Don't Fear The Reaper (26 page)

Perkins couldn’t quite muster the strength to smile just yet. However, he
turned in his seat and faced the unkempt woman. ‘Thank you, Jane. Thank you for
your kind words.’

‘Not just kind,’ Jane pointed out. ‘But true…’

Jonesy stood outside half-jokingly throwing his hands up in the air,
wondering why they were taking so long. ‘Oh, by all means stay in the van with
the heat on while I stand out here freezing my balls off, why don’t ya.’

This time they all laughed heartily.

THE M4
that
led from London to the small town in Wales where Sapphire currently resided was
chock-a-block with vehicles of all kinds. Many years had passed without as much
as a breeze. The dilapidated vehicles weren’t lined neatly in the six lanes
segregated by a single barrier. Rather, vehicles were left askew, jutting from
all angles. In the pandemonium citizens had attempted to overtake slow-moving
traffic as panic kicked in. Collisions of all manners went on endlessly.

The meadows on either side were charcoal carpets. Yet sprouting
sporadically were fresh roots of grass. The six-lane road was beginning to turn
green. Concrete and asphalt yielding to nature once more. Hedges and trees had
overgrown and craned over the motorway like colourful sentinels. But the worst
aspect of this incredible, apocalyptic scenario was the innumerable husks.
Their heads looked more like abandoned wasps’ nests than skulls. Their entire
anatomies were ash-grey and crusty. They were no more than hollow shapes,
sprawled across the motorway and hanging out of their cars and buses, heads
craned back seeing their doom plummeting out of the sky peeling away the
surface and ending their existence in a blink of an eye.

The Reaper had traversed as far as it was going to by horse and carriage.
It now emerged from the carriage and floated across the smouldering ruins that
had once been the meadows where crops had grown and sheep and other cattle
enjoyed life. The sight of the massive conflagration excited it immensely. Its
hideous row of arcing teeth widened. This is what it dreamed of since the dawn
of mankind and the centuries of evolution. It dreamed of veiling the green and
blue life globe in absolute darkness. So dark it wasn’t even black, but
nothingness.

Its own existence superseded these mortals. These mortals that believed
they had all the power and influence. Men in power had induced nothing more
than global destruction in favour of their greed. And as generations gave way
to new generations, nothing changed. Technology improved vastly, of course.

Now these souls were in the palm of the Reaper’s mighty hand. It could
crush them to cinders or permit them to cross the bridge into the ever after.

It reached the stretch of road and made a sweeping motion of its left
hand. The rusted orange and black bulks skated across the asphalt. Sparks spat out from the dismembering bodywork. Then they all toppled down the trench,
smashing into each other, crashing through the barbed wire fencing and into the
wasteland that the Reaper had just crossed.

Some of the cars and buses stayed upended while others righted
themselves. Others teeter-tottered on top of each other. The din would have
been deafening had anyone been alive in the environing land to hear it. But to
the Reaper it was the highest most pertinent and exquisite note in a classical
piece of music.

Clouds of dust and ash billowed up into the overcast atmosphere. Had
anyone alive been present they would have choked on the fumes – but not the
Reaper. It glided over the slow-moving lane and repeated this process, clearing
the M4 of obstruction for its followers to travel without delay.

The blackened terrain where crops had once grown lay beneath the miles of
destruction. Had anyone been alive and witnessed such an event it wouldn’t have
registered as tangible it was so outlandish and far-fetched. Yet there it was
in plain view for all remaining survivors to see if they ever came this way.

Before the asteroids had entered the planet’s atmosphere and rendered the
majority of the land to scorched vestiges of existence, the Reaper’s work had
been miniscule. Now it was undeniable and soon-to-be-complete with utter
devastation.

*

The
air was a lot clearer and breathable in the mountains of Brecon, Wales. Of
course, other mountainous terrain around the U.K. and the world would also fair
better than other areas. Unless of course the mountain in question had been
directly struck by the falling asteroids. Then of course the mountain would
cease to exist altogether. But in this quiet, serene part of the world the
dune-shaped hilltops remained undisturbed.

Tom Watts and his family resided in Rhigos. But two weeks prior to the
end of the world prediction (which this time was at least accurate) Tom and his
family had gathered all the provisions they could find. He made sure he bought
three full cans of fuel and loaded them in the boot of his Volkswagen. The boot
also contained three four-litre bottles of natural spring water.

His wife, Belinda, had shopped a couple of days in advance. She predicted
that when the realisation that this was not a hoax hit home there would be a
mad rush for food and drink. So the Watts’ family managed to avoid that debacle
through prudence. With the assistance of their thirteen-year-old son, Tobe, the
Watts’ clan had prepared assiduously. The caravan was linked to the Volkswagen,
full of clothes, bedding, food and drink and all types of multivitamins, Cod
Liver Oil, toothbrushes, toothpaste, concentrated orange juice… you name it.

Then five days before impact was scheduled they took the short ride to
the Brecon Beacons and veered off the main road and into the forest amidst the
acres of firs and pines.

Tom found the days that ensued most bizarre, to say the least.

His emotions conflicted with one another from many different perceptions.
First he and his family had no idea what to expect. Neither did the so-called
experts he’d listened to and watched on the news channels. The asteroids could
miss the nation altogether and hit other parts of the world. The asteroids may
disintegrate upon entering the earth’s atmosphere. Or they could hit the U.K.
as well as other nations and either wipe them all out or diminish them to such
an extent that no one knew anyone else’s fate.

And yet in spite of – or rather, due to – the pending asteroid attack,
Tom became aware of something he’d always wanted to try but never got the
chance as a child. To go camping in the woods with his family.

Between listening to any forthcoming “Breaking News”, Tom and his wife
and son sat on the deck chairs, inhaling the natural pine fragrance. He read a
James M. Cain mystery novel while Belinda and Tobe duelled in a game of chess.
And all the while he kept thinking to himself,
We should’ve done this years
ago.
     

The world’s dilemma seemed to take place in another realm to theirs.
However, on the day that was celebrated as Christmas 2006 the Watts’ family
felt a shuddering tremor that lasted approximately thirty minutes.

China plates and cups had rattled noisily in their cupboards. The caravan
rocked and swayed. They’d hidden under the half-square sofa and dinette table
thinking the worst. Then everything ceased. The silence thereafter flooded
their ears and pounded their hearts.

Years of wilderness and eating canned foods and the occasional visit to
one of the nearby supermarkets had brought the Watts family absolute solitude.
What had been a refreshing notion at first now rapidly became tedious and
worrisome.

Frost had settled in and covered the woods and surrounding hills in a
layer of white. They got their water from the lake and sometimes caught dead
fish to take back with them and cook.

Belinda was excellent at making a fire. They’d purchased countless
lighters and boxes of matches. Yet Belinda had started a fire by rubbing sticks
together.

Tonight after they finished their meal of baked beans and fish the Watts
family held a discussion. Tobe had become more and more agitated with the
pent-up environment. He’d gone through his early teenage years without a
glimmer of hope. Teenage years were most arduous at the best of times.
Nevertheless, Tobe had no acne or growing pains. He had no school exams to fret
over. However, an average day consisted of taking a stroll through the pine and
firs out to the lake or riding shotgun in the Volkswagen to a supermarket.

‘There’s gotta be others out there like us,’ Tobe said.

Tom nodded concurrence. ‘There very well might be, son. But we don’t know
for certain. And we have no idea where these survivors are.’ He took a sip of
his Heineken before resuming. ‘Still no radio connection, and until there is
some kinda announcement it mightn’t be safe for us to leave here. As bored as you
are, at least you can go outside and stretch your legs. The air is mostly
foggy, but at least you can inhale it and not cough on fumes.’

Tobe shook his head. ‘The power may still be out, but that doesn’t mean
there aren’t people out there in groups wondering if there’re others out there
like them. Also, we can’t live like this forever. We used the generator till it
gave out, living off microwave dinners. Now we are going back in time to
cavemen. Before you know it we’ll all have great big beards and I’ll start
calling Mum “Dad” by mistaken identity.’

They all chuckled at that.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Tom said, still chuckling. ‘Your mum and
I shave, and you haven’t even started growing armpit hair yet so…’

Belinda rested her hand on top of Tobe’s. ‘In all the times we’ve gone to
different supermarkets to get food – those we can get to – not once have we
come across a living person or animal for that matter. What we have seen
numerous times though are thousands and thousands of bodies, abandoned. They
haven’t even been given the proper burial everyone deserves.’

Tom sighed. He knew how his son felt. He felt the same way too. How could
he not? It wasn’t even proper camping when he deliberated. The only fish they
came across in the first couple of years were dead. There were some squirrels
and crows. He thought he heard the braying of sheep and neighing of horses in
the dead of night, but couldn’t be certain. For all he knew his mind had
committed the dulcet countryside sounds from memory and played them to him out
of sympathy.

‘Tell you what,’ Tom said. ‘Tomorrow what d’you say me and you go and
hike up to the top of the highest mountain where that sheer crag is? We’ll take
the binoculars and we’ll see what we can. That’s a good few hours of outdoor activity
and you can see right down into the valleys. Never know, we might catch some
glimpse of life elsewhere. And if we don’t, we did something productive, if
nothing else. How’s that sound?’

Tobe understood that venturing out in the Volkswagen and driving
aimlessly might get them stranded and lost. Also, he recalled vividly the last
time he’d gone to the chain store with his dad and seen all the crispy cadavers
of so many humans and animals. His dad had to drive on the hard shoulder just
to keep the car in motion. Then when they did eventually arrive at the
Morrison’s superstore they had to clamber over the pile of bodies jammed
between the automatic doors. At the bottom of the heap a small, delicate hand
jutted out. The skeleton hand of an infant. Tobe remembered he had to rush back
outside and vomit. His oesophagus convulsed. His chest heaved and his eyes
burned with acid tears. His dad followed him outside and put a reassuring arm
around his shoulders as he wept.

‘This isn’t living, Dad,’ he’d said.

Tom had agreed. Then advised Tobe to take his arm and cover his eyes as
they tried for a second time to enter the store.

Tom gazed at him now wearing a forced smile. ‘This isn’t living,’ Tom
said, as though he and Tobe had shared a telepathic moment. ‘But for now it
beats dying.’

‘Let’s do what you suggest tomorrow,’ Tobe said. Then he rested his chin
on his hand and stared out the window. The opaque darkness offered no outside
view, only his forlorn expression staring back at him.

*

As
foretold by the Grim Reaper, through the body of Roland Goldsmith, the sacred
amphitheatre remained untouched by the onslaught that had burned the world
asunder.

Death had visited the cataleptic Roland and the obedient Vince Lawton on
several occasions throughout the ensuing years. It had brought with it the
finest fresh fruit, bread, milk, water and meat that were worth more than
money.

Unlike the survivors in East London and the folk in the village of Skewen
or the Watts family, Vince hadn’t a clue how to make fire. Yet on the first
visit where Vince still feared the Reaper, in spite of it being pleased with
him for his mass killing spree in Tesco supermarket, Death had bestowed the
young, muscular man with a piece of grimy parchment.

On it were three scrawled words written in black ink that had run down
the page. The words were foreign, Vince could tell. However, that was as far as
his limited knowledge took him. The language wasn’t anything he was familiar
with, although his initial assumption was it could have been Italian.

He’d looked up at the Grim Reaper, doing his utmost not to quiver from
the Goosebumps that pebbled his flesh every time they met each other’s gaze.
‘Italian! Is it Italian?’

The Reaper had shaken its head once.

‘It isn’t French. What about Arabic?’

Again the Reaper shook its head.

Vince proffered the piece of parchment back to the Reaper. ‘I give up
then. I can’t tell you what it is. Languages was never my strong point in
school, I’m afraid.’

The Reaper didn’t make a move for a minute.

Vince gulped, dreading the notion that by giving up he’d disappointed
Death.

Then Death’s emaciated X-ray hand protruded the sleeve of his robe. Its
index finger extended by the impossibly long jagged nail made contact with the
parchment.

The mass murderer watched, mesmerised. For a second he thought Death
would rip the parchment to pieces. There wasn’t much of anything left of it
anyway. Then he saw how delicately its triangle-shaped nail coursed across the
thick sheet. When it finished doing whatever it had intended the Reaper
proffered the parchment to Vince again.