by Terry Tyler
Why hadn't the three soldiers sitting on the wall told them to get themselves off home? But they were not much older than the drinkers; perhaps they thought it was easier to let them get on with it, if they weren't doing anyone any harm.
"Hey! Lottie's mum!" One of the girls called out to me, and I recognised Mia, her friend whose mother worked in the baker’s; she'd been at our house earlier that summer. "Come and have a drink!"
"I won't, thanks, I've got to get back." I walked across to them. "I hate to sound like a killjoy, but do your parents know you're out here?"
Mia gestured wildly, blue WKD in hand. "They just sit there staring at the news and getting depressed. I couldn't stand it any longer!"
"Yeah, and we're not letting a load of fascists with guns tell us we can't enjoy ourselves!" shouted one boy, waving a bottle of Stella around.
I doubted he knew what the word meant.
I was unsure what to do. If Lottie was with them, I'd want the soldiers to pack her off home, and I was sure Mia's mother would feel the same.
Just as I was debating this, a young man shuffled up the path between the flowerbeds, towards them.
He looked unkempt, scruffy, likely one of the homeless who drifted up and down the coast in the summer. They'd beg from the tourists and sleep on the beach. Lawrie and Gemma used to take leftover food down to the shelters on the sea front where they gathered, others would buy them beers and sandwiches if they hung around the café-bar at the end of the pier. A few lived on such handouts, so bitter about being forced into an itinerant lifestyle by ridiculous benefit sanctions that they told DWP officials to stick their paltry Community Credit where the sun didn't shine. But, anyway, this guy; I hardly glanced at him at first. From the way he was staggering, I wondered if he was drinking with Mia and her friends, and had nipped round the back of the church to take a leak in the Cliff Road public toilets. But when he got closer to me, I saw. He was ill. Very ill. His face was damp with fever, his eyes yellow, bloodshot. Sweat soaked his grubby white t-shirt, yet he shivered, and his neck and arms bore a livid rash. No one noticed him but me, and I was so busy staring at him that I didn't catch on to what was about to happen.
He lurched towards the group, croaking, in a horrible, raspy voice, as if it took every grain of his energy.
"Can I have a drink?" he gasped. "Please! I'm thirsty, some water."
Mia and her friends were making so much noise that they didn't hear him at first.
I had a bottle of water in my bag.
"I've got some!" I called, but as I was fumbling to get it out he stumbled, his legs giving way beneath him; he toppled over, right by where Mia sat with the blonde girl who'd been filling up the bottles.
Mia leapt away in horror.
The soldiers moved into alert mode, stepping over the low wall, guns cocked.
My water bottle was empty.
I saw the poor man crawling towards the blonde girl, his hand reaching out. "Please, some water, give me some water!"
"Have you got something non-alcoholic he can have?" I called, but my words were drowned by screams as the kids edged away from him, leaping to their feet, apart from Mia's pretty friend with the long, blonde hair. He gripped her by the wrist and grabbed, frantically, for her alcopop.
"Get off!" she screamed, shoving him away with her free arm. Oh, thank goodness; she was wearing a wristband. She was still scared stiff, though.
"Get off! Someone help me! Get him off me!"
"Give him something to drink, that's all he wants!" I moved forward, but one of the soldiers put his arm out to stop me.
"Get back, Miss," he said, quietly, and pulled me away.
"Sir, move away from the girl," another one shouted, but I don't think the poor chap even heard. The soldiers didn't move, they just stood there with their guns at the ready, shouting at him to move, the group of teenage drinkers rooted to the spot with fear.
Sod what the solider said. I leapt over and pulled at the young man, my hands under his arms, dragging him off as best I could; he was soaked in sweat.
"It's okay," I said to the petrified girl. "He won't hurt you, he's just thirsty."
But as I disengaged his hand from her wrist he sneezed on her, and she stared up at her friends in desperation, her eyes wild, terrified.
"Help me! Please help me! I was lying, I haven't had the shot, it was my dad who nicked the bands off them up the campsite—"
Oh God. Lottie had told me about that. A family had been threatened with a knife.
"You lying cow!" shouted one of the boys.
"I'll get you some water, if you try to be calm," I said, pulling the young man away, but he was beyond reason, delirious, craning his neck towards the bright blue alcopop, while Mia and another girl yelled at him, at the boys to do something, then the boy who'd called the blonde a lying cow started shouting at the soldiers to shoot him, you've got a gun, shoot him, kill the filthy bastard—
—and one of them did.
Crack!
He shot him. In the head, dead.
His hand fell from mine and he crumpled onto the grass.
I stood, stunned, my mouth open.
The young soldier took aim once more.
What? I leapt out of the way, thrust my arm with the band into the air.
"Don't shoot! It's okay! I've had the shot!"
But they weren't aiming at me.
"No-oo! Don't!" shouted Mia, but she was too late.
Crack!
And the girl with the blonde hair fell back on the ground, too. The back of her head exploded into a mess of red matter.
I jumped back.
No one spoke.
Silence, apart from the squawking of seagulls.
The soldier, the young man only a few years older than Lottie, who'd just killed two people, stepped forward.
"Anyone else not had the vaccine yet?"
Silence.
"That girl was a goner as soon as that poor fucker sneezed over her." His voice rang out loud in the quiet of the afternoon. "You're not doing no one no favours by not speaking up. You could be picking it up right now, and infecting your family when you get home."
Silence.
"Look," he said, more calmly. "You're prob'ly okay, it was just her, 'cause he sneezed all over her. Just tell us, if you haven't had the vaccine, and I'll get the unit round here, pronto."
I didn't believe him. Something about the way he held that gun.
The boy who'd shouted at the blonde girl eyed up the short, tubby lad beside him. Back and forth went his head, from his friend to the soldier.
He opened his mouth and shut it again several times before pointing his finger. "He hasn't had it!"
The tubby boy looked more frightened than I've ever seen anyone look, ever.
"I have!" he shouted. He looked at the shooter, his face pleading with him. "I've had it! I have!"
"He hasn't, he's been lying, he told me," said the other boy. He moved forward. "But you can get him the vaccine, right?"
"I've had it! I told you!"
"It don't matter, he'll get the unit down here. Won't you, mate?"
"I don't need it, I had it weeks ago, I did, honest." He was crying, now.
"He told me he was lying so's he wouldn't get the Bat Shit sticker—"
"Where's your wristband?" called the soldier.
"I-I took it off when I went in the sea, and I lost it—"
"Bullshit."
And with one more crack of the rifle, the fat boy fell.
The soldier drew his shoulders back. "Anyone else?"
Oh, my God.
One girl began wailing, screaming, hysterical, one boy vomited, I clutched my hand to my mouth and heard myself saying, "Oh no, oh no, oh no—"
The one who'd given up his friend surged forward. "You fucking arsehole, you said you'd get him the vaccine!" He squared up to the soldier, fists clenched, but then the fight deserted him and he fell to the ground, sobbing.
"You killed Tom and Grace,"
Mia screamed. "You killed my friends!" She hurtled towards the soldiers, taking fierce swipes at the shooter, trying to punch him in the stomach, but he just held her off by the shoulders, laughing. He laughed.
One of the other soldiers, a small lad who looked ashen beneath his freckles, said, "Fuck me, man, you shou'n't have done that. Not like that. He was jus' a kid. The girl, yeah, she di'n't stand a chance, but—"
Shooter shrugged his shoulders. "Had to be done. Contact with an infected, he'd spread it around. Our orders are to contain this thing, not be fucking social workers."
The boy on the ground stopped sobbing and looked up at the rest of them, wiping his eyes. "It's right," he muttered, wiping his sleeve across his nose. "My sister and her kid haven't had the shot yet. Grace and Sam was always round our house. What if they'd give it to them?"
None of them said anything. They just stared at him.
The third soldier got out a radio, and turned away. "It's Jake. Yeah. Bit of a day. Can we get a van? Three bods down by the church."
At that, Mia doubled up, weeping, and I went to her, putting my arms around her. "You bastards!" she shouted. "Grace was my best friend!" But she sounded more in pain than angry. She sobbed into my chest. I didn't know what to do. I was in shock. We all were.
A tall boy walked over, and put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm, um, Mia's brother. It's okay, I'll take her."
"She was dead anyway, once that fella had slobbered all over her," said Shooter. "And then she'd have taken it home and infected a load more people."
Mia turned on him. "You don't know that! She might have been immune!"
He laughed, and popped a piece of chewing gum in his mouth. "Yeah, and I'm the President of the United Bleedin' States. This ain't a game. Perhaps you lot'll learn that now, huh? Now fuck off home."
Mia wailed. "I've got to tell her mum! How am I going to tell her?" She flared up again. "I'm ringing the police! You're a murderer! Luke, ring 999!"
Shooter laughed again. "You tried ringing the emergency services lately? I'm just obeying orders. Anyone who tries to escape the cordon, disturbs the peace or engages in any action likely to hasten the spread of the infection, I can use my discretion. I used it. Do your worst, love."
The soldier called Jake stepped forward. "They'll be coming for the bodies any minute." Which made Mia yell even more.
I couldn't help it. I looked at the soldier with the freckles, who had a kinder face than the other two. "Is that right? Really?" I spoke as quietly as I could. "You shoot on sight, just like that?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Don't make no difference now, does it? Half o' you's going to be dead in a few weeks anyway." A nervous grin. "I mean, not you, you've got y' band. But you oughta see what it's like down London. This is nothing." His face softened. "Yeah, it's bad what just went down, but they shou'n't have been out 'ere drinking anyway."
"Well, you should have moved them on!"
He sighed. "Tha’s what I said. Dale, he thought he was in with that 'un what was doing all the shouting. He was waiting till she'd had a bit more t'drink." He sniffed. "Best you go home, Miss. I'd stay there if I was you, 'n' all."
Mia sat on the wall, sobbing, being comforted by the others; the other girl bent over Sam's body, weeping and kissing his forehead.
The horror of the day hit me in the face, and as the dead wagon veered into view I scarpered, as fast as I could. This was real. This was like living in a war zone.
And it was certainly no little upset that would be over next week.
I noticed nothing as I hurried up the Cadeby Road, back to the safety of our house; shocked tears fell down my face, blurring my path. Seeing people shot dead—it's not something you expect to see, ever. Everything Dex had ever said to me about how quickly human nature turns whirled round in my head.
The way the boy gave up his friend, so easily, and justified it.
Grace's dad, threatening people to steal their wristbands.
People lying to each other about being safe. And something else occurred to me, too. If the vaccination unit was working round the clock, how come so many people were dying?
Did this mean that Dex and Unicorn really had been on to something, after all?
I didn't know what the hell to think.
I spent a long time that evening talking to my daughter about what had happened. We had the television on, but I didn't notice at first that there were no scheduled programmes; it was just repeats of Britain's moments of sporting glory, films, and the endless government announcements that an army presence throughout the country would keep order and maintain essential services.
A state of emergency had now been declared.
I thought of John at number three. I hadn't seen him since I took the Scotch round.
Churches and mosques were reporting record attendances, apparently. I bet they weren't reporting anything, really. Too busy dying.
The next morning we heard that the Home Secretary's house had been subject to an arson attack. He and his family had previously been removed to a place of safety, but staff living on site were believed to have perished.
This sparked off similar attacks; the next evening we heard that several MPs' houses had been targeted, but, tragically, few of the MPs had been 'removed to a place of safety'. In Liverpool, a medic at one of the vaccination units had been kicked to death by an angry mob.
I noticed that in the last few days we'd been hearing the 'real' news, instead of bland assurances that everything was okay. I wondered why; had restrictions been removed? Or just the people who enforced those restrictions?
What did Dex think about it? Could he see a television, wherever he was? Why the hell didn't he get in touch? Wasn't he worried about me?
Anger took over from missing him; I swayed this way and that, constantly.
After those reports, there was no more news. Network TV channels broadcast nothing but pre-recorded stuff. The same old films, football and tennis matches, over and over.
It was my boss, Martine, who rang me to let me know that she'd seen two bodies being taken out of the Seagull.
Lawrie and Gemma, she said.
My friends. Who'd both had the vaccine.
"They were discovered by some lads who broke into their flat," she said. "They'd been dead for days."
Every day brought more bad news. The shocks just piled up, until they became a general, all-encompassing sadness for everyone, for all of us. Every person you spoke to had lost someone.
Lottie came into my room one morning in floods. "I just talked to Dad," she said. "He says he's not feeling well."
She fell into my arms like she did when she was a kid, and we sat and cried, both of us; I thought of the boy I'd loved, who been more or less a stranger to me for years. We looked at photos of him on her phone, but after only a short while Lottie jerked her head up, wiped her eyes and stood up. "Okay, so he's going to die. I can deal with it, Mum. Craig and his sister are both ill, and they're, like, part of my life. I talk to them nearly every day. Dad—well, he was never that bothered, was he? And it's just one more, isn't it?" She took her phone from me, and I never saw her cry about him again.
The internet went a day or so later. Sites kept malfunctioning, and Twitter was one of the first to disappear. Its swansong was a rash of tweets from every conspiracy theorist and religious nut still breathing, it seemed, about the end of days. Private Life was one of the last men standing, but even there no one was pretending that everything was fine and dandy any more. Then it was gone. All of it.
I sat at my laptop for a while when I realised it was all over. Couldn't get my head round how transient and fragile online life had been; all those businesses that only existed in cyberspace, gone—forever? Music, books, TV shows, friendships, shops, advice, information, banking, news. People whose livelihoods relied on it. And what would we do about money, if life ever went back to normal? Would everyone's financial records magically reappear? If not, how would you get hold of what you had? How would yo
u prove what you had?
What if someone burnt your house down? How could you get insurance if the company didn't exist any more?
That was when it sank in. Our whole twenty-first century way of life was disappearing, day by day, hour by hour.
Lottie had more immediate concerns.
"This sucks," she kept saying. "What do you do when there's no internet?"
Our phones died; still, at least I could stop feeling sick about not being able to reach my parents. Stop wondering why Dex had never got that burner phone he'd mentioned. The landlines were still on for a short while afterwards, but only for emergency services, with a message saying that if you had the fever you should not call out a doctor or ambulance, but stay at home. "If a death occurs in your house, please ring—"
We read books, wandered on the beach, did all those cleaning jobs I'd never got round to before, watched DVDs, cooked. Lottie went to see her friends, but less and less as some became ill; others just wanted to stay at home with their families. One day, she appeared with some jigsaws and board games, from Jarrolds, the book and stationery store in town.
"That's stealing," I told her. I knew everyone was doing it but it still didn't feel right. Food and essentials, maybe. Not luxuries.
"Mum, the front window is smashed, and no one's boarded it up." She gave a shrug. "Shania took some, too. Well, I have to do something. I can't just sit around watching films for the rest of my life."
It was around this time that those kids on the beach died; yes, I remember one of the jigsaws being out on the table when I took in that poor girl, the one who left with the orange juice and paracetamol. After she'd gone, we noticed that she'd filled in a bit of the sky.
I kept thinking of that safe house. I longed to see Dex. Tentatively, I mentioned trying to get there, but Lottie didn't want to leave our home, the beach and her friends, and I couldn't devise a daring escape plan that might be dangerous (if the scene in the churchyard was anything to go by), if she wasn't fully on board.
I had to put her first.
Maybe I was too scared to try, really. Better just to stay in the cottage by the sea, with its white, blue and yellow paintwork, varnished floorboards and fabulous views.
