by David Moody
‘You know what we need?’ he asked.
‘I can think of about a million things that I need,’ Carl answered.
‘Forget about all the practical stuff for a minute, and all the things that we should have like warmth, safety, security, answers to a million questions and the like, do you know what I need more than anything?’
Carl shrugged his shoulders.
‘No, what?’
Michael paused, lay back on the asphalt and put his hands behind his head.
‘I need to get absolutely fucking plastered. I need to drink so much fucking beer that I can’t remember my own name, never mind anything else.’
‘There’s an off-licence over there,’ Carl said, half-smiling and pointing across the main road. ‘Fancy a walk?’
He glanced down at Michael who was shaking his head furiously.
‘No,’ he replied abruptly.
Another long silence followed.
‘Christ, look at him would you,’ Carl said, minutes later. Michael sat up.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘That one over there,’ he said, nodding at a solitary figure in the distance which tripped and stumbled along the edge of the main road. The shadowy shell had once been a man, perhaps six foot tall and probably aged between twenty-five and thirty. It was walking awkwardly with one foot on the kerb and the other dragging behind in the gutter.
‘What about him?’
Carl shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘Just look at the state of him. That could be you or me, that could.’
‘Yes but it isn’t,’ Michael yawned, about to lie back down again.
‘And there’s another. See that one in the newsagents?’
Michael squinted into the distance.
‘Where?’
‘The newsagents with the red sign. Between the pub and the garage…’
‘Oh yeah, I can see it.’
The two men stared at the body in the building. It was trapped in the entrance to the shop. A display rack had fallen behind it, blocking any movement backwards, and a crashed car prevented the door from opening outwards. The body moved incessantly, edging forward and then stumbling back, edging forward and then back.
‘It just hasn’t got a clue what’s happening, has it?’ Carl muttered. ‘You’d think it would give up, wouldn’t you?’
‘It’s just moving for the sake of it. It doesn’t know how or why or what to do. It just needs to move.’
‘And how long will they keep moving? Bloody hell, when will they stop?’
‘They won’t. There isn’t any reason to stop is there? Nothing registers with them anymore. Look, watch this.’
Michael stood up and looked around. He walked over to where the slanted roof of the main part of the building met the flat roof they were standing on and pulled away a single slate. Carl watched bemused as he walked back to the edge of the roof.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he smirked.
‘Watch,’ Michael said quietly.
He waited for a few seconds until one of the wandering bodies came into range. Then, after taking careful aim, he threw the tile at the staggering corpse. He was surprisingly accurate and the tile hit the body in the small of the back. The body tripped and stumbled momentarily but carried on regardless.
‘Why did you do that?’ Carl asked, still bemused.
Michael shrugged.
‘Just proving a point I suppose.’
‘What point?’
‘That they don’t react. That they don’t live like you and me, they just exist.’
Carl shook his head with despair and disbelief. Michael walked away again. In a strange way he regretted throwing the slate at the body. No matter what it was today, it had been a living, breathing human being just a few days ago. He felt like a mugger, preying on an innocent victim.
‘Do you think it was a virus that did this?’ Carl asked. ‘Emma seems to think it was. Or do you think it was…’
‘Don’t know and I don’t care,’ Michael replied.
‘What do you mean, you don’t care?’
‘What difference does it make? What’s happened has happened. It’s the old clichй, isn’t it? If you get knocked down by a car, does it matter what colour it is?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that it doesn’t matter what did all of this. Okay, it matters in as far as I don’t want it to happen to me, but what’s done is done, isn’t it?’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Look, I’ve lost friends and family just like the rest of them. I might sound like an uncaring bastard but I’m not really. I just can’t see the point in wasting any time coming up with bullshit theories and explanations when none of it will make the slightest bit of difference. The only thing that any of us have any influence and control over now is what we do tomorrow.’
‘So what are we going to do tomorrow?’
‘Haven’t got a fucking clue!’ Michael laughed.
It started to rain. A few isolated spots at first which, in just a few seconds, turned into a downpour of almost monsoon proportions. Carl and Michael quickly squeezed back through the skylight and lowered themselves into the ominously silent hall.
‘Does you good to get out now and then, doesn’t it?’ Carl mumbled sarcastically.
‘There’s a lot of truth in that,’ Michael replied, fighting to make himself heard over the noise of the rain lashing down.
‘What?’
‘You’re right. I think it would do us good to get out. Have you stopped to think about the bodies yet?’
‘Christ I haven’t thought about much else…’
Michael shook his head.
‘No, have you stopped to think about what’s going to happen when they start to rot? Jesus, the air’s going to be filled with all kinds of germs and crap.’
‘There’s not a lot we can do about that, is there?’
‘There’s fuck all we can do about it,’ he replied bluntly. ‘But we could get away.’
‘Get away? Where to? It’s going to be like this everywhere, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So what good will leaving here do?’
It became immediately apparent to Carl that Michael had been doing more logical thinking than the rest of the survivors put together.
‘Think about it. We’re on the edge of a city here. There are hundreds of thousands of bodies around.’
‘And…’
‘And I think we should head for the countryside. Fewer bodies has got to mean less chance of disease. We’re not going to be completely safe anywhere but I think we should just try and give ourselves the best possible chance. We should pack up and leave here as soon as we can.’
‘You really thinking of going?’
‘I’d go tonight if we were ready.’
11
Despite the fact that each one of the survivors had reached new levels of emotional and mental exhaustion, not one of them could even contemplate trying to sleep. This lack of sleep meant that the disparate body of frightened and desperate people were becoming even more frightened and desperate with each passing minute. The hall was lit only by a few dim gas lamps and the odd torch, and this lack of light seemed to compound the disorientation and fear felt by all of them. By midnight the tensions and frustrations felt by even the most placid members of the group had risen to dangerously high levels.
Jenny Hall, who had held her three month old baby boy in her arms as he died on Tuesday morning, had dared to complain about the food she’d been given earlier in the evening. Although she’d meant nothing by her innocent comments, the cook – the usually quiet and reserved Stuart Jeffries – had taken it personally.
‘You stupid fucking bitch,’ he screamed, his face literally millimeters from hers. ‘What gives you the right to criticise? Fucking hell, you’re not the only one who’s had it tough. Christ, we’re all in the same fucking boat here…’
&n
bsp; Jenny wiped streaming tears from her face with shaking hands. She was convulsing with fear and could hardly co-ordinate her movements.
‘I didn’t mean to…’ she stammered. ‘I was only trying to…’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Stuart shouted, grabbing hold of her arms and pinning her against the wall. ‘Just shut your fucking mouth!’
For a second Michael just stood and watched, stunned and numbed and unable to quite comprehend what he was seeing. He quickly managed to snap himself out of his disbelieving trance and actually do something to help. He grabbed hold of Stuart and yanked him away from Jenny, leaving her to slide down the wall and collapse in a sobbing heap on the dirty brown floor.
‘Bastard,’ she spat, looking up at him. ‘You fucking bastard.’
Michael manhandled Stuart across the room and pushed him down into a chair.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.
Stuart didn’t respond. He sat staring at the floor. His face was flushed red. His fists were clenched tight and his body shook with anger.
‘What’s the problem?’ Michael asked again.
Stuart still didn’t move.
‘Not good enough for her, are we?’ he eventually muttered.
‘What?’
‘That little bitch,’ he seethed. ‘Thinks she’s something special, doesn’t she? Thinks she’s a cut above the rest of us.’ He looked up and stared and pointed at Jenny. ‘Thinks she’s the only one who’s lost everything.’
‘You’re not making any sense,’ Michael said, sitting down on a bench close to Stuart. ‘What are you talking about?’
Stuart couldn’t – or wouldn’t – answer. Tears of frustration welled in his tired eyes. Rather than let Michael see the extent of his fraught emotion he got up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘What was all that about?’ Emma asked as she walked past Michael and made her way over to where Jenny lay on the ground. She crouched down and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, gently kissing the top of her head. ‘It’s all right.’
‘All right?’ she sobbed. ‘How can you say it’s all right? After everything that’s happened, how can you say it’s all right?’
Kate James sat down next to them. Cradling Jenny in her arms, Emma turned to face Kate.
‘Did you see what happened?’ she quietly asked.
‘Not really,’ Kate replied. ‘They were just talking. I only realised that something was wrong when Stuart started shouting. He was fine one minute – you know, calm and talking normally – and then he just exploded at her.’
‘Why?’
Kate shrugged her shoulders.
‘Apparently she told him that she didn’t like the soup.’
‘What?’ asked Emma incredulously.
‘She didn’t like the soup he’d made,’ Kate repeated. ‘I’m sure that’s all it was.’
‘Bloody hell,’ she sighed, shaking her head in resignation.
Carl walked into the room with Jack Baynham. He’d taken no more than two or three steps when he stopped, quickly sensing that something was wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked cautiously, almost too afraid to listen to the answer. The atmosphere in the room was so heavy that he was convinced something terrible had happened.
Michael shook his head.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s sorted now.’
Carl looked down at Emma on the floor and Jenny curled up in her arms. Something obviously had happened but, as whatever it was seemed to have been confined to inside the hall and resolved, he decided not to ask any more questions. He just didn’t want to get involved. Selfish and insensitive of him it may have been, but he didn’t want to know. He had enough problems of his own without getting himself wrapped up in other people’s.
Michael felt much the same, but he found it impossible to be as private and insular as Carl. When he heard more crying coming from another dark corner of the room he instinctively went to investigate. He found that the tears were coming from Annie Nelson and Jessica Short, two of the eldest survivors. The two ladies were wrapped under a single blanket, holding each other tightly and doing their best to stop sobbing and stop drawing attention to themselves. Michael sat down next to them.
‘You two okay? he asked. A pointless question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Annie smiled for the briefest of moments and nodded, trying hard to put on a brave face. She nonchalantly wiped away a single tear which trickled quickly down her wrinkled cheek.
‘We’re all right, thank you,’ she replied, her voice light and fragile.
‘Can I get you anything?’
Annie shook her head.
‘No, we’re fine,’ she said. ‘I think we’ll try and get some sleep now.’
Michael smiled and rested his hand on hers. He tried not to let his worry show, but her hand felt disconcertingly cold and fragile. He really did feel so sorry for these two. He had noticed that they had been inseparable since arriving at the hall. Jessica, he had learned from Emma, was a well-to-do widow who had lived in a large house in one of the most exclusive suburbs of Northwich. Annie, on the other hand, had told him yesterday that she’d lived in the same two bedroom Victorian terraced house all her life. She’d been born there and, as she’d wasted no time in telling him, she intended to see out the rest of her days there too. When things settled down again, she’d explained naively, she was going to go straight back home. She had even invited Jessica over for tea one afternoon.
Michael patted the old lady’s hand again and stood up and walked away. He glanced back over his shoulder and watched as the two pensioners huddled closer together and talked in frightened, hushed whispers. Clearly from opposite ends of the social spectrum, they seemed to be drawn to each other for no other reason than their similar ages. Money, position, possessions, friends and connections didn’t count for anything anymore.
***
Emma was still sitting on the floor two hours later. As half-past two approached she cursed herself for being so bloody selfless. There she was, cold and uncomfortable, still cradling Jenny Hall in her arms. What made matters worse was the Jenny had herself been asleep for the best part of an hour. Why am I always the one who ends up doing this, she thought? Christ, no-one ever bothers to hold me and rock me to sleep. Why am I always the one giving out? Emma didn’t really need any help or support, but it pissed her off that no-one ever seemed to offer.
The hall was silent but for a muffled conversation taking place in one of the dark rooms off the main hall. Emma carefully eased herself out from underneath Jenny and lay her down on the floor and covered her with a sheet. In the still silence every sound she made, no matter how slight, seemed deafening. As she moved Jenny’s body she listened carefully and tried to locate the precise source of the conversation. She was desperate for some calm and rational adult company.
The voices seemed to be coming from a little room that she hadn’t been into before. Cautiously she pushed the door open and peered inside. It was pitch black, and the voices stopped immediately.
‘Who’s that?’ a man asked.
‘Emma,’ she whispered. ‘Emma Mitchell.’
As her eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness of the room (which was, surprisingly, even darker and gloomier than the main hall) she saw that there were two men sitting with their backs against the far wall. It was Michael and Carl. They were drinking water from a plastic bottle which they passed between themselves.
‘You okay?’ Michael asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Emma replied. ‘Mind if I come in?’
‘Not at all,’ said Carl. ‘Everything calmed down out there?’
She stepped into the room, tripping over his outstretched legs and feeling for the nearest wall in the darkness. She sat down carefully.
‘It’s all quiet,’ she said. ‘I just had to get away, know what I mean?’
‘Why do you think we’re sitt
ing in here?’ Michael asked rhetorically.
After a short silence Emma spoke again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said apologetically. ‘Have I interrupted something? Did you two want me to go so you can…?’
‘Stay here as long as you like,’ Michael answered. Emma’s eyes were slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness and she could now just about make out the details of the two men’s faces.
‘I think everyone’s asleep out there. At least if they’re not asleep then they’re being very quiet. I guess they’re all thinking about what happened today. I’ve just sat and listened to Jenny talking about…’ Emma realised she was talking for the sake of talking and let her words trail away into silence. Both Michael and Carl were staring at her. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, suddenly self-conscious. ‘What’s wrong?’
Michael shook his head.
‘Bloody hell,’ he sighed, ‘have you been out there with Jenny all this time?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, why?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Nothing, I just don’t know why you bother, that’s all.’
‘Someone’s got to do it, haven’t they?’ she replied nonchalantly as she accepted a drink from the bottle of water that Carl passed to her.
‘So why does it have to be you? Christ, who’s going to sit up with you for hours when you’re…’
‘Like I said,’ she interrupted, ‘someone’s got to do it. If we all shut ourselves away in rooms like this when things aren’t going well then we haven’t got much of a future here, have we?’
Emma was immediately defensive of her own actions, despite the fact that she’d silently criticised herself for exactly the same thing just a few minutes earlier.
‘So do you think we’ve got a future here then?’ asked Carl. Now Emma really was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She hadn’t come in here to be picked on.
‘Of course we’ve got a future,’ she snapped.
‘We’ve got millions of people lying dead in the streets around us and we’ve got people threatening to kill each other because someone doesn’t like soup. Doesn’t bode well really, does it?’ Michael mused.
