no sense in feeding corpses.
For most who get it, it is slow. Most have cried themselves sick in the hours following the attack, and the absolute horror of the situation has taken its toll on the control of their bodily functions. For many, however, this is not just shock, but sickness. Unable to move, they envy the dead as they lie retching in pools of their own waste. They are too weak to scream by the time their hair falls out in clumps. They are sightless by the time their teeth go. It is not peaceful and it is not like going to sleep. Seizures follow, the victims hitting each other, hitting themselves, smashing their own heads against the walls and floors. If they are lucky, a roving army patrol will deliver a dose of 'special anaesthetic'. For most however, death comes blistered and burnt between filthy sheets.
*
The Controller rubbed his temples and sighed. The air within the bunker was unspeakably stale, having been recycled countless times. The Fallout Officer had insisted that the rads were low enough here for everyone to take some time outside - for some fresh air, or a cigarette. No-one must under any circumstances exceed fifteen minutes exposure. Every man and woman in the shelter has been given an little egg timer - all credit to the Fallout Officer for thinking ahead. Even fresh air was being rationed now, thought the Controller - he had thought losing his sweets during the last war was bad enough - still, we must all of us play our part for Queen and Country... He mused briefly upon the fact that it could well be King and Country for all he knew at the moment. He had almost forgotten why he had stood up until he saw the Food Officer. He grimaced a little at seeing a man looking even more exasperated than him. Upon asking perfectly politely whether the man had finished compiling the list of available food stocks, he was greeted by a tirade that turned the smoky air blue. The Controller was only slightly less taken aback when he realised that the vast majority of this abuse was directed at a typewriter - 'the fucking keyboard's broken' exclaimed the Food Officer, his hands gesturing at the air for some reason, - 'I've to write it all by hand like a bloody caveman!'. Long sighs from both men. The Controller was trying to avoid the Food Officer as much as possible - yes, he was a bit abrasive, but who wasn't after a week in a shoebox? The more pressing reason was the fact that both men had signed the order denying food stocks to Category 2 and 3 survivors (i.e those who can't work). The Controller had almost been able to keep it together after telling the Food Officer, and the rest of the bunker, that 'babies can't work'. The words had echoed in the silence yesterday and they echoed in his head every single second today.
*
I've got to do it, thought the Constable. Staring down the barrel at the two figures, he thought he had to do it. They were wearing blindfolds for heavens sake, they're gone. He takes aim and he has his shot and he readies his weapon and he just can't do it.
'Hallo there? We're friends, I can promise you!' - the Old Man is standing in front of his wife now, blindly shuffling into something of a shield. 'I have a little food, a little drink - just take it and leave us be, please!'.
Fuck it, thought the Constable.
He puts his gun through his belt and holds his hands up as he moves towards them (he soon realises the folly inherent in this, but does it out of sheer habit). He stands between them, somewhat towering over the two stooped frames even without the helmet. He takes each of them by the hand and starts walking. He's not sure where at the moment - somewhere safe seems like a good idea, but an unbearably vague one.
They have travelled yards but it has put miles on them - even the most well-tended, rubble-free roads would be somewhat troublesome given the Constable's companions. These are a luxury the trio don't have.
bangbangbang
I have to get these two off the streets, I have to get these two off the streets.
Crossing a junction, off to his left. They're on him - a couple dozen soldiers and what looked to be a priest wearing a Second World War gas mask. The Constable hadn't quite yet grasped the significance when what must have been the group's officer stepped forward - 'Good job, Constable, we'll deal with these two' - he motions to the two men behind him - 'number three, number four, sort these two out.'
The Constable is very surprised to find that he is pointing the barrel of his revolver right into the eyepiece of the lead trooper. He now sees the rank-slide - ah, so it is an officer. He puts himself between the survivors and the troops, and, wordlessly with one hand, moves them backwards down the street. He maintains his aim all the way back, making unflinching eye contact with the officer - come on come on come on come on come on he thinks, and he hopes that the Old Man and his Wife get the message. Just before they turn the corner, a few half hearted shots ring out - they could be aimed for them, or it could be some other lucky bugger's turn.
I have to get these two off the streets right fucking now.
The Constable isn't sure at first - surely there can't be a light on in that little shop - it must just be a little fire - lo and behold, however, a little gaslight burned inside the window. Right. The Constable dusts himself down, and knocks on the door - this is a gesture of politeness, mostly, as every window in the street is gone. As he knocks, the Old Man turns to him. He is looking off-centre - 'I, I don't know how to thank you, young man...my wife and I could never hope to repay your kindness' - the Old Man senses that such words are cheap in the new world, and so he reaches into his long coat, pulling out a bottle of finest champagne and some unpronounceable and exquisite foods - a bit of ham, a bit of cheese - a modest picnic not so long ago - the crown jewels and the holy grail all rolled into one right now. 'It's a vintage, my friend, they don't make them like this any more...' - this is not a good line of conversation. The Old Man shakes the Constables' hand. The Wife gives him a hug. The door opens, and a sour faced Shopkeeper holds a cricket bat aloft.
The sight of a tall policeman, and more importantly, a loaded gun, cools his passions somewhat. 'I'm not taking strangers - they could be poisonous or communists or...' - the Shopkeeper sees some more delicacies stuffed inside the Wife's shopping bag '...I suppose, though, that they'd better come in' - he pulls them in, perhaps a bit hard, and slams the door.
The Constable is now trying to hit the search pattern of his old patrol - he prays that he finds them before he runs into the squad with the priest.
Christ, thought the Constable, I pointed a gun at a fucking soldier. He genuinely can't quite put his finger on why he did such a thing.
She looked like his grandmother.
