`Shh...' Elizabeth scowled. `Leave him alone. He's obviously got problems.'
`We've all got problems,' he sighed.
`Lovely place,' Doreen agreed. `Just think of all the famous people who must have stayed here. Royalty? Film stars?'
`Why?' Paul Jones grunted.
Doreen looked puzzled. How could he not be excited by the prospect of sleeping in a hotel room that might have been used by millionaires and mega-stars?
`Imagine who's sat round this table...' she continued.
`Why?' he interrupted again. `Why waste your time thinking about people like that? People like that who could afford to stay here had too much money and not enough sense. You shouldn't look up to them. The only difference between you and them was the size of their wallets compared to yours.'
`It was more than that,' Elizabeth protested. `It's about glamour and watching them do the things that you always dreamed about and...'
`So did you two read all the celebrity gossip and buy all the glossy magazines that were...?'
`Absolutely,' Doreen said quickly.
`And I bet you used to watch soap operas and reality TV shows and...'
`Never missed my soaps,' she told him with something approximating pride in her voice.
`Pathetic,' Jones snapped. `Bloody pathetic. It's got nothing to do with glamour or anything like that. I bet you used to swallow all that crap because your own lives were pointless and empty.'
`Thanks a lot,' Elizabeth said angrily. `Let us know when it's our turn to tear you to pieces.'
`Where are all your celebrities now?' he asked.
`Dead, probably,' Wilcox interjected. `Face down in the fucking gutter.'
`You know what I think?' Jones continued, even though he knew they didn't care what he thought. `I think that if by some strange twist of fate one of your precious celebrities had survived and was sat here now instead of one of us, you'd still be treating them like some kind of fucking god.'
`As long as it was you they were here instead of, I wouldn't care,' Elizabeth spat. `Sometimes you're so far up your own backside that...'
`I've got more food than this,' Bushell explained as he appeared from the kitchen, interrupting the conversation to the relief of the others. `I'm trying to make it last as long as possible. I'm trying to avoid going outside.' `I'd be trying to avoid going outside if I looked like that,' Wilcox smirked.
`Leave it, Nick,' sighed Proctor. `What's the matter with you lot? We've lost our transport and poor old Ted and...'
`Honestly,' Wilcox laughed, not listening to a word Proctor had been saying, `we wait all this time to find someone else alive, and when we find them it turns out to be a fucking faggot!'
The other survivors cringed with the sudden awkwardness of the situation. Proctor didn't know what was making him feel more uncomfortable, Wilcox's provocation or the fact that their host was wearing full drag. At six feet tall (almost six foot two in heels) Bushell cut an imposing figure. Strangely confident and unruffled, he sat down opposite Wilcox, opened a can of beer and passed another one across the table towards his aggressor.
`Look,' he began, his voice surprisingly calm and assured, `I'm not surprised you've got a problem with what I'm wearing. Fact is I like it and I'm not going to change. I don't know why, but dressing like this is helping me to come to terms with the fact that all my friends and family and probably everyone else I've ever known is dead. I'm not gay and I'm not a fucking faggot as you put it, I'm just a normal bloke who's decided to try wearing dresses for a while, okay?'
The wind had been taken out of Wilcox's sails by Bushell's brutal honesty.
`Okay,' he mumbled humbly as he reached for his beer.
`Anyway, It doesn't matter what any of us is wearing, does it?' Bushell continued. `It's not going to make any difference. Same as the colour of our hair won't make any difference either, or whether we're right or left handed. Fact is we're all stuck in this mess together and we'll need to work with each other to get ourselves sorted. Now then,' he said, his voice suddenly louder and more confident, `who have we got here and what the hell are we going to do now that you've made a fucking big hole in the front of my hotel?'
Dragging introductions and pointless, meandering hypothecations about what had happened to the world took the group through the last few hours of day seven and well into day eight. Spirits were temporarily high � Bushell had the company he'd craved and the others suddenly found themselves in a safer and much more stable and comfortable environment than that which they had become used to.
Proctor pulled up a chair and sat in front of the widest window in the suite for hours watching the night melt away and be overtaken by the first light of day. As the sun began to climb more and more of the shattered world was revealed. Whilst they had been down at street level it had been difficult to fully appreciate the enormity of what had happened to the landscape through which they'd travelled. From twenty-eight floors up, however, the catastrophic damage and devastation was clear.
`You okay?' Elizabeth asked. Her voice surprised him and distracted him from a particularly dark train of thought.
`I'm fine,' he replied, managing half a smile, `you?' She nodded but said nothing. `I was just looking out there,' he continued. `Look at it. The whole bloody world's in ruins.'
Elizabeth took a few steps closer to the window and leant against it. He was right. For as far as she could see the world looked dead and was drained of all colour and life. Apart from the bodies in the streets nothing moved. From this height they could see for endless miles into the distance. The sheer scale of what had happened around them was humbling and soul-destroying.
`Much happening?' Nick Wilcox asked as he joined them. He'd been sat on his own but he preferred the company of others. Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder at him but didn't bother to answer.
`Not a lot,' Proctor replied. `No surprise really.'
`I wouldn't be too sure,' Elizabeth said, her face still pressed hard against the glass. She'd diverted her attention away from the horizon to the more immediate area around the base of the hotel building. `Have you seen what we've done?'
Concerned, Wilcox peered down. The largest crowd of bodies that either of them had yet seen had gathered around the entrance to the building and were pushing their way inside through the huge hole the survivors had made with the bus last night.
`Bloody hell,' he cursed under his breath.
Proctor stood up and joined them. The sight of the massive gathering below them made his legs weaken with nerves. His mouth suddenly dry he swallowed hard and looked around for Bushell.
`Barry,' he shouted. Bushell appeared from the master bedroom and walked over to where the others were stood.
`What's the problem?' he asked anxiously. Proctor nodded down and Bushell looked towards the ground. `Christ almighty,' he sighed.
`They can't get up here, can they?' Wilcox wondered timidly, concerned that he really was to blame for this unsettling new development. He looked over towards Bushell for an answer. Bushell shrugged his shoulders.
`Don't know. Can't see why not. If enough of them keep pushing forward from behind, my guess is they'll start climbing eventually.'
`But they won't get up here, will they?'
Bushell shrugged his shoulders again.
`This place has one main staircase in the middle of the building,' he explained, still staring deep into the vast crowd below them. `There are a couple of fire escapes, but they're blocked off as far as I know. To be honest, I didn't look into security too deeply when I got here. There didn't seem to be any need when the place still had a front door.'
Wilcox glared at him for a moment.