Lance Corporal Arthur Gladwell had already marched fifteen miles today but he was going to march one mile more.
The company had been dismissed, the weapons returned, the bulky backpacks and body armour handed in. He was out of camoflauges and into his civvies: a thick navy-blue jacket and patched denims. It was hardly the most presentable combination of his limited wardrobe but it was all that he had left at the base before he marched off three months ago. Ultimately, though, he didn't care.
He was going to see Vicky.
The girl of his dreams - brown hair, hazel eyes, and a soft kiss. He remembered that above everything from his childhood: the game of spin-the-bottle, the delight and panic as it wobbled to face her, and the treasured peck itself. He had been a spotty teen back then with a bowlcut.
Now, though, he was ten years older. Now he was bald: just like most Essaxon men he had adopted the fashion of shaving his hair off in honour and respect of his cancer-fated comrades. And his face wasn't spotty. It was lined, with sharp cheekbones jutting through rough skin, the left side of his face lacerated by a nailbomb. Nowadays he was Arthur, the soldier, the hero, marching back from the distant frontier of Milton Keynes.
His feet ached but he drove himself onwards, down the cracked asphalt. Like everywhere three decades of neglect had turned roads into crazy paving, shattered by jagged lines of cracks and weeds. He wondered what it was like in the Olden Days, when everyone owned a car, and these streets had known the sound of grumbling engines. It must have taken all the reward out of sixteen miles of marching but no doubt the speed, ease and comfort would be appreciated. He imagined it would've taken no more than two hours to get all the way from Milton Keynes back here, compared to a whole week, and in the meantime the car's radio would've tuned into the sharp and lively sounds that came from the old electrical pianos. The luxury! He wished he could experience what it had been like back then.
Of course, he was going to: that was part of his plan. The OBN museum in Woodbridge was packed with all sorts of Olden Day delights and wonders: working videotapes, digital watches, and even a computer exhibition! Vicky had always shared his fascination with Olden Day gear, but on her textile worker's wage she would never have been able to afford it.
But Arthur had three months of back pay.
On burning feet he drove on, distracting himself by examining the sights and sounds of his home town. Colchester. It was a phoenix of Doomsday - the southern side destroyed by nuclear fire but the northern side scraping by thanks to the valiance of the Territorial Army. Nowadays the ruins of the old town centre were engulfed by wildlife, animals blindly flocking to an irradiated hotspot no human save the condemned criminal Roaches would enter. Even this side of town was fairly unsafe but folk medicine, luck and ultimately a resignation to an early death (common in the military) kept northern Colchester thriving as the military capital of Essex. The signs of the army were all over the place, as Arthur looked around. Regimental flags hung from houses. Children, ragged and thin, fltited between houses, shooting and stabbing at each other in games of soldiers and tubbies - 'tubbies', of course, being the second most popular name for the True British Army after 'wankers'. One house had a massive 'vote for Jim' poster attached to it, with the now-High Minister Jim Barker-McCardle grinning at passers-by in full dress uniform. Colchester had generally voted for Lee Evans but no one had dared vandalise the poster - Barker-McCardle was an army man, and no Colchestian dared insult the army.
He could remember discussing with Vicky the election, almost a year ago now. It had been at a party in Mile End, and she had worn the best dress she could find, a flowing red one which had survived remarkably well over the years since Doomsday. Arthur could remember hanging on every word she said, even though he had utterly disagreed with her. But ever since they had first met Arthur had always respected her opinions, generally assuming that her eighteen-month age advantage over him gave her some ethereal and unreachable wisdom. Back then, that night, was when he realised how he truly felt for her. He had meant to ask her out then and there, but a glass of that Cleveish poi-sin had got in the way... he had been meaning to ask her for weeks afterward, but always faltered. All her managed to get out of her was an agreement to write to one another. He lacked confidence back then.
And then he had been posted to Milton Keynes. The windswept, isolated city with its shifty and paranoid populace, soldiers on every corner, armoured convoys sweeping the countryside for Essex's great enemy, the True British Army. At the time he had told that they were doing a good job at destroying the last remnants of the evil regime in the sector but then there had been the raid. The raid, where he had shot two men dead and was about to bayonet a third when a nailbomb took out his squadmates and ripped apart his left cheek.
Two weeks in hospital, where he had been twice-daily cleaned with all the meagre antiseptics the medics could scavenge. They had done a miracle job and while his left cheek would never be the same and the whole side of his face seemed to look puffy and grazed, it was all in one piece. He had never returned to duty though, and by the time he was out of hospital he was just about to march home.
Through all that time, the thought of finally meeting Vicky had filled his mind with fear, excitement, and a cocktail of a hundred and one other emotions.
And here was the door.
He slowed, stopped. His feet stopped aching, but by now he barely noticed the pain anyway: his stomach was churning like an Olden Day tumbledryer. He was about to do something he had wanted to do for more than ten years. He was nervous, worried, hesitant and even scared.
But he had fought a pitched battle in the dark. He could manage this.
With a shaking fist he knocked three times on the door.
He waited.
Vicky emerged. Her hazel eyes widened, her slender fingers went to her mouth. A twitch of a smile made its way past the shock.
"Hey, Vicky," Arthur grinned, holding himself firm and proud. "Are you busy this weekend?"
The shock doubled. But the smile won through.
Doomsday fic! For context, check out the History of Essex. I hope you enjoyed it! Any comments, constructive criticism? I may do more of this... Feg 15:12, May 10, 2012 (UTC)