Chapter 2, Rats
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Alright.”
“Hey there.”
Lights appear. Pale, with a blueish tinge. A small sea of mobile phones has burst into life below me. Framed in the glowing light are the faces of the people I am trapped with, old and young, rich and poor, all of them with fading hopes, and doubtlessly dying batteries. The lights begin to flicker and fade, standby mode kicks in, a few of the lights shine in my direction.
Friendly arms guide me down the last few steps onto the platform area. They take pity on me, the call me 'poor child', 'poor thing' and 'poor little dear'. I am poor regardless, they are not wrong, but their pity does not seem right. They are buried underground, the city of London has just collapsed on top of them, their pity should be universal, not reserved for a single child. Perhaps it helps them, to think of my own predicament as being somehow worse than their own.
There are a few torches and lanterns, it is around these that most of the masses huddle. They all look like ghosts, such was the billowing cloud of dust which poured underground like a wave, it has covered everything. A few people have climbed back to the top of the non functioning escalator, they prod pointlessly at the thick metal girders and the large pieces of concrete. Hundreds of tons of London lay above us, the dark is the only way now, the dark is the air and the thoughts, and will be for all our near futures, and maybe the dark shall be all that we know until the end.
Time in the dark is a creature of its own, it lurks and creeps and keeps its presence an ominous secret, a shadow which will sneak up on you when you least expect it, and announce that your moments are at an end.
I move close to one of the lights, not too close, I do not want to be one of the people that everyone else can see, I do not want more sympathy. What I really want is to be somewhere alone, completely alone so that I can deal with what has happened to me. And by deal with, I mean disintegrate into a heap which is swallowed by the ground and never has to lift a tearful head again.
I cannot do that here. I cannot grieve in the midst of the grief of so many other people, my sadness is special, it is my own, I do not want to put it on display.
People have their arms around each other, many cry silent dusty tears. Above us the boom and rumble of battle is almost constant. I imagine giants striding around up there, feeing and fieing and foing and fumming, angrily pacing and cursing and drumming. Searching for blood, English or otherwise, but they will not find it, we are all down here.
“You okay luv?” asks a lady to my left who sat so silently in the near dark that I did not even know she was there. I can't speak, would be rude not to respond though. I consider a nod or a shake of the head. In the end I settle for a shrug.
“Where are your folks petal?” says the man next to her. They are holding hands. The dust covers them, there is no break in it, they have been holding hands for quite some time. I look back towards the escalator, I look back at the couple and point “Up there, and they're not coming to get me” says I. Acknowledgement of the fact, a tiny chink in the thin armour which I have been trying to coat myself in.
Some dusty tears fall, I feel sobs that I try to resist, it only makes them stronger. Two arms encircle me, I am a part of their circle of dust now. Perhaps it's safe to cry here, in the circle, just for a while...
Seconds. Hours. Days. I don't know. Raj is sleeping, I cannot see him, I can tell by the snoring. Lucy is awake. In the dead silence I can hear her biting at her fingernails, people don't do that in their sleep, not that I know.
“Lucy?” I ask the darkness.
“Yes luv?”
“How long have we been down here?” I ask.
“I still don't know Annabel.” I am annoying her. I will leave her to her nail biting.
Platform vending machines have been broken into. Little people like me are fortunate, for there are still some threads down here, some little links to the old world. There is no greedy guzzling and snacking, meagre supplies are gathered, bottled water is pooled together. We take sips and nibbles, doled out by the people who control the torches, the ones with their fingers on the button. I don't know how long the civility will last. A part of me does not care.
I have been adopted down here in the dark, Lucy and Raj have taken me in. We have traded whispers, I now know them and they know me. Dad always told me not to talk to strangers, but that was another world. In this world, there are only strangers and if you don't talk to them then you're alone.
Lucy and Raj were teachers. They lived in south west London but fled to the middle of the city when everything started to melt down a couple of weeks ago. They thought that the centre of town would be secure, that the heart of government, the heart of the nation would be protected by strong ribs of metal and fire. How wrong they were, the fire burned brightest at the heart, which proceeded to pump out ash and agony with reckless abandon.
Now they're stuck with everybody else. Sometimes the odd sound from above reaches us. The explosive rumble of detonating ordinance. Screams, lone screams, the screams of the many.
Down here some people talk about going up the tunnels. They throw things on to the rails to see if the sparks fly. Eventually a brave soul climbs down. He does not die, there is no power in the third rail. The brave soul is joined by a couple of slightly less courageous hangers on. They are going to make their way up the tunnel, they are going to find help for the hundreds of souls under Canary Wharf.
Will we ever see them again? Time will tell and take its sweet time in doing so no doubt. Tick tock goes the clock, but then, then there is a new sound I think. I stand and walk closer to the platform edge. There is a scuttling squeaking sound. A big round man with a torch comes over.
“Bloody rats eh, just what we need” says he. A sleek grey form pitter patters from the tunnel. It meanders about down on the tracks for a while. It has spent its life in the darkness, its world has not changed. Then the rat climbs up on to the platform as it has done many times before in the after hours. The round man's shoe comes down with a loud, wet, crunch.
“That's that taken care of” says he. The round man smiles triumphantly, the human has killed the rat and now he thinks himself the master. I don't like the round man. But, my dislike of him does not ease the shock as a large form leaps from the darkness of the eastern tunnel and knocks him to the floor.
The round man is screaming, the screams are infectious. There is a scuffle. Lots of shouting and swearing, lots of kicking and punching and stamping. Torch light whizzes from side to side, it is difficult to see that is going on. Then. Then it is over, silence. Steady lights and a grisly scene, the round man has been opened. Some recoil from the blood oozing out of him. But most eyes aren't on the round man.
Most eyes are on the rat that killed him. The rat that the mob has collectively stamped to death. It is the size of a large dog, the tail must be over a metre in length, it has a lean muscular form and its blood wet front teeth are razor sharp, and almost a foot long.
Questions are asked, worried glances are exchanged. The rat stinks, there is much vomiting, though the round man's savaged corpse has probably caused some of that too. Then from behind me I hear a sound. Not a solitary squeak, nor a few lone claws scuttling. This is an ocean of sound, like a train, comprised of tens of thousands of claws and beady black eyes.
I run to Lucy and Raj who have woken up from the commotion.
“What is going on Annabel?” Lucy asks.
“There is no time for questions, only trust, and running, lots of running.”
I try to drag them to their feet. The roaring noise is louder. Many torches now search the black pit that is the eastern tunnel. Lucy and Raj are on their feet and being reluctantly pulled to the west. Their reluctance dissipates a few moments later. Raj scoops me up in his arms and then we are away, down the western tunnel. For from the east there has emerged a tide of giant black rats, there are screams amidst the screeching, the feast begins.
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