The Aftermath

Sometimes there is only the distant keening of the howling things that stay hidden in the dark-shadowed places. Some say they are dogs gone wild, rabid, others that they are packs of feral bankers running wild and free across the half-deserted streets of what was once a thriving town. There are others who believe they are zombies, the hordes of the mindless undead, but there has been little evidence that any politicians even survived the first wave of the horror, so most of us discount that latter option. The fear though that there could be wild packs of feral bankers out there, organised, preying on the rest of us, fills our nights with fear and trepidation.

At least, though, we console ourselves that they are not tribes of diversity outreach co-ordinators. To have our gang of bedraggled survivors chastised because our ethnic diversity is not within acceptable limits, or that we do not avoid looting abandoned shops that do not offer disabled access, would be more than most of us could bear. To have some officious oaf clutching the half-shredded remains of some official clipboard berating us for not foraging our full five-a–day would, I think, drive the majority over that edge we spend each fraught day teetering along.

Of course, when it happened we all, we realise now, expected the TV news crews to be there dogging our every step asking us interminable questions like: how does it feel to be a survivor? Do you miss the charred heaps that were once your families? Will you be seeking compensation, or a public inquiry? That there were no TV stations left did not seem to faze them at all, as they signed off to hand back to non-existent studios.

All is not entirely lost though, even as we trudge along the burnt-out wasteland that was once a thriving High Street there are some in our group busy organising a list of names of those who will be definitely attending our Survivor’s Group Christmas Party. This is tentatively scheduled to take place in the burnt out function room of the town’s only still-standing – more or less – hotel, providing the able-bodied remnants of its staff can roast enough rats for a full sit-down menu.