The Deluge

by Mark Morris

  Steve crunched his way over the broken glass and peered into the store. "It's a mess in there," he said, "and dark. Got your torch, Abs?"

  She swung her rucksack from her shoulder and rooted in it. "Check," she said.

  "Okay," said Steve, "here's what I think we should do. I'll go to the left. Abby, you and Mrs. B go to the right. Mr. B, I'm afraid you'll have to wait here."

  "That's all right, son," Mr. Beamish said. "I'll stay on the lookout for rampaging Zulus."

  Steve grinned. "Okay. Abby, Mrs. B, don't forget, we need vacuum-sealed stuff. A lot of the tins will have no labels, so we'll have to take pot luck. But if you can find some coffee or cereal, that would be good. And we need bottled water...."

  "And more pills for George," said Mabel. "And I'll look for a bag so I can help you carry things."

  "And what about more dry socks?" said Abby. "Are everyone's feet as wet as mine?"

  "If you mean can I feel water squelching between my toes, then yes," said Steve.

  "Which isn't good, is it?" Mabel said sternly. "If we plod about with wet feet, a week from now we won't be able to walk at all."

  "Supermarkets sometimes have socks and things in sealed plastic bags, don't they?" Abby said.

  Steve nodded. "Okay. If you see any, grab them. And pick up anything else you think might be useful. We can always discard stuff later if we decide it's not."

  They turned on their torches and ventured into the building. "Be careful, Dad," Abby said as she watched him move away into the gloom, his torch beam bobbing.

  "You too," he said. "See you back here in thirty minutes."

  Abby and Mabel headed in the opposite direction. Abby's torchlight picked out rows of silent checkouts and a maze of dark aisles beyond.

  Abby wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"

  "Death," said Mabel, who looked apologetic when Abby gave her a startled glance. "I know it's horrid, dear, but I'm afraid it's something we're going to have to get used to. The smell's not so bad at the moment, but it'll get worse. In a week or two we won't be able to visit the cities. There'll be too much disease about"

  "Like what?"

  "Cholera... typhus..."

  "I thought things like that were caused by rats in the olden days. But they'll all have drowned, won't they?"

  "You're thinking of bubonic plague, dear. That was caused by the bite of the rat flea. But you get typhus and cholera from contaminated food and water. And what with all these bodies...

  "But if we stick to packets and tins and bottles we'll be okay, won't we?"

  "Hopefully. But think of the maggots, the flies, the smell."

  "I'd rather not," Abby said.

  It was clear that Steve's description of the store as "a mess" was something of an understatement. The floor of the building was a thick soup of black silt, rotting seaweed, the occasional half-buried body and a good proportion of what had once been on the supermarket shelves. Instead of being sluiced out when the wave had come, the contents of the store had been pretty much contained within the walls of the building. As a consequence, crushed boxes, torn cartons and dented tins, together with the smashed remains of bottles and jars and the spilled and scattered contents of what they had once contained, were mixed in with the mud, the stench of which was incredible. Though Mabel had described it as the smell of death, it was actually far more than that. Lingering beneath the brackish, putrid stink of salty decay were myriad other smells-vinegar, alcohol, sour yogurt, pasta sauce, coffee, washing powder, decomposing vegetable matter...

  As the overwhelming stench of it all hit her, Abby gagged and bent over double. "Are you all right, dear?" asked Mabel.

  It was the determination not to let anyone down that made Abby nod fiercely. "I'll be fine."

  As though to prove it, she slithered over the nearest checkout, coating her jeans with a layer of filth that came almost to her knees. Mabel followed more slowly, teeth clenched in a grimace.

  Abby directed her torch up the nearest aisle. "How will we find anything among that lot?"

  "With a lot of patience and a strong stomach, I should think."

  "But it's hopeless."

  Mabel gave her a look of such fortitude that Abby felt ashamed. "Beggars can't be choosers."

  "I suppose not," Abby said. "Sorry to be a wuss."

  Mabel squeezed her hand. "I should be apologizing to you, pet. I know how much easier it would be for you and your dad if you didn't have us old codgers holding you back."

  "You're not holding us back," Abby said. "We're a team, aren't we?"

  "It's sweet of you to say so, dear. But I know it's not easy, what with that bloody wheelchair and two extra mouths to feed."

  "The way I see it," said Abby, "is you saved us from Adolf Hitler in the war, and now we're saving you from the flood. We're just returning the favor."

  Mabel laughed. "Oh, what a poppet you are!" She gestured ahead. "Well, where shall we start? Wines and spirits, home baking or pickles and sauces?"

  "I don't think it matters," Abby said, "though I definitely don't want to start at the fish counter."

  Wading through the sludge was hard and the pickings few and far between. After ten minutes Abby and Mabel had accumulated nothing more than a dozen muddy tins, a vacuumsealed bag of muesli, a jar of coffee and a plastic bottle of what appeared to be limeade, but might, once they got it into the daylight, prove merely to be lemonade contaminated with sea water. By this time Abby's thighs were aching with the exertion of wading through the vile-smelling sludge and she was pouring with sweat inside her fleece. Her back, in particular, was soaking beneath the rucksack.

  They worked on doggedly, and found several more tins, a packet of noodles, a sealed bag of pasta and an unbroken jar of blackcurrant jam. As each new item was unearthed, Mabel cleaned the muck off as best she could and stuffed it into Abby's rucksack.

  Eventually they reached the stage where the rucksack was so full that Mabel could no longer refasten the clips with her arthritic fingers. Abby shrugged herself free of her burden, shuddering at the breeze that instantly turned the sizeable patch of sweat on her back to icy water, and together she and Mabel struggled with the fastenings for a moment before managing to secure them.

  "My word, that weighs a ton," Mabel said, placing her hands beneath the rucksack as Abby hauled it back on to her shoulders. "Your poor spine."

  "I'm okay," Abby muttered, "though if we find anything else we'll have to carry it in our hands."

  "We haven't found any pills for George, have we?" said Mabel. "I suppose we'll have to find a proper chemist's for those. And remember, we still need dry socks. Oh dear, we're in a bit of a pickle, aren't we?"

  "We've got spare socks in the rucksack," Abby said, "and a couple of towels. We can build a fire tonight and dry everything out. We'll be all-"

  Suddenly she stopped.

  "What's the matter?" Mabel asked.

  Abby's voice dropped to a whisper. "I heard something." Together the two of them stood motionless, alert for the slightest sound or movement.

  After a minute or so Mabel murmured, "Perhaps it was just your father moving about. Why don't you call him, pet?"

  It was a sensible suggestion, but Abby felt oddly reluctant to draw attention to herself. "I will in a minute," she said. "I just want to check it out myself first."

  She waded through the filth, the torch beam lurching before her. Tiny crabs on the surface of the muck scuttled away from the light. Their presence-not just here, but everywhere-had given her the creeps at first, but they were so ubiquitous that she was now becoming used to them.

  She reached the central aisle and swept the torch in a wide arc left and right. Nothing moved. She turned back to Mabel, who was plowing through the mire behind her, when she heard it again.

  Instantly she swung back, torch beam lurching. "Did you hear that?"

  "What, dear?"

  "A splash of water."

  "Perhaps something's leaking somewhere," Mabel suggested.


  "No, it was like... like someone scooping water out of a basin and letting it fall again."

  Mabel gave her a long look, and at last she said, "Where did it come from?"

  Abby indicated right with the torch. "Over there, I think."

  "Then let's investigate," said Mabel.

  The two of them crept forward, though there was little chance of stealth. The mud squelched beneath their every step, and slurped hungrily each time they pulled free of it. They moved past the confectionary aisle and what had once been the bakery section. Abby glanced at the empty shelves and wondered whether she would taste fresh bread or cake ever again. She halted when she heard another splash of water, and glanced fearfully back at Mabel. It was clear from the expression on the old woman's face that she had heard the sound too.

  "Sounds like someone having a bath," Mabel whispered.

  Abby directed her torch beam towards the freezer section, where waist-high bays had once contained bags of frozen vegetables and ready meals. A dark figure was standing there, and she leaped in shock before realizing it was simply one of a dozen or more pillars that marched down the central aisle, stretching from floor to ceiling.

  She smiled shakily. "I'm getting jumpy."

  Mabel cupped her hands around her mouth. "Who's there?" she called.

  No answer. The two of them moved forward again. They were halfway up the aisle, freezer bays flanking them on both sides, when another splash, the loudest so far, sounded no more than four feet to their left.

  This time Abby almost slipped in the mud, the torch beam swinging wildly. "It's coming from in there!"

  Mabel took the torch from her and plodded forward. When she was right beside the bay, she stared down into it, bending at the knees for a closer look. She remained in that position for several seconds before breathing, "My goodness."

  Abby's voice was flinty with trepidation. "What is it?"

  Mabel beckoned her. "Come and look."

  "Can't you just tell me?"

  "It's better if you see," said Mabel. "It's quite safe."

  Nervous, Abby plodded forward. Taking back the torch, she peered into the freezer bay and realized that it was full of murky water. For a few seconds she saw nothing; then a dark shadow slid by just beneath the surface, suggesting a sleek torpedolike shape the length of her forearm.

  "It's a fish," she said.

  As if to confirm this, the fish's tail broke the surface, then slapped back down into the water.

  "It must have been left behind after the flood," said Mabel. "If we caught it we could end the day with a lovely fish supper."

  "We've nothing to catch it with," Abby said, "and I'm cer-tainly not going to stick my hands in there."

  Mabel gave a wistful sigh. "All the same, it's a nice thought. I could just manage a bit of fresh fish."

  Abby smiled and squeezed Mabel's arm. "Maybe we can find a couple of tins of sardines or something."

  Mabel gave her a rueful look. But before she could comment, the wall not twelve feet away from them split open and an apelike figure burst through.

  Abby screamed and spun, the torch beam veering in a wide, erratic arc. Light spilled over the figure, causing it to hiss and throw up its hands. Abby's first thought was that some black, simian demon had leaped at them out of a solid wall. She swiftly realized, however, that the figure was no nightmarish creature, but simply a man-small, wiry and dressed in the filthy remnants of what must recently have been a smart business suit. His hair was sticking up in muddy tufts, his eyes were wild and his spectacles were hanging askew on his face. Furthermore, she realized that the section of wall from which he had emerged was not actually solid, but composed of wide, vertical strips of mudsmeared plastic, each of which overlapped the next and evidently provided access to some kind of warehouse or storage area.

  Realizing that she was blinding the man, Abby jerked the torch downwards, out of his face.

  "Sorry," she said, "you made me jump."

  "Abby!" The voice boomed somewhere to her left, making the little man spin towards it with a slackly startled expression. "Are you all right?"

  Abby was still shaking, but recovering quickly now. "Fine, Dad," she called. "We've found someone."

  "Who?" The lurching, brownish light of his torch beam approached through the aisles.

  "A man."

  "Alive?"

  "Yes." She almost laughed as she said it. She had begun to think that she, her dad and the Beamishes were the only survivors in the city.

  "Is he alone?" Steve shouted.

  Abby blinked. It hadn't occurred to her that the man might have companions. "Are you?" she asked.

  The man stared at her. His head had been darting back and forth between Abby's voice and Steve's, and now his lips began to move, though in an odd way, as if he were not so much attempting to reply as to merely imitate her actions.

  "You okay?" said Abby, stepping towards him. She felt a restraining hand on her arm.

  "Careful," murmured Mabel. "He's like a coiled spring, this feller. I don't think he's quite all there."

  "He's just scared," said Abby. Soothingly, she said, "We're not going to hurt you. We're friends."

  The man's voice was a rusty croak, as if he hadn't used it for days. "Monsters," he said.

  Abby glanced at Mabel. The old lady raised her eyebrows. "No," Abby said, "we're friends. What's your name?"

  Absently the man raised a hand to push his glasses back on to his face, leaving a smear of mud on the lens. "Seen them out there," he babbled. "Monsters."

  "There are no monsters," Abby said. "There's only us."

  The man looked agitated, anguished. "Seen them," he almost sobbed. "Coming for inc. Corning...

  Abruptly the intermittent, diffused light from Steve's torch strengthened and he appeared around a corner to their left. The man leaped back, slithering in the mud, as Steve pinioned him with torchlight. The man's face was a chalky, stricken mask, his eyes black pools, his hands jerking.

  "Dad," Abby admonished, "you're scaring him."

  "Sorry," said Steve, lowering his torch.

  The word was barely out of his mouth when the man let out a piercing shriek, the echo of which careered around the store. He delved into his pocket and the next moment was brandishing a long kitchen knife with a serrated blade. He waved it back and forth in front of him as though slashing at unseen assailants.

  Abby took a step back, the sticky mud and the weight of her rucksack causing her to stumble. Mabel steadied her, but Abby's mouth was suddenly too dry to mutter her thanks.

  "Hey!" Steve shouted, but this only caused the man to slash the air in an even greater frenzy.

  "I see it now!" he screamed. "You won't catch me out! Oh, no!Pm too clever for that!"

  "Hey," Steve said, his voice low and urgent, "come on, calm down. We don't want to hurt you-"

  "You're them!" the man hissed. "I know what you can do. I've seen it."

  Steve glanced at Abby and Mabel. "Who do you think we are?"

  "You're them! I've seen you out there. I know what you can do. Get away from me!"

  He screeched out this last sentence as though Steve had taken a lunge at him. Steve raised his hands and said, "Hey, calm down, feller. We're going. No need to get excited." He indicated to Abby and Mabel that the three of them should retreat.

  "We can't just leave him, Dad," Abby said.

  "We can't take him with us either," Steve said. "Look at him."

  The man looked more bestial than ever now-eyes wide and glaring, teeth bared, standing in a half crouch with the knife held out before him. If it wasn't for his muddy spectacles, filthy suit and neatly knotted tie he would have resembled a caveman from some old dinosaur movie.

  "But he'll die," Abby said, her voice cracking with desperation.

  "Not our problem," Steve muttered, but he looked a little shamefaced.

  "There's nothing we can do for him, pet," Mabel said reasonably. "His mind's gone. He'd only be a danger to us."
/>   Abby knew they were right, but it was still awful to think of the man here on his own, terrified and deluded, living like an animal among the filth. She felt sick and hollow as they backtracked to the far end of the aisle. Steve, who had slipped down the parallel aisle so he wouldn't have to get close to the man, met them there.

  "You all right?" he said.

  Mabel nodded, but Abby stared at the ground.

  "Abs?" Steve said gently.

  Still refusing to meet his eye, she murmured, "I hate it. We can't live like this. Why can't things be back the way they were?"

  "Hey," he said, putting his arms around her, "I know things are horrible at the moment, but we'll be okay. I promise."

  Angrily, she said, "You don't know that. There's no one to help us. Nearly everyone's dead. The only person we've met wanted to kill us. What if other people want to as well?"

  "They won't," Steve said. "This was a one-off. That guy's lost it big time."

  Abby shook herself free of his embrace. "You don't know that!" she snapped. "Who's going to stop people doing horrible things if they want to?"

  "Abby's got a point," Mabel said quietly "I hate to say it, Steve, but I really think we should arm ourselves. As well as looking for food, we ought to look for weapons."

  Now Steve sounded angry-or at least resentful. "We'll talk about it later." He shone his torch back down the aisle. The little man with the knife had gone. "Come on," he muttered, "let's get out of here."

  "There it is again," Marco said, pointing. He sounded annoyed. "What the fucking hell is it? Tell me that."

  Dr. Gregory Nichols, erstwhile consultant pediatrician, leaned back and closed his eyes. With his thumb he caressed the glass he was holding and debated whether to even bother answering the question. Not for the first time he wished he had survived the flood alone, and wondered what Marco's response would be if he were to suggest they go their separate ways.

  "Are you even listening to me?" Marco demanded.

  Greg knew without looking that the younger man had turned from the window and was now glaring at him.

  "Of course I am," he murmured. "Do I have a choice?"

  "What do you think it is, then?" Marco asked, though what he actually said was, `Wotcha fink it is, den?' Greg found Marco's London accent both contrived and tiresome, and after five days he was beginning to feel that listening to the young man's voice was akin to being thumped over the head with a rubber mallet.