Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

I look at my man and see that his head is falling. I grip his hand harder, reminding him that I’m still here. He suddenly comes back to life, as he smiles at me through all that pain. I see blood flowing down his forearm and tears streaming down his face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, starting to cry at what I have caused.

His head hits the metal gate again. He reacts by pushing the people back with whatever energy he has left, for what might be the last time. ‘Don’t say sorry, angel, say thank you.’

I reach further out, deeper into my despair, until I can run a finger through his black hair. ‘Thank you,’ I say, several times, until he finally responds with a smile.

I suddenly feel hands on my back, reaching under my arms, and I’m quickly pulled to my feet. I turn round and see that one of the officers is shouting at me. It takes me a second to find his voice amongst the hundreds, and then I realise that he is telling me to get down the escalator. I ignore him and turn back to my hero, my man who was fresh to the fight. I try to kneel down but the officer still has a hold on me and is shouting from behind me.

I look at this eternally brave man and he looks up at me. His face is covered in new gashes, which have been caused by the wild crowd in the few seconds since I left him. ‘Run now, angel,’ he says, his battered face looking defeated, but his spirit somehow still with me.

I shake my head, tears still streaming down my face. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter.

I can’t see what he offers back or witness the pain he will now endure in the name of my safety. My body is spun around, until I’m pointing towards the escalators. I feel dizzy when I try to turn back, but I’m met with the yells of the officer, for what I think might be the last time. I obey and run through the ticket barriers, which have been open for days now.

I don’t dare turn around, and instead I join the back of the small crowd of the other lucky ones. They funnel themselves into a line, and I push my way onto the escalator. I move over to the left side of the escalator, hopeful it will be slightly quicker, and that once I get down there I will feel better. I see the tracks and look up at the board, thinking only of the future, knowing that salvation in the form of a long metal cylinder will soon speed into sight to take us all away. If I can get on that northbound train, I will know I can make it, and if the tube is working then the trains might be running too. I keep telling myself this, remembering the regular briefings I have had as a lucky member of the press. The human urge to keep things regular, to protect our way of life, will ultimately save me, I know it will.

But today there is no quick movement, and no chance of pushing in. The people on both sides of the turned-off escalator remain totally still. I try to look past the man in front of me. He’s wearing a black coat, his briefcase still in his hand and a thin line of dandruff runs across his shoulders. I wonder if he realises what is happening – how far the depths of his denial go, and if they make it all the way to a tie still wrapped firmly around his neck.

I can hear shouting ahead, ‘Move down the platform, now! Just fucking move!’ It makes me think of how busy it is down there. Perhaps it is just as chaotic down there as it is outside, where my hero still hopefully fights to survive. The shouting doesn’t stop. People seem to be shoving their way forward, pushing everyone else deeper into the tunnel.

‘There are severe delays on the Victoria Line,’ the computer announcement says, swiftly followed by the tube staff saying the same thing, shouting down the platform, trying to make sure everyone knows just how screwed we really are.

I squeeze past people, fitting through spaces so small that you wouldn’t think it possible. I don’t know where I’m heading but I figure that the further I go the more space I might find, as though despite everyone huddling together on one part of the platform, there might still be a lot of space that no one has spotted yet. I keep moving, trying to get to the same spot I go to every morning. I look down, trying to find the chewing gum caked into the floor that marks my regular personal space where I always stand.

I get near but I’m not as close to that spot as normal. I see two members of tube staff, all snuggled up in their bulky silver and blue coats, and I figure being next to them would be a good place to wait, certainly as safe as anywhere else. The boards have no times displayed on them and these two are frantically talking to each other whilst pinning their radios to their ears. They stop for a second to give each other a look; it’s at this moment that time literally freezes and all the drama and people demanding around them means nothing.

I move closer, ready to ask something.

One of them starts talking into their microphone and it takes me a second to realise that what he is saying is being announced across the PA system. I can see and hear the choking in his voice and the fear in his eyes. ‘There are no more northbound trains, I repeat, there are no more northbound trains,’ he says, much to the shock of everyone standing with me on the northbound platform.

Someone grabs him, pulling his arm and demanding his attention. ‘It’s only 7:15 in the morning so how can this be?’

He pushes them off him and his colleague comes closer. They stand side-by-side, as if safety in numbers will ever help them. Their uniforms make them targets for questions I don’t think they can answer. They huddle together, their attention back on their radios and the secret things that only they know.

‘Control room, come in please,’ one of them says, tapping his radio whilst staring at his partner. ‘Control room, say again.’

They suddenly look at each other. That kind of gaze has become too familiar to me now. ‘It’s down here, on the tracks, in the network,’ one of them says, his eyes bulging with horror.

The other one grabs his mouth as those around them start to ask what they mean. ‘Everyone needs to board this next train,’ he shouts. ‘This train will be heading back south.’

People start grabbing them again. They try to pull away, but they don’t know where to go any more than the rest of us do. They hold onto each other as questions, demands and pleas come in from every angle.

‘We need to get to Camden,’ this woman says, staring at them through red, worn-out eyes, whilst cradling her two young ones nearby. ‘My husband is there and we need to get to him.’

‘There is nothing northbound,’ the man says again, turning away from her as soon as he has finished his answer, her face probably not even registering in his mind.

She must need more, must be desperate for someone to help, because she pulls at his coat, then taps on it with a skinny finger. ‘Please help me,’ she says, her face scrunched up and tears streaming down her face. ‘He didn’t come home last night.’

The man brutally pulls her hands off him without any of the emotions any human would normally feel in such a situation. His exhaustion and confusion has conditioned him to this new way of life. ‘I just told you: there is absolutely nothing north of the river.’

She turns to me, her face begging. She can’t hold things together now, not even for her children. ‘What does he mean?’

I shake my head, unable to speak and unsure of what any of this means now. I think of this woman and her obvious troubles but I don’t really feel anything for her; all I am really wondering is what this means to me, what has happened in Euston station and whether my shiny train will still be waiting for me in the abyss of a demolished and desolate skyline.

A welcome noise echoes down the tunnel and this means that I don’t have to answer, don’t have to try to find words of comfort, which would only be lies anyway. Everyone hears it and we all stop shuffling for just a moment. I see some distant lights coming through the hole. At any other time I would be able to hear the train properly, would be able to feel the grinding of metal against metal as it approached. Normally, the mass of seasoned travellers on the platform would remain silent as the train enters. But not this time; this time the desperation in the air is overwhelming. People push along the platform, all thinking the same thing, all praying that it isn’t already full.