by Joe McKinney
‘Are you hungry?’ Caron asked. ‘We were just about to eat.’
‘We?’ Lorna said. ‘There are more of you?’
Caron led them into the dining room. ‘This is Mr Webb,’ she said, introducing the scrawny-looking youth sitting at the head of the table, shovelling food into his mouth. Webb just grunted.
DAY THREE
AMY STEADMAN
Part ii
Almost fifty hours have passed since infection. Amy Steadman has been dead for just over two days.
Minutes after death, Amy’s body began to decompose. A process known as autolysis has begun. This is self-digestion. Starved of oxygen, complex chemical reactions have started to occur throughout the corpse. Amy’s cells have become poisoned by increased levels of carbon dioxide, changes in acidity levels and the accumulation of waste. Her body has begun the slow process of dissolving from the inside out.
There has already been a marked change in Amy’s external appearance. Her skin is now discoloured; her once healthy pink hue has darkened to a dull, dirty grey. Her veins are considerably more prominent and, in places, her skin now has a greasy translucency. Amy died lying on her back, with her body arched across the feet of a metal display unit. The parts of her which are lowest to the ground – her feet, legs and backside, and her left arm – now appear swollen and bruised. Blood, no longer pumping, has pooled in these areas and coagulated.
The outward signs of the chemical reactions occurring throughout the corpse are becoming increasingly apparent. Fluid-filled blisters have begun to form on Amy’s skin and, around some areas of her body, skin slippage has also occurred. Her face now appears drawn and hollowed.
To all intents and purposes, Amy Steadman is dead. As a unique and identifiable human being, she has all but ceased to exist. All that remains of her now is a decaying carcase and all traces of the personality and character she once had have disappeared. Her heart no longer beats, she no longer breathes, blood no longer circulates. The infection, however, has not completely destroyed her. Part of Amy’s brain and nervous system has continued to function, albeit at a virtually undetectable level. There are several other corpses nearby in a similar condition. Until now, their function has been slight and unnoticeable. Amy has, however, finally reached the stage where her brain has become able to again exert a degree of basic control. She is only capable of rudimentary yes/no decisions. She no longer feels emotion, nor is she aware of who – what – she now is. She has no desires or needs: she is driven purely by instinct. The brain’s control over the rest of her body is improving, but at a phenomenally slow speed.
Amy’s body is beginning to move. The first outwardly visible sign of change is in her right foot which begins to twitch at the ankle. Over the next few hours this movement gradually spreads to all four limbs and across the torso until, finally, the body is able to lift itself up and stand. Amy’s movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. Coagulated blood and the gelling of the cytoplasm within individual cells (because of the increased acidity inside the body) is preventing free movement. Her eyes are open but she cannot see. She cannot hear. She cannot feel anything or react to any external stimulation. The combined effects of gravity, physical deterioration and the uneven distribution of weight across her corpse after two days of inactivity causes Amy to move. Initially she trips and falls on unsteady legs, like a new-born animal. Soon, however, her level of control is such that she is able to distribute her weight enough to manage a rudimentary walk. Devoid of all senses, Amy’s corpse simply keeps moving forward until it reaches an obstruction and can go no further. She then shuffles around until she is able to move freely again.
Amy’s body remains in this state for a further two days.
PHILIP EVANS
Part ii
This is the best day! I can’t believe it – it looks like Mom’s going to be all right!
She woke me up this morning. I opened my eyes and she was standing at the end of the bed. Scared the life out of me, she did. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I was sure she was dead, but she must have been in a coma or something like that. I saw a programme about that once on telly. Anyway, she wasn’t talking and she wasn’t very steady on her feet but at least she was up and about. I knew Mom wouldn’t leave me. She’s still very ill, mind. She doesn’t look well and she smells really bad, but that’s nothing a good soak in the bath won’t cure.
She’s been really shaken up by all of this, has Mom. She’s not herself at all. I’ve had to shut her in her room to stop her wandering off. She just keeps walking around, banging into things, and she won’t sit still. I keep telling her she’ll do herself an injury if she’s not careful, but she won’t listen. She won’t sit in her chair or lie on the bed or anything. I expect she just needs to keep moving for a while after being still for so long.
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 finally 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 mom
ent. 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.’
