Yellow Death: Arrival: Surviving the plague was only the beginning (The Yellow Death Chronicles Book 1)

by Peter Hall

  “Fuck me, Charlie,” said the sergeant. “I hope you never have to do this in a proper fight.”

  The third man took up position for his turn. He swayed from side to side and blinked several times to focus his vision. Cal waited until the knife was flying before making the same little jump to gain height. He cried out at the sharp piercing pain and looked down. The blade stuck firmly in his thigh. The men cheered. When the thrower reclaimed his weapon, Cal screamed as it withdrew. If an artery had been opened, he was dead. Cal sensed the precious, warm liquid trickling down his leg.

  “Jesus, look at the state of that, just like a stuck pig!” one man said.

  The next round started. The first pitch landed millimetres from his arm. The next missed the tree entirely, and the knife flew into the bushes. The owner went searching and a few seconds later moaned, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ve just stood in some fucker’s shit. Jeez, it stinks real bad, it’s all over my sodding foot. Bleeding hell, I’ll never find my knife in the dark. I’m off to bed. See you two in the morning.” With that, he staggered off.

  The sergeant looked at the remaining competitor. “Time for us to turn in, I think. Davidson will probably be bollocking us to get up early tomorrow. Let’s call it a day.”

  “Right, sarge. Perhaps there’s just time to visit the lady of the camp once more?”

  The sergeant laughed. “I’m bushed, but help yourself.”

  The two men walked off, and moments later, Susan cried out. Later still, the only sounds were her sobbing and the crackling of the fire.

  Now that he was alone, Cal remembered earlier in the evening, Ken went for a dump in the bushes. Cal often complained about Ken shitting too near their campsites, yet that pile of crap stopped the knife game. It saved his life—at least for the time being. Saved because Ken was too lazy to walk a few yards from camp. Cal was an expert in military strategy and tactics, yet all that knowledge proved useless. A heap of Ken’s excrement saved him.

  Cal’s thigh badly throbbed, and he could not tell how much blood was draining out. He felt chilled to the bone. That might be because of loss of blood or simply because he was tied to a tree wearing only shorts and T-shirt.

  He was alone. This might be the only chance to escape. Once again, he tugged at his bonds with what was left of his strength. Over and over, he wriggled and pulled in different directions. Being spread eagled against the tree trunk made it difficult to get any leverage and he soon became fatigued without making any difference. Just his luck. Those bastards were good at tying knots.

  The next few hours were hellish, as he hung from the tree—cold, exhausted, with pain from a dozen wounds and pitifully miserable. Ken’s body was hanging inches from him, and the knowledge that Juliet was being violated a short distance away tormented him. Every minute seemed like an hour.

  Sleep was impossible. If he relaxed his legs, the ropes yanked at his arms and dug into his shoulders, so he was forced to support his own weight.

  Cal replayed the evening over in his head, wondering if he could have done something different to avert this disaster. Should he have acted differently? From the outset, he behaved submissive and cooperative—never antagonising the aggressors and waiting for a chance that never came.

  On the surface, his behaviour was like the T.A. training weekend, ten years ago, when he had broken down under interrogation. Yet this was different. Back then, he really crumbled. This time, he was putting on a show. Tonight, his actions were based on rational decisions.

  It also felt different from when he escaped Gibson’s convoy. Then he had panicked and lost the initiative. So what had made the difference tonight?

  Perhaps his experiences since the Yellow Death—especially with Gibson’s convoy—had made him a little more mature and wiser. But there was something more. That something was Juliet. Everything he did tonight was intended to increase her chance of survival, even at the cost of his own life. Juliet had got under his skin like nobody else.

  To think that only a few hours ago he was threatening to leave her. Stupid. He would never have walked away from her, even if it meant living with the Ken and Susan carnival until the end of time.

  If only he could be with her and tell her it had all been a stupid mistake and he would stay with her forever. Too bloody late. Why was he always too bloody late?

  So, he managed to stay rational and avoid panicking this time. Where had it got him?

  Ken had been the opposite of rational. From the start, he acted aggressively and challenging. Even after being beaten unconscious, he came back and attacked the Davidson. Ken was a lazy pain in the arse, yet, when it came down to it, he had guts. Brave Ken. Indefatigable Ken.

  But Ken was dead and nothing he had done made any difference to their fate, either. Or had it? Perhaps Ken made things worse. He had irritated the soldiers from the outset, making them more hostile. Ken prompted Davidson to take both the women and give them longer sentences. He had also bought himself a death sentence. Reckless Ken. Stupid Ken.

  Cal believed his own actions had been the right course. He may have stayed quiet and been subservient, but it was not out of fear or panic this time—it was an informed choice aimed at maximising the chances of saving Juliet.

  But did it make any difference in the end? Cal felt that whatever he had done tonight would have resulted in the same conclusion. The soldiers were always going to kill him and Ken so they could take Juliet and Susan. That was what people like them did. The mistake had been to allow the soldiers to ambush them in the first place.

  How long would it be before he joined Ken? He might bleed to death quickly, or die slowly of hypothermia, or dehydration, whilst tied to this tree. Or maybe they would shoot him tomorrow morning. There was no way out. He acted very differently to Ken tonight, yet both of them would suffer the same fate and die back to back against this tree.

  Gentle rain began to fall, and soon large drops fell from the leaves onto his head and shoulders, soaking his clothes. Never had he felt so cold. Part of him welcomed death, but whilst there was still an infinitesimal chance he could save Juliet, he must cling on to life.

  CHAPTER 27

  John & Cal

  TIMELINE: At the time of the Yellow Death

  There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.”

  Louis L’Amour (1908–1988)

  John was aware of nothing but pain, nausea, and discomfort for a long time. Occasionally, he would surface through the layers of delirium. Sometimes it would be light outside his bedroom window and other times dark.

  By his bed, a large bottle of water rested on the nightstand. Once in a while, when he became semi-conscious, his desperate thirst was enough to make him suffer the pain of moving an arm to take a drink. His throat was sore, and it hurt to swallow, but then it hurt to do anything. That water bottle may have saved his life. The plague killed billions, but dehydration proved to be the final straw for many. Victims would lay alone in bed, lacking the strength to walk to a faucet, with nobody to help.

  That bottle also brought him back to the real world. John reached out for it one more time and knocked it off the stand. It made a hollow, bonging sound as it hit the wooden floorboards. John half-opened his eyes. They were caked with sleep, so he blinked several times. The room appeared in brilliant clarity. The sun shone outside the window and bees buzzed around the honeysuckle growing up the wall.

  The stench was appalling. A mixture of rancid sweat, urine and faeces. It shocked him to realise he was the source of the foul odour. The bedclothes stuck to him and were stiff in places, like cardboard. He lifted the top sheet up and looked down at his body. He had soiled himself. Badly. His delirious tossing and turning had efficiently spread the substance throughout the bed and over his legs before drying hard.

  Only then did it occur to John that he had survived the Yellow Death. So what if he felt ghastly? He ached all over, was desperately thirsty and pitifully weak—but he was alive. The fever
had passed. Millions, perhaps billions, died, yet he lived. John lay for several minutes revelling in the simple truth of not being dead and wondering why him.

  Why not him? A few people would survive, they always did. Natural immunity, a freak genetic mutation. Possibly it was because he was young and fit and had drinking water. Who cares?

  He rolled out of bed after carefully peeling the sheets away from the skin of his legs. Then he crawled across the landing to the bathroom and drank from the tap. And drank. And drank some more. The tepid water tasted metallic. It tasted wonderful. He was alive.

  Fortunately, the shower still worked, although with reduced pressure. The cold water tank was situated in the attic, which overheated on sunny days. Thus, John revelled in a waterfall of lukewarm water. He spent some time removing the caked-on faeces from his legs. The substance proved surprisingly persistent and John had so little strength. John remembered houses used to be built from a mixture of straw and dung, and he could see why. When he was eventually clean, he crawled from the shower exhausted, and lay naked on the bathroom floor, bathing in the sunlight’s warmth streaming through the window. He was alive!

  When he closed his eyes, the backs of his lids glowed orange from the sunlight. Such a wonderful colour. Why had he never noticed it before?

  Sleep came quickly and, when John awoke again, some of his strength had returned. He wrapped a towel around himself for modesty, realising how ridiculous that was in the circumstances. John went downstairs to the kitchen, gripping the hand rail tightly. Unable to face the thought of eating, he stumbled from his mother’s cottage across the lawn to his own chalet. His reflection in the mirror came as a shock. A cadaverous face with eyes like dark hollows stared back at him. Stubble and yellow teeth completed the picture of decay. All in all, he looked a mess. Slowly and deliberately, he shaved, combed his hair, then dressed in a clean army uniform. Every action appeared new and fresh, as if he had just been born as a fully grown man.

  Then something wonderful occurred to him. No pain in his back. John made a few experimental movements. A little stiffness remained, but he had woken up without pain being his first sensation. Maybe the days of lying in bed, together with the cortisone injections, had promoted healing. Perhaps the Yellow Death had kick-started his immune system. That would be ironic. Still, he knew better than to push his luck, so spent the next twenty minutes methodically working through his back exercises to loosen up properly.

  The power was still out. The phone still silent. The internet still dead. He tried searching for radio stations using the portable radio, but only static greeted him. Pretty much what he had expected. John was alive, but civilisation was very dead.

  He looked in the mirror again and breathed deeply. Much better. Still gaunt, but no longer looking like he was dressed for Halloween.

  John walked back to Sarah’s cottage, steeling himself for what had to be done next. The garden was vividly coloured, and he revelled in the sun on his face and the twittering orchestra from the avian community.

  The inside of the cottage seemed dark and foreboding in comparison. An earthy, musty smell struck him. The trudge up the stairs was strenuous, and he gripped the bannister for support. Reaching the top left him breathless and dizzy. A moment to recover himself, before he finally turned the door handle to Sarah’s bedroom and pushed the door open, remaining standing on the landing. The odour of decay brought him to his senses, and he stepped into the room.

  Sarah lay in bed on her side, curled up like a foetus. Flies buzzed around. John stood over her. She seemed to have shrivelled and shrunk. It was as if his mother had moved on, leaving only a husk. John wrapped the bed sheet around her and bent to pick her up, instinctively positioning himself to reduce the strain on his back. She was lighter than a child but, in his weakened state, he could not lift her body. Regrettably, he was forced to drag her corpse across the landing and down the stairs, struggling to give it some dignity. When he reached the garden, he slumped on the ground to regain his strength.

  Sarah would want to be laid to rest here. This was her real home, and she loved the garden more than anything. The flower borders were a glorious blaze of colour and light and life. John normally never noticed them. As a hobby, gardening had seemed senseless to him. Sarah had always been weeding, pruning, thinning out, replanting, fertilising, or dead-heading. Gardening was never done, never finished. An endless list of jobs to be tackled. A hell of a lot of work for what purpose? Yet, when he scanned the garden now, he noticed the artistry. The myriad shades and colours complimented one other, whilst the eye naturally darted here and there. Somehow, his dance with the Grim Reaper generated a new appreciation of life—how long would it last?

  At this moment in time, the garden looked perfect. But how would it appear in six months, without its human servants tending to it? John felt an urge to capture the vision before the inevitable decline. What would be the point? He had a digital camera that was now technology from a dead civilisation. Dead Man’s Technology. On the first day of waking, John understood he lived in a totally new world. Adapt or die.

  He began digging the grave—slowly—progress limited by his weakened state and the need to stop every few minutes to gather his breath. As he shovelled out the earth, he thought about his father. Dad was almost certainly dead like everyone else, but what if he wasn’t? John could not recollect when they last spoke and had no idea where he would be. It might equally be Afghanistan or Aldershot. Did it matter? His father had shown no interest in his life to date, so why should that change? John decided to not spend time searching. His father had been dead to him long before the Yellow Death.

  After digging down seventy centimetres, John hit a layer of hard clay and stone. On a normal day, he would fetch a pick-axe and force his way deeper into the regolith, but today he lacked the strength. “Sorry Mum, this will have to do.”

  An hour later, he stood over the grave, out of breath, with limbs aching from the effort. The grave was no more than a simple mound of earth. John felt nothing except a strange numbness. He owed her more than this. She bore him and brought him up almost single-handed. She devoted her life to helping him overcome autism. She even bought this cottage with him in mind so he could live independently. Surely he should shed a tear for her?

  Yet John never cried. Such an explosion of emotion seemed beyond him.

  There was a sense of loss over never seeing his mother again. There was regret about letting her down and not showing gratitude. Also, there was sadness her life had been cut short—she so much wanted grandchildren. If only he could be with her for another ten minutes. That was all it would take to say thank you for everything she did for him. Too late for that.

  Yet there was also a strange sense of release and freedom, as if some invisible chains were broken. No longer was he ‘Sarah’s John’, who lived at the bottom of Sarah’s garden like a gnome. Now he was truly independent of his mother and did not need to consider how his actions would affect her, or anyone else. He tried to suppress the emotion. Billions had died horribly, including everyone he ever knew. It was repulsive he should feel good in any way. He should be traumatised. Why was he not in shock, like a normal person?

  Perhaps it was because he lacked any real friends. His relationship with his father was non-existent and there were no siblings, uncles, or aunts. There was nothing from the old world he much cared for, or would particularly miss. He could shed the old world as easily as removing a worn-out, dirty coat—except for his mother.

  John wanted to speak poignant words over her grave, but even had he known a prayer, he would not have recited it. He no more believed in God than he did Father Christmas. John knew no poetry or meaningful prose. In the end, all he said was, “Goodbye Mum. Your garden’s looking beautiful. I wish you were here to see it. Thanks for everything. I’ll try to make you proud of me. I promise I’ll make something good out of my life.”

  After John finished burying his mother, he went back into her cottage to rest and eat. Th
e feat of digging his mother’s grave left him drained. Even with the sun full in the sky, he was chilled to the bone. The house was cold, so he opened the French doors, letting in the warmth and letting out the stench of death.

  Nature had woken up, unconcerned with the human misery. Song birds sang, pigeons strutted on the lawn and cooed, distant sheep bleated. The bees provided their background buzz as they busied themselves with the roses on the trellis next to the door.

  John did not realise he was hungry until he put food in his mouth and then he stuffed himself silly. It was nothing fancy. The food in the freezer and fridge had gone bad. A layer of green mould covered the loaf in the bread bin. So, he opened a few cans and ate out of them, moaning with pleasure as syrupy tinned peaches slid down his throat.

  Then he boiled a saucepan of water and made an enormous pot of tea. Fortunately, his mother kept a carton of long life milk in the larder ‘for emergencies’. He thought this probably qualified as an emergency.

  He sat looking out at the garden and savoured his brew. A mug of tea never tasted so good. Breathing in the steam felt comforting and familiar.

  The world had changed. Almost everyone had died. The UK population reduced from seventy million to perhaps tens of thousands. All the beloved technology gone. His skills and training as a website developer were completely useless. Not much call for writing HTML code in a pre-industrial society. Good. Coding bored him anyway.

  So, if he no longer coded websites, what did he do? People defined themselves by their jobs. They didn’t say ‘my job is a builder’, or ‘my job is a solicitor’. They’d say ‘I’m a builder’, or ‘I’m a solicitor’. It was the first question to ask a stranger and how others judged you.