Thirty-six hours before the present…

  Despite the cool weather outside, where the street ran alongside the canal, the inside of the workshop was considerably warmer. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but certainly not pleasant either, especially when it was compounded by the rank melting pot of smells that came from all the oils, paints, mold and the drying glue. But that wasn’t something to worry about, not with the near painful whirl of the extractor fans towards the back of the workshop, where two men were working with large and practically ancient industrial machines, which themselves let out a combined mechanical roar that nearly drowned out the fans, thanks to the sand belts they powered at frightening speed.

  Luckily Ian wasn’t anywhere near the ‘finishers’, they were mostly hidden behind a selection of equally ancient twenty to thirty year old saws, drills and other machining equipment that was stored around the workshop, mostly lit by streaking yellow light from the discoloured warehouse windows – a part of the building they were working in.

  Instead, Ian was near the front counter, itself only reachable by a single metal door that swung out of a larger shutter. He was perched in front of a cheap plastic and metal table lifted straight out of a school, which was then plopped onto paving slabs to raise its height. Resting on the surface of the table, towards his left, was a collection of metal tools and oils, whilst on his right, there was a selection of individual wooden components, most of which were rough to touch.

  Carefully, Ian took an oiled rag and carefully ran it across the surface of a far more refined piece, a rifle stock that seemed to glow as the water-repellent fluid slowly soaked in. Ian leaned in, checking for any final spots were left untreated and suitably satisfied, he placed the stock amongst other finished pieces on a smaller table parked next to him, all of which would be used in the assembly of a rifle.

  Not that Ian would have to build that rifle, he’d have to deliver them to the armoury for that, and hopefully the metalworkers would have done their job too.

  Ian worked quickly and efficiently, both from years of experience but also fully aware of the order that was due to be completed by the end of the week. If they couldn’t make that quota, his boss wouldn’t be paid for his efforts, and by extension, neither would Ian.

  Still pretty relaxing all things considered.

  He smiled as he checked over what would become much of a rifle barrel. In truth, he liked the challenge and once he got this out of the way, he could get back to machining the last load of parts. He had always found some form of satisfaction on getting some warm wood finished just right, especially as on something more complicated like a bow or even a crossbow. At least compared to metal and plastic products.

  That, and he was in a good mood. Just a few days ago, his ‘second’ job had yielded great success. Namely in collecting key supplies to he-

  “Excuse me…” came a meek and tired voice from the direction of the counter.

  Ian’s smile vanished as he turned to find a short man by the counter, wrapped in a raggy woollen jacket and hat. He wasn’t glowering at the woodworker, but Ian could tell from how tightly his lips were pressed together that this wasn’t a social call. I wonder why he’s here…

  Taking a glance back into the shop to find his boss and co-worker still working on the machinery, Ian rose to his feet. “Gareth.” He said in greeting as he strode to the counter. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. I’m guessing construction need some more tools and parts?”

  Gareth shook his head slowly and methodically in reply. “Actually, I was never here.” He said as skittishly, he peered over Ian’s shoulder into the workshop, before he leaned forward and rested his hands down onto the counter. “Look Ian, I know you’ve been trying to spread out those heating supplies but…”

  Chafing, and already seeing what was coming, Ian sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been over this.” he grunted, “I know things are tough, it’s the same for me. But the rest of the personal heaters and supplies are for everyone else in the neighbourhood. It’s not fair on them if I gave more to you.”

  It had not been the first time Gareth had come round to ‘beg’ for additional supplies. He and his family were struggling to make to make ends meet and the poor guy did work himself to the bone. He was part of the teams constantly working on Manchester’s parameter walls, gates and the other structures inside the city. The amount of work that all required was, frankly, insane. And yet despite that, he wasn’t earning enough for his efforts, not with so many mouths to feed.

  It's not like I don’t sympathise with him. Hell, with the last load of supplies the Merryhunters got, I made sure to give Gareth extra!

  In truth, Ian couldn’t help but feel simultaneously irritated and guilty in equal measure. Others were struggling just as much, if not more so than Gareth was, and the construction worker had tried to get additional supplies before.

  Gareth’s fingers drummed the counter, whilst his lips twitched. He was trying to utter a few weak words in some form of defence. “But… the kids, the wife, I need… oh shite!”

  Springing upright, the short man whipped his hat clean off - revealing his closely shaved head – and slapped it down onto the counter with a platter. Ian raised an eyebrow, not feeling spooked at the outburst. But when he spoke again, a faint headache began to pulse through his skull. “Listen.” Gareth stressed, squeezing the hat into his fist. “I wouldn’t be back here if I wasn’t desperate.”

  “I get that.” Ian hissed back, feeling the rising heat in his chest. He took a second to glance over his shoulder, in case his boss noticed the escalating argument. He didn’t need that attention now. “But you’ll just have to save what you’ve got.” He let out a frustrated sigh, perhaps there might have been an alternative…

  “Look, I was already going to meet the others tonight, maybe I can get-“

  “I don’t have time for that!” Gareth snapped, his voice shrill, “Not when the bloody council took the gear!”

  Ian was about ready to snap right back, but then he froze with his mouth half open. The council? What? Why would they do that? I’ve not heard of any change in tax or quota! He blinked, trying to calm his thoughts. There was still an economy to run, and the United Kingdom officially still existed, so such systems were in place in the name of defence, even if said systems were… extreme.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But if they were going further, then that would be far more problematic.

  “They took the heating gear straight off you?” Ian questioned, examining the man’s features. “Like, did they come to your place or did they take it off you at a checkpoint?”

  “During the collection, usual time.” Gareth replied as he ran a hand across his scalp. “They noticed I had the heaters and just helped themselves to them.”

  Hell, if that’s happening to Gareth, then everyone else will be losing their supplies too unless they had the sense to hide them. Ian clenched his jaw, Just what are the council up to? Or is it just some random gang? No, even the gangs don’t want to step on the government’s toes. This better be for something fucking serious, not just something corrupt…

  “You didn’t know?” Gareth asked, looking uncomfortably stiff.

  “No.” Ian replied through gritted teeth, realising that all his hard work the previous week, securing the supplies and making the deals may just be going to waste. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll find out. I still can’t pass on any extra supplies, but I will chase this up with the others. We’ll work something out.”

  He patted the counter, wanting to make it clear that he was hearing the poor man’s concern. Indeed, it was Ian’s concern for good measure. Come to think of it, might be worth letting the others know. “Actually, I’ll try and get in touch with Liana now. Maybe I can get-“

  In that moment, Ian’s train of thought was shattered as a hideously loud bellow blew through the entrance and into the workshop. Gareth nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning round towards the door. For a split second, Ian thought a Feral had suddenly leapt out of the canal and instinctively reached for the knife on his belt, but then he realised it wasn’t broken English being howled, but what he could only guess was some kind of foul-mouthed French. Wait a second, is that Phillipe?

  The confirmation soon came, “Merde! Merde!” came the panicked shouts as an older, slim man literally threw himself through the shop door. Both his skin and rough grey clothing were covered in sweat and soot, and his eyes were disturbingly bloodshot. “Monsieurs!” he shouted, but not before he buckled at the waist and started hacking up.

  “Damn mate!” Gareth cursed, “You look like you’ve been dragged out of a coal mine!”

  Ian leaned forward against the counter, Phillipe was one of the barge operators who worked along the canals, but Ian thought he had already left for Liverpool today. Why was he still here? And why was he covered in all that-

  Alarm bells were starting to ring in his head, “What’s going on?” he questioned firmly.

  The Frenchman struggled for breath, resting his hands atop his knees. “Boat… merde… fire!”

  The woodworker jerked upright. The question of the supplies, or what had suddenly happened, was now tossed from his mind. He spun on his heel and sprinted for the rear of the workshops. The finishers were still running, and Ian’s boss and co-worker were completely oblivious to the rising panic of Gareth and Phillipe at the front, wrapped up in their protective gear as they were. The finishers were a big hazard, and there were always a few fire extinguishers nearby.

  It was only when Ian yanked a pair clean off their mounts did his boss finally notice him, “Ian!” he blurted out, his voice distorted by the face mask he wore, “What in the quee-“

  “Barge fire!” Ian barked, not waiting to catch his reaction as he stomped back towards the front of the workshop, though he just picked up a muffled ‘shit!’ before the machines whirled down into silence. Ian only slowed down to throw the counter latch over to get into the entrance. “What are you waiting for then?” he snapped as marched past a stunned Gareth and Phillipe and out onto the canal street.

  It was a small miracle that the fire was confined to the front end of the cabin that made up the bulk of the vessel, but that had made the flames no less intense. In fact, by the time Ian had thrown on a filter mask to try blocking out the smoke and clambered aboard with an extinguisher in hand, the cabin walls had already caught alight. Now, with the fire gone, a layer of wood ash covered much of the interior, some of which was already been blown off elsewhere through a hole that had been burnt through the cabin wall. Further still, whilst the cargo cases were fortunately made of metal, the ones closest to the bow were discoloured and scorched from the flames.

  Ian pulled down the mask, caught a whiff of the remaining smoke as it was blown or sucked out of the cabin and coughed heavily, quickly pulling the mask back into place, cursing himself for thinking the air was that clear of crap yet. He whipped a layer of sweat and soot off his brow and carefully lowered his emptied fire extinguisher down to the deck. At the very least, the canal boat hadn’t burnt down entirely and was still functional, and neither had the cargo been damaged either.

  This is going to cause a few headaches... Ian noted glumly, feeling the air begin to cool inside that cabin. Fires breaking out of the blue in the canal area – especially when said burning boat was parked right next to others – was unusual to say the least and worrying at worst – given how much of an asshole the warden wa-

  A loud thump, followed by an uncomfortable clang rang out over his shoulder. The only thing that didn’t stop him from throwing the extinguisher round was unintelligible cursing. “Dégage de là, connard… ha!”

  Behind him and back along the length of the canal boat, Phillippe huffed in triumph as he shunted one of the higher metal crates out of the way to expose a little alcove in the hull. Reaching in, the boatman pulled out a large, leatherbound book into view. It was caked in a light layer of soot, but with a sweep of his hand, the particles were cleanly brushed away. Even underneath his own face mask, the Frenchmen looked positively pleased given his little fist pump.

  “You look pleased.” Ian noted, his voice muffled as he carefully stepped over a wooden support to reach him. Phillipe flashed an annoyed look at him, and beneath his own mask, Ian could easily see his jaw was clenched.

  “Because tommy, you’ll are looking at one of the few pieces of Norman – French - history I could find!”

  He stepped back a bit, holding the book open at an angle so Ian could get a clear view. “It is a list of names going back to Normandie!”

  Ian rubbed the back of his head as he scanned the words, written in what he had to guess was French. “And how does this help with things around here?” he asked. Not that he didn’t think preserving history was important, it just wasn’t that high on his list of requirements compared to the needs of everyday survival.

  “Because you should never forget your history!” the Frenchman cursed, “Especially when it comes to the origin of words!”

  “Didn’t think you were a philosopher.” Ian dryly noted.

  That earned a muffled chuckle from the boatworker. “It’s important you damn rosbif. Here.” He pointed towards one of the pages. “A Norman name that appeared after we kicked you English into the ground. Audas. Maybe you’ll do something right and take a note from us!”

  Ian raised a brow as he noticed the name, Audas. An Anglo-Norman name that evolved in Old English, meaning ‘old’. Or at least, the first part of an older version of the same name. He wasn’t so sure about the meaning of the name, but for some reason, there was something appealing about the name itself. It seemed unusual, and yet it just rolled off the tongue. At least, if he was reading the pronunciation right.

  He rolled his head to one side as he pondered the name for just a moment longer. “I’ll keep the suggestion in mind.”

  Phillippe gently closed the book, “Then perhaps there is still hope for you yet Ian-“

  “What the fuck happened here!?”

  The shout had come from the outside, but it was still easily loud enough to punch through the wooden walls of the canal boat and into the cabin. Ian stiffened, knowing that voice from anywhere and knew that it could only mean trouble. Phillippe sighed, carefully put the book back into the alcove and turned for the exit. “Merde. Let’s get on with it…”