The Assignment

Looking out across the reservoir, George succumbed to a strange kind of anxiety. His upcoming assignment began to bother him, though being a simple, routine assignment of little importance, there really shouldn’t have been anything to be bothered about. He decided that it was the deception of the scene that was disorienting him, the airs of normality it conveyed, of uneventful weekend days spent dog walking. The sheet of plain sky, the sound of lapping water, the sight of bare trees swaying in a gentle breeze and the farmer’s house in the distance with the solitary light switched on for the coming evening, it was all sickening. Standing there, it was as if nothing had changed, that the world was as he had always known it to be. Unable to withstand the sight anymore, unable to contemplate his routine assignment without the strange sensations, he turned away and walked to what had been, until recently, the sailing club - now repossessed by the authority of which George was a part.

Christine was there already. Her car was parked close to the entrance. She was sat in the centre of the function room which had been decorated in red wallpaper and carpet. The light was dim. She was wearing a black dress and her hair, dark and wavy, was down past her shoulders. George felt a bit better upon seeing her and walked to the bar. Hey! Love by The Delfonics was playing low. Christine’s choice, no doubt. She was feeling nostalgic, George assumed. Maybe she had been reminiscing on their relationship. She only ever listened to old Soul music when she was feeling nostalgic or happy in love. She looked much better than the last time he had seen her. There was no evident distress about her, quite the opposite in fact. George was hopeful she had come to terms with things. She watched him approach the bar, twirling a few strands of hair around her index finger, gently pulling it across her mouth before letting it fall back across her cheek. He felt less confident now, sensing something off about her. Maybe he had mistaken a coming to terms for defeated resignation.

He reached the bar.

“Evening,” said the landlady, who was the only other person there. She was old and tired, sounding ready for bed. George offered her a simple nod as a greeting, before enquiring about his things, whether or not they had been delivered that afternoon. They had been and were waiting in his room. He ordered a pint of lager and counted out some change. The landlady grabbed his hands, quite violently, as he did so.

“What happening out there?” she hissed.

“I don’t know,” George lied, and pulled himself away meekly. She went all sullen then, the landlady, staring blankly at the coins George placed into her hands.

“Isn’t this all worthless now?” she asked.

“Yes,” George said, unable to deny it. “But don’t worry, I’m sure things will be resolved before…before too much damage is done.”

“Is it really that bad?”

George bowed his head and nodded, solemnly.

“But who’s maintaining the water supply? Who’s providing the food for us all? Is it true that all the supermarkets are empty already?”

George kept his head bowed and shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what to say or to do to comfort her, unable to think up any lies or remnants of hope for the situation. He mumbled a thank you, hesitated for a second, hoping that something else would come to mind but it didn’t, so he left her standing there, to watch him go and sit with Christine through eyes that stung with the holding back of tears. She sat behind the bar with her phone, checking for the hundredth time that day for a signal. She looked up at the TV, and the static that raged across every channel.

“She’s been waiting for you all day, you know,” Christine said. “She’s beside herself with worry. Poor woman. You could’ve been a bit more considerate.”

George raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement as he took a sip of his pint. He listened for a moment to the opening strains of Marvin Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On.

“You think this choice of song is considerate?” he asked.

“I didn’t put this music on,” Christine said, and beckoned her gaze towards the landlady. “She did.”

“Oh. I thought…”

“I’m not in the mood for Soul music.”

George nodded and took another sip of the pint.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still coming,” Christine said.

“I had to”, said George, and they smiled at each other and drifted into general conversation. She made a joke about his suit but didn’t laugh. It was all kept very polite.

“I’ve been assigned,” George told her eventually. “I’m heading into town tomorrow.”

Christine gave nothing away, she simply took a gulp of her wine and waited for George to continue. He didn’t, and they sat there in silence for a while before Christine suggested a cigarette.

“You can smoke in here, love,” the landlady shouted from behind the bar.

“You don’t mind?” Christine shouted back.

“I don’t care,” the landlady replied.

So Christine lit up a cigarette, and George did, too.

“You know,” Christine said, “it won’t make one bit of difference you going down there. You’ll only make yourself ill and, dare I say it, there’s nobody worth reporting back to.”

“What makes you say that?”

Christine took a long drag of her cigarette, blew out the fumes into George’s face and told him, “It’s pointless. And you know it. And those Ministers you’re still working for, they’re pointless, too.”

George tilted his head sideways and exhaled the cigarette smoke, watching it drift up slowly towards the ceiling.

“Well,” he said, “I have to.”

“Because it’s your job,” Christine replied, in mock approval. “But who would give such a man so much responsibility?”

She could barely stifle a little laugh. George finished his pint, ready for another. He didn’t want to talk like this. Not tonight.

“Do you want another drink?” he asked.

“I’m driving,” she answered.

“You can stay with me,” he offered.

Christine couldn’t hold back any longer and laughed into her glass.

“Are you serious?” she asked, and realising that he was, answered, “No.”

George wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t sure if he was even bothered.

“I was just offering,” he said. He nearly said that he wouldn’t feel so empty if she’d stay, but he didn’t know if that was true. He took the last drag of the cigarette and dropped it into the frothy liquid that now sat at the bottom of his pint.

“Anyway,” he said, “I don’t think it matters anymore, does it? Whether or not you drink and drive.”

Christine took her last drag and reached over to the pint glass to drop the butt onto George’s.

“I can have one more drink, then I have to go,” she said.

“Where are you going to?” he asked.

“The same place I’ve been the whole time.”

“Is it safe there?”

“It’s very safe there.”

And it was true. He knew it was true because of how confident she was in saying it. Smug almost. Or maybe that was just him being bitter. Anyhow, she always told the truth emphatically, like she was fearful of not being believed. It gave him confidence in her when she spoke like that. He lost count of the times her reassurances had comforted him. But not lately, and not now.

“You should’ve come with me,” she said. “You still can.”

George felt himself flush with anger. He didn’t want to be angry with her. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“I don’t want to,” he told her. “I’m trying to do something useful. To help. To figure out how we get back what we’ve lost.”

“And why would you want to do that? Like, seriously? What is it gonna take for you to wake up?”

The anger in her voice unnerved him. It was a delicate situation, he realised. They were both trying to be amicable, holding back their frustrations towards one another. He felt betrayed by that.

“Look,” she said, “the sooner you realise, the better. What’s lost is lost, you’ll never find it again. But you can find something new, something better. And I know you believe that, deep down, because if not, you would’ve just gone and lost your shit like everybody else.”

“I’ll get the drinks,” he said.

When he got back to the table they smoked another cigarette. Christine suggested they take their time. He agreed. It would be better to talk absent minded, about anything other than the situation.

“Did I ever tell you what I wanted to be when I was a little girl?” Christine asked. “Like, really little, about four or five years old?”

“No,” said George, smiling at her, feeling in love with her again in an instant.

“A pilot,” she whispered, as if struggling to contain her excitement.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” she continued.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to fly around the world and see all those different countries. It’s the first thing I remember wanting to do. And I thought I could do it. You know, fly an actual plane.”

“But you could have.”

Christine shook her head, dismissing the comment.

“That’s not the point. The point is I thought I would just go off and see the world. I genuinely thought I would do that. I thought I would just be able to get up and be free to do anything I wanted.”

“But you are free. Well, were. You were free.”

“We were never truly free, George. If anything, we’ve got more freedom now than we ever did.”.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“Only to someone still tied down to a job,” Christine said, “and all those old ideas and beliefs that have got us into this mess.”

She took out another cigarette from the packet, not taking her eyes off him.

“Such a pointless job to be tied down to as well. And such worthless ideas and beliefs to cling to.”

George sunk back into his chair. It was all futile. Completely futile. Things were at an end. Between them and for the whole of human civilisation. He lit another cigarette, despite the unpleasant taste left by the lager and the previous two cigarettes.

“We’re going to war,” he said, sounding so nonchalant about it. The tone broke Christine’s composure, which up until then had been unflinching.

“Why do you have to say that?” she said.

“Because it’s true,” he said, blowing the smoke out across the table. She leaned over through the smoke.

“You don’t know that.”

George laughed, mockingly. He didn’t intend to be so arrogant about it, but the way she was being with him had stung him. After everything that had happened, he for some reason needed her approval, her support. But she had lost the faith. She had come to terms with things, most definitely come to terms, only not in the way he wanted. She had accepted the new reality that was so unacceptable to him.

“Oh,” he said through his laughter, “but I do know. And unlike you, I know whose side I’m on.”

“No,” she said, jabbing her finger towards him, “it’s you who doesn’t know!”

She turned her finger to herself and, as if stabbing herself with it, said “I know full well whose side I’m on. And I know that to fight over literal scraps, like, the fucking ashes of all that bullshit, is so insane…like, I can’t even deal with the stupidity of it.”

She sat back and took a long gulp of her drink. She placed the glass down softly, looked at him and burped.

“You know what. I don’t care,” she said.

He laughed again, a different kind of laugh. And then he felt as if he could cry because he knew it would be the last time he would laugh with her.

“No,” she said, “seriously, I’m so done. Go and fight your pointless war. It’ll barely last a day. You know why? Because you’ll have no-one to fight for you.”

“That’s not true,” he said, shaking his head slowly, eyes lowered to the table. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but it’s just not true. There’s plenty of people not ready to give up, to just give up and go back to the fucking woods. You really think we’re going to do that? There’s not a chance of it. I’m telling you, we’re not just going to sit back and write off the last god knows how many centuries of progress.”

“Progress? Do you know what progress is? This. What’s happening now. The end of the world as we know it. That’s progress. That’s the start of a new chapter. A new beginning. Just accept it. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. Please, just stop trying to fight it.”

He downed the last of his drink.

“I think we should just leave it at that,” he said.

He let his gaze fall back to the table. She nodded, and a tear dropped off her cheek and onto the carpet. She stood up and put on her coat. George took the glasses to the bar, and then walked out with her into the car park.

“It’s cold,” she said. “It’s always so fucking cold.”

George hugged her. They shared an awkward kiss, said their goodbyes and George turned to go back inside.

“I’ll never see you again,” Christine said as he opened the door. “I have to let you know that.”

George couldn’t bring himself to look back, he just froze and stared at the door he had held open. He thought about telling her how he felt about her, but there wasn’t any point. He walked back inside and was shown to his room by the landlady, and once inside he stood at the window, where he caught a brief sight of Christine’s car driving away into somewhere he’d never go. He stood and listened to the faint sound of the still lapping water, and soon enough, as he slipped into bed, the sound of rain tapping against the window. He thought about tomorrow, and what lay ahead. His eyes got heavier, and he sank into a dream. He was walking through thick fog down what should have been a busy city centre street. There was a constant ringing in his ears and a strong smell of gas. As he turned a corner, he saw Christine crossing a road and called after her. She turned and looked at him. They stood in the middle of the road.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he told her. “I didn’t want to be any part of it.”

Christine didn’t reply, she just began to walk away from him, slowly, backwardly, not letting her eyes off him, like a prey up against a potential predator, awaiting the pounce. All George wanted to do was explain, but he couldn’t. He could only watch as she slowly faded away into the fog.

“Christine!” he cried, “What are we supposed to do!? We can’t allow any of this to happen!” and he gestured to his surroundings and then woke up and it was tomorrow, and he could feel it already, that emptiness, that futility, compounded by the rain that was still tapping against the window. He checked the time. 8:23 am. Still early. He went back to bed but didn’t sleep, just lay there thinking about nothing at all until a thought about the landlady who was supposed to wake him at nine struck him. It was now 10:07. He got out of bed, got dressed and went out into the landing. He called for her a couple of times before knocking on her door. Nothing. He knocked again, before kicking it in. And there she was, lay on the bed amongst multiple packets of paracetamol and a bottle of whiskey. George checked her pulse, despite already knowing she was dead. He wasn’t sure what to do next and backed himself up against the wall to think. There was nothing he could do, he told himself. He ran out to ring the office, to inform them of the old ladies passing. He was told that a team would be sent out in the afternoon to collect the body and was then instructed to start the assignment. Time was getting on. It didn’t seem right to just leave the old lady but there really was nothing else he could do in the circumstances, so he went into the kitchen and made himself some bacon and eggs and then some beans he found in a cupboard. It was almost certain that he wouldn’t eat again that day.

Thankfully the rain had stopped, though the sky looked like it had a lot left in it. The footpath leading into the town was long, winding in and out between woodland and fields. It took over 45 minutes to reach the checkpoint. The closer he got the quieter the world became. A calmness had descended that not even the birds would disturb.

The checkpoint was put in place along the main road that led into the town. On one side there was an Asda. Most of the stores’ non-food contents lay strewn across the car park with the trolleys. On either side of it stood drive-throughs, one a Costa Coffee, the other a McDonald’s. Both were burnt out. On the other side of the road was the town marketplace and the bus station. A few buses were parked haphazardly, with many broken windows. More products from the Asda store were strewn about, along with clothes and DVDs from the marketplace. The checkpoint itself was abandoned. No-one on lookout, no-one in the booths to lift the barriers. George walked over to one of the screens by the checkpoint and pressed BEGIN. An avatar appeared of an over smiling, hipster looking, young man. George sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

“Yeeess, George!” the avatar enthused, “What’s happening, bro?”

“Fuck sake,” George muttered.

“My names Brett, and I’ve been generated to check some deets with you today before you enter the very niche looking town of ______. But don’t worry, this will only take a few minutes of your time. All you have to do is scan your ID card and I’ll do the rest!”

George placed his card under the scanner.

“Cool!” said Brett. “Your identity has been verified. George, your good to go, my dude. But just one more thing before you do. I noticed that you are no longer subscribed to your newsletter. You may have forgotten to renew your subscription. Do you want me to amend this now?”

“No,” said George.

“I’m sorry, bro, I didn’t catch that. Do you want me to renew your subscription now?”

“No!” George said, his voice almost raised to shouting level.

“Ah, damn, bro. I still didn’t quite catch that. Just repeat for me one more time, my dude.”

George sighed.

“Yes,” he mumbled, “I would like to renew my…”

“Amazing! I will do this for you immediately, my guy! This will allow you to keep up to date with all developments within your department. You will also receive reminders on your vaccination statuses and on any upcoming payments you have scheduled. Also, as a loyal member of our team, we will keep you updated on the vast array of discounts available to a man of your position! Pretty cool, right?”

“Right,” said George.

“Yeah, boi! Now go out there and save the day! You got this, buddy!”

Once he was past the checkpoint George got out the map of the town. He took a moment to familiarise himself with it, wishing he had Google Maps available to offer directions. He decided to just walk, as there was nowhere in particular that he was designated to go to. It all seemed so familiar to him anyway. He had grown up in a town like this, he was sure. A dirty, old industrial town full of replica terraced houses, cobbled backstreets and abandoned warehouses. Normally on a Saturday (today was Saturday) the town centre would be busy with people out shopping. The cafes would be full. The pubs, too. Families would visit the park if the weather was nice. At three in the afternoon those who cared would go and watch the local football team. It was a typical town of typical things but none of those typical things were happening now, and George could have easily been mistaken for thinking that they never had. It was disconcerting to him just how quickly people, general human activity, could just disappear.

After a short walk from the checkpoint, he found himself entering a subway. He made out the figure of a person, covered up by a blanket, lying in the middle of it. George approached and saw the face of a young man, a very ill looking young man.

“What are you doing?” George asked him.

“For fuck sake,” the man replied without opening his eyes, “can’t you see I’m trying to die.”

George kept his gaze fixed on him for a few moments before deciding to leave the man to it. He hoped this wasn’t reflective of the people’s resilience. It was this kind of behaviour that he had feared. He had been told about it by others, who had visited similar towns. It would not end well for these people.

He looked out of the subway in the direction he was heading. The sun was out now. It was blinding. He could make out a dog sitting there, very still. The man’s dog? He walked towards it, finding himself on a housing estate by the side of a motorway. A wall of concrete, about 10 feet tall, separated it. There were more dogs sat all along the wall, all very still, watching George with great curiosity. He didn’t try to interact, fearing, vaguely, for his life. Instead, he made his way down a terraced street that was facing the wall, looking in the first window without any hesitation. There was a woman lying on a sofa. He tried to see some sign of life. A few minutes passed. He was sure she was dead and was about to go to the next window when the woman sat up, looked at him, and let out a great scream. She ran over to the window and began to headbutt it, screaming continually. George had to take a step back. He looked around him. Every window in sight had a person stood at it. Upon seeing George, they all began to scream and headbutt their windows.

“Stop it!” George shouted. “What’s wrong with you people? Get a grip off yourselves!”

It was relentless. George covered his ears and ran to the bottom of the street to stand by the side of the end house, to escape from the view of the inhabitants. The screaming and banging ceased altogether. He took his hands away from his ears, peeped his head round the corner and saw a man in a window scouring the street, his head moving like that of a pigeon. He saw George and screamed and headbutted the window and it all started again so George ran again, faster than he had ever ran, with all the energy of a child, with no concept of where he was running to. Every street he ran on to looked to be the same as the last. He ran past a boy on a corner, lay on the floor. He stopped and turned back. The boy was about five and was lay facing another wall of another house, just staring at it.

“Are you ok?” George asked, panting for breath. The boy didn’t even flinch.

“What are you doing out here,” George asked, unable to think of a more pertinent question in his current state.

“Dad,” the boy said.

George felt himself recoil a little, and the boy turned his head and looked up at George.

“Dad,” he repeated.

George looked around, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings. It was endless bricks and windows and pavement. The street seemed to stretch out forever into the distance, with other little streets leading off it in both directions every few yards. He saw a foot sticking out on the corner of the next street.

“Dad,” the boy said. He kept saying it, like it was a recording coming out of him.

George moved on towards the next corner, hesitantly, panting for breath. He peered round it and came face to face with a man, a dead man, propped up against the wall, sat in a pool of blood that had stemmed from his wrists. In his right hand was the bloodied kitchen knife he had used. The blood wasn’t dry. He hadn’t been dead long. On the wall, written in blood, were the words NO MONEY NO POINT. Looking down the street, he could see more people, all propped up against the houses, sat in pools of blood. Multiple children were lay in the street. He gasped at the sight of them and lifted himself up. He couldn’t turn away. He got up and walked down the street. Each child was mumbling for a parent. Some mumbled “Mum”, some mumbled “Dad”. He put his hands up to his face, mouth agape in distress. He hadn’t expected this. It was insanity. But why? He had no explanation for it. This total inertia. Why hadn’t no-one clung on to survival? They could have fixed things. Couldn’t they? His arms fell down to his side as he stopped in the middle of the street. He did the only thing he could and staggered back the way he had come. He was knackered. The running and the emotion had done him in. He kept on, head down, back through the streets, past the dogs, still so strangely calm, and back through the subway. He paid no attention to the man, still lay there, eyes fixed shut. At the checkpoint Brett’s avatar waved at him through the screen, a smile so grotesque and inappropriate it made George vomit before it. The muscles in his stomach tightened with all the retching. He curled himself up on the floor, held his stomach and wept, wept and wept until he was weak and then, without knowing it was happening, faded into unconsciousness.

It took him some time to remember where he was, or what had happened. He lay there, curled up, for a few seconds, hearing his name repeating over and over. It was Brett. He knew he was still there.

“George? George? George, my dude? You still there, bro? You still there, bro? You still there, bro? George? George? George, my dude? You still there, bro?”

George lifted himself up, repulsed at the sight of himself. Some of his vomit had dried up on his trousers. His mouth tasted awful.

“Shut the fuck up!” he cried.

“George! You’re there! I was worried, my dude! Tell me, George, what’s it to be? Are we saving town, or are we not saving town?”

George wiped the dry saliva he felt stuck to the corners of his mouth. He looked back down the road. He turned to the screen. His finger hovered above NOT SAVING TOWN. He went to press it but stopped himself, thinking of the kids. But they were so hopeless. He went again to press it. But he didn’t. What was the point? Either way it was pointless. Someone else could come along and do it. Why did he have to put himself through the grief?

He walked back through the checkpoint, leaving Brett to call his name repeatedly, for hours, for days, forever. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. He walked back through the checkpoint and towards the footpath, but where would he go? To the sailing club? Why? He looked around. Rain began to fall. He thought of Christine. He should have gone with Christine. Her words reverberated in his mind, mocking him. He stood there in the rain, taking in those words.

“Who would give such a man so much responsibility?”

Glad to be lost, with no faith, beliefs or ideas of his own, he trudged on through a gently falling rain, wandering out into nowhere.