The Zeno Effect

by Andrew Tudor

  “That’s wonderful, Peter. Thank you so much,” Irene said, as both women pored over the map.

  “I’ve got another suggestion,” he continued. “The timing of patrols varies but on this coming Saturday afternoon there’s a big London League football match. We’re all allowed to watch it via TV links. In fact, we’re encouraged to: they think it improves morale.” Peter didn’t look persuaded. “It means that there won’t be any patrols between three and five, so if you can aim to get through during those two hours you should have a clear run.”

  The serious business out of the way, and aided by a bottle of wine that Irene had retrieved from her diminishing store, they spent an enjoyable evening chatting about this and that. For a while their predicament and the distressing state of the world retreated into the background. All too soon, however, it was time for Peter to go, both women giving him a hug as he went off into the night.

  “Well, that was very pleasant,” Irene observed as they closed the door behind him.

  “Yes, wasn’t it. Such a pity that we have to leave,” Julie said, adding wistfully: “he’s really nice.”

  Irene gave her an amused look. “Never mind,” she said, “plenty of other fish in the sea.” But even as she uttered that traditional comforting platitude she wondered if it were any longer true. After all, the sea was now a much less populous place.

  Friday was spent in final preparations. They went out in search of as much food as they could find, whether from official sources or on the black market. They weren’t hugely successful but calculated that it would be sufficient to see them to their destination. Then they packed and repacked the bicycle panniers until minimum weight was harmonised with maximum supplies. Irene, who was accustomed to cycling with a loaded bike, took the heavier items like the tent, cooking gear and repair kits, leaving Julie with a share of the food, her own clothing and a few personal possessions. Among the bits and pieces of equipment that Irene retrieved from the garage cupboard was a small solar charger and a bundle of connecting cables. She sorted through the cables until she found one that would fit the CommsTab that Hart had given them.

  “We’ll take this with us,” she told Julie. “It’s still connecting to whatever Comms infrastructure is working. We can pre-record messages for Sarah and for your brother telling them what we’re aiming to do, and once we’re on the road we’ll transmit them. The charger will keep the CommsTab topped up while we travel.”

  When they were finally satisfied that everything was suitably packed there was nothing left to do other than to eat whatever food they were not going to carry and make the most of their last night of indoor comfort. They listened to music, drank what remained of the wine, and tried to distract each other from the dangers ahead. A restless night meant that they were up early the next morning, still nervous and having to find ways of occupying themselves until they were close to Peter’s window of safety. Then it was time to go.

  In the event everything went smoothly. As Peter had predicted, they encountered no soldiers or guards of any description and by the time that they stopped to transmit their messages Irene was sure that they were well into Buckinghamshire. The countryside appeared completely deserted, the roads and fields empty. They did pass one man working in his garden who looked up, clearly astonished to see a pair of baggage-laden cyclists, but then smiled and raised a hand in greeting as they pedalled past. They saw no livestock on the farmland other than a couple of grazing horses, an absence which confirmed the common rumour that the Homeland government had appropriated – stolen was probably a better word – all the cattle, sheep and pigs from the areas closest to London and taken them to be factory-farmed in the Kent and Surrey Work Camps.

  Pushing on at a steady pace, Irene and Julie made good progress and by early evening were somewhere in the Chiltern Hills searching for a safe place to make camp. A copse a little way off the cycle route proved suitable, all the more so since it was close to a stream. The tent pitched and food eaten, they retreated to sleeping bags and made desultory conversation until sleep took them both.

  To her surprise Julie slept quite well. Never having spent a night in a tent before she had not expected much rest, worrying that every little sound or movement outside would induce wakefulness. But that had not happened, and by the time she was properly conscious Irene was already up and preparing breakfast.

  “Come on, sleepyhead,” Irene called out cheerfully when she heard Julie stir. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  Which it was, as Julie discovered on poking her head out of the tent. Blue sky in all directions and the sun already hot on her face.

  “It’ll be warm riding,” Irene observed. “We should set off quite soon and rest up for a while in the middle of the day when it gets really hot.”

  Apart from the heat, the ride was much the same as the day before. The same quiet countryside even when they passed quite close to Oxford, and the same lack of other travellers, although once or twice they sighted distant figures on foot. For safety’s sake they did not stop other than to rest in the shade of some trees during the hottest part of the day. Julie was more at ease on the bicycle now and by evening they were into the beautiful rolling countryside of the Cotswolds, looking for somewhere to spend the night. As the shadows grew longer they spotted what appeared to be a barn about a quarter of a mile from the road with a rough track leading up to it.

  “Let’s take a look,” Irene suggested. “If nothing else we can camp out of sight by those trees on its far side. It’ll be dark soon so we need to find somewhere.”

  On closer inspection the barn itself seemed ideal. It had evidently been used as a workshop of some kind and various tools were scattered across a couple of benches. Bits of farm equipment lay here and there but there was no sign of any recent activity. A layer of dust sat undisturbed on most surfaces. Happy to be relieved of the task of pitching the tent, they decided to sleep in the barn. It was going to be a very warm night anyway and the spacious building would be comfortably airier than the confining tent. After cooking an improbable stew of bits and pieces, accompanied by the contents of an aged packet of couscous, they settled down. It was far too warm to get into sleeping bags so they lay on their mats using the bags as loose covers, happily drifting off to the muffled sounds of the peaceful night outside. Julie’s last thoughts before sleep were of gratitude for their two enjoyable days in the countryside, far away from the city’s constant reminders of the Zeno catastrophe.

  A few hours later she awoke suddenly in a panic, overwhelmed by the nightmare sensation of something heavy bearing down on her chest. In the dim light of early dawn she saw that it was a man straddling her, grubby and unshaven, flint-hard eyes staring down as he held a large knife to her throat.

  “Stay quiet,” he said “or I’ll cut you another cunt.”

  She bit down on her lower lip, doing her best to control her desperate desire to scream. Where was Irene? Had he killed her?

  The man grinned evilly at Julie and, moving the knife away from her throat, hooked her sweatshirt onto its point and tugged upwards.

  “This. Take it off. Don’t try anything or you’re dead,” he said, returning the knife close to her face and raising his weight off her enough to allow a little movement.

  Her hands shaking she reached down and with some difficulty tugged the sweatshirt up and over her head. Beneath it she was wearing only a bra and, with evident relish, he slid the knife between its cups and cut the fabric. The bra fell away leaving her breasts exposed. He made an inhuman sound deep in his throat, reaching down with his free hand to fondle her.

  “Get my cock out,” he said, pressing the point of the knife into her throat until she felt it pierce the skin and draw blood.

  Utterly terrified she reached trembling hands up to undo his belt and fly. She pulled down his trousers and pants, freeing his erection.

  “Hold it. Play with it,” he instructed her.

>   Making a huge effort to overcome her revulsion she did as he asked, taking his penis in both hands. Could she crush his balls and throw him off that way, she wondered, but rejected the thought in the face of the knife at her throat. Even if she hurt him his first act would surely be to plunge the knife home. If she did what he asked at least he would want to keep her alive. As she moved her hands on him, he groaned.

  “Take it in your mouth now,” he said, roughly pulling her head and shoulders up towards his body.

  Seeing no alternative, she had opened her mouth to receive him when a ferocious shriek split the silence. The man jerked backwards in shock and then tumbled sideways from the force of a blow to his head. Irene stood over him clutching a lump hammer. Seeing that he was still conscious she knelt down and repeatedly swung the hammer onto his skull. The cracking of fractured bone was followed by a more liquid sound as the hammer penetrated the brain itself. Still Irene swung her weapon.

  “Irene, Irene.” Julie was shouting. “You can stop. He’s dead.”

  She flung her arms around her friend and the human contact seemed to summon Irene back from wherever the terrible frenzy of violence had carried her. They clung to each other sobbing until, at last, they quietened and were able to survey the scene. The man lay on the ground, his head – or what remained of it – a pulpy mass, the hammer discarded beside it.

  “Is he alone?” Julie asked, looking around fearfully as she rescued her sweatshirt.

  “Yes, as far as I could tell,” Irene replied. “I’d gone outside for a pee and it was such a lovely night I went for a walk in the woods. I didn’t see anyone out there, just spotted his rucksack outside the door when I got back. After all this noise, if there was anybody else they’d surely be here by now.”

  “Still, perhaps we’d better get ready to move on as soon as we can. There may be others around.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Irene said, standing up but still trembling. “You get packing our stuff and I’ll bring in his bag. Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

  When Irene returned with the bag Julie had managed to cover the body with an old tarpaulin that she had found in a corner of the barn. She had begun to gather their things together, but was now sitting on the floor with her head in her hands, rocking slowly back and forth. Irene sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

  “I know Julie, I know,” she whispered. “It’s terrible to go through all that and then to see a man killed as well. But there was no choice. He would probably have killed you anyway after subjecting you to god knows what humiliation and pain. We both have to keep going. What else is there?”

  Julie raised her tearstained face to Irene. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right, of course. It’s shock. I’ll get over it. It’s just… oh, I don’t know what it is.” Angrily she rubbed at her eyes as if wiping away the tears would expunge the memory. Then, gritting her teeth, she sat up straight and began piling their possessions into the panniers.

  Irene turned away and emptied the dead man’s bag onto the floor. Among the clothing there was a little food and, hitting the floor with a double thud, two heavy items covered in cloth. Irene unwrapped first one and then the other, revealing a semi-automatic pistol and a box of 9mm ammunition. She laid the gun on the floor between them and they both stared at it.

  “Have you any idea how to use it?” Irene asked.

  “Only what I’ve seen in films,” Julie replied, picking the weapon up and, after a moment of fiddling, managing to release the magazine. “It’s loaded,” she said, showing Irene the column of bullets then slotting the magazine back into place.

  Irene gave her the box of ammunition. “Best if you keep it, I think,” she said. “You’ve got more idea than me.”

  She returned to rummaging through the contents of the bag and found a large wallet which, when opened, revealed a considerable sum in cash and an array of identity and banking cards.

  “Jesus! Look at these, Julie. They’re all for different people.”

  “Was he using aliases then?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Irene replied, examining the cards more closely. “There’s both men and women here, some of them with the same family name and address. And all the addresses are across this area. I think…” She paused and looked grimly at Julie. “I think he stole them, perhaps killed these people.”

  With a gesture of disgust she dropped the wallet and money onto the ground. “I’m not even going to keep the money – probably taken from all those poor folk anyway. Now…”

  “Hang on, Irene,” Julie interrupted her. “Look. It’s not just sterling. There are other notes.”

  She picked one up and turned it over in her hands. It was an English ten-pound note but overprinted with the words ‘Bristol Scrip’. And then she found several which looked more like American currency, displaying the dollar sign next to a capital M.

  “My god,” Julie said, reading from the smaller print on the note, “it says ‘Issued by the Malvern Estate Bank’. They’ve got their own money. I think we should take this. It might be useful for my brother, maybe even for us.”

  “OK,” Irene agreed, though with some distaste. “We’ll keep the money and the gun. Leave everything else with him. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Once on the road progress was slow. Julie was falling behind even though Irene was not cycling at any great speed and kept stopping for her to catch up. The fourth time that this happened Julie was in tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I just don’t seem to have any energy.”

  “It’s all right,” Irene replied, doing what she could to comfort her stricken friend. “It’s a reaction to last night. You can’t help it, you’re still in shock.”

  She studied the map which was clipped to the top of her handlebar bag. “At this rate we won’t make it to Malvern today,” she said, “but we’re not too far from Cheltenham. I have an old friend, Eva, who lives there. I’ve not heard from her in a while but if she’s still there we could ask her for shelter for the night. Can you manage a few more miles?”

  Julie nodded. “Yes, I think so. But what will we do if she isn’t there?”

  “She lives quite near the edge of town so we wouldn’t have to go into Cheltenham itself. I cycled there on a trip with Robin once. It’s not too far. If she’s not there we’ll be able to head back into the countryside and find somewhere to camp.”

  Julie looked distressed at that possibility, but fortunately it did not prove necessary since Eva was at home. Her response to finding Irene on her doorstep was a mixture of amazement and happiness.

  “Irene,” she cried. “Heavens! Where have you popped up from?”

  “It’s a long story, Eva,” Irene said, embracing her. “Julie here has been assaulted. Perhaps you could give us shelter for a day or two while she recovers?”

  As he cruised along Mulholland Drive the young man knew that his car’s batteries were almost discharged. The red flashing light on the dash told him so in no uncertain terms, the dulcet-voiced on-board computer counting down the minutes of power that remained. He would just about make it, he thought, and, as the count dropped below two, he turned off the road into a parking area overlooking the San Fernando Valley. He had been here often with his wife to admire the lights of Los Angeles spread out before them and to make love as they had done when they had first come here in their teens. Now she was gone, as were so many of his friends and family. Gone also was the familiar criss-cross pattern of street lights that had always so beguiled them. Instead, the valley was now lit by many hundreds of fires, some of them, even as he watched, joining with others into what he knew must be whole blocks of burning buildings. It was all too much, he thought, and inserting the muzzle of a pistol into his mouth he pulled the trigger. Unmoved by his despairing end, the fires burned on.

  5

  Ali had been in Argyll for almost f
our weeks when Douglas and the others arrived. She and Charlotte were sharing the house with her father, Duncan, while Ravi, Eleanor and Iain occupied the former holiday rental next door. They had spent their time sorting out various problems in the rental house, walking Pike the dog, and helping Duncan with his vegetable garden and his poultry. The hens had become favourites of the children, especially Charlotte, who took upon herself the daily task of scattering poultry pellets and chasing down straying chickens.

  On the opposite side to the rental house Duncan’s immediate neighbour was an elderly woman, Murdina, whose husband had died from flu complications a few months earlier. She was now living alone and making heavy weather of running the croft. All she had left was a small flock of sheep and a couple of Highland cattle with calves, but even that was proving too much. Duncan had been helping out since her husband’s death and Ali now added her endeavours, but it was clear that Murdina would not be able to continue for long even with their support.

  So it was that on their second evening after the latecomers’ arrival the now complete group of refugees were assembled in Duncan’s house, finishing off their evening meal and considering how they might best help Murdina. The discussion had meandered over various possible courses of action when, seemingly out of the blue, Duncan enquired of the adults how long they thought they could last.

  “How do you mean, Dad?” Ali responded. “Last in what way exactly?”

  He looked from face to face for a minute and then, retired professor that he was, began to lecture them. “OK, so let’s look at the practicalities of our situation. Just think of all the things you’ve learned to take for granted. First of all, obviously, food.”