The doors were open, but nothing had been taken, which wasn’t surprising. Maybe if there had been more time, people might have thought about heading out to the wilds to escape 6DM, but there wasn’t and they didn’t.
For the record, Go Outdoors is a complete treasure trove for those looking to survive in the post-apocalyptic landscape. I highly recommend you pay it a visit if you ever need survivalist equipment to get by in this new world, which, of course, you won’t.
The store was huge.
They had massive three-, four- and even five-section tents erected in the middle of the shop, and these were just a drop in the ocean of the camping and hiking equipment that they stocked. It had everything: clothes, tents, camping stuff, fishing stuff, skiing stuff, boots, rucksacks, bikes, a whole section full of things to do with horses, and everything you needed to furnish, attach, and pull a caravan.
Within an hour I had a whole new survivalist wardrobe, complete with cold weather clothing, wet weather clothing, thermal underwear (which I immediately put on), hiking boots, running shoes, warm boots, wellies, hats, scarves, gloves and goggles. I had water carriers, food tins, saucepans, three different types of lighter, a camping stove, sleeping bags, blankets, torches, a cool box, drinking bottles, and (optimistically) sun cream. I had a small rucksack, a big rucksack, and a first aid kit.
I’d collected enough equipment to fill a small van and by the time I had managed to stuff it all into the car only the driver’s seat was empty. Lucky would have to perch on the sleeping bags I had stowed on the passenger seat.
The shop had no power and it was getting dark and very cold, so I decided to spend the night in one of the massive tents. I put sleeping bags on the floor and picked the warmest one I could find to lay on top of them and then covered that with the next warmest one. I made a nest out of sleeping bags next to my bed for Lucky.
I ate protein bars and Kendall Mint Cake for dinner, but Lucky turned his nose up at these culinary delights. I reasoned he’d not starve from missing one meal. Well, he’d not starve any more than he already had from missing one more meal. He looked at me reproachfully as I ate, and then wandered off in a huff.
I’d popped a couple of sleeping pills and was just drifting off in my sleeping bag bed when I heard Lucky growling and racing about on the other side of the store. I was warm, comfy and sleepy, so had decided to leave him to it when the growling turned to barking and then he went into a frenzy of growling and knocking things over before falling completely silent.
Reluctantly, and with growing concern, I climbed out of my cocoon. It was freezing. I jogged across the store in the direction of the noise.
Lucky had his back to me and was wagging his tail. Satisfied he was alive, I was about to head back to my warmth when he turned and gave me his big doggy grin.
I froze.
His mouth and nose were covered in blood. In front of him was a massive, bloody, dead rat. Half eaten.
Seeing me, Lucky picked the rat up, turned and dropped it at my feet.
I stared at the rat and then at him.
‘No thanks, I’ve already eaten,’ I said (or tried to say, I hadn’t spoken in a few days so my voice was a little croaky).
He gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Your loss,’ and went back to chewing on his rat.
I backed away slowly and tried to ignore the noisy crunching.
I woke up the next morning cold and stiff and vowing that I would never spend a night in a tent again.
Lucky was next to me, blood crusted about his mouth. I was torn between being disgusted and being relieved that he could provide for himself if he had to.
I didn’t fancy protein bars for breakfast but luckily there was a massive Asda across the road from Go Outdoors. The doors were closed and much bigger than the flimsy ones I had broken through in London. I went back to Go Outdoors, found a mallet, and carefully started to smash through the outer door into Asda’s enclosed foyer. I was going to smash through one of the windows, but was nervous about breaking such a huge pane of glass. As it was I ducked and ran away dramatically every time the mallet hit. It turned out it was safety glass, so broke into small chunks rather than huge jagged shards. I was almost disappointed.
First door successfully managed, I was just about to start on the inner door when Lucky whined.
I looked down at him and he whined again, staring through the door into the shop. I turned to see what he was staring at.
There was a single rat sitting just the other side of the door, peering through at us.
‘Making friends with your next meal?’
I have no love for rats, but they don’t freak me out the way they do some people. I was actually surprised that I hadn’t seen more of them, now that there were no humans to chase them away.
I banged on the window to get rid of the rat.
It didn’t move. In fact, it came closer and sniffed me through the crack in the doors.
‘Cheeky little bugger,’ I said, and banged harder.
Lucky whined once more so I turned to look at him again.
‘Why don’t you go in there and get it then?’
But he wasn’t looking at me.
Twenty yards away, at the bottom of one of the massive glass windows in front of the tills there was a HUGE group of rats milling and scurrying about. Now that my attention had been drawn to them, I could hear a cacophony of chirps and squeaks through the glass. There must have been maybe two hundred of the squeaky fuckers, and some of them were big. Not big like a dog, but maybe the size of a small cat, so definitely not something you wanted crawling up your leg.
They seemed focussed on that one section of floor, running back and forth over a large lump, occasionally stopping with their tails in the air.
The rat at the door was still sniffing the air and now had his paws on the glass as if trying to push the doors open.
He let out a massive squeal.
The rats swivelled as one to face their compadre.
They paused for the briefest moment and then flooded towards the door where Lucky and I were standing, flowing over, and revealing for the first time, the mound with which they had been so preoccupied.
Whatever it had been it was now merely bone and gristle. It might have been one person or two, or maybe a group reduced to nothing more than leftovers.
There had been good times for these rats, but now their meal was coming to an end, and their eyes were on the next prize.
They were at the door in seconds, moving as a carpet of fur and tails. They went immediately onto their hind legs; scraping at the glass, checking for ways through. The majority centred on the crack between the doors and I swear I saw them get their little paws between and try to pry them open.
I backed off in disgust and horror.
Was this how the new world would be? Rats, who had discovered the joys of eating human flesh, hunting in packs that you’d never be able to avoid. Had the leftovers from their last meal even been dead before they started eating?
I tried not to, but I couldn’t help but throw up my breakfast protein bar. The sight of my fresh regurgitated stomach contents seemed to excite the rats even more, and their scraping and squealing intensified – ‘She’s filled with good stuff lads! Let’s get her while she’s warm!’
Lucky was already halfway to the car, shivering, with his tail between his legs. I jogged over to join him.
‘Let’s go.’
He didn’t need telling twice. Healthy sense of self-preservation that dog has.
I opened the car and hoisted Lucky onto the passenger seat and then squeezed into the driver’s seat.
I was convinced that I could still hear the squealing and scrabbling of the rats. I purposely didn’t look back as I locked the doors and started the car.
We drove slowly past Asda.
The rats weren’t at the window.
Lucky barked and I turned to see the rats streaming from around the corner of the store.
They had come out t
hrough the back doors and were hunting us.
They were smart and resourceful. I was fucking petrified. I revved the engine and the wheels of the car screeched as I spun out of the car park. I looked in my rear-view mirror and swear I saw some of the rats give chase.
Lucky crawled onto my lap and, despite the fact it made driving hard, I let him. I needed the comfort of an animal that wasn’t going to eat me. The thought of having slept the night in Go Outdoors with the doors open and no protection was making me want to vomit again.
What might have happened if Lucky hadn’t killed that rat? Was it a scout for the others? I patted Lucky again and again.
‘Good boy, good boy, good boy.’
I drove around until I found the ‘posh’ part of town. I wanted a big rugged vehicle and, if possible, enough food to keep me going for a few days. I had decided I was going to avoid supermarkets from now on.
I came to a wide, well-maintained road that was lined with large houses set well back at the end of long driveways.
I decided this was the road for me.
The first two houses were occupied and, although I didn’t see the corpses, I could smell them. I worked fast, now that I was aware that there may well be visitors other than me, and went straight to the kitchens where the inevitable key bowl or stand would be. The houses each had a Mercedes, one had a BMW, and the other an Audi, but neither was big enough for my needs. The third house had a good-sized minivan (no idea of the make) but it had less than a quarter tank of petrol when I started it up so I left it. No one was home in houses four, five, six and seven, but there were no cars either.
In the eighth house I hit the motherlode.
The house was the same size as the others on the street but looked older, grimier, and paint was peeling from the window frames. There were no cars parked outside, but there was a double garage, so I broke into the house to see if there were car keys. Inside, there was no discernible smell of rotting, but I knew that didn’t mean there weren’t dead people in there somewhere and I wasn’t inclined to go hunting for bodies.
The house was bare and plain. Small sofa and TV, old-fashioned kitchen, well-worn carpet. Nothing like the opulence I had found in the other houses.
I found the fob for the automatic garage and opened it up.
I was initially disappointed with the Land Rover inside. It was an old model Defender, functional and sturdy, but definitely not the sexy SUV or American-style truck I had been hoping for. But as I looked closer even I, who have no car knowledge whatsoever, could see that it was well cared for. The back seats had been removed to make more space, it looked like it could handle a tough terrain, started first time, and had a full tank of diesel.
When I looked under the tarpaulin at the back of the garage I knew this was most definitely the truck for me. There were five large canisters filled with diesel. I didn’t even have to open them to check; the smell once the tarpaulin was removed convinced me.
I thought I’d try the other side of the garage just to see if it held anything better, but the fob wouldn’t open it.
Instead it had an electronic keypad protection system thing.
Now I was really intrigued. What the hell was in there?
I knew I had no chance of guessing the code, so my curiosity would have to go unanswered.
However, I thought I’d try the obvious before giving up.
1234#
Nothing.
Damn.
I kicked the garage door. It was much heavier than the other one and now I really wanted to see inside.
I yanked at it in frustration.
Turns out when electricity stops it either shuts electronic doors for ever or does the opposite. Luckily for me this had done the opposite.
The door swung up easily on well-oiled hinges.
The inside of the garage was so unexpected that for a moment I thought I was hallucinating.
I turned to look at Lucky, but he had chosen this moment to take a crap on the front lawn.
I turned back.
The walls were lined with shelves that were in turn stocked with row upon row of food and drink. Boxes of toiletries were stacked to the roof. Bags of unidentifiable equipment hung from the ceiling. Two massive chest freezers hummed in the corner, filled with frozen meats and vegetables. The other corner was taken up with books, DVDs, and CDs. One whole shelf was filled with something I didn’t recognise at first, but now know to be fully automated phone chargers. Just plug it into your phone, wait five minutes, and bingo – fully charged.
The room was rammed with stuff, leaving just a narrow walkway to the back of the garage.
Where a door stood open and inviting.
It was, to my utter disbelief, some kind of underground bunker.
In the outskirts of Northampton, someone had been planning for the end of the world.
January 13th 2024
At first I was far too afraid to go into the bunker; what if the door shut and I was stuck in there?
I poked my head in, but could only see steps leading down.
I called out.
‘Hello?’
My voice echoed into the brightly-lit passageway. No one replied. Obviously.
In the end curiosity won out again and I reasoned that there was: a) no one left to shut the door on me; b) bound to be a way to open the door from the inside unless they were planning to live down there forever; and c) if there was someone down there, they probably wouldn’t want to murder me.
I still left a couple of heavy boxes propping the door open.
To be honest it was a bit disappointing.
Like the Defender, it was all substance over style.
The stairs came down into a central hall space and to the right was a large storeroom. On the other side of the hall was a small living space complete with sofa, table and chairs, TV, DVD player, and an old-fashioned music system. There was a small kitchen, then a bedroom with two sets of bunk beds and at the back a tiny toilet and shower. The water still worked, and there was air conditioning and power.
Still, an extremely depressing place to live out the apocalypse. Imagine sharing bunk beds in a bedroom with your parents for two years. Or longer.
They must have been planning to move all the stuff from the garage down into the storeroom.
But they never got the chance.
What happened? Did they get sick too quickly? Did they chicken out? Decide it was too depressing to lock themselves away for God knows how long? They weren’t even in the house, so had they gone away and not managed to get back here? Imagine missing out on your life’s work because you decided to take a quick last-minute trip to Spain and the PM randomly decided to close the borders while you were there? Imagine dying because of that.
At least this explained the austerity in the house. That’s perhaps the most depressing thing. Living a lesser life so that you could live longer, and then dying before you ever got the chance.
I wanted to feel sorry for them, but my mind was filled with the memory of the steak I had seen in the freezer, the gas cooker in the house that still worked, the plain but comfy beds upstairs, and the front door that I could shut against small, furry intruders.
Steak, sleep, and security beats sadness every time in this new world.
I went back through the garage, filled my arms with food and drink from the store, called Lucky in from the garden, and went into the house.
I shut the front door.
Firmly.
With food, drink, books, and comfy beds in abundance I think I might have easily slipped into another state of lethargy in the house, except for one thing.
It was cold.
Really fucking cold.
In the house itself there was no central heating, no fireplace, no hot water, and no getting away from the fact it was the middle of winter and I was not used to a life without heat.
Of course, the heating worked in the bunker, but having to keep the door to the garage open meant it was only ever lukewarm at best
, and even sitting wrapped in coats and blankets I was never fully cosy.
I tried to make myself shut the door. I played the argument over and over in my head. Why have a door that you couldn’t open from the inside? I studied the door mechanism. It was a simple wheel that matched the one on the front and must therefore, surely, perform the same function. I tried it while the door was open and the locks moved in and out as they should.
If I could shut the door I would be toasty.
But, every time I moved to shut it I could feel panic rising in me, pushing past the drugs that had so efficiently kept it at bay in the last few weeks, and I knew that a full-blown panic attack would definitely be the end of sane old me.
I left the door open.
Plus, Lucky resolutely refused to come into the bunker. I tried treats, pleading, shouting, even carrying him in; he just ran straight back out again. He would not do it. If I was in the bunker, he was in the cold garage, and any time I spent down there was sound-tracked by his whining and accompanied by my guilt.
So, when I woke up on the fifth day to find the rain and clouds gone and bright sunlight at the window, I knew the time had come to leave on my expedition to find life … or death.
I ditched fifty per cent of the stuff I’d taken from Go Outdoors and replaced it with things from the bunker. Diesel, water, food, medicine, whatever I thought might come in handy. The back of the Defender was stuffed to the gills. I worried briefly about whether it was dangerous to take all the diesel, but then reasoned that I would rather die quickly in a fireball than slowly trapped in wreckage if we crashed.
This is how my mind now worked. I was changing to fit my new environment, just like I had changed to fit into my old one.
People don’t change overnight, physically or emotionally.
I didn’t wake up suddenly one morning in my late twenties and become a different person.
Instead, every day, there was a slight shift in me, so subtle that I didn’t even notice to begin with, a fraction of a fraction of a degree of something new, something not me; and by the time I did notice that things – that I – was changing, it was too late; I had already begun to forget the person I used to be.
Last One at the Party Page 14
