And Then There Was One

For a pronounced portion of my childhood, I would wake early and immediately rise. I had long since convinced myself that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep; I would wake at half past six every morning, getting out of bed shortly after sunrise in summertime and long before in winter. There was nothing unusual about this, I would watch TV or read a book until the rest of the family woke.

As a result, I suffered from headaches that got gradually worse throughout the day once every week or two. I still get them, but I at least have learned that better monitoring my sleep will keep my headache free. It doesn’t always work; there will always be late nights and early mornings I can’t help from time to time, but overall things are a lot better now.

One Sunday afternoon, when I was around ten, I was forced to retire in the afternoon, the light stinging my eyes so badly I couldn’t possibly have stayed up until a reasonable hour. I decided then that I’d be better off just sleeping straight through until Monday morning.

I woke at a little before seven the next morning and dressed for school. I picked my way quietly downstairs so as not to wake the family and grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down to read until everyone else arose. It being summer, there was no need for lights. The heavy light of the morning sun cast strange shadows across the kitchen and I was struck by the thought that I should tell the others how it had looked – sunlight glinting off the row of mugs on hooks beneath the head height presses that line the kitchen. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

I don’t think I realised anything was wrong for fully an hour; they should have been getting up around eight or so if they wanted to make it to school on time. It wasn’t unusual for the father to get up late – all he had to do was get dressed and drive us out, he would breakfast when he got home, before heading to work. At about a quarter past eight I climbed the stairs and called for Seán but, he being a heavy sleeper, I got no reply until I got to our room. Whenupon I realised he wasn’t there.

I wasn’t too flustered really, until I noticed that Jane, Katie and the father were missing too. It’s hard to know what to do under those circumstances. Still, I thought, I had been sick. If they’d gone to the granny’s the night before, they might reasonably have stayed there and decided to go from there to school. It hadn’t happened before, but I figured it might make sense. Anything to cull the slowly welling panic… you’d be surprised what a ten year old dreams up to avoid the idea that they’ve been abandoned.

I thought to myself that the father would have to return to make it to work in time. I sat down, made more cereal, and continued to read my book. Looking for my schoolbag in case they dropped by suddenly hoping I were ready, I walked to the opposite side of the house, where it was still darker, and turned on a light.

Nothing – the power was off. In 1996, before everything cartographic was built on the idea of constantly available power to terabytes of storage, there was no emergency generator in the OS. I walked around the house, making sure the power was off and that it wasn’t just a dud light bulb. Nope.

Alright, checklist time:
No power.
No family.
No cars outside any of the neighbours’ houses (living as close as we did to the OS offices, there were only two houses that should have had cars other than our own).

I began to worry- that’s an understatement. I began to freak out. My options were limited. Margret and Brian, who lived to our left, had no car outside the house, but were gregarious enough that I felt I should knock anyway. No response. Eita Flood lived to our right – she had been old as long as I’d been alive and I wasn’t comfortable around her. House skipped. Next was Tom Shannihan – he should have been in work by now, but some elements of his family or menagerie of cats (14 at highest count) should have been present.

My worry shifted gears to “profound”. I walked to the house of a neighbour who, to this day, I have only ever known as Mrs. Crow. Mercifully, no answer. Last was the Kelly household. I held my breath and knocked. A shuffling sound, a blur seen approaching through frosted windows. A sigh of relief. The blur resolved itself into a cat… it did not answer the door. I panicked and walked to Ross’s house (talkingross.blogspot.com).

Observations from Ross’s house in this order: no car, no family, no cat. Doors locked. Panic setting in, I half-walked and half-ran to The Square as it was (and still is) simply known – a carpark designed to fit the three hundred odd cars of the OSi’s employees. Nothing, not a single car. I sat down on the concrete block that marked a fire hydrant long since submerged in the slowly creeping grass verge from the old administration building. Dragging in deep breaths, I sat there for fifteen minutes, taking stock. The big white clock above the archway into the square had been working then and hit nine o’clock with a kind of grim finality. There should have been someone there.

Checklist update:
No family.
No power.
None of six neighbours.
One cat sighted but not interacted with.
No audible sound at all beyond wind in trees.
No idea what I’m going to do with myself.
Panic.

I have never told anyone this happened before, because of what happened next. In a state of abject shock, I went to bed. I went to bed and eventually I slept.

I woke a little before seven o’clock and went downstairs. The morning sun gleaming off the counters and mugs was different this time, paler than before. I walked to the fridge to get milk for my cereal and the light came on; the power was back at least. I ate breakfast contemplatively. It’s funny what a good night’s sleep can do for you. Things didn’t seem so bad now.
After breakfast I walked back upstairs, not feeling good, but nowhere near as bad as before. I was greeted at the top of the stairs by the father and Seán, looking dazed, but otherwise entirely present. It’s hard to know what to do in those situations where everything is falling apart and you can’t trust yourself to rely on the world around you.

I pretended nothing had happened and dressed for school.

I would later convince myself that I had simply woken at 7pm and somehow not noticed that the sun must have been over the field to the west, not the offices and Ross’s house to the east, despite the clearest of recollections to the contrary – the kind burned into the mind by panic and fear. I convince myself because, once you’ve experienced the absolute terror of everyone you’ve grown up with an lived near having vanished, you want to believe you could never live in a world where that could happen.

Still, sometimes, just sometimes, that conviction isn’t enough. I wonder what would happen if tomorrow I woke and everyone but me was gone. No power, no family, no neighbours, no sounds. Just the slowly rising sun, an empty world and I.

All of this happened to me once already; it scares the living sit out of me. Still, it means I’m uniquely placed to advise. If this happens or has ever happened to you, the odds are that I am still around. Get in touch.