Autumn a-1 Read online

  The unexpected and much needed outpouring of emotion which Emma and Michael shared acted as a relief valve – diffusing otherwise insurmountable pressure, soothing troubled minds and breaking down unnecessary (and imaginary) barriers. Once their tears had dried (it could have been minutes or hours later – neither was completely sure) they began to relax and then, gradually, to talk freely again. Michael made them both a drink of hot chocolate which they drank together as they watched the fire die.

  ‘You know,’ Michael yawned, lying on his back and watching the shadows flickering on the ceiling, ‘I’d have bought a house like this if I could have afforded it.’

  Emma, lying at right angles to him with her head resting on his stomach, smiled to herself.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, lifting himself up onto his elbows and looking across at her.

  ‘Yes, really,’ she replied. ‘It’s a dream house, isn’t it. A lick of paint and it could be beautiful.’

  He sighed and yawned again.

  ‘Apart from half a fucking million rotting bodies on the other side of the fence it’s okay, isn’t it,’ he mumbled sarcastically.

  Emma ignored him. She tried to stifle a yawn but couldn’t.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said.

  ‘Want to go to bed?’ he asked.

  ‘No point. I won’t sleep.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  His elbows aching, Michael lay back down again. He scratched the side of his face and then rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved for three or four days. He couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been but it didn’t seem to matter. He put his hands behind his head and basked in front of the fire.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the bodies,’ he said, his voice quiet, ‘then I could put up with this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I wish everything was back as it was,’ he explained. ‘All I’m saying is that I could deal with it all a lot better if the dead bodies had stayed dead. I can handle there being only a handful of us left, I’m just having trouble coping with the fact that it’s a constant fucking battle.’

  ‘It’s not a battle.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ he insisted. ‘Of course it is. If we want food then we have to fight for it. We have to sneak out, grab as much as we can and then sneak back like bloody mice. If we want heat and light then we have to be ready to be surrounded by those frigging things outside. It’s a fucking battle and it’s not fair.’

  For a second Michael sounded like a spoilt child. But Emma knew that he was right and she agreed with everything he said. Had it not been punishment enough to have lost everything that ever mattered to them? Why now did they have to continue to suffer like this?

  ‘And what really gets me,’ he continued, ‘is the fact that the bloody things are already dead. You can’t kill them. I bet if you put a fucking bullet between their eyes they’d still keep coming at you.’

  Emma didn’t respond. She knew it was important for him to talk but this was a conversation that she didn’t particularly want to prolong. She reminded herself that it was obviously doing Michael good. For too long they had each kept their fears and emotions bottled up for fear of upsetting the other two and disturbing the fragile peace and shelter that they’d found at Penn Farm. In the last twenty-four hours Carl had proved that holding onto private pain and frustration was not necessarily the best thing to do. His internal conflict and personal torture had driven him to take action which, from where she was standing, appeared tantamount to suicide.

  ‘Want another drink?’ Michael asked, disturbing her train of thought.

  ‘What?’ she mumbled, only half-listening.

  ‘I asked if you wanted another drink.’

  ‘No thanks. Do you want one?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘So why did you ask then?’

  ‘Don’t know. Just something to say I suppose.’

  ‘What’s wrong with saying nothing.’

  Michael covered his eyes.

  ‘Too quiet,’ he replied.

  ‘And what’s wrong with silence?’

  ‘It lets you think too much.’

  ‘Don’t you want to think?’

  ‘No, not any more. I want a break from thinking.’

  ‘But that’s a stupid thing to say. You’re always thinking, aren’t you?’

  He yawned, stretched his arms and then pulled them back and covered his face again.

  ‘There’s thinking and there’s thinking, isn’t there?’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Of course there is. Have you ever sat down with a group of friends and talked about nothing in particular?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Have you ever had one of those pointless conversations where you spend hours discussing really bloody stupid things? You know, when you find yourself arguing about the colour of your favourite superhero's shorts or something like that?’

  Emma smiled.

  ‘I can’t ever remember talking about superhero’s shorts, but I know what you mean.’

  ‘I remember when I was a kid, in the summer holidays, we’d get up early and disappear into the park for hours. We’d be there for most of the day and we wouldn’t actually do anything. We’d walk around and play and fight and…’

  ‘You need to switch off,’ Emma said as Michael’s voice trailed away into silence. ‘We both do. We weren’t designed for this kind of life. Your mind and body can’t cope if you keep going at full speed all the time.’

  ‘So when are you and me going to switch off then?’ he asked. ‘When are we going to be able to do something without worrying about the consequences?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Because I think you’re right, we’re both going to need to, Em. I think that somehow we’re going to have to try and find a way to do it.’

  ‘Meditation,’ Emma suggested. ‘We could meditate in shifts.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Like you say, we’ve got to learn to switch off and disconnect from everything. If we don’t then one or even both of us will probably lose it big time.’

  ‘So when was the last time you managed to switch off and disconnect?’ he asked, semiseriously.

  Emma thought carefully for a couple of seconds.

  ‘About six months ago,’ she laughed.

  Once their frustrations had been aired and discussed, Michael and Emma talked for hours. Their long and rambling conversation covered everything and nothing.

  ‘We’re you born in Northwich, Mike?’

  ‘Just outside. What about you?’

  ‘No, I just studied there.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘It was okay.’

  ‘Just okay?’

  ‘Yes, it was okay.’

  ‘I liked it. All right so it had it’s fair share of penthouses and it’s fair share of shit-holes but everywhere does. It was home.’

  ‘I much prefer being out in a place like this. Not at the moment, of course, but before all this happened I was always happier out in the country away from the noise and the concrete and the people.’

  ‘And me. I used to try and get away as often as I could. I’d just get in the car and drive for a couple of hours and see where I ended up. I’d go and lie down in a field or walk along a river or something…’

  ‘Didn’t go fishing did you?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because I hate fishing. It’s a bloody barbaric sport.’

  ‘Bloody boring sport.’

  ‘I used to camp. I’d pack a rucksack and a tent and catch a lift to somewhere remote.’

  ‘And then what would you do.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Emma, do you miss the television?'

  ‘I miss the noise and normality of it, but not much else.’

  ‘I miss the weather.’

  ‘The weather?’

  ‘I never realised how much I relied on weather
forecasts until now. I really miss knowing what the weather’s going to do next.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter anymore though, does it?’

  ‘Suppose not. It didn’t really matter anyway but I still want to know.’

  ‘Just looking at the telly switched off reminds me of everything that’s gone now.’

  ‘Did you used to watch a lot of films?’

  ‘I used to watch more films than anything else.’

  ‘And I bet you never really listened to the radio.’

  ‘No, not very often. Why?’

  ‘I’ve got this theory that people who watched a lot of films and who didn’t listen to the radio always had strong personalities.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Because you’re the kind of person who knows what you want if you don’t listen to the radio. If you listen to the radio you have to sit through hours of crap music, crap adverts and pointless conversations just to get to hear to a couple of minutes of something you like.’

  ‘I suppose. I’m not convinced though.’

  ‘I never listened to the radio, not even in the car. I was always a CD or cassette man. You always knew where you were with a cassette.’

  ‘So how’s this all going to end, Em?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are things ever going to sort themselves out?’

  ‘I doubt it. Bloody stupid question really.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘I think it’ll get worse before it gets any better.’

  ‘Think so? Shit, how could it get any worse?’

  ‘Disease. There are millions of bodies lying rotting in the streets, aren’t there?’

  ‘What about insects then?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Rotting bodies and more disease is going to mean more insects, isn’t it?’

  ‘It might do. Probably.’

  ‘And rats. There are going to be fucking hundreds of rats about in the cities.’

  ‘Emma, is there anybody you can think of that you’re glad is dead?’

  ‘Bloody hell, what kind of a question is that?’

  ‘Come on, be honest. Is there anyone out of all the people you knew who you’re actually glad is dead?’

  ‘No. Christ, you’re sick at times.’

  ‘No I’m not, I just don’t bother with bullshit. There were a few people in my life who I’m happy aren’t about anymore.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I worked with a bloke who was a complete bastard. He had a wife who just doted on him. She’d have done absolutely anything to make him happy. She had two part-time jobs as well as looking after three kids.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘Nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing. He was qualified and everything, just couldn’t be bothered to get off his backside and do anything with his life.’

  ‘So why did you want him dead? What did he ever do to you?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted him dead. He didn’t do anything to me.’

  ‘So why did you hate him?’

  ‘I didn’t say I hated him. He used to be quite a laugh actually.’

  ‘So why are you happy he’s dead?’

  ‘Don’t know really. He just always pissed me off. Suppose it was because I couldn’t be that way. He was just a waste of space. He didn’t add anything to his family, he just took from them. It never seemed right.’

  ‘Do you think you would have got married?’

  ‘Don’t know. Probably. I would have liked to have settled down and had a family eventually.’

  ‘So did you ever get close?’

  ‘No. I always thought I’d know instantly when I met the woman I was going to marry, but it never happened.’

  ‘I got engaged when I was eighteen.’

  ‘How old are you now? Christ, I can’t believe I’ve never asked your age before.’

  ‘I’m twenty-three.’

  ‘So why didn’t it work out?’

  ‘Because I was left doing all the work while he sat on his backside, same as your mate and his wife. Jesus, he broke my heart. I would have done just about anything for him but he wasn’t prepared to do anything for me.’

  ‘So you must be glad that he’s not around?’

  ‘Not really. Actually I still miss him.’

  Another hour and the virtually constant stream of questions, revelations and personal admissions had all but dried up. By three o’clock the two of them were sprawled out together on the rug in front of what remained of the fire, relaxing in the fading warmth of the lightly glowing embers. Michael woke up when Emma shuffled in her sleep and snored. In turn his sudden startled movements woke her.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked as he untangled himself from her legs. Their bodies had become innocently twisted together in the night.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she mumbled, her words dulled with sleep.

  Michael dragged himself up onto all fours and shuffled round until he was in a similar position to Emma. Exhausted, he collapsed back down next to her. He instinctively reached out and put his arms around her body, holding her tightly and subconsciously shielding and protecting her from anything that might happen in the remaining dark hours of the night.

  37

  By three-thirty Carl was fast approaching the outskirts of the city of Northwich. He had driven at an increasingly cautious speed – as his journey had progressed, so his fatigue had mounted. As his tiredness had climbed towards dangerous levels he had been forced to concentrate even harder, and that extra concentration quickly drained his already severely depleted reserves of energy and determination.

  As the dark shadows of the once familiar city engulfed him, his heart began to pound in his chest with more and more force and confusing, conflicting emotions constantly raged through his tired brain. Although part of him felt comforted and reassured that the journey was almost at an end, at the same time he was filled with cold dread and trepidation at the thought of what might be waiting for him in the desolate streets of Northwich.

  Everything looked depressingly featureless and similar in the low light of early morning. It took a while before Carl was completely sure that the greenery of the countryside had finally given way to the harsh plastic and concrete of the decaying city. The lack of any illumination surprised and disorientated him. For some stupid reason he had half-expected to find some kind of light in the town. As it was the visibility in the city proved to be exactly the same as it had been out in the country. It was only the shapes of the grey shadows which surrounded him that had changed.

  He slowed the bike to the lowest speed he dared travel at and looked desperately from side to side, hoping he would see something he recognised that would point him in the right direction. He knew the city like the back of his hand but tonight he couldn’t see anything resembling a familiar landmark. Despite having reduced his speed he still drove past the road signs far too quickly to be able to read any of them. Most were covered with a layer of grime and what appeared to be lichen or moss.

  Memory told him that the motorway he had been following bisected the city from east to west and he knew that at some point he would come upon another junction that would lead to the motorway which led to the north and south. He passed a slip road and then cursed under his breath when he realised that had been the exit which would have taken him close to the Whitchurch Community Centre and then out towards the suburb of Hadley where he and his family had lived. Taking care to avoid the wreckage strewn across the carriageway he turned the bike around and doubled-back on himself.

  Once off the motorway the roads narrowed and the number of obstacles in Carl’s path seemed to increase. Tall city centre offices, apartments and shops lined the sides of the road he followed making him feel claustrophobic and trapped and further exaggerating the nausea and panic with which he already suffered. He turned right towards Hadley and the community centre before being forced to brake suddenly. The road ahead of him was blocked across it
s full width by a petrol tanker which had jack-knifed and which now lay on its side like the hopeless corpse of a beached whale. The light was so poor that he didn’t see the wreck until he was almost on top of it. He slammed on the brakes and pulled and steered the bike as best he could, leaning over to one side with all his weight to desperately try and force the machine to turn in the tightest possible arc. Just at the moment he thought he had succeeded in avoiding a collision the bike kicked out from underneath him, sending him tumbling across the uneven tarmac. He collided with the remains of a burnt out car and lay still for the briefest of moments, stunned and unable to move. Through blurred eyes he watched helplessly as the bike skidded across the ground towards the tanker, sending a shower of sparks shooting up into the cold air as it scraped along the surface of the road. Dazed and unsteady, he forced himself to get up and run over to the bike. Groaning with pain and effort he lifted it up and restarted the stalled engine. With precious seconds to spare he managed to ride away before the closest few bodies of a shuffling crowd were upon him. He had been off the bike and on the ground for less than thirty seconds but already dozens of the creatures were swarming nearby. He escaped by carving a ruthless and bloody path right through the centre of the desperate gathering.

  Now that he had an idea of where he actually was the roads gradually became more familiar. Although the relentless darkness and his cloying fear were both cruel and unforgiving, he felt sure that he was infuriatingly close to the community centre that the survivors had used as a base. There was movement in the shadows all around him and he sensed that thousands of bodies were nearby. But then, finally, the light from the bike illuminated the turn into the road he had been looking for. Just that last turning, followed immediately by a sharp right into the car park, and he was there. Momentarily ecstatic, he steered around familiar cars (Stuart Jeffries’ car which had been used as a beacon that first night and the high-class car that he himself had arrived in) and screeched to a halt outside the community centre. He banged his fist on the door.

  ‘Open up!’ he yelled desperately, fighting to make himself heard over the roar of the bike. ‘Open the bloody door!’

  He anxiously glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the dark silhouettes of countless stumbling figures were pouring into the car park after him. Despite their forced, laborious movement they were approaching with a frightening speed and determination.