by Peter Hall
The thieves had stripped the bus of everything valuable and left. They had killed anyone in their way. It was cold-blooded murder of innocent people seeking a new life, including possibly the country’s last living dentist. All for a few cans of food.
What now? They had taken Sharon. He had to rescue her!
Cal looked at the sorry state of his SUV. The spare tyres were underneath his stash of armaments. It would take at least an hour to unload and fit them. Full darkness would have fallen before he was ready to leave. The thieves might be in any direction, with a sixty miles head start. Without headlights or windscreen, he would have to drive at a snail’s pace. There was no way to track them—vehicles left no marks on asphalt roads.
It was hopeless. Cal sat on the ground and held his head in his hands.
Cal’s Journal
I’ve barely eaten tonight. The deaths of poor George, Mia, and James have sickened me. When I’d fixed my SUV, it was dark, so I camped by the side of the road. Not ideal, but I’m so knackered and depressed it was the best I could do.
Some people say the Yellow Death is a new start and a chance to make a better society. Bollocks! Nothing’s changed. Most folk are still selfish arseholes. The only difference is there’s no law, police, or courthouses to curb the worst excesses of humanity. I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s exactly what I was expecting. That’s why I’ve been stockpiling weapons. However, this was the first act of wanton brutality I’ve actually come across, and it’s sooner than expected.
Scavenging is still easy, so why did the raiders attack the mini-bus? Were they lazy? Did they think the bus contained something they couldn’t scavenge? Perhaps they were hoping to capture the occupants for some unthinkable purpose? Maybe it’s just their idea of fun. One thing’s for sure—I may be paranoid, but I’m not paranoid enough. What happened to the mini-bus might happen to any vehicle travelling along that road, including mine.
I’m writing this as I lie in my sleeping bag, exhausted, but unable to sleep. What’s the expression—too tired to sleep? I think it’s more a case of too troubled. There’s a sodding owl nearby that isn’t helping. Every few moments, he lets out a banshee screech that gives me the willies. I wonder what owl tastes like?
At least while I’m awake, I can appreciate the sky. It’s fantastic tonight, with a full moon casting a silvery light over the countryside. The air smells clean and fresh. The moonlight is making the clouds glow. They’re parading over my head like a moving display of sculptures from a mad artist. George, Mia, and James should be enjoying this sky.
Should I have done more to help them? If I’d given them more weapons this morning, it would have made no difference, since they never stood a chance. If I’d joined their group (which was never going to happen) most likely I’d have been shot with them. And tonight it was bad luck that I arrived too late to help—nothing I could do about that.
So why do I feel so guilty?
This wasn’t what I imagined when I reinvented myself after the Yellow Death. I was going to put my pathetic life behind me and become the fearless warrior—defending the weak and beholden to nobody. I even changed my name, for God’s sake.
I want to make a difference!!! I’m not cut out to be a farmer, or a cook, or anything to do with children. I just don’t have the mindset for normal jobs and I hate working in teams. Military knowledge is the only thing I excel at. If I can’t find a way to use that, then what can I do? Today was my first proper test of being in danger, and I cowered behind my car and didn’t get to fire a shot in anger—unless you include firing a burst into the air. All my knowledge of warfare and all my fancy weapons proved useless when it came to a real fight. It sucks.
It’s Sharon I really feel guilty about. She’d said she wasn’t safe with George. How right she turned out to be. She wanted to join me and—who knows—it might have worked out fine. Sharon knew how to take care of herself. Perhaps she would have taught me a trick or two. It would be safer with both of us travelling together and we would’ve shared the chores. If the worst came to the worst and we couldn’t stand each other, we’d have parted ways again. No harm done.
But I panicked as usual. Just being close to an attractive woman pressed all my anxiety buttons. The thought that my sodding precious routine might be interrupted sent me into a terminal mind-spin. I must have looked like a complete idiot to her—stuttering and blubbering.
I didn’t see her body in the bus, so I assume they took her with them. She’s a good talker, so maybe right now she is sitting around a campfire, laughing, joking and getting drunk. Perhaps she’s telling those bastards how pathetic George and Mia were and how she’s so grateful to be with some real men. Who knows, in a few days’ time, she might be leading the group?
I hope so. I really, really hope so. The alternative is too horrible to imagine, and it would be all my fault.
CHAPTER 5
John Grows Up
TIMELINE: 23 years before Yellow Death
“Saying you ‘have’ something implies that it's temporary and undesirable. Asperger's isn't like that. You've been Aspergian as long as you can remember, and you'll be that way all your life. It's a way of being, not a disease.”
John Elder Robison (1957– )
Sarah stood in the doorway to their activity room and observed John working with his mathematics tutor. Mr Hussein was the perfect mentor for John—calm, patient and willing to correct John if he fell into what Sarah considered ‘Aspergery behaviour’.
‘Aspergery behaviour’ represented small mannerisms which marked John out as peculiar. Top of her list was his finger rubbing. For the first five years of his life, John had been an obsessive thumb-sucker. This caused callouses on his thumb and threatened to push his teeth out of shape. Sarah tried many remedies to no effect, so was delighted when John grew out of it, almost overnight. Unfortunately, thumb-sucking was replaced with intensive rubbing of his thumb against his index finger whenever he became nervous—which was often.
Other autistic behaviours included avoiding eye contact and ignoring questions. Mr Hussein would pick up on these things and insist on the correct behaviour. “Did you hear me, John?” he would say, “I can’t tell if you heard me if you don’t answer”. John would act surprised. To him, it was obvious he had heard Mr Hussein since they were sitting next to each other. Mr Hussein always waited patiently until John relented. Sarah had chosen all of John’s tutors with great consideration. They must have outstanding recommendations and excel in their field. They also needed the patience of a saint to constantly modify John’s behaviours.
When John was old enough to attend school, Sarah chose to home tutor him. There was no question of him attending a State school where he would be eaten alive. She looked at several specialist private schools, but there were none were within travelling distance, and she had no intention of sending him to boarding school.
With John now in his ninth year, she felt her decisions had been fully justified. John exceeded at every measure of academic excellence and, in most categories, he was outstanding.
Charles suggested John was missing out on the social aspect of being at school. Sarah was convinced that if John attended a State school, he would spend every break standing alone in a corner of the playground, trying to look invisible. John’s quiet nature and strange behaviours made him the perfect prey for school bullies. Charles loved his son, yet did not understand him. Perhaps not surprising, considering how little time Charles spent at home.
Sarah profoundly disagreed with her husband about what was best for John—and just about everything else. Charles was now UK based, but they still lived on opposite sides of the country. She had expected him to put pressure on her to move into his quarters, but he barely mentioned it. On the contrary, Charles pointed out how John would suffer from the disruption. Charles joined her when he took leave, but there was little warmth between them.
When they first married, she became deliriously excited when he was scheduled to return home on l
eave. No longer. She dreaded the discussions about John. Sarah resented Charles coming home after hardly speaking to either of them for months, yet feeling he knew exactly what John needed to ‘put him back on track’. In his opinion, that meant putting his son into a ‘normal’ school to experience ‘a bit of rough and tumble’.
Sarah did plan for John to attend a conventional school in the future. But not quite yet. She had two years before he was due to start at Secondary School and there was still work to be done in preparation.
In the meantime, using a variety of methods, she worked on gradually changing his behaviour patterns and gently teaching him how to relate to others. Perhaps John might never think like a so-called ‘normal’ person, but she hoped they could train him how to at least act normal.
John developed a series of narrow interests. This did not surprise Sarah, since Dr Kendall had warned this was typical for someone with John’s form of autism. Bird-watching was the first, followed swiftly by fire-fighting and playing the piano. Each hobby captured his complete interest with a passion for a short time, yet none lasted.
At the age of eight, he developed an enthusiasm for space exploration. Within weeks, he could list the details of every manned space mission. Spacecraft models hung from his bedroom ceiling. Posters of astronauts covered his bedroom walls.
During his tenth year, a documentary about a medieval battle sparked an interest in all things military. Scale models of tanks replaced the spacecraft. He soon began talking about a career in the army “just like Dad”. Sarah hated the idea, but knew it was pointless trying to dissuade or divert him. She hoped it would be just another passing fad.
This development also displeased Charles. John regularly disappointed him. The last thing he wanted was John following in his footsteps into the army. “He would be a terrible soldier,” Charles said with conviction. Sarah knew that Charles had another concern—in the military, family ties and reputation carried substantial weight. A soldier’s kudos might plummet due to the antics of a family member on the other side of the globe.
One positive element from this recent interest was a wish to visit military related sites. Sarah took John to visit museums, castles, and battlefields. Sometimes they attended re-enactments of famous battles. It was not the sort of socialising Sarah would have chosen, and she had to feign interest and listen to John’s enthusiastic lectures. Furthermore, there was always the fear that John might embarrass her. On one such occasion, John informed a Roundhead from the English Civil War of several historical inaccuracies with his attire. John added that it would be unlikely to find a 17th century peasant so fat. Only John’s tender age saved him from a punch in the face.
Despite these issues, Sarah welcomed their trips out together. She hoped John’s willingness to venture into the real world might be a sign of progress towards normality.
John’s Journal: Age 10
This is my first ever diary entry. Dr Kendall came up with the idea. He says I dislike talking to other people, so I should record my thoughts and feelings in a journal. He says it will be a good outlet for me and stop me bottling things up inside.
So Mum has bought me this fancy leather-bound book which even has a small lock, so I can keep my writing private. That’s what she says, but I know Mum secretly kept a key for herself. I’ve asked her for a padlock with a number combination and she’s agreed, but she wasn’t happy about it. Sorry, Mum.
Writing with a real pen on paper is weird, but Dr Kendall insisted. He said if I typed my journal into a computer, I might change it over and over, trying to get every word perfect. He wants me to get used to living with mistakes, because that’s what’s normal.
Ha ha! So, I wrote everything down on rough paper first and only when I’m happy with it, do I copy it into this journal. Sorry, Dr Kendall, nice try.
I don’t really understand what I’m supposed to write in this thing. ‘Write down your feelings,’ he said. Feelings are happening and changing all the time. Which feelings should I write down and why? This makes little sense to me. Perhaps I should keep a log of my emotions in a spreadsheet so I could create graphs and track them over time. Never mind, I’ll give this a go for Mum’s sake. She tries so hard to make me normal.
So here are my feelings for today. Most of today I was happy, but right now I’m annoyed. We went to the tank museum today. The place was cool, and I bought a model kit of a Sherman tank in the gift shop. They drove an Abbot over a muddy assault course, which was awesome. The engine was roaring like a lion and throwing out clouds of black smoke. Mud splattered everywhere and some of the crowd got splashed, which was funny. I wish I’d been in it rather than just watching.
You have to be next to a real tank to appreciate how massive it is. So impressive. But there was one tank they got wrong. It was a German Panzer Five, also called the Panther tank. It’s a great tank. One Panther could take on four Shermans. Pity they were so expensive and kept breaking down. The one in the museum had two of its road wheels made of steel. All the rest were made from cast iron. I know they only made wheels that way in the M.A.N. factory. But I noticed the turret had an infra-red night sight fitted. No tanks from the M.A.N. factory had those night sights. The museum people had got it wrong.
I tried to explain this all to Mum, but she didn’t seem interested. She wouldn’t let me tell the man at reception. That was also annoying.
Tomorrow, I’ll email the museum and tell them about their mistake, so they can put it right. These things are important.
CHAPTER 6
Cal & The Invitation
TIMELINE: 1 year after the Yellow Death
“Of all the ways of defining man, the worst is the one which makes him out to be a rational animal.”
Anatole France (1844–1924)
In the early days following the Yellow Death, Cal encountered a few other survivors. They were clearly still in shock and trauma. Sometimes, they acted like zombies, whilst others seemed to exist on the verge of weeping. Although Cal fully understood these reactions, they made him uncomfortable. He was ill-equipped to play the part of a counsellor or therapist. Thus, for a time, he kept himself to himself and found he enjoyed the solitude, with the complete freedom and independence that it brought.
After several weeks, even he felt the need for company, so began approaching other survivors—after checking for hostile intentions and threats.
The first meeting was with a middle-aged couple and a thirteen-year-old girl. They would not have admitted to it, but it was clear they had formed into a surrogate family to replace their lost ones. Their stories were unremarkable, but Cal picked up useful information about a few embryonic settlements, which he duly marked on his maps.
The next day, he met a quartet with a sixty-two-year-old—the oldest survivor he had seen thus far. Initially, they were suspicious of him after having a terrible experience with a group of young thugs. They spoke of trying to arm themselves after their encounter, but found others had already stripped local police stations of all the weapons. This was just what Cal had predicted. He gave them two assault rifles and trained them for an hour before they parted company.
The most surprising group that Cal encountered comprised a man in his forties travelling with his son and daughter. The father told Cal how the entire family succumbed to the Death, with the mother and another daughter dying. Yet the disease never became serious in the three survivors. This was Cal’s first experience of members in the same family surviving. Clearly, a few people carried some level of immunity. The father made a point of praising God for sparing two of his children. Cal wondered why he did not curse God for killing his wife and second daughter—and the rest of humanity.
So the pattern continued, with Cal meeting other travellers, or newly established settlements. The people he met carried stories of other groups, so he learnt of developments as far away as Cornwall and Wales. His maps became dotted with the locations of fledgling communities.
Other travellers often invited him to join th
eir group, but he always declined—of course. A meal and exchange of news was all he wanted—any further contact created a sense of unease.
The horror of the red mini-bus had come as a rude awakening. The stench of burning flesh and diesel was imprinted in his memory. It was now obvious there were already gangs who would shoot first and ask questions later. Cal needed to up the ante. His Lexus SUV had been trashed, so he commandeered a black Land Rover Defender hybrid. This was a stunningly beautiful vehicle, and Cal had to grit his teeth before bolting on ugly metal plates and mesh over the windscreen and door windows. He also fitted oversized run-flat tyres. A bank of floodlights and smoke grenade launchers on the roof rack completed the ‘Mad Max’ visage. Like his Lexus, it had the ability to run on electric motors, allowing him to travel silently when needed.
Cal also invested two days to develop further insurance in the form of an explosive flak jacket. He replaced the armour with plastic explosive which was linked to a dead-man’s trigger. Pressing the trigger armed the device and, if he released it for five seconds, there would be one hell of a bang. A radio signal connected his ‘thunder-jacket’ to a larger bomb in the back of his Land Rover. While he wore his custom thunder-jacket, nobody would dare harm—at least that was the plan.
Cal was aware of the irony of wearing an explosive vest and driving around in a mobile bomb to make him feel safer.
Thus prepared, he once more ventured forth to meet and greet fellow travellers.
Cal was lying on his front, observing a group of people through binoculars. It was a delightful, balmy September day and Cal wore a T-shirt and baseball cap.
