David Moody - Autumn

It was a strong, safe and sound house and Michael need not have worried. In spite of all that he had imagined in the darkness, nothing and no-one had managed to enter Penn Farm. Still drugged by sleep he stumbled into the kitchen and lit the gas stove. The constant low roar of the burner was strangely soothing and comforting and he was glad that the heavy silence of the early morning had finally been disturbed. Slightly more relaxed, he boiled a kettle of water and made himself a mug of strong black coffee which he quickly drank. He made himself some breakfast but couldn’t eat much more than a couple of mouthfuls.

Bored, tired and restless, he desperately needed to find something to do. As he had already discovered to his cost recently, these days an unoccupied minute tended to feel like an hour and an empty hour seemed to drag on for more than a day.

A open door from the kitchen led to a large utility room which Michael wandered into aimlessly. He had spent some time in there yesterday, but no longer than half an hour. In the furthest corner of the room was a pile of empty cardboard boxes and other rubbish that the survivors hadn’t yet been able to dispose of or find a home for. This had been the least important room in the house as far as the three of them had been concerned and, as such, they had paid it little attention other than to use it as a temporary store. Michael thought for a second or two about trying to sort the room into some kind of order but, if the truth be told, he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted something to do, but it needed to be something interesting. He needed more than something that would just distract him. He wanted something that would grab his imagination and fully capture and hold his attention.

High on the wall opposite to the door he’d just walked through was a wooden shelf. Little more than a warped plank of wood held up by three rusty brackets, the shelf was piled high with junk. Curious, Michael dragged a chair across the room and climbed up to have a closer look. On first sight there seemed to be very little of any interest – some old garden tools and chemicals, faded and yellowed books and newspapers, glass jars full of nails, bolts and screws and the like – but then he came across an unexpected and unmistakable shape. It was the butt of a rifle. Cautiously he pulled the gun free and stood there, balancing precariously on the chair, admiring the cobweb and dirt covered weapon. Instinctively he reached up again and felt his way along the shelf, first to the left and then to the right of where he’d found the rifle. With his fingers at full stretch he grabbed hold of a dusty cardboard box which he dragged closer. Now standing on tiptoes with the rifle wedged under his arm he teased up the lid of the box and saw that it was full of ammunition. Like a child with a new toy he picked up the box, jumped down and carried everything back to the kitchen.

Emma got up at half-past eight and Carl rose three-quarters of an hour later. They found Michael sat at the kitchen table, carefully cleaning the rifle. He’d been working on it for over two hours and the job was almost complete.

Michael glanced up at Emma and noticed that she looked tired. He wondered whether she’d had as little sleep as he had. Although they’d only slept (or not slept) a few feet apart he hadn’t dared disturb her in the darkness of the night.

‘What are you doing?’ she eventually asked him once she’d made and drunk a very necessary mug of coffee.

‘I found this earlier,’ he replied, stifling a yawn. ‘Thought I’d have a go at cleaning it up.’

‘What’s it for?’ Carl asked. Those were the first words he’d uttered since coming downstairs.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. Deadpan, and with a complete absence of any sarcasm or humour in his voice he replied.

‘Shooting things,’ he said. ‘What else you going to use it for?’

‘I know that,’ he snapped, annoyed, ‘but what are we going to use it for?’

He put the rifle down and looked up at Carl.

‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Bloody hell, I hope we never need it.’

The rifle was clearly of interest to Carl. He sat down next to the other man and picked it up. Having spent all morning working on it, Michael seemed annoyed that someone else had dared to interfere.

‘Put it down,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished with it yet.’

‘You ever used one of these?’ Carl asked, suddenly much more animated.

‘No, but…’

‘I have,’ he continued to enthuse. ‘Used to do some work for a bloke that used to shoot.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Emma said from across the room. She was standing next to the sink. She couldn’t have been any further away from the table. ‘We don’t need it. We should get rid of it.’

‘I don’t know. We don’t even know if it’s going to work yet…’

‘Can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t,’ Carl interrupted. ‘Mind if I try it out?’

‘Yes I do,’ Michael protested. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve spent bloody hours trying to get it…’

Carl wasn’t listening. He jumped up from his seat, grabbed a handful of ammunition and headed for the front door. Michael looked over towards Emma. Surprised by his sudden disappearance they both stood still for a second before following him out.

By the time they reached the front door Michael could already hear the rifle being repeatedly cocked and fired. Fortunately Carl had been sensible enough to try and fire it before loading.

‘Is he safe with that thing?’ Emma asked quietly as they stepped out into a cold grey morning.

‘Don’t know,’ Michael replied under his breath, still fuming that the other man had dared to take the rifle from him. He stared with piercing eyes as Carl loaded it.

‘This is okay you know,’ he babbled excitedly. ‘This is just what we needed. You never know what’s round the corner these days…’

‘Don’t know what frightens me more,’ Emma mumbled, ‘the fact that there are dead bodies walking round the countryside or him with that fucking gun.’

Michael managed half a smile which quickly disappeared when Carl lifted the rifle up and held it ready to fire. He pressed the butt hard into his shoulder, closed one eye and aimed into the distance.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Michael demanded. ‘Are you fucking stupid? All we need is for that bloody thing to blow back in your face and you’re history…’

‘It’s okay,’ he answered without moving or lowering the rifle. ‘I know about these things. It won’t blow back.’

‘Just put it down will you?’ begged Emma.

‘Watch this. I’m going to get him…’

Puzzled, Michael stood behind him and looked along the barrel of the rifle. Carl was aiming through a gap in the trees, out towards a ploughed field a few hundred metres away. He squinted towards the horizon and saw that a lone figure was tripping clumsily through the uneven mud.

‘Leave it, will you?’

‘I’m going to get him,’ he said again, shuffling his feet and getting the figure square in his sights. ‘What’s he going to do about it? Christ, he probably won’t even know he’s been shot.’

‘You’ve got to hit him first,’ Emma hissed cynically.

‘Oh, I’ll hit the bastard,’ he said and, with that, he squeezed the trigger and fired.

For a long second the deafening sound of the shot rang out and echoed through the otherwise silent countryside.

‘Missed him,’ Carl spat, annoyed.

The figure in the field stopped moving.

‘He’s stopped,’ Michael gasped. ‘Fucking hell, he heard the shot. It’s got to be a survivor.’

Stunned, Carl let go of the butt of the rifle and it swung down heavily to the ground. Still holding the barrel he took a few cautious steps forward.