Adrian Dalziel wanted out. He always had done, and before the zpoc he had the chance, with regular ferries and aeroplanes off the mainland he could have left. He could have been free.
Adrian lived in Leebotten, a small town on the Shetland mainland near Sandwick, he was 15 years old and attended Sandwick Junior High School. He was the smartest student in all his classes, but everyone knew he'd leave school at 16. His father was a fisherman and so was his father and the father before him. That was Adrian's destiny, and Adrian loathed it.
The flu arrived later than in the rest of the world, when students from the local school took a trip to New Zealand, one of whom came back carrying a fatal virus. Within a month over 3 quaters of the total population had it and a week later 2 thirds of the population had died, and 8 of the dead had gone missing. People suspected a wave of body snatchers, but, of course, the truth was, to quote Stoker, that die Toten reiten schnell.
Most of the people Adrian knew had died, his father, his sisters, his mother and all of his school friends and teachers. Those that hadn't died of the flu had gone missing, and he didn't know what'd happened to them. He didn't know anything any more, his whole life had collapsed around him, last week he buried his dad, the week before his mother and just yesterday he had to bury his younger sisters in the back garden, both aged just 4. But lately he'd been hearing things. Noises. During the day, the streets were deserted, cars left abandoned outside houses, bikes on the pavement and just round the corner sat a lonely milk float, still with milk in blue crates in the back. But at night he thought he could hear people, car alarms going off, and lately he could have sworn that the earth in the back garden was moving.
He thought (I've lost it, too much time on my own, I'm hearing things, I'm seeing things.... I have to get out of here) that he needed to leave. He got his school ruksack, filled it with tinned food and bottled water, picked up some old bike from the road side, got on the A970 and peddled like hell south, bound for Sumburgh Airport.
There must be some people left there, surely everyone can't be dead. If I get to the airport someone could fly me south to Scotland. Several hours into his journey he saw something just off the road side. He stopped the rusty bike with his feet, left it on the road, and investigated. He pushed his curly brown hair out of his eyes and looked out onto the field.
There was a body. It was covered in blood and ... bits ... of it lay all over the place. A small pistol lay on the ground, but all the bullets were still inside. It had been savaged brutally, with the wounds worst on the hands and arms. Defensive wounds. Whoever had been killed, they had shielded their face and body with their arms in a last ditch attempt to save their life. They didn't even have time to fire their gun.
Adrian thought he saw (I saw it I did its hand moved it's alive it can't be it's dead how can it moved good god I've gone mad but I saw it I must have imagined it but it. was. REAL!) its hand move. He ran back to the bike and rode with new vigour to his destination.
Sumburgh Airport was deserted. Not a soul, and Adrian didn't know how to fly a plane, he was too young and trying to learn as he went along would just be suicide. Adrian yet again found himself (what the hell do I do now? That plane was my last hope.... but perhaps--) at a loss. Then he remembered something, his face lifted from his hands, a small smile gracing his features, and the metaphoricle lightbulb lit up above his head. He could get out. He launched him self off the curb to his bike and practically flew along the runway, the treeless landscape shooting past, his chest over the handlebars, his deep blue eyes slitted against the wind. The run way ended and the rode across 150 metres of field before rejoining the A970.
He skidded to a halt at Grutness Ferry Terminal. He was in luck. In the harbour there was a little rubber dinghy with a Honda motor and oars. The owner was in the boat, but Adrian needn't his permission. The owner's arms had been ripped off and his throat removed with brutal disregard. Adrian (oh god I'm gonna be sick) tipped the owner into the sea started the engine and sailed off into the North Sea.