Joel awoke in darkness, gasping and breathing hard. A second of confusion as to where he was. He rubbed his eyes, and then pulled his jacket up to his chin. The cold air embraced him. He felt like crying. He felt weak. He pulled out his crucifix, enclosed his right hand around it and closed his eyes.
Are you listening? Are you out there? Have you abandoned us?
Abandoned. Such a terrible word.
He opened his eyes, pocketed the crucifix. He inhaled a deep breath.
The others were sleeping. Ralph was snoring.
The stars were visible through a parting in the clouds. He stared at them for a long time. He fell into a trance-like state, his mind untroubled for a while, until the clouds closed and the stars went away again. He thought of Anya. In the light of his dying mobile phone he opened his wallet and took out the photo of them together, taken on a holiday in Norway. The freezing North. Cold enough to burrow into your skin and snap your bones. Mountains, waterfalls and ice. A land so beautiful it moved you to tears and stirred something wonderful in your soul.
He fell asleep with the photo in his hand.
Was it a dream or a memory? Or the memory of a dream?
Magnus was in the upstairs hallway of his house, outside Debbie’s bedroom. He usually slept in the spare room because she took up so much space, wheezing through her blubbery mouth and wriggling in her sleep.
He was holding a tray of food. A bowl of tomato soup, Debbie’s favourite. Four slices of buttered bread. A cup of sugary tea.
He could hear the boys playing downstairs. The thud and crash of the two brothers wrestling drifted up to him. Banging footsteps across the living room and out into the kitchen. One of the boys was crying. Adam, probably; he was smaller and weaker than Grant.
Glass smashed. Grant shouted. Adam was still crying.
Magnus shook his head. A vague depression settled upon him. The house smelled of dust, neglect, and Chinese takeaways rotting in a bin. A dirty carpet beneath his feet.
He looked down at the tomato soup and considered spitting into it, and then considered ejaculating into it. Cream of tomato. He wanted to throw the tray against the wall and scream. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be free again. The bond to his family was like a fraying rope gradually unravelling.
“Magnus, are you out there? I’m hungry.”
His body sagged, the air rushing out of him like he was a punctured balloon. He dug his fingers into the plastic tray, fought the urge to walk downstairs and out of the house.
Never come back.
“Yes, dear. I’m coming.”
Balancing the tray on one arm, he opened the door. The smell that greeted him made his eyes water. The curtains were drawn against the sunny morning. The only light in here was the lamp on the nightstand. Its glow was yellow and dirty. Old wallpaper was peeling off at the corners.
Debbie was on the bed, an obese mass beneath a stained duvet. A pallid moronic face, and bovine eyes, dull and glazed. Crumbs in one corner of her mouth. Knotted, greasy hair.
“Here you go, dear,” Magnus said.
Her eyes tracked him from the door to the bedside.
“I’ve got your favourite, dear.”
Debbie sniffed the air, glared at the tray. “I don’t like tomato soup.”
“But it’s your favourite.”
“Used to be. I like chicken soup now.”
Magnus made a rigid smile and wanted to tear off her face.
“Take it away. I don’t want it. I want chicken soup.”
Magnus said nothing. He was imagining making her eat his shit.
Her face bloomed pink. Her eyes shined. “I’m in the mood, Magnus.”
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He put down the tray.
“Undress,” she said.
He took off his clothes and then climbed into bed as she pushed aside the duvet. She parted herself to him and she was clammy, moist and stinking. A shellfish opening its gummy cleft. A smell of hot dogs in brine and pickled vegetables. Her large hands guided him into her. He wasn’t fully hard. She moaned and writhed, buckling underneath him. She was cold inside.
He took hold of her upper arms and thrust his hips forwards. She raised her hands to her sagging breasts and pinched her nipples. She yelped like a newborn crawling from a broken egg. Magnus pushed again. She pulled him towards her, to kiss her mouth, and her breath was like rot.
Their mouths joined. She moaned and cried beneath him.
Her body began to envelop him. She covered him in pale blubbery flesh until Magnus was a part of her.
He screamed once before he was absorbed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Ralph lit a cigarette and watched grey light seep into the sky. He’d stolen the cigarette and the lighter from Magnus. He took a drag, sucked the smoke into his lungs and was grateful for it. He’d given up smoking last year, but now seemed as good a time as any to restart his habit.
He breathed out, listening to the birdsong. Maybe they’d be home by the end of the day. It was possible, although he was inclined not to hope; it wasn’t in his nature.
The others were up, too; hands buried in pockets against the chill of the early morning air, their plumes of breath like smoke. They were tired, grey and sullen.
The fields were wreathed in mist. Earlier, when he’d been pissing onto a grass bank, Ralph had seen a family of deer moving silently amongst the white shrouds; ethereal shapes. Nature reminding him that it was still here. He had watched the deer until they vanished into the mist, and he wished them well with a bittersweet smile.
Ralph dropped his cigarette and put it out with one foot.
The sound of engines.
Magnus and Frank were looking down the road. Joel stayed near Florence, biting his nails. Ralph walked to the car.
“What is it?” said Joel.
Ralph loaded the flare gun and pocketed the spare cartridges. “Sounds like company.”
Magnus and Frank retreated to the side of the road.
A convoy of military trucks and other vehicles – jeeps and armoured cars – rounded the corner. Ralph remembered the soldiers slaughtering the infected children. He felt cold, suddenly.
“We’re saved,” said Joel. “We’re saved, aren’t we?”
The lead truck halted; the rest of the convoy did the same. A soldier jumped down from the cab of the first vehicle and approached them.
There were refugees in the backs of the trucks.
The soldier was talking to Frank and Magnus. Ralph watched. After they had finished talking, Magnus jogged back to the car.
“What’s happening?” asked Joel.
Magnus smiled. “They’re taking us to Salisbury. They’re going to help us get home.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Salisbury was a battleground. Smoke and fire. Smashed buildings. Roads clustered with wrecked cars and detritus. Piles of bodies at the roadsides. Streets of abandonment; of those things left behind. There were suitcases and plastic bags, some of which had spilled their contents, left by the roadside. Sporadic gunfire echoed around the city.
The convoy blasted through ruined streets, scraping viscera from the road with their wheels. Fighter jets screamed overhead. The concussion of artillery shells from outside the city made the ground tremble. The refugees in the trucks huddled together, seated on the metal benches or crammed on the floor. When Ralph and the others had climbed aboard the truck, some of the refugees greeted the sight of four grown men and a little girl with suspicion. Not surprising, really. He would have done the same.
Ralph peered through the side of the truck and saw the cathedral’s spire, undamaged and resolute, reaching towards the sky. He wondered how long it would remain standing.