Cold

By Jim Pearce

The near future is a world in which scientists and their AI got it wrong.

Rising temperatures have caused fires that burned landmasses, and the ash from these fires block out the sun. The resulting cold is extreme, like a nuclear winter, and was a mass extinction event for human beings the world over. Electricity grids, communications and services all failed. Societies collapsed. Humanity is reduced to small groups of survivors, scraping by however they can.

Resources are scarce, and bands of survivors resort to violence to obtain enough food and fuel to survive.

A man and his family group have survived the cruel winter by hiding in a house in Surrey, but when a roaming gang starts to ravage the area, they are forced to run. As they flee to safety, the cohesion and tolerance that had kept them going for so long starts to fracture…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jan 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781803134222

Jim Pearce

Jim Pearce is a geologist, who has worked in gold mining in Ghana then with Schlumberger on the rigs in the Middle East and Latin America before getting a scholarship to complete an MBA at INSEAD. Now a partner in the Energy practice of Kearney, where he has been for over 21 years, he has led their operations practice in EMEA, and now Northern Europe, working with clients who are trying to change their ways and not harm the planet.

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Copyright © 2023 Jim Pearce

Art work watercolour by Rob Hemsley

Front cover Tomorrow I can be a soldier

Back Cover Man’s best friend

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

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Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

Tel: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1803134 222

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To Jo, Sam, Josh and Barney. Thanks for all the

support and patience.

Xxx

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Rob for the wonderful cover designs and sketches, Josh also for sketches and ideas. You’re both awesome.

I would like to thank Alex Hammond and Becky Cromie for all the editing support and education about writing for more than a year. I was a slow pupil.

Thanks to the readers who gave valuable feedback, edits and kept me going:

Nix, Greg, Jane, Tim, Chris Berry, Jo, Chris Boydell, Rob H, Gav, Tom, Midge, Randy, Tristan and last but by no means least, Pezza.

And lastly to Jo and my family who didn’t throw me out in the cold.

Enjoy.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

‘The More Loving One’, W. H. Auden, 1907–1973

Contents

One

Life and death

A new colour. Green. Motionless. A dull shape dusted with a covering of snow, just on the side of the road into town. Olive green. Still not moving. I crouched behind an abandoned car and took my binoculars from my backpack. Trying to breathe slowly, I struggled to twist the focus knob with my gloves. A human body. Big man, by the looks of it. Wearing army gear. Looked dead. Very dead. Boots pointing to the sky. Soles facing me. Good boots, not too worn, still with grip on them. A fresh body, or fresh since I last passed this way three weeks ago. I didn’t like surprises, particularly on a walk like this. It might only be two miles from the homestead to Bob’s store, but this road, now, was a bad place to be. Could this be a good surprise? Couldn’t be, surely. More likely the boots were bait. Bait for a trap.

I waited, keeping as still as possible. No movement out there, but in the cold everything can seem so still. I scanned the area around me, dividing it up into sectors in my head and giving each sector a thorough look. Patience wasn’t easy in these temperatures, and despite my layers I could feel the cold seeping in. It was when your muscles stopped moving that the cold got you. I resisted the urge to shiver: I had to be still. Time to crush my rocks.

There hadn’t been much innovation in the freeze, not that I had seen anyhow. But this was one and it helped me now. Some small porous stones that looked like cat litter, the same ones we used for our hydroponic farm back at the house, were my secret weapon for moments like this. I had heated them by the fire in a pan before the trip out, then poured them into pouches on my thermals. I squeezed my pockets through my worn gloves. The stones were actually quite friable and brittle so it was easy to do – and, when crushed, they gave a reassuring burst of heat when I most needed it, sitting here motionless and beginning to lock up. There was no third burst though.

I finished my sector-by-sector survey. Where could someone be spying on me from? Or jump me near the body? My eyes strained. My ears too. Nothing stirred. Binos away. I broke cover and approached. Carefully but not too slow or my muscles would lock up without vigorous movement soon. The heat from the rocks was already dissipating.

He was on his back. The boots looked about the right size. ‘Careful,’ I told myself so I didn’t let things run away with me. I lay down for a second to put my soles against his. I was vulnerable now; if I was going to be jumped it would be at this moment. Just as I raised my neck, an icy gust blew down it. I looked down at my feet and rotated my foot slightly to assess the overlap. An exact fit. I got up again, and found myself looking down at a big man with empty brown eyes, but glassy-eyed like a John Dory on a tray of ice in a fancy restaurant. A hole in his forehead. A bullet wound. Who could spare bullets? He had nothing in his pockets. His camo gear and boots looked like army issue. A lot of people would love gear like that. So either nobody had come this way yet or this body was really recent. Both were concerning thoughts. Hard to undo his laces with gloves. I barely managed to. Pulling them off was also hard. Rigor mortis and frozen limbs meant I needed to manipulate the leather with all my strength. Once done, I put them straight on. At least they weren’t still warm from him. That would be wrong. I jammed my old ones in my backpack. Partly because spares were hard to come by, partly to not leave any personal evidence of my scavenging. No one would care anymore, but maybe this was a hangover from days gone by when Surrey neighbours would frown upon scavengers. And I would give a shit what they thought. I left swiftly and headed on my way. He was left in his socks.

I subconsciously rolled my shoulders, hitching up my rucksack straps. I felt the reassuring mass of the tins of beans and spaghetti hoops against the base of my spine. My precious cargo came in aluminium cans, and would get me some paraffin. I paused again, listening, and, hearing nothing but the soft sigh of the icy wind, I pressed on.

I gripped my staff tightly. I was on the edge of town. Key was to cover this last piece of my hike fast. I was getting cold again and my muscles tightened with the chill. I could warm myself and replace my pumice stones in the store. I carried some fresh ones that I would charge on Bob’s stove for the return walk. I could smell woodsmoke from the stove stack as I got within a couple of hundred yards.

I was moving down deserted side streets between empty small shops and flats. This section of the walk was also tricky – the ice on stone pavements underfoot made it slippery but my new boots had better grip than my old pair. So far, nothing around me stirred.

The store had originally been just off a busy high street – a hardware store with an eccentric yet often monosyllabic owner – and had prospered even when competition like B&Q and Homebase came to town. The store always had a good customer service mindset, and Bob, the owner, was a born survivor in every way. A tall, rangy man, with two big Alsatian dogs that helped protect the place. He also had a certain air of strength despite his slim frame.

I was worried that despite my body temperature dropping I would not be able to enter straight away. Bob had some crude signals to show the status in the store – all part of his practical mindset, adjusted to our new normal. Shutters closed meant closed. A candle in front of the curtain meant open and no other customers there.

No candle shown meant the store was open but there were other customers inside. Most did not want to meet other customers – it meant others could see what you were trading or follow you home. It was social distancing – in the extreme, for extreme reasons.

I walked around a corner and I could see my goal now clearly. Shutters open – candle in sight. I was in business. I waited two minutes to check I wasn’t being observed going in. It was key not to rush this final stage of the approach and blow the whole thing. The town seemed as abandoned as always, the only sign of life the faint glow of the candle in Bob’s window. I checked again, waited thirty more seconds to be sure, and then walked briskly to the door and did the ‘secret’ knock. A small, grated shutter was pulled back and Bob’s eyes appeared. A quick glance confirmed that all was as expected as he checked I was alone and a face he recognised. I heard him slide back the three heavy bolts along the inside of the heavy door. He showed me in with a pat on the shoulder and moved the candle to the side to show to others the store was occupied.

He quickly bolted the door behind. His two Alsatians, Bella and Kisi, rushed to me and brushed against my legs in excitement, nuzzling my thighs and jumping up they competed with one another to show who knew me best.

It was great to be inside and feel the warmth in the store. The log burner crackled healthily. Bob bent over the table and offered me a welcome cup of tea. I clasped my hands on the hot mug and stood by the stove, feeling the heat against my legs. I quickly took the unused pumice stones from the lid pocket of my rucksack and set them on the stove to charge them for the walk back. I didn’t want to be away long. The powder of the used ground-up pumice in my pockets I emptied into his dustbin. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.

As I cupped and supped my tea, Bob started to talk. This was not usual. He was not a natural initiator of conversations.

‘Noticed anything odd?’ he asked.

‘Actually, yeah. Got some new boots not far from here. Like them?’ I beamed, not really noticing his stare.

‘British army issue. Where?’ Bob asked, stirring his own tea with undue vigour.

‘Brighton Road. Big guy, dressed like a soldier. Poor chap.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Little odd, actually, Bob. He’d been shot in the head. It looked fresh. A good shot, I guess, right between the eyes. Weirdest thing. Bet you never knew this was a thing. The wound got frostbite post-mortem. The edges of the bullet hole in his forehead had gone black! Sorry if you don’t want details, but…’

‘It wasn’t frostbite,’ Bob said. He never interrupted.

I paused. ‘What was it then?’ I now stirred my tea.

‘Any badges on the jacket?’

Bob was a gruff man but he’d never been rude before. I shrugged. ‘Looked like a lion on a white rose. Are you…’

‘Yorkshire, infantry.’ Bob now put his tea down and stared at me.

I waited. Something was wrong.

He turned to face me. ‘There’s been some strange goings-on, noises in the night in the town. Been worrying the dogs.’ This was probably the longest sentence I had ever heard him utter. ‘Someone or something is snooping around. Business is down, and folks have missed their appointments,’ he continued. Initially I wasn’t sure what surprised me most, the new loquacious Bob or the topic he was raising. I would have found the former a welcome development, to be honest. With no phones, either fixed line or mobile, and no internet, it was face-to-face contact or nothing, and I craved conversations, especially outside the group I lived with. That said, to see this self-assured man so jumpy was troubling.

‘Looked like frostbite, Bob, don’t worry. I’ve seen it a fair bit. Relax.’ Bob’s line of chat was putting my back up a bit. I was no muppet and hadn’t survived these years by luck.

‘It was a powder burn.’

‘What?’

‘The gunshot to the head, accurate, between the eyes, black mark around the bullet hole.’

‘OK, so what? We’ve known there are dangerous people out there somewhere. We’re bound to see another one sometime.’

Bob picked up his tea, took a big slurp then put it down again as if he had to focus all his faculties in explaining something to a novice. ‘Sounds like a powder burn from a point-blank shot, an execution. Saw that stuff in Kosovo,’ he said. He now stared fixedly at me. Made me a touch nervous. I waited and when I didn’t say anything else Bob continued. ‘It means there is a power structure behind it,’ he explained patiently. ‘When we found bodies like this in war zones it means two things. Warlords and maintaining discipline.’

‘Ah, pour encourager les autres,’ I murmured.

‘Only in Surrey would I get fancy language quotes back at me but I think you get it now.’

‘Sorry, Bob.’

‘It’s OK – we need to be on our guard, and you should warn your group up at the house as soon as you can.’ He motioned to my rucksack.

We got back to business and executed our trade – I had eight cans of beans and spaghetti hoops that I traded for the three litres of paraffin for our lamps at home. Bob gave me the paraffin in three old soft drink bottles. I put them in my rucksack. I turned to Bob to ask him if I should bother returning via the copse to get some timber or just get straight home and almost tripped over Kisi, who had snuck up behind me towards the door. ‘Sorry, Kisi,’ I said, and reached down to scratch her between her ears. She barely registered my presence and I could feel how tense and alert she was. So had Bella. They looked different. Their fur was up, ears back. Together. They were aligned to the front door like two compasses to an electromagnet. Then a growl. Not a bark. It was a new noise to me, but I wasn’t a dog owner. I wasn’t sure which one it came from until I realised it was from both. Guttural not vocal. From their insides. I looked at Bob. He looked at me. That look was a whole conversation in a microcosm. His asking if I had been followed. Me replying no, that I had been careful.

His eyes telling me ‘our world is about to change’. Kisi and Bella now lowered their bodies as if ready to spring at anything that came through that door.

And then there was a new sound. A rhythm, dull and flat through the frozen air. Thud. Thud. Bang. Thud. Thud. Bang. I thought of the shields beaten by the Zulu impi. Thud. Thud. Bang. Thud. Thud. Bang. My heart was in sync with the beat and hammering hard enough to jump out of my chest. ‘What’s that?’ I whispered, frantically looking at Bob.

‘Reckon somebody’s beating something on the walls of the shop opposite, and more than one person. Listen!’ He craned his neck. He was remarkably calm. He was right. We could discern multiple impacts within each beat. So there were several people out there.

Years ago at school, we’d played a visiting Maori school rugby team. We’d thought we were good. I remember facing their haka, and how we all nervously watched, or tried to laugh at it. They annihilated any belief we could win with that haka. Then they annihilated us on the field.

The beat stopped. Bob and I looked at one another. What next? There was a spell of silence. We strained, listening for footsteps, for anything. The dogs were frozen in time, tensed, staring straight towards the door. With a violent bang, the door shivered, small splinters drifting to the floor. The dull gleam of the tip of an axe head momentarily appeared in the wood, before being wrenched back.

Bob shouted, ‘Upstairs, go!’ Leaving Kisi and Bella in the shop barking at the intruders trying to batter their way in, I ran upstairs above the old shop, overlooking the street. This was clearly Bob’s bedroom. I had never seen it before. Ten seconds later he joined me – he wasn’t as fast up the stairs as me – which made me realise how old he was as I was no athlete. His grey beard heaved up and down with the exertion.

‘Clear the windows!’ he gasped. He had boarded them up in his room and used mattresses on their ends as a final layer of draught excluder. I ripped away the mattresses and lifted the boards from their grooves to access a sash window looking down on the street and the front door of the shop. I was used to being the head honcho, especially at home, and it felt odd to cede control to the storekeeper. Something beyond it being his home turf told me it was the right thing to do, though.

The sound of breaking wood came louder from downstairs as I slid the last of the boards out of place and lifted the sash window. A blast of icy air entered the room, but I was fixated by the sight of what looked like five intruders. Two were at work directly below our bay window, one with a long handle axe, one with a sledgehammer. They were making good progress. The door wouldn’t hold much longer. Across the street, three observers – dressed similarly to the would-be intruders – were watching proceedings and had spears and clubs. It was a small relief to see no guns. They were clearly an organised gang: two to gain entry, three to rush in and overpower any defenders. Two against five were not great odds.

I looked around. The good news was that despite his years Bob was prepared and sharp. While I had been deboarding the window Bob had retrieved an old milk crate of pre-poured petrol bombs from somewhere in the room. He had even taken the caps off two and added rag fuses. He was busy preparing a third when I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Lighter!’ I shouted. He passed me an old brass Zippo lighter and I flicked it open, feeling an embossed crest beneath my fingers. The cold was painful. I’d not put my gloves back on.

‘Just smash it down on their backs,’ he ordered.

I grabbed the first of the fused bombs and readied myself at the window. A second later I had the fuse lit. The yellow flame took hold and grew toward my arm. As I leaned near the window and came into sight, I could hear the three would-be killers shout warnings at the two door-breakers below.

They were too late. Despite my poor aim, and hurried release from fear of setting myself alight, the bottle shattered squarely on one man’s shoulder. Somewhat luckily I had managed to follow Bob’s command. The man yelped in panic and the flames spread on his upper body, covering his hood and heavy winter clothing. He dropped his axe and his comrade dropped his hammer and rushed to his aid. They rushed back over the street and the burning man rolled in a patch of snow near his gangmates. While three of them helped extinguish the flames, one man just kept looking at me – sizing up the enemy. He was taller than the rest and something about him was different; maybe he was their leader. Without waiting I grabbed the next petrol bomb from Bob and lit it. This would need to be a proper throw – all the way across the cobbled street, twenty yards – to hit the group by another old, abandoned shopfront. The injured man was still lying on the ground, the flames now out but groaning at his wounds and the agonising pain he was still in, while three of his gang tried to help him to his feet.

What was odd was that the leader with the pike did not warn them I was aiming another. He simply backed away calmly. I took aim and threw. I watched as I would when I released a bowling ball in the years before the world ended, praying for a strike or at least a spare. For the injured man lying on the street, it wasn’t his lucky day. The bomb hit a gangmate who was leaning over him, the petrol splashed down and ignited them both. Even the two other men with them got ignited slightly on their sleeves. Bob patted me on the shoulder and muttered something I couldn’t process. I took stock. I had hit two men square on who were fully ablaze and screaming and two more were running further away towards the leader as they patted out the minor flames on their arms. The three of them soon disappeared from view, around a corner by an old bandstand on the deserted Surrey high street.

The man on the floor did not last long: being hit with two petrol bombs is too much for anyone – his howls seemed to cease after thirty seconds. He was lying prone and motionless. His mate managed to put his own flames out, but was in a bad way and was moaning quietly sitting on the kerb. He looked like he wasn’t going anywhere fast, in a terrible way like a homeless alcoholic sitting in an abandoned shopfront from when we were ‘civilised’.

I felt Bob’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Keep watch.’

I nodded acknowledgement, then turned to him as I switched on and didn’t realise why. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘We need intel,’ he uttered as he ran down the stairs.

‘OK,’ I replied weakly. Bob was already down the stairs as I peered left and right from the bay window at the frozen street below.

The coast was still clear as I heard Bob unbolting the front door – the dogs were just calming down from their barking now, but would still be pacing around eagerly next to their owner. I heard him try to soothe them as he exited. It didn’t sound easy: the door made an ungodly noise as he scraped it open against the floor; clearly it was severely damaged. Still no sign of the gang.

Bob took one step forward beyond the threshold and looked up at me. ‘See anything?’

I double-checked. ‘Nope.’ My adrenaline levels were up again. My eyes stung looking left and right in the cold. Only now did I realise I hadn’t donned my goggles when the battle started. They were still downstairs in the store. My eyes were sore from the cold like they had vinegar in them.

The smell of petrol and burned flesh hit me as I peered down from the bay window to reply to Bob. The stink was terrible and stuck to my throat. I saw that he had picked up the attackers’ tools and tossed them inside the store. It also looked like the shop had luckily escaped any fire damage – only the men had been hit.

Across the street I could see the corpse and the wounded man. Bob defied his age and shuffled