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For a moment, I consider trying to step out of sight, just in case this truck is driven by another maniac. Realizing that it’s too late to hide, however, I watch as the truck slows and passes me, and then as it comes to a halt at the side of the road with its engine still running.

Perhaps I was right.

Perhaps this really is another crazed fool.

A moment later the driver-side door opens, and it occurs to me that while my fears are justified, the driver might be wondering the same thing about me.

Finally a face peers out from inside the truck, and I see a middle-aged man staring at me.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I…” For a few seconds, I’m not quite sure what to say. “I’m going to see some friends,” I manage finally. “There’s no bus service, so…”

My voice trails off.

“Where?” the man asks.

“It’s quite a walk,” I reply, “but they live in Borrell Avenue and—”

“You don’t want to go there,” he says firmly.

“You see, my friends live there and—”

“If your friends have got any sense, they won’t be there now anyway,” he adds, cutting me off yet again. “I just went that way and it’s not good up there.”

“Well, I still think that my friends—”

“You’d be better off coming with me.”

I hesitate for a moment. This man seems friendly enough, but in the current situation one cannot be too careful. Finally, as the man climbs out of his truck and comes closer, I start to realize that I’m rather defenseless. Still, if he has as go at me, I’ll fight back. I might be in my seventies but that doesn’t mean I can’t swing a punch.

“I’ve been to the city,” the man says, putting his hands on his hips, “and it’s a bad place to be right now. I saw dead bodies just left out on the side of the road, and people who looked like they’d gone completely nuts. The way I figure, the best thing right now is to hunker down somewhere and wait for all this madness to pass over. That’s why I’m going out to visit some people I know who have a farm. Good people. Safe people.”

“That’s all well and good,” I reply, “but my friends will be—”

“Your friends’ll be dead if they’re still at Borrell Avenue,” he says, apparently unwilling to let me complete a single sentence. “Either that, or they’ll be raging crazies by now. I don’t know how to put this any other way, but the city’s a death-trap right now.” He pauses, looking me up and down. “You don’t seem so crazy,” he adds finally. “How about you come along with me. It’s better than the way you’re going right now.”

“You’re very kind,” I reply, “but…”

My voice trails off again. This man seems nice enough, but at the same time there’s something a little unusual about him, something I can’t quite put my finger on. As much as I’m sure he’s very earnest in his advice, I think I should continue with my original plan. I’m a good judge of character, and this fellow doesn’t seem right to me.

“You’re very kind,” I say again, “but I really think I should get going. Thank you all the same, and good luck to you.”

With that, I turn to walk away.

“Hey, aren’t you Derek Harrisford?” he asks suddenly.

Stopping, I look back at him.

“The singer,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “The musician. You had that song back in the ’eighties, didn’t you? The one that was everywhere for a few weeks.”

“Well…”

Pausing, I realize that I’ve been recognized.

“We used to listen to that song all the time,” he says, smiling as he takes a step closer. “I worked at a car repair place at the time, and we actually wore out two tape copies ’cause we played it so much. That song was a real ear-worm, huh?”

“It was certainly popular,” I reply.

“I liked that follow-up you did, too,” he says. “Too bad it wasn’t as big, but I thought it was great.”

“Thank you.”

He pauses, before taking a step back.

“Okay,” he continues, “well, I really don’t think you should go to the city, not until things get better. But I get it, you’ve got your own plans. Stay safe, Mr. Harrisford. I hope one day everything goes back to normal. I had no idea you lived round here. I’ll keep an eye out in case you play somewhere.”

He turns to head back to his truck.

“Where did you say you were going?” I ask.

He glances at me again.

“I was thinking,” I continue, “maybe you have a point about the city.”

“It’s not nice there at the moment.”

“That offer of a ride in your truck was very generous,” I say, stepping toward him, “and I was wondering, is there any chance that I could change my mind and accept?”

“I can take you to the farm,” he replies.

“That would be extremely kind of you.”

He comes closer and we shake hands.

“Dean Clarke,” he says with a smile. “It’s a real honor to meet you, Mr. Harrisford, but I think we should get going. I want to reach the farm before sundown.”

As we head to the truck, I tell myself that this chap seems very trustworthy. I have been very lucky, running into someone who is clearly so trustworthy, and I feel rather bad for doubting him earlier. I’m sure he’s right about the city being a dangerous place, and I quite like the idea of hiding out on a farm until all this madness has passed. I can only hope that some day we shall all be able to get back to normal, and that this nightmare will not mark the complete breakdown of human civilization.

Eleven

“There she is,” Dean says a few hours later, as the truck bumps along a dirt road. “Big place, huh?”

Squinting, I’m just about able to make out a farmhouse in the distance, along with a large barn and several out-buildings. The journey has been rather uncomfortable so far and I’m glad that it’s almost over, although Dean and I have managed to keep the conversation going. For the most post, he wanted to hear my stories of the music industry, and I confess that I dropped a few names. Still, this fellow’s musical tastes are not terribly sophisticated, and I doubt he would have wanted me to talk about my more recent classical work.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, “I’ll introduce you to Donald and Sharon. They’re friends of mine from a long way back. They’ll take real good care of you.”

“That’s very generous,” I reply, “and—”

Before I can finish, the truck hits a particularly large bump and I’m jolted forward. At the same time, my right knee bangs hard against the side of the door and I feel a sharp pain bursting up my leg.

“Sorry about that,” Dean says. “Like I said, nearly there!”

* * *

“Sure, I remember that song,” this Donald chap says as we stand in his yard. “I think so, anyway. It was a hit for a while.”

“A modest one,” I reply.

“It wasn’t really my cup of tea,” he continues with a loud sniff. “I heard it on the radio a few times, mainly when other people had it on. I’ve never really been a fan of the poppy, lowest-common-denominator stuff that fills the charts.”

“What my friend is trying to say,” Dean interjects, “is that it’s nice to meet you.”

“That’s true enough,” Donald adds with a nod. “We’ll be glad to give you a place to rest your head, Mr. Harrisford. Let’s just hope that things start getting back to normal soon. The power went out this afternoon, which isn’t a good sign, and the phone lines are all down. We’ve still got water for now, but we’re starting to stockpile it in case the pipes start running dry. As for food, luckily we—”