Tipping Point (Project Renova Book 1)

by Terry Tyler

  "I mainly just used them to banter with my mates, and they were mostly retards, anyway."

  I wish I felt like they do. I'm working on it. But everything just seems so still. Silent. Sometimes, I'm walking down a road and I shut my eyes, tightly, wishing that when I open them I'll see people, hear traffic, laughter, voices, noises of life. But any life is hidden away. Like us.

  Kara and Phil are friends of Dex; this house belonged to Kara's aunt. It's big, with four bedrooms, and a long garden.

  Our days centre around the simple, tedious maintenance of life. Washing (ourselves and our clothes) is done with rainwater collected in containers. Lavatorial function other than urination—well, I'll just say it involves buckets in a makeshift tent in the garden, plastic bags, the pits in the field, and Lottie saying 'Ew' a lot. Avoidance of disease is everyone's obsession, up there with food and safety; Phil talks about those third world diseases that will now threaten anywhere with lots of unburied bodies lying around. Cholera and typhoid. Oh yes, and dysentery. That one sounds like a riot.

  I thought we'd struck lucky when Phil mentioned working in a hospital but, as he said (cheerfully), when I expressed my excitement, "Anything above the ankles, and you're fucked." He was a podiatrist.

  I'm fanatical about dental hygiene, too. Sounds trivial when compared with dire warnings of third world diseases, but can you imagine having a tooth pulled out with pliers and no anaesthetic? I swipe as much toothpaste, mouthwash and dental floss as I can when we go out on scavenging expeditions. Kara also had the bright idea of helping ourselves to a huge supply of the mini pill from an already well-looted pharmacy, to ensure freedom from the monthly curse of Eve, but I'm not letting Lottie mess herself up like that. She might want to have children one day. Being sixteen she vows she will never, ever want to have any, of course.

  I became pregnant with her shortly before my eighteenth birthday, and was a single parent from day one, but I've never regretted having her so young, not for a moment.

  Originally there was a generator at the house, but it was stolen from the garden shed at the beginning, before Phil made the house secure. Back then, when order broke down, people were getting desperate, stealing whatever they could lay their hands on. It's calmed down now, three months later. I suppose most of the people who went crazy as soon as law and order collapsed are dead, all those who didn't get the vaccination before the virus took hold. By which I mean almost everyone.

  Power would have made so much difference, even if we’d had to be careful with it. It's the everyday stuff I miss. TV. Hairdryers. Charging my Kindle.

  None of that will seem important as the winter goes on, though. Now, there's food. Homes with well stocked cupboards, where people have died, or gone off to find family or a place of perceived safety, though none of us like raiding houses. You never know what else you're going to find once you open someone's front door, and many were emptied by the army, early on, to stock distribution centres and refugee camps, before they disintegrated, too. Most supermarkets have been cleared out, apart from certain flavours of soup. Seems no one's hungry enough for celery. Or tinned prunes. We've got stacks of tinned prunes. We find food in corner shops, pubs, restaurants, and Phil had the bright idea about all those protein bars and high energy drinks to be found in gyms and sports centres. We've sussed out the no-go areas. Once the electricity went, so did the freezers. I still retch when I remember opening the door of a cold room in a Tesco warehouse.

  The army burnt out butchers and slaughterhouses all over the country to prevent a plague of a different kind: rats.

  Lottie said to me, "If nine tenths of the population has gone, there'll be loads of food, won't there?" We don't know if it's nine tenths or more. Certainly feels like more, some days, it's so quiet. And Lottie had forgotten that all fresh and frozen food spoiled within days, and that nothing is being replenished. I read somewhere that supermarkets hold enough stock for three meals for everyone in their catchment area, at any one time. That's not a great deal.

  "But spring is about planting," Phil explained to her, "and so we'll need seeds, which means raiding the garden centres, too. Crops, I'm not sure. But we'll find out."

  Phil has the best handle on survival. He and Kara were members of Unicorn, the underground organisation to which Dex belonged.

  The only people in the country who had any idea what was about to go down, before it did.

  Back in the bedroom, I put on clean clothes. Downstairs, water will be boiling on the camping stove, for coffee. Instant. I'm all for finding a cafetière and some nice vac-packed medium roast, which would be just as easy to make, but I haven't suggested it yet, in case the others think I'm daft for concerning myself with trifles.

  They're all much more gung-ho than me.

  I'm trying to be gung-ho. And I'm determined not to let anyone know how hard it is for me, sometimes, not to fall apart when I think about Dex.

  "He'll be back, you'll see," Phil says, when he catches me looking wistful. "He knows where we are. As soon as he can get away from wherever he is, he'll be here."

  And I see that thing he's not telling me behind his eyes. I know he has the best of intentions; he wants me to stay hopeful. Lottie rarely mentions him, but it's easier for her. He's only ever been 'Dex' to her, never 'Dad'.

  Dad was Ryan, but Ryan's dead, and she's dealt with that frighteningly well, too.

  The fact that she can adjust and move on so quickly probably means she's well-equipped for the new world.

  "I've got used to not crying about stuff and just getting on with it, that's all," she said, when I broached the subject after we found out, for certain, that Ryan had died. We were walking along a quiet village road in South Yorkshire at the time, in the late afternoon sunshine, looking for a car to nick to take us to Tyne and Wear.

  I can remember the sun shining through the trees, the light in the sky, the smell of approaching autumn. Always that smell. I felt a peculiar contentment; I didn't know why, but I knew I had to cling on to it, because it was good, just Lottie and me, walking and talking in the sunshine.

  "Before, you know, when I was at school, everyone knew about everything," she said. "Like, when Alfie finished with me I'd go online and I'd see Jess in Year Ten who fancied him, dead excited because I was history, and a couple of mates I'd fallen out with, saying he dumped me 'cause I was a bitch, all sorts. Your whole life was totally public. So you get used to acting like you don't care, 'cause if you look weak you're over, and that makes you put up a front, and then you act it for so long that it starts being real." She shrugged her shoulders, and gave me a huge smile. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

  I'm thinking about all this as I get dressed. Hoping it isn't all too much of a front, and my little girl won't suddenly go to pieces.

  I draw kohl lines along my lower eyelids and show my cheeks the blusher brush, too. I sneaked a few make-up items into my backpack despite Dex's instructions not to waste space on fripperies. Talking of which, in a department store a couple of weeks ago, when Phil and Heath were raiding the camping gear department, I nicked a bottle of Guerlain perfume. I tell myself we need posh smells now that we can't have daily baths and showers

  "Vicky! Coffee!"

  I have a quick squirt of Shalimar, enjoy the smell of it in the air, then hurry downstairs.

  This house with its high surrounding walls stands in the middle of Elmfield, a village that must once have been separate from, but now merges into the towns of Jarrow and Hebburn. The bleakness of Tyne and Wear is a bit of a shocker after Norfolk, but this is where Dex said he would meet me, where he told me to go if 'things went bad', and 'things' have most certainly done that, so here I am.

  When we got here Kara and Phil stressed that, despite being vaccinated against the virus, we're far from safe. Even when the disease has run its course, whenever that may be. The danger is other people. Thugs in combat gear (I hesitate to call them soldiers) who shoot first and think later; I met some in Shipden. Anyone who walks past
the house and thinks there might be rich pickings to be had; the most respectable member of society can turn feral if cold and hungry. We've put rolls of barbed wire on top of the walls, and we're reinforcing the fence round the other side of the house and the garden, a long job, as the original is so flimsy it might as well not be there.

  "We keep all doors locked, weapons in grabbing distance," Phil said, "and, most importantly, we mustn't get complacent; we haven't had any trouble yet but as time goes on people will get more desperate."

  By weapons he means knives, hammers and rolling pins. Yes, really. None of us have guns. Not a criminal connection between us, as far as I know; we wouldn't know where to get one. I just hope we don't need them.

  Elmfield is quiet. Empty. Most places are, apart from some town and city centres where territories are marked and gangs rule, already, in just this short time; Newcastle is terrifying, I hear. But at least in that once fine city there are still such spoils that they're unlikely to stray out here.

  The fever lingers on, though I imagine it's worse in places that were last to be infected. Wales, Cumbria, Scotland. In the early days, the healthy flooded to these areas, with town halls and schools turned into crowded refugee centres, so when it hit, it hit hard. We only know snippets of information we hear from others when we're out and about; there's no central news hub. How long it'll take until everyone who's going to get it expires, we can only guess, except that we don't bother. There are burial pits and pyres all over the country, but so many bodies must surely remain uncollected in the big cities.

  Danger and disease.

  The countryside is the answer, and where we must go, as soon as Dex arrives, and maybe Scott, Naomi and Jeff, too. They're the other members of Unicorn. There must be places in the UK where we can settle, safely. And what about the rest of the world? What's happening out there? Rumours abound, but we haven't met anyone who actually knows.

  Five faces look up at me from the kitchen table.

  "Heard you moving around." Kara pushes a mug of coffee over to me. "Want some breakfast? You can have baked beans with sausages—you know, the pretend sort that are already in the tin—or muesli with water or pretend milk. Or a protein bar and tinned fruit, as many prunes as you like." She laughs. "Or bacon, scrambled eggs and hash browns, but I'm lying about the fourth option." Kara's in charge of the food, organising three meals a day for all of us. There's a padlock on the sweets, chocolate and biscuits cupboard; Jax and Lottie can't be trusted.

  "You also have three work options," Heath says. His long, brown, curly hair needs washing, he's got non-designer stubble and his dark green jumper is covered in fluff—I think he's been sleeping in it all week—but he looks bright-eyed and happy. Always happy, Heath. "You can come on a supply run with Kara and me, or do fence maintenance with Phil and Jax, or there's the bedclothes washing." He says the last option in a dramatic voice and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

  "Bedclothes washing," I say, without hesitation, "seeing as no one else will want to do it." That's something I really miss: regularly laundered sheets. "And Lottie will help me."

  "Mu-um! I want to go out!" Lottie sticks out her bottom lip and pushes her chair away from the table.

  "Tough. I can't do it on my own. Well, I can, but I don't want to. Come on, it's a nice, windy day. A good drying day, my mum would have called it."

  Later, when we're stripping the beds, I see a folder on Kara's dressing table with photos spilling out, and can't resist a quick look. There are lots of Kara and Phil on holidays past, and one of what I assume is the Unicorn gang, as Dex is there. They're sitting round a big table: Phil, next to a wizened grey-haired guy I know is Jeff, then a thin, dark, serious looking woman. Naomi. Then Dex, and the sight of his smiling face makes my heart hurt. The geeky chap in the striped beanie hat will be Scott the hacker, and then there's a wild-eyed, raven-haired beauty. Gia. Who Dex assured me was not his type. Right. I would have thought she'd be anyone's type.

  Some of Kara's photos are on display in the living room; maybe she kept this one hidden so I wouldn't get upset about seeing Dex in his other life, the side of him I never got to see.

  Or maybe she's got more important things to think about.

  Lottie chirps up: "Mum, d'you fancy Heath?"

  I feel myself blush, because I kind of do, and it makes me feel guilty. "Who I do or don't find attractive isn't uppermost in my mind at the moment, Lottie." I smile, to make a joke of it.

  She pulls a pillow case off, and grins. "Oh. Just wondered. Jax thinks he likes you, that's all."

  My cheeks burn. "Heath's one of those big-hearted types who's warm and friendly to everyone."

  "I'll take that as a yes, then. I would, if I was your age." She giggles. "And you're still super-hot, especially now you're thin. Jax thinks if you gave his dad a bit of encouragement he'd be well up for it."

  I stop what I'm doing. "Lottie. I'm with Dex, remember? You know, the man who's lived in our house with us for the past six years?" Out of the blue, tears threaten. I bend over to pull out the under-sheet from the mattress, so she can't see my face. "And he'll be here soon."

  Lottie shrugs. "Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you. I hope he will be. We don't know for sure, though, do we?"

  "Yes, we do." I pull the sheet off with unnecessary vigour. "He'll be here. He will. He can't not be."

  My daughter smiles and agrees, a moment too late.

  Back Then

  Chapter Two

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Shipden, Norfolk

  2020 ~ 2024

  Like most people, I thought social networking sites existed so we could keep up with friends far and wide, do quizzes entitled 'Which Game of Thrones character are you?', and share holiday photographs.

  I wasn't aware of what's known as 'bulk data collection' until Dex opened my eyes, and explained to me how every search on Google, every Facebook post, everything you do online becomes part of the mass data compilation held by intelligence agencies. Or that, although much of this information facilitates improvements for the good of all, we have no way of knowing the full extent of its usage.

  When Private Life burst onto the scene in 2022, luring in the masses with its free gifts and promises of complete security, he was sure its real purpose was more sinister. It was too good to be true, he said.

  For the previous year or so, articles about social media privacy, or lack of, had been popping up everywhere, even on the national news, and users were leaving Facebook in their droves. Deleting their profiles from LinkedIn, LifeShare, WhatsApp, Snapchat. Evidently there was no such thing as real security, no matter how many guards a user put in place. Reliable sources claimed that profiles were wide open to interference from the most amateur of hackers, freeing up routes to email addresses and even passwords for online banking. Daytime TV featured horror stories about Facebook and LifeShare users' lives ruined by the leaking of private photos, about employers keeping watch on the workforce's supposedly private online activity, and bank accounts emptied following the simple clicking of a link posted by the friend of a friend.

  Parents clamped down on their teenagers using chat and face-to-face networks; every week, we read another story about a child being targeted by the depraved.

  I closed down my LifeShare account when I read about a girl whose sex videos went viral, because she'd forgotten to turn off the webcam when her boyfriend came round.

  "I wasn't even logged onto LifeShare at the time," she insisted.

  Then, just when social networking had reached an all-time low, up bounced Private Life, along with MyLife, its offshoot aimed at ages twelve to eighteen.

  "Perfect, perfect timing," Dex said. "I was wondering what all that scaremongering was leading to."

  My mum and dad's generation, who still looked up words in dictionaries and used the Radio Times to find out what was on television, had disappeared into the retirement twilight zone. The working world was dominated by the under 40s; we'd grown up online. For us, social networking
sites were as much a part of our lives as the air we breathed.

  Private Life was the brainchild of two working mothers, the story went, and Janey Grant and Maria Lawrence chatted their way around the daytime TV couches of North America and Europe. One white, one black, one single mum, one happily married with a large family. So approachable, two ordinary women with mass appeal.

  Attractive, but not too attractive.

  "We may be successful businesswomen," they said, "but essentially we're just two working moms who want to stay in touch with our friends, feel secure about what we say online, and keep our kids safe."

  The simple Private Life symbol of a cute house, its front door an oversized padlock, was everywhere: on advertisement pop-ups, down the sidebar of practically every website you looked at, on TV, in newspapers, up the escalators in tube stations. The site promised that private meant private. No one could see your photos, or even whether or not you had a profile on the site, if you didn't want them to. Your personal details, likes and dislikes, would not be sold to data mining companies, and official bodies could not snoop onto your profile without a court order.

  Best of all, it boasted the best anti-hacker technology available.

  The world gave the thumbs up to the clever campaign. Private Life signed up over a billion new accounts in its first six months, peaking at almost four billion active users worldwide, more than twice as many as any site in the history of social networking. Other sites and networks faded into little-used graveyards. Only Twitter, the domain of conspiracy theorists, anarchists, artists and writers, clung on.

  "Our mission statement? Look at the logo," said Janey Grant and Maria Lawrence, and within months the Private Life padlock earned global recognition equal to the Twitter bird, the Facebook 'f', and the LifeShare green tree.