The Shaking

Chapter Thirty Two

Friday

As the break of dawn heralded a new day, the nation which had suffered such a grevious blow began to groggily pick itself off the canvas. Throughout the affected region those invisible people whose jobs were underappreciated by society until their skills became so acutely required went about their work as best they could; patching as far as posible the fragmented infrastructure with what few resources they had at their disposal.

Health workers did what they could for the sick and injured, despite coping with damaged or destroyed facilities. Surgeons worked non-stop under difficult conditions and with poor lighting, they were often forced by expediency to perform the sort of brutal operations their predecessors of two centuries ago would recognise, often without anaesthesia.

Utilities staff, having been stranded where they were by the 'quake and deprived of overall coordination started fixing what they could, where they could. Their efforts were puny and piecemeal compared to the task ahead of them, but raised the morale of those depending on their work.

Emergency service personnel worked themselves to exhaustion, but were aided in their tasks by members of the public who temporarily joined their ranks. As often happens in the wake of a tragedy communities came together for the common good, sharing what little they had with people who had been strangers up until recently. With no one else to look after their needs they formed their own anarchistic self-help networks; not being weighed down by the dead weight of bureaucracy these impromtu communes achieved a great deal very quickly.

From outside the zone of destruction aid started to trickle in despite the difficulties encountered in transporting it. More was due to follow as the effort became more organised and cohesive. Relief convoys and staff traveled as close to the region as they could get, moving along roads and tracks which had been newly blazed or hurriedly repaired. Even so, it would be months, years perhaps before all of the damage was made good.

Meanwhile, in a world far removed from the discomfort of nights spent in garages, sheds, and cars; people in high office were still preoccupied with gaining advantage from the tragedy.

PINDAR. 04.49.

Stuart Pullman had passed a fitful few hours drifting in and out of sleep; his agitated mind struggling against his fatigued body. He rested alone in his quarters, having insisted Elizabeth board the helicopter shuttling the governmental next of kin to safety at Chequers. His attention was jolted from the boundary of slumber and consciousness by a quietly insistent knock at his door.

"Come in!" mumbled Pullman.

A lower rank civil servant entered and announced "Sir, Ian Campbell has collapsed with the 'flu and been taken to the medical unit. His deputy, Owen Walker, has assumed his duties for the time being. The doctor recommends everyone in PINDAR is given precautionary antivirals; an initial injection followed by a course of tablets. He's organising the distribution beginning in ten minutes."

"How is Campbell?"

"He's listed as serious, having been put on supplementary oxygen but the doctor expects him to make a full recovery in due course, though he's likely to be hospitalised for several days."

"I see: Thank you for telling me; that will be all." replied Pullman. The dismissed functionary left and quietly closed the door behind him.

Fate had just given Stuart's megalomaniac fantasy about a new order rising from the rubble of the old a masive fillp. With his rival temporarily incapacitated Pullman could almost feel the weight of the keys to Downing Street in his hand. All he needed now was for the Organisation supporting him to remove the one roadblock preventing him from attaining his goal and for he to successfully handle the interview scheduled with Gail Burton which the Prime Minister had dumped in his lap. Then the cards he had dealt would give him a winning hand.