The two policemen were trying to push their way through the crowd towards Marcus Vandon. Suddenly a dozen pairs of hands. pulled them down, and they were swamped by a human tide of seething fury. Their helmets rolled away, and their hands, clasped over their bared heads, were no protection from the raining kicks and blows as they became the first victims of the rising rebellion.
The clergymen outside the building were still attempting to give Holy Communion to those who knelt patiently in rows on the concrete flagstones, but their muttered blessings were lost amidst the roars of the crowd.
Glass tinkled in nearby Colmore Row where shop windows were already being smashed. A group of teenagers was on the rampage. They had not heard Marcus Vandon's oration, but they sensed the new atmosphere. Just like the old football days.
An old man with dark glasses, wearing a shabby raincoat in spite of the warmth, shuffled his way along the pavement with the aid of a white walking-stick. He heard the pounding of running feet and cowered in the darkness of his own blindness. Then the mob hit him, knocking him to the ground, booted feet treading over him as the rampaging youths surged towards Victoria Square.
He lay still, a scarlet pool forming beneath his head, oozing out from the wound in his skull where it had struck the kerbstone. Those following in the wake of the first bunch of rioters were slightly more compassionate. Their ranks parted, and they walked around the corpse. Some of them even gave the old man a passing glance, wondering idly how he had died. But it was only the start. There would be many deaths. It was something that each and every one of them had to learn to accept. For only through death would life eventually be found again.
Then the early morning stillness was shattered by the first volley of gunfire, crackling harshly in the city centre.
It was a busy day for Marcus Vandon. Later that morning he spoke to a milling throng from the steps of the Town Hall. For once in his life there were few hecklers. His words were greeted with cheers against a background of rifle fire from the bottom end of New Street.
'It is the only way,' he yelled, attempting to make himself heard as his speech reached its climax. 'We must fight on. Every one of us. For the sake of our families, our homes. Fight!'
Evening saw him in Villa Park, the terraces and stands packed beyond the legal capacity for football matches. Vandon's new band of followers had connected his microphone to the public address system, and as dusk began to cool the fierce heat of the day he exhorted those around him to even greater acts of anarchy.
The conquest of this stadium had not gone without bloodshed. Fifteen or twenty dead bodies lay on the pavements along by the Holte End turnstiles, a thin blue line which had been breached by sheer weight of numbers. Some of the casualties had been civilians, the forerunners of the 70,000-strong mob. As Marcus Vandon had pointed out earlier that day, victory would not be gained without some losses.
Vandon's face was contorted into an expression of maniacal triumph. For him a lifelong dream was coming true. He had seized on an unprecedented opportunity. The anarchy in the Midlands would spread faster than the virus which the bats carried. The government would fall within a week. It was already toppling.
'The hospitals are overcrowded,' he yelled. 'See for yourselves! The dead and the dying lie in the streets of this, your city. There is only one way to end this disease, and to defeat this militia which those clinging to power by their fingertips have called in at the eleventh hour. Fire, the greatest cleanser of all...'
A murmur of shocked horror, the note quickly changing to one of reluctant approval.
'I say that Birmingham must be razed to the ground. Destroyed in the form we know it, and the bats with it. And then we must rebuild. A bigger and better city will rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the old!'
Even 'as Marcus Vandon's words were echoing around Villa Park, screams were coming from the crowded stands and terraces. People were pushing, a crush-barrier collapsed, and bodies tumbled out on to-the pitch. A wave of instant panic was sweeping through the crowd.
'What. . . ' Marcus Vandon's eyes bulged, and at that moment he saw and understood. Like swarms of angry giant moths, bats were flitting from beneath the eaves of the stands, pouring out in their dozens, swooping, then hurling themselves venomously at the terrified people who stampeded wildly below them in an effort to escape.
Many of the bats were smaller than the others, uncertain of their newly acquired powers of flight, fluttering short distances then alighting again on the cross-sections of steel girders.
The death-swarms had given birth to their offspring. The time of fearful waiting was over. The new strain of the mutated virus was born!
The soaring, twisting bats were silhouetted against the pale blue of the night sky. It was impossible for the terrified watchers below to estimate the numbers as the creatures spiralled upwards as high as the floodlighting pylons, and then dived like irate hornets at the seething mass of humanity which milled on the pitch.
Marcus Vandon, a messiah to the crowds only seconds before, was forgotten instantly. Terrified men and women fought and clawed each other as they tried to force individual ways in the direction of the exits. Many stumbled, fell, and were trampled to death within seconds. A man was screaming, holding a small child above his head in a desperate act of fatherly protection, but the human tide took them both, and they disappeared from sight.
The raised platform from which Marcus Vandon had been speaking tottered precariously. He clutched at the railings, his-voice drowned in the screaming of the injured as he attempted futilely to reason with those around him. He felt himself falling, and thudded softly on to a carpet of squashed bodies, a hillock of corpses, broken limbs dangling loosely, features resembling crushed blood-oranges. But even six feet above ground level Marcus Vandon was not safe. Others were clambering blindly over every obstacle, heavy boots crushing and kicking in a mad frenzy to escape. He was conscious of the cracking of his skull, a brief second of agony, and then, for him, it was all over.
Those who had climbed the pylons watched from a dizzy height as man trampled man below them. They were in the safest place ... except for the bats! A fifteen-year-old boy threw up both hands in an effort to ward off a particularly aggressive bat which flew at him for the third time. He felt himself falling, grabbed wildly, missed his hold, and plummetted head first from his perch. A few feet below him he struck two of his colleagues who were endeavouring to climb down, taking them with him on his death fall.
The bats were relentless in their crazed flight, dive-bombing the crowds, reluctant to desert the stadium. The young hung on the stands, watched the antics of their parents, tried to imitate them, and then, when their wings became tired, flew back to rest.
By midnight Villa Park was quiet except for an occasional groan from someone amongst the piles of strewn corpses, a luckless person who still clung hopelessly to life. Bodies lay on the terraces and in the stands, and it would have been impossible even to estimate the death-toll.
No ambulances had come. None had been mobile at all that day..
In the guarded Council Chambers plans were being drawn up for the removal of corpses from public places by means of refuse carts.
Gerald Pitkin had watched the sky darkening over the Wrekin for the past half-hour. His head ached, and his eyes seemed to smart in their sockets. Beside him, his wife sat in the passenger-seat of the Fiat as though dozing, but he knew that although her eyes were closed she was not asleep. Harry stared out of the window at the rear, expressionless, unspeaking.
'It's nearly dark.' Gerald tapped Bertha on the shoulder. 'I think we'd better be moving.'
'D'you think it's worth it?' Her eyelids flickered open as she spoke, and he saw that she had been crying silently to herself. 'I mean, we won't make it, will we?'
'Of course we shall,' he replied, trying to sound confident. 'It's only about ten miles from here, across country.'
'But those guards...'
'We'll keep our eyes peeled,' he assured her, and eased his door open. 'Bet you we don't see a single one.'
All three of them got out. The Fiat was parked in an open gateway, its front wheels resting on the stubble of early harvested barley.
'The sky's very red over there.' Bertha Pitkin pointed beyond the Wrekin.
'Probably the reflection of the setting sun,' Gerald replied. He knew perfectly well that it wasn't. It was too late, anyway. He knew in his heart what was causing the glow. Somewhere, far away, something was burning. Something big. Buildings. A town, maybe a city. Wolver-hampton or Birmingham.
'We'll head west,' he spoke in low tones. 'Keep well clear of villages and roads until we get to Atcham. Shouldn't think they'll bother with guards out that far. We'll be well behind the lines then.'
Gerald led the way, crawling under barbed-wire fences, holding up the wicked strands for Bertha to crawl beneath. Clothing was torn, hands and legs were scratched, but nobody complained.
There was silence everywhere. They knew that the road was no more than a quarter of a mile away, yet no sound of traffic came to their ears. No lights showed in houses or cottages. A dog barked somewhere as they passed a darkened farmhouse, but nobody came to investigate. It was as though the whole world had died and they were the sole survivors of some terrible disaster. Gerald Pitkin shuddered at the thought. It was a very real possibility.
The land ahead of them rose slightly. They could see trees and bushes outlined against the sky.
'How much further d'you think it is?' Bertha whispered hoarsely, holding on to her husband's arm for support.
'We must've covered about rive or six miles.' he replied. 'We're not doing too badly. If we can keep this pace up we'll be at Tom's before daylight'
Then, in one brief, horrifying second, their hopes were shattered. They were halfway up the slope when a voice called from the shadows, 'Hold it right there. Keep perfectly still or you'll be shot!'
Gerald Pitkin caught his breath. Bertha whimpered softly. Harry remained silent. Footsteps came towards them, boots crunching on dry bracken and grass, and two men appeared. One was hanging back, covering the other. Both had guns.
'And where the hell d'you bastards think you're bleedin' well goin'?' the nearest man demanded. He approached 'hem, and arrogantly spat at their feet.
They could see he was dressed in some kind of improvised uniform. A camouflage combat-jacket bore white initials clumsily stitched on to the lapels. BVF. Added to this was a PVC jungle-style hat, denims and heavy working boots. The weapon he carried was a sporting gun, probably a twelve or sixteen gauge, Gerald decided. A cartridge-belt was slung, Mexican-style across his chest.
'We're on our way to Shrewsbury.' Gerald tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. 'To see my brother.'
'Well nobody goes any further than this. So piss off back where you came, all three of you.'
'Our car broke down outside Wellington,' Gerald said. 'We had to leave it and walk.'
'Well you can bloody well walk back to it.'