His name was Kobus Pistorious. He was fifty-four years old and he had emigrated from South Africa to England some twenty years previously. For the bulk of his life Kobus had been a mercenary in Africa. From Angola to Zanzibar. He had fought in over seventeen conflicts and as a result he was rabid racist and anti-communist. He was also a very good soldier.
Now he had semi-retired. He ran an online company that sold pet toys to the type of English person that talked to their pet and fed it at the table. Kobus was not that type of person. But one had to make a living.
When the pulse hit he was driving home from a dentist appointment and was just outside the cathedral city of Canterbury. He was waiting at a level crossing when his car cut out. He tried to restart it but it was totally dead. Not a spark.
He pulled the bonnet ratchet and stepped out of the car. The first thing that struck him was the silence. Not the silence of the grave but a comparative silence. The silence of the bush. Something that he had not heard since his days in Africa. The silence of a land without modern civilization. No cars, no radios, no horns honking.
Kobus had worked with special force units before. British SAS, American Rangers. And they had discussed this exact scenario. So, his first assumption was very close to correct: an EMP.
His second assumption was incorrect, but essentially it made little difference to his reaction.
‘The bloody communists,’ he said out loud. ‘They’ve just gone and bleeding nuked us.’
He went to the rear of his car, opened the trunk, took out his double barrel shotgun and loaded it with buckshot. Then he stuffed a few extra rounds into his pockets, picked up an empty tog-bag and headed for the nearest drug store that happened to be just around the corner.
He opened the door and walked in. It was dark, especially near the back where the prescriptions were filled out. He strode down to the rear and threw the tog-bag onto the counter.
‘Fill that up with broad-spectrum antibiotics, oral and intravenous. Also one hundred 25-gauge needles and one hundred ten mil disposable syringes. If there’s any space left fill it with painkillers. Real ones with codeine, not aspirin or crap like that.’
The pharmacist stared at Kobus, his mouth open.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but that’s impossible. You’ll need some sort of prescription or…’
The South African raised the shotgun up and pulled the trigger. The light fitting above the pharmacist head exploded into a thousand tiny shards.
‘There’s my bloody prescription. Now fill it.’
The pharmacist, face as pale as death, started to stuff boxes into the tog-bag with shaking hands. His assistant, a middle aged lady who had been standing behind him now lay on the floor, her hands covering her head, whimpering.
Kobus replaced the used shotgun cartridge, his hands moving quickly and assuredly. Doing something that they did well.
As soon as the bag was full Kobus ran from the drugstore, heading for the local cash and carry food store that was on his way home.
He slung the bag over his shoulder as he barreled into the food store, grabbing a large shopping trolley as he did.
A young colored man behind the till called out.
‘Hey, man, sorry but the power’s out. Till’s not working so we can’t allow any shopping. Sorry, mate. Should be back on soon if you’d like to wait.’
Kobus turned to face the man, bringing the shotgun to bear as he did so. The young man shrank back.
‘Listen, Sambo,’ said Kobus. ‘Firstly, the lights are never coming back on and secondly, I’m not shopping, I’m helping myself. Now keep your cheeky black African face out of mine and maybe I won’t kill you.’
The young man, whose name was actually Charles, born and bred in Kent, England and never having been within six thousand miles of Africa, simply said nothing. His face a blank mask.
Kobus ran down the aisles filling the trolley with tins of meat, vegetables and bottled water. When it was full he walked out the front door, pushing the squeaking trolley in front of him.
He was feeling good. Exultant even. For once he was truly ahead of the game. Drugs, food, a weapon. Happy days.
He didn’t even hear Charles walk up behind him but, at the very last moment some sixth sense flashed a warning and he started to turn.
It was too late. The Niblick wedge golf club with the steel shaft and the dual reinforced bar at the back, struck the South African directly on the temple, smashing the skull and killing him before he struck the ground. He collapsed in an untidy heap on the sidewalk.
Charles stared at the body, aghast at what he had just done. Frantically he scrabbled for his cell phone to dial 999. But there was no signal. And there never would be. Ever again.
Kobus Pistorious was the first person, post pulse, to have been killed for looting. But his name would not go down in history. In fact no one would remember him. Not even Charles who died three days later defending his shop from a mob of looters.
A new history had begun.
Chapter 3