by Geoff Wolak
‘As I said, it turns out OK.’
Driving back towards the portal base in Hertfordshire my host received a call, Paul carrying an advanced phone around with him. After the call he faced me. ‘There is a team of archaeologists and historians in London, and they ask if you wish to visit what they have unearthed, which is the command centre for the British Government underneath something called Drowning Street.’
‘Downing Street,’ I corrected him. ‘How long would it take to get there?’
‘Perhaps two hours. There is little traffic, but the roads are poor in places, slow speed required.’
‘Do they have a camp down there?’
‘Yes, many large tents.’
‘Then tell them I’m on my way, and to put the kettle on.’
The roads were indeed free of traffic, but in places were badly pot-holed after seventy years of freezing winters - and no hairy-arsed council builders to repair them, so we had to slow our dated cars and swerve around the holes.
‘Just like in my day,’ I quipped. ‘They were always working on the damn roads.’
Reaching the A41, I could see the branch of road forking off to the west, just grass and trees the opposite way. We crossed over what was obviously a bridge that was still standing, and headed down into London, the road often shaded by tall trees. Cresting over a hill, I could see ahead for miles.
‘How far is London?’ I asked.
‘This is it,’ my driver said. ‘Or what’s left of it. Not much in the way of tall buildings. See that small hill over there?’
I peered across to where he was pointing.
‘That used to be a large shopping centre, apartments near it. You can still make out some of the concrete edges, but most are green with mould.’
Ten minutes later, and I was starting to pick out the buildings from the trees and bushes, soon noticing the empty concrete shells of larger buildings, a few rusted old car engines to be glimpsed on the side of the road, the car bodies mostly gone. We passed aluminium frames and shells, not quite sure what they used to be, and slowed to take in a statue that had turned green over the years, a few birds’ nests in corners.
Closer in, and the land was very uneven either side of the road, a few former roadside lights still standing, many drooped over and touching the ground. And everything was covered in a carpet of lush green vegetation. At one point, peeking through the trees, I glimpsed a tall tower still standing, not quite sure which tower it might have been in my day. Its edges were still grey, its floors empty at the top and overgrown lower down, the structure looking like a cross between modern art and some weird high-rise botanical garden.
Reaching the camp, I found ten or more large white tents, many people buzzing around, a fire raging. The senior staff welcomed me.
‘So where are we, exactly?’ I asked.
They pointed. ‘See that mound? Go climb up it and see if you can guess, sir.’
Curious, I led a guard forwards, the man a fellow Londoner himself, and we scrambled up the mound, soon up ten metres or more and peering down at the river.
I said, ‘If that’s the river, and those lumps are what are left of a bridge, then this mound is … Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament.’ The guard agreed.
Besides the river, there were few other recognisable features in a sea of trees and bushes. I could make out the grey concrete edges of buildings peeking out through green foliage, but couldn’t identify anything. Back down to the archaeologists, they confirmed my supposition, soon leading me to a tunnel entrance. Hard hats were issued, torches switched on, and we descended in a line under what had once been Parliament.
The tunnel had obviously been cleaned up, and I could see where metal doors had been cut open. In a few places we found lamps lighting the way, and I stepped through an inch of water in many places, the smell increasing the deeper we penetrated. A few rats scurried away as we progressed, and our party eventually entered a set of tunnels that appeared to have been completely preserved.
‘We removed the bodies,’ echoed down the corridor. ‘Most were just skeletons. And we had some fun playing detective.’
‘Sorry?’ I called, my words echoing.
We opened into a large room with a low ceiling, dated and dusty maps pinned to the walls, dusty phones resting on tables next to stacks of files.
‘We had to play detective,’ the same man repeated. ‘We found a lady with her knickers around her ankles, a knife through her chest – so we suspected foul play.’
‘Have you arrested anyone?’ I dryly asked.
‘We have a suspect,’ a man said with a smile. ‘He killed himself later after leaving a note. Seems that around sixty people were down here with the Prime Minister when war broke out.’
‘It was no sudden event then,’ I stated as I opened mouldy ledgers.
‘No, and the diary has entries about the spread of the virus. Seems that the British Prime Minister suspected that it was a Russian biological weapon.’
‘He was fooled, it was American.’
‘There’s a series of notes referring to telegrams back and forth about it, and the PM just about accuses the Americans at one point, seven days before the war. Seems that American servicemen here received inoculations against the flu virus, and for inoculations you need to know the germ first. Americans denied that at first, but then offered British servicemen inoculations.’
‘So, all was not well in NATO,’ I let out as I tried to read the detail in a dated and dusty ledger, someone’s terrible handwriting. ‘And those inoculations didn’t work – obviously.’
‘When the bombs started dropping, the PM was down here with his staff, and they survived for several weeks, stores of food and water. Notes in the diary list six people as taking their own lives early on. Phones were working, linking this place to RAF Northolt up the road, and an emergency plan was put into effect.’
‘But…?’ I posed, now looking up.
‘Diary suggests that lingering radiation was preventing anyone from leaving here, and they didn’t have the rations. What they did have, however, was a tunnel connecting to the District Line of The Underground, and people journeyed out that way to the suburbs, but found the radiation levels to be too high. A few journeyed on in radiation suits, but were never heard of again, and a plan was hatched to make floats and to sail down the river when the tide was going out at its fastest, to get away from the radiation. A group did that, but failed to make contact afterwards by radio.’
‘So the people in here slowly starved,’ I realised.
‘There’s a daily log that lists supplies, and next to it the outside radiation level, which was not dropping fast enough; metals around the city were holding the radiation it seems. It also seems that there was something of a nuclear winter and a flood, and that this place was under a foot of water for several weeks – conditions must have been unbearable. And that water brought in radiation, which started to affect the people here.
‘Many committed suicide, their bodies dumped in The Underground’s tunnel. People fell sick, and someone went on a rampage with a pistol, killing many senior figures. PM took his own life when he fell ill. After that, the survivors walked out of the tube tunnel … to whatever fate they met.’
‘They met a flu virus,’ I said, examining a roster on the wall.
‘Notes in the diary suggest that upwards of twenty percent of the population in Britain had fallen sick before the war, so we must assume that the rest perished after the war, especially with poor health brought on by a lack of food and basic sanitation.’
‘Any signs that anyone survived that virus?’ I asked.
‘Not that we’ve found so far, no signs of habitats from after the war. And it seems that the River Thames flooded several times in the months after the war, which must have helped to dump mud around the city and undermine foundations. It became overgrown quickly. I would suggest that a year after the war annual floods were common, the river blocked downstream perhaps.’
‘Did these people build a Thames Barrier?’
‘Not that we can see, no.’
‘So maybe the sea flooded up as well,’ I said with a sigh. ‘What are the other cities like?’
‘Most are in better condition, London was nuked a dozen times we believe, but we estimate that Britain suffered some terrible storms and floods after the war, possibly a short, sharp nuclear winter of sorts. Most concrete structures have signs of cracking, and that may be down to the regular freezing of wet surfaces.’
‘And now?’ I posed.
‘Now, this summer is uncharacteristically warm.’
‘Mate, this is Britain; if we got a summer that had one day without rain it would be frigging uncharacteristic!’
They laughed.
‘Listen, do me a favour and ask for a large team to be put together. In the years ahead I don’t want the Seether finding shit like this, so I want all government establishments here and in Europe visited, papers destroyed or taken back, buildings blown up. Work out a list of all secret command bunkers and go visit them, same for Russia.’
‘That’s … quite a task, sir.’
‘As I said, ask for a big team of volunteers. There must be many historians in each nation who would like to visit.’
‘These documents were only in good condition because someone sealed himself in here. The other underground bunkers are likely to have been left open, and exposed to the elements.’
‘I want to be sure. We’re Great Ancestors, and I don’t want evidence to the contrary lying around. Skeletons and the ruins of buildings are one thing, signed documents testifying to our stupidity are another.’
We made our way slowly back through the tunnel, rats chased away, and emerged near the tents. People showed me what they considered to be artefacts, and what I would have considered junk in my day. They had part of Big Ben’s clock face, porcelain vases – made in Hong Kong, watches that had been well preserved, a few dated newspapers that had survived intact, a policeman’s hat and truncheon. All they needed was a toy red London bus for a complete set of cheap tourist crap.
It was a little eerie, and a little sad, to be amongst the ruins of London, and to know that this place was basically one large graveyard. The memories of my youth were still fresh, and the ‘artefacts’ here seemed like they came from just yesterday.
‘What a waste,’ I commented as we ate a meal from ration packs. ‘To build all this, and then lose it.’
‘The same could be said about Troy, Rome, and Athens, sir,’ a lady said. ‘Civilisation changes and adapts and moves on, great empires fall.’
‘Only this lot didn’t move on, they all died – save a few nutcases down in Antarctica, a few sailors in ships.’ I sipped my cup of tea, a tea in a plastic mug.
‘I’d have to disagree, sir.’
I looked up.
She added, ‘The people here created the Seether, and they’re ninety-nine percent human. Since the Seether will survive, it was a biological revolution, not a social revolution, an … evolutionary step if you like.’
I nodded absently. ‘You could look at it that way.’
‘Who’s to say that a mutation of mankind is any less valid?’ someone put in. ‘Mister Silo obviously thinks the Seether are valid, or you wouldn’t be working over here.’
‘Having found them,’ I began, ‘we decided that they deserved a chance. After all, this is just one of many worlds where man destroyed himself. Only here they did a really thorough job of it. Jimmy wondered if the Seether could make a better go of it, and … now he’s sure.’
‘They can’t make a worse job of it,’ someone commented.
I faced him, and took a moment. ‘No, no one could do a worse job than the people on this particular world.’
Shin pads
Back at the embassy, and with my bags back in my magnolia room, my attentions soon turned to football, not least because the various political projects were ticking along nicely, and because football was a more enjoyable pastime than politics and commerce. There were now more teams, the police and the army dominating the leagues, so I got to work - ready to mix things up a bit.
After not bothering to inform the government, I paid various builders in a dozen towns to convert old pitches. Those pitches had once been used for American style football or as baseball grounds, and over the years had become animal enclosures or ploughed fields. Some were still fenced off, and a few had rusted goal posts at the ends.
We were soon seeing many new areas cleared, basic wooden benches raised. When a pitch was just about playable, basically hard dried mud, I would visit the local police and army bases and suggest they use it to play on - and that they organise “friendly” games against the police and army of nearby towns, buses laid on for supporters. Some of those local towns had Seethan names, not their original American names, and my translation pad would list that Two Hills Army would be playing Narrow Gorge Police “A” team on the weekend.
What I was after was a national league, where town played against town, not Army “A” versus Police “B”. The Seethan minders at the embassy noted what I was doing, and helped out without question. But one day I heard myself referred to as “Father” by a Seethan minder, and I puzzled it. Later I asked Pleb what it meant.
‘It hon-hon-ree title,’ he began. ‘You have Seether baby in home of ancestor, you Hon-hon-ered Father.’
‘Oh.’ I went off and found Henry. ‘Some of the Seether refer to me as Honoured Father.’
‘Yes, because you raise Seethan sons at home,’ he agreed. ‘Did I not mention it? Seems like they all know, the population I mean. And Pleb, he holds meetings where he tells stories of the ancestors and of Mister Silo’s life. They’re almost religious meetings, but the government seems to tolerate it; I’ve not heard any complaints yet.’
‘The future Government persecuted Sandra and Jesus,’ I pointed out.
‘Jesus was preaching active dissent; lay down your arms and do not harm others - not what any government wants to hear in a time of war. Pleb simply tells stories, and the minders are just as interested in those stories.’
‘Given that it’s Pleb, how accurate are the stories?’ I wondered.
‘Pleb is brighter than most give him credit, and he studies Mister Silo’s life story like a religious text. Still, they are just tales of the ancestors.’
I nodded, thrusting my hands in my pockets. ‘Next year, I think we should try and get the two sides together.’
‘Why rush it? Right now they’re moving apart, and not fighting. At this rate the Seether will be in Canada next year, the Preether in Texas.’
‘Which is fine, but in a decade or two they’ll rub shoulders again, and when they do they’ll have better vehicles and more fuel.’
‘True, but maybe a programme of education – and sport – will alter opinions enough.’
I shook my head. ‘I know how they turn out, and they’re due to fight a major war in the decades ahead.’
‘That’s a long way into the future, and I may have been retired-off by then.’
‘I was thinking of using a stepped visiting process,’ I floated. ‘Some staff could remain here on rotation, but … I never intended to be here for a solid forty years. Things are on the right track now, and maybe we don’t need to be here permanently – I mean you and me.’
‘I agreed a ten or twenty year posting,’ Henry reminded me. ‘So I don’t have itchy feet yet. Besides, who would tend the garden?’
A roar preceded the sound of something smashing, followed by raised voices. Henry peered out of his window, glanced at me with an expression I had not seen before, opened his window and started throwing desk objects out.
‘You fucking moron!’ Henry roared as I eased up and stepped to the second window, seeing a paperweight launched.
I could see a smashed motorbike, the bike reminding me of an old green Second World War messengers bike, Pleb stood with blood on his face, and skid marks right through Henry’s roses.
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br /> ‘I am not dead,’ Pleb said with a smile and wave, hit on forehead by a mug a second later and knocked to the ground.
‘Good shot,’ I commended, trying not to smirk too much, the guards moving in to get Pleb out of Henry’s line of fire.
‘I’m going to get a rifle!’ Henry shouted out of the window, the smiling guards whisking Pleb away.
I faced Henry. ‘I’m sorry, you were saying something about Pleb being brighter than he appears…?’
Henry stormed down stairs, and as I watched from his open window he grabbed the bike, pushing it as best as he could out of his garden and to the road. He caused traffic to swerve as he pushed the bike right into the centre of the road, his actions puzzling me. He flagged down a passing truck, handed over a few coins, and as I observed the truck slowly drove over the bike, and on with its journey.
I thrust my hands in my pockets. ‘That wasn’t very diplomatic.’ I walked downstairs to find an angry local motorcycle cop waving a pistol, and wanting his bike back, Henry now being very apologetic.
I had conducted a review of the outposts in far off places, and made sure that football pitches were created in each location - and that the Seethans local to those locations were taught the game. The humans in those locations also liked the game, and were quite competitive with each other, so it was no arduous task for them to be nudged towards coaching the Seether and Preether under their care.
In Britain, Paul the Seethan was on top of things, but in Havana and Hawaii they played late and under lights, when it was cooler. Down the Kansas/Texas road the Preether observed the humans fixing pitches, and soon joined in.
Then one day Jimmy popped over unannounced. He arrived at the portal and called ahead, Pleb getting wind of it. Word spread like wildfire, and Pleb’s group of quasi-religious converts rushed over to the embassy. The President was informed, and he headed over himself, a surprise for me and Henry. Did the President have an agenda, we wondered.
When Jimmy touched down in one of the helicopters, two helicopters circling above for added protection - and an orbital craft in view, there was already quite a crowd gathered, bored-looking soldiers and police officers forming lines. Henry and I stood at the gates, and exchanged puzzled looks. The President stepped over to us with his cronies, falsely civil greetings exchanged, and waited as Jimmy walked across to us, waving at the Seethan crowds as they smiled and waved back.