The Visitor | A Post-Apocalyptic Murder Mystery Page 2

  Back in the living room of Uncle Jerry's spectacular bunker, the compact kitchen was through an arch, behind which we found the storeroom: solid steel shelves stocked with rice, flour and pulses, tinned and freeze-dried everything, tea and coffee, and a good stock of alcohol, toiletries and household necessities. A freezer. Then there was the 'grow room' for fresh vegetables and, right at the back, the generator, enormous batteries—power storage for the array of solar panels at the back of the house—along with fuel, water and oxygen tanks.

  Uncle Jerry had thought of everything. In the garage behind the house was a charging unit, which connected to the bunker's generator; Sarah drove electric, as did Daisy.

  Next, we explored the village, wandering up Church Lane and enjoying the rural peace and the sweet country air.

  "Sod Surrey," said Daisy, "can we come and live here now? I'll do my clients on Skype."

  One man, working in his garden, waved to us; a few others just stared.

  Sarah said, "They'll still be discussing who we might have been in six months' time."

  We reached St Michael's church, and walked around the churchyard to look out onto the fields beyond.

  "I agree with Daisy," I said. "Let's just stay here. Not go home at all."

  Sarah slipped her arm through mine, and put her head on my shoulder. I could smell her shampoo or perfume or body lotion, or whatever it was; something orangey and subtly intoxicating. Flawless skin, that gorgeous full, wide mouth, dark gold hair shining in the sun. I almost kissed her, but resisted.

  The unfinished business between us hovered in the air whenever we were together, but we'd managed to go back to being 'just friends', even after what had happened. I mentioned this to Daisy, a couple of years back, and she said, "It's because we belong together, we four. We just do."

  Which was all it was about, really. Even for Rexy, always the lone wolf type, though I could tell that now he had Avalon he didn't need us so much. Perhaps Sarah, Daisy and I were holding on to each other while we waited to find the person we would feel that way about.

  Thing was, I knew that person was Sarah, for me. Secretly, I believed we would work though other relationships, even marriages, and end up together when the time was right. This was only a subconscious belief; I didn't start each new relationship thinking 'this will do until then', but it was there, all the time.

  Whether she thought the same, I wasn't sure.

  We left the churchyard through the ridiculously picturesque lychgate, to face Hincham's commercial and entertainment hub, across the road. This consisted of Hincham Stores and post office, the Nelson pub on the corner, and Garvey's Building Repairs: a large workshop with a yard and house attached, behind high gates up the Melton Road.

  "Nothing to see up there but more houses," said Sarah. "Lunch?"

  In the Nelson, we had several drinks and cleaned them out of the day's 'special'―homemade lasagne, chips and salad―carefully fielding the interest of the locals, a couple of whom asked us, with a certain suspicion, what we were doin' round these parts. After that we ambled down an overgrown, narrow lane that led from the back of the church down between fields, enjoying the hazy bliss of that glorious July afternoon in our mild inebriation.

  I had no idea that in a year's time I'd be knocking on the door of Safe Haven to be greeted by Sarah saying, "Thank God you're here."

  Chapter 2

  Jack

  The Last Weekend

  Our new reality began weeks before, but no one felt the silent tilt as our world shifted round to the next phase of human civilisation on this planet.

  If history books are ever published again, the people of the future will read about how, in a remote part of Africa in early June 2024, a virus that affected only a few breeds of bats that no one apart from the odd chiropterologist cared much about, had become zoonotic.

  Future history buffs may also read that the population of a few provinces in the Central African Republic dropped like flies, but most of us in the First World said, "Oh, how awful," then assured each other that the governments of the West would get it right this time, not like in 2020.

  We listened to experts on CNN and Sky News warning that Kerivoula Lanosa virus was exceptionally contagious; thus, global awareness about its disturbing properties was imperative. That it was spread by touch, respiratory droplets and body fluids, but was also airborne.

  Elle said, "Yes, but it's thousands of miles away, and I doubt any of the people in those African villages do much international travelling, so we should be okay."

  I had a dark feeling about it, though. Covid-19 started thousands of miles away too, and this was a whole other ball game. The doctors on location said it was like nothing they'd seen before.

  Basically, if you got it, you died.

  Once infected, you had between eight and thirty-six hours with no symptoms, at which time it was at its most contagious; thus, you could (and would) pass it on without knowing you were ill. After that you could expect between two and six days of fever, sickness, kidney pain and failing organs, before Doctor Death's skeletal finger beckoned around your bedroom door.

  After those first few reports, it disappeared from the news sites and, like everyone else, I forgot about it―until the first week of July, when it reclaimed the focus of the West as it stormed through Africa, apparently unstoppable.

  The countries of the world closed their borders to anyone from that continent, while the WHO and the CDC fast-tracked a vaccine.

  We thought we were safe, but it was already too late.

  Pharmaceutical giant Maxlo had been working on the vaccine since 'bat fever' (the name given to it by the tabloid press) was first recognised, but the speed at which it was produced was the cause of much discussion on the internet; did they know of the virus's existence long before the rest of the world? However, most people were just pleased that the governments who'd reacted too slowly in 2020 had upped their game, with the UK being one of the first to initiate a nationwide vaccination programme.

  Too late. Far, far too late.

  The Health Secretary announced that 3,000 vaccination units would be set up around the country, and every person in the UK would receive an appointment letter or email. He stressed that neither hospitals nor GP surgeries would stock the vials, and that we should not turn up at the units without an appointment; the required number of vials would be delivered on a daily basis from undisclosed locations.

  I thanked every god I'd ever heard of that I took the hospital porter job rather than 'make use of my English degree', as Elle told me I should, every time she looked at our joint account statement―those working in the health sector, schools and food production, in the police force and army, were first on the list for the vaccination.

  After that, selection would be random.

  "Sure it will," said Angus down the pub, when I got my appointment by email. "They won't give the shot to a waster like me before some Tory voter, will they?"

  Mick, the landlord, said, "If you ask me, they'll take it as a chance to get rid of the illegal immigrants and benefit scroungers. Cost the country a bloody fortune, they do."

  The vaccination programme swung into action the day after the announcement was made, with units arriving in car parks all over the country. Every day, the news showed the public queueing for their shots in an orderly, British fashion. We saw the Prime Minister descending the steps of his local unit, stopping to praise the efficiency of the health workers, for the benefit of waiting journalists.

  I was worried about my parents. They'd retired to Guernsey eight years before, and were yet to receive an appointment letter. Elle had hers, but would not get her shot until Tuesday, August 6th. Her parents' and sister's were in mid-September, as were Daisy and Sarah's; Rexy's was not until November.

  "Have you got your date yet?" was the question on everyone's lips.

  I'd taken the early shift on Friday July 26th, so I could finish work at three and attend my appointment at our local retail park, half an ho
ur later.

  As I stood in the queue, enjoying the sunshine and looking forward to a few beers―Elle finished about seven on Friday, and would meet me in The Stag―I had no way of knowing that this was to be what I would always think of as the last weekend.

  I sat by the smiling phlebotomist and watched her inject me with the Kerivoula Lanosa vaccine.

  As she was doing so, she said, "I read the other day that if this virus went global, right now, ninety-five per cent of the world's population could die."

  She imparted this information with a nervous smile.

  "That many?" At work, I tended to avoid conversations about it, with all the doom-and-gloom predictions.

  "Mm-mm. That's why they've stepped up the vaccination programme. Hopefully we'll have the whole country done within the next few months, before it makes its way over here."

  "There's no reason why it should, though, is there?"

  "No." This time, she smiled in the way mothers do to children to assure them of their safety. "Not with all the precautions that are being put in place."

  She presented me with my green wristband―my badge to show that, even if the worst happened, I would be one of the fortunate five per cent.

  The wristbands bore a serial number and a non-replicable silver security thread embedded within and clearly visible, to make the production of fakes difficult if not impossible.

  A lot of people were against the wristband idea; there was a great deal of whining about it on Twitter and Private Life. I never bothered with social media, not being interested in scrolling through the idle thoughts of millions of people I don't know, but Elle told me many believed the wristbands would cause a them-and-us situation. Private Life users posted smug pictures of their wristbanded arms to show they'd been 'done', which was pretty ghastly, but I admit to a feeling of intense relief when I put mine on. I was safe.

  Alas, despite all those precautions, there was one industry that couldn't be controlled.

  The drugs trade.

  On that Friday afternoon of the last weekend, I went home, showered and changed, ate a quick sandwich, then wandered up to the pub. I was standing at the bar, chatting about nothing in particular to various acquaintances, enjoying the feeling of the first pint of the evening hitting the spot, when Mick the landlord called for us to be quiet, and turned up the TV.

  It was here. Bat fever had reached the Norfolk seaside town of Shipden, brought to our shores via a cargo of marijuana. The town had been placed under immediate, military-controlled quarantine.

  Shipden. That quaint little corner of the east coast where Rexy lived. I felt like someone had just stamped on my chest.

  I went outside and called him, straight away.

  "It's all good, man," he said. "It's three isolated cases, some guys who'd just moved here who haven't had contact with anyone else. Word is that they were looking for somewhere out of the way to run their op from. They reckon lockdown will be lifted in a week, and they've got a mobile unit coming round to give us all the vaccine, so I don't have to wait till November."

  I could hear something else in his voice, though. A concern that he wasn't voicing. Rexy's default position was not giving much of a crap about anything, but I knew him too well.

  I said, "What else?"

  "Eh?"

  "Come on, mate. I can hear it. What's up?"

  I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Avalon. She's spending the night in Fakenham with this old mate of hers whose boyfriend's done a bunk. Av's made a phones-off rule 'cause Layla's one of those who starts text-stalking after she's had a few." He paused. "Curfew's eight o'clock; they're not letting anyone in after that, even if they live here."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah, shit. Avalon said all they're going to do is drink wine and talk, and she'll call me at ten. By which time it'll be too late."

  "Can't someone drive over and tell her?"

  "Fakenham's twenty miles away, and even if I could think of anyone, I don't know Layla's address, surname, nothing. Actually, I don't even think her name's Layla. It's something like that, but weirder. Might be Lorelei. I've never met her; Avalon doesn't like her much. I'm just going to keep trying, in the hope that she switches on and picks up."

  "Can't you phone her mum? She might know who this girl is."

  "Tried. I must have an old number or something, 'cause she's not answering, and she's not on Private Life, I've looked." He laughed; it seemed forced. "It'll be okay. So we have a week apart; not the end of the world, is it? I can play Assassin's Creed all night, eat Pot Noodles, and fart without leaving the room— oh, gotta go. Daisy's call waiting."

  "Tell her I said hi, and keep me posted."

  Back inside the pub, there was a cluster of people around the bar, watching the TV and checking their phones for more details. Because this was no Covid-19, with mild or no symptoms for most. This was a death sentence.

  "So 2020 was the dress rehearsal," said Angus, at my side. "Which is what I said at the time, if you remember. Getting us used to lockdowns, living online, mandatory vaccinations." He turned round to his mate. "Didn't I say that? Didn't I say the coronavirus was the pilot for the big one?"

  "You did 'n' all," said the mate.

  Angus is one of those people who thinks everything is a government plot. When I offered no opposing stance, he said, "Been on the cards for years. Targeted depopulation."

  I couldn't be bothered with this tonight. "At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if it's man-made or not; you die, just the same."

  Happily, Elle turned up at that very moment, and, to my surprise, she appeared completely calm. She'd been super-cautious during Covid-19, wearing a mask even to put the rubbish out, disinfecting everything, deliveries kept in seventy-two hour quarantine.

  "We'll be okay, because we know what to do, now," she said.

  "This is different, though. You get it, you're gone."

  She gave a shrug. "Yeah, but think about it. Those people in Africa, they're weak and malnourished, with lousy hygiene. That's why so many of them die when diseases hit. But we're strong and healthy. We take immune-boosting supplements. We'll get through this, like we did before―and if it's only in Shipden and they've got the place locked down, it can't get out, can it?"

  But it did.

  I was on shift on Sunday; everyone was talking about Shipden, but most seemed confident that swift, ruthless action by the military posted around the cordon meant the situation would remain under control. No one in or out, and no exceptions.

  I didn't know, as I went to bed that night, that it would be the last time I would put my head on the pillow and fall asleep without much of a care.

  On Monday, during our lunch break, my mate Phil showed me some breaking news: people were falling ill in London. Once again we were assured that there was no cause for alarm; these were isolated cases, the infected taken to a secure centre that specialised in the control of HCID (high consequence infectious diseases). All contacts over the last forty-eight hours had been traced and were now in quarantine.

  Elsewhere, said Newscaster Barbie, holidaymakers locked down in Shipden were not complaining about spending an extra week there. Footage showed families sitting outside tents and caravans, grinning their heads off.

  No one could tell us how it had reached the capital, though.

  Already crowds were gathering outside hospitals, demanding the vaccine.

  By early evening, the Health Secretary appeared on TV with a reminder that hospitals did not carry it. More cases were confirmed. Elle scrolled through YouTube, showing me videos of mayhem at the units. In Manchester, Bristol and all over London they were being overturned, fights breaking out.

  "This is getting bad," she said, and frowned. "I'm going to shut the shop―I'll tell Michaela and Jade not to come in tomorrow. Actually, I'd better go down now―switch off the power and water, download my appointments so I can call everyone." She studied her long, beige nails. "And pick up wax and nail stuff for myself, if we’re looking at lockd
own again. God, what a pain in the arse; I've got six bridesmaids booked for Friday, the full works."

  I stood up. "I'll come with you; the Co-op's still open, isn't it?"

  "Till eight."

  "Right, you do what you've got to do, and I'll see what I can get."

  That was a laugh. The panic buying had begun; all the fruit and veg was gone, all the bread and milk, most of the toilet rolls (seemed the loo paper crisis of four years earlier was on everyone's minds), the water, the liquid soap, anti-bacterial wipes, pasta. I bought what I could.

  As did many, we kept a healthy store cupboard, having learned the hard way about being unable to get hold of essential items. We wouldn't get caught out again. I remembered how savagely Elle had complained about me using her micellar facial wipes as loo paper, last time.

  We watched 'virus TV' for a couple of hours that evening, until we got sick of hearing the same reports over and over. The next morning, I deliberately didn't look at my phone, or switch on the telly; I'd be hearing about nothing else as soon as I got to work.

  Elle was just waking as I left for my shift at nine-thirty.

  "Be careful," she mumbled, eyes half-closed. "If it's heavy there, come home."

  I wouldn't, whatever it was like. I had my green wristband.

  There was more traffic than usual. Queues at the petrol stations. I joined one, and filled up the two jerrycans in my boot, just in case.

  I arrived for my shift twenty minutes late, to find the hospital in total chaos.

  Chapter 3

  Jack

  The First Twelve Days

  I sit on my sofa with my green wristband, protected by the vaccine.

  Lucky Jack. That's me.

  It's Monday, August 5th, just ten days since that Friday night in the pub.

  Ten days.

  Once it began, it was so quick. The bat fever virus steamed through the country like a hurricane on speed, not giving the government or anyone else a chance to put preventative measures into action.