Grey Days

Grey Days

  Vanessa Deroo

  Copyright 2014 Vanessa Deroo

  Discover other titles by Vanessa Deroo

  Paper Ghosts

  Cover by Vanessa Deroo (Copyright 2014 Vanessa Deroo)

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  I appear to have collected more coupons than expected, this month. So here I am, sipping a tall hazelnut macchiato in what must have been a giant coffee shop franchise, back in the days. It's the second day of the month I am sat among The Privileged, yet I am invisible to them. Must be my skin. I am the lucky one: my skin remains white, after all this time. Zeen told me I was spared. Most of us have blue marks from both the nuclear clouds and not enough lights. But not me.

  If you think hiding in subways stations and collecting food stamps is luck, then yes, I am lucky enough.

  I am struggling to write at the present tense. It's an old academic habit of mine, approved by those who once were my peers: past tense is literary, present tense is laziness disguised in emergency. Sorry, old lecturers, but now I only write to remember.

  Anna K’s diary.

  Day 308. We're still in the greys.

  My hands are trembling, a bit. Must be the lack of food. Caffeine isn't a nutriment, but it's the only thing I can afford for now. Not gonna lie, I'd kill for a blueberry muffin, if it was still a thing. But now, even The Privileged struggle with fancy food. There is an offer today, but one buttered toast for two coupons is too expensive. I promised Zeen we would share. It's the least I can do, after all. He lets me sleep on his couch. One of the few things that didn't explode. His red couch. He was really proud to bring it to the station. We live under Marylebone. Believe it or not, it's one of the few quiet ones now.

  There is a woman here cutting her toast in three parts. I just noticed the two kids with her. They are what, three, four years old? Not Apocalypse Babies, as people call them. Good for them.

  I remember the post-apocalypse stories I used to read, not so long ago. Lonely heroes, deserted cities, natural catastrophes, zombies, mad scientists, nuclear explosions. Well, sci-fi nerds, all your wet dreams come true. Except for the zombies, thank whoever for that. It's difficult enough to run for your life during a random explosion. I can't imagine what it would be with corpses trying to eat your brain.

  Well, someone would be fed, at least.

  The most infuriating thing in all this is, we saw it coming, but we can't explain what happened. I guess we're still in a state of mental prostration. As Zeen said, we should have known that the Earth wasn't happy. It started with explosions all around the world. Media were screaming World War III, but the thing is, they were spontaneous explosions, as if something inside the planet was trying to get its way to the surface. There's a nuclear station in Rostovskaya that exploded because of it. No Russia anymore. And then came the floods. We don't have any desert left. Permanent rain. Sometimes acid, sometimes not.

  The world became an abandoned park quite quickly. Junk everywhere. Electricity for only three hours a day, houses gone, people living in subterranean places.

  And the Sun stopped shining.

  I don't know how we're still alive. We live in permanent greyness now. Like a thick fog. Yet some of us still go to the surface, to enjoy what's left of our (in)humanity.

  We think we're so amazing that we divided ourselves in classes. Bloody typical.

  The Privileged, then. Because their homes are still here, somehow. Because they trade whatever they have left for coupons and the illusion of being normal for a few hours, in coffee shops like this one. They give their old life away. Pictures, dvd's, laptops... Money isn't important anymore. It's not rare to find £50 notes on the street. No value. I've heard some of the Privileged hijacked the power into their own houses and flats. I've heard they could have a hot shower and a meal. No sharing. We can't access the empty buildings, because they called dibs on it. Real-life Monopoly. And you think we would know better.

  And here we are. Zeen and I, and thousands, millions of others. The Subterraneans, or Subs as the ones above us call us. A generation of unlucky people, wrong place and wrong moment, forced to live downstairs, because no one shares, up there. I was a Uni student, good grades, living on a campus, not rich but okay. One day, the whole city exploded, while I was in London for a not-so-legal lecture about the eco-system (the irony, it never leaves). This is how I met Zeen, brilliant postgrad turned flatmate/landlord. I had nowhere to go, and he had his red couch in Marylebone.

  Our favourite thing is to find books. I don't know why, but people tend to throw their books away, even if there's no power for their tablets and laptops. Are we so ashamed of our past, because it led us right here? Or is it just that reading is not important anymore, for The Privileged?

  Who cares. And it's not stealing, right? They don't want it after all.

  I have found a Young Adult book the other day. Zeen laughs at me, because a literature student who loves books aimed at teenagers is odd, according to him. But I don't care. And seriously, when I read The Hunger Games, it's difficult not to compare with our life right now. We are obsessed with power and classes, and who has privilege and who doesn't.

  And we don't know how to form a rebellion, because we have no one to fight against.

  Zeen and I set up a little library in “our” station. Word went quickly among the Subs, and now we have a regular crowd reading on the platform, every day. Our book club. Some of them wanted to give us their coupons in exchange for a few books or old magazines. I was very tempted to say yes, but Zeen decided against it. “You play the Privileged game if you accept”, he told me, “If we want a better future, we must change the rules. And it starts now”. He was right. But I am still hungry.

  That's the other thing about Zeen. He was an activist before the Grey Days. He was working with Food not Bombs. He is an amazing cook by the way, always creating meals with what we find, and sharing with the book club. Doesn't happen a lot these days, though. Surprises get rare. He thinks we can change the future. My first reaction was “Why?” For the next generation? The next batch of kids is doomed because of the nuclear reaction. There are new-borns with extra legs, or worse, or rare diseases. Apocalypse Babies. Most of them die before their third month. And you know what? I think it's for the better. I heard some babies develop extra-abilities, but I think it's another writer dream. Zeen is more optimistic. He thinks our youngest won't replicate our mistakes. He thinks that if we grow some nature again, the Earth will heal. He thinks there's a chance. I think we're fucked.

  But I help him anyway, because his enthusiasm is good for our little community. Because I am tired of thinking we're dead. So I help with his experiments. Right now he tries to grow green tomatoes, he found some grains and stuff during one of our books raids. One of the book club guys, an electrician, set up artificial lights and we steal water every now and then. (It's very easy to rob the Privileged, just enter their houses when they're busy being social in coffee shops. Magic)

  Sometimes I assist during one of his lectures. He's good. Very good. We are thinking of doing more book readings, in the morning, for the kids. We both are firm believers in education. And we have to tell them about how the Earth was once. If we want a future, we need a history. These kids, pale but still alive, are our keepers.

  I asked him once why he didn't go to the surface, at his parents’ house. “Because if I go up there, I betray
both my beliefs and the people we help here”. You have to admire the man's strength. If my parents were still alive, I would have run to their two-bedroom house with a giant bathroom. My kingdom for a bubble bath. But they used to live abroad and the frontiers are closed now. Bad luck. I tried to convince him to infiltrate the Privileged, to build a better future. He said not now. I don't know I he's scared or if he starts to realise things won't get better. For now, they're not getting worse. Let's go with that.

  The woman and her kids are still here. I can hear her telling the little girl they can't have another toast, because there's no coupon left, and they must wait until next week. She's clearly not a Privileged, her skin is too marked. I don't know how she managed to sit here, but the coffee is very busy today, and the baristas are overwhelmed. She's a Sub like me, with two other mouths to feed.

  “Psst. Kids.” I try to be discreet, never been my thing though.

  They look at me.

  “Do you want a present?” They nod.

  “Ok, come over here”. I realise I must look like a creep. I have never been good at talking to children under 21. They held hands. They smile at me, and my heart breaks. They will never see the light again. Their skin is pale, and they start to mark.

  I give them my five remaining coupons. I can steal some more during a book raid. It's easier than giving my blood or my body away. Zeen went crazy when he found out: “It's better to rob them than to give yourself away!” I didn't see the problem until I started collapsing because of anaemia. I still give my hair, from time to time, for extra coupons. I know I won't last long. I know the absence of marks on my skin means something else than sheer luck. I know the coughing isn't because of the air. Zeen tries to minimise the symptoms, but we've known each other a long time now. I know when he worries. I am kind of ready to die, I think. Day 308. 309 will be the same, and so will be 310. And so on, and so on. I have nothing to expect, apart from some green tomatoes and a good laugh during our raids when we find funny photographs or diaries among canned baked beans or olive oil. The past makes us laugh. I think it's nervous. The last time we went to a Privileged house, we spent hours laughing at some teenage girl's poetry, “girl loves boy, boy doesn't give a shit” style. Same old, we haven't changed that much. It's funny to be Robin Hood. Not exactly how I envisioned my life (I was more about writing and travels and a little house in the countryside with two cats and the occasional book signing – Zeen calls it “The Angela Lansbury dream”. I am still amazed by his out-dated pop-culture knowledge) but hey, I am still alive for now, and I do some good. Not enough writing, pens are a pricey treat, but all things considered, it could have been worse. But I am okay if it stops.

  “And be good to your Mama, okay?”

  They run at the table, showing their mother the gift given by the odd Sub next to them. The woman looks at me, her eyes watering, and mouths a quiet “thank you.” I wish I could take them to Marylebone with me. But it's not safe. Sooner or later, The Privileged will claim these parts, too.

  I smile back, and drink the rest of my cold coffee. Robin Hood. Zeen will be proud when I tell him tonight.

  ###

  About the author

  Vanessa Deroo grew up with British pop and punk music, and then made several attempts to play some of that music before finding peace writing about it. She now listens to said music when she’s not writing stories or articles. Her work can be described as Young Adult with pop-songs and ghosts. And magic, sometimes. Her first book, Paper Ghosts, has been released in July 2013.

  Note from the author

  Thank you for reading Grey Days. If you enjoyed it, please spread the word!