Afterlight

by Alex Scarrow

  Jacob and Nathan looked at each other. They’d lost track of how many days they’d been here. Maxwell smiled; the Zone had that effect. He squatted down and examined a small bed of late-sprouting rhubarb stalks that they were experimenting with.

  ‘So you lads were telling me about your journey to London. That you didn’t see a great deal going on out there?’

  ‘We didn’t see no one, really, did we, Jay?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Not really. Nothing anything like this size. There was a guy called Raymond . . . and those wild kids.’

  Maxwell stroked his chin. ‘Hmm. See, I hoped there would be plenty of other groups like ours. After ten years, you know, I was hoping some of the smaller groups of survivors might have pooled together. That we’d start seeing village-sized groups emerging out there.’

  Both boys shook their head. ‘Ain’t nothing like that,’ said Nathan. Maxwell shook his head sadly. ‘What a complete balls-up we made of things, eh?’

  The boys looked at each other. Neither seemed to know what to say.

  ‘Well, it’s not your fault,’ sighed Maxwell, running a hand through the tight grey curls on his head. ‘You were just small boys back then. No, it was my bloody generation, we’re the ones that ballsed everything up. We got too busy chasing money . . . pffft.’

  He let the stalk of rhubarb go and stood up. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘so that got me thinking about the place you came from? On those gas rigs? It would make a great deal of sense for both our groups to hook up. To share resources, skills . . . that kind of thing. I mean, it seems like all we’ve got left is each other. Right?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Maxwell,’ said Jacob.

  ‘You two seem like decent enough lads to me. You’ve behaved yourself over the last few weeks. Pulled your weight on the chores you’ve been given. You’re both bright lads, nice an’ polite. So I’m guessing you’ve been brought up by decent enough people. Not a bunch of crazies. Am I right?’

  Nathan nodded his head. ‘They’re really nice people.’

  ‘All - what was it? - three hundred-and-whatever? Good men and women are they? Peaceful lot?’

  ‘Four hundred and fifty . . . or thereabout.’

  ‘Actually there’s hardly any men at all,’ added Jacob. ‘Mostly women and old people.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nathan laughed self-consciously, ‘s’pose we was sort of the men, weren’t we, Jay?’

  Maxwell nodded thoughtfully. ‘And who’s in charge there? Do you have some government official? An ex-Member of Parliament or something? I’m sort of hoping there’s something left of the government that I can hand over the reins to.’ Maxwell sighed and smiled wearily at the boys. ‘What I wouldn’t give to be able to take a break and let someone else take charge for a while.’

  ‘There’s my mum,’ said Jacob. ‘Jenny Sutherland.’ He made a face. ‘I’m afraid she’s not a member of any government, though.’

  ‘She’s pretty cool,’ added Nathan. ‘She’s in charge. Runs things pretty much on her own. But she’s, like, totally fair.’

  ‘So why the hell are they stuck out on a gas rig of all places?’

  ‘Safety, mainly,’ replied Jacob. ‘We moved about five or six years ago. There were bands of scavengers making it too dangerous on the mainland.’

  Maxwell looked at Nathan. ‘It must have been bloody hard, moving, starting again from scratch.’

  Nathan shrugged. ‘I dunno . . . I guess. Me an’ my mum joined them a year after.’

  ‘It was hard at first,’ added Jacob. ‘But we were lucky. The nearby town was a freight port. There was loads of warehouses full of shipping containers of supplies. We wouldn’t have managed otherwise. We had a couple of boats and we were ferrying stuff from there nearly every day at first. Wasn’t a big deal ferrying stuff. I mean the rigs are just off the coast. You can just about see them from Bracton. Maybe fifteen miles out, wouldn’t you say, Nate?’

  He nodded.

  Maxwell cocked his head. ‘Bracton?’

  ‘Yeah. It was a port and a gas refinery. All the underwater pipes from the rigs came into there.’

  ‘Whereabouts is that?’

  Both boys looked at each other for a moment. Not a shared glance of suspicion; more wondering how best to explain. ‘Sort of north-east curve of East Anglia,’ replied Jacob.

  ‘It’s down a bit,’ said Nathan. ‘South of Great Yarmouth.’

  Maxwell nodded, he knew where they meant. He’d spent his youth living in Southend. He’d even visited Great Yarmouth for a camping holiday with his grandparents in the early eighties. Alan remembered it being pretty grim then during the height of the recession; a cheap and not too cheerful holiday resort, a wet summer that year and an incessant chilly offshore breeze that swept across the deck of the town’s dismal pier. And miserable-looking, cold, grey-skinned families holidaying on the cheap; all beer, fags and arcades.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m going to send some of my boys up there to introduce themselves, say “hi” and see if we can arrange a talk with your mum. And, given we’re all a little wary of strangers these days, I’d like you two to lead them up there and make the introductions.’ He cocked a dark eyebrow. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Both of them grinned.

  ‘You’re right, Mr Maxwell,’ said Nathan. ‘Better if we go along. Mrs Sutherland won’t lower no ladders for a bunch of blokes she don’t know, not with guns. No way. Ain’t that right, Jay?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s sort of very suspicious of strangers.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Maxwell. ‘As she well should.’ He stopped walking and turned round to look at them. ‘Okay, well here’s what we’re going to do - we’re going to initiate you as praetorians. That is . . . if you want.’

  ‘Shit, yeah,’ smiled Nathan.

  Jacob nodded eagerly.

  ‘Good. I’ve already spoken to Edward “Snoop” Tindall.’ Maxwell shook his head and laughed drily. ‘Snoop . . . ridiculous bloody nicknames they’ve given themselves. Anyway, I’ve spoken to him and he thinks you’re a pair of good guys and he’s happy to have you aboard.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Maxwell took half a step forward. ‘It’s all about trust, lads. By my letting you join them, I’m trusting you. Snoop and his boys are trusting you. Just like being in the army, your fellow squaddies rely on you, and you on them. If there was a fight, if outsiders came here to take what we’ve got, those boys would be asked to fight for us, to lay down their lives if they had to to protect these people out here,’ he said, indicating the workers amongst the rows of plants.

  ‘Right,’ said Jacob nodding solemnly.

  ‘That’s why I give the boys their little treats; their Saturday nights, the music, those bloody noisy arcade machines.’

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Jacob. ‘These people?’

  Maxwell tightened his lips, looked away for a moment. ‘We keep them safe, we keep them fed. I’m sure they’d much rather be here in the Zone than out there.’

  ‘So,’ Jacob frowned, ‘they’re never allowed in the arena?’

  ‘No. Not at any time. Staff only.’

  ‘But, uh . . . why is—?’

  Nathan subtly tugged at his friend’s arm. ‘Hey, Jay? Doesn’t matter, right?’

  Maxwell realised these two boys needed a little more explanation. Needed to understand the way things worked here. ‘It’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘You need to know how it is.’

  He pinched his chin for a moment. ‘Order,’ he said breaking the silence. ‘To keep things in order. I keep the boys separate from the others because they need to be able to police them, even to punish if it comes to it. Do you understand?’

  Jacob looked at Nathan. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You sound doubtful?’

  He shrugged. ‘It just . . . it seems—’

  ‘Look, I know it probably doesn’t sound all nice and fluffy and democratic, but it’s how I’ve managed to keep two thousand people alive all th
is time - we’ve kept going while every other safety zone crashed and turned on itself. They’re very young, I know, but that’s for a reason. They don’t come with all the old prejudices, all the old pre-crash attitudes and baggage. They’re good boys. And what’s more, I trust ’em. They do as I ask of them, and they keep order for me.’

  He tried a flat smile. ‘Obviously, I’m not going to force you. If you don’t want to become—’

  ‘Shit, man, yeah!’ blurted Nathan. ‘I mean . . . really sorry, I mean, yeah.’

  Maxwell waved dismissively. ‘Jacob?’

  ‘O-okay,’ said Jacob. ‘I do want to be a praetorian.’

  ‘Good.’ He clasped his hands together. ‘Because I’m hoping your mum’s people will want to partner with us,’ he continued. ‘And I’m happy to work with her and see what we can do to make life a little better for everyone.’ He shrugged. ‘She bossy . . . your mum? She going to have me running circles round her?’

  Jacob laughed. ‘She can be a bit bossy.’

  Maxwell joined him. ‘Good! She’ll whip me into shape, I’m sure.’ His face straightened. ‘Seriously, we need each other. It looks like we’re all that’s left of Great Britain. And if things work out, I think the pair of you would make good lieutenants. I like to have people around me who ask questions. Keep me on my toes.’

  The boys grinned.

  ‘Trust,’ he winked. ‘It’s all about trust.’

  ‘You can trust us,’ said Nathan.

  ‘Excellent. Well, then, this Saturday night, we’ll initiate the pair of you. You’ll get your orange jackets, be eligible for all privileges. And I’m sure Edward will come up with a couple of ridiculous bloody nicknames for you.’

  They laughed.

  ‘And then,’ he said to Jacob, ‘we’ll sort out paying your mum a visit, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Thanks, Mr Maxwell.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Once you’re initiated you’ll have to call me “Chief”, though. Just like being in the proper army, eh?’

  Jacob grinned.

  ‘Right,’ said Maxwell. ‘We’re done here. I’ve got things to attend to. I’m sure you’ve both got work groups to rejoin. Off you go.’

  The boys both nodded politely, thanked him and turned on their heels.

  He watched them go.

  Trust? He looked at the pair of orange-jacketed praetorians following him dutifully a dozen yards behind. Alan didn’t trust any of his boys as far as he could throw the little buggers. As long as they had their treats, their Party Night, their grog, their sex slaves . . . they were as obedient as well-trained Yorkshire terriers. That’s the simplistic level on which those brutal little thugs worked.

  The young . . . so malleable.

  These two, though. Maybe they’d turn out to be as easy to influence as the others once they began to enjoy the extras.

  He was pretty sure there wasn’t a young man born who’d willingly walk away from perks like those.

  He suspected he was going to need them on-side. Not that he had anything that he’d dignify with the label ‘plan’ just yet. But, there were ways and means. The home these boys had come from - a gas rig with a population of women, kids and old people and a nearby port full of pickings. An easy target, and quite possibly the plan B he’d been hoping for all these years.

  Ways and means?

  There were the three barges tied up at the rear of the dome. One would be more than enough to transport his boys. Another filled up with all that was left of the supplies on the mezzanine floor. The third barge to pack in a couple of hundred or so workers.

  Those left behind?

  Well, not to put too fine a point on it . . . sod ’em. They were doomed here eventually anyway. This place wasn’t the future, it was a waiting room. One gigantic departure lounge.

  Everything that counted could be packed onto those three barges, and the river tugboat parked up in Victoria Docks just across the water should be able to tow them. He estimated that if they took it carefully, hugged the coastline and hoped for calm weather, the barges would make it down the Thames, out of the Thames estuary and up the coastline of East Anglia to Bracton in what? . . . three . . . four days?

  The alternative was to wait on here and oversee the gradual, systematic and orderly starvation of two thousand people.

  He resumed his morning tour, nodding and smiling at the familiar faces he passed. He spotted the man who’d once been an officer in the RAF regiment, still wearing the tattered remnants of his khaki greens.

  ‘Morning, Brooks.’

  The man looked up and nodded politely. ‘Morning, Chief.’

  Maxwell had rather liked the young man but leading up to the ‘change of guard’, he’d begun to ask too many bloody questions. And he’d heard murmurs amongst the young Flight Lieutenant’s men that they should be in charge.

  It had been a necessary move, kicking them out and replacing them with the boys. His lads, his praetorians, never asked questions. They just got on with what they were asked to do.

  Without his platoon Brooks was no longer a threat. Good worker, too.

  Chapter 52

  10 years AC

  O2 Arena - ‘Safety Zone 4’, London

  Adam watched Maxwell go. He could quite happily stab that self-serving bastard in the eye. That regal fucking nod, the pompous way he acknowledged his people; once a mid-level civil servant, now the absolute ruler of his own little kingdom.

  And he’d made damn sure there was no one going to challenge the way of things here, hadn’t he? Damn sure.

  Adam hadn’t seen it coming.

  The school Maxwell had set up had made perfect sense at the time; there’d been over a hundred boys in the camp of schooling age. Another hundred or so girls as well. And Maxwell, being an ex-teacher, his pre-crash job something to do with a regional education board, it made sense that he’d want to see the kids get some sort of schooling.

  It didn’t even to occur to him that Maxwell was playing some kind of long game when he announced he wanted to school the boys separately. It just happened. Anyway, there’d been too many other things on his mind. He and the lads of his squadron were out patrolling almost daily, foraging, looking for survivors in the aftermath, looking for signs of any other communities hanging on.

  That bastard was clever about it, too. Moved the boys into the middle of the dome for their classes. The young lad, Edward Tindall, the oldest boy in the camp, was about seventeen when the crash happened. He became Maxwell’s ‘head boy’. All the other lads looked up to Edward; all urban-cool, hip.

  Adam resumed his work, kneeling down and potting onion bulbs. Maybe it was how the Cheltenham safe zone went down; the army finally turning on the civil authorities. Or maybe Maxwell had caught wind of Adam’s men grumbling. Whatever it was, at some point the bastard had made up his mind that he didn’t want thirty trained soldiers and another twenty-seven police officer auxiliaries hanging around the dome.

  How it happened, the ‘changing of the guard’, was pure bloody Maxwell. One of the girls was found raped and shot dead just outside the zone. Enough evidence had been strewn around to indicate it had been one of Adam’s lads. The same night Maxwell instructed Adam to order his men to hand in their guns so they could be inspected to identify which one had been fired.

  And that’s what he’d done. Naively, stupidly - followed the bastard’s orders.

  In the early hours Edward Tindall and his boys, all armed with those same fucking guns, had turfed the lads out of their bunks and out of the camp.

  Oh yeah, they’d picked out one man to make an example of; said it was him who’d raped the girl and murdered her. Gunner Simon Lawrence. The soldiers were kicked out but Adam and the three other platoon NCOs were allowed to stay. Maxwell’s intention communicated quite clearly to the men as they were escorted out; try breaking back in or causing any mischief and your officers will suffer.

  Next morning Maxwell had gathered everyone together in the dome’s entrance foy
er and made his big ‘Year One’ speech - new order and all that. His students, his boys, were now functioning as the zone’s security personnel. The time had come for them to prepare for the future, no one was coming to rescue them, so now it was time to start growing their own food . . . and so on and so on; there were going to be work groups, task assignments; everybody was going to have to contribute something to their long-term survival.

  And then, to clarify the point that this really was Day One of a new regime, Gunner Simon Lawrence was brought out and executed for the rape and murder of the girl.

  Adam looked up and watched the backs of the two praetorians walking dutifully a dozen yards behind Maxwell, guns slung casually on their shoulders.

  He’d even decided to choose the youngest of his boys to pull the trigger. A little pyschotic fucker who swaggered around under the name ‘Notor-ius’ these days.

  The two praetorians and Maxwell slowly patrolled the edge of the field, heading towards the guards standing around the hut at the front gate.

  You’re a shrewd cunning bastard, I’ll give you that.

  Maxwell knew his recent history; of course he did, he was once a history teacher an’ all.

  Child soldiers.

  Always the most ruthless. Always the most biddable.

  Leona heard movement outside her room. It was a small stifling space, the walls concrete breeze-blocks painted a hospital mint green, above her a fizzing strip light, the cold cement floor beneath her feet covered by a scuffed black rubber mat. There was a mattress on the floor and a bucket in the corner. It was meant for her to use as a toilet. She’d held off using it for as long as she could, but in the end she’d had to. Now the smell of it was thick inside this place, almost as bad as the slurry room back home on the rigs.

  She heard a girl’s voice coming from the room next door, muffled through the wall. She sounded compliant, single grunted syllables. Another voice, a boy’s voice, young enough that it sounded as if it had yet to break and deepen. He was giving her instructions and she sounded as if she was obeying. It was quiet for a minute or two, a solitary bump against the wall, then she heard the boy’s voice once again; a short shrill yell that sounded painful.