Prepare to turn left, the voice says. I have set it to be the voice of a woman called Jane. She has a hint of an Irish accent, or somewhere from the north: Liverpool, Manchester. I’ve never been up that far north, so I can’t tell which. I don’t even know if they still talk like that up there. Also, she’s pretending that she’s posh. It’s something that actors used to do, I’m told. I talk back to her, imitating her voice a little. It’s playful teasing.
“There is no left,” I say to her. “There’s only an over. I can veer, though.” Through the makeshift helmet, my voice is muffled. I miss the road turning that she wanted me to take because it doesn’t exist, and she tries to readjust, finding me in a no-man’s land of space on her screen. Recalculating, she says, and then, just when she thinks she might have found it, Recalculating, again. Where I am now, there were houses once. I can see the lines in the ground, the foundations; the lines of walls and doors and entire lives.
I keep going. There are the fragments of roads, but I avoid them, because here they’re too broken up; and the occasional jut of a power cable or telephone mast, sticking out of the ground as if this is a pincushion.
I pedal harder. Doesn’t matter how much I sweat. Go left on the roundabout, Jane says, but that’s when you can hear her accent most: rind-a-bite, she says.
I pass a supermarket that I haven’t seen before. It’s shelled, mostly, but there is a section with a roof, and most of the walls are here, and the doors. We never hold out hope, because there’s a chance that anything left is either contaminated or just useless, but we always check. I park next to it and creep inside, and I hear their voices echoing down the aisles before I see them, which is lucky. We are not always so lucky. I back out: I have no wish to fuck my day up like that. No way, no how.
The bike groans again when I get onto it, and Jane threatens to ruin everything when she tells me that she is Recalculating, but they don’t hear her, I don’t think; and I am long gone by the time that they might be coming out to see what that noise was.
The bike’s front wheel snags on a rock, and I come off. On the dust, the gravel, I clutch at my knee and I check the suit. That would be a worry, if I had ripped it and cut myself; if there was an open wound for infection to set in. But there isn’t. It’s dusty and dirty but that’s all.
Used to be grazed knees and whatever. Get up, carry on. Other concerns, now. Back onto the bike, and I have lost a few minutes, and my knee hurts, so I pedal slower for a while. They say, don’t stay out more than two hours. I can’t see me being back in time. I wonder what will happen to me.
The harvest is metal, whatever it is. I can see that from here. And it’s on fire, which doesn’t bode well. We can’t put it out, so we leave it to burn off and then pick through what’s left. Some of the people at camp, they think that fire has started to burn hotter than it used to. They blame whatever’s in the air now for that: makes it harder to put out, makes it nastier. It’ll melt through anything, like white phosphorous. I haven’t seen that happening, but I’ve seen the evidence: the puddles of dull silver that used to be household appliances, now smelted to the ground. When I was a kid, we stuck a coin to the floor in the shopping centre with superglue and watched people try to pick it up. Funniest day. That’s what they remind me of.
As I get closer I see the satellite dish, like we’ve got fastened to the sides of houses, but much larger. It’s on a base, cylindrical, covered in these gold reflective panels, glinting the sun back at me, even through the smoke; and there are these giant things sticking out of it, like spider’s legs, so long, cracked and bent and twisted on the ground. The whole thing is damaged and battered. It must have fallen from the sky; only explanation. The heat from it comes surging at me in waves. There’s a hatch swinging open through the flames, but I cannot see inside it. What if this is a person? What if there’s somebody in there? Maybe they were up in space before, and this is their return.
Ten feet away and I jump off the bike, and I rush towards the fallen harvest. I throw myself at it, hoping to salvage something. I’ve come this far. I look away from the flames and get close enough that I can feel them, and I reach into the hatch. I am breaking, and I realise how unsecure my suit is: the smoke, whatever’s burning here coming into the mask. I breathe it into my lungs, and it covers my skin. Still, I am here now. I fumble, feeling wires and wires and a box, which I grab and tug out. It’s black, and hot, and melting. I take it and back off, but it’s too hot so I throw it ahead of me. The gloves are on fire, so I peel them off as well. My hands are going to fry, I know, but it’s that or burn. We can’t deal with fire burns properly, and an infection would kill me. I risk it and drop them behind me, and they are swallowed by their own flames.
The box has broken in front of me. There, in the heat, I pick up the bits from inside it and see what they’re worth. Nothing: photographs; bits of paper so charred I can’t make them out; and a golden disc as wide as my forearm. It catches the sun and the fire both, and it’s somehow cold. Not freezing, but cold. It gives me a shock when I touch it, static; as if it were a pin, and I have pricked myself on it. I tuck it inside my suit, opening the zip to slide it in and make it safe. There’s nothing else. In the distance, whatever the satellite-thing was, it is engulfed: the flames rushing out like thick red fingers clawing at the dirt.
Paul went to school here; that’s how we knew to find it. The school had tunnels underneath, running all the way through. Emergency tunnels, escape tunnels. He said that they used them during the wars before, when they needed to. That’s how old the school is. It was perfect. But there are things we could moan about: how dark it is; how damp; how tight the tunnels are. I am always close to somebody, even though they are so long. You hear things as welclass="underline" echoes. It’s scarier than it need be. Almost all of us are young. We were quickest getting down here, to start. We were lucky. Maybe, because we’re younger, we fight off whatever’s out there better. Or maybe this is just how it’s meant to be: the young outlive the old, that’s nature’s law.
We’re so casual about when we die, now. We have to be. I remember when we first came down here there were twenty-five of us, all from around here. Paul knew about it, and we knew that we had to move quickly. London was gone, and we lived in a commuter town. No chance of our parents coming back, for most of us. Ella’s mum came, but she died pretty fast, because she went to look for her son, who in turn had been to look for his father. Ella stayed firm, like the rest of us. We spent a year waiting to see if anybody else came, but nobody did. When that year was done, we opened the doors and started going out. Twenty-five down to ten in only two and a bit years. Those aren’t good odds.
The others have already turned the showers on for me when I get back. I strip under them, and I let the suit and the golden disc lie on the floor at the side. The water is so hot that I am the only one in here. Even the steam’ll threaten to strip your skin. Mine is, I can see as I look down, pink and blistering. I was outside for too long. I knew it. The water makes some of the bubbles under my skin burst, and then the skin goes soft and flat and rippled. I touch them, because you have to. This is part of how you heal. You get the badness out, before it can become a part of you. When it gets into you properly, that’s when you get truly sick; and that’s when they put you out to pasture. What’s it that Paul says? When they send you to live on the farm. That’s a good way of putting it. I have blisters all over me, more than I have ever had before. It takes so long to burst them all or to pull the top-skin of them off; and to let the water go all over me, into them and through them, and taking the badness out and down the plughole. I use soap when I am done, disinfectant bleach soap, and it stings every part of me. I howl, but, I tell myself, this is better than the alternative. Oh my god is it better than the alternative.