Aftermath

13

Within the castle walls now was a community of twenty-one: fifteen men and six women. Jackson, maintaining his position of unelected leader by virtue of the fact that no one complained and no one else seemed to want the role, was keen to try and keep everyone occupied. Boredom was an enemy—it gave people the unwelcome opportunity to think about how much they’d lost and how little they’d still got. Whether it was to keep them occupied, distracted, out of trouble … the reasons were unimportant. Most people willingly took on the duties assigned to them, and completed them to the best of their abilities, despite the blatantly obvious fact that much of the work didn’t actually need to be done.

Caron was an intelligent woman, and she knew when to keep her mouth shut. This was definitely one of those times. She was less than pleased with the duties she’d been allocated, but she carried them out without complaint. Since arriving at Cheetham Castle, she’d done more cleaning than she had in the previous ten years combined. At least it was relatively warm and dry indoors, she thought. Winter had barely begun, but it felt like it had been like this forever.

Working in the museum was particularly sad. They were using parts of it as a storeroom now, and all the exhibits had been shoved into one end of the large, L-shaped space. For a while this morning she’d spent some time hidden around the corner, looking at them all. Valuable antiques now worth nothing. Beautifully restored and preserved artifacts now given less importance than food and water supplies, spare clothes and pretty much everything else. There were a number of wall-mounted displays which had been taken down and stacked against a wall. She flicked through them, avoiding doing any work for a little longer. There were paintings of the castle hundreds of years ago, newly built and full of people. Then there were pictures of the “second stage” buildings within the perimeter wall—a great hall, an armory, stables, living quarters, kitchens … all just ruins now. All those different eras and ages, the lords of the manor, the kings and the generals … all gone now. She couldn’t help but think she was living through the last chapter of this once-great place. If she had any artistic talent—and she was under no illusions because she certainly didn’t—then she’d have seriously considered painting a final frieze and hanging it on the museum wall. Twenty-one thin and frightened people. A handful of caravans. A basic smattering of supplies. An invading army of corpses waiting on the other side of the outer wall. Hardly a grand finale to the castle’s hundreds of years of history.

This kind of physical work didn’t come naturally to Caron anymore, but she bit her tongue and smiled when she needed to so as not to offend anyone. There were worse jobs to be had around here. She left the museum/storeroom and looked out across the courtyard as she walked. Elsewhere, Jackson had a group of people gathered around him, all trying to assemble some kind of bizarre construction out of wood and ropes close to where, according to some plans she’d been looking at, the kitchens had once been Elsewhere, people were chopping wooden pallets for firewood, making an industry out of something which probably didn’t require such large amounts of effort, grading wood into large, medium, and small pieces and storing them in a dry shelter. Others were cleaning the caravans. Someone else was burning rubbish …

Too busy watching what was happening elsewhere and not concentrating on where she was going, she literally walked into Hollis. He jumped with surprise.

“Sorry, Greg.”

“My fault,” he mumbled apologetically. “I wasn’t looking. You okay?”

“Fine.”

“Been working hard?” he asked with a grin. He knew she hadn’t.

“To all intents and purposes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She glanced around before putting down a bucketful of cleaning equipment. She moved a pair of unused yellow rubber gloves to reveal a well-thumbed paperback, half a bottle of wine, and some chocolate wrappers.

“Between you and me,” she said secretively, “I’ve been taking it easy.”

“I’m surprised at you,” Hollis said, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “What would our Mr. Jackson say if he found out?”

“You’re not going to rat on me, are you?” she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t. “Honestly, Greg, I know we didn’t know each other before all this madness, but you know me well enough by now. Dirty, hard, physical work … it’s just not my style.”

“Caron,” he said, grinning, “I know you well enough to understand that you’re probably the person least suited to dirty, physical work I’ve ever met. Just keep your head down and get it done though, eh? A few more months and we’ll be able to stop hiding away like this and you can go wherever you want then. Let your new house get as dirty as you damn well please. Spend your life doing whatever you like. You could live like a pig in shit if it’d make you happy.”

“Quite,” she said, not sure how she was supposed to respond to that.

“Anyway,” Hollis said, excusing himself, “speaking of shit, I’d best get to work myself.”

“Oh, Greg, you’re not?”

“And you thought you’d got it bad, eh?”

Caron laughed and picked up her stuff and walked on, leaving Hollis to head in the opposite direction. He’d have gladly swapped duties with Caron, but he knew she’d have balked at the very idea of slopping out. Someone had to do it, though, and at least working around the chemical toilets kept him away from everyone else. Right now, that was how he liked it.

14

Jackson was standing at the edge of the courtyard, near to where a number of interior walls had once stood. They were just crumbled ruins now, as dilapidated as everything else, but a single feature remained which still interested him—a well. They’d not yet managed to ascertain whether the water source was still there and accessible, but Jackson intended to find out. They had enough bottled water to see them through for a while longer, but having a steady supply on tap would make things immeasurably easier for everyone. Bob Wilkins had some engineering experience, and Charlie Moorehouse had been a Scout leader for a while. Between them they thought they’d be able to improvise a basic rope and pulley system to lower a bucket deep enough down and find out whether or not the well was dry.

A number of other people had been conscripted to help. Lorna, Mark Ainsworth, Paul Field, and Harte were busy digging a series of four holes around the well. Bob and Charlie were constructing two A-frames out of wood they’d taken from a working model of a catapult they’d found stored around the back of the museum, the feet of which were to be sunk into the four holes before the two frames were connected to make something that would hopefully resemble a child’s swing. That was the plan, anyway.

“Want a hand?” Ainsworth asked Lorna.

“You’ve got your own hole to dig,” she said. “No thanks.”

“I’m almost done. You’ve barely started.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“We could swap sides if the ground’s too hard over there. I don’t mind.”

“Did you not hear her?” Field sighed. “Fucking moron.”

“I said I’m fine,” Lorna snapped, panting with the effort of the dig.

“Just trying to help, that’s all,” Ainsworth said.

“Well, I don’t need any help. Jesus Christ, this isn’t the 1970s. Women are able to dig holes, you know.”

“Bloody hell, you’re touchy today, aren’t you?”

“Leave her alone, Mark,” Harte said.

“And what are you, her boyfriend?” Ainsworth sneered.

“Get a grip,” Harte said and he carried on digging. Lorna dropped her shovel. “You okay?”

“Going to get a drink,” she said. “Back in a minute.”

The three men watched her disappear. Ainsworth caught Harte’s eye and grinned at him.

“She’s great, isn’t she? Cracking pair of tits.”

“Damn right,” Field sniggered.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harte sighed, “is that all you’ve got to say about her? Lorna’s got me out of more scrapes than I can remember. She’s a fucking diamond. Bloody hell, the whole world’s fallen apart and all you can say about her is she’s got nice tits. There are better ways of assessing a person’s worth, you know.”

Jackson watched Harte and Ainsworth from a short distance away, feeling unexpectedly uneasy. Their conversation sounded alien and out of place. Ainsworth was talking the way people used to talk, back in the days when trivialities and appearances seemed to be all that mattered. The stakes were much higher now. There was no room here for petty arguments and superficial romances. Maybe in the future things would be different, but not yet. Not for a long time yet.

“Hold it steady,” Charlie grumbled.

“Sorry.”

Jackson had been supporting the top of one of the A-frames, trying to keep it steady as Charlie attempted to drill through a wooden post with a hand-drill which looked so old it could have come from the museum. They’d had to cannibalize and improvise to find enough materials, lashing the sections of wood together with tow ropes they’d found in the back of a truck.

Charlie grunted with effort, changed his grip and his stance, then began drilling again. His round, childlike face was an uncharacteristically flustered red, and sweat poured from him. He was almost through, though, and he kept working. Another few minutes’ effort and the tip of the drill bit finally poked through the other side.

“Bloody hell,” he said, wiping his brow. “Half an hour, that took.”

“I know,” said Jackson.

“Used to be able to cut a hole like that in seconds.”

“I know,” he said again. “We need to source some generators when we next get out of here. Try and get a decent power supply.”

He looked up again and saw that Jas was walking past, heading in the direction of the kitchen. He stopped and looked at what they were doing—the digging and the frame building—then shook his head and walked on.

“You’re not going to help then?” Jackson shouted after him.

“Nope,” he replied, stopping again.

“But you’ll be happy to use the water if we get this working.”

“You won’t get water out of there.”

“We might.”

“Come on, Jackson,” he said, “get over yourself. You know as well as I do, you’re only doing this to keep yourself busy. Same as all your bloody cleaning rotas.”

“We have to start somewhere, Jas.”

“Do we?”

“Of course we do.”

“Well I think you’re overcomplicating things. And I think you’re doing it intentionally. Water flows down, not up. It’s easier to collect rainwater than to try dragging it up from the ground. We need to build rain-catchers, not climbing frames.”

“Okay, okay…” he said, walking up to Jas so their conversation couldn’t easily be overheard. “So I’m trying to keep people busy. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except it looks like you’re the one doing all the work.” He nodded toward Harte, Field, and Ainsworth, who were now leaning up against their shovels, watching Lorna coming back toward them.

“Maybe I am. Anyway, it’s not just me. I just want to keep everyone sharp and get us ready so we can clear out of here after the winter and make a fresh start.”

“What’s there to be ready for? What do you think’s going to happen? I’m guessing we’ll all just wander off in different directions and forget about all of this. That’s what I’m planning. As soon as the bodies are gone I’m going to find myself a decent-sized house, get plenty of supplies in, then do as little as possible for as long as I can.”

“And you’ll be happy with that?”

“I reckon I will.”

“There’s got to be more to life than that, though.”

“Has there? Sounds pretty idyllic to me.”

“But we don’t all have that freedom, do we? What about Aiden? He’s only twelve. We can’t leave him to fend for himself.”

“He’ll be okay. He won’t have much choice. He’ll grow up fast enough. Anyway, there’s a few mother hens here who’d be more than willing to take him under their wings.”

“There might be other kids.”

“You think?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the point. We can’t just split up and look after ourselves at the expense of everyone else. If we want the human race to survive then we—”

“Who said anything about that?”

“What?”

“All this ‘human race’ bullshit. It isn’t my concern, mate. I’ve tried all that and it doesn’t work. It’s over. We’re too far gone. You should stop stressing and get used to relaxing. We don’t need to dig for water, ’cause there’s millions of bottles of the stuff in the supermarket up and down the country, just waiting to be taken. And there’s plenty more besides—lakes, rivers, reservoirs…”

“So what about food?”

“Same. Just keep looting.”

“But it’ll all run out eventually and then—”

“—and then it won’t be my problem. I’ll be long gone. Dead and buried.”

“Well, not buried, not if you’re alone. You’ll die in your armchair, feet up in front of your TV that doesn’t work.”

“Just dead, then. So what? I won’t care. Point is, Jackson, I’ve already lost everything that mattered. I worked my bollocks off for my family, and I did everything I could for them. They meant more to me than anything else in the world, you know. But none of that meant anything because, in the end, there was fuck all I could do to help them. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t ease the pain. Bloody hell, I wasn’t even there for them when they died. I was on my own. I was a security guard, looking after a new-built shopping center that wasn’t even going to open for another month, and I should have been at home. Seems to me, the harder I’ve tried since then, the more fucked-up things have got.

“So I’ve made a decision and I’ve stopped. I’m not even going to try anymore. And if you want to waste your time doing stuff like this, then you go for it. Just don’t expect me to help.”