Plague Nation

by Alex Scarrow

  Leon nodded. With the worst of this second winter gone and the weather warming up a fraction, it was probably the result of another solar panel being exposed by a slide of snow.

  ‘Might as well see if there’s anything useful we can grab while we’re here.’

  They picked their way past workstations, each abandoned cubicle telling its own story of hasty departure. There were no bodies here. Everyone must have abandoned their posts quickly, but tell-tale signs of the last thing they were doing before they left were strewn around: the fossilized remains of food in wrappers, Post-it notes stuck on screens as reminders for workers long gone.

  Leon picked up a Rubik’s Cube from a desk and tucked it into his backpack. Something to while away the endless hours they had to spare. Then they climbed an emergency stairwell to the next floor and pushed the door open.

  ‘And this is where all the television magic happens,’ said Freya like a tour guide.

  They were looking at a newsroom: a news desk and two empty anchor’s chairs in the same corporate BBC crimson colour. Three automated cameras stood in a semicircle and stared with blind cyclops eyes at the abandoned desk.

  Freya wandered over to the desk and slumped down into one of the chairs. She grabbed at the papers spread out across the top and shuffled them together in both hands, tapping them down solemnly.

  ‘Tonight on Freya Hart at Six, we discuss the shocking number of dog owners who refuse to pick up the mess left behind by their feckless canine companions.’

  Leon snorted as he sat down on the chair beside hers.

  ‘Seriously . . . that’s what used to pass for news around here. That and Ofsted school reports,’ said Freya.

  Leon grabbed some loose sheets of paper and gazed at the glinting lenses of the three lifeless cameras. ‘It’s another quiet news day here in Norfolk,’ he uttered. ‘There’s snow forecast for the weekend. More snow and yet more sn—’

  He stopped and stared at the headlines printed on the paper: a short list of bullet-point items, some crossed through with a red pen, others with scrawled margin-note alterations, loops and arrows reordering the list – on-the-hoof editing.

  • Government declares Martial Law from 9 p.m. tonight.

  • All transport links: railways, roads, airports have been closed.

  • Police forces issued with firearms – have full authority to use them.

  • Russia suspected of using tactical nuclear warheads on several infected cities.

  • Australia, Japan, Hong Kong, Sri Lanka announce first confirmed cases of infection.

  Freya was reading the same list in her gloved hands. She looked at him. ‘It really got everywhere on the planet, didn’t it?’

  ‘It was floating around in the air. I guess it must have.’ Leon looked at the handwritten postscript at the bottom. He read it out loud. ‘This will be our final television transmission. For further news updates please tune into the BBC emergency broadcast signal, which is using Radio Four’s longwave preset, one-nine-eight.’

  ‘At least they didn’t sign off with the cheesy “May God have mercy on our souls” thing,’ said Freya.

  It may not have been written down, but perhaps they did, thought Leon. He could imagine there’d be that temptation for an anchorman or woman, a chance to go off-script and say something from the heart.

  A goodbye.

  A good luck.

  ‘Me, Mum and Grace must have still been on the train when they broadcast this.’

  Freya turned to look at him. She’d heard Leon’s escape story. And she’d told him her story. Neither of them needed to dwell on those now. Least of all Leon. Grace was gone. His mum was long gone. So were Freya’s parents.

  She pushed the chair back on its castors. ‘Come on – let’s go. There’s nothing for us here.’

  Leon nodded. He let the papers scatter from his hands on to the desk.

  They got up and headed towards the stairwell door. The light from outside was waning fast, and if they wanted to get back home before it was pitch black, they needed to leave soon. Not that the darkness itself was anything to be concerned about. They had torches and knew the way they’d come. And there was nothing out there now – no snarks any more, no monsters – and no one else as far as they knew. It was just going to get much colder once that pitiful sun was gone from the tumbling grey sky. Reason enough to hurry home.

  As Freya pushed the stairwell door open, Leon stopped her. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over there. I saw something . . .’

  She looked to her right. There was a passageway lined with more framed local celebrity posters, and at the end a thick acoustically insulated door stood ajar. Above it an ON AIR sign hung, dark and lifeless.

  A weak, blinking, amber-coloured spot of light reflected on the small glass window.

  ‘There’s a light on in there,’ said Leon. He headed down the passageway, pulled the door open and peered inside. He was looking at a small room without any windows. It was almost completely dark, but faintly illuminated by one small flashing orange light on a rack of equipment. He reached into his backpack, pulled out a torch and snapped it on.

  ‘Radio studio,’ said Freya.

  The walls were lined with a corded grey carpet that sucked the life from her voice. The room was split in two by a partition and another door. Through thick glass Leon could see a recording booth, several microphones hanging in anti-vibration cradles, a couple of chairs and a desk.

  They were standing in the control room. Leon stepped towards the rack of equipment and the one blinking orange light: a small, square button, one in a row that remained resolutely dark and disinterested in their insistent, winking sibling.

  ‘AUX,’ said Leon, reading the three dark letters in the middle of it.

  Freya shrugged. ‘You might as well.’

  ‘Might as well what?’

  ‘Press it. It’s not like it’s going to blow the world up or anything.’

  Leon pulled his glove off and gently rested the tip of his index finger against the button. He felt just the slightest sensation of warmth coming from it, heat generated by a tiny blinking LED that steadfastly refused to give in and join the others.

  For a moment he was reluctant to push. Perhaps it would flick off whatever system was still running here on a trickle of power. Like switching off life support. Putting something out of its misery.

  Freya huffed impatiently, reached out and pushed down on his finger.

  The light behind the button blinked from amber to green and speakers either side of the control room’s mixing desk suddenly began to hiss and crackle softly.

  ‘. . . are not alone. I repeat you are NOT alone. Help is coming. Help is on its way . . .’

  CHAPTER 3

  Two Years Ago

  ‘For Chrissakes, hurry up!’

  Tom Friedmann stared out of the windscreen of the ‘borrowed’ squad car as civilization fragmented before his eyes into pockets of caveman anarchy. He was parked near the veterans memorial in Battery Park, which was perched at the very bottom tip of Manhattan. How many times had he snuck out here from work for a quiet lunch, watching the ferries come and go from Pier A to Liberty Island laden with selfie-taking tourists?

  Battery Park was one of the few slices of tranquillity in the city that never, ever, slept.

  The call finally connected. ‘Private line,’ answered a harried-sounding female voice.

  ‘Patty, it’s Tom Friedmann. Where the hell is it? I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for half an hour!’

  ‘It’s coming, Mr Friedmann. It’s on its way, I promise!’

  She was shouting over the noise of a roaring engine. He could hear a dozen other voices, raised to be heard over the thud-thud-thud of rotors and an engine gathering momentum to take off.

  Bullshit. She’s stonewalling you.

  The squad car was being jostled and bumped by the crowds streaming past. A greasy palm thumped against the driver-side window. There was a
scuffle going on right outside.

  ‘Is he right there with you? Let me speak to him!’

  ‘He’s busy on another call, sir.’

  ‘Dammit, Patty, give the goddamn phone to him!’

  The noise over the phone was suddenly muted. Her hand was over the mouthpiece. He could hear her muffled voice. A moment later, that deafening whine of the helicopter’s engine winding up for lift-off.

  ‘Tom?’ Doug was on the phone now. Before Tom could answer, he spoke. No time for politeness or pleasantries. ‘Tom! There’s one on its way. Just sit tight, amigo, OK?’

  ‘Dougie, for Chrissakes! It’s beginning to fall apart over here!’

  ‘We’ll get you out of there. That’s a promise!’ The call disconnected. Not even a goodbye.

  Tom cursed and tossed the phone on to the passenger seat. He hadn’t even asked if he was still parked up and waiting in the same place.

  And . . . amigo. He said amigo.

  There’s no goddamn helicopter coming for you . . . amigo.

  Tom looked out of the window at the people surging past him, all heading for the ferry piers ahead. The bastard was looking after himself, clutching his golden Willy Wonka ticket and screw their old ‘brothers in arms’ mantra. He was sorted and that was just fine.

  He smacked the dashboard with his fist. And again. And again.

  Stay calm. You’ve just got to start working on a plan B.

  For a moment he gazed at the broken skin of his knuckles.

  Ferries.

  That’s where this surging crowd was headed. He opened the door, got out and pushed his way into the stream of panicking people.

  Looking back over his shoulder, all he could see were faces contorted and stretched, ugly with fear, what seemed like every last person in Manhattan hurrying southwards to catch the last ferry out of here. The bridges on both sides were now blocked by national guardsmen. The subway and the trains were locked down. The last couple of ferries were the only way out – that, or a cold swim in the Atlantic.

  You’re going to get yourself on one of those ferries, Tom. You’re going to do it because you HAVE TO.

  He shouldered his way into the crowd, barging and pulling his way forward through them.

  ‘Hey!’ He felt someone tugging roughly at his upper arm.

  He spun round and thrust the heel of his hand into the bridge of someone’s nose. He felt cartilage crack under the impact and the figure dropped down out of sight amid a sea of legs.

  That’s how it’s going to be: not survival of the fittest – survival of the shittiest.

  He turned and carried on through the crowd until he’d cleared the small park and could see the low squat green roof and memorial clock tower of Pier A’s ticket building, and beyond that the canary-yellow double-decker hull of a water taxi. Every square centimetre of its surface seemed to be covered with people, standing, sitting, clinging and crying. The pier itself was so crowded that every now and then the water of the Hudson spouted a plume of freezing foam as someone was knocked over the side and splashed in.

  He could see a thin line of camouflage helmets trying to control the flow at the end of the pier. Trying to prevent the boat from being swamped.

  It was then that he heard it. The thwup-thwup of rotor blades approaching from the south.

  The sky over New York was buzzing with helicopters lifting the lucky few from the top floors of skyscrapers, circling and hovering like bees disturbed by a beekeeper. But this one appeared to be making a hasty approach towards Battery Park.

  Tom allowed himself a flicker of hope. Maybe Doug was actually delivering on his promise. He began to barge his way out of the flow of the crowd, untangling himself at last and standing in the open.

  The helicopter was swooping low and fast across the Hudson. It finally began to slow down as it approached the southern tip of the park.

  That’s got to be my ride.

  Tom felt a fleeting moment of shame for doubting Doug’s word. He broke into a trot as he dodged and weaved around others heading towards the pier, like a salmon swimming against the current.

  The helicopter began to descend as it approached the railings of the park, its downdraft kicking up a mist of freezing saltwater droplets into the air. Fifty metres away now, Tom could feel them prickling his face.

  That IS for me, he told himself.

  It finally swung over land, stirring up a cloud of autumn leaves, twigs and dirt from the park’s orchard and flower gardens. People around him began to stop and look up hopefully as it hovered twenty metres up, hesitantly, cautiously descending.

  Tom felt his face stinging from the debris being whipped up. He narrowed his eyes as he waved both arms frantically above his head. He could see half a dozen marines crouched in the open door of the cabin, waiting to jump out.

  The helicopter descended the last few dozen metres, gently setting down on its skids. The soldiers spilled through the open door, spread out into a half-circle perimeter and dropped to their knees, guns raised. Tom hurried forward still waving his arms.

  Dozens of other people had heard the roar of the arriving helicopter too – now they stopped, turned and edged optimistically towards it. A woman just ahead of him, her scarlet-coloured designer high heels clutched tightly in one hand, hurried towards the nearest of the soldiers. He couldn’t hear their voices over the roar of the engine and the whipping of the rotors, but it was clear she was getting a firm NO; she wasn’t going to be let on. He was shaking his head and shouting something at her. But she wasn’t having it, trying to sidestep round him. He grabbed one of her arms and shoved her roughly backwards so that she stumbled and fell just in front of Tom.

  Tom stepped around her and cupped his hands as he approached the soldier.

  ‘THIS IS FOR ME!’ he bellowed.

  The soldier cocked his head and cupped one ear.

  ‘I SAID . . . I THINK THIS IS FOR ME!’ yelled Tom. He started to fumble inside his jacket.

  ‘WHAT’S. YOUR. NAME?’ The soldier barked each word separately.

  ‘TOM . . . FRIEDMANN!’

  He nodded at that. Right name. A good start. ‘YOU. GOTTA. SHOW. ME. SOME. ID, SIR!’

  Tom was already working on that. He pulled out his wallet and opened it carefully to get out his driving licence. The wind whipped out the loose receipts inside, almost snatching the plastic licence along with them.

  ‘HERE!’ he shouted, holding the card at arm’s length. The soldier quickly scanned the embossed name and checked that the photo matched.

  ‘YUP!’ Good enough for him. He seemed keen to call this a successful result and get back up in the air once more. ‘OK, GET IN QUICKLY, SIR!’

  Tom hurried past him towards the helicopter, the engine beginning to rise in pitch to a metallic scream, getting ready to lift off again. As he grasped the hand held out to him, he heard shots being fired and looked back over his shoulder. The soldiers were shooting warning shots overhead, close enough to have the nearest people ducking down and flinching at the sound, but, beyond them, he could see something far more worrying . . .

  Rolling across the small park, over the low round fortifications of the battery fort, across the flower gardens, through the trees, past the visitors centre . . . slowly heading towards them was a billowing cloud of fluffy snowflakes. The same pale flecks he’d seen earlier, the ones that seemed to stick and hang on to anything in sight like polystyrene beanbag balls.

  That’s it. This . . . thing.

  The cloud of flakes now covered the pier and everyone crammed on it, the ticket house, the water taxi. It swept towards the helicopter like a fog bank. The blast from the helicopter’s rotors began to stir the leading edge of the cloud flakes up into two frenzied eddying spirals that mirrored each other like the spurs of a Texas longhorn. Tom was yanked roughly up into the helicopter’s cabin, slammed into a seat and hastily strapped in. His view of what was going on outside was obscured as the soldiers on the ground clambered in quickly after him. He felt the hel
icopter pitch forward and begin to rise.

  It turned and banked just a few dozen metres up, the pilot clearly keen to put horizontal distance above vertical safety, and Tom caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman with her expensive red shoes brushing frantically at the sticky particles on her arm.

  CHAPTER 4

  Leon stared at the page of printer paper and read the scribbled transcription once again.

  Don’t give up. Help is coming. Help is on its way. This message is aimed specifically at survivors in the United Kingdom. If you are able to travel, make your way to the city of Southampton by the first of September. Civilian and navy vessels will be waiting for you. Medical help and emergency food supplies will be available there. Those requesting evacuation will be assessed. The ships will be there for two weeks only, leaving on the fourteenth of September.

  Freya was stirring stew in its tin over the butane burner. ‘Assessed? For what? Good behaviour? Fashion awareness? Good taste?’

  He sighed. ‘Infection.’

  ‘Infection? Anyone who’s infected is surely just bones and rags now. They must be aware of that.’

  He looked up from the sheet of paper as Freya pulled herself up on to her feet.

  ‘Hey. Let me get—’

  She batted him away with one hand and made her way across to a cupboard to get their bowls. He watched her clumsy movement, the wincing on her face as she pressed a hand to her left hip.

  He wondered if they meant assessment for fitness. Only the young and fully healthy. The brutal filtering of people. No room for those who couldn’t keep up.

  The message they’d heard on the radio was word for word what had been scribbled down on this sheet of paper. Nothing more. Just an endless, repeating, pre-recorded loop. Someone else had made a visit to the BBC studio before them, heard the same message and thought to write it down and leave it behind on the console in case whatever was trickle-feeding the studio power finally ran out.

  Someone thoughtful.