David Moody - Autumn

Emma began at the top of the house and worked her way down. She started in an odd-shaped attic bedroom which Carl had quickly claimed as his own yesterday. The dull room was lit only by the light which trickled in through a small window at the front of the house. Other than a bed, a wardrobe and a couple of other items of furniture there was little of note to be found there.

Michael worked his way through the rooms on the second floor. Three more reasonably sized bedrooms and an old-fashioned but practical bathroom. He uncovered little that he didn’t expect to find. Clothes (far too old, large and worn for any of them to consider wearing), personal possessions and trinkets and little else. As he sat on the edge of the large double bed that Emma had slept on last night and looked through an obviously antique jewellery box he found himself suddenly fascinated by the value of the items it held. Less than a month ago the rings, earrings, necklaces, bracelets and brooches (which, he presumed, had belonged to Mrs Jones – what had happened to her?) would have been worth a small fortune. Today they were worth nothing. Conversely the comfort of the wooden-framed bed he was sitting on made it worth millions in his eyes.

By the time Carl forced himself to get up and go outside the other two had almost finished. They met in the hallway and walked to the back door where they stood together and planned their next move. Buoyed by the unexpected novelty of finally having had something constructive and purposeful to do for a short while, Emma and Michael talked with what could almost have been classed as enthusiasm about the rest of the day which lay ahead of them. Michael had a grand plan to fill the van with supplies, make themselves safe in the grounds of the house and get the generator working. Much as it still reminded him of everything he’d lost, his aim was to get a television or stereo working by the time darkness fell. He wanted to bring beer back to the house so that he could drink and forget. He knew that it would only be an illusion of normality, and he also knew that when it finished the pain of reality would be almost unbearable, but that didn’t seem to matter. He knew that the three of them were mentally and physically exhausted. If they didn’t force themselves to stop soon then it would only be a matter of time before someone cracked. He was damn sure that, having survived so far, he wasn’t about to go under.

Less than an hour later and Michael, Carl and Emma were ready to leave Penn Farm. Wrapped in as many layers of clothing as they could find, the three of them stood together at the side of the van and winced as a cold and blustery autumn wind gusted into their exposed and unprotected faces.

Doubt and uncertainty.

Their emotions had begun to take on an almost cyclical pattern. In turn they each felt utter desperation and fear and then sudden, short-lived elation and hope. They had spent the last week lurching from crisis to crisis. Since leaving the city those nightmare situations had been punctuated by brief moments of success and real achievement such as finding the house yesterday and realising its full potential this morning. As Michael had already discovered to his emotional cost, the temporary respite that those successes presented to them made the dark reality of their shattered lives all the more difficult to accept. No-one dared to think about what might happen next. No-one dared to think about what might happen tonight, tomorrow or the next day. As uncertain as anyone’s future had always been, the survivors now seemed unable to look forward to their next breath of air with any certainty.

They had been standing in silence for almost five minutes when Michael managed to snap himself out of his trance and get into the van. Each one of them had a thousand and one unanswerable questions flying round their tired heads, and that constant barrage of questions seemed to prevent them from saying anything. Someone would think of something to say or something to ask, only to be distracted and thrown off track by another bleak and painful random thought.

Following Michael’s lead Carl and Emma climbed into the van and sat down. Michael turned the key and started the engine. The noise made by the powerful machine echoed through the desolate countryside.

‘Any idea where we’re going?’ Emma asked from the back of the van. She shuffled in her seat as she slid the precious key to the farmhouse into the pocket of her tight jeans.

‘No,’ Michael replied with admirable honesty. ‘Have you?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘Fucking brilliant,’ Carl cursed under his breath as he leant against the window to his side.

Michael decided that whatever they did they weren’t going to achieve anything by waiting. He slammed the van into gear and moved away down the long rough track which led to the road.

‘I’m sure I used to come round here on holiday with my mum and dad when I was younger,’ he sighed five minutes and three quarters of a mile further on.

‘So do you know your way around?’ Emma asked hopefully.

He shook his head and pulled out onto the smooth tarmac.

‘No. What I do remember though is that there were loads of little towns and villages round here, all linked up by roads like this. If we keep driving in any one direction we’re sure to find something somewhere.’

He began to push his foot down on the accelerator pedal, forcing the van along the twisting track.

‘Hope we can remember the way back after this,’ Emma mumbled.

‘Course we will,’ he replied confidently. ‘I’ll just keep going in one direction. We won’t turn left or right unless we have to, we’ll just go straight. We’ll get to a village, get what we need, and then just turn around and come back home.’

Home. Strange word to use thought Carl because this definitely didn’t feel like home to him. Home was a hundred or so miles away. Home was his modest three bedroom semi-detached house on a council estate in Northwich. Home was where he’d left Sarah and Gemma. Home was definitely not some empty fucking farmhouse in the middle of the fucking countryside.

Carl closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold glass. He tried to concentrate on the sound of the van’s engine. For a few seconds the noise stopped him thinking about anything else.

Michael was right.

Within fifteen minutes of reaching the road they’d stumbled upon the small village of Pennmyre. As they approached they saw that it was not so much a village, more a short row of modest shops with a few car parking spaces and a pelican crossing. The silent hamlet was so small that the sign which said ‘Welcome to Pennmyre – Please Drive Carefully’ was just over a hundred meters from the one which read ‘Thank You for Visiting Pennmyre – Have a Safe Journey’. But the compact size of the village was comforting. They could see it all from the main road. There weren’t any dark corners or hidden alleys to explore.

Michael stopped the van halfway down the main street and climbed out, leaving the engine running in case they needed to get away at speed. On first impressions the sight that greeted them was disappointingly familiar. It was just what they had expected to find – a few bodies scattered on the pavement, a couple of cars crashed into buildings, pedestrians and each other, and the odd walking body, tripping and stumbling around aimlessly.

‘Look at their faces,’ Carl said as he stepped out into the cold morning air. It was the first time he’d said more than two words since they’d left the farmhouse. He stood on the broken white line in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips, just staring at the pitiful creatures that staggered by. ‘Christ,’ he hissed, ‘they look fucking awful…’