When three out of the four bodies were around the back of the shed, temporarily out of the way, Michael pushed past the other one and opened the door. He slipped inside and, struggling to think over the deafening noise of the generator, he found the control panel that regulated the machine and switched it off.
After wiping his face and hands dry on a dirty towel and pausing to catch his breath, Michael went back outside.
By the time he’d shut the door to the shed he was alone. The four shadowy figures had drifted away into the darkness of the night.
23
Despite having gone to bed exhausted, Michael was awake, up and dressed by six o’clock the following morning. He had spent another uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night tossing and turning on the hard wooden floor at the side of Emma’s bed. He was glad he’d woken up before she had. She hadn’t said anything to make him think that she minded him being there, but he was quietly concerned as to what she thought his reasons were. Regardless of what she might or might not have been thinking, it made him feel much better not to be sleeping alone.
Even though his twenty-ninth birthday was now just a couple of weeks away, Michael had spent the last few dark hours curled up in fear like a frightened child. His mind had been full of the kind of irrational fantasies the like of which hadn’t troubled him since he’d been eight or nine years old. In the early morning gloom he had hidden under his covers from monsters lurking under the bed and behind the wardrobe door and had found himself sitting bolt upright in the darkness, certain that something terrible and unidentifiable was coming up the stairs towards him. In his heart he knew that these were nothing but foolish thoughts and that the sounds he could hear were just the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the old house but that didn’t make the slightest bit of difference. The fear was impossible to ignore. As a child there had always been the safety of his parents’ room to rescue him from his nightmares but not today. Today there was nothing and no-one to help and the bitter reality beyond the door of the farmhouse was worse than any dark dream he’d ever had.
As soon as the morning light had begun to creep into the house he had felt more confident. The uncomfortable fear he’d experienced was quickly replaced by a uncomfortable foolishness leaving him feeling almost embarrassed that he’d been so frightened in the night. At one point in the long hours just passed, when the howling wind outside had been screaming and whipping through the trees with an incredible and relentless ferocity, he had covered his ears and screwed his eyes tightly shut, hoping with all his heart that he would fall asleep and wake up somewhere else. Although no-one else had seen or heard him, in the cold light of day he felt ashamed that he had allowed a chink to appear in his brash and arrogant exterior.
It was a strong, safe and sound house and Michael need not have worried. In spite of all that he had imagined in the darkness, nothing and no-one had managed to enter Penn Farm. Still drugged by sleep he stumbled into the kitchen and lit the gas stove. The constant low roar of the burner was strangely soothing and comforting and he was glad that the heavy silence of the early morning had finally been disturbed. Slightly more relaxed, he boiled a kettle of water and made himself a mug of strong black coffee which he quickly drank. He made himself some breakfast but couldn’t eat much more than a couple of mouthfuls.
Bored, tired and restless, he desperately needed to find something to do. As he had already discovered to his cost recently, these days an unoccupied minute tended to feel like an hour and an empty hour seemed to drag on for more than a day.
A open door from the kitchen led to a large utility room which Michael wandered into aimlessly. He had spent some time in there yesterday, but no longer than half an hour. In the furthest corner of the room was a pile of empty cardboard boxes and other rubbish that the survivors hadn’t yet been able to dispose of or find a home for. This had been the least important room in the house as far as the three of them had been concerned and, as such, they had paid it little attention other than to use it as a temporary store. Michael thought for a second or two about trying to sort the room into some kind of order but, if the truth be told, he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted something to do, but it needed to be something interesting. He needed more than something that would just distract him. He wanted something that would grab his imagination and fully capture and hold his attention.
High on the wall opposite to the door he’d just walked through was a wooden shelf. Little more than a warped plank of wood held up by three rusty brackets, the shelf was piled high with junk. Curious, Michael dragged a chair across the room and climbed up to have a closer look. On first sight there seemed to be very little of any interest – some old garden tools and chemicals, faded and yellowed books and newspapers, glass jars full of nails, bolts and screws and the like – but then he came across an unexpected and unmistakable shape. It was the butt of a rifle. Cautiously he pulled the gun free and stood there, balancing precariously on the chair, admiring the cobweb and dirt covered weapon. Instinctively he reached up again and felt his way along the shelf, first to the left and then to the right of where he’d found the rifle. With his fingers at full stretch he grabbed hold of a dusty cardboard box which he dragged closer. Now standing on tiptoes with the rifle wedged under his arm he teased up the lid of the box and saw that it was full of ammunition. Like a child with a new toy he picked up the box, jumped down and carried everything back to the kitchen.
Emma got up at half-past eight and Carl rose three-quarters of an hour later. They found Michael sat at the kitchen table, carefully cleaning the rifle. He’d been working on it for over two hours and the job was almost complete.
Michael glanced up at Emma and noticed that she looked tired. He wondered whether she’d had as little sleep as he had. Although they’d only slept (or not slept) a few feet apart he hadn’t dared disturb her in the darkness of the night.
‘What are you doing?’ she eventually asked him once she’d made and drunk a very necessary mug of coffee.
‘I found this earlier,’ he replied, stifling a yawn. ‘Thought I’d have a go at cleaning it up.’
‘What’s it for?’ Carl asked. Those were the first words he’d uttered since coming downstairs.
Michael shrugged his shoulders. Deadpan, and with a complete absence of any sarcasm or humour in his voice he replied.
‘Shooting things,’ he said. ‘What else you going to use it for?’
‘I know that,’ he snapped, annoyed, ‘but what are we going to use it for?’
He put the rifle down and looked up at Carl.
‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Bloody hell, I hope we never need it.’
The rifle was clearly of interest to Carl. He sat down next to the other man and picked it up. Having spent all morning working on it, Michael seemed annoyed that someone else had dared to interfere.
‘Put it down,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished with it yet.’
‘You ever used one of these?’ Carl asked, suddenly much more animated.
‘No, but…’
‘I have,’ he continued to enthuse. ‘Used to do some work for a bloke that used to shoot.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Emma said from across the room. She was standing next to the sink. She couldn’t have been any further away from the table. ‘We don’t need it. We should get rid of it.’
‘I don’t know. We don’t even know if it’s going to work yet…’
‘Can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t,’ Carl interrupted. ‘Mind if I try it out?’