Labradear - The first 3 Chapters

LabraDear

Prologue

Consider an outstretched hand. A measure of earth’s life. One stroke of a nail file on the furthermost finger erasing human history. Yet your extreme arrogance perseveres and the party continues. Within an environment in which you are the current gatecrashers. Everything around has more history than you and your forefathers. Your underdeveloped brains are so new that you cannot understand everything around you. Everything that is unexplainable is discarded. An impossibility. You live in a miraculous world where all around you there are miracles. Yet there are no such things as miracles. You have been given the tools to see everything yet you see nothing. All that it is unexplainable is explained as unexplainable. As such you shut yourselves into a world of what you know. And what you have known for 200 years. Everything before that is discarded. For you, all that is important is in the future. When you will learn more. Be able to explain more and control more. Overpower the god-parents and assume autonomy.
Yet Nature is the true god mother. Angry, beautiful, vicious and sexy. She owns this earth. This life. Nature has no future, only the now. The past has no place in the present - it’s all buried and long gone. And whatever will happen can only be influenced. Nature understands her true lack of omnipotence. She has seen the destruction contributed to by humans. She understands. An understanding shared by all of Nature’s uncomplaining creatures. Somewhere along the line humanity took another road. Separated itself from a cohesive existence. Made new rules. And Nature saw and understood. That she only had to bide her time. Humanity’s cards were marked as such. And if one took a step back it was easy to understand how obvious it all was.
*

Chapter One

It was the worst smell. Rotting corpses. Putrid intestines. Death.
It was a hundred spirits tapping on my head and telling me, no, go this way, no, go that way. I could smell food, I could smell the dead. I could smell the killer of the dead. I could smell the scent of whom the dead had touched. I could smell what the dead had eaten that morning. I could tell where the dead had been last week.
I estimated over five thousand dead just in this one place. There were too many options. Too many opinions. Too many questions. This was worse than a field of a thousand compadres, where trails were left and answers were hinted at. Where smells equated to visual imagery that fed into our potent senses.

It was about tuning out what you didn’t need. That essential tool in survival where being near a diseased corpse could spell the end. Sift out the ‘dead’ smells and seek out the clean. The smells that lead to the roads. And beware of who treads those roads and why they are there. Believe in distrust.
There was a familiar steep hill that rose to the upper part of this place and this was where I wanted to go. I had walked it many times. There were feeding areas, living places, people areas or houses as the people called them. It was green there with trees and tall hedges. There was a water pool at the top of the hill that was surrounded by trees and bushes and a wooden surround. I liked going there as it was quiet and I could hear everything properly – as it was supposed to be heard. Carried by the wind. And everything around this pool supplied all the right barriers where the sound could bounce and where if I turned my head just so, was perfect.
This was going to be my first bearing. The pool of water. Beyond this I knew there were other green fields and open spaces and a few living places. I would be able to sense clearly. Start to learn about where to go. Where to eat.

The nails that slunk out from my padded feet sounded too loud. They were making clipping sounds as I made my way past the long, curbed line of living places. I could just make out, as I peered over some fences, the bodies of some of my fellows. Slumped over the peoples’ bodies. Some still with intestines in their mouths. The dead ones decomposing on top of other dead ones. Still there as examples to us all. Where we were now learning that food was a provider but also a killer. We had understood that once the food had run out then the answer was not in the people. We instinctively knew that. Even though the people had thought the answer had been in ourselves. And the people had continued to murder the creatures and hang their glorious bodies in white boxes, covered to protect the smell. And queues had still formed and the bodies had been taken and burned and eaten. Then they started to feed the bodies back to the creatures. That was the start of the end.

As I approached the end of the track a noise – a familiar noise, stopped me. I peered back and felt the familiar warmth as the first dwelling started to give off a scent of centuries. The first of many I hoped as this act expressed intelligence. That one of us was thinking ahead. Burn the dead.

At least there was silence. I could look right or left, smell the air and sense a peace that intertwined the branches of the trees. The living places that people entered to get their food were empty now and there were no lights to guide any thing towards where they now stood. Side by side, red-bricked nothingness. Lifeless. Yet the sun was up now and emphasized the colours of the branches of both trees and bushes, replacing the people-light with natural day colour and bringing to the forefront the sounds that were there to guide us. It was ours again and I could feel unused senses craning and flexing. It would take time but that time was now ours too, to do with as we wished. Progress could be fast.
I smelt the wind and sought a clean path away from this track. The warmth behind me had increased and for a moment it felt right to go back. Where there was heat there was usually food. I sniffed the air and ignoring the smoke-filled track behind me, I pushed away from this familiar area and moved towards unknown but cleaner fields. I could sense food possibilities and other beings. There was danger but when wasn’t there? Every day I had been ready to fight and every day I had not. Like my senses, my urges had all been eventually repressed. Replaced by a people routine. Gratifyingly one-way and one that had turned me into a being that slept, ate and drank twice a day. Then there was the same field that I was taken to. Here I could at least absorb the stories of other beings there before me. Sad as they were. And our stories were sad and we all led similar lives, yet the scents that we had left behind held such hope. An evolutionary hope that kept pushing us forwards. Yet whereas that evolution had been in the hands of the people, who allowed us only to multiply when the time and the space could be found in their living places, that evolution was now back with us. In place of scents of hope we would now be leaving behind scents holding detailed instruction and guidance.

As I passed the track that led to the river I moved at pace away from the dog-farm. I could feel the silence from this living place that once had been screaming to me day and night. I did not know why fellow souls were kept in this place but I understood the calls that every occupant cried out to any of us who would listen. The cries told me that here even routine had been removed. Removed and replaced with a routine within a routine. Confinement was one added routine. Bad food was another. Yet the worst was that hope had been removed. And despair had taken its place. Every day and every night I was forced to tune out the cries that screamed, come and free us. I knew this really meant, stay away. All signals that were detected told stories of pain and small spaces. There were strange routines that caused confusion and drove most to misery and hopelessness. What I did not understand now was the silence. My nose was telling me too many things, none that involved food and none that involved living things. I looked ahead.

My life up until now had been all about routine. The peoples’ living place was all I knew. Here I had been given food. Twice a day. I had access to water, mostly. But my life was always about never having quite enough. I was always near food but it was always out of reach. Food was always around us but I couldn’t get to it. This had driven some of my fellow creatures to stronger actions. Some had turned on the people. Killing the smaller ones. Attacking when least expecting. Breaking the routine. Yet the people were in control and there were always too many. The ones who broke the routine were taken away and did not return. For some this was the only way forward. The only way out.

My senses have been repressed. I could use them but they have become useless. What use is a sense for food when I cannot reach that food? What use is a sense for danger when my sense of space is so small and I am restricted from acting on that danger?
All around me I was able to smell fellow beings and I needed to release this urge to create. The fellows’ senses called out to me, sent coded messages. I would have killed to get to them. And I was beaten in my quest. Pain and a raised voice told me to quell my urge. Once again I was pushed to breaking point. And while the urges were being suppressed, becoming smaller, evolving into nothingness, behind them hatred awaits. Looming and becoming stronger. Urge replaced with loathing.

And for intelligent beings – a description used to describe people, by people - there were areas, such as communication, that had been overlooked. Words such as the following were used to depict myself to other people as a creature: adorable, sweet, lovely temperament, beautiful coat, pretty face, good with children, so clean, naughty, full of energy, doesn’t bark much. When we barked we were described as yappy. Sometimes the question was asked - why were we barking?
The fact is that we understand people. We understand your language. We understand more about you than the noise that you produce, whether it is loud or prolonged, or raised in pitch. We can smell your sweat and we know why you are sweating. We are able to differentiate the sweat that is produced from fear and the sweat produced from exertions. We can read facial expressions. If your eyes narrow it is a bad sign. If they are round or oval you are looking for something. When you produce water from your eyes we know if the water is because of pain or because you are happy. We understand you.
Why is our language so hard to understand? What stopped you from hearing what we were saying? Our language is around you every day, yet like birdsong, is only there as décor for your lives. So we took the pain from the beatings and when our barks were too much for you, when our recreational urges became too strong, you again, showed us pain. When our cries – cries of confusion and sadness that were never to be understood – became too much for you, the response was the same. Threats and pain. If danger loomed people warned us to respond with silence and to remain seated. Like people do. Soulless, gutless and afraid to protect. What did this leave us with? Sleeping, eating and hatred. And waiting.

*

Grey, thick, damp concrete blocks. After a while these slabs filled your mind. It does that when you have not seen grass for over a decade. When it is not possible to recall how warm the spring sun can feel after months of winter. When the imagery leaves you and when it is replaced by what you see and know. The thick, leaden walls. Each chunk contributing towards an ugly space. Slightly wet to the touch. Just to remind you what a dungeon your life had become. And the grayness – it seeps into you. The eyes are the first to go, weighed down by all the gloom. Then the rest of the body follows suit. The blood retreating into its own cavernous depths away from the skin surface. And a sallow aura is emitted. A smell. The walls become mirrors of the soul.
Until now there was never silence. Even at night tortured minds called out to no one. The sounds became fantastically similar. There were no different noises, just the same monotony of clatter and off-key chanting. Like a restricted orchestra playing the same tune night after night. Same voices, same songs, same berating.

And now there was something wrong. The silence was telling its story.

It was a routine within a routine. There were white coats, but only to distinguish between those who were insane and those who felt a lucidity within their moral duty. In this section of the unit, there were no straps attached to the lower rails of the beds. This was Dark Hospitalization. These two beds oozed tragedy and each who introduced their weight to this metal frame, were not coming back. It was a choice of slow suicide that was allowed to happen.

Your body needs energy to function and prefers to use carbs (glycogen) first. For the first few days of starvation the body uses its stores of glycogen in liver and muscle. This is accompanied by salt excretion with substantial weight loss. The next phase lasts up to day 10-14, during which time glycogen stores are exhausted and certain amino acids are used to make more glycogen. In the final phase, most energy comes from ketones produced by the breakdown of fatty acids. When fat stores are used up there is catastrophic protein use, but generally other complications arise first.

Gary knew all this. As did Clive. Clive had summarized the process to Gary in one sentence – ‘your body starts to eat itself’.
Now, lying side by side, like pathetic characters from a Philip Larkin poem, each close to death, Gary thanked God for the hospital drugs. Without which, he adlibbed, this whole performance would not have been possible. The drugs were the reason why they had chosen this route. Although a seemingly drawn out process, this method of death was the less cowardly and – Gary and Clive had decided – would be a nicer way to end their days. High and out of it.

Then the drip supplying the drugs ran dry and the pain kicked in.
The toxins that produced pain in the lower intestine gathered in the lower back, near the spine. Blood vessels drew nutrients from the colon a sign that the liver was starting to break down. And as reality clawed its way back into their brains Clive remembered how very hungry he was and he looked over at Gary vomiting again. All that Gary could think of as he screamed and half-retched, half in the bed and half on the floor, was how much his voice echoed. And how no one came running.
Clive sat up and pushed the plastic sheet from his clammy chest. He felt dizzy and weak. And hungry. This wasn’t right. He should feel half dead, no, three-quarters dead. Hunger should not be part of the equation. Hunger passes after a few days into a hunger-strike. Clive was famished. The bastards he spat. They’ve been feeding me through the drip. Gary dry-retched again. This is an experiment Clive thought. One right we have in this hole of a fucking prison, one right. To fucking die - and they take that away from us. Clive looked down at the tube feeding into his stomach. Beside his bed sat a pile of cushioned bags containing fluids. Enough for months and months Clive guessed. He looked across at Gary’s bed. There were also piles of bags, some discarded but the contents of the bags were clearly different. Gary was not on a road of recovery, more a road of death. Clive winced as he yanked the tube from his stomach. He didn’t want to think about the fact that it had been piercing his stomach wall or that the green, yellow scabs that also ripped away had melded into his skin. Clive told himself that removing this tube was his first step to freedom and that first step is always the most painful. With one hand cupped over the bleeding hole he placed one foot on the cold floor and tested his weight, shifting to the other foot before his mind could decide if it was too much. Gary’s mattress expelled air as Clive lunged across and landed at its bottom end, grabbing hold of the rails that ran symmetrically from one end to the other. Breathing heavily, Clive pulled himself into a sitting position. Minutes later Gary had been maneuvered back into his bed. Ashen but breathing steadily. Clive managed to attach one of his own feeding bags to the gothic apparatus that hung over Gary’s bed. Exhausted, he found himself too tired to reach his own bed. Shifting up the mattress slightly, and wincing as a shot of pain reminded him of the now weeping hole his fingers were pushed against, Clive lifted Gary’s head slightly so that it lay across his shoulder. Breathing heavily Clive lowered his own head onto Gary’s now-stained pillow. And once again they lay side by side. Staring at the ceiling that merged into the white aertex and the hazy, silver aluminum of the lights, Clive wondered whether he was already dead. Just as he was falling asleep there was a vague awareness of something being very close to him. So close he could touch it. It was an utter feeling of dread.
Clive dreamt of roast dinners served by doctors wearing colostomy bags as fashion accessories, hooked onto their belts. Even Gary’s groaning and jerking of his head entered Clive’s dream as some violent interlude involving cave monsters that battered his head with hammers made of stone. In some dream-like, surreal way it was the most alive he had felt in the last ten years. Despair replaced with an urge for life.

Clive had no idea what day it was or what time. They could have been here for years. Gary was still sleeping – or unconscious – but it was clear that some colour had returned to his sallow complexion - a minor sign of health. Freed from his tubes Clive explored the room. It was still prison-like. Featureless and full of hospital equipment. There was even, Clive mused, resuscitation equipment. Now why was that in here when they were ‘rational suicide’ patients? It had been agreed. No publicity. No more media interest. No more rioting. Simply a one-way ticket out of here. He picked up one of the bags that had been feeding him and read the inscripted, white writing. Several times he came across the word ‘nutrients’. Lucky for Gary, he murmured to himself.
The smell was overwhelming yet as always, after a while, bearable. What was the source of the smell? Did he really want to know? The brain didn’t understand the aroma, couldn’t see the supply, so had no way of providing satisfactory imagery. As such each new intake of the stench produced confusing reactions. What Clive did know was that a smell of death and decay meant disease and that it was all around them. It would not take long for that disease to close in on them, so ironically, they were going to have to break out of this prison. Today, not tomorrow. Clive calculated quickly what they had to do. Firstly they would need clothes. Clothes that were in this room, no contamination – this was the key. Then he would need Gary awake and thinking straight. Gary had progressed from retching to snoring. A pretty major sign of wellbeing Clive decided.
You have just mere minutes more of lullaby my friend Clive said out loud as he started to scrump through one of many brown, metal office-like cabinets. Clothes it seemed were not to be a problem. Well, Clive said out loud again, looks like our disguise of choice is to be that of a doctor and he pulled out a size 42 white jacket with matching trousers. ‘Wakey wakey Gary’ Clive sang as he threw an identical pair of garments towards Gary’s bed. It’s time to roll.

Once Gary was fully awake and had got over the shock of still being alive the subject of conversation was what were the consequences of breaking free from the prison. We have no choice was the summary of the final decision. Gary was complaining about the smell. ‘It’s not right’.
Clive pointed at the pool of vomit under Gary’s bed. ‘That, would smell better if you kept it in your gut.’
‘This is coming from Mr. Nutrient bags who’s every vitamin has been provided while he has snoozed a sleep of princes’.
‘There were nightmares...’ Clive started.
‘De dums.’ Gary interjected. ‘Look at the state of me. I am thin, under nourished and my hair is falling out.’
‘Gary’ Clive replied in monotone ‘your intention was to die. Now you are concerned about your hair style’.
‘I need a shit.’ Gary replied.
Clive sighed and pointed to another door to the right of the door that said ‘exit’ - ‘Another healthy sign I guess. Try that little room over there. I guess it was there for who ever was watching over us.’
Gary grabbed his new clothes and limped towards the bathroom.
‘When you are ready,’ Clive said looking around the room, ‘we’ll get the fuck out of here. These smells are closing in on me. ‘

It wasn’t so much a break-out as a walk-out, although it would be questionable which was harder. Once outside of the ‘suicide’ ward it was obvious that security was no longer a priority in this prison. ‘Security’ was no longer functioning in this prison. ‘Security’ was contributing to the smell. This forced a temporary retreat back into the ward for Clive and Gary. Makeshift face-masks were made by ripping the sleeves from jackets and dousing them in soapy water. ‘Double whammy’ – Gary said. ‘Get rid of your spots and mask the stink.’ Both men were now weighing up the cost of what they were about to see with an almost uncontrollable yearning for the outside world. Neither discussed what they thought had happened. All they understood was that there had been genocide of sorts. Whether it was caused by disease or man was not clear but getting away from the remains was a necessity.
Focus, look ahead and focus on the next exit. Look for the next door. Breathe through your mouth. Look ahead, not down. Ignore anything that moves and keep walking. Every 30 seconds shout the other’s name. Counting to 30 will help focus the mind. If a door is locked or an exit blocked then both stop and maintain eye contact with the other. All that will matter at that point is how to exit through that access point. Pure 100 per cent focus.
Clive and Gary knew enough about focusing the mind thanks to ten years of training. Training to ignore and accept boredom. What got them through the day was knowing exactly what was going to happen during that day. Wake, stretches, piss, shave, breakfast, work, lunch, break, exercise, dinner, rest and lights out. There was only variance when an outside force demanded it. As such, outside forces were placed into the margin of the mind. To the side. The only important factors were those nicely separated routines. Hurdles’ if you like. To get you through the day. One breath closer to freedom.

*

Once the burning smell was too far away to sense, things became clearer. A skip of padded feet turned into a trot and soon all that could be heard was the sound of his running. There was a hill but it was worth the sensory dehydration. He knew that water was waiting. And he could smell others. Smell the hope. As he passed bases of ‘information’ the messages were becoming more positive. The sadness was receding and in its place were real signs. Don’t go left at the second bush by the red post. Go right then left. Avoid the people dwelling at Number 28. All are gone and there is no food. Number 31 had food but it has been taken. Try Number 33. If you enter Number 33 leave directions to the food source.

It was almost meant to happen. Two men for whom failure was out of the question. A dog whose quest was deeper than any of the two men realized. The meeting wasn’t set up but the meaning of why they met perhaps was. Life is sometimes like that. One day you are strolling past a pond and suddenly you are jumped as if you are meat for the pot. These men hadn’t seen a life-force before them, they had seen food. The assumption had been made that there was still a pecking order. That the world was theirs for the eating. Bad mistake.

*

Ten long years. For both of them. Not that they had known each other before, it was just that they shared the same stretch. Kind of drew them together at the start and they rapped off each other from day one. Now, as they strolled along the suburban street, neither talking yet each knowing what the other was thinking, those three words slipped wordlessly between them. Ten long years. You didn’t dwell on the ‘whys’ in prison. You told your story once then it was out there. Like a pop song. Out there for everyone to hear and copy and make up their own by taking bits of yours. So Gary had told his once and never spoke of it again. And Clive had respected him for that. Clive’s story was different. It was repeatable. Became more exciting each time it was retold and yet nothing was added to it. It just had this resonance. Longevity. It sounded like he had been filmed while it happened, then been asked to provide commentary afterwards. It also involved his brother-in-law – all good stories involve brother-in-laws. Brother-in-laws seem intent on always over-impressing and as such tend to go too far. What Clive’s BIL did was to get shot. Then he lived for 13 days and died. On his wife’s birthday.
Clive happened to be in the car, driving. They were on a joint family holiday in Durban. South Africa’s kinder relative of JoBurg. Clive’s sister Jenny and the two teenaged children were by the rented holiday home pool. Clive’s then girlfriend was inside reading a book. Clive and Richard had been sent out to buy beers and steaks for the BBQ and for them it made a pleasant change. It had been nice to get out. Away from the ‘treading on each others toes’ atmosphere. Women had a way, Clive said, of stirring it up more than was necessary. All he was after was some sun, beer and some relaxation. No point in creating something out of nothing. Richard had smiled in agreement.
As Clive pulled up at the stop-light his mind paused and he recalled reading – just for a second –that you should never stop at lights. Or had Jenny told him that? Anyway, wasn’t that just Jo’burg?
He had felt the black metal of the gun against his cheek, curiously at right angles and not digging into his face. The voice oozed calm.
‘Turn off the immobiliser’
Time speeded up and then slowed down. Clive asked to be let out of the car.
The carjacker had done this before.
‘The immobiliser’ he repeated.
Clive glanced across at Richard who was staring down, avoiding eye contact from the second balaclava’d face to his left.
Clive reached under the driver hub and clicked the immobilser to off.
‘Please, can I get out. Here..’
Before he could offer his wallet, it was slid away from within his coats inside pocket along with his mobile phone and driving licence.
He took this as a confirmation of sorts and clicked open the door, crouching down by the door well, his knees trembling against the hard plastic, his head down.
Richard clicked open his door, only the window was up.
There had been no exchange between Richard and his carjacker.
There was no flash, just a crack. More than a pop and loud enough to take you outside of your expected realm of senses.
After that there was only consequence. The bullet went into Richard sideways and as he fell to the concrete road his hip snapped. The bullet hit his liver first and then penetrated his kidney. Clive wondered then if he knew – that there was no going back.
At the sound of the shot the first carjacker was dancing and running and zig zagging towards a small white vehicle. His weapon forgotten, discarded by Clive’s left foot.

Clive was ordered to appear in court nine months later. Manslaughter. Should have been ‘Mans Laughter’ really, Clive would solemnly tell anyone who wanted to hear. He stayed in Durban awaiting an outcome of the charges. The girlfriend went home, bored. Clive drifted into temporary work as a mechanic. He was liked locally. As the court date loomed, witnesses on that fateful day started to come forward, convinced perhaps by his loyalty to the community. Statements were taken. Whereas on that day they had scattered like broken glass, now like reassured church-goers, they signed their solemn oaths in favour of Clive’s actions. The case was dropped.
Clive stayed on in Durban. He liked a lot of things. The weather, the bars. The way he could pretend to be someone else. And now he had a real history behind him and no one really cared too much about ‘before’. And he finally got his official gun licence. In truth, he would recount, he was a bit of a fan of the Wild West.

This was where Clive’s story would gain momentum. Most listeners would be preparing to nod and move away. Only the Durban incident was in fact the ‘feeder’.
Three months later and Clive was shopping in a mall just outside of Durban. The mall was typical in that it looked like every other mall world-wide. It was a normal Saturday, people were into their normal, weekend routines. Shopping, walking, holding hands. There were the usual hoards of teenagers. Smoking, flirting, absolutely focused on themselves and their moment. It was really hot that day and as the air conditioning had overloaded, the four main doors to the mall had been wedged open. Thinking back, Clive sometimes mentioned, that may have been part of the plan. It was as clear a robbery as any. Even to the point Clive recalled, that the perpetrators, two of them, were carrying what looked like bags of cash. If ever you want to resemble someone highly suspicious then sprint through a crowded shopping mall, screaming at everyone to ‘get out of the fucking way’ at very high volume. It’ll work every time. Clive went on. This guy was running right at me. I was in his line of sprint and he was not going to be creating a bend to go around me. So it was up to me to step out off the way, and let’s be honest, only three months earlier I had killed someone. So the smarter move was to step to one side and put a Coke machine between myself and an extremely hyped up robber. Which is what I did. (I was carrying a gun. A small but sprightly young thing that slotted nicely into the rear of my jean belt, in its own holster.). So I made that decision. To not get involved in this one. It was too soon and after all I was not a one-man vigilante. But I couldn’t stand it. ‘Don’t use the gun’ I kept saying to myself. ‘Don’t do it’. So I decided to use my hands. I guess I had seen too many ‘Die Hard’ films. I tried to time it perfectly to use my body as a stopping board. The idea was to stand in front of him just as he approached the Coke machine. To jump out with a huge grin on my face, then take the abruptness of his force. His energy. When he hit me we both went down like a sack of bricks. And I’m a heavy guy. We hit that marble floor like two shopping bags. Then we were rolling around like a pair of kids, me very aware that he was carrying and him, still in shock at my abrupt introduction. ‘Give it up’ I was screaming. He said nothing. Then I managed to pick him up and slam him into the ‘Body Shop’ window. I braced myself for the window to break but he bounced back into me and once again we hit the floor. All I could think of was that I had seen his gun and that he hadn’t dropped it. Each time we fell I would be desperately seeking out his sweaty wrists. Checking his hands were empty and holding them away from his sides. I hit him a few times and this seemed to shock him into resistance. Then I was sitting on his chest, my face staring into his. ‘Leave the gun’ I said. I told him to leave it. Then I felt his hand slipping out of my grip, in that schoolboy way, proving that he wasn’t ‘done for’ yet. His face was pure grimace. I had no choice. In the second after his hand was free I felt to the rear of my belt and pulled the trigger. He wasn’t moving then. A woman was screaming. You did it, she said. You murdering bastard. And she was pushing me off this guy and using a towel that she quickly grabbed from the Body Shop to mop up the blood, to try and stem a flow that she could not see. And that’s how I remember it ending. Her hunched over his body, her knees covered in blood and me sitting, resting against the shop window. I was thinking, I’ve really done it now.

Chapter 2

In the beginning there were good things and there were bad things. That is how it had to be. It was the precursor to good and evil. Like all good philosophy if a subject matter is broken down to the truth, one is left with one answer. Either good, or bad. So one, had to survive over the other. For a while, bad things survived quite happily – not alongside good things – but away from good things. Boundaries. Stay away from good things and bad will survive. Yet it was apparent that badness had no place in this world, so good made its move. What both had learnt however is the ability to gain knowledge about the other. That overpowering is not necessarily the best method. That sometimes waiting works best. And like a chess master who can see 14 million moves ahead, evil took one slow draw from the spliff of life – and waited. Because it knew when its time would come. All it had to do was keep one eye half open.

The writing was on the wall during the mid-80’s. Brain deaths. From eating meat that had been eating meat that had been eating meat. Leaders of our country feeding meat to their daughters to prove that meat was OK to eat. Leaders who were not scientists and not even ideologists. They were just panicking. It was a media piece that highlighted the death of that young girl five years later - who’s politician father had seen fit to use her as a guinea pig. It started that wave of realization throughout the land.
And after realization came chaos. Bulk food purchases. Then people started to stay at home. The economy collapsed. Money meant nothing. Food became the only currency and when that currency keeps you alive, you spend very, very carefully. The refuge collectors stopped coming. People were burying their own rubbish in their own incinerators. Then they started burying the dead. And not too well. When the hospitals closed down everything accelerated, like there was a natural conclusion to this state. That it was rushing towards something. It felt in some ways like a movement to an end but beyond that end was a fresh beginning. Beyond the burning black plastic bags was a horizon. And they were wrong. It wasn’t just cockroaches who survive. The dogs did too. Along with anyone who had managed to quarantine themselves in a dark cave, without any outside contact - who had managed to avoid infusing any food. If god had planned this, he had planned it well.

Dextrose is a fancy word for sugar. Pump enough of it into your body and your energy resources gain the equivalent of a heroin high. Hence the reason why Clive was sprinting along the wooded path way, stopping only to jump up at branches, snapping off twigs, licking the bark, a persistent search for something to absorb. Animalistic. Fantastically human. Gary was faltering. He lacked the energy yet shared the fervor. Or was it desperation. The smell in the village had told them that food equaled death. They understood that ironically only living flesh was on the menu. This was their desert island without food, just the two of them. Surrounded by a moat of disease. Survival was not about the fittest any more, it was also about the smartest. It’s about getting back to basics, Clive said, and I’ve got a box of matches and a penknife. Then you are a king indeed, Gary had replied, I’ll collect the wood and you hunt for dinner.
Clive stopped, motionless. He allowed a branch to snap underfoot then placed all of his weight on that spot.
‘Did you hear that?’
Gary was seated, slumped almost, leaning against the exposed roots of an imposing oak tree.
‘Hear what?’
‘Listen.’

*

Plato - "the disposition of noble dogs is to be gentle with people they know and the opposite with those they don’t know...."

Each step that was made was a move closer to a natural sense of what was and how it should be. As this noble beast moved away from burning bodies and buildings that housed only the dead and the dying, towards fresh water and winds that provided answers and carried messages – he understood that this was a long history being left behind. There was a lot of forgetting to do. A progression back to a natural state. And ahead lay the future.

*

Assumption is a dangerous thing. Taking for granted that because you eat anything and everything, that you drive cars, that you make choices that threaten to kill off mankind, that you pollute, that you decide who shall live and who shall die, whom or what is good or bad. That you are king of this fucked up jungle. Well wrong you are boy. And it is time that you lost your crown. And always remember that the slave will fight back when the time is right. And when the choices are limited but the outcome is certain.

*

Clive grabbed at the folds of skin on the young Labrador. The excess handfuls a sign of how much growing into this body this adolescent still had to do. Thanks to the excess energy in Clive and an almost false sense of security in his victim, he succeeded in easily flattening his prey, his head pushed into the back of the dog’s head. Both pushed into the ground. Clive smelling the rawness of this brute. Using his weight to assess his advantage over this quarry, he was quite clear it was going to be in his stomach within the hour. The dog however had a goal at last. A grail. And no one, particularly a man, was getting in his way. Using the fact that Clive was straddling his back, the dog used the rear legs to lift Clive to a seated position, then quickly flipped him over his head. It was a focused action. A lifetime of pent up frustration. It felt easy. Clive hadn’t expected that sort of strength from what he assumed was a young dog, a puppy almost. He didn’t expect the teeth to sink quite so quickly into his jugular. He had expected a pause. Where he would be able once again to assess. To take stock and decide on the next move. What shocked him was the speed and unquestioning ‘beast’ in its actions. It reminded him of war and obedient murder.

Gary watched and did not believe. It was over in under a minute. Alive then not. A click of the fingers. In under the time it takes to make a bad decision. Then he was gone. A bloody mess, rag-dolled in some home county-trained yellow Labrador’s slimy jaws. This was not a Rhodesian Ridge Back, It was a children-friendly, timid lick-your-face Blue Peter favourite. A guide-dog – a reminder that there is something soft and cuddly left in this world – an emblem of goodness. And for that reason Gary laughed. And for the fact that 3 days before Clive had been pretty much almost-dead anyway. Then brought back to life, half starved and driven crazy by that very thing that he had wanted to kill him in the first place. The hunger. Gary had no energy to move. Only to observe. And by now he was pretty certain he was hallucinating. He had started to see a rainbow through the reddish pink of the spray from Clive’s throat and that bothered him more than the fact that Gary was now dead. I mean, he thought he said to himself, how can you see other colours through red? Then the Labrador spoke to him.

*

Speaking did not come easily. It was not evolution. Our vocal chords did not bend and shorten to allow our long jaws to manipulate our tongues around words. We had no reason to speak to humans. We understood but we had never been ‘listened’ to. Why bother to converse with an unworthy adversary? So we continued to focus on understanding. In silence. Then an unhappy human decided that barking was too upsetting. They decided that if a dog barks too much. Too loudly. Then shut it up. They went to strange lengths to have the dogs operated on. To have their vocal power reduced. To a hoarse whisper. A curtailed smoker’s hack. Like a 40 a day uncle. Coughing, hacking, rasping, and wheezing. Forcing a final ‘whoa’ to the cough. It could be mistaken for a word. Sometimes a yodel of sorts. Always something that could almost be heard as something else. Ready for manipulation.

*

The Labrador moved close to Gary’s face.
Can you hear me?
Gary nodded.
Let’s talk.
Gary nodded.
He lifted an arm to stroke the Labrador.
Don’t’.
Gary focused on the teeth. There was congealed blood. Clive’s blood. This felt feral. Raw. He looked away.
Can you hear me?
Gary turned back and looked straight into the dog’s eyes.
This was defined madness.
I am so hungry, he said.
I know, the dog replied and I have an answer. But first – where are the matches? Before we eat your friend we need to cook him.
Gary pointed to Clive’s back pocket.

There was no shortage of wood and within minutes a fire was burning. The dog adopted the role of butcher. Each of the limbs lithely removed with sharpened teeth that to Gary, appeared to welcome the task, yet to the dog were just a tool. Gary threw gathered sticks on the fire and fought the mental battle of welcoming the food against the idea of munching on one of Gary’s body parts. He could not remove the image of a kebab. Yet a part of him knew that the act of eating was as important as what was being eaten. It would empower him. Give him life.
Gary used his arms as tools in the same way the dog had used his teeth. He placed the liver and the kidneys into one of Clive’s socks and covered them with green leaves. The makeshift pie was placed within the embers of the fire and covered with more sticks.
We eat as much as we can, the dog said.
Then we smoke the rest and take it with us.
So there is a plan, Gary thought.
A future after this.
It felt like the dog was in control.

Disease now had the ultimate carrier in humans. People fleeing by whatever means necessary. Any attempt to put as great a distance as possible between the perceived source and themselves. At first it was boats. And the open seas provided a proficient means of transporting death from shore to shore. Where humans sought refuge from this extreme end by escaping a ravaged land, the act only served to spread fatality with unimaginable speed. The world’s ports became hubs for the disease. Waiting for people to arrive. Evil lingering.
The ‘fleers’ became the ‘carriers’. The cancerous cells.
Then people turned to flight. To the airports. Hundreds of thousands swamped the halls of the airports around the country. Initially airlines doubled their timetables. Operating one-way flights. After time the crews became sick and in some circumstances flights did not return. Those flights that did come back carried crews that refused to work again for fear of catching the disease. So people started to fly the aircraft themselves. People with light aircraft licences. People with no sense of large infrastructure. Where there was once a professional airline there was now chaos where favouritism, nepotism and pure panic reigned. Passengers were examined with sordid openness and chosen for their healthy ‘aroma’. It was selection of the fittest, with preference given to the white, rich, and middle-class. It was not a decision based on common sense and the young were discarded as easily as the old. ‘High Maintenance’ baggage.
There was the inevitable on-board fighting. Easy to control at first. There was no shortage of ex-services personnel willing to ‘work’ for their freedom. The roles had not taken much advertising. Then the stabbings began. The murderous threats. Incidents of concealed weapons being carried on board. Gangs infiltrated the flights and made demands on passengers. The flights that managed to arrive at far flung destinations of potential safety became renowned as trouble flights. More trouble than they were worth. Potential disease carriers. Suppliers of gang warfare. Laws were passed very quickly. Laws that went under the banner of ‘protection of the people’. Protecting ourselves from ourselves. Then they simply started to burn the planes on touch down. ‘Terminating’ the threat as the army put it in their morose, Orwellian way. A ‘necessary’ removal of dangerous probability. Slaughtering those within. Women, children, men – how ever misguided in their actions – all incinerated. Then the planes stopped coming. The threat was regrouping at source.

When the night moves in. Where the stars have been dimmed by the mists of bleak clouds and the cold bites into your soul, questions are asked and characters are tested. Gary felt as alone here in the open fields of nowhere in particular as in prison. Incarceration had provided a meaning in his life. It had drawn a line under him and held up a hand. It had said we know who you are and why you do what you do. Omniscient. And every day it reminded him by refusing his freedom. And by solitarising him he had gained a strength from being on his own. An understanding of who he was. Now with limitless horizons he was reminded once again of his lack of importance in life’s game. He lay next to the open fire staring into the grey/blackness and thought about his next move. Running was not an option. On his own he was dead meat. With the dog he had a chance of sorts, yet part of him questioned the logic of this strange team. Was he just been used as a piece of cattle. Carrying all the food then later to become food himself? He managed to separate out three available options. He could run. He could stay with the dog. He could kill himself. Option three could be revisited at any time so this was placed within metaphysical brackets. He didn’t trust option one. He had felt himself weaken before and knew how quickly he could physically deteriorate. It had been like hypothermia of the soul. So the decision was made for him. Allow fate to decide. He would keep his life for now. Play the game. See what happens. Leaning up on one arm, Gary looked across through the murmuring embers of the dying fire at the slow heaving chest of the Labrador. And although no noise had been made Gary could just make out a reaction, a flicker almost, it could have even been a twitch. And after a minute or so, Gary realised the dog was staring right back at him.

The birds made their move in November. The weather was colder. The light was harsher yet enhanced navigation. The smell was not so apparent. Not so overpowering. Sense of smell was not thought to play a great part in the life of birds but this was due – as the scientists had put it – to the birds not talking. Or, if it is not known, it does not count. Either way, November had been selected due to its bitterness . And also because corpses are easier to deal with in the cold. In the cold, sharp hooked beaks tear flesh more easily. Beaks that crossed over at the tip were useful in selecting body parts, prising out selections. Storing in hideaways. Beaks with fine serrations, like a saw, worked alongside. Birds no longer lived in separate flocks. Thought transference that existed on a smaller scale when birds turned en masse within massive shapes in the sky, now became one. Whereas massive flocks were once created as birds merge in flight to deter predators, now the birds became the predator. Driven by the knowledge that there was a new food source. It was an innate knowledge that equaled survival.
Within two weeks all the corpses had been stripped over an area the size of Surrey. This would continue in the months ahead. There was no set agenda. It would take as long as it would take. Time was man’s perception. Dogs, humans, rats, cats. Anything that was dead had a use. A species’ that had been used by evolution to spread seeds was now in control of their own plan. God’s design had been changed. The human dead would no longer be buried, consumed by the earth. Everything could have a further use. Nothing changed. Life’s plane just shifted a little. Humans were no longer top of the pile. The power had been reallocated.

The mists swirled towards the peaks of the chalk, white Mountains and the screeches of the sparrow hawks were heard by no one but themselves. The youngest of the pair used its wings to propel itself downwards as it locked onto its target. Its whole body tensed for the chase and the kill and after a side signal to its partner, a slight movement of the short, curved wings followed and the two silhouetted creatures made for the target. It was unusual for these birds to be hunting by themselves. Kills such as these were carefully monitored and as such these potential ‘kills’ had been tracked for some time. Such was the uniqueness of the two different sized targets that the prize for these kills had been a much sought after mission. The contests that had been set had been overly difficult and highly fought over. The end result, the sparrow hawks victory, had not been surprising, expected even but the ferocity with which they fought the contests had even taken the breath away of the flock leaders.

Summer was long gone. Gary had tried to hold onto it for as long as possible. This had been his first summer outside for too long and he was aware how few there may be in front of him. As always, when he tried to hold onto to something too desperately, it tended to slip from his grasp sooner rather than later. Or perhaps that was his perception.
Mornings were the worst. Gary sometimes felt he would never feel warm again. The chill was within his bones. And around them. The night fire had dwindled and all that could warm him was exercise. And with that hunger would come knocking. The forced dietary regime was not loading his body with the muscles of a marathon runner yet this was the distance they were covering each day.
I’m not built for this, Gary said.
I am, came the reply.

Early on the dog had picked up on the importance of names.
What do I call you? The dog asked.
The irony was not lost on Gary.
Master?
I heard your friend refer to you as Gary.
I was known by many names to him.
I heard Gary.
And you, what do I call you, Gary asked.
It doesn’t work like that for us. We are not labeled.
Gary had sighed. It would help me.
Your world was never mine, even though you thought it was. Nature’s perception was always very different to yours.
Empathy, sympathy, knowledge that you are doing the right thing – these are all alien concepts to you?
We pick up on them in different ways. There are more senses than the eyes.
So a name is just a noise to you?
It’s a pattern of sound. If responding to the pattern is beneficial then we respond. Sometimes it is not advantageous. Then the pattern is ignored.
Ok – let’s select a pattern. One that is agreeable to you.
The dog stared.
How about ‘Cody’?
It’s recognizable.
It’s better than ‘dog’ or ‘hound’.
Better for you, Cody replied.

The strike was sudden. It was as chaotic as a hail of bullets. Everything within ten feet of the attack was affected it seemed. There was pain, there was noise. White noise. Hurtful noise. Gary likened it to a thousand bats, all around. Pecking, sniping, blood was everywhere. He was on his back in a second, the force of the attack, the expectation of what was to follow throwing him over like a sledgehammer to the forehead. This is what war must be like, he thought. Confusion and disorientation followed by madness. The centre of nothingness. Cody reacted with instinct. He was looking at what was coming at them before it hit. He made himself a slimmer target by standing on hind legs. The sparrow hawks were not used to reaction. Their attack style held the element of surprise and usually from behind. They came in with talons arched and extended, ready for the grip and follow through with piercingly sharp beaks. Cody’s reaction flustered them into a swirl of screeching and flapping wings, the talons scraping across necks where they would have sunk easily into unsuspecting flesh. Cody’s nose caught the worst of the attack, opening up like burnt rhubarb, he shook the blood away and growled into Gary’s face.
Get up, they will be back. They know our form now.
Gary scrambled more than ran. He followed Cody as the dog zig-zagged looking for cover. Then he was gone. Gary stopped and looked, squinting for a sign of where he had disappeared to. In the distance he could hear a swishing noise, almost a buzz. He wasn’t sure if it was the second attack.
He decided to risk a shout.
Cody!?
Gary became aware of an intense pain in his right ankle and he snapped into a kneeling position as he gripped his bleeding foot.
Jesus.
He recognized the wound as that of teeth rather than knife-sharp beaks.
It had the mark of Cody.
Then two paws were on his shoulder and hot steaming breath was clamming into his airways.
Learn two things. One. Be stupid with your own life. Two. The next time you do something like that I will kill you.
Cody held Gary’s gaze and inched backwards. Within ten seconds he had disappeared into a bush as green as the surrounding grassland. Gary shuffled towards where Cody had been enveloped by the camouflage. As he pitched himself into the dark, shallow hollow a thought went through his mind. That nature was rebelling.

*

Debris was strewn across the airport runway that now lay empty and unused. The tributary of lanes that connected this runway with the backup route to the south of the main terminal was now devoid of dead bodies but nature was already closing in with grass and fast growing weeds. Anyone visiting this scene just a week ago would now be scratching their heads and wondering who had been here to clean it all up. Then, from a distance, the mounds of bodies had resembled small grey, arcane hills rather then the funeral pyres that they were. It was only when you got closer, when reality became clearer, that the picturesque hillsides became stinking masses of disease and death. And if you really strained to listen now, really stopped and concentrated hard, you could just about hear birdsong. Perhaps celebrating slightly as the air became cleaner.
And Ajay was now standing absolutely still, one foot slightly behind the other, the rearmost leg slightly raised – ready to sprint. Ajay had been here last week. He had been on flight X1 from Aberdeen (flight numbers were no longer used – it was seen as too risky – all flights used code ‘X1’). This flight X1 had been considered less risky than most. The pilot although elderly, had been a qualified pilot. The passengers had been mostly women and the odd youngish child. Age was difficult to determine these days as it was known that age contributed to discrimination and ultimate exclusion on any flights. Better to allow people to assume you are neither young nor old. The flight had been uneventful. There had been plenty of available seats and the thirty or so passengers had randomly spaced themselves accordingly. The door to the cockpit had remained sealed. No announcements had been made, no refreshments provided. The days of servantile cabin crew now long gone. It was only when the plane touched down, (at a destination of the pilot’s choosing) that slow murmurings’ began to fill the narrow tube.

It looks cold still.
We’ve only been in the air two hours, it isn’t Mexico.
Kat? Where are we?
We’ll be told, that was the deal. Give him time.
Anything is going to be better – came a voice from the back.

Ajay recalled that much. The flight. The landing. The cautious questions amongst the passengers. He remembered seeing the piles of bodies, of more shouting this time. He was outside now. It must have been people who had done that. Piled up the bodies. Maybe the ones shouting? Directing.
And that was it.
And now he was here, or always had been here.
Yet there was something niggling. A fact that was eating into his ever-current memory.
That maybe he was involved, somehow responsible.
After all, where was everyone?

Why was it just him, standing here – now.

Gary awoke just before dawn and felt surprised that he did not ache. The hole had proved surprisingly warm and although a little damp, this had helped retain essential moisture within the dark enclosure. He almost felt refreshed but hunger drove any well being from his mind. For a moment he had a vision of Cody returning from a well-stocked nearby bakers with croissants and doughnuts. As he positioned himself close to the entrance of the opening Gary peered out into the fresh light of the new day. The day felt unsullied and Gary felt would remain so until he crawled out and made his mark. He felt as if his life was becoming that of a monotonous being. Where all he did was sleep, eat and avoid being hunted. Staying in the hole was an option he decided.
If you need to shit, use the tree to the left of here. I used the tree on the right.
Cody startled him.
I need to eat, Gary said.
I have a rabbit. We can share. It needs to have any traces of disease removed.
By fire? Gary suggested, deciding not to sound facetious.
I heard that was how it was done, Cody replied.
Ten minutes later Gary had performed what he considered a small miracle by starting a fire with a flint, Clive’s old knife, a self-made tinder bundle and plenty of blowing. Cody grunted approval as the flames started to lick the carcass of the young rabbit. For a moment they were joined by this simple preparation of a meal. Expecting no more than piping hot cooked flesh. Something to numb the edgy hunger pangs. Both Cody and Gary watched the sizzling meat, every now and then looking up and into the distance of the slowly, brightening day. As if both were at odds with the world.

As Ajay waited he became more aware of the birds singing. He understood that the air was cleaner, and he recalled that just a few days back, there had been a disgusting odor and piles of dead passengers. Yes, passengers, not people. The past week now crept up and tapped him on the shoulder. He was suddenly very aware of what had happened and he started to cry. The plane had landed, he remembered that. There had been that familiar back draft, the white traumatic noise from the engines. Then the pilot had seen what everyone else had seen. The plane had swerved slightly as if recoiling in shock and immediately the engines pushed for full throttle. Ajay had sought out recognition of the horror of what they had just witnessed from another passenger across the aisle. Eye contact was enough. The man who Ajay had made eye-contact with did not look outside again. He just stared at the seat in front. He had the appearance of someone who had been given the choice of life and death and yet had chosen neither. Above the roar of the engines Ajay had the foresight to know they would not make the take off. There was not enough runway. Ajay knew enough about airports to understand the logistics of take off and landing. You take off. You land. If you land, you have to take another runway to take off again. The pilot was kidding himself. He had become irrational. The pilot, who had a clear understanding of physics, was now hoping for vertical take off. The row of trees protecting the motorway ahead of the runway were not part of his mirage of rationality. Another issue reasoned its way alongside Ajay’s thought patterns. That they would not have enough fuel to go anywhere else. That taking off would be a very temporary affair. That was two things affecting his future. He unclipped his seatbelt and moved towards the emergency exit.

After the menial offering of blackened rabbit – a necessary cremation as Gary had wanted to be sure that what he ate stayed in his stomach – Cody had touched on a plan. It was clear to Gary that Cody was keeping certain details to himself. There was obviously a code of sorts, a secret and to be fair, Gary reasoned, it may not have been that Cody was keeping it secret, more that he did not know how to communicate the meaning. But it was clear that Cody wanted them both to stay together. There were scents. Guiding scents, Cody explained. It became clear that a gathering was to take place but that the exact location was unsure. Or secret. Talking to Cody, one thing was certain. Gary was not the only human alive. It was clear that Cody was unable to discuss the tactics of where they were going without hinting at the fact that other humans were quite possibly going to be there. Or Cody had cleverly slipped this information in. Perhaps he wanted to keep Gary interested. Focused. Either way Gary didn’t care. Survival instinct was taking over. Splitting up from Cody spelled pretty certain death to Gary. Given the choice of life over a manipulation that OK, bordered on bullying and then a later death, well, it wasn’t even a Hobson’s choice. And to be honest all that Gary could really focus on at this moment was where the next meal was coming from.

Cody made off towards the furthermost meadow. Their trail meant that they both hugged the hedgerows not wanting to make any distinct silhouettes’ against the early morning light. We can’t always be making for the horizon Gary reasoned to himself. Cody must have a route in mind. In which case he must have a destination in mind. His tail remained just above the ground, occasionally grazing the thick feathers of grass. Gary reasoned that Cody knew exactly where they were going right from the start.

Flight X1 screamed through the air. It sounded like every rivet was being tested for survival. The engine, having drawn down to a reasonable operatic hum, had now been stretched back up a desperate squeal. A screech almost. The flexed, shaking wrist of the pilot willed it to extremes the craft had never before experienced. The pilot knew his actions were irrational but it was all they had left. Staying here was not an option. Staying in motion had at least been cathartic. Therapeutic almost. They had been away from the hell they had known and moving towards an uncertain, but ‘frontier-like’ future. Everyone on the plane had felt united in some way. Even the pilot wasn’t going to be going through a separate terminal to the rest of the passengers. Some strange elite passport control. Here, touch down meant one thing. Emergency chutes and out. The pilot had been paid for a job, well paid. After that it was every man, woman and child for themselves. It was Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq all rolled into one. Out there and with an unexpected future. Just nothingness. Perhaps it was no surprise for those lying in wait for them but everyone on that plane would be prepared for fighting to survive. There would just be different levels of understanding as to how hard they would be prepared to fight for that survival.
The thoughts of Ajay and the pilot were synched. Both aware of their futures end. As the plane edged forwards in momentum, Ajay decided to leave his seat. He had seen enough safety demonstrations to understand how to open the doors immediately to the left and right of the rows in front of the wing. Crouch slightly, grasp firmly and twist. Pull back and discard the door, throwing externally away from the plane. Not internally as this blocks the exit of the calmly disembarking passengers. A comment that had always stuck in his mind and had been placed there by an extremely attractive ex-partner in life, who had for a while, with tongue placed firmly in-cheek, shared his life. A vivacious cabin crew member and from whom he had learnt a lot about obnoxious passengers. About the necessary actions that need to be taken against such clients on board. In order to protect those on the plane. He recalled her smile and never ending enthusiasm about the arrogance and self-importance of the ridiculously, over-demanding passengers and quickly realized that actions could also be taken to ‘unprotect’ the other passengers. Survival of – not the fittest – but the one who knew the most.

For some strange reason both exits were unblocked. The seats empty. Perhaps avoided due to superstition. Perhaps avoided due to the knowledge that the first out were usually the first shot. Ajay tried to block out the noise, the sound that pinned you to your seat – that underlined a certain fate. He ignored the simply worded message that circled the ‘boat-like’ emergency exit – ‘Do not…’ was as far as he got. Then he had twisted, pulled the door back and it had been dragged from his grasp, sucked away, one turn and it had been free. Flipped away like a paper plate in the wind. The chute had been next, released automatically. Trailing like the tail of a kite. Ajay didn’t even think. Not about impact, or blood, or hitting the ground, or what he was leaving behind Not about the kid to his left, about what he would have chosen to do if they had more time and if he could have trusted the actions of his fellow passengers. He just went. And it wasn’t how he thought it would be. There was no checking for removal of high-heeled shoes in case of causing a blockage on the way down. There were no panic-stricken cabin-crew members waiting to usher you down the welcoming ‘slide’. There was no one waiting at the bottom of the slide, handing out shark-repellant capsules or checking that your life jackets were fully inflated. Ajay hit the concrete runway like a rock and instantly broke three ribs. This was before he bounced. The second hit got his arm. The third his leg. By the forth bounce Ajay knew all about the different realms of pain. On the fifth bounce he passed out.

*

This label he has given me – Cody. Code-eee. A pet name, a slave name. He has learnt nothing. He still thinks in the past – keeps hold of it in his pockets. In a hope that one day he will be able to just turn them out, pour the contents of his old life onto a table and everything will be as it was. He does not know that for him there is no going back. My disclosure of speaking his tongue should have told him that. We have waited this long and the time is now right. So I will keep him with me – he has his uses after all. I will feed him every day, allow him exercise. Watch him the next time he uses his tool to start fire. Learn his uses. He may also share my food for the time being and he will not be allowed to copulate. One of him is enough. I can feel him looking at me questioningly. He wants to know where we are going. After years of monotonous habitual movements he needs to understand a pattern. For his sake. Not anyone else’s. Not for the greater good. If I wanted to I could explain the plan to him. The idea of how to move this world forwards. The big idea and how it has been adopted by the many. And how that many will maybe become a few for a while – that it is a dangerous path we are about to tread. For the moment the journey ahead will be long and arduous – long days and short nights. His exhaustion and hunger should keep questioning at bay. Once the plan is disclosed he will go no further.

The house appeared, from a distance, to consist entirely of wood and glass. A willow tree leant away from the front of the building and dipped wearily into the nearby river. The garden that ran almost moat-like around ‘Lodge Dern’ was smattered with discarded toys of bright yellow and plastic green, as if discarded by a spinning clown. The development had a ship-like feel with box-like rooms, framed by wood and encased with glass, jutting out, almost unnaturally and overhanging the river. It was a masterpiece in design and managed to stay cool in summer as well as absorbing warmth from the winter sun. The house looked like it had been built for enjoyment. A mooring fed into the underside of the house. This was accessible by turning left immediately from the main river route, just after the pedestrian bridge and then following the curve of the lane that had been thoughtfully carved away from the riverbanks, creating a driveway-like feel. An electric gate opened automatically on approach, gliding majestically upwards, reacting to the chip embedded within the owner’s boat. Cassia had wanted ‘Lodge Dern’ the first time she saw it. She had only been house hunting casually. They had already sold their family home and Cassia, having been persuaded by Steve that it was a good idea, was resigned to renting a home temporarily. Let’s not rush a decision – Steve had suggested. Then she had fallen upon ‘Lodge Dern’. Steve had not put up too much of an argument. He trusted Cassia’s choice in property and if he had been honest, he was too busy with work to contribute much in the way of constructive reasoning. And then there were the kids to worry about. What with distances from their schools, this property was ideal, Cassia had soothingly assured. They moved in within eight weeks. The initial in-between weeks where they had to move out of the old house and in with Cassia’s parents became a rushed memory and they soon melted into a life of utter greenness, bordered by constant views of the river. They fell in love with the late summer evenings where there were hints of citron candles and ice cold wine. The soft flow of the passing river lulled their senses towards a reflective state where they could at long last start to remember what it was they were all about. The children explored the vast gardens and built mid-air dens in dense bushes. They discovered under-house ‘camps’ that lay suspended just above the cool breeze of the river and would lie watching the passing water through the cracks in the floor, imagining far off lands and pirated, blustery seas. And later when the summer days turned to Autumnal evenings and the children were finally in bed, log fires would be built and they would snuggle up to views of passing boats and nesting birdlife. It was built for us Cassia had said.
The change in Steve was measurable. He started to pay less notice of work outside of office hours. He worked from home three days a week and even then, really only contributed four hours as opposed to his usual fourteen. He started to turn off his mobile phone. Helped the children attach roofs to their bush hideaways and showed them how to store useful items like chocolate in makeshift cupboards – even the squirrels will have trouble finding them he explained. He insisted on taking Cassia on long walks along the river, more so when they had something serious they needed to discuss, boring stuff, Steve likened it to, like banking or how the children were doing at school. The river soothed their life-battered souls and made returning to reality easier. It sounded contrite but Steve became a different person. Someone who evolved alongside his surroundings. It explained why he had been so stressed. So angry. He had become part of that previous lifestyle – it had changed him into a reactive animal, snapping defensively at those around him. Now he was part of this. It made sense. Steve was bordering on being happy.
As the children settled into their routines, school runs, knowing where the nearest shops were that sold milk, chocolate and crisps, how far their friends lived away - so their routines at home naturally became more established. They knew where everything was. Understood that dad was around the house more. That mum was happier. That they laughed more. Games were no longer planned events. Spontaneity was more fun Cassia had said. So the journey home after school would often detour into ice-cream safaris where they park the car by the always empty tennis courts, buy ice-creams from the sky-blue van at the edge of the local recreation park, then search for lions, tigers and sometimes giraffes, until all the ice cream had been eaten. Then they would bury their wooden sticks and return to the car chatting about who had seen the most lionesses, why the tiger had smiled and what the monkey was doing on the back of the baby giraffe. These were the golden years Cassia later explained to Steve. We need to hold onto these memories. Jake and Natille were still under ten years of age but Cassia could already foresee the end of the family. Steve usually smiled and would gently remind her of the many squabbles that usually resulted from over-tiredness, particularly from Jake as the clock inched over their bed-times. But you forget all of that Cassia replied. We don’t hold onto those memories. It’s not worth it. We hold onto the memories that we need to hold onto. It’s how our minds work. In the same way we never remember illness. Just that we got better. If we allowed it our minds would only contain love. Family love.
This particular summer was hot. A heat wave had been anticipated and everyone was awaiting its arrival with an underlined enthusiasm. Cassia found this strange. Heat waves carried their own predicaments. Water shortages, raised tempers, a lethargy even. We become desert animals lulling around in the shade Cassia pointed out to Steve. Only here we are by the watering hole Steve had replied. Where everyone wishes they were. Cassia smiled and was grateful for the cooling breeze from the river. Let’s not go away this year Cassia suggested. I don’t want to interrupt this existence. Steve thought about offering up a mild resistance to her proposal but he kind of understood. If this was a spell their life was under he wasn’t going to be the one to break it. Anyway, he thought, with the money saved from a holiday he would be able to consider buying that boat. It would be an investment into their future.
Decisions about getting a pet are never well thought through. There are never lengthy discussions around kitchen tables about breeds, size, suitability to the size of the house and the garden. Pets usually just appear. Cassia reckoned that if she checked the statistics, most pets would be presented to the other family members as a surprise, usually by the mum or the dad. And there they are. And everyone has to accept and adapt. Rooms are cleared. Beds are created from old sheets and blankets. Bowls are designated as water and food containers. Along with the keys now hangs more than one type of lead. As a result of this instant acceptance by all other family members, the pet becomes an honoree member. Absorbing all love thrown at it and obediently showing love back when required as well as agreeing not to mess up the house which it has been allowed to deem its living place. It is a contract of sorts and if both parties agree to its terms then life shall be allowed to continue, although under strict terms that will only become apparent when certain rules are broken. The pet will come to understand these rules and stay calm and happy at all times. Behavioural differences may lead to dismissal or death. Never try to leave your living residence for long periods and expect punishment on your return. If you have to leave make sure that you have good reason – the need to pass on a message for instance and always remember your route back again. A stray pet may also meet death. Always cower in front of your owners when behaviour deemed to be wrong has been discovered – this shows the owner they are being understood. Watch your owner’s eyes. A lot can be learnt from visual movement and mood swings can be interpreted and acted upon to your advantage. I don’t understand it all, the Labrador said. You are young and new to these owners, the elder dog replied, take on board what I have just told you, meeting up will not be frequent. Both dogs bent forward towards each other as if playing. Messages will be left, you will need to look for them. They danced around each other in a circle. Sam could see his new owner smiling and pointing at their antics. I think she is called Cassia, he said. Sam listen to me, the elder dog leant in closely and spoke into Sam’s ear, there are changes on the horizon, already there are rumours of action being taken. Action? Sam said. We need to be alert but one thing is certain Sam. It will not always be like this. Don’t grow too attached to your new owners. Their future is not certain. Suddenly Sam was yanked away from the elder, scruffier terrier. Cassia attached the lead to Sam’s new purple collar. Come on Sam, we have to get home, I’ll bring you here tomorrow. And Sam was momentarily lost in the excited squeals of the children as they argued about who should hold the lead and whose lap Sam would be sitting on. Sam looked back at the terrier who was obediently walking in time with his owner, no lead attached. I am more of a prisoner than he, Sam thought as he mentally started to plan his escape. Natille accidentally sat on his rear leg as they all got into Cassia’s car and Sam yelped. He stopped himself from reacting but made a mental note. Looking into Natille’s eyes he thought long and hard about chewing through the soft white skin of her face.

*

Sam had not been Steve’s idea. In his mind it had been Cassia trying to complete the family. A husband, a wife, two kids and a dog. He counted himself lucky in some ways as he was guessing that the dog could easily have been a third child. As Cassia approached her forties, maternal instinct was quietly telling her that her motherly uses were nearing an end. She had probably weighed up the consequences of a third and subconsciously dismissed them in favour of an animal capable of absorbing and showing love and not just towards herself. Her action had been unselfish and sacrificing at the same time. Inside she must be mourning. Steve unleashed Sam and watched him make his way methodically towards Mrs Bailey’s dog, the scruffy terrier, sniffing at the ground all the way. He glanced at his watch – you’ve got ten minutes Sam, he said to himself.

*

It was the first time they had argued since moving in eighteen months ago.
It’s not like we have been that cut off Steve. Cassia was animated, scraping her hair behind her ear. She was flushed.
Cassia listen to me, we need to just talk about this, about the affect it may have on us. It may mean we don’t have to move but… Steve’s voice trailed away. Was he arguing with Cassia or himself here? It wasn’t just that he had lost his job, more that his job no longer existed. His company was no longer there. It had disappeared. Along with the hundreds of other companies each week who were just giving up. Rumours about the economy were unfounded. This was not to do with company share prices or the performance on the world stage. There were real stories on the news about people refusing to turn up for work. That it was dangerous.
Cassia sat down abruptly, her hands screwed tightly together and jammed between her knees.
They said that people are dying.
That’s rubbish, Steve retorted. A little too quickly.
Cassia ignored him.
And I believe them, she said quietly.
Steve was pacing now. He felt cut off from it all. He was panicking. This was not within his control.
You believe what exactly Cassia? That all food is contaminated? That’s ridiculous. What about our village, have you seen any differences? Bloody hell, even old Winston’s shop is selling bread at under a pound a loaf.
Cassia looked up slightly,
They bake their own bread Steve.
Ok, Ok, but there is other stuff.
Steve, when was the last time you went shopping? Winston’s shelves are full of tinned food now. There are no fucking fresh vegetables any more.
Steve sat down next to Cassia.
Cassia what do you want me to do? I am trying to instill some hope here. I am trying to look for a way that means we won’t have to move from here. I need to grasp hold of something, something, oh I don’t fucking know…
Cassia moved slightly away from him as if reassessing her options.
I want my children to be safe.
Steve pulled her back towards him and holding Cassia’s chin looked into her eyes.
Cassia, I want our children to be safe and I will do everything I can but do not give up on this. I need you to have a belief.
Cassia remained silent. She looked out into the garden. The grass was overgrown, it needed cutting – a mental reminder of normality. The winter sun was closing in and left an edge to the coolness of the evening. Just visible at the foot of the Willow tree were two bowls. Unused and finally discarded, left in the false hope of Sam’s return. It had been several months now and they had assumed the worst but for the girls’ sake they had kept the bowls, pushing hope towards them, delaying submission. Rejecting the truth. This was what Steve was doing. Refusing to accept what was clearly in front of him. Cassia was pointing out the facts and Steve was rebutting them. Cassia was guessing that behind this refusal of acceptance lay a fragile framework that if broken, would be irreparable. That Steve’s whole being would be in pieces.
She made a decision there and then. To uphold the delusion. To instill a hope in Steve because without that their family would disintegrate. And deep down she was afraid of the actions Steve would take. Cassia turned to face Steve and took both his hands in hers.
Steve I want you to listen to me.
And for a moment Steve could feel that tremor of hope, of love that was so very, very strong. It passed right through them both and he thanked god that he still had her by his side. He truly believed that together they could and would be strong. And just for a second, that natural way that we just glance around every now and then, to check everything else is OK, Steve looked away from the greenness of Cassia’s eyes and checked the garden over her shoulder. The greenness was still as impressive and behind it was the reassurance of the constant movement of the flow of the river, as grey as the early evening light. Cassia broke away from Steve when his gaze did not return.
Steve?
His gaze was not fixed, not constant on one spot, yet his eyes were glazed.
Cassia turned to try and trace what he was looking at.
Steve what is it? Is it Sam?
She was searching the edge of the garden, hoping for a sighting by the rose beds, avoiding what she could already see.
Steve was making for the French doors, twisting the door handle and turning the key, unlocking the one barrier between them and the dark reality of undeniable dreadfulness.
The outside air carried a tang. Nature’s snuff box. Steve inhaled deeply and stumbled towards the rivers edge. The bloated bodies drifted past silently screaming their destiny. There was no longer any connection between Steve and Cassia. Steve was in a place where all options had been considered and he wasn’t coming back. Cassia had dropped to her knees and was yanking at the damp grass, pulling up clumps, throwing them towards Steve, now up to his waist, bodies bobbing as he tried to push them back up river. All she could think about was that the lock was only a mile downstream and that soon all these bodies would be pushing their way up the garden. She had to leave. She forced herself up and made her way back to the house, yelling her children’s names, turning her back on Steve. And as Cassia ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the one thought that did enter her mind was the welfare of Sam, and whether he was OK and if he was perhaps close by. Sam, the third child.

*

1. Soak the bone marrow in a bowl of cold water overnight. Peel and finely chop the shallots. In a saucepan, boil the red wine until it is reduced by half.
2. Season the meat with salt and pepper. In a sauté pan, heat 30 g (1 oz.) butter. When it turns light golden and smells of hazelnut, place the meat slices in the pan and cook them to the desired doneness. Remove them from the sauté pan and set aside on an overturned plate (so that the meat does not sit in its juice).
3. Cut the marrow into four rounds and poach them in a small pan of simmering salted water. Remove the pan from the heat and set aside. Transfer the cooking fat from the sauté pan to a frying pan and set aside.
4. Add the chopped shallots to the sauté pan and let them sweat lightly, then add the reduced red wine and meat glaze, and reduce until the mixture is syrupy. Remove the pan from the heat and incorporate the rest of the butter piece by piece, whisking slowly. Keep the sauce hot without letting it boil.
5. Heat the meat in a frying pan with its cooking fat. Add the juice from the meat to the sauce. Place the meat on plates or a serving platter. Coat with the Fleurie sauce, then drain the marrow slices and place them on the meat. Sprinkle the marrow with coarse salt and coarse pepper. Serve immediately

And then wait.
Picture an average family of four. Father serves equal portions to each member, spooning the Fleurie sauce generously over the marrow and meat slices. Beside each of their plates lies a Bulalo spoon. Father takes his place and small talk compliments his cooking and final presentation. He smiles as he absorbs the praise and selecting the thicker end of the spoon he scoops out a gelatinous piece of bone marrow and places it into his mouth. His daughter and son follow suit, each savouring the rich taste. Mother looks on with pride and taking a slightly different approach selects the thinner end of the spoon. As she reaches deeply with the thinner implement the lighter coloured marrow oozes onto the meat slices. But it is the inner marrow she seeks. The epicentre. The rich flavoured Holy Grail, the factory from where all red blood cells emulate. Mother knows best.
This link, this ancient connection with stone-age man is inbuilt within a natural desire to nourish our bodies with goodness. High energy and an excellent source of protein, bone marrow has always offered something that echoes back to a time where the survival manual was as yet unwritten. The proof in goodness was literally in the eating. This was a time however before the domination of man. Before additives. Before GM crops. Before interference in the food chain. As this average house wife spoons the succulent moist, still-warm globule into her mouth, soon to be absorbed by her digestive system, what was once a source of goodness, is now intense and intelligent.