It’s Sunday again, a full seven days since I woke up to find the world ended overnight and every I know is dead. I’m driving around in an enormous truck cab from an articulated lorry, stopping every few minutes to yank the cord that controls the compressed air horn and let out a blast that would wake Lazarus. I switch the engine off each time, and listen through the echoes for any sound that might be a response, but none comes. I give it five minutes each go, then I start the engine again and drive a bit further.
It’s slow going, despite the streets being almost empty. As best I can work out the world ended at five forty-two am on Sunday February 10th 2008, but even at quarter to six on a Sunday morning there seem to have been a good number of cars on London’s roads. Most of them have crashed or mounted pavements, but it seems I can barely turn a corner without needing to shove one out of the way. That’s why I picked the truck. That and the fucking massive air horn.
By mid afternoon I’ve covered most of the distance across the city from Hammersmith into Camden, and am thinking about my rumbling stomach when I spot a body in the middle of the road ahead. At first glance it would appear to be on fire, with plumes of black smoke roiling around it. But there are no flames, and as I roll the truck to a stop I can make out the buzzing of thousands of flies. I pull down hard on the air horn and haul the wheel around to drive around. The flies scatter briefly, then return in sweeping masses to continue their feast. It’s not the first body I’ve had to avoid, and I know it won’t be the last, but something snaps inside me, and instead of driving on I stamp on the brakes. The flies ripple away again, but not as far this time, and I barely glimpse the festering corpse beneath them. That works for me, I want this to be quick.
Leaping from the cab I detach one of the four large cans of petrol from its fastenings behind the body of the truck, and heft it over to the body. The stench is unbelievable, and my eyes water as I fight back the urge to run away and vomit. The can has a screw cap which comes undone easily, and I pour as much as I can over the mass of flies. They scatter as I do so, leaving a wake that reveals rotting flesh and stained clothing. I gag, and retreat, my eyes burning from the fumes.
I let the mass of flies settle back down, and carefully screw the cap back on the can and secure it back in its rack whilst they do so. When I return it’s as if nothing had disturbed them.
“Fuck you.” There’s a zippo in my pocket, aluminium with an ace of spades badge. I snap my wrist and the lid pops open with a click.
“Fuck you.” The flint sparks and the small yellow flame dances into life. I flick the lighter into the swarm, spinning end over end as it arcs through the air.
“FUCK YOU!” The swirling black mass erupts in a fireball that engulfs it. The smell blasts over me in a wave and the heat scorches my face. I drop to my knees as my stomach gives up entirely and heaves my breakfast onto the road. Not quite what I’d planned, but at least the flies are gone.
The next time, I stand further back, and by the end of the day I’ve found a supply of masks in a Chemist’s shop. Stopping to burn bodies makes driving around London a little slower, but I soon settle into a pattern where I give a blast on the horn when I find one, and burn it whilst waiting to hear a response. It makes the waiting in silence a little less frustrating, and by the time I stop on Tuesday night I’ve burned more than two hundred.
By Tuesday, however, the mild smell that has been drifting on the breeze has become a pervading stench that I can no longer ignore. With every breath the stench of six million decaying corpses threatens to turn my stomach inside out. Tuesday night is a series of interrupted nightmares where I’m alternatively drowning in a sea of shit, trapped in an abattoir, or simply unable to breathe for no apparent reason. I awake to find myself buried under a twisted pile of sheets and pillows, dripping with sweat and trembling.
I shower and shave, the electricity still miraculously working despite a week without human intervention, then have a light breakfast to calm my stomach. My actions are those of an automaton, no consideration from my conscious mind involved whilst my muscles drag limbs and joints back and forth. Instead, an idea is forming with great deliberation, and my imagination is boiling with the possibilities.
Burning corpses one by one isn’t enough, and I understand that all I’ve been doing is venting frustration. It’s time for more effective action now, something that will have lasting impact. I finish breakfast and pile the dishwasher with the last couple of days of dirty dishes, unaware that this will be the last time I can take the convenience of an electrical appliance for granted. My mind is still occupied, but now with plans for how to enact my idea. Really, it’s just like burning the bodies, but on a far grander scale.
Carrying out my plan takes two days, a flurry of activity during which I sleep only briefly, the excitement of what I’m doing catching me up in a rush of adrenaline. Wednesday is preparation, a gathering of vital components. I drive to Park Lane and spend an hour walking through car showrooms, opening them by the simple expedient of driving my red Honda through the windows, searching for a new ride. The sports cars are a serious temptation, though lacking in the luggage space that I know I will need. I am about to settle on a black BMW SUV, the kind of thing that people buy with the excuse that it’s for the safety of their kids, when my eye is caught by a much smaller shape on the far side of the showroom. I wander across to find a Kawasaki Z1 standing by a door that opens into the parking area behind the building. It’s jet black, and screams raw unadulterated power from the fat, smooth slick tyres to the low profile of the windshield. It clearly belongs to – belonged to – one of the staff. A quick search reveals the keys are hanging with the showroom’s collection of identical key fobs in a back office. It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but a romantic notion of the open road fills me with a sense of joy that I haven’t felt in weeks, and I roll it carefully through the shattered windows into the emptiness of Park Lane.
The engine starts on the first attempt. I don’t have a helmet, but the Kawasaki doesn’t complain as I meander along at twenty mile an hour, in fact it barely even registers the effort. It doesn’t take long to find a bike shop, and I load up on the best leathers they have. I pick a helmet, and on consideration add an Armadillo to my shopping list; its hard, flexible slats are uncomfortable against my back but I know I don’t have much access to medical care now, and the additional protection seems a sensible precaution.
Fully geared-up I feel like a medieval knight, the leather stiff and creaking, though I know from experience that it will soften over the coming weeks. It takes me a couple of attempts to get seated properly, but crouched over the purring bike I feel moulded into position, not an ounce of extra weight or strain anywhere. The throttle turns of its own accord, the bike leaping into life and motion, and I know that I’ve made the right choice.
Giddy with the excitement of my new acquisition, I spend the next couple of hours just tearing around town, leaning further into corners and relying less on the brakes as my confidence grows. It’s late in the afternoon by the time I’ve finished the rest of my looting trip, the bike necessitating an adjustment to my mental list of needs that requires they can all fit in a large rucksack. Fortunately central London is awash with camping, hiking, and mountain sports stores. My looting technique is still quite basic – a heavy object thrown with as much force as possible through the middle of the largest window, and ear plugs for the inevitable burglar alarm – but what it lacks in sophistication it makes up for in speed and effectiveness. I try not to linger too long, as the noise of the alarms is designed to be as disorienting and painful as possible, even through the ear plugs.
The next part of the plan involves finding a needle in a haystack, but fortunately for me the needle is a big one – a petrol tanker that I discover in the forecourt of a garage in Fulham. I abandon yet another car and haul myself up on the running plate of the cab to check it’s empty. I let out a sigh of relief when I see that the driver is not inside. Relief turns to frustration whilst I search fruitlessly for keys, which are nowhere in sight. I give up, and decide to use the toilet before driving on to try to find another tanker. The door to the bathroom is blocked by the body of a large, middle-aged man, his pale blue shirt stretched over a belly that would have been impressive even before bloating with gas. I pull up the surgical mask that I’ve taken to wearing constantly, and am in the middle of turning away when I notice what he’s holding in his right hand.
Keys.
I’ve never driven anything as unwieldy or complicated as a tanker before, and spend a fair amount of time familiarising myself with the cab before pulling out of the forecourt onto the road. Immediately I run into trouble, and have to spend half an hour reversing and turning to get straightened out. The inside of the cab is in near pristine condition, the only evidence of use is a tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the passenger-side shade, filling the cab with a pine scent that reminds me to much of toilet cleaner. I snap it from its fixing and toss it out the window, which I consider leaving open to get rid of the pine smell for about three seconds until the stink of rotting flesh invades the cab. I press the button to close the window, and start driving slowly towards Kensington.
The rest of the night is spent driving a few yards at a time, and liberally dousing the ground floor of as many designer clothes shops as possible with petrol. The fumes make me dizzy and I need frequent breaks, but when the sun rises in the morning I’m confident that a couple of kilometres of shops are ready to go up in flames. My last stop is Harrods, which I don’t bother spraying. I just drive the cab as slowly as possible through the ground floor windows, and leave it parked in a display of jewellery, hoses leaking petrol over handbags that cost more than most cars.
I’m more tired than I can ever remember, and I’m shaking with nervous energy, so I decide to walk back to my flat. It’s only a couple of miles, and I know I can cover the distance in about the same amount of time it will take me to find an unlocked car without an occupant. For once I’m not in the mood for any more breaking and entering.
As I pass each shop that I’ve drenched in petrol I stop for a moment and check that it hasn’t started to burn yet. When I reach the last one I know that it’s time. I have no idea how far or fast it’s going to spread, but that’s not the point. The point is lying face-down on the pavement, crawling with flies and insects. A crow circles overhead, his plaintive cawing a grim reminder of how nature deals with death.
I look up at the black silhouette, following him as he descends in lazy spirals. My right hand is in my trouser pocket, the warm metal of a Zippo pressed hard into my palm. I extract it, flicking the lid open and closed with a deft wrist movement that I first learned in college behind the bike sheds. My whole life stretches out in a blur of recollection, everything that I have been, everything that I had planned. Everything gone.
I flick the lighter open, and slide my thumb across the wheel that sparks the flint. The wick catches and the flame jumps and then settles. I pull a cigarette from a half-empty packet in my coat and press it between my lips, lowering my face towards the lighter to hold the tip in the flame and take a series of short drags. The end glows bright, and with the cigarette lit I inhale the smoke long and deep.
For a while I just stand there, enjoying the head rush and watching the smoke drift upwards and dissipate in the breeze. The crow circles lower, and is joined by another bird. They dip and wheel around each other, establishing primacy for the meal of rotting flesh on the street. The lighter is still burning in my hand, the flame heating the metal to a point where it will burn me in a few more moments.
“Sorry mate, not today,” I whisper, glancing upwards. The lighter sails in a long, shallow parabola through the smashed glass of a small boutique, landing in the white flowing lace of a wedding dress that’s on display. It bounces, then stops and for a heart-stopping moment I think that the flame must have gone out, because nothing happens. Then the whole shop erupts in a ball of fire that engulfs the dress in a blinding light, incinerating it in an instant. The flames dance and roar, billowing smoke up across the ceiling and out in every direction.
I watch for half an hour as the fire consumes the building, working up to the first floor before spreading into the next shop. The second floor must be a much larger space, because when the fire hits it spreads laterally with a speed and intensity that shocks me. As much as the sight is enthralling, I know that I still have a lot to do before the fire really takes hold, so I turn my back and start walking west towards home.
It’s nearly nine in the morning, and the sun is just crawling into the sky. That’s fortunate, because when I get home the first thing I notice is that the electricity has stopped working. Annoying, but not unexpected, and I know that it could have stopped it any time in the past week. Realistically, I’m lucky that it lasted as long as it as it has. It’s not like there was anything worth watching on television anyway.
Exhausted I curl up on the sofa for a couple of hours and enjoy a short sleep. As planned the short sofa becomes too uncomfortable to sleep on, and I drag myself upright around midday.
My bike gear is piled on the leather chair next to the sofa, supplemented with a rucksack containing a sleeping bag, first aid kits, camping stove, several bottles of fuel, and a large assortment of maps, tools, torches, tinder, and as many clothes as I could find. Next to the rucksack a good sized tent is propped against the side of the chair. I’m not sure about bringing the tent, certain that I can find real accommodation wherever I end up, but a nagging voice in my head is telling me it’s better to be safe than sorry. I eat a cold breakfast of cereal, and spend an hour packing and re-packing, distributing weight across the pack until I’m happy with carrying it. I haul on the leather jacket and then heft the pack over my shoulders, straps as wide open as they can go, and adjust the multitude of fastenings so that it’s a tight fit. The tent I carry under one arm down to the bike, where I secure it to the pillion with a number of bungee cords. Satisfied that it’s not going to move, I climb onto the bike and start it, the engine desperate to race onward from the first touch of the throttle.
There’s smoke visible to the east, a dark grey swathe of sky that doesn’t have a clear boundary. I can only imagine the inferno raging at the base of the cloud of soot and ash, and change my mind about leaving immediately. There’s a tower block just to the north that has a clear view of the city, and I drive the few minutes towards Shepherd’s Bush, pulling to a halt at a newsagent that advertises 24-hour booze. I have to step around a couple of bodies to get to the spirits behind the counter, but there’s not a great deal I can do about that, so I just wrinkle up my nose and try not to look. The first thing to hand is a large bottle of Jack, which I drop in my rush to get out. I swear loudly, voice muffled inside the helmet, and pick up a bottle of tequila instead. Not my usual drink, but these aren’t exactly normal times.
The tower block reeks, but that’s a temporary distraction at most. Leaving my pack in the street next to the bike, I climb the eleven stories, and push through the alarmed door that leads onto the flat roof. No alarm goes off, and I’m glad of the lack of power. Coming around the edge of the stairwell I’m greeted with an incredible sight.
My exertions with the petrol have paid dividends, for a huge tract of Kensington is now burning. The fire has spread across several blocks, although it doesn’t seem to have hit Harrods yet. The smoke fills the sky, climbing several thousand feet before flattening across what I assume is an inversion layer where clouds form. The fire itself is a spreading glow with clearly visible tongues of flame licking upwards through the base of the smoke.
There’s a plastic garden chair just across the roof from me, and I drag it over next to the wall and seat myself as if at an enormous outdoor show.
Hours later, when the sun has set and the tequila is empty, an enormous explosion rocks the emptiness of London. I hear it, but don’t see anything, as I’m lying on my back, watching the stars through a veil of smoke.