David Moody - Autumn

Relatively relaxed and oblivious to the appalling conditions outside, Michael, Emma and Carl sat in the living room together watching a video in the warmth of an open fire. Michael was quickly bored by the video – a badly dubbed martial arts film which he’d seen several times since they’d taken it from the supermarket in Byster – and yet he was pleased to be sitting where he was. Whilst what remained of the population suffered outside, he was warm, dry and well fed. Even Carl had been tempted down from the attic. Their evening together had provided a brief but much needed respite from the alternating pressure and boredom of what remained of their lives.

Emma found it hard to watch the film. Not just because it was one of the worst films she’d ever had the misfortune to see, but also because it aroused a number of unexpected and uncomfortable emotions within her. Whilst doing a good job of distracting her from everything that was happening around her for a time, the film also reminded her of the life she used to lead. She couldn’t really identify with anything – the characters, their accents, the locations, the plot and the incidental music all seemed alien – and yet at the same time it was all instantly familiar and safe. In a scene depicting a car chase through busy Hong Kong streets she found herself watching the people in the background going about their everyday business instead of the violent physical action taking place in the foreground. She watched the people with a degree of envy. How novel and unexpected it was to see a clean city and to see individuals moving around with reason and purpose and acting and reacting with each other. Emma also felt a cold unease in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t help but look into the faces of each one of the actors and think about what might have happened to them in the years since the film had been made. She saw hundreds of different people – each one with their own unique identity, family and life – and she knew that virtually all of them would by now be dead.

The end of the film was rapidly approaching, and a huge set-piece battle between the hero and villain was imminent. The filmmakers were less than subtle in their attention grabbing techniques. The main character had driven into a vast warehouse and now found himself alone. The lighting was sparse and moody and the overly dramatic orchestral soundtrack was building to an obvious crescendo. Then the music stopped suddenly and, as the hero of the film waited for his opponent to appear, the house became silent.

Emma jumped out of her seat.

‘What’s the matter?’ Michael asked, immediately concerned.

For a few long seconds she didn’t answer. She stood still in the middle of the room, her face screwed up with concentration.

‘Emma…’ Michael pressed.

‘Shh…’ she hissed.

Oblivious and disinterested, Carl cocked his head to the right so that he could see past Emma who was standing in the way of the television.

She looked frightened. Michael was worried.

‘What is it?’ he asked again.

‘I heard something…’ she replied, her voice low.

‘It was probably just the film,’ he said, trying desperately to play things down. His mouth was dry. He felt nervous. Emma wasn’t the type to make a fuss for no reason.

‘No,’ she snapped, scowling at him. ‘I heard something outside, I’m sure I did.’

The film soundtrack burst into life again, startling her. With her heart in her mouth she reached down and switched off the television.

‘I was watching that,’ Carl protested.

‘For fuck’s sake, shut up,’ she barked at him.

There it was again. A definite new and indistinct noise coming from outside. It wasn’t the wind and it wasn’t the rain and she hadn’t imagined it.

Michael heard it too.

Without saying another word Emma ran from the living room into the dark kitchen. She quickly threaded her way around the table and chairs to the window and craned her neck to see outside.

‘Anything there?’ Michael asked, close behind her.

‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. She turned and headed out of the room towards the stairs. She stopped when she was halfway up and turned back to face Michael. ‘Listen,’ she whispered, lifting a single finger to her lips. ‘There, can you hear it?’

He held his breath and listened carefully. For a few moments he couldn’t hear anything other than the wind and rain and the constant rhythmic mechanical thumping of the generator. Then, just for a fraction of a second, he became aware of the new noise again. His ears seemed to lock onto the frequency of the sound and it somehow rose up and became distinct from the rest of the melee. As he concentrated the noise washed and faded and changed. In turn it was the sound of something being clattered against the wooden gate over the bridge, then another, less obvious noise, then more clattering and thumping. Without saying another word he ran towards Emma and pushed his way past her. She followed as he disappeared into their bedroom. By the time she entered the room he was already standing on the far side, looking out of the window in utter disbelief.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said as he stared down. ‘Just look at this…’

With some trepidation Emma walked across the room and peered over his shoulder. Although it was pitch-black outside and the driving rain blurred her view through the glass, she could clearly see movement on the other side of the barrier. Running the entire length of the barricade were vast crowds of bodies. They had often seen one or two of them there before, but never this many. They had never seen them in such vast and unexpected numbers.

‘There are hundreds of them,’ Michael whispered, his voice hoarse with fear, ‘fucking hundreds of them.’

‘Why?’ Emma asked.

‘The generator,’ he sighed. ‘Even over the weather they must have heard the generator.’

‘Christ.’

‘And light,’ he continued. ‘We’ve had lights on tonight. They must have seen them. And there was the smoke from the fire…’

Emma shook her head and continued to stare down at the rotting crowd gathered round the house.

‘But why so many?’ she wondered.

‘Think about it,’ Michael replied. ‘The world is dead. It’s silent and at night it’s dark. I suppose it just took one or two of them to see or hear us and that was enough. The first few moving towards the house would have attracted the next few and they would have attracted the next and so on and so on…’

As the two of them looked down at the hordes of corpses, one of the creatures standing on the stone bridge spanning the stream lifted its emaciated arms and began to shake and bang the wooden gate.

‘What’s going on?’ Carl asked having finally dragged himself out of his seat and upstairs.

‘Bodies,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Hundreds of bodies.’

Carl crept forwards, dragging his tired feet on the ground, and looked out over the yard.

‘What do they want?’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Christ knows,’ Michael cursed.

The other man stared down at the heaving crowd with a morbid curiosity. Emma turned towards Michael and took hold of his arm.

‘They won’t get through, will they?’ she asked.

He felt that he should try and reassure her but he couldn’t lie.

‘Don’t know,’ he replied with a brutal honesty.

‘But they haven’t got any real strength, have they?’ she said, trying hard to convince herself that they were still safe in the house.

‘On their own they’re nothing,’ he muttered. ‘But there are hundreds of them here tonight. I’ve got no idea what they’re capable of in these kind of numbers.’

Emma visibly shuddered with fright. Her fright instantly became icy fear as the moon broke through a momentary gap in the heavy cloud layer and illuminated even more of the desperate figures staggering through the fields surrounding the farm and converging on the house.