The End: An Apocalyptic Novel

by Matt Shaw

  Don’t be stupid. You need the bag.

  Chapter 2

  I fell back against a thick oak tree. Not sure if I have run far enough but I can’t go any further. I can barely catch my breath as it stands. I have dots in my vision. Sudden exercise along with a severe case of dehydration is not a good place to be. I blinked hard and continued to do so until the stars dissipated. Once they had, I concentrated on slowing my heart rate down and steadying my breathing. I should be fit now. The amount of walking, climbing… I should be fit.

  It’s in the lungs.

  I swallowed a huge breath and held it without moving. I listened hard. I can’t hear any whispered orders between people hunting me. I couldn’t hear footsteps crunching on leaves, twigs or anything else that could make a noise. I think they’ve stopped chasing. I think I’m safe. Slowly, I let the breath back out and slid down the tree until I was sitting on the dirt using the trunk as a backrest. Can’t stay here for long. I need to keep moving in the opposite direction. Just a couple of minutes though. Just a couple of minutes to start building my strength back up.

  Something cracked from somewhere close by, behind me. Carefully I peered around the tree I was leaning on and surveyed the area with a quick scan of my eyes. I can’t see anyone. Maybe I hadn’t heard anything? My imagination? Or was it something falling from this tree? Perhaps I disturbed it enough when I fell back against it for one of the branches to break from up above? It makes sense.

  Still scanning the area, there’s definitely no one there. They probably didn’t want to stray too far from their meal - not for one man’s rucksack. An immediate food source is always more important than the possessions of another man.

  Still scanning.

  I’m clear.

  I turned back facing forwards and froze on the spot as cold metal pressed up against my throat.

  “Don’t fucking move.”

  A tall man was standing to my right. How had I missed him? How had he managed to creep up on me? I was listening. I’d gotten away. I was faster than them. I had gotten away. I went to speak and he responded by digging the blade harder against my skin.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I stammered, swallowing hard whilst wondering whether it would be the last time I did such an action.

  “Give me the bag and I’ll let you go!” he hissed. He doesn’t know me. He has no reason to. But if he had, he would have known I’d used the line on someone before. The same exact sentence. The man I said it to - he gave me the bag as I had instructed. I did not let him go despite my promise. No choice. If I had let him go, if there had been anything of value to the man in the bag - he wouldn’t have stopped hunting me down until he’d managed to get it back. You take the bag with minimal commotion and then - as harsh as it sounds - you put them down hard enough to ensure they don’t get back up.

  This isn’t the man I was before the world changed. I never asked to be this man either. The choice was taken from me due to circumstances beyond my control. Kill or be killed. That’s how it is now. That’s why I try my best to avoid scenarios such as this one.

  “You hear me? I said - give me the fucking bag.”

  “I heard you but…” He pressed the knife harder still against my throat. Has he drawn blood yet? “…I can’t give you the bag until you move the knife away.” The way I was slumped back against the tree; I was pinning the bag between my body and the thick trunk. Can’t exactly move forward when I had a knife pressed against my throat. Not without cutting myself anyway.

  The man hesitated a moment before easing the pressure off my neck - not a lot, but enough at least to make it more comfortable for me.

  “I need to stand up,” I said. The rucksack was over both shoulders. Two straps wrapped round my chest and clipped at the front. I could have taken it off, slumped back against the tree, but it would have been a hassle. Certainly easier to stand and then take it off. “That okay?”

  “Just don’t fucking trying anything funny. I’ve killed people.” In this day and age you know better than to question whether there is any weight behind their claim. I’m not a bad person yet I’ve also killed people. It’s usually because I have been put in the position where I had no choice but I don’t think God looks at circumstances when he is judging you at the Pearly Gates. He just sees that you’ve taken a human life.

  No worries. God is dead.

  Slowly I stood up. My hands raised either side of my head.

  “You got a piece?” he asked. He meant, was I carrying a weapon? I shook my head.

  “I’m going to unclip the straps, okay?” With my left hand I pointed down to the rucksack’s clips stretched from the bag, round my chest and clipped together at the front. He nodded but made a point of aiming the tip of the knife blade at me. I unclipped the restraints and they fell either side of my body. “Your friends not with you?” I asked. No sound around us. Had his friends bothered to come with him, to back him up or had they gone back to where they’d originally seen me - more concerned with the meal that was waiting for them.

  “Just give me the fucking bag.”

  “Sure you can find your way back to them okay? We’ve come quite far.”

  “I’ll cope.” He suddenly became more frustrated, “Hurry the fuck up.”

  “If it’s all the same, I’d rather go nice and slowly so as not to panic you into doing something we’d both regret.”

  “You always a smart-arse?”

  The temptation was to say ‘yes’ but I bit my tongue. Smart-arses tend to be one of the first to die because the person threatening them grows tired of their lip. They’re usually used as an example to anyone else who may be a part of the confrontation. Just like the hunter killed the man who’d put the animal out of his misery. It was a show of strength. It was an example to everyone else to ensure no one else challenged him.

  Slowly I slid one arm from the shoulder strap and then, when free, the second arm. I caught the bag before it landed on the floor. Now I was standing in front of the knife-wielding idiot with both arms stretched out to the side of me, the bag in my left hand.

  “Good, now put it on the floor.”

  “I can’t. The floor is wet. It’s an old bag. Not waterproof. They don’t make them like they used to.”

  They don’t make them anymore full-stop.

  “It’ll dry. Just put it on the fucking ground.”

  I sighed. He might not care but I do. I don’t want the contents getting damp.

  “You think I am fucking with you?” He paused a moment before, “Did you want to die today?”

  I can’t die today. Not yet. Not until I’ve done what I need to do. Need to keep going. If it wasn’t for the task at hand, I wouldn’t care though. The way I see it, we’re all dying now anyway. I mean, we were before the world went to shit but now… Now our deaths are being sped up by the shit we breathe in. The only difference is that when the time comes - when the Reaper does comes a knocking - it’s going to be a lot more unpleasant than it could have been. People don’t usually die peacefully in their sleep anymore. Now they die choking on vomit whilst shitting themselves. Their skin a yellowy-grey hue. The tell-tale signs of radiation poisoning at its worst.

  “Just take it easy.” I tried to talk him down. Watching the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, this asshole was working himself up. Need to keep him calm. People who are angry, they’re harder to control when they pass the point of no return. The point that I’ve been to before now, back when I was nearly beaten.

  “Don’t tell me to fucking take it easy. I’m the one saying how it is.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. There’s just no need to get upset. I’m doing as you…” Without giving him any warning, I swung the rucksack at the man - knocking the knife clean from his hand. Before he realised what was happening, the rucksack was on the backswing, aimed clearly at his face. It connected and made him stumble a bit but had little other effect. It was now I wished the bag was fuller - possibly even with bricks. I tossed
it to one side so as not to potentially damage the contents further. I’ll be pissed if they’re already damaged.

  The man regained his composure and made a dive for the knife, throwing himself on the mud in a dramatic fashion. I reacted and ran up to the knife just as his hand touched upon the handle. I stamped on his hand with a satisfying crunch and he screamed, pulling his hand close to his body and cradling it with his good hand. I kicked the knife further from his reach before dropping down onto him, pinning him with my weight; knees on his chest. He wheezed uncomfortably and then started grunting and moaning in pain as I started to rain the punches down upon his face, battering him beyond human recognition until all sounds he made stopped.

  Make sure.

  I hit him again; a clenched fist slammed hard into his throat. Another crack and a gargle from the back of his mouth. I hit him again; the palm of my hand driving his nose up into his brain - a move I’d learned from watching martial art films back when the televisions and movie theatres worked.

  I fell to the side, falling from his body. He didn’t move and he won’t move again. I sat there a moment, looking at the mess I’d made of him. There is no sense of satisfaction. There is no sense of pride. Yet - at the same time - there is no guilt. He started this. I finished it. There was no choice and no other way I could have worked this out.

  The bag.

  Fuck.

  I jumped up and hurried over to where I’d dropped the bag. Opening it up, everything inside seemed fine. Reaching in, it’s as dry as it has ever been in there. The outside a little damp from the downpour of rain that I was caught in last night but - nothing is ruined. Thank God for that.

  There you go with God again. God is dead.

  I slumped back in the mud. Lying flat on the ground, I stared to the skies.

  Clear.

  Blue.

  Still.

  Beautiful.

  Silent.

  Chapter 3

  I stumbled through the tangled mess of weeds and general undergrowth, landing on my hands and knees in a clearing on the outskirts of the forests. Stretched out before me, a multitude of abandoned homes that had been left to rot since the people were moved out to the many camps the government had promised were safe.

  Liars.

  Tired, I stood up. Sweat dripping down my forehead from the constant moving. Stomach rumbling from the lack of food. So hungry I had been tempted to cut the asshole with the knife up and cook him on a fire. Unlike some of the people I had met on my travels, I hadn’t stooped to that level yet. I hope I won’t have to as well but - never say never. Needs must and all that. Needs must.

  Standing, I watched the horizon - trying to spot the slightest hint of movement. There’s nothing down there. No animals rummaging through stinking garbage that had been left to fester since the collapse of society and - better yet - no people setting up camp in one of the many homes. It didn’t mean they weren’t there though - on both counts. Animals could be holed in the buildings. People could be resting. The problem with today’s world is that - no matter how tired you are - you can never put your feet up. You can never rest, not even for a moment. Not properly.

  Sleep with one eye open.

  Satisfied all was peaceful, I made my way down towards the buildings. Perfect timing too, it won’t be long before it’s dark - not that night time is any more dangerous than day. Both have the potential to be as equally bad as each other. It’s just nicer to stay indoors because of the plummeting temperature when the sun goes down.

  I passed by the first house giving it a careful look over as I did so. No evidence when I looked through the windows that people were squatting there. Only evidence of the lives of the people who used to live there. My mind flitted to wondering what had become of the family who once owned the property and - just as quickly as they had popped into my thoughts - they were promptly forgotten. There’s no place for compassion or empathy in this world; I’ve said it before, I’ve said it now and I’m sure I will say it again.

  I passed the second house. Similar story to the first. All is quiet. All has been left to be reclaimed by nature; ivy growing over the framework and pushing into the brickwork. Bushes growing around the bottom of the buildings giving the impression they’re floating on a bed of green. Give it another ten years, more or less, and these buildings will most likely have disappeared altogether - only seen by those keen enough to explore into the greenery. Urban exploration at its finest.

  The fifth house was more or less the middle of the street. This was the house you would want as your base camp for as long as you’d want to rest up. The reason being - if more people come - you would hear them ransacking the other buildings before they’d be banging on your new front door. You’d have a chance to react - hide yourself away or set up the front-line’s arsenal, ready to defend yourself from whatever was coming.

  I preferred to hide. Not because I don’t think I could protect myself should the need come. I’ve proven time and time again - unfortunately - that I can look after myself. I just… I don’t know… I guess there’s no pleasure in it for me. Certainly not the amount of pleasure that other people seem to experience; the psychopaths who live out their darkest fantasies in this fucked-up world. The monsters to avoid. Besides - as I’ve mentioned before - food is scarce and a lot of the water is contaminated. Wasting energy on defending yourself, when you could hide away, is pointless, dangerous and also forces you into potentially having no choice but to drink the contaminated water. Better to die later of radiation poisoning than die today of dehydration. I think.

  I walked up the driveway, up to the front door. A twist of the handle and the door opened. Another good thing from the mass-evacuation - people didn’t bother locking their front doors. Another silver-lining on the underside of that radioactive cloud. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, closing it up tight with the security chain bolted across; the first line of defence against anyone who might stumble this way - not that it keeps them out for long. A so-called security chain is nothing against a heavy boot and sheer determination. Again, speaking from personal experience.

  Inside, I took the rucksack off and gently placed it in the corner of the hallway. The house is tidy. Not sure how when most houses I’ve seen, whether to go in to or just to look through the window, look as though they’re in disarray with personal possessions strewn all over the place as the panicked occupants rooted through this and that looking for small items they could take to remind them of how things used to be; usually photographs. And speaking of which…

  Pictures hang on the wall, lining the hallway. Even though the house is large enough for a family of (at least) four, it looks as though it was just a youngish couple dwelling here. Pictures of them, arm in arm, at various locations around the world. They clearly travel. Maybe that’s why the house isn’t as messed up as other houses? Perhaps they were out of the country when the shit hit the fan? A fleeting thought; was it any better for them wherever they were in the world or was it much like here? The end of life as we knew it. Well, the end of life as we knew it in what used to be the real world anyway. There are camps set up here and there - but those places aren’t living. Especially when you’re sharing a tent with strangers, wondering what had become of your own family. Had they escaped? Had they been evacuated? Had they been left behind? Had something more sinister happened?

  Don’t dwell on it. You’ll only upset yourself.

  I walked through to the kitchen hopeful that the shelves would be well-stocked, what with the house being in such great condition and - true enough - the first cupboard opened was a sight to die for; food, glorious food.

  Cereals, bags of crisps, bread on the side - unsuitable for eating going by the state of it - tins and tins of fruit, vegetables, custard. I do a quick check of the tins’ dates and most were still good, not that I would have cared if they were out by a few months. Or years. You find that these days, best before dates aren’t important. I pulled out a can of sweetcorn and grabbed a fork
from the drawer underneath the draining board. Start with the sweetcorn - good even when eaten cold - and then come back for something else. Maybe the custard for dessert?

  I walked through the house until I found the living room. Kicking my heavy boots (stolen) off I slumped down on the soft, welcoming sofa. A sigh of relief escaped as my body sunk down into the sofa fabric. Good to take a load off, especially after a couple of nights sleeping rough in the woods. I could fall asleep now if I weren’t so hungry.

  I opened the can with the ring-pull on the lid and started eating - shovelling as much as I could get onto the fork in one go before carefully moving it to my mouth. Instant pleasure as the small pieces caused my taste buds to explode as they came back to life. I’ve been living off berries for a few days, stale biscuits before that. This - this is like a gourmet fucking meal right here.

  Funny how things work out. After the day’s start, I could have sworn this was going to be an absolute bitch of a day. Now though, it’s looking likely it could be one of the best days I’ve experienced for a long, long time.

  It could only be better if the television worked.