9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (15 page)

Tom breathed out heavily. He had imagined during his delirium that Armageddon had
come and he was the last man to be left alive. One obvious consequence of such an
occurrence would be power outages. Permanent ones if he was truly the last man standing.
Tom possessed only the most hazy notion of how services like gas and electricity arrived
in people’s homes and would not have the first idea where to even begin to reconnect
the power if it went out.

His stomach rumbled again. He moved to the fridge and opened the door, wrinkling his
nose in anticipation. The smell of sour milk was bad, but not unbearable. He took
the carton out of the door and shook it. By the thick sludgy sound, he guessed that
the milk had coagulated. He didn’t intend to open the carton to find out. Placing
it to one side, he took a quick inventory: three cartons of yoghurt days past their
use-by date; an opened tin of baked beans covered in clingfilm; a plastic container
of tomatoes that had begun to dimple and shrivel; a chunk of cheddar cheese that had
just started to grow a skin of blue mould that could easily be cut away; a couple
of onions that felt firm enough; a three-quarter full bottle of cola; an unopened
bottle of lemonade; three cans of beer; a half-drunk bottle of white wine; assorted
tins of meats and fish; jars of pickles and chutneys.

Could be worse. The yoghurt, beans and tomatoes would have to go, but he could make
some sort of meal from the rest. The small freezer section of the fridge contained
a box of fish fingers and a loaf of sliced bread. A cupboard next to the sink contained
a few cans of soup, a tin of chopped tomatoes, a bag of dried pasta and a box of rice.

Letting the duvet fall to the floor, Tom opened a can of corned beef, his fingers
struggling with the key but hunger lending them strength. He turned the block of meat
out onto a plate and sliced it. Almost dribbling with desire, he slowly brought a
slice up to his lips. He bit off a chunk and chewed, eyes closed, savouring the fatty
flavour.

He made himself pause after finishing the slice before taking the next one; although
his instinct was to wolf down the meat, he didn’t want to make himself sick.

As he swallowed the last morsel of that first divine slice, and in order to divert
his attention from the rest of the corned beef, he took stock.

Clearly he had fallen ill with some sort of flu-like disease. He could only assume
it was the same one that had killed his mother—he hurried his thoughts along at this
point—and had led to martial law being introduced to the U.K. He had survived. Here
he was, weak as a newborn foal, but free of sniffles and coughs and fever. And if
he had survived, then maybe it wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. . . .

He shivered, but that was because the house was cold. He picked up the duvet and threw
it around his shoulders. Feeling a little stronger already after just one slice of
tinned meat, he walked over to the boiler and flicked the central heating switch on.
A pause, a loud click and the heating whirred into motion. He smiled.

Pausing to collect the plate of corned beef, Tom walked through to the living room
and turned on the television and a couple of lamps. He crammed a whole slice of meat
into his mouth and settled back on the settee with the remote control.

The TV was tuned to the sports channels, as usual, but only flickering, snowy static
showed on the screen. That didn’t surprise him too much—the sports channels would,
he supposed, be the last things to be reinstated after a world crisis. The BBC, that’s
what he needed to watch. If anyone could tell him how far the recovery was underway,
he could rely on the good old Beeb.

The channel changed to BBC1 and Tom stopped chewing as his lower jaw dropped. The
screen showed a dark red background over which was printed a few sentences; an expressionless
voice spoke the same sentences over and over in an unending loop:

This is an emergency announcement. The Acting Prime Minister, General David Banning,
has issued a nationwide order that any infected person found in a public place be
shot on sight. He urges anybody currently unaffected by the Millennium Bug to remain
where they are and not to attempt to have contact of any sort with any other person.
May God be with you. . . .

This is an emergency announcement. The Acting Prime Min—

The television screen and the lamps went off simultaneously. The whirring and clicking
of the boiler that Tom could usually hear in the lounge when the TV was off had also
stopped.

Tom sat in the gloom, listening to the rain lash against the windows, and forced himself
to finish the corned beef, though his appetite seemed to have disappeared with the
electricity.

* * * * *

By the time she reached the outskirts of New York City, Diane Heidler had become an
old hand at syphoning gasoline from abandoned vehicles. She could start the flow with
one suck and knew exactly when to whip the tube out of her mouth and clamp the ball
of her thumb over the end so as to minimise loss through spitting or spilling. She
had even grown accustomed to the foul, fiery taste. In fact, she sometimes welcomed
it for it banished the stench of the putrefying occupants of the vehicles. She had
quickly learned that syphoning only seemed to work on older-model vehicles. It wasn’t
a problem—she was spoilt for choice.

She approached the city via New Jersey. She had not seen a living person for three
days and he had been almost dead, slumping towards her when she opened the car door
and half-falling to the road with a weak groan. She’d had to step over him to check
his gas gauge and release his fuel cap. When she had finished syphoning his fuel,
she poked him with the toe of her right foot. He groaned again, but did not open his
eyes. The other occupant of the car—an old woman; his mother?—had been dead for a
day or so judging from the smell and the way her body was swelling.

The number of stalled vehicles began to rise as she drew nearer to the city and the
fear of finding her way blocked began to grow. If she came across an obstacle that
she could not find a way past, she would have to walk, a prospect that held no attraction.
Diane had a slight frame that would cope with a long hike, but she would much prefer
to avoid it. Physical exercise was not an endeavour that she particularly liked to
pursue. And it had been raining steadily for most of the morning.

Her luck held at first. The toll road and bridge to Staten Island, though blocked
in the other direction, was clear heading to the island. She had to slalom around
a couple of cars, but made it onto the island without mishap. Her luck ran out trying
to get from Staten.

She had almost made it to Brooklyn, when she found the road blocked by a snarl of
silent vehicles. She stopped the car and thumped the steering wheel in frustration.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!” she muttered. “Oh, well. Only one thing for it. . . .”

Diane got out of the car and leaned back inside to retrieve her knapsack from the
passenger seat. Buttoning her jacket tightly and muffling her neck with her scarf,
she opened the rear door and grabbed a couple of bottles of water and a few snacks
that she thrust into the knapsack. She considered the length of plastic tubing for
only a moment, before closing the door on it. She didn’t even notice the empty canister
on the floor. With a brief glance of regret at the car—she would have to get one in
just that colour when all this was over—she turned her face into the drizzle and began
to walk.

The stalled traffic formed two solid lines, but there was ample space for a lone pedestrian.
Once or twice, Diane had to pick her way around or over rotting bodies. If she had
given it any thought, she might have guessed that these people, too, had decided to
walk, but had died where they fell when illness overcame them. But she didn’t speculate;
the bodies were simply more obstacles, smelly, oozing obstacles, in her way.

She passed a motorcycle, its former rider gone, keys still in the ignition. She stopped
and considered for a moment, but only a moment as she had absolutely no idea how to
ride one. She shrugged, making water drip down her neck, and continued on.

Her jacket, designed more to keep out cold than rain, had become heavy and the clothes
beneath damp as she stepped onto Brooklyn. The cause of the traffic jam became evident
a mile or so on when she came to the exit ramp. A container truck had jack-knifed,
blocking both carriageways as effectively as a cork in a bottle. Boxes of whatever
it had contained had spilled out and lay sagging and bloated in the rain. She gave
them no more than a cursory glance. Whatever was in the boxes held no interest for
her.

Having left the expressway, Diane did not have to walk much further. She came across
a yellow taxi standing at an angle with its front tyres against the kerb as though
it had trundled to a halt. A man’s body lay face down on the grass verge a few yards
away. She glanced inside. No corpses. No keys.

She tried the driver’s door and it swung open. The interior light came on, looking
strong, indicating the car’s battery was still good.

Diane walked over to the body. Breathing through her mouth, she grasped the body by
the shoulders and half-turned it so she could reach into the pockets of the bomber
jacket that the man wore. Although the jacket was thick, Diane fancied that the shoulders
beneath felt a little squelchy and she grimaced.

The first pocket was empty. Turning the body the other way, she reached into the other
pocket of the jacket. Her hand encountered something sticky and she withdrew it sharply.
A quick glance and sniff at her fingers revealed that the sticky thing must be a roll
of sweets. Nearly ready to give up and resume trudging, she thrust her hand inside
the pocket again, deeper, past the sweets, and came out holding a bunch of keys.

She stood, ran back to the taxi and lowered herself into the driver’s seat. She inserted
the key into the ignition—it went in smoothly—and turned it. The engine coughed, spluttered,
then roared into life.

Diane shrugged out of her wet jacket and flung it in the back. She drove the rest
of the way to JFK without incident.

Chapter Twelve

T
he flatbed truck moved northwards past Central Park, then turned east through Harlem,
without difficulty. The roads remained virtually deserted until they reached FDR Drive,
but even here they encountered stalled vehicles only in patches and were easily able
to manoeuvre around them.

Milandra entrusted the driving to Grant’s calm assurance. She sat on the bench seat
in the cabin next to him, with Simone on her right next to the passenger door. In
the back, wearing waterproof jackets beneath which they kept the readied Uzis out
of the rain, rode Wallace and Lavinia. They shared the flatbed with five motorcycles,
a tarpaulin secured to protect them from the worst of the elements.

For a few moments as they searched for a way past knots of entangled vehicles onto
the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, Milandra thought they would have to abandon the truck
and take to the motorbikes. It wasn’t a thought that filled her with delight. Although
her Harley had been custom-made to comfortably support her bulk and she could ride
like a veteran Hell’s Angel, she didn’t derive the thrill from riding a motorcycle
that the others, particularly Wallace and Simone, seemed to. It made her feel vulnerable.
Mortal. Not something she liked to be reminded of.

“It’s okay,” Grant said. “I think I can see a way past.”

Inching forward and using the front end of the truck as a sedentary bulldozer, Grant
nudged the obstructing vehicle out of the way and their route onto the bridge was
clear.

They drove east, crossing the East River onto Randalls Island, and then turned south,
joining the road from the Bronx. The route remained clear, the occasional stalled
car failing to hamper their progress.

It was only as they approached the East River again, to cross into Queens, that they
began to come across more and more abandoned vehicles, forcing Grant to slow down
and weave a path through them like an obstacle course.

Slower and slower he went, not much more than walking pace, but still he was able
to find a way through.

“I don’t like this,” Grant muttered. “It’s almost as though these cars have been set
out like this deliberately . . .
arranged
, to slow down any approaching vehicles.”

There’s something not right here
he sent.
Be alert!

Grant lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and banged once on the roof of
the cabin. Immediately, an answering thud sounded from above.

Milandra added a note of caution.
Only use the weapons as a last resort
she sent.
We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves

Another thud sounded on the roof and Milandra smiled.

“Why?” said Simone.

“Huh?” said Milandra.

“Why not draw attention to ourselves? I thought most everyone else was dead.”

“Yes, Simone, most are. But there will be survivors. Some of them may have already
found each other. Started banding into groups. They’ll be scared and angry. The last
thing we need is to draw survivors to us at this juncture.”

Grant grunted in agreement, not taking his eyes from the road. He looked tense and
Milandra realised that she felt the same. She glanced at Simone. By contrast, the
girl seemed relaxed, one jeans-clad knee drawn up in front of her, foot resting on
the benchseat, hands clasped around her knee. She looked out of the windscreen, then
out of the side window, as though close to boredom.

She sensed Grant stiffen. “Here we go,” he muttered.

Ahead through the drizzle, Milandra could see the outside lane blocked by a car that
had stopped, or been moved, so that it was tight to the concrete central barrier.
Inside the car, a maintenance truck with cones and warning signs in the back was pulled
alongside, blocking the next lane. They were just passing under one of the grey suspension
girders and the carriageway was four lanes wide. An RV, a white one that looked shiny
and new, had been parked sideways across the remaining two lanes, providing a complete
barrier.

Grant pulled the flatbed to a halt five yards or so from the RV and engaged the park
brake. He left the engine running and the windscreen wipers on.

“What now?” said Simone. She had both feet on the floor and sat forward, peering through
the drizzle. Milandra sensed excitement flowing off her.

“Now we wait,” Milandra answered. “Let them see that we’re not aggressive.”

They didn’t have to wait long. A man appeared from behind the RV, squeezing through
the gap between it and the maintenance truck. He wore a dark green military cape and
looked to be in his late fifties. Drops of water clung to the faint wisps of grey
hair that criss-crossed his head like a spider’s web. In the crook of one arm, the
butt and workings wrapped in clear plastic, only the black muzzle open to the elements,
the man held a sawn-off shotgun.

He stopped in front of the RV and regarded them.

Milandra was about to probe the man, surreptitiously, to see if she could ascertain
his intentions without alarming him, but Simone beat her to it. The Chosen had sat
so far forward, her butt was at the edge of the benchseat and her nose almost touched
the windscreen.

The man frowned and his posture stiffened. He raised the shotgun to chest height,
aiming at the cabin of the flatbed.

Help me
sent Simone.
He’s too strong. Can’t do it on my own

She flung open the passenger door and stepped out into the rain.

Reacting instinctively, Milandra lent her intellect to Simone and felt Grant, Wallace
and Lavinia follow suit.

Simone approached the man. His features contorted into a grimace of surprise and fear.
He still held the shotgun pointed at the truck, but it looked as though he was trying
to bring it to bear on Simone. His mouth twisted with effort as he willed his arms
to obey his instructions. The shotgun didn’t move.

Milandra made as though to follow Simone, but Grant laid his arm on hers.

“Let her handle it,” he muttered. “Not much you can do with her taking the lead. . . .”

Milandra sagged back into the seat, knowing he was right. With Simone controlling
their combined intellects, there was only a limited amount any of them could do until
she released them.

Simone reached the man and walked slowly around him, inspecting him with a look of
frank curiosity. The drizzle had started to flatten her hair and she brushed it away
from her eyes absentmindedly. Having completed the circle, she stopped in front of
the man.

Even with the combined force of five psyches, it didn’t appear as though Simone’s
control was complete. The man’s body and limbs had frozen, but his face still worked,
expressing at turns fear and loathing and anger and bewilderment.

With the part of her mind that remained her own, Milandra sensed what Simone intended
to do. She wanted to stop her, to persuade her down another path, but would need the
others to all be in accord to override Simone’s wishes. That clearly wasn’t the case.
All she could sense from Grant was indifference; Wallace and Lavinia were in agreement
with Simone and were performing the mental equivalent of a cheer lead.

Milandra was powerless to do anything except sit and watch.

Summoning the power of all five intellects, Simone
pushed
. . . .

The man’s eyes blazed with hatred and he tried to spit at Simone. The spittle barely
left his mouth. He lowered his arms and turned the shotgun around and upwards, placing
the muzzle under his chin. His movements were jittery as though he resisted with every
last ounce of strength he possessed.

Simone took a step backwards. The man pulled both triggers and the reports reverberated
around the confined space created by the vehicles.

The white side of the RV was sprayed with blood and thick globules of skull and brain
matter that slid down its rain-slickened surface.

Simone watched the man’s body fold up and crumple to the road. She turned and smiled.
Only then did she release them.

Milandra breathed out deeply, feeling a little sick. She clambered out of the truck.
Grant switched off the engine and followed her. Wallace and Lavinia jumped down from
the back and they all approached the RV.

“How cool was that?” said Simone.

“Yeah, baby,” said Lavinia.

Wallace nodded and grinned.

Milandra said nothing. Her reaction to what had happened disturbed her. She must quell
these emotions of compassion and mercy. With what lay ahead, she could not afford
to give them any room. She had grown weak and she needed to be strong.

She glanced sideways at Grant. He was considering her with a thoughtful expression
that she didn’t much like, but she resisted the urge to probe him.

Grant looked away and walked to the other side of the RV.

“All clear,” he called. “The keys are in the ignition. I’ll move it out of the way.”

Milandra’s nausea had passed, washed away by the rain like the man’s blood.

“Come on,” she said to Simone, “let’s get out of this drizzle.”

She and Simone resumed their seats in the cabin of the truck. Wallace and Lavinia
waited while Grant reversed the RV towards the central barrier, leaving it parked
in front of the car and maintenance truck, clearing the inside lane for them to pass.

They resumed their places on the bed of the truck and Grant sat back in the driver’s
seat, wiping water from his face.

“Right,” he said as he started the engine. “Hopefully, next stop JFK.”

* * * * *

It took Tom the best part of forty-eight hours to feel that he had built up his strength
sufficiently to consider venturing outside.

He slept and ate and tried to keep despair at bay.

The terrors that came as he slept were borne not of delirium but of the hazy memory
of burying his mother and the fear that he was the only person alive. In his dreams,
he feverishly dug holes and ran from a faceless stalker, and tried over and over to
breathe life into his dead mother, but her face crumbled under his touch. . . .

When the electricity failed, he had filled saucepans from the cold tap, then had gone
upstairs and run the cold tap into the plugged bath until, with a clanking of pipes,
the flow spluttered to nothing. The bath was nearly half full. He reckoned he also
had a hot-water tank full of water if he needed it.

He would not die of thirst, but his food was already running low—he had been eating
as though food was going out of fashion, which he supposed in a manner of speaking
it was.

The sense of isolation was complete. The phone lines were dead. Without electricity,
his computer was useless and he had left his laptop in school. His mobile phone, though
the battery held some charge, had no signal. The internet connection didn’t work.

Last year, Mark had lent Tom a novel by a German author about a man who wakes up to
discover he is the only person left alive on the planet. Tom had enjoyed the book,
but had scoffed at the notion. Now he felt as though he was that man. The story had
not ended well—the man had stepped off a very tall building.

The idea of ending his life had occurred to Tom, especially in the black hours when
he awoke thrashing and shouting, cold sweat covering his body. Lying in the silent,
frozen darkness, clutching his duvet tighter as his breath plumed around his head,
he considered methods.

Plunging from a great height like the man in the novel was impracticable: there were
no buildings within a ten-mile radius tall enough to ensure that he wouldn’t end up
dying in immobilised agony of starvation or exposure with broken legs or back. And
he was terrified of heights; he couldn’t climb a ladder past his own height without
his knees locking and refusing to go any higher. Even if he were to find a building
tall enough, his body would betray him, refusing to let him approach the edge, let
alone cast himself over.

Overdosing on sleeping tablets seemed a painless way to go, though he didn’t have
any and would have to root around in neighbours’ medicine cabinets. A possibility.

He already had the means to slit his wrists or hang himself, but neither option appealed
much: he seriously doubted he possessed the courage to go through with either.

No, sleeping tablets it would have to be if he reached that level of despair. Maybe
he ought to secure a good supply just in case.

With that purpose at the back of his mind, Tom wrapped himself up in thick clothes
and unlocked his front door. He stepped outside into a biting winter wind that took
his breath away and he was immediately glad of his thermal beanie that he pulled lower
to protect his ears.

He locked the door behind him, then stood for a moment, listening. Nothing, except
the occasional rattle of a street lamp casing as the wind shook it and the howl of
the wind itself.

Tom’s house stood in a small development of identical box-like structures that opened
onto a shared path. Wooden side gates led to tiny back gardens, surrounded by high
wooden fences that discouraged neighbourly interaction. Tom, therefore, barely knew
his neighbours. An elderly couple lived next door, but he wasn’t even sure of their
names.

He walked to their property and rang the doorbell. No chimes sounded. Not surprising
given that the door bells ran off mains electricity. He knocked, the sound dull and
muffled beneath his gloves. He knocked harder, making the door rattle in its frame.
The Christmas wreath that had been tied to the door knocker jumped a little. Tom lifted
it and let it drop, the door knocker making a noise like a pistol shot. Finally, he
stooped and pushed open the letter box.

“Hello?” he called through the gap, feeling a little foolish. “Is anyone home?”

He pressed his ear to the opening. Nothing. He put his nose there and sniffed. The
smell was faint, but unmistakeable. The same sweet, cloying odour that had filled
his mother’s house.