But Once A Year

A wise man once said that it is absolutely vital for humanity to believe in things that are not real. That only by embracing the idea of a thing can we take the actions necessary to make it a reality, becoming something more and making a better world.

The fact that he put this saying in the mouth of an avatar of inevitable Death proves just how wise he really was.

I shift my pack yet again, in the hope that the burden will somehow become lighter if I bounce the straps to a different part of my shoulders. The wide motorway still continues straight ahead before me, offering yet more miles of trudging. A huge sign by the side of the road spells out the distance for me and I sigh.

Even after so much practice, it still feels extremely uncomfortable to be exposed like this. I remind myself that I am actually far safer on open ground. Sight lines go both ways and although I would not welcome pursuit or confrontation, a blind corner has long been the most dangerous thing in the world. Sheltered places are where people go to die or to attempt to 'sleep it off'. Many still wait in those nooks, ready to invite a newcomer to join them.

When I mentioned that quote to James during a long evening talk, he said I was dismissing Christianity as a beneficial lie. Honestly, I'm not. The past few years have sent a lot of shock-waves through the world of personal belief. Many have lost their faith in the face of our trials whilst many others have turned to it in an attempt to explain them. Personally, I'm pretty much in the same place that I and so many others were before – unsure and avoiding the question.

Whether Revelations is true or not, the celebration of major Christian festivals on a societal scale ought to have faded into the background long ago - as religious pluralism and secularism changed the shape of our culture and power structures. The ones that survived did so because they offered something everyone either needed or could be sold. The feast of St. Valentines was a great excuse to oblige your partner to take you on an expensive date, whilst Easter became about the limited availability of certain shapes of chocolate for some reason. The idea of Christmas likewise filled with weird traditions and myths that everybody knows.

The whole gift-giving thing is the most conspicuous aspect of Christmas that any of us grew up with. Like the chocolate eggs it had a metaphorical connection to the original festival, but was mostly divorced from that in the minds of the majority. The magical delivery by flying reindeer was just an excuse to make sure everybody had to exchange them at the same time, making it a bonding moment of love and happiness rather than just a commercial obligation. Even today, the memory and the tradition is strong enough that an idiot like me will go scavenging three times the normal distance just to try and find something special for those close to him. All because of a date on a calender.

One of the most omnipresent parts of the modern myth is that Christmas means snow. As usual, there isn't a flake to be seen. The clouds that have been building above me most of the afternoon instead begin to dispense a heavy and relentless dose of rain.

I reluctantly raise my hood. Wet weather is another killer – the pattering of raindrops hides small sounds and covering your head spoils your peripheral vision. But the days of dryers and radiators are gone and we only have so many clothes to swap between. Getting sick is worth avoiding.

With my ears muffled and the water drumming on my head, it takes a couple of half-heard noises before I'm sure that I'm hearing screams.

I break into a run, leg muscles protesting and the dead weight of my pack thumping on my back with every stride. I see movement in the distance on the other side of the road, beyond a slowly deteriorating car pulled over on the hard shoulder. I duck down behind the barrier that divides the lanes and stalk closer.

Two figures on the ground are locked in a grim wrestling match I've seen many times before. The one on his back is a young man who looks like he's been living desperately for some time. Probably the survivor of a group that got overwhelmed after it made one mistake. The backpack crushed beneath him is so flat it must be almost empty.

The ruin on top of him was probably a woman once, but it's hard to tell. Its mouth is gaping open as it silently presses downward in a contest of stamina that the living can never win.

One more glance around the scene tells me everything I need to know. The car boot has been broken open – probably by the kid in the hope of finding supplies of some sort. Instead he found what the driver had futilely attempted to keep safe after she got infected, succeeding only in setting a trap for someone else later.

The survivor has one arm blocking the creature, but his other should be reaching for a weapon to put it down. A machete is lying on the tarmac just next to him but he has not picked it up. The reason is immediately apparent – his wrist has been bitten halfway through and the tendons are severed.

When someone gets bitten, they are dead. There is simply no known way back from it. If it's someone you know, the length of time until they stop breathing is all you get to come to terms with that before they are trying to kill you too. If it's someone you've never met, you literally just stop seeing them after the bite. They stop being people and become nothing more than distractions and barriers that will help you to survive. After this long, everyone who is still alive owes their survival to someone else's death.

We gave up on the idea of putting them all down a long time ago. Every time is a risk, so you only roll the dice when you must. I can be safely away by the time his strength gives out. Then the pair of them can wander until they fall apart or someone with more ammo than sense clears them away. That's who I am every day of the year.

In a way, the gift-giving tradition just enforces some of the more obnoxious Christmas myths – that everyone has a family and that being in the same building as them will result in love and happiness. That sure wasn't the case for my wife for many years and I had a fair few friends who felt the same way. But the loneliness they felt was never entirely ignored. Christmas was also a time when people remembered to care about the homeless and destitute. Charities received a burst of funding and various attempts were made toward the goal of making sure no-one was completely alone. At its best, Christmas was a day of the year when everyone briefly pretended to act like Christians were supposed to. Even people who had literally signed up to kill each other sometimes preferred to kick a ball around rather than actually go through with it.

I cover my mouth with a scarf in case of spray and take out my hammer. Setting my bag down beside the barrier, I vault it and stride briskly toward the struggle. It is too intent to notice me and I get a strong blow right in the back of the head. It gurgles as it turns to face me, prompting me to deliver the frenzied series of strikes such subtle operations usually devolve into. Thankfully it topples over before it can reach out and grab me.

The kid coughs, covered in enough gunk to raise grave concerns even if he wasn't done for anyway. I turn and go to get my backpack, instinct demanding that I don't let it out of my sight for a second longer than necessary. He's in shock anyway, so the time I spend retrieving it is time I'd have spent waiting around otherwise.

I take a deep breath and turn back to him. He has managed to sit up, leaning against the side of the old vehicle. He flinches as I take a step toward him, clawing for the machete with his good hand. I glance at his wrist and give him a meaningful look. Defeat fills his face and he slumps back.

“You got water?” My voice sounds startlingly loud even to me. I haven't spoken in days. He nods and gestures at his pack. I put down the hammer and walk over to him, fishing out a small plastic bottle. Unscrewing the top I offer him a sip, which he shakily takes.

I give him a moment to relax, then open my own pack. After a moment's hesitation I dig through the precious contents and take out a chocolate bar – one of three I have found in the past two months.

I unwrap the end and offer it to him. He gives me a puzzled look. I nod in encouragement and he takes it with a shaky hand. He tries to savour the first couple of bites, then devours the rest with an eagerness that gives an uncomfortable glimpse of what he will soon become.

When the bar is finished, he looks back at me. “Thanks” he whispers, barely able to form the word.

I shrug. “It's Christmas,” I say awkwardly.

He stares at me for a moment, then chuckles. The chuckles turn to sobs and I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. I hold him there until the movement of his chest stops, then take my hammer and do it all over again.

It turns out that the car boot contained a folded blanket at the bottom. I throw it over both of them and continue toward what we now call home.

Christmas was a time when people behaved better than they normally would because it was only once a year. It showed us an unreal image of ourselves so that we could believe in it. Most of our resolutions never made it to February, but perhaps sometimes it was the key to pushing us forward. I've been aware of other survivors in this area on the last few scavenging trips, but I've never thought to reopen the debate about whether we should risk inviting anyone else to join us. Perhaps this time I will.