The refugees were told that the Royal Navy were sending ships to evacuate them. Devonport, the home of the navy’s amphibious fleet, was overrun with infected. Gone. Wiped out.
The ships would arrive soon. Salvation was close, it seemed. It was hard to believe, and no one did believe except for the few still hoping and praying for deliverance.
Joel was one of those people.
Four days had passed. It was raining again, great droves of it lashing down, turning the ground into slurry. There was thunder far away. The wind blew cold and sharp. The wind had claws. Joel was hungry. He had only eaten half a chocolate bar all day. The light was already fading. He held Anya’s hand as they walked back to their tent. He would never leave her again.
Joel pulled back the canvas flap.
The others were in the tent. Ralph and Florence were playing an improvised game of Snap. A married couple, Ross and Michelle, were huddled in one corner, silent with heads bowed. Stuart Lenkman, a professor of biology before the outbreak, was sitting on the ground staring at his hands. A single mother called Donna cradled her baby son in her arms, cooing to him as he cried. The baby always cried. Joel had forgotten the boy’s name. And if he was honest he didn’t care. There were other people here, and he didn’t know their names. He didn’t want to know.
He was so tired he could sleep standing up. His eyelids were drooping. He hadn’t slept properly since they had left the holiday cottage. How long ago was that? Six days? A week? Ten days? Two weeks? Could have been a year and he wouldn’t have been sure.
The inside of the tent was cramped. The constant poke of elbows and knees against his body. The smell of bad breath, farts, baby shit and body odour. Stale sweat and old socks. He could hear people whispering in the adjacent tent, even above the pattering drizzle, so close were the tents crammed together. More refugees arrived every day. Joel wondered when the soldiers would start turning people away.
“Where’s Frank?” Joel asked.
Only Florence looked up. “He’s gone for a walk.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
He turned to Anya. “I’m going to find him, see if he’s okay.”
Anya nodded. “I’ll stay here. I’m going to try to get some sleep.” She kissed him.
Joel went back out into the rain.
Joel found Frank at the northern perimeter staring at the plague pits. His hood was raised over his head. He was statuesque. The rain was coming down harder, and the wind picked it up and blasted it into Joel’s face. He wiped his face dry, tasted the rain in his mouth, on his tongue.
He looked at the sky and wondered if one of the giant sky-things was up there, watching the camp, waiting for the right time to descend and crush it and the poor bastards sheltering here.
Joel spat. Whatever those things were, they were not gods. They were not even fit to be compared to his God. His God was all-loving and merciful and kind.
But does He exist, Joel? asked a little voice secreted at the back of his head like an entrenched parasite. Are you sure that He exists? Do you still believe in Him? I’m not sure you still do.
“Piss off,” he muttered.
Maybe your faith is wearing thin.
“Go fuck yourself.”
We’ll see about that.
He shook his head. The voice didn’t go away, only faded in volume. He walked over to Frank, clearing his throat to let him know he was there. Frank didn’t react.
Joel stood beside him, looking out through the fence as the breeze picked up drifts of ash and soot from the mass graves and made them into swarms that tainted the sky. It was desolation. No one was at the pits.
It was a wasteland, scorched and ruined. Poisoned.
“Hey, mate,” said Joel.
“Hey.” Frank’s voice was quiet. His hands were in his pockets. Overhead, gulls and crows performed aerial duels over scraps of food and rubbish. If Joel closed his eyes and listened very, very carefully, he could hear the sea. He had always loved the sea, ever since his parents had taken him on daytrips to Weymouth and Seaton when he was a boy.
His parents were with God now. No suffering for them. No pain. For the first time since they had died, he was glad they were dead. He was glad for that maniac in the stolen Porsche who had run them off the road. He was glad they had died together.
He almost envied them.
“You alright, mate?” asked Joel.
“Yeah.”
“We’re worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t care if you believe me.”
Joel didn’t reply. He hugged himself against the cold.
Frank said, “I want to go out there and see if I can find her.”
Joel turned to him. Frank was staring at the pits.
“The soldiers won’t let you go out there unless you’re on grave-digging detail. You know that.”
“I’ll do that, then.”
“I’m sorry about Catherine. I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but you’ve still got us. You’ve still got your mates. And Florence.”
“Florence,” Frank muttered.
“I remember you said to me that you promised to take care of Florence. You said to me that you would look after her.”
“So what?”
“So, are you going to break your promise to her? I know what it’s like to lose parents. Imagine what it’s been like for her being a young girl. She needs you, Frank. You’re her guardian.”
Frank looked at Joel, shallow creases and lines in his face. A darkening beard. “When we left for your stag weekend, I didn’t think I’d never see my wife again. She didn’t even get a decent burial. She deserves to be honoured.”
Joel said nothing.
Then Ralph appeared alongside Joel. He was shivering against the cold and rain.
The three men looked out towards the plague pits, and beyond that, the hills and fields.
If God exists, Joel, said the voice in his mind, how come everything’s falling apart? How come your friends’ loved ones are dead? What did they do to deserve death? What did they do to endure such suffering? Where was God when they were suffering and dying? Shouldn’t He have saved them? Shouldn’t He save us all?
Joel sighed.
If your God does exist, Joel, He’s an utter cunt. And, deep down, you know this.
Joel looked out across the fields and thought he saw distant figures flitting between trees and hedgerows. Could have been his imagination; he was tired and his eyes ached.
“I haven’t seen a plane or a helicopter for a while,” said Ralph.
“That’s a bad sign,” Frank murmured.
“Is it?”
Ralph grimaced against the breeze pushing at his face. “Frank’s right. Yesterday I heard from a bloke that Salisbury’s been lost. The army were overrun. Don’t know where he heard it from.”
Frank closed his eyes. “The centre cannot hold.”
Ralph looked at them. “Is this the end of the human race? Stuck here at this shitty camp? Maybe we’re the last ones left, waiting for the monsters to close in. Maybe we’re just treading water, getting tired, until we get swallowed up.”
“Will the ships arrive?” asked Joel. “What do you think?”
Ralph grunted. “I think we’re waiting to die here. I think we’re alone. Nobody’s coming to save us.”