Survivors – A Novel of the Coming Collapse

Bicycling through England in the winter wasn’t much different than on the Continent. The weather was just as bad, but at least language wasn’t a barrier, and he encountered more hospitality. His first night in England was outside the town of Church Hougham. Just as he was looking for a secluded copse of woods, he was flagged down by a middle-aged man carrying an umbrella. As soon as the man heard Andy’s accent and learned that he was a stranded American, he often offered him a place to stay for the night. Sleeping in the man’s barn was much preferable to sleeping in the woods in his bivy bag.

One downside was that Andy felt even more self-conscious carrying a pistol in England than he had in France. He decided that he would draw it only in the most dire circumstances. If he was ever arrested, he would undoubtedly be searched. His SIG pistol would land him in a world of hurt. The last place he wanted to end up was in Wormwood Scrubs Prison just as the world was falling apart.

As he was bicycling toward the city of Dover, Laine stopped to repair a flat tire. Just as he was finishing pumping up the tire with the replacement inner tube, a policeman pulled over to observe him. Andy nodded and waved. The policeman, dressed in a black raincoat that was half covered with optic yellow safety patches, strolled over to Laine. Andy clipped the pump back onto the bike’s frame and reattached the trailer. “What do you have in that trailer?” the policeman asked.

It was again Andy’s American accent that quickly changed the situation from a suspicious encounter into a friendly chat. The policeman, who appeared to be in his early thirties, had an acne-scarred face and was tall enough to look Andy eye to eye. Laine introduced himself and gave a one-minute summary of his trip from Germany. His only omission in the story was of the French fishing boat. By that omission and his mention of “arriving in Folkestone,” the policeman assumed that Laine had come by train through the Chunnel. “So you’re all on your lonesome, and you want to pedal up the coast, looking for a ship?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, sir, that’s a very dangerous thing to do at the present time. It’s a good thing that you didn’t get merked right there in Folkestone. There’s a bad lot down there. Yobs, they are. And there’s more of the same in parts of Dover as well. Mind you: Don’t go near the Dover docks. You’ll find no yachtsmen there, just Barney-nothing but trouble.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen their kind before. I had to stare down a couple of them.” After a beat he added, “You know, just coming off active duty, I feel a bit naked, traveling by myself, unarmed.”

“Can’t blame you.” The policemen hesitated and then said, “My name is Michael Lyon. I think you need my help.”

Lyon’s palm brushed the top of his baton, and he gazed at it. He continued in a matter-of-fact voice, “Let me explain the legalities, Captain Laine: You carry one of these, it’s an offense. You carry a knife, it’s an offense. You carry a cricket bat, it’s an offense. You carry pepper spray, it’s an offense . . .”

“So what am I supposed to stop the bad guys with? Harsh language?”

Lyon laughed. “Well, it’s fortunate that you’re a bicyclist and not just afoot. That gives you a bit of leeway. You see, here in the U.K., on a bike you can legally carry ‘safety equipment,’ and that includes flashlights . . . and the law doesn’t specify what size flashlight.”

Andy smiled and asked, “What do you recommend?”

Lyon glanced around nervously and said: “Hang on a sec, Yank. I’ve got something in the boot.” He stepped over to his police car and opened its trunk. Unzipping a duffel bag, he pulled out a six-cell Maglite flashlight. It looked like the other turned-aluminum police flashlights Andy had seen before, but slimmer. Then he realized that it held C-cells instead of D-cell-size batteries.

In an even lower voice, Lyon said, “Now, this can be used just like a baton, but you can legally carry it on your bicycle. Not in your hand, mind you, and not on your person when you are walking down the street. But attached to your bicycle or in your pack when bicycling, it’s a fully allowable exception.”

“Is that one for sale, by chance?”

“Huh! I can’t be peddling wares on the street whilst on duty, now, can I? That would be unseemly. But there is nothing that says that I can’t give it to you.”

“Are you kidding?”

Lyon shook his head. “No, sir, just consider it an act of Christian kindness.”

“That is very kind of you! Tell you what: If you are ever in the state of New Mexico, my home will always be open to you and your family.” Laine pulled out his notepad and a pen. He continued as he was writing, “Here’s my address. When the Big Trolley gets back on its tracks, I fully expect to see you on a holiday. Plan on spending a week or two at my home. I’ll take you to see Monument Valley and some of the Indian cliff dwellings. Ever heard of a place called Mesa Verde? From where I live, it’s just across the state line, in Colorado.”