Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

I know that I am not alone, not the only one rushing towards something and away from something else. Most of the people around me are running now, their hands outstretched as if they are trying to pull themselves past the next person. It has truly become every human for themselves. There are women with children, and a few older people, but they stand no chance. It becomes obvious that the few winners past this line will be the younger, alpha males and maybe a few unimportant hopefuls like me.

Sweat is streaming down my face, and my coat is smothering me. My bag is so heavy that I feel like it is trying to anchor me to the same spot, whilst everyone else seems to be getting ahead in this new fight for freedom. My legs get heavier as I keep pushing myself forward, now certain that this is my only chance of escape. My walk from the flat had quickly turned into a light jog, as I overheard people telling each other that the barricades had fallen. I listened to them, hearing that despite the sheer numbers of our brave soldiers, they were overwhelmed within minutes. I heard someone else shout that the newly built city defences had been breached and all remaining troops were being airlifted out, so that some resemblance of an army still remained. That’s when I knew that I had to make it out of here. I didn’t know where but since everyone was running towards the station I did the same, figuring it was time to catch that train to the countryside, to my parents and whatever fate awaits us all.

As I see the tube staff step back behind the invisible boundary that will soon become their only safety, I already know in my heart that it’s too late, that these gates will shut for good. I wonder if going underground is the right thing to do. It will mean my phone is useless and will perhaps deprive me of my last chance to tell my parents that I love them. I feel my phone vibrate again in my pocket and I know it’s them: my mum will tell me to come home, my dad will tell me I should have done it days ago. I don’t stop now; I don’t even think about answering it. I think only about getting into the tube station, getting up to Euston and catching the train, any train, out of London and closer to them. I will call them later, when I can, and that call will tell them that I am on my way home and that we will not be defeated.

I focus every ounce of my being on getting towards the entrance and the few police officers who are trying to calm down the onslaught that approaches them. When I am ten paces away I see that they are giving up, as they retreat into the station and take hold of the two metal gates. They start to push them shut as the people who approach and squeeze through become the lucky final few. The rest of us are clearly destined to become the mob, an ever-growing onslaught of flesh against these gates of freedom.

I take one final look around and see the masses that are gathering behind me, crowds of people funnelling down every street that lead to this one last place of apparent safety. As I look forward again I see the paint has been scraped off the metal gates; I see the shock in the eyes of the police officers, who must be wondering if they will ever be able to hold back the tide of bodies that are lapping against them. Behind them I see a few more officers with cylinders of pepper-spray drawn, threats to unleash their contents filling the air and openly warning everyone as to what will follow, should we not stand back and leave.

The gates are nearly closed now as too many people try to force their way into the tiny space. I see a man smash into the gates, his screams distinct. Several other people start to push at his back until his voice can be heard no more. ‘Let us in,’ they shout, a mixture of pleas and demands, all wanting to be the one who is heard.

When I reach the front of the crowd, I think about what to do next. I know that I will be crushed if I don’t do something soon. I put a hand on each door, as I look through the small gaps to find the young man who has the keys to my survival. I catch his eyes and he sees me, before his concentration turns back to the bundle of metal jingling in his hands. The other around him are shouting now, demanding that he finds the right one and that he does his duty. Behind them, the officers with pepper spray release it into the crowd. There are screams all around me – the yells of those caught with pain in their eyes. They have nowhere to move, and I hear the cries of those who are being crushed against the metal slats, their skin pushed through any small space until it turns red and raw.

The man with the key’s failure may well be my salvation, as the two big men either side of me prove to be stronger than our uniformed foes on the inside. They manage to get the doors open, just enough for a few people to squeeze through. Two younger guys push past me and make their way in, their bodies twisted sideways, so desperate that they contort and bend themselves until they are successfully through. The police fight them back at first, until they regroup with the obvious realisation that their aim must be to permanently seal this station from the endless masses of desperate invaders.

I push and I fight but I still don’t seem to get close enough to get through. Those men inside seem to regain control as the doors come closer to joining, which will seal the fate of those outside. I think about giving up, and about how I can escape this nightmare and find some space to rethink my plan, maybe even find some like-minded people.

I’m about to turn away when a thick, hairy arm comes out of the mess of limbs and bodies. I look up past many tattoos, each one seeming to have a story behind it, eventually finding the face of a man the age of my dad but with the determination and bulk of a sailor, and a week’s worth of stubble that’s about to become a beard. ‘Get in there,’ he says through gritted teeth in a deep, Irish accent. He pushes me forward, and I pass through a gap so narrow you would never have thought it possible.

I look into his eyes; they are dark and determined, like he’s seen a few of these battles in his time. He looks back at me as he tries to withdraw his arm and I realise that I’m now in another place from him. I’m inside, the dim lighting of the underground station entrance starkly different from the world that’s now a whole foot away from me. I grab his hand, feeling the thickness of his warm fingers. I pull him, somehow willing my saviour to join me, but it’s too late. The gates close, and over the clanging of metal I hear the cries of my man, his forearm trapped as our worlds are separated.

I quickly let go, realising the pain I have caused him. He falls to the floor and I fall with him, making repeated tearful apologies to my hero and to all those who are with him. Big, black boots soon surround me as the officers unleash their spray on him. He screams in pain and pulls his arm out and back towards his body. Blood flows down his leathery flesh as I see this new wound has cut to the bone.

People push against his head as he rubs his eyes and tries to focus on me. I reach my hands through one of the gaps. I know that I am risking getting my fingers chopped off, but I’m determined to hold him. I stroke his chin as he grabs my hand and pushes my fingers against his stubble. ‘Are you an angel?’ he shouts, his head banging against the metal, his face covered in tears, blood and oil.

The boy with the keys returns but he’s still shaking too much to work the lock. One of the other men grabs them off him and pushes him across the floor. He lands a few feet away and I soon hear that the keys have been successfully turned in the lock. The police stand back, and I hear the flick of batons, as I sense that horrific spray filling the air ahead of me. They fire indiscriminately into the crowd, trying to make them withdraw, determined to make them realise that staying in this place is no longer an option. I don’t think they understand that those at the back can’t see this; they haven’t realised what is happening and they are pushing further forward, impatiently demanding their turn at the front of the queue.