Chapter 2

Wednesday, November 3, 2027, Clerkenwell

The official death toll in the UK stood at 13.4 million, with another 1.5 billion worldwide—both numbers almost certainly underestimates. Alex died that morning. Dale had known it was coming, but it still felt unreal.

With no printers working, he had to attempt to handwrite a QR code for him, He also added the number for all the good it did. With a final sigh, he dragged Alex’s body onto the road, where it joined the others. A vague sense of duty drove him to do it, though he wasn’t sure for whose benefit. Was anyone even left who cared? How many people in his own block were still alive?

Emily had taken a turn for the worse but was still texting. He had a key to her flat and promised to check on her if she went silent.

The news announced King Charles’s death, making William king. No one knew for how long. Information was sparse, vague, as if those in charge had either lost control or wanted to pretend things weren’t as bad as they were. “At least they won’t be tossing him out like an old Christmas tree,” Dale thought wryly.

The police had given up. The only thing that continued without fail was body collection. Even the sort of people who would normally attack ambulances saw the value in keeping the corpses from piling up.

Work was a ghost town. Dale logged in out of habit, but barely a fifth of his colleagues still did the same. Sharon, who had done everything right, had fallen ill and disappeared from the chat.

His phone rang. Emily.

“I’m so scared,” she whispered. She was crying. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”

Dale swallowed hard. “You’re strong, Em. You’re still here.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

A pause.

“If-if I don’t make it, will you-”

“I’ll be there,” Dale promised.

He stayed on the line with her for a while, just listening to her breathing. When they finally hung up, he checked his inbox. An automated email informed him that his parents had died.

He felt nothing. Or maybe he felt too much, so his mind shut it off. Either way, he went about his evening in silence.

Friday November 5, 2027, Clerkenwell

The official UK death toll had risen to 35 million. Globally, it was over 5 billion and still climbing.

Emily had gone silent twelve hours ago.

Dale, surprisingly, felt better. Maybe he’d already had the virus and pulled through. Either way, he needed to check on her. With both his flatmates dead, there was no more reason to fear exposure.

The city was quieter than before, but not peaceful—just hollowed out. The tube was dead. The roads were empty. The Boris bike network had collapsed. Dale jogged through the streets, taking in the signs of a society in freefall.

The bodies lining the streets seemed ... older now. The collection teams, once so efficient, were either overwhelmed or dead. The stench was getting worse.

He stuck to side streets, keeping away from the areas where looters would still be active. Fewer people were out and about, but those he did see weren’t the frantic, desperate looters of the early collapse. They were slower, more wary. Shell-shocked. Pairs and singles. Nobody looked at him for long.

When he reached Emily’s flat, the weight of expectation pressed on him.

She was dead.

The grief was sharp, but distant, like hearing bad news from a life that no longer felt like his. He had really liked her.

At least she had a printer. It was low on ink, but it worked. He printed out her QR code and placed it on her chest before dragging her out to the road. He checked her phone, unlocked it with her thumbprint, and sent a message to everyone in her contacts, along with his own number.

There wasn’t much left in her flat that he needed. Some food, a bit of loo roll. Not worth carrying. But in the stairwell, he noticed a bicycle.

“I wonder if the owner’s still around,” he thought.

Not wanting to steal from someone alive, he knocked on every door in the building. Five flats in total. Three were unlocked. The people inside were dead.

He took what little was useful: a tool chest, which he rummaged through, selecting a screwdriver, electric drill, hammer, and chisel. Packing them into a spare rucksack, he dragged the other bodies outside as well. Maybe someone would collect them. Maybe not.

Stepping onto the street, he decided to scavenge while he still could. If things kept collapsing, he’d need more than just toilet paper.

Cycling towards Regent’s Road, he saw more signs of the chaos that had come before. Some buildings were scorched. Cars had been smashed into shopfronts and left there. Most stores had already been looted, their interiors ransacked, mannequins lying in broken glass like fallen corpses.

A small cycle shop caught his eye. It had no shutters. He got out the hammer and chiseled out the lock, surprised by how easily it gave way. The alarm screeched to life. It was jarring, but pointless. The police—if they still existed—had bigger problems.

Inside, he found what he was looking for: a cargo bike. Not sleek, not fast, but sturdy. Reliable. It would serve him better than anything electric. He gathered spare parts, tire repair kits, and high-powered lights. Out of habit, he scrawled a receipt, leaving his phone number by the register. It was a joke, really. Who was going to call?

From there, he cycled to Covent Garden. The city felt emptier the longer he stayed out, the noise of the past few weeks dying down. Looting was slowing—not because people had stopped, but because there were fewer people left to do it.

He reached an outdoor store. The front had been smashed in, glass crunching beneath his boots as he stepped inside. There was still good gear left, and winter was closing in. He grabbed base layers, a warm coat, waterproof gear, a tent, and sleeping bags for different seasons. A sturdy trekking backpack. A camping stove, though there were only ten propane canisters left. He shoved in a handful of energy bars, covered everything with a tarp, and strapped it down. Again, he left a note with his number.

Cycling home, Dale thought about what came next. Society hadn’t fully collapsed, but it was close. If he wanted to survive, he needed a plan.

That night, his phone buzzed. A message from Allegra.

Allegra: “So sad about Emily. Glad you’re hanging in. Keep safe. xx A”

He stared at it for a while before replying.

Dale: “Same. Keep in touch. Let me know if you need help. xx D”

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then, finally:

Allegra: “It’s so fucked. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and it’ll be normal again.”

Dale: “Yeah. Me too.”

Allegra: “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know who’s left.”

Dale: “We’ll figure it out.”

Allegra: “I hope so.”

Dale: “I mean it. We will.”

There was a long pause before her next message.

Allegra: “Goodnight, Dale.”

Dale: “Goodnight.”

He put the phone down, staring up at the ceiling. The world was crumbling, but he wasn’t dead yet.

And as long as he was alive, he needed to be ready.

Saturday, Nov 6, 2027, Clerkenwell

The electric grid was still running, though for how much longer was anyone’s guess.

The BBC was the only channel still broadcasting, and even that had been reduced to a static image with a voiceover. The latest figures were grim: the UK’s death toll was now estimated at 50 million. Globally, 7 billion and counting. The message was the same as ever—stay put, don’t panic—but Dale doubted many were listening. From what he could tell, a lot of people had already fled for the countryside.

The real question was who had stayed.

Before all this, nearly 80% of people in London hadn’t been British. Now, that number must have risen even higher. The people who remained were either those who had nowhere else to go or those who had decided it wasn’t worth running.

The city itself felt like the eye of a storm. Chaos raged further out, where the remaining population was denser, but Clerkenwell was mostly offices and commuter flats. Fewer residents meant fewer looters, fewer gangs. For now, at least, it was quiet. But that wouldn’t last.

More worrying was the growing concern over infrastructure. Keeping the power on. Keeping the water running. The news reports were vague, but it was clear that no one was really in control anymore.

Dale leaned back in his chair, staring out at the empty street below.

After a while, he decided to step outside, just for a short walk.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp concrete and rotting rubbish. He walked without a real destination, just a slow loop around his block, past shuttered cafés and abandoned storefronts. The city had never been this quiet, this still.

He turned a corner near a row of locked-up shops and stopped.

Down the road, near a parked van, a group of men stood in a loose half-circle. Six, maybe seven. All of them in tracksuits or loose-fitting shalwar kameez, hoods up, beards unkempt. They spoke in low, urgent voices.

And in the middle of them was a girl.

She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Blonde, pale, too thin. She was shifting her weight from foot to foot, arms folded tight across her chest. She wasn’t trying to run, but she wasn’t relaxed either.

One of the men reached out, touching her shoulder. She flinched. He said something, his voice too low for Dale to hear, but whatever it was made the others chuckle.

Dale felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

The girl shook her head. One of them gestured toward the van. She hesitated.

He looked around. The street was empty. No police. No one coming.

The tall one, the leader maybe, stepped closer, his voice firmer now. Another one opened the van door.

She looked around, eyes flicking to the street, to the windows, anywhere.

Dale’s heart pounded.

Say something.

Do something.

But there were too many of them.

And if he got involved? Then what?

She took a step back, and the tall one grabbed her wrist. Not rough, but not gentle either.

Dale took a half-step forward. His hands clenched.

But the girl didn’t fight. She looked away. Took a deep breath. Then got into the van.

The door slid shut. The men exchanged a few more words, then climbed in after her. The engine rumbled to life.

Dale stood there, frozen, as the van pulled away, disappearing around the corner.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe.

That was it. No sirens. No interference.

Just a girl who had been there one moment and gone the next.

He turned back toward his flat, walking faster now, every muscle in his body tight.

If the world was really falling apart, he wasn’t going to be powerless forever.

Sunday, Nov 7, 2027, Clerkenwell

The news had stopped. No more broadcasts, no more government updates. The city was going quiet in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

Dale glanced out his window. The bodies he had dragged out yesterday were still there. That worried him more than the silence. The collection crews had been the last sign of some kind of order. If they weren’t coming anymore, things were falling apart faster than he thought.

He needed to act while he still could.

First, he checked his phone. Social media was slowing down, fewer people posting each day. He scrolled through the names, seeing who was still active. Allegra had posted something vague—just an old photo of London, no caption. He hesitated, then sent her a message.

Dale: “Still holding up?”

A few minutes passed before she responded.

Allegra: “For now. Running low on food. Power’s still on though.”

Dale: “Where are you?”

Allegra: “Russell Square. You?”

That was closer than he expected. It made the decision easier.

Dale: “I can come get you. Safer together.”

She took longer to reply this time. He could imagine her debating it, the same way he would.

Allegra: “Maybe. Let me think.”

Dale put his phone down. He couldn’t just sit and wait for her decision, so he went back to checking his building.

His block had forty flats, a converted office building from the early 1900s. He started at the top—sixth floor—and worked his way down. The first two floors were silent. He knocked on each door, forcing the locks when there was no response. Most flats were empty. The ones that weren’t held corpses. He dragged them to the street, still clinging to the idea that someone might collect them.

On the third floor, he was about to break into flat 21 when a voice stopped him.

“Don’t break in! There’s nothing here!” A woman’s voice, sharp and defensive.

Dale stepped back. “Sorry! I was checking for bodies so they don’t rot inside.”

A pause. Then, “Well, I’m not dead yet.”

“If you ever want to talk, I’m in 33. I got through it. It’s getting lonely.”

Another pause. Then, “I’ll think about it.”

That was something.

An hour later, his phone buzzed again.

Allegra: “Okay. Meet me by Russell Square. I’ll stay out of sight until I see you.”

Dale exhaled. Now he just had to get there and back in one piece.

He took his bike, keeping off the main roads. He stuck to side streets, weaving through back alleys and cutting across quiet squares. The city felt abandoned, but not empty. There were people—solitary figures moving with purpose, avoiding eye contact. Occasionally, he heard shouting in the distance, the sound of something breaking.

At Russell Square, he slowed down, scanning the area. A couple of bodies lay near a bench, but there was no one moving. He turned his head slightly, trying not to be obvious.

Then, out of the shadows of a doorway, Allegra stepped forward. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder, her eyes wary.

“I was starting to think I’d never see anyone I know again,” she said.

“Yeah. Same,” Dale admitted.

She had a bike with her, which made things easier. Without another word, they set off.

The ride back was tense, but uneventful. They saw movement in the distance—a couple of people darting into a looted shop, a lone man dragging a suitcase—but no one paid them any attention.

Back at his flat, Dale locked the door behind them.

They ate a simple dinner—tinned beans, crackers, tea. The kind of meal that wouldn’t have felt like much before, but now felt significant just because they weren’t eating alone.

“I don’t know what’s next,” Allegra admitted, stirring her tea.

“Me neither,” Dale said. “But I think we need to be ready for anything.”

She nodded. “I’ll help.”

Monday, Nov 8, 2027, Clerkenwell

The city was dead, but they weren’t.

Dale and Allegra set out early, checking the surrounding buildings. Most were old offices or shuttered retail, but a few had flats. The first block had ten apartments. Four bodies. They dragged them to the roadside. The second building was similar, two corpses. The third seemed deserted—until they knocked on flat seven and got a response.

“Who’s there?” A young voice, wary.

Dale exchanged a glance with Allegra.

“I’m Dale,” he said. “This is Allegra. We’re checking buildings, seeing who’s left.”

A pause. Then, “Are you taking stuff?”

“We’re just clearing out bodies,” Allegra said. “Making sure people aren’t rotting in their homes. Are you OK?”

Another pause. Then, “Not really okay.”

They spoke through the door. The guy—Jake—had been with his dad when the pandemic hit. His father was long dead, and Jake hadn’t left his flat since. He was running low on food.

“You can’t stay in there forever,” Dale said. “Come with us. We’re clearing buildings. Then we’ll get some food.”

A long silence. Then the lock clicked, and the door opened.

“I guess it’s time,” Jake muttered.

Together, they worked through the rest of the building, dragging out eight more bodies. Then they moved on to the next. In total, they cleared eight more buildings, removing 28 corpses.

Six flats had people inside—either sick or too scared to come out. They made a note to check back later.

That evening, Jake followed them back to Dale’s flat. They made a quick dinner. There was still electricity, still water.

But for how much longer?

Dale sat back, watching the two of them eat. Yesterday, he’d been alone. Today, there were three of them.

Maybe tomorrow, there would be more.

Tuesday, Nov 9, 2027, Clerkenwell

The power was starting to fail. It was still there when they woke up, but the lights flickered every so often, and some outlets weren’t working. The fridge hummed weakly, then stopped, then started again. Dale noticed the pressure in the taps was lower than usual. It wasn’t gone yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

They didn’t dwell on it. They had plans for the day.

First, they checked on the people still alive in the nearby flats. Two had died overnight. Dale and Allegra dragged their bodies to the street while Jake stayed back, still shaken from yesterday. The others they had spoken to before were still there, unwilling to leave. Some barely responded when they knocked. They didn’t push the issue.

With that done, they set out.

Jake still needed a proper bike. He sat in the cargo hold of Dale’s as they rode toward Farringdon Road. The streets felt even emptier than the day before. A few figures moved in the distance, but they kept to themselves. No one had the energy for trouble anymore.

It didn’t take long to find what they needed. A high-end road bike sat untouched in the window of a bike shop. Dale smashed the glass with the hammer from his toolkit, and within minutes, Jake was adjusting the seat.

“Crazy what people used to pay for these,” Dale muttered.