Tamsin Beech Ch. 04: Birmingham

Taylor guessed that before Thanatos it wouldn't have been usual to find the wreck of a fishing trawler in a field outside Derby, miles from the sea. But having grown up in the ruins of the old world where the only things that mattered were food and shelter, people tended to take these incongruities in their stride.

He sat out on the cracked foredeck cradling his M16 and smoking zabveniye as he peered around at the surrounding darkness. There'd been no sign of pursuit from Lincoln all day. Against all odds it seemed as if they'd gotten away with it. Taylor hoped that whatever it was that Tamsin Beech had gone all that way for would be worth the effort.

She was a good leader. Strong, decisive, and one who led from the front, not the rear. He had to admit she was also pretty fucking hot. A shame she'd fallen in with the Russian guy.

"Ohmygod! You're so big!"

Taylor grinned as Ruth squealed from inside the trawler's wheelhouse. He guessed that Emery was giving it to her up the ass again. Some things never changed. Ruth would get so strung out during missions that sex was like a release valve for her, to relieve the pressure built up inside. She'd no doubt be astride Dom while the enormous black guy Emery took her from behind. How she managed to accommodate all of him Taylor could only guess.

He only hoped she'd have some energy left for when it came to his turn.

If it had been daylight he would've taken out his sketchbook and drawn the view. There was no longer any need for artists, as a sketch or a painting would never fill an empty belly or clothe a freezing child. But Taylor enjoyed the simple act of recording his surroundings with charcoal or pencil. He'd heard that in the old world there had been a device called a 'camera' that could record images instantly. But surely that took all the pleasure out of it.

He watched the first light of dawn creeping over the ruins of Derby to the east, as behind him Ruth's screams of pleasure reached a crescendo. Despite what she'd told them about life being forced to work in Scarborough's notorious Grand Hotel, it was obvious the woman loved sex. A day when her mouth, pussy and ass weren't stuffed with cock was a day wasted, in her opinion.

Taylor was dead before he hit the deck as a bullet blew the top of his head off ...

. . .

The three others in the trawler's wheelhouse had been so engrossed in their orgiastic excess they hadn't even noticed him open the door and step inside. He'd actually stood over them as the huge black man had withdrawn from the woman's clutching anus and ejaculated up her smooth back.

The Baek Du San handgun with sound suppressor had made no more noise than dropping a kitten on a feather pillow as he swiftly and efficiently executed all three.

Volk's men would have taken them alive. They'd have wasted time and resources keeping them alive to torture answers from them. That was the Coalition's style, not his. He'd search the bodies and glean whatever information he could about who they were, why they'd been in Lincoln, and where they were going.

The three inside carried an odd assortment of weapons. A Kalashnikov, an MP5 and an antique British Army SA80 - the weapon of choice for the resistance. It certainly looked as if he'd found the right people. Satisfied there was nothing more useful to be discovered he headed outside to search the fourth body - the lookout they'd left on deck while they'd fucked like animals in heat.

The last was no more than a teenager, twenty at most. His M16 assault rifle had been kept meticulously clean. Anyone who took such care of their weapons automatically earned his respect. Inside the youth's scuffed canvas bag there was nothing, apart from field dressings, pencils, dried food and a dog-eared sketchbook. He'd been an artist, and possibly their medic.

"Jenjang!" he swore. There were absolutely no leads.

He blew his breath out through clenched teeth as he idly flicked through the dead youth's sketchbook. Scenery mostly, the odd portrait. The artist had been surprisingly good, having an eye for composition and perspective. He even recognised some places ... the old ruined abbey at Whitby, the Chinese container ship that had destroyed the harbour at Bridlington and ... the stylised sculpture of a bull lying half buried in the ground, rendered with a figure standing alongside to provide scale.

Where had he seen that before?

He turned the page ...

A detailed pencil study of a young woman restringing a crossbow, long curling hair obscuring part of her face as she bent to her work. The dead artist had lovingly rendered every freckle across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. He recognised her instantly. It was her. Tamsin Zakhvatchikov.

And marking the page, encased in yellowing laminate, a list of names ...

CHAPTER FOUR: BIRMINGHAM

Seven years earlier, 2055.

PART ONE: FAMILY

Somewhere on the North Yorkshire moors ...

Leonid checked the Kalashnikov's magazine as he eased the APC's rear hatch open a crack, "Can either of you handle the turret gun?"

Tamsin Beech and her mother Merida exchanged a look. Myrtle sat on the floor, her tail thumping and whimpered.

"I'll take that as a no. Krovavyye mirnyye zhiteli," the tall Russian pushed the armoured door wide, keeping it between himself and the oncoming vehicle. Their desperate flight from Scarborough and the Grand Hotel had taken them along winding lanes past Pickering into the heart of the North Yorkshire moors. Tamsin peered around but in every direction she could see nothing but blackness.

Except that was, for the headlights of the other vehicle slowing to a standstill fifty yards away. High drystone walls on either side meant that their only way forward was effectively blocked.

"Stay in the vehicle. I don't think it's Volk's men," Leonid reported, "it looks like an old pickup. It could be smugglers or bandits ..."

"Can't we just tell them to move?" Tamsin called, "they're outgunned."

"Let's see who it is first."

With a creak of dented bodywork, the doors opened on the other vehicle - a forty year old Toyota Hilux that may have once been white but was now mottled brown by rust and neglect. Two figures clambered out. From first impressions, Tamsin guessed them to be both male, layered up against the cold night and seemingly unarmed. She clutched Nasilnikov's Grach handgun just in case.

Shielding his eyes against the glare of their headlights, Leonid stepped in front of the APC and raised his weapon, "You're in a restricted area. State your business," he called out in English, bluffing that they were a Coalition vehicle out on a routine patrol.

"Sorry, uh ... sir. We've got business in Scarborough," replied one of the men in a reasonable tone. The accent was unusual to Tamsin. British but certainly not local ... and somehow familiar.

Tamsin noticed her mother frowning, "Wh-what is it mum?"

Merida shook her head, "I'm just being stupid, but ... that voice sounds almost like ..."

Myrtle barked suddenly, the sound jarringly loud in the confined space of the APC. The old collie shoved past Tamsin and leapt out onto the deserted road, scampering off towards the unidentified pickup.

"What the f ..." Leonid was flabbergasted as the dog launched herself at the taller of the two men, who he belatedly realised was missing his right arm.

Myrtle wriggled and barked happily, thrashing her tail excitedly as the man stooped and ruffled her ears, "Myrtle? How the hell did you get all the way out here girl?"

The stranger and the dog recognised each other. Knew each other.

"Just who the fuck are you?" Leonid demanded. Was the man some kind of dog whisperer? How had he known the animal's name?

A slender hand pushed the barrel of his weapon down as Merida stepped past him, "Stand down Major Denisovich."

"Y-you know this man?"

Merida smiled, but with tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Good tears, happy tears, "Well the dog's not stupid, so ... I'm pretty sure that's my husband."

Tamsin stumbled shivering out of the APC, wrapping an outsized MTP jacket around herself. She was still clothed in the green sequined dress and was barefoot. Yesterday in the truck with Craster, she'd wondered if either of her parents were even alive. She'd already been miraculously reunited with her mother, and now ...

Surely not.

The taller of the two strangers tugged down the woollen scarf that had covered much of his face, "I see you've been looking after my dog."

Merida laughed as she slowly closed the distance between them, "Since when was she your dog ... Mr Beech?"

Myrtle sat on the road between them, panting and sweeping the ground with her tail.

"Cummon. Whose side of the bed did she used to sleep on ... Mrs Beech?"

"Everybody knows Myrtle's a lady's dog. Jessamy, Tamsin ... and me."

By the light of the pickup's headlights, Ross Beech gazed at the wife he hadn't seen for four years, drinking in the sight of her and committing every nuance of the moment to memory. Reassuring himself that what he was seeing was real and not some cruel trick or hallucination.

Then it all became too much for Merida. With a sobbing gasp she flung her arms around him and cried her relief into his chest.

Leonid Denisovich shouldered his Kalashnikov. It seemed the suspected threat was no more. But three members of the Beech family? Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

"Dad?" Tamsin called timidly.

Ross Beech looked up at once, holding Merida tight against him, "T-tamz? Tamsin?"

Tamsin felt her heart would burst with joy as she ran into her parents' arms. Myrtle danced around, barking ecstatically. Her family had been reunited.

"Bozhe moy," muttered Leonid in disbelief. He turned to the pickup's passenger, "and what relation are you?"

The youth was malnourished, his face covered in the evidence of past beatings, and his clothing - an outsized Coalition uniform, hung on his gaunt frame, "No relation, uh ... sir. I'm Craster."

Seeing the fear in the young man's eyes, Leonid attempted a reassuring smile, "Don't worry kid. I'm not who you think I am."

"Y-you're not?" asked Craster, "I mean you're not going to turn us in or take us back to the steelworks?"

Leonid shook his head, "Nope. But the people who are searching for us probably might. If they don't shoot us all first. I'm assuming the two ladies here are the business you were attending to in Scarborough."

Craster nodded, watching the Beech family's tearful reunion.

"Good. So I suggest we get your junk heap off the road and continue in our APC."

Craster nodded, "Uh, continue where?"

Leonid shrugged, "Far from here."

. . .

Ten minutes later, the Toyota had been shoved into a weed choked field and Leonid had coaxed the Beech family onboard the stolen APC.

"Ross, this is Major Denisovich ... Leonid," introduced Merida.

Ross looked disapprovingly at the Russian, "You'll excuse me if I don't shake hands. I've heard rumours. Are you the same Denisovich the entire Coalition are hunting? Shot his commanding officer?"

Leonid nodded, stowing his weapon in the footwell.

"So ... they're likely to throw everything they've got into finding you," Ross continued accusingly, "which makes things far more dangerous for my family if we stay together."

"Mr Beech. Your wife and daughter mean a lot more to the Coalition than bringing me to justice ... believe me."

Ross pondered for a few seconds then clambered into the armoured carrier, "Believe you? Once we're somewhere safe, we need to sit and have a little chat so you can share what you know. I don't know who the fuck you think you are but my wife and daughter seem to trust you. Betray that trust ... and you'll have me to answer to."

Already settled in, Tamsin gripped Myrtle's collar as she introduced Craster, "Mum, this is Craster. If he hadn't escaped from Lindisfarne with me he'd probably be dead by now."

Merida smiled over her shoulder from the passenger seat, "Pleased to meet you Craster. This isn't how I expected to meet our daughter's first boyfriend."

Craster blushed, "Oh I'm not ..."

"I can see lights moving behind us," Leonid blurted, "I think your General friend has decided to deploy his helicopter gunships. I suggest we get moving ... now."

Sure enough miles behind them, two barely visible pinpoints of light glided soundlessly across the blackness from the direction of Scarborough. Volk wasn't about to give up his prize so easily.

. . .

"So just whose side are you on?" Ross demanded after they'd been on the road for nearly an hour. Leonid Denisovich had been driving the APC at its top speed along narrow lanes, taking turns completely at random, crashing through rotting farm gates if it appeared they'd reached a dead end. Desperate to stay ahead of the searching lights of Volk's helicopters.

The Russian glanced back at him, "How do you mean?"

"Well ... you were going to kill my family. But your own people want you dead for treason. Is your allegiance still to the Coalition?"

Leonid hunched over the wheel for perhaps half a minute, thinking, "I ... think you can assume your family are safe. From me at least. I've achieved what I wanted without bloodshed. So no ... my allegiance is no longer to the Coalition."

Ross huffed, "Okay. If I'm wrong about you I'm about to make the worst decision of my life. But ... if I'm right, my wife and daughter will be safe and ... you'll have somewhere to hang your hat."

"Hat? I'm sorry Mister Beech. You're making absolutely no sense," Leonid grimaced as the APC clipped the side of a partially collapsed farm building.

Ross blew out his breath, exasperated, "For fuck's sake. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

Leonid looked confused, "Spell what out?"

"Head south. We're going to meet the resistance. And please ... DON'T betray my trust."

. . .

Tamsin tried to sleep. But with the stolen APC lurching and jouncing around her it was impossible. She guessed it was well after midnight, and her mind was a boiling cauldron of conflicting emotions spitting questions at her like hot fat.

Who was this Zakhvatchikov character she kept hearing about? Who was the tall blond Russian who'd rescued them? She had to admit he was extremely good looking but was regrettably at least ten years her senior. It would be problematic trying to get answers while they were on the road and fleeing for their lives, but she resolved to find out everything she could at the next opportunity.

She slipped a hand into her mother's and rested her head on Merida's shoulder, while on the floor at their feet Myrtle snored.

PART TWO: ATHERSTONE

As the first rays of sunlight heralded the dawn of a new day, the APC turned into the small market town of Atherstone. Burned out buildings and the skeletal remains of crucified bodies showed that there had once been people there who had perhaps survived Thanatos, the savage winters that followed and attempted to rebuild, only to fall prey to the whims of roving marauders or scavengers.

Entire streets had been blasted apart by meteorite strikes. But after growing up in the post Thanatos world Tamsin took it all in her stride. Scenes of devastation were so commonplace that clambering around craters or stepping over desiccated corpses had become as normal a part of everyday life as breathing.

They guessed the town would have been long ago stripped of anything useful. But as both their driver and vehicle's fuel supply were almost exhausted they opted to stop anyway. Forcing his way along the wreckage clogged Station Street, Leonid reversed the armoured personnel carrier into the smashed in front of a derelict Aldi supermarket, glass and shelving crunching under its thick tyres.

"We'll rest up here for today," Leonid announced, "and get moving again once it gets dark. Everyone get a few hours sleep, I'll take first watch. If we can't find any diesel we'll be continuing on foot to ..." he turned to Ross, "where was it you said we're heading?"

"I didn't," Ross answered pointedly. He picked up a spare Kalashnikov and began rooting through the APC's equipment lockers.

Leonid shrugged.

Around noon, they were awoken by the mechanical clattering of a Kamov helicopter gunship flying low overhead. Tamsin peered out of their hiding place nervously, watching as the craft sped off into the distance. It banked away to the north west as it neared a towering bank of grey brown cloud some miles away.

"What is that dad?" she asked her father.

"That," explained Ross, "is Birmingham."

. . .

For the rest of the day, they took it in turns to sleep and stand watch for any signs of pursuit. Leonid pointed out that Volk's aircraft were bound to be supported by ground troops and if they were discovered he didn't rate their chances.

What few provisions they could find onboard the APC were shared out between the five of them, with Tamsin making sure Myrtle had something too. She found a worn pair of boots in the shop's staff locker room and some Coalition uniform trousers, but without a belt they were enormous on her and kept falling down.

She caught Craster staring at her bare legs more than once. Her one time whipping boy had seemed more quiet and withdrawn than ever since their reunion and Tamsin wondered if the youth might be feeling a tiny bit of jealousy now that she had the capable Russian major along.

. . .

In a back storeroom of the supermarket, Ross and Merida had far more important things than sleep on their minds. His hand traveled over her curves as his mouth pressed urgently against hers.

"I'm guessing you missed me," Merida smiled in the gloom at the husband she hadn't set eyes on for four years. Damp cardboard boxes lay stacked against the walls amid mouse and rat droppings, festooned with spider webs. It wasn't the location she'd have chosen but the company more than made up for their surroundings.

"You have no idea Meri. Every day I've thought about coming to look for you. But I haven't had a clue where to start," he circled his arm around her waist, easing her gently back against some racking that had long ago been looted for everything it had once held.

"Do you trust the Russian?" Merida asked.

Ross shook his head, "Leonid? No. Do you?"

Merida shrugged, "He had every chance to kill us back in Scarborough. But he didn't. He risked his life to rescue us."

"I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But if he gives me any reason to think his loyalties are still with the goons - I'll put a bullet in his head. I might be putting the entire network at risk."

"Tamsin seems to like him," Merida added. She hadn't been at all surprised that her husband was involved in the resistance movement. Ross wasn't the sort of man to take an invasion by a foreign power lying down, "have you noticed the way she looks at him when she thinks we can't see?"

"She's grown up since we last saw her," Ross nodded distractedly, as his lips blazed a trail down Merida's throat to the bulging mound of cleavage threatening to spill out of her softshell, "didn't they dress you properly in Scarborough? This jacket must be thirty years old!"

"I wasn't there for the customers' benefit," she responded, "I was a prisoner. I dressed however the hell I wanted."

"You did?" Ross unzipped Merida's softshell the rest of the way and eased it off her shoulders, "I think Jessamy once said you'd look good wearing a sack. Pfft, I ... sometimes wonder what the fuck happened to her and Hamnavoe?"

"We may never kn ..."

Ross silenced her with a kiss, slipping his tongue between her lips.

Merida rested her backside against the racking, not resisting as her husband explored the body that he hadn't touched or even seen for so long, "I've missed you too, Ross ... but ..."