Then he remembered. It was Drop Day. Time to get up.
Reluctantly he pushed himself off the damp bed. He walked across the worn carpet towards the hallway with the hot air pinching at his naked skin. It was a different story in winter when the house would be so cold that he’d practically be living underneath the bedcovers, fighting off the freezing air and getting up only for necessities.
He walked down the hallway towards the bathroom, grimacing at the pungent body odour that was following him. At least he could have a bath. At least there was water and it was clean. It was just a shame the house ran on gas heating or it could have been a hot bath now and then. That would be nice. But all gas supplies to the city – at least to his part of the city – had been cut off for a long time. London was electric only and in a house with gas heating that meant cold baths. Still that wasn’t a problem in summer. And more importantly, it meant whoever was pulling the strings out there hadn’t forgotten about them. Otherwise why would they keep sending maintenance units into the city to treat the water? Or to ensure a constant supply of electricity, not to mention the food drops? Somebody out there still gave a damn. It was these simple reminders that allowed at least a little hope to remain.
He leaned over the bathtub and turned on the cold-water tap. When the water came it was always a relief to see the clear liquid pouring out – this was the new gold, the Holy Grail as it had always been before people had taken it for granted. It was the giver of life. Sometimes it staggered a little before flowing out of the tap, but so far he’d been lucky. He didn’t want to think about what he’d have to do if he ran into any problems with the water supply in the house. He’d have to leave home and venture into the city, seeking refuge in the arms of God knows what.
That’s why he was frugal with the water, only filling the tub about a quarter full.
Before climbing into the cold bath, he glanced at the bathroom mirror. In his dreams, he was still a sixteen-year-old boy but it was an older face that looked back at him now. He wasn’t sure exactly what age he was – somewhere in his early to mid-twenties probably. It was certainly a long time since he’d been sixteen. His blue eyes had paled in the years since then, but his white skin was at least bright and healthy. The rest of him looked a little dirty and haggard – the tawny hair had been shaved down to the bone due to the heat. He kept it down with his dad’s old electric razor but he was a little lazier with the hair on his face, which permanently sported the rough stubble look.
He turned away from the mirror. Without stopping to think, he leapt into the bathtub and shrieked as the cold liquid wrapped itself around his body, which was partly submerged in the water. With his arms trembling, he grabbed the bar of soap and went to work.
Walking into the kitchen, he stood in front of the white stainless steel fridge-freezer. He took a deep breath and pulled the door open. When the light didn’t come on, he felt his heart sink and quickly slammed the door shut. It was the same thing as with the water taps in the house – he’d breathed a sigh of relief every time he’d opened the fridge door and saw that light go on. But now it wasn’t working anymore. It had been like that for a couple of days now and he’d tampered with the fuse, kicked the fridge, shook it back and forth, and left it alone. All the time hoping that it would come back on by luck or sheer miracle.
The fridge was dead, and that was that.
There was no way he could get by without a fridge. If he was going to make his supplies last a week in between Drop Days then he had to have some kind of refrigeration unit. He was no handyman and there was little chance of him stitching something together like some sort of post-apocalyptic MacGyver.
That left only one option available.
He’d have to find one. And that meant searching through the other houses in Stanmore Road. If he was lucky, then somebody might have had the presence of mind to turn their electricity off back in the day before evacuating. If so, then there was a reasonable chance of finding a working fridge on the street.
That was today’s priority sorted then. As soon as he got back from picking up his supplies at the New River, he’d start working his way through the houses.
Fridge hunting.
In some ways he was fortunate that it was hot. The heat reduced his appetite and there was practically nothing left from the last Drop Day. He’d eaten the fruit quickly so as not to waste it. Even then some of it was still rotten but it had never been the greatest to begin with. All the ready meals were gone too, as was the bread, cheese and meat slices.
He’d eat properly later. There were some biscuits left – two shortbread fingers. He grabbed those out of the packet and walked from the kitchen, into the hallway and towards the front door. As he pulled the door open, sunlight spilled into the house and he felt the warmth touching his skin like it was a personal greeting. He walked down the short garden path, past the overgrown grass sprouting up on both sides, and towards the street. There he stood on the pavement, looking up and down the length of Stanmore Road. Looking at all the houses, it was hard to believe that he was the only person left on the street. But he’d been here since 2011 and he hadn’t seen anyone else in the neighbourhood for a long time. Everyone had fled north out of London as soon as they’d heard the rumours about a barrier going up. He should have gone with them but he couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know where his parents were.
Such a quiet street. Sometimes he heard footsteps at night. Sometimes he heard voices – he was sure of it. It was rare but when he did, he’d be hiding in the bedroom with his fingers wrapped around the handle of a kitchen knife, waiting for sound of someone trying the front door handle. But they never did try.
As he stood on the pavement, something soft brushed up against the back of his legs. He looked down to see a little white cat rubbing its body vigorously against his calves.
“Morning Alba,” he said.
He knelt down and ran a hand along her back, which vibrated like a vintage motor as she purred. As he stroked the cat, he looked at her soft coat and marvelled at its lusciousness. It was a perfect thing, like freshly fallen snow.
He’d called her Alba – it was the Gaelic world for his homeland, which had never felt so far from London as it did now. She was his family.
He’d noticed her hanging around the neighbourhood a long time ago – maybe as long as three years. One day, he’d been sitting in the front garden when she’d first appeared at the gate. It was as if she’d just materialised on the spot. She’d stood there for some time on the edge of the garden path, her bright blue eyes looking warily at him. She was barely more than a kitten at that point, her eyes a vivid and electric blue. He guessed that she was a survivor of a local litter who had since turned into an adept hunter of small creatures. And she was indeed a skilled killer. As time passed, he’d lost count of the number of dead birds and mice that she’d dumped on the front doorstep. Unlike him at least, she clearly wasn’t wanting for food.
Time passed and she’d gotten braver around him. Gradually she crept further into the garden and it wasn’t long before she jumped onto his lap and curled into a ball for the first time. For his part, he was delighted with the company. He got so used to having her around that eventually he would leave the back window open during the day so she could come and go as she pleased. At night, she’d often stay with him and sleep on the end of the bed. If she was late or didn’t show up some nights, he’d always worry.
That morning, the little cat smooched up to him like she always did at the start of the day.
“No presents for me?” he said, scratching the back of her ears. “Nothing dead you want to boast about?” He did a brief inspection of her coat as she rubbed violently up against him. With deft precision, he pulled out a few specks of dirt that were tucked deep down in her fur and close to the skin. Other than that, the little cat was in immaculate condition, clearly thriving in this post-apocalyptic suburbia.
Whirr-Click.
He stood up straight. His eyes darted left and
right. Up and down. There it was again – that noise. He’d been hearing it for months now.
He looked up at the slender black streetlights that towered above him. It was only recently that the lights had been working again after a short period of blackout. Did that have something to do with the noise he was hearing? What the hell was that noise?
It was the faintest of sounds. Perhaps it was just his imagination making up for the sheer boredom and emptiness of his life. Inventing drama for the sake of entertainment. It was possible.
Whirr-Click.
Quickly he turned back to the gate. Alba rushed ahead of him, trotting up the garden path and squeezing her way past the gap in the front door that led inside the house.
With a final look up at the streetlights, he followed her inside.
Chapter 2
The walk to the New River always filled him with dread.
He made his way along Stanmore Road, his hands gripped tightly around the steel handles of the wheelbarrow. It was a miracle the old thing was still in one piece. The blue paint on the tray had mostly flaked off and the tire wasn’t far from being completely flat. It was long overdue for the scrapheap or at least a major reworking that might give it a second chance at life. It was worth a shot. He’d been spending too much of his spare time staring into space and thinking about the past and his parents. Maybe it was time to do something practical. To be constructive.
He travelled west. The morning air had cooled slightly and he’d decided to wear his dad’s old leather jacket over his usual black t-shirt and jeans. As he walked, he could hear the helicopters in the distance. They were moving towards Central London, which meant that most of the drops in the north had already been made. The supply parcel would be there waiting for him at the river – sitting on the edge of the walkway like it always was. Maybe he’d get lucky and find two of them today.
He cut through the overgrown jungle that was once Ducketts Common. It had once been a well-manicured public space where people had picnicked and organised community fun days – now it was wild and vaguely threatening in its unkempt appearance. The pathway that cut through the common was barely visible anymore. It would probably have been buried underneath the grass altogether if not for his once-weekly visits to flatten it out.
Just as he was leaving the Common, his eye caught sight of something lying a few feet from the concrete, half-buried by a mound of drooping grass.
It was an envelope.
He put the wheelbarrow down and stared at the white paper. It was peering out at him in between the long blades of green grass. He took a look around. Standing still made him more than a little nervous. But curiosity got the better of him like it always did. He walked over to the envelope and picked it up. It felt slightly damp and was tattered at the edges. Although it had looked white from a distance, time had dulled the exterior to a warm shade of yellowy brown.
Tucking the envelope into his back pocket, he looked around again. All clear. He picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow and continued towards the New River.
He walked down Hampden Road. It had been a long time since he’d bothered with the local sights and when he passed the old Methodist church on his right hand side, he barely glanced in its direction. Still, on more than occasion he’d felt compelled to go into that place, sit down and see what happened. Not necessarily to ask for a miracle, but ask for something. But he never did go in. It was a large building and there was always the possibility that someone or something was lurking in there.
He didn’t linger around the houses on Hampden Road either. They were still and silent. There was something menacing about them. The gardens were overgrown wastelands with bloated hedges and wheelie bins that were drowning in grass and yet still neatly stacked in driveways. There were no cars on the street. Not surprising, most people had driven out of London back in 2011. It was the surest way of getting out in time and if you didn’t have a car, he imagined that people had begged for lifts off neighbours and strangers, filling the vehicles up until they were literally stuffed with bodies.
Whirr-Click.
He walked faster, making his way to the end of Hampden Road and then towards the grassy descent that led to the New River. Parking his wheelbarrow at the edge of the road, he climbed over a short metal fence and walked down towards the water.
The New River wasn’t exactly a river. It wasn’t new either. He remembered back in 2011 when he’d first moved to London, the disappointment he’d felt upon seeing it for the first time. If it was a river, then it was the skinniest fucking river in the world. It had an interesting enough history – it had been completed in 1613, and it functioned as a water supply aqueduct that brought clean drinking water from Hertfordshire into North London. It was a narrow waterway, barely the width of a small canal, and with a stone footpath running alongside which made for a pleasant walk.
It was upon this stone footpath that he now walked along, his eyes searching for a glimpse of the parcel. In the early years the supply crews had dropped several parcels on this footpath alone and in the neighbourhood as a whole. These were intended for the local residents but the number of people in the area had dropped significantly and many parcels were left untouched. Now there were only one or two parcels at most. That was why it was so important that he showed up at the river every week and why he meticulously counted seven days from each drop to the next – if he were to miss one Drop Day and if the parcel was left untouched then the helicopters would probably stop coming altogether.
He walked along the path. Every thirty seconds or so he’d look back towards the fence, keeping an eye on his parked wheelbarrow. That there was no one around to steal it didn’t matter. The need to protect his property was an urge that he couldn’t shake off, a deep-rooted instinct that belonged to another time.
After a short walk, he found the parcel. It was sitting on the side of the path furthest from the river, close to a fence that blocked off the back of a residential area. Supplies were always dropped in the same large white sacks, which were about the size of a king-size pillow. They looked similar to the type of packaging that he recalled seeing on old news broadcasts in which aid was delivered to Third World countries during the height of a famine.
Squatting down, he picked up the bag and hoisted it over his head. The package pressed against his shoulders and neck. He took a deep breath and secured his footing on the path. Packages were heavy – they were literally stuffed with the likes of fresh fruit, bread, meat, as well as toiletry items including toothpaste and toilet paper. All bundled into one sack and designed to last precisely a week until the next drop. Of course it never did last that long. He never understood why the parcels were always bulked out with large ice pads and absorbent pads, not to mention a shitload of scrunched up paper that was supposed to protect it from damage. But there was a lot of paper. They could easily have done away with some of the internal packaging and put some more food in there.
He looked around for a glimpse of a second parcel. Not that he was feeling lucky but it was worth taking a moment to look. If it were anywhere it would have been dropped further down the path. It would be nice to have it if it was there, to have a little more food in the house for the coming week.
Still holding the parcel over his head, he hurried back down the footpath towards the fence. Once there, he forced the sack through a large gap in between the metal bars and it dropped into the perfectly positioned wheelbarrow with a thud. Then he turned around hurried back down towards the footpath.
Five minutes. But don’t go too far, okay?
Okay.
By now the sun had come back out and the leather jacket on his back was getting heavier. His eyes glanced longingly at the river. What would it be like to take a dip in there? To soak his skin – would the water feel as good as it looked right now basking under the sunlight? Was this the warm bath that he’d been waiting for?
He stopped walking.
A noise. Behind him. Close – how had he missed its approach
?
He spun around and his blood ran cold.
It was a man or something like a man. Staggering towards him. It was wildly bearded with hungry eyes that looked through him. It wore the tattered remnants of what appeared to be a navy suit, its colour and style long gone, the fabric bedraggled and in ruin. Half a tie swung from the collar as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut right through it. The red skin on the savage face was a mess – riddled with painful looking sores. Its nose was badly burned at the tip – either the result of excessive sun damage or it had been disfigured by fire. Its lips were dry, with chunks of dead skin attached. In one hand it brandished a filthy looking butchers knife and as it approached, the savage stabbed repeatedly at thin air, back and forth, like some sort of pre-murder ritual.
Seconds later, it lunged forwards.
He only just managed to get out of the way of its attack. He moved his feet backwards and manoeuvred his body out of range of the blade. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a voice repeating over and over:
‘Distance. Range. Distance. Range.’
The savage swung the blade with little skill, but what it lacked in finesse it made up for in ferocity. It aimed at his midsection. With every reckless thrust, came a primordial grunt that sounded something other than human. He was forced to retreat backwards and at such speed that he tripped and fell onto the grass behind him. At that moment, he was vulnerable. The world was upside down. He fought furiously to regain his coordination, all the while preparing himself for the sensation of a steel blade piercing his skin.
Fortunately the savage had already slowed under the heat. Its ferocious assault was now somewhat laboured and it failed to take advantage of this opportunity to finish the fallen man. It came after him but slower, like a raggedy man plodding through quicksand. It had lost his explosiveness and its breathing was heavy. Still, it wielded the butcher’s knife with the same murderous intent. That look of ravenous hunger in its eyes had not tired.
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 24