The Third Wheel

by Michael J. Ritchie

  Now unarmed, we are moving slowly, which suits us fine given that in the fight with the aliens we got pretty bruised. Ruby’s left eye is sporting a purple shiner, and there are mottled blue and green patches up Peregrina’s forearms.

  Ruby-and-Alex are spending more and more time whispering to one another, and I do my best not to listen. No one else is paying them a lick of attention, so it is only the three of us who know what they’re talking about. I wish I didn’t.

  The Tube line comes into sight and we figure that we deserve a rest, choosing a nearby town house at random. A plaque next to the door announces that it’s not a house, but rather the offices of Satterthwaite & Quin, a firm of lawyers. Pete and Terry shoulder the door and, after a few charges, it breaks open and they fall onto an oatmeal carpet. I have to stifle an inappropriate laugh at the sight of them sprawled over one another.

  We move through the converted house and settle in what must have been a waiting room, with big plush sofas and a water cooler. Desperate, I dive forward and fill a paper cup of water and gulp it down, splashing it down my shirt. I suck in air and water and pour a second cup, then a third. Despite alcohol last night and juice before we set off, it feels like an age since I drank.

  Throwing my bag with food supplies we’d taken from the pub down on the floor, I flop onto the sofa and close my eyes. The others navigate the small space, drinking water and settling into comfortable positions to rest, cuddle and check on their injuries. I’m tired in a way that comes when your body has already escalated past exhaustion, pure adrenaline coursing through my veins, keeping me awake. It reminds me of the first couple of weeks of university, when you’re away from home for the first time; everything is new and shiny and you don’t eat because all your energy comes from hormones and snakebite.

  With nothing else to look at, I pick up a small stack of envelopes from a side table and flick through them. Red stamps adorn each corner but I find it weird to think that these people – E. Highsmith, J. Orchard, M. Burke, G. McKenna – will never receive the legal letters that had been written for them. The contents don’t even matter any more. They are further evidence of human existence that is, very probably, about to be snuffed out.

  Ruby is recumbent on a sofa, her head in Alex’s lap and her small hands folded across her belly. She stares blankly at the ceiling and says, with the manner of one discussing the weather, ‘What’s the one thing you’re going to be saddest about not being able to do now that the world has ended?’ There’s a contemplative silence from the seven of us. I think again about Ubik. Is the loss of literature the biggest blow?

  ‘Our wedding,’ says Peregrina, looking at Pete. ‘That’ll never happen.’

  ‘Booking that DJ was a waste of a deposit wasn’t it?’ he says, with a wink. ‘Obviously, the wedding too, but I’m also sad I never got to see Australia. I wish I’d gone.’

  ‘I’m going to miss food,’ says Shell, fiddling with her rings. ‘I would’ve liked a bit more preparation for the end of the world to gorge on chocolate, cake and champagne for a few days.’

  ‘I’ll miss the books I never got to read,’ says Ruby, commandeering my thoughts for her own. ‘All those ones that I should’ve read but never got round to: Nineteen Eighty-Four, Brave New World, The Handmaid’s Tale, Shopaholic Ties the Knot…’

  ‘I’m going to miss little things,’ says Alex. ‘I’ll never go to a football match again, or win a pub quiz. And children…’ He stops himself and Ruby squeezes his hand.

  ‘I’m going to miss roast dinners,’ says Terry, biting at his fingernails. ‘Roast pork, especially, with lots of crackling, the saltier the better.’ There’s a momentary pause before he adds, ‘And, if we’re honest, I’m pissed off that I never got to go to Disneyland.’

  ‘What about you, Dex?’ says Ruby, turning her head to look at me. I chew my lip, still thinking of an answer.

  ‘I think that I’m annoyed most about the fact that I’ll never know what happens next,’ I say. ‘If we are among the few who survive the invasion and happen to still be alive when the aliens fuck off, maybe we’ll see something, but I don’t think we will be. Even if I’m dead, not knowing if humans survive this and rebuild is something that’s rather unbearable.’

  More silence.

  ‘Thanks for killing the mood,’ says Shell, but with a small chuckle. ‘OK, I’ve got one. What won’t you miss about the world?’

  ‘The Smiths,’ I say, without hesitation.

  ‘I’m gonna go with the Kardashians,’ says Pete.

  ‘I won’t miss writing Christmas cards,’ says Alex, a strange sort of look on his face. ‘Isn’t that one of the most tedious tasks in the world?’

  ‘You don’t even write them, I do,’ says Ruby, chucking him under the chin with her fist. ‘You come along afterwards and add your name.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he says with indifference. ‘I also won’t miss those work trips to Llanfairfechan or some other Welsh hellhole to attend focus groups and do awkward team building exercises.’ I’ve always managed to avoid going away with my colleagues – former colleagues – but even birthday drinks with some of them can be painful. Anita always had too much gin, and old David Tubby insisted on talking at length whenever possible about cars he’d known and loved, all the while wafting his un-deodoranted armpits around the pub.

  ‘Right, we need a bit more of a plan,’ I say, realising that we can’t sit around undefended forever, quashing the ideas that are fermenting in my head saying that might be an easier option. ‘I still vote we hole up in the Natural History Museum, which is plenty big enough for us to hide in. However, we first need some new weaponry, and there isn’t any there unless we intend to fight with stuffed eagles and fossil casts.’

  ‘There must be gun shops dotted around London?’ says Shell. ‘I mean, they aren’t illegal with the right licences so someone must sell them.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve no idea where any of them are, and I’d imagine people have already looted them,’ I say. ‘I reckon we should divert to the British Museum to restock our arsenal before we head for our final – or temporarily final – destination. The Science Museum won’t be much use from what I remember, and the Grant Museum is taxidermy and bones. Unless the Tate Modern has an exhibition on about weaponry in sculpture, I don’t think we’ll have much luck taking out any aliens with a Rothko. There’s the Petrie Museum near the British Museum, but it’s all Egyptian stuff and I don’t think it has any weapons from memory. I don’t think the V&A has any weapons, either. Can anyone remember?’

  ‘Art mostly, isn’t it?’ says Peregrina. ‘We had a cocktail party there a few months ago with work. I remember a lot of clothes and sculpture.’

  ‘Right, so are we in agreement?’ I say. We wait a couple of hours yet, dozing and willing feeling back into our aching bodies. Finally, I stand up, feeling unsteady on my feet, my body having forgotten how bad the pain was while I was sat down. There’s a murmur of assent and we make a move back out of the lawyer’s offices, somewhat rested, and hit the streets again, where it has begun to rain.

  Twenty-Four

  The British Museum

  We squelch our way to Russell Square as the rain pelts down on our heads and shoulders. My suede desert boots are ruined, and every so often there is a rumble of distant thunder over the deserted capital.

  No aliens surprise us, but we are humbled and kept quiet anyway by the signs of destruction that pepper our route. There is occasional evidence of other survivors, but it is few and far between and exists mostly as shadows at windows. Once, close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Ruby becomes convinced that we are being watched, and she and I both think we see a body in a thick army coat slink off around a corner. I wonder for the first time where the military are.

  On Bloomsbury Way, we encounter one of the strangest things yet. There is a double-decker bus that has tipped over like a great elephant, unable to right itself. Most of the windows are smashed and, inside, the walls are blood-stained. Fingers, eyebal
ls, arms and other bits that might once have been livers and voiceboxes are scattered in and around the shell. Some nanobots clearly had a good time in there, but they’ve long gone and flies have begun to move in.

  There are more flies than usual around the streets, presumably because of the sudden influx of openly rotting flesh for them to lay their quick-hatching eggs in. Rats, too, appear to have noticed that the streets are much emptier and along with the pigeons have not been slow in exhibiting their bravado by helping themselves to the last of the human litter, and indeed the last of the humans.

  I see one rat carrying off a small ear in its sharp teeth and don’t know whether to laugh or vomit.

  By the time we reach the British Museum, we are soaked through, clothes sticking to our skin, although I actually feel a little cleaner at least. It’s the first decent wash I’ve had in days.

  Trotting up the steps, I notice that the front doors are already wide open, litter and pigeons gathering in the once-grand entrance. Inside, it’s rather gloomy but we can see well enough thanks to the faint emergency lighting. Our footsteps echo in the silent atrium, although I can’t believe we’re the only people here. We may even be too late to find anything useful.

  Ruby-and-Alex scan a floor plan of the museum, while the rest of us keep an eye out for any other movement. Ruby points out the weapons rooms and we follow them through different exhibits and staircases. I think of the millions of items stored here, now worthless. Would anyone ever need the Rosetta Stone again? Does the ongoing argument about who owns the Elgin Marbles seem futile? I can’t even remember if they are still here or not.

  The weapons are stored behind glass fronts, pinned, pegged and strapped to the green felt walls. They comprise three rooms and the white placards dotted about detail the history of human weaponry, from Stone Age to Space Age. We’re not going to have much luck with a blunderbuss or musket, and there don’t appear to be any unused bullets on display, so I suggest we focus our attentions on hand-to-hand combat weapons. They’re very rusty and look pretty fragile, but they’ll have to do.

  Terry kicks at the glass of an Iron Age cabinet, but it resists. In a neighbouring room is a statue of Ares, which is commandeered, pulled from his plinth and charged into the glass like a battering ram. A security light flashes red above us, but no alarm goes off. We smash a few more and grab at swords, maces and daggers, arming ourselves with the ones that look to be in the best condition, although almost everything here is coated in a fine layer of rust after its extensive journey through time from creation to preservation. Ruby insists on a halberd, although looks ridiculous carrying it. She can barely hold it, so Christ knows how she intends to wield it against a cloud of nanobots or a two-headed alien.

  ‘Stop!’ a voice shouts and we swivel round to find ourselves facing two burly black men holding up rifles. My hands leap up over my head, but the others are behind me so I can’t tell if they’re doing the same. ‘Drop your weapons!’

  ‘We’re not here to do any harm to you,’ I say, my breathing becoming deep and panicked.

  ‘This is our patch,’ says the man on the left. He has a close-shaved head the shape of a pumpkin. The second man has matted black hair and glasses with large frames and no glass.

  ‘We came here for weapons to use against the aliens,’ says Peregrina, voice calm as a millpond. ‘We were unarmed. We’re not going to use them on you.’ The two men lower their rifles, realising that unless Ruby makes a charge for them with her halberd, they aren’t likely to come to any immediate harm. The man on the left moves forward and extends an oddly slender hand. I shake it – his skin is clammy.

  ‘I’m Gary McQueen,’ he says and, pointing at his companion, adds, ‘Kevin Hawthorne.’ Introductions are made, hands are shaken, weapons are not used. It turns out that they’re a couple and should have been getting married a few days from now, although the slight interruption of an alien invasion and the fall of civilisation put paid to that. They lead, with us now feeling safer armed with tools not used in centuries or, in the case of the carved flints that Pete pocketed, millennia, down to the Egyptian rooms. In among the sarcophagi and sculptures there is a tiny shanty town of tents. They’re constructed from sheets, towels and duvets like childhood pillow forts. There are about twenty-five people here, although we’re informed there are more scattered throughout the museum; small pockets of resistance.

  ‘Where are you trying to go?’ asks Kevin. Despite his wide shoulders and rugby-playing figure, he’s softly spoken, with an accent that suggests he comes from the dark blue Monopoly squares rather than brown or cyan.

  ‘Natural History Museum,’ I say. ‘We intend to hide out there and then, well, we’ll see what happens to us, I guess.’

  ‘Have you eaten anything?’ Gary says, and we reveal that our supplies are meagre. Displaying a friendliness that I don’t remember from pre-apocalypse Londoners, Gary, Kevin and a couple of the others who are listening to us proffer food, some of it even fresh fruit and vegetables raided from nearby shops and houses. Although we’re not shown where these are kept – we aren’t going to be given that level of trust – they also have large supplies of canned goods. No one is risking anything that should’ve been frozen. We’re also handed some spare towels to dry ourselves off.

  Our group disperses and we join with the others already here, telling them the things we’ve seen and done, and the things we saw and did before the end. They tell us stories too, of the people and lives they’ve lost and the time passes in a pleasant blur. One man we speak to was an MP – he ran rather than staying at Westminster to help come up with a plan of action. He admits it was probably cowardice, but also that because of it, he’s also most likely the most senior politician left alive. It’s nice to talk to some new people for a change – I was starting to feel like we were the only ones left.

  Towards the latter half of the afternoon, two more people arrive, a tall willowy woman and a man built like one of the museum’s marble statues, arms full of more food from nearby pubs and restaurants. Small fires are built using books from the gift shop – for an English student who has been indoctrinated to believe that there is nothing more important than the written word, there are fewer signs more upsetting – and people set about opening cans and cooking food.

  Kevin, I learn while our nostrils are attacked by the scent of an incoming meal, used to be a teacher too, working at a very well-to-do primary school in Chelsea. Gary, meanwhile, used to work in the perfume department of Harrods, another place that was, we’re told, gutted by aliens in the first wave of invasions. Gary says he had been at work when the aliens first arrived, and when he left there were already dozens of mutilated bodies.

  ‘That’s odd,’ I say, and I relay our theory about how it’s only romantically attached couples that are getting merged by the nanobots. Gary gives me a look that suggests he’s doing long division in his head, but then the fog in his expression clears and he says, ‘You could be right, actually. There were – what? Five thousand employees at that place? It was the like the gods on Mount Olympus – everyone was sleeping with everyone else, so I guess they were the ones that were taken out.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a policy about dating within the company?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I worked at Starbucks for a bit and we had one there. Surely Harrods would?’

  ‘The management turned a blind eye as long as everyone was doing their jobs,’ shrugged Gary. ‘I never gave the couple thing much thought, but now you say it… Does that mean it would be safer if I left Kevin?’ I throw a glance towards Kevin who is chuckling at something Terry has said in between mouthfuls of stale pork pie.

  ‘Probably,’ I shrug. ‘But, let’s be honest, this whole thing is fruitless. We’re going to die, aren’t we?’ Gary doesn’t answer; instead he looks across at Kevin. Without looking at me, he abruptly asks, ‘Have you ditched your partner to survive?’ A flash of Georgina’s worried face and green hair slides into view and I blink it away, choosing to eat another spoonful of my di
nner instead of answering Gary’s question. He takes my silence as an answer and nods a few times, that long-division look appearing in his eyes again.

  Twenty-Five

  The Unexpected Guest

  It’s dark by the time we’ve finished eating and everyone is sated with both food and conversation. The refugees of the British Museum insist that we don’t go out again in the dark, but instead remain here with them overnight. However, there appears to be no offer of continued accommodation. They can’t afford any more people in the place, potentially making their temporary home more obvious, crowded or short of food.

  Although not actively unkind or unfriendly, aside from Gary-and-Kevin they’re pretty guarded. We try to engage in small talk with some of them, but they hug themselves tighter as if we’re the threat, and always seem to have one hand on whatever possessions they’ve managed to keep hold of. Many of them seem to have nothing to their name, but I suspect that it’s because anything with worth has been sequestered away in their tents and will never be shown to us.

  I doze in a sweaty sleep, dreaming of bodies ripped asunder, Annie-and-Matt running off as one through a burning housing estate, and Lara-and-Steve weeping, hiding in some forsaken corner of an unidentifiable room. The images feel almost real, but they are products of a hyperactive mind, struggling to cope with loss and worry.

  I’m sleeping on the hard floor between Shell and Pete, when something nudges my foot. I ignore it, but it does it again, so I force my eyelids open a crack and see Gary looking down at me.

  ‘What?’ I mouth, but he beckons me up so, trying not to disturb my sleeping friends, I stand up, my legs aching and my back feeling like it’s full of ball bearings, and go over to where he leads, in a corner underneath a strange Egyptian death mask.