by Terry Tyler
Tanya pushes the folder closer. "Um, that's what reports are for. You read them, they give you the information you need. But the short answer is yes. Seems to be more immediately debilitating, too. Nastier symptoms." She winces, visibly. "Bleeding out of the butt, for one."
"Jesus. Weren't those fuckers in Devonport supposed to be on high alert?"
"Immediate quarantine, Barb Morris said. But it's like before, the symptoms don't show straight away. And, between you and me, she hinted that someone in ID managed to slip through security. Stupid asses should've got the place locked down tight, soon as Patient Zero arrived, 'stead of waiting for the diagnosis."
"Shoulda, woulda, coulda," says Ludlow. "They didn't, it's spread, and it's no use prattling on about the whys and hows. We just need to sort out how to stop the fucking thing. How's the vac coming along?"
"Not quickly enough."
"And immunity? Anyone been exposed who ain't got it?"
"Just Barb, that we know of."
Ludlow sits back, hands behind his head. "Anyone know how it resurfaced?"
"Jim Tarrant said it mutated while dormant. Adapted to its environment, became resistant to existing anti-virals." Tanya shrugs her shoulders. "Can't ask him more; poor bastard was one of the first to go. I guess if you mess with nature, you don't know what the hell's going to go down."
"Okay, so who's in the know?"
"Not sure. Mike's a bit cagey. But his secretary told me, on the hush-hush, that Logan's being evacuated. They're all going to Paamuit."
Ludlow laughs. "Poor fuckers! Bit of a culture shock that's going to be."
"Better than being dead."
"Well, I hope they've packed their winter woollies. And that they like seal meat, or whatever it is they eat in friggin' Greenland."
She laughs. "You're barking up the wrong tree there, honey. It's a fucking underground palace."
"Well, bully for them. So what about us? Do we get a plane, or do we just sit here and wait for the grim-friggin'-reaper?"
"Mike said to wait for the call." Tanya flicks through the report. "We might get sent to Tiksi. Siberia."
"Whoop-de-fucking-do." Ludlow gets up and wanders over to the window, hands in pockets; outside, the sun shines onto a setting worthy of a travel brochure. "Dunno why they can't build these places somewhere warm."
"He said we should hold fire with Europe. I don't know, though; André, Suna and Alex, shouldn't we speak to them?"
"Not if you ain't been told to. By the time it gets there, if it does, we'll be either safe in some Arctic bunker, or dead; either way, I won't give a toss. What Verlander don't know won't hurt him, the fucking ponce. No point in creating a panic. Good chance it won't spread that far, anyway. Case you haven't noticed, international travel's come to something of a standstill. Ditto communication, luckily."
"It got from Australasia to the islands. All it takes is one boat, one plane, one guy—we don't even know if the healthy can be carriers, or if it's spread by migrating birds, or—"
"Yeah, well it ain't happened yet. So we ain't sounding the alarm in Europe. We don't want every friggin' survivor nipping into boats and cars and spreading it round the world, which is exactly what will happen if UK and France get to hear about it. Best they all stay nice and safe behind their own walls. You can't contain these things once word gets out." He places his hands on the window pane, and looks out. "We'll keep schtum. The least Verlander and co. know, the better."
Part Two
November ~ December 2026
Chapter Eighteen
Vicky and Lottie
November 2026
Vicky
Of course, I didn't stay in that cloud of weird elation; Martin was right, it was shock, cushioning the blow. As August and September rolled on, I grew angry, fearful, and wracked with self-loathing, hating myself for letting the stronger person I'd become in Elmfield disappear. But I talked to those who matter to me, and I faced up to myself. I acknowledged my guilt about Heath, too: if I'd had the courage to be with him from the beginning, he would still be alive now.
Jax says he doesn't blame me, so I have to stop blaming myself.
We agreed that only our people, the Elmfield Eight who used to be the Elmfield Nine, should know what Dex did.
We haven't told the rest of the community, because there's no point.
"All it would do is cause problems," Kara said. "People will judge you, and Lottie and Jax, without fully understanding the circumstances, and at the end of the day it isn't any of their damn business. Dex has gone, and it doesn't seem like anyone is missing him."
That's something I notice about these strange days. Whether someone leaves the island or dies, we move on without them more efficiently than we might have before July 2024. I don't know if this is because everyone has lost loved ones, because death has become a part of life with which we are, sadly, all too familiar, or if it's simply that we have so much to do every single day, just to stay alive, that there is no time to linger on thoughts of those no longer with us.
I think about how Audrey coped with losing Marcus, and I am ashamed of myself for not getting my act together sooner.
We can't do anything about what Dex did. We have no proof except a non-specific note written by someone who has gone we know not where. In the old world, there wouldn't even be enough evidence to take it to court.
Two days after the twenty-five went south, we had a meeting in which it was decided, with scarcely any discussion and no fuss, that Kara would take over as head of the community.
I imagine the only person who misses Dex is Rowan. We're civil when we bump into each other, but that's all. I hear she's having a 'thing' with one of the new guys who mans the barricade, Kyle. A hunky, blonde builder. Her bit of rough, I suppose.
I thank my lucky stars that I never had sex with Dex after Heath died. I don't think I would be able to live with myself if I had. Right now, that part of life feels unimportant. Lottie teases me about my friendships with Travis and Martin, but that's all they are. I don't feel that thing with either of them and, anyway, I believe love often happens simply because you are ready for it, and, right now, I'm not.
The biggest joy in my life is having Lottie back. We're close again, like we were before Heath died. I was in such a fog of self-absorption back in the spring and early summer that I hardly noticed we'd grown apart, and I didn't see that she was angry, drinking too much, awkward with me—she and Kara both tell me I've got to stop punching myself in the face over every bloody thing, and I'm trying to, but I've made so many stupid mistakes over the past couple of years.
Lottie and I work mostly on the farm these days. I love being with her every day. We've moved the pickling, drying and curing gear up there so that all food prep can be done in one place, then it's put into the stores at the hotel.
Repulsive Barney was right about one thing, anyway. Edible food is becoming harder to find. This is the beginning of the third winter, and the scavenging group goes out in one big van, to save fuel. Recently they brought lots of bicycles back, because one day all the fuel really will be gone. Maybe we'll be using horses and carts in the future! We're still finding packets and tins in the many empty houses. Any confectionery is stale or mouldy, but everyone is too scared of tooth decay to care.
The other day I was preparing courgettes and onions for pickling, at a long table in a barn lit by candles, and I stopped for a moment, and looked at Lottie, and Becky and Carla who were working with us. Lottie wore one of her band t-shirts, leggings and biker boots, with a huge man's cardigan over the top and a thick cashmere scarf. Becky, Carla and I wore jeggings with knees reinforced with leather patches, flat boots with thick woolly socks, and hoodies. We all had our hair tied back, and not a scrap of make-up on between the four of us. I laughed, and said, "Look at us! Do you remember getting made up to go to work?"
"Designer everything and four-inch heels, for me!" said Carla, who is tall and slim, with fabulous bone structure; she worked for the sort of f
ashion magazine that I never bought because all the clothes were way beyond my budget. "Weekly mani-pedis, and I was a sucker for any new beauty product—can you imagine giving a stuff about any of that, now? I'm glad to be free of it."
"I don't know, I miss it," Becky said, and inspected a strand of her hair. "These two inches of blonde are the last of my highlights, and I'm not cutting them off."
Clay used to do people's hair. He was one of the two who found Heath, lying over by The Heugh, and he's grown increasingly depressed ever since; he sits at home by himself and drinks too much. Some people complain about him not contributing, but most of us cut him some slack, because it's not just about Heath; his friend, Sean, was killed in the invasion of the island last December—Nicole says that although they were only friends, Clay was in love with him—and prior to that he'd lost his whole family. Nicole, Zoe and Janek take care of him; their group arrived here together before us, and if they're okay with it, it's none of anybody else's business.
I pulled my own ponytail round to have a look at the ends. Like Becky, I have two inches of blonde at the ends.
"Your hair's crap, Mum," said Lottie, with all the confidence of someone whose long, shiny, dark hair always looks fine, even when it needs washing.
"We could ask someone to get us some highlighting kits," Becky said.
"We could," I said.
But we probably won't bother.
I'm okay, now. The sun rises and sets every day, and life moves on. At home, it's like old times; Kara, Phil, Lottie and I are in one house, with Ozzy, Myra and Scott next door. Jax comes round a lot, and Mac, of course. I love Mac, he's so right for Lottie. Others pop in and out; Ozzy will casually saunter in if he sees Ruby approaching our house, which doesn't please Myra.
Lottie says he's been up to no good with Kelly, who lives with Lucas, Rob and Smelly Bev.
Life means constant, physical hard work, just to stay in the same place. Job satisfaction comes from a field planted with seeds, a batch of bread baked; we have to make our own mental stimulation as there are no new films or books, no bands to see, no shopping trips, no travel or holidays—the odd dalliance gives a bit of a zing to life, I suppose.
There are only forty-nine of us since the exodus last August, and anyone who lived on the east side of the village has moved so that we're all closer together, in the same few roads, with just the bikers and Jax still in the Monk's Head. People congregate in the Hudson, some nights. More turn up on Fridays and Saturdays; that old English tradition has stayed with us, and although weekends no longer exist, some still take Sundays off.
Tomorrow it is Heath's birthday, and we're going to have a special dinner in his memory. Just the seven of us, and Mac, Myra and Martin.
Lottie says, 'Have you noticed how Martin's become part of the gang?"
She has a twinkle in her eye. Yes, I've noticed.
Okay, so things couldn't stay peaceful for long.
Our birthday dinner for Heath was a good night. Morbid it may sound, but we laid a place for him at the table.
"Because he's part of us, and always will be," Phil said.
In the morning we sleep late and Lottie and I skip farm duty. We take care of our own domestic chores and do some washing in the big sinks at the Hudson for Gareth, John, Dan and Aiden; I'm always happy to do anything for the guys on the watch.
Later, when the shift changes, Lottie says she's going down with Mac, and I manage not to tell her to wrap up warmly and take care, because she's eighteen years old and can look after herself. I get cosy by the fire, idly chatting to Kara, watching Phil do a charcoal drawing of the castle and envying those who use their leisure time to draw, write or make music, because I haven't got a creative bone in my body.
A quiet, ordinary night.
I know nothing of what is about to take place down at the barricade.
Lottie
It's a quiet night, like normal these days. There are six of us down here: four guys, Ruby and me. Dan says Ruby and I are night-watchmen groupies, and I give him the finger; I'll show him who can defend this place when the time comes! Ruby's here 'cause she started knocking off Parks a few days ago, and they're at the stage when they have to have their tongues permanently down each other's throats. Parks is strutting his stuff around the island like the kid with the biggest bike, 'cause most of the guys want to shag Ruby. Ozzy is gutted.
We're just kidding about and having the odd swig of whatever's being passed round. Now and again someone gets into one of the cars to warm up (or have a grope, in Parks and Ruby's case). It reminds me of being down on the beach in Shipden, when Mia, Shania and I used to meet up with the lads from school. Except we didn't have guns.
It gets to about 1am, which means the tide's going to be heading our way in about an hour and the next shift will arrive before the water cuts us off. I'm leaning against a car with Mac while he smokes a tab, Rubes and Parks are doing some serious crotch grinding in the shadows, and Jez and Dan are up on the lookout posts, where Mac and Parks should be, too, but Mac admits they've got lazy; it's ages since anyone turned up. No troublemakers, no wanderers looking for somewhere safe to be, no bullshitting twats from UK Central.
And then we hear it. A vehicle.
Shit. Vehicles at night signal 'troublemaker', not weary travellers seeking a crust of bread and a bottle of Bud.
"Get the fuck up here, you lot, now," Jez hisses down.
We don't need telling twice. The four of us hurtle up the ladders; Parks chucks Ruby and me a weapon each, and he and the other guys cock their rifles over the top of the wall.
I peep out, from behind Mac's shoulder.
This stuff scares the crap out of me, but I find it exciting, too.
It's a black van, like the one that invaded us last winter.
Then, they killed Stefan and Ash. Shot them dead, right where they stood, didn't give them a chance.
I'm shaking. 'Scared shitless' has taken over from 'excited'.
Mac pushes me back with one hand. "Get down, pet. We'll handle this."
What, 'cause they're big men? Fuck that! My fight comes back—there are little spy-holes in the wall, and I gesture to Ruby to kneel down and look out of the one near her, like I'm doing.
You can shoot through them, too, you see.
Nothing happens. Then one of the van doors creaks open, and a figure emerges; I hold my breath, expecting an army, but it's just one ordinary guy, not some scary dude dressed in black with a ski mask.
He's got a cigarette in his hand, he's waving a rifle around, staggering a bit, and I can see the white of his face.
He lurches nearer, and Parks turns on the spotlight to light him up for all to see.
It's fucking Jonas.
He looks up, shielding his eyes. "Where's Dex?"
Jonas was exiled, over a year ago. His only real crime was hating Dex and having the guts to say so, but of course King Dex didn't like that, so he had to go.
Unfortunately, he told people in his new camp that there were rich pickings to be had on Lindisfarne, and they turned up to collect. We totally slayed them, but we've always been aware that more might come back.
"Where's Dex?" he shouts again. "Get that shithead out here, now!"
He lurches back, and I can tell he's totally wankered; he looks a right clown.
"You bring that toe-rag down here, or we're going to drive right through this fucking wall and find him ourselves!"
They can't be up to much if they think we'll intimidated by one piss-head who doesn't even know how to hold a gun.
"Stay still," Jez hisses. "They're not driving through owt."
The other group, they killed seven people. We didn't have this barricade then. It's a big structure twelve feet high, solid as a rock.
Someone gets out of the driver's side. I'm holding on to my gun so tightly it hurts.
Two more get out of the side door.
"We wanna see this Dex guy," calls the driver. "Want to do a bit of trading."
Par
ks laughs. "What, at one o'clock in the fucking morning?"
"He's gone," Jez shouts, "so yous can gan back where y'came from."
"Get him out here. He's the boss, ain't he? You lot killed eight of our men!"
Jez leans on the top, looks at Parks, and grins. "Ten, wasn't it?"
"And we told you, he don't live here," Dan shouts. "Left in the summer."
"You’re lying!" Jonas yells. "You best let us through, or you'll fucking wish you had!"
I can't help smiling. You see, the barricade is just wooden slats on their side, so it looks like it wouldn't be hard to mow down. The bricks are on our side. And the steel sheets. Martin designed it. He got the big sheets of steel from something half-built on an industrial estate.
All they're going to do is break their necks if they try to drive into it. Tragic!
Then I stop smiling.
Jonas stands back, makes some sort of wild battle cry, raises his gun and—crack!
I hear Dan yelp, and through the darkness I see him slump to the ground, clutching his shoulder.
Ah. So Jonas isn't too pissed to use a gun, after all.
"Down, everyone!" shouts Jez.
We get down.
"Y'alright, Dan?" shouts Mac.
"Bastard got my shoulder. I'll live. Ow! The fuckers!"
"We want some o'what you got in there!" Jonas shouts. "There's six of us, and only four o'you, far as I can see, so why don't you open the fucking gates before we ram your poxy barricade into fucking firewood? Come on, kids, share and share alike!"
"Quiet!" hisses Jez.
I peer through the spyhole again. Jonas looks different. Skinny, dirty, wild-eyed, long, manky hair. Used to be quite a cool dude.
"Fuck this," Parks says, and takes a shot through one of the spy holes. Crack! One of them falls back, yelling and clutching his shin.
"Right, that's it!" Jonas shouts. "Go get Dex now, or you're all fucking toast!"
"Quiet," says Jez again.
"Fuck you!" Jonas shouts, and the next minute they're all getting back into the van, reversing until we can't see them.