by David Moody
A short distance before the church Carl could see a straight length of road lined on either side with narrow cottages and shops. The stillness of the scene was suddenly disrupted when a scrawny dog ran into view. The nervous creature slowed down and crept breathlessly along the road, keeping its nose, tail and belly low and sniffing bodies and other piles of rubbish as it moved, obviously hunting for food. As Carl watched the dog stopped moving. It lifted its muzzle and sniffed the rancid air. It moved its head slowly (obviously following some out of view movement) and then cowered away from something in the shadows. The dog jumped up and began to bark furiously. Carl couldn’t hear it, but he could tell from its defensive body position and the repeated angry jerks of its head that it was in danger. Within seconds of the first sound the dog had attracted the attention of some fourteen bodies. With a vicious, instinctive intent and a new found speed, they surrounded the helpless creature and set upon it. Between them the corpses tore the animal limb from limb.
Even after all that he had seen – the destruction, the carnage and the loss of thousands of lives – this sudden and unexpected attack shocked Carl. The bodies were becoming more alert and more deadly with each passing day. They now seemed to be grouping together and moving in packs, animal instinct driving them on.
He couldn’t understand why Michael and Emma were bothering to make such an effort to survive. The odds were stacked against them. Where was the point in trying to carve out a future existence when it was so obviously a pointless task? Everything was ruined. It was over. So why couldn’t they just accept it and see the truth like he could? Why continue to make such a fucking noise about nothing?
Carl knew that there would never be a salvation or escape from this vicious, tortured world and all he wanted to do was just stop and switch off. He wanted to let down his guard for a while and not have to look constantly over his shoulder. In the dark hours he spent alone he came to the conclusion that he’d never again find such peace until his life was over. But even death no longer brought with it any certainty.
Outside in the enclosed area in front of the house Michael was working on the van. He had checked the tyres, the oil, the water level and just about everything else he could think of checking. The importance of the van to them could not be overestimated – without it they would be stranded. Without it they would be trapped at Penn Farm, unable to fetch supplies (which they knew they would have to do at some point in the near future) and unable to get away should anything happen to compromise the safety of their home. And they had almost come to think of it as a home too. In a world full of dark disorientation, within the safe and sturdy walls of the farmhouse they had at last found a little stability.
‘Next time we’re out we should get another one of these,’ Michael said as he ran his hands along the buckled driver’s side wing of the van. He made it sound as if they could just run down to the shops when they next felt like it. His casual tone completely belied the reality of their situation.
‘Makes sense,’ Emma agreed. She was sitting on the stone steps leading up to the front door. She’d been sitting there for the last hour and a half, just watching as Michael had worked.
‘Perhaps we should try and get something a little less refined,’ he continued. ‘This thing has been fine, but if you think about it, we need something that’s going to get us out of any situation. If we’re somewhere and the roads are blocked, chances are we’ll need to find another way to get away. We could end up driving through fields or…’
‘I can’t see us leaving here much. Only to get food or…’
‘But you never know, do you? Bloody hell, anything could happen. The only thing we can be certain about anymore is that fact that we can’t be sure of anything.’
Emma stood up and stretched.
‘Silly bugger,’ she smiled.
‘I know what you’re saying though,’ he continued as he gathered together his tools and began to pack them away. ‘If we stay here we could do pretty much anything. We could build a brick wall round the house if we wanted to. Really keep those bastards out.’
Emma didn’t respond. She stood at the top of the steps and looked down across the yard and out towards the rapidly darkening countryside.
‘Light’s fading,’ she mumbled. ‘Better get inside soon.’
‘I don’t think it makes much difference anymore,’ Michael said quietly, climbing the steps to stand next to her. ‘Doesn’t matter how dark it is, those bloody things just don’t stop. It might even be safer out here at night. At least they can’t see us when its dark.’
‘They can still hear us. Might even be able to smell us.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said again, looking into her face. ‘They can’t get to us.’
Emma nodded and turned to walk inside. Michael followed her through into the house.
‘Carl’s in, isn’t he?’ he asked as he pushed the door shut.
Emma looked puzzled.
‘Of course he’s in. He hasn’t been out of his bloody bedroom for days. Where else do you think he’s going to be?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t know. He might have gone out back. Just thought I’d check.’
She shook her head and leant against the hall wall. The house was dark. The generator hadn’t yet been started.
‘Take it from me,’ she said, her voice tired and low, ‘he’s inside. I looked up at the window and saw him earlier. He was there again with those bloody binoculars, face pressed against the glass. Christ alone knows what he was looking at.’
‘Do you think he’s all right?’
Emma sighed at Michael’s question. It was painfully obvious to her that Carl was far from all right. It was equally obvious that his temperament and stability appeared to be wavering more and more unsteadily each day.
Michael sensed her frustration.
‘He’ll come through this,’ he said optimistically. ‘Give him time and he’ll get over everything that’s happened.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Emma asked.
Michael thought for a moment.
‘Yes… why, don’t you?’
She shrugged her shoulders and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Don’t know. He’s really suffering, that much I’m sure about.’
‘We’ve all suffered.’
‘I know that. Bloody hell, we’ve had this conversation again and again. He lost more than we did. You and I lived on our own. He shared every second of every day with his partner and child.’
‘I know, but…’
‘But I’m not sure if you do. I’m not sure if I fully understand how much he’s hurting. I don’t think I ever will.’
Michael was beginning to get annoyed and he wasn’t completely sure why. Okay so Carl was hurting, but no amount of hoping, praying and crying would bring back anything that any of them had lost. Hard as it sounded, he knew that the three of them could only survive by looking forward and forgetting everything and everyone that had gone.
He watched as Emma took off her coat, hung it up in the hallway and then lit a candle and walked upstairs.
Left alone in the darkness, Michael listened to the sounds of the creaking old house. A strong wind had begun to blow outside and he could hear the first few spots of a heavy shower of rain hitting the kitchen window. In cold isolation he thought more about Carl and, as he did, so his frustration and concern continued to increase. It wasn’t just about Carl, he decided. The well-being of each of the survivors was of paramount importance to all of them. Life was becoming increasingly dangerous by the day and they couldn’t afford to take any chances. They all needed to be pulling in the same direction in order to continue to survive. For the first time since this had all begun it had stopped happening. It was beginning to feel like he was with Emma and that Carl just happened to be there as well, distant and superfluous.
He knew that they were going to have to pull him into line.
Carl was their glass jaw. He was fast becomi
ng their Achilles heel and every time they left the safety of the house he was dangerously exposed.
30
The earlier wind and rain had quickly developed into a howling storm. By half-past ten the isolated farm was being battered by a furious gale which tore through the tops of the surrounding trees and rattled and shook sections of the hastily constructed barrier around the building. Constant floods of driving, torrential rain lashed down from the ominous, swirling clouds overhead, turning the once gently trickling stream beside the house into a wild torrent of white water.
For the first time in several days the survivors had started up the generator. It had seemed sensible to presume that the noise of the squally weather would drown out the constant mechanical thump of the machinery. Sick of sitting in darkness, Michael had decided that it was worth taking the risk for a little comfort.
Relatively relaxed and oblivious to the appalling conditions outside, Michael, Emma and Carl sat in the living room together watching a video in the warmth of an open fire. Michael was quickly bored by the video – a badly dubbed martial arts film which he’d seen several times since they’d taken it from the supermarket in Byster – and yet he was pleased to be sitting where he was. Whilst what remained of the population suffered outside, he was warm, dry and well fed. Even Carl had been tempted down from the attic. Their evening together had provided a brief but much needed respite from the alternating pressure and boredom of what remained of their lives.
Emma found it hard to watch the film. Not just because it was one of the worst films she’d ever had the misfortune to see, but also because it aroused a number of unexpected and uncomfortable emotions within her. Whilst doing a good job of distracting her from everything that was happening around her for a time, the film also reminded her of the life she used to lead. She couldn’t really identify with anything – the characters, their accents, the locations, the plot and the incidental music all seemed alien – and yet at the same time it was all instantly familiar and safe. In a scene depicting a car chase through busy Hong Kong streets she found herself watching the people in the background going about their everyday business instead of the violent physical action taking place in the foreground. She watched the people with a degree of envy. How novel and unexpected it was to see a clean city and to see individuals moving around with reason and purpose and acting and reacting with each other. Emma also felt a cold unease in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t help but look into the faces of each one of the actors and think about what might have happened to them in the years since the film had been made. She saw hundreds of different people – each one with their own unique identity, family and life – and she knew that virtually all of them would by now be dead.
The end of the film was rapidly approaching, and a huge set-piece battle between the hero and villain was imminent. The filmmakers were less than subtle in their attention grabbing techniques. The main character had driven into a vast warehouse and now found himself alone. The lighting was sparse and moody and the overly dramatic orchestral soundtrack was building to an obvious crescendo. Then the music stopped suddenly and, as the hero of the film waited for his opponent to appear, the house became silent.
Emma jumped out of her seat.
‘What’s the matter?’ Michael asked, immediately concerned.
For a few long seconds she didn’t answer. She stood still in the middle of the room, her face screwed up with concentration.
‘Emma…’ Michael pressed.
‘Shh…’ she hissed.
Oblivious and disinterested, Carl cocked his head to the right so that he could see past Emma who was standing in the way of the television.
She looked frightened. Michael was worried.
‘What is it?’ he asked again.
‘I heard something…’ she replied, her voice low.
‘It was probably just the film,’ he said, trying desperately to play things down. His mouth was dry. He felt nervous. Emma wasn’t the type to make a fuss for no reason.
‘No,’ she snapped, scowling at him. ‘I heard something outside, I’m sure I did.’
The film soundtrack burst into life again, startling her. With her heart in her mouth she reached down and switched off the television.
‘I was watching that,’ Carl protested.
‘For fuck’s sake, shut up,’ she barked at him.
There it was again. A definite new and indistinct noise coming from outside. It wasn’t the wind and it wasn’t the rain and she hadn’t imagined it.
Michael heard it too.
Without saying another word Emma ran from the living room into the dark kitchen. She quickly threaded her way around the table and chairs to the window and craned her neck to see outside.
‘Anything there?’ Michael asked, close behind her.
‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. She turned and headed out of the room towards the stairs. She stopped when she was halfway up and turned back to face Michael. ‘Listen,’ she whispered, lifting a single finger to her lips. ‘There, can you hear it?’
He held his breath and listened carefully. For a few moments he couldn’t hear anything other than the wind and rain and the constant rhythmic mechanical thumping of the generator. Then, just for a fraction of a second, he became aware of the new noise again. His ears seemed to lock onto the frequency of the sound and it somehow rose up and became distinct from the rest of the melee. As he concentrated the noise washed and faded and changed. In turn it was the sound of something being clattered against the wooden gate over the bridge, then another, less obvious noise, then more clattering and thumping. Without saying another word he ran towards Emma and pushed his way past her. She followed as he disappeared into their bedroom. By the time she entered the room he was already standing on the far side, looking out of the window in utter disbelief.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said as he stared down. ‘Just look at this…’
With some trepidation Emma walked across the room and peered over his shoulder. Although it was pitch-black outside and the driving rain blurred her view through the glass, she could clearly see movement on the other side of the barrier. Running the entire length of the barricade were vast crowds of bodies. They had often seen one or two of them there before, but never this many. They had never seen them in such vast and unexpected numbers.
‘There are hundreds of them,’ Michael whispered, his voice hoarse with fear, ‘fucking hundreds of them.’
‘Why?’ Emma asked.
‘The generator,’ he sighed. ‘Even over the weather they must have heard the generator.’
‘Christ.’
‘And light,’ he continued. ‘We’ve had lights on tonight. They must have seen them. And there was the smoke from the fire…’
Emma shook her head and continued to stare down at the rotting crowd gathered round the house.
‘But why so many?’ she wondered.
‘Think about it,’ Michael replied. ‘The world is dead. It’s silent and at night it’s dark. I suppose it just took one or two of them to see or hear us and that was enough. The first few moving towards the house would have attracted the next few and they would have attracted the next and so on and so on…’
As the two of them looked down at the hordes of corpses, one of the creatures standing on the stone bridge spanning the stream lifted its emaciated arms and began to shake and bang the wooden gate.
‘What’s going on?’ Carl asked having finally dragged himself out of his seat and upstairs.
‘Bodies,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Hundreds of bodies.’
Carl crept forwards, dragging his tired feet on the ground, and looked out over the yard.
‘What do they want?’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Christ knows,’ Michael cursed.
The other man stared down at the heaving crowd with a morbid curiosity. Emma turned towards Michael and took hold of his arm.
‘They won’t get through, will they?’ she asked.
He felt that he shou
ld try and reassure her but he couldn’t lie.
‘Don’t know,’ he replied with a brutal honesty.
‘But they haven’t got any real strength, have they?’ she said, trying hard to convince herself that they were still safe in the house.
‘On their own they’re nothing,’ he muttered. ‘But there are hundreds of them here tonight. I’ve got no idea what they’re capable of in these kind of numbers.’
Emma visibly shuddered with fright. Her fright instantly became icy fear as the moon broke through a momentary gap in the heavy cloud layer and illuminated even more of the desperate figures staggering through the fields surrounding the farm and converging on the house.
‘Shit,’ snapped Michael anxiously.
‘What are we going to do?’ Emma asked. She looked down and watched as part of the crowd lining the stream-come-river surged forward. Several of the creatures, their footing already unsteady in the greasy mud, fell and were carried away by the foaming waters.
Michael looked up into the clouds and ran his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to clear his mind and shut out all distractions so that he could think straight. Then, without warning, he ran out of the bedroom and sprinted down the staircase and along the hallway to the back door. Taking a deep breath he unlocked the door and ran over to the shed which housed the generator. The conditions were atrocious and he was soaked through in seconds. Ignorant to the cold and the vicious, swirling wind, he flung open the wooden door and threw the switch which stopped the machine, suddenly silencing its constant thumping and plunging the farmhouse into complete darkness in one single movement.
