The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  He stood there watching the metal monster with its flashing lights like beacons from another world. He’d been on a plane three times in his life. Family holidays to Spain, France and Majorca. Trips abroad were rare because his mum had hated flying with a vengeance. She’d always been so nervous in the moments immediately before take off. Each time she’d taken Valium to get through the experience and he recalled sitting beside her, teasing her about it and even joking out loud about all the things that could go wrong. That had pissed her off and rightly so. What a little arsehole he’d been to do that. Still he’d inherited none of her fear of flying. In fact, he’d always enjoyed the experience of sitting on an aeroplane, looking out of the window from forty thousand feet, down onto microscopic cities that looked like a panel of lights embedded on an Earth-sized circuit board.

  Someone up there was probably doing the same thing. Looking down over London, the corpse of an entire city? And if London was a corpse, what did that make him and all the rest of its inhabitants? The worms, the flies and maggots feasting on its rotten flesh?

  The plane disappeared into the dark sky. The noise of the engines faded and a gradual silence swept across the neighbourhood. It was a terrifying sound.

  He continued to walk down Langham Road.

  32, 30, 28…

  Moments later, he heard it – the excited grunts and snarls. With his heart in his mouth, he edged forwards along the narrow street until he saw them.

  Four people were standing in the middle of the road. Dark shapes. One by one, they rushed towards one of the houses before stopping and retreating back, as if they’d suddenly changed their minds. He tried to see the place they were going after. It was a large white building with two gable roofs that appeared to split the property neatly into two separate houses or apartments. At the front of the house, a wildly overgrown hedge spilled out from the garden path onto the pavement.

  He was still standing in the middle of the road. Recognising how vulnerable he was, he took cover behind the nearest garden hedge and settled into a surveillance position.

  Looking down, he saw that his hands were shaking.

  From behind the hedge he took a minute or two to process the fact that it was real – the letter, the girl, the situation. Then he peered over the top of the hedge towards the white house.

  They looked like tramps – filthy long hair and beards stretching far beyond their chin. Most of them were dressed in ragged coats and torn jeans, but one of them was clearly wearing the remains of what had once been a tattered suit. It looked similar to the savage in the suit that he’d encountered at the New River two days ago – so similar that he felt a cold chill just looking at the black shape.

  One of the savages laughed. Another let out a guttural howl. He could hear something else too mixed in with all of this – a woman’s voice. She was yelling what sounded like muffled obscenities, telling the savages in no uncertain terms to get away from her house. To get the fuck away from her house. There was anger in her voice, but it could easily have been interpreted as fear.

  No wonder they had built the M25 around London. People had gone crazy. The smartest thing he ever did was to stay away from all this. But now it had come to him.

  Fuck.

  The savages continued to try and get closer to the house. He heard them panting like rabid beasts on a mission. But their clumsy charges would always fail and they would be forced to fall back onto the street. She was fighting them off with courage – a dark, slender shape hovering at the edge of the garden. She held something aloft – a weapon of some sort and she was brandishing it at her attackers with gusto.

  He fell back against the hedge. Why weren’t the savages attacking as a unit? Four against one, it should have been easy. Perhaps they had lost the ability to think strategically. The madness and the heat, not to mention the hunger had blinded them to reason. If that was true then it had kept her alive. So far.

  The savages were waiting it out. They would get what they wanted and it was only a matter of time. He’d sensed how exhausted she was just by reading the letter. And that was how long ago now?

  He looked inside the plastic carrier bag. Immediately he threw it back down again and groaned. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Creative. But now that he’d arrived on site and having seen the things he’d brought with him, it was obvious this was the worst idea he’d ever had.

  But what choice did he have?

  Reaching inside, he pulled out his mother’s high-heeled shoes, followed by her black evening coat that had been folded up into a bundle.

  “Shit,” he whispered. “What am I doing here?”

  He would become a damsel in distress. If those things were so turned on by chasing after a woman, then wouldn’t they try chasing after another one? It wasn’t going to pleasant, but he could at least draw them away from the girl. It would give her a fighting chance to run. Then he would kick off his mum’s shoes, make a run for it and get back to his own life, knowing that he’d done the right thing.

  With a sigh, he pulled off the socks and trainers that had once belonged to his dad. Then he tried to force the heels onto his feet.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He winced as the shoes bit into his skin. It felt as if they were cutting strips of meat off his feet as he pushed down. Why did women put themselves through this torture? But the hardest part was standing up. As he did so, he almost tripped over his feet and toppled through the hedge. Fortunately he regained his balance at the last moment.

  Then he took a deep breath.

  It didn’t matter. The shoes didn’t need to be on for long – just a few seconds to divert the savages away from the house. And when they came running after him, the girl would either take her chances and get out of there or she’d freeze and stay there until they came back. But that wasn’t his problem. He would help her once and then he was getting out of there and back to Stanmore Road.

  He tucked the carrier bag and trainers into the base of the hedge. If needs be, he would come back for them in the morning. Then he straightened up again and put on his mother’s evening coat. Thank God he couldn’t see himself.

  He staggered on his feet like a drunk, swaying from side to side.

  “Cross the street,” he said, pulling the neck of the coat up to try and conceal his shaved head. “Let them see you. They’ll come running. And get the fuck out of there.”

  He tucked the kitchen knife into the sleeve of the coat, blade first so that he could keep a solid grip on the handle. That way he could pull it out quickly if he had to.

  Without any further hesitation, he stumbled onto the street. Doing his best to retain his balance, he pushed the heels hard into the concrete so that the savages would hear the clacking sound over the rest of the noise.

  He hurried across the street.

  Silence. The assault on 15a Langham Road came to a sudden halt. He kept most of his face hidden behind the coat, but he managed to peer out and felt his blood freeze.

  The savages were looking at him. All of them.

  They would come. Any second now. Still the damsel in distress kept moving, staggering clumsily across the street. All the while he tried to ignore the searing pain below as the shoes mutilated his feet. He only hoped that he’d be able to kick off the heels in a hurry when it came time to run for his life. He didn’t want to die like this – wearing a woman’s coat and a pair of high heels.

  But to his surprise, nothing happened.

  The savages weren’t coming after him. He had their attention and that was all. They were looking down the street at the fleeing damsel but doing nothing. Perhaps they weren’t convinced by his less than stellar performance. Who could blame them? As he staggered across the street in his mother’s high heels, he looked less like a damsel in distress and more like a geriatric Swamp Thing on its last legs.

  He couldn’t believe it. They were letting him go. He stopped moving in the middle of the street and turned back to them, watching as the savages renewe
d the assault on 15a Langham Road with a fresh barrage of missiles. The young woman charged at them again, running out towards the street, pointing her knife at them.

  Wincing in pain, he pulled off the shoes. It felt as if his feet had been through the grinder. He wanted to throw the heels away but he couldn’t because they had been his mum’s. Were still his mum’s. He let the knife slip through the coat sleeve of the jacket. Then he removed the garment and laid it down beside the shoes.

  It had been a ridiculous plan. Maybe he’d underestimated the intellect of the savages. Maybe there was still something going on up there in the brain after all. Something human. It didn’t matter – he had to try again and there was only one option left to him – he’d have to charge and fight them off. It was either that or abandon the girl to her fate and then he’d be forced to see her in his nightmares alongside the girl with the tiger paint on her face.

  He grabbed the knife and hurried back across the street in his bare feet. He pulled the plastic bag out from under the hedge and put his socks and trainers back on. Then he put his mother’s shoes and coat back into the bag and pulled out the second of two kitchen knives that he’d brought along.

  Now he held a knife in each hand. He knew that he was capable of doing what had to be done. He had killed by the New River yesterday and he could do it again. Killing was no longer the same thing that it used to be.

  He took off, tearing along Langham Road towards the white house. He let out a scream of mixed emotions, his voice ripping a hole through the night air. In that moment, something happened in his mind. A switch went either on or off. He felt otherworldly and knew that he would succeed. It was as if some sense of indestructibility had entered his body, mind and soul and taken control. He would kill them all. He would go through them or die because they had come into his territory.

  The savages saw him coming. He saw the uncertainty in their black eyes. They took several steps backwards but he picked up the speed, no longer caring whether he saw another sunrise or not. It was all or nothing.

  Three of the savages turned and ran. But one of them – the man in the suit no less, charged to meet him in the middle of the street.

  There was no stopping. He ran through the savage – who was a big man with broad shoulders, built like a welterweight boxer at the peak of his powers.

  He brought both knives down, aiming for the thing’s forehead. He missed and saw the savage roll away, quite expertly so, and get back to its feet. This one seemed more agile than the sloppy tramp he’d encountered by the New River. For a moment, he was concerned. It was going to be a tough fight.

  But then something happened. Without looking back, the beast in the suit turned and ran after his three colleagues. That brief skirmish had been enough to send the thing on its way. There were cries of fear – feral whimpers, as if the savage didn’t understand the need for such brutal treatment at the hands of the stranger.

  But he wasn’t satisfied with letting them get away. They would do the same thing to someone else or more likely they’d be at the New River waiting for him on the next Drop Day.

  He ran after them, still in a daze, still hungry for the kill.

  “Hey!”

  Her voice went through him and he stopped in his tracks. Slowly he turned around and saw her standing in the middle of the street.

  Cristiane Barboza was walking towards him. She carried two knives, one in each hand. There was a strange look in her eyes. Something in between fear and suspicion – unsure of whether the man standing in front of her was friend or foe. Was he someone to be grateful to or was he someone to kill?

  “Hello,” she said, stopping a few feet away from him. Her body was as rigid as a statue. Her eyes looked him up and down, from head to toe.

  He hadn’t seen a woman in a long time. He recalled reading something about Brazil in the letter and certainly she looked like someone who hailed from that part of the world. She was about 5’6 or 5’7, with black hair, a slim build and warm olive skin with a yellowish-gold hue. She was dressed in a grey vest top and black jeans – the vest was soaked in grime and sweat, a testament to the battle for survival that she’d undergone the past two days.

  “Who are you?” she said. Her accent was faint, but exotic nonetheless.

  “I – I got your letter,” he said.

  You’re talking to a real person.

  Her posture loosened a little.

  “You found it? You read it?”

  “It was on my street.”

  “Your street?” she said.

  “Aye,” he said. That was all the information he was willing to share. He certainly wasn’t going to give her the address.

  “They’ll come back,” she said, looking towards where the savages had run off. “They know I’m here now.”

  He said nothing.

  “I’m Cristiane Barboza,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He shook his head. “Does it matter?”

  Barboza raised her eyebrows. “You still have a name, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Walker,” he said. “My name is Walker.”

  Chapter 10

  Immersion 9 – Live Chat Rooms

  Hot Topics - #MrApocalypse

  * * *

  Dennis D: Hoooleeeey shit!

  Gracie: Dude just got himself a GF!! Future Mrs Apocalypse?

  Dennis D: True dat. U cant script the awesomeness of real life.

  Jack Burton: Never knew that girl was living there! Neither did TFL obviously until those rogues turned up at her front door. Fuckwits! Been watching her since the siege started - man she’s tough but I thought she was dead for sure. Them fucking animals were going to rip her to pieces.

  Immersion 9: (ADVERTISEMENT) Hey guys. Is all the excitement in London tonight making you hungry? Click here for a 25% discount on Pizza Farm delivery.

  Gracie: Fuck off I-9!

  Dennis D: Any word on TFL getting cameras INSIDE Mr A’s house? I don’t want to miss what happens next. It’s sexy time!!!

  Jack Burton: @Dennis D - No! Everyone keeps asking but @TFLOfficial always come back with the same thing – ‘we’re exploring the possibilities’ – blah blah blah.

  Dennis D: @JackBurton @TFLOfficial – Get a tech in there to install cameras. How hard is that? Wait till Mr A goes to the New River and get it done in 20mins tops. Have you seen how fast those guys work when they have to? These techs are fucking wizards.

  Gracie: I want cameras in there! I pay £100 a month and the customer is always right.

  Jack Burton: Tonight’s developments will only increase demand. Mr and Mrs Apocalypse! Lol. @TFLOfficial – well? We’re waiting?

  Chapter 11

  What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to offer her something? A drink or a bite to eat? Wasn’t that how it was done back in the day? But there wasn’t much to give besides water. They did put teabags and coffee sachets in the supply parcels, but he’d never cared much for those kinds of drinks as a teenager and had never bothered with the kettle, which he’d discovered some time ago was broken.

  There was some food in the house but he was hesitant to offer her anything like that. It was a big ask. Every morsel in the kitchen was precious and more so now considering the lack of refrigeration. He simply didn’t have the food to spare, at least not for someone he knew so little about.

  Maybe she’d take a multivitamin pill? They always put a lot of those in the supply parcels and there were too many of them lying around the house. But was that enough in terms of hospitality? Would that be considered rude?

  What was he supposed to do?

  “Can I get you something?” he asked. Barboza was sitting on the edge of the leather couch in the living room. Her fingers moved restlessly on the arm of the couch, as if she was trying to scratch something off that wasn’t there. Walker figured a part of her was still back there on Langham Road, fighting off the savages. It was understandable. That had
been her life for the past two days with little respite.

  He was standing at the doorway, awkward and as uncomfortable as he’d ever been in the house.

  “Water please,” Barboza said. “Just a glass of water would be great. Thank you.”

  He nodded, thankful that she hadn’t asked for food.

  In the kitchen he poured two glasses of cold water. He thought about bringing some biscuits into the living room and then decided against it. If she asked for food then he’d provide it; otherwise he’d show the bare minimum hospitality. She was probably more interested in getting her breath back anyway – at least that’s what he told himself.

  Walker returned to the living room. He handed her one of the glasses and she drank it down greedily, like someone who’d just walked out of the desert.

  “Sorry it’s not colder,” he said. “No ice. My fridge-freezer isn’t working. But I’ve been trying to find one in the neighbourhood here. Not that I really want to go looking in any of them but that’s the current project anyway, you know?”

  The words felt clumsy. They stumbled out of his mouth like a drunk leaving the bar at closing time. In comparison his thoughts were so fluid, but he found that articulating them into speech – to anyone other than Alba – was harder than he could remember.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Sit down please.”

  He liked her accent. The vowels came out long and slow.

  Seet down pleeeeze.

  “You’re from Brazil?” he asked, sitting down in the armchair.

  She nodded. “From Curitiba. You know it?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s in the southern part of Brazil. I come here to study. But you know that. I said so in my letter, yes?”

  “I can’t remember everything,” Walker said truthfully.

  She looked longingly into her empty glass. Walker got up and refilled it in the kitchen and then brought it back to her.