The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Refugee Camp

Oldham, Greater Manchester

28^th March 2007
Privacy was non-existent in the refugee camp set up in what had once been a market, but few people cared. The tents and commandeered flats fairly hummed with the sound of humans celebrating their salvation in the oldest way. Combat brought very primal urges to the fore, and the refugees needed a diversion. Later, Brad was grimly certain, there would be recriminations, divorces and lots of money for lawyers, but for the moment everyone was celebrating.
He smiled. Sergeant Kendrick wasn’t taking part in the sexual orgy. Instead, the sergeant had been working on setting up the camp, seeing to running water and food supplies, and preparing for the move north. The Posleen, at least, showed no inclination to challenge the defences of Oldham, but all present knew that it was only a matter of time.
“What’s so funny?” Sameena asked. She was beautiful at any time. At the moment, she looked gorgeous; survival made the heart beat faster and desire stir. “What are you laughing at?”
“Life, the universe, everything,” Brad said. “Was it good for you?”
Sameena laughed. “Typical man,” she said, and stuck out her tongue. “Nothing matters, so long as your sexual organs are satisfied.”
“And yours weren’t?” Brad asked. Her only reply was a languid stretch that pushed her breasts out against her chest. “I guess you enjoyed it.”
“Twit,” Sameena said. “What are you doing now?”
“The sergeant wants me in an hour, Brad said. “I think we’d better go have a shower.”
Sameena nodded and pulled on her jeans and top. Brad followed, then they both stepped out of the tent and headed to the communal showers. The showers had been segregated; a plump matron was in charge of ensuring that the sexes remained separate.
“In there, loves,” she said. Her voice was old and hard. “Undress in the first room, get clean, and then get out. Don’t overuse the soap, ok?”
Brad nodded and headed into the male showers. They were messy; seventeen men were packed in, trying to wash themselves clean. A sign on the wall said NO INDECENCY. He chucked and washed himself as quickly as possible, then stepped back out as the water ran cold. Curses and shouts followed him as the men tried to escape the suddenly-cold shower.
“They’re switching tanks,” the matron shouted. “Wait five minutes.”
Brad smiled and dressed again, then stepped out of the showers. Sameena joined in five minutes later, looking more gorgeous than ever with her hair damp and her face clean. She smiled at him and he felt his tired soul brighten.
“Have you heard anything from Anisa?” She asked, and Brad nodded. “What did you hear?”
“She’s at a camp over there,” Brad said. Anisa had dropped an email to the CDC website, reporting her continued existence. “I passed it on to Sarfraz.”
“Thanks honey,” Sameena said. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m off to see the sergeant,” Brad said. “What happened to the medical staff?”
“Broken and torn,” Sameena said. “I may as well come with you.”
Brad held out his hand. She took it. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go see what they have for us to do next.”
***

Charlene Jackson had seen many horrific sights in her time, from Bosnia to the rioting in Germany, but the sight of the refugee camp was the worst that she had seen. All around Oldham, tents and shacks, even people sleeping out in the open, were scattered around. The sound of an entire people, displaced from their homes, arose. Some people were playing football; others sat and stared towards the smoke rising from Manchester.

Charlene shuddered. Such things didn’t happen in England. It reminded her of the Third World – the starving children, the young men hanging around hopelessly, the older women talking endlessly about nothing – and it was chilling. This is the fate of those not lucky enough to feed the Posleen, she realised. A life of endless refugee camps, running endlessly from the Posleen – until they ran out of Britain.
“The honourable Luaky Commer, Member of Parliament, is about to give out toys,” someone shouted. The crowd didn’t seem to care. Charlene watched as a fat man, wearing a suit that clearly wouldn’t even have dreamed of running from hungry alien monsters, passed a suitcase of toys to a young girl.
There were cheers, but only from the hangers on and the press corps. Charlene filmed the looks of pure resentment, even hatred, from the civilians, recording the angry mutterings that arose as Commer started to burble on about how sorry he was and how unfortunate it was that the Posleen had come. He spoke about how he could end the war – if they voted for him in the next cycle.
Fat bastard, Charlene thought angrily. Commer didn’t seem aware of the hatred he was generating, until someone threw a rock at him. It missed, barely, and then the entire crowd surged forward. Commer paled – a difficult task with his utterly pale white face – and turned to flee. He tripped and the crowd closed in around him.
“Stop,” a commanding voice shouted. Charlene recognised him as Sergeant Kendrick, a dour army officer who’d been seconded to the Civil Defence Corps. “All right, he is a bastard, but it won’t do any good to tear him apart.”
“Smash those cameras,” someone shouted. Kendrick nodded to the three policemen who had accompanied him; they started to gather up the cameras from the press corps. Charlene reacted quickly, using her camera to dump its memory into the BBC van nearby, just before a policeman tore it away from her shoulder.
“You’ll be hearing from my union about that,” she protested, grinning inside. I think I do protest too loudly, she thought, and smiled to herself. The honourable MP, Luaky Commer, Member of Parliament, was released from the crowd and headed off, protesting with rage.
“Arrest them,” he demanded. Kendrick shook his head and said something quietly. Whatever it was, it didn’t please Commer, who stormed off in a rage. Kendrick glared around him at the crowd until it got the message and dispersed, then he looked up at Charlene.
“Who are you?” He asked bluntly. Charlene realised that her press badge had been lost in the scuffle. “What are you doing here?”
“Charlene Jackson, BBC,” she said. “Can I trouble you for an interview?”
Kendrick snorted. “I have quite a lot to do, young lady,” he said. “Quickly.”
“What’s it like here?” Charlene asked. “What’s going to happen next?”
“It’s pretty bad,” Kendrick admitted. “Conditions like this lead to a major breakdown of law and order; we’ve had two murders and seventeen rapes – that we know about. Those we caught have been arrested; personally, I think that we should just stake them out for the Posleen.”
“I won’t disagree,” Charlene said. “How is the food and water holding up?”
Kendrick chuckled. “Good God, an intelligent question,” he said. “We had most of the population of Oldham evacuated on the day the bastards landed, so we have enough food for a few weeks. Water isn’t too bad with a Galactic device doing most of the purification; the only real problem is that some pipes got broken in the chaos.”
He frowned. “We’re going to have people moving out of here as fast as we can,” he said grimly. “The rail lines have been running all day, moving people to the north, away from the Posleen. You tell them that, young lady; this place isn’t very well defended at all.”
Charlene winced. “What will happen if they come this way?”
“We’ll be eaten alive,” Kendrick admitted. Charlene scowled; the D-Notice would probably not allow her to show that on TV. “The army will do its best, but…”
“I understand,” Charlene said. “Overall, how would you consider the Civil Defence Corps performed?”
Kendrick smiled. “Very well indeed,” he said. “Some of us fought in the Battle of Rusholme and – dare I say it – helped win that battle.”
Charlene smiled. “Thank you for the interview,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Kendrick shook his head. “Unless you’re a trained medic, get out of here,” he said. “That’s the best you can do, I fear. Gallipoli was nothing like this, I tell you.”