Paul Kane - Arrowhead

But then, looking back, none of that had mattered in the end. Because of The Cull.

The first they'd heard about the virus, living all the way out here, was when David had returned from trying to sell the pigs at auction.

"They're all talking about it. They're saying maybe it's come from the animals. Like Foot and Mouth, only worse, spreading to humans… People are getting real sick, Moo-Moo."

"There's nothing wrong with our animals!" Mary said defensively.

"I know that! I'm just telling you what they said."

But nobody knew where the virus had come from. The television threw back images of cities in chaos, of throngs of people desperate to get somewhere, but not knowing where. Mary and David locked themselves away from the outside world, pretending it didn't exist.

Then, one morning, David began to cough.

"Look, I'm bleeding, Moo-Moo." She could see that for herself. The blood was all over the towels in the bathroom, all over the floor. Mary had cleaned him up as best she could, helping him back to bed. She had no formal training in nursing, but had done a few courses in first aid and learnt what she could from books. She was also used to looking after two grown men who insisted they were dying every time they came down with something. The only difference this time being David actually was.

They had all kinds of medicines in the house – oh, the Fosters were very self-sufficient – and she tried him on antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, whatever she thought might help. Nothing did the trick.

The phone lines were all busy, the emergency services non-responsive. Mary thought about running David into the nearest town, but by that time he'd deteriorated rapidly. He probably wouldn't have lasted the journey. All she could do was sit with him and hope he made it through the night.

He did, but only just. Delirious, he kept asking for their father in the final moments, wanted to tell him he was sorry for abandoning the farm. "It's down to you now. There's only you left. You have to promise me, Moo-Moo. As long as it's still… still standing."

"I promise, Diddy," Mary had said, tears streaming down her face.

Then she realised he was already gone.

Mary buried David out by one of his favourite trees, where he used to read on summer days when they'd take picnics into the top field.

It still made her sad that she'd never gone off and started a family somewhere, but Mary had made her peace with the life she'd chosen – wouldn't have missed spending those final few years with her brother for anything. Besides which, in retrospect, what might have happened to that family even if she'd started it? She'd probably have had to say goodbye to a husband she loved, to children. She couldn't even begin to imagine what that must be like; what it could do to you.

Mary never really questioned why she didn't get sick. She just assumed there was something inside her stronger than David. In the end she'd been proved stronger than both him and her father, had been bequeathed the entire farm and its lands.

And today had begun just like any other day: she'd done quite a few of her chores and was now looking forward to a nice bacon sandwich.

No sooner had she put the pan on the range, standing with her long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, than she heard the sound of approaching engines. Apart from the tractors, which she'd used sparingly since David passed away – conserving the fuel they kept out in the adjourning garage – she hadn't heard a car engine in longer than she could remember. It sounded strange to her; not just the noise, but the connotations of it. That people were, in fact, out there in the world.

That they were heading her way.

Mary rushed to the kitchen window, craning her head to try and see up the dirt track leading to her farm.

They were dots to begin with, no bigger than the bees she tended to outside. But they were growing larger with each metre of road they devoured. Mary hadn't encountered another human being in all this time, and now she was about to meet several, all at once. She counted two jeeps, three or four motorcycles and a truck.

What do I do? she thought to herself, realising her hands were shaking. Hide? Pretend I'm not here and hope that they'll just go away? But she'd done enough of that already. It didn't sit right anymore. This was her farm now and she should see what they wanted. After all, they looked sort of official. Perhaps civilisation was piecing itself back together? Perhaps they were here to help?

It wasn't long before the vehicles were in the yard: the chickens in the run protesting, the pigs in the sty oinking for all they were worth. Mary hung back at the window, crouching and peering out through the netting. The men wore uniforms but they weren't like any she'd seen before. They looked as if they'd been standing in an Army amp; Navy store when a hurricane hit: each soldier sporting items from different branches of the forces. The man stepping down from the driver's side of the truck was wearing a peaked cap – obviously the guy in charge.

He reached into the truck and pulled out a megaphone, as more of the soldiers came to join him. Each one was heavily armed, she noted, holding machine guns close to their chests.

"If there is anyone at home here, please come out with your hands where we can see them," the man shouted. His accent betrayed him; definitely not from England, though Mary couldn't place where it had originated.

They don't sound very friendly, Moo-Moo… came the voice of her brother in her head. It didn't freak her out at all, because she knew – hoped – she wasn't crazy, just imagining what he might say if he were here. No, I definitely don't like the looks of this.

Neither did she.

"If you don't come out we will be coming in. We are here under the authority of the new High Sheriff of Nottingham."

The what? said David in her head. He's got to be kidding, right? Have we just gone through a time warp or something?

Mary watched as the men spread out, investigating the chicken run, the sty. They reported back to the fellow with the peaked cap. She watched, horrified, as one of the soldiers stepped into the run, grabbing a chicken and snapping its neck. Mary had just about got over that when she heard gunfire coming from the pigsty, a rat-ta-ta-tat noise as someone massacred the helpless creatures. Her hand shot to her mouth.

They're going to do that to me, too, aren't they?

Probably, Moo-Moo. I don't think you should hang around to find out, do you?

Mary came away from the window and noticed the smoke; the bacon had burnt to a crisp. Then the smoke alarm went off, proving that even if everything else in this world had gone to crap then at least one thing could be relied on. The incessant beep-beep-beep gave her away, and she knew she didn't have long before they stormed the house.

Mary ran from the kitchen into the hall, passing the crossed broadswords that hung there, on her way to the combined study amp; living room. She hurried to the desk at the back, her father's antique desk. On her way something caught her eye through the window – figures rounding the back of the house, ensuring any escape route would be cut off. Mary yanked open the drawer nearest to her. There they were, lying in the bottom, shiny and fully loaded, with packs of bullets next to them. When they'd been little her father had kept them safely locked away, only bringing them out to admire and clean when they were in bed. As they grew, he'd been less bothered about safety, even letting them hold the pistols when they were unloaded. David had always looked at them like he was handling live snakes, but Mary had felt the weight in her hand comforting. Whereas most farmers might have a shotgun to protect their land, Bernhard Foster had two replica Smith amp; Wesson Peacemakers, and he knew how to use them. Mary had watched him out in the field sometimes, able to knock nine out of ten tin cans from their perch on top of a wooden crate at thirty paces or more.