Aftermath

33

The castle was a hive of frightened activity. The beaten-up bus sat useless in the middle of the courtyard like a beached whale. Its other tires had been slashed to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere, and all the supplies which had been loaded onboard had been removed. All around, people carried out Jas’s orders, passed to them by Kieran, Bayliss, Ainsworth, and Field. Field himself stood guard in front of the gate, a rifle held where everyone could see it, his presence alone enough to deter anyone from trying to get out. He occasionally barked instructions at Howard and Bob, who were shoveling the remains of the dead into wheelbarrows, then dumping them into the overfull cesspit. They were both exhausted, too tired to even think about rebelling now. Jackson’s body had been taken over to the cesspit area too. His corpse had been left by the outside wall, wrapped in a tarpaulin and dumped next to where Steve Morecombe had been buried a week and a half earlier. No one would notice the stink over there, Field had said.

Jas watched the proceedings alone from the top of the gatehouse, keen to put as much distance as possible between himself and everyone else. It had taken him more than an hour and two cans of lager to stop shaking after Jackson’s death. He was overwhelmed by a raft of unexpected emotions: guilt, fear, anger, remorse … but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t my fault. What’s done is done, he kept telling himself. I need to get this lot back on track now. Let them forget about the helicopter and that bloody island and all that bullshit. Another few weeks and we can move out of here.

But he kept coming back to one dark thought.

I’ve killed a man.

He tried to focus on something—anything—else, but it was impossible. He hadn’t actually sunk the knife into the other man’s chest, but he may as well have. Over the months he’d destroyed untold hundreds of those wretched cadavers which walked the dead world outside, dispatching even the least decayed, most human of them without a second’s thought—but this was different. Completely different.

Less than a hundred people left alive that I know of, and I killed one of them …

“What do you want me to do with them?”

Jas, startled by the unexpected voice, quickly turned around. It was Kieran.

“What?”

“I asked you what you want me to do with them. Do we just keep them locked up in the caravans for now?”

Jas thought for a moment. “Might as well,” he replied, trying not to sound as distracted and nervous as he felt. “Use the vans nearest the gatehouse. Let them calm down. We need to get everything back to how it was before those fuckers turned up here and screwed everything up.”

Kiera paused before answering. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

He turned to go back downstairs, but Jas called to him before he disappeared.

“We’re doing the right thing, you know,” he said. Kieran nodded. “Look, no one meant for any of this to happen. Fact is, they’ll have fucked off back to their island again by now, so what’s done is done.” He walked over to the other man. “Get some food going. Get a couple of the girls working in the kitchen, and crack open a few bottles of booze, the best stuff you can find. Keep the people safe and warm and give them what they want within reason. Let’s not give them any excuses to try anything we might all end up regretting.”