by Terry Tyler
No sexism in Central, then. "What you're saying is that right now recruitment is a priority, before surveillance?"
If he pats me on the shoulder once more—
"Now, now, Brian, it's not surveillance, it's data collation for the security, wellbeing and harmonious living of all." He waggles a finger at me. "We need to understand and protect the population. If UK2 is to be our shiny new tomorrow, we gotta function as one smooth machine, right? And yes, we need more bodies. Which means letting the people know we're taking the world back, giving them the opportunity to live like before, with jobs, schools, medical facilities." He laughs. "Flushing lavatories—that was what reeled you in, if I remember rightly!"
I like the idea of being out and about, I have to admit. I just don't want to do the propaganda thing.
We're moving you out of the ghettos for resettlement in the east.
"Is this a permanent move?"
"No. You're good at what you do, that's why I gave you the job. But we're still cutting our teeth here, Brian; can you help me out?"
He looks at me like he's pretending I have a choice.
Just as he's walking out of the door, he turns round and points his finger at me, Columbo fashion, as if a thought has only just occurred to him, and mentions that we present UK2 to settlement dwellers as the UK and US government working together to reinstate order out of the chaos of the past two years.
"The philanthropic corporations financing it prefer to remain behind the scenes, as far as gen pop are concerned. Management need-to-know only. How does it feel to be one of the privileged few, eh?"
Philanthropic, my arse. "No mention of the Renova Group will pass my lips."
"Good lad. You'll soon get the hang!" I am honoured with a toothpaste ad smile. "And remember what it says in your contract, won't you?"
Just in case I've forgotten, he hands me a copy of one page, with a section highlighted in yellow. I agree not to discuss the undertakings of UK 2.0 benefactors, management or the data analysis team with outside parties or those employed within other areas of UK 2.0, or engage in any activity antagonistic to the objectives of UK 2.0 Administration.
I'm sure that I remember this bit being worded differently; I was not supplied with a copy. But there's my signature, at the end.
I nod, and give him a little salute.
August 6th, 2026
I meet Recruitment main man Barney, with whom I will share the driving up north. I've seen him before, of course, as he lives on the floor above me, but we've never done more than exchange the odd 'howdy'. Along with two of his minions, a tough-looking American military type called Madison (female) and a Barney-alike called Rhys, we're to travel north, primarily to visit two settlements: Hawes in North Yorks, and the island of Lindisfarne, up in Northumberland. I'm looking forward to that; I've never been there. Lindisfarne first, apparently; it's smaller. We're driving two twenty-four seater buses for those who want to come back with us, and this groovy little mini Mitsubishi fuel tanker, which Madison is driving, because previous recruitment trips have revealed that there are many vehicles on the settlements, and people prefer to travel in their own cars.
Their last illusion of freedom, if only they knew. Free petrol to get where they're going is one of the lures.
Barney looks like the archetypal bully-boy; thick neck, hair in a buzz-cut flat top. Face like a bulldog, protruding gut, tattooed arms that lift weights bulging out of t-shirt sleeves. In our previous, brief exchanges, my subconscious assessment of him was 'prick', and it turns out my intuition was right.
We start the long drive north in silence; he's got Rammstein on the CD player, which is okay by me. Then it ends, and he starts talking. Talking, not having a conversation. After a lengthy monologue in which he describes his own 'rescue' from Stu's community in Sussex ('full of fucking hippies'), he reveals that he was a cop.
"Yeah, I miss the force," he offers, when I don't react to this. "I was hoping to be put on Security, but Al's got enough military for that. Says I'm best placed in charge of Recruitment 'cause I'm a people person. He knows his stuff, don't he, Al?"
Al? Takes a moment before I realise he means Verlander. Alex. Barney is in with the in-crowd. He wears his green wristband with pride; I assume the police got the vaccine early, like the army.
He reaches out and flicks at my ponytail. "What were you, then? A frickin' muso, or what?" Then he grabs the cuff of my shirt and pulls it back to reveal my own wristband. "Ah, you've had the shot. Far as I can see, it was only for folks what done summat useful. So what was it, then? Science? Medical?"
I look out of the window at the decimated remains of what I think might have been Tunbridge Wells; many road signs are blacked out. "Data analyst."
"That right?" I can feel him raising his eyebrows. "You a bit of an anorak, then?"
"Something like that."
He laughs. "That'll be why you don't talk much."
I don't answer.
"Yeah, you IT nerds, you don't do real life, do you? It's all numbers on a screen. You don't know nothing 'bout the real world. Nothin' 'bout how people live. Me, I was on the force in Kettering, then Milton Keynes. On the streets; I saw life in the rough, and you don't get much rougher."
I can think of a few places in the world where life might be a tad more rough than in Milton Keynes, though I don't say so.
"An' that's why Al chose me to head Recruitment. I got plenty of experience interacting with the people." He touches his chest, gestures outwards. "I protected decent citizens against scumbags. I weren't holed up in some little office, clicking a mouse."
I think I might hate him even more than I hate Verlander.
"Good thing I'm with you, then. You can show me the ropes."
He likes this. "I can indeed, my son! So, right, when we get there, I'll do the presentation. Capisce?"
I look out of the window. "Sure."
He takes one hand off the steering wheel, rubs his meaty thigh. "Yeah, I've done a lot of this sort of thing. Like, when there was a spate of murders on an estate in my area, I chaired the meeting at the community centre. Reassured the punters that we was doing all we could. Made 'em feel safe. My guv'nor, he was like, Barney, you've got that sort of presence. You can hold the public's attention."
"That's good." It is. Means I won't have to stand up in front of a group of people and give them a load of bullshit about how great life will be if they give up their freedom to be mutilated by microchip.
But there will be no mention of the microchip, he reminds me. This comes under the heading of 'undertakings of the data analysis team that must not be discussed with outside parties'.
He sticks another CD on. Foo Fighters.
"Mind if I sit in the back?"
"Knock yourself out. You having a kip?"
"No." I want to write this stuff up.
I climb over, and stretch out on the double seat behind him.
After a few minutes, during which I can feel him looking in the mirror to see what I'm doing, he says, "What y'writing, then? Your memoirs?"
"Kinda."
He laughs. "You geeks, eh? You'll have to let me have a read, some time."
Don't think so.
Chapter Seven
August 6th, 2026
A hospital in Devonport, Tasmania
"Well, then? Is it Kerivoula Lanosa or not?"
"Yes and no."
"Don't do this to me today, Jim." Barbara Morris touches her forehead. "I need facts. If it is, we put containment protocol in place, we distribute the vaccine immediately, and—"
"It's mutated." Dr Jim Tarrant's face is expressionless.
"Mutated? What does that mean? Can you be more specific?"
"It's a new strain. We've tested for resistance against all known anti-virals, including the original vaccine, and—well, no joy." He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"So is it more contagious? How does it differ?"
"Too early to say. But you saw Dick Brennan. And Nur
se Farrell."
"I did." She stands up. "Come on, then, give me the worst."
Tarrant closes the door. "Obviously it's imperative that we don't create a panic within the hospital, let alone outside, but almost everyone who's been in contact with Brennan and Farrell is already in quarantine. All staff on Infectious Diseases, the paramedics who brought Brennan in—"
"Thank God they didn't go out again." Barbara looks out of the window, fingers drumming on the pane; in the car park two nurses are chatting, laughing, smoking cigarettes.
Her fingers freeze, and she turns. "You said 'almost' everyone."
Tarrant coughs. "Uh, yes. That's the problem. Sandy Pelago, an auxiliary; she was attending Brennan before the alarm was raised. Got in a strop when they were talking about a lockdown, said she had to get home to feed her cat. She slipped out of the fire escape during the initial panic."
"Oh hell. No."
"That's not the worst of it. She travels by bus."
Barbara shuts her eyes.
"She could be immune."
"What's the chance of that? One in ten thousand?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know that it was ever calculated. I've already sent a team round to her place."
His voice is low; he pads over to her desk, noiselessly, as if whispering and tiptoeing will make a shred of difference.
Barbara sits, and rests her elbows on the table, her forehead in her hands, massaging her temples with her thumbs. The team on their way to Sandy Pelago's flat are the closed stable door after the runaway horse. It is already too late. It was too late the minute the girl slipped through the fire escape.
She takes out a bottle of whisky from her bottom drawer, pours some into two crystal glasses, pushes one towards Tarrant, then reaches for her phone.
"It's me." She drinks, and pauses for a moment before continuing. "You were right about Dick Brennan. It's started."
Chapter Eight
Flora
August 7th, 2026
It's happening at last!
The other day Davina and I were having a bit of a moan, and I likened Lindisfarne to Purgatory: the waiting station before we resume our journey to a better place. I was only joking, and we both laughed, but it turns out I was right.
Today I'm in the hotel making my yummy lemon drizzle cakes when Ollie turns up, all smiles.
"Meeting outside the Monk's at eleven. Two guys have just turned up, from the new UK!"
I stop, mid-stir.
Vicky, Julie and Davina stop kneading their dough.
Rowan stops putting bread rolls in plastic bags. "What new UK?"
Ollie gives me a big wink. "It's our bright future, apparently!"
Rowan makes impatient tutting noises. "Don't talk in riddles, it's bloody tedious. Tell me what you mean."
He leans against the door frame, hands in pockets. Ollie's very good-looking, and is always well groomed. I feel a bit funny when he's around.
"It's these guys," he says. "From this place down south. They're in the Hudson; Dex is talking to them. The boss, Barney, he calls it UK Central—says it's the new capital city. Brand new apartments for everyone, and they've got power and running water. Jobs, schools, everything."
My heart thuds. I can feel it. I catch Davina's eye; she grabs my hand. We can't speak. At last!
"So what are they doing here?" Rowan asks. "And who's running the show?"
Ollie frowns, like he's trying to remember. "US and UK government, I think he said. But, anyway, all communities like this are being visited to give us the opportunity to go and live there. Like, instead of here."
Davina clutches my arm, and squeals!
"Can we go and pack our bags?" she says, and we're laughing and hugging each other; I don't think I've ever felt so happy!
"Wonder what the catch is," Julie says. "If it's that great, why have they come all the way up here looking for people to join them?"
"We'll soon find out," says Rowan.
"I don't know if I fancy it," says Vicky. "I've got used to how things are here, now."
"We certainly need to find out more before we up sticks," Julie puts in.
What are they like? Even if there is a catch (and I think I'd put up with anything, if it means being able to have a hot shower again), I'm going. Davina and I are already taking off our aprons, ready to go and meet our saviours!
Apparently they got here last night, they slept over in the Lindisfarne Inn, and when they woke up the tide wasn't fully out, so they had to wait. Two of them have stayed back in the inn, and Dex is giving Barney and his friend a tour of the island. Meanwhile, someone's gone up to the farm to get Phil's group.
Davina and I can't stop giggling.
"Hot water from a tap!"
"Hairdryers!"
"Proper kettles!"
But Rowan asks me if I can please get my baking finished before the meeting, so I force myself to calm down and put my apron back on.
Squeeeee!
Out of the blue, I get a horrible sad feeling about Mummy and Daddy, wishing they could have seen this day. But I won't let myself get sad. I think about clean apartments and going shopping with Davina, instead!
Chapter Nine
Lottie
August 7th, 2026
Like I need this, right?
We're just leaving to go on a run when dickwad Ollie, he of the bouncing quiff and baby-smooth chin, bursts into the café and says we have to attend an important meeting outside the Monk's Head. Two guys from some government-run place down south have turned up to see if we want to leave our home and join them, using the lure of running water and electricity as bait.
Lucas arches an eyebrow and pretends to twirl his moustache (he hasn't got one). "Zay theenk we can be bought zat cheaply?"
Ollie says it sounds pretty good, you can have a telly and all sorts, and a proper job, with a salary.
"Fuck yeah!" Lucas laughs. "That's what I've been missing for the past two years—working eight hours a day for a pittance from The Man!"
"No, they said you get paid decent wages—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. If it's so great, why aren't they full up already? Why isn't every survivor south of Brum knocking on their doors?"
Kara nods. "Good point."
"Bet the military are in charge," Lucas says. "We've been in one of those set-ups, already, ta very much." He looks at Ollie like he's an idiot. "What else they got on offer? Shit sandwiches?"
"It's not a camp, it's a proper new city, really big." Ollie looks so deflated I almost feel sorry for him. "Dex wants us all to go meet with them, anyway."
"We'll go," Kara says. "Doesn't hurt to know what's happening in the rest of the world."
I don't want to, I want to go out. I need to be away from this place for a few hours and think about what I'm going to say to Mum, because tonight's the night. It's all arranged; I've told Flora to go out because I want some mum-and-daughter time. Martin said he will cook something nice and bring it round for me earlier, then he and Mac will give us an hour or so before they come round. Which is when the deed will be done.
Oh well, maybe it's better this way. When you plan stuff, it never works out how you think it's going to.
We take off our backpacks and wander up to the Monk's Head.
"Look on the bright side," says Lucas, squinting up at the sky. "It's a nice day; getting pissed outside the Monk's Head beats going on a supply run, right?"
When we get there, everyone is sitting outside on chairs from inside the bar, or crammed onto the benches where tourists used to eat their scampi and chips. Dex is at the top end with the two fellas from down south. One looks like a right bruiser, the other one kind of nice. Hair in a ponytail, black grandad shirt. Behind him is this big board thing on an easel, covered in photos.
I can smell salt in the air. I like that. Makes me feel free and reminds me of Shipden.
I plonk myself down with our gang when a van pulls up; the farm group has arrived.
As they get out,
we're distracted by an excited yelp—it's Ponytail Guy, leaping up and grinning all over his face.
"Hey! I don't believe it! Travis!"
It's a great moment; he runs over to Travis and they're hugging, slapping each other on the back, smiling and laughing. I've never seen Travis look so animated. He's so overjoyed he can hardly get his words out, but he calms down after a few more backslaps and introduces his mate, Doyle; they used to work together at that BDC place, before the virus. Everyone claps; I'm dead pleased for him. About time Travis had something nice happen.
Then Doyle mutters something in his ear, and he goes all serious, and mutters back. Bet they're talking about Bitch Aria. Who cares about her?
Bruiser looks pissed off to have the attention taken away from him, so he cuts in and says yes, yes, this is all great, but can they get the meeting started?
Dex formally introduces them: Bruiser is Barney Mills and Ponytail is Brian Doyle ('just Doyle is fine'), and they're from a development down south called UK Central, the capital city and administration centre for the brand new UK.
Barney thanks Dex and stands forward. "It's been a hard two years, right?" He grins around, to the tune of murmuring agreement. "Yeah? Hasn't it? But it's all over now. I'm pleased to announce that the good ol' US government has stepped in to help with the rebuild of our country, and we're here to invite you all to join us." He points at Naomi, who is standing close by, holding Phoenix in her arms and making him wave to our guests. "'Specially this little guy, right?"
Someone claps; next moment, most people follow suit. I don't. I know a cheesy sales pitch when I see one; I used to see them every day on social media.
Bruiser Barney stands with his thumbs in his waistband and grins round, accepting the applause. When it dies down, he makes a few dumb jokes about wishing he could give us the full PowerPoint presentation, but fear not, he can show us many photographs of the 'important work' that is going on down in the south, where they're 'taking it all back'.