by RR Haywood
‘I’ve heard that,’ she says softly, ‘service people struggling to cope to civilian life.’
‘It’s true. Very true. The army does everything for you and there’s a code, like ethics…you know who you can trust and who your mates are, you know where to get food and clean your clothes. They take care of everything so we can do the nasty stuff but on the outside…there’s no respect or decency, no…no discipline or unity and the only work I could get was security stuff and that was bloody awful.’
‘These are new times alright,’ she says with a sigh, ‘come on, we’d better get back.’ She turns to help him up.
‘Are you holding your hand out?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think you quite realise how heavy I am...’ He laughs whilst grabbing her hand and attempting to pull himself up. Paula staggers forwards and only avoids face planting the floor by using Clarence’s massive shoulders to prop herself up on.
‘Steady on,’ he supports her with one hand on her shoulder, ‘almost sent you flying.’
‘I would have got you up, I was just resting.’
‘Sure you were,’ he chuckles, ‘thanks for this.’
‘For what?’
‘Talking, and the massage.’
‘Anytime,’ she says softly, ‘come here.’ She steps in to wrap her arms round his torso, pressing her body close into his she rubs his back with one hand, ‘you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ he relaxes into the hug, his own arms dwarfing her body.
‘Everyone needs a hug,’ she murmurs.
Taking comfort where they can, they stay close and silent in the dark silent room surrounded by bullets of every shape and size.
Six
Flickering orange lights of flames, candles and lanterns illuminate the ground, yet cast the shadows to the sides deeper and longer. Children sleep fitfully, grouped together in small groups with the best of the bedding given over so they can rest. The weather is still hot so they sleep without covers but rest on soft blankets, clothes and the sparse bedding remaining in the fort.
A crew at the back gate talk in muted tones, careful not to raise their voices above a whisper. With the original gate destroyed by the force of the storm, this crew were tasked with rebuilding it. They combined their limited knowledge and taught themselves what they needed to know in order to fix it. They worked tirelessly, sustained numerous injuries and made hundreds of mistakes before they learnt enough to make it secure. Even with it locked and bolted, the fort has fallen before so a crew remain constantly at this position. The crew leaders take care to run their teams proficiently under the ever watchful eyes of Maddox and Lenski.
Adults, many years senior to the two young people, defer to their decisions and words without argument. The force between them is palpable, a bond that runs deep from mutual respect and trust.
The newly arrived doctors soon had their hands full with queues of injured, sick and worried survivors making a bee line to be checked. Between the four of them, the doctors took stock of the equipment and medicines available, making constant lists of items needed. At the top of every list was the urgent requirement to locate and bring back a pharmacist.
Wounds are checked, washed and dressed. Anti-biotics are given out, Penicillin administered to those sure of not being allergic. Vast quantities of Aspirin, Paracetamol, Codeine and anti-inflammatories are handed out. Re-assuring words uttered by professional doctors, wearing white lab coats with stethoscopes hanging from necks, have a profound calming effect on the camp.
The few beds they have are given over to those most serious cases only and those requiring constant observations. Survivors with an aptitude for care are drafted in to help organise the queues, keep people calm and assist with washing, cleaning and the hundreds of small tasks that keep a medical facility running.
With the sky darkening, the hustling fort gradually slows down and the exhausted bodies can slump down to talk in soft tones, drink fresh water, eat canned food or just simply sleep the pain away.
Maddox walks with long, relaxed strides that take care not to snag or trip on the many obstacles littering the ground. A pistol strapped to his belt is the only weapon he carries, such is the trust in his crews stationed around the fort. He checks in the crew at the rear gates, then makes his way slowly towards the vehicle ramp and up onto the walls, checking the crews along that section, exchanging words and offering his ready smile.
He makes his way down to the front and checks in at the hospital, nodding respectfully at the people waiting to be seen. The doctors glance up and any puzzlement they feel at how such a young man can take lead is kept hidden behind masks of faces that smile and nod.
Next he goes to the front gate and the crew positioned on the inside. He checks that they have eaten, had their vitamins, have drunk plenty of water and that their weapons are nearby and ready,
Through the gates and across the narrow strip between the inner and outer gates, he steps out onto the small beach so formed after the storm.
‘What’s up?’ Darius offers the familiar greeting as Maddox strolls over.
‘Nuffin, you?’
‘Nuffin, bruv,’ Maddox replies, ‘anything going on?’
‘Here?’ Darius glances up from his position seated upon a folding picnic chair, his shotgun resting on his legs, ‘nuffin here, bruv…move along innit, nuffin’ to see.’
‘Fact,’ Maddox nods.
‘They due back by now,’ Darius shifts in the seat, the street slang dropped as he expresses concern.
‘Yeah maybe,’ Maddox stares out over the still waters and to the darkness of the land beyond.
‘In there?’ Darius tilts his head back towards the fort. Friends for years and the inflection of tone given by years of closeness means whole sentences can be conveyed by just a few words.
‘Good,’ Maddox replies, ‘Lenski’s all over it. ‘He grins showing a row a white teeth and an expression that animates his face from the usual brooding intensity.
‘Three immune,’ Darius remarks slowly as Maddox sits down in an empty chair.
‘Four with the dog,’ Maddox says, ‘fucked up.’
‘It’s all fucked up,’ Darius nods in agreement, ‘Howie, Lani and Cookey. You think the others are immune too?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Maddox says quietly, ‘it doesn't make sense that they would pass any immunity between them.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Howie and Lani kiss and probably have sex so they would pass fluids but Cookey? How would they get their fluids into him?’
‘They cut themselves,’ Darius reminds him, ‘when Cookey went down, they cut their hands and pushed them into the wound.’
‘Not convinced,’ Maddox shakes his head, ‘for something to work that fast would make it incredible, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Vaccinations can be made from cells but not that way.’
‘So you think Cookey was already immune?’ Darius asks.
‘I do,’ Maddox presses his fingers together under his chin, ‘but how would three people who are naturally immune find each other in all this shit going on?’
‘That’s why you the bossman now, you get to figure that shit out,’ Darius smiles.
‘Something is going on,’ Maddox nods with a long look over at his friend, ‘something we don’t realise…that’s for sure.’
Seven
Dark. Pitch dark. The absence of light. A vacuum. Nothing exists here yet I do. I am here within this place alone. Where did the light go? I have no knowledge of where the light went. It’s just not here anymore. Standing still, I can feel the space around me but not like I’m outside, more like like a room with a high vaulted rood. My footsteps echo with resonance that bounces off the walls. There’s a dripping sound coming from somewhere and each plop of liquid that falls unseen seems to come from every direction at once.
My breathing is audible, and not just to my own ears, so I keep moving. I take one step at a time with my hands st
retched out in front of me. I can’t lift my feet high for fear of tripping on something so I sort of shuffle my foot along a few inches at a time, re-distribute the pressure and do it again, while all the time my head cranes to the left then to the right as I strain to listen.
There is airflow here, a slight breeze wafts by but again I cannot tell where it comes from. I was in that ruined street before, trapped amidst the destruction of whatever foul landscape I was in. I could hear voices, Lani’s and Dave’s, but they went, just went. I closed my eyes because I was so scared and when I opened them I was here, wherever here is.
Step after shuffling step. Tiles. I’m walking on a tiled floor, that’s the sound I can hear from the water dripping. That distinct bathroom sound of water on tiles, except this is no bathroom, it’s huge. I drop down to feel around and sure enough I can just about grope the odd bit of ceramic type tile here and there. Most of it is broken, fractured, and I can feel the thick dust coating my fingertips.
It takes forever to move just a few steps but then no time at all. Time does not exist here because in order to be time there would have to be light. Without light there is no life so therefore there cannot be any time. Interesting. Maybe I am dead then. I died back in the munitions factory and this is the afterlife. How did I die? Did Dave shoot me? Probably.
This afterlife is a bit shitty though. It’s not what I imagined heaven or hell would be like. What’s that other place you can go? Purgatory? I don’t even know what that means – something to do with hanging about for unfinished business?
Fuck knows. Deep down, not that I would admit it to myself of course, I don’t think I died in the munitions place. I think I passed out and now I’m having some fucked up dreams.
This means, that if this is a dream, I can do what I want. You can’t get hurt in dreams can you? You always wake up at the point where the thing will hurt you. Fuck it then. I start walking faster, grimacing as I wait in expectation of walking into something.
I get faster. Striding out, then jogging, then running. Running faster as my feet trip and slip on the broken tiled floor. Ha! I’m dreaming and running in the pitch black of nowhere. Nothing can happen because this is a dream.
‘Arghgh!’ My own scream scares me. The sudden arrival of a human voice, despite it being my own, scares me. I trip on a loose tile and spin off to hit a very hard wall, bounce along a bit and end up crumpled on the floor. It’s not meant to hurt in dreams but that bloody hurt, it really hurt.
Rubbing my knee, I roll about a bit feeling woefully sorry for myself that even in my dreams I seem to hurt myself. I can’t even tell if my eyes are open or not, it’s that dark. I physically make myself squeeze my eyes closed then open wide trying to see any difference. There is something. Not a light as such, more of a very slight change to the shade.
Sore knee forgotten I clamber up, constantly opening and closing my eyes. There is a definite change when I open them. I start walking again, not fast but not shuffling either. Ten steps, then twenty, thirty and I lose count but I start shutting my eyes for long seconds then opening them up to see there is a subtle change. Like the black isn’t quite so black now.
I keep going. Eyes squeezed shut as I count my steps. Twenty, thirty, forty steps and I open my eyes. Ha! A definite change now. Lighter. I’m heading towards light.
‘Stay away from the light…come back from the light,’ I say to myself in a pathetic attempt at humour, but again my own voice scares the shit out of me so I shut up.
I close my eyes again and this time I don’t count but keep walking for what seems like hours, but is in fact probably only about a minute. When I open them I feel a flood of relief. I can see my hands, only just, but I can see the outline of them. I move faster, desperate to be away from the darkness and into the light.
Wherever this place is, it’s very bloody long. Suddenly, there’s a change in the sound of my footsteps and after fifteen days of surviving on my wits, or rather surviving on Dave’s wits, I stop to take stock and work out the difference. The shape of the place I am in is changing, the acoustics are different. I keep walking, straining to see or hear anything. There’s something dark and shadowy ahead, solid and unmoving. Slowing down, I hold my hands out ready to touch it. It’s weird and soft, like hard rubber and smooth too. I recognise it but…stepping closer and the realisation hits me. The underground. I’m in the underground. The Tube network in London, or something very much like it. Long tiled corridors and the smooth black thing is the railing edge of an escalator. Edging forward I realise it sweeps down and away from me and that’s where the light is coming from.
The metal steps are quite steep to walk down when they’re not moving, and my footsteps clunk despite trying to tread quietly.
Down I go, my hand moving gently over the old worn out rubber safety rail. The light at the bottom is distinct and orange, flickering too so I know it’s made from flames.
Torches to be precise. Old fashioned torches stuck to the wall with some kind of burning oil coating the top to produce a smelly yet constant light source. On the floor there are dirty oil stains and the walls surrounding the torches are smoke blackened from long use.
Another corridor stretches away and a fractured old sign on the wall points to East and West platforms with the place names of locations I can’t quite read.
There are more torches to the east but not to the west, so east I head. Stepping into the tunnel and walking along the same broken tiled floor. Reaching another flaming torch I glance down at the ground to see dried oil stains and the smoke blackened wall and curve of the ceiling is also old. These torches have been here a long time.
The corridor leads out onto an old wide platform that stretches off left and right. Ahead is the drop down onto the tracks and the sputtering torches are fitted at irregular points giving light in an otherwise black existence.
It reminds me of the fort. The way tiny sections have been set aside with bedding and a few personal objects. Blurred lines of boundaries between living areas but whereas the fort was at least moderately clean, here is filthy. Along the platform are blankets, rags, old mattresses and all manner of things but everything is filthy, not just dirty but filthy beyond description. The type of filth that would have people in white biohazard suits picking them up with those grabby sticks to shove in yellow bin liners ready for incinerating. It stinks to high heaven with the putrid stench of old oil, faeces, body odour, stale breath and unclean bodies that have spent far too long pressed together without access to washing and hygiene.
But there are no people. Just the empty bedding areas. A few paperbacks lie dotted about, well-thumbed with ripped and torn edges. I bend over to pick one and read the cover, The Second Reality, a story about people descending into double lives within a dream world. The irony is not lost and I cast it aside with a snort. Stepping closer to the edge of the platform I look down and see the tracks have also been given over to living areas. Ply board, old doors, metal sheeting and anything large and flat have been used to lay across the uneven and rutted surface of the racks. There’s more bedding and filthy rags of life and even in this god-awful place I can see there is a difference between the quality of items possessed by those that reside on the platform proper and those that dwell on the tracks. The platform residents are obviously the more affluent residents, the equivalent of detached houses with big gardens while the track dwellers are the council estates who scavenge amongst the filth.
Human nature is unstoppable, unceasing and as relentless as the infection. Not to survive but to carve out a meaning to our lives. I’m better than you are. I live higher up and have more bedding. The roles of existence that serve to validate who we are and why we’re here. The possibility that we’re just another species scrabbling for survival with the rest of the food chain is rarely considered.
So this is what we’ve become is it? Living here as the last few of our numbers dwindle and die out in the darkness of the old tunnel network. Shaking my head I look about, letting my e
yes linger on objects that reflect the decline of mankind.
But why am I here and where are the people? Just like the last place this is a reflection of the future and I’m in some fucking Dickens tale of scrooge, being shown what the future looks like without the brave efforts of a few to stem the flow of the infected.
Clumsy and ham-fisted. My own sub-conscious is creating this world, Howie…you have to keep going…don’t stop now Howie!
Bollocks. All of it is utter bollocks. This bedding isn’t even really here. This place isn’t here. It’s made up in my head while I lie flat out in the munitions factory while Dave pokes the side of my head with his pistol.
To show my generalised disdain I start kicking at the bedding, toeing it across the platform with the mad glee of an idiot trying to argue against his own dreams and the make-believe world he just created. Blankets get cast down onto the lower tier of the tracks and in a way it feels like retribution, like an act of anarchy to bring down those who are powerful and redistribute the wealth among the classes. Yeah communism. Bring on the revolution. I work harder, using my hands to fling the shitty, nasty, lice covered stuff away as I power along the platform.
A sudden coughing fit brings me to a stop. Someone fights for breath nearby and suffers from lungs too tight to let his body draw proper breath. Spinning round, I trace the noise to the far end of the tracks by the entrance to the tunnel proper. I jump down, threading my way through the bedding and crap as I peer into the gloom and listen as the dry hacking coughs get closer.
‘Hello?’ I call out to the huddled shape swathed in filthy blankets.
He tries to respond with a voice that starts to call out but the coughs take over, wracking his body that heaves and writhes in situ. I stop a few feet back, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom until I can out pick out a haggard face with deep, sunken eyes and skin the colour of death. A grey beard, straggly and unkempt, frames his face and his wild hair is patchy in places with clear bald spots. The lice are visible from here. Tiny, maggot looking things that crawl through the greasy hairs of his beard. A shaking hand lifts between coughs to scratch at the hairs, delving deep to agitate the skin in response to the vermin infesting it. He has filthy, blackened finger nails and looks ready to die as he fights to gain breath with a horrible, ragged sound of air being forced through something constricted and broken.
