The Brink (17 page)

“Okay, change of plan. We’ll risk it together.” Tim leapt to his feet and grinned.

“I’ll be really quiet!” he cried. “I promise.”

“You’ll have to be,” instructed Alan. “This is really dangerous. If there are bad people there then we don’t want them to know where we are, do we?”

“No! Never!”

“Okay, we’ll walk down this road here,” he said, pointing. “Then climb higher up onto that hill and see if one of the houses has windows we can look out of. Okay?”

“Okay!”

They set off, following a small road lined with parked cars that would never set off again, never be taken on the school run, never see another garage for a service or a sea-side holiday. Their windows were all frosted up as if given a liberal amount of silver spray-snow and made to look like Christmas baubles of reds and greens and blues. They were all undisturbed and by now their solar cells would be dry and irreparable, nothing more than scrapyard parts and fit only for decoration to break up the monotonous tarmac roads.

At the top of the hill was a housing estate that overlooked the town below and there couldn’t have been more than 20 buildings, arranged in three cul-de-sacs that branched off from the main road that led up the rise and which were coated in a thick layer of dust from the storm. Most of the windows had been smashed and a great number of roofs had caved in, yet only a few hundred feet further down the road the storm seemed to have missed everything, leaving it all untouched.

“This one should do,” said Alan as he gazed at the skeletal dwellings. “I can’t see beyond it because of the fence.”

The door to number 4 was hanging off its hinges so entry was easy enough, though the floor creaked and groaned beneath their feet as they trod a path through the carpet of red dust that littered the hallway. Alan took the steps to the next floor, avoiding the dirty banister rail and catching a glimpse of the empty rooms which yawned open with the draft from a hole in the roof, showing the damage caused by the elements.

In a back room, bare but for a metal bed frame stripped of its bedding, there was a shattered, double glazed window that still had large jagged slabs of glass poking out from it. From here he could see the tops of the buildings that made up the small town in the valley below and which stretched away to the north to where an industrial block, dotted here and there with tall chimney stacks and pre-fab roofing, was planted near the motorway.

Alan scanned the area, looking for any signs that people were down there and what he might expect to find if he approached them. He didn’t think he’d see anything substantial from this far away, but camp fires or activated machinery would tell him something by their smoke or lights.

“Can you see anyone?” asked Tim, standing next to him in the window and squinting out upon the town with his goggles raised. “I can’t see anything.”

Alan looked this way and that, spotting a tiny little stream of something rising up from the east near a church spire.

“There,” he said, pointing for Tim to follow. After a few seconds he saw it and grinned.

“People!” he said.

“Well, the smoke of someone’s camp fire I think.”

“Can we go and meet them?” asked Tim, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Not yet,” he said. “We’ll sit in here until it goes dark and see what else happens. Then I’ll think about what to do in the morning.”

“They might leave though and we’ll never find them again!” he cried.

“We’re going to have to take that risk,” he said, clearing a patch of dust so that he could sit down. “We can’t go running in there without being sure first. They could be bad people and we don’t want to try and make friends with them, do we?”

“No,” he whimpered. “I guess not.”

“Let’s take a look around these houses and see if there’s anything left for us to use.”

With renewed excitement, Tim grinned and, leading Moll back down the stairs, started to leave to go in search of treasure.

“Tim!” called Alan.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. Only bring back useful things, okay? Food, water, that kind of thing.”

“I will!”

As the two of them ran off across the cul-de-sac, Alan took a more methodical approach to number 4 and searched each room in turn, moving the dusty furniture and opening every cupboard and drawer until he was convinced that there were no secrets to be found, no missed caches of food or lost items, overlooked by the scavengers and waiting to be found by him. It was clear though that this house, and perhaps all the others, hadn’t been abandoned but in fact evacuated either during or after the eclipse. The lack of bedding, the lack of any kind of family mementos and trinkets, the empty cupboards and drawers weren’t just signs of scavengers but also clear indications that the house had been systematically emptied prior to closing the door and any subsequent searches had turned up nothing.

It didn’t stop him looking though and, moving on to number 6, he repeated the process until he came across a note pinned to a cellar door and written on faded yellow paper torn from a notepad. The handwriting was feminine and the message read:

Alan read the note over again and copied the text and the names into his notepad, leaving the letter where it was for anyone else to find. Then, pulling his scarf over his mouth, he stepped back and raised his foot, kicking the door as hard as he could. It gave on the third blow, splintering the feeble wood and shattering the lock. In moments he found what it was they hadn’t wanted him to find, stacked up against a wall in nice, orderly rows.

There were boxes and boxes of military ration packs, bottles of water, alcohol stoves and all kinds of long-life food stuffs like dried milk, instant coffee, instant tea and a variety of tools and emergency equipment. It was a cache unlike any he’d ever seen since leaving Teague’s camp and the Dickinson’s must have planned to return to the house once the disaster was over, hoping that the note would put off the more respectable breed of scavenger. There were no parental remains to be found either and as he continued his search he turned up jewellery, clothing and shoes, all vacuum packed in sealed plastic bags and stacked, like the cache, ready for their owners to return at any moment.

The evening crept out from behind the horizon wearing the dusty disguise it’d been using since the storm and Alan, Tim and Moll sat in the bedroom overlooking the town feasting like Kings. There were lemon sponge puddings, freshly boiled coffee, pork and beans in tomato sauce and various chocolate biscuits arranged on a little table in devastated piles of crumbs and empty wrappers.

Although Alan had found food and water, Tim on the other hand had brought back armfuls of toy cars which he was, at that moment, arranging in neat rows according to colour, shape and size and making subdued engine noises as each one was hand-driven to its designated spot.

Alan watched him whilst he fed lumps of dried sausage to Moll or opened the empty packets with his knife so that she could lick the remains from within. He lay with his back against the wall, staring out through the window at the lifeless town below, savouring every sip of his beloved coffee and chewing thoughtfully on the slices of sausage and chutney that he’d stacked on a cracker.

Somewhere in that town, he thought, there were either friends or enemies camped there and he had to know which if they were to pass through it the next day. But he couldn’t find out with Tim at risk next to him. He looked at the boy and thought it over some more before speaking to him.

“Get some rest,” he told him as a stifled yawn stopped a miniature green Land Rover in its tracks. “I’ll keep an eye on the window.”

“Okay Alan Harding,” he replied. Then, looking at the neat lines of vehicles, he said, “Can I keep them?”

“Of course you can.”

“Is it stealing though?”

“I don’t think the little boy who they belong to is coming back. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you keeping them.”

“Do you think so?”

“It’s better for you to have them than to just leave them there. Go on, get to bed.”

With that, Tim curled up in his blanket which he’d laid in one corner of the room and began to drift off. Moll was sat near him and after an hour had passed, Alan stood, put on his coat and pack, and made for the door.

“Stay there, Moll and keep an eye on him,” he whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

11

Outside the darkness enveloped him like a mist, smothering his sight until his eyes adjusted to it, showing faint outlines of familiar things and when he felt comfortable enough to navigate his way back down the road into the town, he set off.

At first he walked slowly, not wanting to trip but also to avoid making any noise that would carry for miles in the night. Without the old racket of the darkness, the only thing that could be heard was the low moan of the wind as it worked its way between the buildings and the trees, whistling at times, and then groaning with effort at others.

As he went along he realised that he’d left his pole behind but laughed at himself for thinking it would do him much good against a group of armed scavengers. No sooner had he thought it than he felt his nerve weaken. The last thing he wanted to find in the town was a settlement of them and he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do if they were. Could the three of them run without being seen? What would happen if they had cars and chased them? Tim would be taken and the images this conjured in his mind terrified him.

He carried on, feeling a little more nervous as he went and he began to worry that Tim might wake and find him gone before he had chance to return. This concern worsened as he caught the faint odour of burning wood in the air, strengthening the nearer he came to the town and almost pungent as he took his first steps towards the high-street. Its source became obvious as he neared a corner and saw the faint orange glow dancing across the brickwork of the opposite wall.

There were noises now. Faint mumblings of conversation. The clanking of cutlery on plates. Coughing. Laughing.

He stopped. Pressing himself against the wall, he moved slowly to its edge and, peering around the corner, looked down the full length of the road and almost gasped. His worst fears were realised when he saw the camp, maybe 15 strong, spread out amongst the crude shelters, eating, drinking and laughing around camp fires made in empty metal bins.

The group nearest to him was made up of three men and a woman and they huddled around a roaring fire, taking turns in drinking long pulls from a vodka bottle they were passing around. The men were armed with knives and pistols and the woman appeared to be carrying some kind of rifle, though Alan didn’t recognise it in the poor light and couldn’t see much more than its outline and large telescopic sight.

They were laughing and pointing up at something in the shadows behind them, shapes that swung in the wind but from where he stood, Alan couldn’t make out what they were. He’d have to go around and, perhaps, come at it from a different alley.

He backed away from the corner and retraced his steps to a spot where a narrow path cut behind the high-street and ran parallel to it, skirting the shadows of the church with its spire and disappearing into darkness behind a number of shops. There were bins along one side and it took some careful feeling around in the dark to get past them without making a noise. He emerged on the far side, midway into the camp and better able to see what exactly was happening. Here the glow from the fires was strongest and he was able to look up at the shapes swinging in plain view.

The naked, lifeless bodies dangled at the end of long ropes that were tied to the jutting roof of a bookshop, long since looted for something to burn in the scavenger’s great bins. One was a woman, horribly abused and burned in places, the other a young child about half her size, disfigured beyond recognition by cuts and amputations done with jagged instruments.

Alan didn’t see the face of the woman but saw Tim instead, swinging there with a fixed expression of horror and fear, wondering where his friend Alan Harding was and why he’d broken his promise. It could’ve floored him there and then, broken his spirit and left him a wreck, if it hadn’t been for the rage that came rushing up into his throat, burning his insides; that old friend that turned a weak man into an engine of terror and destruction if left to do its horrible work.

He stared out into the camp and looked at each face in turn, burning them into his mind, watching them move without a care as the dead swung, looking on, pleading for some kind of justice in a world devoid of it.

The fires died as he waited. The scavengers began to break away, back to their shelters either with a bottle or a woman or both. Darkness crept back in, retaking its rightful place in the street. The last fire spluttered and died. Time passed. Alan waited.

He’d seen the great blade, a machete perhaps, left on top of a crate near a fire bin and its blooded edge seemed to stare at him almost as intently as he stared at the scavengers. It was calling to him in its own way, urging him on as the flames flickered across the glistening line of blood that trickled from the metal lip without a tongue to wipe it away.

Then, as the night finally grasped the high-street in its cold fingertips, Alan entered the camp.

Tim woke the following morning with a jolt. The weak daylight fell upon his neat rows of toy cars and failed to make them sparkle, but to him this didn’t diminish their value in the slightest. He gazed out from under his blankets at them, smiling, perhaps remembering that they were his now and, with the tractor, made up the little fragments of home he carried in his own pack.

He reached out to touch them, to make sure they were real and not just a dream. They were real alright. He held up the bright red sports car, his favourite, and turned it in his hands, trying to catch even a little bit of light on its imitation chrome bumpers.

“Good morning,” said Alan from the other side of the room. Tim looked at him and the grin widened.

“Hi!” he replied.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“I think I did,” he said, throwing off the blankets and sitting down in front of his cars again.

Alan took the boiling pan of water off the little stove and filled two cups from it - one of coffee, one of chocolate. He stirred both with a spoon and passed one to Tim who didn’t seem to notice what it was until he held it to his lips.

“Have you cut yourself?” he asked as Alan withdrew his hand. There was still blood on his palm from a bite there and the impressions of a man’s teeth had been made in the fleshy part of his thumb.

“A little but it’s nothing. Do you want some breakfast?”

Tim grinned. He didn’t want any but Alan had explained all about energy and food and so he nodded, remembering that Alan knew best. He was given a plate of hot porridge and so he made a good attempt at finishing the entire lot.

“The town’s empty,” said Alan. “I’ve not seen anything all night and the smoke never came back. I did hear some dogs barking so I don’t think we should go down there really. Maybe we could go around and see if there’s anyone in the next town?”

“Are you sure?” said Tim.

“Yeah. I don’t want Moll meeting any unfriendly dogs.”

“I didn’t think about that. You’re right.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet some people soon, Tim. Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I have my new cars and now we’ve got lots of food too.”

“Are you going to carry some in your pack?”

“Can I carry the puddings?”

Alan smiled and nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

They walked on for a few more days, passing empty villages and stopping wherever they could in empty homes on empty streets but with full stomachs. Alan kept the mileage down to a minimum but after a while even Tim’s usual cheery mood diminished as the routine of sleep, eat and walk got the better of him.

It soon became clear, as Alan considered that summer was coming to an end, that the winter would either make or break them. The weather was growing colder and on most mornings there was a thick layer of frost to be found on every surface that never seemed to thaw. The days were growing darker too. Even at midday the light was no brighter than a summer evening and the prolonged mornings seemed endless unless he checked the time on his watch.

Without voicing his concerns to Tim, he knew that they had to find some kind of settlement before the winter set in or they’d have to think about finding somewhere they could live until spring. Perhaps alone he could have continued walking without any ill effects, but Tim wouldn’t be able to survive the temperatures Alan predicted were yet to come.

His mind wandered back to Longsteel and so he wasn’t surprised to find himself altering their direction more to the south than he’d planned. At least he could consider that to be his last resort if they turned their steps in that direction, eventually coming back on themselves in time to be there before the harsh winter arrived. They could hold up in the warm facility with its food supplies and fresh water until spring and then decide what to do after that.

So on they walked, passing through the world like wraiths as icy fingers began to wrap themselves around the country and wore the ever increasing night like a shroud. Alan felt little in the way of fatigue but he was aware that Tim had turned pale over the last few days and had lost some of his cheery disposition, often sitting at night in silence without his toys, staring at the fire until sleep got the better of him, dozing fitfully and waking with a shock, looking for him with horror, thinking he was alone again.

On one such night, as they sat beside their usual fire in the garage of a country house they’d found, Tim laid down in his blankets without touching the food he’d made for him.

“It’s lemon sponge, Tim, it’s your favourite,” he said.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied, staring at the flames. “My tummy hurts.”

“You’ve got to eat, pal. You need your strength.”

“Why is it hurting? Why am I sick?” he asked.

“I think it’s the dust,” said Alan in a hoarse voice. “It makes people ill.”

“It hasn’t made you ill.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“So why am I ill? Have I done something wrong? I did all the things you told me to do, I promise I did.”

“I know you did, Tim. It’s not your fault.”

“Am I going to go to sleep like Martha and Rachel did?”

Alan stifled the involuntary sob that almost escaped his lips and looked down at the floor, avoiding those pleading eyes staring right back at him.

“I... don’t know...” he stammered. “We’ll stay here for a while, Tim. We’ll make our home here for the winter. It’s a nice place, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” came the weak reply.

“Do you want me to get your cars out of your pack?” he asked. Tim nodded. Alan started to do so, gathering them in a pile near his head until he’d collected them all. Then he began arranging them in the same neat lines Tim had done so many days before he began to get ill. When he made a mistake, a feeble hand would stir under the blankets and with trembling fingertips, move the vehicle to its correct spot.

Alan continued to work under his watchful gaze, rolling the little toys as if they were driven by unseen people, even making poor engine noises under his breath as one by one they drove into position in Tim’s orderly lines, stopping only to add wood to the fire bucket whenever it threatened to go out.

When one arrangement was complete, Tim would mumble another and Alan would start again, slowly back and forth, moving the toys here and there until finally the little boy closed his eyes and began to snore.

The pain he felt was beyond anything he’d experienced before. He sat there next to him and wept uncontrollably as the feeling of complete helplessness and loneliness devoured him. The boy was going to die. He knew it. There was nothing he could do to stop it and any hope of making it through the winter would die with him.

He’d buried the others but this was different. It’d been his last chance to dare to hope that mankind could survive this and here it was, wrapped in blankets, about to die, murdered by itself
. A child, helpless and filled with sorrow, wondering what he’d done wrong.

All he could do was watch. He kept the fire going that night and when their little pile of sticks was gone he forced himself to go in search of more. Each time he returned with armfuls of wood he would run to Tim and check his breathing, terrified that the day would come when there’d be nothing to find there and what would happen then?

Moll hadn’t moved from Tim’s side, even when Alan had gone to find fuel to make the fire bigger and thus warm the garage better. The poor animal knew that she was losing her friend too. What would happen to Moll on that day, he wondered.

Alan ate and drank nothing throughout the days that followed. Often he would pour a little of the water into a cup and try to spoon some of into Tim’s mouth, moistening his lips and managing to get some into his stomach. He’d groan and whimper but never open his eyes, sometimes pawing at the spoon to make it go away. Alan would retreat on these occasions, backing off to his corner and waiting until a better time presented itself.

Each day the vigil continued. Alan only moved from his place in the corner to gather more wood and add to the stockpile he’d made on the far side of the garage. Then he’d rush back and drop to his hands and knees to see if he was still alive before settling down again, watching all day and all night as the fire roared on.

When the snow came, he watched the great flakes fall from one of the upper rooms where he sometimes went to look out on the hills and small buildings just west of them. It fell thick and heavy and laid a beautiful white carpet down outside their door, covering the driveway until it was at least two feet deep, maybe more. He was glad he’d stocked up on firewood and even found some books in the attic of the house, piling both up in the garage along with a few chairs and a small stool which Alan used as a bedside table.