by Peter Hall
How would he reply if a stranger asked about his previous job? He could say whatever he wanted now. The rules had all changed. There were no records or central databases. He might say he was an astronaut, or a brain surgeon, and nobody could prove different. He didn’t fancy telling people he was a website developer. That was boring and identified him as a geek. Besides, it also labelled him as useless.
What role should he pretend to be to impress people? What might he pass himself off as? The answer was obvious—a soldier. It was partly true, since he served in the T.A. Furthermore, it was what he always wanted. So, from today, he would tell everyone he was a full-time soldier. An officer, no less. In reality, the army had rejected John’s officer application because he was a nerd with autism. They didn’t have the foresight to see his talents. Now he would declare himself to be an officer. A Captain. A Captain with combat experience in Afghanistan, Syria and who knows where else? He would think up the details later. Perhaps he should have medals for bravery? No. It felt wrong to falsely claim to have won a medal.
This was great. He could completely reinvent himself. No longer would he be a dorky developer with a bad back living in his mother’s garden. He was a captain in the British Army. Nobody needed to know about his back injury either, and he would not mention it to anyone.
What else? His name. His first name was okay, but so common, and he yearned for something distinctive. There would never be a better time to adopt a new name. In the T.A. they called him ‘Cal’. He liked that. Simple, easy to say and to recognise. That would do nicely. From now on, he would no longer answer to ‘John Callaghan-Bryant’. He would be ‘Cal’.
Great! He had been reborn—or reinvented. What was he going to do next? First thing would be to arm himself. Law and order were out of the window and it was everyone for themselves. His first job would be to visit an army base and get tooled up.
After that, he needed a suitable vehicle. Cal, the kick-ass soldier, would not drive about in a Volkswagen Golf. He should have a rugged SUV with reasonable fuel consumption. Cal had been wanting a hybrid SUV for a while. Now he would take one. Bloody brilliant. He would need to fit a tow bar and roof rack, but that should not be beyond his capabilities—at his disposal were unlimited tools and materials.
The third item on his list would be to kit himself out with camping equipment. He would live on the road, carrying everything he needed with him. A small tent, sleeping bag, mat, stove, torches—he would make a list—only the best quality goods would do, since the price was irrelevant.
That would keep him busy for a few days, but what about longer-term plans? He suspected the world would degenerate into brutality. Without Government, or police, there would be nothing to stop the worst elements of society from running amok. Even assuming most people were good most of the time, there would be a minority taking advantage of the situation.
The strong do eat, the weak are meat. Owning anything meant nothing unless you had the power to stop others from stealing it from you.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. In post-Yellow Death Britain, the man with the gun was king. Those with weapons would be rulers. John knew about weapons. He should collect and hoard as much modern weaponry and ammunition as possible.
By having a store of armaments, he could make sure they ended up in the right hands. He would give them to people who needed to defend themselves and keep them away from thugs who wanted to prey on the weak. Maybe he would be some sort of modern day Robin Hood? That was so much cooler than being a web developer.
So, he had his purpose, at least for a while. Of course, it would also be sensible to store food and other irreplaceable essentials. That would occupy him for months. After that, he would need to settle down somewhere. He would choose a community showing promise which shared his values. They would welcome him with open arms if he brought supplies of weapons and provisions. This was fantastic. He had a plan and a purpose—for the first time in his life.
John put his cup down. He had drunk three mugs of tea and finally his thirst was quenched. Time to get moving. He was on a mission. By tonight, he would be armed and driving his brand new SUV. He could do what he wanted when he wanted. Nobody would give him orders, look down on him, or make fun of him ever again.
CHAPTER 28
Kim & The Yellow Death
TIMELINE: At the time of the Yellow Death
“Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?”
Plato (427–347 BCE)
Kim continued to deteriorate and went to bed. She displayed all the Yellow Death symptoms being reported on the news—intense fever, accompanied with shivering, headaches, nausea, pains in the stomach, neck and armpits, vomiting and diarrhoea. Her hair and clothes stuck to her skin with sweat.
Over the next three days, Rachel did everything possible to help Kim get through the fever, including making her drink plenty of water and take the antibiotics. Even in her agony, Kim asked about Katy, and Rachel assured her Katy was fine and being taken care of. Rachel said she thought it best to keep Katy away from Kim. Katy would be distressed to see her mother so ill and might become infected with close contact.
At least that’s what Rachel told Kim during one of Kim’s brief periods of lucidity. In truth, Katy was lying deathly ill in her own bedroom. She developed symptoms shortly after Kim had taken to her bed. The disease progressed rapidly in Katy, just as Rachel had been told to expect.
Rachel remembered exactly the words her scientist friend spoke. “There’s no good news, Rachel. The information coming from around the world indicates almost everyone is dying, everywhere. We’ve no resistance and nothing seems to have much effect. These drugs may help a little and appear to increase the survival rate from bugger all to a few per cent. But…” he fixed his gaze on her. “Use them wisely. All the reports suggest nobody past their sixties survives, even with the medicine. This damned disease kills older people fast and without exception. I’m sorry, but these won’t do you any good.”
Rachel was not surprised. Even common diseases, such as flu, took the heaviest toll on the aged. “What about the young? Will these pills work on children?” She had asked.
He frowned. “We don’t know. There’s been little time for testing and so many are dying whatever we do. What we suspect is that these antibiotics give the body a slight advantage. For a healthy adult, they may swing the balance between life and death. But a small child can’t fight this bacteria even with antibiotics. The disease progresses so fast in children their youthful bodies don’t have time to react. Probably. It’s all guesswork. I wish I could tell you something more definite.”
“So the pills might help a child?”
He shrugged. “We lack reliable evidence. My gut says no, but I’ve been wrong before. If we only had a few months to do some trials.”
That information created a dilemma for Rachel. She needed to choose between Kim and Katy. Daughter or granddaughter. Both would probably die whatever she did, but Kim would stand the greatest chance of survival if she took the pills. Even if Katy miraculously survived because of the drugs, she would wake up to find her mother dead. How might a three-year-old survive alone in a post-apocalyptic world? Katy could not even open a can of beans or get out of the house. Logic dictated it was Kim who received the medicine.
However, if Kim knew the truth, she would insist Katy be given the antibiotics. In that event, both would almost certainly die. This way, Kim had a slight chance of life.
So Rachel made her choice and lied to Kim. She hoped Kim would be able to live with that choice.
Rachel woke with a start. The book she had been cradling slid from her lap onto the floor. The thud had woken her. It was dark, and she felt cold and stiff. At that moment, she was sitting by Katy’s bed. She had fallen asleep reading aloud Giraffes Can’t Dance, which was one of Katy’s favourite story books. Even though the curtains were closed, Rachel heard the steady thrum of rain on the windowpanes. In the dim light of the candle, sh
e noted it was four a.m. and time to give Kim the last antibiotic tablet. For three days, she had nursed her daughter and forced the antibiotics down her throat even when Kim struggled to swallow.
Rachel reached out to hold her granddaughter’s hand and recoiled in shock. The flesh was frigid. She stood up and bent over Katy. The life had left her small body some time ago.
Rachel remained rigid for a few moments, gazing onto the little girl’s still face. Katy looked at peace and could have been sleeping. Thank God her eyes are closed, she thought. Poor thing never stood a chance. Rachel sat down and quietly wept until there were no more tears, before wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
Rachel picked up Panda, Katy’s favourite cuddly toy, put him next to her body and put Katy’s arm over the toy. She tidied Katy’s hair and wiped a dribble of dried spittle from her cheek. Finally, she lifted the sheet and covered her. This was how she wanted Kim to find her.
The dying candle sputtered out, and Rachel was grateful for the cloak of darkness.
“Goodbye, my darling. You were too good for this world. I hope we meet again in a better one.”
Rachel crept into Kim’s room, bracing herself for another shock. It took all of her courage to switch on the torch and shine the beam on Kim’s bed. Kim was lying on her back, hair stuck to her forehead with dried sweat. At some point, she had thrown the bedsheets off herself.
Thank God she’s still breathing.
Rachel gathered up the sheets again and wrapped them carefully around Kim. She poured a glass of Lucozade energy drink, then lifted Kim into a half-sitting position. Kim groaned, cradled her armpits, and half opened her eyes.
“Here, sip this,” Rachel said.
Kim took several sips. Rachel held up the tablet so Kim could see it.
“No,” Kim said, her voice only a croak. “Throat hurts… can’t swallow.”
“Yes, you damn well can, Kim Sullivan,” Rachel said with a firm voice. She put her fingers in Kim’s mouth and deposited the tablet on the back of her tongue.
“Drink,” she said.
“Want… sleep, feel awful.”
“You can sleep as soon as you’ve swallowed your pill.”
Kim took another sip of Lucozade and swallowed, half choking, but the tablet stayed down. Rachel lowered her again and started to leave the room.
“Katy?” Kim moaned.
Rachel did not turn around. “Katy’s fine. She’s fast asleep in her bedroom. Now you get some sleep too. You need to get your strength back. You must get better to look after Katy.”
Rachel came downstairs. A headache started a short time ago, and she felt feverish with a gut ache. She was surprised how long her aged body had resisted symptoms, but was grateful for the delay. Katy had not died alone and perhaps it was her imagination, but Kim seemed to be sleeping more comfortably. Rachel had given Kim the full course of antibiotics and kept her hydrated and clean. Kim’s life was in the hands of God now. There was still hope.
She had tidied the house and even thrown away food spoiling in the fridge. Then she had written a brief note for Kim. Perhaps if Kim lived through this, she would understand the impossible decision she had been forced to make and forgive her.
Please, God, let Kim have the strength to carry on. Don’t let it all end here.
She had done all she could and knew soon she, too, would be incapacitated. It was her time now.
Rachel walked into the living room, put the candle on the coffee table and drew back the curtains to let in the early dawn light. Rain rattled against the windows. She slumped on the couch and pulled a blanket over her knees. Beside her sat a bottle of Glenfiddich twelve-year-old single malt whiskey, a bottle of sleeping pills, a photograph of the family and her favourite book: A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.
After pouring a good measure of whisky, she put it under her nose and savoured the peaty, oaky aroma before putting two pills into her mouth and washing them down. The golden liquid made her cough, but the burning in her throat felt good. She repeated the process another three times, then poured a further large whiskey. Settling back on the couch, she opened the book at the first page and started reading:
It was the best of times,
It was the worst of times,
It was the age of wisdom,
It was the age of foolishness,
It was the epoch of belief,
It was the epoch of incredulity,
It was the season of light,
It was the season of darkness,
It was the spring of hope,
It was the winter of despair…
CONCLUSION OF BOOK ONE OF THE YELLOW DEATH CHRONICLES
The story continues in book two: Yellow Death: Aftermath
There follows a brief excerpt from Book Two - keep turning the pages……
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BOOK 2 EXCERPT
The following are three scenes taken from the first two chapters of Yellow Death: Aftermath
Chapter 1
Yearlstone
“It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.”
Gaius Julius Ceasar (100BC - 44BC)
The dawn chorus had been in full swing for some time before the CUG campsite stirred. Clearly, the soldiers were not fans of early morning starts, particularly after a night of partying.
Cal remained tied to the immense oak tree facing away from the camp. The sounds of making breakfast and packing up roused him from his delirium. The sky was cloudless and the orange ball of the sun peeked over distant hills. He was surprised to still be alive and presumed his thigh would must have stopped bleeding, although it continued to throb. Somebody walked from the encampment and shuffled into the bushes nearby for a dump. The rank stench assaulted his nostrils.
A short time later, the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted across the campsite. Even in his dehydrated state, Cal’s mouth watered. He listened intently for any sound which might come from Juliet or Susan. At one point, he heard a soldier shouting at them to hurry up. They were being prodded towards the stream—perhaps to wash themselves, or more likely, to clean the dishes.
Cal wriggled his left hand vigorously―the one which could be seen from the campsite. If the women looked in this direction and saw he was alive, they might believe there was a tiny seed of hope. Most likely, they would only see Ken’s bloody corpse hanging from the other side of the tree—but Cal was desperate to try something.
After what felt like eons, Cal heard the men mounting their vehicles, slamming doors and starting engines, followed by the thumping of booted footsteps coming his way.
This was it then. How would it end—a bullet to his head?
Captain Davidson walked around the tree to face him. The bridge of his nose was bandaged and his left eye bruised and bloodshot. “Still hanging on to life then, eh? Just. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” Davidson chuckled to himself.
“What should I do with you, Jones? Captain Jones. If that’s your real name, which I very much doubt. You’ve been judged for your crimes and, by commandeering your supplies and your women, we have carried the sentence out. So, technically, I should free you and allow you to go about your business. Of course, we both know I can’t do that. I can’t be watching my back for the next ten years worrying that you might creep up behind me.”
Davidson pulled out his pistol. Cal flinched instinctively.
“I’ll tell you what. I could walk away and leave you here to die from blood loss, or dehydration, or whatever. You’ll get a few more hours to make peace with your Maker.
It looks like it’ll be a lovely day. You can enjoy the sunshine once more. Or… I can finish you now. Put you out of your misery, quick and simple. You choose. There, that’s the second time I’ve given you a choice. Normally I’m not this generous.”
“Leave me,” Cal said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, I thought that’s what you’d say. I have a lot of respect for you. You and I are very similar, Captain Jones. Neither of us are quitters.”
Cal wanted to beat his brains out and scream that they were nothing alike. But he stayed silent—one last time. He dare not provoke the man. He must survive. “Please… Water.”
Davidson laughed. “I’m not that fucking generous.”
Then Davidson did something which astonished Cal. Stepping back, he stood to attention and saluted—showing respect from one officer to another. In fact, neither had any legitimate claim to be officers in any shape or form.
Cal tried to laugh, but it came out as a grunt. Davidson took the sound as an acknowledgement and walked away.
Davidson was right about the weather. It turned out to be a lovely Spring day. The sun shone and there was proper heat to it. However, it never warmed up Cal. The bonds were so tight he lost all feeling in his hands. His wrists were a bloody mess where the ropes and cable ties cut in. His breath rasped through a parched throat and cracked lips.
As the hours went by, the sun passed its zenith and dropped towards the horizon. He floated in and out of delirium. If there was any way to feel more pain or discomfort, he could not imagine how. Perhaps a passing bird might shit on his head and be the icing on the cake of despair.
