by Amy Cross
I set a small fire going and place the pot on some sticks, and then I step back.
Suddenly I feel a sharp, twisting pain at the base of my back. Wincing, I stumble slightly before supporting myself against the side of the farmhouse, and then I have to slide down and sit on the edge of an old crate. The pain is getting worse and worse, as if the nerves are rubbing red raw, and no amount of stretching or changing position seems to help. I've had this pain before, of course, but usually only in small flashes. This time, however, the agony seems to be settling in for the long haul, and I finally lean back and grit my teeth as I wait in hope for it to pass.
Finally, the pain at least subsides, although I can still feel a faint throbbing sensation as I start to get my breath back.
“Derek!” Craig calls out from somewhere around the other side of the farmhouse. “Derek, where are you?”
I take another deep breath. There's no way that I'm willing to let him know about this latest little attack, just as I never tell him about the headaches or the occasional traces of blood in the toilet bowl.
“Derek!”
Sighing, I haul myself up, and thankfully the pain doesn't become significantly worse. Still, it takes me a moment to regather my composure, and I turn around just as Craig hurries into view.
“I saw someone!” he says, with a hint of concern in his voice.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I saw someone, out there in the forest. I was checking the potatoes, and out of the corner of my eye I spotted movement. So I turned and looked, and I saw a figure ducking out of sight.”
“What kind of figure?” I ask, immediately thinking back to the creature that was here five years ago. “Was it human?”
He nods.
“Why would someone come here?” I continue.
“Maybe they just happened to stumble across the place,” he suggests. “I mean, it's five years since Donald and the others left, and we haven't seen a single other person since. Even if there are only a handful of people left out there, it makes sense that eventually one of them would find us.”
“You're probably mistaken,” I tell him. “Perhaps you saw a deer, or -”
“It was a person, I'm sure of it. I called out and went over to try to find him, but he was gone. I guess I don't blame him, he's probably scared.”
“And did you get a close look at this fellow?”
“Not really. I might be wrong, but I think he was wearing some kind of camouflage jacket. And do you remember yesterday afternoon, when I thought I heard an engine in the distance?”
“You heard no such thing,” I tell him.
“What if someone's out there?” he asks. “Even if they can't help us, we could maybe find out a little more about what's going on.”
“Or we could end up getting our throats slashed,” I suggest, “by some maniac who thinks we have a decent little set-up here.”
“I was thinking about maybe putting a sign out there,” he replies, “letting them know that we're friendly.”
“And are we friendly?” I ask. “Do we really want strangers showing up?”
“Why wouldn't we?”
“We don't know what they might bring with them,” I point out, as I try to ignore another flicker of pain in my back. “I've had, to say the least, very mixed experiences with strangers ever since the world went down the drain. I'm not sure that I'd automatically want to invite any Tom, Dick or Harry to come and join us.”
“So you think we should just stay here forever like this?”
“I think we should be careful,” I tell him. “Donald took his shotgun when he left, remember? We're armed with nothing more than a few kitchen knives.”
“I'm going to do it,” he says firmly. “If nothing else, I want to hear what's going on out there in the world. I want to know whether there's any hope left.”
“It'll be the death of us,” I mutter as he turns and heads inside.
As soon as he's out of sight, I ease myself back down onto the crate. The pain in my back is coming and going now, but I think that overall something seems to have clicked down there. I'm not far off turning eighty, and the past few years haven't exactly been easy. My body is slowly but surely starting to break down and there's nothing I can do to reverse the process. Soon I won't even be able to help Craig, and I already think that leaving this farm would kill me.
He wants to know about the rest of the world, and I understand that. But if he decides that he has to leave, I won't last long here without him. The worst part is, I know that wanting him to stay is so utterly, irredeemably selfish.
Twenty-Five
“A lot of people went crazy,” Craig says that evening, as we sit eating left over scraps of rabbit meat for dinner, “but some didn't. You and I didn't. Donald and Sharon, Adam, Jessie... Well, maybe Jessie went a little nuts, but the point is that plenty of people survived. So it stands to reason that at some point, order's going to be restored.”
“You have faith in mankind,” I mutter, as I feel the painful knot burning in my back. “I hope you're right.”
“Are you okay, Derek?”
“I'm fine,” I reply, with my mouth full of food.
“Are you in pain?”
I glance at him, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's onto me.
“It's nothing,” I say after a moment. “Listen, if you want to go, I understand. It's just, I can't come with you. That shouldn't stop you, though. You're young, you need to fight for your future.”
“I'm not leaving you,” he replies.
“You might have no choice,” I tell him, and I have to admit that it feels good to be doing and saying the right thing. “I'm knackered anyway, I probably only have a few years left.”
“Don't talk like that.”
“You mustn't be sentimental,” I add, fixing him with a determined gaze. “We've survived here for five years. Five years, Craig! That's sensational. We had a lot of luck, but we also worked hard. Frankly, it's a miracle that we're still alive, but it's getting harder. Why didn't you mention that the potato yields are getting so much lower? And don't deny it, because I went out there myself and took a look. There's some kind of blight attacking the crops.”
“I've got it under control.”
“For how long?”
He sighs.
“And rabbits are getting harder and harder to come by, aren't they?” I continue. “When we started, we were catching almost one a day. Now it's two a week if we're lucky.”
He sighs again, but it's clear that he's got no argument. When we began this conversation, my intention was to let him know that I understood if he wanted to leave. Now, however, I realize that I'm actively encouraging him to get out of here, which is a rather sobering thought. It's as if I'm signing my own death warrant, but I tell myself that things can't be that bad. I'm sure I can find a way to keep going.
Craig opens his mouth to say something, but instead the silence is suddenly interrupted by a knock at the front door.
We both turn and look out toward the hallway, and then we turn back to one another.
“Did you put that foolish sign out in the forest?” I ask cautiously.
“Not yet,” he replies. “I was going to do it tomorrow.”
He pauses, before getting to his feet.
“Wait!” I hiss.
“For what? Whoever it is, they already know we're here. They'll have seen the candlelight. For all we know, we've been being watched through the window.”
I look over at the window, but all I see is a reflection of the dimly lit kitchen. I know that Craig is right, and a moment later I turn to watch as he heads through to the hallway. The idea of some stranger coming into the farmhouse leaves me feeling extremely nervous. For so long, I've told myself that there's always a chance of the world getting back to normal. What if this new arrival tells us the opposite, that everything's in ruins?
Craig opens the door cautiously, and I hear him speaking to someone.
; A moment later he steps aside, and a scruffy-looking man enters the house, wearing a faded white baseball cap and filthy overalls. Something about him instantly sets me on edge.
Craig comes back through to join me, with the man a few paces behind.
“This is Jerry,” he explains. “He saw our lights and... Well, he wanted to come and introduce himself.”
He steps aside, and this Jerry fellow enters with a rather sheepish expression on his face. At the same time, I can't help noticing that he's glancing around the kitchen, almost as if he's casing the joint. My first thoughts are confirmed, and I've already taken a dislike to the man.
“Hey,” he says nervously. “Nice to meet you.”
“You haven't met me yet,” I point out, partly as a joke but partly to let him know that he's not just being welcomed inside with open arms. “But please, sit down.”
“Yeah,” he says with a grin, and he's still looking around as he takes a seat. “So is it just the two of you guys here?”
“Maybe,” I reply.
He's still grinning as he looks around, but after a moment – perhaps sensing the fact that I'm watching him – he turns to me.
“Nice place you've got here,” he says.
“Would you like some water?” Craig asks. “And something to eat?”
“We don't have much,” I add, “but I suppose we can spare some for a passerby.”
“That'd be really nice of you,” Jerry replies. “Thanks.”
We sit in silence as Craig goes to the counter and sets some scraps of rabbit meat onto a plate. I watch Jerry and he watches me in return, and the entire situation is starting to feel incredibly uncomfortable. I don't know what this Jerry fellow is after, but I've definitely got him pegged as a threat.
“So I have to ask you something,” Craig says as he brings the plate over and sets it down. “Where have you been? What's it like out there in the rest of the world?”
“Oh, it's...”
Jerry hesitates, and he doesn't seem particularly interested in the meat, or in the water that Craig now brings over and places on the table.
“It's not exactly safe out there,” he says finally. “I've traveled through whole towns where there's no sign of anyone. People have mostly evacuated the big cities 'cause of disease, but that didn't stop it spreading. There are bodies by the sides of some of the roads, and no-one cleans them up or buries them or anything like that. You have to be really careful traveling, because there are armed gangs that'll cut your throat and take everything from you, even your clothes. There are at least five different groups who are claiming to be the new government, but none of them's got a hope. You really have to look after yourself.”
“How many people do you think are still alive?” Craig asks.
“Not many,” he replies, shaking his head. “You can go weeks without seeing anyone, and then maybe you bump into a little group. A lot of people have clustered together to try to survive. But like I said, it's the disease that gets you. Dysentery's a real killer.”
“Don't you want the rabbit meat?” I ask.
“Oh, sure.”
He picks up a piece and slips it into his mouth, but I can't help noticing that he doesn't chew. He simply swallows, while grinning at me. It's almost as if he only ate that piece of meat because he wanted to prove some kind of point, and now he conspicuously ignores all the other chunks on the plate.
“So is there any sign of improvement?” Craig asks, sounding a little desperate now. “It's been five years. Someone must have done something.”
“Tough to say,” Jerry replies. “So which of you two guys is the guitarist, huh?”
“Why would you think either of us plays the guitar?” I ask.
“I saw them,” he says, “when I came in.”
“You came in through the front door,” I point out, “and you wouldn't have seen anything that's in one of the back rooms.”
“Huh.” He pauses, clearly aware that he's been caught out, but instead of explaining himself he merely sits there with that same moronic grin slapped across his face. “So which of you is it?”
He looks at Craig, and then at me.
“Is it you?” he continues, nodding in my direction. “You look like you could be a musician.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” I tell him.
“So it is you?”
“I didn't say that.”
He laughs nervously.
“Come on, man,” he says, as he adjusts his position in the chair a little. “We don't need to keep secrets from each other, do we? If you're a musician, you should be proud. That's totally cool.”
“In current circumstances,” I reply, “it could be seen as something of a liability.”
“Or an opportunity,” he suggests, before leaning forward slightly. “I think it's time to put my cards on the table. I didn't just turn up here by accident.” He pauses, and finally his grin fades. “I was sent here, with an offer for you. One that you really, really can't refuse.”
Twenty-Six
“I've never heard an offer I couldn't refuse,” I say after a few seconds of silence. “In fact, I rather pride myself on being able and willing to turn down anything that I don't like.”
“How did you find us?” Craig asks, and it's clear now that he's worried. “None of this makes sense.”
“Does it matter?” Jerry replies, leaning back in his chair and resting an arm on the back, as if he's trying to make himself seem relaxed. “Let's just say that the sound of music was detected coming from here a day or so ago, and an interested party would like to hear more.”
“There's been no music here,” Craig replies, before turning to me. “Has there?”
Instead of answering, I keep my eyes fixed firmly on Jerry.
“Has there, Derek?” Craig asks. “Did you try to play that guitar you've been fixing?”
“What I do in my own time,” I reply, trying to stay calm, “is my own business. Who heard me? I don't understand, I only played for a few seconds.”
“Eyes in the sky, my friend,” Jerry says. “Or should I say, ears in the sky.”
“What are you talking about, man?” I snap.
“Satellites,” he replies. “Listen, I'm not a tech guy, but a very powerful set of satellites picked up on the sound of music being played in this area, and you two are the only people living for miles around. So it wasn't too difficult to figure out where to come.”
“Satellites can't detect music like that,” I tell him. “It's simply not possible.”
“That's what I thought, but...” He shrugs. “Here I am. And I'm only the messenger. Please, don't ask me to explain the rest of it, 'cause I can't. I can only tell you that your presence is requested. I was sent to issue that request and make sure that you're happy to come along.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“We have transportation waiting,” he replies. “I only need to call it in. Trust me, you'll be looked after really well. You'll be better off than you are right now in this ramshackle old dump.”
“I'm not sure that I want to travel,” I tell him.
“Well, I'm not sure that you...” He pauses. “You're not making this easy,” he adds finally. “My employer is unwilling to travel, so I'm afraid that you're going to have to go to him. The transportation will be -”
“I don't want to go anywhere,” I say firmly, interrupting him.
“Mr. Glass has instructed me to change your mind,” he explains.
“Glass?” I pause for a moment, trying to remember where I've heard that name before. “Do you mean Joshua Glass, the odious little twerp who thinks it's his business to record everything that everyone does anywhere in the world?”
“I guess now it makes sense how the satellites worked,” Craig suggests.
“Mr. Glass wants to hear your music,” Jerry explains. “He's still one of the world's richest men, and he's not willing to take no for an answer. So I think it'd be much better for everyone if you simply agree and com
e with me.”
“You do, do you?”
“I do,” he says, staring at me intently. “I think you should definitely make the smart decision.”
“Or what?”
He smiles.
“I don't like being told what to do,” I reply, “and I'm not some kind of performing monkey that can be ordered around. You can go back to your Mr. Glass and thank him for the offer, but please inform him that I must decline. I'm sure there are others around who can play for him.”
“Probably, but you're the first one we've actually found,” he replies, before biting his lip for a moment. “I'll tell you what, let me pop outside for a cigarette and give you some time to think.” He gets to his feet and reaches into his pocket, before taking out a packet of cigarettes. “See? Working for Mr. Glass brings some real benefits. I doubt there's anyone else within five hundred miles who can lay their hands on some of these.”
He chuckles to himself as he heads to the front door, and by the time he steps outside his cigarette is already lit.
“Did you hear that man?” I ask, turning to Craig. “He thinks he can just show up and demand that we go with him!”
I wait, but Craig seems lost in thought.
“You can't seriously be thinking that it's a good idea,” I tell him. “What do you think would happen when I got there? I'd play for a few minutes and then I'd run out of music and he'd toss me straight out the door! I'd be of no value to him!”
“I know,” he replies, “but...”
His voice trails off.
“But nothing,” I say firmly. “The arrogance of that man, coming in here and demanding that I go with him! I have never been one for obediently doing what I'm told, and I certainly do not intend to start now at the grand old age of seventy-six! I've never been so insulted in all my life!”
“But if -”
“No!” I add, getting to my feet. “I'm not doing it! I absolutely refuse to waste the last of my music on some rich asshole who wouldn't even appreciate it anyway!”
“You don't know that it'd be the last of your music,” he replies.
“Of course I do!” I snap. “I felt it when I played the other day! I could feel it fading away! And once it's gone, I have nothing! Don't you understand? Music has been my whole life and once I know I can never play again, that's it! I might as well jump off a cliff!”