Welcome to the apocalypse

by Lee Kerr

  It’s a step too far. Noah starts banging on her window and Poppy stands in the road. No one thinks to help her; everyone is too occupied with their own needs to find the time to care. Hannah looks over to see Agnes watching from the door, her face full of shock. Her sense of shock is nothing compared to the boy’s.

  Hannah is about to open the door, to put them in the backseats and tell them to get down low so that Blake will not see them until they are miles from here, but she is quickly distracted, as she looks up to see Blake punch Simon on the nose. ‘Blake!’ she shouts, as he curls up his arm, cradling his wrist; the in-between boy never quite learnt to fight in school. Despite this, he still hit him hard enough to make blood spurt from Simon’s nose. He grabs his nose and blood spills through the gaps in his fingers. It’s enough for Blake to make a run for it and leap over the gate.

  He’s too quick for Poppy. She tries to reach for him but when she fails she screams, then desperately looks around for someone to comfort her. This life isn’t something she knows, not something she should ever have been expected to cope with.

  Noah seems to have a better idea of what to do and starts to chase after Blake. Hannah watches him move around the car, then she realises Blake is now banging on the driver’s window, his face up close to the glass.

  ‘Let me in!’ he shouts.

  Hannah quickly unlocks the door, looking over at Simon who is now running down the path. Agnes is chasing after him with that dirty tea towel. She turns back around, feeling Blake leap into the car. His screams of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck!’ ring in her ears as he tries to start the car, leaving the door wide open.

  She can hear the voice of the other boy as well; his whining, his begging. ‘Please, Hannah!’ Noah shouts, standing next to Blake. His little hands claw at the plastic seat as he tries to clamber into the car. She turns to see him: that blond fringe, those red eyes. ‘Don’t leave us!’

  She wants to say something in return but she can’t. The words won’t come out and she somehow finds it easier to say nothing, to blame someone else. Maybe this is just how her life is now. Blake certainly won’t object to leaving them. She looks at him as he gets the car started. Suddenly, he realises that the boy is there and moves to close the door. Blake pushes Noah away, forcing him to the floor and out of Hannah’s view. She hears his cries, the screams of terror, but the slamming of the door quickly drowns them out and numbs her pain. She can’t believe he has done that and will never believe what she has failed to do.

  She jumps again, this time at Simon’s angry face at her window.

  He snorts blood over the glass. ‘Open this door and take these children! I’ll leave them in the street if I have to. At best they will be picked up by an army patrol. You cannot imagine the terrible things that could happen to them and remember it will be all your doing.’

  ‘They are your grandchildren!’ Hannah shouts back. ‘Your family!’

  He looks at her now, finding the whites of her eyes and smearing a crimson line down the window. ‘I told you, blood doesn’t matter to me, but will you be able to live with yourself?’

  ‘I think we’ll find a way,’ Blake says, hitting the accelerator.

  The car speeds away and Simon follows for a second, still banging the window, still shouting out what she has caused.

  ‘What have I done?’ she asks, looking at Blake.

  ‘You’ve returned them to their family, that’s what you’ve done,’ he says, his driving erratic and his damaged hand resting on his knee. ‘Bunch of fucking freaks, if you ask me.’

  She turns to look out of the rear window, needing to see the horror that she has caused. She sees Poppy chasing them and Noah rushing to catch up with her, both of them in the middle of the road. Stop, look, and listen is a thing of the past now, a lesson not worth learning. When Poppy realises that she will never catch the car she stops. Noah soon reaches her and immediately wraps both his arms around his little sister.

  Family take care of family, Hannah thinks. But that’s when she turns to see them – the grandparents who didn’t want to be disturbed. She sees Simon, those kids’ flesh and blood, walking back to the house, being pulled by Agnes. She imagines her telling him to hurry, to rush back in and close all the curtains. Shut the gate behind you and maybe they will forget which house it is. They are only young, after all.

  Hannah wants to say it; what she thinks. ‘They’re only young.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Blake says.

  She knows they can’t fend for themselves and that the world is changing by the minute. Bad things are happening everywhere and no one deserves to be alone. She can’t let it be them. She can’t allow it to be her.

  ‘Stop!’ she shouts.

  Blake shakes his head. ‘What the fuck are you saying that for?’

  ‘Stop now.’

  ‘No fucking way.’

  Hannah shakes her head. She knows is better than this and will not go along with the standards of those she shares her time with. She grabs his left hand, pulling one of his fingers back. ‘Stop or I’ll break it, and let’s see you play your stupid games with two broken hands.’

  ‘You silly cow!’ he shouts, slamming on the brakes.

  She lets go of him and the car stops. He takes it out of gear and then takes his time to pull up the handbrake. He looks ahead, only ever forward. ‘All these years since we chose each other in school. It was fate, you know? And now you want to pick them over me.’

  She shakes her head, thinking of that boy she fell in love with. The few facial hairs he had then have somehow turned into a decent beard; she remembers those beautiful blue eyes that once had such energy. That cap, always tilted to one side.

  ‘I can’t leave them,’ she says. ‘And I need you to be more than that boy I fell for in school. I need you to grow into the man I have always wanted, and I need you now more than ever.’ She takes hold of his arm, gripping him in the same way that she has thousands of times before, but this time it feels so different, so desperate.

  ‘I need you, Blake, and we have to do the right thing. We can get through this. I know we can.’

  He turns to face her and she can just about recognise the old Blake. She picked him and he picked her; after that, neither of them was supposed to look back. She doesn’t know if it was a big mistake, but she doesn’t think she has the luxury of time Simon and Agnes had.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, actually nodding. ‘I can’t see you changing your mind on this.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, smiling, half-laughing and squeezing his arm tighter, just where a muscle bulges.

  ‘Go get them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, kissing him all over his face and neck. She leans back and laughs, then leaps out of the car and is soon running towards them. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she shouts, her mind full of excuses and her heart filled with new hope of a bright future. Both of them run to her, their faces smiling and their arms held out. She grabs them both, pulling them closer and shouting how sorry she is, knowing she will shout this for all eternity.

  ‘I will never leave you again!’ she promises, kissing Poppy and grabbing Noah. ‘I’m so sorry but we will protect you, we really will.’

  She walks them forward, still kissing their heads and reassuring them. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She faces forward, not willing to look back, seeing no point in being rejected again.

  That’s when she sees a hand come out of the passenger door and pull it shut.

  ‘Blake?’ she shouts

  The car starts to move forward, not stopping, and soon it’s far away from her and the children. She imagines that Blake is shouting in the car, telling himself that she made her choice and these are the consequences. She feels around in her pocket and soon discovers that the keys to her flat are no longer where they should be.

  ‘Blake!’ she shouts again

  ‘Where is he going? Noah asks, as Poppy starts to cry. She realises they both have a firm hold on her coat and that both of them are now looking up at he
r.

  ‘I chose you, Blake,’ she says to no one. ‘We chose each other, didn’t we?’

  She watches until the car turns a corner, soon out of sight. She knows that this whole thing will soon be out of his mind. He will get his brother and together they will search her flat for anything valuable that they can take. She senses darkness is falling, and she knows that they will never get back there in time. She turns around and the children turn with her. She looks at the house, where Agnes and Simon should be.

  She’s just in time to see the door closing. She imagines several locks turning, and she soon notices movement in the first reception room. She sees Agnes at the window but she doesn’t look out; instead, she removes the tie-backs, gently sorting them and carefully unfolding each layer of the curtain until she is ready to close it.

  They stand in the road, and Hannah watches each light go out in the house. Agnes does the same thing again and again until the house is dark, quiet, and not to be disturbed.

  She turns back around but Blake hasn’t returned. She spots the envelope of notes on the ground and picks it up, suddenly seeing realising that it could have much value in the future.

  ‘What will we do?’ Noah asks.

  She moves them along the path, keeping a tight hold on both of them. She looks at the other houses, but all their curtains are open and the lights are off. There is no movement and no one left. They wait for a while as the sun goes down; she counts how many lights come on and how many curtains are drawn. She only sees a scattering of lights across the entire street, maybe at three or four houses, and she wonders if maybe some of them are automatic. It's obvious that those who wanted to leave have already gone.

  The streetlights don’t come on: the energy curfew is just as strict up here. And as she looks around, she realises that she is now alone with her decision, and she notices how few cars there actually are on the street. In all the rush of the hunt earlier her mind painted a different picture of this leafy suburb she had always wanted to live in. She counts all those empty spaces now; there is ample parking, since so many people have fled to family members or to second homes. She thinks of the journey here, of Blake, and how he did it. He finally achieved something, eventually got them here against all those apparent odds. Maybe those odds weren’t as she imagined, not as tough as he made out, that he can do things when he wants to. She thinks of him now – the boyfriend he could have become, the stretch to a father figure not as impossible as the thought – as she realises the power of a choice and the possibility of a decision. She sees everything now for what it truly is, as she realises that it really was very easy for Blake, after all.

  In all but the darkness

  Monday 22nd August – London

  I think it all started when I watched this couple filling up the boot of their car. What was unusual is that they had only bought water. Bottles of every kind, all stacked neatly and with as little empty space as possible; it was like a game of life-and-death Tetris, only played by the prepared. Still or sparkling – I don’t think it mattered. They were methodical and calm. You could easily have missed it, this small clue to the chaos that was yet to come. I remember standing still, in the middle of the underground car park, watching them as they emptied the contents of two shopping trolleys into the boot. They were so well-organised about it, that I wondered if perhaps they had already made many other trips weeks before the rest of us thought that might be a good idea.

  She saw me, I remember that much. She looked over at me as her husband, partner or whatever he was closed the boot and rushed into the driver’s seat. As she stared back I thought for a moment that she was going to help me, perhaps give me a subtle hint as to what she thought was coming. They were still young, or at least just into whatever middle aged means these days. Anyway, they were old enough to know something about our world and young enough to want to fight to stay in it. But she didn’t say anything, just got into the car, and so I decided to move on, to do my shopping and to continue my usual weekend routine – shopping, eating, crying and forgetting.

  That was weeks ago but I still think back to that moment every single day. I think of those two and I wonder where they are now; I wonder if they got away and if they have found sanctuary, wherever and whatever that could be. Most of all I wish I had been more than a silent observer. I wish I had asked, taken heed – seen the subtle signs that all is not well in this world.

  The news has not been kind and I should know as I’ve been writing half of it. The reports were isolated at first: tales from across the ocean, accounts of horror and fear, stories of impossible things that could only be happening on another part of the planet. It’s funny when you watch people’s reactions on seeing the news. They talk openly about what it means to them, and only then they sometimes wonder if they can possibly help. Charitable donations normally do the trick; they pay and forget, somehow feeling that they have made a difference. The issue will surely be fixed by someone far more capable; someone in authority.

  But it didn’t happen like that this time. It just wasn’t that easy to forget. When the strange occurrences started happening a lot closer to home, in France, for example, that’s when people took notice and thought it might take something more than donating by text to fix this particular problem. As the stories continued and more tales were being told face-to-face, people started to move from denial to open shock, as the truth quickly unfolded that all these bad things were actually happening. Whatever you read in the newspaper or see on the news, it never quite lives up to the real thing. I wonder now if television was invented only to numb us – to put the minds of millions into a constant anaesthetised state of never quite believing. After all, the daily dose of news is usually sandwiched between everyone’s favourite soaps and a film, so who can tell what is real anymore?

  When the country moved from a state of shock to sudden panic I think we actually moved forward as a nation. I think most people were angry at the government for not doing more and just a little pissed at themselves for not being more prepared. I feel eternally thankful that I’m close enough to the news to know more than most. It means that I know that the government has done a good job, whatever anyone else says. Yes, there have been riots, but there are also police everywhere and soldiers stationed all over the capital – like the Olympics defence plan on steroids. I think it has helped to maintain order in more than one way, because if you can keep many thousands busy policing millions then they aren’t adding to the problem. It is a plan that has kept us all busy, but I don’t think anyone thinks they will actually get paid at the end of this month. Despite this fact, many of us have kept going to work – after television, work is probably the next best amnesiac.

  I intended to do the same today. I thought this grey and misty Monday would be just like all the others: that I would trudge down the escalator at Pimlico, wondering if at the end of the day I will return home to the flat I love but can barely afford, or if Western civilisation will finally enter the brink of collapse. Perhaps if it does it will be a good thing, because maybe then I won’t have to pay the mortgage anymore. Instead, I’ll continue being this perpetually single girl living in central London, but now I’ll be fighting off the daily barbarian hordes who want to use and abuse me.

  I always knew it would get to us, especially after many other capitals, from Bangkok to Berlin, went dark. I’ll never understand why we ever thought we would be any different, especially as the stories started to creep across Europe. When the Defence Minister confidently pointed out on Newsnight that we are an island, and perhaps slightly more defendable, someone in the audience quite rightly pointed out that Australia is an island, although a much bigger one, and that didn’t particularly help them.

  I never thought I would say it, but I miss Newsnight.

  I look at that blank television on the wall and I think back to just a few months ago when my dad mounted it up there. Just like every other man-task in my flat, he tackled it with ease. He spent longer listening to the demand
s of two women, Mum and me, while we decided just exactly where it should be placed, than he did installing the brackets. And once he had put it high up and tuned in all the channels, they both kissed me goodbye and wished me well in my first apartment, funded by their savings and my first bonus, ever-hopeful that this would be a new life for me, and a happy one at that.

  I look at my watch and I know I don’t have time. I can hear people shouting outside; it sounds like today is different from other days. There is a slight sense of panic in the air, even more than usual. I pull up a chair below the television and stand on it. I can’t bear the gloom any longer and so I start putting pictures all over the screen, covering each bit of black with a different, happy memory. Within a few minutes it is covered with snapshots of crazy nights out, of my loving parents and of my childhood pets. I step down and stand back, already knowing that this is a better than the dim, lifeless object it had become.

  I know that I could leave the television on and in the first couple of weeks that’s exactly what I did. I left it playing all day, even when I wasn’t in. I would come home to broadcasts of only bad news. The presenters were too familiar to me, their scripts of doom created by my hand several hours earlier. I had written so many reports on countries that had stopped functioning, world leaders who had been confirmed dead and the impact all of this has had on our crumbling society and ruined world economy. The favourite kind of story with our viewers was usually about dead celebrities found in the streets; their bodies mangled and their faces just about recognisable. The faces might have been familiar but the wounds and accompanying stories were normally hideous, although often made up, but I think that maybe this helped others to connect more strongly with what was happening around the world.

  Even those stories dried up, as there were fewer people around to spot the odd famous person who had been seen recently mutilated, and levels of global communication dropped off when the internet was restricted to government use only. So, as the news got worse the updates from around the world got less, and the number of channels still broadcasting was reduced each day. Now it’s only the good old BBC left. Some say this is the government taking control but anyone with half a brain knows they have bigger things to worry about.