by Tim Lebbon
"I'm sure they do," Jessica says. "They'll smell us."
Jacqueline looks for a full minute before sitting with us again. She hugs her jacket tight around her shoulders and crossed arms. "I can't see anything."
Something lands on the roof of the truck and scampers across the metal, the sound ending as the creature leaps and lands on the soft grass verge with a low thump. It snickers and runs away.
"I need a drink," I say. The others nod and agree in hushed tones, and Jessica and the Irishman open two bottles of wine. Cordell hands out some plastic cups and we each have a cupful of good Merlot. I drain mine quickly. Never was one to sip wine and appreciate its delicate aroma, dance of flavours, full body. Sometimes, I just want to get drunk.
"I've got a couple of beers in my bag," the Irishman says. He smiles at me, nods, and hands me a bottle. "Knew you'd appreciate that." It's Summer Lightning, rich and full of the taste of sunshine.
"Thanks," I say. "You're sure?"
"Wine's good for me," the Irishman says, and the others nod and agree.
Damn, I wish I knew his name! I smile and take the bottle opener from my pocket. Church key, a friend once called it. Allowing entrance to wonders. In this darkened cattle truck, with the sounds of nature known and mysterious deepening the darkness around us, the snick of the lid flipping from the bottleneck makes me feel at home.
"We're so alone," Jacqueline says. "So forgotten."
"We've got hope, now," Jessica replies, and I wonder once again what she lost.
Jacqueline shrugs and drains her wine. "I don't know. Maybe we were clutching at straws."
"What do you mean?" Cordell asks.
"None of us know who he was. Where he came from. Where he went."
"He was here to help us."
"Was he?" Jacqueline pours more wine, stands and stares from the slits in the side of the truck again. "Still nothing out there."
The dark sings with nighttime things, proving Jacqueline wrong.
We take turns, four of us sleeping while the fifth holds the shotgun and keeps a watch, and a listen. I don't think I am sleeping well, but when Cordell wakes me with a harsh nudge, it takes a few seconds for things to arrange themselves in my head. Nobody to remember me, I think, and then I see the look on Cordell's face.
"Jacqueline's dead," he says. "I was keeping watch, and she was sleeping so deeply I decided to take her watch too, and—"
"Hush it!" the Irishman says. "Even if you hadn't fallen asleep, you wouldn't have saved her."
"How can you know that?"
I'm confused. Dead?
Jessica stands from the body in the corner. "She died in her sleep, Cordell. I don't know why . . . maybe her heart just stopped. But look at her." She steps back, inviting us all to look at the body.
"Is that really Jacqueline?" I ask. It's a stupid thing to say, but no one comments. Maybe for a moment they all think the same thing.
"She looks so peaceful," the Irishman says.
"She doesn't look like herself," I say. "So calm."
"Maybe that's how she was before the plagues," Cordell whispers. "And now she's back to how she should be."
We all stand quietly for a while, looking at the huddled form of Jacqueline in the corner of the cattle truck, trying to accept what has happened. In a world where billions have died, this one extra death is so difficult to understand.
"I'll check," Jessica says, her voice fragile as glass, and we all know what she means. She's going to strip Jacqueline and search for signs of disease. What good it will do . . . If she has died from one of the rampant plagues that brought on the end, there's nothing any of us can do about it. We have no idea how we survived; we have no idea why Jacqueline died.
"Maybe she just gave in," I say as I jump from the truck. Cordell follows, standing quietly by my side. I nudge his arm. "Hey. She just gave in."
"You can't know that," he says. "I took her turn at watch. If I'd woken her like I was supposed to—"
"Then she'd have died tomorrow instead of tonight."
He stares at me, and for a moment I see something troubling in his eyes. Anger? Hatred? I'm not sure, but I don't like it. "At least it would have been one more day," he says quietly. "I need a piss." He walks into the ditch beside the motorway and faces away from me, into the field.
The Irishman climbs from the truck, holding his back and groaning as he stretches. He looks at the sky and lights a cigarette. "Gonna be a nice day," he says.
"Really."
"Hey." He touches my face, a shockingly familiar gesture that brings a lump to my throat. "She's no better or worse off than us, you know? It's all borrowed time now."
"We'll remember her," I say.
He frowns, nods. "'Course we will. And when we get to Bar None, we'll raise a few for Jacqueline."
Cordell finishes urinating and climbs the fence into the neighbouring field. There will be no crops this year, but the field is alive with grasses and plants of many varieties. I can hear the hush of stalks against his jeans. A few butterflies rise and flutter away from him, and a cloud of flies forms around his head. He waves at them absently, and I can hear him sobbing.
"He blames himself," I say.
"Nah." Sometimes the Irishman tells me, with a smile bordering on hysteria, that cigarettes are bad for his health. This one he inhales deeply, closing his eyes and letting the smoke drift from his mouth as if testing the breeze.
"You think not?"
The Irishman shakes his head. "Just that there's one less of us now."
I go to say more, but then Jessica jumps from the rear of the cattle truck. She lands awkwardly. She's crying, and that comes as a shock.
"I don't know how she died," she says.
"Just gave up," the Irishman says, and he steps carefully into the ditch and up the other side. He enters the field and walks slowly after Cordell, cigarette smoke hanging in the air to mark his route.
Jessica comes to me and I see her need, lifting my arm and letting her hang onto me for a while. I suspect I'm hanging onto her as well. Her tears are sharp and dry, bitter, and she soon brings herself under control. I don't know what to say.
"Lost someone," she says at last. I'm surprised, thinking that she's opening up, spilling her contained grief.
"Who?"
"Jacqueline. I lost her. No one else, and I feel so selfish crying over that. You—everyone—you've all lost so much more."
I think of Ashley, but I try not to make this about me.
Jessica rubs at her face, smearing an errant tear across her cheek. "It's hard," she says. "Poor Jacqueline." She sighs and moves away from me, creating her own space again. Already she seems back to her normal self.
"We should bury her," I say. For some reason, I think an important moment has passed us by, untouched and unnoticed.
"In the ditch." Jessica points down at the trickle of water standing in the drainage channel.
"The ditch?"
"It's a better burial than most. And it'll be easier to dig. We don't have the right tools."
I begin digging the grave in the side of the ditch. There's a garden hoe in one of the Range rovers, and in the driver's cab of the cattle truck we find an old leather bag containing rusted builder's tools; a trowel, a plane, a hammer. I loosen the soil with the hoe to begin with, them scoop it up and out with the trowel. It's wet but not soaked, and though the muck is heavy, it means that the hole's sides don't collapse.
I work up a sweat and it feels good. For a while I forget why I'm digging this hole. Every now and then the reason smashes back at me, and I remember Jacqueline whispering in the dark corners of the mansion while the rest of us debated, argued and laughed. She never really did any of that. She offered opinions, sometimes, but they were usually disguised as fears. That's the way she'd been living her life, day by day since the end: afraid.
But when I can forget the reason for the hole, I enjoy the physical exercise. After half an hour the Irishman and Cordell return, and Cordell insists
on taking his turn. I'm happy to hand over the hoe and trowel. We all stay close as he digs. I don't know what the Irishman has said to him, but there's something dark gone from his face. He doesn't smile—I don't think I ever see him smile again—but he no longer looks alone.
Jessica takes a turn, and then the Irishman jumps into the rough hole and hacks at the ground with the hoe. He pulls out several great chunks of concrete left over from the road construction, and then climbs out.
"Deep enough," Cordell says. "I'll get her." He climbs into the back of the truck and the three of us wait there awkwardly, listening to the truck's suspension creaking, not looking at each other. He appears at the gate with Jacqueline held in both arms. Suddenly, she looks dead. In the truck she may have been enjoying a peaceful asleep, but now her head's hanging back, her long hair trailing on the ground, and her arms sway with every slight movement.
I go to help but Cordell shakes his head. He steps carefully down the side of the wide ditch, reaches the hole and lowers Jacqueline in. Her feet touch first and he nearly drops her, but he manages to catch her by the arms and lower her down. He brushes a few errant strands of hair from her face, lays her arms alongside her body, and climbs from the hole.
The four of us stand there, looking down at our dead friend and wondering what to say. She's already moved on from this world, and to me the dark sides of the hole look like the beginning of another.
"Did anyone know a song she liked?" Cordell asks.
No one speaks.
"A poem? A book?"
More silence. And after a while, Cordell asks the question that makes us realise just how little we knew Jacqueline. "Does anyone know what religion she is?"
So we stand there for a while saying nothing, because none of us can think of anything to say. I'm glad nobody offers up a prayer. It's been a long time since I've spoken to God, and I can't see that He'd have any place here right now.
My stomach rumbles. The Irishman glances at me, eyes glittering.
"We should head off," Cordell says. "Long way to go."
It only takes us a few minutes to cover Jacqueline with the wet soil. We leave her face until last, as if hoping it was all a mistake and she will splutter herself awake. But her eyes remain closed, even as earth patters down on them, and we hide her pale skin from whatever the world has become.
We decide to continue with both Range Rovers and the bike. The bike is my idea; I love riding it, having time to think my own thoughts without feeling responsible for someone else. Cordell drives one vehicle, saying he'd prefer to be alone. Jessica drives the other with the Irishman for company.
"We make good time, we may even get there today," Jessica says.
"Hope so." I'm pulling on the heavy jacket. It's already warm, but I've come off the bike twice so far. Third time, maybe I won't be so lucky. I'll take a bit of sweat and discomfort in exchange for some decent padding. If only we had a helmet.
"Think we should mark it?" the Irishman says. He's looking back at Jacqueline's grave.
"No," Cordell says. "Let's leave her alone."
"It's quiet," I say, and for the first time I really notice just how quiet it's become. No birds singing in the trees, no animals calling from across the fields. Not even a breeze to carry our voices away.
"They see and hear us now," the Irishman says.
We break the silence with our engines and go on our way.
The road is surprisingly clear. We pass many cars, lorries, vans, buses, crashed motorcycles, and even a couple of tractors, but it's rare we have to stop and push vehicles out of the way. There are frequent pile-ups, and occasionally the twisted wreckage is burnt black, road melted and reset around the chaos. At one point we pass an accident on the other carriageway involving at least a hundred vehicles, swathes of them distorted and charred by terrible fires. The central barrier is bent and buckled with the weight of the calamity, but it succeeded in letting nothing through. It must have been awful. I cruise by slowly, and as we round a slow bend and head up a hillside I can see how far back the waiting traffic is piled. It's nose to bumper, side to side, all three lanes of the motorway and the hard shoulder jammed with vehicles. I can see the noses and tails of cars and trucks protruding from the ditch on the far side, and I wonder how many of them had been forced off the road.
There are bodies, of course. Hundreds of them, thousands. I don't see many, because all the car windows are up and most of them are slick with moss and rot. I pass by so much tragedy and try to imagine none of it, though I'm not totally successful. I see one car with a burst suitcase strapped to its roof, clothes and fluffy toys leaking out, and I cannot help but imagine the scene inside as the parents and children died.
It's horrible. Unbearable. I begin to cry, but it's anger I feel most of all. If only I had something or someone at whom to direct that anger. A reason, a cause, an explanation for all of this. But life is a mystery now more than ever before. Death can never offer an easy answer.
We travel for three hours before stopping for food and a drink. Jessica passes around some water, but then the Irishman opens a bottle of wine and we all gratefully accept a plastic cup. It's white and warm and I crave a beer, but it still tastes good.
The sun is bright and hot today, sky devoid of clouds. We sit behind the Range Rovers beside the road, and if I look directly out across the fields I cannot see any wrecked cars. It's almost as if nothing has happened. The countryside is wilder than usual, and the fields no longer have their regimented look, but if I close my eyes I can almost believe we're back in normal times.
If only I could hear an aircraft passing overhead, or the baying of cows, or the slow drone of para-gliders taking off from the neighbouring hills.
At some point I drift into sleep, and I begin to remember for real.
Eight: Summer Lightning
It took me a long time to find the house I really wanted. Six months to sell my London flat, another three months living in rented accommodation in Cardiff, but then I travelled to West Wales for a weekend and I found this house, and we fell in love with each other.
Sounds strange, a house falling in love with a person. But that's what happened. When I arrived to view, the front door was unlocked, even though the estate agent said no one had been inside for almost six weeks. I opened the door and entered, and I knew where everything was. I had never been here before—never even been to West Wales—but to the left was the kitchen, down the hallway and under the stairs was the door to the study, to the right was the living room, and if I walked through there and opened the double doors I'd see the dining room, painted white and dominated by an old oak dining suite rescued from a dilapidated manor house years earlier.
I knew. But I went through the motions anyway, mainly because I was scared that I knew. Perhaps I wanted to find something I did not recognise, a room I had never imagined which would make my recollection of somewhere I had never been imperfect. And that imperfection would bring comfort. So I looked downstairs and up, and found nothing out of place.
By the time I opened the back door and went into the garden, I knew that I loved the house. There was no fear or confusion, just a certainty that I should be here, and I sat on a flaking metal chair on the timber decking and rang the estate agent. He called back five minutes later to accept my offer. Four weeks later, I was in.
The sun was kissing the horizon. The wine sat in a cooler before me, resting on the metal table I had bought to match the garden furniture already there. I sat on the same metal chair; repainted now, and softened by a thick cushion. I closed my eyes and sighed.
"It's a beautiful night," I said.
I opened my eyes when somebody screamed.
The voice had come from the other side of the house. I dropped my wine glass, jumped aside as it shattered on the decking and ran indoors. Cool shadows welcomed me in and eased me back out, and I ran down the short gravelled driveway to the quiet country road beyond.
There was another scream just before I reached the fr
ont gates, coming from behind the screen of leylandii bordering my property. This scream was more controlled and considered, and more filled with panic.
I opened the smaller of the two gates, stepped out into the road and saw the girl in white. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, certainly no older, and her dazzling trousers and blouse were spattered with blood. She had fallen from her bike. She held her hand up in front of her, staring at the intermittent spray of blood showering from her wrist.
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" I said.
The girl looked at me, wide white eyes in a blood-mask.
As I ran to her I slipped the belt from my jeans and the phone from my pocket. I dialled emergency, knelt beside the girl and smiled as I waited for the connection. I switched the phone to loudspeaker and sat it beside me on the road.
As I spoke to the dispatcher, told her where we were and what had happened, I tied the belt around the girl's arm. Pulled tight. Slipped the clasp together and raised her hand higher.
I had no idea what I was doing.
The dispatcher insisted on remaining on the line, but it was the girl I spoke to.
"What's your name?"
"Jemma."
"What happened?"
"I fell off my bike."
I almost laughed. Stupid question, obvious answer.
Jemma's panic had lessened now that I had taken control. Blood still ran from the gash on her wrist and palm, but it no longer sprayed, so I hoped that was good.
"Is she woozy?" the telephone said.
Jemma shook her head and I said no.
"You live there?" she said, nodding back at the house.
"Yes. Not long."
"It's a lovely place," she said. "I was in there once, when the last owners were there. Couple of years ago. It felt like home." She looked away, embarrassed, but I nodded and told her I knew what she meant.
I asked Jemma if she wanted to come inside but the dispatcher told us to wait by the roadside, because the ambulance was on its way. So we sat in the sun, and I loosened the belt every few minutes to allow some blood through, and it was as though we'd known each other for ages. Jemma was no longer scared, and adrenaline kept me going.
