was nothing he could recognise above the chin and below his ginger eyebrows - just a crater of mangled tissue.
Shit, shit, shit.
The lad was gone, dead already, despite the drumming of his boots on the kerb.
And there was the soldier in the road with the leg wound; he was screaming in agony, rolling around on the ground clasping his thigh.
Carter knew he had to pull his men back inside before he lost any more.
‘Everyone inside, now!’ he screamed over the radio.
Lance Corporal Westley’s men moved swiftly back towards the gate in well-practised fire-and-manoeuvre pairs. But Westley hovered by the truck he’d been using for cover.
Carter caught his eye as he gestured for his section to fall back inside. ‘Get inside! NOW!’ he bellowed to him. The Geordie hesitated a moment longer before reluctantly sprinting full tilt for the gateway.
Carter grimaced. We’re leaving that poor sod out there, still alive.
He brought up the rear, emptying his clip in one long wildly sprayed burst before turning round and diving for the open gateway.
With all of them inside, the iron rail gates were closed, clattering noisily as they slammed together. Sergeant Bolton had some men ready with more wooden pallets and other detritus found in the compound and swiftly piled it against the gates.
Carter clambered up the pallets stacked against the wall and then, waiting for a slack moment in the firing, chanced a quick glance over the top.
The soldier, Shirley, with the Minimi, had taken another couple of hits, by the look of his shredded combat fatigues, darkened from the blood of several wounds, the poor young lad was on his way out. Then, mercifully, perhaps, a shot knocked his head back and dislodged his helmet.
He was dead.
Shirley . . . he’d wanted to know where the fuck that daft name had come from . . . but of course, he was never going to find out now.
CHAPTER 16
8 a.m. GMT Manchester
‘Oh come on!’ cried Jenny impatiently.
The digital tune playing over and over as she sat on hold was very quickly driving her insane. The bleeping melody was broken periodically with a recorded announcement that she was on hold to On Track Rail Customer Services, and would be answered by an operator shortly.
Jenny was still in bed, in the Piccadilly Marriot Hotel. The plan had been to take a detour up to Leeds to see some old friends and then home again to begin sorting her life out.
But, with all these worrying things going on thousands of miles away, it didn’t seem like such a good idea any more. All of a sudden, a piss-up with some old, old school friends - ones she had only recently got back in contact with courtesy of Friends Reunited - had lost its appeal. She’d probably go through the motions, buy drinks, get pissed, reminisce, but her mind would be on other things; including Andy, stuck out there, and from what she was picking up on the news, possibly in a dangerous situation.
Jenny wasn’t really that news-savvy generally. She probably put more time into watching soaps and reality shows than she did keeping an eye on current affairs. But, yesterday, in that café bar, she had heard one or two phrases - no more than soundbites - that had sent a shiver down her spine.
At his most obsessive, perhaps a year ago, Andy had warned her that only those who were listening for it, the Big Collapse, listening for the tell-tale signs, would get the crucial head start. The advance warning would come through on the news in phrases that were like a code, encrypted for the few that knew what to listen out for. They would be the ones who would have a chance to prepare before widespread panic kicked in.
Yesterday, watching the news, she felt she had heard something very much like that coded warning.
Peak Oil.
She felt stupid at first, of course. Walking out after her coffee, shopping in the Arndale Centre, having some dinner and coming back to the hotel, she had almost managed to dismiss the nagging notion that maybe she had better get a move on back to London and do an extra-large grocery shop.
Then this morning, having slept on it, and rehashed all those doom and gloom predictions of Andy’s that had so worn her down over the last few years, she realised she’d heard the warning.
And she’d climbed out of bed.
Her friends could wait for another time.
If she was panicking, over-reacting, so what? Better to be back home