Yellow Death: Aftermath: Ordinary people surviving in extraordinary times (The Yellow Death Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 - Beyond The Yellow Death

  Chapter 2 - Yearlstone

  Chapter 3 - On The Road

  Chapter 4 - Game On

  Chapter 5 - Night of Terror

  Chapter 6 - Do Unto Others

  Chapter 7 - Reset

  Chapter 8 - Consequences

  Chapter 9 - The Gang of Three

  Chapter 10 - New Direction

  Chapter 11 - Chance Meeting

  Chapter 12 - It Begins

  Chapter 13 - No Obligation

  Chapter 14 - The Proposal

  Chapter 15 - Ruminations

  Chapter 16 - Friendly Advice

  Chapter 17 - Cards On The Table

  Chapter 18 - Realisation

  Chapter 19 - Interviews

  Chapter 20 - Getting To Know You

  Chapter 21 - Tools Of War

  Chapter 22 - Boot Camp

  Chapter 23 - Assignments

  Chapter 24 - Metamorphosis

  Chapter 25 - Practice Makes Perfect

  Chapter 26 - Graduation

  Chapter 27 - The Kiss

  Chapter 28 - Pain

  Chapter 29 - Recon

  Chapter 30 - Crisis of Conscience

  Chapter 31 - An Awful Truth

  Book 1 Summary

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Copywrite

  Yellow Death: Aftermath

  Book 2 of the Yellow Death Chronicles

  by

  Peter R. Hall

  Welcome to book 2 of the Yellow Death Chronicles. A short summary of book 1 (Yellow Death: Arrival) is available at the end of this book. A glossary of military terms and abbreviations is also available at the end of this book.

  Above photo: The author (on the right) training with the British Army in Germany

  If you enjoy this book, please do me a massive favour and post a review on Amazon - it makes such a difference.

  CHAPTER 1

  Beyond The Yellow Death

  TIMELINE: Immediately after the Yellow Death

  “Often the test of courage is not to die but to live.”

  Vittorio Alfieri (1749–1803)

  Kim opened her eyes. It took a few seconds to focus, and longer to realise she lay in her bed. She felt weak, drained, aching all over, and so very thirsty. Her pyjamas stuck to her skin. She was disorientated, with no idea of time or day. It seemed ages since her mother last checked on her. Outside, the light was dull and grey.

  Although she felt like a bag of shit, the fever had passed. She had survived. Millions had died. Perhaps billions. Yet, she had actually lived through the Yellow Death.

  Katy! If she survived, then maybe Katy…?

  Kim fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp. It clicked, but there was no light. Still no power then. Her mobile phone was dead. The room felt chilly and damp. A stale, musty stench hung in the air.

  Summoning all her strength, she peeled back the covers and struggled out of bed. Standing up proved to be a bad idea, so she crawled to the landing. Holding on to the door frame for support, she tentatively pulled herself up, taking several breaths to steady herself. She walked to Katy’s bedroom, using the wall to keep her balance. The effort made her head pound. By the time she crossed the landing, she was gasping, but a rising sense of panic kept her going.

  Kim noticed the eerie silence, not even a ticking from the wall clock in the hall. It was never this quiet. It was more than quiet. There was a stillness, as if the house itself had died.

  Katy’s bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it further open, but did not go in. There was a lump under the duvet. A sensation of icy dread washed over her and her knees almost gave way. Already a part of her sensed there was no life in the room.

  Kim shuffled into the bedroom and stood over Katy’s bed. A rush of adrenaline gave her renewed strength. The duvet covered Katy’s head and, for several seconds, time froze.

  Right at that moment, nothing was certain. Perhaps Katy was not in the bed. Maybe she was lying there pretending to be asleep and, when Kim pulled back the cover, she would jump up and shout “fooled you”. There were many possibilities.

  Please, God. Please, please, please…

  As Kim slowly tugged the sheets away—inch by inch—she took all those possibilities away, leaving only the awful truth.

  Katy was at peace, cuddling Panda. At first, there was confusion. When Kim developed the fever herself, Katy was not showing any signs of being ill. She had vague memories of her mother assuring her Katy was fine. How could she now be dead? There must be some mistake. The scene Kim witnessed did not match the facts in her brain.

  Then she noticed the slip of paper on the bedside table propped up against the lamp. It was her mother’s handwriting:

  Dear Kim,

  Forgive me for deceiving you. I did what I thought was best. I hope some day you will understand. Please find the courage to go on living. Someone has to carry on. We can’t let it all end like this.

  I love you. May God keep you safe.

  Mom

  As the moments passed, the full horror of the truth sank in. She wanted to cry, but her body was a dried husk and could spare no tears. She climbed on the bed and curled around Katy.

  A long time later, Kim found enough strength to go downstairs and enter the living room. Her mother lay on the couch with a book on her lap, looking as if she was taking an afternoon nap. Her hand clutched a whisky tumbler—still half-full. Rachel had a habit of falling asleep with a drink balanced on her knees. Somehow, she never spilled it. Memories of all the times Kim had removed a full cup of tea from her sleeping mother’s hands brought a flood of emotion.

  Kim stood still for several seconds, taking slow deep breaths and steadying herself against the door frame. It felt as though she had gone to bed one night and, while she was asleep, everyone she loved became ill and died. It was too much to bear, so she collapsed on the floor and gave in to uncontrollable wracking, tearless sobs.

  Much later, Kim crawled to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The streets outside were empty and silent. Nothing moved. A car was parked at an odd angle, partly on the pavement. A van sat in the middle of the road with the doors left open. Kim stared. Taking in the landscape of the new world.

  Much later still, Kim staggered zombie-like into the kitchen and opened a carton of pineapple juice. Katy loved pineapple juice. She sipped the entire carton, as she tried to figure out what the Hell to do now.

  Digging the grave took hours. Simply dragging her mother’s body out of the house and into the garden left Kim exhausted and trembling. The hole needed to be large enough for two, and Kim’s body lacked energy. Many times, the spade hit a stone, sending shock waves up her arms. Low clouds covered the sky like a grey blanket. Drizzle came and went, leaving her damp and chilled to the bone. Several times, she broke down and wept until she was drained. Nobody should have to dig a grave for their mother and daughter.

  The silence was eerie. Normally, she was unaware of the constant background city noise until it was missing. The stillness reminded her she was alone. Was she truly alone? Could she be the only survivor?

  Surely not. Please, not that.

  Kim stopped digging only when she could dig no more. She laid Katy and Rachel at the bottom, side by side, wrapped in blankets. Katy with Panda, her mother with ‘A Tale o
f Two Cities’. She looked down at herself, covered in filth and slimy mud. An urge came to lower herself into the grave and curl up with the bodies. She remembered her mother’s note; ‘We can’t let it all end like this.’

  “Can’t we Mom? Why not? Why the hell not?”

  Perhaps it would be best for civilisation to end like this. After all, nobody could claim the human race was good for the planet. If humanity finished like the dinosaurs, would it be so bad?

  Kim immediately knew what her mother would say to that. She could almost imagine Rachel scolding her for such thoughts. “Kim, don’t be so silly. Humanity will not end. There will be survivors, just like you. Some of them will be bad people. The world needs good people like you. This is humanity’s second chance. Don’t waste it!”

  Kim gave a tiny smile. “Okay, Mom. You win. For now, at least.” She stared at the huge mound of wet soil that needed to be shovelled back into the grave. “Fuck!”

  Afterwards, she sat for hours in the house, staring at the wall. Numb. Trying not to think and failing miserably. What about her brother, Toby? He was in America on a cycling holiday. It might as well be on the other side of the moon. Toby was almost certainly dead, but Kim would never know.

  Darkness crept over the house and Kim slept fitfully on the couch, shivering, but not having the will to fetch a blanket.

  Many survivors did not last long after the sickness passed. They were physically weak, with lingering aches and discomfort. Everyone they knew and loved was dead. The familiar world had gone. Their profession was irrelevant. A few people made a positive choice to end their lives. Others simply lacked the will to go on. Soon, dehydration brought them the peace which the Yellow Death failed to do.

  Kim could easily have become one of those people. However, she awoke early next morning as a bright ray of sunshine fell on her face through a gap in the curtains. She had been dreaming about her husband, Nigel. He had been in Bristol, tending to his aged parents. There was a chance—a very slim chance—he might be alive. She must know for sure. Also, Nigel should know she was alive—and he would want to know about Katy.

  If he survived, what would he do? He would come to London, of course. He would come home. He could be on his way already. How awful if we passed each other somewhere in the middle of England and never saw each other? I need to stay here to give him time to make the journey. And I must regain my strength.

  So, Kim ate and drank and washed and slept and looked through old photographs and cried. After three days, the water ran out, and she cursed her stupidity. She had been living off what was stored in the cold water tank in the loft. With care, it could have lasted a long time, but she had showered every day. Out of habit, she even washed the dishes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She still was not thinking straight, still wandering about the house in a trance. Still spending hours each day sitting on Katy’s bed, or staring at the family photo albums. Still following the ways of the old world. Still acting as if water would always flow from the taps.

  Kim resolved to get a grip on herself. The water situation meant she would have to go out of the house. That was no bad thing, since there was hardly any food left either. Nobody warned her to stock up for the apocalypse.

  Where to go, which shops to raid? She feared venturing too far. Over the past few days, she had heard loud bangs and occasional explosions in the distance. At night, the glow of fires lit up the London skyline. The acrid stench of smoke often carried in the air. The streets were not exactly inviting.

  Why go to any shops at all? Everything she needed was in the neighbours’ houses. So Kim became a burglar.

  She smashed the window in the side door of the house next to hers. It made a terrible crash, causing her to freeze for several minutes, listening for some reaction–for someone to come running to investigate the noise. Nothing.

  The stench inside was a mixture of open sewer and rotting meat. Not a good combination. No way was she going upstairs where it was strongest. Holding a handkerchief against her nose, she explored the kitchen. Bingo! The Singhs disliked the taste of London tap water and Kim found a cupboard full of five-litre bottles of spring water. Their culinary tastes were exotic, and some of the labels on the cans were in Punjabi. But it was all food. It would do for now. When it ran out, there would be another house to break into and another, and another.

  It seemed wrong. It felt like raiding a tomb. She vowed to take only what she needed and mentally thanked the Singhs before she left. There was a block of ‘Post-It’ notes on the kitchen work-surface and Kim scribbled ‘Thank you’ on the top sheet underneath an existing scribble of ‘Get milk and eggs’. It occurred to her she had lived next door to the Singhs for years and did not even know their first names.

  Being confined to the house became stifling. It was far worse than the Covid lockdowns. At least then she had been shut in with her family. They had watched the TV and internet. Nigel even got her playing his computer games. This was different. She was alone and there was no going back to normal. Thank God she had her books… and karate.

  Kim gave up karate since the second trimester of carrying Katy. It was one of the few bones of contention between her and Nigel, since he continued to go twice a week. Now she had plenty of time and the September weather was warm and dry. She grabbed her gi from the bottom of a clothes draw and exercised in the back garden. Performing the ritual katas in the open air was cathartic, and she noticed her body strengthening each day. She dragged Nigel’s punch bag from the garden shed and hung it from the branch of a tree, before proceeding to punch and kick the hell out of it. She did not stop until her arms ached and sweat trickled into her eyes.

  Two further weeks passed before Kim decided there was no longer any point waiting for Nigel. By then, she had raided three further houses and become an accomplished burglar. The idea of travelling across the country to Bristol terrified her—almost as much as the idea of staying in London. If her car broke down, she would not be calling out the AA. But there should be no traffic on the roads, so the entire journey might be over in two hours if she didn’t stop along the way—and she had no intention of stopping. Besides, the need to know what happened to Nigel gnawed at her insides. So Kim packed her car with supplies and stuck a large note on the fridge in case Nigel arrived after she left.

  Time to move on.

  CHAPTER 2

  Yearlstone

  TIMELINE: 18 months after the Yellow Death

  “We cannot despair of humanity, since we ourselves are human beings.”

  Albert Einstein (1879–1955)

  The dawn chorus had been in full swing for a while before the CUG campsite stirred. Clearly, the soldiers were not fans of early morning starts after a night of partying. The sky was cloudless, with the orange ball of the sun peeking over distant hills.

  Cal remained tied to the immense oak tree facing away from the campsite. The sounds of making breakfast and packing up roused him from delirium. For a moment, Cal was disorientated, before memories of last evening hit him like an iron bar. The ambush. Being dragged from their tents. The interrogation. The torture and gang rape of Susan and Juliet. The knife throwing game that left Ken dead and him bleeding from every limb. No nightmare could compare with the horror of this reality.

  Cal’s lips were cracked, but licking them with his parched tongue brought little relief. He was surprised to still be alive after a night tied to the tree, bleeding from a serious thigh wound. It must have stopped bleeding, but continued to throb. Somebody walked from the encampment and shuffled into the bushes nearby for a dump. The rank stench assaulted his nostrils.

  A short time later, the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted across the campsite, which made Cal notice the foetid taste in his mouth—as if his body had already started to decay. He listened for any sound which might come from Juliet or Susan. At one point, he heard a soldier shouting at them to hurry. The women were being prodded towards the stream—perhaps to wash themselves, or more likely, to clean the dishes.

&n
bsp; Cal vigourously wriggled his left hand―the one visible from the campsite. If Juliet or Susan glanced in his direction and saw he still lived, they might cling to a tiny seed of hope. More likely, they would see Ken’s bloody corpse facing them—but Cal was desperate to try something.

  After what seemed like aeons, Cal heard the men mounting their vehicles, slamming doors and starting engines, followed by the thumping of booted footsteps coming his way.

  This was it then. How would it end—a bullet to his head?

  Captain Davidson walked around the tree to face him. The bridge of his nose was bandaged and his left eye bruised and bloodshot. “Still hanging on to life, eh? I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” Davidson chuckled to himself.

  “What should I do with you, Jones? Captain Jones. If that’s your real name, which I very much doubt. You’ve been judged for your crimes and, by commandeering your supplies and women, we’ve carried the sentence out. So, technically, I should free you and allow you to go about your business. Of course, we both know I can’t do that. I can’t be watching my back for the next ten years worrying about you creeping up behind me.”

  Davidson pulled out his pistol. Cal instinctively flinched.

  “I’ll tell you what. I could walk away and leave you here to die from blood loss, or dehydration, or whatever. You’ll get a few more hours to make peace with your Maker. It looks like it’ll be a lovely day. You can enjoy the sunshine once more. Or… I can finish you now. Put you out of your misery, quick and simple. So you choose. There, that’s the second time I’ve given you a choice. Normally I’m not this generous.”

  “Leave me,” Cal said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Yes, I thought that’s what you’d say. I have respect for you. We are very similar, Captain Jones. Neither of us are quitters.”