Welcome to the apocalypse Read online

  ‘Oi! Why’s it so quiet in ‘ere?’ Mum shouts at two staff hanging around the display rugs.

  The first one shrugs her shoulders, and then carries on with her tidying and shuffling about. Mum stares at the other one, determined that she will not be looked down on by these little slappers, all dressed up as wannabe till tarts.

  ‘It’s the virus, innit,’ the other one says, still playing with the stock, not wanting to look up at the woman.

  ‘See! I told you about that!’ Ashley shouts out.

  He gets a quick smack, a bashing on the back of his head that warns him not to push his luck. ‘That’s total bollocks. There’s always some flapping about MRSA or bird-shit flu in this shithole of a country, plus all that other crap going round from all them foreigners.’

  ‘This one’s for real though, they reckon,’ the staff member says. ‘Our supervisor is probably gonna close the store soon, especially since there are only a few customers in here.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, we ain’t been to the marketplace yet!’ Jade shouts.

  ‘And my mattress,’ Ashley says, tugging at her arm.

  ‘Meatballs,’ Dad says.

  Mum pushes Ashley off and holds out her hands, silencing all. ‘What a load of shit. I can’t believe any of you is gonna believe this. You remember when we came back from Majorca? When them cabin crew reckoned we got some bug from the hotel and they wouldn’t let us get on the plane?’

  The kids nod, all of them suddenly reliving that particular nightmare.

  Mum looks at each of them and then turns to the staff member. ‘Well, that ain’t happening to me again, so is that restaurant still open or what?’

  She nods. ‘It is for now.’

  Ashley hears this; he knows how long a trip to the restaurant will take, and he taps his mum’s arm again. ‘Please, Mum, what about my mattress?’ he says, desperate to get it. After all, if they are going to be holed up indoors for weeks then he doesn’t want to be sleeping on a piss-soaked bed any longer, especially as he thought this sort of thing was now consigned to that past life he doesn't ever want to remember.

  She pushes him away. ‘It’s not all about you, Ashley!’

  He looks down at the floor, knowing it’s never about him, but knowing better than to argue with her in public.

  Mum makes a loud tut, telling everyone how pissed she is. ‘He ain’t ever gonna shut up. It’s like having a three year old all over again. So, let’s all go and get young Ashley’s piss protector and mattress and then we can finally get some nosh.’

  Most of the family cheer, and then Ashley’s sisters remember that they need to laugh at him for still wetting the bed. They point their fingers at him, all the time calling him ‘pissy pants’ and never once wondering if this constant taunting was in any way contributing to him wetting himself in the middle of the night.

  Ashley hasn’t always wet the bed; he is a teenager, after all. He did it a few times when he was younger – like, much younger. Then it started again, sometime between him starting school and his balls dropping, and once he had got a few slaps from his mum, he realised that his life would be much easier if he simply didn’t wee himself in the middle of the night. He approached this as intelligently as he could, by reading online about the causes of bedwetting. The best and simplest – and, of course, cheapest – piece of advice was not to drink anything from eight in the evening onwards – three full hours before he went to sleep. He used to go to bed dying of thirst, his still-digesting dinner demanding some liquid to help the process, and he used to wake up with a thick layer of fur across his tongue and his lips cracking from his self-imposed torment. But, however dry his mouth was, so was the rest of the bed, and so to Ashley it was worth all that suffering.

  Two weeks ago it all started again. He woke up with a big wet patch all around him and his boxers drenched. He had stopped his routine of not drinking before bed some years ago, since his mind had clearly become able to control his bodily fluids while he wasn’t awake, so he was pretty annoyed with himself that this particular problem had come back. He hadn’t dared ask his mates, and of course his sisters would have had no interest in helping, other than to tell his so-called mates, just to make sure everyone knew how weird Ashley was. He did ask his Dad, hoping a man-to-man chat would sort things out, but of course, he got nothing back of any substance, just some rambling and a few shrugs of his shoulders.

  When he had found the courage to approach his old man, he hadn’t realised that his mum had been listening from the kitchen. Hearing that he wasn’t getting anything helpful from his dad, she chose to fill that void with her own opinions, frying pan in hand, which Ashley could definitely vouch for how much that hurts when it catches the side of your head.

  In that painful moment, as Ashley’s Mum continued to chastise her son for something that was arguably out of his conscious control, she obviously thought that bellowing at him with all manner of her own issues, whilst brandishing her favourite sausage pan just above his head, would somehow solve the problem. And while she screamed that ‘I really don’t fucking need this,’ and ‘I ain’t washing your pissy sheets no more,’ Ashley thought that if she had just asked him why he was wetting the bed again then he would have happily told her.

  To Ashley, there was an obvious reason why this problem had returned, and that reason was the stress they were under. He often spent the final few moments of any evening looking at this family unit that had fallen into chaos. It had never been particularly strong at the best of times – certainly had never been a team – but when his dad was normal, things at least happened.

  Every night before heading to bed, he would take a final look at his old man, and he would always find him staring blankly at the flickering TV screen. He would then look over at his mum, who was always asleep on the sofa, her oversized, snotty nose scooping up all the air and her fat, greedy gob pushing it back out again. He knew she was slowly poisoning the place he once called home but any love for her had left a long time ago, and once his dad had sort of left then there was no actual reason for him to stay.

  The family make it to the bed section before Ashley can sort any more of these thoughts out in his head, which he is strangely okay with. He knows that if you can’t fix something then you put up or get out. He just needs more time and, quite obviously, a lot more money. The scary shit that was going on right now wasn’t helping but there was little he could do about that either.

  ‘We’ll head to the knick-knacks downstairs,’ Cortnee says, ‘if Dad gives us the car keys.’ She winks at her sister, as if Mum might just buy this and let them go down there without her. She has done it before, sometimes finding it better if she lets the kids do the nicking on their own. That way if they get caught she can come over and give them a good telling-off, and hopefully convince the Manager to let them go, assuring him that she would give them some proper punishment once they got home. The telling off was never faked: she was always pissed when they got caught while swiping the things she wanted.

  ‘Yeah, we ain’t that hungry,’ Jade says, standing shoulder-to-shoulder alongside her sister.

  She gets a slap back, not being quick enough to move this time. ‘No, you bloody well won’t. We all stick together today.’

  ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Ashley says. ‘The virus warning is all over north London now,’ he says, looking at his phone.

  Mum takes a deep breath, her eyes shut. ‘Will you shut up with that virus bollocks?’

  He nods back at her, almost knowing this is the only response he will get. His phone credits are nearly gone, so it won’t be long before he loses this source of information. It doesn’t seem to be doing any good, but he would at least like to know what’s coming next.

  *****

  Luke watches Mike as he talks to the uniformed officers. He has finally decided to lock his weapon, which, strangely, has calmed the situation. At least that’s how it seems to Luke who is standing next to him, not really listening to the conversation, holding hi
s weapon in both hands as it hangs across his chest. He spends his time staring at the patrol officer and then takes in the wider area. He times how long it takes him to complete a 360 degree survey, his overactive mind absorbing the view of the car park and shops in just over ten seconds.

  Luke has already forgotten the names of these new guys, who have been drafted in from South London. He wonders how happy they are at being called up this way, and if they are going to be any help if they have to give chase through the surrounding housing estates. Not that he has any idea of what they might be chasing, but he is fairly sure that today is going to involve some running.

  Perhaps it might be running away, Luke thinks. Mike certainly doesn’t look ready to run anywhere; his feet are locked in formation and his index finger regularly brushes against the trigger, like he’s almost teasing it before the main event.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s spreading quickly, like wildfire,’ Mike says, his thoughts mainly directed at the other two, because he knows that Luke doesn’t want to hear any more of his views on this subject. ‘It’s important to ensure you know as much as possible in these situations.’

  The other officers nod. One of them has his phone out and is checking for live updates to add to the discussion. The radio chatter is pretty basic, and the regular briefings don’t appear to be giving any more information beyond what’s already on the news.

  ‘What you got?’ Mike says, looking at the officer with his phone out.

  He looks up. ‘Not much, to be honest. Just the same stuff we’ve heard already. The BBC think it’s a virus that’s spreading quickly, starting from Heathrow Airport and making its way further into London.’

  ‘So the host has gone dark?’ Mike says, like he’s a detective now. He’s talking like he’s part of the solution, part of the team who are fixing the bigger problem. Luke wants to tell him that he’s not, that they are only part of a huge ground team, dealing with a very tiny part of whatever is actually happening. They are small part of the massive numbers who are here to fix what they’ve been told to fix, and he wishes he was with someone who understood that. ‘We should do another patrol,’ Luke says.

  Mike puts a hand out in front of at him, indicating to Luke that he should calm down. ‘Yes, in a minute. Let’s make sure we know all the facts first.’

  ‘What, from a few newsfeeds on a mobile phone?’

  The other two laugh, their heads nodding, hopefully agreeing with him. ‘He’s right, you know,’ one of them says. ‘The BBC say it’s a virus but Sky News are saying it’s a possible terrorist attack, and that we’re not being told so we don’t go and shoot the wrong people.’

  Luke watches as Mike strokes his weapon, clearly reflecting on this possibility. He looks like he’s keeping it just on the right side of calm, like a dog about to start sprinting. Luke spots that the other two have noticed the same thing and he isn’t sure if they wish they had what he and Mike are carrying, or if they’re just glad they won’t be at the front, having to make the most difficult decisions.

  Luke looks around, surveying the area, looking for anything different whilst mentally preparing for what will hopefully be an extended patrol. McDonald’s seems a little busier, despite the fact that they’ve already ran out of buns; the local residents clearly topping up their supplies from wherever they can get them. The main store still looks quiet – far too quiet for a Saturday morning. The doors are still open, which he takes as a good sign. There is now also less twitching of curtains and more people on the streets.

  He looks across the vast, empty space, towards the car park entrance, and he sees another group of officers, and that they have a constant stream of people coming up to them, asking what he thinks must be all manner of questions. He notices that they don’t linger for long, clearly not getting much in the way of answers from his colleagues.

  The clouds are hanging low and he hopes more than anything that it doesn’t rain. He looks around for Dave and his car, but they are nowhere to be seen; he hasn’t seen them for at least half an hour now. He looks around for possible shelter but the trees are far from big enough and he doubts he’ll be allowed to patrol the multi-story car park for the rest of his shift, however long it might be.

  ‘There’s a briefing coming through,’ Mike says, tapping his earpiece.

  One of the others puts his radio on speaker and they all gather around. He’s still flicking through his phone, probably ready to compare the quality of what they are hearing to what’s freely available to everyone. They listen carefully and quietly, as if there is no one else around them who really matters.

  ‘So we have a possible containment issue in this area?’ Luke says.

  ‘Oh, great, so we all get infected,’ Mike says, shaking his head. ‘I was due to start my holiday this week and I bloody wish I had. I could be on a beach right now.’

  No one says anything; there isn’t much to say. They all start to look around, trying to spot the real issue in the masses of potential problems.

  ‘Remember to look out for any strange behaviour,’ Luke says, trying to keep it real, trying to keep everyone focused. ‘They expect anyone infected to be aggressive or disorientated.’

  ‘And don’t let them touch you, for Christ’s sake,’ Mike says.

  One of them nods but Luke spots that the other one is looking at his phone, playing around with the settings. He finally looks up at everyone, his face white and his eyes blank. ‘There’s no signal anymore and no 4G either.’

  Everyone shakes their heads but Luke tries to keep calm. How many times has that happened before? If it happened in the middle of your day off, when you’re shopping or chilling out, you wouldn’t think of it as anything more than a mild annoyance. But he also knows that this could be something very serious; the networks do get shut down in the event of a threat, and this could signal big trouble ahead. He feels worried and annoyed at the same time – being expected to show bravery, yet being treated just like Joe Public.

  ‘Go to McDonalds,’ Mike commands the other two. ‘See if you can get on the Wi-Fi.’

  Luke doesn’t say anything to them, as he turns back to Mike. ‘Dave confirms it’s a network blackout and we need to be ready.’

  Mike simply nods, and the moment the other two are out of earshot he checks the view ahead through his holographic sight, nodding to himself again as he looks around.

  Luke looks up at the sky again, seeing the cloud formations that seem to be joining together and tightening up, doing their best to block out any remaining blue sky. He almost feels the tension in the air and he can’t help but agree that this isn’t a training exercise.

  *****

  ‘Meatballs,’ Dad says, as a plate of meatballs is put in front of him. This is followed by a plate of chips, and a glass of Coke. He looks up at her, his face slightly creased.

  She knows what he’s thinking and soon pulls a cake out of her coat pocket, wrapped in a napkin, the chocolate smeared across it. She puts it down and licks the runaway chocolate off her hand.

  He looks down at it and then looks up at her.

  She gives him a smack, staining his cheek with sticky proof of her uncontrollable frustration. ‘They ain’t got no other cake that I can fit in me pocket, so that’s what you’re getting. And we’re sharing pop so you’re getting up to refill the bloody thing.’

  The kids set down their food and start to pull out their own extras from their pockets. Ashley notices one of the staff looking at him but they don’t seem in the slightest bit bothered. He knows that this has to be because of what is happening today. They’ve probably been recorded on the camera but he’s not sure anything will ever come of it. ‘Why can’t I have my mattress?’ he asks, in between mouthfuls of chips.

  ‘Oh, fucking hell, Ashley,’ his mum says, spitting juice all over him and the table. ‘I told you already they ain’t got the cheap one in stock and I ain’t forking out a hundred quid.’

  ‘So I have to sleep in my own piss?’

  His sist
ers start laughing and shouting ‘Pissy pants, pissy pants, who’s got pissy pants?’ Cortnee gets onto a chair to do a dance; they don’t look like they’re going to stop any time soon as she wiggles about and her sister calls out some beats to help the rhythm. Ashley starts to feel the anger swell within him; anger at being part of such a shocking family, and fear that he has another whole year to go before he can escape.

  At this moment, as Ashley is considering how he will ever cope with this until he reaches sixteen, his sister, who is still dancing above him, a drink in her hand, has a bright idea: she decides to pour it all over his trousers. Her aim is impeccable, and most of the liquid lands square on his crotch, soaking its way into his light blue jeans before he can think of moving.

  By the time he pushes his chair back and gets out of the way, the damage has been done. He looks at those around him, his family – the people who are supposed to look out for him. His sisters are still screaming ‘pissy pants’, one from above him and one from across the table. His mum soon joins in, a finger pointed at his crotch, as she laughs at him. He feels the absence of any love, so much so that it causes him to choke. He looks at his dad, the one person who would always have stood up for him in the past; the man who might give him a slap when he deserved it, but who would just have easily rubbed his hair and told him that the re-gearing of his bike chain or the shelf he put up in the kitchen was spot-on. But now there is nothing, as the thing that only looks like his old man shovels food into his gob, completely oblivious to what is going on.

  That really is the last straw for Ashley; his dad has gone and he has reached his limit. He looks at his mum, who is still laughing her head off, and then he looks across the table at his sister, who is grabbing Mum’s arm, desperate to keep on the right side of her. Time seems to move slower now, as he looks up at his other sister, still laughing from up high, always looking down at him.