Dear Diary, if you were a real person you would probably be looking at me now as if I was some kind of demented moron and be shouting something like: “What are you nuts? Send a signal - build a fire - do something - anything - so the pilot can whisk you to safety where you will no longer have to face all this crap alone.”
I can understand you thinking that believe me, I can, but what you have to understand is that my experience with people, has not exactly been what you might call positive.
I heard that chopper and all I felt was fear. It was the unnerving realisation that if anyone found me, there would be no going back. My destiny would once again be controlled by others, by strangers, each of whom would have their own agenda, which may or may not align with my own.
The pox changed everything. Who knows what humans will become now that there is no civilization, no infrastructure, and no law to moderate our baser instincts. From my experience humankind was not all that ‘kind’ before. So if we go with the saying, ‘better the devil you know’ - then the devil you don’t know can only be worse. Okay, so maybe Mrs. Herod was right - I am a loner.
Curiosity got the better of me, though, so I went up on deck. The chopper was much further away than it sounded. It was hovering somewhere over Worksop. Paper fliers streamed from the belly of the beast, falling like giant confetti over the town. At least I suspected that they were paper leaflets. I couldn’t be sure because I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I hadn’t worn them for years, so everything more than a few yards away was somewhat fuzzy. Apparently, my poor eyesight was my father's fault.
I never knew my dad, and my Ma hardly ever spoke of him, but there was that one time when I was on the bus, and I discovered that I could not read the road signs. I was around eleven, I think. Ma took me to see Doctor Jackson and when he told her I was short sighted she almost blew a gasket.
“Well it doesn’t come from my family,” she said as if he had told her that I had inherited some dangerous psychopathic tendencies. “It’s from her father’s side. No one in my family ever had anything wrong with their eyes. She gets the ugly, geeky genes from her dad.”
She got me some glasses on the National Health. They had thick black frames and made me look like a forty-year-old librarian. Needless to say, I conveniently lost them the following week.
Now of course, because I could not be certain, I had to find out what the ‘confetti’ was - my curiosity was well and truly piqued. I ignored the most applicable tongue tattoo as it began repeating in my head - Curiosity killed the cat, Curiosity killed the cat, Curiosity…
I packed my backpack, and then Sal and I walked into town. I wasn’t going to take Sal with me at first, as she is still a little weak, but the tenacious little beast was not about to let me go and leave her behind. The howling started the second I latched the door. Believe me, it really was pathetic. The saddest sound in the world and she scratched at the door so hard that I thought she might hurt herself. So I relented and took her with me.
I pulled the gangplank down onto the towpath, I didn’t want to come back to find that Fang had gotten on board and eaten all our supplies, or even worse - discover he was still there. So I stowed it at the side of the path.
We followed the Cuckoo Way into Worksop. I hadn’t been into town since the last days of the outbreak when it was a giant mausoleum littered with corpses in various stages of decomposition. I hoped that they were gone by now, but wasn’t sure what to expect, and was I relieved to find the streets were relatively clear of human remains. Though, we walked by a few dismembered bones, peppered with teeth marks and deep gouges. Some had been cracked open, the marrow scraped out. I got a little twitchy then, so I kept a close watch on Sal. I figured she would sense company a long time before I did.
It’s only been a year since the outbreak. You have to hand it to Mother Nature - she doesn’t waste any time taking back what’s hers. Grass and weeds have pushed their way through the tarmac on the roads, and in some places, the footpaths are completely covered with vegetation.
Maybe that was not too surprising, what I did find surprising, though, was the amount of litter about. It was everywhere; plastic cartons, tins, bottles. Where can it all have come from? Perhaps it's the mess left over from when the dogs and other animals were raiding bins for food.
After the pox, the corpses fed more than just maggots and dogs. Regular diners included cats, foxes, rats and of course the birds - I saw Magpies, Crows, Gulls and Buzzards all filling their beaks with bite-sized pieces of what was once someone’s daughter or son. Once, before I moved into Mona, I saw a family of hedgehogs dining ‘alfresco’ on the corpse of a child. Beatrix Potter must be turning in her grave. 'Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's nose went sniffle, sniggle, snuffle...'
I learned all about survival of the fittest in school, but it seems that nature is its own teacher. Wild animals don't have to read Darwin to understood the rules of life, every animal on the planet appears to have grasped the concept without the benefit of a biology class; Eat - Survive - Reproduce - Repeat.
The thing is, even with a bounty of over sixty million corpses in the UK, the natural world’s free lunch wasn’t going to last forever. With all the people gone, there is no food waste and no road kill. This has resulted in birds such as crows and magpies, becoming almost as dangerous as the dogs. That's why I always carry an umbrella in my backpack. It has saved me from an aerial attack on many an occasion. Though, come to think of it, I haven't seen any about recently. Perhaps some birds relied on humans a little too much.
It wasn’t long before we saw the first of the fliers. I gathered a few from the roadway, they were all identical - big black letters on a white background.
‘If you are reading this please know that
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
We are a small group of survivors looking for others who wish to join our community.
If you are interested, please make your way to White Hall in London.
We have taken refuge in the PINDAR Bunker - full details outlined overleaf.’
On the reverse of the flyer, there were a few facts about the bunker, a map, and instructions on how to contact members of the group when you arrived. It was signed by a Peter Swartz, Nikki Doubleday, Jess Malone and Dr. Gregory Sayer. So I guess there are at least four other human beings alive in the world along with me. Apparently, the PINDAR Bunker is a ‘protected crisis management facility,’ equipped with a broadcasting studio and accommodation stocked to enable Ministers, senior military, civilian personnel and support staff, to survive a nuclear Armageddon for several years. A club meant only for the privileged few. 'The history of the world is the history of the privileged few'. - Henry Miller
'You are not alone...' I contemplated those words all the way back to the towpath and found myself smiling - I am not Neil Armstrong after all. I wondered if I should try and get there, until the enormity of the task hit me. London is a ridiculously long way from here and walking, or cycling was out of the question. It would be much too dangerous. The only way I could travel safely would be to take Mona, and attempting to navigate hundreds of locks by myself would be a foolish undertaking and almost certainly be doomed to failure.
As if underlining my fears, our luck ran out just as Sal and I turned the corner onto the wharf. As I had predicted, Sal sensed the danger long before I would have, stopping abruptly in her tracks, her ears pricked. The thick mantle of hair around her collar bristled. Nervously, my eyes scanned the wharf, but if there was a threat there, I couldn't see it. Then, I heard a deep, rumbling growl emanating from behind the hedgerow a few feet behind us. Its branches rustled as Fang, and two of his pack pushed their way through onto the towpath.
We had little option but to run. Mona was only about fifty yards away, but it may as well have been fifty miles. There was no way that we could outrun those dogs.
I yelled at Sal calling her name as I ran, but they were on us in seconds.
I felt no pain as the dog pulled me down. I read once that the brains
of prey animals release endorphins which reduce the perception of pain and stress as they are being devoured alive. I don't know if it was endorphins, but something happened. It was as if I was viewing the scene through a slow motion camera.
Maybe it was all the adrenaline shooting through my bloodstream as the animal clamped its jaws around my left ankle. Maybe it was in my genes - Eat - Survive - Reproduce - Repeat. Whatever it was, I found strength from somewhere. One thing I knew for certain - I was not going to be eaten alive.
I screamed like a banshee, kicking the frenzied animal as hard as I could with my other foot. Sal, who had been well ahead of me, swung around and raced back. Lunging at the animal, she threw her whole weight at the body of my attacker. I heard the sound of my jeans tearing and felt the excruciating pain of the hound's teeth as they were ripped from my flesh. Endorphins are overrated. Sal hit the other dog so hard that they did summersaults down the towpath.
All three of the dogs turned their attention to Sal, attacking her, snapping and biting at her in unison. Sal attempted to fight back, but she was little match for a full grown Husky, two Alsatians, and a Rottweiler. I remembered the Springer Spaniel from the trailer park and how I hid away, impotent and ashamed of my inadequacy. I would not hide away this time. I looked around for something I could use as a weapon and spotted the gang plank I had left at the side of the path.
Lifting the board high into the air, I brought it down as hard as I was able, swinging blindly at the group. There was a loud yelp as I landed a heavy blow on Fang's back. Forgetting Sal for a second, the dogs turned their attention back to me.
Fang’s eyes fixed on me. His scarred snout drew back over two rows of chipped yellow teeth, dripping with saliva. The others moved around me, circling the two of us like wolves - shoulders high, heads low, eyes locked on target.
I held up the plank ready to swing. I knew I could not win this fight, not like this. As the dogs charged, I heaved the plank at them. The pack scattered. It would take them barely a second to regroup and charge again. Lurching sideways, I grabbed Sal and, bundling her into my arms, I jumped into the canal.
The murky green water was ice cold and stagnant. Grabbing Sal's collar I dragged her into the middle of the waterway. I tread water as she paddled beside me. It must have been a struggle for her to keep afloat with such a long, thick coat.
Fang was joined by more of his pack, there was at least a dozen of them now, snarling, barking and pacing backward and forwards along the side of the bank. Fang and the two Alsatians stood teetering on the edge of the wharf as if readying themselves to follow us in. I felt sure that sooner or later they would. Eventually, though, the pack began fighting amongst each other.
I took hold of Sal’s collar, pulling her with me as I swam towards Mona. Then, grabbing hold of one of the rope fenders that hung around the boat, I pulled myself up and climbed back on board, leaving Sal paddling frantically in the water. Taking one of the bright yellow lifejackets, I lowered myself down to Sal and tied it around her so I could winch her up. By the time I got her back on board, we were both exhausted.
Now, as I am writing this, we are both snuggled up, next to the stove, wrapped in blankets. I have cleaned and bandaged my leg and dressed Sal’s wounds. So, if you are up there Ma, thanks for suggesting I joined the Girl Guides. It was one of the best things you ever did for me. That first aid badge may not be the biggest or brightest badge I earned, but it has been by far the most useful. I am so glad I had taken the course before the pox took hold and they cancelled all our meetings.
I left one of the fliers we picked up this morning on the top of the stove to dry, the paper has turned brown, and its edges are curling up like autumn leaves.
The dogs are still out there. I can hear them snarling and fighting on the towpath. The decision has been made for us. It is not safe here now, we have to leave, and if we have to go somewhere, then it may as well be London. 'The line between life and death is determined by what we are willing to do… ' - Bear Grylls.
17th July
Little By Little One Travels Far
The howling, growling and fighting went on for most of the night. Needless to say, I got little sleep. The dogs finally fell silent in the early hours of this morning, and Sal and I managed to get a few hours sleep. However, it was a fitful sleep and just before dawn, when I was sure the pack had long gone, I untied the barge, fired up the engine and Sal, and I said goodbye to Cuckoo Wharf.
We were beginning what was likely to be an epic of a journey, and like all epic adventures, there were a few things that we needed to acquire before we set off - just to be safe. "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door."
So, we headed for the Boat Supply Shop and Cafe at Osberton, a few miles along the canal. It was opened a few months before the outbreak. Our Guide Pack was amongst their fist customers. We ate our breakfast there on the first morning of our trip. The shop and cafe were converted from an old boathouse - it had such good ice cream. I was hopeful that we would be able to get everything we needed from there.
We arrived just after dawn when the mist was swirling above the canal like wispy clouds over the night sky. The air smelled damp and fresh, but for the occasional whiff of diesel oil from the engine. I love the smell of mornings on the canal, it's as if the mist washes everything old away so that each new day can start a fresh. The birds had completed their morning chorus, and it was relatively quiet, the only noise being the dull, throbbing, strum of the barge’s engine. I find it’s rhythm strangely comforting.
I steered Mona towards the wharf, but she bumped along the side of the jetty for a few yards before I was able to bring her to a halt. Despite us missing a gang plank, I was able to jump across onto the wharf and tie up without much trouble. I intended to pick another plank up later from one of the abandoned barges we passed as we approached the dock.
The Store was locked, so I had to break in. It wasn’t difficult, I used a large stone to break the glass in the door and twisted open the latch.
The morning sunlight streamed in through the two skylights, picking out tiny particles of dust as they glittered and danced in the air. Inside, it seemed that every conceivable space had been woven with an intricate net of spiders silk. I don’t think that I have mentioned it before - but you should know - I am not a big fan of spiders.
Grabbing a broom from a rack by the door, I waved it around, dislodging swathes of webs and sending hundreds of eight-legged creatures scurrying for safety. I’ve never understood the argument that you shouldn’t fear spiders because they are so much smaller than us - you can’t get much tinier than a virus and look how that turned out.
It was a valuable shopping trip. I stuffed a large hunting knife, a flare gun and two boxes of flares, some OS maps, and guide of the canal system into my backpack. There were some shelves filled with canned groceries and pet supplies, so I got some kibble, canned meat and box of dog treats for Sal. Then, on the way back to Mona, we searched the three barges and a motorboat moored at the wharf and picked up a gangplank and five large cans of fuel.
Once the sun came up the weather was glorious. Hot sunshine and clear skies, combined with the merest of breezes kept us comfortably warm. I put on my Girl Guide baseball cap and slathered some sunscreen over my face and arms. Though I have dark hair, my skin is very pale, and I have blue eyes. Ma said that those three characteristics - fair skin, blue eyes, and auburn hair were due to my Celtic blood. It seems that we Celts burn quickly, so I have to take care in the sun.
After we had eaten breakfast Sal and I sat on the deck, and I looked through the maps. There was a small booklet on the Cuckoo Dyke, and the introduction to the Canal Guide told me exactly what I needed to know - how to get to London.
‘The Chesterfield Canal is in the north of England, and it is known locally as 'Cuckoo
Dyke'.[1] It was opened in 1777 and ran for 46 miles (74 km) from Chesterfield, Derbyshire to meet the River Trent at the West Stockwith junction, Nottinghamshire.
At Trent Lock, the River Trent joins the River Soar which cuts through the Loughborough countryside to join Grand Union Canal at Leicester and enables further travel on to the city of London.’
The biggest problem is going to be negotiating the locks. I know how to operate them, we passed through a great many on our last Guide trip, but I had never attempted to get through any alone. Mrs. Gates, and Jenny Crask, our Guide Leaders did most of the work getting us through the locks, the rest of us just did what we were told. By the end of the trip, I thought I had a good idea how to work everything, but now, a couple of hundred yards in front was our first Lock, and I felt inadequate.
Even if I did manage to pass through this one without any issues, I knew I would need to gain the skill and confidence to negotiate several more in quick succession. There are literally hundreds of them between here and London. 'Great things never come from comfort zones.' The only sure way of finding out whether I could do it, though, was to do it - if you never try, you'll never know. So, I read through the Lock Guide, untied the mooring rope and started the engine.
Sal stood, her front paws resting on the side of the boat. She leaned into the breeze as we glided towards the lock. It reminded me of a time before the pox, when Marion invited me to go to Brighton with her family. I had never been on holiday before, in fact, I had never seen the sea before then - except on TV.
The Last Girl Guide: Diary of a Survivor Page 3
