Survival: After It Happened Book 1

PROLOGUE

He stood there, breathing heavily. Nervous tension cramped his muscles as he steadied himself.

Under normal circumstances, breaking into a police station would attract at least some attention. He would’ve been happy in a way if it had; he hadn’t seen a living person for hours now.

Smashing the glass doors had made a sound like a shotgun blast, but nobody came to investigate. That was ok. He was there to steal things he needed and didn’t really want any complications just yet. He made his way through the eerily deserted station, through the locker room and upstairs checking offices and cupboards as he went.

He could already smell it; not decomposing body, just death. It has its own smell which you either do or don’t get used to. He hadn’t yet, after years of the familiar but unpleasant odour, and supposed that he will probably have to from now on. He kept his emotions buried as deep as he could, ignoring all the grief, confusion and panic.

The drive there was littered with other bodies. Some in cars, some slumped in the road where they fell but the world was deserted on the whole.

His journey had led him to the police station, where it dawned on him that he had better get organised, quickly, before other people do. The simple fact remained that it was easier to take a gun off a dead person than a living one who could still use it.

He eventually found what he was looking for; a man seemingly asleep on the desk still sat in his chair with both arms hanging down by his sides.

A tentative kick to the chair got no response, so he began the task of trying to wrestle with the stiffening body, grown heavy through a combination of weightlifting and dead weight, to remove its belt and ultimately the Glock strapped to its right thigh. Trying not to look at its face was the hardest part. Eventually he stood there with the gun and holster. He helped himself to the two spare magazines to complete the set.

He took the keys for a BMW from the oversized carabiner on the body’s vest and made his way back outside via the locker room. He found some bags containing chemical suits and gas masks, and picked them up morbidly thinking ahead.

Using the key, he played car park fishing and the hazards of a grey X5 flashed on. Nice for now, but probably not hard wearing enough in the long term. After another grim corpse dance, he’d retrieved another Glock from the passenger who was still strapped in. A decent burial would’ve been kind, but time wasn’t a luxury he had so the passenger went out in the car park to be laid in his final resting place on the tarmac.

He shuddered, as he realised he recognised the person he had just dumped to the floor to rot. He couldn’t remember his name, which made him feel a little shallow. No time for sentiment, he thought, keep it together.

As luck would have it, the passenger was left handed. He worried for a moment that having a gun strapped to each leg looked ridiculous, then remembered that there was unlikely to be anyone around to judge him. Using all the extra keys on the bunch, he finally opened up the locked cabinets in the boot hoping to find an Aladdin’s cave of goodies. Nothing. No big guns.

Shit.

Guessing that all the bigger stuff would be locked away in an armoury he couldn’t access he forgot the thought for now. There’s more to life than guns.

Quick inventory; X5 with a full tank, two Glocks with six magazines between them, his own small bag of supplies and some gas masks for the next building full of dead people. He was also running low on cigarettes. The really good stuff in the boot was the magic door opening kit; pry bars, hydraulic openers and the ever reliable ram.

He threw his own small bag in the back and opened the windows to try and purge the smell. A forlorn look at the diesel pump sitting proudly in the car park made him wonder; he didn’t have the knowledge or the tools to siphon it out, nor did he have anything to carry any spare fuel in.

Alone, dazed and scared he headed out without really knowing where he was going. He drove aimlessly for a while, ideas struggling to take form in his post-traumatic head.

He stopped on a large abandoned garage forecourt and tried the pumps. No power. He wandered inside after forcing open the sliding doors and picked up a basket. Strolling from aisle to aisle he hummed to himself like he was just grabbing some things in no great rush. Exactly what he was doing two days ago in fact, before he got a call from her to say she and the kids were unwell.

The humming turned into a croak, which became a sob. It was all he could do not to lose it right there and then. He screwed his eyes tight shut and forced himself to breathe, trying to forget the last memory of his family.

“There’s nothing you can do about it” he said to himself softly, over and over.

It didn’t work and he crumpled to the floor, finally letting the tears and the anger and the fear wash over him.

Neil was a broken man. Destroyed. He had cared for his wife and boys all night as they coughed in agony. At first he was worried that all three had displayed the same symptoms, but when they got worse quickly his concerns became panic.

He was sure they had been poisoned. He tried to think what he had consumed that was different to them, but couldn’t think as he was running between them as the horrible, racking deep coughing fits hit them again in turn.

He called 999 and got an engaged tone. He tried again. On the tenth or eleventh time he tried for an ambulance he received a dead tone in answer.

He lost control then; he was exhausted and blinded by fear. He ran to his neighbour to ask for help and hammered on his door fit to wake the dead. He got no response so he ran to look through the only window where he could see light. He saw his neighbour on the floor, clutching his stomach and coughing uncontrollably.

Neil went back to his family. All three had been carried to the lounge where he could look after them all in one place. They were grey skinned, blue lipped and incoherent with pain and exhaustion.

He couldn’t understand it; they were all fine this morning. His thoughts of poisoning had been diluted by seeing his neighbour with the same illness.

Something in the water? No, he had drunk the tap water too that day and he was fine. It couldn’t be poison, it had to be something else. Just as he was thinking in between soothing one of them, the lights went out.

Plunged into darkness, Neil cried as he held his family.

One by one they stopped coughing.

Neil sat there for hours. Long after the pins and needles took hold and numbed his legs. He was still sat there, clutching onto them as the sun rose and bathed his family in warm light. They were gone, and he was alone.

Good sense tried to make a reappearance; Neil tried the phones again and checked the fuse box. No phones, no power. He looked through neighbours’ windows and found the same tragic story in all of them. He was in a ghost town.

He stood in the middle of the road which normally would be queued with traffic by now. He turned a circle and bawled “ANYBODY” at the top of his lungs, leaving him short of breath.

He was alone.

He returned home in a trance and started to dig three holes of different sizes in his back garden. He was proud of his garden, having spent a couple of years working on it. They liked to sit outside and watch the boys play, or more usually fight, on the grass whilst they sipped their drinks and relaxed.

Now his garden was three knee-deep rectangular holes. He carried out his wife and his two sons one by one and laid them gently to their permanent rest. He cried aloud again as he filled the earth back in over the holes, patting it down gently as he didn’t want to hurt any of them.

He prised up the decorative paving slabs he had so painstakingly laid and paid the same attention to detail as he covered his family as best he could.

He sat there for hours, watching their graves. He ignored the rumblings in his stomach and the dry burn of dehydration in his throat. Eventually he stood and marched inside the house with purpose. He went to the bathroom and used cold water and soap to scrub himself clean. The tap spluttered and stopped, making a strange sinking noise reverberate through the house.

No water and no power. He put on some clean clothes and packed a small bag with whatever he could grab now eager to leave the house and not see the neat graves in his own little corner of happiness.

He got into their car and drove away for the last time.

His wife always scolded him for being inappropriate in bad situations. Neil’s way to cope with emotions is to make light of them; not that he made jokes in bad taste to people, more that he acted a bit of a clown so as to hide how he truly felt.

He looked through the windows of the sixties semi-detached where his parents lived. He couldn’t face checking anyone else he knew, nor could he spend his life digging graves for the hundred thousand people within walking distance from where he was. He got back in his car and drove away, trying to leave his guilt there too.

He’d gone a mile or so, and stopped his car on a new garage front next to a new BMW X5, and went to get something to eat in response to his growling stomach.

He realised he wasn’t the only person alive after all, almost running into the shop with tears of happiness and relief stinging his eyes.

He had no idea how long he’d been like that.

Long after the tears had stopped. He just sat there, catatonic, waiting for an outside stimulus to bring him back into the nightmare of being awake.

“Um, you alright mate?” called a voice from the doorway.

The man leapt up from the floor, screaming in terror and rage at the surprise. This caused the other man to scream louder and higher and dance on the spot involuntarily until his eyes focused on the Glock levelled at him from ten feet away. He became very quiet and still, raising his hands slowly.

“What do you want?” barked the first man.

The newcomer just stammered until he visibly took control of himself.

“My name’s Neil, I’m on my own. I haven’t seen anyone else since yesterday.” He blurted out. Then said slowly, in a very measured voice

“Everyone I know is dead; I don’t know what to do and I was hoping you did” his lower lip trembled with the effort not to cry again.

On hearing this, the man slowly lowered the gun.

What the hell am I doing? he thought. The first living person he’s seen since… since this all started and he’s caught in the middle of a full-blown psychotic episode and responds by pointing a gun in the guy’s face.

Nothing like a first impression.

He took a breath, put the safety on and holstered the Glock. Neil looked to be in his early forties, short and a bit chunky with very little hair left. He seemed to compensate for this with a blonde goatee beard, and had the overall look of a nice bloke who was probably quick to smile and laugh.

In comparison to how he looked, Neil was probably the more stable of them. He thought about what Neil was seeing: six-foot-tall white guy, short greying hair, fit looking, red faced, puffy eyed and wearing a gun on each leg like he’d played far too many computer games.

He suddenly felt very foolish, almost embarrassed.

“I’m sorry Neil, you caught me at a bad time” he said in his most business like tone.

“I was just doing a spot of shopping if you care to walk with me?”

He winced, thinking that he’d made himself look a little more like the mad hatter than he already did. Maybe just go the whole hog and suggest a tea party?

Neil surprised him then, and in a very passable BBC voice he replied.

“Splendid idea chap, don’t mind if I do! I hear this place has got very affordable recently, eh?” he said as he jauntily swung a basket into his elbow.

The man was already laughing before the routine had finished, which seemed to signify that their initial interaction had been mutually ignored. Neil looked at him; behind the teary eyes and laughable holsters he saw a professionalism hidden behind the failed first impression.

They grabbed drinks and food, avoiding the sandwiches that although still in date looked a little on the salmonella side. The man helped himself to a large amount of cigarettes, threw in all the medication on the small shelf and then picked up a bottle of scotch, silently raising it to Neil for approval.

“Good God man, no! From now on we shall only drink single malt; none of that rubbish” he replied, still in his best ‘Rule Britannia’. The man nodded assent with a smile, and selected the three bottles of Glenfiddich instead.

They returned outside and the man saw a rather tired looking people carrier parked near the X5. He could see kids’ seats in the back and the thought was almost too much.

“Neil” he said, turning away from the cars to face him. “What say you and I travel together, Old Boy?” the accent wasn’t as good as Neil’s, but the thought was there.

“Capital idea, capital!” he replied in his best approximation of a stereotypical Wing Commander.

“Just give me a minute to grab my stuff?” he said, dropping the accent.

The man had always been a cynical type; not that great at sharing and not really known for his generosity. He had become a bit of a recluse over the last year as it was, and not having been a true people person before that didn’t exactly help his social awkwardness.

The whole world as he knew it had changed, so why shouldn’t he at least try?

“Hey Neil, know how to use one of these?” he called, pointing to the Glock on his left leg.

“Haven’t used one since I got out years ago, but I’m sure the fundamentals are the same” he replied.

“You’re not left handed are you?” the man asked, hopeful.

“No, but I’ll take it anyway. Can’t be seen walking around with a male Lara Croft impersonator” he said with a grin.

Oh, so it’s like that is it?

“Neil? Piss off!” he said with a smile.

And then there were two.