Survivors

by Terry Nation

Genres: Disaster Fiction; Horror; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Genetic Engineering; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Survivors of a global plague battle for life on an empty planet. A gripping vision of a post-apocalyptic world... 'A fine piece of British post-apocalyptic fiction' 'Nation's novel is based on his original cult series...and is all the better for it, being far, far more gritty and realistic' SUNDAY SUN A virus has wiped out 95 per cent of the world's population in just a few weeks, leaving the remaining 5 per cent to stay alive in a world devoid of the most basic amenities - electricity, transport and medicine. The few survivors of the human race are forced to fall back on the most primitive skills in order to live and re-establish some semblance of law and order. Abby Grant, widowed by the plague, moves through this new dark age with determination, sustained by hope that her son, who fled his boarding school at the onset, has survived. She knows she must relearn the skills on which civilisation was built. With others, she founds a commune and the group return to the soil. But marauding bands threaten their existence. For Abby, there's a chance for a new life and love when she encounters James Garland, the fourteenth Earl of Woodhouse, who is engaged in a desperate fight to save his ancestral home. But more important, she must find her son.

Release date: May 28, 2020

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 221

Sample

In the beginning, the Lord said, “My name shall be known to all the peoples of the world.” In one hour He spoke his name to ten people.

In the hour that followed each of those people met ten others and said the Lord’s name.

In the third hour each of those one hundred and ten met ten more people and spoke the name of the Lord.

At the fourth hour each of those one thousand two hundred and ten disciples whispered the Lord’s name to ten more people.

And so it continued:

How many hours will pass before the name of the Lord has spread to all the peoples of the world?

The Good Child’s Book of Pastimes (1850)*

The Boeing inched forward to nuzzle the side of its nose against the walkway.

As though conducting a symphony, the ground controller swept his arms downward in a dramatic gesture that signaled the finish. The orchestra of the engines died. The wheelbrakes clunked. The drawbridge and canopy slithered across to the open front hatchway, tethering the great machine to the airport.

“There will be a brief delay before passengers can disembark. We apologize for this and would appreciate it if you would remain in your seats for a few minutes more. Thank you.”

A fuzzy click ended the announcement, and the voice of the stewardess was replaced by a track of syrup-smooth music.

In the main compartment the passengers from the aisle seats were already standing, waiting to shuffle forward to the exit. Now they seemed uncertain what to do. A few settled back into their seats, uncomfortable and bulky with raincoats and packages, flight bags and plastic carriers from the duty-free shops at Charles de Gaulle Airport.

“Will we be long?”

The chief steward gave his professional calming smile. “Not more than a couple of minutes, sir.” He indicated an empty seat to his questioner.

The man remained standing. “What’s the trouble?”

“A passenger in the first-class cabin was taken ill. The captain radioed for an ambulance to meet us.”

“Is he bad?”

The chief steward assumed a confiding voice. It combined gravity and reassurance. “He’s in some sort of fever. We just want to give the medics a chance to get him off, and then we’ll start disembarking. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He moved on up to the first-class cabin.

The man lay stretched across three seats at the front of the aircraft. A stewardess knelt on the floor beside him. The steady blast of cool air from the overhead ventilator had blown her hair free from the grip of the lacquer, and it lay in thick strands across her forehead.

She looked up gratefully as the ambulance men appeared beside her. She got awkwardly to her feet, her legs stiff from being folded under her.

The ambulance men snapped the stretcher open and laid it in the aisle. They tossed aside the airline blanket that covered the passenger and lifted him onto the taut canvas.

The man was shivering violently, but his face was glossy with sweat. His breathing was swift and shallow. His eyes opened and closed as though he were drifting in and out of sleep.

The red stretcher blanket was flipped over the man, locking his arms to his sides. Then he was lifted and with practiced ease manipulated through the tight angles up to the exit.

“Got his travel documents? Passport? Luggage tags?”

The stewardess who had nursed him pointed back to a briefcase under the seats.

“Better get it. And someone should come with us to deal with the formalities.”

The girl glanced at the captain standing in the open door of the flight deck. He nodded. “You go with them, Mary.”

By the time she had collected the briefcase the stretcher was already on the cart and starting up the steep ramp. She ran to catch up.

She was still wearing her flat “in-flight” shoes. Her blouse had tugged free from her skirt. She started to tuck it in as she walked beside the swiftly moving cart. She felt hot and untidy. She pushed the hair back from her eyes. One of the ambulance men grinned at her.

“Glamorous old life, isn’t it, being an air hostess?”

She didn’t answer.

Flight 301 disembarked seven minutes late. Two hundred and eleven passengers filed out of the aircraft, smiled off by the cabin crew.

Forty-three of the travelers avoided customs and immigration and moved to the crowded transit lounge to await connecting flights. The others were filtered through the airport processes and out into the main concourse, moving against the tide of travelers who were starting their journeys.

In that single day more than six thousand people moved through London Airport. Their destinations included every major city in the world.

The man carried from the aircraft was Robert Jorden Mills. He had flown from Moscow to Paris, spent a one-night stopover at the Hilton and then picked up a British Airways flight to London. He had been taken ill within minutes of boarding. Four days later he died in the isolation ward of a London hospital.

British Airways stewardess Mary Saunders overnighted in a New York hotel. She was due to join the morning flight out of Kennedy. She reported sick two hours before takeoff.

* In 1850 the population of the world was one billion. The answer to the problem was “between seven and eight hours.” Today the answer would be “between eight and nine hours.”

She’s in the garden. I’ll call her.”

Mrs. Tranter carefully balanced the receiver on the pile of directories and hurried across the kitchen to the terrace door.

The gusting October wind pressed the door back against her as she pushed it open. She stepped out onto the wet paving and stared down across the lawns toward the swimming pool. The glass doors of the sun room were closed. Mrs. Tranter moved to the corner of the house. Scent-spray-fine rain misted her spectacles. She directed her voice toward the gate of the walled garden.

“Mrs. Grant!”

She waited a moment and then called again. Louder this time.

“Mrs. Grant. Telephone.”

There was no answer. She was about to start along the path when Abby appeared at the gate.

“Telephone, Mrs. Grant.” The woman mimed holding a receiver as she called.

Abby waved a hand of understanding, and the housekeeper started gratefully back to the kitchen.

Abby began to run. Graceful despite the knee-high muddy rubber boots, she wore a bright-red plastic raincoat that was much too short. Several inches of her skirt showed beneath it. A silk square, knotted at the neck, covered her hair. In her hand was a colander half filled with autumn raspberries.

Mrs. Tranter held open the kitchen door. Abby handed her the colander and stooped to ease off the boots.

“It’s a personal call. I think it must be Peter.”

Abby crossed to the telephone, shrugging out of the raincoat and letting it fall. She pulled off the head scarf and dropped it on the floor. The older woman followed her like a conjurer’s assistant picking up the props.

“Hello. Yes, this is Mrs. Grant. Yes, I’ll hold on.”

Abby noticed the trail of damp footprints across the kitchen floor.

“Those damn boots leak.” She reached down to touch her foot. “My feet are soaking.”

She pushed her hand up under her skirt, hooked a thumb behind the elastic waistband of her panty hose and edged it down to her thighs. She lowered herself onto the edge of a chair and peeled off the wet stockings.

“Hello. Mummy?”

The connection gave a slight echoing quality to the boy’s voice.

“Hello, darling. I hoped it was you. Sorry I was so long. How are you? Is everything all right?”

While her son reassured her that he was well and explained that he was telephoning from his housemaster’s study, Abby made a silent signal to Mrs. Tranter and mouthed, “Pass me a towel.”

Then it was her turn to answer questions. She rubbed her feet as she spoke.

“Yes, Daddy and I are fine. He’s in London today, but he’ll be back this evening. Tell me what’s happening down there?”

Peter retailed the school news as though he were reading it from a prepared statement. He explained that all the boys were being allowed to telephone their parents. Abby wondered if the housemaster was in the study with the boy. The picture of her son was very clear in her mind. Tall for eleven but too thin. Like hers, his hair was fair. And as always, whenever she spoke to Peter on the telephone, her image of him began to focus on his wrists. No shirt or blazer cuffs ever seemed long enough to cover the bony wrists.

Peter ended with: “And that’s about all.”

Abby said, “It sounds quite exciting. Like being under siege. Classes are going on as normal, though, are they?”

“Yes,” he said. “Worst luck.”

His mother laughed. “Hard cheese. Look, darling, will you ring again before the end of the week?” And then, to make it sound more casual: “I’m not at all worried, but I do want to hear what’s happening. They’ve closed the village school for a couple of days, so I thought they might be sending all of you home.”

Peter said there had been rumors about a special holiday for the emergency, but that the Head had decided against it. He finished by promising to telephone on Friday.

“Try and call in the evening, and then you can talk to Daddy, too. And don’t you dare go breaking bounds and sneak off into town. Take care of yourself, darling. Talk to you Friday. Bye. Bye-bye.”

Abby waited until she heard the connection break, then put the receiver back on the rest. She rubbed the towel vaguely over her damp hair.

Mrs. Tranter waited for a report. “Is he all right?” she demanded finally.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Abby roused herself. “Yes, he’s fine.” She shivered. “I’d love a coffee, Mrs. Tranter. Instant will do.”

The woman pressed the switch in the handle of the kettle.

“Apparently they’ve closed off the school. Nobody coming in or going out. The tradesmen leave things at the gates, and when they’ve gone, the boys go down to collect them.”

Mrs. Tranter gave a series of nods. “Very sensible.” She spooned coffee into a cup and stood with her hand hovering over the kettle, waiting for it to click off. “Any sign of it down there?”

“Peter said there are about a dozen boys in the San’, but Matron thinks it’s some sort of stomach bug. Nothing to worry about.”

Again the housekeeper nodded approval. “That’s good. And the school being out in the country, they might be lucky and miss the worst of it.” She moved the cup beneath the spout and in the moment of the water boiling tilted it onto the coffee.

Abby glanced at the wall clock and stood up quickly. “I must have a shower and get changed. I’m picking up David at the station. I’ll take that up with me.” She reached for the cup and, balancing it carefully, started out of the room.

“I’d like to go home for a day, Mrs. Grant.”

Abby halted in the doorway. “Is there something wrong?” she asked. “Have you heard from your sister?”

Mrs. Tranter shook her head. “I tried to ring her this morning, but there was no reply. Then I tried again about an hour ago. There was a funny sort of signal, so I got the operator. She said there had been a big breakdown in the Clapham area. No calls going through at all.”

“But that doesn’t really mean anything,” Abby said. “I mean, nothing to worry about necessarily. They said on the radio that there’d been some breakdowns and that the telephone people were short-staffed.”

Mrs. Tranter was a determined worrier. “Yes, I heard that. But the phone was ringing this morning, and there was no answer. Doris never goes out in the morning.” The idea of her sister leaving the house before noon was impossible; therefore, an unanswered telephone was ominous.

Abby said, “Well, I’m sure everything is all right, but of course you must go. Just to set your mind at rest.”

“Thank you. Of course, if everything is all right, I could be back here tomorrow just after lunch.”

Abby was tempted to try to talk her out of going. It was a difficult journey. More than an hour on the train, then a long tube ride and two bus changes.

Before she could speak, Mrs. Tranter said, “I really must go”

“Of course you must. And decide when you’re coming back after you find out what’s happening. If you can find a phone that’s working, perhaps you’d give me a ring. Now you get ready, and I’ll run you to the station.”

Abby hurried across the hall to the stairs.

Mrs. Tranter took her purse from the kitchen-table drawer and checked that her return ticket to Victoria was still valid. She made certain she had enough cash and then moved around the kitchen, tidying quickly.

The telephone made a noise. Not a real ring but a series of weak single notes. Mrs. Tranter lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” No sound came from the earpiece. “Hello?” she said again and jiggled the rest. The instrument stayed silent. She replaced it and went up to her room.

Abby shifted the automatic transmission into D1, slid her foot off the brake and touched the throttle. The “E”-type Jaguar edged out of the garage. The tires made more noise on the gravel drive than the enormous V12 engine.

Officially this was David’s car, but she enjoyed driving it far more than her own Granada Estate.

For three months she had listened to her husband debate buying the car. The brochure had become his regular bedtime reading. One night he listed the reasons for not owning the car.

“It’s a selfish car. I mean, just two seats. And that engine. With petrol the price it is. And anyway, I’d never really get a chance to use all that power. A seventy-mile-an-hour speed limit. No. It’s silly.”

Abby had waited until they had settled down and switched off the light and then had said, “It’s a beautiful car. I love it. We can afford it, and you want it. That’s all that matters.” David ordered the car the following morning.

Abby stretched across and opened the passenger door. Mrs. Tranter lowered herself in awkwardly. She pulled the door shut. Locked it. Settled her overnight bag on her knees and took a firm hold on the grab handle. She sat rigidly, looking directly ahead.

The women traveled in silence, Abby driving with relaxed expertise. Her long acquaintance with the road allowed her to position the car perfectly for every bend.

She pressed the cartridge into the tape deck. It was the Mozart they had played on the way home from dinner last night.

Abby thought about her son. Perhaps it would be better to drive across to the school and fetch him. Bring him home until the worst of the flu was over. Then again, as the school had isolated itself, it might be as well to leave him there. She’d talk to David about it. There was no need to make a decision right away. They could wait until they got Peter’s report on Friday.

Abby shifted the heating control to “full” and closed the driver’s window. She still felt cold. She had changed into a silk jersey shirt and trousers and now wished she were wearing something warmer.

They drifted around a bend onto a long straight section of road. A distant car moved toward them. Mrs. Tranter nodded ahead. “Dr. Stewart,” she said, recognizing the Silver Cloud.

Abby nodded and flicked the stalk on the steering column to flash the headlights. The twinned headlight on the Rolls gleamed an answer.

Joe Stewart slowed his car and signaled Abby to stop. She braked gently. The cars halted side by side. The electric window of the Rolls hissed down.

“Hello, Abby. Mrs. Tranter.” It was more than twenty-five years since he’d left Glasgow, but his accent was unchanged. His hair was silver and wavy and much too long. He seemed never to look through the half-lens eyeglasses that sat in the middle of his nose. David always maintained that Joe was not a doctor at all, but an actor playing in an A. J. Cronin television series. He was a kind and gentle man, and Abby was convinced that he had discovered a way to halt the aging process. He looked now exactly as he had when he’d saved her pregnancy eleven years earlier.

“Are you and David home tonight?” he called.

Abby nodded. “I’m just off to the station to pick him up.”

“Can I come by at about nine o’clock? I want to give you both a shot of the flu vaccine.”

Abby looked pleased. “Good. Thanks, Joe. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for a couple of days. Bring Gladys with you. We’ll have a drink.”

The doctor grinned. “I’ll drink hers. She’s not feeling any too grand at the moment. Really, though, I won’t be able to stop. Things are a wee bit hectic.”

“Have you had many cases?” Abby asked, after Joe had reassured her that Gladys was “just a bit under the weather.”

“There are about a dozen showing symptoms, but I think half of them are just trying to be fashionable. Anyway, I’ll give you all the news tonight.”

He gave a brief salute and moved his car forward. Abby waved. “See you tonight.”

Mrs. Tranter resumed her tight grip on the grab handle.

Unusually, the station forecourt offered plenty of parking space. Abby placed the Jaguar neatly between the white lines that marked a bay directly in front of the booking hall.

A uniformed porter spread tobacco onto a cigarette paper and eyed the two women climbing from the car.

“London train’s in if you want it,” he said slowly.

Mrs. Tranter was immediately flustered. She hurried into the station at an ungainly trot, paused and turned to say good-bye and that she would telephone when she could, then dashed onto the platform.

On the roadway Abby heard carriage doors slam. A whistle and then the swiftly building roar as the train pulled away. She looked at her wristwatch.

“I must be slow.”

The porter lit his cigarette. “That’s not the five twenty. That one should have gone through at three fifteen. Timetables have gone all to pot today. All to pot.”

“What about the trains out of London?” Abby asked.

The man shrugged. The disruption seemed to please him. “Been nothing on the down line for a couple of hours. They don’t know where they are at Victoria. Can’t get no sense out of them. Far as we can tell, half the crews haven’t turned up for work. Can’t even find out which services have been canceled. Right old mess they’re in. Even our telephones are all jammed up. All gone to pot.”

Abby thought, “He hasn’t enjoyed himself so much since the last strike.” She glanced toward the telephone box across the forecourt. “That reminds me,” she said. “I want to report a fault on my phone.” She started toward the box.

“That one’s no good,” the porter called after her. “Been out of order all day.”

She moved back. “I’m expecting my husband on the five forty-five. Any idea—”

“Don’t ask me,” the man interjected. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He relit his cigarette.

Abby settled in the passenger seat of the car. She could drive around and find a working telephone to call David, but that would be pointless. He would already have left the office. She could go home and let David pick up a cab when he arrived. She twisted around to peer through the rear window. The taxi rank was empty. She looked at her watch again and decided to wait.

She lit a cigarette, switched on the radio, and slid lower in the seat. It started to rain again, and the windshield blurred. The windows began to mist over. Abby liked the isolation this brought. The warm cockpit of the car seemed more secure as the outside world vanished. On the radio the music ended, and a voice took over the broadcast. Abby turned up the sound:

“… and more music in a few minutes. But first the news headlines at five thirty. Reports coming in from motoring organizations say that massive jams are building up in the London area. The metropolitan police advise drivers to delay their homeward journeys for as long as possible to help avoid further congestion. Much of the trouble has been caused by traffic-light failures. Home news today has been dominated by reports of absenteeism in industry. Many shops and factories have been forced to close down. Public transport and services, too, have been badly hit. A ministry spokesman says that it may be several days before the worst of the flu epidemic has passed and things get back to normal.

“And now foreign news. New York is still without electric power twenty-four hours after the breakdown. It’s been estimated that more than half the city’s work force . . .