Chapter 8

Nick

14-12-2019

10 minutes after Chapter 5

Nick wiped a tear from his eye with his hand. The salty liquid was slowly absorbed into the leather of his glove. He sat against the double doors of the train, as it went through the tunnels of the London underground. He suffered a wave of nostalgia; a reminder of the better times. The trains packed with hundreds of people, each of them with their own purpose in life, until that horrible day came.

'Nick? Mate, you there?' sounded Rory's voice under a few static cracks.

Nick grabbed his radio. 'Yeah, I'm here, what's up?'

'You're about to arrive at Baker Street. Get out of the train there and head to Queen Mary's Gardens.'

Nick sighed. 'Alright, Rory, thanks again.' He switched off his radio.

Nick calmly reloaded his crossbow as the train rolled into Baker Street station. It stopped, and the doors slid open. Nick stood up and stepped from the train onto the platform. The lights of the train dimly lit the platform; enough for Nick to see. He walked towards the stairs. The lights of the train then switched off as Rory disconnected power, and Nick was back into the thick engulfing darkness. He clicked on his torch. The beam of light drove the darkness away, and allowed Nick to slowly navigate over the platform.

The air was surprisingly fresh. No smell of death or decay, just clean air. Nick found the stairs up to the station itself. As he ascended them step by step, the air became fouler. It had just been the air feeding through the tunnels. In the main building, the dead had probably been piled up.

Nick reached the top of the stairs. He quickly scanned the chamber. It was hallway, he concluded from what he could see. He walked forwards. The air became fouler and fouler. Nick was not comfortable with this. It had almost passed the point which he still recognized as the smell of burnt bodies, and was reaching the point where he had to move fast or risk infection. As he walked further along the hall, the stench became fouler. Not good. Nick pulled up the make-do mask he had, which was nothing more than cloth. He pulled it over his nose and mouth.

He ran slowly, careful not to slip on the wet tiled floor. It was freezing cold down here, probably even more than outside. The old advertisement posters went by him. He held his crossbow cautiously, and aimed the torch at the floor three metres away from his step, to make sure there was nothing to trip over. He turned around the corner, to another flight of stairs, and scaled those with great speed as well.

He had reached the top level. The big building of Baker Street Station. A source of sunlight at the far end of the hall marked where Nick had to go. The black silhouettes of decaying bodies shaded across the floor in the dim light of the outside. Nick only looked down a few times, and not when his torch lit up one of the bodies. He did not need to see them. The men and women, collapsing on the sidewalk and the street, their bodies picked up and scattered in here, as if this building was a mass grave. The children, boys and girls ranging from all ages, each of them coughing up blood, and then choking on their own innards. The ugly details which the media decided to leave out, and with good reason.

Nick sprinted towards the exit, after having hopped over a gate. The floor, smeared with dark blood and dotted with bodies, became icier as the exit came closer. The doors of the building had remained open, letting in rainwater and the cold. Nick did not think about it though, he had to get out of the infected air as soon as possible. When he started to slip on the icy floor, he slowed down, but still jogged. The exit was only 20 metres away. He reached the opened glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. He exhaled as much air as possible, emptying his lungs entirely, and then inhaled the fresh and uninfected air deeply. Now it was just a matter of fate. If he was still alive in a few days, he had not been infected. The bleep of radio sounded. Nick flicked the switch, turning the device on.

'Nick, are you there? I think your heat signature just popped up on my screen, am I right?'

'Yeah, what's up?'

'Alright, go left from the entrance, follow the road and take the first left. From there, walk to the next big cr#ossing and turn left there as well.'

'Where was it I'm heading to again?'

'I'm taking you to the park. Another supply drop for you there, you should be running out of food by now.'

Nick had been ignoring the emptiness of his backpack. He had very little food and water left to consume.

'Alright Rory, thanks.'

'Oh and by the way, quick warning: I'm reading a heat signature after the second crossing. Just one, so you'll have to see for yourself.'

It had not been the first time Nick had encountered another lone survivor. Not all survivors had become looters, bandits or burners. Those were the three classes in which Rory and Nick divided the groups of survivors.

Looters weren't well-armed and roamed the city, scavenging whatever they could find. They did not prefer to kill their captives, but that was not necessarily a good thing, since sexual violation and torture as entertainment were not excluded.

Bandits were next-level looters, with better weapons and equipment. They usually did not leave any survivors, either making it a quick death or a slow one; that depended on the mood they were in.

Burners were psychopaths. They did not seek anything. They killed everyone in their path, and weren't afraid of cannibalism to survive. They used anything as weapons.

The lone survivors were usually decent people. Normal people, just like Nick, who were just caught in the middle and trying to survive. Nick's breath was visible in the cold air. He walked over the sidewalk, along the tall buildings which enclosed the street from either side. The street was dotted with half-frozen rubbish bags and other objects which were thrown out of the buildings. Rory had not mentioned any other heat signature inside any of the buildings. They had probably been abandoned long ago. It was only something like an hour ago, that none of this had happened. An hour ago, he had still been sitting on the hood of the wrecked car, listening to his music.

Nick reached the crossing. He turned left, no longer sticking to the sidewalk. He stopped and took his backpack off his shoulders. He grabbed his iPod from the bag and switched the device on as he slung the bag over his shoulders again. He untangled the earplugs and selected one of his playlists. He put the plugs into his ears and turned on the music. He continued walking, lost in the songs of the past.

When Nick reached the second crossing, which had been a long walk than he had anticipated, he took one earplug out and left the other one in. He grabbed the radio from his belt.

'Rory, come in please...'

After a few seconds the crackle of Rory's microphone broke the silence.

'Yeah, Nick, what's up?'

'Are you still reading the heat signature in this street?'

'Yeah, it's somewhat 70 metres down the road. Hasn't moved yet.'

'Alright, thanks. Out.'

Nick placed the radio back on his belt and switched it off. He looked into the road. At the end of it, there would have been beautiful greenery in the summer: now there were leafless trees, grey bushes and glistening white grass. However, the road itself did not miss much greenery either. The once white and crème walls of quaint and large houses and buildings, with an alluring architecture, were almost fully overgrown with thick vines and weeds, which were dying in the frost. There were multiple cars in the road, blocking Nick's sight on what was behind them. Nick supported the weight of the crossbow with his other hand. Carrying the weapon steadily with both hands, he walked slowly over the road. He passed the first abandoned car. With every step, he was cautious. If he did not feel any snow for grip, he pressed down his heel a little harder to anchor himself into the ice.

Nick took his iPod from his pocket and turned down his music a little. He searched for a voice, or a sound. Nothing yet. He continued walking. Every step bluntly echoed through the quiet road. Not even the fluttering of wings of distant birds was present. From one of the cars in front of Nick, somewhat ten metres away, an old, black man revealed himself. Nick, startled by the sudden appearance, raised his crossbow towards him. The man raised his hands shakily. He was dressed in saggy, filthy clothes. He had a grey beard and dark freckles. A desperate look on his face.

'Please, sir. Just-' stammered the man.

'I won't kill you. Don't worry,' said Nick calmly.

The man lowered his hands, stepped forwards a bit, and sighed deeply. Tears were in his eyes

'I am so happy that I have found someone who is a little normal here. Sir... I must ask of you... kill me.'

Nick lowered his crossbow. He wasn't sure if he had understood it correctly. The man fell to his knees in desperation and sobbed.

'Just kill me, please.'

Nick was paralyzed. 'I'm not killing anyone.'

'Just kill me, quickly, before it happens.'

'Before what happens?'

'I've already killed myself. Slowly. Please... kill me quickly!'

The man coughed. Nick recognized that cough immediately.

'Don't you see? Please, be kind. Be generous. Give me a quick death. I'm already dead.'

'Why did you do this?'

'I... I lost everything. I don't want to live this life anymore! I don't like this world! Take it from me... before the virus does.'

Nick was speechless. He would never spill the blood of an innocent man. But he would be doing this man a huge favour. Anything better than to choke on your own organs.

The man gagged. He reached out with his hand to Nick as a gurgling sound came from his mouth. It was happening. Nick decided. He raised his crossbow.

'Please, try to be as still as possible.'

The man sort of calmed down. His mind was ready for death, but his body was still fighting to survive. Nick saw that he was trying to eliminate all the movement he could. Blood came from the man's mouth now. It drooled over his lips and trickled down his neck, into his clothing. The pressure of Nick's finger, the click of the trigger, the twang of the bow releasing. With a thud, the bolt pierced the man's skull. He fell backwards in instant silence. Nick exhaled tensely.

There was no sign of much blood. It had been a clean shot, but not anything Nick was proud of. Never did he think he'd look a man in the eyes and shot him without him being a twisted or horrible person. Then, the realisation dawned upon Nick that his job was not finished yet. The end of the bolt glimmered in the blue rays of sunlight, protruding from the man's forehead. He wished that he didn't have to do what was to come next, but he did. He needed to save his bolts. He had already lost two of them today, and he needed to collect his bolts when he could. There was space, there was time, it was necessary. His thoughts were startled and disturbed by Rory's voice.

'I see the heat fading. Didn't work out well? What happened? I thought you said you wouldn't kill innocents?'

'Rory, listen to me-'

'No! This is why I'm helping you! Because you don't kill innocent people!'

'I didn't kill him, Rory! He killed himself.'

'Ah... I see. I'm sorry, Nick. I shouldn't have shouted.'

'It's okay, I would have done the same.'

'Alright, well... the same plan still stands. Make your way to the park.'

Nick walked over to the man's body. His lifeless eyes stared stiffly at the grim sky. Grimacing, Nick took a firm hold of the bolt's end. If he at least did it in one go, it would be bearable. Nick placed one of his boots on the man's shoulder, and forced the bolt from its spot. With a nasty slitting sound and a bony crack, the bolt unanchored from the man's head. Blood flowed swiftly from the gaping hole. Nick grimaced and felt his breakfast coming up. He breathed in deeply and looked away. He wiped the bolt on the man's jacket and closed his pouch after he placed it back in.

Nick continued his walk down the road. He reached another crossing and went straight on, into the park. He came to a small bridge, where he saw something which he had only seen once before. An official Anti-Riot barricade. The first and only other time when he had come across such a thing was when the riots started to break out as people started to flee the city to avoid infection. The police and the British army set up many barricades to hold off the rioters, who used extensive violence to try to get out of the city. The riot police used extensive violence to keep them back, in return; starting with paintballs, and escalating to live ammunition, the riot police did everything to quarantine the city.

Nick had not taken part in the riots. He watched from the window of his apartment. A barricade had been set up at the end of his street. He knew that he would not be able to get out of the city, and made no attempt to do so. The first car came into the street. Nick sat down in his chair and stared down at the events below.

The driver got out of the car. It was a middle-aged man. He went to talk to the officers. They stood in a line of two thick, about 20 men in total. In front of them, a steel barricade, which had been set up in around five minutes. Nick sipped on his beer as the man talked with one of the officers. The officers had thickly padded clothing on, and gas masks. As the man spoke, Nick could already see that whatever he was requesting was being declined. The man angrily got into his car. As he was putting the vehicle in reverse, two more cars came down the road, blocking his path.

On the TV in the background, Nick just heard the same old message of "For your own safety, stay indoors." From the two cars down in the street below, five younger looking people appeared. They looked around Nick's age. Another car appeared, and another. The street was now being blocked by the people who wanted to leave. The middle-aged man got out of his car and went to his trunk. One of the police officers shouted towards him. The man halted and turned around. The five others passed him and went to talk to the officers, as more people came into the street. More officers were involved in the heated conversation.

The middle-aged man turned around and went to the back of the car.

The officer shouted the words so loud, that Nick could hear them clearly: 'Don't open your trunk!'

More people came. Within a minute, the civilians had become more numerous than the police. Every police officer in the first row had a paintball gun. Nick could not see what the officers of the second row had as weapons, but he was certain that it'd be something more serious. The middle-aged man turned to his trunk. Twice now, he had disobeyed the orders of the officer, and the officer had had enough. He fired a warning shot into the air. The man opened his trunk at the same moment.

The crowd were startled and a little silenced by the warning shot. Nick couldn't believe what he was seeing. One of the officers climbed over the barricade to go to the man. As he mingled into the crowd, Nick held his breath. As he had feared, there was a shout, and the officer was jumped by two people. The dull bang of a paintball gun sounded, as the officer tried to fight the people off.

Nick assessed the situation, just as the commanding officer did below. Two people attacking an officer, an angry mob of somewhat 40 people standing in front of them, and a man who was taking an unknown item from the trunk of his car. Nick released his breath when the officers opened fire upon the mob with their paintball guns. People screamed and ran backwards. The floored officer was trapped under the feet of the running people. As the street cleared, he was left on the asphalt with a broken body.

Then something happened which Nick had not anticipated at the time. The people, mostly males, came back. They stormed the barricade, ignoring the paintballs almost completely. The officer was lost in the chaos. The officers in the second row shot canisters of tear gas into the crowd. This only made things worse: the canisters had been shot too far into the back of the crowd, so the people only had more reason to storm the barricade and get away from the gas. When the people started to climb over the barricade, they crossed the line in the eyes of the officers. Nick looked away, but heard the real gunfire. He found himself to be eerily calm, as people lost their lives not far below him.

Nick stared at the barricade. The steel plating had taken a beating. The large dents were very noticeable. There were charred and misshapen pieces of scrap lying around. It was covered in a thin layer of ice. Nick concluded from this scene that some serious shit must have happened. He climbed over the barricade, after having carefully removed the ice.

As he stood on the other end of the barricade, he realised that his still had his music playing faintly in his left ear. He grabbed the other earplug and put it in his right ear. He took his iPod from his pocket and turned up the volume of his music. He sighed deeply, and continued his walk into the park.