Red Death Wave: The UK Under Attack

Chapter 2

When I first heard the rumour that there might be a refugee camp at Gunwharf, I imagined orderly rows of white tents and medical teams bustling around helping the injured and infected.

I did not expect the tableau of death and despair laid out in front of me.

At first all we can see are the bodies.

They line the plaza on each side of us, stacked seven or eight high and at least that as deep. When the Red Death first broke out, people treated the dead with the same respect as they had before the Waves, before the Others. They wrapped victims in sheets and blankets, doing all they could to preserve their dignity and honour their memory. None of these bodies are wrapped in sheets. There's no time anymore; people are dying faster than their bodies can be wrapped, and besides, there aren't enough sheets. These bodies aren't even arranged with any semblance of respect, just tossed on top of each other like discarded mannequins, their limbs all bloated and tangled together, the flesh of their bodies grown soft and putrid, bursting open where they press up against each other. The stench is eye-watering, mingled with the greasy stink of smoke from the bonfires that I can't yet see. There are too many bodies to burn.

Why did anyone think there was help here?

Why did I listen to a stupid rumour and drag Lola all the way up here?

Desperation drove me to this point. There was precious little food or water left to scavenge in Havant, the Red Death was creeping in on a bloody tide, and savage gangs were converging on the outskirts of town. It wasn't safe there anymore. But it's not safe here.

Behind her mask Lola coughs, her eyes watering with the sting of smoke in the air. I pull her against me, shooting her a warning look. In these plague-ridden times, it's not a good idea to be caught coughing. That's usually how the Red Death first rears its head - a rattle in the lungs that becomes a fever-boiled brain and literally vomiting up your guts.

I want to turn around and flee from this awful place, flee from the nightmare that I foolishly hoped would be our salvation. But Lola is exhausted and hungry. Before the Others came, Gunwharf was one of the most social spots in Portsmouth, hosting countless restaurants and cafes amongst all the shops and nightclubs. With such a dense cluster of places to eat, there has to still be food somewhere. I have to believe that, or this journey has been wasted, and my sister and I are cast adrift on a sea of uncertainty.

Lola squeezes my hand, her face blanched with fear. There are plenty of people still alive here, but none of them pay us any attention. Their faces - what I can see of them above the rag-masks they wear to protect their noses and mouths from the threat of infection - are smoke and sweat-streaked, their eyes hollow and haunted. We're just two more bits of flotsam washed up in the aftermath of the worst disaster ever to befall our planet. There's a palpable sense of fear and hostility here, thick on the air amid the rotting flesh stench.

I crouch down in front of Lola, my hands on her arms. "We're just going to stay a little while, okay? Just to get some food and water."

She doesn't say anything, but tears swim in her eyes, and I get the feeling her lips are trembling behind her mask. "I don't like it here," she says.

"I don't either." But if I don't keep her fed and watered, Lola will starve to death or die of thirst, and then I'll be just like that woman on the motorway, left holding the body of someone I love and crying for help that will never come. It won't take long to find out if there's food here. But first I have to find somewhere safe for Lola to stay, just for a little while. Once we have supplies we can hit the road again. I don't know where we'll go, but surely anywhere's better than here.