A World Apart (39 page)

England was pleasantly mild today compared to the blizzards that swarmed over the country last night. Neville assumed that it was late November time, although he could not be certain. One thing he had noticed and that was the decrease in insects and some animals compared to when he first arrived. The rotten corpse beside him was starting to make him feel nauseated so he decided to head for the old bridge in the distance to find a road so he could carry on moving.

As he passed through the leafless trees he heard the tiny chattering of birds high up in the tree tops. Neville has become quite an expert in survival after the past few weeks on the run since he was at his parent’s house. Nightfall was always the scariest for him; he would hear wild animal noises and things falling from trees that would sound like the patrols searching for him.

As he approached the preserved bridge he was delighted to see some remains from before his time. The bridge had a cream plaque that was embedded into the brickwork. Two names and a date etched into the side of it ‘James & Thorn’ ‘1935’. Neville couldn’t believe that something that old would be preserved nowadays, what with all the technology and the advanced bridges implemented everywhere in America. A proud feeling blushed through him at the handmade bridge, something that will stick with him for a very long time. He climbed up the steep embankment towards the road, scrabbling with his hands to regain his balance. He reached the top and started to walk down the bleak road in front of him. He stopped and looked around, confused which way to go. An abandoned car lay miserably in the ditch further in the distance, so he headed for that.

The car was a nineteen-seventy-three MG convertible, well preserved considering the time it must have been left here lifeless. Moss and various other life forms grew on its body, covering it like a blanket. The windows looked as though they were steamed up, although they couldn’t be. Neville hoped to be able to get some rest in the car, he hadn’t slept now for three days and it was evident in his face now. Tired and worthless, he reached for the handle door but it was locked tight. He used all his force and yanked a few times before he gave up and smashed the window with his elbow. A trickle of blood fell to the ground and crashed against the gravel below. A horrified faced lent up against the door covered with a blanket over their head. Neville stood back and covered his mouth; the smell was so powerfully disgusting he couldn’t take it. Still, he went back to the car and gently pulled back the blanket. He only had pulled it back a short way but that was all that was needed. Neville held the side panel of the car and was sick alongside the car. The rotting stench scratched at his throat, too much to cope with. He composed himself and inspected the car, noticing that one of the wheels was punctured and sagged against the tarmac. The body jerked and thudded against the car door, making Neville jump in and out of his skin.

Neville decided to take a look around the other side and gain access to the car via the passenger door instead. He took to the raised grass area and opened the door with no problem, for some reason it wasn’t closed properly. A hand print remained on the side window, large and intact. Neville opened the door and slid in, moving magazines, tissues and food wrappers out of the way. He sat down and inspected everything around him, making a real effort to touch as little as possible. Neville couldn’t spot anything peculiar about the situation. The thought of driving the vehicle was unbearable, so he decided to leave the car and the body where it was. He noted the make of car and its registration details on a scrap piece of paper from a magazine and closed the door as it was before he arrived. He knew that he would be kicking himself later if he didn’t take the car, but found the thought of moving a body disturbing and also he wanted to restrict the possibility of being found, let alone being accused of murder. The thought of getting away from the body really appealed to him and he walked on coughing and breathing the fresh air.

A light drizzle at this time of the year was nothing out of the ordinary. Neville’s forehead receiving a large splat as the rain droplets came tumbling out the sky. He could see life ahead of him, or what looked like areas that were still in one piece. A cottage was the first thing he saw, hidden within a small forest of trees and plants. His excitement soon ended when he got level with the house, noticing that the other side of the house was demolished and in tatters. A tiny shack at the back of the cottage and through a field was still in good condition. Neville was so weak and exhausted from escaping the patrols, all he wanted now was some rest and to be left alone. Hobbling through the field, he battled with the undergrowth towards the standing shack, passing a welcome sign to the village Thorness.

The door opened with a bored creak to reveal the shadow of a young man starring at the contents of the shack. To his surprise it was quite clean, well cleaner than he had ever seen. A broken chair lent up against some loose bricks near the plastic smeared windows. For the first time in a while he actually felt safe. He closed the door that latched as the metal collided on either side. It was approaching the afternoon and Neville’s stomach was becoming more impatient. He placed down a clump of leaves that he retrieved from his jacket pocket. Blood ran down is arm and onto the moon coloured concrete. The leaves unraveled to uncover animal meat. Neville went outside and sprinted down to the cottage below, with the hope of finding cooking utensils. He came out struggling to lift a maroon rucksack lofted over his shoulder, full of pans and cutlery. In his hands laid several logs for a fire he was to start. The first thing he wanted to do was to initiate a fire in the corner of the shack, as one outside would be too risky and leave a risk of a trace. He placed some wood into a pan and lit with a match; throwing a wire mesh over the top for the meat. The tough and radiant red meat hissed as it felt the heat; blood dripping slowly into the fire. The only thing that troubled Neville was that he had never cooked like this before, so he made a guess at when it was ready. The hours past and it was soon approaching four o’clock thought Neville; reaching for a metal canister and generously pouring some wine into it and sat back, looking out at the stars that could already be seen due to the light cloud cover.

A gigantic glow enlarged across his face at the thought of the things in front of him; for once he felt happy and relaxed. Feeling glad that he had escaped the patrols, yet sad at the thought at where he could be in a few days. Part of him wondered whether to stay there and wait until he was found, surely no one would punish him, and after all he is a young man.

The meat and wine warmed Neville, returning a normal colour to his face. He grabbed his rucksack and lifted out a duvet and some pillows and placed them underneath the window. After a quick inspection for horrid insects he could settle nicely. As soon as his head touched the pillow his eyes were falling like the flames of the fire. Random flickers of flame light remained the only thing active, creating an orange and chocolate glow over the shack’s innards. Neville’s consciousness faded as e eyes felt even heavier and his muscles relaxing one by one. He started to dream again, this time he lay motionless as though he had expected it.

“Neville…Neville…wake up!” cried Liona, as she laid out the breakfast for the family. Neville was slumped in all directions over his bed, his hair sticking in every direction possible. He lifted his head and gave a grunt for a response back to her. Neville hated morning, especially this one. It was the start of his revision sessions at school for his exams, and despised revision as an unnecessary task.

Joseph came thundering into the room as Neville realised and started to tidy himself, however his attempts had gone unnoticed.

“We have to leave Neville, get up, this is serious!” said Joseph, his throat fluctuating with nerves. Neville got up finally and snapped back his curtains, noticing the unusually busy activity on the roads outside. Roads jammed with cars of people all rushing around. The door slammed at his house and he stood there as he watched his family drive away. He ran after them, calling their names as he burst out of the house. A note lay on the kitchen table as he went back inside’.

Neville,

Edward isn’t well. Keep safe.

Mum and Dad

The clatter of the shack door restored Neville facing the small beams of the roof. A bitter coldness covered the landscape as it must have been around four or five in the morning. He wiped away the sweat from his forehead and walked outside and stretched. Still nothing was around, no activity, no nothing. It seemed to surprise him every day, although he half expected to wake up and everything was normal again. A glum feeling at the pit of his stomach ate away at him, despising himself at not leaving with them. Why mum and dad would leave without me is a mystery, thought Neville. He pondered over where they could have all gone, but came to a dead end, something that would happen every time he tried to think further than his dreams.

The story that had twisted and torn at him now grew into a deeper desire to uncover what was involved in his past. If he could go back now and change his decision, it would certainly be that one without a doubt. Even though he had no idea where they had gone, he knew that life may have been different if he had just listened to their concerns. He felt at that age like everyone had given up on him, but now looking back he realises he had more than he knew and was angry about the fact. If only he knew what happened that day. His memories magnified by his dreams, if only he could sleep for longer he could uncover more about his childhood. Since that day his life had taken a dramatic decline, being lonesome in his teens and growing up on his own, teaching himself to read and write and reading newspapers people had thrown away. He used to get bullied by other pupils at a school nearby him, as he used to try and listen in on the tuition outside of the class window. In light of all this misery, one thing that remained with Neville was his unique and dignified spirit to persevere.

Morning rose early as Neville listened to the birds’ chirps from the shack door. Sodden air wrapped around him and a pong of socks hit him hard as he entered the shack again. Realising that he was the cause of the smell, he decided to find a stream or water nearby. A well lay perfectly in the back of the cottage garden so Neville washed himself as much as he could, he had never felt so fresh before. His socks rinsed a baffling blue, a collection of muck from his travels trailing along each limestone towards the depths of the well. Neville finished cleaning himself and placed some old boots on that had been left outside even though they were a few sizes bigger than him, so it looked as though his was wearing flippers. A crunch under his feet made him look down to find a radio device in bits. After carefully examination of it he found the volume and listened in.

“Red 3PL D00ER- what is your position? I repeat Red 3PL D00ER this is Foil BG1 do you copy?” crackled a man’s voice, Neville’s heart racing at the thought of a patrol being nearby. The radio went silent and crackled as Neville listened for a few minutes later, trying to gain as much information as possible.

“Three children Red 44HL W225R in zone 3J can you check it out?” prompted another voice coming in thick and fast, Neville only just catching snippets of the sentence.

“BG7 this is Red 44HL W225R I have located a house in zone 2AP contains evidence of life. I say around 2 hours ago” replied a much younger women’s voice. Neville couldn’t believe the thought of other survivors. He had to get to them and fast, but how could he. Neville starred continuously at a tiny map on the reverse of the radio. His finger hovered over ‘Horndon’.

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The orange tangy flash agitated the workers within the surveillance quarters. Men and children busy recording and repairing devices for the capture and prevention of procreation. A young boy around fifteen-years old received a splatter of soup and stale bread for his lunch. His clothes in pieces like his health, although from his expression it wasn’t revealed. The scruffy old maid in the canteen was always miserably; she often threw people’s meals at them if they wanted more or asked for it’d ingredients. If you were not quite awake enough you could end up with food all over your face as Rue once experienced.

“Rufus!” shouted another boy, much older than the young boy. His nickname was Rue, but Andrew purposely used to call him Rufus, which resulted in Andrew being hung from the locker area by is t-shirt if they were alone and he said it. He carried on slurping his soup and ignored the calls of Andrew, praying that he wouldn’t see him. Unfortunately, he was spotted cowering to lower his face from Andrew.

“What you doing down there? Not hiding I hope!” said Andrew loudly as he slapped his back with a harsh swoop.

“No…no I’m just…” replied Rue, struggling to improvise for an excuse.

“Yeah, well I’ve just been talking to with Dennis Tenderton, you know the Captain’s left hand man’s son. He says that there has been reports of a survivor in England, he has killed some people and he is still hasn’t been caught. There are three children survivors also which may be in danger” said Andrew, within hesitating for a breath of air.