Silent Apocalypse

By Paul Trevor Nolan

Sixteen-year-old Felicity Goldsmith has watched from the sanctuary of her wealthy parent's home in the English countryside as a pandemic has raced around the globe, and destroyed all adult life. Now, with the passing of her last family member, she must go out into a silent land in search of companionship and answers. What she finds both horrifies her and gives her hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781291139136

Book preview

Chapter One: After the Beginning

I sat at the window that overlooked the courtyard of my parents’ rather grand country residence. The grass upon the small centre lawn was in dire need of mowing-

having been left to nature for ‘how long - four weeks? Five?’ It didn’t matter: it would never been mown again. Nor the grassy hillsides cropped. Or the wheat in the fields reaped.

In the world outside of my window nothing moved, except the swaying trees, the rippling grasses, and a solitary discarded crisp packet blown by the breeze. I saw all this superficially. My mind was elsewhere, or more accurately ‘else when’. I was recalling a brief article in my father’s broad sheet, buried several pages in, and with no by line, that had caught my eye. It concerned a small Pacific island, upon which several generations of islanders had mysteriously died over a period of no more than two to three weeks. All that remained were children and adolescents. Adjoining the article was a small photograph of covered bodies. It closed with the information that the Australian Government was dispatching a medical team to the island shortly.

A week later the same paper printed an accompanying article, this time by the ‘Science Editor’. In it he compared the events of the Pacific island with those of a small industrial town in one of the lesser-known former Eastern Bloc states. The similarities were quite alarming – though the authorities were denying any connection, which, at the time, I found reasonable enough. 

‘How could these events possibly be connected?’

How ‘wrong’ I was became evident several days later, as one by one, members of both investigating medical teams succumbed to the same malady that had devastated both communities.

Father suggested that such events Shouldn’t cause concern in a girl of sixteen. It was his opinion that I should be paying more attention to my forthcoming exams, rather than the problems of A bunch of savages a million miles from here. However when similar outbreaks within the borders of Russia and Australia began appearing on the television news, even he had to sit up and take notice. Not that it made any difference: before long ‘Outbreaks’ became ‘Epidemics’, which in turn became a ‘Pandemic’, and the cosy world  I’d always known, was gone.

My eyes found two recent mounds upon the lawn. Already weeds were sprouting, and last night’s gusting wind had blown down the makeshift crosses Sarah, my sister, and I had erected. For a brief moment my anger flared:

‘How dare nature add such insult to injury!’

However, in a moment it passed. It wasn’t the fault of nature that every adult creature upon the face of the Earth was dead: the guilty party was a virus; and that virus was entirely artificial. We had, it seemed, done it to ourselves.

It was all too easy to feel sorry for myself. Although the cataclysm I’d lived through was just that – a cataclysm: an earth-shaking disaster unequalled since the demise of the Dinosaurs: it was the simplest thing in the world to let the awesome facts slide straight past, and concern myself with smaller worries – namely the survival of those nearest and dearest to me: something, it appeared, I had little talent for. And now Sarah!

I turned quickly to notice that the room’s single light bulb was flickering. I kept it burning as a tell-tale: our only source of power was a generator. It was housed in an outbuilding, and out of earshot. The flickering light informed me that fuel was running low and that the generator was close to failure.

In the adjoining bedroom, Sarah cried out in fear. I dashed from my joyless window seat. As I reached her door, I found that Sarah had managed to pull herself up into a sitting position, and now sat curled at the head of her bed. Though the day was cool she perspired freely. This I’d seen before – first with Mother, then Father, and finally with our young, and rather attractive, gardener. All were now in the ground, though not together. Call me a snob if you will, but I couldn’t bury an employee in, what I considered, ‘The Family Plot’: Now Sarah, at the grand old age of twenty, was following suit.

For a moment I paused at the threshold. This was more than my tender years could take. I was momentarily cast back in the old world: the world of ‘Us’ and ‘Them.’ The ‘Haves’ – and ‘Have-nots’. It was all right (wasn’t it?) for some poor African wretch to suffer for most of his short, miserable, half-starved life: he was born into it. Used to it. But not me: I come from the land of security and plenty.

‘I’m British: I shouldn’t have to put up with this!’

Fel! Sarah’s cry brought me back to the moment. The light!

As with my room, Sarah also watched a single lamp. In her case it was a warm rosy bedside lamp with tassels dangling from the lower rim, which I’d noticed was rapidly becoming laced with dust and fibres. Not that it mattered: there was no one from which to hide our tardiness.

Sarah repeated her cry, but with an added note of desperation. Indeed - to her fevered mind - the light represented life itself. If it were extinguished, so was her time on Earth. In some way I too came to believe this.

I’ll get it! I yelled, and rushed from the room.

I scurried down the three floors that separated our rooms from the courtyard – into which I burst via the pantry door. Then crossing the lawn at a dead run, I hurdled my parent’s graves, then along the driveway, kicking up gravel as I raced, finally sliding to halt before the heavy outbuilding door that housed the generator. I heard the generator cough momentarily before resuming its irregular beat. I had moments only to refill the tank or I would be hours inexpertly bleeding the system through to get it restarted. I felt a momentary annoyance at Sarah for insisting that we keep it running continuously; but then reasoned that perhaps it was just her way of denying the ‘unreality’ of reality. Of staving off eternity. The feeling was immediately replaced by one of guilt, and I set about searching through the many plastic fuel cans which lined the walls.

I was still searching when the generator coughed its last. I stared in disbelief at the pile of empty cans that I’d hurled about the room in desperation.

‘How had I let our supply run so low?’ 

I knew the answer, of course. I couldn’t leave Sarah alone: therefore I couldn’t go in search of fresh supplies. This situation has always been inevitable.

‘Catch Twenty-two I believe they used to call it.’

I caught Sarah’s voice on the breeze. She was calling my name. Not in panic as I’d expected: but with an air of acceptance, though I imagine there was also a sense of despair intermingled with it. Certainly I felt that sense in my heart as I trudged, leaden-footed back toward the large grey house. Even the sky had clouded over to match my mood.

That evening rain began to fall, growing ever more torrential as the light faded. In her room Sarah lay back in her bed staring at the flicking flame of a candle upon her bedside table. She’d always loved candles, but Mother had forbidden them, ostensibly upon safety grounds; but in reality because of their smoky effect upon the ceiling. That didn’t matter now, of course. The fever had passed, and she smiled at the flame. ‘Recalling something?’ Her boyfriend at university, perhaps? Where might he be right now? ‘Feeding the crows’, I thought, and immediately regretted it. She was quite besotted with him, but would never leave her parent’s sides despite her eagerness to see him though the turmoil of a dying civilization.

Sarah’s whispered voice reached across the room: Fel.

I was always Fel: never Felicity. She thought my name far too pompous to use in the home.

I crossed the room to her. Taking her pale outstretched hand, I asked, Anything I can get you, Sarah? A wet towel or something?

She shook her head minutely; smiled; and drew me to her – pulling me gently down beside her – holding me with a degree of strength I didn’t know she possessed. She sighed deeply before her arms released me, and I knew she was gone.

I remained in place for some immeasurable period of time. I’d seen too many ‘truths’ recently, and this was one-too-many. Perhaps if I could deny just this one, then maybe it wouldn’t be so.

‘Mind over matter and all that.’

However as her body cooled, so did my resolve, and slowly I disengaged myself from her arms. Looking down upon her I was initially shocked to find her eyes open: but then I noticed her smile, and realized that she had seen ‘something’ as she died that (I hoped) might have brought her joy in those final moments, and which made my loss just bearable. At that moment a rising wind blew open the window, and I was lashed by the sudden squall that entered the room. As I rushed to close it once more I realized that this was the last time I would ever do this. From this moment on the family home was no home at all: it was a mausoleum. Tomorrow I must leave. ‘For where?’ I had no idea. I prayed that the answer would come to me in my sleep.

Chapter Two: Friends

I’d dressed in the sturdiest of clothes that I could find in the house. I’d concluded that everything must be hard wearing, practical, and comfortable. Importantly must be capable of keeping me dry through an English winter. The combination of my own clothes, and those selected from the wardrobes of my parents, my sister, and even the gardener, did not make for sartorial elegance. It did though, in my opinion, give me the best chance of surviving in a world beyond our walls. A world of which I was very ignorant. So, dressed in well-worn hiking boots, combat trousers, a heavy sweater, a long waterproof coat, a wide-brimmed canvas hat, and a haversack stuffed full of the necessities of life, a staggered out through the portals of our once grand home, and set out for the distant hills.

Believing that towns and cities should be avoided, I kept to country roads - ever alert for the sounds of vehicles approaching. During my final year at school I’d read a disaster novel in which banditry is quickly established and replaces law and order in a collapsed society. Certainly some of the boys I knew at school were not the type one would wish to meet in a dark alley, let alone an adult-free, lawless land. I saw no reason why the imaginings and considered ruminations of that now-dead author should be questioned.

‘It’s a jungle out there, baby.’

Two kilometres or thereabouts later I jettisoned some of my ‘necessities’. The combined weight of ten large cans of baked beans was bending me double, and had to go. A further kilometre into my journey and the sweater must be tied around my waist, my raincoat left to hang open, and the hat consigned to the haversack.

At length I discovered a bicycle inside a garden shed. I then searched the small country home that adjoined it – finding only two decayed bodies in an upstairs room. They reminded me of Sarah, whom I decided against burying. Instead I’d dressed her in her favourite clothes, and left her upon our parent’s bed. Somehow it had seemed wrong to heap soil upon my own sister. Perhaps in this way I hoped she’d remain as she was forever.

A bicycle, even though it was old and extremely unfashionable, made the going so much easier. It did though make it more difficult to listen out for unusual sounds. However after a couple of hours of silence - except for the whirr of the drive chain and the clattering of a loose mudguard - I began to relax. The weather had cleared, and as the sun dipped below the hills to bring the day to a close I halted before the gate of a solitary bungalow nestling between the road and a small river, both of which ran through a shallow cultivated valley. Though whilst light remained outside, inside the house was cloaked in shadows. I realized that I’d made an earlier error: of all my ‘necessities’ I’d forgotten to include a light of any kind, though I did remember to pack several cigarette lighters – one of which I now used. I was shocked to find the house ransacked. I then recalled the disaster novel I’d read. I was disappointed.

‘This was to be expected.’

What was not expected was the young male voice which issued from the flickering shadows thrown by my cigarette lighter: Hello, hello, hello: What’s going on here then? Uttered through a series of dropped aitches.

I spun about. The speaker struck his own cigarette lighter, which illuminated a scruffy-looking boy of about my age. He was sitting in a rocking chair and casually brandishing a huge, ancient revolver.

Although startled, I felt more anger than fear. Is that gun loaded? I asked him.

He seemed genuinely surprised, What sort of question is that?

I’ve never liked people who answer a question with another question.

‘It’s called evasion.’

Well, is it? I persisted.

He did it again. What if it is?

I could see this line of questioning was leading nowhere. I tried to remain calm. Well I’ll tell you. I said tetchily, It looks very old: It probably has a hair-trigger: And I’d sooner you pointed in some other direction, thank you very much! 

To this he responded with a careless, Would you now?

At this point the weight of the last few days ground out any fear I might have felt. I calmly apprised him of the situation.

"Look, I don’t have a lot to live for; but I would really, really, hate to die so young at the hands of an idiot."

It seemed that I wounded him, but he still managed to respond with a question, Who are you calling an idiot?

You – you idiot! I yelled at him. If it is loaded, then you have no right pointing it at me: If it isn’t, then you’re even more stupid, because I’m going to come over there and take it off you. Either way, it’s going to hurt.

It was like watching a balloon deflate slowly. All the cockiness seemed to dissipate into the air around him.

Yeah, yeah, all right, it aint loaded. Don’t think it’s got a firing pin either. He said as he tossed it to my feet. Found it upstairs. Then, somewhat surprisingly, he added, Me name’s Lee: what’s yours? Want some beans?

In an instant, like Lee before me, my balloon also deflated. Felicity Goldsmith. I informed him. Thank you; beans would be lovely.

After shucking off my haversack and coat, I went in search of Lee, whom I discovered in the kitchen, heating some baked beans over a wood-burning stove. He looked up from his endeavours. Felicity, did you say?

I handed his useless weapon back to him. That’s right.

My Gran used to have an old record player called that.

Good Lord. I responded, You made a statement without a question attached.

For a moment he gave me a disquietingly calculating look. He softened it with, Yeah, s’pose you’re right. He then returned to his task.

I decided to keep the conversation going – if that’s what you could call it. Your Grandmother’s record player was probably a ‘Fidelity’ – as in high-fidelity.

It was clear this meant nothing to the scruff-bag before me.

You know – high quality sound reproduction? I persisted. Hi-fi?

This clicked. Oh yeah. Dolby, and all that.

It dawned on me that the subject was truly an academic one. ‘Time for a change’, I concluded. Are the beans nearly done?

Lee passed me an empty bowl into which he began pouring a ladle-full of steaming baked beans. You ask a lot of questions too. He observed, before continuing with one of his own. What’s the plan of action then?

Survive. Was my simple response.

Lee poured out a bowl-full for himself. After that.

We parked our rear ends together upon a small settee, and began filling empty stomachs.

Find the fountain of eternal youth, I suppose. It’s the only way we’re going to live longer than the four or five years we have before maturity. I answered.

If we last that long. He mumbled, pessimistically. I’ve seen a lot of trouble.

I didn’t care to think about that: instead I concentrated upon eating.

Some time later I was surprised to find myself sprawled along the settee. I had no recollection of falling asleep, and was slightly disconcerted. Also, for a split second wondered if my new acquaintance had drugged me; but I quickly dismissed the notion: my exhaustion was surely over-exertion. ‘Cycling can do that: especially when you’re not used to it.’

Still feeling slightly groggy, I sought out Lee, who I thought, might have abandoned me. I found him in the garden. He stood motionless, staring at the moon.

A penny for them? I whispered.

He jumped. Don’t do that. He scolded.

Sorry. So what are you doing out here?

The cockiness of earlier was a distant memory: Oh, I dunno. Feeling – what’s the word? A sort of sadness. You know – wishing for something from the past.

Melancholy? Reminiscence perhaps?

He turned to look at me. Yeah – that’s the word: ‘Melancholy’. I was thinking… He turned his gaze to the moon once more, "There’s loads of stuff up there. Footprints. Lunar rovers. That sort of stuff. Put there by men. And now there aint no men. None at all. Not one. No women too. It don’t seem possible. Not to me it don’t. I don’t even know how it happened. There I was, all nicely tucked up in a remand home, and then one day that young screw came along, showed us the door, and said, ‘Off you go then. Good luck’, and I found out that the world had ended."

Although I was no expert in the field, I had eagerly followed events as The Plague swept around the world, or at least until the papers ceased being printed and TV went off the air.

It was a virus. I told him. An artificial one, they said. No one claimed to know anything about it. No one admitted responsibility. It might have been an accident, a mutation, or even the ultimate terrorist atrocity. No one knows. All I know is that if we’re going to live past our teens we have to get somewhere virus-free: and I have no idea where that might be.

Lee nodded toward the moon. Aint got a Saturn Five handy, I s’pose?

He couldn’t see my smile in the darkness. No. I replied.

Shame. He turned back; pushed past me; and re-entered the house.

Yes. I said to the moon. Shame.

We were up at the crack of dawn, having rested well upon the settee and a pile of cushions. As if by some unspoken mutual consent we were agreed that we should travel together. ‘Misery loves company’, I thought: but it was more than that, of course. A human need for companionship. We were of different genders, and from almost opposite social poles; but we spoke the same language, and at that moment that was enough to make us ‘family’.

We raided the kitchen one last time; then from a nearby neighbour’s home we sought out a bicycle for Lee. So equipped, we began our journey together.

Chapter Three: The Farm

The journey began with a question. Lee stood at the gate beside his ladies’ shopping bike.

Well? he said, looking both ways along the road. Which way do we head?

I joined him; then indicated a point half way between both extremes.

Across the field? He spoke as though the nearby meadow was mined.

What’s wrong: scared of cows? I instantly regretted the sarcasm: several decomposed bovine carcasses littered the area. No, I mean that farm in the distance.

Lee was less than excited at the prospect. It’s a bit close, aint it?

You wanted to know which way to go: I’m suggesting that farm. I pointed out to him. It’s a starting point. The longest journey must start with the first step. That farm is the first step.

Ten minutes later we were struggling through the long grass. The weight of our haversacks and the need to push our bicycles was exhausting us. We spoke between gasps for air…

People usually head north. Lee informed me.

They do? I forced out. When? Who are these people?

You know, on telly and films and stuff. When people get lost in the outback, or survive plane crashes, they always head north.

This fact had eluded me, and I told Lee so.  Immediately Lee contradicted himself.

On the other hand, it’s usually colder in the north. P’raps we should head for somewhere warmer. South, that’s it. We’ll head for France. Spain’s down that way, and all – aint it? Lee continued, for which I was grateful: it allowed me to breathe…

Hang on though: don’t viruses like warm conditions? Everyone knows cold aint good for viruses. P’raps we should head north after all.

I heard myself join the one-sided conversation. Not all viruses hate the cold. What about Foot and Mouth? It loves cold English weather.

Ooh, blimey, yeah. He uttered eloquently. All right: east or west?

East takes us to the North Sea, then either Holland or Scandinavia: West takes us to the Atlantic, and eventually North America. As far as I know, the virus has every base covered.

Lee paused, and scrutinized the less distant farm. Which direction is that in?

I looked for the rising sun. North or thereabouts.

Lee smiled for the first time. There, I told you people usually head north.

As we resumed our slow progress he made an observation. You’re – you know – a bit posh, aint ya?

Yes. I concluded after a brief moment’s thought. I suppose I am. And you are not. So, using a line that might better suit his parlance, I added, But who gives a monkey?

Not me. He said, smiling again.

A screwed-up crisp packet interrupted him as it swept past in the wind. The sight of it immediately took me back to two days previous: the swaying grasses of our family courtyard replacing the scene before me.

‘And the solitary crisp packet as it blew in from… where? Here?’

Lee snatched it up. He flattened it out; then shook it. Dry potato remains fell from it in a salty dusting. This looks pretty new to me. He said.

Then, as one, we dropped our bikes and ran for the farm. The long grass seemed to grapple with our feet. It felt as though it was deliberately holding us back. By the time we reached the uninhabited farmyard we were exhausted and had to lean against a long-abandoned tractor.

When I’d recovered sufficient breath, I called out a few ‘Hello’s and ‘Is there anybody there’s’ – a la a million Hollywood movies. However unlike most of the Hollywood movies I’d suffered, no crazed axe murderer emerged from the barn, or rotting zombie raised itself up from beneath the soil.

Red herring, Felicity. Give it up. Lee spoke as he clambered onto the tractor. Wonder if there’s any diesel in the tank?

But he was wrong. I’d seen a movement at an upper window. It might have been a child. I wasn’t sure. I nodded toward it.

Lee dismounted. On the other hand…

We pummelled upon the ancient wooden door from which paint was peeling and which was obviously locked from within. There was no letterbox, so I tried calling through a crack in the ageing timbers. Hello in there. It was hardly original, I knew, but what else was I going to say? We want to be friends.

Lee gave me a look of disbelief. Then, Maybe we do, he grunted, "but a