The Hand and the Hatchet

Chapter 2

"You took your bloody time" Lance growled as Bell crossed the threshold, shutting the door behind him.

"Couldn't be helped, I ran into some Angels up near Hudson Way, a few scouts by the looks of them."

"Are these scouts still with us? Judging by those extra packs I'd guess not"

"You'd guess right, except I left one alive"

Lance turned from the door, and took one of the packs from Bell's arms.

"That was a mistake. Should've finished him off if it wasn't certain"

"Her, actually" Bell said simply. Lance was the oldest of the group, and as such he carried an aura of permanent moodiness around him. Bell had no desire to argue with him, and so he walked behind him into what had once been the kitchen. It was now something of a communal area, with the couches from the lounge brought down, and a few fold-out chairs cast haphazardly around the room. A man and a woman sat on the couches, drinking from tin mugs, chatting and gazing out of the French doors, which led onto a small patio and the remains of the garden.

"If you could have one canned food from the good days right now, what'd it be?" The man on the couch asked. His voice was high and slightly reedy, and had a Yorkshire twang to it. Much like Bell, he had run from his hometown and arrived here, taken in by the small group.

"Jack, to be honest with you, I haven't the foggiest" the woman replied. She was slight, and short, and had raving ginger hair.

"Useless talk" Lance interjected "It'll never happen, so why bother talking about it?"

Jack and the woman ignored him, and the woman said "What about you, Bell?"

Ignoring the rolling eyes of Lance, Bell thought for a second, and then replied "Mushy peas. And a tin of peaches for dessert."

"excellent choice" Jack said, considering his own. "I'd probably have to say rice pudding, though"

Bell nodded his agreement, and began to move towards the French doors, while Jack and the woman started bickering again.

Lance opened the back doors, and Bell stepped out onto the brick patio. The garden was split into three equal spaces: the patio, the lawn, and the plant beds. In the exact centre of the lawn, a huge fireplace sat, surrounded by rocks the size of Bell's fist. With no working gas or electricity, the only way food could be cooked was over a fire. Lucy, the resident chef, squatted on the edge of the circle of stones, placing strips of meat over a wooden rack. She looked up and grinned, noticing the packs Bell carried.

"They got food in them?" She asked immediately.

"A bit, yeah. Enough for tonight."  Bell said as he began unloading the meagre supplies from the stolen packs. They were typical rations, some strips of jerky, salted biscuits, and even a few MRE's. it would be enough to feed them, but there was no doubt that hunger would be gnawing on the whole group's stomachs the morning after. There were only four people that stayed at the house full time: Lucy, who cooked and tended the garden for vegetables and fruit; Jack, who was usually a scout, but was injured; The woman, Grace, who was more or less a housekeeper; and Lance; the man who guarded the house. All the others were out foraging, as the winter they had recently endured had been particularly hard, and all hands were needed to keep them fed. When he had first joined with them, Bell had volunteered to be a scout, having already acquired the ability to scrounge and fight, the essential skills for surviving out in the harsh new world. In another life, before the world had, quite literally, come crashing down, Bell had been a boxer, and a decent one at that, winning a handful of championships and achieving runner-up in the nationals. In addition, his father had been friends with a bouncer, who specialised in mixed martial arts. After a few years training with him, Bell was as proficient with his legs as he was with his fists, and he'd been moulded into a effective, down to earth fighter. Most survivors were like him; tough, canny and ruthless, like the world around them. The simple truth was that you needed to be to survive.

When Bell had finished offloading the food and canteens, he straightened up, and carried the packs to the room dedicated to storage; Grace's domain. It had once been a laundry room of some kind, and had hollow plasterboard walls, and a constant draught, which made the various garments and supplies flutter and shift. He emptied anything useful, and then dropped the packs themselves onto the desk where Grace sewed and repaired. He also removed the hoodie he'd been wearing, and left that in the laundry basket. Grace used rainwater, or freshwater from the river Cole (which was only thirty feet from the front door of the house) to wash clothes; detergent was used only if one of the scouts brought some back. He walked back through the heavy fire door, and stuck his head into the kitchen .

"I've left some laundry for you in your office" Bell said

"No worries, I'll get on it in a bit"

"Thank you, I appreciate that"

He left the room, and walked up two sets of stairs, passing the doorway to his own room, and continued upwards to the third floor. On the third landing, Bell climbed a metal ladder into the attic. The attic had been halfway through a conversion when it was a normal house, and had a flat wooden floor, and rough, red brick walls. Now, there was a hole in the roof, about six feet around, and a small lookout had been constructed, with a flat floor, low wooden walls, and a grey tarpaulin covering it, blending in with the the slates on the roof. From a distance, it was impossible to tell that there was anything there whatsoever. This was where Ant spent most of his time. He stood lookout up in this crows nest from dusk until dawn, and oftentimes even longer. He was brought food and drink by the others, and when he had to sleep, his shift was covered by the scouts, who had a rota. Ant was ex-special forces, and had a thick east London accent. When Bell looked up into the nest, He was sat on the floor, eating out of a mess tin, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The only firearm in the group's possession, a Mauser hunting rifle, with a synthetic stock and a telescopic sight, rested on the wooden wall next to him. He had seen him use it with deadly accuracy.

"What d'ya want?" Ant said, not looking at Bell.

"I brought you something"

"Oh yeah? What's that then?" Ant said, interest making him look down and around, to the small can in Bell's hand.

Bell handed him the can of gun oil, which had been in the man's pack, having to reach up slightly to pass it to him. It was hard not to be intimidated by Ant. He wasn't particularly tall, only a shade over six feet, but he moved with the graceful power of an athlete, and carried a quiet confidence about him at all times. He had dark hair, and a thick beard that was constantly trimmed. His muscles rolled beneath his shirt as he received the can. He read the label, and then shook it, getting a feel of how full the can was. Finally, he placed it behind him, next to the rifle, and spoke.

"Thanks mate, that's a good find. Keep your eyes peeled, eh?"

"You know me, always" Bell replied, smiling slightly.

Bell had always had something of a soft spot for Ant, despite not ever becoming particularly close with him. Ant had saved Bell's life once, while out raiding some roadagent's truck, and Bell had never forgotten it, bringing Ant the best pieces of the things he collected when he was out scouting. As well as this, Ant and Bell occasionally trained together, sparring or spotting for each other in the attic, or practicing archery on the estate somewhere. Unfortunately, practising with firearms was impossible, as not only would gunfire invite scrutiny that they most likely wouldn't survive, but bullets were so scarce that practicing would be a waste. Despite this, Bell had seen Ant use his rifle with an unnerving accuracy.

"Hey, I was talkin' with a few of the other's earlier. There's been a bit of activity across the town"

"Angels?"

"Other survivors. Watch your back out there, mate"

"Again, you know me" Bell said, turning to leave "always"