Page 49 of 59 Minutes

CARRIE

Carrie cuffs her eyes on her grimy coat sleeve.

Vomiting back there has left her throat sore and dry, every few steps are stumbled by coughing.

Less than an hour ago she was standing on the concourse at Waterloo, coat clean, worry free, looking forward to a takeaway and family weekend.

Now she’s bruised, filthy, unable to stop stumbling when she should be running.

Her life has been dismantled in less time than a spinning class.

And this, right now … this is the best it will ever be again.

Everything ahead of them is worse to a multiplication number she can’t even picture.

Even a confirmed optimist like Carrie is prone to daily complaints, London all but requires it as an entrance fee.

And to think what she usually complains about.

The injustice of a late train. Outrage at her favourite Pret sandwich running out.

A tantrum when the supermarket order arrives with silly replacement items. Sesame bagels instead of cinnamon and raisin is not a real problem. This is a real problem.

The first day of the Covid lockdown, she and Emma had been too late to get any toilet roll before the shelves were picked clean.

They’d used flannels and strips of old towels, dropping them into a bucket and repeatedly putting the washing machine on.

Extra detergent, high heat. That had all seemed so uncivilised, at the very edge of what was humanly tolerable.

‘We’re basically cave people,’ Emma had said.

She’d take that over what’s coming in a heartbeat.

As she reaches the Tesco van, Carrie sees a puddle of dark blood on the floor, smaller blots trailing away. No one is around, the whole street empty like those first bewildering weeks of the pandemic. But that … that was not this. And that was nothing like what could happen next.

Maybe a direct hit is better than what the survivors will face. Maybe she should hope for that. This rational thought curdles because humans strive to keep going, no matter what. And she, Carrie, maybe more than most.

She’s never been truly depressed, and rarely sad.

Her dad’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to her.

The worst thing, she thought, that ever would happen.

And she was dogged in pursuing gratitude even in her grief.

Being glad for the time she’d had with Dad.

Glad for who she still had (Emma) and accepting that her mum, while a bit of a nut at times, kept her clothed and fed. And loved her, definitely.

What’s coming will be the worst thing anyone in this city has ever faced.

There will be no food and water after impact, that’s what the radio said, no emergency services.

What does that even look like? Even scenes from war-torn countries have some survival stories.

Babies hoisted out of rubble. White hats.

Red crosses. She thinks of Chernobyl, which happened before she was born.

The genetically altered dogs still roaming the abandoned radioactive no-go zone. Will that be London’s future?

There are no curtains twitching in any of the flats lining Reedworth Street. No sound of kids playing outside, none of the usual wild abandon on bikes and scooters, no one pushing a pram. She turns into Cotton Gardens, knowing she can cut through and come out on Kennington Lane, moments from home.

But now she hears people again. Lots of people.