A week without any food deliveries had left my cupboards bare. I decided I was recovered enough to go shopping. I just had no idea... I thought I would try the local shop first. Roads were deserted. Nobody about at all. There was the smell of smoke in the air, I assumed from the black pillar of ash that was where Manchester city center lay. Sometimes there were screams and shouts in the distance.
I ached for someone to
talk to. I had hopes of bumping into a neighbour on the way, or
seeing someone in their garden or taking a dog for a walk. There was
just nobody about. When I reached the convenience store, it was shut.
What's more, it looked empty too. Totally cleaned out. That's when I
saw someone else. Just a movement reflected in the window. I turned
and waved, hoping I might recognize them. It was a man, nobody I knew
though. He started running towards me. I just stood there, waiting,
assuming he was in a rush to talk with me. In hindsight I feel so
foolish.
Almost upon me and showing
no signs of slowing, the man tripped and flew head first into the
kerb. The crunch was sickening. I must have been in shock as I just
stood there staring. That probably saved my life. With half his skull
caved in, the man started to rise. His mouth opened and closed
spasmodically, teeth and blood spilling out. I thought the poor
bastard was in shock not to be screaming his head off. Having risen
to his feet, he took an unsteady step towards me. Then came the
scream. I will never forget that liquid sound straight from hell.
Both arms came up,
reaching for me, and the man tried to run again. Too stunned by the
curdling scream, I did nothing as he stumbled again, this time his
brains spilling onto the pavement as his head crashed to the ground.
I vomited hard. One final indignity for the dead man at my feet. My
strength gave for a moment and I was on my knees, retching inches
from his ruined face. The man's body jerked and I fled.
I desperately wanted to
find someone. The police station was miles away, the phones did not
work, and my strength had already abandoned me after running from the
dying man. Stealing a bicycle, I rode in what I remembered was the
direction of the police station.
My street had clearly been
spared the excesses of what local violence had flared in support of
the inner city rioting. Either side of this road, houses had boarded
up windows and doors. Sometimes houses had smashed windows and wide
open doors. A couple were on fire.
As I rode further, people
would come out of their houses. Some would just look at me, a few
began to run after me. I was always far enough ahead of them that I
was never in any danger. And then I turned the corner and in the road
leading up to the police station there was a crowd of people. They
were all across the road. I had no chance to ride through or around
them, so I had to stop. Almost as one, they turned towards me. A
glance was all I needed to see they were not right. Whatever madness
had possessed the first man I saw today, it gripped these people
too. With the people still following me on foot, I was trapped.
I never heard it and it's
timing was a miracle. A car drove straight into the crowd I had
turned from. Perhaps I should have tried to help the occupants. The
windscreen was broken, and a woman was hanging halfway out, blood
streaming down her body. A man, still holding onto the steering
wheel, was shouting. The crowd swarmed the car and the occupants
vanished.
I rode as fast as my legs
could pump. The few people in front of me had their attention split
between the frenzy over the car crash and a lone cyclist. The frenzy
won. I had the occupants of the car to thank twice now. My guilt
would wait until later to emerge.
Panic made me careless.
Looking for stragglers instead of concentrating on turning a corner,
I took the bike straight into a ditch. I lay panting in inches of
stagnant water. A few feet away was a mud and slime covered
tarpaulin. My foot caught the edge and I managed to pull it over my
body without moving above the sides of the ditch. I could hear
footsteps and other, cruder noises not far from where I lay. I lay
motionless and, exhausted, fell asleep.
After a day of hiding
beneath the tarpaulin, I tried to walk back in the dark. I avoided
the places where the street lights still worked. I felt weak both
from hunger and from fear. The relief at recognizing my own road was
energizing. I felt compelled to run despite the risk of attracting
attention. Sliding my key into my door, I was almost crying with
happiness. And once inside, I simply collapsed behind the door and
sobbed myself asleep.
I dreamed. Clawed hands
sought me from the darkness. Everywhere I went, hands burst forth to
tear at me and pull me apart.
Now I write. My diary has
become a lifeline for my sanity in the absence of somebody to talk
to. The smoke from the center is spreading. Nobody is doing anything
to stop this. I don't even know what 'this' is. I have no food. The
electricity is off. My phone is dead.
What do I do now?
