James Smythe - The Testimony

Tom Gibson, news anchor, New York City

I don’t know how I got out of the city, I really don’t. I remember being there, in the smoke, broadcasting to the end. That was how it started to feel: To the end! I remember thinking, and then my producer dragged me away from it. Run, she shouted, because if you don’t run, the footage won’t last, won’t survive, and that would be it. Your legacy, she said, and I know she was just massaging my ego, but it worked. It worked. We ran… I want to say that we ran to the Brooklyn Bridge, but I can’t remember if it was that bridge or another entirely. But I filmed and filmed until the drive was full, and by that point we were crossing the bridge, and then we were heading toward New Jersey. New Jersey? I think it was New Jersey. I passed out, and I woke up on the interstate headed toward Philadelphia, my producer driving this van that looked like something out of The A-Team . We’re going wherever we can, she said, and I said, No, take us back. Take a look out of the window, she said, so I did, and all I could see was the smoke, nothing but.

She drove straight down 95 until we got to Philly, and the offices there. They let me take a shower, gave me a change of clothes – wasn’t in a position to argue, but the shirt… Jesus, I would never have picked that shirt – and they let me on air, to tell people that I was alright, to do the update. Being Senior Anchor on the network gets you certain privileges, even in other broadcast areas. There hadn’t been a report of a bomb in hours; no more threats, either. The terrorists? No idea why they stopped. We had a call-in, and the woman said, It’s because they knew that they had lost. You try saying that God isn’t real, that He doesn’t exist, you’re going to lose that argument pretty damn hard, you hear me? You hear what I’m saying? We hear you, I told her.

Simon Dabnall, Member of Parliament, London

Piers drove most of the way, because he told me that I drove like an old woman. (His words; I have nothing against elderly women. They were my primary constituents at one point.) We chugged along until, I don’t know, Newbury or Swindon, and then we were in a jam and some people in the car next to us put their window down, leant out, shouted to us. It was a woman, her entire family seemingly crammed into this two-door matchbox, eight of them, maybe, on laps, total disregard for seat-belt laws. (I joked about that to Piers, but he didn’t get that I was joking. Tough sense of humour on that one.) Where are you going? she asked, and we said, Wales. Right, she said, we’re going to Manchester. If they could do that to New York, imagine what they could do to London! I smiled and nodded; I didn’t fancy telling her that Manchester would be the second target, if there was such a thing. Twenty miles down the road – and that was hours of travelling – there was a man on the hard shoulder, just him and his kids. We didn’t ask where his wife was, because we knew, I think. His engine was gone, and Piers offered his services, set to work, shirt rolled up to the elbows. We left London because the kids were scared, he said. Where do we go? asked the man whilst Piers tinkered, and I said that I didn’t know. I don’t know very much, I’m afraid, I told him. Piers got the engine working, of course, and as we were leaving the man asked us about God, and I swear, I had almost forgotten. Do you think that, if we had prayed, He might not have gone, and then none of this would have happened? Isn’t this all our fault, that we let Him go? And I said, I think it’s our fault anyway, and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with God. Whether He was here in the first place; whether The Broadcast was Him or not; whether He left us; whether He came back; does any of that really matter now? He looked like he was going to argue with us about it, or make a case for something, so I stopped him. I’m not going to argue this point, I said. We don’t know. We just don’t know, and, chances are, we never will. Either way, we did this, and we’ve made our beds, and now we really have to just damn well lie in them. We started driving again, but he sat there, engine running.

Five minutes later, on the radio, a very-tired sounding lady announced that there was – her words – reason to believe that the sickness that had plagued the world in recent days was ended. Wonder if they found out what it was? Piers said, and I hummed and hawed along, all the time thinking about my pills, and about how lucky I was. I hadn’t died, and, really, if God had anything to do with it, I probably should have.

Peter Johns, biologist, Auckland

I felt like we were forgotten about here. We had a funeral for Trig, days after he kicked it, and people came from all over. We didn’t have the curfew, because we weren’t scared of anybody doing anything against us. Stay out of the way, that was our motto. Even when you got over the Ditch, they kept their noses clean just as well as us. We had the service, some of the people from the Church of the One True God dealing with it, and it was just like the old service, essentially, a few different words, but the same sort of thing. Trig would’ve liked it, I reckon.

Afterwards we went to the pub, and we sat and we drank him under, and we got into this whole thing about why we were left alone. We don’t interfere, they forget about us, I said. Nah, nah, said Trig’s brother, it’s because we’re in Godzone, eh? (We called it that sometimes, because of God’s Own Country.) Fucking Godzone, I said, and we drank to that.

María Marcos Callas, housewife, Barcelona

The Church of the One True God said, We need more priests, and we need to decide who can become a priest. I stepped forward, and I told them that I would like to offer my services. One of the criteria, I said, is that the priests should know that our Lord never left us; that this is another of His tests. I quoted the Bible at them, the King James version, because I had learned the English: this is a trial of our faith, I said, being much more precious than gold that perisheth, and though it be tried with fire, it will only help us praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ. Amen, they all said, and Amen, I said.

I went home after that for the first time in days. Roberto, my husband, was on the kitchen table, lying on it like he passed out from eating his soup. He was dead, but that would be because he had not gone to church when called, because he had continued as he wanted. They spoke about this for years, years and years: what saved those people who were saved? And I maintain, it was: and always will be, their faith.

Simon Dabnall, Member of Parliament, London

We ran out of petrol somewhere near Bristol, just after we saw the sign suggesting that we visit Bath for the day. Rather not, Piers said. We ran on fumes until we got to the mouth of the Severn Bridge, and then – at Piers’ suggestion, I hasten to add – we walked – trudged , in hindsight – along the side-path of the bridge. Luckily, Piers was quite willing to carry the majority of the things we’d brought with us, so I let him. At the other side we saw the signpost – Welcome to Wales! it said – and I faux-kissed it. Piers rolled his eyes. I rested against a hillock, and he sat next to me. You know it’s about another thirty miles, right? he asked, and I lay back. I didn’t even know Wales was that big, I joked.

It must have been something that he picked up in the army, but Piers’ ability to stay awake was formidable . The walk took us all the way through the night and well into the early hours, and I was, honestly, at the point of no return from about the five-miles-in mark. My eyes were sagging and tired, even with my glasses off that they might get rested a tad; Piers’ were prodded wide open as if they had those old cartoon matchsticks underneath the lids. I couldn’t tell you how many times I nearly nodded off as we walked up those ghastly little roads, and even off-road, on trails and paths. I know a short-cut, Piers kept saying, which invariably meant hills and shrubbery and a distinct lack of light other than that from the moon. I’ll catch up, I said at one point, lying flat on a short wall. If we don’t do it together, we won’t get there in one piece, he said. He was right; I persevered (mostly because he threatened to walk off on his own, and I realized that I didn’t have a damn bloody clue where on Earth I was).