Breaking News: An Autozombiography (45 page)

‘
What’s that?’ he demanded.

‘
It’s a spliff,’ I said meekly, feeling the giggles on the horizon.

‘
Give us a bit. Oi, Eggy,’ he called to his mate. ‘Come and have a puff on this.’

We finished off my spliff; me, the soldier and Eggy, a policeman from Egham. More people arrived, and the tent filled up, but before I knew it I was being ushered into the bigger tent off to one side, via a clear polythene tunnel lined with eight armed guards. My three-day quarantine was over.

It was dark inside the main tent; the roof stretched above my head and out of the reach of the torches which blazed from high wooden stakes in the ground, and I could see faces in the gloom, reclining on wide chairs. Dead in the centre sat a huge circle of a hundred tables and chairs ringing a low, round fire pit. The tables were lit strongly and artificially by a large theatrical lighting rig suspended up at the pinnacle of the tent, which made the rest of the place appear dark even in the orange flicker of the flaming torches. They did have generators then, I thought, and considered asking someone if they also had a DVD player and television. The lights cut a bright white column through the hazy darkness, and a sense of calm pervaded the place, in contrast to the hubbub of the smaller quarantine tent.

I found a quiet spot, and laid my sheepskin down to cover a soft, long chair for two. I took my boots off and sprawled out. Lining the vast circumference of the tent behind a long tapestry I could see hundreds of beds, partitioned by curtains and right now looking very tempting. Before long yet another roast dinner was thrust in front of me along with a jug of beer, but I could have slept. A table was pulled up to put my dinner onto, and someone offered me a cigar. I did ask about the DVD player as the sounds of a guitar being played were met with a ripple of approval.

I spent the evening people-watching as they filed in and took up seats on the outer ring of dimly lit chairs. People were wearing a lot of animal skins with huge boots to match. Some had cloaks and wore long hats; others were in more modern dress, one or two even in dinner jackets. I drifted off a few times, and woke to see a man wheeling a television in front of me. He pointed to a DVD player, and I eagerly fished around in my bag.

A slowly growing crowd built up behind me as I watched back-to-back episodes of
I’m Alan Partridge
and
The Day Today
until very early in the morning. The dozen or spectators who were left looked up from the TV to a seemingly empty marquee. I was guided to my own bed – it had ‘Cissbury’ embroidered on the curtain. I slept that night fully bathed and fed, between crisp, starched sheets on a pillow like a cold cloud, dreaming of another world. I only woke up once, to the sound of a land mine going off outside.

Kedgeree, sunset yellow with saffron; quails egg’s omelette with wild mushrooms; Sausage and brown sauce rolls. Cup upon cup of creamy tea. I had to request mine the way I like it, to the befuddlement of a flunky: brick red, two sugars – builder’s tea. Fresh fruit and oysters. This was getting silly, I thought, but never objected for long enough to actually decline anything. They even wheeled out a table which groaned with every edible bird you could think of, with golden skin and steaming, juicy meat.

‘
They’ve let themselves down a bit here,’ I nodded at the table to one bystander. ‘The bloody least they could have done is laid on a nice bit of swan.’

Today was turning out to be sunny, and it was only then that I realised there was access to outside, to a fenced off are like a paddock, ringed by armed men. I stretched my legs, looked at the view; then returned to the gloom, eager not to miss anything. Today was the longest day of the year – Midsummer’s Day. I had a cracking hangover, but declined the offered painkillers. I had got on fine for a year with no man-made medicine, so why start again?

There were four large, high-backed seats on every table, and I reckoned there must have been five hundred people in the tent. The day’s proceedings began, and we were encouraged to take our seats at the brightly-lit tables. My place was marked out with the word ‘Cissbury’ again, this time sign written in gold leaf italics. Even further toward the centre from where we sat was a long curved table, its linen crisp and white in the piercing light. After what must have been a good hour of reverent coughing, around a dozen people started to shuffle towards their places on the head table, heralded by a rather pompous fanfare.

They looked like us – a haggard gaggle of survivors, scraping out a life in a new, strange England. There weren’t many old people, save one or two with wisps of hair and dew-drops on their noses. A few military men appeared, next to a couple of chaps in black coat tails. They all waited for one old lady in a headscarf and a tatty body warmer to sit down before taking their seats. She waved a gloved hand to a ripple of applause and whispering.

‘
Fuck me sideways. That’s the Queen!’ someone near me said rather too loudly. I shrank into my seat as one of the old boys in coat tails stood.

‘
Thank you for joining us in these extraordinary times. My name is George, and I am the Master of the Household. I will be your host. If there is anything you require during your stay here, do not hesitate to ask me or a member of my staff,’ he waved all around him. ‘I trust you’ve been looked after well?’ A polite murmur rumbled round the cavernous tent. He introduced a fat chap, the Lord Chamberlain, who outlined the day’s events.

‘
If you have any problems; concerns over safety or anything similar, there are representatives from both the Royal Company of Archers and the Gentlemen at Arms, who will assist you. At dusk we will begin to read out your names and your wards. Please come forward when your name is called. I shall now call upon my colleague Field Marshal Chesterton, who will be able to fill you in on the story so far.’

I groaned, as more food was brought out and laid on our table. Trays piled high with clams, oysters and winkles on ice, more game, and a suckling pig on each table, with jugs of mead and bread to rinse it down. The Field Marshal stood, and tapped some papers on his table. He didn’t know anything new, really, but told us that the infrastructure of the country broke down quicker than expected. The phones jammed within an hour of what they now called ‘Point Zero’, when the critical mass of the infected numbers made containment impossible and total infection inevitable. By their best estimates, he said, there were no more than a quarter of a million people left in the whole of England. The disease had torn through schools, hospitals and army bases alike. Only those that had sealed themselves off - or were isolated in the first place - had survived, and only those that had been brutal and without mercy had stopped the spread of infections. The stock market had stopped trading on the same day, and had never reopened. The streets of every major city were overrun with the living dead, the air poisoned by disease.

Another old chap rose to his doddery feet and started to explain about the future of England as they saw it. Taxes were, they insisted, to be an entirely voluntary affair, at least until they could pay for anything tangible.

‘
Who’s paying for the swan roast?’ grumbled a man on our table.

‘
Yeah, they won’t be voluntary for long,’ another added.

‘
You are expected to retain your self-governing, self-sufficient statuses for the foreseeable future. If you don’t wish to pledge your allegiance to the English Crown,’ the old boy mumbled, ‘you will be issued with a Care of Sovereign Land Agreement and you can be left to your own devices – we know you’ve all fought for your individual wards, and they have been earned in blood. Those of you who are willing to take to your breasts this most noble of tasks shall be made Barons by Writ of Summons, and may be required to partake in parliamentary debates on the future direction of our great country. Ladies and Gentlemen, Queen Elizabeth the second is asking for your help to protect the surviving inhabitants of England.’

There was raucous cheering and applause. Whistling and the banging of goblets drowned out the man’s words, but he forged on, suggesting that new county borders would be created and new maps drawn; but he also said it was increasingly obvious that ancient infrastructures were cradling life, so it was possible they’d just dust off some old maps and use them instead. He also suggested we write our stories of survival down onto paper, so they would not be lost.

Each ward was to be given a new insignia by something called the Central Chancery of the Orders of Knighthood – a coat-of-arms on a standard to be flown from each settlement. This would not only keep travelers to the right paths and ease the transport of livestock and people, but would also serve to help the two dozen newly appointed Knights of the Crown. They would attempt to stay in every encampment in England at least once a year, which would maintain a unity and sense of connection with the Crown and other camps. There would also be a six-monthly parliament to be held here, in Windsor Great Park. National games were to be organised for two year’s time, and we were to take details back to our camps and encourage likely participants to train for the competition. Two royally-appointed theatrical troupes would soon begin touring the country providing entertainment, and a circus would move from district to district at a slower pace.

I got Baronified, or whatever its called. I even got a coronet; a band of silver with six balls. I wore it on my head as I knelt, and one of the old men read out some Latin, and the old lady with the headscarf and tatty body warmer laid a sword on each of my shoulders. Then that was it. I was ushered out into a third tent, as small and crowded as the first, and was handed more beer. England’s new Barons chewed on lamb legs and quaffed their ales, and hearty cheers would greet the latest additions as they stumbled bleary-eyed into the tent. Many people were interested in commissioning a pub sign for new inns, and about half of them had even heard of Jerry’s pub - I ended up with a list of orders longer than my arm. People drifted off into the night, as their horses arrived or they were taken down to the Thames and their awaiting boats.

I got a tap on the shoulder from a flunky when my horse arrived outside. I stood blinking in the dark still air, finally catching sight of a horse with Dawn on it. I was confused - it seemed to be pulling a cart.

‘
What’s that?’ I asked, confused.

‘
It’s a motor home, arse-head. This is what I swapped your sign for – the sign for the wheelwright. I figure we’re even for the trip. Anyway, I’ve brought someone to see you,’ she said, and nodded over her shoulder. I rubbed the horse’s nose before walking up to the cart. It was a fine thing, with iron bands around the circumference of the wheels and long handles shaped from smooth, golden wood. A bundle of furs lay inside, covering up a layer of straw. Lou whipped off the animal skins and pointed her finger at me.

‘
Ha, ha! You got turned into a Baron!’ She seemed a little drunk.
‘Well, you got turned into a Baroness,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the papers. Lord and Lady Cissbury. That means you too.’ I helped Dawn turn the cart around in a circle to face the way they’d come from.

‘
Do you want to stop and eat?’ I asked. ‘There’s plenty of food. I’ve got a sackful with me, though.’

‘
No, just get in and give me a cuddle. Keep the crown on,’ Lou peered out from under the furs.

‘
It’s a coronet, apparently,’ I said. Dawn told us we’d be in Silchester before dawn, and grabbed a chicken leg from my sack. I climbed onto the straw floor of the cart next to my wife, and we pulled away.

‘
The suspension isn’t too good,’ she grinned.

‘
Are you pissed?’ I asked her.

‘
No, I’m pregnant,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t touched a drop. Anyway, I’m sure this thing will shake it out of me before we get home.’ She and Dawn laughed. I sat back, drinking in the news. The moon was out, and we were going home – my family were going home.

As I watched the black branches grab at the deep blue sky like fingers, and as the moonlight lay in silver patches on the cool dark ground I remembered a story I’d read the previous summer in the local newspaper. It told of an ancient tree in the middle of a traffic roundabout in Broadwater - near what used to be our house. The council had decided that the tree was too old and it posed a danger to the traffic, so it had to come down.

I didn’t know anyone else that was bothered about it, or even heard of the story or noticed the tree. No-one was really too fussed about an old tree on a busy roundabout, but I felt like I knew it. Years before that, when I was a small boy, my dad had always pointed it out as we’d driven past it and I pressed my face against the car window.

‘
That’s the skeleton tree,’ he’d told me. ‘On midsummer’s eve, the dead crawl out from under its roots and dance around in the moonlight.’

‘
Terry,’ my mother had jabbed him with a finger. ‘You’ll terrify the boy.’

They didn’t get to cut down the tree, as the end of the world happened instead. I was glad England’s skeletons had something to dance around. They only get one night off a year. I pulled a sheepskin over Lou’s shoulders and kissed her forehead, but I kept one hand on my longbow, and both eyes on the ancient green road stretching out ahead of us.