Autumn a-1

by David Moody

  Emma caught her breath at the moment the lights died. The darkness explained Michael’s sudden disappearance and she ran out to the landing to make sure that he had made it safely back inside. She was relieved when she heard the back door slam shut and lock.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked as he dragged himself breathlessly back up the stairs.

  He nodded and cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  The two survivors stood at the top of the stairs, holding each other tightly. Save for the muffled roar of the wind and rain outside the house was silent. The lack of any other sound was eerie and unnerving. Michael took old of Emma’s hand and led her back to the bedroom.

  ‘What the hell are we going to do?’ she whispered. She sat down on the edge of the bed as Michael looked out of the window.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he answered, instinctively and honestly. ‘We should wait and see if they disappear before we do anything. There’s no light or noise to attract them now. They should go.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ she asked again. ‘We can’t live without light. Christ, winter’s coming. We’ll need fire and light…’

  Michael didn’t reply. Instead he simply stared down at the crowd of decomposing corpses. He watched the bodies in the distance, still dragging themselves towards the house, and prayed that they would become disinterested and turn away.

  Emma was right. What quality of life would they have hiding in a dark house with no light, warmth or other comfort? But what was the alternative? On this cold and desolate night there didn’t seem to be any.

  Rapidly becoming sick of it all, Michael turned away from the window, took Emma’s hand and led her out of the room. The temperature was low and to hold her close was comforting and reassuring.

  Carl remained alone in the bedroom, leaning against the window, watching the milling crowds beyond the barricade with fear, unease and mounting hate. He hadn’t even noticed that the other two had left the room.

  31

  Emma finally managed to fall asleep a little after two o’clock the following morning but she was awake again by four.

  Her bedroom was dull and cold. She woke up with a sudden start and sat bolt upright in bed. The air around her face was icy and her breath condensed in cool clouds around her mouth and nose.

  Since arriving at the farm she and Michael had shared this room. There was nothing sinister or untoward about Michael’s presence there – he continued to sleep on the floor in the gap between the bed and the outside wall and he discreetly looked away or left the room whenever she dressed or undressed. Neither had ever spoken about their unusual sleeping arrangements. Both of them silently continued to welcome the warm comfort and security of having another living, breathing person close nearby.

  This was the first morning that Michael hadn’t been there when she’d looked. He often rose first but, until this morning, she’d always been aware of him getting up and leaving the room.

  She instinctively leant over to her right (as she often did first thing) and, finding it hard to focus her eyes in the early morning gloom, stretched out her arm, hoping that her outstretched fingers would reach the reassuring bulk of her sleeping friend. This morning, however, her tired eyes had not deceived her – where she had expected to find Michael she instead found only his crumpled sleeping bag. He had definitely been there when she’d gone to bed because she could clearly remember hearing him snuffling and snoring as he had drifted off to sleep beside her. She leant across a little further, picked up the empty sleeping bag and pulled it close to her face. It smelled of Michael, and it was still warm from the heat of his body.

  No need to panic, she thought.

  Had it been any later then she wouldn’t have been unduly worried, but it was only four o’clock. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to sleep. Maybe he’d just gone elsewhere because he’d been restless and he hadn’t wanted to wake her up.

  Regardless of the reason, Emma got up and pulled on a nearby pair of jeans and a thick towelling dressing-gown which she had left draped over the back of a chair on the other side of the bed. She tiptoed across the dark bedroom with arms stretched out in front of her to give guidance and balance. The varnished floorboards were cold beneath her bare feet and she shivered as she reached out to open the door.

  There was considerably more light on the landing. The thick curtains drawn across her bedroom window had blocked out almost all of the early morning light. She glanced up the short flight of stairs which led to Carl’s attic room and saw that his door was open. Unusual, she thought. With Carl becoming more of a recluse with each passing day, she had become used to not seeing or hearing him before midday. At the moment the last thing he seemed to want was any contact with Michael or herself, especially at this time of the morning.

  She crept along the landing to the top of the staircase and peered down to the hallway.

  ‘Michael,’ she hissed. The deathly quiet of the building amplified her voice to an unexpectedly loud volume.

  No response.

  ‘Michael,’ she called again, this time deliberately a little louder. ‘Michael, Carl…where are you?’

  She waited for a moment and concentrated on the silence of the house around her, hoping that the ominous quiet would soon be shattered by a reply from one of her two companions. When no such reply came, she took a couple of cautious steps forward and called out again.

  ‘Michael,’ she called for the forth time, her voice now at full volume. ‘Christ, answer me, will you?’

  Another step forward. She stopped again and waited and listened. She lifted her foot to take a further step but then, before she could put it down again, the oppressive quiet was shattered by a dull thump from outside. She froze, routed to the spot in fear. She had heard that sound last night.

  Another thump.

  Another.

  Another.

  Then suddenly the sound of a thousand bodies beating their rotting fists against the barrier round the house.

  Desperate, Emma ran downstairs. The relentless noise coming from outside was increasing in volume. It was different this morning, harsher and already much, much louder than last night. Last night the bodies had hammered against the gate with tired, clumsy hands. This morning they sounded more definite. This morning they sounded purposeful.

  ‘Michael,’ she hissed again, still no closer to finding either of her companions. She looked up and down the empty hallway for any signs of life.

  The noise outside reached an almighty crescendo and then stopped. Confused and terrified, Emma ran to the front door and stared out over the yard.

  The gate across the bridge was down.

  A vast torrent of stumbling bodies was surging towards the house.

  Seconds later and there was another noise, this time from the kitchen. It was the cracking of glass. Emma ran into the room and then stopped dead in her tracks. Pressed hard against the wide kitchen window were countless diseased and decomposing figures. Pairs of cold, clouded and expressionless eyes followed her every move and the remains of numb, heavy hands began to beat against the fragile glass. In abject horror she watched as a series of jagged cracks quickly worked their way across the window from the bottom right to the diagonally opposite corner.

  Emma turned and ran. She tripped on a rug in the hallway and half-sprinted, half-fell into the living room, landing in an uncoordinated heap on the carpet. She looked up and saw through the French windows that more rotting faces were staring back at her from outside this room. Forgetting about Michael and Carl, she knew that her only chance was to barricade herself in Carl’s attic bedroom – the highest and, she hoped, safest part of the house.

  As she sprinted back down the hallway towards the stairs the front door burst open under the force of a thousand desperate bodies outside. Like a dam that had broken its banks, in seconds an unstoppable flood of abhorrent creatures were inside. She struggled to push past the first few corpses and get to the staircase. She ran up the stairs and then pa
used for a fraction of a second to look back down. The whole of the lower floor of the house was carpeted with a seething mass of writhing, rotting bodies.

  She ran into her room (as it was the closest) and slammed the door shut behind her. Struggling in the darkness, she threw a chair out of the way and kicked her way through a pile of Michael’s discarded clothes. Once she’d reached the window she threw back the curtains and looked outside to see her worst nightmare made reality. The barrier around the house was down in at least three places that she could see. Countless figures continued to stagger towards the house and the yard was a heaving sea of bodies. The van – her only means of escape – was hopelessly surrounded. Beyond the remains of the fence, for as far as she could see in all directions, hundreds of thousands of shadowy figures traipsed relentlessly towards Penn Farm.

  There was a sudden crashing noise behind her and Emma span round to find herself face to face with four corpses. She could see more of them on the landing, the sheer volume of bodies having forced them into the room. The nearest of the group of four – something that had once been a Policeman – stared at her for a moment before lurching forward. She screamed and tried desperately to open the window.

  As the bodies approached she turned and kicked the first creature square in its withered and rotting testicles. It didn’t flinch or show the slightest flicker of emotion. Instead it reached out for her with vicious, talon-like fingers and caught hold of her hair, yanking her down onto the bed.

  As the first sharp claws tore into her skin the nightmare ended.

  32

  The dream terrified Emma.

  She woke up drenched in an ice-cold sweat and, for a few uncertain moments, was almost too afraid to move. Once she had managed to convince herself that it had only been a dream and that she was safe (or as safe as she could expect to be), she leant over to her right to check that Michael was still lying on the floor beside her. A wave of cool relief washed over her as she reached out her hand and rested it on his shoulder. She held it there for a few seconds until she was completely sure that all was well. The gentle, rhythmic movements of his body as he breathed were remarkably calming and reassuring.

  In the days, months and years before her world had been turned upside down Emma had often tried to analyse the hidden meaning of dreams. She had read numerous books that offered explanations for the metaphors and images which filled her mind while she slept. Her dreams had changed since they’d arrived at Penn Farm. There was nothing subtle or hidden in the visions she’d seen in her sleep this morning. They showed her, in no uncertain terms, a terrifying version of the future. A version of the future which could so quickly and easily come to be.

  Climbing out of bed (and taking care not to disturb Michael as she did so) Emma made her way over to the window and threw back the curtains. She kept her eyes screwed tightly shut for a few seconds – partly because of the bright light flooding in through the glass but mostly because she was afraid of what she might see outside. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she finally dared to open her eyes and saw that only thirty or forty figures remained on the other side of the barrier. The majority of the crowd that had gathered last night had wandered away into the wilderness again, perhaps having been distracted by some other sound or movement. Since they had switched off the generator the farmhouse had, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be as dead and as empty as any one of the hundreds of thousands of other buildings dotted around the countryside.

  Emma heard noises downstairs. It was almost eight o’clock and the fact that it was now a reasonable hour to be getting up coupled with the fact that she knew the barrier round the building was still intact, gave her a comforting feeling of security and protection. Feeling certain that all was well within the house, and still taking care not to disturb Michael, she pulled on some clothes and made her way downstairs. She found Carl in the kitchen.

  ‘Morning,’ she said as she walked into the room. She yawned and stretched. Other than mumbling something indistinct Carl didn’t stop or look up from what he was doing.

  Emma stood and watched him for a moment. He was fully dressed and had obviously washed and shaved. He was searching through the kitchen cupboards and had collected a pile of food and supplies on the table.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, still not looking up at her.

  ‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’

  Carl didn’t reply.

  Sensing his very obvious reluctance to talk, Emma walked round him and made her way over to the cooker. She lifted the kettle and shook it. Happy that there was enough water inside she put it down again and lit the gas burner. The kettle and stove were cold and unused. Whatever it was Carl was doing was obviously important because he hadn’t bothered to make himself a drink since getting up. One thing that the three survivors had quickly found they had in common was a need to get a hot drink inside them before they could function in the morning.

  ‘Want a coffee?’ she asked amiably, determined not to let his hostility deter her.

  ‘No,’ he replied abruptly, still avoiding eye-contact. ‘No thanks.’

  Emma shrugged her shoulders and spooned coffee granules into two mugs.

  There was an oppressive atmosphere in the room. The only noise came from the kettle boiling on the stove. Carl continued to look through the cupboards and drawers. Emma felt uneasy. He was obviously up to something but he clearly didn’t want to talk and she couldn’t think of a subtle way of asking him what it was that he was doing. She quickly came to the conclusion that she should just ask outright again, and that she should keep asking until she got the answers she wanted.

  ‘Carl,’ she began, ‘what exactly are you doing? And please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me it’s nothing when it’s bloody obvious that it’s not.’

  He continued to ignore her.

  Emma noticed that there was a well-packed rucksack resting against a wall in the store room adjacent to the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you thinking of going?’ she asked.

  Still no response.

  The kettle began to boil. Emma made a cup of coffee for herself and one for Michael. She sipped at her scalding hot drink and looked directly at Carl over the brim of her mug.

  ‘Where are you going to go?’ she asked again, her voice deliberately low and calm.

  Carl turned his back to her and leant against the nearest kitchen unit.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he eventually replied. Emma guessed that he was lying. It was obvious that although he feigned nonchalance, he knew exactly where he was going and what he was planning to do.

  ‘Come on,’ she sighed, growing tired. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Believe what you want,’ he snapped. ‘Doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘You can’t leave the house, it’s too dangerous. Bloody hell, you saw how many of those things managed to get here last night. If you really think that you…’

  ‘That’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it?’ he said, finally turning round to face her. ‘I saw how many bodies were here last night – too bloody many. It’s not safe to stay here anymore.’

  ‘It’s not safe anywhere these days. Face it, Carl, this place is as good as you’re going to get.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ he argued. ‘We’re out on a limb here. There’s nowhere to run. If that fence comes down we’re completely fucked…’

  ‘But can’t you see that we can get over that? When they’re here in large numbers we just shut up and sit tight. If we stay silent and out of sight for long enough they’ll disappear.’

  ‘And is that what you want? Are you happy to sit and hide for hours every time those bloody things get close? They’re getting stronger everyday and it won’t be long before…’

  ‘Of course it’s not ideal, but what’s the alternative?’

  ‘The alternative is to go back home. I know Northwich like the back of my hand and I kn
ow that there are other survivors there. I think I’ll have more of a chance back in the city. It was a mistake coming out here.’

  Emma struggled to comprehend what she was hearing.

  ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ she stammered. ‘Do you know the risks you’d be taking by…’

  ‘Emma, I’m going. If you haven’t got anything constructive to say then do me a favour and don’t say anything at all.’

  ‘But have you thought this through? Do you really believe this is the right thing to do?’

  ‘There’s safety in numbers,’ he said, turning his back on her again. ‘Those bloody things proved it last night, didn’t they? More survivors has got to equal more of a chance in my book…’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Michael interrupted. He was standing in the kitchen doorway. Neither Emma or Carl knew how long he’d been there or how much he’d heard. He leant against the door frame with his arms crossed in front of him.

  Carl shook his head.

  ‘Leaving here would be a fucking stupid thing to do,’ Michael added.

  ‘Staying here seems like a fucking stupid thing to do too,’ he snapped back.

  Michael took a deep breath and walked further into the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the kitchen table and watched the other man as he tried desperately to busy himself and avoid eye contact with the other two survivors.

  ‘Convince me,’ Michael said as he took his coffee from Emma. ‘Just how much have you thought about this?’

  For a second Carl was angry, feeling that Michael was patronising him. But then he decided that he sounded as if he was at least going to listen to what he had to say.

  ‘I’ve thought long and hard about it,’ he replied, ‘this isn’t something that I’ve just decided to do on a whim.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘Get back to Northwich and try and get to the community centre. See who’s still there…’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then find somewhere secure to base myself.’