Day Seven
I’ve decided to leave. It’s most likely the worst decision I’ve made in my life – and could quite possibly end my life – but I’m leaving. I can’t just sit around here waiting for everything to fall apart, for the walls to come down around me. I haven’t got the slightest clue where I’m going but at least I know how I’m going to get there; on foot. It’s almost laughable – the furthest I ever walked before the bombs was probably to the bus stop and back, but I think it’s a pretty safe bet to say that the buses are no longer running.
I’d considered teaching myself to drive. There had been billions of morons driving in the before, so it can’t be too difficult, right? But I doubt two years of sitting idle will have done any good for even the most robust of cars and what about the petrol? Would it still be viable? Would it blow up in my face? God might know but I sure as hell don’t.
I could probably find a bike and even figure out how to fix it up; pump the tires, oil the chain etc… but there’s no way I would be able to carry everything I’m going to need. The last of the food, water, clothing, all the essentials in case I’m unable to find anything out there to scavenge. So, walking it is. I’ll be like one of those crazy homeless ladies in all the films, pushing a shopping trolley filled to the brim with rubbish.
I’m not going to delude myself, it’s going to be hell. I may not be as chubby as I was, but I think I’m actually less fit – and believe me, I didn’t think that was possible. Survival is going to depend entirely on whether I’m able to find some shelter each night, and on my ability to build a fire. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many things that could end the journey before I’ve even left my home town.
And yet there are so many things that could go wrong here, too.
I’ve at least discovered how to tell the difference between night and day in this perpetual darkness; the temperature drops even lower. In the day, with all the gear George left me, it’s bearable. At night, I will definitely need some sort of heat.
I can do this, right?
God but I’m scared. I might not miss the majority of the population, but the lack of doctors, of police, of anything resembling some form of authority, is something else entirely. I wish we’d reached the future some of my books promised – sentient robots and the like – before we’d blown ourselves to bits. They would have survived. Probably.
Then again, with them being sentient, maybe they’d turn out just as bad as their human masters.
Tangent. Right.
As for the trolley, I found several of them overturned and smashed together in Asda carpark. Asda itself was a mess; the first store I’ve visited since emerging from the bunker and there is clear evidence of the looting George spoke about in his letter. I made it barely a few steps inside before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. Quite a lot of the second floor had collapsed and from what little I could see past the rubble, the shelves were empty.
I’ve packed what I can in the trolley so far – just under two months’ worth of food in tins and MRE’s, and some of the little self-heater things the latter use, five 2 litre bottles of water, an old fashioned kettle to sit over a fire, water filters and all of the tablets and medical items I could find. After a few agonising minutes, I picked three books out of my library, I was really reluctant to leave any but I know I can’t afford the added weight. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find new ones as I go.
I need to find a sports shop for some camping gear and a tent, but there’s one in the retail park on the outskirts of town. The more I think about this, the more confident I become. I can do this. I have done this, over and over again, in the books I’ve read. It’ll be easy.
Right?
It’s hard to leave. This little bunker has been my home, been everything I know, for so long. It’s safe and cosy. Outside… not so much. Still, we’re doing this Rachael. This time tomorrow, we’ll be out in that big wide world on an adventure that’s entirely our own!