More Like Wall-Sall

Early March 2044.

Walsall, West Midlands, England.

“It’s close, we can make that,” Mike said as they both climbed back into the van. “We can’t make it past that, but we can make that. And presumably there we can find a charge?”

“I don’t know, Mike,” Gemma said. “I didn’t exactly want to push our luck. We’re lucky they’re just lazy fucks on a smoke break. When it ended they might’ve turned us in.”

They sped quickly out of the car park and back onto the road, finding their way to the M54. There were so few cars on the road between cities these days. You really could just get on the road and go.

Anxiety ran high as they watched both the remaining charge tick down and the road behind them to see if anyone was giving chase. It seemed like a poor use of police resources to track them down, Mike had said, to which Gemma responded with quite a few unsavoury slogans relating to her feelings about the police.

They were nearing the final few miles when they saw the first sign: quite literally a sign, hanging across the motorway, calling out Walsall and Birmingham. Underneath Walsall, covering Birmingham, read some graffiti: “MORE LIKE WALL-SALL.”

Gemma and Mike looked at each other, and Mike nodded. He followed the sign, the arrows leading them toward this place that was apparently a magnet for AWOL connies. “Is this a trap,” Mike posited. “It seems odd.”

“You have no idea how odd this is, Mike.” Gemma stared out the window at the motorway.

Mike rolled the van to a stop as they approached what seemed to be a massive tailback. Except the cars all seemed to be off. Stopped, parked, just clogging up the road as if they’d been abandoned. Especially with the size of their van, they could make no further progress, so they, too climbed out of the van.

“This is all feeling a bit World War Z,” Gemma said. “Maybe more I Am Legend. Or 28 Days Later.”

“None of those are good things for this to feel like.”

They worked their way up past the cars, Gemma’s guitar slung over Mike’s shoulder. As they approached they could finally see it: the cars were all essentially parked in front of a massive, makeshift wall blocking the motorway.

Gemma stared up at it. “This was definitely not here the last time I was in Walsall.”

It was almost as impressive as it was clearly unofficial. The bottom made of concrete road barriers, with various sheets of metal and wood of differing heights forming the wall itself. Mike noticed some street signs mixed in which he found charming, but not enough to offset how incredibly distressing it was.

“I don’t think whoever’s in there wants anyone else in there.”

“It just covers the road. They just don’t want us driving in there, that’s all.”

“How are we going to get the car in to charge, then?”

Gemma had already climbed over the guardrails along the side of the road. “We’ll ask. Come on.” She turned back to face him, still standing alone in front of the wall. “Come on. It’ll be fine.” She smiled and extended her hand, and he stepped forward to take it.

It didn’t take long to realise why they’d blocked the road, as the roads were well in use, all filled with tents, makeshift structures, camper vans, old festival kiosks and loads of outdoor furniture. Gemma spotted a group of people at a wooden picnic table not far from the other side of the wall, sat round playing cards.

“Hiya,” she shouted with a quick wave, causing them all to look over—two men and two women, all looking rather middle aged, in black down jackets with differently-coloured beanies on.

“Hello,” said one of the women. “You just arriving?”

Mike had tucked himself behind Gemma as they slowly approached the table. He tried to make himself as small as possible, if only he could disappear entirely.

“We are,” Gemma replied. “We drove in from Wales. Our van is out of charge. On our way to London.”

“Us too,” she said with a smile.

Gemma gave a confused smirk and glanced around. It was unreal how many more tents there were now.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck’s going on here? What is all this?”

“This is the Walsall Collective,” said one of the men, in a way that betrayed how much he enjoyed being asked that question.

“Walsall Collective?” Mike had decided to step slightly out from Gemma’s shadow.

“We live for ourselves here,” continued the boastful man. “No conscription. We try to be self-sufficient.”

“It’s bloody Burning Man,” Gemma said under her breath.

The other woman laughed and rolled her eyes. “Forgive Richard, he’s so dramatic.” She was older, with a deep tan, her skin seeming like it made her look even older than she was. A large-brimmed straw hat kept the mid-day sun from her eyes, which was finally breaking through the clouds. “I’m Claire.”

“Gemma. That’s Mike. He’s shy.” Mike flattened out his face and looked around awkwardly.

“Nice to meet you Gemma,” Claire said, and put out her hand.

She walked them around the immediate area, what must’ve been hundreds of tents, many pushed straight up onto the front gardens of terraced houses much like Gemma had seen last time she was here. It was a gloriously chaotic mix of styles—some basic pop-up tents, some nicer, larger ones and even some full-on glamps. It certainly wasn’t egalitarian. Which suited her just fine.

“Do people live in the houses too?” asked Mike.

“They do,” Claire said. “And I suppose it was a bit first-come, first-serve on those. We’ve only been here a few months. We brought a tent with us because we’d decided to make the move, so we had a bit of time to prepare.”

“You, uh, wanted this?” Gemma asked with more than a little derision. “Why on earth?”

“Richard had lost his job when the Jaguar plant closed. He was our provider. We were just down in Birmingham and we’d lived there our whole lives, both of us. And we knew we’d be sent to the coast, or out to Wales. So, we used the rest of our savings to buy our tent and supplies, and up we came.”

“Wow.”

“But,” said Mike, “what do you do for food? Water?”

“We grow some, we trade for some, people bring some. We’re not cut off love, the world’s still out there, you know? It’s not the apocalypse.”

“Oh, right.”

Gemma chuckled. “Having just come from two years of conscription, I fucking beg to differ.”

“Conscription,” Claire said with a glower. “Bloody dark times for this country. Your husband as well then?”

Gemma and Mike both laughed, though Mike sold it a bit less.

“He’s married to his ex,” Gemma said with a flippant hand wave. “Whatever that means. That’s why he wants to go to London.”

“London, never had much time for it. But please, join us for lunch. you can tell us all about it.”

She led them down and through rows and rows of tents, and it made Gemma nostalgic for camping festivals in her 20s. Though from afar it looked chaotic, given time to look she could see a lot of care had gone into the layout. Each person keeping theirs a respectful distance from those around them, some people clearly asking for a bit more room than others, some people with a sort of shared outdoor “living room” under a canopy between two smaller “bedroom” tents. Random tacky garden furniture was sprinkled liberally around — ceramic gnomes, plastic flamingoes, and surprisingly, even the occasional Union Jack bunting (Gemma truly wanted an explanation for that, but nobody was around when they walked by.) Finally, they came to a road with nothing in it, and on the other side was a wide open green space.

Gemma stared at it, feeling a passing familiarity. She turned to Claire. “Why are there no tents on the green?”

Claire smiled. “Isn’t it lovely? They’ve only just recently finished clearing them. With the roads blocked we were able to free up the space.”

The green looked beautifully wide-open, though with clear damage from where it had been under tents for so long. The Ash tree still stood proudly in the centre, along with the old Council barbecues and some free-standing exercise equipment. At one of the barbecues stood Richard, who gave a nod as he saw them.

Soon they were spreading a blanket, Mike having been instantly put to work helping with the grill by Richard. Forming patties from mince, fumbling about with a spatula, nearly killing them all trying to re-light it—he looked so wildly out of his element, which seemed to bring out some sort of fatherly instinct in turn as Richard insisted he learn to do this properly. Gemma would find something worth shaking her head at every time she looked over.

“So where does this all come from? The meat? The bread?”

“There’s a livestock farm not far from here,” Claire said with a matter-of-factness. “And we bake the bread!”

“Fuck,” Gemma said under her breath.

“It’s not an easy adjustment,” Claire admitted. “Not being able to just tap the Saino’s app for whatever you need. But we’re getting the hang of it.”

“You could do that though,” Mike said. “I mean, maybe not here. But down in Birmingham. Or anywhere, really.”

“We don’t have any money. We haven’t, for some time. We try to help out wherever we can. Richard does handy work over at the farm. And they help us out in return.”

“It’s not just us.” Richard’s voice boomed, everything he said sounding like it was out of annoyance. “I’ve heard Liverpool’s fightin’ back, too.”

“We’re not fighting,” Claire insisted. “It’s just a calmer way of life.”

They all settled cross-legged on the blanket as Mike brought over the food and Claire handed out small plates from a little picnic hamper. Mike seemed rather unsettled, not able to sit still.

“But, really, none of this is legal.” Everyone looked at Mike and said nothing. He burned under their collective glare.

“Fuck, he’s not wrong.” Gemma decided to bail him out.

“No, you’re right,” Richard said with a grunt. “And there used to be a fence around all these bits of the city. They’d wall everyone in, signs up, warning everyone about the laws they were breaking. I’d seen it when I came up through here. They were desperate to keep things ‘normal,’ all the roads open, pretending everything was fine, even as entire streets were closed, parks were all full. Just fence it all off. But they gave up. For now, anyway.”

“There’s still fences up here and there,” Claire said. “We’re slowly taking it all down. Just need to block the roads in so nobody accidentally drives through. That’s all.”

The burgers were absolutely delicious, even as Gemma tended to not eat beef. It made her realise how atrocious and shite the food was at the plant. She’d adjusted so readily, even as the portions had gotten smaller and smaller.

“About that,” Mike said. “We do need to figure out how to charge our van. I have to carry on to London I’m afraid.”

“Mmmphh.” Gemma tried to get words out with a mouth full of burger. “Ex-wife.” She gestured at Mike. “Famous.”

“Oh?” Claire perked up as Mike faked a frown.

“She’s not famous. She used to be an MP.”

“Liz Marsh,” Gemma finally was able to blurt out.

“Used to be, sure,” Richard said with a nod. “And she is again, heaven forfend. Can’t believe she won. Sympathy votes, I say, after the bombing.”

“You have the news here?” Gemma asked.

“It’s not the bloody dark ages, we have phones⁠—”

“She’s alive?! She’s okay?!” Mike looked stunned. “That’s…”

Gemma made a sympathetic little whimper and put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s good, love. We like that.” He nodded, looking down.

They helped Claire and Richard pack up their picnic, and Mike stood up to follow Gemma. Richard coughed and looked at Mike, who nodded and picked up the hamper, knowing what he must do. Their tent was a short walk from the green and was a simple little affair, a little red two-person dome tent like you’d pick up from Argos. Gemma figured that’s exactly what they did. It was incredibly sweet.

She pictured them carefully picking it out. Scrolling up and down, looking at star ratings, little tiny pictures of tents from two or three angles. Seeing what Jenny, 45, Essex thought of hers. One final use of all the modern conveniences before they drove a half-hour north to start their new bohemian lifestyle, in a tent on a street in front of an abandoned JobCentre.

It’s the kind of thing that used to inspire her to write songs. Maybe it would inspire her to write one again.

Richard and Claire retired for a post-lunch nap, leaving Gemma and Mike to their own devices. Gemma started ambling up the road, her guitar still on her back.

“So, off to London then are we?” She looked over at Mike.

“I feel I may be a bit of a third wheel if I go,” he said with a hint of resignation. Gemma gave him a nice collegiate pat on the back.

“But I’m not sure I get it,” he added. “This all seems so temporary and unsustainable. What if they run out of food? What if they get arrested? What is their plan?”

Gemma laughed, looking up at the sky. “I don’t think they have one. I think they just wanted so badly to stop that they came here.”

“To stop?”

“Yeah. To just…stop.”

“You know,” Mike said. “You’re being awfully nice to me. You haven’t sworn at me in at least an hour.”

“Oi, fuck off. Absolute melt.” She turned and smiled at him as they kept slowly walking. They reached the end of a cluster of tents and across the road was a makeshift football pitch, with a handful of people kicking a ball around.

With a gentle breeze cooling her face and the sound of friendly competition in the air, Gemma took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She didn’t know how long this would last. But for now, she was free.