CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

 

 

RICK NO LONGER felt like himself. It was a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one. People spent small fortunes on drugs, alcohol and new age religions to achieve the same thing. All it had cost him was the world.

He’d driven all day, across and up, always parallel with the sea, keeping a few miles away from the coast as they headed in a north-easterly direction, towards Northumberland.

Rohmer’s directions, given during the memorable boat trip along the canal, had proven sound. Rick had kept away from the larger towns and cities, hugging the jagged coastline as they skirted places he’d never before heard of, and soon began to notice road signs for Sea Houses, the place Rohmer had told him to head for.

A lot of the small towns and villages they passed through were deserted. Burning buildings, broken windows, abandoned dreams. Relics of a now dead age littered the streets and footpaths: images like snapshots; of a child’s bike, a school blackboard, scrawled with obscenities, a burned and blackened sofa, a row of stuffed toys lined up outside a house with shattered windows.

The dead roamed in the ashes of this dying way of life, feeding off scraps and hunting down stragglers. Rick had not stopped to help anyone; his focus remained on the road ahead, and the promise of a perhaps fictitious sanctuary.

Now it was dark again, and Rick was exhausted. He had not slept well last night. After the failed seduction, he had lain awake staring at the ceiling, listening to Sally’s subtle movements in the dark. He had not dared sleep next to her and had instead lain on the floor beside the sofa. She was always within touching distance; he had reached out several times in the dark just to feel her cold skin against the back of his hand.

Rick couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He was surviving on a combination of whisky and adrenalin.

Not long now, he thought. Then I can finally rest.

He was surprised at how easy it was to continue the myth, to keep believing that Rohmer’s island was the answer to everything. He supposed that when the alternatives are unthinkable, any scrap of faith is worth clinging to. He had never believed it in the past, but now he was certain that faith was the only thing that could save whatever was left of humanity.

He prodded the camp fire with a stick, turning the embers and sparking fresh flames. It was a smaller version of the blaze he’d started back at the cottage, the one which had served as Rohmer’s funeral pyre. He was sure the old man would have appreciated it.

The camp was in the middle of a small grassed roundabout. Rick had lain out blankets and built the fire. He was more comfortable out here in the open as it would allow him to see anyone who wandered by, both the living and the dead. After the cottage and what had happened there, he wasn’t quite ready to be crowded in, blocked on all sides. Open air was better, it felt freer, less restrictive.

Tabby sat at his side, unmoving, and stared at a point beyond the fire. She had said nothing since her grandfather’s death; nor had she moved very much, apart from when Rick had coerced her into some kind of action. She was limp and unresponsive: it was a classic symptom of shock fatigue. Rick had seen this all before, out in the field, but still it unnerved him.

They weren’t very different right now, his dead wife and his surrogate daughter. Neither of them spoke, and each had their own strange hunger.

The sky was black and starless, with thin clouds hovering overhead. The transition between day and night had been almost seamless. The only significant alteration was that the shadows had become longer before vanishing, and the moon was a segment of the pale circle the sun had been.

We’ll be fine when we get there.

Rick smiled. “I know we will. It will all be different then.”

They’ll cure me. We can start again.

They. It was always They. Whenever things went wrong, or when people needed someone to blame, they called out to the mythical They: They put a hole in the ozone layer; They started the War on Terror; They put the chemicals in our food; They destroyed the environment; They brought the dead back to kill us.

“We did it,” he whispered, once more stoking the fire. “We fucking did it all.”

He looked up at the sky, peering into the blackness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a plane, or a police helicopter. Back on the road he’d passed various groups of refugees, both large and small, and none of them seemed to have any idea what the powers-that-be were doing to solve things. For all anyone knew, there were no powers left; the government were all dead and roaming around Westminster looking for people to devour. Just as they’d done all along, but in a less literal manner.

Among the people he had seen on the road, one or two of them had even mentioned the island. He hadn’t stopped to talk to anyone for long, but had felt compelled to pass a few words with the occasional stranger, if only to pretend he still had a link to the remains of a crumbling society.

One man had spoken of a small island in the Outer Hebrides.

An old woman had told him of a land mass located off the coast of Ireland.

Two children – a boy and a girl – had passed on the story of a supposed sanctuary on the Isle of Dogs, in London.

It was like the old game, Chinese Whispers, where the truth was mauled in the passing of information. Each time the tale was told, it was altered: parts were added or taken away, even changed completely to fit the world view of the teller.

The island was an urban legend, a story that might be told forever, by dirty survivors huddled around dwindling campfires; a modern myth sent down the generations to comfort those as yet unborn. Santa Claus. Jesus Christ. Rohmer’s Island.

Rick smiled, and the expression felt funny, like it didn’t belong. He was no longer used to smiling...

“I know she’s dead.”

Rick twitched in shock when the girl spoke. It had been so long since he’d heard her voice that he had almost forgotten what it sounded like.

“What do you mean, love?” He was afraid to turn and look at her in case it made her lapse back into silence, so he stared ahead at the flames, making mental pictures in their midst.

“Your wife. She’s dead. I’ve known all along.”

Rick closed his eyes. When he opened them again his vision was blurred, as if he was crying... but there were no more tears left in his body. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Because I liked you. We liked you, Granddad and me. We both knew that she was dead, but we just let you get on with it. We had no right to judge you.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” His amazement was not directed at what the girl had said, but at the tears now rolling down his cheeks. It seemed that there were some left after all, and they had arrived in abundance.

“I’m sorry.” Only now did he turn to face her.

The side of her face was bathed in firelight; her eyes were wide, expressive, but he could not decipher what secrets they held. “It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t. I should never have lied to you. Not to you...”

But she said no more, and it was dark and it was cold and the heavens were empty of everything but the suggestion of a deeper darkness, an empty void that even now was curling around the edges of the sky, threatening to swallow it all.

She’s lovely. Our daughter. The one we can never have. I’m glad I haven’t been able to get to her. To eat her.

Rick felt like screaming, but he bit down on his tongue, keeping it all inside. The darkness he’d been aware of only moments before hovered, poised on the brink of complete destruction, and then slowly receded, going away for now, yet more than capable of returning at any time. His illusion was so fragile; none of this was ever meant to last.

He stood and crossed the roundabout, the M16 in his hand. The roundabout was located at the top of a rise, which was why he’d chosen it. An elevated position was always easier to defend: you could see whoever was approaching a long time before they announced themselves, and taking the high ground was difficult when it was already occupied.

He thought again of missions in Iraq and Afghanistan. Old friends screamed inside his head, their long-dead voices struggling to be heard amid the uproar. No words made it through, it was just so much mental white noise.

“I’m going to secure the perimeter.” He marched across the road and into the trees, heading towards the open land beyond. Sounds were muted; the air was thick and pregnant with expectation. Rick’s senses became attuned and he heard the struggling of night creatures through the landscape: their constant endeavours for survival never ceased, despite the state of the humans who thought that they ruled over the earth.

But that imagined rule was about to end.

Beyond the grove of trees he came to a clearing that allowed him to look down into a valley. There was a shopping centre located at the base of the valley – large prefabricated sheds containing rows and aisles of foodstuffs and clothing and every other kind of knick-knack everyone had thought they needed; the separate components that together were meant to construct a happy life.

The mall was surrounded by scores of the dead. They stood in unmoving rows, circling the buildings, following some instinct that had brought them here to the places they once haunted when they were alive. The place was far enough away that Rick had no fear he would be seen, yet still he stayed back in the shadows, cupping his hands to his eyes to examine the pathetic scene.

The dead had returned to their old stomping grounds: shops, supermarkets, city centres. That explained why huge swathes of the countryside remained clear of their presence. They had begun to mass in the only places they could remember, the churches of capitalism, the prayer grounds of a lost world.

He heard the sound of distant gunshots. Someone must be hiding out in the shopping centre, thinking it a good place to sit out a siege. There would be plenty of food there, and all the things they had ever wanted before the world went tits-up. It was what Rick’s generation had been taught all along: there is comfort in stuff, safety in the pursuit of objects. This was the living end of that empty philosophy, and Rick pitied the fools who had believed it right up until the last cash register had rung up its final sale.

He watched the dead as they swayed in place, moving to some unheard rhythm. They stood facing the shopping centre, most of them simply standing and staring. When Rick concentrated, he could hear the sound of their moaning: it was a sad song, a lament for everything that had been lost.

He turned away, feeling emptier than before.

Trudging back to the camp, he wrestled with the thoughts he had experienced when he’d watched them, grouping together for the World’s-end Sale, the Last Great Shopping Spree of the Century.

Sally had not moved when he got back to the camp, but Tabby was now lying down, perhaps even sleeping. He hoped that she was at least getting some rest. All of this had been so hard on the girl – first she had lost her parents, and then the old man. Rick was all she had left, and even he was uncertain how much he could do for her or how long he might be around.

He heard the sound through his babble of thoughts: a low stuttering roar, like bees swarming around a hive.

Rick turned quickly and dropped to his knees, shouldering the rifle and looking along its sight.

A small moped struggled up the hill, heading towards the roundabout. A scrawny man sat astride the machine, leaning into the climb. The bike was festooned with bags and plastic containers, which probably contained food and fuel. Rick could make out no heavy artillery either on the bike’s frame or strapped to the man.

He stood, but did not lower the rifle.

The moped halted a hundred yards away. The rider sat staring at Rick, and at this distance he could not make out the stranger’s face. The man raised a hand in greeting, then he turned off the little engine. The silence filled the space between them, pouring in like flood water into an open grave.

Rick kept his sights on the man.

The figure climbed off the bike and started to walk towards the roundabout, his hands held out from his body. He had a rather feminine-looking bag on his back, the straps hanging loose at his shoulders, and unless he was mistaken the kid was wearing an ill-fitting pair of women’s leather gloves. As the visitor drew closer, Rick could see that he was smiling, but the expression didn’t seem to fit his face. It was sickly, like something painted on in haste.

“Hello. I’m unarmed.” His voice was slightly high; he sounded like a small boy rather than a fully-grown man.

Rick kept the rifle on him, not ready to trust anyone, even a seemingly harmless young man with a girl’s rucksack on his back.

“I’m alive... not one of those dead things. I’ve travelled a long way. I could do with some company, if that’s okay by you.”

There was something off about the kid, a certain insincerity that niggled at Rick’s keen combat senses. None the less, he lowered the rifle slightly, nodded.

“Thank you. I’m saddle-sore from that thing. If I could just rest for a while by your fire, I’d be grateful.”

“Come on up,” said Rick, finally dropping the gun. He took his finger off the trigger and let the weapon hang at his side. “I have some hot tea if you’d like. A few biscuits.”

The kid clambered up the side of the raised roundabout, his thin arms and legs scurrying for purchase on the soft ground. “Thanks. That would be wonderful.”

They stood not quite face-to-face; Rick was at least three or four inches taller than the younger man and so much broader at the shoulders. If the little fucker meant trouble, he figured that he could overcome him in seconds.

“My name’s Daryl,” said the kid, sticking out a small hand.

Rick shook the hand, feeling briefly like he was missing something, some vital element that he needed to complete the picture. “Rick. You’re welcome here, in our camp.”

“What happened to them?” Daryl tiled his head towards Sally and Tabby. His eyes shone, but Rick thought it was just the reflection of the camp fire flames.

“My wife was badly burned. Our daughter is in shock. We were attacked yesterday and her grandfather was killed. I had to deal with him; make sure he didn’t come back.” Rick walked towards the fire and made sure that he positioned himself between Daryl and the girls.

Daryl nodded. He obviously had his own story, and Rick thought that everyone’s tale would be much the same: dead friends and relatives, lost loves, abandoned homes and lives.

“You look like you’ve been through some stuff yourself, Daryl.” He lifted the tin pot from the fire and poured some tea into battered mugs.

“Yes. I used to live with someone. She died and came back. Just like you, I was forced to deal with her.” He stared into the flames, his eyes empty and reflecting only the brightness from the fire.

Rick felt that the kid was leaving something out of his brief account. It wasn’t a problem, but the whole thing rung false somehow. He was sure that what he was being told was the truth, but with certain elements excised, or perhaps altered for public consumption. There was something about this Daryl... something unpleasant. He didn’t come across as a complete person; for some reason, the kid seemed more like an actor playing a part. He said all the right things, paused in all the right places, but it was all too studied, as if he were striving for an effect rather than being open and natural.

They sipped their tea in silence. It was too hot and too weak; there was no milk or sugar. The sky felt like a vast canyon yawning above them, as if everything had been turned on its head and somewhere up there was the earth. The effect was disorientating, and Rick tried not to dwell on it.

A breeze moved through the foliage at the side of the road, ruffling the tops of trees and disturbing the night birds. Something cried, far off and moving away from them; from somewhere inland came the muted sound of a single scream. Rick looked in the direction of the sound, but he knew that the awful cry was being carried on the wind, and whoever had made it was perhaps miles away.

Daryl did not even glance away from the fire.

Send him away, baby. I don’t like him. He isn’t right.

Rick tried to ignore Sally, but as usual her voice cut right through his brain and into his very core.

He wants to hurt us.

How could she know that? On the surface, the kid was harmless: a skinny little runt in search of some company. But underneath the performance, at the heart of the matter, he might be very dangerous indeed. Long ago Rick had learned never to trust the image a person was attempting to portray. Initial instincts were usually correct; whatever you felt about a person within the first five minutes of meeting them was all too often close to the mark. In the field you learned to read people fast or you died... it really was that simple.

What he read in Daryl was an empty page, a space waiting to be filled. There was no real person here, just the reflection of how he thought a real person should act. In the silence that hung between them there was an absence; rather than a companionable lull, this was a shocking emptiness, a lack of contact at a fundamental level.

“I think you should go now.” Rick grasped the rifle. He did not raise it, but he did enough to inform Daryl that he was ready to use it if necessary.

“But why? What have I done? Or is it something I failed to do?” The kid’s eyes were stones, pieces of mineral stuck into a hunk of flesh. There was nothing behind them; no personality to tie everything together into a whole human being.

“Cut the fucking act and leave. Move or I’ll take off your head.” Rick stood, slipping his finger beneath the trigger guard.

Daryl finished his tea. It was still hot, but he took it in one large swallow. Then he stood and turned away without speaking, heading back towards his silly little moped. He climbed onto the bike, scratched the side of his face, and cocked his head like a dog. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and then before Rick could answer he fired up the engine and put-putted away, his back held straight this time and presenting the perfect target.

Rick raised the rifle and took a bead on that slim back. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Do it.

One round. That was all he needed. It was an easy shot.

Kill him, baby.

He blinked hard, aware of that white noise behind his eyes again. Then he lowered the rifle and went back to the fire, where he took some more of the weak tea and wondered what had held him in check. It would have meant nothing to have killed the kid; just another dead man among the many who now inhabited the world. Maybe that was why he hadn’t done it. Perhaps the lack of meaning in the act had stayed his hand.