Curious, I set my bike aside and pushed hard on the big brass handle of the door, which creaked open after a few shoves, albeit grudgingly. Suddenly disturbed by my presence, a cloud of dust particles swam about in front of me, causing me to cough and cover my mouth. Excessive dust often meant that a corpse or two had decomposed close by, but there were none I could see in the immediate vicinity. I’d simply have to be mindful when I walked around, to avoid tripping over them— they posed no other threat to me. This was no zombie apocalypse, after all.
Leaving footprints in my wake that sent dust bunnies swirling into the air, I roamed up and down the aisles, examining the treasures and trailing a line in the settled dust on each shelf with my index finger. After a while, my eyes fell upon a small wooden box, decorated with tiny white shells and little plastic seahorses. I picked it up and gently blew the cobwebs from it, opening the lid tentatively. Blue velvet lined the inside, and under the lid, a little oval mirror had been glued haphazardly to the fabric. Upon seeing my own altered eyes in the reflection, I quickly snapped the lid shut again.
The virus had left me with a strange, red ring around my ice blue irises, serving as a constant reminder that I should be dead, like virtually everyone else who’d become infected. Whether immune or just plain lucky, my aunt hadn’t caught it. Sometimes, though, I wasn’t sure Rebecca considered us the lucky ones at all.
My knuckles whitened around the little box before I threw it hard against another shelf of knickknacks, smashing it into several pieces and sending a half-dozen lighthouse statues crashing to the floor. About to make an abrupt exit, I suddenly caught sight of a long, oval mirror on the far wall. I walked over to it and traced the top corners of the wooden frame with my fingers, admiring the delicately carved little starfish that lined the edge, their spindly arms reaching out to hold the mirror glass in place. I moved in front of it to see my reflection—something I’d rarely done since the end of the world. Not that I’d spent much time gazing into mirrors before the apocalypse either.
Growing up, I’d always been a little self-conscious. Curvier and shorter than most of the other girls in high school—and somewhat introverted—I preferred to blend in rather than stand out. I’d never thought of myself as particularly pretty either, although my one and only friend Lizzie had often told me how gorgeous I was whenever I’d criticized my appearance.
“You’re beautiful, and I love you!” She’d told me, during one, dull science lesson at school. The teacher had gone home ill, leaving a disinterested prefect in charge of the class, who’d disappeared off to the toilet block for a smoke every fifteen minutes or so. Largely unsupervised, Lizzie and I had chatted idly for the next hour.
“I’d die for your ass!” she’d confessed, a little too loudly, prompting a group of boys on the opposite table to snicker and wolf whistle. Lizzie had flipped them her middle finger and continued talking. “And, your lips! They’re so kissable!” With that, she’d pouted like a fish and planted a sloppy peck on my mouth. I’d laughed so hard I’d barely managed to catch my breath.
I missed Lizzie most of all.
As I looked at my reflection now, the image staring back surprised me. My appearance differed a little from how I remembered it. I’d thinned out quite a bit around my waist and thighs, while my hips and chest had remained ample. My dark brown hair, which I’d tied into a loose ponytail, was much curlier and longer than it’d ever been and flecked with the same sun-bleached, auburn highlights I’d always admired in my aunt’s hair. Had this not been the end of the world, my appearance would’ve provided me with a decent confidence boost.
Such was the irony of my near-solitary existence now.
With an angry grunt, I quickly left the shop, managing to ride my bike on and off where the ground stayed flat and less overgrown. By late evening, I’d passed through a few more sea-side villages much the same as this one, and skirted around a major town.
Upon discovering another empty, unlocked car abandoned at the roadside, I sat in the back seat, dining on a tin of baked beans and then an expired cereal bar that tasted of cherry-flavored cardboard.
I fell asleep before dark, but bad dreams kept me from sleeping for more than a few hours at a time. Since leaving home, I’d had the same recurring nightmare over and over, the details of which quickly faded from memory as soon as I woke up. All I remembered of it was…red. A dull carroty red and a strange feeling of familiarity.
I put it down to anxiety, not wanting to think too much on it, and tried to get a few more hours of shut-eye. Unfortunately, try as I might, sleep alluded me. At the sound of birds singing a pre-dawn chorus, I reluctantly got up and recommenced my journey.
The morning was hazy and damp. A thick sea mist-swathed the ground, and I struggled to see beyond a few meters in front of me. It began to thin a little as the sun rose higher but still obscured anything at a distance, aside from a church spire poking out from one of the rolling banks of fog. I headed toward it, passing by a boarded-up pub which had probably closed for business long before the end of the world.
The floundering pre-apocalypse economy had been ruthless in its destruction of the humble local watering hole, favoring large chains with two-for-one cocktails instead. My mind conjured up images of Sunday worshippers, hurriedly pouring out of the church and straight into the pub for a quick pint. They’d be home before two P.M though, to put their feet up and watch football, with a steaming roast dinner sat on their laps.
Absently, I drifted through the gates of the churchyard, just managing to find the stone path that weaved up to the church. It was surrounded on either side by moss-enveloped gravestones of various heights and shapes. Most of them were pre-war, leaning too far back or too far forward for me to read the inscriptions. The only thing keeping them upright now was the long grass and the twisting ivy threads.
The church doors were slightly ajar, encircled by two stone angels forming an arched threshold. I slipped through the gap in the heavy wooden doors and tip-toed inside. Enough sunlight beamed in through the highest leadlight windows to illuminate the aisle as I walked down it, pulling at the encroaching ivy that wrapped around the long wooden pews nearest the entrance.
So much colder inside than out, I shivered and smoothed down the rising hairs on my arms. My footsteps echoed on the stone floor as I approached the alter, my sense of smell suddenly overpowered by the scent of musty old books and beeswax polish, still lingering in the air after all this time. By the altar, I stopped and gazed up at the tall, arched, stained-glass window behind it. It was mostly unbroken apart from a small section in the middle where a tree branch had come through, just above the head of an angel with golden hair and orange wings. The colors reflected onto the white stone walls all around me, projected out by the slivers of sunlight managing to penetrate through the fog outside.
Dazzling.
Eventually, I tore my attention away and turned around to leave.
A little scream escaped from my throat as my eyes fell upon the two silent figures watching me from the front pew. A startled pigeon bolted from one of the ceiling beams above me and flew over my head, causing me to shriek once more and duck down beside the altar.
With my heart racing at light speed, I slowly straightened and stepped away from the skeletal voyeurs. The two long-dead parishioners remained still as I sidled past, their heads bowed against each other at the temples, eyes closed. A deep chill rattled my bones at the sight of the tormented expressions on their withered, leathery faces.
They’d died in anguish, and yet the scene before me was also one of serenity and tenderness. Strangely, I envied them, huddled together in a place they found comfort in, frozen in a loving embrace until they finally became dust.
It was their togetherness I envied most of all.
Heaving a sigh, I left them to their peaceful repose, making sure to push the wooden doors closed, sealing their makeshift tomb as I exited the church.
****
Before…
My m
other died shortly after I turned fourteen. Back then, I’d been allowed to walk home from school by myself without the constant, overbearing presence of my stepfather.
We lived in a small, two-bedroom flat in what used to be an old Victorian house, divided into three units over three floors. Our rooms were on the top floor and once belonged to my grandmother, who’d passed away when I was two years old, six months after my grandfather.
As for my father, his name was Samuel, and he had chosen not to be a part of my life. According to my mother, this was for the best.
For the longest time, it’d been just the two of us—my mother and me. Two years ago, however, my mother had married Andrew after a brief whirlwind romance.
He’d been all right at first, charming and generous, and understanding of my mother’s occasional bouts of sadness and melancholy. He’d soon shown us his true colors though, unable to keep his real personality locked away forever. Andrew was prone to either being silent or angry, spending most of his time tinkering with a guitar that he couldn’t play to save his life, and only speaking to my mother when he wanted to criticize her or control her.
They constantly argued over trivial things and issues that existed only in Andrew’s twisted mind. If my mother were late home for any reason, he’d accuse her of being unfaithful. If she didn’t answer his phone calls immediately, he’d berate her for being inconsiderate. Living up to his expectations proved impossible.
After one particularly aggressive rant about how my mother never made him a priority, Andrew had announced that he intended to move out. Months on, I saw little evidence of him trying to find somewhere else to live.
He’d recently got some administrative job working evenings in a call center, which meant he’d be around more, much to my dissatisfaction.
I began taking the long route home from school to minimize the amount of time I had to spend in his presence. Some days, he’d go to the pub after lunch, and then we’d only see him briefly for dinner before he left for work, still slightly inebriated.
Those were good days.
His car wasn’t on the driveway when I got home, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I put my key in the door to the communal entrance. I hurried up the stairs, eager to watch some television before he got home and moaned about the noise or my choice of program. Unlocking our front door, I quickly hung up my coat and school bag in the hall and then skipped down the hall to the living room.
“Mum?” I called out. I got no reply, but it wasn’t unusual as she often went to the supermarket before dinner.
Planting myself down on the sofa in front of the television, I retrieved the remote from between two couch cushions and flicked idly through the channels in search of something to watch. I settled on a pop music channel and vegetated for over an hour before my empty stomach began to launch a revolt against me. Checking the time, I knew Andrew would be back any minute, expecting dinner to be on the table.
Where was my mother?
I hauled myself up of the sofa and went into the kitchen, flipping on the switch of the kettle and delving through the biscuit tin for a cookie. Once the kettle had boiled, I made myself a tea and then absently rechecked the time by my watch.
Maybe her bus was running late?
After gulping down the tea and then several glasses of cordial to stave off my hunger pangs, I headed to the bathroom. As I reached out for the handle and stepped forward, the sole of my right foot made contact with something warm and wet. The carpet where I stood was thoroughly soaked, leaving the coffee-colored pile a few shades darker than it should have been. I lifted my foot, pulling off my wet sock to examine it. The water had an unusual color to it, and it had stained the white cotton an orange-yellowish shade.
I pulled on the door handle only to find it locked. “Mum?”
After no reply, I banged on the door and called out a few more times, my voice becoming more frantic each time I shouted for my mother.
Andrew suddenly appeared in the hallway then, breathless and unsteady from climbing the stairs in his intoxicated state. He strode over to me and shoved me out of the way.
“Natalie!” he shouted. “Open the door!”
He pounded so hard on the door I heard it crack against the frame. Despite his short and scrawny appearance, Andrew was strong. He charged the door, shoulder first and it swung open, the wood around the lock splintering off with a crunch.
“Stay there!” he barked at me.
He went into the bathroom, his trainers splashing on the water-logged lino. He froze as he turned toward the bathtub, his face draining to an ashen pallor. He stood still for a moment, staring, breathing heavily. I walked forward, and he thrust out a hand to stop me.
“Stay there, Halley!”
My mother had named me after a comet because right up until my birth, she’d been terrified of my arrival, but then I’d turned out to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
That’s what she’d said.
Andrew pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed the emergency services, asking for an ambulance. I blinked, not knowing what to do, my head swimming with panic.
Now that the door was open, I heard the sound of a tap running, and from the way the water moved across the floor, the bathtub had overflowed.
Why hadn’t she turned it off? Had she fallen asleep? Had something happened? Why did she need an ambulance?
I couldn’t think properly. My thoughts were scattering in different directions. I looked down at the floor of the bathroom, at the water gathering around Andrew’s feet, which had strange, floating veins of red swirling about within it.
Blood. It was blood.
Chapter Two
After…
It had been four days since I’d left Rebecca. Each town and village I passed through appeared much the same, all of them empty, overgrown, and devoid of any trace living human beings had ever walked the streets.
The occasional cat or dog crossed my path, scruffy and thin, no longer spoiled by human owners. Since the apocalypse, they’d resorted to scavenging on rodents and insects. Sometimes, they picked at the bones of corpses too.
Grimacing at the thought, I reminded myself that we all did what we had to do to survive. Except, I needed to do more than just survive.
My aunt never wavered in her conviction that we were all that remained of the human race—in the reachable vicinity, at least. In her time looting the southwest, not another living person ever crossed her path—not one.
“It’s just you and me, my sweet girl,” she’d said.
For a time, I’d accepted her truth, but in the end, I needed to see it with my own two eyes, especially before resigning myself to the grim reality of living the remainder of my existence at the cottage. Rebecca had always brushed off my most predominant fear—if I didn’t find another living person, I would end up alone, sooner or later. Rebecca was already in her fifties, and although she was in good health, there were no doctors or hospitals to rely on anymore if she became seriously ill. This fear always lingered in the back of my mind, however hard I tried not to think about it.
The closest city was Bristol—my aunt had never traveled up that far, leaving it an unexplored possibility. I reasoned most survivors would have stayed in—or at least close by to—the more developed, urban areas, within easy reach of food and other supplies, especially since there were no running cars anymore. To me, it made sense, even though my aunt and I still lived out in the country, miles from any major metropolis. She loved her cottage and had no intention of abandoning it any time soon.
I’d also aimed for Bristol because it was somewhere I could get to on two wheels without wandering too far from home. A reachable destination. A target.
My aunt hadn’t wanted me to leave. In the end, though, she’d reluctantly agreed to let me go. In fear of her changing her mind, I’d snuck away early one morning while she slept. Not an act to be proud of, but what choice did I have? We all did what we had to do to survive, right? Rebe
cca included.
When I turned onto a little side street, the high-pitched mew of a cat startled me. It gave another yowl as it stretched and rolled around in the middle of the road, exposing its pinkish belly to the hot sun. It lifted its head slightly at my presence but didn’t move from its spot. In the days before the apocalypse, I would’ve stopped to pet it and give its ears a good scratch, but hunger had driven most of them feral now. Any affection I showed this kitty would most likely leave me with multiple claw marks and a nasty bite wound. Even as I passed by, allowing a generous space between us, the scowling tabby eyed me with such a look of disdain it left me feeling distinctly intimidated. Thankfully, it let me pass through its territory unharmed.
A little while later, I came upon an injured bird—a jackdaw, flapping about in the long grass, trying to fly but unable to lift its left wing properly. The black feathers on its chest glistened with spots of fresh blood, and I figured it must’ve come up against a hungry animal recently. Maybe even the menacing tabby from earlier.
My eyes darted about, looking for predators. As a precaution, I pulled the crowbar out of my rucksack and steered my bike one-handed, ready to swing at anything that tried to eat me. I could take down a fox, but anything else would probably be more difficult. I saw nothing, and I heard nothing apart from the flap-flap of the unfortunate jackdaw.
I lowered the bike down next to the bird and tried to examine it, despite its frenzied hopping to get away from me. Blood seeped from several small, deep puncture wounds in its skin. The wing hung at an odd angle, definitely broken. Eyes wild with fear at my proximity, it squawked loudly and made another attempt at retreat, but in its disorientated state, it only managed to gyrate in a circle. The kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery before it got picked off by another animal, or it died of dehydration or shock. I let it go and stood up, considering my moral obligations. I didn’t want to kill it. Neither should it suffer.
If my aunt were here, she’d have no problem wringing its neck. We kept birds at home and trapped rabbits, but Rebecca was the only one to do the culling, and it never seemed to bother her.
As the World Falls Down Page 2
