Left to Darkness

by Craig Saunders

  Are you a fucking a copper or not?

  And that was the crux, wasn’t it?

  Roll over, be a blind man with no hope, give up. Or quit fucking bitching and try to save this man’s life, and his own.

  Paul got down on his knees. Slowly, carefully…his heart pounding from the simple action of reaching out his hands to search for the metal thing.

  Baby steps, he thought…but as he put his left hand down, he found the metal thing straightaway. Long…a handle. Sticky (blood…that’s blood). Heavy, he thought as he tried to lift it. It’s a fucking sledgehammer, he thought. At first. He wormed his fingers along the haft until he found the head.

  Not a sledgehammer. An axe.

  The guy was lugging a bloody axe around with him.

  You still want to save this fellow?

  What choice did he have? Stone-cold lunatic, savior, survivalist, fucking 007? Did it matter? If he couldn’t keep this guy ticking until they found some help, he might as well take the axe and stick it in his own head because he’d be dying either way.

  Where’s the bag? he wondered. Tried to use his mind to take up some of the slack from his useless eyes.

  Where did people carry bags?

  Shoulder, back. Most cases, Paul figured that’d cover it.

  From the sound of the man falling, Paul had a good idea where he’d find him. He snaked his hands out, a little at a time, until he touched the man’s shoulder.

  Two for two, buddy, he thought, and grinned. Small victories, maybe, but right now he’d take what he could get.

  Paul pulled the bag from the man’s shoulder. He opened it. Found some rattling pills, things that felt like gauze, bandages. A long tube with (thankfully) a guard over what he imagined to be the business end. Hypodermic, he thought. He didn’t know what was in it, but he didn’t think this was a druggie’s setup. The bag felt too tidy, no grimy patina on any of the plastic. Whatever was in the needle, it wasn’t heroin or anything like that.

  Most likely medicine.

  Paul took out the two rattling plastic containers. One must be painkillers. The other antibiotics. It didn’t, he realized, matter much which was which. He had nothing to lose by giving the man some of each, because if he didn’t, the man was probably going to die. He figured, from the smell, that the man was in a seriously bad way.

  He shook out three tablets of each, reasoning that if two was standard, three probably wouldn’t do the man any more harm than had already been done.

  Then it was time to find the guy’s mouth and see if he couldn’t manage to get the pills in the right hole…

  He reached over to search for the man’s face when the radio attached to his shoulder squawked with static. Paul screamed then.

  Just like a little teenage girl, again.

  He didn’t scream for long, though. Because following the static came a voice. A man’s voice. One that sounded surprisingly…normal.

  “Anybody? …don’t…if it works… Anybody there?”

  Paul had lived with a radio of some form most of his career. He could’ve found the switch to speak blindfolded. Never thought he would have had to. But he clicked. The static disappeared.

  “I don’t know who you are…but yeah…there’s somebody here…”

  Paul sat back on his haunches, holding his radio before his face, and crying.

  “There’s somebody here…I’m here…”

  I’m still alive, thought Paul.

  Fuck me if I’m not still alive.

  55

  “You okay, buddy?” asked the man on the airwaves.

  Paul didn’t think he was, but then, he didn’t really have time to get into it, either. Keep it short, keep to the point. Lessons he’d learned way back when he was just starting out—the radio wasn’t a telephone. It wasn’t a therapist and it certainly wasn’t the medium to panic on.

  “No…no. I’m not okay, I think. Are you close by?”

  “Don’t know yet, mate. I’m in King’s Lynn. Where are you?”

  Good question, thought Paul. Good question. Also a good question was how the fuck someone in King’s Lynn managed to get through to his radio. But he didn’t have time to ask. He figured right now a small miracle wouldn’t hurt.

  But the truth was, without the guy on the ground, he had no way of knowing where the hell he was, aside from London, which wasn’t helpful.

  “I think I’m somewhere over the West End,” he said after taking a moment to remember where he’d started out. The flames, the big crazy fucker dragging him underground, the crawl back to the surface…he couldn’t have got far.

  “West End of what?”

  “What?”

  “West End of Lynn?”

  “Lynn?”

  There was a pause before the man on the radio spoke again.

  “Okay…I’m going to start again. I’m in King’s Lynn…it’s a town in Norfolk.”

  Paul’s heart sank. “Oh…oh…I get it.” Truth was, Paul didn’t know where King’s Lynn was. “I’m in London,” he said. “London. Somewhere.”

  “Shit,” said the man.

  “Shit,” agreed Paul.

  “There’s a few of us here. How about you?”

  “Just two. Me and an unconscious man who seriously needs some help. Come to think of it, I’m not the best, either. But I’m not dying. I think he might be.”

  Silence again for nearly a minute this time. Paul thought about interjecting, but he waited. Figured the people on the other end were trying to work something out.

  “Can you get here?”

  Paul laughed, but not while the talk button was down.

  “No. No. I don’t think I can.”

  “We’re at a hospital. There are two nurses…no doctors…but…”

  “Buddy, sounds like fucking heaven, but I can’t get there. I can’t. I…”

  Paul let the button go and took a few deep breaths. The man on the other end spoke first.

  “Hold on there a minute, okay?”

  “Not going anywhere,” said Paul. He sat listening to the wind and the heavy breathing of the guy beside him. No other sounds.

  I’m really, really, fucked, thought Paul. Seriously.

  The radio crackled again and this time there was a different man’s voice.

  “Hey, buddy…I’m a paramedic. Can you tell me what you’ve got?”

  Paul tried not to let his hopes rise. Keep them down, so they don’t drown you when it all goes tits up. Keep them down.

  “Well…I’ve got a guy here with me. He’s out cold. He stinks, breathing’s labored. Smells like he’s got something festering.”

  “See, mate. What can you see?”

  “Fuck all. That’s what I can see. I’m blind.”

  Silence again.

  Making friends, Paul. Cute.

  “Can I talk you through it?”

  “Talk me through what? I’m not landing a plane. I’ve got very little medical knowledge, my only ‘equipment’ is an axe, and I’m fucking blind! I’m blind!”

  Silence again, apart from Paul’s breathing, which was becoming panicked.

  Calm down, Paul. Not helping. Quit being a victim. You were a copper once.

  What? A few days ago?

  Paul wasn’t sure if he was good and angry, or just fucking terrified. He thought it might be a little bit of both.

  The paramedic on the other end didn’t sound annoyed, or panicked, when Paul shouted at him. If anything, he sounded calmer this time around.

  Like you should be, Paul. You know how this works.

  “Okay, mate. We’re going to try out a couple of things, and you’re going to help me.”

  Paul knew the paramedic was talking sense, and his panic was the only thing getting in the way.

  He took a few deep breaths before he spoke again.

  “I’m listening,” he said, slightly calmer this time. Not exactly all the way calm, but better.

  “Can you wake him up?”

  “I can try. Guy’s hal
f-dead. But I can try.”

  “Right, before you do…try shouting. Failing that, pinch him…ear’s good, but you know, somewhere tender…”

  “Pinch him? Are you kidding? He’s been like this for God knows how long. He’s a fucking tank. You think he’ll notice if I pinch his fucking ear?” Paul caught himself slipping again.

  Breathe, he thought. It’s just breathing and talking. You can do that blind.

  “Work with me, all right? If that doesn’t work, do something that’ll hurt him. If he’s going to wake up, that’ll do it.”

  Fuck it. Try, or die. Simple as that.

  Paul leaned over the man to find his ear and succeeded in putting his hand in the rancid mess of Frank Liebowicz’s right arm.

  The man screamed and sat bolt upright.

  “Easy…” said Paul. “Easy!”

  Shit, thought Paul a second later. He’s going to kill me.

  And that stench. On his hand…

  He retched.

  The paramedic was speaking, but Paul couldn’t breathe or speak because the tank-guy’s sole hand was at his throat.

  Voice, cracked, he managed, “Had to wake you up…”

  His head was swimming (fuck, he’s dying and he’s still strong enough to choke me one-handed…), then the guy let him go.

  Paul rubbed at his throat.

  “I had to wake you up,” he said again.

  “Well, that’ll do it,” said the big man. The paramedic was still talking.

  “Better get your radio,” said the big guy, calmly, like he wasn’t dying at all, but just passing the time of day in a pub…or a library, even. Paul nodded, trying not to show his fear in his face, with no idea if he was succeeding. He clicked to open the channel.

  “He’s awake,” said Paul. “Think we’re going to need a doctor.”

  “Just me and a nurse here…”

  “In a hospital?”

  “Yes, mate. We’ve got the gear…”

  “Then that’s better than I can do. Got to go for a while.”

  “Yes, mate,” said the paramedic. Paul clipped the radio to his shoulder.

  “Can you walk?” Paul asked the man on the floor.

  “I think I’d better try,” said the guy. “You?”

  “Might need a little help,” said Paul.

  He heard the big man shift, then, on his feet, the half-dead man helped Paul to his feet, too.

  “Can you drive?” the guy asked. “I can’t.”

  Paul thought about it. “I can…I don’t think…”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” said the man, his tired voice thick with infection.

  “Sure,” said Paul.

  “You’re blind. I’m dying. Get the fuck over it and drive.”

  And like that, in the space of a few moments, the big guy was in charge and Paul was behind the wheel of a car.

  56

  “You’re pretty good with cars…um…?”

  “Frank,” said the big man in the passenger seat.

  “I’m Paul.”

  “You’re a copper?”

  Paul thought about asking how Frank knew. Then he remembered he was still in his blues. Well, half his blues. Fuck it, Frank wasn’t a woman and Paul was too old to blush anyway.

  “Was. I don’t suppose I am now. Don’t really know what I am. What any of us are.”

  “Same as we ever were, I figure,” said Frank. “Gentle left, slow. I’ll pull on the wheel a little if I think I need to, okay?”

  Paul did as he was told. The first few corners had been hairy, but Frank was firm and gave Paul plenty of time. The panic was wearing thin, as was the adrenaline he’d been living on. Now he was tired, dog-tired and worn thin. But Frank was right. The big man only had one hand and was seriously ill. Possibly even dying. Fuck that. Probably dying.

  If he could manage, then Paul couldn’t bitch about a thing without feeling like a little pissant.

  He didn’t want to feel like that. For some reason, that’d feel like begging. Like letting this big, quiet man down. Like forgetting who he was.

  Same as he ever was. A copper?

  Maybe. Maybe a version of a copper…a new kind of policeman for the end of times.

  A blind one.

  “You think this is Armageddon?” he asked, following each direction Frank gave to the letter and finding out just what he was capable of at the same time.

  “No. I think this is what happens when a great big fucking rock hits Earth, and we’re the dinosaurs.”

  Paul fell quiet for a while, mulling that over. He drove, slowly, north through London. They didn’t find anything they couldn’t pass. He scraped other cars and walls and bollards, but he didn’t crash and he didn’t give in. He had no concept of speed, or time. It was just…what it was.

  Left, right, slower, stop, full turn, car up ahead, dead end, U-turn, three-point turn, go, stop, go…

  Frank only put his hand on the wheel once, and Paul let him. After that, the man led with his words. He sounded tired, full of phlegm. Sore. In pain—hell, Paul thought, the man must be in fucking agony.

  But Frank didn’t give in and neither would Paul.

  “Where are all the people?” said Paul, finally. “Where’s the army, the police, the ambulances, the government? Where are the dead and dying, the mad ones? Why are there no dogs barking? No birds?”

  “It’s not the end of the world. It’s something. Sure. It’s something. What it is? I figure it doesn’t matter much. We’re still here. We’re going to try to stay a while. At some point? Yeah, we’ll be gone. Maybe the same place as all the others went. Maybe somewhere else. But as to where the people went? I don’t care one way or the other.”

  Paul wondered if that was true. Could a man really not give a shit when he lived in a world bereft of people? Was Frank lying? Putting up some kind of front, trying to be brave?

  Somehow, Paul didn’t think so.

  Frank really didn’t care.

  So why had he saved Paul? Why bother? Man like him, he’d have figured out some way to survive. Fuck, he really was some kind of tank. The guy was sitting stinking of rot and death next to Paul, talking away like it wasn’t a thing.

  Why save Paul if he didn’t care about anything?

  It didn’t make sense, like the radio, the missing people.

  But then, sometimes things don’t make sense. Like a world full of dust and emptied of people. Like psychopaths blinding a man, or people cheering as policemen burned, or a man wearing a bloody crown eating human flesh before blowing himself to pieces.

  Paul tried to concentrate on nothing but driving. Blind, yes, but the man next to him was good and calm. Good at leading. Paul followed instructions. But despite his efforts, he still thought hard. He thought, above all else, it’d be a good idea to figure out what it was that Frank held dear, because he wanted him onside.

  If he was going to live, Frank would be the reason why.

  He didn’t want Frank to be the reason he didn’t.

  57

  Paul couldn’t tell the time, but he could tell he was hungry, tired, and needed the toilet. When Frank, sounding groggier now, told him to stop the car, he did so instantly…but he was hoping for a break.

  “What is it?” said Paul.

  “The north circular,” said Frank. “M25…fuck. Fuck.”

  “What?”

  Frank sighed and the action set the big man coughing. That cough sounded to Paul like it might get to be a problem sooner rather than later.

  “It’s jammed. Far as I can see. Everywhere.”

  Paul didn’t ask if there were any people, because he knew the answer, just as he knew Frank would have said so, had there been people. People would have meant help. People would have increased their chances of survival by about a million. But it wasn’t happening.

  Shit, thought Paul, hopes of help, a toilet, some food and a drink for his parched throat gone to dust. We’ve come so far… Now what? Walk across the fucking M25? Get in a different car? He
didn’t think either of them could manage a walk like that. It might be a mile or two to get all the way past the M25, around and over, to a road heading in roughly the right direction.

  The M25, the London orbital, was a big damn road to be getting across.

  Everyone, everyone, must’ve been trying to get out of London…

  Then, gone.

  Gone where?

  Paul didn’t know. Frank said he didn’t care. Truth was, right now? It didn’t matter at all.

  They were fucked.

  Or…

  “Frank?”

  “Mmm?” said the big man. He sounded like he’d been on the nod.

  “Frank…please…don’t pass out, okay? Got a long way to go before we get some help…”

  “…mmm…”

  “Frank!”

  The man grunted. “What? Fuck. I’m all right. Come on. Little walk’ll do me good…”

  “Got a better idea.”

  “Fly?”

  “Nope. See anything big?”

  Frank was quiet for a second…either passed out or thinking, or looking. Paul thought the latter, from the sound of the man’s breathing.

  “I get you. There’s plenty on the road, but you’d struggle to turn…but there’s one on a slip road. It’s maybe…half a mile? It could work… could…”

  “Got a better idea?”

  Frank didn’t shake his head, or shrug. Paul imagined most people would forget themselves and shrug and nod and smile and gesture with a blind person. Frank hadn’t done it once.

  He was an odd man, thought Paul.

  “No. I think it’s the only idea,” said Frank. “Let’s go. Before I pass out again. You wait. I’ll come round and get you.”

  “What if there’s no petrol? The battery’s dead?”

  “Worry about that later,” said Frank.

  Paul couldn’t quite get a handle on Frank. He was like some kind of nihilist, but not completely committed. Not completely uncaring. Just…

  Like a man who knew what was what.

  That was the best Paul could manage.

  58

  “You don’t do things by halves, eh?” said Paul as he clambered up into the cab of the truck.