On several occasions, I slipped on the rocky terrain underfoot, falling to my knees, which were now bruised and grass-stained. The last time I tripped, I ended up stumbling into a rabbit hole, twisting my ankle. Swearing repeatedly and loudly, I dug my right shoe out from a muddy mass of roots and bunny dung.
Now, I was covered in sweat and filth.
The weather began to turn just as I headed down a steep decline from one of the highest elevations. The sun had disappeared behind some purple-gray clouds, and I didn’t need a weather forecast to tell me a heavy rain was coming. Still, I lingered on the cliff edge, staring out to sea, the salty air blowing my hair in all directions.
Exhausted and sore, I looked down at the base of the cliffs for somewhere to rest and shelter from the oncoming storm.
Directly below lay a small stretch of woodland. Tall trees waved back and forth like they were slow dancing to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach beyond.
Something caught my eye then—a glint in amongst the swaying firs. I peered at an area by the edge of the woods, but it wasn’t until a more substantial gust of wind bent the trees enough to reveal a large, wooden structure. The glint seemed to be coming from the roof, but I couldn’t quite make out what reflected the sporadic sunbursts—a skylight possibly, or a chimney cowl.
I headed away from the cliff edge, searching for a road down to the bottom, and quickened my pace when I caught sight of some cars.
Six, dust-shrouded vehicles were parked neatly in two rows on a large patch of flattened dirt. In front of them, a metal sign hung from an old wooden telephone pole, informing me this was a private car park for residents of ‘Siren Bay.’ To the side of the parking area was a narrow road, sloping and meandering downwards until it disappeared into the tree line.
When a few spots of rain touched my face, I began to sprint.
The road seemed to go on forever, down and down, sometimes becoming so steep I struggled not to slip. By the time I reached the bottom, the rain fell harder, although the trees provided some shelter from the deluge.
Here, the path widened a little to reveal a row of mobile homes, each with its own picket-fenced slice of garden overwhelmed by bramble and ivy. I scanned each one for shelter potential. They all appeared sturdy apart from an older model that’d fallen foul of an uprooted tree. The metal chassis folded in half from the impact. I could have my pick, providing I could fight my way through the overgrowth to the front door.
Still, I was curious about the wooden building I’d seen, so I pressed on.
I soon came to another little path through the wood with the words ‘private property’ stamped into a metal arch above the ingress.
A flash of lightning tore across the sky above me, causing me to duck instinctively. Usually, I enjoyed watching a good storm—as long as I wasn’t outside in it, in woodland and surrounded by nature’s own lightning rods.
Quickly, I followed the path until the gravel track gave way to a decked area with steps leading up to a well-weathered wooden cabin. There, I halted for a moment to appraise the wooden structure. Despite its faded, slightly ramshackle appearance, it looked sturdy. Cozy even. A veranda encased the outside of the cabin, the rain hitting the wood decking so hard it sounded like someone letting off fireworks.
Taking care not to slip on the wet boards, I made my way to the front door, which was protected from the weather by a large, blue-striped awning. I slipped my rucksack off, my spine cracking as I stretched out and rolled my shoulders, hoping to ease the tension building in my tender muscles.
Elated to have found somewhere dry to rest, it took me a while to notice the terracotta pots lined up against the balustrade around the veranda. A variety of plants grew in each of the containers: rosemary, thyme, traffic-light peppers, and tomatoes, to name only a few. Reaching out to one bushy plant, in particular, I plucked one of the soft green leaves from the stem. My fingers rolled the sprig about until the scent of fresh mint permeated the air around me.
These plants were all well-cared for, free of weeds and pests, and tended to—recently.
I let the leaf fall to the floor as the realization dawned on me.
There had to be someone here.
Someone alive.
“Hello!” I shouted and began pounding on the front door.
Lightning ripped through the sky overhead again, causing my heart to beat faster than it already was. The thunder following the flash roared so violently it rattled the whole structure.
Alarmed, I gripped the door handle and yanked on it, but it refused to budge. Balling my hands into fists, I pounded again—harder and with more determination.
Hearing no response, I ran around to the side of the cabin, skidding on a puddle and banging my hip on the balustrade. Cursing, I stumbled over to the side door and tried to pull the handle down. Again, it refused to move. My fists made contact with the frosted glass pane as I knocked so hard against the door my knuckles cracked.
“Hello!” I shrieked, but my cry was drowned out by another crash of thunder.
Growling, I skirted around to the back of the cabin.
A wave of relief swept through me when I discovered one of the windows slightly ajar. I slipped my fingers into the gap and pulled the window open as far as it would go.
“Is anybody here?” I screamed, straining my ears for a reply.
Nothing.
After a moment of fleeting hesitation, I grabbed hold of the window and lifted myself up enough to be able to kneel on the sill. As I managed to get one foot onto the frame, I slipped on the wet UPVC and tumbled into the cabin. My body slammed onto the floor with such a thump it couldn’t have gone unheard. Luckily, I landed on my side rather than on my head, though it still took me a few moments to gather myself.
I was in a bedroom. The sheets on the bed were disheveled and creased. Items of clothing were strewn everywhere or in crumpled heaps on the floor. Several stacks of books had been piled up against the walls, in between the furniture. I stepped over the debris and crept into the dark corridor ahead of me. I passed by two more rooms as I slowly moved forward, mindful of what I might find.
I shouted out again but still no response.
At the end of the corridor was an open living area with a kitchenette and a lounge-diner. As I slinked into the kitchen, my feet skidded on a puddle of brownish liquid pooled on the linoleum. The musty stench of stale beer wafted into my nostrils when I kicked a collection of cans out of my way. They were all empty apart from the one that’d spilled out in front of the doorway. Rubbish was scattered everywhere, along with used tins of food stacked up in unsteady towers on the worktops, just waiting to topple over.
I moved carefully into the lounge, my eyes darting about curiously until my gaze rested upon something that made my blood run cold.
On a small sofa, covered by a large quilt, was a shape resembling a human body.
Creeping closer, I gripped one corner of the blanket and pulled it down to reveal the form underneath.
It was a man, his face a ghostly shade of gray, turning into a blueish tint around his lips. His arm hung limply beside him, an empty bottle of pills lying on the carpet, inches from his fingers.
Please, do not be dead. Please.
“No,” I whimpered as I rushed forward and put the palm of my hand on his cheek. He was still a little warm. My hand went to the side of his neck, and for a few seconds, a faint pulse fluttered against my fingertips.
“Wake up!”
I shook him vigorously, but he remained motionless.
With nothing to lose and a vague idea of how to perform resuscitation, I leaned forward and pressed my mouth against his.
The moment our lips connected, a surge of static rushed over my body, leaving me momentarily stunned.
Shaking it off, I took a deep, steadying breath and blew air into his mouth, over and over. I doubted I was doing it correctly, but carried on, watching his chest rise and fall a little each time.
After several minutes,
I stopped. It wasn’t working.
Out of nowhere, my mind conjured up the image of my mother’s blood as it had swirled around in the water spilling from the bathtub on the day she’d died. It prompted a swell of anger to form in the pit of my stomach and rise into my chest.
Spying a mostly full bottle of whiskey on the side table next to the sofa, I grabbed it and poured the amber liquid over his face. I then slapped him so hard my hand stung.
After a brief pause, I hit him again. Harder.
“Wake up!”
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Balling my hands into fists, I brought them down hard onto his chest and then pummeled faster until my arms throbbed from the action.
Still nothing.
Defeated, I sank to the floor and sat with my head in my hands, a hot tear rolling down my cheek.
I was too late.
With my head bowed, I cried quietly, my emotions alternating between despair and rage. Absently, my hand reached out for the—now empty—whiskey bottle. With all the strength I possessed, I threw the bottle against the wall. The resounding boom on the wood echoed throughout the cabin, shaking the timbers. The sound reverberated in my ears for a few moments and then dissipated, leaving nothing but the thump-thump of the rain falling onto the roof above.
I almost didn’t hear the crackle of breath that left his lips as his diaphragm twitched.
My head snapped up. I waited for the longest time, saying a thousand silent prayers in my head, hoping it wasn’t just my imagination.
It caught me off guard when his chest suddenly jerked, and I scampered back on my hands until I crashed into the wall behind me. His chest heaved again as he sucked air into his lungs. He rolled onto his side, coughing, and vomited up the contents of the pill bottle. He retched and gagged while he struggled to breathe, but eventually, with his stomach finally empty, his chest began to rise and fall more evenly. Seemingly exhausted, he rolled onto his back again and began to sob.
My heart broke at the sight of this poor, dejected soul, but the shock rendered me immobile. All I could do was watch him as he sat up slowly and wiped the moisture from his damp cheeks, the right one now sporting an angry, red welt in the shape of my hand.
He was older than me, mid-thirties, maybe. The lower half of his oval face sported a thick layer of dark stubble, one day away from becoming a full beard. His hair was a deep brown color, almost black, with unkempt waves falling over his weary and bloodshot eyes. The sight of the familiar red ring around his amber irises caused me to let out a sharp gasp.
He was a survivor, like me.
As his hand went out for his missing bottle of whiskey, his eyes fell upon mine, and he froze abruptly.
For what felt like an age, he simply stared at me. My heart raced wildly. As the panic enveloped me, I impulsively scrabbled to my feet and bolted toward the open window in the bedroom.
“Wait!” I heard him shout out as I ran down the hall.
I stumbled across his bedroom to the window, hearing his footsteps pound on the floor as he came after me. I started to climb onto the frame, but his hands went around my waist and lifted me away. I kicked back, and he lost his grip on me long enough for me to break away and run back into the sitting area.
Seeing the whiskey bottle on the floor, smashed in half, I lunged for it, wrapping my trembling fingers around the glass neck. As he ran toward me, I lifted the sharp, broken end and thrust it in his direction.
Abruptly, he skidded to a halt and began to slowly back away, putting his hands up in surrender. “I won’t hurt you.”
Backing up further, I edged over to the front door.
“Please,” he said softly, “I won’t hurt you.”
As I looked into his pleading eyes, my stance softened. Why was I running? This was what I’d been looking for. Another survivor. Another human being.
I just hadn’t counted on it being so terrifying.
Hands still in the air, he edged past me like I was some frightened animal caught in headlights and made his way over to the front door. He twisted the handle quickly and then used his foot to kick it wide open.
“You can leave whenever you want,” he said, “But, please…just…stay. Talk to me. Please.”
I looked out into the storm. The rain outside seemed to be falling even harder, relentlessly smashing into the veranda decking with deafening thuds. When I glanced back at him, my fear ebbed away a little more.
Watching him closely, I lowered my arm and dropped the bottle. “I’ll stay,” I said.
****
The man hurriedly cleared a space in the kitchen for us to sit. Underneath piles of dog-eared magazines were a couple of tatty, leather bar stools which he dusted off before motioning for me to sit on one.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Every time I glanced into his sad eyes, my gut wrenched unpleasantly, and I wasn’t sure what to say to a man who’d just downed a pill-whiskey cocktail with the intent to kill himself.
“My name is Nate,” he stammered.
I gave him a half-smile. “Halley.”
He was obviously uneasy in my presence, and I wondered how long it’d been since he’d seen another human being.
“Halley. Halley. Halley,” he muttered, repeating my name to himself as though he was trying to make sure he remembered it. “Like the comet?”
I nodded.
He stared at me for a few unnerving moments and then ruffled his unruly hair. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Please.”
“Tea? Or coffee?” he asked, “Or vodka?”
He gave me the faintest of smiles, and for reasons I couldn’t pin down, my heart jolted in response.
“Tea,” I replied.
He stood and dug a kettle out from beneath a pile of dirty crockery. I watched him plug it in like it was an everyday occurrence before I realized what he’d done.
“You have electricity?” I asked, confused.
The power stations had been purposefully shut down to avoid a nuclear meltdown, given the dwindling personnel numbers. There was simply no one left alive to run them. With no electricity in over four years, it’d been a while since I’d last plugged anything in.
He pointed upwards. “Solar panels on the roof.”
That explained the glint of light I’d seen from the clifftop.
He reached into an overhead cupboard and produced a box of tea bags. My joy began to bubble over.
“And—” I snatched the box from him and surveyed the packaging intently, “Tea bags!”
My aunt and I had been reduced to herbal brews very early on in the apocalypse. When a crisis occurred, we Brits drank tea. It stood to reason that supplies of tea bags dried up quickly when the virus hit. The coffee disappeared not long after.
A little embarrassed at my response, I handed him back the box.
Our fingers touched for a brief second, and I felt an electric surge snake down my arm and spread out over my entire body. A few static particles burst against the skin on the back of my hand, and I hissed at the sudden pinching pain they inflicted.
He must have felt something too because he recoiled quickly, flexing his fingers with a frown as he studied his hand.
“How did you find me?” he asked, after a few moments. “Did you see the messages I left?”
With a frown, I shook my head. “No, I didn’t see any messages.”
He looked fairly dejected by my admission. “I left messages,” he murmured. “So that people would come here.”
A little lost for words, I began to bite anxiously on my bottom lip. “Sorry.”
I’d always found social encounters awkward and challenging, keeping my circle of friends small and relying on my friend Lizzie to lead the way in social situations. Waitressing, though, had forced me to act a little friendlier and be more outgoing. Happy customers left bigger tips.
Eager not to say or do the wrong thing, I glanced around the room, searching for clues on what to talk to him about.
The cabin may well have once belonged to avid travelers.
Above the sofa hung a large canvas portrait of a sailboat, and either side of it were several framed photographs, but I sat too far away to see any detail.
“How did you find this place?” I asked.
“It’s my parents’ place,” he replied and then cast his glance floorward. “Was their place,” he added, sadly.
Instantly, I winced. Talking about his dead parents was bound to upset him. I wasn’t good at this.
He handed me my tea and went into the sitting area, lifting one of the framed photos from the wall. Behind it, a dark patch of wood marked its place—clearly, it’d hung there for years. He handed me the picture but seemed to avoid looking at it himself.
The photo had been taken here, just in front of the cabin on the beach. A middle-aged man and a woman stood with a young man in his early twenties. He handsome with dark wavy hair and a mischievous, but beautiful, smile.
“Taken about fifteen years ago,” Nate said, focusing intently on my face.
“This is you?”
“Yeh.”
My eyes flicked back and forth between the young man in the photo and the one who stood before me. Physically, Nate hadn’t changed much. Maybe his shoulders were a little broader and more muscular now. He looked more like his mother.
“They were wanderers at heart, traveling to the furthest reaches of the globe. But when dad suffered a heart attack, they decided to put down roots,” he said. “They wanted to be ‘off the grid’ here as much as possible. When everything went to hell, I knew where I had to come.”
As the World Falls Down Page 4