Ist January 1980 – The Dead Zone

The weather worked in Wynter’s favour for a change. A massive snowstorm that fell from the sky like the whole of Saklatvalagrad had just been nuked, cold that had muscled its way south and was now falling to earth in shovel loads. Wynter and the dog ran through the blizzard, the snow whitening the station ahead whilst the cops shouted from somewhere in the carpark behind them, their words whipped away by the howling wind. She ran down the platform towards the bushes at the far end. A quick glance behind her. No one following so far. They squeezed past the snow-covered branches and, after assuring herself that they were reasonably hidden from view, Wynter began to dig around the base of the bush, spreading outwards, her fingers numb with cold. Eventually, her nails scrapped against something metal. Frantically, fearing the cops would be heading towards her at any moment, she removed the earth covering the hole. And there before her in all its rusted glory was the secret gateway to Free London. Quickly she inserted the tool the man had given her into the hole and pulled up the lid with all her strength. Once off, she peered down, into the opening. It was dark but she could see the metal rungs of the ladder descending into what she hoped was the old service tunnel.

Wynter held Pushkin in one hand and slowly descended until her feet hit the bottom. She lowered the dog to the ground and climbed back up the rungs. At the top she pulled the cover over her head, cutting off the light so that the darkness felt as solid as the metal above her. She now had to rely on her sense of feel, lowering herself rung by rung until she was back on the muddy ground once again. For a moment she felt a strong sense of panic, of desperation so powerful she almost fell to her knees. Then her hand brushed against the dog’s head. The familiar animal warmth calmed her, slowed her breathing. She felt around in her coat pocket until she found her box of matches. She withdrew the box, opened it with fumbling fingers, and lit a match. The flame threw back the darkness. Ten matches left. Each one precious. The ground under her feet was muddy. Water dripped from hidden cracks behind her. She moved forward hoping her feet wouldn’t be ripped to shreds by broken pieces of glass. Ahead of her, the old dog’s eyes questioned her judgement.

The tunnel was cold, dark and smelly but at least there was only one way to go and she doubted the cops would follow her. Pushkin moved awkwardly. Like a crab, his back legs wobbly. Wynter wasn’t sure he would survive much longer. The dog was weak with some illness that slowly eating away his back legs. Dog sickness. The cold would finish him off if the people’s militia didn’t shoot him first. Then she’d be on her own. The thought frightened her. The old dog was all she had. Pushkin, her notebook and the music inside her head.

After walking along the tunnel for several minutes she eventually found another set of rungs rising upwards. Using the last of the matches to guide her, Wynter grasped the lowest rung and swung herself up to the metal cover high above. When she reached the top, she tried to push the cover open but it seemed to be wedged shut. The flame from the last match flickered and died. She used all her strength trying to open the manhole, her muscles tight against her t-shirt. Only it wouldn’t budge.

‘Bugger,’ Wynter said, cursing her luck. Then she remembered the tool Leather Coat had given her. She felt around the rim of the cover until she found a metal catch. Using the spanner she managed to ease open the catch. Breathing heavily she repeated the process on the other side. Then, with all her remaining strength, she pushed again and at last felt the cold rush of air. Through the narrow opening, she peered out. She could just make out the check-point through the swirl of snow. She slid the cover open until there was just enough light to see and went back to fetch the old dog.

Once out, Wynter quickly locked the manhole. She hoped the snow was thick enough to prevent them from being spotted by the border guards. Her hopes were in vain. She heard a shout coming from the watchtowers. A volley of shots ripped up the ground around her. She held the dog tightly and zigzagged toward what she hoped were the barricades of Free London. Sure enough, the dark outline of the higgle-piggle of shit the rebels had slapped up came into view. The rebels returned covering fire to help Wynter as she sprinted across the last few yards of the Dead Zone.

The street fighter standing guard between mounds of rusting cars let her through without a blink. Wynter had her own identity card the guard recognised immediately. She only had to lift an arm.

‘Sight for sore eyes you are,’ said the man with a grin the size of a sliced melon. ‘Couldn’t see a thing in the Zone and suddenly you appear like some fucking ghost. And carrying a dog too. How the fuck did you do that? You find some hole in the fence or what?’

The rebel nuzzled an ancient blaster closer to his shoulder as he watched the check-point through the blizzard.

Wynter shrugged. Best the tunnel remained a secret, she thought.

‘You look out,’ continued the rebel, patting Wynter as if she’d just won a medal. ‘Know what I mean? You ain’t protected. Not here. A slight lass like you. People will sell your skin back to the Soviets for a bite to eat, Ivan my words.’

The rebel was right. From what Big Ant had told him, Free London was an evil place. She was vulnerable here. People like her. No papers, no muscle in the event of trouble. Just her and an old dog with worn teeth. Already she could hear the sound of trouble ahead: sirens, wheels screeching, some old Soviet chopper circling low. Welcome to Free London. The other London. No-go London. The London without the silent, empty streets where party members moved like ghosts amongst the shadows. The London where, according to Big Ant, most of the people were starving and large rats ruled the streets. Wynter sensed she’d been here before. No sure when. She was certain she once knew the roads through the labyrinths of Rat City. Maybe from late-night travels or bin hunts before they built the fence. Perhaps she’d even known the shortcuts, a way through the narrow streets. Big Ant told her this area was called the banns, a Frenchie word for fucked-up housing. Easy to see why. The blocks stretched out forever, lapping around the edges of the city like a poison tide: full of menace, broken glass and gangs of roving skinners. Sometimes, according to Big Ant, a body or two hung off a street light. Big Ant said the blocks were once supposed to be an ideal solution to the city’s housing crisis back in the day. Only now the banns were out of control and the fat man reckoned there weren’t enough coppers to put the fires out.

Wynter and the old dog passed through a busted shopping centre nestled between a cluster of massive tower blocks. Wynter shivered at the sight. Most of the shops had gone. Like they’d been stolen in the night by thieves leaving nothing but empty spaces in their place. A solitary chippy remained. A Chinaman who once sold fish and chips, Chow Mein and Chop Suey. Probably a gun or two if you asked him nicely. Maybe even some nose candy. Now he just sold tins of rotten food and bottles of dirty water. A pod of useless cameras dangled on the corner like sluts. Strange. There was something so familiar about the place. Memories stirred. Wynter felt certain she’d lived around here before. If she was a dog, no doubt she would have smelt her piss marked across the walls. She sensed that once not so long back, she had known the area better than she had known anywhere else, that somewhere deep inside her memory she knew most of the streets and the narrow walkways linking the blocks; the darkened corners where the vendors stand, selling their dodgy wares. Watching for trouble, hoping for business.

Although they were only on the edge of the barricades even out here the graffiti still sounded hateful: Kill! Burn! Die! Torn anti-Soviet posters on the walls. Street art. Comrade Jackson being buggered by Marshall Stalin, the Soviet leader. Murals of Josephine Deveraux, - Phantom Jo - the hero of Free London, leading them to the promise land, her finger outstretched, pointing the way back to England. A street singer beneath the mural sang a fiery song, fanning the flames of revolution. The comeuppance, some called it, the revolution that would rise above the teargas and wrestle the country back from the Soviets. Someday, one day. This time next year, sometime never.

Free London was the domain of the arch warlord Harry Scudamore. Apparently, he was ex-army and had masterminded the stealing of an ancient missile launcher which was hidden somewhere underground ready to be hauled into action at a moment’s notice. Harry kept a tight control of his fiefdom with the help of the bikers who apparently rode the streets on bikes the size of farm horses. You stepped out of line, you were dead; your body thrown onto the nearest landfill or hung from a streetlight. Food for the ravens and the body snatchers. The bikers were all members of the Free English Army. Big Ant said the FEA operated out of an abandoned church near the old Civic Centre. Here they planned their attacks on Saklatvalagrad which they vowed to bring down with anything they could lay their hands on.

A militia patrol slowed down to watch Wynter, their faces sullen through the smeared glass. On the side of the van, some joker had sprayed ‘sluts’ in red. Not that the militia cared, Wynter, reckoned. What she’d heard, they were too busy looking for bounty to fill their coffers, selling human skins to whoever paid the highest price.

‘You ever cross the fence,’ said Big Ant the other day, ‘you want to watch out for the militias.’

Big Ant scratched his ear. ‘Them militias work for the Soviets mostly, on the look-out for the so-called troublemakers, ringleaders of the comeuppance. Or people like Josephine Deveraux, you heard of her? A terrorist, they say. ’

As it happened, Wynter had heard of Josephine Deveraux. Who hadn’t? So she had nodded her reply.

‘To them militias catching Josephine Deveraux would be like finding a Royal, yeah? Worth some roubles, they say, in reward money. Enough to fill a bank vault. Wouldn’t need to work again if you caught Deveraux. Mind you, you’ve had a few broken bones to deal with.’

The old dog sniffed the air, the little hairs ridging his back. Pushkin didn’t like the banns. Who could blame him, thought Wynter? There wasn’t much to like. Even the snow failed to hide the mounds of rotting garbage. The dog moved slowly forward, then stopped in the middle of the road, looking at Wynter with his sad, trusting eyes full of pain. Around them, the blizzard raged on. Like a snow globe shaken by a child.

‘Come on Push!’ she shouted.

She knew they weren’t safe here deep inside the banns. Even now the people’s militia could be closing in on them, boxing them into a trap. The dog groaned. He lay down, front legs splayed out. He was well done in, she reckoned. She ran back, picked him up. He weighed next to nothing.

‘Can’t give up now,’ she whispered as the old dog whimpered in pain.

Fortney Flats lay at the end of a row of derelict blocks. The flats looked empty, waiting for the demolition boys. Only they’d been empty for years and maybe the boys were too busy fighting the fires that raged across the outer city, skirmishes between rival warlords, old vendettas. Spraying water, the odd canister of tear gas but mainly lead.

The tower block was little more than a heap of concrete, boarded over and mean looking, ugly as a toothless tart, condemned years back as a hazard. Number 16 itself was probably a stinking cesspit. Big Ant told her most of them empty flats were. Only, with the snow storm settling in for the day, its four walls would provide more shelter than the bike shed. She mounted the outer stairs, joined an overhanging walkway which joined another set of stairs. Number 16 was on the fourth floor. Strangely quiet. Too quiet. Beneath her, Wynter could see an old man walking towards the chippy, his footsteps dark against the white snow. No one else about. They reached the end of the corridor. Wynter pushed the key in the rusted lock, twisted, held her breath. The door creaked open and they were in. Wynter lowered the dog to the floor. Pushkin stood on shaky feet then set a wobbly trail towards the kitchen, tail wagging. As if he’d found home at last. Wynter punched the air. The new doss wasn’t so bad, it seemed. Not at first glance anyway. She shook the snow off her coat and dumped the bag on the floor.

‘Honey I’m home!’ she shouted. She laughed. She danced with joy. She imagined little children rushing up to greet her, hugging her legs, patting the dog. Instead, her feet slid on piles of centuries-old paper and the only thing greeting her was the smell of death. Light from the open door showed a concrete floor, a broken chair, a mat of unwanted post. Wynter closed the door, cutting off the biting wind. Damp hung over the place like winter mist. She guessed the flat hadn’t been lived in for a while and nature was crawling her way back in. In front of her, Wynter could make out the kitchen: tatty units, a gaping hole like an old man’s mouth where the oven had been. The dog was drinking up some melted snow that had drifted in through from the outside. A blind, twisted and torn, rattled against the rotten window frames. She tried the light switch: wishful thinking. She moved to the lounge, pulling aside a piece of boarding. Light flooded in at last. Wynter looked around, the smell was stronger now, filling her nostrils. The dog joined her. He seemed to have perked up, now they were out the snow. His tail was still wagging and he even managed to look alert.

Then Wynter staggered backwards. The walls of the room were covered in posters of leading party members. They were all smeared with shit. Two words below written in blood: ‘RED SCUM’.

Wynter looked down. On the floor a human finger. She fell back against the door.

‘Fuck!’ she shouted, staring at the finger in horror. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

Her head was screaming: leave. Now. Only another voice muscled in. Her other self. Her more measured self. ‘No way, not yet!’ She snatched up her bag and ran up the concrete stairs. Pushkin stayed behind, watching her. Maybe he was wondering what the fuss was all about. Then he slowly climbed up to join Wynter, his footsteps heavy. He didn’t want to be left alone. Not down there.

‘Easy, easy,’ Wynter whispered. They levelled onto the landing. The dog glanced back, his eyes full of fear, his gums pulled back in a feeble snarl that exposed his worn teeth. She pushed the door to her right. It fell to the floor with a bang that had the dog barking. A quick stroke of his head calmed him as Wynter moved into the room, searching through the darkness for danger. She longed for a knife, a torch and a dog that wasn’t hotwired to his nerves.

Wynter hesitated for a moment. Pushkin was whining. He wanted out. Like he knew they were heading deeper into trouble. She placed a hand on the dog’s head and gently stroked the space between his ears as she tried to calm her own sense of panic. The flat was toxic. She could feel the evil oozing through the walls. She considered her options. ‘Leave now!’ seemed like the most obvious. Cut your losses. Head back to the safety of the barricades. ‘Look outside, Wynter you twat’. There was a blizzard howling, like some sort of crazy, bug-eyed monster on the loose. The dog wouldn’t survive the cold. Nor would she, come to that. They’d find their bodies in the overhang. Frozen stiffs. They were both out of shape. Underweight, undernourished, underfed, all their muscles wasting away. Besides the barricades were no longer safe. Not now that the militia had arrived.

Wait until the storms blew itself out, her voice of reason told her. Yeah. Maybe the snow would keep the cops and the militias at bay. She needed to move around, keep warm. She rubbed her hands together as the message ate away at her like a nagging tooth. Who was the man in the leather coat? Why had he given Wynter the key? What about the shit on the wall? The finger on the floor?

She laughed bitterly remembering the man’s words ‘have fun’.

Yeah, she’d have fun, she thought. They’d kick-off with a party. An all-night rave. A right bender. Just her and the dog. They’d go down to the Chinese. The one they passed on the way. Wang’s Plaice. She’d buy a couple of cans of cheap fizz and a tin of crud for Pushkin. Push the boat out.

Then she saw the words again. Bloody capitals ‘RED SCUM.’ She shook her head. Who had written them? Why? She cried out in frustration, thumping the wall with a fist.

Wynter crouched down, clutching her hand. She needed to think clearly. Calmly. Rationally. She and the dog needed shelter, warmth. She sensed the dog watching her, waiting for her to decide on their future. Waiting for her to calm the fuck down.

She realised it was a mistake, accepting the key from the stranger. Something mothers warn their children about, accepting things from strangers. Then a different thought filtered through the cold. Maybe the man in the leather coat was the killer. Maybe there was another room down below, full of chopped up bodies. Or a recently dug grave in the communal garden hidden behind in a cluster of bushes by the busted fence. Maybe that was why he’d plastered the shit on the lounge wall, left his gruesome calling card on the floor, the key passed on like some sort of game. Have fun. Maybe the next finger would be hers. Fuck.

She peered outside. Huge chunks of snow were blasting sideways through the air like shrapnel. In the distance, she could hear the rioting, the banns at war, the sharp crack of gunfire, like someone breaking sticks, a lone chopper circling, searchlights probing the smoke. Beyond the row of trees near the empty playground, and just visible through the blizzard, the city sky was lit-up like bonfire night, whilst on the walkways below, dark figures trudged through the snow. Foot soldiers on their way to join the fracas.

‘We’ll stay here,’ she told the dog. ‘For now.’

The old dog lowered his head between his paws. Wynter went downstairs, making sure the front door was secure. In the kitchen, she looked around for something to fight back with, managed to find a few scattered planks, some stray nails, a broken tap with piping still attached. She placed a couple of the planks across the door, using the tap as a hammer. Under the sink, she hauled up an axe, covered in dust. She felt the weight in her hand. For a moment her mood lifted. It had to be worth keeping. She could exchange it for food, fags or even a place to stay.

She carried out a quick inspection of the rest of the flat, clutching the shaft of piping. In a cupboard beneath the stairs, she made another discovery. Her old coat. Dirty, bloodstained. Whoever lived here before, must have stolen her stuff, maybe one of the gangs who attacked Wynter in the underpass.

In a state of shock, Wynter climbed back up the stairs. In the front bedroom, she and the dog budged up on the bag. Pushkin snuffled in his sleep. Wynter watched the snow falling, her mind spinning. She tried not to think about the finger. She held the axe across her chest, lay back, eyes closed.

In her half sleep, she heard the sound of a breaking glass. She pushed herself awake, her heart thudding. The sound seemed to be coming from the next room. Light from the pale moon shot across the window. Like a searchlight sifting through the shadows. She stood, muscles tense, the dog bunched up against her legs, mouth drawn back in a feeble snarl.

Wynter left the room and backed onto the landing, taking the next door along. It was dark here but the shuttering had broken letting in a small shaft of moonlight. Wynter twisted around. There was a stone lying on the floor. It looked large and heavy and must have just come through the window, shattering the glass in the process. She picked up the stone whilst Pushkin barked at her as if she was about to throw it for him.

‘Daft old bugger,’ she whispered.

Wynter ran to the window. She looked down, saw a dark figure standing in the snow beneath her. A woman staring up at Wynter, her face caught in the moonlight.

‘What do you want?’ she shouted.

‘Listen,’ the woman replied, her voice amplified by the snow. ‘You must do exactly what I say. You understand?’

Wynter leaned out.

‘Fuck off! You’ll bring the militia down on me.’

‘My name is Lily. They’re coming for you. In your rucksack, you’ll find a sheath knife. You must throw the knife out the window into the snow. Get rid of it!’

Wynter could hear a vehicle moving along the street adjacent to the underground garages.

‘Why?’

‘No time to explain!’ shouted the woman, ‘just do as I say. Only you must hurry. Do it now!’

A sound outside. A crunch of snow. For a moment Wynter’s muscles froze. Then the adrenaline surged.

‘Who sent you?’ Wynter asked. Only she found she was talking to herself again. Lily, whoever she was, had pissed off. She rushed back to the next room, to her rucksack. She tore apart the opening, her hands delving amongst the clothes. Her fingers brushed against something unfamiliar. Something that wasn’t there before. She quickly removed it. A knife sheathed in its leather holder, just like the woman said. She had no idea how come the knife came to be in her rucksack but guessed Leather Coat had planted it whilst Wynter was distracted. Clever trick. She pulled out the knife, ran a finger down the blade. It was deadly sharp. She quickly replaced it. Suddenly wheels crunched on the snow outside, blue lights thrown up against the sides of the tower block. Several vans all with blue lights. The people’s militia out in force supported by the military police. She ran to the window and looked down. Not much time. She held the sheath like a circus knife thrower and threw it as hard as she could. She watched the knife cartwheel through the air before landing near the base of an old tree and disappearing into the snow. The dog was on his feet, wondering what was happening, still half asleep.

Wynter sprinted to the next apartment. There was nothing here, just an empty space. She tried the flat opposite. Inside she could see the jumbled shape of old furniture. She grabbed the edge of a sofa and pulled it out the door and along the corridor towards the stair well, tilted it over the rail and heard it crash to the floor beneath. She ran back, found more broken chairs and old mattresses and hurled them over the bannister. She knew the furniture piled up on the stairs beneath wouldn’t deter the militia for long. Maybe long enough for her and the dog to escape down the fire exit.

The sound of a door being kicked in jerked Wynter’s mind back into focus. She leapt to the window, looked down. Too far to jump. She might survive the fall but the dog wouldn’t. The dog barked a warning as the heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Wynter could hear the furniture being thrown to one side. She knelt down in the corner. Then the front door disappeared into shards of wood. Several armed men from the people’s militia stepped through the gap. Rough camouflage, balaclavas, side shooters. The first man was as large as a bouncer from a backstreet brothel. He barged into the flat holding a pistol above his head, bellowing in Russian. More men followed. Soon the room was full of shouting Soviet policemen and strong arm militias all trying to lay a claim on Wynter.

‘I have orders to take this woman to the mayor’s office’, said a man dressed in a black uniform with a red armband. He waved a piece of paper in the air.

‘You can shove your orders up your arse, comrade,’ shouted the bouncer. ‘The Minister of State Security no less has demanded the accused be arrested and presented to the Presidium without delay.’

‘Without delay!’ repeated his sidekick who was short and fat. ‘That means now fuckers!’

‘Fuck you!’ shouted the man dressed in black. ‘Show us your paperwork!’

A bold military policeman muscled his way forward and grabbed Wynter’s upper arm pulling her to her feet. A mistake. Wynter kicked the man between his legs and, as he clutched his groin, she pushed him into the officers crowding the doors. The men quickly scattered. The man landed on the floor with a thud that shook the building.

‘Who’s up next?’ asked Wynter, her small hands held ready, a defiant smile on her face.

The two men nearest Wynter reacted quickly. The short one dived for Wynter’s feet whilst the bouncer struck Wynter across the back of her head with his rifle. Wynter felt intense pain as blackness swept over her. When she came around a few minutes later she found herself trussed in chains like some sort of wild circus animal. There was a crowd of soldiers around her, all talking at once.

The bouncer fired the pistol in the air. The bullet took out a chunk of plaster which fell on the men standing beneath.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ shouted the bouncer. His command for silence was unnecessary: the room had suddenly gone quiet.

‘Three of us are laying claim on this woman: the Ministry of State Security, the Military Police and the people’s Militia. So who’s it to be?’

‘The Presidium,’ said the man with the red arm band.

‘Says who?’ asked the bouncer’s mate.

‘Says me, motherfucker.’

The short man stepped forward. ‘Let’s not argue, comrades. Only our orders come directly from the comrade Chairman. See for yourselves.’

Wynter watched as the short man produced a sheet of paper. ‘He has even signed the document. Here his shitty signature.’

‘Let me see!’ shouted the military policeman who had picked himself up off the floor and was still rubbing his head. ‘He’s right. Comrade Jackson’s signature. Well, that does it for me. You’re more than welcome to her, comrades. Good luck. Just try to keep your hands off the merchandise.’

The other men willingly accepted defeat and soon all the militia had left but for the bouncer and the short man.

‘My, my,’ said the bouncer, looking impressed, ‘did the comrade Chairman really sign the orders?’

The short man laughed. ‘Fuck off! I signed it myself.’

Still chuckling the short man grabbed the old dog, carrying him like a bag of trash, the dog’s jaws snapping uselessly.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Wynter softly.

‘Yeah?’ bellowed the bouncer, yelling in Wynter’s face, his spit on his cheeks.

Wynter grunted. It felt like her face had been trampled over by a herd of elephants.

‘Look Jo. No fucking heroics, right? You’ll be charged once we get to the holding centre.’

‘My name’s Wynter,’ said Wynter. ‘I want to speak to the officer in charge.’

‘I’m the fucking officer in charge so save your breath, bitch.’

The bouncer dragged Wynter towards the open door, the chains rattling across the concrete floor. Whoever Jo was, she was in deep trouble, thought Wynter and she didn’t really fancy stepping into her shoes right now. She wanted to lash out as the man pushed him towards the landing, his feet trailing through the dog’s piss. The other man, having shut the old dog in the kitchen, joined his friend. The bouncer’s face looked like it’d been hit by a train then repaired under bad lighting by a surgeon with forged papers. The man pinched his broken nose.

‘What’s she on about?’

‘Says her name is Wynter.’

The bouncer studied Wynter thoughtfully.

‘Looks cold enough to be fair.’

Wynter tried to tell them how she’d been sleeping rough outside the station with the dog, how someone gave her the key to the flat, how she was only trying to shelter from the snow. She could tell by their faces the two men didn’t believe her sad fuck story. The shorter man pulled her towards the stairs, then down, his hand pressing on Wynter’s head. Wynter could hear the dog scratching at the kitchen door as they swung through the gap where the front door had been. Her face creased up with anger.

‘What about the dog? He can’t be left here.’

The man grunted. ‘You’re right on that score.’

He opened the kitchen door, pulled out his pistol and shot the old dog twice through the head. Pushkin hit the floor heavily, his blood spraying the kitchen red.

‘That should do it,’ said the short man, with a mock-sad smile.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three