by Peter Hall
Travelling groups rarely comprised more than a handful of members. When a group expanded to double figures, they normally thought about finding a permanent home. Thus, Cal was surprised to come across a great assortment of vehicles lined up outside a service station on the outskirts of Exeter. He first noticed them from a distance, parked his Land Rover, then closed in on foot, as per his standard practice when meeting strangers.
Clustered around the forecourt and car park were a petrol station, convenience store, tourist information centre, and a diner. After only a year of inattention, the place was in a sorry state. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the concrete and asphalt. Windows were grimy and signs advertising special offers were faded. A large fabric sign had come loose at one end and hung limply over the store entrance. A BMW estate car parked at the side had broken windows, flat tyres and was peppered with bullet holes—presumably it has been used as target practice by somebody.
The convoy included a spacious luxury motor-caravan, three smaller camper-vans, three trucks and two SUVs. The grandest of the motor-homes had an expanding central section to give the internal rooms added width. Several men were busy taking stores from the shop, whilst two others were operating a manual pump to suck fuel from the underground tanks. Their exertions under the warm sun caused them to work up a sweat. They wore a mixture of military and civilian clothing.
Directing operations was a tall wiry man with a large sloping forehead and a crewcut who, bizarrely, was wearing a business suit. It was the first time Cal had seen such attire since the Yellow Death. This man was obviously in charge. He casually sipped water from a bottle whilst watching the others working. Two women were hanging laundry out to dry on an improvised line. Cal assumed the convoy would stay here overnight. The only weapons on display were three rifles leaning against a SUV.
The leader checked his wristwatch and decided it was time for a break. He climbed into one of the camper-vans, whilst the men sat down and relaxed. Others came out of the store and joined them. Cal counted ten men and two women, but there could be more. A few minutes later, a third woman brought out a tray loaded with bottles of beer. From the sounds of appreciation, it was clear the brew had been chilled—one man pressed his bottle against his forehead and sighed with pleasure. The scene was easy-going and convivial, with someone starting a card game and another trying to entice a pigeon with breadcrumbs.
This was fascinating. It was the grandest and best organised outfit since the Death. He wanted to know more. They clearly had plenty of supplies, so would not need to steal from him. After all, they had parked next to a supermarket and could select whatever took their fancy.
Cal walked back to his vehicle, donned his thunder-jacket and switched on the radio link to the explosives in the back of the Rover.
A short while later, Cal drove slowly up to the service station, using only the electric motors. The Land Rover was virtually silent, except for the crunching of tyres on gravel. They watched him approach, but were unsure how to react, so just stared. He reverse parked by the largest motorhome.
The leader stepped out of the camper and looked over the Land Rover quizzically, paying attention to the bolt-on armour plates. A smile appeared on his face.
“Good day, sir. Those are… interesting modifications you have on your vehicle. Did you add them yourself?”
“Hi there,” Cal said. “Yes. It took me the best part of two days, but I feel a lot safer.”
“Well, it’s not a pretty sight, but I expect they do the job.”
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I? Because I can drive on.”
“Oh no, not at all. We’re resupplying. Please stay. In fact, I was taking afternoon tea. Perhaps you’d join me?”
Cal resisted smirking. Afternoon tea? Was this guy for real?
“Okay, thanks, I’d love to.” He opened the door and stepped out. “My name’s Cal.”
They shook hands.
“Gibson. Royce Gibson, pleased to meet you… Cal.”
Cal kept his left hand in his pocket, gripping the trigger to the thunder-jacket.
They stepped inside the massive camper-van. The interior was reminiscent of a boutique hotel with plush furnishings. It was spotlessly clean, with soft music playing in the background.
Gibson led Cal to the dining table, where two men were already sitting.
“May I introduce Colonel Richard Fellman, my second-in-command and the man in charge of all security matters.”
Cal shook hands, but instinctively disliked Fellman, who seemed to sneer rather than smile under his black bushy moustache. Even though he was sitting down, Cal could tell he was over six-feet tall and carried a little excess weight. He was taking more than his fair share of the bench seat, forcing the other man to perch on the end.
“And this is Lieutenant Roberts, the only other officer in our group.”
“Please, call me Adam,” the lieutenant said. Adam’s handshake was as meek as his demeanour.
Cal and Gibson seated themselves. A young woman who was not introduced served tea and fruit cake. She did not speak, and the others ignored her. The cake was moist and fruity with a hint of cinnamon. Definitely freshly baked.
Gibson slurped his tea. “So, Cal. What brings you to Exeter?”
“Nothing in particular. I’m surveying most of Devon, mapping the resources and settlements. I’m also looking for a good place to settle down if I can find a suitable community. I was just passing through and saw your convoy, which piqued my curiosity. I’ve travelled throughout the South-West and you’re by far the biggest group of people I’ve seen on the road.”
Gibson smiled. “Why, thank you. Yes, I seem to have collected quite a few followers. But this is just the start. It’s about time that somebody got things organised. There are too many individuals and groups wandering around randomly, using and wasting precious resources. Present company excepted, of course. Please tell us more about what you’re up to.”
Cal chewed on his cake and swallowed to give him time to think. “As I say, I’ve been moving around gathering intelligence about where communities are being set up, what skills they have and what products they’re likely to be trading. It’s clear to me that small groups cannot be self-sufficient and they’ll need to trade. Different places will have unique skills and products. For example, coastal settlements will probably have a surplus of seafood. I’m also studying how we’re going to survive in a post-industrial society. I have a large collection of books in my Land Rover.”
Cal sipped his tea, savouring the steaming, potent brew. Royce and Fellman exchanged glances. Cal focussed on their expressions and cursed that he could not decipher what they were thinking.
“That’s very interesting and commendable.” Fellman said. “Few people seem to plan ahead, as you obviously are. I wonder, are you travelling alone?”
Cal tensed. “At the moment, yes.” He waited for their response, ready to show his dead-man’s trigger if there was the slightest threat.
“I see,” Gibson said. “Don’t you get lonely being on your own?”
“Generally, I’m self-sufficient, and I meet up with other travellers from time to time. But I’m tiring of my own company. That’s the reason that I pulled in when I saw you. A chance to hear a human voice and pick up some news.”
“Indeed so. Tell me, Cal, I couldn’t help noticing you have a selection of modern weapons in your vehicle. Do you have a military background?”
“In fact, I do. I was an army captain. The infantry to be specific.” Cal had repeated the lie so many times it slipped off his tongue.
“Seen any action?” Fellman said.
“Some. Afghanistan, Syria, and a couple of other hot spots.”
Fellman’s eyebrows raised, “Syria?”
“Unofficially, of course. Training the Kurds.”
“Really, that’s impressive,” Gibson said. “Those skills must come in handy with our current state of affairs. I would like to hear your views on some security matters
. Would you consider staying for the night? I have a guest bedroom in my motorhome. It’s extremely comfortable and I can promise you a good meal and a hot shower.”
A surge of anxiety crept up Cal’s spine, yet there was no polite way to refuse. And he relished the idea of a hot shower.
“Yes, I’d like that, thanks.” Once committed, he relaxed slightly and took his hand off the detonator in his pocket.
“Excellent, excellent indeed,” Gibson said, smiling. “I’m sure that you and Colonel Fellman will have much to talk about. He served in Afghanistan as well.”
Fellman grinned and icy fingers of dread clamped around Cal's neck. Much of Cal’s past was a fabrication. He had never set foot in Afghanistan or Syria, nor had he served in the regular army. He suddenly regretted agreeing to stay the night.
CHAPTER 7
John Goes To School
TIMELINE: 20 years before Yellow Death
“And now I know it is perfectly natural for me not to look at someone when I talk. Those of us with Asperger's are just not comfortable doing it. In fact, I don't really understand why it's considered normal to stare at someone's eyeballs.”
John Elder Robison (1957– )
“Hello.”
“Oh, hello Sarah, it’s only me.”
“Charles. What a surprise. Just a minute while I put this on speaker phone. How are you?”
“I’m absolutely fine, thanks, and you and John?”
“Yes, yes. All good, thanks.”
“Great, great. Yes. Listen, I’m phoning with bad news, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to come back next week after all.”
“Oh Charles, we’ve planned outings and everything. John was looking forward to it.”
“I’m sorry. It can’t be helped. I only found out an hour ago and I can’t tell you why. It’s a matter of national—”
“Security. Yes, it would be.”
“Sorry. You know how things are.”
“Yes, Charles. I know just how things are. I was hoping you’d spend some time with John and talk to him about school.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s been at Great Torridge School now for half a term and I’ve no idea how he’s settling in.”
There was a pause before Charles answered. “So why don’t you just ask him?”
“You think I don’t try? Every day I ask how school is, and he just says ‘fine’ or ‘okay’. Have you made any friends? Not yet. Is there any bullying? No. How are the teachers? Fine. Do you have a favourite teacher? No. If I get him to string two words together, I’m on a winner. The only subject we can have a proper conversation about is bloody warfare. Ask him how Hannibal moved elephants across the Alps and you can’t shut him up.”
“So he’s still in his military phase, is he?”
“Oh, God, yes. Last night I saw him browsing the internet for replica assault rifles, for Christ’s sake.”
Another period of silence. That was an annoying habit shared by both Charles and John.
“That’s not so bad. When I was about his age, I was collecting knives and hankering after an air rifle. At least he wasn’t trying to buy a real one.”
“If that’s supposed to reassure me, it doesn’t.”
“Isn’t this all sort of normal for a boy of his age? It won’t be long before he’s a teenager.”
“God help us when that happens. I realise I’m looking at this as his mum, but normal for his age would surely be football and girls?”
“Well, yes. But I had no interest in football either. It’s not compulsory. Are you worried he’s being bullied?”
Sarah realised she was furiously rotating her wedding ring and made a conscious effort to stop. “Yes, of course. It’s always been one of my worries sending him to normal school. I don’t have any evidence he’s being bullied, but how could I tell? Unless he comes home with a black eye and his uniform torn to shreds, I wouldn’t know. John’s so secretive.”
“I’m sure it’s all fine. You’ve been working hard for years to normalise him, and hopefully, this is a sign you’ve succeeded. He’s not punched anyone, or absconded, or set fire to the school, thank God.”
“Not burning down the school isn’t exactly my yardstick for success. As far as I know, he’s not got any friends, joined any school clubs, or done anything that normal boys do.”
“So you’d like me to speak to him?”
“Yes. That would be great, but he hates phone calls. It would need to be in person.”
Charles sighed. “Well, it’ll be several weeks before I can get away. This emergency thing is complex. Is John unhappy?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I’ve never known somebody to be so content with their own company. He seems so… self-contained. Sometimes I wonder if the world ended tomorrow, leaving him as the only survivor, how long would it be before he even noticed.”
Charles laughed. “And is that good or bad?”
“Well, it’s not normal.”
John’s Journal: Age 13
I hate school. What a ridiculous waste of time and energy. I learn more in an hour alone than in an entire day at school. Time spent travelling to and from school is totally non-productive. There’s time wasted walking between lessons, waiting for the teacher to turn up, roll calls and breaks. Every lesson has interruptions by arseholes who think it’s funny to taunt the teachers. Also, we’re always stopping for questions from people who can’t keep up. All wasted time!
Apparently, attending school should be much more than gaining knowledge, it’s about life skills. Well, I now know the routes that avoid bullies and can stop twats dripping spit down my neck on the bus. So, I guess I’ve gained useful life skills. Being invisible is the greatest survival skill. Blend in. Stay under the radar. Don’t be best or worst at anything.
Sadly, that doesn’t work with sport, because I’m always worst at sports. The worst part of the week is the double sports lesson on Wednesdays. First there’s the torture of the communal changing room and everybody staring at my skinny body and and pointing at my prick. I’ll never forget that time I wore my PE kit under my school clothes. I thought it was a great idea, but everyone laughed.
After changing, it’s outside into the cold and a muddy field, wearing nothing but shorts and a T-shirt. It’s insane. If I go outside in winter, Mum tells me to put on a coat and hat and gloves or I will catch a cold. But at school, it’s fine to run around a field in the rain half-naked.
When they pick the teams for the footie, I’m nearly always picked last. It’s me or Fat Pratty. It’s a good day when I get chosen before Fat Pratty, who wobbles when he walks and couldn’t run to save his life.
After the team picking, there’s 90 minutes while I stand shivering by the goal posts trying to keep warm. Whenever the action comes close to me, the others run around me. Nobody ever passes the ball to me—not since they found out I’m as likely to fall over it as kick it. Most matches I don’t even get to touch the ball.
Everyone gets so excited when they score a goal. Jumping, whooping, shouting, hugging—urgh! Even Pratty joins in. Who cares? Mind you, I hate it when we lose. Then somehow it’s my fault because I didn’t do something or I did the wrong thing. They call me a dickhead, or a waster. Mr Clarke does nothing about it.
Mr Clarke hates me. He won’t let me wear gloves. “Run around a bit more and you’ll warm up,” he says. Bastard.
The worst part is the showers. Mr Clarke watches as each of us goes naked through the communal showers. I wonder if he’s a perv, or likes to torture boys. The water is either boiling hot or freezing cold. Surely they could get the temperature right if they tried?
I don’t get sport. It’s an arbitrary set of rules from the past. Everybody tries to prove they can follow the rules a bit better than everybody else. Team sports are the worst. If your team wins or loses, what part did you play in it? Did your team win because of your efforts or despite them?
It’s not that I hate physical activity. When Mum ta
kes me swimming, I love it. That feels natural. And I enjoy recording my times and getting better and better. But I don’t care if I can swim a little faster than somebody else. It just doesn’t matter.
Today was different. The heavy rain has flooded the footie pitches. Hurray, I thought. So, Mr Clarke said we would do a cross-country run instead. Three miles! Booo! I’ve never run more than a mile, and that nearly killed me.
When we started, I hated it. I was cold and wet and my lungs were burning and I got the stitch. But I carried on running because I wanted it to end as soon as possible. By the time I passed the mile marker, I’d warmed up. My body went into a rhythm. It was a bit like swimming. Natural. Like it was meant to be. I wasn’t fast, but I could keep on going. Even up the big hill in the middle, when everyone else started walking. I was overtaking the boys who got picked before me for the footie team. That was great, so I ran faster.
I finished 8th out of 47 boys. Mr Clarke didn’t believe it at first. He was asking around if I had cheated or taken a shortcut. Afterwards, he asked me if I wanted to join the school cross-country team. No way. Why should I care if Torridge School has—by coincidence—faster runners than another school I’ve never heard about? Mr Clarke said I was letting the school down. Guess what, Clarkey—I don’t care.
I’m going to ask Mum for a pair of proper running shoes, so I can go out running whenever I want. I wonder if I could run a marathon?
CHAPTER 8
Cal Meets Gibson
TIMELINE: 1 year after the Yellow Death
“We are called to be architects of the future, not its victims.”
Richard Buckmaster Fuller (1895–1983)
When afternoon tea with Gibson had finished, Cal moved his belongings from his Land Rover to the guest bedroom in Royce’s motorhome. These included a knife and snub-nosed revolver pistol. He locked his car, but chose not to set the booby traps, thinking he might have to leave in a hurry. As he suspected, nobody searched him on re-entering the motorhome. Gibson clearly thought he presented no threat. They offered him first use of the bathroom to clean up for dinner. He noted the dining table being laid out formally, so reluctantly removed his thunder-jacket, since it would be unsuitable for such an occasion.