I am huddled, alone, in the darkest corner
of an old, ruined shop. The air is filled with the loathsome, guttural groans
of the decaying, walking dead. The zombie apocalypse, so long in coming, is
here. Now. My beloved family, dear friends, all gone. And now they hunt me.
Soon it will be my turn. I am their prey.
A sudden surge of defiance lifts me to my
feet. With defiance comes an unexpected, desperate courage. I sprint towards
the front of the shop, leap through the already shattered window, and up onto
the roof of a long abandoned car. The zombie horde close around the car. I am
surrounded by familiar faces now distorted in a ghastly rictus of ravenous
hunger. For me.
Quickly I turn and spring for the
overhanging patio canopy. My hands find the metal edge, cling, and I am up,
standing on the flimsy canvas. From somewhere above a low hum intrudes. An
engine! A plane! The hum grows louder. It is coming closer. I have to get to
the roof, it is my only hope. I reach for the ledge above my head and, with the
last of my strength, heave myself up and from there to the roof.
Now I see it isn’t a plane. Coming straight
at me is a huge air balloon. It is being pushed gently through the air by
propellers. Below it hangs a huge wicker basket. I see passengers, as torn and
exhausted as me. There is a well-dressed captain barking orders. They see me.
The balloon stops, hovers above. A rope ladder is dropped, and with a new
strength, born from hope, I climb eagerly. The haunting groans of the dead
float up from far below. Lassitude and relief flood through me. I feel safe. I
lie on the wicker floor and fall deeply asleep.
Brightness, brightness and colour, like
something from a story book, seeps under my eyelids and wake me. I look up at
my new companions. Excitement and fresh vigour light their faces. I get to my
feet and I see what they have already seen.
It is a new Utopia. Perched on the
unreachable heights of a brilliantly green mountain, it is surrounded by
perpendicular cliffs falling steeply away to sharp rocks thousands of feet
below. There are buildings, pueblo-style, blue tiled roofs contrasting sharply
with bright white walls. I breathe
deeply. My nostrils flare as I inhale the clean, brisk air. I detect a hint of
cinnamon.
It’s a busy scene. Like bees homing on
their hive, there are aircraft of all shapes and sizes milling round and coming
in to land their precious, untainted, human cargo.
“Is this a place the virus didn’t touch?” I
ask the well-dressed captain.
He is the strong, silent type. He nods and
replies briefly in an accent I don’t recognise. “Here, we are above the
plague.”
We land gracefully and the clean people
already there smile and welcome us.
A young girl faces me. She is carrying a
black roll and a survival pack. The pack is yellow, the colour of hope. “I’ve
been assigned to you,” the girl says. “I’ll take you to our safe place.” She
thrusts the black roll and the survival pack at me. “These are yours,” she
says. “come with me. I’ll show you to your temporary campsite.”
We walk and I see sidewalks and signs on
every corner. There are no vehicles of any kind. I follow her round a number of
turns until we approach a huge, grassy knoll. Small plots are marked out every
few feet, all with reserved signs on them. We arrive at the girl’s plot. She
explains I should not unpack anything until the time is right.
“Which plot will be mine?” I ask her.
“Follow me,” she says smiling, and steps
sideways to the next plot. She raises her arms theatrically. “Ta da!” She
smiles again. “We are neighbours!”
I am happy. It is so good to feel I already
have a friend in this new place. I leave my things on the plot and we set out
for the largest building in this mountain-top Utopia.