The Brink (18 page)

He allowed himself the pleasure of reading not only to pass the hours with but also as a sort of medication to the illness he’d contracted himself - a deep melancholy that’d taken residence in his heart. He’d survived the physical symptoms at first but now he’d broken out in irrational thoughts, low thinking and general bouts of depression. Knowing the risks the disease carried, he made it his solemn duty to wake up each day, if he slept at all, and take up his book after he’d checked on Tim. It was a physic far more powerful than any medicine and he took his doses religiously as if a Doctor stood over him to make sure he swallowed it all, one page at a time.

It was only a few weeks after they’d arrived in the house that Tim began to show signs of recovery. They were slow and painful at first - having lost his hair and a lot of weight at this point, but no sooner had he begun to open his eyes than the effects were reversed. During one of his routine checks on him, Alan noticed stubble on his scalp as fresh hair began to poke up through the skin and there were even the first signs of colour returning there. When he first opened his eyes, Alan could’ve jumped for joy and he rushed over to greet him, stroking his cold cheek and soothing him with as many familiar words as he could draw upon.

Day by day, Alan nursed him from the floor to a sitting position, feeding the weak little creature a bit at a time and helping him to rediscover the joy of his toys again. During the day he’d attempt to move the little cars around, slowly at first with limp arms and weak fingers, but under his careful direction Alan would do the heavy work, lining them up in those familiar neat lines until he could take a bit of food on a spoon - a mouthful of soup or a bit of biscuit dipped in hot chocolate. Then he would sleep again, snoring softly as the hours drifted by; Alan lost in a book with one eye roaming back and forth to continue his vigil, all be it less intensely than before.

By the time the winter had reached its peak, Tim was mobile again and able to walk around the room unaided. The boy was still quite weak, gaunt and pale but his spirits were returning and he’d begun to talk more, perhaps more so than before they’d met and between pages of his book, Tim would explain what each car meant to him.

“This shiny green one,” he said one day. “This looks like the car we used to drive.”

“Who used to drive it, Tim?” asked Alan as coolly as he could, not wanting to scare him away from telling him.

“Mummy would drive me and my brother to school.”

“Was it a nice car?” he asked. Tim nodded. “Did your brother-”

“Do we have any more biscuits?”

Alan smiled but felt frustrated. It was another tiny glimpse into his past but it was also a fleeting one.

“We need to make our food last,” he replied, taking up the page he’d marked with his thumb. “The snow is still too deep to travel on. If you’re hungry, have a drink for now. I’ll boil up some water later.”

Tim resumed his play, driving the little green car up and down a ramp he’d built from Alan’s books and into a garage made from intricately fashioned sticks. He hummed a tune as he did so, sometimes saying words to himself, sometimes lapsing into concentrated silence.

The days went by and Tim’s recovery seemed to increase with the light of day. By now Alan had taken to sitting up on the top floor of the house, staring out of the window for an hour or so and watching the day unfold before him, sometimes making a coffee to drink whilst he read his book. He’d begun to notice the sky brightening, the days growing longer again and he even thought a patch of blue had broken through the dust and smog once. Sometimes, if he was feeling strong enough, Tim would join him, bringing his cars with him to roll around the new wood-panelled highway at his feet, looking out of the window too.

“There’s so much snow,” he said once, gazing out across the white fields with the gaunt trees poking up through the soft blanket.

“At least as high as me,” said Alan. “We’d have a hard time walking in that.”

“Do we have to go?” he asked. “I love it here. It’s our home.”

“I know it is, Tim. But our food won’t last much longer. I’m hoping the snow melts a little so we can at least go looking for more.”

“Can we stay if we find some?”

Alan shrugged. “We’ll see what happens, okay?”

“Okay.”

Alan watched him a little longer, admiring the amount of new hair on his head and grateful that right there and then he was alive and happy. He didn’t want to think about what might’ve happened had things turned out differently. There was already so much death, so much sorrow that he wasn’t sure he could’ve handled any more.

12

A week or so later, with only a handful of rations left, they heard the first drops of rain hitting the window pane and Alan felt like cheering. It was a sudden rush of emotion, a feeling that perhaps life was working itself out in his favour and as the clouds emptied themselves, washing away the snow, he felt that his face might split from the smile upon it.

“Oh,” moaned Tim. “It’s raining. The rain isn’t as pretty as the snow.”

“It is today. It means we can get more food and water, maybe even see if there’s anyone else around here.”

“Do you think there might be?” he asked.

“Anything’s possible, lad. Maybe even someone who likes cars as much as you do.”

His face lit up with the thought. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll make sure my cars are packed extra carefully then.”

“Good idea.”

They began to pack that day. Tim had returned to his old self and Alan felt that the time was right to move on, not only to find more food and water, but hopefully to discover some settlement or group of survivors, anyone who might have lived through the storm. Tim was proof that it was possible and even, to some small degree, the scavengers he’d encountered all testified that there was a good chance of finding more people alive.

The following day, when the rain stopped and the snow had been reduced to a dirty grey sludge, they left the house that’d been their home for what felt like an age and, setting a course south, stepped onto the road and were travelling again.

For Alan, it felt good to be walking and after 20 minutes or so he shook off the cold and settled into his usual pace with Tim at his side, whistling as he went. The days were still cloudy, still overcast with the dark, brooding canopy that moved slowly above them, but nothing could dampen his spirits now and it felt to him like he’d passed through the worst of it, that maybe he could face whatever was next and be confident he had it in him to conquer it, whatever it might be.

From leaving Longsteel, Alan had doubted himself. In spite of his longevity, his ability to cope in that dangerous new world born out of the disaster had still been in question right up until Tim had fallen ill. Now, he realised, although life might come hard at him again, he had no reason to believe he couldn’t face it or grow in and through it. He had a confidence that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t arrogance as such, but just a cool, calm belief that no matter how bad it got, he could find a way through to the other side.

There seemed to be a change in Tim also. It was as if the boy had lost some of that childish fear that had once shook at a broken twig or a falling building, terrified that some monster was lurking there, waiting to jump out and devour him. But now the lad walked with boldness, always looking to Alan with a shining confidence that his tall, hairy guardian would protect him and not just that - show him how he could do the same, how he could hope to have some of that rare talent bestowed upon him too if he were willing to learn.

So onwards they marched, passing through the small towns and villages along the way which held little or no fear for them during the daylight when all could be seen in plenty of time to act. They saw nothing all day and very little the next. It was only as they reached the outskirts of a much larger town, maybe the borough of a city, for Alan didn’t know the area, that they halted, listening to something far off as the noonday sun made a feeble attempt to penetrate the murky clouds above. It was coming from the west, somewhere nearby and possibly in the same housing estate they found themselves in, one lined with bare cherry trees to offset the uniform red-brick terraced homes on either side.

“What’s that?” asked Tim.

“I don’t know,” replied Alan, stepping off the road and into a side street. “It doesn’t sound like a car or a truck.”

“Do we hide?”

“I think so. Better to wait and let them pass before we make a decision.”

So they followed the road to the left, and then ducked into a back yard that, from the gate, offered a narrow view of the main street with its bleak windows and gaping doors. The part they could see, like the rest, had been abandoned in a hurry and the solid reinforced doors didn’t even swing in the breeze but simply stood there, lifeless and exactly where they’d been when they were thrown open in haste.

“It’s getting louder,” whispered Tim, drawing closer to him and Moll.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be well hidden here. Just keep quiet and wait for them to-”

“There they are!” he hissed, pointing.

Indeed, the first of them walked into view wearing full face gas masks with round black lenses for eyes and great black hoses protruding from the mouths like some nightmarish elephants. The first one had a rifle in his gloved hands and wore a mixture of fatigue and civilian clothing, some of which didn’t really fit and hung loose at his arms. From the street they could hear the respirator sucking in air as he walked, looking in all directions, holding the weapon tightly as he went.

“I’m scared,” whispered Tim, clinging to his arm. Alan patted it and hushed him softly, watching as two more walked by, similar in appearance, and one with a blonde ponytail that reached down her back and almost touched the belt of her pistol. She was leading two small children behind her, also in masks, but colourful ones that’d been sprayed blue and yellow respectively to make them seem less terrifying. Behind them came a car but not one that Alan could recognise. It trundled along at a crawl, chugging and hissing as its engine was worked by the masked driver who was busily engaged in priming it over and over with the rusty crank in its bonnet.

“Who are they?” asked Tim.

“I don’t know but they don’t look like scavengers to me.”

“How do you know?”

“Scavengers don’t waste their time looking after the elderly or the young. Wait here, I’ll go and talk to them.”

“No!” gasped Tim, pulling him deeper into the back yard. “Don’t leave me!”

“It’s fine, Tim. Trust me.”

“I’ll come with you,” he cried a little too loud.

One of the masked figures stopped at the mouth of the street and turned to look down it. The entire train of people halted likewise and those with rifles came and took up positions nearby.

“That’s done it,” said Alan as Tim rained down apologies on him. “It’s fine. Just stay behind me, okay?”

“Yes, I will,” he replied and grabbed hold of his big coat with both hands as if he were a giant shield to crouch behind.

“COME OUT OF THERE!” called the man. Those with the rifles came a few steps closer, aiming at them as Alan stepped into view with his hands in the air and Moll at his side. At least Tim, he thought, was doing such a good job of hiding that he was safe from the first shots at any rate.

“We’re unarmed,” replied Alan. “We’re just passing through.”

“Where are you going?” said the man, indicating to the others that they should watch him closely. The woman was back but this time the children weren’t with her. She took up a position with her rifle and waited while her swishing pony tail settled back into position behind her.

“South,” said Alan. “We’re looking for survivors, maybe even a settlement or something.”

“Where did you come from?”

“The north. We were part of a camp that was wiped out when the storm came.”

“And you survived?”

“I was in a shelter there. I came out when it was safe. The others weren’t so lucky.”

“The north was hit the hardest. The rads up there are beyond any safe levels, no one could have made it out.”

“Well I did,” said Alan, feeling the heat rise inside him as he realised he was on dangerous ground.

“The air’s safe,” said someone behind him. The man nodded, turned to Alan and looked at him sideways through those black lenses that betrayed nothing.

“No one could’ve survived,” he said flatly, barely audible but to Alan. He shrugged.

“That’s the truth.”

“There’s more to this tale than you’re telling.”

“If you say so.”

He reached for his mask and, lifting it over his head, grinned.

“Long time, no see, Alan,” said the gaunt man with short chestnut hair and a neatly trimmed goatee beard.

“I don’t believe it - John Swarbrick!” he cried, throwing his arms around his old friend.

“It’s good to see you, mate. It’s been a long time,” he replied, returning the embrace with as much warmth as he could manage. “And you, Moll.”

The dog sniffed the hand he offered and wagged her tail.

“There’s another?” he asked as Tim appeared from behind Alan.

“John, this is Tim, a friend of mine and someone I found a few months ago in the ruins.”

John smiled at the boy, offering him a hand which he shook gently.

“Nice to meet you.”

Tim mumbled something and took a step back as soon as he could.

“No need to be afraid, lad. John and I go way back.”

“He looks scary,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah, I guess we all do,” he laughed. “Come, I’ll show you to the others.”

With a wave he gestured that the rifleman should stand down and they returned to the main street.

“What do you know about the storm?” asked Alan.

“We knew it was coming, that’s for sure.”

“How?”

“After you sealed the fort a handful of us went to the east coast thinking maybe we could sail across to France. When we got there, we began picking up a faint radio signal broadcasting from a weather station. We followed their directions and found a small group of survivors were living there and so we joined them. It was they who discovered the cloud and tried to warn as many people as they could. The signal just couldn’t be boosted enough to reach more though.”

“Have you ever heard of a Captain Teague?” asked Alan. John shook his head.

“No. Why? Is that where you ended up? At another settlement?”

“Kind of. Way up north, he’d gathered a group of soldiers and survivors together but they’re dead now. I think.”

“The storm?”

“Yeah. He knew it was coming and I wondered if your signal did actually reach him. He said he knew someone who knew about it, you know, the usual story.”

“Chances are our signal reached someone then. Tell you what, come back with us and we’ll discuss the whole thing over a few vodkas. How does that sound? This place isn’t the safest area to stand around in.”

“Best offer I’ve had in years.”

John began introducing him to the rest of his team who gathered around the bizarre vehicle in a state of nervous tension, perhaps because of Alan and Tim or maybe because they didn’t like the town, he didn’t know which.

They were a motley crew in all respects, made up of civilians and soldiers alike, even some MOD Police officers and an ex-Royal Marine of around 50 years of age who stood staring at Alan with a distrustful gaze. He’d also begun to notice that the faces of the survivors were starting to change. The people he met now all seemed to bear the same strange look, the sharp, penetrating glance of a person who knows that he’s living his life day-to-day, that danger was now everywhere and that relaxing was no longer an option. Gone were the chubby, lazy eyed, complacent features of the Old World and they’d been quickly replaced by the keen, nervous expressions of the warrior, the soldier and the predator.

John, seeing the interested look on Tim’s face when he saw the vehicle, invited him to step up into the cab where the driver still wrestled with the controls, even as it idled there in the street.

“Really? Can I?” asked Tim, his face lighting up with delight.

“Sure, hop on.”

Tim looked to Alan who nodded and helped him to get his feet onto the ladder before he pulled himself clumsily up. With his mouth open wide, Tim took it all in, amazed by the hissing and clicking parts that turned and cranked and opened and shut at the commands of the driver.

Now moving again, the patrol set off down the street and Alan fell in step with John, putting on the gas mask he was offered and urging Tim to do the same. In a hushed whisper, John leaned over and said,

“A stray?”

“Yeah. Long story,” he replied. “He just survived the sickness. Barely.”

“He was lucky then. He must have only got a low dose of REMS.”

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“North of Birmingham it’s very bad right up to John O’ Groats and beyond. The levels down here aren’t so bad which is odd considering the wind patterns. I’m no scientist so that’s as much as I can tell you.”

“How many in your camp?”

“Over 300 at the last count though we expect to lose a few over the next few weeks. The elderly and the very young suffered the most, of course, and we’ve had some very sad deaths this last week or so.”

“Food? Water?”

“We actually took some of your advice, Alan.”

“Really? I wouldn’t do that too often if I were you,” he laughed.

“On this occasion it was the best advice we could’ve wished for. When we found the weather station, we setup camp nearby but a few days later we found a nice little allotment that a few of us got up and running again, digging up the dead plants and doing our best to get the crops going again. There were plenty of seeds and sealed bags of compost so we got off to a great start.”