Autumn

by David Moody

  No one’s answering. Come on, someone pick up.

  The line’s ringing out but no one’s answering.

  Wait, there’s someone else out there with him now. Another man walks out of the shadows, but before he gets anywhere near the guy on the ground, he collapses too. He’s crawling along the ground on his hands and knees, spitting up.

  Will someone answer the bloody phone?

  Shit, on screen seven one of the cleaners working outside the main department store has just collapsed. What the hell is happening here? The two screens I’m watching are showing feeds from cameras at opposite ends of the complex. I was starting to think it might have been exhaust fumes or something like that causing the problems in the loading bay, but how could the same thing affect three people so far apart, all at the same time?

  Wait, there are more…

  Camera twelve is fixed on the public walkway between Alldays and Brothers Furniture. Oh Jesus, what’s going on? I think that’s Jim Runton, the assistant manager of Alldays. He’s throwing up in the middle of the walkway. That’s too dark to be vomit. Is that blood?

  No one’s answering this damn phone. I hang up and try one of the emergency lines linked direct to the police.

  There’s Mark Prentiss, the head of mall security. He’s running back towards the offices. He’ll know what’s happening.

  Oh no. Christ, now Mark’s slowing down. He’s not going to make it back here. Bloody hell, his legs just went from under him and he’s gone down like all the others.

  No one’s answering the emergency phone either. That’s not right: the emergency phone should always be answered. There has to be someone there… I’ll try and get one of the security team on their radio. One of them will answer me…

  The truck driver around the back of the superstore isn’t moving now. He’s just lying there, facedown on the tarmac next to his truck. It looks like he’s dead but he can’t be, can he? The other man near him isn’t moving either. The cleaner outside the department store has stopped moving too.

  All I can hear is static on the radios.

  Jim Runton’s body has been shaking since I first saw him go down, constantly convulsing, but now he’s still. Mark Prentiss isn’t moving either. There’s a pool of blood spreading out around his face. It looks black on the CCTV screen.

  I can move camera fifteen. That’s the camera covering the main entrance and the pedestrian approach. I use the joystick to turn it almost a full circle. There should be crowds of people moving towards the mall from the station now, but bloody hell… all I can see are bodies. Dead bodies everywhere. The streets outside are filled with them. Hundreds and hundreds of them… It’s like they’ve all just fallen where they were standing…

  Nothing’s moving on any of the screens now.

  #

  Sheri Newton got up from her seat behind the control desk and ran out into the small security office. There she found the body of Jason Reynolds, her colleague who’d been due to relieve her, sprawled across the floor in front of her, his wild, frightened eyes staring hopelessly into space. Further down the corridor, Adam, a security guard, was slumped dead in a half-open doorway. She stepped over him, tripping over his outstretched leg, then ran through the ghostly quiet building until she was out on the street.

  Sheri walked another few metres before fear and shock overwhelmed her. She fell back against the wall of the nearest building, then slid to the ground. For more than an hour she remained sitting on the pavement, as still as the huge crowds of dead bodies which surrounded her.

  SONYA FARLEY

  Her pregnant belly wedged tight behind the steering wheel of her car, Sonya Farley stared at the never-ending queue of barely-moving traffic stretching out in front of her and yawned. This was the third time in two weeks that she’d driven this nightmare journey for Christian. Generally she didn’t mind; he worked damn hard and he was doing all he could to get everything ready for the imminent birth of their baby. It wasn’t his fault he’d been needed at the firm’s Scottish office, and she didn’t blame him for any of this. He’d finally finished the last design at the weekend and she’d agreed to deliver them to the central branch to save him the inconvenience. Each design had taken many, many hours to complete and she fully understood why he wasn’t prepared to leave it to some two-bit courier firm to deliver them. But regardless of the reasons why and the logical explanations for her being stuck out on the road for hours on end, she was struggling. At this stage of their pregnancies, all of Sonya’s friends were at home with their feet up, being pampered and getting ready for the birth. And where was she? Going nowhere fast in the middle lane of one of the busiest motorways in the country during the peak of the morning rush hour. And where did she want to be? Just about anywhere else.

  Focus on tomorrow night, she told herself. Tomorrow night Chris will be home and we can finally spend some time together. No more work. No more Scotland. It would probably be their last chance to relax together before the baby came. They’d planned to go out for a meal then catch a movie, making the most of their freedom, well aware of the massive upheaval they were about to experience. The last few weeks had been hard. Sonya just wanted a few calm days before the birth. A nice warm bath and an early night tonight is what I need, she thought. She’d really missed Chris. She hated it when he wasn’t there, especially now. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Something was happening up ahead.

  Struggling to move her cumbersome bulk and still keep control of the car, Sonya peered into the near distance where she could see the relatively uniform movement of the traffic becoming suddenly more random. Brake lights flashed bright red up ahead and her heart sank. An accident. Shit, that was all she needed. She was miles from the nearest exit and if the traffic backed-up she’d be stuck. She couldn’t face sitting her for hours on end, with her swollen belly and swollen ankles. She’d been joking with Chris on the phone last night that if he kept making her do this drive, she’d end up giving birth in the back of the car on the hard shoulder. That didn’t seem so funny now…

  More brake lights, burning bright against the grey gloom of early morning. Noises too now. Even over the sound of her own car’s engine she could hear strained mechanical whines and squeals as drivers struggled to avoid sudden collisions. Shit, she thought, this is serious. Almost immediately the screaming brakes and straining engines were replaced with grinding thuds, violent smashes and heavy groans as vehicle after vehicle after vehicle slammed and crashed into the one in front, literally hundreds of them forming a vast, motionless, tangled carpet of twisted metal in just a few bewildering seconds.

  Sonya had no time to react. Forced to slam on her own brakes as the vehicles immediately ahead of her ploughed into those ahead of them, she braced herself for the inevitable impact. She didn’t know what she was going to hit, what was going to hit her or even from which direction the first impact would come. All around her every vehicle seemed to be going out of control as if their drivers had simply disappeared. Just ahead, in the rapidly disappearing void between her car and the mayhem filling the road, countless cars, vans and lorries were swerving and crisscrossing the carriageway. The first collision came from the right as a solid, four-wheel drive vehicle smashed into the rear wing of her car, its buffalo bars caving in the metalwork and shattering glass, the force of the violent impact sending her car spinning round through almost one hundred and eighty degrees so that she now found herself facing the rest of the traffic. Shock immediately gave way to terror.

  An expensive-looking executive’s car was heading straight for her. Unable to do anything, Sonya watched the driver of the car thrashing about wildly. He was clawing at his neck with one hand, scratching and scraping at it desperately as he struggled unsuccessfully to hold onto the steering wheel with the other. His face was red and his eyes wide with pain. He looked like he was being asphyxiated.

  Thrown to the side as her car was rocked by another collision from the left, she shielded her face from flying gla
ss then looked through what was left of her passenger window. A tanker had smashed into a van which had, in turn, smashed into her. The driver of the van had been hurled through his windscreen and was sprawled facedown over the crumpled bonnet of his vehicle, stopping just a short distance from her. She looked away in disgust, inadvertently staring straight into the tanker driver’s face, which bore an expression of absolute agony. Dark red blood dribbled down his chin.

  The executive’s car ploughed into Sonya’s at speed, sending her flying back in her seat and then lurching forward with equal force. Consumed by a sudden wave of nauseating pain as her distended belly and her baby were momentarily crushed again, she lost consciousness.

  #

  In the brief time Sonya was unconscious, the world around her changed almost beyond all recognition. She cautiously half-opened her eyes. Slumped forward with her face pressed hard against the steering wheel, she pushed herself back and struggled for a moment with the weight of her unborn child. Her own safety was of no concern. She remained still and closed her eyes again, running her hands over her bruised and tender belly, concentrating hard until she was sure she felt the reassuring movements of the baby inside. Her split-second feelings of relief were immediately forgotten when she lifted her head again and looked around.

  Apart from the occasional hissing jet of steam and the smoke and flames coming from several vehicles which were burning, the world was completely silent and still. Nothing moved. Where she had expected to hear the cries and moans of the injured, or the approaching sirens of the emergency services rushing to the scene along the hard shoulder, there was nothing.

  Sonya tried to open the door to get out but it was wedged shut and she was unable to open it more than a couple of centimetres. Every exit was similarly blocked, the sunroof her only safe escape route. Shivering with shock and feeling ice-cold, she lifted a hand and opened the sunroof. Every noise she made sounded disproportionately loud in the oppressively silent vacuum that the morning had become. The tinted window above her slid open then stopped with a heavy thud. Slowly lifting herself up, she guided her head and shoulders out through the restrictive rectangular opening. She cautiously stood up, one foot on either of the front seats, then wriggled her toes, water retention having swollen her feet and ankles. She lifted her arms up out of the car and then eased and squeezed her pregnant stomach through the rubber-lined gap. Her arms weak with nerves, she put the palms of her hands flat on the roof of the car and slowly pushed herself up and out. A few seconds more grunting and straining and she was sitting on the roof of her wrecked vehicle. For a while she just sat there in silence and surveyed the devastation. The carnage appeared endless, the motorway completely dead in both directions. Sonya shuffled around so that she was looking back towards the city she had driven through less than an hour earlier. For as far as she could see the traffic on the motorway was motionless. She deliberately tried not to look too closely at any of the wrecked vehicles although it was hard not to stare. Their drivers were dead. Some remained in their seats like blood-streaked shop window dummies. Some were burning. Many other corpses were on the road, lying in the gaps between the wrecks of their cars, tankers, lorries, bikes and vans.

  A cold autumnal wind blew along the length of the road, prompting Sonya to get down from her exposed position. Overcome by the incomprehensible scale and speed of what had happened, and unable to think about anything but the safety of her unborn child, she carefully pulled her feet out of the car then slid down the windscreen and onto the crumpled bonnet. Using the wrecks of other vehicles as stepping stones, she crossed to the hard shoulder. It was a little clearer at the very edge of the road, and she began to walk back towards the city. Dark thoughts filled her mind: How far has this spread? Is Christian okay? I need to call him. Need to let him know I’m all right and the baby’s safe. Don’t want him worrying if he hears about this on TV.

  The city, more than four miles away, was dying too. She could clearly see it beginning, even from this distance. Random explosions ripped through buildings. Fires began to spread and quickly take hold. She could see smoke pouring into the early morning air in thick, steady palls; a dirty, grey smog.

  With her swollen feet already sore, and the birth of her baby ominously close, Sonya dragged herself back towards the city in search of someone – anyone – who could help her.

  HARRY STAYT

  Given the choice, if they didn’t need to get up and go to work, school or whatever each day, most people would probably prefer to spend their mornings in bed. Harry Stayt is not like most people. Harry is up, washed, dressed and ready to run by eight o’clock at the very latest, usually much earlier. Harry does not enjoy being cooped up inside. He is an outbound activities instructor, qualified to teach (amongst other things) rock climbing, abseiling, caving, rafting, canoeing, kayaking, mountain biking and hill walking. The summer holiday season has just ended and he has no lessons booked for the best part of the next three weeks. For the first time since early summer he now has some time to himself. Harry being Harry, he intends to spend much of this time doing most of the things he’s usually paid to teach.

  Harry loves to run. He rents a small cottage in a village which is nestled on the banks of a large, man-made lake. A single, continuous road of some eight miles in length encircles the lake, and this road is his daily running route.

  #

  Harry sat on the front step of the cottage and tied his laces. He looked out over the stunning view which greeted him. There could be no better way to start each day, he decided. The world was silent save for bird song, the rippling of the water on the surface of the lake and the occasional distant rumble of farm machinery. And if this was his favourite time of day, he thought, then early autumn was his favourite time of year; a brief, quiet interlude between the busy summer holidays and winter snow and ice.

  This morning was picture perfect. The sky above him was clear, uninterrupted blue, and the lush greenery all around was just showing the first signs of beginning to turn. The shades of green which had been present all summer were about to disappear and be replaced by yellows, oranges and brittle browns. And the air… Christ, even the air tasted good this morning. Cool but not too cold, dry but not parched, and with a very gentle breeze which blew at him from across the surface of the water.

  All around Harry, the population of the small village were beginning their morning rituals and daily routines. As he locked the door of the cottage and zipped the key into his pocket, he looked around at the few houses and shops nearby and smiled inwardly. What was it about human nature that made people so desperate to restrict themselves with routines like this? He didn’t understand it. He’d moved as far away as he could from the city to escape the relentless boredom and monotonous familiarity of the rat-race, but even here, out in the middle of nowhere, people still seemed to crave these ritual-like patterns of life. All around him the same people did the same things they always did: Gill Rogers was opening the village store, putting the same goods out on display in exactly the same place as yesterday. Her husband was taking the usual delivery of bread, milk and papers. The school gates were open and children were beginning to arrive. It was happening everywhere he looked. In some ways he was no better, he had to admit. He often ran the same route at the same time of day and he always performed a well-rehearsed stretching and loosening exercise routine before going out. Although he wanted to believe otherwise, maybe he was as regimented as the rest of them.

  Warm-up complete, Harry checked the door was locked, then started his stopwatch and then began to run. He moved slowly at first, knowing that the first few footsteps were crucial. He’d had more than his fair share of avoidable injuries over the last couple of years. It suited his body to start slow and gradually build up to something resembling a decent pace. This was just a simple training run. He didn’t intend overdoing it.

  He jogged out through the village, acknowledging a couple of bemused folk as he passed them, then ran across the dam and began his usual
clockwise circuit of the lake. He’d done this many times and knew it was more sensible to run clockwise because the majority of the children who attended the school lived on farms and in other villages to the east. The timing of his run today had been carefully considered so that he wouldn’t reach the busiest stretch of road until the school traffic had been and gone. The rest of his route would be quiet. Harry didn’t expect to see more than a handful of people while he was out, and that was how he liked it.

  #

  Three miles in, and the village had long been lost in the distance. A heavy canopy of trees bowed over the road, giving Harry shade from the cool but relentless sunlight. The branches changed the sounds around him, muffling the very distant rumble of village noise and traffic, making every birdsong and animal noise seem directionless, and amplifying the constant thud of his feet pounding the ground. Even his breathing seemed inordinately loud now.

  The peace and tranquillity was disturbed momentarily. The sound of a car’s engine (which could have been anywhere between half a mile and a couple of miles away) was abruptly and unexpectedly silenced. Harry then thought he heard the crack and spit of splitting wood. It could have been anything, he quickly decided, but it was probably nothing. One of the local farmers working their land on the steep banks of the lake perhaps? An off-season sightseer? He ran on regardless.

  The lake was roughly quadrilateral in shape. He had already run along its longest side and had just followed a sharp bend in the road around to the right. He was now running along the lake’s shortest edge and the dense forest of trees to his left, the grey tarmac ahead and the glare of the sun bouncing off the water’s calm surface to his right were all he could see. His foot scuffed against something unexpectedly and he looked down and saw that the ground here was covered with debris. Slowing down but not stopping, he kicked his way through the tangled branches of a sapling that had been felled and dragged across the road. Hit by a car? A few metres further still and he saw long, dark, arc-shaped scars which stretched ominously across the tarmac, then more debris where something had churned up the mud and gravel at the side of the road. To Harry’s right now was a steep bank which dropped down towards the water. The tyre marks ended there. He knew what had happened before he’d seen it.