Chapter 11 - One The Road
Dawn came early on
the first of May. It was a cold, bright morning. Edward and
I were standing in the courtyard ready to go. After a quick
goodbye to his household we were clumping off for the valley
of the Yvette. I wondered if I would ever get back there,
and envied Edward. The forest was full of life and fresh
leaves, all wet with the heavy dew. The beauty of the place
made my heart sing, yet the thought of my mission filled me
with unease—who to trust? The track was first flat then went
down in steep zigzags, every footstep bringing me further,
leading me to my fate: an unwanted adventure. We were soon
walking past dilapidated houses, willingly taken over by
tireless nature.
I couldn’t help thinking about The Virus and
how it had all come to this. History told us that viruses
were continually mutating and every so often a strain
appeared that ran quickly through populations of humans and
animals, jumping species as it went. As the population grew
exponentially and international travel had become pervasive,
the scope for viruses to develop and spread increased to the
point where waves of pandemics regularly swept the globe.
But there wasn’t much that could be done about it. The
wake-up call came in 2020 with SARS-CoV-2. And when a new
virus struck in 2024, there was a sense of inevitability and
doom that resulted in fear and panic. The thing was that
this virus was extremely infectious but had no symptoms for
about a month, after which it suddenly struck and the
majority of the population rapidly died. At the time, most
people depended on vast networks of complex and
interconnected life-support systems. Who could live in a
city with no power, food, water, sanitation, police? The
towns became death traps when the tipping point was reached.
And those living with any degree of self-sufficiency were
soon overwhelmed by desperate hordes that destroyed
everything in a general free-for-all. It suddenly became
clear to all that civilisation as it then stood could have
no effective defence against such pandemics.
So how did life continue? In the end, what had
to happen did happen: survival of the fittest. Most of the
population died, and those who managed to survive did so in
groups by ruthlessly defended isolation. And that mostly
meant machine guns. Self-sufficient communities like Deva
appeared and cut themselves off completely.
What Deva had was a key advantage: a cheap and
dependable source of power. This was a fast-neutron
sodium-cooled small modular reactor that had been under
development by the French at Saclay who’d been readying it
for commercial use. It was taken over by a group of refugees
from England after it had been abandoned by the French. The
group included a team of nuclear engineers who managed to
get the reactor going again. The group also included
military men who set up a defensive perimeter. A town wall
and a glacis with interlocking fields of fire ensured that
no one could enter.
A vaccine was eventually found but much too
late. And to ensure that there wouldn’t be another outbreak,
movement between such islands of civilisation was strictly
monitored. The general rule was that nobody could enter a
township anywhere without a month of quarantine or unless
accompanied by a local sponsor. The sponsor had to vouch for
any visitors and would be expelled from the community in the
event of infection—would become an outsider who could never
return. This was a heavy responsibility. When we had gone to
Britiniacum, Pete had been our sponsor. And the universal
facial recognition system had identified us.
A lot of my work at Deva had to do with
developing intelligent devices to keep our reactor going. We
had got to the point where the entire system was
self-supporting with smart operations oversight and total
replacement-part fabrication capability. It was all managed
better than any man ever could. All the available knowledge
had been codified and was constantly being extended. And,
luckily, it was a breeder reactor so there really was no
immediate fuel problem.
Yet, having a ready and ample source of energy
in Deva meant that life there was very different from life
in other townships. In Britiniacum, the people looked
healthy and energetic. In Deva there were just pasty-faced,
dispirited drones and wary controllers and technicians. In
Deva the common people had no role; in Britiniacum they had
to work for their livings. In Britiniacum, their only source
of energy, the vital ingredient for any civilised life, was
just wood. The entire place was made of wood. Their whole
life revolved round wood. Mind you, solar panel replacements
that grew by themselves in the most ecological way were
obviously worth having. Only acorns were needed. And luckily
there was no longer anybody living round about, and the
forest was there for the taking. An excellent situation. And
no more pandemics. A hunter could wander through the wide
woods and return with big game slung over his trusty pony
while his hounds gambolled appreciatively round him, back to
his charming wife and beautiful children. “Daddy’s coming.
It’ll be boar pie again!” They clustered round admiringly as
he strode into the house, in his home-knitted socks, a
modest smile on his face, to receive a soppy kiss before the
roaring open fire. Edward was giving me a funny look.
Anyway, I had Anna’s brain and it was the best
I could buy. But how was I going to manage getting another
body for her? where would we go? and what would it be like?
It might be bad luck to imagine too much in advance. I
decided to focus on the Montafian hope for the time being.
Edward croaked, ‘Space out. One up the spout.
Safety catch off.’ I scanned the empty window openings,
ready for instant action. A shiver went down my spine.
Soon we were sneaking along the empty old
streets. We came to the road bridge over the Yvette Stream.
There were supposed to be some beavers, but none were
visible. Maybe they’ll be everywhere before long. Really,
humans spoil everything.
About a hundred metres ahead was the railway
viaduct. A quick scramble up it took us to the track, and
Edward paused. He looked up and down the line, now a vague
path between bramble bushes and young trees.
‘Follow the tracks until you get to Paris
itself, then use the street map, like I told you.’ Edward
squinted towards the low early-morning sun. ‘That way’—he
put his hand on my shoulder—‘take care.’ He was getting
melodramatic and I was getting embarrassed. No French-style
kiss, at least. Anyway, I thought I’d act up a bit too, so I
gave him what I thought was a confident grin with a cocky
wink and said, ‘I’ll be back.’ Then I nipped off before I
spoiled the effect, wondering how convincing I had been,
because I was actually feeling a bit emotional.
Still, it was a fine day, and it looked as if
it would be warm later. I moved straggling brambles away and
pushed past twiggy branches but managed to make good
progress. It was going to be a long day’s walk. All round me
was the wreck of human civilisation and the glory of
returning nature: new green, birds making a racket, even a
few rabbits. There was even a big rabbit that hopped out
onto the path a short way ahead, had a cool look at me then
moved away unconcerned and disappeared. I expect that the
rabbits had lost some of their fear of people.
My high-tech boots kept my shanks dry and
unscratched; well done Edward.
This was the old suburban line RER B that
first ran eastward down the Yvette valley then gradually
curved northwards to enter Paris from the south, passed
right through the city and out the other side towards the
main airport. My destination was just inside the southern
edge of Paris, which was about twenty stations away. In the
late twentieth century, early every morning trains carried
hosts of commuters from their mortgaged suburban homes to
their jobs in Paris, then home again in the evening to sit
in front of the TV, tired out. This used to be a well-to-do
area, full of trim little gardens where lawnmowers we heard
and cars were washed on Sundays. That was all over now.
The old railway tracks had become a game
trail, andI made quite good time, reaching Orsay Station
after about two hours of walking. The sun was high and it
was starting to get warm. There was still no sign of life
except for the rabbits, though I did see some pig droppings
in the deserted station buildings. I sat down on the edge of
the platform and drank a little water from my canteen.
Edward had told me that the water in the Yvette was safe but
that I would do better to boil it anyway, so I just had a
little that I’d got from the Aigrefoin well. I sat until the
solitude grew oppressive, picked up my gun and pack and went
on.
At this point, the line crossed the Yvette on
a high viaduct, then curved over to the right and entered a
cutting. Here the trees had nearly joined up above, making a
dim tunnel with sloshing leaves underfoot. Then the line led
over the old motorway. It went on almost straight for a long
way. And on and on to a station larger than most with a sign
still visible marked “Massy”. It was all derelict buildings
now, surrendering to nature. I didn’t care much for Massy,
so I just kept straight on. Walking down bush-invaded track
between the rails and trying not to stumble on any uncovered
sleepers slowed me. My plan was to stop at Gentilly, bivouac
there until about four in the morning, enter Paris in
darkness using my night vision equipment, get to a building
with a clear view of the entrance of Montafian’s hideout and
keep it under surveillance until dawn. I planned to enter
the place around nine thirty when I figured it would be
active.
I stopped to eat something at a station called
Bourg-la-Reine, glad to sit down for a bit. It was nearly
one o’clock. I got out one of the sandwiches they had made
for me. It tasted wonderful and homelike in that dreary,
empty place. I also had a swig from a flask of Aigrefoin
wine.
Suddenly, I had the feeling that I wasn’t
alone. Somewhere behind and to one side there was a creak, a
scratch. Alarm. Hand to well-sharpened knife in left sleeve.
As Edward said, “At a distance below three metres, that
rifle of yours is useless. You’ll never get it ready and up
in time.” Adrenalin rush. Head slowly swivelled to the left.
A bloody dog! Must have smelled my sandwiches. Relief.
Annoyance.
It wasn’t a very big dog, and it had a black
face with a white stripe down the front. I clicked my tongue
gently. It grew more confident and came into full view. It
was a clean-limbed, attractive-looking dog, and not too
dirty. It looked friendly, submissive. I had the idea that
it was a Border Collie or something like that. It was a
female. Her eyes were fixed on my sandwich, her nose poked
forward and sniffing. It was good to see a friendly face.
Tactfully looking to one side and waving my half-eaten
sandwich encouragingly, I let her approach. When she was
nearly close enough to touch, I put the sandwich down gently
and slid my hand back. She approached, hesitated and grabbed
it. She backed off a bit and bolted it down. I held out my
hand for her to sniff. After a bit she did, then licked it.
We were making friends.
Of course the first problem was to find a name
for her. The station where we were sitting was
Bourg-la-Reine, and even I knew that reine meant “queen”.
So, I decided to call her “Queenie”, a quick fix to dispel
mind turmoil.
I got up and carried on walking to Gentilly.
Queenie trotted along beside me with hopeful glances at my
pack. At one point, she raced off into some bushes. After a
bit of thrashing about, back she came with a young rabbit in
her mouth and proceeded to lay it at my feet, anxious to
find common ground, I supposed. To show my appreciation, as
Edwards has shown me, I tied it to a branch and skinned and
gutted it. I gave the head, guts and feet back to her. I put
the carcass in a bag to eat later, wiped my hands and knife
on a tuft of grass and kept on going. Two hours or so later
we reached Gentilly at the gates of Paris.
It was now mid-afternoon. Teatime. A good
moment for barbecued rabbit. Then lie low until a bit before
dawn.
Gentilly station is in a cutting with the
passenger hall astride the tracks forming a sort of tunnel
underneath. So off we went to the end of the platform,
through the exit and up to the main building: cold, damp and
dirty. Edward had a theory that night-time was when I had
the advantage, as I could use my night-vision equipment. He
had also told me to find somewhere to conceal my infrared
signature at night, because you never knew whether someone
else had the same kit. I was beginning to realise how
difficult life in this ruined city was. Frankly, there were
no resources to support human life. In a corner of the
ticket hall, I made a small fire out of pieces of some old
wooden furniture from one of the offices. I skewered the
rabbit carcass on a coat-hanger and proceeded to grill it.
Queenie watched my every move, giving a little whine from
time to time. I was very glad that Edward had shown me how
to butcher and cook rabbit. Actually, it wasn’t too bad but
a bit dry, having almost no fat.
Anyway, we enjoyed it, and I shared a bit of
water with her. Having no water was the worst part of living
in ruins. The smell and smoke might have attracted unwelcome
visitors, so I thought it might be better to hole up in a
nearby building and wait until it was time to cross the ring
road into Paris itself. Everywhere there were low-rise
buildings. I walked up to the entrance of a nearby one that
looked suitable. The door was ajar and a masonry staircase
was visible. We slipped in. On the second floor, there was a
door open. I looked inside: all untouched but musty, dirty,
rotten. I couldn’t face it. Up we went to the top floor and
found a way out onto the flat roof. I jammed the metal door
closed with a piece of rusty reinforcing rod and had a look
over the parapet. All seemed quiet in the afternoon sun. I
unpacked my military modular sleep system and stretched out
while Queenie eyed me approvingly, or possibly hopefully.
Soon I was dozing off and daydreaming, checking my
communicator for messages. Queenie’s presence reassured me.
At the slightest sound her ears twitched, but it was only at
the sounds of leaves in the wind.
The sun grew low and the shadows lengthened;
there was soon a chilly dampness in the air. The sun set at
around 7 pm. Getting seriously bored and increasingly jumpy,
I set my communicator alarm for 4 am and slipped into
my sleeping bag. Plans and worries rotated through my brain
for what seemed a long time then, suddenly, I was woken up
by Queenie barking and growling. There was something
scratching and snorting at the door. Would it hold? What was
there? I was out of my sleeping bag like a jack-in-a-box and
fumbling to chamber a round in my rifle. Would more than one
shot be needed? How quick could I fire? For good measure I
got my knife ready. The darkness was nearly total so I
rummaged for my night-vision goggles. I was in a spooky
aquarium world with Queenie all lit up. But there were also
flashes of light visible through some perforations in the
door. Then whatever it was scuttled off. Queenie barked a
few more times but more confidently. Then quiet. Now it was
a stand-down and as-you-were situation. I took off the
goggles and tried to get back to sleep.
My communicator alarm went off. It was still
pitch black. Time to get up.
I managed to get my kit together the way
Edward had taught me: smooth and easy. Gave Queenie a pat.
Got the goggles on and un-jammed the door. Sneaked down the
stairs and slipped out the entrance door with Queenie in
close support. I walked down the street using the
night-vision goggles in my low-infrared kit. A green world.
The odd rat or whatever showed up clearly but nothing
appeared in the thousand windows: good. We were marching on
the roads now checking the route from time to time in the
augmented-reality display. Soon we were on a bridge over the
deserted multi-lane highway that ringed central Paris. Still
no people showing up. We went straight on up to Boulevard
Kellerman then left along it to the corner of Parc
Montsouris. Grazing had made it park-like and relatively
open, so we made good time. After a bit we reached a large
pond, and Queenie had a drink. We had a biscuit each then,
spotting a group of wild pigs, made a detour and crossed the
railway lines. We were then on the last stretch up avenue
René-Coty.
This must have been what happened to the Roman
towns and roads when the Germanic invaders swept in. It
would seem that the Roman Empire with its rule makers and
tax collectors became so intolerable that the common people
welcomed their new overlords. A city with no life support
systems was a bad place to live or, more accurately, an
impossible place to live. Paris was now a black hole in a
smiling countryside full of life.
What was this “Jean Montafian” doing here?
Meanwhile, Queenie was scampering after a rat. It was
amazing how she managed in the darkness.
With these musings circulating in my head, we
soon reached a right fork into rue de la Tombe-Issoire, an
old Roman main road leading into Paris, the plan being to
circle round my destination from south to north and get into
an observation position before dawn and thus try to avoid an
ambush. Getting near our destination, we sneaked, stopped,
watched, sneaked again and scrambled until we found a
suitable place above a shopfront marked “Monceau Fleurs”
with a window overlooking the Denfert-Rochereau junction.
Here, from the side, I could see the strange little green
wooden shack that marked the entrance to the Catacombs of
Paris where Mr M was reportedly lurking.
I closed the door, then I clipped the spycam
to the window frame and set my communicator to intelligent
surveillance. So there we sat and dozed. After a while, the
sun rose and a new day dawned over the mouldering remains of
what had once been the vibrant city of Paris. I leant
against the wall out of sight watching the communicator
display, and Queenie rested her head on my leg. She gave me
a meaningful glance or two, so I got out another two
biscuits and we scoffed them.
About these biscuits, Edward—who was a
nostalgic traditionalist about all things military—had
insisted on making and giving me what he called “hard tack”.
I had lots of them. They were small squares of something
like pizza bread baked hard and wrapped in what I guessed
was re-processed fly-cuticle film from Britiniacum. Queenie
liked too.
Edward had been worried about my approach to
Mr M’s den because it seemed he was somewhat paranoid
and might well shoot before looking properly. Hence the
elaborate precautions.
It was soon half past nine, which seemed a
civilised hour for doing business. So we got up and
stretched. I picked up and stowed my gear, and then it was
down the stairway and out into the strong sunlight. Between
us and the entrance to the destination was a gigantic statue
of a lion on a square base. It seemed to me that we should
not seem to be sneaking up behind it, so I moved until the
path was clear. With rifle slung and hands apart I began to
walk across the dirty roadway with its banks of leaves and
tufts of grass growing in cracks. Queenie caught my mood and
drooped her tail. I shouted, ‘Anybody there? John sent me.’
I noticed a spot of green light on the ground slightly ahead
of me. The spot crept up my leg and onto my chest. Shit, a
laser gunsight. Deep breath and keep on. Queenie whined. The
word backup was obsessing me. I couldn’t help thinking that
I had no backup and if I was shot now that would just be the
end of me. And there was no way I could call for backup,
like in the films. Maybe I should just back down or back off
or back out. But as any kind of backing seemed unwise at
that point. it just had to be forward march and get it over.
When I got a bit past the lion, which was
about halfway across. A shout rang out, ‘Halt, who goes
there? Advance one and be recognised.’ I looked at Queenie,
and she looked at me. We both moved slowly forward. Then the
voice shouted out, ‘What’s your business?’ and I gave the
predetermined response: ‘Walters reporting for duty’. It was
a proper old knock-knock routine, a farce, but blended with
mortal danger.
We approached the entrance to the green wooden
shack marked “Catacombes de Paris” in fading letters. This
was once a big tourist attraction, a network of tunnels
extending all through Paris and from which the
characteristic pale stone was mined to construct the
buildings above ground. Sometime around the French
Revolution, the excavations were used to dispose of the
bones from the overflowing cemeteries inside the walls of
Paris.
The door stood open but no one was in sight. I
peeped in, still nobody. So down the stairs we went, to a
dim underground hallway illuminated with oil lamps hanging
from nails here and there. There stood a big guy holding a
sniper rifle. ‘Come this way, the boss is expecting you.’