CHAPTER SIX
It was their new home, and they were very proud of it.
Life was good.
Clive Maitland stepped back, took off his glasses, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Although he'd complained before, he'd never worked as hard as he had in the time since the virus. Back then he'd only had paperwork and a handful of unruly children to contend with. Now he was getting this community back on its feet; a new community that was made up of what was left of many others. He was proud of the fact that he'd drawn them all together, that were it not for his efforts they might have just faded away, not quite sure what had happened to the world, but positive that they wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the new one they'd found themselves in.
They'd lost more than he could ever imagine. Loved ones dying right in front of them, and there was nothing they could do about it. Clive had been single, had never really had a relationship that had gone past the 'let's be friends' stage, and had no surviving family save for an aunt who now lived in Canada. Or at least she had lived in Canada, until the virus caught up with them over there. His Aunty Glenda had been type AB Rhesus Negative, he was pretty sure of that because his Mum used to comment on how rare a group it was.
Much rarer than O-Negative.
In a funny sort of way, though, he'd had the most to lose of all. None of the kids that he'd taught had survived, leastways he didn't think so; he'd certainly never come across any of them in the post-Cull period. Sometimes he saw their faces in his dreams; his nightmares. Christ, what a time that had been…
He'd seen registration in the mornings dwindle down to virtually nothing. Then again, there were hardly any teachers reporting for duty either. In the weeks that followed it soon became apparent that the human race was facing its toughest test since the floods of Biblical times. Only instead of drowning in water, people were drowning in their own internal juices. It didn't take a genius to work out what would happen next.
So, when the authorities had tried to round up survivors, burning the dead in the streets or in their houses, Clive had driven away from the towns and cities, his estate car laden with cans of petrol, food, and bottles of water. He'd driven as far north as he could, finding, quite by chance, a tiny little village – if you could even call it that – out in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place they put on picture postcards advertising Britain to tourists. The authorities hadn't touched it, and Clive doubted whether they'd ever get round to it in time. But, like everywhere else, the dead were in the streets, and they were in their homes.
The stench was incredible, but he'd covered his mouth with a scarf and dragged the bodies from the two main streets – all this place boasted – into one of the fields. Then he'd gone into the houses, carrying out men and women, parents, grandparents (one old man had died alone in his cottage, just sitting in his rocking chair, blood staining his light blue shirt), and children. They'd been the worst of all, because again it brought back scenes of the playground, the classroom. But Clive had to be strong. They weren't coming back and there was a definite risk of other diseases if he just left them as they were. Diseases that the survivors could catch if they weren't careful. Wouldn't that beat all, dying from a secondary virus? The dead would have their revenge after all.
Whether there hadn't been anyone with O-Neg blood in this village or they'd simply left, he had no idea. All Clive knew was that there wasn't another living soul here, which suited him fine for the time being.
After burning the bodies, careful to do it in the most secluded spot he could find in case the smoke should draw unwanted attention, he set about biding his time.
When he'd been a teacher, the most important subjects had always been Maths and English – even the government said so. People who taught stuff like he did were virtually second-class citizens; that's how he'd always felt, anyway. But what good was Shakespeare right now, and why would you ever need to work out a quadratic equation when faced with the end of the world? Clive's subject – Sociology – had suddenly been promoted to one of the most important, along with Woodwork and Metalwork (sorry, Technology, as they called it these days), people who worked with their hands. Not to mention the domestic sciences, and those who also knew how to grow food.
Clive was more than familiar with how the structures of society operated; realised that it would be better to sit out all the violence and mayhem which would follow the collapse of reason and logic. Without law and order, without the police and judicial systems, everything would go to rack and ruin. One day, a dominant force or authority might well take control, hopefully for the better good – but meanwhile it was time to build up smaller communities so that the values of civilisation were not lost for ever. It was time to go back to basics.
First things first, Clive had to gather that community. This he did eventually by travelling round other rural areas, searching for survivors. It was in a medium-sized village just outside Derby that he came upon Gwen, a young woman who had also decided to live rather than just give up. He first saw her sitting at a bus stop as if waiting for a number 22 to come along. Thin, but naturally so, she was dressed in jeans and a jumper, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was smoking a cigarette.
'Hi,' he'd called from his car. 'Are you okay?'
She took a drag on the cigarette, looking over at him. When she stood up, Clive saw the bloodstained carving knife at her hip.
'Look, I don't mean you any harm. I'm searching for other survivors.'
There must have been something about the tone of his voice, perhaps the kindness in it – or maybe it was his inoffensive appearance? – that told her she didn't need to defend herself this time. She'd gone over to the car and, after a moment's hesitation, climbed inside. When he'd coughed at the cigarette smoke, she'd thrown it out of the window. 'Sorry, I had quit before…'
Clive nodded.
She told him her story, of what it was like in Derby now – exactly how he'd pictured it. Gangs of hooligans were in charge, acting like animals. With no fear of reprisals and after seeing people they cared about die in such a horrific way, the darker side of human nature had emerged. Like him, Gwen had been single, and she'd tried to hide away in her house, down a street not far away from the Metro Theatre. There she pretended everything was okay. It was when a trio of men broke in and tried to attack her that she'd had to defend herself with the knife. She'd got out the back window, and run – away from the house, away from the city. That's how she'd lived since that day, alone, on the run.
As Clive drove, he explained what he was trying to do and asked a) if she wanted to join him, and b) if she would help in the search. Gwen had thought about this for all of ten seconds before replying yes. All she really wanted now was a chance at normal life, or as close to normality as anyone got these days. Clive could relate to that.
Together they'd scoured the outlying regions of Derby, Mansfield, Sheffield. There had been some frightening moments, like the time Clive had stalled the car just as a nutter brandishing a cricket bat had appeared to start battering the vehicle.
'Six… Six…?' he'd shouted as he hammered the paintwork. 'Umpire, he's out, surely?' One look at the man's wide eyes and slavering mouth told them that he'd lost his mind completely. Fumbling with the ignition, Clive had restarted the estate and backed it up away from him.
However, slowly but surely, they grew in number, bringing the sane and willing people they found back to the safe haven Clive had created for them. As he said to each and every one of them, it didn't matter what the place had been called before: now the village was named 'Hope'. They'd even made a sign, which they planted on the main street.
It was a name Reverend Tate definitely approved of. They'd found this very special man one day, on his knees, praying inside a vandalised church. The thugs that had been desecrating the building were strewn around him. Tate had crossed himself and risen, leaning on his thick walking stick, asking what he could do for the newcomers. When they just stared at the felled men, Tate's explanation had been, 'The Lord moves in mysterious ways.' (Later they learned that the Reverend actually taught self-defence out in the community to the vulnerable. 'God helps those who help themselves,' he'd explained, patting his stick. 'But not that way.')
The small, squat man, who walked with a slight limp and looked like he'd probably been bald since his teens, had hesitated when they'd asked him to come with them, arguing that he couldn't leave his flock. When Clive
