by Liam Brown
Colin looked up, startled as I re-entered the house. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just forgotten something.’
I’d forgotten to say goodbye to the kids.
I made my way through to the small bedroom at the back of the house. In the dark, I could just make out their silhouettes under the blankets of the single bed. I thought briefly of the little boy whose room this had been before. We’d made a point of burning all the letters and utility bills we’d found without reading them. I didn’t want to know who they were. It made it too real. It was impossible to miss the pictures on the bedroom wall, though. The boy’s name in splodges of blue finger paint:
Joshua.
I knelt beside the bed and pressed my face into Charlie’s hair. Inhaled him. Even at ten years old, I could still detect the faintest trace of milk and talcum powder. My baby boy. He stirred slightly as I pressed a kiss into his warm cheek, before I moved to the other end of the bed where Amber was coddled tightly in the blankets. I placed my hand gently on her brow, swiping a damp mass of hair from her face. She felt hot and slick to the touch. Feverish. I hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.
As I stooped to kiss her on the forehead, she jerked in her sleep, letting out a low whimper before her eyes flicked open.
‘Hey,’ I whispered. ‘It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Mum.’
Amber couldn’t see me, though. She wasn’t awake. Not really. Even before her world had collapsed in on itself, she’d occasionally suffered from night terrors, waking up screaming in the dark, sending us thundering along the landing to her bedroom in the early hours of the morning. I’d felt guilty, of course. As if I was failing her in some fundamental way that was seeping out in her subconscious. In the end, we’d taken her to a doctor. Back then he’d assured us it was nothing but a symptom of an intelligent girl with an overactive imagination. She’d grow out of it, we were promised. Somehow I doubted it. Especially now.
Amber let out another moan, her eyes darting around wildly. I wondered what she was seeing. Could it really be worse than the reality we were stuck in now?
I felt her hand flutter up towards my arm, grasping my wrist. And suddenly she was awake, gasping for air, like a drowning girl plucked from the water. ‘Mummy? MUMMY?’
‘It’s okay,’ I said again. ‘It’s all just a bad dream. It’s all just a bad dream.’
And for once, I felt like I was telling her the truth.
FIFTEEN
BY THE TIME I reached the old church I could hardly breathe. Though it wasn’t yet seven, the sun was already a furnace, the sky overhead the colour of a slapped cheek. Inside my suit, I felt like I was being slowly boiled alive. Traipsing across the city, I’d noticed the outside of my mask was dirtier than usual, a fine layer of pink dust powdered across the visor. I’d seen this before, back in the old world. Every few years or so, a storm in the Sahara Desert would whip fine sand up into the atmosphere which then travelled across continents, choking the occupants of the towns and cities below. Sometimes it would mix with rain clouds, streaking the cars and pavements rusty red, a phenomenon that early civilisations called ‘blood rain’. It was seen as a bad omen back then. A sign of impending death.
Though I wasn’t usually one for superstitions, the sight of the dust spooked me. I felt exposed out there. I expected the screech of police sirens any moment. Tasers and handcuffs and questions I couldn’t answer. Or else, something worse than the police. Something powerful and hungry crouched in the undergrowth. Watching my every move. Waiting for the right time to strike.
In an effort to calm my anxiety, I ran through the plan again. If you could call it a plan. In truth, I hadn’t thought much further than tracking down Jazz and confronting him for tricking me. Though by now I’d more or less given up on retrieving my camera; maybe I would be able to find out a little more about him to include in my report to the police.
Or perhaps I was lying to myself. Perhaps I just wanted to see him again. To prove to myself that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. That I wasn’t crazy.
I‘d decided that of the two schools I’d narrowed it down to, he was more likely to be staying at the one closest to the church. As I approached the railings of what had once been a small junior and infants’ school, however, I realised with disappointment that my hunch was wrong. There was no way anyone could be living there.
While the playground was still in surprisingly good condition, the painted lines that had once designated various sports pitches still just about visible between the cracks and patches of moss, the buildings themselves had not been as lucky. Of the two main blocks, one was little more than a shell, having been completely burnt out. On the opposite side of the playground, the other building wasn’t much better off. Though it looked to have escaped the fire, its windows were shattered, its roof sunken. It was utterly uninhabitable.
With a sigh, I got ready to move on. The other school I’d identified was a good twenty-minute walk away. As I started to leave, however, something caught my eye on the far side of the playground. A flash of something silver peeking out from behind the building. Pressing my mask to the railings, I saw what looked like the rim of a bicycle wheel.
As I scrambled over the rusted railings, three or four birds erupted with a squawk from the ruins of the nearest building. I hurried across the playground as quickly as I could, conscious of the slap of my feet on the tarmac.
Even before I’d reached the far block, I could see it was Jazz’s bike, although there was no sign of the trailer. The door it stood beside looked like it had been forced, the wood splintered around the lock. Sure enough, when I tugged at the handle, it creaked open. I took a step inside, pausing in the doorway to survey the scene.
To my surprise, the structure was in better condition than it had looked from the outside. Stretching out before me was a long corridor, with various doors leading off to classrooms. At one time, it looked like the floor had been covered in blue carpet tiles, most of which had now rotted away, revealing the wooden floorboards beneath. Though much of the paint had flaked from the walls, I could still make out the artwork of young children stapled to display boards, the paper yellow, the writing indecipherable.
Above me, several ceiling tiles had fallen away, revealing the slate roof above. Sunlight flooded in, illuminating a billion particles of dust suspended in the air. If Jazz really was living here, he was crazier than I thought.
Years ago, I remember reading that the dust in our houses was primarily made up of human skin. The millions of cells we shed from our body every day. Of course, after the outbreak I learned – we all learned – far more than I ever thought there was to know about skin. That it is our largest organ, covering almost two square metres of our body. That the thinnest skin is found on our eyelids and that the thickest is on the soles of our feet. I also learned the dust thing was a misconception. An urban myth. Skin cells only made up a fraction of household dust, which actually contained all manner of other substances. Pollen, animal hairs, carpet fibres, soil. Saharan sand.
Even so, the sight of so much dust in the air made me feel uneasy. Myth or not, I had no doubt there would still be traces of schoolchildren swirling around. Teachers. Parents. All ghosts now. A deadly cloud, hanging around me. Inside my suit, my skin began to itch.
With a deep breath, I forced myself to keep walking down the corridor, peeking into each classroom I passed. Like most places, the school had been abandoned suddenly. Mid-lesson from the look of it. Coats and umbrellas still hung on pegs, with brightly coloured lunchboxes stacked neatly in one corner. Educational posters crowded the walls, while displays of children’s work had been strung from each corner of the room, dangling from the ceiling like Christmas streamers. On one chalkboard I could still make out faint writing, a question paused mid-word, never to be answered:
What happened to the dino…
If it wasn’t for the layers of dust and cobwebs that coated everything, you could almost believe the
kids had just popped out for morning break. That any moment they would be back, filling the corridor with a high-pitched clamour. Laughing. Squealing. Everything still ahead of them.
Just then, a loud thump rang out. Metal on wood.
Jazz.
I kept walking.
At the end of the corridor there was a set of double doors. I pushed them open and the hammering grew instantly louder. I was standing in the school hall. Nearest to the door, rows of PE equipment were lined up against the wall. Cones and bats and bibs and balls, all of them covered in a thick layer of dust. On the other side of the room was a raised stage, presumably once used for school plays and assemblies.
I didn’t pay any attention to that stuff, though. No. Rather, I was too busy staring at the large wooden sailboat that lay in the middle of the hall, its mast almost touching the ceiling. On the side of it, a name had been painted in bright green paint:
HMS Vagabond
As I stood there, the hammering abruptly stopped and a man’s face appeared from behind the wooden structure. ‘I wondered when you’d show up,’ Jazz grinned. ‘I suppose you’re looking for this, are you?’
Squinting, I looked up to see him waving a small black rectangle in his hand.
It was the camera.
SIXTEEN
FOR THE LONGEST time, there was nothing but darkness. There were no street lights, and with no moon to guide the way, I struggled to see anything as I nudged the steering wheel around the bumpy country roads. After what felt like hours, I came to a small hamlet, a few houses strung loosely around a church. I touched the brake, squinting into the murky night, until at last I spotted a huge country mansion peeking between the trees, a driveway the length of a football pitch stretching out before it. Pulling over to the side of the road, I stared up at the thick iron gates, above which a pair of marble lions eyed me from the top of tall stone pillars. Beside them was a white flagpole, a tatty Union Jack slumped at half-mast. From the bottom of the drive, there seemed to be no lights on in the house. There was no sign of life at all.
I had no doubt there’d be food in a house like this. Hell, they probably had a fully stocked wine cellar. A separate pantry just for cheese and dried meats. I could be in and out in a matter of minutes. Just as long as no one was home.
I killed the engine. Reached for my handbag. Opened the door.
By now it was freezing outside, and as I crossed the road my breath billowed out before me in grey clouds. As I approached the driveway, the gates seemed impossibly high. I had no idea how I was going to climb them, but as I got closer, I saw the padlock was open. I could just walk right in.
The cold metal bolt slid back easily. I slipped past the lion sentries, ivory stone chips crunching below my feet. As I neared the house, I began to feel more confident. A house this big would normally have its own security guard. A pack of dogs. I heard nothing, though. There were no cars in the drive and still no sign of any lights in any of the buildings. I figured the occupants had probably fled by private helicopter years ago. Or else they’d got sick. Either way, with each step I grew more and more certain that the place was definitely abandoned.
I was a hundred or so feet from the main building when I spotted something lying in the drive. At first I thought it was a piece of rubbish, some scrap that had blown in from the main road. Drawing closer, though, I saw it was a child’s shoe. I froze. For some reason I’d imagined an elderly couple living there. Octogenarian landowners, swaddled in their ancestral wealth. I hadn’t thought about children. Not that it really changed things. If anything, it seemed to support my theory that no one was home. Like us, they’d probably had to pack in a hurry, clothes and shoes spilling from sloppily stuffed suitcases as they bolted for their chauffeured limousine.
I stooped to pick up the shoe. As I did, I thought I noticed a glimmer of movement in my peripheral vision. I straightened up sharply and stared at the house. The windows remained dark. Unknowable. Was there someone standing there, just behind the glass? I stared at the building for a while, until I was satisfied that it was just the shadows playing tricks on me. Of course, there was no one there. The place was empty.
I glanced down at the shoe I was holding. As I did, I noticed for the first time a dark streak smeared across my palm. Mud? I held my hand up to my face to inspect it. In the moonless night, it was difficult to tell, but I thought I could make out a trace of red.
In an instant, I dropped the shoe and began backing up the drive towards the car. Something wasn’t right about this place. I didn’t care how the blood had got there, or if there was an innocent explanation for it. All I knew is that I wanted to leave. Right now.
As I scrambled back into the car, I checked my hand again in the yellow interior light. It was definitely blood. And if it was still wet, it meant it was fresh. I slammed the door and turned the key, tearing away into the night, not daring to look in the rear-view mirror until the mansion was definitely out of sight.
FOR THE NEXT forty minutes or so, I passed nothing that looked even vaguely promising. The road was one of those gut-pummelling country lanes, blind hairpin turns and bone-juddering potholes. Though I was aware I was near the coast, there was no sign of the sea. On either side of the road, a thick mesh of trees bore down on me. The remains of ancient woodland that had once covered the entire country. Glancing through the window, I had the feeling something was out there, watching me from the gloom. Even back then, I had a sense of some balance tipping in the world. Of nature returning. After centuries of cowering on the fringes, the forgotten beasts were stepping back out from the shadows, preparing to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.
I had a feeling they wouldn’t have to wait too long.
As before, there was no one else on the road. It was strange. I’d assumed that at the very least I’d see the occasional car as people fled the carnage of the city for the countryside. It was as if everyone else had got a message we’d missed.
Either that or they were already dead.
I kept driving. Now and then I passed the high walls of country estates like the one I’d stopped at earlier. There was money in this part of the world. Lords and ladies. Dukes and duchesses. If anyone was going to survive the end of the world, it was these people. I thought of the blood-stained shoe again. This time I didn’t bother slowing as I passed them.
Eventually, the road led me to a larger village. Abandoned vehicles littered the road. A few houses had been obviously vandalised, their windows smashed or boarded up. Others, though, looked like they might still be occupied. Their curtains drawn. Doors closed. I wondered how many people were in there. Holed up and starving. Or else huddled in their bed, like the people we found in our cottage. Like Joshua and his mum.
I was about to push on to the next village when I passed a small parade of shops. A post office, a hairdresser’s, a newsagent’s. I slowed the car to a crawl. Of the three, only the newsagent’s didn’t have its shutter down. Though the windows were plastered with advertisements for groceries, making it difficult to see inside, they nevertheless looked intact. It was definitely worth investigating. I nudged the car to the side of the road. More than anything, I didn’t want to get out again. I wanted to go home. To my old home, in the city. To a place where we could simply tap our screens if we were hungry. Where I didn’t have to drive through the night in order to break into abandoned shops, or carry a carving knife around with me for fear of being attacked. But that home had gone now, along with the world it had existed in. And so, thinking of my sleeping children back at the cottage, I grabbed my handbag and forced myself to get out of the car.
Though the streets were deserted, I approached the shop cautiously, unable to escape the feeling I was being watched. Again, I found myself thinking about the abandoned shoe I’d found on the driveway, and the child whom it had belonged to. Instinctively, my hand moved to my handbag, pulling the strap tight across my shoulders.
As I approached the newsagent’s, I realised I had no idea how I was goi
ng to get inside if it turned out to be locked. In books, it always sounded so easy. The protagonist simply shouldered the door and it burst open. Or else they produced a bent hairpin and picked the lock. I wondered if I could kick this one open, as I had at the cottage. But that had been a flimsy domestic door. This was a triple-glazed slab of glass, specifically designed to deter break-ins. In the event, however, the door flew open before I reached it. I watched in terror as a pair of hooded figures bundled out into the street, each of them heaving an overstuffed bin bag across their shoulder.
At the sight of me, they froze.
For a second, nobody spoke. Then the taller of the two figures snarled at me.
‘Get out of the way.’
The voice was higher than I’d been expecting. I peered closer, startled to see a smooth face hiding beneath the hood. It was a boy, not much older than Amber. Behind him was another boy, this one even younger. Though their faces were set in sneers, their eyes were filled with panic. They looked terrified.
‘I said move,’ the boy repeated, his voice breaking slightly. ‘I mean it.’
Although they were blocking the doorway, the boys were so short I was able to see over their heads into the shop. It looked like the shelves had been swept clean. I suddenly guessed what was in the bin bags.
‘Wait a minute. I just want to talk to you. Where are you going? Do your parents know you’re out here?’
‘We don’t have to tell you anything,’ the first boy said, before turning to his friend. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
He went to step forward, but as he did, I moved to block him.
‘Hey, not so fast.’
The boy’s eyes opened wide as he stared at my hand. To my surprise, I looked down to see that I was holding the knife.
In an instant, the boy’s demeanour changed. The scowl evaporated. His bottom lip began to tremble. ‘Please let us go. My mum’s not well. She sent us out to—’
‘Hand over the bags.’
It was strange. Inside, I felt terrible. I was stealing food from desperate kids. Yet it seemed as though some other person was speaking through me. Someone cold and mean, who didn’t have space in her heart to care for two strangers. Not when her own children were starving.