My coffee’s gone cold by the time I’ve pulled myself together again and locked everything away, but it’s still strong and bitter enough to disguise the bilious aftertaste of puke. I take my drink through to the living room, put it on the little table I use, and then, still standing up, I zip myself into my sleeping bag. I jump and shuffle around to get to my chair, then collapse into it, pathetically out of breath.
I keep a pile of books by the side of the chair, taller than the table my coffee’s resting on. Books are one of the few things that can still be found relatively easily, although they’re used to fuel fires more than to fuel minds these days. I have a light on an elastic headband like a miner’s lamp (I found it on a body in an Unchanged shelter a while back). I switch it on and pick up the book on top of the pile. I study the cover, and I can’t help laughing to myself when I think how my tastes have changed. I’d never have read anything like this in the days before the war—not that I ever used to read much anyway, but this … this is the kind of book bored pensioners used to read, the kind of book that used to sell by the bucketload and appealed to lonely, dowdy, middle-aged spinsters, dreaming of the moment they knew would probably never come, when their knight in shining armor would arrive to whisk them away from their dull, mundane, and loveless lives. It’s a trashy thriller-cum-romance novel, probably written by a machine that just slotted character names and other variables into a predefined template, but I don’t care. As clichéd and far-fetched as it seems, these books have become something of a release. Reading them is all I want to do when I’m alone like this. It’s how I escape from the pressures of this increasingly fucked-up world. These books help me to forget where I am and who I am and what I have to deal with each day. They help me forget the things I’ve done. They almost make me feel human again. I revel in the insignificant details. The far-fetched action set pieces leave me cold. It’s little things that get to me: descriptions of people eating, talking, traveling … living together. Those fleeting moments of normality we never used to think about. Those banal moments of calm during which we caught our breath as our lives lurched from one trivial problem to the next pointless crisis.
I start reading from where I got to last night, pausing only to look again at the beautiful woman on the painted front cover. Something about the shape of her face reminds me of the Unchanged woman I killed in the shelter earlier today. She was my first kill in weeks. I didn’t want to do it, didn’t have the same burning desire I used to, but I knew I didn’t have any choice, either. It was for the best. She’d have suffered more if I’d let her live.
I’ve just got to the part in the book where the female lead first meets the guy who’ll no doubt go on to change her life forever on his way to saving the world. Christ, what’s wrong with me? I can already feel myself welling up. By the time they inevitably end up in bed together, I’ll be crying like a fucking baby.
4
SOME FUCKER’S BANGING ON the door. I keep my eyes screwed shut, nowhere near ready to start another day just yet. If I stay still long enough and don’t react, maybe whoever it is will give up and go away. I half open one eye and look around. It’s light outside, not long after dawn. My book’s on the floor. My tired body aches more than it did when I went to sleep.
The hammering on the door continues. I know who it is now. He lifts the flap of the mail slot and shouts at me, but I don’t react. I know he’s not going anywhere, but I can’t be bothered to move. I make him wait a little longer.
“Come on, Danny, I know you’re in there.”
“Piss off, Rufus.”
He starts knocking on the window, rapping on the glass with his knuckles, and the sound hurts my head. I’ll go and see what he wants, then get rid of him. Rufus has an annoying habit of coming here when he’s got nowhere else to go, wanting to talk for hours about nothing in particular. Sometimes I can tolerate him, but I don’t feel so good this morning and I’m not in the mood. Sometimes he stays all day and we play cards together and put the world to rights (although that particular problem’s bigger than both of us), but not today. Most of the time I’ve forgotten everything he’s said by the time I’ve managed to push him back out the door.
He’s not going anywhere. Admitting defeat, I start to get up but then fall back down again when the morning cough hits me. I’ve probably smoked less than a handful of cigarettes in my whole life, but these days I sound like a chain-smoker who’s had a fifty a day habit for the last twenty years. The cough comes in wrenching waves, and I know there’s nothing I can do to fight it. I manage to stand up and steady myself on the back of the chair as another hacking burst overtakes me. My sleeping bag drops down around my feet like a used condom, leaving me freezing cold and exposed. One more painful, tearing retch, strong enough to make me feel like I’m being turned inside out, and the coughing finally starts to subside. I spit out a lump of sticky red-green phlegm into my empty coffee cup, step out of the sleeping bag, and stagger over to open the door.
“What?”
“You took your time,” he says, not impressed.
“What do you want?”
Rufus glares up at me (he’s a good few inches shorter than I am), then ducks under my outstretched arm and pushes his way into the house.
“You’re a pain in the backside, Danny. Why didn’t you just let me in?”
“I’m a pain in the backside? You’re the one banging on the window like a goddamn idiot.”
“Didn’t you hear me knocking? Fucking hell, I’ve been out there for ages. It’s freezing outside.”
“It’s winter, what do you expect? Anyway, it’s no better in here.”
I climb back into my sleeping bag, pull it up, and sit down again. He stands in front of me in the middle of the living room, flapping his arms around himself to try and get warm.
“You should light a fire or something,” he says, blowing into his hands.
“Can’t be bothered. Too much effort.”
“You need to start taking more care of yourself. You’re not looking so good.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
He shakes his head in despair, then picks my book up off the floor and starts flicking through the pages. He has to hold it right up to his face to be able to read anything. Poor bugger’s eyesight is bad. He was a voracious reader, but he’s been reduced to reading children’s editions because the print’s larger. He used to wear strong glasses, but the lenses got broken a few weeks back when he got caught up in the middle of a fight he had nothing to do with. Rufus doesn’t handle conflict well. Makes me wonder how he’s lasted this long. He has another fresh bruise on his face this morning. He’s probably pissed somebody off again. Doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Don’t know how you can read this crap.”
“It’s simple, shallow, and predictable. Just what I need.”
“Yes, but there’s a whole load of literature out there, Dan. Read some classics. Broaden your horizons.”
“I don’t want to broaden my horizons. In fact, I want to start limiting my horizons to the four walls of this house, screw everything else.”
“Don’t be so narrow. Listen, have you read 1984? I managed to salvage a pile of postapocalyptic books from the library before Hinchcliffe’s morons burned them. You should read it. And Earth Abides, that’s another. It’s really interesting to see how people thought things were going to pan out. I mean, they were all miles off the mark, but don’t let that—”