The Lost Diaries of John Smith

The Lost Diaries of John Smith

by

Phillip Rhodes

Copyright 2011 Phillip Rhodes

Smashwords Edition

The FILM and TV rights for this book are available. Please contact the author.

INTRODUCTION

My dad often spoke of a man who saved my life, and how we became refugees living in Scotland.

On the morning of 14th May 2014 most of Europe and North Africa was consumed by a massive fireball that killed countless millions and changed humanity forever. What didn’t burn was cursed by an Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) that destroyed all electrical and electronic devices. In an instant mankind was rendered helpless. For those who survived the conflagration, food became scarce and starvation beckoned. At first many thought that the UK had been devastated by a massive, pre-emptive nuclear attack, but weeks later and survivors started to report seeing large Unidentified Flying Objects (UFOs) over Southern Scotland and Northern England.

I was too young to remember any of this, but my life was saved by the kindness of John Smith, a stranger who found me crying over the body of my dead mother, somewhere in Cumbria or Northumberland. He looked after me until we were picked up by an army patrol. Thereafter, I was reunited with my dad, before moving to Scotland. But what happened to the man who saved my life?

Eighteen months ago my father was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Before it was too late, he wanted to trace this man, not only to thank him again for saving my life, but also to help pinpoint the location where his wife (my mum) was buried.

Nonetheless, beyond the pseudonym (?) not much is known of John Smith. True, his first name was John and he was a survivor, having come from Cumbria, but we may never know his true origins or family background. His life post-apocalypse was one of survival, sacrifice, imprisonment and finally salvation. He saved many lives and yet he became a prisoner held under the convenience of quarantine.

His story and his lost diaries have done more than most to explain the events of 14th May 2014. Yet beyond his rediscovered writing he largely remains an enigma. Some say that was by design and of his own choosing, with friends respecting his wishes to remain just another refugee, trying to survive in Scotland.

But none of this was known to us as we began our research and journey of discovery. What little we knew was told by John Smith to my dad the night before we set off for Scotland in the summer of 2014. We survived, but did John Smith?

CHAPTER ONE

There is always a feeling of apprehension as winter turns to spring. The lucky ones survive another winter and another year, but many don’t make it. They are hidden behind closed curtains or perish in isolation. They perish this winter and the last and every one since 2014. It’s not only the lack of food that kills, but the cold and the dark and the despair also take their toll. And surviving 20 years of deprivation is no guarantee that you will survive tomorrow. So on that first day of spring we mourn the countless thousands who perished, but things are improving, albeit slowly.

I grew up in a country that survived the firestorm, only to slowly succumb to the cold and the hunger of a post-apocalyptic landscape. Our neighbours of England and Wales and Northern Ireland perished and we try not to follow them.

It’s been more than 20 years since we arrived in Scotland, and each Spring we gather ourselves together, to count the dead and to continue the fight, simply because we must. Yet the apprehension is palpable as we start afresh. Life before May 2014 is for me a distant memory now. Perhaps a few fragments of life before Scotland remain. I grew up in a Scotland darkened and starved by events not of her making. But I survived because of my Dad. He lost me once and wasn’t going to loose me again.

We arrived in Scotland and after medical checks and a hot meal, we set off for Glasgow - travelling some of the way by horse and cart. Our relatives, who were surprised to see us, helped as much as they could. That evening I had my first hot bath in months. The water was heated over an open fire in the garden. Afterwards, and while I slept, my dad and my aunt and uncle talked of life in Scotland.

They had a spare bedroom which me and dad shared. There was no gas or electricity or running water. The TV had already been consigned to the garden shed, along with most things electrical.

The day after our arrival we visited local council offices to be registered as official refugees and to receive our ration cards. These entitled us to one hot meal each evening. Our local Emergency Feeding Centre was located in a nearby school. Each day they provided around 800 meals to local residents and refugees, but there were days when the food kitchen was closed due to a lack of supplies. Then the army would be brought in to maintain order.

Sometimes they distributed packets of biscuits or bags of crisps or anything they had in reserve. And if there were insufficient supplies then orderly queues would quickly be replaced by mob rule. And my dad would always be there up front and fighting for our survival. He pushed and grabbed and kicked and punched, so that I would have something to eat while sometimes he himself would go without. If my dad was successful then others would starve, but he would provide for me. But there were days when the walk home was unbearable for him, when he would return empty handed and I would go without.

And when things improved he was there up front again, this time to give a helping hand - not only to provide for us, but also as penance for keeping me alive while others suffered. He eventually secured voluntary work in another feeding centre, which were quickly renamed Scottish Restaurants. Then in 2017 we moved to a farm near Aberdeen, working with other refugees.

But that was then and today in 2034 my dad is poorly and I’m about to leave university. Things did improve for us, more of which later, but my dad wanted to know what happened to John Smith.

In the spring I mentioned him to my tutor and friend, Helen Simmons and her partner Kris Appleby. They were both keen to help. Kris had worked as a volunteer for the British Red Cross. He helped establish and maintain the local information exchange pertaining to refugees and casualties. Throughout Scotland a database of those affected was maintained and circulated, while requests for information were also distributed. This network exists to this day. Sadly there are no records of any John Smith (English - Refugee) or John Smith (English - Deceased) held by the British Red Cross.

We even searched sub-categories pertaining to survivors from Wales, Northern Ireland and even Scotland, but found nothing. Then again, not many made it to the Scottish border following the firestorm. We even appealed directly to the public through the network of notice boards - those maintained by the British Red Cross, local councils and reading clubs. All we could do is wait.

Then a breakthrough of sorts. Dad again mentioned his time living under canvas. He had been picked up by the British Army while searching for me and my mum. We had been separated after an argument between the two of them. The army agreed to allow him to work in the field kitchen, while those on patrol were asked to look out for us. As we were last seen alive months after the firestorm, there was a high probability that we were still alive.

During this time my dad became friends with one of the NCOs, and perhaps he might be able to help. We were discovered somewhere in Cumbria after spending six weeks living in a tent, which was hidden inside a small building or outbuilding. We scavenged for food from abandoned vehicles and empty houses. And that’s all we knew. Perhaps this NCO might know the soldiers who discovered me and John Smith. Accordingly that might lead us to where me and John Smith called home, and where mum was buried.

The problem is that my dad doesn’t know or can’t remember the name of this NCO, nor any of the soldiers who were asked to keep a look out of me and my mum. So we filled in more postcards and sent them off, thereafter we waited and waited.

Then another breakthrough and we received a letter from a former soldier. Let’s called him Arthur Wilson. He was an NCO and during the months following the firestorm he was stationed at a refugee centre near the Scottish border. On 16th August 2034 both me and Helen travelled down from Aberdeen to meet him. The journey was eventful. The journey started with me being arrested for head butting a ticket collector on the 11.38 train to Edinburgh. He wouldn’t let us on the train with our bikes, even though the guard van was empty. He was a prick and a jobs-worth. Okay maybe flooring him was a bit harsh, but I’ve met his kind before.

My dad instilled in me the charms of Please and Thank You. He also taught me how to fight my corner, and not to take crap from anyone. I was both respectful to my elders and also knew how to defend myself.

I worked hard, both at school and on the farm. We all worked hard. We had to eat and that mean working for our daily bread. But dad also made sure that I enjoyed myself. That was the key to survival. Food kept you alive, but being able to enjoy life kept you going. I learned to play the clarinet and the guitar. School was hard work but fun. I passed all my exams and made friends. I excelled in English, and