by Terry Tyler
I didn't answer. I didn't know what was making me feel so nervous. As she said, we weren't doing anything wrong.
We may have run away from those who wanted to herd us into a refugee camp, though surely we had a legal right to refuse to go.
But was there such thing as a 'legal right', now?
We turned into the narrow, cobbled lane running between rows of old fishermen's cottages. I knew Mal's garage was at the end, but I'd never been there.
It was so dark; I got my torch out, and what I saw made me shiver. Some of the cottages had a big green O sprayed on their doors. Some had a bright red 'D', others a D with a red cross over it.
"Mum, what d'you think those mean?"
"I don't know. I think we can use our imagination about the D."
Mal's garage was a shabby old place, with double gates leading to a cobbled courtyard. I was surprised to find them open. A cottage stood at the far side of the courtyard, candlelight in the front window.
"That's our car!" Lottie whispered, pouncing on the little black Fiat, shrugging off her backpack. "Brill! How long will it take us to drive up to the safe house?"
"Four hours-ish, I think." I walked around it, fishing the key out of my pocket. As I dumped my pack onto the back seat (oh, the bliss of taking it off!), I heard the tinkling of bamboo wind chimes in the early morning air.
"Should we knock on the window and introduce ourselves, d'you think?"
"Let's just go," she said. "I want to get away from here."
I looked at the cottage window. "It seems a bit rude."
"Does that sort of thing matter at times like this?"
"Yes. It always matters." Clearly my parents had brought me up better than I had my own daughter.
Then light filled the yard, and a tall, black-skinned, grey-bearded man emerged from the cottage doorway, arms folded.
"Vicky and Lottie, I presume," he said, his teeth gleaming white in the dark. "Just in time; I was going to give you until end of this week, then I was on my way!"
Chapter Ten
Travis and Kitson
Tuesday, 27th August
They called their new quarters The Bunker, and very comfortable it was, too.
They'd been moved from their apartment building to temporary underground residential quarters during the last week of July, following the completion of Data Analysis: Stage One (security clearance: Top Secret).
They slept in dormitories, but the beds were well spaced, with bedside cabinets and lamps between each one. There were two communal bathrooms (male and female), a kitchen, and a dining and lounge area. No phones, nor any internet facilitating device, were allowed during this interim period; they'd signed their agreement to this on being hired for the project, a small price to pay while they waited to embark on training for Stage Two, to take place in a beautiful coastal resort in Tasmania.
Entertainment in The Bunker was provided in the form of a wide selection of films and TV dramas, a moderately stocked bar, and a games room.
They knew nothing of the state of the country above ground, because they'd entered The Bunker a few days before the substance in a vial from Box NOV34 was injected into Nick Greenaway's bloodstream.
Until recently, the smiling, tanned face of Alex Verlander from Renova Workforce Liaison had appeared on the large communication screen in the lounge, at four pm each day, to chat with them about any concerns they might have.
But Verlander had not appeared for several days.
And they were running out of food.
Kitchen supplies were dwindling fast, and the last scheduled delivery of fresh fruit and vegetables had not arrived.
Tas Day (as it had come to be called) had come and gone, four days earlier.
On the day before they were meant to be moving out, Verlander informed them that there would be a short delay, but there was no cause for alarm.
Since then, his spray-tanned visage had remained conspicuous by its absence.
On the morning of the third waiting day, a young woman called Shaw counted all the emergency pre-packed meals, divided them by the amount of mouths to be fed, and came to the conclusion that there were only enough left to last until the sixth of September, if eaten at the current rate of three meals a day.
"If there hadn't been a risk of us being left down here past Tas Day," she reasoned, at a meeting in the games room, "there wouldn't be emergency pre-packed meals, would there?"
"Yes, but we're not the first people to stay here," said a girl called Goodman. "They're probably just a standard issue, a provision in the event of a nuclear attack, or something." And Goodman's cronies, who believed that the delay was nothing to worry about, nodded and murmured their agreement.
They knew Bat Fever had reached the UK, because Verlander had told them about the (very few) isolated cases, assuring them the situation was under control, but warning that it might mean a few administrative hitches. Alas, communication with him could not be made at their instigation. An emergency alarm was located underneath the screen, but Verlander had emphasised the importance of not using this alarm except in a genuine emergency.
"Inappropriate activation of the alarm," he said, his brilliant, white smile never faltering, "may result in your removal from the Project."
That word 'may' kept them all from pressing the button.
Travis sat down on his bed.
"They've forgotten about us," he said. "Or it's worse outside than they've led us to believe." He was hungry. Shaw had taken charge of rationing; she shouted louder than Goodman, so they were down to two meals and one snack (a cereal bar or a bag of nuts) per person, per day.
A few of them, like Travis, wanted to break out and see what was going on outside.
"Course they haven't forgotten about us," said Kitson. He lay on his back, hand behind his head, studying a car magazine. "They're not going to spend all that time and money training us for Stage One, if they didn't want us for Stage Two. They wouldn't be bothering to put us up here, for a start." He glanced over at Travis and grinned. "We're going to Hobart, bro’. I can't bloody wait to get there, it looks brilliant. Take me down to Paradise City—hoo-ah!"
Travis popped a piece of nicotine chewing gum out of its bubble. Damn, but he wanted a cigarette. Hadn't had one for three months. "I'm not so sure. Why haven't we heard anything from Verlander?"
"Might have techno probs. They're only a few days late. That Bat Fever, it's got to have something to do with it, hasn't it? You know what it's like in this country. A little flurry of snow, and it's a national bloody emergency." Kitson sniffed and turned over the page of his magazine. "Soon as it's sorted, he'll be back, and then they'll come for us."
"Well, if you believe that, you're as much of a sheep as those numbskulls in the canteen." Travis shook his head. "No one's coming to get us. These things, epidemics, they can escalate really quickly. Verlander wouldn't have mentioned it if it was nothing. I reckon it's got bad up there, and we're on our own. Shaw thinks so, too; she's the only one who's got her head screwed on, apart from Doyle and me. And I'll tell you what else she thinks. She says that all the data we were analysing, it's to do with the vaccinations. Like, who was going to get it first."
"You don't half talk some shite, mate. It's random."
"I don't know. Stands to reason they'd want to give it to, oh, I don't know, doctors and nurses, say, before the unemployed." He raised his eyebrows. "Or the elderly and disabled. The non-productives. Doyle thinks the plan might be to not even give them the vaccine, so they'll get the virus. You know, what with the population crisis. It makes sense."
Kitson laughed out loud. "Bullshit! Bro’, that would be murder. What do you think this is, Nazi Germany? This is the United-fucking-Kingdom, man. Cups of tea and family values!" He laughed again, and shook his head.
"Well, what do you think all that snooping was for, then? All that blue, green and red categorising?"
"A major overhaul of the administration of the country, like they said," said Kitson. "I
don't know. I don't think about it. I just did my job."
"Well, think now."
He shrugged. "Crime. Benefits. Pensions. The war on terrorism. The war on drugs. I don't really give a shit. I've got my wad in the bank, and I want to get to Hobart so I can start spending it." Kitson turned the page of his magazine, and tapped his finger on a glossy picture. "Look at this beauty. I wanna get me one of those!"
As Travis leant over to take a look at the magazine, the light above him flickered. "That keeps happening lately," he said.
"Yeah, I've noticed it, too." Kitson looked up. "And the water pressure was crap this morning, in the shower. Just a trickle, by the end. I reckon it's the girls, using too much hot water. Some of them have two a day. Bitches are putting a strain on the power."
"Yeah, Shaw said the water pressure was low this morning."
"She's keeping it nice an' clean for us, bro’!"
The light above them flickered again; when it settled down, it was noticeably dimmer.
"I'll tell you what I think," Travis said. "I think we were meant to be out of here by now, so everything's packing up. What do we do if it gets worse? Do we press the alarm button? Will that be construed as 'inappropriate use'? And why can't we go out? Use our phones?"
"Cause the project's super major top secret. S'national security, isn't it? You remember all that stuff in the induction about the temptation to just tell one person. You know, like MI5, yeah? They can't even tell their husbands and wives what they do." He raised one eyebrow, a talent of his that Travis envied. "Hey, maybe that's who we're really employed by! Now, that really would rock!"
"I don't know. I think we've been lied to. Shaw does, too."
"Quit negging me out, bro’. It'll be alright. They're not going to leave us here to starve, are they?"
"I wouldn't be too sure about that." Travis blew out through his mouth. "It's getting stuffy in here, as well. Maybe the air con's packing up, too. It's not like you can open a window, is it?"
"You're just getting hot under the collar. Too much hanging around with Shaw." Kitson whistled. "I would!" He winked. "'Wood' being the operative word! She's as fit as, ain't she?"
Travis lay back and looked at the ceiling. "I tell you what, if they're not here by the end of the week, and if we haven't heard anything from Verlander, I'm pressing the alarm."
Kitson put down his magazine. "Don't do that. Seriously! I don't want you kicked off the project. Think Hobart! Come on, bro’; we're going to have the blast to end all blasts when we get there."
"Okay." Travis stretched his arms out. "I'll go out through the fucking door, then."
"You can't. You need their key card."
"I've looked at the door. It's not that thick, I reckon if a few of us put our minds to it we could break it down. At least go out and see what's what."
"You'll get the sack. Worse, maybe."
"I don't care. 'Cause I've got a feeling there isn't going to be any Hobart. And if they don't come for us, do you know what will happen? We'll starve. And run out of air. We could actually die in here."
Kitson put his magazine down, and swung his legs over the side of his bed. "Ah, do what you want." He got up and sauntered over to the door, then turned and gave Travis a wide grin. "I'll send you a postcard when I get to Paradise City!"
Chapter Eleven
On The Road
Mal's kitchen was so cosy. I could have stayed there for hours, quite happily, especially as I'd had approximately one hour's kip the night before. By the Aga was a huge old armchair with enormous cushions; just looking at it made me want to curl up and sleep for a day.
"Let me make you some breakfast first," said Mal. "How does bacon, eggs and waffles sound?"
It sounded like heaven, but I was worried I'd sidle over to that chair and never get up. "That's so kind of you, but we really ought to get going—"
"Mu-um! You're joking!" Lottie turned the full beam of her charm onto our new friend. "Proper real cooked food—yes please, thank you, and I'd love some!"
I laughed. "Yes, of course. Thank you very much, Mal, that'd be great." I looked at the chair. "Please can I sit down there?"
"Help yourself; have forty winks, if you want."
The chair felt every bit as wonderful as it looked; I could almost hear my tired legs moaning their gratitude.
"I daren't cook bacon later in the day," he said. "There are more people about then, and the smell drifts; I'd probably get broken into."
That caught my attention. "Really?"
He busied himself in the ancient stone larder just off the kitchen. "I think this is still okay." He held it up. "Well, it's not going green, anyway. And the getting broken into—yes. It's the biggest problem round here. Apart from ninety per cent of the town's population dying, that is."
"Do you have family?" I asked, carefully.
"Son, his wife and daughter in London." He took eggs from a basket on the table and broke them into a bowl. "Dex gave me vaccines for them, too; I was going to go down to find them, if you or they didn't turn up in a week or so. I wanted to make sure the car was safe for you first."
"That's so kind of you. You don't even know us."
"Ah, well, y'man gave me the vaccines, didn't he? Least I could do."
Dex had been busy, then. I didn't realise he knew Mal that well, he never mentioned him. I'd thought we were together, a unit, but there was so much to his life aside from the parts he shared with me.
The candlelit room was small, and very basic, with its stone floor and rough, square table filling up most of the space, and I felt safe sitting there. I snuggled down in the chair.
"Are people looting all the shops, too?" Lottie asked, and I knew what she was after.
"Oh yes. That started early on. Not much left now."
She gave Mal her best smile as he handed her a mug of coffee—"oo-oh, that's good!"—and glanced up at me. "See, Mum? I know it's stealing, and it's wrong, but that clothes shop, it was all smashed and open. Which probably means that the owner's dead, or just gone." She appealed to our host. "Mum said I shouldn't take stuff because it's people's stock, and they'll need it to re-open their businesses when this is all over."
Mal was silent for a while. I didn't know if he thought I was silly for being so moral, if he considered Lottie a juvenile delinquent, or what. He just stood there, stirring the eggs into a pan. Then he took them off the heat and turned around.
"I suppose you've been isolated from the rest of the world, to a certain extent, in Shipden. The thing is, Vicky, I don't know that there's going to be any 'when it's all over'. We don't know how badly the rest of the world has been hit. Or—and this is the weirdest thing—if monetary transactions will be a thing of the past, as we comprehend them, at least. I have a feeling the old way of life might be gone for good." With some reluctance, I got out of the wonderful chair and sat at the table, and he doled the bacon, eggs and waffles out onto three plates; for a few minutes we just ate, and Lottie made loud drooling noises.
"What do you mean about monetary transactions?" I asked, when I'd stopped stuffing the glorious, fluffy, buttery eggs into my mouth for long enough to breathe. "Everything won't be just smash and grab, will it?"
"No, of course not, but currency won't necessarily be about coins and notes, and certainly not credit and debit cards!" Mal put his elbows on the table, flexing his long, knobbly fingers and interlocking them under his chin. "If this is, or becomes, worldwide, it means all financial records have disappeared. Credit, banks, stocks and shares, the lot. That figure on your bank statement that said your last monthly salary went in, it's just a number. Not even that, unless you had hard copy statements, which few people did." He lifted his hands. "If you think about it, money doesn't actually exist, unless you can see it in your hand, and even then, its value is only a matter of perception."
I nodded. "I've thought about this but I can't work out what might happen."
Mal nodded. "Okay. Let me tell you something. The other day I fa
ncied a drink. And, you know, some company. Something to do. Not many cars to mend around here these days." He gave me a sad smile. "So I went into the Drum, on the sea front. There were a few fellas there, drinking bottled lager and spirits. I ordered a whisky, tried to give Jim, the landlord, some money, but he didn't want it. 'Money's no good to me now,' he said. 'I've got no brewery to pay.' Said his boy went round there and helped himself, though there wasn't much left. He gave me my drink on the house, but said in the future he'd need alternative methods of payment."
"So what did he want?"
"Food. Petrol." He grimaced. "Muscle if anyone tries to break in, if I wanted to hang around, and he hinted at weapons and ammo. There were a couple of heavies in there, who, presumably, had promised their services in exchange for drink. I don't want to go down that road, though. Think I'll get me a couple of bottles and drink at home in the future."
I tried to process all this, my mind running off in all sorts of directions.
"I'll tell you what Jim did, to illustrate it." Mal chuckled. "He took a twenty-pound note out of the till and set fire to it. He said, 'I can't buy nothing with them, so they're just bits of paper. Oh, and by the way, this is now officially a smoking pub!' All the guys in there laughed at that one. Shame I gave up ten years ago; I always missed having a fag with a drink."
The enormity of our changed circumstances was finally beginning to sink in.
Lottie turned to me. "Does this mean I can have a look in that clothes shop, then, Mum?"
"No, I want to get off." It still didn't feel right. "There's something else. We saw signs painted on doors. What do they mean?"
His mouth set in a grim line. "We'll finish eating breakfast first, I think."
So we made cheery conversation about Dex and Unicorn and Mal's family, and then he told us. The signs were painted on by the army. The red D meant that there were dead bodies in the house, and no one living.