Night had fallen. We were sitting around the fire watching the snowflakes drifting gently through the smoke. We were replete. The rabbit stew had been delicious beyond words. Even without a bay leaf and thyme. Wrapped up in a warm coat, scarf and gloves, sprawling on a groundsheet in a fairly dry spot beneath some trees, I felt that this was a life that was not without its merits. Geoff and I were making inroads into our second bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, Leila was mainlining the gin and Bobby was sleeping off the excess of rabbit which had been his share of dinner.
The ’80s music show had been our major discovery that night. Not just because it was good to hear some music (even though I personally would have preferred some classic rock – Ritchie Blackmore maybe, or Eric Clapton), but because the show gave us a purpose and a direction.
We’d stumbled upon the channel entirely by accident. Up to that point, we’d been spending our time trying to find broadcasts on shortwave. Our efforts had met with limited success. Even with the benefit of the long wire antenna, we were able to receive very few stations, almost none in English, and when we did manage to tune in to an English-language broadcast, the reception wafted in and out so that it was hard to make sense of what was being said.
Then Geoff started messing about with the radio, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons in a fairly random way. That’s when he heard ‘The Damned Don’t Cry’ by Visage. I happen to like that song so I told him to stay on that station. The next song was Adam and The Ants’ ‘Kings Of The Wild Frontier’. “That’s us,” I thought. Kings of all we see. Kings with nobody to rule.
And so we spent the next twenty minutes listening to the Peter Quinn All 80s Radio Show. And for a while it gave us the impression of complete normality. This was the way life had been just a few short weeks earlier. Oldies radio stations. What could be more ordinary than that?
But it was when the Peter Quinn radio show came to an end that we realised that we had really struck gold. Because that’s when the news headlines were broadcast. And they were nothing like the headlines being broadcast by the BBC.
“This is the news from Radio True Britain. People Of Britain. The Government does not exist. The country is in a state of civil war. We have reason to believe that up to half the population may have died. Keep clear of the cities. The contagion is spreading. I repeat: keep clear of the cities. The contagion is spreading.”
15
We’d been hidden away in the forest for more than a week. Maybe ten days. I was losing track of time. I’d even lost track of my birthday which I’d ignored completely, not realising that I was another year older until Geoff told me that it was February. He knew that because the calendar on his smart-watch told him so. That watch was the last piece of modern technology we had that still continued to function. The weather was cold and we’d had a few moderate falls of snow but nothing like as bad as the blizzards we’d had a few weeks earlier.
Geoff and I had been on a few excursions into some villages round and about and we’d replenished out-of-stock of tinned foods. We’d also found a big free-standing diesel tank in a farm and we’d filled a couple of jerry cans so the Land Rover had plenty of spare fuel. We’d been syphoning diesel from trucks up until that point. This, let me tell you, is not as easy as it sounds. First, there’s the problem of getting the fuel cap off. If you manage to do that, you then need a long hose pipe to use as the syphon. Starting the syphon by sucking one end of the pipe isn’t much fun since you usually end up with a mouthful of petrol and even then, more often than not, the damn’ syphon doesn’t work. After much trial and error, we eventually discovered that knocking a hole in a car’s fuel tank using a hammer and chisel was the simplest way of scrounging fuel. We once even tried getting fuel from a petrol station but the damned pumps had no power and we couldn’t figure out any way of pumping up the petrol manually. The diesel tank in the farm, though, that was no problem at all because it used a simple hand-operated tap. The perfect technology for the modern world!
We relied on Leila for fresh meat. A couple of times she managed to get rabbits. But usually she went scouting around farms and houses in remote parts of the countryside looking for whatever livestock happened to be around. Sometimes she got chickens. Once she got a small sheep but she didn’t bring back the whole carcase – just two legs. I didn’t ask how she’d killed it. I didn’t want to know.
We were always careful to take circuitous routes when we went out in the Land Rover. I didn’t want anyone tracking us back to our hideout. Not that we saw many people. Not alive, anyway. At first we saw a few sickly-looking old people in some of the villages. Some of them were trying to carry on with their lives as though nothing had happened: farmers, trying to feed their livestock, milk their cows. In the villages, some shops were still open for business. But the people were mostly sick. They were pale and drawn. Some of them had to brace themselves against walls and fences as they walked. I remember seeing one old woman suddenly stop half-way down a village street, clutch her stomach, bend over and vomit blood. With every day that went by, there were fewer and fewer people to be seen. The contagion (as Radio True Britain called it) was killing them. Killing the old people. We never saw young people. Not in the countryside.
“This is the news from Radio True Britain. People Of Britain. The Emergency Government has declared martial law. All major cities are now subject to a curfew which will begin at twilight and end at dawn. As far as we understand it, there are no official definitions of ‘twilight’ and ‘dawn’. Reports are coming in of significant civilian casualties in London, Manchester, Birmingham and Glasgow. We strongly recommend that you avoid towns and cities if at all possible. If that is not possible, be sure to keep off the streets after dark. In our earlier reports, we stated that the Army was no longer functional. In light of recent events, it appears this may have been incorrect. We don’t know how many soldiers are currently deployed in Britain. In fact, we don’t even know how many soldiers managed to survive the contagion. We will try to bring you more information if we are able to do so. Be aware that the Army is not on our side. I repeat: the Army is not on our side. And now back to Peter Quinn’s All 80s Radio Show…”
We listened to Radio True Britain every day. Since it was on the mediumwave rather than the shortwave, we didn’t have to use the long wire antenna. The simple telescoping aerial on the radio set was all we needed. It was comforting to know that we weren’t the only sane people left alive.
Towards the end of our time in the forest, we realised that we were becoming increasingly isolated from such remnants of civilisation as still existed. All around us was silence and death. We no longer saw many signs of life in our excursions to the villages. As each day passed, we saw more and more bodies lying in the streets. Old people who had suddenly lost their battle with sickness and whose bodies had been left to lie where they had fallen.
If it hadn’t been for Radio True Britain, it would have been all too easy to imagine that the entire population had fatally succumbed to the disease. But every day, the radio announcer reported that the Army was quelling riots and gunning down looters in towns and cities all over Britain.
“The young people survive,” Leila said, “The old people die.”
On Radio True Britain they called the young people ‘The Infected’ or ‘The Red-eyes’. The old people they called ‘The Sick’ or ‘The Dying’.
“We’re not dead,” I said.
I had recovered from a bout of flu. Was that the same flu that was killing the old people? Or was it just a regular, everyday sort of flu? I had no way of knowing. Maybe I had caught a less virulent strain and had somehow built up an immunity? Or maybe I was just lucky? After all, not everyone who gets Ebola dies of it. Even when the Black Death ravaged Europe, some people survived. Geoff had never shown any symptoms at all. I wasn’t sure about Leila. Her bloodshot eyes were a classic sign of the contagion. The Red-eyes: that’s what they called the gangs on Radio True Britain. “Hundreds of Red-eyes were subdued by the Army in
Solihull today… A hospital in Sunderland had been looted by bands of Red-eyes…” There was something about the easy calmness with which Leila killed and dismembered animals that gave me cause for worry. But on the whole, I thought there was more of “us” than of “them” in her. Her eyes were wild but she was lucid, intelligent and she had never shown any aggression towards me and Geoff. The fact of the matter is that I liked her.
“This is the news from Radio True Britain. People Of Britain. The time has come to begin the resistance. If we are to survive, we must work together. The towns are still dangerous. The Army is doing its best to restore law and order. But the task is difficult. We are receiving unconfirmed reports that some parts of North London are now under military control and are considered to be safe. The Emergency Government is still imposing a curfew, however. This is for the benefit of the population and all citizens are being asked to cooperate for the good of the country. And now back to Peter Quinn’s All 80s Radio Show…”
“I thought the Army was our enemy,” Geoff said, “That’s what they said a couple of days ago. What happened?”
“Either the Army stopped being our enemy,” I said, “Or else the Army has taken over Radio True Britain.”
“There’s one more possibility,” Leila said, “Which is that Radio True Britain is just full of shit.”
“At any rate,” I said, “We can’t stay here for ever. We have to move on. We have to go and find out for ourselves what the real situation is.”
So the next day, we packed all our food and belongings in the back of the Land Rover and we set off. I suggested heading back the way Geoff and I had come. Back to the village, back to the Church Hall. Back to what was left of my home. But Geoff didn’t want to go. “They’ll all be dead,” he said.
“Let’s go to town,” said Leila.
“Which town?” I said.
“There’s only one town worth going to, sweetie. London town.”
I thought she was kidding. But she wasn’t.
“You heard what they said on the radio,” I protested.
“They said some parts of North London are under military control,” Geoff said.
“And considered to be safe,” Leila added.
“And you believe them?”
“Hell, no!” said Leila. And she laughed.
“OK, then,” I said, “Let’s go to London.”
Part III – Solitude
1
Getting to London was easier said than done. We decided to keep to the B roads as much as possible, which meant going via the Mendips, avoiding towns like Bristol and Bath. A full thaw had set in by this time and there were only scrappy remnants of snow visible on the tops of distant hills. Everywhere we went there were the familiar scenes of desolation: deserted villages, bodies left to rot in the roads. Once or twice we saw figures walking along the streets or striding across fields. At a distance it was impossible to tell for sure if they were Normals or red-eyes. I think many of them were Normals, survivors of the plague, who were out hunting or scavenging, just as we were.
We saw other signs of life too. There were numerous stray dogs and cats. Bobby woofed whenever he saw them. Sometimes we saw or heard other motor vehicles. Usually they were at a distance but once or twice we saw cars or vans on the road ahead of us. Invariably they either backed away from us or accelerated to overtake us as rapidly as possible. That, at least, proved that there were still people well enough, and sane enough, to drive. But they mistrusted us, as we mistrusted them.
We avoided motorways, driving instead down bridleways, dirt roads and unsurfaced tracks. It was a good thing we were driving a Land Rover rather than a regular car or we would never have made it over that kind of terrain. It was a bumpy ride. Geoff did most of the driving while Leila and I took turns at sitting in the back with Bobby. It was incredibly uncomfortable there, as there were no proper seats and every bump and pothole rattled through your body and bounced you off the metal sides of the vehicle. I ended up with so many bruises it must have looked as though I’d been the loser in a cage fight.
I wasn’t sure that the decision to go to London had been the right one. However, as Geoff and Leila pointed out, the countryside was as dead as a graveyard. Most places we passed through looked empty. We soon realised that this appearance was deceptive. A substantial number of people had survived but stayed in their houses with the doors locked. Once or twice we caught sight of curtains twitching or shadowy figures glancing nervously from windows. For the survivors of the Catastrophe anyone who was living out in the open, as we were, was treated with the greatest of suspicion. We knew from our scavenging exploits in houses, shops and pubs that death lay everywhere. The smell of putrefaction was sickening.
I wanted to try making contact with survivors – to follow people we happened to see on the streets or to go in search of other vehicles. In the long term, it seemed to me that Geoff, Leila and I were too small a group to fend for ourselves. We had to find others who could help us form some kind of self-sufficient community. But I was overruled. Geoff and Leila thought we were safer on our own. There was always the danger that we might meet a gang of red-eyes. Like the gang we had run into, all too literally, after visiting the Miami Nights cocktail bar.
In the end, the decision was taken out of our hands. We were trundling along down a winding country lane when we turned a sharp corner and – Geoff slammed on the brakes! A car was coming up the hill towards us. It was coming too fast. It slammed on its brakes too. But not quite fast enough. It rammed into the Land Rover. Luckily for us, the Land Rover had cattle rails on the front. Cattle rails, I should explain, just in case you aren’t familiar with them, are a heavy iron framework of bars that go over the radiator and headlamps. I think the idea is that, if confronted by cows which are reluctant to get out of your way, you can exercise some persuasion by easing the Land Rover forward and using the cattle rails to push them out of the way without causing unnecessary damage to either the cows or the Land Rover.
On the whole, it was lucky for us that the Land Rover had cattle rails. It wasn’t so lucky for the car that we collided with. It was a black BMW. Quite a snazzy little number, as a matter of fact, though looking a bit the worse for wear after its disagreement with our cattle rails.
Geoff, who was driving at the time, flew into a rage. “What the bloody hell do you think you are playing at!” he screamed at the BMW. I had to tell Geoff to calm down. These were not normal times and we had more to worry about than reckless driving. The truth of the matter is that I saw this as the opportunity I’d been looking for – to try to make contact with another survivor.
I told Geoff to stay in his seat while I went to see if the driver of the BMW had been hurt. I got out of the Land Rover at the same time as the man got out of the BMW. We stood there facing one another and for a moment I was speechless. The man who’d emerged from the BMW was not, similarly afflicted, however. “Jonathan,” he said, “How good to see you!”
Leila had got out of the Land Rover and was standing behind me. “You know this man?” she asked.
“Leila,” I said, “Let me introduce you to the Colonel…”
2
“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” the Colonel said, “Staff shortage, you know.”
I think he was making a joke but nobody laughed. We were sitting in the lounge of a small hotel. It was one of those hotel lounges that cram in the maximum possible acreage of floral drapes and lace antimacassars. It had an air of dusty neglect. A grandfather clock ticked languorously in a corner.
“I’ve been winding it,” the Colonel explained, “The tick of a clock soothes the troubled soul, I feel.”
I checked the time on my wrist watch. My watch said 12:32. I checked the time on Geoff’s watch. It said: 12:32:05. I’m not sure what the ‘05’ meant. It was one of those sort of watches. The hands of the grandfather clock were hovering somewhere around twenty-five past three. The Colonel obviously cared more about the sound of the clock than its intende
d function. Then again, what did time matter? Nobody had appointments.
We sat at a table drinking wine. A decent enough Beaujolais. Geoff had found a packet of salt and vinegar crisps which he was sharing with Bobby. The Colonel was smoking a Havana cigar. I’ve no idea where he’d found that. It didn’t look like the sort of thing a dowdy little hotel like this would keep in stock.
The way the Colonel had been talking, you’d think it was entirely coincidental that he’d happened to be coming up that hill just as we happened to be coming down it. I don’t believe in those sorts of coincidences. Here we are, over two weeks and nearly 200 miles away from our last meeting at the Church Hall, we are in the remote backwaters of the Mendip Hills and we just happen to bump into one another? I don’t think so.
“So how did you do it?” I asked, “The truth this time. Did you put a bug on us, some kind of tracking device? Where was it? Hidden in my knapsack?”
He gave that peculiarly fruity laugh of his and blew out a stream of heavily pungent smoke. “You overestimate me, my dear chap. I just followed you, that’s all.”
“No,” I said, “Nobody followed us. Not when we left the Church Hall. We were walking. We’d have noticed if we were being trailed. Then we found the Land Rover. There was nobody after us then either. Nothing on the road. Anyway, the snow was so bad you couldn’t have followed us in a BMW!”
“Very perceptive. You are quite right. I did not pursue you through the snow in a BMW.”
“What then?”
“I waited until the thaw advanced and then I found you in town.”
“How did you know that’s where we were headed?”
“Simple. I asked.”
“Don’t give me that! We didn’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, but indeed you did. You told Alan Pendelin.”
“Who’s Alan…?”
The Exodus Plague | Book 1 | The Snow Page 12
