The Cost of Living (5 page)

There’s
another one of them outside now, and seeing it helps me focus on the threat. I
have to be on my guard here; can’t let anyone or anything know we’re still
here. The thing outside – I can’t call it a person anymore – hauls
itself along the street listlessly and slowly, every movement taking effort it
doesn’t have. Its shoulders are drooped and its head hangs heavy on its
shoulders as if its weight is too much for it to support. It’s stripped to the
waist, and because of its long, straggly hair I thought it was a girl at first.
It’s only when it turns around and I get a clear look at its naked torso that I
see it’s male. He’s painfully thin, chest caved inwards, and he barely lifts
his feet as he walks, just drags them along.

Then
something changes.

He
stops and looks up, sniffing the air, and even though I’m well away I
instinctively move back out of the way in case it’s me he’s seen. Common-sense
takes over again and I relax, because I know that even though it’s impossibly
quiet out there, I’m too far away to be seen or heard.

He’s
looking in different directions now, like he’s listening out, and I think it’s
weird because a few seconds ago, this poor fucker looked like he could barely
support his own weight. Now he makes his move, darting across the road, running
with odd, unnatural loping movements like he’s learning the controls as he
goes. The lethargy has gone, replaced with ferocious speed. I know exactly what
he’s doing. He’s hunting.

There’s
someone else like me out there, someone else uninfected. The bloke I saw being
attacked just now is up on his feet again, calling to someone... screaming at
them to go the other way. It’s a girl, Nathan’s age or thereabouts. She tries
to outrun the infected thing that’s nearest to her, but she looks even more
exhausted than the germ-filled fucker close behind. It’s relentless. The damn
thing trips up the kerb and smashes its face on the ground, then just gets up
and carries on after her like nothing’s happened, barely even missing a beat.

The
kid – and she’s only a kid – looks like she’s caught in two minds.
She’s making for the guy on the floor, but he’s pleading with her to leave.

All
the time I’m watching I’m thinking
I should help... I should do something...
but I know I can’t, because if I risk going out there to help a kid I don’t
know anything about, then I’ll put the people I am responsible for in danger.
They need me, and I need them, and as hard as it is to accept, this kid is not
my concern.

She
stops and tries a half-hearted punch, but she’s barely got the energy to keep
breathing, never mind fight. Swinging her fist knocks her off-balance, and in
the brief delay as she tries to steady herself, that infected bastard is on
her.

And
now
it
has become
they
.

There
are more of them again, swarming from the shadows. I’m so distracted by their
appearance and sheer numbers that I forget about the girl. They appear from out
of nowhere, as if they were there all the time but I just couldn’t see them:
disentangling themselves from piles of rubbish, staggering out of open doors,
throwing themselves out of windows to get to this poor, helpless kid and infect
her. Others – some which I thought were corpses lying rotting in the
gutter – are starting to move. It’s like they’re waking up, like they’ve
been woken from their near-death slumber by the scent of someone uninfected.

A
few attackers is now a herd of the fucking things. In the time it’s taken me to
process what I’m seeing, as many as twenty more of them are coming after the
girl, fighting to be the one that infects her.

With
these numbers, she doesn’t stand a bloody chance.

She
runs towards the development, and I hate myself for willing her to go the other
way. The closer she gets, the worse I feel and the more I can see. She’s
looking back more than she’s looking forward now, but the infected are coming
at her from all sides, surrounding her... cutting off every escape route. She
makes a sudden change of direction, then another, then another, but they’re
everywhere now and she knows it. There’s nowhere left for her to run, nothing
left to do... she slows down, then stops and she just stands there sobbing,
beaten before they’ve laid a damn finger on her.

And
then they’re all over her.

One
germ-riddled male leaps up from the middle of the oncoming crowd; a single
unexpected movement that’s more controlled than anything else I’ve so far seen.
The infected man literally knocks her off her feet but he holds onto her
shoulders and falls with her. She lands on her back, the sick man on top,
pushing her down. She’s trying to beat him off, but he’s not fighting and
that’s the problem here. He’s just
infecting
. She locks her elbows and
holds him at arm’s length, but all he has to do is just vomit and spit and
drool all over her face.

In
the silence of everything else, I can hear her. She screams and gags and wails
all at the same time: a hideous, heart-breaking noise.

Then
it’s done.

The
infected crawl away, retreating back into the shadows, leaving the girl just
lying there on her back, sobbing, soaked through with that foul discharge. She
wipes it from her face then rolls over and vomits, as much through fear and
disgust than anything else, I guess. She gets up and tries to walk away, ragged
clothes drenched like she’s been caught out in the rain, but effort and
resignation combine and she stops again and drops to her knees. There’s another
infected close by but it barely lifts its head, barely even looks at her. She’s
of no interest to them now. The girl just sits there, waiting for the sickness
to take hold.

And
all I can think about are Gabby and the kids. The thought of this happening to
any of them is too much to even consider.

STUART

FRIDAY 29 MAY – 10:32am

We’ve barely
moved since yesterday, barely even spoken. I told Gabby everything I saw from
the neighbours’ house, but she was frustratingly dismissive. I’m not sure she
realises the full seriousness of our situation yet. The way she talks to the
kids isn’t right... going on as if nothing’s happened, telling them it’ll be
like this for a little while, then things will get back to normal. I told her
to be realistic and honest, but she said she was doing it for Sally more than
anyone. It won’t help in the long run.

Just
over twenty-four hours and I’m already going stir crazy, cooped up with the
family. It’s just nerves, I reckon. I need to get things how I want them here.
It’s time to make some changes. I’m in the back garden holding the cat, and
Gabby and the kids are at the window, watching my every move.

I
spent a sleepless night thinking about all of this. I’ve told them what’s going
to happen and it’s not gone down well. Gabby said I should do it when Sally’s
asleep, but I don’t see the point. It’s not like I’m going to kill the damn cat,
just get rid of it. I feel bad enough already, but she’s trying to make me feel
worse. I don’t have any choice and they have to understand that. Our lives
might depend on it.

There
can be no more waste. The longer we stay in isolation here, the better our
chances, and I need them to see that. When I think about all the half-finished
drinks I’ve thrown away over the years, all the wasted food... it makes me damn
angry. I can’t allow that to happen anymore. Our daily rations must be strictly
adhered to, everything eaten, irrespective of taste and personal preferences.
Gabby gets it, and I think Nathan does too, but Sally’s going to be a problem.
How do I explain to a three year old that she can’t have anything else to eat
today, or that if she doesn’t eat what she’s just been given, she won’t have
anything else until tomorrow? How do I pacify my daughter when she’s crying for
juice but she’s used up her allowance and I can’t risk giving her more? We’ve
already clashed. She didn’t want her meal last night. I told her
you eat it
now, or you eat it stale tomorrow
.

And
that’s why the cat has to go.

There’s
no room for sentimentality here anymore, and there’s no option: the cat
has
to go. He’s a health hazard. It pisses me off... no one was that bothered about
him before. It was always me who ended up feeding him and it was me who emptied
the bloody litter tray or cleaned up the crap when the damn animal dragged
something half-dead inside from the garden. Bloody Smudge. I won’t miss him. I
put him over the fence then glare at Sally when she starts crying again and
banging on the kitchen window.

The
cat will hang around for a few days I’m sure, then he’ll get used to the idea
he’s not welcome anymore and he’ll piss off. Cats are manipulative little
bastards – you need them more than they need you. When he realises he’s
not getting fed, he’ll find his food somewhere else. He’s better off out here.

I
felt like a heartless prick when I snatched Smudge away from Sally earlier, but
I have to put emotions to one side and focus on the realities of our situation.
The cat cost us food and water – albeit a small amount each day –
but if you add it all up day by day, that small amount might make a difference.
I don’t know if cats are susceptible to the disease in the same way we are, but
I have to assume they are. It’d be cruel to keep the animal locked up indoors
from here on in, and it’s too much of a risk to let him have free reign.
Imagine if I went to all this trouble and effort, just for us all to be
infected by something the damn cat dragged in. I’ve nailed boards over both
sides of the cat flap.

Bloody
thing’s making a hell of a noise though.

He’s
in the garden behind ours, making that horrible deep wailing noise he does when
another cat encroaches on his turf. I climb up onto the compost bin to shoo him
away.

Jesus
Christ.

The
grass is overgrown here. I never saw the lazy sods cut it, but I’m pleased they
left it now. The lady who lived here is dead in the middle of the lawn. It
looks like foxes have had a go at her fingers. Smudge looks up at me then runs
for it when I hiss at him, his tail slipping through the gaps between two
bushes, disappearing into the unkempt flower-bed.

Back
inside.

The
others shun me like I’m some kind of leper, like I’ve got the bloody disease
that’s caused all of this, but I’ve got a thick skin and I can take it. It’s a
small price to pay. We’ve all just got to get used to living this way if we
want to stay alive. Trouble is, we’re all like the bloody cat. We’re used to
things being easy, to having everything our own way. Life is different now, and
I have a feeling it always will be from here on in. We might always be
fighting, we might always be living on our nerves, surviving on a fraction of
what we had before, but that’s just how it has to be.

I
tell Gabby and Nathan, but they’re in no mood to listen. I try and explain that
when we leave the house... maybe a month or two from now, perhaps... it’ll be
easier out there. Fewer people. More space. More supplies. Freedom. It’s
strange, but there’s a part of me that’s actually excited by the future. It’s
not going to be easy, I understand that, but it could still be
good
. We
just have to make sure we’re not dragged down by what’s left of the old world
first.

STUART

TUESDAY 9 JUNE – 11:14am

It’s tense in
here. The claustrophobia, monotony and boredom of our incarceration over the
last couple of weeks is getting to all of us. Mealtimes are the worst. I don’t
know who’s being more difficult, Nathan or Sally. Reasoning with a fifteen year
old is proving to be as hard as reasoning with a frightened three year old, but
he usually sees sense in the end. Hannah’s not letting us forget she’s here
either. Every time she screams for her bottle the noise cuts through me like
fingernails scraping down a blackboard.

‘I
don’t like soup,’ Sally says, shoving her bowl away. I push it back. ‘Don’t
want it.’

‘Try
and eat it, sweetheart,’ Gabby says.

‘Don’t
want it,’ she says again.

‘Try
a little bit for Mummy.’

‘No.’

‘Come
on, love, just eat half of it...’

‘She
eats all of it,’ I interrupt. ‘What is this, a bloody holiday camp?’ I just
look at Gabby, amazed. Does she not understand the seriousness of our
situation.

‘I
just think...’ she starts to say, but I’m not having any of it.

‘We
don’t have the luxury of choice anymore, Gabby, in case you hadn’t noticed. We
eat what we’re given now. All of us. Whether we like it or not.’

‘But
I don’t like soup,’ Sally moans, grizzling now.

‘Tough.
If you don’t eat it, you go hungry.’

She
starts full-on wailing. ‘Go easy on her,’ Gabby says.

‘No.
She has to eat.’ I turn back to face Sally. ‘You have to eat. Eat!’

She
shoves it away again. ‘Don’t want this. Want chicken nuggets.’

I
count to ten. I know she can’t help it.

‘Well
we don’t have any chicken nuggets,’ I tell her. ‘Daddy’s already explained this
to you time and time again... we don’t have a freezer at the moment, love. Not
since the electricity stopped working.’

‘Mummy
can make some.’

‘Not
without a chicken.’

‘Or
an oven, or the rest of the ingredients, or breadcrumbs, or fresh milk or
butter or anything else...’ Gabby adds unhelpfully.

‘We
get the picture,’ Nathan says.

‘Maybe
I could have a look and see if I can find something else you’d like?’ Gabby
says to Sally.

‘No,
Gab, you won’t. Bloody hell, have you not been paying attention? We eat what
we’re given, no questions asked.’

There’s
an awkward silence. Gabby looks down at her food. I hate myself for having to
be so abrupt, but I don’t know how else to say it. I’m at the end of my tether
here.

The
quiet doesn’t last long.

‘I
want to go outside...’ Sally says.

‘Why
can’t we, Dad?’ Nathan asks.

‘You
know why not. It’s too dangerous. We don’t know what’s out there.’

‘But
there’s nothing out there,’ he mumbles. ‘There’s nothing left, remember?’

‘We
can’t take any chances. We’re not doing anything until we’ve blocked the road.’

‘But
everyone else is dead,’ Nathan says. ‘Dead or gone.’

‘And
so will we be if we’re not careful.’

‘Am
I going to die?’ Sally asks, and the innocence in her little voice is
heart-breaking. Gabby squeezes her hand and helps her with her soup.

‘We’re
not going to die, love. We’re going to be just fine here.’

‘Daddy’s
going to look after all of us,’ I tell her.

But
she does have a point. It’s getting harder and harder for the five of us to
keep going in the house like this. We’re going to have to go outside
eventually, aren’t we?

‘We
can’t go on like this,’ Gabby whispers, and I know she’s right.

‘I
need to be sure we’re safe here. I’ll go out later and have a look around the
development. If it’s as quiet as it looks, maybe we’ll be able to risk going
outside to secure the development.’

‘You
think it’ll be okay?’

‘Everything
I saw and read about the disease said it was spread through contact with bodily
fluids,’ I tell her, keeping my voice low for the sake of the kids. ‘So why
not? The railings have kept people out. There are no infected in our back
garden, are there?’

I
don’t tell her about the corpse in the garden behind ours.

‘You
said something about blocking off the road into the estate,’ Nathan says.

‘It’s
a
development
, not an estate,’ Gabby corrects him, though the time for
such distinctions is long gone. ‘Estate sounds so...’

‘Common?’
he suggests.

‘I
didn’t say that.’

‘No,
but you were thinking it. You’re such a snob, Mum.’

‘I’m
not.’

‘You
are
!’

‘Stop
picking on me,’ she says, pretending to be hurt.

‘Mummy’s
a snob, Mummy’s a snob!’ Sally sings playfully. Gabby glares at her for a
moment, then shakes her head and breaks into a broad smile. That’s the first
smile I’ve seen from any of them in days. In the fortnight since we’ve been
locked in here, come to think of it.

If
going outside is going to make such a difference, then assuming it’s safe,
maybe that’s what we should do.

#

Nathan wanted to
come but I said no. Not yet. I explained that I’m just checking the rest of the
development this afternoon. If everything’s okay and as quiet as it seems, then
he can help me block off the estate in a couple of days’ time. Imagine how much
of a difference that’ll make to all of us. We’ll use stuff from the building
site at the unfinished end of the development.

I’m
nervous but I don’t let them see. I get myself ready in the shed. This isn’t
like when I used Clive and Christine’s house as a look-out post, this is very
different. I’m going door-to-door today, and I have to be prepared for all
eventualities.

I
put on the protective suit I use for decorating then tape up my ankles and
wrists so there’s no chance of contamination. The suit has a hood, and I cover
my face with goggles and a mask. A pair of outdoor gloves I used to use when I
creosoted the fences completes my ridiculous outfit. I might look stupid, but I
know I’m safe.

Fuck,
but this is terrifying.

I
open the latch – it’s so loud it sounds like someone cocking a gun, ready
to fire – then let myself out down the side of the house. I look up and
see them all watching me from an upstairs window, even though I’ve told them
not to. I keep the felling axe I’m carrying out of sight, holding it close to
my body. I told them it was to help me get into locked houses, but they’re not
stupid. They know why I’m really carrying it.

I’ve
memorised the layout of the development. It’s pretty much a horseshoe shape,
with a couple of cul-de-sacs leading off here and there. I’m going to work my
way from house to house, checking if they’re empty. I’m certain the vast
majority, if not all of them are, but there are a couple I’m not sure about.

God,
but it’s so quiet out here. I can’t hear anything. Admittedly the noise is
muffled by the hood I’m wearing, but this never-ending silence is eerie beyond
belief. No traffic. No voices. Just the sound of a plaintive dog in the
middle-distance. The frightened hound’s noise makes me catch my breath. The
poor mutt sounds as scared as I feel.

I
distract myself looking at each of the houses I pass. It’s funny... back when
we had neighbours, when the world was still intact, you automatically kept your
distance and respected everyone else’s property. At least, most of us did.
There was that horrible dickhead who lived in one of the houses opposite
– a proper geezer; all bullshit, attitude and swagger – he didn’t
care. I used to see him regularly walking over his neighbours’ lawns to get to
his front door or reversing onto their drives to turn his car around because he
couldn’t be bothered to drive the few metres to the turning point at the end of
the grove. Insufferable arse. Wonder where he is now? Wonder
if
he is...?

And
this house I’m outside now... he was another one. Objectionable dick. A proper
show-off. I remember Christine gossiping about him once. A single man with no
shortage of visitors. Apparently he’d made a fortune from a dating app for
mobile phones... some kind of personality compatibility test or something like
that, preying on the vulnerable with computer-generated bullshit and lies. He
used to annoy me. Half my age, and absolutely dripping with cash. He had one of
the biggest houses on the development and I doubt he even had a mortgage. I
know it shouldn’t have bothered me but it did because I’ve worked my arse off
and done everything the right way since leaving uni, and it pisses me off when
I hear about people hitting it lucky like that. It used to, anyway. Things have
changed. I have to start thinking about this stuff in past tense now. Like I
said, I did everything the right way and it’s paid off. What good did the luck
and all that cash do this guy? Not a lot, by the looks of things. I peer in
through his lounge window, cupping my hands to block out the light. Christ,
look at the size of that TV! It nearly fills the entire wall! But material
possessions don’t change material facts: this house is empty, devoid of all
life. There’s stuff all over the place, like he left in a hurry. Who knows
where he is now? Chances are his life won’t be as comfortable as he’s used to
anymore.

What
was that? I stop dead, sure I heard something. It sounded like a door, but when
I look around there’s nothing and no one. I tell myself to calm down, my own
heartbeat now the loudest thing I can hear.

I
keep going, moving into one of the side roads now.

Another
noise up ahead. There’s definitely someone else here.

I
remember the woman who lived in the house at the far end of the cul-de-sac just
as she appears in the shadows of her open door. At first the light’s so poor
I’m not even sure there’s anyone there, and my dirty safety goggles don’t help,
but then she trips down the step and almost falls and my throat becomes dry
with nerves. Is she as scared as I am?

It’s
hard to tell what’s happening here. Is she infected or clear? Her pale skin is
heavily discoloured, like she’s been living in squalor since all this began. I
take a few steps closer, and she does the same, stepping out of the shade and
into the light. Is she sick? Is she just scared? I try to talk but my tongue
feels too big for my mouth.

I
feel like we’re staring at each other forever, but it can only be a few
seconds. I can’t see where the dirt stops and her body begins. Her flesh is
mottled, her face hollowed out, eyes and cheeks sunken. And now I can see that
she’s hardly wearing anything, just a pair of brown-stained knickers. I clear
my throat and try to speak to her.

‘Are
you okay...? I live just around the corner. Are you on your own here or...?’

She
doesn’t talk, but her actions immediately answer all my questions.

Her
head jerks back twice, like she’s choking on something, struggling to swallow
it down. Then her chin twitches, her face in spasm, turned round so she’s
looking at me sideways. And then she starts to run, a sudden burst of frantic
speed, legs pounding, arms flapping uselessly at her sides, brown drool spewing
from her open mouth. I know she’s beyond hope and that I should run but my legs
are like lead and I can’t move. She comes at me making a godawful moaning
sound: a dry half-choke, half-scream and I know what I have to do, but I don’t
know if I can. I’ve tried to prepare myself for this moment, but I’m not ready...

I
shove the head of the axe between her breasts, pushing her away, because even
though I know what she is now and how dangerous this is, I don’t know if I can
do it.

She
trips, legs folding in on themselves, and now she’s on her backside in the
middle of the road. But before I can react, she’s at me again, lunging forward,
and whether she has control of her movements or not, I know she’s not going to
stop until she’s infected me. The woman lets out a sound that’s like a sad sob,
a low, sorrowful moan, and I don’t know if it’s the disease making the noise or
her? Does she remember? Is she still alive in there, a prisoner of the
infection?

I
push her away with the end of the axe again, and in the few seconds of space, I
make myself think what would happen if I was infected. I know I’d end up back
at the house: either I’d walk home or they’d come out looking. Whatever, the
end result would be the same. I picture Gabby and the kids like this woman, and
my nervous fear evaporates. I keep telling myself,
I have to do this.

This
time when she comes at me, I’m ready.

I
swing the axe around in a wide arc, the weight of the weapon increasing the
force, and I gag with disgust when it sinks into the small of her back, clacking
against her spinal cord. The dead-weight when she falls almost pulls me over
with her, and it’s all I can do to keep my balance and stay upright as I wrench
the head of the axe out. And still she keeps coming, arms outstretched, fingers
digging in the dirt to try and pull herself along as I move further away.