and they'll shoot me for sure, stay here and they'll ram the car and crush me into the road. Stand, submit, and perhaps they'll keep fingers from triggers long enough for us to talk.
I raise my arms and wait for the shot. It does not come. Nobody shouts either, and I begin to wonder where they've gone.
"Quickly!" It's a distant shout, and I turn and see Cordell gesturing me toward him.
"This way," another voice says. The voice with the gun. I obey, stepping out from behind the car and walking slowly toward the barricade. As I walk I have time to take in more details, and none of it fills me with hope. The pick-up truck has been there for a long time, because its tyres are flat and there's a swathe of rust spotting its heavy hood. Its windscreen is smashed. The ambulance looks as though it could be mobile, but its rear doors are pressed hard against the retaining wall holding back the motorway twenty feet above. Its cab is ridged and dented, and rough sheets of metal have been welded across its windows. Between the truck and the ambulance is the bus, and as I move closer I can see it moving slightly as people walk about inside. Its engine growls. The front window is missing upstairs, and a man and woman are hunkered down, guns protruding over the sill and tracking my progress.
The bus is pocked with bullet holes. The driver's windscreen is hazed. For some reason they've decided not to knock it out.
"There's no harm in me," I call. I open my raised hands as though to prove I'm not carrying an unpinned hand grenade, or a vial of botulism. "We just want to come through."
"Walk to the front of the bus, put your hands on the grille and stay still," the woman shouts. I do as I'm told. I can see the shape in the driver's seat now, and I'm sure it's just a kid.
I hear the thump-thump of someone running downstairs, and seconds later the hot barrel of a gun is pressed against my temple. "Really," the man says, "don't move."
We stand there in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. It's almost ridiculous. I wonder whether he's waiting for me to make a move so he can claim self-defence when he kills me. I don't give him the pleasure.
This is unreal , I think again, and I smile.
"What's so fucking funny?" There's fear in his voice, and I don't like that. It's dangerous.
"Sorry," I say. "I've never been shot at before. It's just all a bit surreal."
"Surreal," the man says. He snorts, then giggles. "Lucy! He thinks this is surreal."
"Tell me about it," a voice says from above. The woman, probably leaning out and covering me with her own weapon.
"Look, we don't mean any harm. We just want to get by."
"Well, you have to pay us," the man says, and for the first time I really recognise the utter terror in his voice. I wonder what he was before the plagues: a teacher? Butcher? Accountant? Lorry driver? Now the world has ended and he's just trying to survive, and I'm certain that this is the first time he's asked someone for payment to pass. Just set up here? I think. Or has no one come this way in months?
"What do you want?" I say.
"Food."
"And booze," Lucy says.
The man snorts again. "Food. Weapons, if you have any."
I don't want to reveal how pathetically armed we are. "We have some food you can have," I say.
"And booze, Billy," Lucy says again.
"Some wine."
"Okay, then," the man, Billy, says. "Okay. Tell your people to come up."
"How?"
He hesitates, then shoves the barrel of the gun hard against my head. Bad move, I think. Don't show him up, not in front of his Lucy. He needs to be in charge.
"Call them!" he says. "Tell them to come on foot."
I turn. Cordell is peering around the corner of the underpass, and I see Jessica standing just behind him. They're both holding their guns. I wave them to me, and they disappear back around the corner.
"Now we see how much they think they need you," Billy says. His gun is pointing at my gut, but his eyes are everywhere else. Checking the fields, the road above . . .
I raise my arms and wait for the shot. It does not come. Nobody shouts either, and I begin to wonder where they've gone.
"Quickly!" It's a distant shout, and I turn and see Cordell gesturing me toward him.
"This way," another voice says. The voice with the gun. I obey, stepping out from behind the car and walking slowly toward the barricade. As I walk I have time to take in more details, and none of it fills me with hope. The pick-up truck has been there for a long time, because its tyres are flat and there's a swathe of rust spotting its heavy hood. Its windscreen is smashed. The ambulance looks as though it could be mobile, but its rear doors are pressed hard against the retaining wall holding back the motorway twenty feet above. Its cab is ridged and dented, and rough sheets of metal have been welded across its windows. Between the truck and the ambulance is the bus, and as I move closer I can see it moving slightly as people walk about inside. Its engine growls. The front window is missing upstairs, and a man and woman are hunkered down, guns protruding over the sill and tracking my progress.
The bus is pocked with bullet holes. The driver's windscreen is hazed. For some reason they've decided not to knock it out.
"There's no harm in me," I call. I open my raised hands as though to prove I'm not carrying an unpinned hand grenade, or a vial of botulism. "We just want to come through."
"Walk to the front of the bus, put your hands on the grille and stay still," the woman shouts. I do as I'm told. I can see the shape in the driver's seat now, and I'm sure it's just a kid.
I hear the thump-thump of someone running downstairs, and seconds later the hot barrel of a gun is pressed against my temple. "Really," the man says, "don't move."
We stand there in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. It's almost ridiculous. I wonder whether he's waiting for me to make a move so he can claim self-defence when he kills me. I don't give him the pleasure.
This is unreal , I think again, and I smile.
"What's so fucking funny?" There's fear in his voice, and I don't like that. It's dangerous.
"Sorry," I say. "I've never been shot at before. It's just all a bit surreal."
"Surreal," the man says. He snorts, then giggles. "Lucy! He thinks this is surreal."
"Tell me about it," a voice says from above. The woman, probably leaning out and covering me with her own weapon.
"Look, we don't mean any harm. We just want to get by."
"Well, you have to pay us," the man says, and for the first time I really recognise the utter terror in his voice. I wonder what he was before the plagues: a teacher? Butcher? Accountant? Lorry driver? Now the world has ended and he's just trying to survive, and I'm certain that this is the first time he's asked someone for payment to pass. Just set up here? I think. Or has no one come this way in months?
"What do you want?" I say.
"Food."
"And booze," Lucy says.
The man snorts again. "Food. Weapons, if you have any."
I don't want to reveal how pathetically armed we are. "We have some food you can have," I say.
"And booze, Billy," Lucy says again.
"Some wine."
"Okay, then," the man, Billy, says. "Okay. Tell your people to come up."
"How?"
He hesitates, then shoves the barrel of the gun hard against my head. Bad move, I think. Don't show him up, not in front of his Lucy. He needs to be in charge.
"Call them!" he says. "Tell them to come on foot."
I turn. Cordell is peering around the corner of the underpass, and I see Jessica standing just behind him. They're both holding their guns. I wave them to me, and they disappear back around the corner.
"Now we see how much they think they need you," Billy says. His gun is pointing at my gut, but his eyes are everywhere else. Checking the fields, the road above . . .
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