by Liam Brown
More than once, I considered stopping and turning back. The afternoon heat was almost unbearable by then, and I found myself fantasising about the bottle of filtered water waiting for me in my fridge at home. About the clean comforting chill of my air conditioning unit. Yet for some reason I kept going, marching grimly onwards into the deserted world. Even all these years later, there were signs everywhere of normal life abruptly interrupted. A child’s skateboard lying by the side of the road, its wheels orange with rust. A deflated football tangled in the hedges. A flaking red postbox, waiting for letters that will never arrive. Walking by one especially dilapidated house, I spotted a milk bottle still standing on the doorstep, though its contents had long since curdled into a toxic-looking lump. I didn’t want to imagine what I’d find if I actually went inside.
The road itself wasn’t always easy to follow. Several times it disappeared altogether, consumed by grass or fallen trees or toppled power lines. Where it forked, I was forced to pick a path more or less at random. Every time this happened, I was convinced that I’d gone the wrong direction, that I’d lost the man for good. But then I’d hear a crack in the distance. The unmistakable sound of an axe on wood.
Eventually the suburbs began to stretch and thin, the houses growing even bigger, the distance between them widening. The grey turning to green. In the six months I’d been on patrol, I’d never strayed this far from my designated route before. I found my thoughts wandering back to fanciful rumours I’d heard online about hermits living out in the countryside. Self-sufficient ‘preppers’ who fetishised the apocalypse, stockpiling weapons and masks years before the outbreak. Dangerous eccentrics who lived alone in bunkers, way outside of the government system. Who roamed the empty streets at night, hunting animals for meat, or else setting traps to catch trespassers. Perhaps the man was one of them?
Just then, I heard the crack of the axe again. Much closer than it had been before.
Too close.
I dropped to a crouch, trying to locate precisely where the sound was coming from. Behind me, set back from the road, was a pair of stone pillars, partially engulfed by a tangle of ivy. Beyond that was an overgrown graveyard, in the centre of which stood a large stone church. Propped outside was the bike I’d seen the man riding earlier, the trailer now stacked unbelievably high with various scraps of wood and metal.
I edged closer, when suddenly I spotted him. He was standing on the church steps, tugging at the thick chain that was looped around the building’s enormous wooden door. I groped for the camera. By the time I’d pressed record, however, the door hung open and the man had disappeared. With a curse, I hurried over to the stone pillars, peering through the bushes. I still couldn’t see him, though, and so, as quietly as I could, I began to make my way towards the church.
Clawing through knots of nettles, I became aware of the old gravestones pushing up through the foliage. Though the names and dates were mostly faded, I could still pick out the odd word or phrase:
Heavenly Father
Lord in heaven
God’s will
I shook my head. To my surprise, religion had enjoyed something of a renaissance in the immediate aftermath of the outbreak. That muddled few months when nobody had any concrete advice or information. I guess back then it seemed that putting your faith in a higher power was as safe a bet as believing any frazzled politician or scientist. I remember hearing about mass public conversions throughout the city. Baptisms in public fountains. Holy men with megaphones. Desperate people flocking to churches and mosques and synagogues and temples, all of them begging for answers. For salvation.
Even today, vast digital congregations still gather online. People who still believe that all of this suffering is part of some divine masterplan at work, rather than the cold indifference of natural selection. Who believe that we can pray our way out of this thing. That if we can just apologise sincerely enough for everything we’ve done in the past, or promise to deny ourselves the last few things that might conceivably feel good in the present, then everything will magically be reset. That all the bad times will finally be over. That we’ll get another shot at life, if not in this world, then in the next.
Not that I blamed them, really. If anything, I was jealous. At least they had something to look forward to. A reason to keep on going, day after miserable day.
As I finally reached the church steps, I began to have second thoughts. There was nowhere to hide out there in the open. Yet the last thing I wanted to do was blunder inside the church only to find the man waiting for me. Checking the camera again, I saw the battery was at less than five per cent. If I didn’t get the footage now, there wouldn’t be another chance. And so, swallowing down my fear, I stepped over the chain that lay limply on the steps and inched my way inside.
It took a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust. Even with my suit on, the drop in temperature was immediately noticeable. Standing in the doorway, I scanned the chamber for any sign of the man, poised to turn and run at the first sign of trouble.
Though I’m not religious, there was no denying the elemental splendour of the building, a cavernous tribute to wood and brass and stone. Rows of intricately carved benches stood facing a central pulpit, behind which the pipes of a colossal organ sloped up towards the domed ceiling. Along the walls, sunlight streamed in through huge stained-glass panels, each depicting the various Stations of the Cross, Christ’s agony captured in a range of gaudy colours.
Scanning the rows, I saw the man wasn’t there and so, with a deep breath, I crept further into the church, acutely aware of the squeak of my boots on the smooth marble tiles. To the side of the pulpit, there was another door, which presumably would have once led to the priest’s quarters. Other than the door I’d come through, it was the only other entrance or exit.
He had to be in there.
As I hurried down the central aisle towards the door, the sound of my footsteps ricocheted off the walls. I slowed down, forcing myself to walk on the balls of my feet. Up ahead, a giant crucifix loomed over me. At some point, the cross had slipped forwards, leaving Jesus suspended by the ankles a few feet above my head. I shivered. The quicker I got my footage and got out of there, the better.
When I reached the door, I paused. It still wasn’t too late to forget the whole thing. If I left now I could be home in less than an hour. Yet even as I thought this, I found myself reaching for the handle. There was no going back. Not now. Not without proof that I wasn’t crazy.
I turned the knob as slowly and as quietly as I could.
Nothing.
I tried again, rattling the handle.
The door wouldn’t budge, though.
It was locked.
Before I could do anything else, I heard a clatter close by.
I turned, already knowing what I’d see.
And then there he was.
Floating towards me like a toxic cloud. Like death itself.
His dirty T-shirt. His filthy hair.
The axe in his hands.
Twenty feet away. Then ten. Then five.
Too close.
I turned away, but there was nowhere to run to.
I was trapped.
I looked back.
Just in time to see him raise the axe.
PART THREE
ELEVEN
AS IT SWUNG through the air, the axe let out a whistle. The blade so sharp it seemed to cleave time in two. I closed my eyes and waited for the end.
I waited and waited.
But the end didn’t come.
Eventually, I opened my eyes.
The axe blade hung a few inches from my skull. Looking down the handle, I saw the man scowling at me through a mass of dirty blond hair.
I wanted to run but I couldn’t move. My entire body had gone into shock, my legs shaking so violently I thought they might disappear from under me. With the axe still quivering above my head, the man shifted his weight slightly, shaking his fringe from his face. To my surprise, he was young.
Not much more than a boy, really. Twenty-one? Twenty-two? He looked like he couldn’t grow a full beard yet, with just a wispy shadow of moustache above his upper lip. Despite the axe, he looked almost as scared as me, his big brown eyes wet and unblinking. For some reason, I found myself thinking about the fawn again.
‘You’re a girl?’ He seemed to be speaking more to himself than me.
‘Please… Please don’t hurt me… I have kids…’
‘Hurt you ? You’re the one who’s been stalking me all morning. What, you think I didn’t notice you back on the high street? At first, I was sure you were Special Branch. But then I realised they’d never let anyone as heavy-footed as you in the forces. So, who are you? And why are you following me?’
Hot tears streaked down my cheeks, pooling at the bottom of my mask. ‘I’m no one. I mean, I’m Angela. I work for my local neighbourhood watch. I have legal permission to be here. From the government,’ I added lamely.
The man stared hard. The axe twitched in his hands. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me down anyway. One quick blow.
Crack.
But then his face contorted, and I realised he was laughing. ‘I don’t believe it. I’m being hunted by a fucking do-gooder ?’
He laughed again, before finally lowering the axe. ‘Well then, Angela-from-neighbourhood-watch . I’m Jason. Jason Freeman. Or Jazz, as my friends call me. Well, they would if they weren’t all dead. Ha! But either way, it’s very nice to meet you.’
He jammed a hand towards me. His palms calloused, his fingernails crusted with dirt.
I didn’t move. I was scared he was tricking me. That any moment he was going to lash out and attack. Instead, he just stood there, looking vaguely amused by the whole situation, until eventually he lowered his hand.
‘Hey, it’s fine. I’m not offended. I get it. No one wants to shake any more, right?’
Again, I was struck by the thought I might be hallucinating the entire scene. The man didn’t have so much as a dust mask for protection. There must have been millennia’s worth of human matter swirling around inside the church, yet here he was cracking bad jokes. It didn’t make any sense.
Despite my terror, I found myself fumbling for a question. ‘But how are you…? Why aren’t you…?’
‘Why aren’t I wearing one of your funky astronaut outfits?’ He grinned, and for a second I saw a flash of Charlie in him. A slight sneer in his tone. ‘How come I’m not dead?’
I nodded.
Jazz only shrugged though, quickly changing the subject. ‘You know, I’ve got a personal rule that I don’t leave a new place without making sure I’ve searched it properly first. You never know when you’re going to find something that might come in handy down the line.’
I stared at him blankly.
The next I knew, he had hoisted the axe over his shoulder again, this time sending it crashing into the door behind me.
I screamed, ducking for cover. ‘Jesus!’
‘No, I’m Jazz. Jesus is hanging out on the wall over there.’
With that, he prised the axe from the door, before raising his boot and slamming it into the broken lock. The door flew open at the second attempt, revealing a set of steps leading down into the darkness.
‘So, are you coming or what?’
He didn’t wait for an answer before he disappeared down the stairs.
I hesitated. The camera was still recording, though only just, the battery symbol flashing on three per cent. It didn’t matter. I had everything I needed. Proof that the man existed. That I wasn’t totally insane. I could go back home and write my report now. Fatima would have to believe me. They all would. Yet I still felt something pulling me towards the stairs. Questions I was desperate to ask. Like how long had he been living like this? And how had he managed not to get sick? Was it possible he was actually immune? Most of all, I wanted to know if there were others like him. Other people, living the way we used to, without suits and masks. Together.
Besides, I told myself, the more information I managed to gather, the more useful it would be to the authorities. Reporting a non-suited citizen was one thing. But if I could provide them with a detailed breakdown of where he was living and what he’d been up to, well, who knew? They’d probably give me a medal.
And so, with a check of my camera, I followed the man.
Down, down, down.
Into the darkness.
AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs, there was a short corridor, which opened up to reveal a small, austere room. Mustard walls. A plain desk. A simple wooden crucifix nailed to the wall. Aside from the dust and cobwebs and some damp, the room looked surprisingly intact. Set in the far wall was an open doorway leading to a small bedroom. As I approached it, I saw Jazz was standing at a wardrobe with his back to me. I watched as he checked over items of clothing, turning out the pockets before discarding them on the floor. The axe, meanwhile, was leant against the wall.
‘Well the bad news is they’re all out of loaves and fish. There isn’t even any wine or wafers. On the other hand, there are some killer threads. Check this out.’ He turned around, holding up an ankle-length black cassock. ‘What do you think? Priest-chic or pope-nope?’
Before I could answer, he bent forward and peeled his T-shirt over his head. I felt my cheeks burn behind my mask, as next he dropped his trousers, revealing a tiny pair of black trunks.
‘You know, you’d be surprised how hard it is to get your hands on new clothes around these parts,’ he said as he shimmied his way into the cassock. ‘I mean, I’ve hit a few fashion stores, but most of the stuff tends to have rotted away by now. Damn organic fabrics…’
Having regained my composure slightly, I found myself painfully aware of the camera’s fading battery. If I was going to get some information, I needed to do so quickly.
‘Look, I’m sorry for following you. I wasn’t trying to scare you. It’s just… Well, it’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone outside without a mask or suit that I thought… Actually, I didn’t know what to think.’
I watched as he slid a thin white band into his collar, before giving an exaggerated twirl, his robes whipping up around his shins. ‘You know I think I like the ecumenical look. Really helps show off my curves, wouldn’t you say?’
I forced a smile. ‘You know, I can probably get you a suit and mask. If that’s what you’re looking for? My husband is about your size. I could put an order in for a replacement and no one would notice a thing. If you’ve got friends, I could get them masks, too? It wouldn’t be any trouble.’
Ignoring my questions, he turned back to the wardrobe and once again began rifling through the clothes. ‘You ever wonder what it must have been like for the priests? I mean, they gave up everything for God. They spent their lives kneeling on hard wooden floors while everyone else grew up and got jobs and bought big houses and nice cars and had kids and all the rest of it. Still, it was worth it, wasn’t it? All of that sacrifice. Those lonely nights. Those repressed desires . Especially seeing as how they were going to be first in line when the Big Man finally showed up. And then, out of nowhere, Blam! Just a fucking indiscriminate massacre. Old. Young. Sinners. Saints. It didn’t make a difference. All those little old ladies who diligently went to church every Sunday and piled up their pension money on the collection plate. God didn’t give a shit. He mowed them down alongside the paedophiles and the arms dealers. Like, how did they square that circle? Holy shit, look at these shoes! This was one dapper padre.’ He paused to hold up a pair of black-and-white Oxford brogues. ‘Ah damn it, size six.’
I glanced down at the camera. By now the battery was down to one per cent. My heart sank. ‘I think it’s a difficult thing to get your head round whether you’re religious or not,’ I said, desperately trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘Just the idea that things could get so bad so quickly. I mean, I lost so many people I loved. My parents. My brother. I’m guessing you must have lost people, too?’
He turned then, and
again there was something of Charlie about him. But not the Charlie of today. The cruel, despondent teenager. No, he reminded me of Charlie as a boy. His eyes wide and shimmering with vulnerability. In a flash, though, it was gone, his chest puffed out. His chin jutted at an angle.
‘I’ve got to go.’ He began stuffing items of clothing into his bag. ‘There was a military patrol round here a couple of days ago. If they notice the church door is open they’ll be in here in seconds.’
‘You’re leaving?’
He let out a sigh. ‘Listen, I’m not stupid. I know what you’re doing. Like I’m going to just vomit up my life story to a stranger so you can report me to the authorities.’
‘Oh come on. That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it? I mean, what are you even doing here? Haven’t you got a bake sale or something you should be organising?’
I watched as he gathered the last of his things, before turning to pick up the axe. Squinting down at the camera, I saw the red light was off. The battery had died. It didn’t matter. I’d blown it.
When I looked up again, Jazz was moving towards me. I took a step to the side, assuming he was trying to pass. Instead, he stopped and placed an arm on my shoulder. I recoiled at his touch, but he pressed on, keeping his hand on me. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to being around people, you know?’
This close, I could see myself reflected in his eyes. My bulky outline reminded me of a deep-sea diver.
‘I have trust issues,’ he continued. ‘It’s just this whole situation. I have to be careful, you know?’
I nodded, desperately wriggling to escape his filthy hand. ‘Of course. It’s just…’
Before I could finish, Jazz pounced, throwing his arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. Even through the suit, I could feel his hard body pressed against mine. His arms looped around my back, trapping me.