by Sam Kates
Will grinned. “You can see them all if you want. I know the way from here. Past Hyde Park and down to the Palace. Then we can go to Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall and cross the river at Westminster Bridge. You can see the Eye, too.” His face fell a little. “It won’t be working though, I s’pose.”
“Will we be heading south?”
“I think so. More or less. We’ll end up in Lambeth.”
“Oh, Will, we could spend the night in your flat. . . .” She tailed off when she noticed his expression. “What’s wrong?”
Sorrow and fear in equal measure clouded Will’s face. He shook his head firmly and looked away as tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.
“Will? It was only an idea. We don’t have to go anywhere near. . . . Oh.” Bri raised her hand to her mouth as realisation hit home. “Is it your mum and sister? Are they still there, in the flat?”
Will nodded. Bri stepped forward and threw her arms around his thin shoulders. She held him tightly until he stopped quivering.
He pulled away, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Don’t worry, Bri,” he said. His breath hitched as he choked back a last sob. “I know other places we can sleep where the dogs and rats can’t get us. But I know of somewhere in Lambeth even better.”
“What?”
“A cycle shop.”
* * * * *
For three weeks Zach Trent obeyed the voice that he’d heard despite not using his ears. He did not venture into town in search of fresh supplies or survivors. He only left his land to go into the hills and then only far enough to bag fresh meat.
Although his strength had returned as if he’d never been ill, he was running low on certain essentials: oil for the generator and cartridges for his hunting rifle. He had read his supply of books and needed more. Without any radio channels to listen to—he tried every evening but if somebody somewhere was broadcasting, he wasn’t able to pick it up—books were his only source of relaxation. A few more cases of beer would also be welcome.
He wondered about the radio. If there were other survivors, he felt sure that someone would be broadcasting a message. Maybe he would pick up something if he had a CB receiver. Not that he would necessarily respond or go off in search of the other. Zach had found his version of Utopia here in these foothills. The fact that most, maybe all, of mankind had disappeared from the face of the Earth did not alter his needs or desires.
As the days passed, the compulsion not to stray lessened. Imperceptibly, happening unnoticed like the growth of a shoot, the bond to remain where he was loosened.
It was as well. By the end of the third week, his rifle cartridges were all but gone. That was okay—he had his traps and his hunting knife, a nine-inch blade serrated on one edge and wickedly sharp on the other—except for one thing. Wolves had returned to Maine.
At least, one wolf.
For the last three nights he had awoken to howling. A lone voice, a scout maybe, calling to the pack. Signalling that the scent of man had gone from these mountains. Or almost gone.
This night was no different. He awoke to pitch blackness, but did not switch on the lamp. He reached instead for the hunting knife that he kept within easy grasp. The howl rose and undulated like the wind of a storm. It was louder than the sound he had heard the previous three nights. Closer. The wolf was immediately outside the cabin.
Zach slipped out of bed and into clothes. Pants and sweater over his long johns. Enough to keep out the worst of the night cold, while not hampering his ability to move. Now in his mid sixties, his frugal lifestyle had allowed him to regain the wiriness that had begun to turn to flabbiness during the dark days of liquor and gambling.
He gripped the worn leather handle of the knife and noiselessly unlocked the door. The rush of adrenaline flooded his system like an old friend not seen for many years yet as familiar as his own face in the mirror. He could easily be twenty again, standing beneath the dripping jungle canopy, willing his heart to stop beating so loudly that it must bring every Charlie within five hundred yards to his position. As he had been forced to learn in times of combat back then—learn it or die—he waited stock-still until a sense of calm seeped in, not overriding the adrenaline, but taking it and using it to his advantage.
At the same time, less welcome memories tried to intrude: the stink of fear and burning flesh, the screams of dying soldiers and dismembered children, the pleas of fading eyes and grieving mothers, the tastes of napalm fumes and terror. He shoved them away. They would return, as they always did, in his dreams.
Zach opened the door. He kept the hinges well-oiled and they made no sound. A few inches of snow covered the ground, but the overhang of the eaves maintained a clear border around the cabin. He hugged the wall, stepping softly on the clear strip of ground, heading towards the howling. In the still night air, the sound seemed as strident as an air-raid siren. It would soon stop when its maker caught his scent.
The howling turned off as though someone had flicked a switch. Zach stood still, his right shoulder touching the rough wall of the cabin. His senses heightened as his breathing slowed. The next few moments passed as if he was experiencing them in slow motion:
Exhale. Listen.
The soft crackle of frosted grass bending.
Inhale. Listen.
The whisper of stiff fur brushing against bark.
Listen.
The soft snuffle of a snout tasting the air.
Look.
The faintest glint of orange eyes. Unblinking.
Lower chin to protect throat.
Raise knife. . . .
When Zach stepped outside again in the daylight of morning, the carcass of the wolf had disappeared. A scuffed line of blood led across the snow into the trees. He hunkered down and examined the tracks. The snow was stiff with an icy crust so it was difficult to be certain, but he was as sure as he could be. The pack had caught up with the scout.
A lone wolf he could handle. A pack was another thing altogether. If he stayed put without replenishing his rifle ammunition, he would be making himself a prisoner in his cabin.
He thought about leaving and found that the voice that had compelled him to stay had faded. It was still there, but he knew it was no longer strong enough to restrain him.
It was time to leave in search of fresh supplies.
Zach secured the cabin. He had doused the cooking range and switched off the generator before realising that he had done so. They only needed doing if he was intending taking a long absence. He stopped and examined his feelings.
He had sought and found a place to escape company. Somewhere he could avoid contact with other people. Somewhere that provided the solitude he craved.
That craving, the need to be alone, had not gone away. Yet something had changed. A fresh yearning was making itself felt deep inside.
He had lived for many years in these mountains among the trees. He had grown grizzled and hardy, adapted to survive in the harsh winter conditions. He could not remember the last time he had smelled the salty tang of the ocean.
Realisation slowly stole over him. What had driven him here—the crush and clamour of people, everywhere people—had ceased to exist. Maybe entirely. If he wasn’t the last person alive, then surely other survivors would be few and far between. Easily avoided.
His feelings resolved into simple desires: he wanted to see the ocean, walk barefooted on sand, feel the sun on his back in winter, eat fish cooked over a driftwood fire.
Zach topped up the fuel tank of his pick-up and stowed the spare diesel in the back. He placed his rifle and few remaining cartridges, together with his hunting knife, in the cab of the truck.
He pulled onto the track that led down the hill, and got out of the truck to close and lock the gate behind him. He paused and stared at his cabin. He did not know if he would be back.
Zach headed east.
* * * * *
The hotel did indeed resemble a castle, complete with crenulated roofl
ine and towers. However, it didn’t take a close inspection to realise that the archery holes were for show and the battlements fake. The stone from which the building was constructed was a smooth, light grey, not the rough, dark granite of mediaeval vintage, and was not held together with flaking daub through which keen draughts could find a way, but with tightly-pointed builder’s mortar. This was probably a manor house built rather pretentiously in the style of a castle, maybe sixty or so years ago, and since converted to a luxurious and splendidly appointed hotel, set in its own extensive grounds.
The building was the only one on this stretch of coast and it dominated a wide, unsheltered bay. A gravelled parking area in front of the hotel gave way to a sloping lawn that led to the beach. To reach the long strip of sand it would be necessary to clamber over a storm bank of smooth pebbles. Deep, foaming waves rolled in from the North Sea, their tips whipped into froth by the strong wind, breaking fiercely onto the sand and almost touching the line of pebbles before petering out.
Only Dusty seemed pleased to step out into the wind that drove stinging rain into their faces. While he ran down the lawn to the pebbles and back, barking excitedly, Tom and Ceri helped Peter to unload the tools from the boot. Diane stood and stared out to sea, bringing a dark muttering from Ceri about people pulling their weight.
As they lugged the heavy bags to the hotel entrance, Diane joined them. Her hair had wrapped itself around her cheeks and she was smiling. It was so unusual an expression to see on her face that Ceri forgot to be mad at her.
“It’s so bleak here,” said Diane breathlessly. “And wild. I love it.”
Ceri grunted. The woman was right. It was a beautiful, unspoiled place.
They dropped the bags to the gravel in front of the door. Peter stepped forward and took hold of the brass door knob. He twisted and shook it. The door rattled a little in its frame but didn’t open.
“Hmm,” said Peter. “We could smash the glass but I’d rather not. If the inside isn’t ruined by. . . . well, you know, and there’s food in the kitchens, it might be nice to spend the night here.”
“Yes!” said Diane immediately. Ceri had never seen her so animated.
“Why not?” said Ceri. “No reason to rush back to Wick as long as there’s food here and some way of keeping warm.”
“I’m game,” said Tom. “So, yeah, let’s not break the glass. The wind will come howling through if we do.”
“By the same token,” said Peter, “I want to avoid breaking the lock if we can. No good keeping the glass intact if the door’s going to be flapping open in every gust of wind.”
“Why don’t you and Tom see what you can do with the door,” said Diane. “Ceri and I can walk around the building to check for any windows open or other doors that might be easier to break into.” She looked at Ceri, eyebrows raised.
Ceri nodded. “Good idea. I’d rather be doing something than just standing around in this wind. You go left, I’ll go right?”
“Cool,” said Diane with a grin. It made her look a little more attractive, less nondescript. Ceri wasn’t sure what to make of this new, animated Diane. She had at least known where she stood with the old, dour one: firmly in the ‘I can’t stand her’ corner.
Ceri walked along the front of the building, checking windows. They were all firmly closed. The gravelled area continued around the side of the building and to the back where there was space for more parking. A tall, stone wall beyond the gravel driveway ran parallel with the side of the hotel. A wooden door was set into the wall. On it was attached a sign: Proceed with caution. Shooting range.
The windows at the side were also tightly shut. As Ceri neared the back of the building, she could see metallic structures protruding from the wall. They looked like outlets for extractor fans and coolers. The kitchen must be on the other side of the wall, she surmised.
She turned the corner to the back of the hotel and the wind dropped. Ceri could see Diane approaching. Set into the back wall was a white, wooden fire door, the type that normally has a push bar to open from the inside. On the outside, the door contained a grey, metal knob. Ceri took hold of it and twisted. The lock did not disengage, but the door rattled when Ceri shook it. She could see the locking mechanism in the space between the door and the frame. The gap looked wide enough to be able to force the end of a screwdriver into.
“Nothing doing my side,” said Diane.
“I think we should be able to break in through here,” said Ceri. “The lock looks a little flimsy. I’ll bet this door was alarmed so the owners never bothered replacing it with something more sturdy.”
“Think you’re right,” said Diane. “Good work. I’ll go get the others.”
By chiselling away part of the wooden frame, Peter was able to widen the gap between it and the door sufficiently that he could slip the blade of a screwdriver in past the locking mechanism. He wiggled the screwdriver, grunted a few times, swore once or twice, then grinned as the lock clicked open. He pulled the door outwards.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Didn’t even need to break the lock.”
The door was indeed operated from the inside by pressing down on a wide, metal push-bar. Peter pressed it a few times to check that it did work. They all filed in to the kitchen, Dusty trotting ahead, nose to the floor. Enough light entered through windows set high into the walls for them to see so Peter pulled the fire door firmly closed behind them.
Ceri inhaled deeply as she walked down the aisles formed from gleaming stainless steel work surfaces and storage areas. The kitchen was clean but smelled stale and musty, and there was a whiff of rotting vegetables or fruit. She could not detect any death smells, but she had less experience of that odour than the others.
“Tom?” she said. “Can you smell any dead bodies?”
“Not in here,” he said. “But somewhere. . . . I’m not sure.”
They moved from the kitchen through swing doors into a spacious dining room. Although overlaid with a fine layer of dust, everything was orderly: tables laid with clean cloths and cutlery, chairs tucked neatly underneath tables, serving areas clean and uncluttered.
Ceri inhaled again. She detected an odour, something that wasn’t quite mustiness.
“Tom?”
He nodded. “It’s a little stronger here.”
Ceri swallowed. Apart from passing the occasional corpse lying by the side of the road or slumped in a vehicle on their drive to Scotland, Ceri had not seen many rotting bodies, and none close up. She had found it a little unsettling spending the night beneath a couple of corpses in a village pub in Herefordshire, but she had not been able to smell them and hadn’t the faintest inclination to go up to the pub’s living quarters to view them. She suspected that she might have to endure her first close encounter within the next few minutes and steeled herself.
Dusty had gone ahead and Ceri heard him utter a low bark. She followed the others out of the dining room into the hotel foyer. The odour of decay, sweet and off-key, was stronger now and Ceri had no trouble recognising it. Dusty was standing at the foot of a mahogany staircase, staring up the stairs.
Tom walked over to him and bent to ruffle the fur on his sides.
“It’s okay, boy.” He glanced up the stairs. “I think you’re right. That’s where we’ll find them.”
Ceri walked over to the front door. It was bolted top and bottom, and she slid the bolts free. She tried the handle but the door remained locked.
“There’s a keyhole,” she called over her shoulder, “but no key.”
“Here,” said Peter. He was behind the reception area, rummaging in something. He tossed a bunch of keys to Ceri. They landed on the carpet by her feet. “Try these.”
Of the dozen or so keys on the ring, only two looked large enough to be likely candidates to fit the lock. The first one slid in, but she couldn’t turn it. The second turned with a well-oiled click.
“Voilà,” said Ceri, turning the knob and opening the door. Immediately a gust of wind hit her fa
ce, making her eyes sting. She yanked the door shut and tugged at it experimentally. The latch seemed sound and held the door firmly closed. Ceri removed the key from the lock and walked over to the reception desk. “Don’t think we’ll need to lock it again,” she said, handing the keys to Peter. “We can use the bolts if we need to secure it, though I can’t imagine why we would. If you’re right that no one else is coming after us, who is there to lock the door against?”
“Quite,” said Peter. “I’m hoping that one of these keys will open that.” He nodded to a sturdy-looking door behind the reception area. It bore a stern sign: Private—Staff Only. Guest entry strictly prohibited. “I suspect that the guns are stored in there.”
While Peter fiddled with the door and the keys, Ceri glanced around the foyer. The reception counter was carved of the same mahogany as the staircase. While it lent the space an air of superiority, it also made it darker and feel smaller, a little cloying, a sensation not helped by the odour that was stronger near the foot of the stairs.
“Nope,” said Peter, straightening. “None of these.” He returned to the counter and placed the bunch of keys on the surface. “We’ll keep these handy, though. They’ll open something.”
“Can we break in through that door?” asked Tom.
“Probably. It’s tight-fitting and will take a considerable amount of time and energy. Much quicker to locate the key.” He nodded towards the stairs. “I think we’ll find it up there. Near the source of the smell.”
Ceri swallowed hard again and glanced at the stairs. A simple staircase, though elegantly carved and sumptuously carpeted. It swept up to a landing that was illuminated by a large picture window looking out to the back of the hotel, before bending back on itself and curving out of sight. From her vantage point, Ceri could make out a door on the left of the landing. If she had been in a horror film, she thought, at this point the camera would fast-zoom in on that door before switching to a close-up of her terrified face.
“Come on, then,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Let’s find this key.”
