I stood in the centre of the room attempting to gather the whole scene in my head and lock it away so that I could revisit the memory whenever I felt the need. My eyes took in the sooty old stove, the tatty bright blankets, my bookshelf, the rickety old table and chair and my insides shrivelled into a tiny knot in my throat.
“Goodbye Mona,” I mouthed the words that I could not bring myself to speak.
I did not look back. Sal and I lifted up our feet, and we headed for Limehouse - the gateway between the River Thames and the canals.
There is no towpath in the tunnel so Sal and I would have to go around. The Guide referred to a trail that leads to the other end of the tunnel. Supposedly, it was marked by waymarkers set into the ground. We found it almost straight away. The trail ran west to east from Muriel Street and then passed through a small residential area, into Maygood Street, Penton Street, and Chapel Market. From there we followed it along Liverpool Road, across Upper Street at the Angel Underground Station and through Duncan Street, which took us back onto the towpath at the other side of the tunnel.
London was like the set of a Zombie movie. Many of the buildings had been burned to the ground. Blackened ruins lined almost every road. There were rats everywhere, and they were huge, as big as cats. They were not afraid of us either, blatantly going about their business as if we were invisible. They seemed to know that they owned the place now, the streets were their domain. I half expected them to surround and challenge us, like a welcoming committee of fury Munchkins. 'I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore...'
Nervously, I increased my pace. It did not take us long to get to Limehouse. In Elizabethan times the Limehouse area was home to a busy dock. Today, it housed a large marina with a collection of gaudy narrowboats, some elegant yachts, and expensive ocean-going pleasure craft. I had hoped, when we got there that we could find another boat like Mona to spend the night in, but we never got the chance to look around.
A blast of frantic barking and howling stopped us in our tracks. It sounded like a large pack, and they were gaining on us fast, their frenzied barking growing louder by the second. I shouted for Sal to run and she ran, bounding along beside me, the fanny pack bouncing around on her shoulders until it worked its way around between her legs, unbalancing her. She hobbled towards me. Untying the bag, I upended it, scattering kibble all over the ground. I saw the dogs then, galloping towards us, about a mile behind us on the towpath.
We ran on until every breath burned in my chest and my legs shook, my feet growing more unsteady with each painful step. This was why I was always last to be picked for team games. My legs dissolved into jelly, and I fell, face first, hitting my head on the concrete path. If it had been a watermelon, the sweet red innards would have been spread all over the track.
I lifted my head; it felt too heavy for my neck to support, so I placed my arm under my chin and turned to look behind. My eyes refused to focus, all I could see were blotchy shapes, milling about behind me. I could hear weird snorting, snuffling sounds - like pigs. The dogs were devouring the kibble. Seconds later they were upon us. Through bleary eyes, I caught sight of the pack leader. The beast approached, in seconds he was in front of me, one frosted eye looking straight into mine… It couldn’t be - Fang? The dog snarled, opening its jaws.
There was an ear-splitting crack before the dog's skull shattered, its brains exploding into the air, splattering my face like warm, sticky, rain.
Then the world went black.
28th July
Safe Haven
The air smelled different - sterile. It reminded me of the early days of the pox when the scent of disinfectant was everywhere. That was the first thing I noticed. The second thing was the silence. It was if I was in a bubble, cut off from the world. The familiar sounds of nature had vanished, replaced by a dull mechanical hum. My first coherent thought was that I was inside the underground bunker at PINDAR unless the afterlife was run by a team of germ-phobic medics. That really would be ironic - Ma had accused many a doctor of playing God.
On my first attempt to open my eyes, I couldn’t make anything out at all. I was instantly blinded by the stark, glaring light bouncing off the white painted walls. From then on, each time I attempted to peek through my lashes, it felt as if someone was driving a hammer repeatedly into my skull. Eventually, I managed to squint out into the room.
I had been right; I was in some kind of infirmary. Everything was white; sheets, pillowcases, the walls, the doors, even the floor was covered with glossy white tiles. It was then I noticed the most amazing thing. The room was lit by two large strip lights - there was ELECTRICITY.
Someone had unpacked my bag and put my diary, Girl Guide Handbook and sketchpad on the bedside cabinet next to the bed. My clothes had been laundered and were folded neatly on the chair, and I was wearing one of those awful starched white hospital gowns that tie up at the back.
I jumped as a plump, elderly woman barged in, swinging the door open with her foot. She had a large tray in her hands. Her wavy, shoulder length, grey hair had been tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. A cheerful smile sprang instantly to her lips, reminding me immediately of my fifth-grade teacher. No matter what the situation, Mrs. Roberts could always produce that smile, even Tommy Jacobs messing his pants couldn’t put a dent in it.
The woman introduced herself as Nicola Doubleday and said I should call her Nikki as everyone else did. She was chatty and friendly without appearing to try too hard. I liked her right away.
According to Nikki, four survivors were living here. The names she spoke were familiar, I think they were the same people mentioned in the flier I found. Nikki’s role was to take care of the physical needs of the group, cooking the food, providing nursing care when it was required and generally ensuring that everyone had whatever they needed to be comfortable.
Nikki worked as a care assistant before the outbreak. Afterward, she volunteered to help in the hospitals. She was one of the few people to carry a natural immunity and did not even get ill, though she had watched, helpless, as one by one her whole family died from the pox. It isn't difficult for me to imagine how that felt.
Nikki put the tray of food on the table beside my bed, but I couldn’t eat or drink a thing. Sal was nowhere to be seen. I felt guilty that it had taken so long to notice. When I asked her where my dog was, she looked puzzled.
“I don’t think there was a dog with you when they found you,” she said, “but I will check if you like.”
As she was speaking her attention was taken by the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
“That will be Dr. Sayer,” Nikki looked relieved, “you can ask him about your dog, he will know.”
Dr. Sayer looked every inch the nutty professor. An extremely tall, bespectacled man, he owned a mop of thick dark hair which was almost as unruly as my own. His shirt had more creases than a marauder’s map and his stethoscope, and white coat was conspicuous by their absence.
I discovered later it was because he is not a medical doctor. Dr. Sayer is a scientist with a Ph.D. in Astrophysics.
He asked me a few questions about the outbreak and seemed unusually interested in the fact that I had recovered from the pox. After saying that I should call him Greg, he told me that we had something in common. He had also become ill and recovered. Apparently, people like us are significantly rarer than those who are immune. Almost everyone who had become ill had died. They have found only twenty-two survivors in the whole of England. Of those, only the two of us had recovered from the disease, everyone else survived because they had been immune.
He explained that the remaining seventeen of their group had moved to Norfolk to set up a community farm in a large Eco Village. Dr. Greg, Nikki, and two others had chosen to stay here and continue to search for other survivors. He asked to take a swab of my saliva. I told him that he could do whatever he wanted once he brought me Sal.
Things got weird then.
"I'm sorry Harper," he said, "but there was no
dog with you when we found you."
He rubbed his chin and his brow creased like mine does when I am trying to figure something out.
"I was with Peter Swartz, our chopper pilot," he said. "We saw you from the helicopter a couple of days ago and decided to drive out and see if we could locate you. We saw the dogs attacking you and Pete shot the big husky in the head. The rest of the pack scattered almost immediately. What sort of dog is Sal?"
I took my sketchbook of the top of the cabinet and showed him my sketch of her.
"She's a tricolour Collie," I said, "I sketched that a couple of weeks ago."
“Sorry,” he shook his head, “the dogs I saw were all big dogs, Alsatians, Rottweilers and the like. I think I would have noticed a Collie. Good sketch, though.”
His expression was sympathetic, but I don’t think it was sympathy for my lost dog. It was the kind of look you give a child when they discover there is no Santa Claus. He didn’t believe I had a dog.
“You know, isolation can do strange things to people,” Dr. Sayer put a hand on my shoulder - I shrugged it off.
“We are not well adapted to being alone." He ignored my rebuff. "Humans are social animals, and isolation plays tricks with our minds. I have no doubt that Sal was very real to you. Believing in her allowed you to cope with a genuinely terrifying situation, one that no child should have to endure. Now that you have found us; real, human company, maybe your unconscious mind recognises that you no longer need Sal.”
This man may mean well, but he is talking utter crap. Because if there is anyone on this planet more perfectly adapted to being alone than me, then I'm Princess Charlotte - and I can promise you I have never worn a tiara in my life. I struggled through a childhood worthy of inclusion in a Dickens novel, without a single imaginary friend. So why would I invent one now? Sal is real, and I will not let her down. The very first opportunity I get, I will be out of this place and back at the canal.
Grudgingly, I let him take a swab of saliva, and they left me to eat my meal and to 'get some rest.'
I heard them discussing me in the corridor after they left my room.
"It's not surprising that the poor girl is confused," said Nikki, "she must have been through Hell and back, a child like that alone for the best part of a year."
"And yet she made it all the way here, " said Dr. Sayer, " alone and in one piece. That girl is one tough cookie."
He sounded impressed and mumbled something else as they walked away. I couldn't quite make out his words, but I felt a surge of pleasure at his obvious admiration.
I got out of bed to look for my rucksack. It was propped up against the wall, behind the bedside cabinet. I tipped everything onto the floor. There, amongst the food and other supplies were Sal’s rubber bone and brush. I clasped them to me.
Sal has to be real. It’s not possible that I imagined her. I'm not imagining these - I turned the objects over in my fingers, examining them carefully. One perfectly clean dog’s toy, noticeable for the absence of tooth marks in the rubber, and Sal's brush, not a single hair amongst its bristles.
29th July
Friends in Need
I cried myself to sleep last night. Whether Sal is real or not, losing her has left me feeling more alone than ever before. Waking up without her head resting beside me, no tongue flicking out to kiss the tip of my nose; it was almost too much to bear. That adorable, stubborn little Collie has stolen my heart, and these people will never be able to fill the hole that she has left. I do not know them, and I dare not trust them. I wish I had not come here. If I had stayed on the canal with Sal, I would still have a heart.
Okay, so you are probably thinking that I should stop feeling sorry for myself, that I should be grateful to have found some people who are willing to look after me, to feed and protect me. But Sal is not here - she was supposed to be with me. 'What screws us up most in life is the picture in our head of what is supposed to be...'
People have always let me down - Sal never did.
I met the other two today at breakfast. I must have looked a sight, my eyes all red and swollen from crying. Nikki did not attempt to hide her concern when she arrived to take me down to the canteen. She put her arm around my shoulder. I tried not to flinch, but old habits die hard.
In the canteen, the others were seated at a large table set with a selection of crockery. At its side was a trolley laden with cartons of fruit juices, boxes of cereals, milk, tea and coffee.
A burly looking black man pulled out a chair for me and introduced himself as Peter Swartz. He had been an Army pilot before the pox. It was Peter who had flown the helicopter. A stereotypical soldier, he wore his old uniform khakis. I should not judge, after all, I continue to wear my Girl Guide Jeans, despite them being threadbare in places and the hems of both legs having waved goodbye to my ankles months ago. I guess clinging on to the memories of past roles is comforting. Maybe Peter and I have similar coping strategies; perhaps he has an imaginary dog waiting for him somewhere too.
Peter was the first to arrive at PINDAR. He knew about the place from his work with the army. Cheerfully, he explained that this situation was exactly what the site was built for - to enable people to survive Armageddon.
He had come here after it became apparent that the pox had wiped out practically everyone on the planet. He began searching for survivors straight away. It was Peter who had brought the group together. There was a fully equipped emergency radio station, so Peter recorded a message telling everyone where to come and then played it over and over on a loop. A few people were savvy enough to find a battery operated radio and scan the wavelengths for emergency transmissions and found the place that way. However, Pete contacted the majority of survivors the way that he had contacted me - by dropping flyers from the chopper. The bunker has its own power generator, recycled air, and water systems, and there is enough food to feed us all comfortably for years.
He broke off, apologizing for rambling on before, sheepishly, introducing me to the last member of the group, a boy of around my age, maybe a little older. The boy had barely acknowledged me when I entered the room. Brushing back a mop of brown hair from his eyes, he presented me with a silent nod as he poured milk into his cereal bowl.
“Harper this is Jess... Jess Malone,” Pete sounded hesitant, “Jess, this is Harper - McKenzie is it?” I nodded.
Turning to Jess, Pete said rather pointedly, “It’ll be fun for you to have someone of your own age around, I expect. Maybe it will bring you out of your shell a bit.”
“Whatever...” Jess said, snorting, and without lifting his eyes from his food.
Peter shrugged, tossing me a sympathetic look as he passed me a bowl.
So, my first meeting with Jess Malone was not exactly a positive one, and he did little to change my opinion of him when, at Nikki’s request, he took me on a tour of the facility after breakfast.
I try not to judge people too quickly, first impressions can so often be wrong, and they do take a lot of shifting. 'You never get a second chance to make a first impression.'
My first impression of Jess could be described in one word - sullen. I have no issue with him being sullen. After all, he has likely been through pretty much what the rest of us have. However, the way Jess dresses would once have been a red flag to me. He wore his jeans hung low, the 'fashionable' way, with their hems dragging on the floor as he walked. Consequently, they were badly frayed. I fought the urge to grab hold of them and hitch them up. I liked his black leather jacket, though; it was similar to my own, lots of zips and metal studs. I picked mine up from a store after the pox. I would never have been able to afford one before. Jess wore his over a white Hollister t-shirt with A & F New York City emblazoned across the front. I have never been much into wearing fashionable clothes with ‘labels.' They were way too expensive for a start, anyhow, who wants to be a walking advertising board and pay extra for the privilege.
Jess showed me around the bunker at a pace that would have made a roadrunner baulk.
He pointed out each room using a monosyllabic grunt - “Store,” “Rec,” “Ops,” “Coms,” “Loo.” When he waved an arm towards a door with a sign for ‘shower room, I was expecting to discover that he could speak in words of more than one syllable, but I was wrong. As if he were engaged in some kind of secret game, he hitched his mouth at one corner and said “Bath.”
30th July
Written in the DNA
To say I am shocked is beyond an understatement. Understatement is like saying that the journey to Mars is a bit of a trip or the pox was somewhat contagious. We British are famous for our restraint. Maybe that is why I am struggling to find exactly the right words to explain how I am feeling at this moment. No, it’s no good, I can’t think of a single word that sums it up, so I am going with a combination - how about gobsmacked, amazed, astounded, astonished and completely discombobulated?
Dr. Sayer dropped a bombshell this morning. He came to my room before breakfast, Nikki was with him - for moral support maybe. I twigged that something was up when he insisted that I sit down. What I am going to tell you now is unbelievable, and yet so earth-shattering that it has to be written down or I’ll begin to wonder if the whole thing is in my head - like Sal.
The Last Girl Guide: Diary of a Survivor Page 8
