Our surroundings are distorting and shifting into something unrecognisable, as we make our way through this place. The warm nostalgic tones give way to a colder grittier landscape populated by remnants of horrific scenes.
What’s left of his family litters the path stretching out in front of us along with countless other remains, their bodies cleared of flesh by the flames surrounding them. There’s no escaping the accusing stare of their empty eye sockets.
The touch of his little hand against mine sears my skin, my guilt encasing both hands like a flame, climbing my arm slowly, threatening to consume me entirely.
Emma’s been there the whole time, clasping my left hand with her right, a dented can of kidney beans in the other.
I feel unexpectedly content, as we move onwards together, stepping over the flaming bones on our way forward, the perfect dysfunctional nuclear family for a post-apocalyptic world.
After what seems like an eternity of further nonsensical raving, the random forms of my subconscious begins to coalesce into the sight of Emma’s face as I slowly open my eyes.
“Shawn… SHAWN! Wake up.”
She’s tapping me on the cheek as she tries to drag me back to reality, the morning sun over her shoulder blazes into the back of my eyeballs.
“Wake up, we’re here.”
By the sound of her voice, she’s been trying to rouse me for a while.
“How long have I slept?”
“About an hour and a half, I got a little lost on the way.”
She looks surprisingly fresh for someone who’s been through all that shit. I can’t imagine she could say the same for me. I suppose ninety minutes of extremely disturbing sleep is better than none.
I turn around to check on our passenger. He’s wide awake but his appearance is vacant as he looks back at me. I can only imagine what’s going on in his head. He’s about seven and his cap has Tomas written across it.
“Hey Tom, how are you getting on back there?”
I’ve always been terrible with children.
“Are you hungry? There’s a twelve pack of chocolate bars behind you.”
Not a peep.
“You know you’re safe here with us, no one’s gonna hurt you.”
I literally don’t know what else to say, so I stop before I make things worse. I’ll fix this once we get into the farmhouse and out of the open.
So this is the farm. The motor is still running, barely, and we’re stopped at the end of a lane leading up a gentle hill to the house itself. We’re about a quarter mile away. From this distance we’re presented with one hell of a good view of the house.
“Why are we stopped all the way down here?”
She’s staring at the house as if it just gave her the finger. Without breaking her glare she says, “You see that red car peeking out from behind the house? That car shouldn’t be there, I’ve never seen it before.”
I sit up and strain my bloodshot eyes to see what she’s going on about. Holy crap, what sort of eyesight does this girl have?
Sure enough there is the merest protrusion of a red vehicle of some kind visible from behind the house.
“Well, we can’t wait here for Matt, who knows how long he’ll be,” I stop short of adding, “if he’s coming at all?”
“Let’s go up and find out what the story is. What other choice do we have?”
We begin to pull off, there’s no argument. I reach for the pep pills again and throw a few in my mouth, something tells me I’ll need them.
Once we’re within several metres of the gates Emma presses a key ring remote, triggering them to unlock and swing open automatically.
We’re in the west of Ireland, as rural as it gets and on first glance, the house itself is similar to the countless farm houses dotted across the countryside. It has a generic stone facade with a scatter of old farm buildings around it, but as we pass through the gates into the yard it’s obvious that Emma’s parents are no farmers.
My first clue is the large wire peacock sculpture in the centre of an immaculately kept garden. The outward appearance of the house from the road is extremely misleading; it looks like Emma’s parents gutted an old farmyard, preserving nothing but the outer shell for aesthetics.
From inside the yard all I can see is the cutting edge of contemporary design. The clean geometric lines of the garden lead my eye to a vulgarly placed hot tub, upsetting what is an otherwise perfectly balanced garden design.
Most of the smaller surrounding farm buildings have been converted also. Into what I’m not sure, but a glance in one window as we pass reveals well-furnished interiors and a pool table, instead of the pile of straw mixed with cow shite you’d expect to find in a typical farmyard shed. I better be nice to Matt if he gets back. If our old society manages to pull through he could be in the money.
With a new wave of twitchy energy starting to wash over me from the pills I feel somewhat better equipped to process what’s going on.
“So, what did you say your parents did again?”
I could tell half way through my question that her attention is elsewhere.
As if she didn’t even hear me, she bursts out with, “Who do these people think they are? This is my parents’ house!”
I keep my mouth shut and instead shrug my shoulders. She seems agitated and setting her off is the last thing I want to do.
As we slowly pull around the gable of the main house, the extent of the renovations becomes clearer. Practically the entire gable wall of the house has been replaced with a two story pane of double glazing, stretching from a sizeable ground floor open plan living area to a large skylight. The whole place reeks of Celtic Tiger boom time excess.
My thoughts on the architecture are interrupted by a heavy thudded impact somewhere on the front of the car. I’m left looking over the hood like an idiot to see what hit us before we speed up sharply, and I hear Emma shouting in a panicked scream, “Fuck! Someone’s shooting at us!”
Shit! She’s right. Before I know it, without thinking I’ve stretched back around to the rear seat, bundling Tom down to the ground.
“Stay down Tom! Stay down ‘til I tell you to move!”
With one hand still ungracefully stretched around behind me, holding his head against the back of my seat, I swing around to see can I spot the shooter.
Either it was meant as some sort of warning, or they’re a really bad shot. The sensation of being shot at isn’t like in the movies; you can’t just shake off the fear, stand up and face your shooter like the untouchable action heroes I’ve seen so many times. The fear of a bullet shredding through my body at any given moment is a powerful one, so I’m not sure what to do other then stay down.
Having said that, although it seems like a small calibre rifle, I don’t think this car door offers much protection. I place my face close to the window, trying to get a look up at the house towering above us.
My answer comes as I see the guns muzzle flash from one of the first floor windows, right before a second shot smashes through the passenger window I’m looking out of. The bullet misses my head by centimetres, lodging itself in the fabric of my seat right between my legs.
I pull away from the window with a yelp of pain and grab my head with my left hand. The side of my face stings like a son of a bitch, it’s peppered with glass shrapnel and at least one or two pieces made it into my eye, punishing me with darts of pain whenever I try opening it.