Boats got bigger as I moved downstream and the river widened to accommodate them. Tower Bridge loomed ahead and wrapped around its feet was a line of barges, all joined together like a string of sausages. As I neared I realised the barges had been carrying a cargo of London’s waste, the half-sunken containers spilling their festering contents into the water and so, for a while, I was weaving through a layer of black bags and nappies.
I vaguely remember passing the unmistakeable dome at Greenwich, which had undoubtedly hosted its last event. There was a chop on the water when the Thames barrier loomed out of the fog, towering above me as I passed through. Spray slapped me in the face as I cut through the waves. A little further and I came across a number of ocean going ships, a couple of them oil tankers. A pipeline must have burst somewhere, oozing a thick slick of oil which spread out downstream from the tanker terminal, coating the sides of my tiny canoe and the paddle with treacle-thick oil.
Cranes, and the vast, hulking forms of container ships appeared ghostlike through the fog before it really closed in; a thick white blanket, tinged with yellow. I knew now there were no river banks here; it was a shoreline and I’d entered the open sea. At least it was calm, and I only received a small buffeting and not enough of a splashing to sink the canoe.
All I could do was laugh like a maniac, wondering whether I really had lost my mind. The complexity of the question made me laugh harder; a hollow, lonely sound in the fog.
Well, I laughed, as I bobbed into the unknown of the North Sea, That’s justice for you.
Thirteen
I wasn’t sure what happened next. The fog was thick around me, wrapping me up in a cold, damp, death shroud and that should have been the end of my story, but then I became jolted back to some kind of consciousness as I ran into something solid. The impact caused me to slide forward off the seat, so I landed in a twisted heap in the bottom of the canoe. All I could make out, was that the fog ahead had somehow solidified. My fevered brain could make no sense of it at the time.
The next thing I remember was being borne upward; I glanced around to see the canoe far below me, bobbing on a rising swell and I wondered if it had finally happened, that I was dead and being carried up to heaven.
I woke lying on my back in a kind of hospital room. The bed was hard and uncomfortable and the thin sheet was tucked in too tight. Someone else was in the room with me, sitting at a desk, facing the wall. He appeared to be in some kind of uniform. I tried to speak, to get his attention but my mouth and throat were gummed up and I couldn’t form the words.
Raising my head proved an impossibility, it felt heavy, like a bowling ball, and most of the movement came from my eyes. I saw there were needles in both my arms, connected to drips hanging near my head. I ached, especially in my spider bitten leg, but for now it appeared I was safe and being looked after and so, without really caring who it was tending to me, I let relief wash away my worries and closed my eyes again. For a brief moment, just before I fell back to sleep, I wondered whether I was in prison but after all I’d suffered, even that would have been welcome.
When I next woke, the man was still at the desk, but this time he turned at the right moment and caught the movement in my eyes. He rose and walked over, smiling as he checked the charts hanging at the end of the metal framed bed.
At first it took a while to realise the movement I was feeling was the room swaying and not me.
“Bit of a storm blowing in,” said the man. “I’m Toby Walker by the way, ship’s doctor. Now, you just wait there a minute.” With that he left the room via a small, roughly oval door which was set into the wall about a foot off the ground so there was a large step. If I’d studied the door sooner, I’m sure I’d have figured out I was aboard a ship, it even had a wheel set into the middle of it.
When he was out of the room I had a few moments to think about recent events. I wondered how long I’d been asleep, whether there were many survivors and then I shuddered, for I knew, whatever happened, life would never be the same again. My first priority though was the itching in the leg the spider had bitten, it was driving me mad and the tubes in my arms were too short for me to reach down and scratch it without pulling them out.
A tall moustachioed man walked into the room, immaculate in his pressed uniform, complete with epaulettes and a cap, and I immediately stopped my wriggling. “Welcome aboard.” He said. “I’m Captain John Warren. I understand you’re somewhat of a survivor.”
All I could do was nod.
“What’s your name?” he asked and when I croaked an unintelligible answer he looked at the ship’s doctor, who shrugged his shoulders. “Get him a drink will you, the poor chap’s dying of thirst here.”
At that point I was glad of my muteness, as my mind raced to get my story straight.
The doctor nodded again and stepped out through the hatch - for that’s what I decided it was, rather than a door - returning a few moments later with a glass, which he raised to my lips.
“I’ll come back in a bit, when you’re feeling a little better,” said the Captain before turning to Doctor Walker. “Let me know when he can talk will you.”
“Yes Captain.” He said when the Captain was already half way out of the room. “Better?” he said to me after I’d taken a few sips. The water did indeed feel tremendous as it soothed my throat with coolness. I nodded but the itching in my leg was intolerable and I resumed my squirming. My voice was still a croak as I tried to tell the doctor, but from the pointing of my chin and my wriggling, he got the message.
The doctor took the glass of water and placed it gently on the bedside table before taking a small step back and standing with his back ram-rod straight. A sincere look came over him, one I didn’t much like and I studied the crow’s feet around his eyes, trying to read his expression.
“Can you still feel your leg?”
I wanted to scream: Of course I fucking can! but I just nodded, not liking the tone of his voice.
“It’s not unusual in a case like yours.”
The penny dropped that something wasn’t right and I raised an eyebrow at him.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he started. “But I’m afraid I had to amputate. Just above the knee.” The doctor paused for a moment, to gauge my reaction and I slowly nodded to show him I understood before he continued. “It was dead I’m afraid, we had to remove it to stop the rot from spreading. I think it was only because of your immobility in the canoe that it didn’t kill you before. In a way you’re lucky,” he said with a wry smile.
He was right and I knew it. Although my head was reeling with all that had happened, I accepted the news better than I would have predicted. I’d heard of amputees being able to feel their ‘ghost’ limbs, but I never imagined it could still itch enough to drive me to the brink of madness.
“Do you want some time alone?” the doctor asked.
I nodded but signalled to be fed more water before he left.
After more sleep I woke assuming it was the next day, although having no window to the outside made it impossible to be sure. The doctor was up and about, checking his instruments and my charts and when he heard me moving he came over to the bed, smiling. “And how are you today?”
I discovered I’d regained enough strength to reach over and bring the glass of water to my lips myself. I drank a good swig and dribbled some down my chin because of still lying down. “Good,” I said and although my throat was sore and my voice feeble and hoarse, it pleased me to be speaking. Evidently it pleased the doctor too as he beamed at me.
“Ready to try speaking to the Captain?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,”
Shortly afterwards, the Captain had pulled up an orange plastic chair and was sitting near my head. Anxiety was etched onto his face and he kept chewing his fingernails. His voice was steady though, when he asked my name.
“Erm… Bobby Jones,” I replied.
He didn’t bat an eyelid, “Well Bobby, it’s an… unusual situation we find
ourselves in, yes?”
I nodded.
“I haven’t flown the helicopter in a few days, want to save fuel you see, but from what I can gather it’s pretty bad.”
I nodded again.
“Did you see any other survivors?”
My mind turned to the old couple in the car, and to Lindsey, of course, and I responded with a slow shake of my head.
The Captain seemed to sag slightly before composing himself. “What, none?”
“No,” I said. “What about you, have you come across anyone else?”
He gazed off into the distance, through the wall, and I knew he hadn’t. It seemed unbelievable, and I waited in silence for him to resume speaking. “You’re the only one.” He mumbled. “Apart from the few fishing vessels which have joined us and the three Navy vessels we have. There’re more boats coming, not many though, I don’t think. Nothing from the land.”
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked after a long silence, during which he understandably appeared deep in thought.
Captain John Warren looked me directly in the eye. “I have absolutely no idea.” He shrugged. “In the absence of any chain of command it’s my duty to defend the capital. But, it appears there’s no capital left to defend, or anyone to defend it from. We can’t do a damn thing about these blasted spiders.”
“Do you know where they came from?” I asked.
The Captain pointed at the low, metal ceiling, “They seem to have fallen from the sky.” He leaned forward, massaging his temple with his fingers.
“The meteor storm,” I said to myself more than anyone. “Do you know of anywhere that’s not been…?” I thought for the correct word, “infested?”
Again he shook his head. “We were on a joint exercise with the Americans on the night of the storm. Quite impressive it was. I’ve never seen anything like it. A few hours later, the call came in to return home ASAP. The American boats got the same call and so we each went our separate ways and sped home under full steam. The Chinese ships we were tailing did the same thing by the look of it. So, no, it’s everywhere.”
He questioned me for a while longer but neither of us had the heart for it. I didn’t see much of the Captain after that, I suppose he had a lot on his plate. The small matter of my missing leg didn’t seem quite so important, with the human race on the verge of extinction. I soon got used to it, and nowadays I manage well with a crutch.
We stayed at anchor in the Thames Estuary for a few more weeks, during which time we amassed quite a flotilla, mainly of fishing boats but also a smattering of Royal Navy ships, two nuclear submarines and no less than three fully laden super-tankers. We were joined by four French warships and their accompanying boats and ships and although I played no part in the negotiations, they were accepted into our fleet.
During this time, I was not the only one to spend long hours standing on deck, staring longingly at the grey coastline of Blighty, knowing full well that to set foot upon home soil would mean a sure and painful death. Then the day eventually came when I stood near the stern, on the helicopter pad, and watched England recede into the distance behind our churning wake as we set sail in search of a new home.
I can’t remember how long ago that day was, but ever since we’ve all been clinging to the hope that somewhere on this watery planet there is an island just for us; free of infestation, lush and bountiful. A place where we can live out the rest of our lives in peace.
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Novels by the author
Flux
The Dark Stone
Infested Page 6