Tamsin Beech Ch. 02: Scarborough

"My otvezem vas do granitsy. Kak daleko vy idete?" shouted a man's voice.

Muffled through the wall of the truck, another voice they assumed to be their driver answered, "Bludkhaus v Scarborough."

The first man laughed, "Schastlivyye ublyudki. Otstan'te pozadi vedushchego transportnogo sredstva. Vy znayete, chto delat'. Chto by ni sluchilos', ne ostanavlivaysya."

"What are they saying?" Tamsin hissed.

Craster shook his head, motioning her to stay hidden. With a shuddering roar and belch of diesel fumes, the APC started its engine. Half a minute later they were once more on the move, with their escort bringing up the rear. It would only take one lapse of concentration or moment of carelessness and they'd be spotted easily through the open back of the supply truck.

Clutching his ribs and staying below the level of the tail gate, Craster crawled back to Tamsin and slid carefully under the tarpaulin, "They must be some kind of escort. I've heard that the area around Newcastle is still swarming with bandits and scavengers. The Red Zone they call it."

"Reivers?"

Craster shook his head, "Not THAT bad. They'll probably stay with us until we're further south."

"Then what?"

"We stick to the plan. We get away as soon as we have the chance like."

Tamsin was secretly pleased that her plan seemed to have worked. How easily Craster had slipped into the role of her protector without even being aware of it, "Did you understand anything else?"

Craster shook his head, "Not sure. The driver might've said something about ... Scarborough? That's gotta be 140 miles from Lindisfarne. Hell of a way."

. . .

At the tiny hamlet of Goswick on Northumberland's coast, a bedraggled figure stumbled out of the greasy surf and slumped onto the deserted beach. He was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Cold and hungry, all sensation in his fingers and toes gone. In the far distance to the south, the lights of Holy Island, Lindisfarne, winked out one by one as another day dawned. Who or whatever had distracted Volk's search helicopters during the night's storm had probably saved his life. Given him the few precious minutes he'd needed to swim back towards the mainland.

He'd been in the water for hours, hiding amongst the debris and rusting carcass of a beached coaster. But growing up alone in a refugee camp followed by his brutal Spetznaz training had toughened him considerably ... and let him experience at first hand what the onset of hypothermia felt like. Giving up was simply not an option. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered up the beach.

Across the cratered and scarred expanse of what had once been a golf course, the few whitewashed cottages making up the tiny settlement had been plundered for anything useful or valuable years ago. He paused for perhaps half a minute behind an overturned John Deere tractor, listening. But the only sounds were the surf shushing against the sandy beach and the wind gusting through broken windows and thickets of gorse.

A quarter of an hour later, he'd succeeded in starting a small fire inside one of the buildings, using the tinder and firestarter from his drybag. He'd stripped out of his wet garments and arranged them close to the flames. Better to sit naked than shivering in wet clothes. He munched on a few handfuls of dried nuts and fruit as he considered his next move.

Zhakvatchikov's daughter was the key. She'd been whisked away when Volk had sacked Berwick Upon Tweed with his horde of Reekie mercenaries, to who knew where. After weeks of fruitless search, Lindisfarne had been his first and only clue. The Coalition were already prepared to shoot him on sight for his crimes so what difference would another act of treason make? He'd been sloppy and careless being spotted trying to cross the mudflats to the island. And if Zhakvatchikov's daughter Merida was indeed there he'd still have the entire island to search.

He snatched up his knife as he became aware of a sound other than the wind. An engine, bumping along the rutted track from the main road and getting steadily closer ...

Peering through the bramble choked window of his temporary shelter he watched a battered motorcycle pull up outside. The rider dismounted, slung what looked like one of the new Scandinavian Kalashnikovs off his back and looked around. Searching. For him?

How could he tell? If he slit the man's throat he'd never know why he was here. It could be any number of reasons. Maybe it was a dropoff point for some smuggling operation. Maybe the guy just needed to take a shit. It was a Coalition soldier. A scout? He needed to take him alive.

He pressed himself against the wall to one side of the bungalow's gaping doorway, aware of how vulnerable he was naked. Just as the advancing scout saw or heard the crackling campfire and raised his weapon, "WHO'S THERE?"

He watched the scout's eyes from the shadows, darting back and forth across the outside of the building, moving carefully, stealthily nearer. One step at a time over bleached bones and broken glass.

All it needed was one momentary lapse of concentration and ...

The young scout's eyes widened in shock at the naked figure of a man bursting through the bungalow's doorway towards him. The Kalashnikov went skittering across the block paved driveway as the figure slammed into him. They both hit the ground with the fugitive on top holding a homemade six inch knife to the scout's throat, "Talk! Why are you here?"

"Denisovich! Y-you're the traitor," the scout murmured.

"Are you looking for me? Why did Volk's helicopters call off the search last night?"

The knowledge of Volk's forces gathered only a few miles away lent the scout false bravado, "F-fuck you ... traitor!"

The knife scored the stubbled skin of his neck, "WHY?"

"Th-the girl escaped."

Girl? Merida Zhakvatchikov had to be in her forties. An attractive woman to be sure but hardly a girl anymore. It had to be someone else, "What girl?"

"Zhakvatchikov's granddaughter."

Granddaughter? This changed things somewhat. A vague idea of what Volk might be planning formed at the back of his mind. If the girl was in fact Merida's daughter, she might only be in her twenties. Perhaps only a teenager. What better way to seal the alliance?

"Do you have any leads on which way she went?"

The scout shook his head as best he could with a knife pressing against his throat, "They're th-thinking they st-stowed away on the s-supply truck heading south."

They? Then whoever this girl was, wasn't alone.

"I've t-told you all I know. Take wh-whatever you need. Just let me live, please."

He looked into the scout's eyes. When had Volk's men ever shown mercy? It was that lack of compassion and single minded cruelty to the people of this new land that had brought him to his current situation, "No."

With a backward flick of the wrist Leonid Denisovich sliced the scout's throat, and was on his feet and heading back into the ruined bungalow even as the man gurgled his last bloody breaths. He now had a Coalition scout's uniform, an automatic weapon and a motorcycle at his disposal.

But more importantly, information. If he was going to strike a blow against his former masters in the Coalition, Merida Zhakvatchikov and her daughter were the key. There could be no compromise. They had to die.

. . .

Unaware of the new threat speeding after them from the north, Tamsin and Craster continued south into the Red Zone through the day. They didn't dare look out for fear of being spotted by the APC's crew following only yards behind their truck. So their vehicle's whereabouts remained a mystery. At one point around midday a deafening boom sounded from somewhere ahead, followed by the rapid fire of a heavy machine gun laying down suppressing fire. The 30mm gun turret of the APC following revolved through forty five degrees to aim at some point off the road.

"Sounds like there's another tank or something in front of us!" Craster mouthed.

"Two of them? Ohfuck."

"It'd make sense. If this truck supplies outposts up and down the east coast the Coalition will want to protect it. Nobody's going to mess with an armoured convoy."

"I just wish we weren't part of it."

The gunfire stopped as quickly as it had started. Whatever had posed a threat - bandits? resistance? - had evidently been neutralised. A safe, civilised word for the merciless brutality meted out by the Coalition's forces.

"Better get comfortable your ladyship," Craster sighed, "until we lose this escort we're stuck in here."

. . .

Merida tried in vain every day and every night to block out the sounds coming faintly from the Grand Hotel's other rooms. Seeping through the stained walls of her apartment like some paranoia inducing nerve agent. The weeping of the other women whose lot in life was to be imprisoned here until they'd outlived their usefulness or chosen to do something about it. The sound of bare flesh slapping bare flesh, the false cries of ecstacy as faceless Coalition officials were urged to speed up their efforts.

And the screams.

Thankfully soldiers who spent their time engaging in brutality against the country's downtrodden indigenous population were less inclined to bring that part of their psyche into the bedroom. The sadistic few were the exception, not the norm.

Merida had been quartered on the top floor, meaning any escape attempt would entail descending through the entire building. The high sash windows were barred and nailed shut to avoid any ... unfortunate accidents. Meaning that in summer it could be stifling.

The hotel's staff ensured that she was well fed and almost every need was catered for. She'd been allowed to keep her friend Jessamy's dog as a companion but there'd been no news of the whereabouts of her niece Ada for four years. Merida hoped and prayed that the girl hadn't been pressed into service in one of the rooms downstairs. But how would she know?

She recalled the global lockdown during the Coronavirus pandemic of 2020. At least back then the media had kept the world's population informed. This not knowing what had become of her loved ones was far, far worse.

Merida refilled Myrtle's water bowl from a jug then gazed out across the old harbour, northward towards Scarborough's castle. Coalition gunboats were being resupplied where once fishing boats had moored. The seaside town had in the space of four years become a fortress. A training centre for every new intake of Coalition soldiers arriving from overseas, the shattered remains and derelict shops of the town centre repurposed so thousands of fresh recruits could become versed in street fighting against the poorly equipped resistance.

Surely if Ross was still alive he'd be one of them, Merida assumed. Her husband and son would have joined the resistance at the earliest opportunity. And Jessamy. What of Jessamy Beech? Surely her oldest dearest friend wouldn't have taken the Coalition's invasion lying down. She'd sailed north onboard the Lupita with Angus Hamnavoe to put a stop to Jack Aubrey's plans and never been seen again. Was she even alive?

A squad of soldiers moved along the seafront far below, past burnt out amusement arcades and what she guessed had once been gift shops selling all manner of tasteless tat. With such a formidable Coalition presence in the town, Merida had long ago given up any hope of rescue. But because of who she was, no-one in her glorified brothel prison would dare lay a finger on her. She was safe and would go unbranded and unmolested. Despite taking the surname Beech, she was still a Zhakvatchikov.

A name that even here in the wilds of North Yorkshire, struck terror into the hearts of the Coalition and resistance alike.

. . .

As the day wore on, Craster fell asleep. With his head resting carelessly across Tamsin's thighs he looked peaceful, the troubled frown that usually contorted his gaunt features gone for a while at least. She studied him in the few rays of dim light penetrating their hiding place under the tarpaulin. The whipping boy was hardly handsome by any stretch of the imagination. And he was yet to be truly tested as a suitable protector for her over the course of their coming journey.

But Tamsin guessed that they still might eventually become friends. If indeed nothing else. There was a brooding melancholy about him. Craster hadn't mentioned anything about his past and she was becoming curious. She already wondered how he came to share the name of a Northumbrian fishing village. Had the settlement been his original home? Sooner or later she'd want answers.

Tamsin touched a finger to her lips. Even now several hours later she could still taste him. The salty bitterness of his semen on her mouth. Not being able to rinse she suddenly realised how thirsty she was. How could they have been so stupid as to leave all their provisions in the boat? Food, water, they had nothing.

But they were free. That was the main thing. Whatever hardships lay in store for them over the coming days and weeks, they were free. Perhaps once they'd contacted the resistance, she'd get the opportunity to concentrate on finding her family. She knew they were alive. She just knew it. Her belief like a flickering flame deep inside her soul. If anything had happened to them, surely she'd know.

As the truck bumped and rattled over potholes and debris, with the Coalition APC following close behind, Tamsin closed her eyes. What would it be like having sex for the first time?

She'd felt the heat rising within herself as she'd sucked on Craster's cock, wanting desperately for it to go further. But now wasn't the right time. Seducing the soldier Timur in the old lime kilns had been a regrettable mistake. She realised now that she didn't want a quick, dirty fumble in the shadows somewhere. She wanted a night of perfect, unhurried lovemaking in a proper bed well away from danger or any chance of interruption.

Tamsin slipped a hand inside her softshell and delicately cupped her breast through the padded material of her bra. How would it feel having someone else do this? She'd touched herself many times in the privacy of her bedroom at Lindisfarne Castle, biting her lip to stifle the noises that surged up from within her as she climaxed.

Perhaps Craster wasn't the ideal candidate to become her first lover. But surely someone out there was ...

Tamsin bumped her head on the metal bulkhead as the truck abruptly slammed on its brakes. With a belch of filthy exhaust close behind, the APC followed suit, now close enough for them to step across onto it from the truck if they so wished. They'd stopped. But with their escort in such close proximity there was no chance of slipping away undetected just yet.

"Vot gde my ostavim tebya, moy drug," shouted a deep voice from somewhere ahead.

"Spasibo za soprovozhdeniye," replied a different voice from much closer, muffled by the metal back of the truck's cab, "skazhite svoyemu tovarishchu, yesli on yedet blizhe do moyey zadnitsy, yemu pridet·sya predlozhit!"

There was laughter.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY!" Craster chose that moment to jolt wide awake, shouting as his balled fists flailed at some imagined assailant. Tamsin clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him. But it was too late.

"Chto takoye eto tak?" after a moment of silence, both the truck's cab doors creaked open, followed by the sound of driver and escort jumping down onto the pitted road surface. If they happened to so much as glance in the back Tamsin guessed they'd have to be blind and stupid not to spot her and Craster.

"You dickhead!" she spat.

"Sorry. Nightmare."

With a rattling of catches, the tail gate at the truck's rear was lowered as the APC crew looked on with interest. Dim sunlight made Tamsin wince as their tarpaulin was pulled off of them.

"Kto ty yebatʹ ty?" demanded a voice. Tamsin could see nothing but a blurry silhouette as she blinked. But she had a pretty good idea what it was saying. Something along the lines of 'Who the fuck are you?'

"D-don't shoot," she gasped as the cold steel barrel of an AK-47 prodded her shoulder. Rough hands seized her arm and yanked her to her feet. Someone else shoved roughly past to grab Craster.

Within moments they were outside, standing stiffly on the weed choked tarmac with at least a dozen Coalition troops clustered around. They'd been right about there being a second armoured vehicle. Another APC with what appeared to be a small tank turret retrofitted crudely onto it sat idling in front of the truck.

Around them, bleak windswept moors stretched for as far as they could see. Blackened craters and scars in the earth inflicted by Thanatos, stunted gorse bushes and withered clumps of heather. 'WELCOME TO NORTH YORKSHIRE' announced a twisted metal sign lying in a ditch beside the road. Was this the southernmost edge of the Red Zone?

"Kto ty? Kak vy popali syuda?" demanded one of the soldiers, grabbing Craster roughly by the lapels.

"He doesn't understand you!" Tamsin cried, "don't you speak any English?"

A new voice piped up, "I speak ... little," a grizzled looking NCO shouldered his way past his comrades, "who ... are you?"

Tamsin took a breath to answer, "I'm Ta ..."

"She's nobody!" Craster blurted out, "we're both nobody. Just refugees traveling south."

The brute holding him backhanded Craster across the face.

"Strelyatʹ malʹchika," suggested one of the others, "togda my berem eto po ocheredi s devushkoy."

There were murmurs and nods of agreement.

"Net!" shouted the NCO angrily, raising a hand for quiet.

"What did he say?" Tamsin asked the soldier nervously, wondering why Craster had interrupted her. She didn't like the way the tank crews were eyeing her up.

"My ... comrade want ... shoot your friend," the NCO smiled, "then we have ... fun with you?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out. She and Craster had planned to slip away from the convoy, contact the resistance and live happily ever after. If there was such a thing anymore. Craster had been right to keep her identity a secret after all. If these thugs discovered who she was, she'd be taken straight back to Lindisfarne.

But knowing what the possible alternative might now be, perhaps that wouldn't be so bad ...

The brute holding Craster drew a handgun and held it to the youth's head. Tamsin's eyes widened as the NCO grabbed the neckline of her goretex jacket, "Please no. I'll do anything ... not this ..."

"Relax. You fetch ... good price. At Scarborough," he twirled a tumbling lock of her red hair around his fingers, "Ryzhiye v vysokom sprose. Ty vyglyadishʹ kak Zhakvatchikov suka."

Zhakvatchikov suka? Tamsin's grasp of Russian was basic to say the least, but she recognised enough words to know that 'suka' meant bitch. Once or twice she'd heard it muttered by the castle staff behind her back. Combined with her mother's maiden name that couldn't be a good sign.

"Ryzhiye v vysokom sprose," the NCO repeated, "redheads ... very popular. You fetch very good price."

Ending up in Scarborough was certainly better than being violated by a dozen soldiers. Though why anyone would want to pay money for her because of the colour of her hair, she had no idea. Tamsin swallowed hard, "And wh-what about my friend?"

The brute holding Craster pressed the handgun to the youth's temple, waiting for the nod to put a bullet through his head.

"Scunthorpe?" the NCO asked of his comrades. It wasn't a word Tamsin was familiar with. For all she knew it could even be a place.

Several of the others nodded in agreement. The brute with the handgun lowered his weapon, looking disappointed.

"W-wait!" Tamsin whimpered, "what are you going to do with him? He's my friend. W-we need to stay together."

But their captors weren't listening. Craster's hands were cable tied behind his back and he was swiftly bundled into the back of the lead APC, grimacing at the pain from his injured ribs. Tamsin decided to have another last ditch attempt at reasoning with them. If she was sent back to Volk then so be it, "D-do you have any idea who I am? I'm Tams ..."