Aftermath

20

The helicopter skimmed over the surface of the ocean, its pilot and four passengers quiet and subdued. Without exception they were each too wrapped in their own thoughts to talk to the others. Sharing the feelings they were each experiencing was out of the question for now. The pain they felt coming back here was still too raw, harder that they’d imagined.

This cold, empty, desolate place had been where they’d each lived and loved, where they’d been born and where they’d grown up. The place where their families and friends had been. The place where they’d lived their very best and their very worst days. The place where, somewhere, lay the dust-covered memories of the lives they each used to lead and the people they used to be. A soldier, a computer consultant, an outdoor activities instructor, a student … what had happened to the world had stripped away those skills and experiences and left them all the same. Now they were just rank-and-file survivors, nothing more and nothing less. The last of a dying breed, perhaps.

The way they’d each lost everything was still impossible to even begin to try and understand. Their normal, relatively comfortable lives had been snatched from them in seconds and there hadn’t been a damn thing any of them had been able to do about it, no way of retaliating or reclaiming what they’d lost. Since that first morning they’d been living through an all-consuming nightmare so intense they’d thought they’d never get through it. But they had. Against all the odds—and those odds were considerable—they’d somehow survived and come through the other side relatively unscathed. They’d begun to forge something resembling normal lives again on a small rocky island a short distance off the coast of the mainland. Nothing like the lives they’d led previously, but still infinitely better than anything theyȁ possible in those first dark, terrifying days after the rest of the world had died.

But now, for the first time since leaving, they were heading back, and it was a daunting prospect.

As the ocean below gave way to a once-familiar landscape, they slowly began to talk about what they could see. They flew relatively low, skirting over empty shops and houses, following the route of once busy roads which were now silent and led nowhere.

“What a fucking mess,” Michael Collins said, barely able to comprehend the scale of the visible devastation below them. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see here—he’d purposely tried not to think about it until now—but the reality was humbling. None of the streets were clear, all of them filled with decayed remains, litter which had been picked up and blown on the wind, and other waste which had been abandoned when the bulk of the human race had been brought to an abrupt end last September and accumulated ever since. There had been no cleanup. No emergency response. No international aid. Everything was just as it had been left that first morning—a little more rotted, rusted and ruined, that was all.

Richard Lawrence too was struggling to concentrate. He made himself look up, not down, for fear of being distracted by the eerie chaos below. More than ever, today he was feeling the intense pressure of being the group’s sole pilot—perhaps even the last pilot left alive anywhere—and it weighed heavily on his shoulders. It made him feel as if everything was down to him and him alone, that their continued survival was his sole responsibility, and that was a difficult cross to bear. A short shuttle run from the island to the mainland didn’t sound like much, and in the overall scheme of things it wasn’t, but what if something went wrong? The lives of the four people flying with him were in his hands. And what if something did happen and they couldn’t make it back to the island? The consequences didn’t bare thinking about. The people on Cormansey—such a small, fragile, and and isolated community—would struggle to stay alive. That was why they’d come back here today: to collect supplies and to find some alternative transport. The long-term plan had always been for the islanders to become self-sufficient over time, but that was still a way off yet. On a practical level they still had a huge amount to learn and emotionally … well, they hadn’t even started. Their new lives were just beginning, but the wreckage of their old lives needed to be sorted out too. A period of adjustment and acceptance would inevitably be necessary before any of them could hope to start moving on.

Some of the people living on Cormansey had made a more successful start to island life than most. Others seemed almost to be there by default, having hidden in the shadows of university buildings, underground bunkers, and airfield control towers, being propped up and carried along by everyone else. Right place, right time. Michael had taken nothing for granted and had worked damn hard to stay alive. He knew he was luckier than most, because he’d already started to rebuild. He had a partner (girlfriend? wife? lover? None of those titles seemed to fit any more), and his relationship with Emma Mitchell was the most important thing left in his small and increasingly self-contained world. Some of the others had wanted him to stay on Cormansey and not make this trip back but he’d insisted. Emma was pregnant—the first pregnancy on the island—and Michael felt duty-bound to provide for his unborn child. He thought about Emma and the baby constantly. He and Emma said nothing to each other—because there was nothing either of them could do to affect the outcome—but they both knew the risks and uncertainties involved in childbirth. As well as the usual concerns, the lack of any decent medical facilities compounded their unease. To make matters worse, they’d been told about a baby born just after the infection had struck. The poor little thing had lived for only a matter of seconds outside its mother’s womb before being killed by the same deadly germ which had wiped out everything else.

Sitting next to Michael in the back of the helicopter was Donna Yorke, and next to her was Mark Cooper. Emma had often talked about those two, idly gossiping about what a good couple she thought they’d make together. They spent a lot of time in each other’s company and sometimes stopped over at each other’s houses, but that was as far as it had gone. Michael wondered whether they were too scared to admit their feelings, not that it was any of his business, and not that he was particularly concerned. He remembered the risk he’d taken when he and Emma had first become close, and then intimate. Island life was too restrictive if things went wrong. It was impossible to escape if you fell out with anyone and he could only begin to imagine how awkward it would be for everyone if such a relationship soured, keeping their heads down in the midst of all the name-calling and blame. Cormansey often felt like a huge, open space when you were alone, walking miles from building to distant building along the silent, traffic-free roads, but you still saw the same few faces every day. Necessity had forced the community to become increasingly close-knit. They relied on each other, and it had been clear from the outset that their ongoing successful survival would require collective effort. Maybe Donna and Cooper did want to be closer, but the commitment was just too big a risk for them to take.

Harry Stayt sat next to Richard in the front of the helicopter, scanning the ground below.

“I think we should stick to the coast,” he said to the pilot. “Things look as shitty as ever down there. Probably not worth risking going any further inland just yet.”

Richard agreed. He banked right, taking them back toward the ocean. Michael looked out at the endless expanse of water again—the deceptive stillness, the sunlight glinting off the gently rolling waves—and wished they were anywhere but here. He wanted to be home again.

* * *

They set down in the next decent-sized port they reached, Richard skilfully maneuvering the helicopter and landing in a small patch of space on the open roof of a multistory car park, not wanting to risk leaving the precious machine down at ground level. Harry continued to look around as they descended, ticking boxes on his mental checklist: compact but decent-sized shopping area—check; easily accessible marinas with plenty of boats still moored there—check; a safe, remote place to land—check; no vast crowds of bodies baying for their blood—check.

“Nice day for it,” he said as he got out of the helicopter. It was cold, but nowhere near as harsh as it had been recently. He stretched his back, yawned, then did up his jacket, thankful for the several layers of thin, insulated sports clothing he was wearing underneath. The air quality wasn’t too bad up here. Not as good as they’d been used to on the island, but bearable nonetheless. He caught the odd trace of the immediately familiar stench of death they’d all become used to, but it was less prevalent than he remembered. The sea breeze carried it away before it outstayed its welcome.

Michael walked to the edge of the car park and peered over the wall, down into what, he presumed, had been the town’s main shopping street. He’d once spent a couple of days hiding out on the roof of a car park like this with Emma. That had been right at the beginning of their nightmare—one of the worst days of the worst times, just after they’d lost their farmhouse hideout and their friend Carl Henshawe. He tried not to dwell on those memories. They’d been completely lost and directionless back then, not knowing how they were going to survive or even if they wanted to.

“Everything okay, Mike?” Cooper asked, disturbing his thoughts. He was glad of the interruption.

“Fine,” he replied. “Just checking out the locals.”

Cooper looked down. There was some stilted movement in the streets below, but nothing in comparison to what they’d been used to. There were just a few of the dead left here now, still restless and animated but moving with very little speed.

“Instead of just looking we could actually go down there and get this done,” Harry sarcastically suggested. Michael looked back over his shoulder and saw the other man leaning up against the helicopter, casually cleaning his sword with a piece of cloth. The crazy bugger had made no secret of the fact he’d been itching for a chance to use it again. Michael had often seen him standing in the middle of a field just outside Danver’s Lye—the small village at the heart of Cormansey life—practising his swordsmanship like a frustrated martial arts master without any pupils. Jack Baxter liked to wind Harry up, asking him if he cut hedges as well, because his needed a trim.

“What do we reckon, then?” Richard asked, returning from the far side of the car park roof, his hands buried deep in his pockets. “There’s a decent-looking marina back there. Should find something suitable there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Donna agreed. “Find ourselves a couple of boats, get them loaded up, then get out of here and get back home.”

* * *

The five of them walked together down the access ramp which led down to ground level, pausing only to clamber over the wreck of a plum-colored Mini with a black-and-white-checked roof which had crashed into a barrier and blocked the way, midway down the corkscrew-like road. Michael rounded the final corner and stepped out onto the street, his pulse racing, feeling an uncomfortably familiar unease he’d not felt since he was last on the mainland. He gripped a crowbar tight, ready to fight, anticipating an attack. Nothing immediately came at him, but the tension didn’t reduce. This didn’t feel right. The living were conditioned to expect a battle with the dead now.

“Here we go,” Harry said, quickening his pace and taking the lead, sword in hand. Up ahead, at he far end of a long, straight street otherwise devoid of all movement, a single corpse approached. He walked toward it purposefully but stopped a short distance away, feeling both curious and disgusted. The deterioration of the dead was remarkable.

In the months since this had all begun, everyone who’d survived had seen more than their fair share of horrific sights. Harry himself remembered several—like the time he’d found a still-moving man who’d been virtually cut in two by a broken plate-glass window, or that child he’d found trapped under the roof of an overturned car, its legs crushed but its arms still thrashing. Those grotesque memories paled in comparison to the creature stumbling toward him now. From some angles he questioned whether or not it had ever been human, such was the extent of its deformity and decay. This was the stuff of nightmares, like nothing he’d ever seen before.

The reanimation of any of the dead was a bizarre impossibility, but it beggared belief that this thing was still able to keep moving. The clothing had been stripped from the bottom half of its body, leaving its spindly legs looking like brittle tree branches and its shrivelled penis and balls exposed. The color of the dead man’s flesh was almost uniformly dark: greens and browns save for a few lighter blotches. The skin had been worn from the bottom of his feet because he no longer lifted them, rather he just dragged them along. Harry could see the bones of the foul thing’s toes sticking out through what was left of the skin in the same way he could feel his own big toe poking through a hole in his sock. He wished the dead man would stop, because the closer he got, the more sickening detail was revealed and the more grotesque he became. His face was horrific. His nose had been eaten away, and decay and insect infestations had combined to alter the shape of his drooling mouth so it now looked like an uneven zigzag rip; a ghastly caricature of a long-gone smile. One of his eyes was completely missing, a hint of a trail of fibers and blood on his discolored cheek the only clue it had ever been there. His other eye still moved slightly, looking around but never seeming to settle on anything in particular, just doing enough to leave Harry in no doubt that the corpse knew he was there. The man’s skull was covered in bald patches where much of his hair had simply fallen away in gooey clumps. The few remaining greasy strands were glued to his pock-marked scalp.

Harry took a step forward, but then stopped again, unnerved. He could see several more creatures in the distance now. While their appearance unsettled him, he forced himself to remember that that as foul as they were, they seemed to be mere shadows now of the vicious enemy he and the others had faced previously.

Without warning, the dead man took another step forward and lunged at Harry, who shoved him away with a single gloved hand, surprised by its lack of strength and weight. The corpse staggered back, then slowly came forward again. Each movement took it an age. Harry stood his ground, counting the seconds before it was close enough to attack again. Christ, he thought, we don’t even have to run from these things any longer. We can walk away fast enough to escape.

“What’s the hold up?” Cooper shouted.

“They’re completely fucked,” he yelled back. On hearing Harry’s voice, the dead man became even more animated, desperately trying to move faster. Harry had had enough. He lifted his sword and flashed iting in front of the corpse at neck height. Its head dropped from its shoulders and hit the ground with a wet thump. The rest of the man’s diseased frame appeared about to take a final step forward, but it simply collapsed at Harry’s feet. Normally he’d have immediately charged at the other corpses still moving closer, but he didn’t bother. He was filled with a sudden newfound confidence.

“See that?” he asked as Cooper and the others finally caught up with him.

“Didn’t put up much of a fight, did it?” Michael said.

“We can’t get too cocky,” Donna warned. “A couple of hundred will still cause us problems if we let them get too close.”

“You think?” Harry asked. “I don’t reckon there’s even a couple of hundred left.”

“You might be right, but I’m not taking any chances.”

Cooper agreed. “Donna’s right. Don’t forget yourselves, and don’t take anything for granted.”

He led them down toward the marina, stepping over what was left of the decapitated corpse. Their footsteps echoed eerily.

“My dad brought me here when I was about nine,” Richard said. He was somewhat older than the others. Michael guessed he was fifty, maybe fifty-five. No one talked much about their ages anymore. It seemed irrelevant now. “He’d just lost his job,” Richard continued to reminisce. “Mum was working all the hours she could, so he brought me and my sister here for a couple of days in the summer holidays.”

“Changed much, has it?” Donna smiled.

“A little. The sea looks the same…”

“… but everything else is fucked.”

“Pretty much.”

There were several more bodies around them now. Michael looked back and saw that a small crowd was moving in the general direction of the car park where they’d left the helicopter, no doubt still reacting to the aircraft’s noisy and unexpected arrival. As long as they didn’t make too much noise themselves, Michael realized, the dead didn’t even seem to notice them. And those that did could easily be avoided. All they had to do was sidestep them or increase their speed slightly.

The car park was close to the town’s large, once-busy station. Recently built, it was constructed mostly of glass and metal and they could see numerous wide-open spaces inside. Harry remained standing behind a set of automatic doors which, thankfully, were as useless as every other set of automatic doors in the country, staring at the appalling sight on the other side. Inside the station, the concourses were filled with bodies. Some were still trapped on buses and in shelters and waiting rooms.

“It was rush hour,” Donna said quietly. “Remember that?”

Michael remembered the daily hell of the rush-hour grind all too well. Like the people who had died here, he’d once had to cram himself into overfull buses and trains to get to work and back each day. He remembered it with a kind of nostalgic fondness now, but another look into the desolation was enough to snap him out of his daze. The interior of the modern-looking building was like a mass grave, many bodies lying in the shadows on top of each other, many more still languidly moving through the dark. Some of them gravitated toward the glass, decaying hands pawing the windows and doors as if they were trying to attract his attention and get help. The time for that was long gone.

Leaving the others for a moment, Michael walked farther around the perimeter of the station, captivated by the succession of horrific sights which unfolded in front of him. A bus had become trapped in the station exit, hitting the wall on one side, becoming wedged and completely blocking the way out. Even now he could see a sticky mass of decay which was once its passengers, reduced to little more than a bone-filled soup as a result of several months’ constant movement, grinding against each other in such a confined space. He couldn’t see how many people had died on the bus, but their decay was sufficient that, even now, an offensive-smelling, yellow-brown bile was still dripping out from under the door.

Michael continued in the direction he’d been walking, and saw that this had been a railway station too, not just a bus depot. He stepped over the crumpled remains of a corpse lying at the bottom of a steep staircase, its neck broken by the fall, then climbed up onto an elevated walkway. This pedestrian bridge had obviously been necessary to get people over the train tracks which ran directly below, but it had also been designed as a viewing area of sorts, and from the midpoint he had a clear view over the entire station below: the tracks, the engines, the platforms, and the concourses. Jesus, he thought, this place had been packed when the world had been brought to an abrupt end last September. The station was heaving with decay. And as for the trains themselves … He could only look for a few seconds before turning away. At every window in every carriage there seemed to be countless dead faces staring out, still trying to escape after all this time.

Harry took out a few of the nearest corpses as they advanced toward the marina—it didn’t feel right not to—but they simply walked past many of the others. It was almost as if time had stopped and everything had frozen. It felt impossible, surreal almost, and yet, bizarrely, it also felt good.

It’s like we’re in control again, Cooper thought as they walked—walked!—through the kind of open spaces which would have been impossible to cover on foot last time they were on the mainland. He crossed a miniature golf course nearer to the seafront, climbing over small hills and stepping over dried-up streams, weaving around wooden windmills with faded paint.

Today was a stark contrast to the last time he’d been on the mainland. He remembered his desperate escape back then after being stranded in the overrun airfield at Monkton with Emma, Juliet Appleby, and Steve Armitage. He never admitted as much, but he still had occasional nightmares about that day. Maybe his time back here now would change all that? It was a trendy expression he hated to use, but perhaps being here again would bring them all some closure.