3

Our survivors follow a truly human trait.

3

 

“Signed myself out today,

Sent a letter far away,

Said baby, I’ll be good some day,

Gonna try again tomorrow

Gonna try again tomorrow.”

 

Willy Mason �" We Can Be Strong

 

The evening had rolled on before they had found more words to say to each other.

 

Paul had hardly felt the passage of time, so cluttered and panicked was his mind. He realised it suddenly, when his eyes caught the thin strip of late light pouring in from a long crack in the heavy wooden door between the shelter and the war. He had noticed it hours before as he entered, but when he looked down at it now, it seemed dimmer and smaller. Changing shape with the path of the moody sun, the crack now drew an insidious line, seeming to split the room into two, her half and his.

 

Once he had recalled possessing his watch, he checked it, seeing that they were indeed on the cusp of night.

 

His eyes slowly drew back up, along the floor to the slit of light between them. Thoughts swirled, and Paul knew that it represented more than a divider, more than a rudimentary clock.

 

There had been a first blast, destroying the corner of the building and collapsing its entrails into this cave below, but it was not a nuke. For one thing a nuke would have either torn the whole building down or left it standing, and not just breached one corner. For another, Paul had picked his route with as much though as the frenzied mind of a man running for his life can muster. As he ran from his home, he headed for the hills to the East. From that high peak, he took a swift survey of the lands beneath him. He saw three mushroom clouds to the West, one close enough to take out the centre of Manchester, one to the north in the direction of Bolton, and the third far in the distance, presumably Liverpool. He chose to run further east, deep into the Pennines precisely because he saw nothing in this direction, and because that made sense. Little of importance or high population lay in these valleys, until one reached the coast on the far side.

 

The gap in the door was a bad sign, because if this area was nuked, or was close enough to a nuke, then the poisonous air would reach both Paul and his partner in shame.

 

What Paul failed to consider is that “poisonous” is an objective term. Alcohol is poisonous, as are many chemicals still found in “analogue” cigarettes. The air outside was already toxic, and it was already affecting both himself and Alison. It was merely taking it’s time, wrapped away from view under layers of shock, fear and exhaustion.

 

His glance caught a sudden movement in his periphery, and he saw that �" despite shuddering and shaking, she allowed herself no blanket or cover.

 

Having spent several hours slowly sliding down the wall, Paul pushed himself back to upright with the palms of his hands, and spoke again.

“Could I have some more water please?”

 

It took her several seconds to compute the phrase and answer it. Her mind was fully somewhere else.

 

“Sure.”

 

She blinked her eyes a few times, and hopped to her feet. Stepping lightly over to her backpack beneath the poker table, she unzipped it and reached within. She brought the water to him this time, crossing the line of light, and breaking its spell for the first time.

 

“There’s wine through there.”

 

He followed the line from her hand until it met something he hadn’t seen yet; behind a dark musty curtain stood a small wooden door.

 

His eyes drifted back along her fingers, past her hand to the pale, shiny lines running sideway across her wrist and down her arm. He recognised what he was seeing instantly. He had had a friend with the same problem, many years ago.

 

He had seen the lines the day they were made, red and livid, revealing the meat within. He had seen them over the next few days, and as he stayed with the friend they transformed to a bluish-purple and made the skin around each line look tight and pucker. He had seen them months later, as Alison’s marks looked now.

 

His soul slipped one more step with the thought of another loved one he would never see or speak to again. This one, Marcus lived in the centre of London, south of the river close to Brixton, last Paul had heard. As such, he was almost certainly in the first few waves of Britons to be annihilated.

 

As his mind wandered, he found himself considering how many of his former classmates, friends and colleagues had survived as long as he had. Coming from Greater Manchester meant that many friends had since migrated to that city, for a better job, or for their partners, or simply for the superior entertainment and nightlife. None of these demands had crossed Paul’s mind for years.

 

His town, Stockport had been levelled four or five hours after he had made his escape. He had felt the blast shake the ground below, but he hadn’t dared to look. He had kept his head down and ran. However, on an emotional, spiritual, supernatural or psychic level he knew that his town was gone, together with every living soul within it. Pick whichever explanation supports your current philosophy, and entertain the illusion that it is of any importance.

 

He doubted many �" if any �" had run from everything who and which they had loved, as he had.

 

In that moment, he knew what he was. It whispered to him, in a voice beyond normal hearing.

 

“Coward.”

 

He bolted for the booze, hoping to drown out the word settling into his skull now, to remain for all his days to come. The door was locked, and turning he pleaded pitifully to a stunned Alison with tears gathering in his eyes.

 

She stood up and handed him they key. Grabbing a few bottles of miraculously unbroken vintage wines each and returned them to their places.

 

Locking the new door, he ripped down the two curtains and shook the dust from them. He handed one to her, wrapping the other around his shoulders like a cloak as he limped back over.

 

Sitting, he opened out the attachment on his Swiss Army Knife and uncorked the first bottle. He slid the tool across the floor to her and downed almost half the bottle in one glugging breath before he spoke to her again, his dark eyes glazed with satisfaction and relief.

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

Alison stared blankly at him; having expected a more gruesome or simply more relevant question.

 

“Two days.”