by Mark Morris
She walked back across the room and looked out the window. The room was at the back of the house, and the window had locks on the bars, so you couldn't open it. Below the win dow was a yard bordered by a row of falling-down sheds covered in sea slime. Beyond that was a boggy field, after which the ground dropped away and then sloped up again. It would have been a nice view once, but now the ground was muddy and waterlogged and covered in rubbish. It looked, she thought, like Glastonbury after the fans have gone home. It suddenly struck her that there would be no more Glastonburys, and it had always been her ambition to go there. Abruptly she felt like weeping, felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, then start to tumble down her cheeks.
Footsteps. There were footsteps creaking along the landing towards her. She gave an almighty sniff and wiped her grubby hands across her face; she didn't want to be found crying. She moved across to the bed, which, like the rest of the room, smelled musty and damp (though the sheets looked dry and clean) and positioned herself so she could step behind it, use it as a flimsy barrier if need be.
The door opened and a man came into the room. She hadn't seen him before. He was young, slim, not too tall, and yet there was a presence about him, a sort of charisma, which she wasn't sure whether she liked or not. He was goodlooking in an ordinary sort of way, and was wearing a gray hooded top and jeans, which made him look like the lead singer in an indie band. He had watchful eyes, blue and unblinking, and Abby got the feeling that he was physically very sure of himself, which made her uneasy. Despite being aware of her own physical assets-her tallness, her blondness, her prettiness-Abby felt awkward and childlike in his company.
"Hi," he said. He had an ordinary voice, with perhaps just a trace of a northern accent. "My name's John."
The only item of furniture in the room apart from the bed was an office chair with a metal frame and a cushioned seat in pale green plastic. John picked it up, positioned it closer to the bed and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped.
"You're nervous. There's no need to be nervous. Why don't you sit down?"
Abby hesitated, then lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, feeling like a deer in the company of a predator, mesmerized and wary at the same time.
"What's your name?" he asked. Easily, casually, as if they were a similar age.
"Abby," she said.
"Do you understand what's happened to the world, Abby?"
She shrugged. "I think so."
"Then you'll know how special you are. How special we all are. We're the survivors. The one in a thousand who've lived through the worst disaster the world has ever known."
"How do you know it's one in a thousand?" Abby asked, wishing she didn't sound so timid.
He smiled. "I don't. It might be one in five thousand. Or ten."
"Maybe it's just us," Abby said. "Britain, I mean. Maybe the rest of the world's okay"
"Maybe," he said, "but I don't think so." He leaned back. "You know it's our duty to survive, don't you?"
She pulled a face. "I suppose so. I mean... that's what were doing, isn't it?"
"I'm not talking individually," he said. "I'm talking about the human race. It's our duty to make sure the human race survives. So far we've just been coping, coming to terms, concentrating on the basics-food, water, shelter, warmth. But we've got to move on from there; we've got to look ahead. We've got to be strong, and we've got to be ruthless, and we've got to make sacrifices. There's no point eking out a living for ourselves and then having nothing to hand down to future generations. Sooner or later the shitty resources we've got left are gonna dry up-if you'll pardon the pun-and then where will we be? So we've got to make things happen. We've got to learn how to grow food and make tools and reclaim what we can. Everyone has a role to play. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I'm not sure," said Abby. "I mean, I think so. But what's this got to do with me?"
John smiled. "We're all blokes here. There's no women. If we're gonna build a connnunity, expand, we need women. Do you see what I mean?"
Abby's stomach turned over. "But... you just took us," she said. "Kidnapped us. You can't do that."
He half laughed, as if she had said something charmingly naive. "That's what I mean. That's what I was saying before. You've got to be ruthless. You've got to make sacrifices. Look, we're not bad blokes, Abby, but we're realists. We know what needs to be done, and in the absence of any sort of authority we know how things need to be done."
"But..." Abby felt her voice failing; she struggled to over-come it. "You can't just take us. You can't. I was with my dad.. .my friends. You can't just take in e away from then...."
Despite her distress, he was still looking at her with an expression of indulgent amusement. "Listen," he said, "I know where you're coming from. Family ties are important. I think it's great that you and your dad survived, and the last thing I want is to split you guys up. So here's the thing your dad and the others you've been traveling with will be given the chance to join us. We'll send out a delegation and explain where we're coming from, and if they want to help us expand the community, great. If they don't"-he shrugged-"no big deal. They'll be free to move on peacefully. Do their own thing."
"And me and Libby too?"
He grinned, shook his head, as if she had failed to grasp some basic principle.
"You and Libby have to stay. You're important commnmodities. We need you here."
"Connnodities? What do you mean by that?"
John shrugged. "All right, it's a shitty word. You're people, not things. But that's the way it's got to be. You've got to have babies, Abby. It's your duty. And because the infant mortality rate is going to be high due to the lack of medicine and facil-ities, you've got to get cracking as quickly as possible, have as many kids as you can."
"But I'm only thirteen!" she wailed, close to tears again.
"Do you have periods?" he asked.
She couldn't answer. Could only stare at hinm, stricken and scared, her hand over her mouth. He looked at her with his gentle, intense eyes, and as the tears started to spill down her cheeks once more he said softly, "If you have periods, then you're ready. I'm sorry, Abby, but you are. All the old rules and regulations, all the old morality, it's pointless now. Survival is all that counts. Propagation and progress." He stood up and walked towards her. Abby ran round to the other side of the bed, cramming herself into a corner.
"It won't be bad, Abby, I promise," he said. "I won't hurt you."
He stepped up onto the bed and reached a hand towards her.
As soon as Steve started rising to his feet, Sue dropped everything back into the rucksack and grabbed his arum. She yanked at his sleeve, pulling him off balance, forcing him to drop onto one knee. "You promised me you wouldn't be a liability," she hissed.
He glared at her. "Didn't you hear that? That's Abby and Libby in there."
"So what are you going to do? Kick the door in and start shooting? You'll probably hit one of the girls, get shot in the chest by the crossbow and lose us the element of surprise."
There was another squeal from the house, and then very clearly they heard a girl yell, "Get off me!"
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. "That's Abby," he moaned.
"So listen," Sue said. "Let's not waste any more time." She paused for the briefest of moments. "Are you with us, Steve?"
He opened his eyes. "Yes, yes."
"Good. I don't want to have to repeat myself."
She outlined her plan. As soon as she finished speaking, Max moved off to the right, on a route that would bring him in line with the front door. Sue and Steve ran in half crouches across the twenty meters of open ground to the side of the water-ravaged barn. Even as Steve was flattening himself against the slinry black wood, Sue was moving along the wall, carrying her rifle diagonal across her chest, muzzle pointing upwards. She reached the corner, peered around it, then indicated to him that the way was clear. A few moments later they had tugged the barn door open and were insi
de, Sue immnmediately stepping to one side, out of the light, making herself a less obvious target.
She leveled her gun, sweeping it left and right, but the barn was unoccupied. Along the left-hand wall were stacks of plastic storage boxes full of supplies-tins, bottles, jars, tools, clothes and other items salvaged from the wreckage of the flood.
"They're well organized," she said. Already she had slung her gun over her shoulder and was crouched in front of her open rucksack.
Steve routed through the boxes, scurrying from one to the next. "There's not much to burn here," he said.
"I don't think we'll have too much trouble," Sue said. She lifted a two-pint plastic milk container filled with clear liquid out of her rucksack.
"Is that petrol?" Steve said.
She nodded. "Thought it might come in useful. When I was on my own I had this idea that I might find a workable vehicle, or at least one that wasn't so wrecked that I couldn't strip it down and get it running again. Pipe dream, I know, but I grabbed some petrol on the off chance."
She hurried over, unscrewed the cap and started splashing the petrol over the plastic boxes.
"But where did you get the petrol from?" Steve asked.
"I found a tanker on its side when I was out looking for stuff. The cabin was a mangled wreck and the tanker itself was dented but still intact. I managed to puncture it and filled up a bunch of plastic containers, most of which I had to leave behind. But I grabbed a couple just in case, and they've been in my rucksack ever since." She straightened up. "There, that should do it. I'd stand back if I were you."
Steve retreated to the door of the barn. Sue lit a match and tossed it almost casually towards the center of the plastic boxes. The eruption of light and heat was soundless and shockingly sudden. One moment there was only the tiny flicker of the tumbling match, and the next the flames were surging upwards and outwards like a fire genie released from an ancient bottle.
"Don't just gawk at it, get into position!" Sue shouted, running towards him. With the heat at their backs and the stench of burning plastic already stinging their nostrils, they scurried across to the line of trees opposite the barn's entrance and plunged between their dark and twisted trunks.
Seconds later they heard the clash of breaking glass from the direction of the house. "Nice shot, Max," Sue murmured. Turning to Steve she said, "Get ready, but remember, wait for the right moment"
He nodded, face grim.
"Here they come," she said.
From their vantage point among the trees they saw the farmhouse door open. A young man came out. He was skinny, almost scrawny, despite his thick sweater. He looked around nervously, then moved over to the broken window and examined it.
"Anything?" someone shouted from inside the house.
The boy gave a quick shake of his head. "Can't see any-" Then he looked to his right and saw black smoke gushing from the door of the barn.
He froze, like a cartoon character, mouth dropping open. Then he spun and almost slipped, waggling his arms like a panicking child.
"The barn's on fire!" he yelled.
The farmhouse door flew open. A bearded man ran out, followed by an older man with gray hair. Bringing up the rear, almost casually, was a man with close-cropped hair and a bony face. This man was carrying the crossbow and his eyes swept across the row of trees bordering the farmyard, as if he knew Steve, Sue and Max were there and was simply pinpointing their location.
Sue remained still, resisting the urge to shrink farther back into the trees as the man seemed to look directly at her. She knew that any movement, however slight, would be more easily detectable than if she was motionless. For a moment the man stood his ground, ignoring the anguished cries of his colleagues. Then, as if he knew little could be done and that it was pointless expending energy by trying, he strolled across the yard to the burning barn.
As soon as he turned his back the three of them broke cover. Max and Sue raised their rifles, while Steve, who preferred a handgun, kept his weapon pointing at the ground.
"Drop your-" Sue said, but before she could complete her sentence the man with the crossbow turned and fired. The bolt passed through the four-foot gap between Steve and Sue and missed Max's head by inches. Steve instantly raised his gun and shot the man. He fell without a sound, blood gushing from his shoulder. Steve looked down at him curling in pain, and he felt a strange combination of revulsion and vicious glee at what he had done.
The other men, running around near the entrance to the barn, desperate to save their supplies but driven back by the fire, turned at the sound of the shot. The skinny boy was so startled by the sight of the three armed attackers that he dropped to the ground, hands shielding his head, as if he had taken a bullet himself.
"That's a good idea," Sue said. "Why don't you all do that?"
When the men simply stared at her, she shouted, "Down on the ground! All of you!"
"It's muddy," said the older man in an American accent.
"So have a nice hot bath later," said Sue. "Now lie on your bellies or I'll shoot your fucking legs from under you."
The men complied. Sue, Steve and Max moved forward, Sue kicking the crossbow out of the reach of the injured man as she did so.
"How many of you are there?" she asked.
None of the men said anything.
"If you don't answer I'll kill all of you and go in there shooting," said Steve.
Sullenly, the bearded man said, "Six of us."
"Two more in the house?" said Max.
"Well done, Einstein."
"Whereabouts?" asked Sue.
"Fuck knows," said the bearded man. "I'm not psychic."
"Whereabouts are they likely to be?"
No one answered. Sue pointed her gun at the skinny youth, who whimpered in fear. "You. Tell me or I'll shoot you in the leg."
For a moment it seemed the skinny kid was too scared to speak. Finally he whispered, "lien will be... in the kitchen and... John will be upstairs."
"Shagging your women," said the bearded man.
Steve strode forward, aiming his gun at the bearded man, his arm stiff as iron.
"Don't let him goad you," Sue said calmly. "You'll only have to live with it afterwards."
Steve stood for a moment more, breathing hard. Then he lowered his gun. "I'm going in."
"You sure, man?" said Max.
"I can handle two of them," Steve said.
Sue seemed to weigh up the alternatives, then gave a swift nod. "Okay. But be careful. Take your time. They're unlikely to have guns, but they may have bladed weapons."
Steve nodded, already moving off. He entered the farmhouse, pushing the door open with his foot. The front door led into a sitting room. The walls and ceiling showed signs of flood damage, and nails along the edges of the floor with threads of material still attached showed where a carpet had recently been pulled up. The boards of the wooden floor were blackened and warped, but dry. The embers of a fire still glowed in the hearth and a variety of candles, currently unlit, had been placed around the room. Items of mismatched furniture were arranged so they faced the fire. The upholstery looked worn but clean, as if it had been scrubbed and left to dry in the fresh air. Even so, there still lingered a trace of the dank, fishy smell that clung to the inside of every building Steve had entered since the flood-every building which wasn't suffused with the stink of rotting flesh, that was.
The farmhouse was silent. Even Abby's cries had ceased. Were the two men who had remained in the house aware of his presence? Had they immediately assumed that the fire was evidence they were under attack? Steve couldn't believe that the two men in the house hadn't worked out what was happening by now. What would he do if he were them? Lie low in the hope of ambushing the enemy? Hide on the off chance they wouldn't be found? Flee out the back and lose themselves amongst the trees? Threaten the hostages and initiate a standoff?
All were possibilities. It depended what kind of men they were. Desperate to know whether Abby was all right, St
eve had to fight an urge to shout her name. The skinny kid had said that one of the men would be in the kitchen, the other upstairs. The staircase was on the right-hand wall of the sitting room. He presumed a closed wooden door in the back wall led to the kitchen. Steve's instinct was to run straight up the stairs, but he knew the sensible thing was to check the kitchen first. Raising his gun, he strode across the room, turned the handle of the kitchen door and flung it open.
The kitchen was dominated by a large wooden table. Lying on the table was a naked human body chopped into several pieces. The head was at one end, mouth gaping open, a nub of bone jutting from the meat of the severed neck. The limbless torso was in the center, lying in a pool of blood so dark and plentiful that it was trickling over the sides of the table and splashing on the stone floor. The torso had been slit open and the skin pulled back, exposing the ribcage. Plastic buckets under the table were filled with loops of grayish intestine and other offal. One contained hands and feet with shattered bones splaying from the severed ends. Stacked in a gory pile at the other end of the table were the limbs of the corpse, chopped into portions like joints of meat.
The scene was so appalling that for a few seconds Steve couldn't quite accept what he was looking at. He was so shocked that he initially failed to react when the man in the blood-soaked butcher's apron stepped from behind the door.
The man was big, with a craggy face and thinning hair. He was holding a meat cleaver in his blood-caked hands. In the instant before he raised the cleaver, Steve noted that he had a tattoo of a bird-a raven perhaps, or an eagle-on his hairy, blood-speckled forearm. Then the cleaver was swinging towards him, and Steve flung himself to one side, his right shoulder connecting painfully with the door frame.
