CHAPTER 20
Crash Day + 2 weeks
O2 Arena - ‘Safety Zone 4’, London
This has to stop right now.
Alan Maxwell looked up from the numbers he’d been scribbling on the dull pink cover of the back of the emergency protocol manual. He looked out of the window of his temporary base of operations - a small office above the Starbucks, overlooking the dome’s main entrance plaza. The floor was thick with lines of cots, most of them occupied. Hundreds of them. And there were hundreds more of them out of view, in the open area of the London Piazza, further round the dome’s circumference.
We can’t take in any more.
The figures, untidy but accurate, were telling him what he already knew. That stored below the dome’s main central arena - where Kylie Minogue had performed only a few months ago, where Take That had been intending a reunion concert with Robbie Williams in a few weeks time - on the endless low-ceilinged mezzanine floor, there was water and high-protein meal packs for sixty thousand civilians for twelve weeks.
Alan had been down there on the first day to inspect the floor. His first impression had been one of awe; that somebody, somewhere up the emergency authority’s rickety chain of command, had actually made sure their job was done to the letter. It seemed that someone - God bless them - had actually been ahead of the game for once, making sure Safety Zone 4 had everything it needed to fulfil its role providing a safe haven to sixty thousand civilians. Pallets of cardboard boxes, plastic-wrapped and waiting, filled the floor as far as he could see. As well as food and water, there were four emergency generators, all of them running noisily, with enough diesel to run them day and night for three months.
A section of the mezzanine floor was filled with crates of medication, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, refrigeration units, already plugged in and humming, filled with bags of blood and insulin. There was equipment enough, still boxed and waiting to be unpacked and assembled, to set up a dentist’s surgery, even an operating theatre.
Alan had been amazed that in a bloody useless country such as this, a country that seemed to teeter on the brink of complete collapse every time more than a couple of inches of snow fell, so complete and thorough a job had been done at such incredibly short notice.
Heartwarming in a way, that when push came to shove, when it really mattered, there were civil servants who could tick the right boxes and make sure the job got done.
But that was a couple of weeks ago now.
That was back when he thought - as did everyone else - that this was going to be a disastrous, worldwide, three- or four-week Katrina-like event. An event that would shake the world. Rouse everyone from their complacency and remind the world’s leaders and policy-makers that in the pursuit of endless economic growth and rising profit margins, the world had become a terribly fragile thing.
That’s what he’d thought.
Four or five days of civil unrest, maybe a week of it; that’s what he’d been expecting. Those civilians unable to seek refuge in one of the safety zones would be borderline malnourished, perhaps suffering from water-borne infections. And, yes, there’d be deaths . . . thousands of them most likely. Those caught up in the rioting. Those caught breaking curfew. Those caught red-handed looting. The streets of every UK city, town and village would be a horrendous mess that needed to be cleaned up. Every service stretched to breaking point as the country recovered. That was how bad he thought it would get.
Then there’d be years of litigation; years of pointing fingers and blaming the government for not seeing it coming, the oil industry for not ensuring some sort of redundancy in its supply chain. Then, of course, once the world was put back together again, the endless documentaries on TV hungrily picking over the finer details, examining what had gone wrong, and dramas reliving those few summer weeks, spinning out of the grislier details into stories to fill broadcast schedules. Alan had imagined TV channels would dine out on the oil crash for many, many years to come, as once they had on 9/11.
But he’d had all those thoughts two weeks ago.
Since then it had become patently clear to him, if not also to many of the emergency volunteer staff working for him, that this crash was far, far worse than a Katrina-like event. What made it worse, what made it a different order of event entirely, was the fact that it had hit everyone.
Where, with the victims living on the rooftops of New Orleans, or crammed into the Louisiana Superdome, there was an outside world ready to step in - albeit sluggishly - to drop supplies, to airlift those stranded, to roar in with convoys of National Guard troops to restore law and order, in this case, there was no one.
His eyes drifted across the cots, the orange-jacketed emergency workers dotted amongst them.
There’s no one coming for us.
No one coming. He’d had a digitally encrypted communications line with GZ - Government Zone - in Cheltenham set up here in his Starbucks office. The emergency committee were based in GZ, complete with several senior echelons of civil servants, a sizeable garrison of troops and, already, sixty thousand civilians within its compound receiving emergency rations and medical care. The first few days they’d been assuring him that extra troops and policemen were on their way. That he should calm down because SZ3 - Wembley Stadium - was doing just fine and they had only police holding their perimeter, no military personnel at all. They told him he just needed to hold tight, keep letting in those who turned up looking for safety, keep order, and stay calm. Yes, things were a complete bloody awful mess, but they would settle down by the end of the week and then there’d be the real work to do.
This morning, though, the line to GZ was jammed with competing calls coming in, and too few communications officers to deal with them. He finally got through to a harried-sounding junior emergency worker who admitted they were having some teething problems of their own. And this time, finally, acknowledging that, no - surprise, surprise - there weren’t any military personnel spare to send over. The young man hadn’t been particularly interested in his daily situation report either, suggesting that he write it up from now on and fax it over.
Alan was back on hold again, a whisper of crackling static and a digital tone that beeped every thirty seconds; been that way for the last hour.
The figures scribbled in front of him told him far more than he was getting out of GZ. So far, according to his people, they’d processed into the dome about two thousand civilians. Pretty much all of them in the first week, and merely a trickle in the second. The thick crowd pressing against the wire in week one had thinned out after word had spread amongst them that SZ3, SZ5 (Battersea) and SZ7 (Heathrow) were letting in far more people, far more quickly.
There were still a few every day. They usually seemed to turn up in the evenings as the sun settled and the distant sporadic noises of gunfire, isolated hoots and screams echoed out over the still, dark rooftops of south London as the night-time shenanigans began.
His workers let them in, no more than a dozen at a time, as per his standing orders, registered their details and listened with ashen faces to what they had to say.
Alan had sat in on a few of these faltering conversations, letting the orange-jacketed workers, usually professionals, care-workers, gently coax out their stories.
And, listening, it was increasingly obvious there was nothing beyond their spirals of wire, beyond the reach of their floodlights, nothing but a shambolic landscape of smouldering cars, smashed windows and cluttered streets, and small gangs of feral chavs happily getting by on what still sat on shelves in shops. There was nothing out there that was going to rebuild itself.
It’s got to stop.
Alan had three thousand people inside the dome already. Three thousand mouths to feed. Far fewer than the sixty thousand he’d been instructed to allow in. But then, he tapped the pen against the pad in front of him . . .
But then those were my instructions when we thought we were going to be feeding them for only three months.
If he closed the door on any more civilians now, if it remained just three thousand mouths to feed, then the crates and boxes, stacked floor-to-ceiling on the mezzanine floor below, would keep them all going for roughly five years. More, probably, if he sent out his soldiers to scavenge, if he reduced the rations being handed out daily.
‘Five years,’ he uttered quietly. Just saying that sent a chill through him. If that’s what he was considering - considering in terms of keeping things together here for years - then it really was a worldwide first-class f*ck-up; a modern-day equivalent of the collapse of Rome, of Sodom and Gomorrah.
It really was all over, wasn’t it? All over, except for isolated places like this.
The line went dead. Without thinking, he dialled GZ again and got the digital beep of a busy line once more.
He looked out at the cots, the slowly milling crowd gathered around a long row of benches where warmed breakfast rations were being doled out. He looked across the plaza, at the floodlights mounted on tall tripods beaming cold and clinical over them, despite the pale grey dawn seeping in through the wall of glass at the front. It was bright enough that those floods didn’t need to be on. He thought of all four generators thudding away down on the mezzanine floor, eating slowly and surely into their stockpile of precious diesel.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, putting the phone down and standing up.
It was time for a major rethink.