by Peter Hall
“Jesus. It’s worse than I thought.”
“And getting worse by the hour. Most of the lads didn’t turn up for duty. These guys here are from different units all over Devon. God knows how much longer we’ll stay. We don’t even have any bullets, for fuck’s sake. Go back, John, while you still can. The word is that the RAF may start bombing the major roads to stop travel, so you could get stuck in the middle of nowhere. Things are turning nasty—well, even more nasty. People are getting desperate and violent. I see you’ve got a bow and arrow in there. Keep it handy. Believe me, you’re best off in the country. Get back to your house and lock yourself in until this insanity blows over.”
“They mentioned new drugs on the TV.”
“Bollocks. I told you, ignore anything on the TV or radio. There're no drugs at all. No new drugs and no old drugs. There’s nothing. If you’ve got any aspirin, then you’ve got more drugs than the fucking hospital. Everybody is catching it and everybody dies.”
“Surely some people get better?”
“Honest to God, I don’t know, but I’ve not seen any. Just go home.”
John felt frustrated and defeated. His mother was sick, in pain, possibly dying. She had devoted her life to him and now, when she was suffering, he was powerless to help. John’s mind raced for another choice, but there was nothing. “Okay Sarge, I’ll go back. Shit!” He banged his fist on the steering wheel, then put the car into gear, pausing before moving off.
“Thanks, Sarge. Listen, for what it’s worth, I was proud to serve in your platoon. I hope things turn out all right for you.”
“You too, Cal.” They went to shake hands, but stopped short, thinking better of it. The sergeant patted the roof of John’s car instead. “Good luck, Cal. You were a good soldier, even if you were weird. Fuckin’ bad luck about your back.”
As John drove away, he looked at the soldiers in his rear-view mirror. They were his comrades and were doing their duty to the last. A feeling of guilt gnawed at him—somebody else he had failed.
When John and Sarah returned home from the abortive trip to Exeter, he helped her to bed and gave her paracetamol. It was a sobering experience for him. Sarah had always cared for him. Now she was helpless and John was at a loss what to do. For the next twenty-four hours, he split his time between sitting at her bedside and watching civilisation collapse.
Sarah was barely conscious. Even with painkillers, she remained in agony. He tried to get her to drink hot toddies laced with liberal amounts of brandy, but nothing brought any comfort. At times, Sarah burned up with fever. An hour later, chills and shivering wracked her body. She would not eat and only drank in tiny sips, seeming to have difficulty swallowing and complaining everything tasted ‘funny’. Painful swellings appeared on her neck and armpits which gave off an unpleasant odour of decay. They were too tender to clean, so John could only wipe her face and hands with a face cloth and drip perfume on her pillow.
John found it difficult to look at her, as she appeared to have aged thirty years overnight. Sarah took pride in her appearance. She was meticulous in her make-up, even when working in the garden. Now she lay in bed, curled up and bare to the world. He brushed her hair and wiped the dried saliva from her cheeks.
Once, in a rare moment of lucidity, she looked up at him and reached to stroke his cheek. She mouthed something silently before returning to unconsciousness.
On another occasion, she stared directly at him and said “I’m sorry.” Why did she keep saying that? What did she have to be sorry about?
The mobile phone reception disappeared quite early. One by one, live television broadcasts were replaced by recorded shows followed by an announcement apologising for the temporary interruption to programmes which would resume as soon as possible. BBC1 was the last channel to die.
The electricity cut out several times, then resumed. John imagined a few dedicated staff at the National Grid, desperately trying to route a diminishing level of power around the country. Eventually, the lights went out and stayed out.
John still had his laptop and Sarah’s iPad, which gave him about twenty hours of surfing for what it was worth. The internet survived a surprisingly long time. It slowed, with pages arriving in fits and starts. Certain sites became unavailable. News websites were no longer updated.
Only social media remained active, where desperate people all over the globe sought reassurance from others. Folk derived a little comfort from knowing they were not alone in their fear and suffering. Conspiracy theories flourished. This was a plot by the Russians; Chinese; Iranians; Taliban, communists, Muslims; white supremacists, etc. Prepare for the foreign invasion! John saw a photograph purporting to be an alien spacecraft seeding the Yellow Death spores across America. Prepare for the alien invasion! Of course, there were the postings with various suggestions for curing or avoiding the disease with herbs, witchcraft, injecting disinfectant, or repenting sins. The nutters had emerged in force.
In the end, it was not the laptop batteries, or the World Wide Web that stopped John from surfing. His internet connection simply died at the same time as the landline phone.
It was evening, and soon he would have to light candles.
John considered making a final journal entry, but if this was the end of civilisation, what was the point? He shut down his laptop and closed the lid, feeling that he was saying goodbye to an old friend.
The absence of sound was unnerving. No television or radio, no background hum from the fridge or freezer. He walked outside. The sun was already below the horizon, but the clouds still glowed in a myriad shades of red and orange. There would normally be noise, although most of the time he would be oblivious to it—lawnmowers, hedge clippers and strimmers, cars in the distance, the occasional aircraft flying to America. Now there was nothing. Strangely, not even the birds sang tonight.
It seemed the world had gone to sleep. John heard his mother moan through the upstairs bedroom window and walked back into the cottage.
“Coming, Mum.”
No television, no radio, no internet. John resorted to his Kindle reader. He had not been reading much recently. A pity, he thought, because he enjoyed reading, but it was so easy to be seduced by all the modern technological alternatives.
John sat by his mother’s bedside under the light of a candle as he read ‘Alexander, The Virtues Of War’. Sarah occasionally moaned, so he held her hand, it being the only way to comfort her. Once, he heard a loud boom in the distance. He peered out the bedroom window, but could see nothing unusual, so resumed reading.
Eventually, John fell asleep sitting there. When he awoke, the candle had burned out. John glanced at his wristwatch—four a.m. His head pounded, and he felt nauseous. Perhaps it was because of sleeping awkwardly in the chair? When he stood, the room seemed to spin, forcing him to brace against the wall to avoid falling down.
It surprised him how fast the illness developed. The fever arrived within half-an-hour, followed by pains under his arms, in his neck, and stomach—in fact just about everything hurt. He tried to vomit, but nothing came and the effort exhausted him. His mouth was dry with an unpleasant metallic taste. John went to pee and even that stung. His whole body was rebelling.
John kept high dose ibuprofen for his back injury, so he swallowed two. An hour later, he took two more. By then, he barely had strength to stand and shook uncontrollably. John was torn between looking after Sarah and the desperate need to lie down.
There was no point trying to fool himself. He had the plague. The disease was killing most people. But not all, surely? No disease ever killed absolutely everyone. What might he do to improve his chances? Ibuprofen and paracetamol would help to reduce inflammation and fever. He must stay hydrated and he needed energy. There were sachets of energy gel left over from his last marathon. They were past their ‘use by’ date but, what the hell. Now, where would they be?
As he pulled the contents out of one draw after another, he attempted to stay calm. To focus on what was essential. However
small his chances, they would only be worse if he gave in to terror, and that knowledge steadied him. For somebody who cared little for his life, he was eager to cheat death.
After ten minutes, John dumped an armful of pills, energy sachets and a bottle of water on the nightstand in the guest bedroom, then slumped on the bed, too exhausted to stand any more.
John set his phone alarm for thirty minutes, allowing him to take a nap before checking on his Mother again. He swallowed pills and two energy gel sachets with as much water as he was able to stomach, then lay down and closed his eyes.
John’s phone alarm began playing ‘Mad World’ thirty minutes later. The volume gradually increased until, on some level, it penetrated his consciousness. There was something he had to do. Something important. He couldn’t think straight. Some idiot was smashing a sledgehammer on the inside of his skull. The music became louder still, then changed to an annoying bugle sounding ‘Reveille’. Without opening his eyes, his arm flailed about, trying to silence the irritating noise, and he knocked the phone off the nightstand onto the floor. John turned over and groaned as every part of his body objected to the movement. That damn bugle continued to sound, but was too far away to reach. He pulled a pillow over his head. The alarm rang for another minute before giving up. Silence returned to the house.
If only he could remember what he should be doing. Sod it. It can’t be that important. It would have to wait until he felt better. He just needed a couple of hours’ rest.
John drifted back into a fitful sleep with beads of sweat running off his forehead and soaking his pillow.
Unbeknown to John, dawn was breaking outside and birds were singing to welcome a new day. The next time he awoke, it was a very different world.
CHAPTER 26
Cal Meets the C.U.G.
TIMELINE: 1 year and 6 months after Yellow Death
“I would suggest that barbarism be considered as a permanent and universal human characteristic which becomes more or less pronounced according to the play of circumstances.”
Simone Weil (1909–1943)
Cal was vaguely aware of a strange sound, but by then it was too late. It was already several minutes too late. A large knife blade sliced through their small tent from one end to another in a single smooth movement, and rough hands snatched and dragged him out of his sleeping bag.
He fumbled for his pistol, but could not find it in time. Out in the open air, it was pitch black and cold. The campfire burned brightly, so they must only have been sleeping a short time. Men were yelling and torch beams flashing. Gathering his wits, he tried to struggle free and received a hard punch in the face that left his head spinning and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Through the daze, he heard Juliet cry out, “Get off! Let go of me, you bastards.”
A gruff voice barked, “Shut up, you little bitch,” followed by a slap and scream.
Cal scanned the area. Torch beams and vehicle headlights flashed across the campsite. Three men kicked in the door of the motorhome, then burst inside. Cries of surprise and pain mixed with crashing crockery followed.
It was obvious that a large and disciplined force had ambushed them.
Minutes later, the four of them were on their knees in front of the campfire, hands tied behind them with plastic ties that cut in painfully. Cal tried to keep calm. He ignored the throbbing of his nose, stayed silent and observed the proceedings, desperately trying to gather as much information as possible. Several times, Ken protested and each time they hit or kicked him, yet his outrage seemed to know no bounds, or common sense. Cal wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. Couldn’t he see he would make it worse for all of them?
Cal knew that they should show no resistance, to appear defeated and broken. Only if they convinced their attackers they were no threat might there be any chance of getting them off guard. Even that was a long shot. Cal had already identified there were six to eight attackers, and each carried military weapons. Cal needed to free his hands. Then if he could grab a weapon… quickly shoot everyone standing… In the darkness and confusion, he might get away with it.
Cal slowly tested his bonds, putting all his strength into stretching the cable ties whilst ignoring the pain as they cut further into his flesh. No movement. Could he somehow trick them into releasing his hands?
Two of the attackers stood behind them, whilst the others searched the camp and their vehicles. Cal glanced to his right and saw Juliet slumped with her head bowed. Darkness hid any injuries she suffered, but he could see she was shaking. The searchers were jubilant, whooping and shouting out what they found. One man squealed with delight as he went through Susan’s underwear collection, holding an item up close to his face, “Hmm. smells good.”
“Fucks sake, Boysy, you’re disgusting. Hey look here, vodka and… twelve-year-old malt whisky!”
It was then they discovered the weapons in Cal’s Land Rover.
“Jesus Christ, look at this, sir. This car’s a bloody mobile armoury. Guns, missiles, explosives, grenades. Fuck me.”
“Holy crap, what the fuck’s this?” Another voice shouted.
“I don’t know, but be careful what you touch, you’ll blow us to shit.”
“Wow, take a look at this—Claymore mines—I’ve seen these on telly.”
Cal watched the silhouette of a man striding to his Land Rover. The man spoke with authority. “All right, men! Steady yourselves. I want every item here listed on the inventory. Stop playing with that thing, Barnes.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
The man in charge walked over to the four kneeling prisoners. Cal kept his gaze on the leader’s feet, not wanting to provoke him. He noticed the man’s combat boots were so polished they reflected the flames of fire.
Ken spoke up again, his words distorted by swollen lips. “Who are you people, what do you want with us?”
The man slowly turned to face Ken. “My name is Captain Simon Davidson. I represent the Christian Unified Government. This is an authorised search and seizure operation to locate contraband and looted goods. Now, if you speak out of turn again, I shall have you shot in the kneecaps. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” Ken mumbled.
“And you will address me as sir.” He motioned to a guard, who promptly hit Ken on the back of the head with his rifle butt.
For fuck’s sake, Ken, just shut up.
The soldiers spent some time going through the campsite, rifling through all their possessions, inspecting them and making out lists. They made the four prisoners stay kneeling. Like the others, Cal wore night clothes and soon felt the chill night air. The muscles in his legs ached and his nose continued to throb, but he kept his silence and was relieved that even Ken now knew better than to complain.
Captain Davidson decided the patrol would spend the night in this location and instructed tents to be erected.
After what seemed like an age, Davidson approached the kneeling captives. He sat on a folding chair on the opposite side of the campfire. The men had added logs, so the flames blazed brightly. Most soldiers wore head torches and two vehicles were positioned so their headlights illuminated the campsite. The vehicle lights shone into Cal’s eyes, making him squint and throwing Davidson into silhouette. Davidson asked their names and dates of birth, one by one, while a soldier stood by the side, recording all the details. Cal gave his name as John Jones.
Another soldier brought a cup of tea for Davidson, who took it without comment. It reminded Cal of how dry his own throat was.
“Who’s in charge? Who speaks for your group?” Davidson said.
Cal and Juliet both spoke together. “I do.”
“Typical bloody civvies. Don’t even have a leader.” He looked at Cal. “I’m treating you as in charge of this little band of… thieves.”
Cal bristled, but said nothing.
“You have a lot of modern weapons here. Where did you get them all?”
“Various army bases, Sir.”
“I see, and what
about the food and supplies in your vehicles?”
“We just took those from shops and houses we came across, Sir.”
“Sergeant, did you hear that?”
“I sure did, Sir. He just admitted looting.”
Cal could see where this was heading. They were about to be pronounced guilty of trumped up crimes. He decided he had nothing to lose in trying to plead their case. “With respect, sir, it wasn’t looting. Nobody owned that stuff, no one who was alive, anyway.”
Davidson motioned with his hand and something hard struck the back of Cal’s head.
“You will only speak to answer direct questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You people have contravened so many laws it’s difficult to decide where to start. I presume you have no travel permit?”
“I didn’t even know they existed, Sir.” Cal said. His head still throbbed.
“Too bad. Ignorance is no defence in law. Sergeant, have you made out a charge list yet?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Let me see it.”
Davidson read the clipboard the sergeant passed and wrote something on it. “Okay,” he said. “The list of charges are; travelling without an authorised permit; failing to register with the C.U.G; multiple counts of looting; possession of firearms without a permit; travelling with weapons and resisting arrest. I’m sure if we took a little longer we would find more transgressions, but we already have sufficient. Mr Jones, as leader of your group, do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”
“Listen, man—” Ken started to say, but the soldier behind him struck him viciously on the side of his head and Ken fell forward in a heap and lay motionless.
