Tamsin Beech Ch. 03: Scunthorpe

Tamsin estimated that it would take the best part of ten days to trek all the way back to Birmingham. With limited supplies and Volk's helicopter gunships scouring the blighted landscape for them, it wouldn't be an easy journey by any means.

They travelled in two groups of four to help avoid detection, and carefully transcribed a duplicate of the priceless list of names, reasoning that at least one copy would eventually reach the resistance.

Herself, Leonid Denisovich, McTavish and their explosives expert Cooper travelled as one group. The other made up of Taylor, Emery, Dom and Ruth, one of the women they'd rescued from Scarborough's Grand Hotel when the resistance had finally closed the place down for good two years earlier. Ruth still bore the brand on her right cheek and displayed it almost proudly when engaging Coalition troops.

The Reekie scout McTavish knew of several safe havens along the way where they would be able to rest up and eat. But apart from those few places they knew they'd have to rely on the kindness of strangers or else go hungry.

As Tamsin slogged through knee deep mud under a leaden sky somewhere near what had once been Nottingham, she recalled her first meeting with Major Leonid Denisovich. Nowadays their relationship was based on trust, mutual respect and to a certain extent - love.

But that hadn't always been the case. She remembered how the ex-Spetznaz officer had once been moments away from assassinating both her and her mother ...

CHAPTER THREE: SCUNTHORPE

Seven years earlier. North Lincolnshire, 2055 ...

PART ONE: ROSS

It was perhaps a testament to the brilliance of late twentieth century British engineering that even after Thanatos, the Humber Bridge was still standing. Abandoned vehicles had been shunted off the 75 year old suspension bridge's two lane blacktop onto the now seldom used pedestrian walkway, itself littered with chunks of concrete. On windy days the entire structure creaked alarmingly as flakes of rust pirouetted down from the frayed cables high up. A Dutch coaster had years before run aground against the 510 foot high north tower, staining the shingle beach at Hessle black with fuel from its ruptured tanks.

As another day dawned the River Humber flowed sluggishly, as it had done so for thousands of years, into the North Sea at Hull - now a charred landscape of abandoned houses and shops, office blocks and supermarkets - the rotting bones of the old world. Oystercatchers, Dunlins and Turnstones peeped at one another as they picked their way along the muddy riverbank and a scrawny fox lay in wait under a wild rhodedendron bush for the right moment to pounce.

On the southern bank, a wide stagnant lake had replaced the village of Barton On Humber, where the swirling waters of the mighty river had flooded in to fill the crater left by yet another meteorite strike.

Craster could see none of this.

Lying on the metal floor of the ancient BTR armoured personnel carrier as it bumped and juddered down the slip road from the crumbling bridge, his hands still secured behind his back with a recycled cable tie. His captors had briefly mentioned Scunthorpe. He was about to be sold to the steel works the Coalition was so desperate to get up and running. Once more a slave.

Where Tamsin Zhakvatchikov had ended up after their capture on the road was anyone's guess, but Craster had a fairly good idea. He prayed he was wrong. After what she'd done to him in the truck he had to admit he quite liked her.

Such a shame ...

. . .

"Put your fingers in me," Heather panted.

Ross Beech searched through the wet folds of flesh, looking for her centre. But he was nowhere near fast enough. Heather seized his wrist, guiding his hand impatiently to her opening. He slowly sank a finger into her. She felt so smooth inside, like wet silk. So warm. He'd missed this so much. Not so much the intimacy of sex, but any meaningful contact with another human being.

The pretty blonde from the kitchens had been tempting him, teasing him for weeks. He'd finally given in. Ross guessed that if it hadn't been for the ugly burn mark running down one side of her face, Heather would have been forced into service at the brothel in Scarborough. Which seemed frankly ridiculous given that all the women there were branded on one cheek on arrival - deliberately disfigured.

How could anything be this soft?

"Two fingers."

She rocked against Ross's hand. He squeezed another finger in as requested, conscious that he hadn't had chance to wash after his shift. The slaves never had the opportunity to remove the oil and grime of the steelworks. But as a foreman, Ross had certain perks. His own room and access to cleanish water were among them.

Heather writhed on the narrow cot, cupping her breasts as Ross spooned up behind her, moving his fingers at an easy pace, in and out. The aroma of feminine arousal and a deliciously sloppy wet sound quickly had his cock swelling, stretching against the rough material of his overalls as if eager to do its part.

"Fuck I wish you had two hands still," Heather sighed.

Ross had had his right arm amputated years before when Reivers had attacked the tiny Cumbrian village of Threlkeld. A simple bullet wound had become infected and it was only the swift intervention of the people of Berwick Upon Tweed that had saved his life. But if Merida hadn't dragged and carried him all that way, the Northumbrians wouldn't have had the chance. It would have already been too late.

Merida. His wife, and mother to their two beautiful children. Where was she? Was she even alive still? He'd seen his son John killed by Reekies when they'd attacked. A memory that even now haunted him. But what of Tamsin, their daughter? For four years he'd wallowed in self pity and the pain of not knowing, immersing himself in the work of rebuilding the steelworks and returning it to operational status. So that the invaders could retrofit their APCs, their tanks and their ships with thicker armour to defend against the growing resistance movement.

But that was another story ...

His head was just getting in the way now, his thoughts racing, and Ross wished nothing more than to just turn it off and simply enjoy the oblivion of these precious minutes.

"Put three in," Heather coaxed as she lifted her threadbare Rab t-shirt off over her head. Her hand knitted socks and thermals bunched around her ankles were now all that stood between her and complete nakedness. She turned onto her back, propping herself up on her elbows and tugged the thermals off one leg before opening her knees.

"What, more?" asked Ross. He watched his two fingers stretching her flesh, pulled them out for a moment, with her juices clinging to them in clear strands. He smirked, "unless you want something bigger?"

Ross met her eyes, then looked down at her again. Open, wet, waiting. All he had to do was slide inside. She wanted him to fuck her. Extra portions in his lunch tray had given way to less subtle hints over recent weeks until Ross was in no doubt whatsoever that she wanted it.

What was stopping him?

"Come on Ross. Fuck me," Heather shuffled down the bed and opened her labia with her fingers, "get inside me. You know you want to."

Fuck, how he wanted to. Ross's cock most definitely wanted to be buried balls deep inside her. It was the voice in his head that was the problem. He was still married. Or as far as he knew he was. Even after four years he couldn't bring himself to even consider the possibility that Merida might be dead. Over the course of their married life he'd had sex with only one other woman - Jessamy Beech, his own sister. A sordid alcohol fuelled threesome with her and Angus Hamnavoe at their father's house in Cornwall.

"Ross, please. My shift starts in half an hour."

In the corridor outside, the second shift could already be heard returning to their accommodation from the steelworks, clumping exhaustedly along the bare concrete floor and murmuring about overwork and quotas. They'd want feeding soon.

"Ross!" Heather hissed, interrupting his reverie, "I want your cock ... now!"

She moaned, slipping two of her own fingers inside, "Please ..."

"Shit!" Ross cursed, taking his cock out and aiming it towards her. He may well be married. But he was also only human. He'd been loyal, faithful for four years dreaming of the day he'd be reunited with Merida. Heather's eyes were bright as she grabbed him, sliding his swollen glans up and down against her wet slit.

That didn't just feel good, that felt fucking incredible. Heather worked him expertly up over her clitoris and back down, her eyes half closed, her breath coming fast, "You gonna fuck me?"

She slipped the tip of Ross's cock down toward her gaping vagina. He winced, grabbing her hips and pushing her back a little, "Heather, I can't."

Ross gritted his teeth. His cock was wet with her juices and longing, desperate for more of her warmth.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Heather swore, rolling her eyes and leaning back on her elbows, "are you serious? Is this about your wife? I'm sorry hun but you need to just accept it. She's gone. Time to move on."

Ross looked her in the eye, "She's alive. Merida's alive. I just know it."

Heather frowned for a moment, "Okay ... I'm sorry."

Her gaze left his, moving over the shelf beside the bed. She smiled, getting the mischievous Heather look in her eye that Ross had come to recognise. He watched as she picked up the thick rubber handled claw hammer that he had left there. It was of course against the rules for slaves to have tools away from the work place. The possession of anything that could be used as a weapon against the guards or overseers was punishable by death.

Having his own tools was another perk of Ross being a foreman.

"Here," Heather handed it to him, grinning, "you can fuck me with this."

Ross's eyes widened, but he took it anyway, "With this?"

The girl was insatiable. He wondered if she'd be like this had she been born before Thanatos had ravaged the world. The attitude of mea culpa - seize the day, had become more prevalent. Enjoy today, because it might be your last.

"If I can't have you, then this will have to do," Heather nodded, opening her legs wide. Ross hesitated. The hammer's grip was as thick as his cock, worn smooth by years of use. Could she take this inside of her? How?

He found himself curious to find out.

"Come on," Heather spread her lips open, showing herself, "I want to be fucked."

Ross pressed the tip of the handle to her flesh, lubricating it, and she shivered, "Mmm," she murmured, "go on."

Further in. Another inch of the blue rubber slid up inside her. Ross watched fascinated at her labia spreading over it, taking it in.

"Deeper, come on," Ross gripped the hammer's claw head and slid the grip steadily into her, watching in awe as Heather's pink, wet flesh stretched as she took it, inch by inch. When it was halfway in she squirmed, her breath coming fast, "now lick me."

Ross leaned in toward her, nosing her clit, finding it with his tongue. Heather moaned, wiggling, and ran a hand through his hair to guide his head, "Yes, right there."

Ross lapped at her, clutching the hammer in his single hand, watching as Heather started rocking against the bed, whimpering, "Fuck me!"

She rolled her hips. Ross began moving the hammer in and out of her, slow and easy, keeping his mouth fastened against her, his tongue teasing.

"Faster," Heather begged.

Ross obeyed, moving the hammer more rapidly, the thick length of the grip opening her wide. Part of him wondered how he'd feel afterwards if he replaced it with his cock. Despite his misgivings about being unfaithful to Merida, he was still painfully hard.

"Oh ... yes, h-harder!"

His tongue made circles around her clitoris, catching a rhythm as Heather responded, lifting her hips. Ross struggled to keep his tongue moving where he knew she wanted it. The kitchen girl moaned, "H-harder!"

She looked at him through half closed eyes and whispered, "D-don't you ... wish it was your cock ... Mister Beech?"

Ross groaned against her flesh, twisting the hammer inside her and making her gasp. She seemed to like that, so he continued to twist it as he fucked her, back and forth, in and out.

"I wish this was you," Heather whimpered, looking down at him, "I wish it was your big, hard cock ... f-fucking me. You could pr-pretend I'm your ... Merida if you like."

Tempted as he was, Ross chose to ignore that remark. She was breathing fast, and bucking against him, taking more and more of the blue rubber grip into her. He worked it hard and fast, his face coated in her juices, his cock a steel rod throbbing for release. Heather started to make urgent little gasps as Ross moaned against her flesh, fucking her a little harder, licking faster still.

"You're so ... good," she whispered, "so ... f-fucking good!"

Heather gasped and shuddered, grabbed Ross's hair, pushing her hips up to meet him and shoving his mouth against her so hard that he couldn't breathe.

He didn't care. Heather was flooding his face with herself, spasming around the hammer again and again as her salty essence dribbled down Ross's chin. She collapsed on the bed moaning still. Ross looked down at the tool still half submerged inside of her, slick and wet. He withdrew it slowly and she groaned, as if she didn't want to let it go, "Th-that was ... special. I just wish you'd ... fuck me pr-properly Ross."

His cock was so hard it was painful. Surely if Merida knew about this she'd forgive him a moment of weakness just this one time. Ross pushed all thoughts of his wife to the back of his mind and determinedly tore open the velcro fastenings on his overalls ...

KNOCK-KNOCK!

Heather snatched up her clothes to conceal her nakedness as Ross swore under his breath, "Who is it? " he shouted irritably.

"Watson from personnel Mister Beech," replied a muffled voice from the corridor.

Ross nodded at Heather to get dressed. It wouldn't do for one of the kitchen staff to be seen in bed with a foreman, "What do you want?"

"A transport's just come in from the Red Zone sir. A new guy who'll need to be assigned a work detail."

Ross huffed, "Okay. Gimme a minute and I'll be down."

. . .

Ten minutes later, Ross paced slowly around the skinny youth, taking in the ill fitting Coalition uniform, the bruises, and the dried blood from a head wound caked on one side of his face. The timing couldn't have been worse. Heather was seriously pissed off with him, so when he eventually got to the mess hall there'd only be leftovers, "Name?"

The young man stared at him insolently, his hands secured behind his back with a thick cable tie. The gloomy reception area of the complex was deserted but for the three of them.

"Forman zadal vam vopros, PIZDA!" hollered the guard who'd brought him in, savagely kicking the backs of his legs.

"Cr-craster!" hissed the prisoner, "my name's Craster."

"Like the village?"

The youth nodded, eyeing the guard warily.

"Welcome to Scunthorpe, Craster," Ross responded in an even tone, "I'm Mister Beech, the foreman for this section. I'll treat you fairly so long as you pull your weight. Do you have any particular skills I should know about?"

Craster shook his head.

Ross blew out his breath, "Okay. So ... you'll be more unskilled humping and dumping then. You'll be assigned a number and a dorm. You'll work a twelve hour shift. You get two meals a day based on your productivity. Work hard, you eat. Any backchat, any slacking or any other minor transgression will be punishable by flogging. Any violence against another prisoner or a guard, any incident of theft or any attempt whatsoever to escape is punishable by death. Is that all clear Mister Craster?"

Craster nodded.

"Good. I'll give you a quick guided tour. If you have any problems, you come to me. Is that understood?"

Craster sucked in his cheeks and nodded again. The guard removed the cable tie and left, to collect the bounty he and his squad had earned for capturing yet another slave.

. . .

"When Thanatos hit thirty five years ago, the works had a surplus of ore. Which is just as well as the infrastructure and supply routes leading in will take years to rebuild. Roads, railway lines ... they're all fucked," Ross shouted while he struggled to zip up his fleece against the chill of the evening as he led Craster outside. A blaring siren was sounding the start of the night shift across the miles wide complex.

The youth gazed around at the towering blast furnaces, the collosal continuous casting building with its massive chimney pumping plumes of white steam into the darkening sky, the criss crossing railway lines and huge conveyor belts. The steelworks had been the lifeblood of the town since the 19th century, surviving wars, recessions and the threat of cheaper imported steel from overseas. It had survived Thanatos too, though much of the surrounding area had been laid waste by meteorite strikes and the subsequent firestorms.

"The Coalition have around 2,000 slaves here. I'm responsible for around a quarter of them. Any fuckups reflect badly on me. So make sure there aren't any," Ross shook his head, "I don't know why the fuck I'm even telling you all this kid. Life expectancy here isn't very long even if you keep your nose clean. If I'm honest you'll probably be dead in a few weeks."

Craster glanced at him, but said nothing. By the look of all the bruising, he looked as if he'd been beaten severely and repeatedly. But Ross doubted it had been by the APC crew that had brought him in. Most of the injuries looked old, yellowing, "So where you from? I had a son about your age."

"North."

Up ahead, the Coalition guards manning one of the perimeter watchtowers peered down at them inquisitively. Ross carried the white hardhat of a foreman but he too was still essentially a prisoner.

From the few words he'd uttered, Ross guessed that the youth's accent might be Northumbrian, "Mind me asking how you got all those bruises?"

"Some Russian cunt."

"Looks like this 'Russian cunt' didn't like you very much," Ross pressed. If the kid didn't want to speak, he couldn't force him to.

Craster turned to face him, eyes blazing, "If you must know, General Volk himself made me a whipping boy for some fucking spoilt rich girl he was holding prisoner on Lindisfarne. We escaped. We got recaptured. End of. Can we just cut this shit and you tell me where I'll be sleeping like?"

Girl? He'd heard one or two rumours but hadn't inquired. Asking too many questions in this environment was never a good idea. Perhaps here was a chance to satisfy his curiosity. Ross grabbed the youth's arm, "What girl?

"Get the fuck off me."

But Ross gripped harder. Compensating for the loss of his right arm, his left had become muscular and strong, his grip vicelike, "Tell me about the girl. What was her name?"

"Zhakvatchikov. Like the Coalition leader. Tamsin Zhakvatchikov. Though she liked to be called Beech ... like ... like you ..."

Ross felt as if he'd been dealt a physical blow. His heart thundered in his chest and he suddenly felt strangely light headed, "T-tamsin? Are you sure that's her name? Wh-what does she look like?"

Craster stared into Ross's face, searching his eyes, "Pr-pretty. Pale skin. Long curly red hair. Sh-she always seemed really ... proud of it. Said it reminded her ... of her mother."

Ross looked abruptly away, blinking back the stinging tears that were threatening to form. She was alive. Their daughter Tamsin ... was alive.

"Where is she now?" Ross growled.

"We were in a convoy. The driver of the truck we were in mentioned something about ... Scarborough? We were going to try and contact the resistance."