Snow disappears as it lies to rest atop the three-inch layer on the motorway. The only cars on the road are those long abandoned on the hard shoulder, wearing thick layers of sparkling white. Under tyres, boots and trailers, the snow crunches its objections.
Having pushed her bike for hours on end, Kerry’s arms are past aching. Having not spoken for a longer amount of time, she fears her lips are frozen shut. The air is bitterly cold, and frosty flakes land and melt in her damp red hair. If she was still crying, she knew she’d have frozen tears on her pink cheeks.
Ahead of her, Preston pushes his own bike, leaving an easier trail for her and Gabriel’s bikes. Behind her she can hear Gabriel’s solemn steps. He’s stopped crying, too, but she can still hear the occasional sniffle. She recalls the pain in her chest when she was his age, when her brother died just feet away from her. Yes, she knows exactly how Gabriel is feeling. There’s nothing she can say. Nothing will help.
Beth’s funeral lasted the whole morning. Preston seemed to have spent the night digging her grave in the hard, frosty dirt behind the barn. He’d been decent enough to close her eyes and pull her hat over the bullet hole in her head before Gabriel saw her body.
The image of Preston carrying Beth’s lifeless form into the barn on Christmas morning, only hours ago, seems forever seared in Kerry’s head, right next to the image of Gabriel’s face when he discovered his mother’s demise. And the sound that had escaped him was... Well, it was agony. Her heart broke with his as she watched him fall to his knees, screaming and sobbing for his mother. He pleaded with her to wake up, to stay with him... Even Preston seemed solemn.
It was nice, at least, that Bethany Singer was laid to rest in a winter wonderland. There were no flowers, but the snow almost made up for the fact.
Tears pool in Kerry’s eyes, and she closes them against the torrent of memories and emotions that swirl within her. She must remain composed, at least for now. Preston has made no indication of stopping, and she has no idea when they will. She has to be strong.
Time eludes her, but she’s certain it’s almost dinner time. They should be eating Christmas dinner now. They should be back in the barn with Beth, singing carols. She wonders what they’ll eat instead, and when that will be. Her stomach grumbles in agreement.
As the road stretches endlessly ahead, Kerry keeps her gaze fixed on Preston, whose cat looks less than pleased about being dragged along a snowy track atop a bouncing trailer. The surrounding foliage bows under the weight of the snow, stark against the bright white sky. It’s as if the world has ended all over again, and they’re the only people left in the world. Kerry can almost see the ghost of her child-self running ahead and throwing herself down to make snow angels, right in the middle of the road. Baby Gabriel would giggle and clap, Beth would smile and Preston would look on disapprovingly.
Another hour of walking passes, and Kerry’s legs throb. Her throat feels narrow as a pinhole, and she wonders if any sound will escape her lips if she were to attempt to call after Preston. But finally, out of the mist, something appears in the distance. A sigh of relief behind her tells Kerry that Gabriel has spotted it, too. Despite her screaming limbs, she pushes forward, eager to stop.
The building ahead of them is small, no bigger than her parents’ old living room, with red brick walls and a black sloping roof, barely visible under its white blanket of frost. A large white flag with a black exclamation mark on it flies atop it, struggling against the falling snow. It could be a very small house for one, but Kerry knows this building was not built for long periods of use. It’s a refugee shelter, for any Inlanders temporarily stranded in the Outlands and in need of rescue. Such shacks are dotted around motorways, but they’re few and far between – Kerry shudders to think how long they could’ve been looking for one of these if they’d gone the other way.
A large silver button beside the sturdy metal door greets them as they approach, and Preston pushes it to unlock the door, which obliges with a heavy clunk. They pile in, and as Preston applies the manual lock – a thick deadbolt – something whirs to life overhead and lights blink on. Kerry notes the radiator in the corner and prays that the whirring sound is taking care of heating up the room.
The building is made up of just two rooms: the waiting area itself and a toilet. The waiting room is furnished with lines of chairs. In the far corner, by a crusty, barred window, a bed sits, topped only by a bare mattress and a deflated pillow. Beside it, on a small metal table, is a bright red telephone, stark against its grey surroundings. The grey, mouldy walls are dotted with graffiti tags, some romantic and others crude. The blinking lights buzz overhead.
Abandoning his bike, Preston disappears into the toilets. Gabriel, still holding his handlebars, dissolves into tears. Sensing his sorrow, Ratbag leaps neatly off the top of his trailer and rubs affectionately against Gabriel’s legs. Kerry gently takes his bike from him and parks it against the wall before returning to him and folding her arms around him. Tears brim in her own eyes as she strokes his head.
Somehow Kerry manages to manoeuvre them over to a couple of chairs, where they sit locked in trembling embrace. The cat sits solemnly beside them, a loyal guard. Preston seems to know to leave them be, for they sit for a long time, swaying softly and mourning undisturbed. When Gabriel stops crying he gets up and walks, zombie-like, to the dusty bed in the corner and collapses onto it. The cat follows, curling up against him, and Gabriel buries his wet face in its fur. After digging Beth’s old blanket out of her trailer and draping it gently over Gabriel, Kerry follows Preston into the toilets.
More inappropriate graffiti greets her as she enters the unisex toilets. She finds Preston sitting on the cold tile floor, banging the back of his head softly and repetitively against the hard stone wall, a smouldering cigarette hanging from his fingers. Smoke and mould swirl in a cocktail of smells as she sits down beside him, opposite a stall with a half-unhinged door. The mirrors to her right are cracked and caked in frost. A puddle under one of the sinks has completely frozen. It’s obviously been a while since anyone used this shelter.
Unafraid of an outburst (one seems unlikely after the energy they’d already exerted today), Kerry threads the fingers of her left hand through the fingers of his free hand. It always amuses her in a sick way, how she doesn’t have enough fingers to slot into the gaps of any other hand.
‘Please stop,’ she whispers, and Preston obediently ceases hitting his head.
Feeling bold, and with not much else to lose today, Kerry rests her own head on his shoulder as his head leans back against the wall. She can feel his gaze on their entwined hands. She peeks up at him as he takes a half-hearted drag on his cigarette.
‘You can picture it, can’t you?’ she says softly. Preston says nothing, but she knows he’s waiting for her to elaborate. ‘Somewhere, in some dimension, Beth is shaking hands with David. They lock eyes and they smile. They have so much to talk about while they sit, perhaps below a willow tree, beside a lake, and await our reunion.’
Smoke streams from between crystal white teeth, warming the frosty air, and they watch it swim lazily before them. Kerry realises that her thumb is stroking Preston’s knuckle, but neither of them moves away.
‘I may not be right,’ she breathes, swiping a runaway tear off her numb cheek, ‘and it may not be true... But I’d like to think that somewhere, somehow, they have each other.’
More than ever Kerry wishes she knew what Preston is thinking. He looks numb, empty. He looks like he’s dead, too.
His voice is familiar and alien all at once. ‘Hello?’
The battered calendar sits atop Kerry’s lap as she soaks in the warmth from the radiator, twirling the phone cord around her finger. She absentmindedly traces the phone number on its back as Basil speaks into her ear.
Boxing Day sees the surviving Furious Four members spread around the shelter. Preston exercises on one end of the room, and on the other end Gabriel pretends to read the Two Towers so no one will talk to him.
Kerry gazes through the bars on the misty window, but all she can see is frosty white. She hopes the snow has at least stopped.
‘It’s Kerry,’ she says into the receiver, which is cold in her hand.
‘Oh... Hi.’
‘Kerry Twain,’ she elaborates, ‘from No Man’s Land.’
‘I knew which Kerry you meant,’ Basil laughs. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’
‘I have some questions for you,’ says Kerry, ignoring his.
‘I suppose Outlanders don’t really do Christmas,’ muses Basil obliviously. ‘What did you want to ask, Kerry?’
Glancing over at Gabriel, who now tosses a sock back and forth for Ratbag, Kerry shields her mouth over the phone with her free hand. The last thing she needs is a reaction. Her gaze remains fixed on Gabriel as she speaks again.
‘Does the name Desmond Gruger sound familiar to you?’ she murmurs, relieved to see that Gabriel doesn’t react – he hasn’t heard.
Basil pauses. Then, ‘Well, yeah. It’s not called Gruger’s Disease for nothing. But if you’ve got a bone to pick with Gruger Junior you should probably get in line.’
Frowning, Kerry asks, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, you’d have to be living under a rock – Sorry, I only mean...’
‘It’s okay,’ she says with a small smile. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, Desmond is the son of the infamous Andrew Gruger,’ he says simply.
She sighs. ‘It’s a very noise-cancelling rock I’m living under, Basil. You’re going to have to give me a little bit more than that.’
‘Andrew Gruger created the virus,’ Basil explains, and Kerry feels her stomach begin to drop. ‘He orchestrated the entire apocalypse.’
Cursing under her breath, Kerry almost drops the phone. Across the room, Gabriel continues to play with the cat, oblivious, but Preston seems to sense Kerry’s discomfort. He ceases his sit-ups and stands, his interest piqued. She meets his gaze, her expression grim. She almost forgets Basil on the other end of the phone.
‘Uh, are you there?’
‘Yes,’ she replies hoarsely, breaking eye contact with Preston, ‘sorry. I’m here.’
‘What do you want with Desmond Gruger, anyway? Have you been contracted to assassinate him?’ Basil chuckles at his own joke.
Kerry lowers her voice, so low she’s unsure if he even catches what she says: ‘Gabriel is his son.’
Silence greets her, and again she wonders if he’s still waiting for her response. But he replies eventually, with only one, shocked syllable.
‘Oh,’ he says.
Acknowledgement
I'd like to thank Jess for being my first reader, Mum for being my biggest fan and J. R. R. Tolkien for creating the Lord of the Rings franchise. Thanks to Conor for his advice. Thanks to wintercoco on Fiverr for my beautiful cover illustration. Thanks to everyone else who needs thanks. I'm terrible at these things. See you in book two.
About The Author
Samantha Rendle
Samantha Rendle, better known as Sam to her peers and Samantha Aimee to her YouTube following, lives in Bristol with her mum, sister and beloved Jack Russell/Yorkshire Terrier cross. When she isn't working in a convenience store, she enjoys scrapbooking, making videos and skipping. Oh, and writing, of course, though she isn't that good at writing about herself. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram if you fancy.
After the End: The Furious Four is her second self-published novel. The other one has been discontinued but that's probably for the best.
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