Prologue

A Year and a Day Later

The sun doesn’t rise here. It just gets lighter.

Ever since I got here, I’ve been crouching in this electricals store, dictating into this machine. Haven’t checked whether I’ve been using the “Pause” button properly, so God knows whether half of what I’ve been talking about has been recorded. What the hell. Does it matter? I only know that I had to stay awake while it was dark, watching and waiting for any sign that the Black Stuff had found me at last. Don’t want to think about those poor bastards who tried to stop my car. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

So—I’ve kept talking. And now I’ve replaced the batteries.

When the darkness became grey, I could feel sleep catching up on me, even after everything that’s happened since we became Special Guests of The Caffneys. I never believed I could sleep again. Absolute exhaustion, I suppose. Suddenly, I lost three hours. Not much, but enough to keep me alert. I could do with something to eat, but that’s not the most important thing at the moment. I’ve got to circle around and find my way back to the petrol plant, got to keep telling myself that the others are still somehow alive.

I’ve just checked the shotgun for the hundredth time. As if a second shell might suddenly reappear in there by magic. One shell left. No good against the Black Stuff, but it might deter any other scavengers still left alive on this city-crag. I hope I don’t have to use it that way, because I’m keeping it for one of the Caffneys.

Just hope I can get back where I’m going before dark comes again.

It knows I’m still here somewhere, and it won’t give up until it’s found me.

If I believed in God, I’d pray.

But I don’t think He lives in this neighbourhood.

The streets look clear. I’m going to head off on foot, work my way through the abandoned buildings and the ruins. There are plenty of vehicles scattered about on the streets, and it might be that some of them are still in working order. But I daren’t risk using one for fear of being heard in this silent city.

Never mind the engine sound, Jay. The Black Stuff can smell your scent. It’s the scent of fear.

Yeah…? Well, I’ll try not to think about that then, won’t I?

Christ, I hurt all over. Maybe not surprising after everything that’s happened. Better hurting than dead, Jay. Just keep telling yourself that. Stiff as hell, crouched down here among the televisions and the videos all night. And would you believe it? Not a thing worth watching on any of the channels. Hah-bloody-hah.

Time to move.

And this could be the last time I’ll be recording anything.

In which case: Thanks for listening, whoever you are.

Good luck, Jay.

There’s no one else here to slap me on the back.

So I’ll do it myself.

Here goes…