"I've been thinking about this a lot," she said. "I've cycled maybe a hundred miles since the end, across South Wales and through the Brecon Beacons, and I've not seen anyone else. No one. I was really beginning to think I was the only one left alive, and I tried to understand why, and I came up with the idea that maybe I was dead. Dead, and haunting the mountains. And maybe everyone else was dead too, and they were haunting other places. Or the very same places, but I just couldn't see them. Maybe everyone haunts their own version of the world."
"Six billion worlds to haunt," Jacqueline muttered.
"Well, I'm not dead," Cordell said. He leaned across and punched the Irishman on the arm. "Dead?"
"Not me." The Irishman took another swig of his beer. "Damn, that'd taste nowhere near as good if I were."
"Something in our past?" I said. "I had whooping cough when I was a kid. Got a steel rod in my wrist from where I fell off a skateboard."
"I had meningitis," Cordell said.
"So did I!" Jacqueline said.
Jessica shook her head. "I've always been very healthy. Colds and bugs, and aches and pains as I get older, but I've never had what I'd class as an illness ."
"Perhaps that's it," I said. "We're all unusually fit and healthy."
"I had breast cancer," Jacqueline said. "Five years ago."
We sat silently for a while, and all five of us took a drink at exactly the same time.
"So are you all clear?" Cordell asked.
Jacqueline nodded, smiling. I liked the expression on her face right then, but it would be so rare.
"Maybe it was something we ate," the Irishman said. He snorted, took a drink and started laughing, spitting his beer across the table. We joined in, and we ended up having a good evening. From then on we gave up trying to fathom why we seemed to be the only survivors of the human race.
No fools here , I said. And I was right, none of us were fools.
The people we meet on the slip road up to the M4 are fools. So that's that theory blown out of the water. They're fools because the first thing they do is reach for their guns.
And then they start shooting.
It takes me a few seconds to realise that the shots are wild and panicked, but I also know that they've got more than air rifles and shotguns. I've only ever heard automatic weapons fired in movies, but the angry rattle is obvious, and I feel bullets hailing past my head as I fall from the bike. I protect my head, roll, and drag myself to the side of the road. I stop when I hear the ping and crack of bullets striking metal. I've come to rest behind an overturned car, and I sit up and look back down the slip-road.
Jessica and Cordell have already driven below the overpass, out of the shooters' line of sight.
Great idea , I think. Great idea of mine. Drive up on my own to show we're not a threat. Fucking great .
I was still a hundred meters from the road block when they started shooting, but I'd seen enough. There was a heavy pick-up truck and an ambulance parked across the road, a double-decker bus head-on between them, and beyond that several caravans and four-wheel drives. The shooting came from the upper deck of the bus.
Down the road, Cordell peers cautiously around the corner of the bridge. I raise my hand—not too far—and he nods.
The silence is shocking after the thunderous gunshots. My bike has stalled, and the only sound is the idling motors of the Range Rovers out of sight beneath the motorway. Maybe they are already planning on how to get me away from here . . . but I hope not. The shooting had started wild and it missed me, but the shooters have had time to gather their senses. And the Rovers are much larger targets.
Cordell glances around again and I wave him away. Shake my hands, shake my head, trying to convey my thoughts: Don't come up this way . He nods and disappears again, and I hope he understood.
"Hello in the bus!" I shout. There is no response. No more shooting, and no answering shouts.
Are they circling around to me now? Crawling
"Six billion worlds to haunt," Jacqueline muttered.
"Well, I'm not dead," Cordell said. He leaned across and punched the Irishman on the arm. "Dead?"
"Not me." The Irishman took another swig of his beer. "Damn, that'd taste nowhere near as good if I were."
"Something in our past?" I said. "I had whooping cough when I was a kid. Got a steel rod in my wrist from where I fell off a skateboard."
"I had meningitis," Cordell said.
"So did I!" Jacqueline said.
Jessica shook her head. "I've always been very healthy. Colds and bugs, and aches and pains as I get older, but I've never had what I'd class as an illness ."
"Perhaps that's it," I said. "We're all unusually fit and healthy."
"I had breast cancer," Jacqueline said. "Five years ago."
We sat silently for a while, and all five of us took a drink at exactly the same time.
"So are you all clear?" Cordell asked.
Jacqueline nodded, smiling. I liked the expression on her face right then, but it would be so rare.
"Maybe it was something we ate," the Irishman said. He snorted, took a drink and started laughing, spitting his beer across the table. We joined in, and we ended up having a good evening. From then on we gave up trying to fathom why we seemed to be the only survivors of the human race.
No fools here , I said. And I was right, none of us were fools.
The people we meet on the slip road up to the M4 are fools. So that's that theory blown out of the water. They're fools because the first thing they do is reach for their guns.
And then they start shooting.
It takes me a few seconds to realise that the shots are wild and panicked, but I also know that they've got more than air rifles and shotguns. I've only ever heard automatic weapons fired in movies, but the angry rattle is obvious, and I feel bullets hailing past my head as I fall from the bike. I protect my head, roll, and drag myself to the side of the road. I stop when I hear the ping and crack of bullets striking metal. I've come to rest behind an overturned car, and I sit up and look back down the slip-road.
Jessica and Cordell have already driven below the overpass, out of the shooters' line of sight.
Great idea , I think. Great idea of mine. Drive up on my own to show we're not a threat. Fucking great .
I was still a hundred meters from the road block when they started shooting, but I'd seen enough. There was a heavy pick-up truck and an ambulance parked across the road, a double-decker bus head-on between them, and beyond that several caravans and four-wheel drives. The shooting came from the upper deck of the bus.
Down the road, Cordell peers cautiously around the corner of the bridge. I raise my hand—not too far—and he nods.
The silence is shocking after the thunderous gunshots. My bike has stalled, and the only sound is the idling motors of the Range Rovers out of sight beneath the motorway. Maybe they are already planning on how to get me away from here . . . but I hope not. The shooting had started wild and it missed me, but the shooters have had time to gather their senses. And the Rovers are much larger targets.
Cordell glances around again and I wave him away. Shake my hands, shake my head, trying to convey my thoughts: Don't come up this way . He nods and disappears again, and I hope he understood.
"Hello in the bus!" I shout. There is no response. No more shooting, and no answering shouts.
Are they circling around to me now? Crawling
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