David Moody - Autumn

‘So what are we going to do tomorrow?’

‘Haven’t got a fucking clue!’ Michael laughed.

It started to rain. A few isolated spots at first which, in just a few seconds, turned into a downpour of almost monsoon proportions. Carl and Michael quickly squeezed back through the skylight and lowered themselves into the ominously silent hall.

‘Does you good to get out now and then, doesn’t it?’ Carl mumbled sarcastically.

‘There’s a lot of truth in that,’ Michael replied, fighting to make himself heard over the noise of the rain lashing down.

‘What?’

‘You’re right. I think it would do us good to get out. Have you stopped to think about the bodies yet?’

‘Christ I haven’t thought about much else…’

Michael shook his head.

‘No, have you stopped to think about what’s going to happen when they start to rot? Jesus, the air’s going to be filled with all kinds of germs and crap.’

‘There’s not a lot we can do about that, is there?’

‘There’s fuck all we can do about it,’ he replied bluntly. ‘But we could get away.’

‘Get away? Where to? It’s going to be like this everywhere, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So what good will leaving here do?’

It became immediately apparent to Carl that Michael had been doing more logical thinking than the rest of the survivors put together.

‘Think about it. We’re on the edge of a city here. There are hundreds of thousands of bodies around.’

‘And…’

‘And I think we should head for the countryside. Fewer bodies has got to mean less chance of disease. We’re not going to be completely safe anywhere but I think we should just try and give ourselves the best possible chance. We should pack up and leave here as soon as we can.’

‘You really thinking of going?’

‘I’d go tonight if we were ready.’

Despite the fact that each one of the survivors had reached new levels of emotional and mental exhaustion, not one of them could even contemplate trying to sleep. This lack of sleep meant that the disparate body of frightened and desperate people were becoming even more frightened and desperate with each passing minute. The hall was lit only by a few dim gas lamps and the odd torch, and this lack of light seemed to compound the disorientation and fear felt by all of them. By midnight the tensions and frustrations felt by even the most placid members of the group had risen to dangerously high levels.

Jenny Hall, who had held her three month old baby boy in her arms as he died on Tuesday morning, had dared to complain about the food she’d been given earlier in the evening. Although she’d meant nothing by her innocent comments, the cook – the usually quiet and reserved Stuart Jeffries – had taken it personally.

‘You stupid fucking bitch,’ he screamed, his face literally millimeters from hers. ‘What gives you the right to criticise? Fucking hell, you’re not the only one who’s had it tough. Christ, we’re all in the same fucking boat here…’

Jenny wiped streaming tears from her face with shaking hands. She was convulsing with fear and could hardly co-ordinate her movements.

‘I didn’t mean to…’ she stammered. ‘I was only trying to…’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Stuart shouted, grabbing hold of her arms and pinning her against the wall. ‘Just shut your fucking mouth!’

For a second Michael just stood and watched, stunned and numbed and unable to quite comprehend what he was seeing. He quickly managed to snap himself out of his disbelieving trance and actually do something to help. He grabbed hold of Stuart and yanked him away from Jenny, leaving her to slide down the wall and collapse in a sobbing heap on the dirty brown floor.

‘Bastard,’ she spat, looking up at him. ‘You fucking bastard.’

Michael manhandled Stuart across the room and pushed him down into a chair.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.

Stuart didn’t respond. He sat staring at the floor. His face was flushed red. His fists were clenched tight and his body shook with anger.

‘What’s the problem?’ Michael asked again.

Stuart still didn’t move.

‘Not good enough for her, are we?’ he eventually muttered.

‘What?’

‘That little bitch,’ he seethed. ‘Thinks she’s something special, doesn’t she? Thinks she’s a cut above the rest of us.’ He looked up and stared and pointed at Jenny. ‘Thinks she’s the only one who’s lost everything.’

‘You’re not making any sense,’ Michael said, sitting down on a bench close to Stuart. ‘What are you talking about?’

Stuart couldn’t – or wouldn’t – answer. Tears of frustration welled in his tired eyes. Rather than let Michael see the extent of his fraught emotion he got up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘What was all that about?’ Emma asked as she walked past Michael and made her way over to where Jenny lay on the ground. She crouched down and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she whispered, gently kissing the top of her head. ‘It’s all right.’

‘All right?’ she sobbed. ‘How can you say it’s all right? After everything that’s happened, how can you say it’s all right?’

Kate James sat down next to them. Cradling Jenny in her arms, Emma turned to face Kate.

‘Did you see what happened?’ she quietly asked.

‘Not really,’ Kate replied. ‘They were just talking. I only realised that something was wrong when Stuart started shouting. He was fine one minute – you know, calm and talking normally – and then he just exploded at her.’

‘Why?’

Kate shrugged her shoulders.

‘Apparently she told him that she didn’t like the soup.’

‘What?’ asked Emma incredulously.

‘She didn’t like the soup he’d made,’ Kate repeated. ‘I’m sure that’s all it was.’

‘Bloody hell,’ she sighed, shaking her head in resignation.

Carl walked into the room with Jack Baynham. He’d taken no more than two or three steps when he stopped, quickly sensing that something was wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked cautiously, almost too afraid to listen to the answer. The atmosphere in the room was so heavy that he was convinced something terrible had happened.

Michael shook his head.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s sorted now.’

Carl looked down at Emma on the floor and Jenny curled up in her arms. Something obviously had happened but, as whatever it was seemed to have been confined to inside the hall and resolved, he decided not to ask any more questions. He just didn’t want to get involved. Selfish and insensitive of him it may have been, but he didn’t want to know. He had enough problems of his own without getting himself wrapped up in other people’s.

Michael felt much the same, but he found it impossible to be as private and insular as Carl. When he heard more crying coming from another dark corner of the room he instinctively went to investigate. He found that the tears were coming from Annie Nelson and Jessica Short, two of the eldest survivors. The two ladies were wrapped under a single blanket, holding each other tightly and doing their best to stop sobbing and stop drawing attention to themselves. Michael sat down next to them.

‘You two okay? he asked. A pointless question, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Annie smiled for the briefest of moments and nodded, trying hard to put on a brave face. She nonchalantly wiped away a single tear which trickled quickly down her wrinkled cheek.

‘We’re all right, thank you,’ she replied, her voice light and fragile.

‘Can I get you anything?’