ATSSC Survivor Guilt

(ATSSC) Survivor Guilt.




Cautiously Joel walked out of the station and walked up the path towards the high street, stealing himself as the noise and bustle grew louder, the sound intensifying as he stepped into it.

People flowed towards him as he fought his way against the crowd and ploughed on. Cars growled, horns brayed and belligerent voices hammered at his ears. The midday sun beamed back from polished shop windows and dissolved his reflection as he passed.

Across the road an old man hovered on the kerb and called something out to him. The words were dragged away by the traffic but his face looked harsh and antagonistic. Joel hurried on fretfully.

By the time he reached Dr Benton’s door he was sweating, his hands trembling and his breath tight. Pushing his way into the reception he encountered a sea of faces looking up with hard enquiry as he went to the glass partition.

The receptionist nodded politely as he gave his name. Joel settled himself on a chair between a fat man and a young woman both of whom shifted resentfully as he sat down. The trembling spread to his legs. He forced himself to stay seated.

At last his name was called, relieved he padded down the neat carpeted corridor to a door on his left, knocked and entered.

Benton was professional, attractive and smart but Joel felt she possessed little in the way of empathy . She sat on the other side of the desk, her smile small and complacent, her dark hair cut short and business like.

‘How are things today?’

Joel shifted in his seat. ‘So so I’m afraid.’

Benton pulled a face.

‘But I came by train, left the car at home.

She brightened at this. ‘That’s good, that’s a first. How did it feel.’

‘Tense!’ He shrugged. Worse on the street than on the train but none of it was easy. A couple of stops to get here is one thing but I don’t think I could abandon the car for the commute to work’

‘But it’s a start.’ Bentons voice dropped reassuringly. ‘It takes time, you can’t change overnight.’

She consulted the flickering computer screen for a moment. ‘And you’re still taking the medication.’

‘Religiously.’ He responded.

She tapped out something on the keyboard and turned and smiled. ‘Again, it wont work over night, you need to give them time.’

‘How much time?’

But Benton didn’t answer him.

***********************************************************************

Joel ate dinner alone in the top floor flat. The TV droned in the corner, snatches of the broadcast floated to his ears. The new government were now piloting a scheme to award grants to families willing to relocate to the south. Open days were taking place in towns and cities across the north, Barnsley, Carlisle, Newcastle. The minister for Repopulation expressed concern that quotas seemed to be slow in being filled.

Loading the dishwasher he glimpsed through the kitchen window. A group of people huddled below by the wall, staring up. The spreading branches of a chestnut tree diffused and scattered the light, obscuring any features but he felt the glittering scrutiny of their eyes.

Dropping the blind he switched off the light and retreated to the living room. He shook one of the small red pills loose from it’s bottle, popping it into the back of his throat.

On the TV a young woman was being interviewed in the shopping centre of some northern city. A dubious frown on her face.

‘I’m not sure it’s something I’d want to do.’ She proclaimed. ‘I mean it’s like moving into a house where some tragedy occurred, a murder or something. It’s superstitious I know but it’s not for me.’

Some time later Joel went into the kitchen. Easing apart the slats of the blinds he peered out, but the street was empty.

***********************************************************************

The days crawled into weeks, Joel noticed gradual changes. Supermarket queues became longer, the drive into the city more problematic, motorists leaned on their horns and glared. At nights the sounds of raucous voices drifted through the windows and hung intrusively in the still air of the bedroom. Sometimes he sensed an accusatory tone.

At his next meeting with Benton he mentioned his observations.

‘You think the areas become congested again?’

Joel shrugged. ‘Sometimes…..I don’t know.

Benton raised a contradictory brow. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Does it make you nervous?’

He shifted uncomfortably.

She consulted her notes. ‘A few months after you came back you specifically requested a transfer to a top floor apartment…why?’

‘I like the view,’ he snapped and drummed his fingers on the beech veneer of the desk impatiently. ‘Ok the higher up I am the better I feel.

‘Better or safer?’ She challenged. ‘You’ve developed a phobia, a fear of being amongst people. Did you use the car today?’

‘No I caught the train again.’

‘It shows.’ She added dryly.

‘I’m not paranoid!’ But he blurted out the incident with the people staring through the window knowing it made him appear that way.

‘Try to tell me how you feel about being outside, around people.

‘It’s not everyone.’ Joel replied testily. ‘I can be on a busy street, in a shop, on the train and everything’s fine. But sometimes someone or some others come along and I feel a sense of unease…fear.’

Benton leaned in. ‘And what is it about these particular people that causes that? Can you tell me?’

But Joel shook his head nonplussed. ‘It can be a middle aged woman shopping, a man in a suit on his way to work, or even a child, just average everyday looking people but they invoke this panic and I’m convinced that they notice me too, harbour some kind of resentment or ill feeling towards me.’

Benton looked at him for what seemed an age until he looked down at his limp hands impotently. ‘I’m sorry I know it doesn’t make sense.’

She tapped away at her keypad, a priestess consulting the oracle. The monitor bathed her face in a mystical blue radiance. ‘Joel I want to up the dosage slightly….just to see how you get on with it ok.’

Don’t you believe me?’

‘It’s not about belief Joel, it’s about perception.’


***********************************************************************

On the way home he gave up counting the removal vans parked up and unloading furniture. Posters seemed to be everywhere too, on walls and bus shelters. The now familiar phoenix rising logo and the legend….

THAMES GATEWAY RECOVERY SCHEME…

REBUILDING THE FUTURE

adorned each one. A spring sun had edged up behind a bank of soft grey cloud as he walked, it’s silvery spokes fanning out like a peacocks tail.

He decided to drop in at St Ansells, the church on the corner. Joel was not a Catholic but he had fallen into conversation when passing one day seeing the new priest tending the grounds.

‘Not enough people around to hire a gardener yet.’ The man had proclaimed cheerfully. Despite the fan of lines at the corner of his eyes and the flecks of grey in the Sandy hair he had a boyish, friendly face.

And Joel, feeling a sudden impulse to connect with another human being, had volunteered that he had been brought up in a family of growers and if he needed any help with planting….

‘Fantastic!’ Father Laymon was one of those people who loved gardens but had little experience, Joel someone with no great passion but a working knowledge imbued from childhood. Through the early spring they had worked together diligently, weeding, hacking back the tangled grasses, planting beds at the front and tidying the intimate little grave yard at the rear. It seemed the one activity that cleared his mind.

Father Laymon was soothing company too. Joel had taken to dropping by on a regular basis. The priest had come all the way from a parish in Cumbria, swapping lakes and mountains for the urban streets. Joel told him a little about his problems, the weekly visits to Benton but the man never pressed him for more information than he felt willing to give.

Joel breathed deeply and easily, feeling pleasantly calm but as he turned into the road a group of hooded youths lounged on the corner watching him pass with slack contempt, a man standing on the opposite side of the road shot a hostile gaze in his direction.

Joel averted his eyes nervously staring down at the pavement. Three days of bright, dry weather had scoured the paving stones to a pristine matt grey. Suddenly someone stood in front of him, blocking his path.

The woman carried a baby, she held it up to his face, brandishing it like incriminating evidence. Her eyes were wild and wide.

‘Who are you?’ She hissed at him.

For a moment the infants face seemed to change, morph into an engorged choking rictus it‘s flesh the colour of a bruise. Joel stepped back a small cry exiting his lips.

‘Go away…get out!’ She screamed. ‘We don’t want you here!’

He blinked and the baby was normal again. It squinted dumbly in the sunlight, head wobbling indolently as the woman turned and fled across the road into the house opposite.

Shaken he looked around as though seeking an answer. He noticed the rigid stares from the youths, the small curling sneer on the face of the man. The front door of the house banged shut.

The gate to the church yard lay open, he fell through it like a wretch seeking sanctuary. Father Laymon sat on the entrance step in a splash of sunlight, sleeves rolled up, a steaming mug of tea in one hand, casting a satisfied glance at the neatly planted gravelled borders.

‘Leon!’ He greeted.. ‘Just admiring our efforts and watching them come to fruition.’ He nodded at the low maintenance alpines and purple heathers frothing along the pathways edge.

The priests smile faltered as he took in his state. ‘Are you ok there son?’

Leon managed to nod, barely believing that Laymon hadn’t seen the encounter.

‘Fine,’ his failing legs deposited him on the step beside the priest. ‘Just had a weird encounter with a local.’

Laymons’ eyebrows raised. ‘Really, nothing alarming I hope. Are you alright!’

Leon forced a smile, unwilling to reveal the details nor how unsettled he felt. ‘No…it’s nothing to worry about. I’m ok!’

For a moment the priest considered him keenly then poured an extra mug from the flask and handed it too him.

They sat side by side in silence, Leons features composed once more but his mind in turmoil.

‘Nice way to spend a sunny afternoon.’ The priest murmured eventually, turning his face up to the sun. ‘Everything has that lazy end of term feel. It will until things get back to normal.’

Leon said nothing, his eyes scanning the house across the road. The door remained closed, there was no movement behind the windows.

‘I suppose this is the lull, the army’s gone, the…..’ Laymon hesitated, ‘mess has been cleared away. Just waiting for more newcomers now.’

‘Seems to be plenty already.’ Leon offered sharply.

He gave him another keen look. ‘Are you sure you’re ok?’

Leon nodded reassuringly.

‘Where having a special service of thanksgiving next week to welcome some of the new families. Why don’t you come along.

‘I’m not really a religious man.’

‘I know! That’s fine, but it might be good for you to get out and meet a few new people.’

The late afternoon air was punctuated by the distant echoes of children at play. Their cries became more raucous, almost hysterical then dissolved into sudden silence. Leon cocked his head distracted.

‘Leon!’ The priest persisted, pressing him for an answer.

‘Maybe Father!’ He took a swig of the tea and smiled in gratitude. ’I should be going!’

***********************************************************************

That night he sat for a long time at the window. The street lay deserted save for an occasional pedestrian or car passing by on their way to somewhere else. A radio phone in debate jabbered hysterically from the hi-fi, the presenter berated a caller.

‘It may not be the first time in our history that events have brought down a government but it’s sure as hell’s the first time a Prime Minister and half his cabinet have been jailed for criminal negligence, along with that shabby little conglomerate who were responsible for that jerry built time bomb. You think the sentence was too harsh…. They should have been tried for murder…mass murder the lot of ‘em!’

The callers response was spluttered and tinny on the other end of the line. ‘And you think this new PM’s any better, wafting around like the saviour of humanity when he doesn’t give a damn, just making political gain out of this tragedy.

The presenters voice rose in an outraged squawk but Joel tuned the sound out, raising his eyes to the scattered sprawl of streets beyond. Lights glowed in random chaotic patterns encroaching on the blocks of darkness that had first greeted him on his return from the north. In the distance beyond the suburbs lay the soaring steel and glass towers of the city, lit up like empty carnival rides. St Pauls squatted like a frog by the lapping waters of the Thames.

He lost track of time as the hours deepened. Inexorably his gaze became drawn downwards to the road below. Movement, wily and secretive, drifted just out of range of the orange nimbus of the street lights, conspirital whispers ruffled the calm pockets of shadow pooled in the corners. Leon peered intently but was unable to identify anyone. Exhausted, he eventually crawled into bed, his sleep disturbed by irate voices drifting up from the night.

***********************************************************************

He struggled to get through the morning at work, processing the steady trickle of applicants. The faces before him merged into a grey blur, their voices a steady pulsing drone to which he nodded and smiled automatically.

At last he ushered in the final couple of the morning. The man had a conceited air and a bullish set to his chin, tattoos curled up his brawny forearms. His wife was petite and timid. He went through their details, the employment skills they had to offer, the type of accommodation sought, what area.

‘Never thought we’d get a chance at moving down here.’ The man interjected conversationally as Joel filled out one of the endless housing forms. ‘The cost of living would’ve normally kept the likes of us out of the loop. Those affluent southerners had things all sewn up.’

Like they had it coming! Joel thought acidly, damping down his anger, guessing the man couldn’t help being an insensitive idiot.

‘A lucky break for us really.’

‘Ken!’ The woman admonished in a breathy gasp. ‘Show a little respect.’

‘Well of course.’ The man moderated his tone but couldn’t quite banish the self satisfied smile as he continued. ‘Kelly here wasn’t keen on the idea, said it was like dancing on some ones grave.’ He gave her an indulgent smile as though the idea of her even having an opinion was amusingly quaint. ‘But I said you have to make the most of the opportunity’s that come your way. No room for soft notions.

Joel nodded politely, but something in his mind sparked, made a connection and threw his train of thought. The words on the form blurred meaninglessly.

‘And what about you. Where do you hail from originally?’

Joel blinked. The noise from the street outside swelled through the open window.

‘Whereabouts did you come from?’ The man repeated, smiling.

‘Me…uh Nottingham but I was here!’

The statement was met by blank stares.

‘When it happened,’ he amended. ‘I was already here.’

‘Oh!’ The couple responded in unison. There was an uncomfortable silence. He sensed rather than saw them exchange embarrassed glances as he bent his head to continue filling out the form, trying to banish the insistent static from his brain After that the man answered in monosyllables until the interview was complete. They left hurriedly with clipped goodbyes.

Relieved he got up and crossed to the window, closing it against the cacophony outside. Looking down he watched the cars scuttle like hungry cockroaches across London Bridge and leant his burning face against the cool pane of the glass.

He spied a woman amongst the pedestrians on the bridge. Distinct from the smartly dressed commuters, clad in a grey overall, her hair tied back as though she’d just wandered from a factory. She looked around, her face strained and bewildered. As though drawn by his gaze, she stared directly up at his window, raising her hands in desperate supplication.

**********************************************************************

He managed to get an emergency appointment with Benton after lunchtime.

‘How many people come to you?’

Benton sat back, surprised by the question.

‘I mean people like me, survivors…’ He hesitated. ‘Screwed up!’

She nodded in understanding. ‘Some.’

‘So there are others.’

She nodded, thought for a moment then went on candidly. ‘Many, like you, came back to help but couldn’t handle it, they left again.’

‘Do you ever wonder why?’ Joel said. ‘What if it‘s not because of Post Traumatic Stress or survivor guilt or some other psychological condition.?’

Benton paused nonplussed, frowned and opened her mouth to answer but Joel cut in.

‘I mean what would the people who used to live here think? Newcomers arriving, stealing their old lives…like parasites! Political gain being made of their tragedy. How would they feel?’

They wouldn’t think or feel anything Joel because they’re dead…gone. Unless you believe all those silly rumours.’

He stared intently. ‘What are you saying? What kind of silly rumours?’

She shook her head dismissively as though realising she‘d said too much. ‘You’ve lived through one of the greatest disasters to hit the UK since the Black Death, then you opted…bravely…to come back and help get things running again. But it affected you, you’ve developed phobias, obsessive, irrational thoughts. And they seem to be getting worse.’

‘It’s not bloody PTS.’ Suddenly his voice was hoarse, fractured with emotion. ‘It’s people accosting me in the street, staring at me, staring up at my window, shouting things as they pass. The streets are always so crowded, voices, traffic…noise. But everyone bemoans how quiet it is. I overheard some woman on the train saying how she misses the sound of children playing but I hear them all the time, screaming….screaming.’

For the first time Bentons’ patina of calm seemed shaken. ‘You’re not the only one Joel, there are others. That’s why I’m here…to help. Perhaps it was too soon for you to come back, perhaps your not up to it yet.’

Joel stood, his chair falling backwards with a protesting clatter. ‘I don’t need a bloody shrink OK! I’m not mad! I’m not imagining it’ He turned and stumbled from the room, Bentons’ voice calling plaintively after him.

***********************************************************************

He sought out Father Laymon the way a child with a scraped knee flees to its mother. He found him, standing in the church talking with a young couple. The large stained glass window above the altar drenched them in colour. Christ bestowed a sad eyed blessing as he ran towards them .

They all three turned at his approach. ‘Joel!’ the priest welcomed. ‘Come and say hallo. This is Gareth and Mary, they’ve just moved into the area.’

Joel stopped before them panting. ’Perhaps you should reconsider!’ He replied abruptly.

The priest frowned, the polite smiles of the couple faltered as all three took in his livid staring eyes, the pale hollow cheeks.

Father Laymon regained his composure first. Taking his arm he steered him firmly towards a side door, his tone artificially cheerful. ‘Just wait in here a moment son while I say goodbye to these lovely people. I’ll be with you in a tick.’

He sat and waited looking blankly around the room. A painting of a serene faced Virgin Mary adorned the opposite wall. The vestments of Mass, the cassock and stole, were draped on a coat hanger swinging on a hook behind the door. Leon’s flaring nostrils took in the sharp smoky odour of incense seeping in as Laymon entered the room.

He sat opposite and gazed at him for a moment. His eyes were wise and kind and understanding but Leon felt a sense of futility at trying to explain how he felt.

‘I was lucky!’

The priest raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘I mean when the accident happened.’ Joel amended. I’d come down from Nottingham, visiting an old friend, Jim, from university. He lived out on the Isle of Sheppey, not far from the facility. We’d been up talking late, reminiscing about the old days when we heard the siren drifting across the flat landscape like a banshee. We saw the cars… workers from the facility, racing past on the road like bats out of hell, heard the explosions and the glow of the fire. We guessed what’d happened, put two and two together and jumped in the car.’

‘Thank God for that!’ Laymon murmured.

‘We made it off the island but kept on going, gunning the car. My friend Jim, he’d heard the rumours about the place, what kind of lethal crap it would churn out in the event of an accident. We kept on racing north. Outpacing the cloud as it rolled up the Thames estuary towards London, spreading outwards across Kent and Essex.’ There were others like us lucky to hear the sirens or the hurried alerts put out on the radio and TV but not many. I think about all those people, asleep, oblivious, choking, dying without even realising it.’ Leon looked up dubiously. ‘Do you think they’re at peace Father?’

‘I would hope so son.’ He responded gently.

‘And the others, night workers, people out late. Those pictures in the paper, bodies strewn along Charing Cross Road, people in bars stacked on top of each other like old sacks.’

‘It was a horrific time for everyone Joel.’ He shook his head reminiscing darkly. ‘I remember the first news reports, the death toll seemed inconceivable. Then realising our own government had turned a blind eye, allowed that place to be built, awarding contracts to the cheapest bidder, safety codes skirted, building codes skirted, sighting it along the Thames Gateway, a massively populated area. The dead were betrayed for a cheap deal.’ Laymon sighed. ‘But even they in their greed and ignorance couldn’t have realised how massive…how widespread the devastation would be. The whole country was traumatized, not just the affected areas.’

‘Jim wouldn‘t come back, he stayed in the north.’ Joel continued. ‘He‘s convinced the area’s cursed now.’

‘That kind of talk doesn’t help.’ The priest admonished.

Joel thought for a moment. ‘Someone, a Catholic like you Father, told me once that prayers help the souls of the dead to move on.’

‘That’s what we believe yes.’

‘But that many dead…Are there really enough prayers to help that many? ‘His voice shuddered. ‘Or are they still here, watching us take what was theirs.’

‘Joel you have to stop thinking like that, you have to get a grip.’

‘I think I see them!’ he asserted. ‘At first I thought it was me, my paranoia, why everywhere seemed so crowded. But they mingle in with us, trying to carry on their old lives, ending up aimless, confused and angry. And because I can see them, hear them…they take that anger and frustration out on me.’

The priest shook his head gently. ‘Joel No!’

‘And it’s getting worse. I don’t think I’m the only one Father, others see them as well I think. Maybe in time you will too.’

The distant trilling of a phone curled through the door and demanded attention. The priest scowled, casting an impatient glance in its direction. ‘Listen son, I need to get that but wait here…please!’ He suddenly leaned over and clasped Joel’s hand in his own, speaking intently. ‘We can talk, get this in perspective. I can help you!’

Joel gave a flat, mirthless laugh as the priest left, knowing it was useless. He walked slowly out of the vestry and down the aisle towards the door, footsteps echoing softly.

Outside on the street the front door of the house to which the woman had fled stood gaping open. Removal men were manhandling a large wardrobe into the hallway as a couple and their two young children looked on smiling.

***********************************************************************

He found himself in the car heading down the A2 away from London and the last pockets of life. Responding to some strange compulsion to return to the epicentre of events. The first stars were already beginning to shimmer in a pale indigo sky. The motorway was clear, save for a few cars heading out into the deserted countryside, essential workers, heading out to power stations and industrial plants, readying the area for habitation.

Wild flowers on the grass verge closed their petals for the night as he passed like neighbours drawing curtains against the dusk. By the time he reached Rochester he was alone, night spreading across the sky like smoke. The Medway towns lay silent and derelict around him, sprawling stains on the dark landscape strung along the rivers edge.

He came off at the A249, eventually passing beneath the square arching struts of the Kings Ferry bridge and leaving the mainland behind. He followed the roads thin tarmac ribbon stretching out across the flat grassy tundra of the island. The moon pulled free from a huddle of anchored clouds and sailed high in the air silvering a cluster of buildings in the distance. As he drew closer he saw the high chain link fencing enclosing the facility, the gates closed and padlocked as though denying entry now could make any difference.

Joel stopped the car, got out and began walking. Beyond the facility the estuary lay exposed by low tide. Mud banks glistened like pitch encasing the eddying channel of water leading out to the sea.

He stood, staring at the blackened burnt out blocks, huddled jealously over their secrets. The chill of the night deepened. Marsh grass whispered fretfully in the low swooping breeze coming off the ocean.

‘What is it you want from me?’ He spoke to the quiet air.

A sigh of movement came to him as if in answer, simmering up from the horizon. He suppressed a fearful whimper, bracing his legs against the shudder that coursed through them. If he ran now they would only be waiting elsewhere. He would find out once and for all what it was they sought from him.

The noise grew, a stirring, shambling clamour that grew louder in his ears. swelling across the flats, drawing closer. Joel forced himself to turn.

The first of them appeared, ragged silhouettes against the starry sky, flitting shapes that merged as the numbers increased until they were one jostling mass moving towards him.

He let out a harsh, awe struck breath. There were thousands of them…tens of thousands. Men, women and children lurching forwards, spreading out across the land like a mist. An exodus of ghosts answering the same strange compulsion to be here, leaving their old homes, their old, dead lives. Seeking resolution.

He watched them draw closer. The moonlight made pallid masks of their faces. Their eyes burned intently. With the desire for help, or vengeance Joel couldn’t tell.

He waited…knowing he would soon find out.


[edit on 5-5-2007 by ubermunche]

[edit on 6/5/07 by masqua]

Originally posted by ubermunche
‘But that many dead…Are there really enough prayers to help that many? ‘His voice shuddered. ‘Or are they still here, watching us take what was theirs.’

Love that line...so eerie.

Once again, great stuff, uber. You have a great gift for providing your stories with a rich tone...in this case, that barren and surreal vibe of an apocalypse.

Nice...

Nice one ubermunche, really enjoyed that.

Good luck.
mojo.

Thanks for the kind words chaps.


That was my attempt at a 28 days later-ish homage but I must stop indulging my fascination with all things apocalyptic and write something a bit more intimate, sensitive and poignant next time.

I'm thinking 'Lesbo Biker Nympho's on Acid' for my next effort...what do you guys think????

Ubermunche I really enjoyed that. You have a talent. You let your ability down a little with loose proofreading and inconsistency. I'm not going to split hairs though because when your good you're very, very good.

All the best

Originally posted by ubermunche
I'm thinking 'Lesbo Biker Nympho's on Acid' for my next effort...what do you guys think????

I would like to pre-order 5 copies of this novel...and discuss movie rights with you.

Take that Tarantino!!

Post-apocalyptic and future-world are my favorite themes in fiction...movies too. This one was....uber-good!

If this type of fiction interests you too....I would suggest reading "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. He won a Pulitzer for it and it's very haunting and thought provoking.

Don't hold it against him that it's on the Oprah book list...

Thank you for that sdp, funnily enough I was visiting some friends up in Lancashire this weekend and spent a fair amount of time trolling around the bookshops looking for just that book. No luck yet but I've heard such good things about it I'm determined to find it.

In the meantime I'll console myself with 28 Weeks Later which I'm off to see this week.

I thoroughly enjoyed your story. Your ability to weave a sense of dread and suspense kept me on the edge of my seat.

Very nice (in a dark and surreal kind of way)!