by Craig Zerf
Axel shouted his friend’s name and fought desperately to get to him but it was too late, Patrick’s body lay broken on the ground, limbs twisted and bleeding, his life draining out of him into the English sod.
Then Axel heard a scream, a cross between a war cry and a shriek of agony as Dom came sprinting around the corner, brandishing his ridiculously huge broadsword. He smashed into the group that had just taken Patrick’s life swinging the sword and screaming. The four attackers went down in a welter of blood and body parts. This didn’t even slow the young man down as he waded forward, hacking and slashing. All around him torches had fallen to the floor and fires were spreading. The night aglow as the flames jumped from building to building. Someone ran up behind Dom and, before Axel could shout a warning, placed his shotgun against the back of his head and pulled the trigger. The young captain went down in a cloud of blood and brains.
Axel glanced around him. There were over a hundred Belmarsh boys in the perimeter now and, however hard he looked, there seemed to be no villagers left standing.
And, unhurriedly, a ring formed around him. He held his makeshift spear at port turning slowly, trying to keep as many people in his line of vision as possible. Eventually a large man stepped into the circle. He stared at Axel for a while and then smiled and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. ‘You lost,’ he said.
Axel lunged forward with his spear but it was too late.
The man pulled the trigger and the compacted shotgun pellets hit Axel in the side of his head, tearing out his eye and ripping at his flesh and skull.
The captain fell to his knees and toppled over.
The battle for the village of Judge’s Cross was over.
Chapter 26
Doctor Janice Burt had been driving on the A1 highway heading back to Lester House private hospital to check on her patients when the pulse first hit. Initially she had thought that her car had stalled and tried to restart it. Secondly she noticed the lack of noise. An eerie silence in the midst of thousands of cars. She opened her car door and stepped out into the new world.
She knew nothing about EMP strikes, nor solar flares nor gamma rays. But she knew that something terrible had happened. Something both life changing and utterly beyond her control.
The next thing she noticed was the uncanny light in the skies. An oily spread of rainbow color. And, as she stared up at it she saw a distant airplane tumble from the sky. A huge passenger craft. Again, with an eerie lack of sound. It simply fell, spinning and diving until it hit the ground and exploded. Many seconds later the crump of the explosion struck her eardrums. A muted thud, like a child’s book hitting the floor.
By now everyone had gotten out of their vehicles and were all asking the same questions. Stupid, unanswerable questions. Janice did not take part in the general panic. She grabbed her coat, her map book, a bottle of water and her doctors bag and started to walk.
She had decided to walk to her parents’ home in Tempsford. She knew that it was far. Days away on foot. But her parents were frail, they would need help, and so that was where she would head for.
Janice walked for an hour, heading straight up the A1 motorway. At times she walked in a group of people all heading the same way, at other times she walked through stationary groups of people and, sometimes, for very short periods, she was almost alone. Everyone had theories on what was happening. They ranged from some sort of national power outage to alien invasion and even the second coming of Christ. Janice had no idea but she was sure of one thing. Whatever had caused it, it was a catastrophic event.
The fact that puzzled her the most, was that the majority of people were doing nothing. They simply sat in, or next to, their motor vehicles and waited. Waiting for the authorities to do something. The Automobile Association, the police, the army. Someone. But always, someone else.
She stopped walking for a while, took a sip of water and looked, once again, at the swirling mass of color that ebbed and flowed across the skies.
‘Aurora Borealis,’ said a voice at her shoulder.
She flinched in shock.
‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Ronald Digby, professor emeritus, St. Johns college, Oxford.’
She turned to see and old gentleman. Tweed jacket, hat, horn-rimmed glasses. A pipe. As if someone had packaged together a professor using every known cliché in the book.
‘No. Not a problem,’ said Janice. ‘Lost in my own thoughts.’ She held out her hand. ‘Doctor Janice Burt.’ They shook hands. ‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘Aurora Borealis. Northern lights. Well, strictly speaking, not the Northern lights but a very similar event. Basically, the result of collisions between gaseous particles in the Earth's atmosphere with charged particles released from the sun's atmosphere. Massive solar activity on an unprecedented scale. In Medieval times they were said to be the harbingers of war and famine.’
‘Is that why nothing is working?’ Asked Janice.
‘Indubitably,’ answered the older man. ‘The solar activity has caused some sort of electromagnetic pulse that has fried all of our electrical systems.’
‘How long before it all starts to work again?’
Professor Digby took off his glasses, cleaned them on the front of his jacket, replaced them. ‘Never, my girl,’ he answered.
‘What do you mean?’
Professor Digby smiled. A wan expression, more of scholarly interest than of actual humor. ‘I mean, my dear girl, that we are all well and truly rogered. Up the proverbial without a paddle. Take a good look around you and remember it, for this is the end of civilization as we know it.’ He took out a bag of tobacco and started to pack his pipe.
‘Are you serious?’ Insisted Janice.
‘Oh yes,’ said the old man. ‘As a heart attack, my dear girl. As a heart attack.’
Janice literally reeled back, her face shroud-white. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘My parents.’
Professor Digby puffed on his pipe, bringing the tobacco to life. ‘On your way, my girl,’ he said. ‘Be careful. If I were you I would stay off the beaten track as much as possible. Remember, my dear; Break the skin of civilization and beneath you will find the ape, roaring and red-handed. I would give society another day or so before she starts to crack. And once it’s gone, dear girl, well then, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men shall not be able to put her back together again.’ He puffed at his pipe and stared up at the sky, alone in his thoughts.
Janice continued down the road, her initial sense of adventure now one of distress and unease. After another couple of miles she took the professor’s advice and left the highway, heading down a more rural road that ran roughly parallel.
The weather was mild but, as the sun began to sink low, the temperature started to drop rather dramatically. This did not bother Janice unduly as she was carrying her thick coat with her.
The houses were large but not far from the road. Four bedrooms, garage, open gates. She could see the flicker of candlelight in many of them. In some, the harsher white light of gas lamps. She had not thought this far when she had started walking and decided to throw herself on the mercy of strangers. Even the nutty old professor had said that humanity would remain intact for the next twenty-four hours. She laughed softly to herself as she recalled his conversation. At best he had been overreacting and, at worst, scare mongering.
She chose a house at random and walked down the short driveway to the front door, her shoes crunching on the gravel as she did. Her tentative knock brought the sound of footsteps and the door opened to reveal a late-middle-aged man, balding, thick glasses and tartan sweater. In his hand a candle in a silver-plated candlestick holder.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Janice. ‘My car stopped on the motorway and…’
The man smiled at her. ‘Come in, dear. Come in. We already have a couple here. Stranded like you.’
Janice walked in and he closed the door behind her.
He stuck out his hand. ‘Geoffrey. Geoffrey Cha
ncellor. Call me Geoff.’
Janice shook it. ‘Janice. Doctor Janice Burt.’
‘Ooh,’ he said. ‘A doctor. Very impressive. Now,’ he continued. ‘Follow me, I’m sure you’d like a sit down and a nice cup of tea.’
She followed the man through to his sitting room and he introduced her all round. Then he went to the kitchen to make tea. Janice assumed that he must have some sort of gas camping stove.
There were three other people in the room; Gail Chancellor and another younger couple Tom Ashford and Mary Jobe. After a round of handshaking, Geoff reappeared with a mug of tea and a jar of sugar.
‘Here you go, love. Sorry, no milk. Ran out this morning and couldn’t get to the shops.’
Janice spooned some sugar into the mug, stirred briefly and took it from her host.
‘Now,’ continued Geoff. ‘You’re welcome to stay the night, Janice. As I told Tom and Mary, I’m sure that the power will be back on by tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’ Asked Janice.
Geoff did a slight double take. ‘I’m sorry, dear. Why what?’
‘Why do you think that the power will be on by tomorrow?’
‘Well,’ chipped in Gail. ‘The people will put it back on. Fix it, you know.’
‘Which people?’
Gail looked flustered. ‘The people that fix it. The people in charge.’
‘I don’t mean to be obtuse or such,’ said Janice. ‘But how will they fix our cars?’ She held up her wristwatch, the hands stilled at 6.11 pm, the moment of the pulse. ‘Our watches,’ continued Janice. ‘The cell phone network. The trains. The airplanes.’
Nobody said anything for a while. A tear rolled down Gail Chancellor’s cheek. A tiny candle-lit jewel.
‘They’ll fix it,’ she whispered.
Geoff stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said. His voice bursting with forced bonhomie. ‘Let’s make up the beds. An early night and things will all seem much better in the morning.’
Janice slept surprisingly well, waking at just before six the next morning.
Contrary to what Geoff had said, things did not seem better in the morning. In fact, things seemed a lot worse.
He was already awake when Janice went through to the sitting room and he glanced up as she entered.
‘Good morning,’ she greeted.
He nodded at her. Then he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Janice. Can’t offer tea. There’s no water coming out of the taps. Bit low on food as well, actually. I think that I’d better take a walk to the local shops. Get some essentials in.’
Janice nodded her agreement. ‘Don’t worry about me, Geoff. I need to be on my way.’
Geoff didn’t react. Merely sat with his hands between his knees. Staring vacantly at the floor.
Janice went back to her bedroom and picked up her coat and doctors bag. Just before she left, she took her empty water bottle and went through to the bathroom. She checked the taps but Geoff was right. No water. So she carefully lifted the top of the toilet cistern. Full. She placed the bottle under the water, filled it, put the top back on and slid it into her bag.
She left via the front door, leaving without saying goodbye. Once again the sky was filled with the oily rainbow of light that had been so prevalent the day before and, once again, she was struck by the fundamental silence of the world around her. No cars, airplanes, trains, radios or TV’s. The aural detritus of modern man reduced to nature’s backing track. Wind and birdsong. Breath and heartbeat.
She walked all morning, taking a sip from her bottle every now and then. She came across small groups of people who, on the whole, simply ignored her. All caught up in their own fear and trepidation.
Late morning she came to a small group of shops. A mini strip mall. It was here that she saw professor Digby’s theory of the breaking of civilization at first hand. The convenience store, a tiny Mom and Pop of the type usually filled with fresh bread and milk and boxes of chocolate and biscuits so old that the boxes were sun-faded into mere facsimiles of their original. Cheap plastic children’s toys, tins of no-name chilli con carne, overpriced cans of soda and budget birthday cards sold at upscale prices.
But the shop contained none of these things. No toys, no soda…nothing. The front windows had been smashed and the shop completely stripped. Sitting on the pavement outside was an old man, early seventies. He held a cloth to his head. It was red with blood, as was the side of his face.
Janice knelt down beside him.
‘Are you all right?’ She asked.
He raised his head to look at her. His eyes unfocused. ‘They took it,’ he said. ‘I knew them all. This morning when I opened up they all just poured in, snatching stuff from the shelves. Panic. Some paid. Some didn’t. I tried to stop them and they hit me. Mister Johnson. Patrick the plumber. Even Mister Soames from the local school. Like animals. They pushed me down and kicked me.’
Janice probed at the wound on his forehead. It was deep. Through to the bone. She opened her bag and took out some bandages and a tube of Dermabond. The old man said nothing as she cleaned the wound, closed it with the Dermabond glue and wrapped a bandage around his head.
‘Thank you,’ he said when she had finished. ‘You’re very kind.’
Janice patted his hand and stood up. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’m heading for my parents. Take care.’
‘You too, doctor,’ he said. ‘And be careful. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.’
That evening, Janice found herself in the tiny village of Stuckham. Two roads of thatch cottages, a plant nursery and an antiques store. She picked one of the smaller cottages that had candlelight flickering in the window and knocked on the door.
She could hear people inside walking around and whispered voices. Eventually the door peeked open.
‘Hello,’ she greeted.
‘Go away.’ A male voice. Late middle age. Nervous.
‘Please,’ continued Janice. ‘I mean no harm. I’m a doctor and I’m on my way to see my parents. I was simply looking for a place to spend the night. A piece of floor out of the elements.’
There was a terse whispered conversation behind the door. Then the man spoke again. ‘You can sleep in the shed around the side. Here,’ a hand passed a blanket through the opening. ‘Sorry. Best we can do.’ The door slammed shut and Janice heard the bolt being drawn across and the sound of a table or similar piece of furniture pulled in front of it as well.
Janice walked around the side of the cottage and found the garden shed. It was small but tidy. A lawnmower, sacks of grass seed. Old tins of paint. She laid the sacks out to form a bed, rolled up in the blanket and lay down.
Sleep came in fits and starts accompanied by nightmares of such vividness that at times she was unsure of where reality ended and nightmare began. Eventually she realized that the mere fact of sleeping did not define the nightmare. The nightmare had become defined by reality. Life, as she knew it, was fundamentally over. The new dark ages had begun and reality was now the nightmare.
She arose as soon as it was light enough to see. She filled her water bottle from the rainwater butt next to the house. She took the blanket with her. It was her third day without food and she was starting to feel weak.
But she had to get to her parents, so she put one foot in front of the other and repeated.
The days wore on.
Chapter 27
He felt pain. And more than pain. It was as though the flesh had been scoured from his face and then doused in gasoline. But he welcomed it. Revelled in it. Because it meant that he was alive.
Slowly, he rose to his knees and peered around. His vision was…odd. He could see, but not in the same way. He felt the right side of his face. Pain flared, burning across his head. Sticky. He felt further, ignoring the agony. Wet flesh. No eye.
‘Damn,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘bloody lost an eye.’
The world swung around him as he stood up. His remaining vision exploded into a light show of star-bursts and sparklers.
H
e scanned his surrounds. Fire. Smoke. The village was burning. Dead bodies lay scattered with careless hand. All male. No females. Some had died alone. Others in couples or groups. Sprawled all over each other. Comradeship in death. He looked for a weapon. Couldn’t see one so he wandered through the burning village, unarmed. Seeking out life.
In the village square he found the women, and girls. All naked. All dead. Covered in blood. Raped. All ages. Hatred washed over him like a tsunami. So strong that it pushed aside his pain, leaving only a burning desire for revenge. For vengeance.
But first he had to find water, and food. And then weapons. So, moving slowly so as to minimize the waves of pain, Axel walked through the village, seeking supplies, his hatred driving him like a small fissionable reactor.
Chapter 28
Nathaniel sat at the table in his room and attempted to roll a cigarette with his new homemade ingredients. He had dried some Hazel leaves and some mint, chopped it up and was now rolling it in a scrap of paper.
He stared at his finished product with some trepidation. It looked right but smelt odd. The Zippo was flicked into flame. Applied. He dragged.
When the Professor entered his room, some five minutes later, he was still coughing.
‘Goodness me,’ exclaimed the Prof. ‘Smells like a bonfire in here. What are you burning?’
Nathaniel held up the offending tube of ersatz tobacco. ‘Trying to make cigarettes. Hazel and mint.’
The Prof laughed. ‘Smells disgusting. Anyhow,’ he continued. ‘On a more serious subject. It appears that we have lost two of the scholars.’