by David Moody
“What were you expecting? Some kind of civic ceremony in Millenium Square because you made it back in one piece?”
“Don’t mock me.”
“Sorry. Sarcasm’s about the only emotion that’s still functioning. I’ve been on shift a long time. I’m tired.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks. I gave up going back to my billet. The floor of the office is just as comfortable as the floor of someone else’s house and it’s safer here, too. You’re okay, though, aren’t you? You’re from around here. You can just go back home.”
“It’s been a long time,” Matt says. He feels disproportionately nervous at the prospect of going home. Anything could have happened in the months he’s been away.
The doctor sits down again and checks her watch. “They’ll be here to let you out in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
She studies his face. He looks away, uncomfortable under examination. “So did you really survive on your own out there?”
“Yep.”
“Just by tiptoeing around and keeping your distance?”
“Pretty much.”
“There’s a lesson there for the rest of us, I think.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“You must have really got into their heads.”
“Who, the Haters?”
“Haters, other survivors … everyone I guess. You must have known where the trouble was to be able to avoid it.”
“There’s trouble everywhere out there.”
“Any survival tips you’d like to share in case it all goes to hell in here? I could do with a few pointers.”
Matt likes this woman’s humor. She makes him smile. It’s been so long it makes his face feel weird. “As far as the Haters go, just make sure there’s someone else nearby who’ll distract them for you, some other poor sod who’ll make more noise or scream louder than you and keep them occupied.”
“And how d’you make sure you’re not someone else’s distraction?”
“That part’s easy. You watch what everyone else is doing and you make sure you do the opposite.”
MIDLANDS REGIONAL PROTECTION ZONE
INFORMATION FOR RESIDENTS
Welcome to the Midlands Regional Protection Zone
— You’re safe here —
Welcome to the Midlands Regional Protection Zone. This is a difficult time for all of us, and we want to reassure you we’re doing everything in our power to maintain order and keep you and your loved ones safe. Please take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with the information contained in this leaflet. By following these simple guidelines we can ensure our camp remains secure while our troops work to restore order to the rest of the country.
Jenna Holbrook
ACTING CAMP COMMISSIONER
OBEY ORDERS
The Civil Defense Force (CDF) are here to help and protect you. You must do as they tell you. Civil disobedience will NOT be tolerated under any circumstances. If you act like the enemy, you will be treated like the enemy.
MISSING PERSONS
We understand you might be worried about family members, friends, and other loved ones who may be missing. We will do everything we can to help you find them, but information is limited. These are unprecedented times and there have been huge numbers of casualties and defections. We’re doing our best to keep a record of everyone in the Midlands Regional Protection Zone, but we can’t be held responsible for any inaccuracies. There are information points at the City Arena and in Millennium Square, but be prepared to wait to be seen. You are only permitted to request one Central System inquiry per week. Unauthorized access of the Central System is forbidden.
FOOD AND WATER
Ration packs are available from the City Arena, Horsfall Road, and Gannow Park. Take only what you need. Do not stockpile food. Remember—if you take more than your allotted supply today, there may be less available for you tomorrow. Drinking water is provided from the standpipes found at most major interchanges. Please note, it may be necessary to restrict the availability of the water supply to ensure demand can be met throughout the camp.
HEALTH AND SANITATION
Report to the Royal Midlands Hospital if you or a member of your group is unwell. At peak times it may take our staff a while to see you. Be patient. Aggressive behavior will not be tolerated—again, if you act like the enemy, you will be treated like the enemy. Please see our additional leaflets SANITATION IN THE HOME, WHAT TO DO IF SOMEONE DIES, and AVOIDING THE SPREAD OF DISEASE, for information on waste removal and general hygiene matters.
MOVEMENT IN AND
OUT OF THE CAMP
Is not permitted under any circumstances without an official permit and a military escort. If you leave the camp without the necessary authorization, you will not be readmitted.
ACCOMODATION
If you are not a local resident, report to the housing team within the administrative section based at the City Arena who will arrange accommodation for you. If you are a local resident, you will be required to take in as many additional people as we deem necessary. Refusal to accept houseguests will result in your property being compulsorily seized. You may also be removed from your property if you do not cooperate. We realize this may be a difficult option for you, and we apologize in advance.
REFUSE COLLECTIONS
Please leave all rubbish in designated areas and it will be collected and disposed of in due course.
VOLUNTEERING FOR WORK
If you have medical experience you are hereby compulsorily required to attend the Royal Midlands Hospital.
If you have experience of working in security, including the armed forces, the police, the prison officer service, private security firms, or any role involving crowd management, then you are hereby compulsorily required to report to the Department of Works based at the University School near the City Arena.
You can earn extra food credits by volunteering to help keep our camp running smoothly. We have vacancies in public sanitation and food distribution.
VEHICLES
Only official vehicles which carry a valid permit may be used.
CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE
WILL NOT BE
TOLERATED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES
The CDF have absolute authority to deal with any offenses under the terms of the recently enacted Emergency Measures Bill.
5
Matt slips the leaflet into the back pocket of his trousers. Things haven’t felt normal for a long time, but today is increasingly surreal. In the space of a couple of hours he’s gone from being Public Enemy Number One to no one, and if that wasn’t enough, he’s now faced with this. He remembers watching the news on TV and seeing footage of refugee camps in different countries following endless wars and natural disasters. He was always thankful it wasn’t here and it wasn’t him. Well now it is.
There are people everywhere. It’s impossible to stand still and he’s carried along with a human tide of new arrivals being absorbed into the masses. Matt’s emerged from the checkpoint-cum-prison-cum-processing-center close to the City Arena. He came here a couple of times with Jen. Overpriced, oversized, and overhyped, people paid a fortune to come here and watch bands playing live in the distance. Today, though, there’s free access. All the doors are open and winding queues of people snake in through every available entrance. He looks inside as he walks past and sees the vast, bowl-like building is nothing but lines. Queues to join queues. Armed guards and loudspeaker announcements. The longest lines by far are for food. Should he queue up? He thinks he maybe should, but he hasn’t been around this many people in a long, long time and he’s reluctant. He’s spent weeks avoiding everyone else. It’ll take time to get used to being shoulder to shoulder again. He’s already missing the space.
Beyond the arena queues it’s every man, woman, and child for themselves. Nothing but movement. Faces come at him from all directions like a fairground horror ride. Matt moves toward the side of the road and sticks to the sha
dows. He reassures himself by remembering this is a Hater-free zone. He might not want to engage with his fellow refugees, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about them trying to rip his fucking throat out. Not yet, anyway.
When Matt catches a glimpse of his reflection in the dusty window of a long-shut shop, he does a double take. He feels suddenly self-conscious. Despite having been hosed down, he’s still a fucking mess. Long, shaggy hair. Odd shoes. Holes and tears. For a fraction of a second it almost matters, but he knows nobody here gives a damn what he looks like. Fact is, everyone and everything looks a fucking state. Staying alive is the only thing that’s fashionable these days.
Wait … I know where I am …
It’s taken a while, but he’s just worked it out. Everything looks so different to how he remembers. Empty spaces have been filled, tents and other makeshift shelters occupying grass verges and strips of parkland. Because there’s no traffic, the once obvious lines of the roads have become blurred, the curbs obscured by mountains of garbage stacked up like dirty drifts. The warm air stinks. When Matt looks up instead of down, though, there’s more familiarity. Save for the missing top third of a once distinctive communications tower that’s been decapitated, the view above street level is largely unspoiled. The illusion is shattered when a pair of ugly Chinooks crawl across the otherwise empty blue sky. Noise echoes off the buildings on either side of the street, briefly muting the monotonous hum of the crowds.
This place is an auditory and visual overload, but it’s not volumes and numbers that have caught Matt out, it’s the sheer difference; the stark contrast with the empty silence of the rest of the world. Everything familiar is now unfamiliar. He’s only been inside the camp proper for a matter of minutes, but it’s long enough to know that nothing here’s like it was anymore. Look at that electrical store over there, for example. It used to be full of TVs and computers and vacuums and washing machines and microwaves. All those things are still present, but it’s full of people too; living, eating, and sleeping in the store. Matt watches an extended family re-arranging their makeshift home-space. Two men lay a fridge-freezer on its side on top of a couple of washer-driers, building a wall between them and everyone else.
Is it going to be like this everywhere?
He turns a corner and stops dead in his tracks in front of a filling station. The retail kiosk is empty-shelved and shuttered, the fuel pumps dried up and useless, but the forecourt itself has been repurposed by a bunch of kids playing football. Playing games, for Christ’s sake! There are nine of them of various shapes and sizes, kicking at a goal formed from the stretched-out hoses of two pumps tied together to form a sagging, black rubber crossbar. Their ball has seen better days, but for all these kids care they could be playing the FA Cup final on the pitch at Wembley. That makes Matt feel surprisingly morose. He’s never been much of a sports fan, but it says something about the state of what’s left of the world that a staple of the British sporting calendar like the FA Cup final won’t be played this year. Or any other year for that matter. That’s how it feels today, anyway.
But it’s not the game that’s got Matt’s attention, it’s the kids themselves. They’re the closest thing to normal children he’s seen in months. It’s not what they’re doing that matters, it’s what they’re not doing. They’re the first people he’s seen for a long time. Who aren’t thinking about how to survive. They’re not thinking about food or shelter or staying safe and quiet and alive, they’re just lost in their game. It gives him a little hope. Just a little, mind.
Engine noise. Coming from behind him. Gaining fast.
Matt presses himself back against a wall as a military vehicle trundles into view. Some kind of tactical support machine, it looks like. An ugly, angular-looking beast with crushing tires, surrounded by a phalanx of marching soldiers with even more of them riding on the back. They move slowly and methodically along the street, expressions hidden behind visors, weapons primed and held clearly visible. People move out of the way without complaint, either out of respect or fear or a combination of both. Matt tries to melt into the shadows, feeling disproportionally conspicuous even though he knows he’s just another face in the crowd. It’s a relief when they pass by, but he waits a while longer before moving, just to be sure.
It must be late afternoon by now. Four o’clock? Maybe as late as five? Matt’s days have long lost any structure. The nine-to-five and the comforting rigidity of the working week have gone. Now the days are interchangeable and he does things when he has to, no consideration for the earliness of the hour or the lateness of the day. He’s got used to this fluidity, so why now is he wishing he had a watch to check? He’s wondering whether he’s got time to try and make it back to the house tonight, or if he should wait till morning. There’s no logical reason to delay, but every fiber of his body seems intent on imploring him to slow down. It’s as if he doesn’t want to go back. It’s just nerves, he knows it is, but he’s having trouble keeping them in check. All the effort of the last nine weeks has been building up to this.
What if she’s gone?
What if she doesn’t recognize me?
What if she doesn’t want me?
* * *
For all its size, the city feels small tonight. The jets and helicopters and drones which frequently crisscross overhead compound the illusion of being in a bubble. It’s like something out of a Stephen King novel, Matt thinks. Or The Simpsons Movie. Remember that? He wonders how long pop culture references will stay valid in this increasingly dystopian-feeling world. Books and films already feel a lifetime ago.
The light’s starting to fade and the buildings have become shadows. The grid’s down. Streetlamps stay dark, usurped by occasional freestanding, generator-powered lighting towers, the kind that used to be used to illuminate construction sites and road works. There are standpipes on the corners of the widest roads. Queues of people stretch out behind them, arms loaded with bottles and jars and whatever else they can find to carry water.
It’s not just the power supply that’s failed, Matt’s starting to realize, it’s the whole infrastructure of the city. It’s no surprise, really, because right now all that matters here is keeping the outside out. Nothing in this place is what it used to be. There’s no one swimming in the swimming pools, no books being read in the libraries. Schools are lesson-free. Pretty much every building he’s so far seen, irrespective of its intended purpose or design, is just another shelter now.
He’s getting close to home.
The Co-op supermarket he and Jen shopped at is desolate. He remembers stocking up here the day they moved into the house, giddy with excitement, filling their basket with things they didn’t need, determined to make something special of their first night in their new home. The shop looks alien now with its sign unlit, its shelves empty, and its automatic doors wedged permanently open like a gaping maw. It’s been stripped of its plastic retail soul and stocked with people instead.
Matt walks down Galton Road, a long, straight street which runs alongside a park which itself backs onto a golf course. At this time of day he wouldn’t have expected to see anyone here, but every available scrap of grassland has been filled. A shantytown of tents and makeshift plastic shelters has sprung up, illuminated by torches and campfires. There’s a deep, mumbling soundtrack to the place: generally subdued low frequencies save for the occasional high-pitched interruption. Raised voices. More kids. Dunkirk spirit, his gran used to call it. Folks pulling together to overcome adversity. But he still feels out on a limb. All these people, and I haven’t spoken to anyone.
At the corner of Galton Road and West Boulevard are more soldiers manning a temporary base with a watchtower. There’s no shortage of firepower. The CDF troops are impervious, eyes hidden as they scan the crowds. But there’s no dissent here, no trouble at all. An eerie, almost unnatural calm lies heavy over the place. The reason, Matt decides, is obvious. It was spelled out in the leaflet in his pocket—if you act like the enemy, you will be treated
like the enemy. Having a bad day? Feeling pissed off? Someone angered you? Be careful what you say and how you say it: they’ll call you a Hater. He knows all it would take is a suspicion.
West Boulevard is a long downward slope of a road with a wide central reservation between the two carriageways (now another campsite). A key route between the suburbs and the center of town, it’s a mass of teeming movement. Folks spill out onto the silent roadway as they go about their business, though other than fetching food and water, Matt can’t understand what kind of business that might be now that the gears of society have temporarily ground to a halt. He’s in no mood to ask because he has other things on his mind.
Home.
He’s almost reached East Kent Road now, and his heart’s pounding. He’s spent weeks trying to get back here, living on a knife-edge, snatching moments of sleep whenever he’s been able, foraging scraps of food. It’s only now he’s made it that he finally feels it in his bones. Every muscle aches. Everything hurts. The effort of all those hours and all those miles is catching up with him, yet part of him wants to make one more trip around the block. He’s looking for delaying tactics because he knows that everything hinges on what happens next. All that he’s been through will have counted for nothing if she’s not here.
Old Matt would have found an excuse to put things off, but he’s a changed man. Whether he’s changed for the better or worse is subject to debate, but he now marches toward the house with a newfound burst of energy and an unexpected swagger, a curious sense of pride. He’s risked everything for Jen. There’s not one person here who’s been through as much as I have to get home, he thinks.
East Kent Road is one of the quieter side streets, but there are plenty of people here. Most houses appear to be occupied except for one of the larger, more expensive homes, which has been ravaged by fire, no doubt something to do with the flame-licked wreck of a van that’s come to an undignified halt half-in and half-out of a downstairs bay window. It looks like the house is trying to spit it out.