Aftermath

17

Almost an entire week of bitter frosts followed—an unseasonably early cold snap. Beyond the walls of Cheetham Castle, the dead continued their relentless slow advance, impeded only by the extreme weather. Most mornings they remained frozen solid, only to slowly defrost as the temperature climbed. By midafternoon each day, some had regained the ability to move, only to be halted by the ice again a scant few hours later when the sun disappeared below the horizon.

The body of an eighteen-year-old boy made more progress than most by virtue of his position relative to the bulk of the rest of the dead crowds. Months ago he’d been on the verge of beginning a new chapter in his life when it had been cut short. He’d just left school, and had been less than a week away from starting his first proper job working as an office gopher for a firm of solicitors. Now he was barely even recognizable as human. He’d lost almost all of his clothing after weeks of dragging himself tirelessly around the dead world. What was left of his innards had slowly sunk down and had putrefied and escaped through the various holes which rot had eaten through his flesh. The gunk froze each night—tiny brown icicles of decay.

And yet, despite the appalling condition of the dead boy, whenever he was able to free himself from the grip of the ice, he still continued to move toward the castle, oblivious to his gradual demise. How much, if anything, he understood of what was happening was impossible to tell, but his ceaseless fascination with the faint light and noise made by the survivors remained undiminished.

* * *

The general mood within the castle was unexpectedly lifted one evening when heavy snow began to fall. By next morning the ground was covered in a layer several inches deep and when the people sheltering there looked outside the castle walls, for the first time in months, everything appeared relatively normal. Where yesterday there had been hordes of intermittently incessant, partially frozen, partially animated cadavers, today there was nothing but white. Pure, clean, and unspoiled.

From the top of the gatehouse, Lorna felt like she was looking at a greetings card picture from long ago. It made her think about Christmas, for what it was worth. Her head began to fill with carols and Christmas songs until she could think of something else to block them out and shut out the pain. It felt wrong even remembering Christmas; an unspoken taboo. The end of December was only a couple of weeks away, and there would be no celebrations this year, no presents, no gorging on food and drink. Just a hell of a lot of quiet introspection and, no doubt, vastly increased amounts of private hurt for each of them to deal with.

When she went back down, Lorna found almost everyone crammed into the classroom together to escape the cold. Jackson was talking to Jas and several of the others. Over the last week he’d made a conscious effort to lay off the future planning and sermons, and concentrate on just getting them all through to a time when such subjects might be discussed freely again.

The arrival of the rescued group from the hotel had put an unforeseen strain on the castle group’s resources. Jackson, thinking ahead while also trying to appease Jas, had been planning a supply run for the last few days, and this morning’s snow had suddenly made such a run a much more viable proposition. “Remember how the snow used to slow us down,” he’d said to Lorna when they’d spoken earlier. “It’ll be a hundred times worse for the dead.” As long as there was snow on the ground, he’d argued, they had a bigger physical advantage than usual over what remained of the corpses outside. And without the benefit of long-range weather forecasts—any weather forecasts, for that matter—it made sense to take advantage of the conditions now while they lasted. Lorna couldn’t help thinking she’d heard this all before, back at the hotel: one last massive trip out for supplies to see us through …

Driver didn’t look happy. He was uncharacteristically animated.

“What’s up with him?” Lorna asked Caron as she sat down next to her.

“He doesn’t want to go out,” she replied.

“But why me?” Driver said. Jackson looked to the heavens.

“The clue’s in your nicknam, mate. You’re the most experienced driver we’ve got. We need someone who knows what they’re doing behind the wheel. Do you have any other pointless questions?”

“There must be someone else. They can do it.”

“No,” Jackson said, remaining unfailingly calm, “you can. Listen, for all your faults—of which there are more than a few—there’s no one else can drive anything as big as a truck as well as you. And with the snow and everything else out there, I need your experience.”

“Thanks for the compliments and all that, but I’m not going,” he said defiantly.

“Yes, you are,” Jas said firmly.

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Driver,” Jackson said, interrupting to try and defuse some of the unnecessary tension Jas’s tone was clearly causing, “I know you better than you think. I know exactly what you do and what you don’t do around here. I know you spend most of your time asleep at the back of your bus when you tell us you’re out working on the vehicles. I’ve seen you wiping grease on your hands and trousers to make it look like you’ve been grafting for hours.”

“I’m not the only one,” he protested. “There are plenty of other folks around here who do the same. What about—”

“You’re right,” Jackson interrupted, “but my point is this: right now we need to play to all our strengths, and your strength is driving, so you’re going out with us.”

“Bollocks to that,” Driver said, remaining unimpressed.

“Can’t you just give the bloke a break?” Harte said from across the room. “I’ll drive the bloody truck if it’s that big a deal.”

“The decision’s made,” Jackson said calmly. “Let’s just get it done.”

“Did you not hear me?” Harte protested.

“He heard you okay,” Jas said. “Did you not hear him? We play to our strengths. Driver drives; Jackson, Kieran, you, me, Ainsworth, and Bayliss go out to loot.”

Harte slumped back into his seat, knowing there was no point arguing further. Near to him, Caron leaned across to speak to Lorna.

“Surprised you’re not going,” she whispered.

“Don’t even go there,” Lorna said, crossing her arms defensively.

“Why?”

“Because as far as Jas is concerned,” she explained, “playing to your strengths also means keeping us girls safely locked away in here to co and clean up for the blokes. It’s a bloody joke.”

“And what about Jackson? He seems a more broad-minded kind of chap.”

“You think? I spoke to him too, because bodies or no bodies, I’d actually love to get out of this fucking place for a while.”

“And?”

“And he was as bad as Jas. Worse in some ways.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“He said he doesn’t want girls like me, Zoe, and Melanie going out and taking risks when there’s plenty of men who can go.”

“I don’t understand,” Caron said, confused. Lorna sighed. Was she being deliberately difficult?

“He didn’t say as much,” she explained, “but he’s talking about babies. He was on one of his ‘planning for the future’ kicks again.”

“Dirty old bugger.”

“For Christ’s sake, Caron, get a grip. He’s not interested in any of us in that way, he’s just trying to protect the stock.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Well, that’s how it is. But I’ll tell you something: if he thinks I’m going to sit here, pick a mate from this bunch of losers, then pop out a kid or five on demand, then he’s got another think coming. Fuck that. I’ll be over the wall and out of here before any bloke can lay a bloody finger on me.”