by David Moody
‘So what do we do?’ she asked again.
‘We go out and get ourselves another van,’ he replied.
And so, less than an hour later, Michael and Emma again found themselves leaving the relative safety of Penn Farm and heading back towards one of the dead villages dotted around the decaying countryside.
For once Michael’s usually keen sense of direction let him down. Distracted by a body lurching out at them from out of nowhere at a cross-roads, he took a wrong turn which soon led them out along a long, straight stretch of narrow road. The road climbed for more than a mile before becoming flatter and more level. At the top of the climb the trees and bushes which had surrounded them before and obscured their view disappeared. Everywhere suddenly felt empty, spacious and open. Intrigued, Michael drove through an open gate and into a wide field dotted with a handful of cars. They had arrived in a dusty, cliff-top car park where, from the far side of the field, they could see out over the ocean. Neither of them had thought that they were this close to the coast. In the confusion and disorientation of the last few weeks their whole world felt like it had been pulled and twisted out of shape beyond all recognition. Maps and atlases had been forgotten and put to one side as they had struggled to survive from day to day. Strange as it seemed, the ocean had been the last thing that Michael had expected to see.
A little more relaxed than they had been before (perhaps because for once they couldn’t see a single body nearby) they drove to the area of the car park which afforded them the best view of the seemingly endless expanse of water below them and stopped. Michael switched off the engine and slumped back in his chair.
‘Screwed that up, didn’t I?’ he smiled.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Emma mumbled as she wound down her window slightly. The noise of the wind and the sea was loud and welcome. As well as shattering the otherwise all-consuming silence of the world for a while, it also camouflaged any sound which the two of them might make.
The sight of the ocean filled Michael with an unexpected combination of emotions. He had always loved the sea as a child, and seeing it now made him remember a handful of memories of childhood holidays, when the sky had always been deep blue, the sun huge and hot and the days seemingly endless. The memory of those long-gone innocent days filled him with a now familiar sadness and grief. But those heavy, desperate feelings were also matched by a slight elation because, for once, the two of them were free from the confines of the farmhouse and the barrier and, for a short time at least, away from the millions of bodies which plagued their lives.
‘Safest thing to do would be to take one of these cars,’ he said, gesturing out across the car park. ‘We’ll find the one that’s in best condition, empty it, and then drive it back.’
Emma nodded and continued to look out over the sea.
‘Think it’s safe to get out?’ she asked.
‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘There’s nothing about. As long as we stay close we should be okay.’
Needing no further encouragement, Emma opened the door and stepped outside. The blustery wind was strong and refreshing and it carried with it the unmistakable smell of the salty water below. She looked out towards the horizon and just dared to imagine for a few seconds that nothing had happened. She had tried to do it many times before but there had always been something in her line of vision to remind her of the limitations of the shattered shell of a world in which she existed. Looking out over the uninterrupted water, however, for a short time at least it was relatively easy to pretend everything was okay. She took a few steps further forward and looked down onto a stretch of sandy beach. Her heart sank as she watched a single staggering body tripping and stumbling through the frothing, splashing surf. Each advancing wave knocked the pathetic creature off-balance. She watched as it struggled to stand, only to be knocked over again when the next wave came. There was a second body in the water wearing only a pair of swimming trunks. Obviously the unfortunate remains of an early morning bather from a couple of weeks ago, the bloated, swollen and discoloured body was gradually being washed ashore.
Michael hadn’t seen the bodies. He was still daydreaming as he sat down on the grass next to their vehicle.
‘You know,’ he began, ‘sitting here you could almost convince yourself that nothing had happened.’
Emma said nothing. Having had the same thought just a few seconds earlier, the appearance of the bodies in the surf below had depressed her. She didn’t think it was fair to spoil her friend’s enjoyment of the moment.
Michael stretched out on the grass, lying back and resting on his elbows. He looked over at Emma and smiled.
‘Know what I want?’ he asked.
‘What?’ she wondered, feigning interest.
‘A sandwich,’ he replied. ‘I want a big, thick sandwich on freshly baked, crusty bread. I want salad, sliced ham, grated cheese and mayonnaise. Oh, and I’ll have a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to wash it down with.’
‘We’ve got tinned ham and a little bit of mayo back at the farm,’ Emma said, sitting down next to him. ‘And we’ve got orange cordial.’
‘Not the same really, is it?’
She shook her head.
‘No. Think we’ll ever eat like that again?’
Michael thought for a few moments.
‘We might do. I bet we could make bread and cheese eventually, and we could have ham if we can catch and kill a pig. And I suppose we could grow fruit and vegetables if we set up a greenhouse…’
‘You should get yourself an allotment,’ she joked.
‘I could do,’ Michael said, semiseriously. He sighed sadly and looked up into the sky. ‘I don’t know, it’s fucking stupid, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘Everything we’ve just said. In a few seconds we’ve managed to come up with about six month’s work. Six months to get a fucking salad sandwich and a glass of orange juice…’
‘I know,’ she sympathised.
Michael yawned and stretched. He looked across at Emma who suddenly seemed to be deep in thought. He had learnt recently that this was not always a good sign. It was okay to think for a while, but concentrating too deeply on everything that had happened often caused real problems.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
She smiled and nodded and looked down at him.
‘I’m okay,’ she replied, giving little away.
‘But…?’ he pressed, sensing that she needed to talk. He stared at her and, once eye-contact had been made, she realised that she couldn’t avoid answering him.
‘Are we really doing the right thing here?’ she asked.
‘What, sitting in a car park looking at the sea?’ he replied flippantly. Unamused, Emma shook her head.
‘No, I’m talking about the house and being out in the countryside.’
Michael sat up attentively, sensing the seriousness in her voice.
‘Of course we are,’ he answered defensively. ‘Why, are you starting to have doubts?’
‘What is there to have doubts about?’
‘Whether we should ever have left the city? Whether Carl was the one who was right to go back there?’
‘I’m not having doubts…’
‘So what is it then? Don’t you think we can make anything of what’s left?’
‘I’m not sure. Do you?’
‘We might be able to. The bodies are rotting, aren’t they? They should disappear over time and if we could…’
‘What about disease?’
‘There are a thousand hospitals up and down the country full of drugs.’
‘But we don’t know which drugs to use.’
‘We can find out.’
‘But if we’re sick and we need to get drugs, we’ll need to know what disease we’ve got, won’t we? How do we diagnose that? Do you know the difference between malaria, typhoid and gout for God’s sake?’
‘No, but there are books…’
‘So what chance have we got?’
Michael stood up and walked over to Emma. Although she still tried to avoid eye contact, he positioned himself directly in front of her so that she had no choice but to look up into his face.
‘We’ve got a chance,’ he said, his voice sounding quiet and strangely hurt. ‘Okay, I accept that it might not be much of a chance, but to me it’s a fucking chance all the same and I’m going to take it.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry…’
The couple were silent for a few seconds. Both stared into the eyes of the other, their minds full of confused thoughts.
‘Look, let’s get back,’ Michael said eventually. ‘It’s not safe to be out here.’
With that he turned away and looked around the car park. About a hundred yards away from them was a car. Nothing special – just an ordinary family-sized saloon – but it was the biggest car in the field. With Emma following close by, he walked over to it and opened the door. The remains of the driver and his female passenger sat motionless in their seats. They were both dressed in business clothes and Michael wondered what they had been doing sitting in this exposed and isolated place so early on a Tuesday morning when the catastrophe had first struck. An illicit office affair perhaps, or a married couple passing the time and spending a few precious minutes together before heading off to work? Regardless of the reason, he carefully leant inside the car and undid both seat belts. Cautiously (and with a look of disgust and concentration on his face) he took hold of the driver and dragged his corpse across the grass, leaving it on the ground alongside another car. He then returned and did the same with the passenger. The least he could do for them, he thought, was leave them together.
The keys were still in the ignition. He started the engine and gestured for Emma to get inside.
‘Follow me back,’ he said, suddenly anxious and feeling uncomfortably vulnerable now that they were making a noise which might alert any nearby bodies to their presence. ‘Okay?’
She nodded and sat behind the wheel. Michael ran over to the Landrover, started it up and pulled away.
In convoy the two cars drove out of the car park and back towards the farm.
41
Michael’s earlier disorientation worsened as they drove back home. The roads which they’d followed earlier looked even more unfamiliar when he tried to navigate his way back again. The journey was made more difficult by the fact that he kept glancing back in the rear view mirror to check that Emma was still following. He felt surprisingly uncomfortable without her in the seat next to him. He had come to rely on having her around much more than he’d realised. He still felt like he hardly knew her, but the truth of the matter was that he had shared more pain, despair and raw emotion with her than with any other person in the twenty-nine years of his life so far.
He threw the Landrover around a sharp bend in the road and then slammed on the brakes to avoid the back end of a milk float which was jutting out into the road, the front of the float having smashed into a low stone wall. He missed it by inches, and the closeness of a collision shocked him back into concentrating on safely returning to the farm house. Another quick glance in the mirror revealed that Emma was still close behind.
The winding road gradually opened out and became straighter. In the near distance he could see a row of three isolated grey cottages. From one of the buildings (it seemed to be the middle one) a single figure emerged and staggered into the middle of the road. It stopped and turned to face him.
‘Fucking hell,’ Michael said under his breath to himself as he stared at the pathetic body in front of him. ‘Just look at that stupid fucking thing.’
He pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator, the Landrover quickly gaining more and more speed. At that precise moment Michael focussed all his pent up anger, fears and frustrations on that one pitiful creature. For a few seconds he felt that destroying it would somehow make amends for the loss of just about everything and anything that had ever mattered to him.
As Michael raced ahead the distance between the two cars increased. Concerned and confused and certain that something was wrong, Emma accelerated to try and keep up with him.
The body in the middle of the road lifted its tired arms into the air above its head and began to wave Michael down.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. It took a full few seconds for the true importance of what he was seeing to sink in, and by that time he was almost upon the body. It was moving with more direction, purpose and intent than he’d seen from any of the corpses before. Instinctively he slammed his foot down on the brake and brought the Landrover to a sudden juddering halt. He knew before he’d stopped that it was a survivor that stood in the road ahead of him. Even from a few meters away he could tell from the expression on the man’s face and by the way he carried himself and reacted that he was still alive.
‘Thank God,’ the diminutive man gasped as he approached Michael. He looked up as Emma stopped the car a short distance behind the Landrover. ‘Thank God,’ he said again, ‘you’re the first people I’ve seen in weeks…’
‘Are you all right?’ Emma asked. She was already out of her car and walking towards the man.
‘I’m okay,’ he replied quickly, chattering like a nervous child. ‘I’m better now I’ve seen you two. I thought I was the only one left around here. I was going to…’
‘What’s your name?’ Michael asked abruptly, cutting across him.
'Philip, Philip Evans,’ he answered.
‘And where do you live?’
The little man gestured towards his house.
‘Here,’ he said, simply.
‘Then let’s get inside,’ Michael suggested. ‘It’s not a good idea for us to be standing out here like this.’
Philip obediently turned and led the others back towards his cottage. Emma looked him up and down as she followed him indoors. He was short and shabbily dressed. A noticeable stoop made him appear much shorter than he actually was and his grubby clothes were worn and had obviously not been cleaned or even changed for several days, maybe a week. His tired face was ruddy, pockmarked and unshaven and his hair greasy, ruffled and unkempt. Philip itched and scratched at himself continually.
They stepped through the low front door and found that inside the house was as vile, odious and squalid as its owner. Dark, dank and musty, it was the perfect breeding ground for countless deadly germs and diseases. Michael immediately wanted to turn around and leave but he knew that he couldn’t. No matter what his first impressions of Philip Evans were he was a survivor and, as such, he felt duty bound to try and do something for him. He was the first survivor they had seen since they’d left the city. More to the point, he was the first survivor they’d found since that first night in the community centre back in Northwich.
‘Sit down,’ Philip said as he closed the door behind them and ushered them both into the living room. ‘Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.’
Emma glanced down at the sofa next to her and decided to remain standing. It was covered with crumpled food wrappers, crumbs and other, less easily identifiable rubbish.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked politely. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just so surprised to see you both. When I heard the noise of your engines I thought that…’
His words faded in volume as he disappeared into the kitchen to fetch drinks (despite neither of the survivors having taken him up on his offer). Glad to be alone for a moment, Michael seized the opportunity to speak privately to Emma.
‘So what do you think?’ he whispered.
‘About what?’ she replied.
‘About him,’ he hissed. ‘What do you think we should do?’
She thought for a moment. She knew what she had to say but didn’t particularly want to say it.
‘He’s a survivor and we should offer to take him with us,’ she said with obvious reluctance.
‘But…?’ he pressed, sensing that she wasn’t telling him everything.
‘But look at the state of this place,’ sh
e continued, gesturing at their cold and stale surroundings. ‘Christ, this house is disgusting. It’s making me feel sick just standing here, and by the look of him he’s bound to be contagious, isn’t he?’
‘We don’t know that for certain, do we?’ Michael argued despite the fact that he agreed with her completely. ‘We’ve got to try and do something for him, haven’t we?’
She nodded dejectedly and then changed the sour expression on her face as Philip returned to the room, still talking.
‘…and after that when we couldn’t find him we decided that something was definitely wrong,’ he babbled, his voice tired. The little man paused and stood still to cough. It was a violent, hacking noise, like a smoker’s rasping early morning cough, and he struggled to catch his breath.
‘You all right?’ Michael asked.
Philip looked up and nodded, his face flushed and red.
‘Fine,’ he wheezed. ‘Just picked up a bit of an infection I think.’
He carried a circular metal tray which he put down on the table after brushing a layer of rubbish down onto the dirty carpet with a single sweep of his arm. He handed Emma a chipped mug and then passed one to Michael. Emma peered into her cup and sniffed it. It was undiluted lemon cordial. She glanced across at Michael who discreetly shook his head and gestured for her to put the mug down.
‘Do you know what’s happened?’ Philip asked.
‘Haven’t got a clue,’ Michael replied.
‘I searched the village but I couldn’t find anyone else alive. I can’t drive so I haven’t been able to get into town. I’ve just been stuck here waiting for someone to come,’ he stopped talking for a second and looked at Michael again. ‘Are you two from town? Are there many of you there?’
Emma answered.
‘We came here from Northwich just over a week ago,’ she replied. ‘And there are just the two of us now. We left a few people there but other than that we hadn’t seen anyone until we found you.’
Philip sank down into an armchair with an expression of bitter disappointment on his face.
