Planet Earth, 20160 B.C.E. (two weeks after the Great Calamity)

Meanwhile, on Earth, the catastrophe had expanded exponentially. Herman had calculated that at least half of the human beings on mainland Britain had completely lost their minds - or rather had them swapped - with animals (he could only speculate at this point). He wondered if, in some arid area near Ghana there was a congregation of Zebras, Elephants and Tigers wondering whether to have tea and watch reruns of The Bill - or, at least, getting eaten very quickly by other predators, due to their completely absent survival skills. Though he would have thought he would have heard about it by now if that were the case - since, remarkably, it seemed that the Great Conundrum was limited only to mainland Britain, so live broadcasts from BBC’s satellite branches in other continents were still viewable - though, for obvious reasons, they all seemed to be concentrating their reporting on the ghastly things happening in England. In any case, ground zero in South London was a complete and utter basket case, and Herman was more certain with each passing day that he was the cause of it.

The carnage was absolutely horrifying. Planes fell out of the air, factories exploded and the nuclear fusion plants that powered the country were going into meltdown left right and centre. The most abject terror, however, was left for those whose minds hadn’t left them, who had to watch on as their friends, co-workers and family members either injured themselves mortally doing something completely routine, like driving a bus, operating heavy (or even light) machinery) - or - much worse - were savaged by packs of bearded university students stalking around like black pumas. Even those whose loved ones were inhabited by a relatively benign animal, like an armadillo-type thing - well they simply weirded everyone out, and had to be locked in a room or kept out in the garden whenever they had anyone over for tea. Carer’s fatigue, in this case, however, was as bright an outcome one could expect from such a catastrophe.

There were people trotting about on their haunches and their arms out like wings, pecking at bushes, relishing the moment when they located some sort of bug or worm on which to feast (which, of course, they would very quickly throw up, having precious stomachs not used to such bushy and unprocessed fare). There were some who had taken to wriggling like a snake on the ground (but not getting very far), and there were ones who acted like cavemen, walking about spearing other people and roasting them on spits in village centres. If something like this had happened in the United States, at least most people would have a gun - but Britons, being the stalwart harm-prevention socialists that they are - were sitting ducks, as it were (particularly those who had resorted to sitting like ducks - and there were plenty of those, too). For centuries, the time-honoured and previously modestly reliable British reaction to an approaching person brandishing a spear was a simple, yet stern talking to, and if that didn’t work, calling 999. But emergency services were, of course, now run entirely by chimps (and Mammoths, and other strange things that don’t bear description) and the remaining workers there who were in possession of their own minds were entirely unable to help - partly because every single person in Britain was calling them every single day - partly because they were generally all quivering in broom closets, rocking back and forth humming ‘God Save the King’ - but mainly because since the day of reckoning two weeks ago, the roads were entirely undriveable, owing to the overwhelming amount of crashed cars, trucks and buses left clogging them up.

Herman wasn’t entirely sure of where to start. Surely, since he was the one who got everyone into this mess, he would be the best qualified to get them out of it. But Dr. Herman Smithy wasn’t well-suited to braving the various hazards and pratfalls involved in navigating a dangerous apocalypse. He was almost certain, since he’d watched all three thousand episodes of The Walking Dead, and had remarked to himself on many occasions that if something like that were ever to happen - that in any sort of apocalyptic event, he would most certainly be one of the first to go. Grist for the mill - that’s old Herman Smithy. Cannon Fodder. A bloody extra in the cast of the world ending. Herman, you see, simply didn’t have the constitution for all the slashing, running, climbing and hiding that the heroes in these types of shows needed to be good at, partially because he had inherited his mother’s tight hamstrings (when attempting to touch his toes he could barely get beyond his knees) and mostly because he was a clinical-grade wimp. If he were to figure a way out of this mess, he would need backup of the thoroughly masculine, macho type, preferably well versed in survival tactics, and most importantly with access to a large supply of impressive weaponry. Thankfully, he knew of such a person - a 6”6 Australian archaeologist he went to Oxford with named Quinton Barber. They weren’t exactly friends per se, but had become somewhat friendly since while Quinton was for all intents and purposes a handsome brute more inclined towards rugby, drinking gallons of beer with no noticeable effect and inspiring heated passion in the minds of the girlfriends of every other Oxfordian (and the wives of most of the faculty while we’re at it), he also had an inquiring mind, a sharp and delicate intellect and a fondness and remarkable talent for the game of chess. Chess, as it happened, was a game that Herman was also fond of and remarkably talented at, too - since he was a nerd, and that’s what nerds often do. Herman, then was able to meet this thick burlap of a man and even command a bit of begrudging respect from him, since he was the captain of the collegiate Chess Team for the entire 17 years he was at Oxford. So it was at this point that Herman resolved to track down and convince his fellow board game enthusiast and offer him the heavy burden of saving the country from eating itself, and by extension, eating Herman.

Quinton lived in Bexley, which was convenient, since that’s where Herman lived. Only Quniton lived in a slightly more upmarket street, in a grand old house filled with elephant guns, chandeliers and various curious objects from his many travels, like bronze-age sculptures of fertility goddesses, emeralds from Javanese temples, and in his private collection - one or two shrunken pygmy heads, Herman presumed. As luck would have it, Quniton was actually in the country for a change, since his planned canoe trip up the Nile River searching for a particular ancient Nubian artefact had been delayed indefinitely. As it turns out, the plane meant to be taking him from Heathrow to Timbuktu had disappeared over Burma a week before, and its woe-befallen passengers quickly digested by the local fauna. And Herman knew this all, because right up until the internet went down, he followed Quinton’s social media with the same lusting eye that a teenage boy uses to lurk on the account of a page three glamour model. You wouldn’t be wrong to think that Herman was transfixed with Quinton, maybe even obsessed. He represented everything that Herman wasn’t, and was convinced that, if ever Errol Flynn and Bantam Hodges (Bantam was a famous interstellar explorer and incorrigible womaniser from the turn of the 22nd century) had a baby, Quinton would probably beat them in an arm wrestle, and then steal their girlfriends.

To get to Quinton’s house, however, Herman would need to get to the other side of Bexley, and on the way there - well - there was what was on the way there. Anything could happen between here and there, and mostly not good things - or probably even horribly bad things. Herman rifled through his cupboards, looking for anything that might protect him from the madness on the streets. There was his old cricket gear. It definitely didn’t look old, however, and this was owing to the fact that it was only ever used once, at his only ill-advised attempt at competitive sport and broader social acceptance. In an effort to join one of the lower-ranked cricket teams at school, he had taken a bouncer to the temple in his very first turn in the batting nets, resulting in three days of amnesia, a dishonourable discharge, and a doctor’s note excusing him from any future activities involving physical exertion. The cricket equipment seemed usable - there was a pair of pads, a helmet, and an abdominal guard, otherwise known as a ‘box,’ for shielding his privates. But it wasn’t enough, unless the spear-wielding hunter-types had run out of spears and had taken to throwing cricket balls. Not to mention the only areas of his body to be marginally protected were his head, shins and crotch. And on second thoughts - the knee pads would probably slow him down - and he definitely thought better of his chances while running and hiding than standing and fighting. So he disposed of the pads, but kept the helmet, the box, and grabbed a cricket bat and a few balls for good measure.

As he quietly crept around the narrow stretch of grass beside his red-brick apartment building, he felt a warm, wet tongue on his leg, and was surprised to find his neighbour Fred Tinker (an erstwhile boiler repairman and well-known alcoholic) doing his best impression of a domestic cat chancing for a treat. Herman sighed with relief. This was manageable. He briefly considered staying there and not going any further, making the best of things with Fred. Herman could build him a scratching pole, they could snuggle up while Herman read his books. Taking out the litter tray would be an issue though. As Herman started to pull away, Fred snarled viciously and grabbed ahold of Herman’s leg. A brief struggle ensued, ending with Herman lightly bopping him on the head with the cricket bat, and Fred scurrying off and hiding behind a trash can, hissing malevolently at Herman from a safe distance.

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Herman peered out at the street while crouched behind the wall to the front of his apartment block. It was varying shades of mad, presenting a range of opportunities for harmless Fred-level harrassment, to mildly concerning situations involving pecking, chasing ostrich-types, right up to decidedly more stabby encounters. Herman eyed a line of hedges that ran up to the next T-section, braced himself, and made a run for it, only realising halfway through his dashing that he had closed his eyes - which was understandable considering Herman’s history of squeamishness, but nevertheless unhelpful. When he made it to the bushes, he found Delilah Tillerman (the wife of the man who two weeks earlier had taken on the characteristics and manners of a honey badger) crouched and shuddering with nerves, smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand.

‘You know, I quit 20 years ago,’ she said, looking blankly into the distance.

Herman didn’t quite know what to say, so he just grimaced with an understanding look and pressed on past, her dead-eyed expression not moving an inch. When he got to the end of the line of hedges, he realised that he was going to have to cross the road and expose himself. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be any particularly violent offenders about. Steeling himself and tapping his cricketer’s box just to be sure, he legged it (well, legged it is a rather broad term and doesn’t quite accurately describe the way Herman runs, which is more of a bow-legged amble). As he was about to duck behind another red-brick apartment fronting, he was jerked into panic by the sound of a thump and a squawk right behind him. Sadly for the squawker, it looked as if he had been attempting to hang upside down like a bat from a railing above and had found himself flat on pavement instead, with what looked to be a weather nasty spinal contusion. Herman wretched at the sight of the exposed vertebrae, offered pathetically to help - but his offer was rebuffed with an angry snarl interspersed with yelps of pain. Herman, while sympathising for the maimed individual, was quietly thankful since he didn’t like the idea of having to stop in such an exposed area and was quite happy to be on his way.

Herman was able to get up the next three streets without much drama, and was even able to find a few snacks from a looted convenience store - namely steak pills (that expand into bite-sized chunks of lab-grown sirloin once popped into one’s mouth) and a couple of bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale. He thought it would be a nice thing to enjoy with Quinton once he finally arrived at his home, which was coming up rather quickly, thankfully. The last three streets were rather long ones, and they looked very quiet, so Herman ambled as fast as his spindly body could amble, concealing himself behind bushes and fences as much as he was able to. Sadly, when he finally got Quinton’s street, he realised with a surfeit of dread that he would need to be entirely out in the open for approximately a quarter mile, since Quinton lived in Bexley North, which in the year 2160 was very well to-do and was entirely populated by millionaires and celebrities with walled-off private estates with 10-foot high walls, and nothing but artisanally-maintained flower pots and shrubs to hide behind - which is to say that they were no use at all, since Herman being not considered average or even under average height by any standard definitely wasn’t able to hide behind a one foot tall shrub, no matter how hard he tried.

But Herman could see the elegant turrets of Quinton’s stately Tudor home just peeking over the walls from where he was crouching, and he resolved to sprint with as much pace as his legs could muster, and he did so, and it was glorious, right up until he was suddenly winched high into the air by a crude netted trap that he really should have seen. Then, soon after, he was prodded inquisitively by a band of men from the financial district in shredded Saville Row suits who had obviously become caretakers of the minds of some sort of hominid caveman- type characters, and Herman, while conscious of the mortal danger he was now in couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. These stock trading stone-age brutes had fashioned spears from fence posts and tree branches, had feathers in their hair and while eyeing Herman they were communicating in a series of clicks, beeps and grunts while rather disconcertingly licking their lips and rubbing their bellies. Herman knew it - he was a goner. Mince meat. Dead to rights. He even appreciated the darkly poetic irony of it all - since the men whose favour he so wished to gain back at prep school were now about to cook and eat him. But while Herman considered how his sinews would end up lodged between the teeth and in the bellies of men who only just weeks ago pronounced ‘finance’ ‘finn-nance,’ his captors were suddenly engulfed in a hurricane of tanned muscle and khaki. All he could hear were the blood-curdling shrieks and the sound of bones snapping, and a gruff, manly cackle, before he was knocked out cold by a wayward-flung stone spearhead.

When Herman came to, he was in Quinton’s stately manor home, sprawled out on a red leather chaise lounge. His head hurt, as well as most of the rest of his body, but it was all there in the right places, so he chalked that up as a win. Quinton, who hadn’t noticed Herman had awoken, was in the middle of some sort of carpentry. While reflecting briefly on Quniton’s consummate Hemingwayesque manliness, Herman cleared his throat hesitantly. Quinton’s ears pricked, and he placed the elegantly-hewn dovetail joint he had been whittling softly onto the mahogany Elizabethan-era credenza next to him. Then he cracked a broad, tanned grin with more fluorescently white teeth than should naturally fit in a person’s mouth, with a tasteful crinkling around his sparkling blue eyes.

‘G’day Herm. Long time. What’s it been? 30 years?’

‘Quinton - h-hi - hello there m-m-mate…w-what happened?’ Me head sore,’ replied Herman, gradually regaining the ability to form sentences.

‘Oh out there? Ya looked like you were goin’ to become a nice fillet mignon for those kooked-out Wall-Streeters out there. You were bloody lucky I wasn’t working out back today. Copped a view of the whole shebang from me’ front porch mate.’

‘Ooh…yeah…’ replied Herman. ‘The…net?’

‘Mmmhmmm. You were a bee’s dick away from a spit roast I’d say.’

Quniton picked up the dovetail joint again, spat on it and resumed his whittling. Herman rubbed a rather large bump on his head and winced.

‘You took a bit of shrapnel to the head there fella. Ya probably goin’ to be a bit slow for a while. Just rest up and you’ll be right as rain.’

‘OooooOOohkay.’

Herman looked around.

‘Place looks…nice,’ he sputtered, marshalling his few working brain cells in an attempt at convivial repartee.

‘Geez, thanks Herm - you think?’

‘mMmmmmmmm!’

‘Well, it works for me I guess. Though I never spent this much time here before in one stretch. I get itchy feet mate - never do like to stay in one place too long. I’m what they refer to as a rolling stone I guess.’

Quinton stopped whittling quite so quickly and sighed.

‘To be honest with ya Hermie, I’m definitely getting a bit of cabin fever. Pretty much all of my friends are dead. That’s what I would refer to as a definite downside of the apocalypse. And there are a few.’

Herman acknowledged the sentiment. There are definitely downsides. Quinton clicked the joint into place, finishing off what looked to be a battle fort with more panache than was probably needed, but Herman certainly appreciated the craftsmanship.

‘So Herman, as nice as it is to see you again mate, I’ve gotta ask - to what do I owe the pleasure, fella? We haven’t exactly kept in touch...’

Herman rocked in his hammock, painfully recalling the events of a few weeks earlier. The presentation. The rat. Mrs Higgins. Herman winced at the prospect of coming clean to such an accomplished man as Quinton about his monumental buggering of the current state of Britain.

‘M-m-my f-f-fault,’ he blathered.

Quinton looked quizzically at Herman.

‘What - you mean all the stuff outside?’

‘MmmmYeahh…’ Herman replied pathetically.

Quinton’s forehead knotted as he thought handsomely for a moment.

‘Herman. Herman, you funny little bugger. Blaming yourself won’t get us anywhere. Christ knows what’s going on out there. It could be bacteria, or a virus, or - blimey - it could be God trying to tell us that the Jews were right all along. Ha haa. But it’s not your fault.’

‘Nnnooooo it wath meeeeh!’ Herman protested feebly.

Quinton sighed deeply again, heaving his rippling pectoral muscles hypnotically.

‘Look mate, how about you have a bit of a lie down and we’ll talk a bit more later on. Here, get this down ya gullet,’ Quinton said, as he popped a pill out of a bottle and placed it in Herman’s gaping mouth with a hand roughly the diameter of a dinner plate. ‘This’ll help ya noggin.’

Quinton then turned around, and made a ‘this guy’s bloody nuts’ look to himself, as he picked up another piece of wood and resumed whittling.

Herman then quickly drifted off into a soft and peaceful sleep for the first time since he could remember.

Next chapter release date: Saturday 27th of May