The savage squatted slightly, as if it was about to leap on top of him. But as it came forward, he launched a vicious upkick from the ground that caught the beast smack on its nose. Upon impact, the butcher’s knife flew out of its hand and the savage yelped and stumbled back towards the river’s edge. It put its sunburned hands over the damaged nose, which was leaking blood at a furious rate.
Quickly he rolled over to his right in order to grab the knife. But the savage was back before he could get there. The thing that was no longer human mounted him and threw down a volley of deranged punches at his face. As it did so, blood dripped from its nose and landed on his face like warm raindrops. It leaned forward, baring its rotten, yellowy teeth and snapping at his face like a vicious dog. Its breath smelt of death.
From the ground, he wrapped one hand around the savage’s throat. Then he pushed its head back with everything he had, forcing those foul teeth away from his face. It wasn’t hard to budge the neck – it felt as if the muscles inside the thing had wasted away, which meant it was running on little else but rage and hunger.
With the other hand, he reached frantically for the butcher’s knife lying at his side.
As he did so, the savage squealed with excitement.
After several attempts, he found the handle of the butcher’s knife. Without hesitation he brought it up and thrust it in a sideways motion, aiming directly at the savage’s brain. He missed the target and instead of going through its head, the blade slashed across its face, carving open a long and deep tear that ran down from the eyes to chin.
The savage screamed. It was a hideous sound. Then it fell backwards, its hand trying to stem the rapid flow of blood that was gushing out of its face.
He hurried to his feet, sensing that this was his chance to finish the job. But to his surprise, the savage wasn’t done yet. It charged at him once again despite the fact that its face was barely hanging on at the side.
It came forward at a manic speed. Fast and yet clumsy, like a throwback down the evolutionary ladder. It screamed, like a squealing pig hurtling towards its own doom.
He thrust the knife forwards. The blade found its home in the upper torso, entering deep into the stomach. There was no doubt now – it was over.
He took his blood-soaked hands off the blade and stepped away, his heart pounding, his lungs grasping for breath in the hot air.
The savage looked down at the butcher’s knife that was stuck in its chest. At the same time its face was still leaking litres of blood. With surprising gentleness, it tugged on the handle of the knife. Then realising it wasn’t going to come out, it let go again. It staggered backwards. The wild look in its eyes became something else. Serene. The fury faded to blackness. It seemed to accept what had happened and perhaps in its final moments, it remembered what it had once been.
It took another step back. This time it tumbled over the edge and fell backwards into the river. There was a loud splash and then silence.
He walked over to the edge and looked down. The body was floating in the shallow water. He stayed there for about a minute, trying to convince himself that the thing down there was indeed dead. That it wouldn’t come after him.
Then he took off, running towards the wheelbarrow.
He lay under the bed sheets for hours. His body shook violently as he saw the rotten teeth snapping at his face over and over again.
He could still smell its breath in the bedroom.
He’d already been sick six times and it showed no sign of stopping, despite the fact that there was nothing left in his body to throw up. All his strength was gone. Still he went back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom, dry retching with all his might in an attempt to feel better, to vomit the experience and memory of what had happened.
After the seventh trip to the bathroom, he collapsed on the floor. His chest felt sore and dry. All he wanted to do was to get back to bed and stay there until he felt something other than what he was feeling. He crawled out of the bathroom on all fours into the hallway, steadily making his way to the bedroom.
Then he saw it.
It was curled up, tucked in between the hallway floor and the gap under the door – the door to the room that had been his parents’ bedroom. It was a hair – a simple hair, but it wasn’t his. This one was far too long to have ever belonged on his head.
His mother’s hair.
Gently, he reached out and clamped two fingers around the hair. He brought it towards his face and marvelled at its beauty, like someone with gold fever looking at a pan full of treasure. Such a simple thing. A single strand of tawny hair that shone in the sunlight. It could have fallen from his mother’s head that same morning.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember her face. The little things. How she had looked when she smiled and even the peculiar things, like the way her top lip twitched when she was angry with him.
But he couldn’t see her anymore.
All he could see were a set of rotten teeth, still snapping hungrily at his face.
Chapter 3
TFL: Calling London!
July 5th 2020
Georgia Perkins smiles as the camera zooms in.
The successful stand-up comedienne and television presenter is slickly dressed in a black suit and tie. She’s sporting a brand new short spiky blonde haircut – something she treated herself to after beating out a number of other contenders to land the much-coveted role as presenter on TFL: Calling London! at just twenty-three years old.
Georgia is sitting on a large half-circle shaped couch in a hip, brightly coloured television studio, opposite two other people – a man and a woman. A large backdrop of London covers the wall behind the three figures – a map with red blinking lights that appear on and off again at random in certain locations of the city.
The show begins with a clip from today’s top story. The studio audience gasps as the footage rolls.
In the clip, a young man is seen wrestling with what appears to be a knife-wielding tramp by the edge of a canal-like waterway. The two men are rolling around on the ground, apparently fighting for their lives. There are multiple camera angles, which capture the skirmish at distance, at close range and from both sides of the river.
GEORGIA PERKINS: (Voiceover) On tonight’s episode of Calling London! Mr Apocalypse is brutally attacked in a savage ambush in North London! The world watches in horror as our favourite loner is almost murdered by an unknown assailant on the bank of the New River.
The camera returns to the studio.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Welcome to Calling London! The official TFL show that covers all the daily news from behind the M25. How is everyone this evening?
The audience cheers.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Wonderful! Now let’s get going with today’s top story and it is of course, the attack on one of our favourites – the mysterious young man we know only as Mr Apocalypse. Joining me this evening to discuss today’s stories are our resident TFL expert, Johnny Castle, and the lovely former presenter of CBC News, Sophie Wallace. Okay Johnny – what the hell happened today?
The camera cuts to Sophie Wallace and Johnny Castle sitting on the other side of the couch. Wallace, the former newsreader, is now in her mid-forties and is casually dressed in a loose black sweater and jeans. Johnny Castle is twenty-seven and dressed in skinny jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. As he turns towards the camera, a heavily tattooed hand fidgets with a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, as well as the immaculately groomed hipster beard that covers the lower part of his face and beyond.
JOHNNY CASTLE: Georgia it’s been a craaaaazy day in London. As we saw in the clip just there, Mr Apocalypse was almost killed by what appeared to be a deranged cannibal on the banks of the New River this morning. I think we all went through the emotional ringer a little bit today didn’t we folks? I mean he’s become such a fan-favourite recently, which is surprising considering he doesn’t really do anything in that isolated region of North London that used to be Tottenham. But maybe that’s w
hy we were so shocked today - we’re not used to seeing him in dramatic situations like that.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Sophie, your thoughts?
SOPHIE WALLACE: Oh my God, it was horrifying. You forget how real it is in there sometimes don’t you? Just the savagery and suddenness of the attack today – it was awful and yet riveting. When I saw that thing creeping up on him…
GEORGIA PERKINS: You’re a fan of Mr Apocalypse?
SOPHIE WALLACE: Oh yes. Well I’m a cat person as you know Georgia. It’s the way he looks after that little stray cat, well that just won me over. He’s such a mysterious character, isn’t he? Why does he stay in that house and in that empty neighbourhood all by himself? It really is like he’s the last man in the world.
GEORGIA PERKINS: (Nodding) Wouldn’t you love to have a camera inside the house right now? I say that because we haven’t seen him since he came back from the river this afternoon. What’s he doing now? I sure hope he’s okay in there.
JOHNNY CASTLE: Georgia sweetie, you can be sure that millions of people up and down the country and all over the world are sitting in front of their TV’s, laptops and phones right now, watching that house on Stanmore Road and waiting for him to reappear.
GEORGIA PERKINS: It was a shocking incident. But having said that, it was pretty cool how he handled it wasn’t it? I mean, Mr Apocalypse kicked some arse today didn’t he?
SOPHIE WALLACE: It was so exciting. It’s absolutely tragic that someone had to die of course, but I don’t remember ever screaming at the TV like for any other programme. Ten out of ten for entertainment TFL.
GEORGIA PERKINS: (Turns to camera) Now! If you’re not following Mr Apocalypse on TFL then what’s wrong with you? Go now to the TFL home page on the interactive menu of your TV, push the red button on your remote device and choose Mr Apocalypse from the menu. Simple as that – you’ll have access to every single camera that’s located in the vicinity of Mr Apocalypse’s neighbourhood and you won’t miss a thing. Unless that is, he goes inside the house – which he does from time to time. Bummer eh? You can also subscribe on the TFL website – just have your customer ID ready and you’re all set to go.
SOPHIE WALLACE: I hope he’s got the cat with him tonight. That’ll be some comfort at least after what he’s been through.
GEORGIE PERKINS: (Laughing) Alba, isn’t it?
SOPHE WALLACE: Yes. It would make sense if that truly is a Scottish accent we’re hearing when he talks to her.
Georgia Perkins smiles at the camera.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Ahhhh! It’s all questions and more questions when it comes to Mr Apocalypse. But at least he’s alive. Now we want to hear your thoughts. What did you think about today’s attack at the New River? Visit our official Calling London! page on Immersion 9 and join in the Live Chat using the hashtag #mrapocalypse. Johnny, you’ve been tracking the I-9 chat so far. What’s been the response to today’s events?
JOHNNY CASTLE: Just scrolling through the comments now Georgia. Alice from Manchester says that she’s worried about Mr Apocalypse’s state of mind after what happened today. Aren’t we all sweetie? Like Sophie, she hopes he’s got the cat with him. David from Cardiff is demanding that TFL place cameras inside Mr Apocalypse’s house IMMEDIATELY – and that’s immediately spelled entirely in caps – because he’s paying a hundred quid a month and doesn’t want to look at the front of a house all night. Well you can choose another option on the home screen David, there’s lots more going on in London.
Sophie Wallace laughs.
GEORGIA PERKINS: Well Dave from Cardiff, I guess we’ll all just have to be patient. Mr Apocalypse will come out when he’s good and ready. And there will be a lot of people waiting to see him again. Anyway, there’s lots more to get through tonight – what else has been happening behind the M25 Johnny? More gang violence in the south I believe?
Chapter 4
He couldn’t sleep.
Whenever he tried to close his eyes, he could hear the slow squelching sound as the curved butcher’s knife slid into the savage’s body. It was like poking around in the skin of a rotten peach over and over again. Not only that, but he could also feel the hot blood and spit pouring out onto his face from the facial wound.
It had been like that all day. Sleep wouldn’t come and now it was dark outside. He was hungry and thirsty too. His body felt severely dehydrated because of the heat and the constant vomiting. He thought about going downstairs to get some refreshments. The supply parcel was still lying on the kitchen floor where he’d left it after the sprint back from the New River. That meant his fresh supplies had been sitting in the heat of the kitchen all day and to top it off he didn’t have a working fridge to put the stuff in. He recalled the plan he’d made earlier to go fridge hunting around the neighbourhood houses. The thought made him wince. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
But he was thirsty. His head was aching and he couldn’t go without water for much longer.
With a groan, he pushed back the sweat-soaked sheets. Then he went downstairs into the kitchen where he found the sack on the floor. Grabbing a kitchen knife from the rack, he cut into Hessian fabric and opened up a vertical tear.
From inside the sack, he pulled out the crumpled sheets of paper that were supposed to protect the contents. As he did so, he made sure not to touch the large ice packs that were tucked in at the bottom. The food items were separated into different plastic bags. There was a small pack of fresh fruit – apples, bananas and a few other things. Another bag contained a small selection of small pasta and rice meals that could be eaten cold or heated up in a microwave. Fortunately he still had a microwave and it was working, although he used it sparingly. A hot meal was a rare treat, and something he preferred to leave until winter.
All he wanted now was a quick snack and a drink. Something that would make him feel a little less shitty. He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a fresh packet of the shortbread fingers that he loved. They were the best things about the supply packs – they reminded him of his childhood when his dad had gone to the cash and carry on a Friday night and come back with boxes of stuff – shortbread and other types of biscuits amongst them.
He pulled the sack away from the window and put it in the pantry. It was the best he could do for now and at least it wouldn’t catch the sunlight first thing in the morning.
As he walked over to the sink to get a glass of water, he noticed the letter lying on the table. The one he’d found earlier in Ducketts Common. He reached over, picked it up and looked at the faded envelope with tired eyes. Inside was another voice from the past, begging for help. Did he really want to hear it?
He filled a glass of water and drained it in one go. Then he poured another, picked up the biscuits and letter from the table and took them upstairs.
Back in the bedroom, he sat down by the bedroom window. Grabbing a small torch from the bedside drawer, he leaned his back against the wall and slid to a comfortable seating position. His fingers tore open the biscuits and he gobbled down several shortbread fingers one after the other. He wasn’t really hungry until he’d tasted the first one. He was also well aware that he was wasting a week’s supply in one sitting but after what he’d gone through he didn’t care. There had to be some sort of reward for still being alive.
He turned on the small torch. He’d read the letter quickly and save what batteries he had left. Batteries appeared sporadically in the supply parcels and there was no way of knowing when they would appear again.
A single word was barely legible on the front of the envelope. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there it was, looking back at him under the glare of torchlight.
Help.
The letter had no doubt been floating around the city for years. He’d found many letters like this one that had blown from one part of London to the other – people begging for help mostly. Some of them just wanted to share their story and by writing it down, there was a chance that somebody somewhere would hear them. Maybe. Most of the letters he’d
found so far dated back to late 2011 or early 2012 at most. There was still hope back then, he supposed. It was the hope that people were somehow still willing to help one another, to trust in them, believing that they would do the right thing if called upon. In their minds what happened to London was temporary and reversible.
He tore the envelope open and pulled out several sheets of folded, lined paper. The paper was dull white and the handwriting was in the same faded blue ink as that on the front.
With a sigh, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
London 2011. Precise date unknown.
God my hands are shaking but I must write this down.
My name is Jonathan Hearn.
Hunger forced me back onto the streets today. It wasn’t choice but necessity that made me go. My boy is literally starving. Between that and the effects of the stab wound on his leg, we’re in dire need of supplies.
Robbie was lying beside me when I awoke this morning. He’s delirious. He kept asking for his mum (I pray he’s forgotten what happened to her). While he did this, I tried to clean the filth from the wound on his leg but it’s not good enough. God what I’d give for some antibiotics and proper dressings.
It was obvious what I had to do. I had to go out in order to find food and medicine. Although there was little hope of finding either.
I left Robbie in the ruin of our old apartment building.
I walked towards Tottenham Court Road. God, it was like walking on a different planet. It looked like a bomb had hit us. There can be no doubt that hundreds of thousands of people have died in London since the events at Piccadilly started all this. And it’s only been a few weeks I suppose. All those old post-apocalyptic movies did a pretty good job in depicting what the end of the world would look like. Rotten corpses lying on the street. The fallen buildings, the ruins and the ashes – it’s all there. And smoke rising – there always seems to be smoke rising in the distance. There’s always something else to burn.
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 25