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Those people who still had enough of a backbone to stand and fight had been forced to retreat as far along St Katharine’s Way as the drawbridge at the lock, in the shadow of the hotel. This place had been an Achilles heel for them previously, a restrictive pinch point where the dead had grouped dangerously close to where many of the survivors had taken shelter. Just a couple of days earlier the group had driven through and cleared this area. Now they prayed they’d be able to get it blocked up again in time.
Easier said than done.
In retaking this stretch, the group had stripped it bare. There was hardly anything left to help block the bridge. ‘Can we put it through? Make a hole in it?’ someone suggested. Ruth, standing mid-way across, stomped her boot down hard on the metalwork.
‘No
