On the Third Day

by Rhys Thomas

  When Dr Balad came into the room he went straight to Charlie. He was carrying a large filing box.

  ‘Will you help me, Charlie?’ The lines in his face had deepened.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘It is nearly time for me to go and I need you to make sure of something.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I am talking about.’

  ‘Let me do it. Let me drive the van.’

  Dr Balad smiled weakly. ‘Would that it be so simple. You are a good lad, Charlie – a good man. Here.’

  He extended his arms and offered the box to him.

  ‘These are the notes I have made, for what they are worth. I want you to make sure they are preserved. Should we survive perhaps they will be of some use one day, if not as a scientific study then as a historical document.’

  ‘Dr Balad, I’m the wrong person to give this to. I’m leaving the camp. If we get through this then I’m going.’

  The doctor regarded him with disappointment.

  ‘Give them to George. He’s the best person to look after these. He can be trusted.’

  ‘My dear boy,’ Dr Balad said softly. ‘Have you not heard? George and Andrew are dead. They were killed. I am sorry to say it, but they are gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The doctor said nothing to this.

  ‘Charlie, please, take my papers.’

  ‘I’m not the person you think I am. I can’t look after them. My head, it’s . . . I can’t be trusted with them.’

  ‘You must. There is nobody else here. The lighthouse is empty.’

  ‘Give it to one of the women.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Then let me drive the van and you look after the notes. These people need you much more than they need me.’

  ‘You can’t drive the van. I have to do it.’

  Charlie was hardly listening. How could George be dead? He was the thing that bound the camp together. If he was dead there could be no replacement. The last time he had seen McAvennie they had argued. Charlie assumed he could apologize later because that was the template: argue, apologize later.

  Dr Balad gave him the box and Charlie took it. Without even a shake of the hand, the doctor turned and walked out of the ward. Charlie placed the box of papers on the chair next to Emily’s bed. He looked at her body. It was too much. The descent was too fast.

  He ran into the main foyer of the building. He didn’t care about the pain in his leg. In the dark, disused toilet he found the plastic bin filled with tools and grabbed a shovel. He leaned it up against the small reception desk in the foyer and went back into the ward. He rolled Emily’s body towards him and knelt below her. Dragging her into the cradle of his arms he rose up. Pain tore both ways along his thigh. He stumbled back but found his footing and moved slowly into the night.

  The air was freezing. The silver mist condensed into droplets on his face and hair. His clothes became heavy with it.

  He carried Emily across the grass, her head lolled backwards over his arms. On the other side of the low white wall that looked out over the sea, he picked out a nice patch of grass and laid Emily down on the wall, clambered over and lifted her again. He set her down gently on the ground.

  He went back to the lighthouse to collect the shovel. The sounds of guns and people shouting could only reach the periphery of his mind. He found his way back to Emily and thrust the blade of the shovel into the grass and pushed it into the soil using his right foot as a weight. The spade slid easily into the wet earth. He levered the handle back and forth. He dug the shovel in again and this time slid the blade underneath the soil at an angle. The roots of the grass ripped easily. Charlie readjusted himself. The base of his back ached and his bad leg throbbed.

  As the square of soil came out of the ground he could sense the roots and fibrous joins in the mud tear apart and sever. He dropped the chunk of soil down behind him and started the process again.

  He checked his memory. Emily’s face was still clear. That would be enough to take with him. The memories could go into a box and be taken out later, when it was time.

  The shovel struck a rock. Charlie went on to one knee and used his fingers to dig it out. The mud was thick and damp. His hands scraped it away and he felt his fingernails pull gently away from his fingertips as the mud slid beneath them. The rock was large and heavy. Charlie lifted it to his chest and dropped it down away from the grave before lifting the shovel again. He took a deep breath and began the process again.

  He looked at the dark outline of Emily’s body. The ambient mist drizzled on to it like magical powder and he wished then that she would come back to life, sit up, smile, say hello.

  He dug for over an hour and all the while there was no sight or sound of anybody coming to the lighthouse. The screaming had largely died down but the exchanges of gunfire had not. The hole he had excavated came up to his knees. His body was exhausted. The fibres in his muscles and cartilage bristled and his bones felt as though they no longer fitted together.

  Setting the shovel down against the low white wall he knelt at Emily’s side and scooped his arms underneath her back. Her face was silver and, even without the lens of sentimentality, peaceful. Her grace was still there.

  Lifting her up, Charlie stepped down into the grave and lowered her as softly as he could into the soil. He arranged her arms and legs, straightened her nightdress and brushed her hair behind her ears. He caught a flash of future, of him sitting in a room reading a book ten years from now, and Emily not being there, and he had to close his eyes for a second.

  Next, he stepped up on to the grass and fetched the large rock he had dug out of the ground. He placed it on the grass above her head. It would make a nice headstone. Fetching the shovel from the wall he scooped some of the dark soil up and dropped it into the pit. It smattered on to Emily’s nightdress with a light pitter-patter, dappling the white cotton with dark specks.

  The fighting seemed to have been going on for a long time. The panic had been so dense that Edward had felt heavy and fallen asleep. He didn’t know what time it was but it felt like the middle of the night. There were no gloomy lines of light around the boarded-up window any more. The cellar was silent, the other kids asleep. He lifted his head up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His father had once told him that sleep in the eyes was sand sprinkled by the ghost who comes to people’s beds to make their dreams. He wondered what his dad was doing now and felt happy for a moment because when he pictured his father’s smiling face it reminded him of what safety felt like.

  It was time to make a move. Edward found Michael and John sitting next to the dusty old sofa against the wall.

  ‘We’re getting out of here,’ he whispered to them. The two boys sat up. ‘Follow me.’

  His eyesight felt sharp, even in the dark. He knew this cellar so well. He had been taught to find his way to every corner of it without the need for light. The boys went to the far shelf. At the bottom of each shelf was a fixed plinth. Edward knelt down and with his fingertips found the loose part of the plinth that he had discovered once whilst playing, and pulled it away. Reaching in he felt the barrel of the shotgun he had hidden there so that he wouldn’t have to ask his mother for the keys to the gun cabinet should danger ever arise. He reached inside again to collect the satchel of shotgun shells. He had practised loading the cartridges in the dark many, many times. It was easy. With a refreshing familiarity he cocked the barrel and slid two of the cartridges in before snapping it shut.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Michael, when Edward showed him the gun. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Saul had fallen asleep beneath the window. Edward stirred him awake.

  ‘Come on, Saul. Move out of the way. We’re going.’ He turned to the room of boys. ‘Wake up,’ he hissed.

  The boys who had been sleeping moaned. The others sat up straight.

  ‘We’re going,’ said
Edward. ‘Who’s coming?’

  The boys mumbled quietly in confusion. Michael and John gently prodded some of the sleeping bodies near them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said one of them.

  ‘We’ve got a gun.’

  The boy leaned forward. ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘If we don’t go now we’ll never go.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said the boy. He jumped to his feet and his skeletal body appeared as a black shadow in the dark. ‘You’ll get us all killed.’ His voice was pleading, filled with fear.

  ‘Look,’ said Edward. ‘I know it seems scary, but dying isn’t as scary as that.’ An old memory came to him like an old friend. He had drawn on it many times over the past year, since everything he had known had been taken away, and each time he thought of it, it made him feel better. ‘When you die you’re just returning a favour to the world. That’s all life is – a favour from the world. And when it’s over you go back to where you came from. It’s not scary.’

  The dark shape of the boy standing in front of him did not move, but neither did he answer.

  Edward remembered how his granddad used to speak to him; the way he always sounded so kind and how that kindness had made him feel.

  ‘You’ve heard the guns down there,’ he said. ‘Most of the men aren’t even in the house. We’ve got to go or we’ll be stuck in here for ever and I don’t want to do that. And you lot don’t either. Now come on, get up.’

  The boys started talking all at once in a low murmur. He went to the sofa and John helped him drag it over to the area underneath the boarded-up window. Edward looked at the wooden board. He hoped that John would be able to get through it.

  ‘OK, now get out of the way. I’m going to blow that board away and you lot need to climb out, right? Go down the cliff path and when you get near the camp make sure you start shouting so they know you’re kids and don’t try and shoot you or something.’

  From the dark he felt the eyes of the other boys on him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ one of them said.

  ‘I’m going to follow you. But I’ll stay here to stop them coming down the stairs.’ He lifted the gun. ‘This makes a lot of noise.’

  More of the boys stood up and got themselves ready. The ones who were too scared to go said nothing. Edward thought he could hear a gentle sobbing coming from somewhere near the back wall.

  ‘Is anybody else coming?’

  The dim outlines did not move.

  Edward raised the rifle. There was nothing more he could do. His hands were steady. He felt calm. He made sure that after he fired the two shots he could get his hand easily into the satchel strapped over his shoulder to reload.

  Pushing the stock firmly back into his shoulder and taking a solid stance with planted legs just like he had been taught, he closed one eye, took aim with the other, held his breath and fired.

  The sound rang in his ears. Before he could see the damage he fired off another shot to make sure. The gun shook in his hands but he kept his footing.

  The board had split in half but not shattered. Without any hesitation John jumped on to the sofa and used his weight to rip the remainder of the board down. Michael climbed out first. None of the boys spoke.

  Edward turned quickly and crouched down underneath the stairs and reloaded. He could hear footsteps running towards the door. The cartridges slid perfectly into their chambers and Edward closed the gun.

  ‘Go on,’ he whispered to the boys who were still sitting on the floor. ‘You can do it.’

  But the boys didn’t move. There was more light in the room now. They looked like big rocks sitting on a beach at night.

  Through the gap between two of the wooden steps, Edward poked the barrel of the gun. When the single man came through the door to investigate, he couldn’t even see the boy taking aim at him.

  The marauders made their way through the camp in small advances. They went from van to van and cleared their way. Before them was life. Behind them was death. The only way to escape was to break through their line and run out into the fields behind. Getting through the line was not the difficult part. The marauders were not organized, and they were not in large numbers. But they had men hidden in the field, concealed by the mist, who would pick off the few people who made it into the open.

  There was another explosion. Its shockwave shuddered the ground beneath them. David turned to the man next to him. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have killed their man.’

  He stood shakily and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  David nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

  They were at the car park wall. Dark shapes ran past them but they could not see who they were. The two men stayed still and hoped that nobody saw them. It was all so amateurish. The men of the camp who had been guarding the fences had scattered into disorganized groups. David had already seen many dead bodies lying in the mud. It was a massacre. Fires glared here and there as orange fog reaching up in the night sky.

  David didn’t want to move from this spot. His spirit was flaking away to nothing. Whenever he crossed a patch of open land it was with his gun pointed down and his eyes closed. Desensitization to the conditions had to be instant. Nature left you with no choice. Hesitation would cost you your life.

  But despite his better instincts he scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the man. ‘We’d better keep moving. Just remember to aim for the arms and the legs.’

  The man nodded his understanding.

  They kept close to the wall, moving downhill, until at last they came to the long, wide path with the line of lightbulbs hanging on the wire alongside it. Through the veil of mist the lights looked like alien orbs hovering in the air.

  Across the way two black outlines were kneeling down behind one of the tents. They had not seen David. Neither of the figures showed the muzzle of a gas mask protruding from their faces. It meant nothing, though, because many of the marauders had abandoned their costumes to the mist. David had already made up his mind. He was going to call to them. All he was waiting for was the courage to do it. He knew the only way to win this fight now was in numbers. They had to organize. Any other way would seal their fate. It was a risk he had to take.

  ‘Hey.’ The men turned their heads and David waved to them. A recklessness came into him. ‘Empathy, compassion, trust,’ he called clearly. It was the only thing he could think of.

  The shoulders of the two men visibly relaxed.

  ‘There’s a group of them up the hill,’ shouted one.

  As he said it David saw something move in the darkness behind them.

  He tried to shout a warning but it was too late.

  The figures were suddenly silhouettes against a river of flames, their clothes catching like tinder, their screams cutting a gash out of the darkness. They ran out into the muddy path and rolled in agony, trying to extinguish the flames on their bodies.

  David tried to lift his gun. In wide-eyed horror he saw the shape come quickly at him, out of the mist. He fired a shot but missed. And then the man next to him was on fire, all up his arms and chest, and then he was engulfed. He screamed in the pain of it and David could smell the burning flesh. He turned his face away from the scorching heat but it was everywhere. He threw himself down and fired again and again, but the man with the flamethrower was gone. His arm was on fire. He looked at it surreally. There was no pain. He calmly rolled it in the mud and the flames died before they could reach his skin. He looked at the three men around him, lying motionless in the mud, fire striking out of their backs. There was a realization. They couldn’t win this. The marauders were too strong.

  Something flashed by quickly: a man. He ran faster than a normal person; he was infected. He disappeared wraith-like into the silvery air. A riderless horse thundered past after him.

  He smoothed the soil on the grave and thought, that is that. Emily was buried and there on the cold cliff top beneath the shadow
of the lighthouse was where she would stay. His hands were filthy with mud. His clothes were covered in it. Making his way over the low, white wall and back to the lighthouse he became aware, as he had before, of something dangerous nearby. The new sense was firing in him. The tall, gloomy tower of the lighthouse reached up into the mist where it ended in an indistinct haze. Dr Balad’s van was still parked outside.

  The sensors in his ears became keen. His breathing lightened. He went into the lighthouse through the foyer and into the main ward where his new sense was immediately vindicated by the sight of bright red blood on the floor. It had accumulated in small, circular puddles. The beds in which the victims had been lying were similarly stained red. The thin white nets had darkened, the sheets were soaked through and, jutting out from behind the beds, on the floor, were the protruding arms and legs of the recently dead.

  Charlie scanned the room for signs of movement. If it had been one of the sick people then they might be hiding. He recalled Dr Balad telling him that most of the sufferers, even the most violent, maintained a level of cogency.

  Cautiously he stepped weaponless into the ward and counted out with cool method the bodies of six people: three who had been ill and three family members. He made a conscious effort to consider his situation rationally. A marauder must be in here.

  ‘Dr Balad,’ he called loudly.

  His voice echoed off the walls. He didn’t care about making himself known. A reckless wind steered him now, blowing in from the new roads. He went to the far end of the long room and put his hand on the cold metal handle. The darkness that he had for so long railed against had now settled utterly over him. Formless ideas became solid, insecurities became pools of strength, and the new roads were now the only roads down which he could travel.

  Charlie pulled open the door. The circular room was dark. An oblong of white light from the open doorway in which he stood splashed on to the stone floor, at the centre of which was his own long shadow and there, right in the corner, a hand that had drawn itself into a weak claw. The wrist led to a white sleeve and then into darkness.