Autumn

by David Moody

  I’ve felt so scared for the last couple of days, trying to imagine life without Mom, but now I feel much better. Everything is okay. I knew she wouldn’t leave me.

  #

  I had to tie her to the bed. She just won’t stay still and I’m scared she’ll do herself even more harm if she keeps on like this. I know it’s not right, but what else can I do? There’s no one around to ask for help and I still can’t get anyone on the phone. I keep telling myself that it’s in Mom’s best interests if I’m firm with her. If she keeps wandering off then who knows what might happen? I could find her halfway down the road or worse. What would they say in the village?

  I didn’t need to tie her down tight or anything like that. She’s still hardly got any strength. I used the washing line from the back yard. I got Mom back into bed (I had to hold her down while I did it) then wrapped the line right the way around the bed and the bedclothes. Since Dad died she’s only ever had a single bed. That meant I could wrap the line right around a few times. I left it quite loose because I didn’t want to hurt her or upset her. She can still move but not enough to get up.

  I keep telling her I’m doing it for her own good but I don’t know if she can hear me. She might be getting that Alzheimer’s disease. She was always scared of getting that.

  #

  I went into the village again this afternoon. I didn’t like it. Some of the people who got ill around the same time as Mom are getting better because they were walking around too. There were some still lying where they’d fallen, though. Poor old Bill Linturn was still in his car, dead to the world.

  The people who were walking about were just like Mom. They didn’t answer when I spoke to them. They scared me with their empty eyes and grey skin. I got out of the village fast and ran home and locked the door. My place was back with Mom.

  #

  More good news! I still can’t get Mom to eat or drink anything, but when I went into see her just now, she turned her head and looked at me. I think she recognised my voice. She tried to get up but I told her not to. She’s still trying to do more than she should. She’s her own worst enemy, that one. She’s wriggling and twisting on the bed all the time.

  She’s getting stronger by the hour. I’ve just had to tighten the ropes. I think she’s going to be all right!

  JACOB FLYNN

  Part ii

  ‘Bewsey?’

  Flynn stared in disbelief at the figure standing swaying in front of him. It was Bewsey all right, but how the hell could it be? Two days ago he’d watched the man die. It was impossible. I’m going fucking crazy, he thought to himself, that didn’t take long. Over the last forty-eight hours Flynn had been forced to consider so many horrific prospects that one more didn’t make any difference. He decided he was most probably hallucinating and buried his face in his grey, prison-issue pillow. He hadn’t had anything to eat for more than two days, the rest of the world had dropped dead, and he’d been trapped in a ten by seven foot cell with only the corpses of his cell-mates for company. A hallucination seemed likely. What was left of his mind was playing tricks on him again.

  Bewsey’s clumsy corpse staggered across the tiny room, tripping over Salman’s dead body and crashing into the small bookcase next to the sink, sending its contents crashing to the floor. Flynn sat up fast: this was no hallucination, much as he wished it was. He backed into the shadows and watched from the relative safety of the furthest corner of his dark bottom bunk as Bewsey’s body continued to awkwardly drag itself around.

  For a while Flynn remained completely still, paralysed with fear and not daring take his eyes off the dead man. Bewsey’s face was terrifyingly expressionless, his eyes unfocused, and he appeared to have little control over his movements. He shuffled lethargically across the floor until something stopped him moving any further forward and then, more through luck than anything else, he turned and shuffled back again. Why couldn’t he be like Salman, Flynn thought? His other dead cell mate was still lying facedown in a pool of dark brown, congealed blood.

  ‘Bewsey?’ Flynn said, not sure whether or not he actually wanted to attract his attention. He was relieved when Bewsey didn’t react. Still shell-shocked, he shuffled off his bunk and stood up. The corpse continued moving, completely oblivious, colliding with walls, furniture and then, eventually, with Flynn himself. Flynn grabbed hold of the dead man. ‘Bewsey?’ he said again. ‘Can you hear me, mate? What’s going on? I thought you were dead…?’

  Flynn stared deep into the corpse’s dull, clouded eyes. They were covered with a milky-white film, obviously unseeing. He let Bewsey go again then crawled back onto his bunk and pulled the covers tight around him.

  #

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. Bewsey just never stopped, not even for a second, constantly moving around the cell, banging into things, crashing into walls. It was the noise that Flynn found hardest to handle. He couldn’t take much more of it. He had to do something.

  There were other bodies moving in other cells now, he could see them occasionally through the bars. He wished he was out there too, but getting out seemed an impossibility. Feeling on edge, ready to snap at any moment, he decided his only option was to try and stop Bewsey’s corpse moving, to make what was left of his interminable incarceration slightly less unbearable. He didn’t care why the dead man was moving anymore, he just wanted him to stop.

  Unsurprisingly, there was barely anything in the cell he could use as a weapon. In fact, all he could find was the plastic water jug. If he hit him hard enough, he thought it might just be strong enough to batter Bewsey into submission. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the dead man by the throat with one hand, raised the jug above his head with the other, and then smashed it into Bewsey’s face with savage force. Although his skin was a little more bruised and bloodied than it had been, Bewsey’s expression remained impassive, unemotional. Not a flicker of response. Flynn lifted the jug and brought it crashing down again and again and again…

  It wasn’t working. It didn’t matter what he did, the dead man didn’t react. Increasingly desperate, Flynn dragged his bunk bed into the middle of the cell, swinging it around so that it formed a barrier across the corner of the small room. He shoved Bewsey onto the other side, successfully confining the cadaver. Keen to separate himself from both his dead cell-mates, he did the same with Salman’s lifeless bulk.

  Flynn leant against the door and peered through the bars, preferring to look out than look in any longer. He could see men moving in the cells on the other side of the landing, but when he called out to them they didn’t respond. He assumed they were all like Bewsey.

  He heard a corpse fall down the stairs, just out of his line of vision. Then he heard slow, dragging footsteps approaching. A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor, walking with an awkward limp as if one of its legs was inches shorter than the other. He couldn’t tell who it was at first but, as it came into view, he saw that it was one of the prison officers. The dead guard lumbered towards him, his head hanging listlessly to one side.

  It took Flynn several minutes to realise the importance of seeing this body: the officers had keys and, if he could reach the corpse and pull it closer, there was a slight chance he might be able to get out of this bloody cell.

  Suddenly feeling more alive and alert than he had in days, Flynn watched the dead officer like a hawk. When the corpse was almost level with the cell door, he stretched out his arm between the bars as far as he could, straining every muscle to reach. The tips of his outstretched fingers brushed the corpse’s sleeve, but not enough for him to get a grip. His heart sank as the body stumbled past and out of reach again.

  #

  The prison landing was largely without obstruction, and the dead guard continually staggered from one end to the other. Flynn reached out for the body whenever it came anywhere near, like he was playing some damn perverse fairground game.

  Eventually, more than four and a half hours after he’d first noticed the corpse, he fi
nally caught hold of it. He managed to grab the dead man’s shirt collar and pull him back. He then grabbed the cadaver in a neck lock and, with his other hand, tied him to the bars using the belt from his trousers. Flynn tugged and yanked and pulled at the body until he’d got the keys.

  Minutes later he was free.

  KIERAN COPE

  A few weeks back, Kieran, Drew, Marc and Duncan had spent a long evening together talking about the end of the world. They sat in a dark, dank corner of the Oceana club, as far from everyone else as they could get. How they’d ended up in such a shit-hole, none of them were sure. It was Duncan’s leaving do, but no one could remember whose idea it had been to come here. They all denied it. It probably had something to do with the price of booze there, or it might just have been because it was one of the only places left open at that time of night. Whatever the reason, they were determined to see Duncan off in style with the longest session any of them could remember. The chaotic noise inside the club, the bright lights and the mass of writhing, sweat-soaked, predominantly underage bodies had added to the evening’s bizarrely apocalyptic vibe. It felt claustrophobic, like being locked-down in a nuclear bunker with the cast of a bad teen-soap while the bombs exploded overhead.

  Drew had been watching some film or other – so good he couldn’t even remember the name of it – and that had set his mind racing. Talking about Armageddon and remembering all the films they’d seen and the books they’d read over the years proved to be a welcome distraction from their usual work, sport and sex-orientated conversations. In some ways it made them feel like they were kids again, escaping in their imaginations into desolate, empty worlds where they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted to. No rules or restrictions. No work. No responsibilities. No deadlines. No managers constantly barking at them to get stuff done by yesterday… Unbridled freedom in a brave new world.

  ‘Seriously?’ Kieran said. ‘You’d seriously do that? You’d stop at the office?’

  ‘Why not?’ Marc replied. ‘It’s as good a place as any. Or I’d start at work anyway, then maybe move out once things had calmed down. Think about it… you’d have everything you need there. There’s the hotel, the supermarket… there’s the frigging Jaguar dealership over the road for crying out loud. I tell you, mate, you’d barely need to go anywhere else.’

  ‘What about you?’ Duncan asked Kieran. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Dunno. Depends what happened, I suppose.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If it’s a war or something that’s wiped everyone out, it won’t matter where you go, will it? Everywhere’s going to be poisoned, isn’t it? There’ll be radiation or germs or whatever all over the place.’

  ‘Okay, so what if it’s nothing like that. What if it’s some kind of flu?’

  ‘And I’m immune?’

  ‘Yep. You’ve dosed up on Calpol like your mom told you and you’re immune. You’ve got the whole world at your feet. No one there to tell you what to do anymore.’

  Kieran thought for a moment. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Drew protested. ‘Christ, Kieran, you’re the one who’s always on about living for the moment. Work hard, play harder you always said.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the end of the world?’

  ‘You need to be ready, mate. You need to be prepared. You have to grab every opportunity with both hands.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t…’

  ‘I know exactly what I’d do,’ Drew continued, more animated than he had been all night. ‘I’d find myself somewhere strong to hole-up, somewhere off the beaten track.’

  ‘Like I said, work’s as good a place as any,’ Marc said.

  ‘Hardly off the beaten track though, is it? Anyway, I’ll get sorted then load up with supplies and weapons—’

  ‘Weapons?’ Kieran laughed. ‘Where you going to find weapons round here? This is Cardiff, man, not the Bronx.’

  Drew’s enthusiasm was unabated. ‘Farmers, man. There’s loads of the buggers round here, and they’ve all got shotguns under their beds. I’d start there. Then there’s the police, maybe the army even.’

  ‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you, mate?’ Kieran said, swilling the dregs of his pint around the bottom of his glass, hoping someone would get up and buy another round.

  ‘Course I have,’ Drew said, sounding surprised that Kieran hadn’t. ‘You’ve got to be prepared.’

  ‘Don’t know if I’d want to survive if everyone else was gone.’

  Drew looked at him in disbelief. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’ll get myself tooled-up and—’

  ‘But why do you need a gun if everyone else is dead?’

  Drew sighed. ‘Kieran, man, have you not seen enough films? There’s always something needs shooting at. Jeez.’

  ‘Well if that’s the case I definitely don’t want to be the only one left alive.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ Marc asked, ignoring him. ‘You’ve got your safe place and your weapons – whether or not there’s anyone else left to shoot – now what?’

  ‘Supplies. I’d get myself a truck or a van, and I’d load it up with food and water. Biggest one I could find. Maybe even a delivery truck from Waitrose, ready stocked, something like that. I’d get as much as I could together, then stash the lot of it away.’

  ‘You wouldn’t need that much if you were on your own,’ Kieran suggested.

  ‘Have you seen how much this fat bastard eats?’ Duncan laughed.

  ‘Probably wouldn’t be on my own for long,’ Drew continued. ‘You’ve really not been paying attention, have you Kieran? I might start out on my own, but there’s probably going to be a busload of fucking gorgeous female survivors coming over the hill at any moment.’

  ‘And you reckon they’re going to look at you sitting there in your underpants with a farmer’s rifle in your lap, shoving a bloody Waitrose pork pie down your throat, and think staying with you’ll be a good move? Think again, mate, think again!’

  ‘Power!’ Drew shouted when the laughter had died down. ‘Forgot about that. I’d need to get some kind of generator hooked up. Wouldn’t have to be anything fancy – just a small petrol-fired generator to start with, enough to power the lights, keep me warm, and let me play Xbox.’

  ‘Wouldn’t need Xbox, mate,’ Duncan said. ‘You might be playing live action Left 4 Dead if things really get that bad.’

  ‘That’d be cool.’

  ‘You think? Be fucking terrifying, I reckon.’

  ‘So what then?’ Kieran asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happens next? You’re all set up, probably on your own. So what happens after that?’

  ‘Nothing. It’d be paradise, mate. No distractions or complications. No one telling me what to do or where to be all the time. Bliss.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you get bored?’

  ‘I’d have plenty to do.’

  ‘You’ll run out of games and films eventually.’

  ‘Maybe after a few years.’

  ‘But you would run out eventually.’

  ‘And there’s the loneliness,’ Marc added, picking up on Kieran’s point.

  ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘I think it’ll be harder than you’re making out.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what then,’ Drew said, grinning, ‘I’ll come back here and drag in a few shop window dummies to keep me company while I drink myself stupid. I’ll call them Kieran, Dunc and Marc. I’ll write their names on their foreheads in black pen so I remember which one’s which.’

  ‘So then, Kieran,’ Duncan said, ‘I’ll ask you again. What would you do?’

  Kieran thought for a moment. ‘What Drew said, I guess,’ he answered, laughing as he got to his feet. ‘Now, as none of you tight buggers are going to put your hands in your pockets, does anyone fancy another drink before the world
ends?’

  #

  The conversation in the pub had continued for a while longer, drifting back into surreal territories on more than one occasion. The four work colleagues had talked about the various ways they thought the world might end, with conversation then turning to all the ways they’d seen it happen on film.

  It was just over two weeks later when it happened for real. All the noise and bluster they’d imagined never came to pass. Only a fraction of the immediate chaos and devastation they’d envisaged actually happened. Most people simply dropped dead as if they’d just been switched off. A little noise, panic and blood first, of course, then nothing but silence. Survivors of the infection which swept around the world were few and far between. If people were looking in the wrong direction – or not looking at all – they might even have missed it. Bizarrely, that was exactly what happened to Kieran. The end of the world crept up on him and tapped him on the shoulder, and he didn’t even notice.

  The working day had begun like any other Tuesday. Kieran was first at the office, as usual. He’d driven in along the Pentwyn Road, enjoying the early morning sun, hoping it would last until home-time. Autumn was coming, and winter would be here soon after that. Too soon. Short days and long nights. Winter could be a bind in this job. The research and development workspaces were, by necessity, large, windowless, soulless places. Kieran hated how he’d often arrive at work in the dark on a winter morning, then not leave again until gone five when it would be pitch-black outside. Some days he didn’t get to see any daylight at all. It made him feel like a bloody vampire.

  But it wasn’t the lack of light which was bothering him this morning, it was the heat. He couldn’t understand why people did it: one cool day – not even a cold day, mind – and they’d crank up the heating to furnace-like levels, then go home without bothering to turn it back down. They’d all deny doing it if he asked them, of course. They weren’t bothered because by the time they’d all dragged themselves into work, he’d have sorted the temperature again. Grumbling to himself, he adjusted the thermostat then sat down to check his emails.