After it Happened Boxset: 1-6 Omnibus Edition Read online

  After it Happened

  Book 1: Survival

  Devon C Ford

  Copyright © Devon C Ford 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No affiliation is implied or intended to any organisation or recognisable body mentioned within.

  Omnibus edition published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2019

  www.vulpine-press.com

  Dedicated to WH: the first person to read this story, if only to be polite.

  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 had its own smell, which you either did or didn’t get used to. He hadn’t yet, after years of the familiar but unpleasant odour, and supposed that he would 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 did. 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 sitting on 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 he picked them up, morbidly thinking ahead.

  Using the key, he played car park fishing and the hazard lights 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 on 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, but then he remembered that it was unlikely for there 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 was 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 as if he were 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

  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 were in 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 had all been 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 sitting there, clutching 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 t
he 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 while 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 from the patio he had so painstakingly laid, and paid the same attention to detail as he covered his family as best as 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 was to make light of them – not that he made jokes in bad taste to people, more that he acted a bit of a clown 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, 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.

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  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 Neil 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 gun levelled at him from ten feet away. He became very quiet and still, raising his hands slowly.

  “What do you want?” barked the man with the gun.

  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 he 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 of not crying again.

  On hearing this, the man slowly lowered the gun he was pointing at Neil.

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

  Nothing like a first impression.

  He took a breath and holstered the gun. 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 blond 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 businesslike 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 passable BBC voice, he replied, “Splendid idea, chap, don’t mind if I do! I hear this place has become 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 the expensive stuff; none of that rubbish,” he replied, still in his best “Rule Britannia” voice. The man nodded assent with a smile and selected the three bottles of single malt whisky 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 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,” Neil said with a grin.

  Oh, so it’s like that, is it? thought the man.

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

  And then there were two.

  DAN

  “Neil, when you say got out, do you mean military or prison?” the man asked.

  Neil laughed and explained how he’d been nine years in the British Army – joined as a kid straight out of school and left when he got the “family or bust” ultimatum. The man steered that conversation quickly away before he thought about his own life. His old life.

  He realised his luck might’ve turned on the basis that a) he was not the only person alive, and b) the man was an ex-Army mechanic.

  They drove down into the small town centre, along the pedestrianised part, while having a look at the shops. A camping shop caught the man’s eye, and he suggested they grab some camping supplies.

  “Good idea, old bean,” responded Neil chirpily, in yet another accent. r />
  The man liked the term; years ago, someone he used to work with had called him that.

  “My name’s Dan,” he said to Neil, realising he’d failed to introduce himself.

  “Hmmm, Dan you are?” Neil said, launching into a very good Yoda impression.

  Dan laughed and walked to the door to look at the locks. Neil joined him. The shop was locked, but a few minutes’ levering with the police kit soon opened the doors to them.

  It was mid-July, so not likely to get too cold, but they both selected a good waterproof coat each on the basis that it still got pretty cold during the night when outside. A look at the price tags made Dan raise an eyebrow.

  Some sleeping bags, a couple of tents, a camp stove, and all the gas bottles they had filled the car. Neil also got a few pairs of walking trousers and some new boots; Dan was already in black combats and a well-broken-in pair of sturdy boots.

  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” said Dan. Neil laughed at the film reference, but agreed. It was starting to get well into the evening, so the two unlikely allies decided to stay in the shop for the night. They locked up the car and took their bags upstairs where the shop had set up a small camp to demonstrate the tents.

  They set up some wind-up lamps, making a mental note to take all that they could find, got a camping stove on the go, and started to cook up some food. Neil called it mountaineering spew – stewed steak and a tin of new potatoes – but complained that there should be an egg in it. Afterwards, Dan offered to wash the dishes, and when Neil graciously agreed to allow him, he lobbed the dirty pan over his shoulder. They both laughed, and Neil poured two glasses – well, plastic cups – of single malt.

  “So, mate, what’s the plan?” Neil asked.

  “I’m not sure there is one,” Dan mused, “but I’m certain we can’t cruise the country forever like this. I don’t think I could adapt to this level of decadence,” he said, raising his brightly coloured beaker to Neil in a toast.