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  Diane was not a particularly practical woman. Even had she heard that there was a way of manually pumping gas from the tanks beneath the forecourts, she would not have known where to start.

  By the time she entered West Virginia, her gas tank was almost empty once more. She pulled off at the next filling station and switched off the engine. More in hope than expectation, she pulled a gas gun from its holder, but no pump clicked into whirring motion. She depressed the trigger a few times experimentally, but not so much as a drop trickled out.

  A battered grey station wagon stood at another pump. Diane walked over to it and peered in. A family had owned the car: they were still inside it. The father sat slumped forward against the steering wheel; a woman—his wife?—occupied the passenger seat, leaning against the door, head hanging forward onto her chest, still strapped in by the seat belt; a young teenage girl lay on her back across the rear seat, staring sightlessly at the car ceiling. The trunk was jam-packed with belongings, on top of which lay a basket containing a cat. It was still alive. It noticed Diane peering in and began to mewl and scrabble at the wire caging of the door. The creature was probably starving, Diane thought.

  Something else caught her eye. A coiled length of clear plastic tubing lay next to the cat’s cage. Like a garden hose for a model village. What Diane didn’t know, and wouldn’t have cared even if she’d been told, was that the father had recently undergone a colostomy. When the family had been frantically packing the car to flee their home in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, the father had picked up the spare surgical tubing that he had for carrying out emergency repairs to his colostomy bag and that, thankfully, he hadn’t yet needed to use. He had paused for a moment, fighting back the tickling cough that made his head ache, considering whether to take it. He already knew that repairing his colostomy bag was likely to be the least of his problems. With a shrug, he had chucked it into the back, next to Candy’s basket.

  Diane tried the handle of the back door. With a creak, it came open, letting out a gust of foetid air. She stepped smartly back, coughing and clutching her nose.

  Taking a deep breath, she held it and ducked through the doorway, placing her knee carefully on a space on the rear seat not occupied by the girl’s corpse, and reached for the tubing.

  The cat spat and tried to claw at her.

  Diane grabbed the tubing and backed out of the car. She thought for a moment, then repeated the process, this time grabbing the cat’s cage. The creature yowled and threw itself at the wire. Diane laid the basket on the ground and knelt on the tarmac to peer in. The cat was scrawny and bare patches of pink skin showed through its tawny fur. The floor of the cage was thick with the cat’s waste. Its paws were stained and soaking. At least one of its claws had come off when it had attacked the caged door. One of its ears was tattered and bleeding where it must have snagged on a protruding wire in its frantic efforts to escape.

  “Shhhh,” murmured Diane and probed. She could sense a swirling, livid vortex of feral need to feed, underlain by sheer terror. The cat’s mind had come unhinged during its confinement in the trunk of the car.

  “Hmm . . . you’re one hungry, angry kitty, ain’t you?” she said.

  The cat continued to hiss and swipe at the wires, trying to reach her.

  “Will you survive, I wonder, if I let you go. . . .” She glanced past the shuttered service station, to the fields that stretched away beyond. “There’ll probably be mice and rats out there. Snakes, too . . . Maybe they will get you.” She shrugged. “Que sera sera.”

  Diane reached for the door catch, but drew her hand back in a hurry as the cat yowled and made a leap at her, thudding into the wire mesh.

  “Oh, my. You’re gonna come for me, ain’t you, kitty?” she said. “It won’t matter that I’m more than twenty times bigger than you. Let’s just put you straight on that score, shall we?”

  Diane stared intently at the cat. It laid its ears flat against its skull, but stopped hissing and mewling. It stared back at Diane, its eyes large and black. As she implanted the image of her bashing the cat’s head into a bloody pulp with a rock, the creature backed into the furthest corner of the basket, lowering its body so that it cowered in its own filth.

  “There,” said Diane. “That should discourage you.” She reached out again and unfastened the clasp. She pulled the door open. The cat did not move.

  “Off you go then, kitty.” Diane shuffled back a couple of paces on her knees.

  The cat looked at her. It took one tentative step towards the door. When Diane made no movement, it slunk forward, belly fur brushing through excrement and urine. With one last terrified glance at Diane, the cat gained the forecourt and looked desperately around, not knowing where to run.

  “Over there’s your best bet, kitty,” said Diane, pointing towards the fields and starting to rise to her feet.

  The cat took off, streaking across the forecourt. It skidded to an ungainly halt at the edge of the brush that marked the start of the field and looked back, its tail whipping back and forth like a live cable.

  Diane took one step in the cat’s direction. It turned tail and fled into the fields.

  She smiled, but it quickly faded as she remembered that she was almost out of gas. She glanced at the roll of tubing in her hand.

  Of course, Diane had heard of syphoning and had seen it done in the movies. She needed to poke one end of the tube into gasoline and suck hard to start a flow of liquid. So long as the open end of the tube was below the level of the covered end, the flow would continue.

  Diane stepped back to the station wagon and opened the driver’s door. The key was still in the ignition and she turned it to accessories. Trying to ignore the stench that came off the driver in thick waves, and supporting her weight by grabbing the central pillar so as to avoid touching him, she leaned across him until she could see the fuel gauge. Almost half a tank. It clearly wasn’t the need for gasoline that had caused the father to park up on this forecourt.

  Judging from the stench rising from the bodies, the car had been parked here like this for days. Assuming that there had still been some other people around a few days ago, strange that no-one had tried to help the family. Diane did not waste time pondering the question—she had witnessed so many instances of man’s brutality to man that apparent indifference towards a dying family did not really surprise her.

  She walked completely around the station wagon, trying to find the gas tank cover, before thinking to open the trunk. There it was, tucked into the sill that ran around the trunk.

  Diane went back to her car, started it and drove it to the back of the station wagon, lining up her gas tank cover near the station wagon’s. She parked and turned off her engine.

  She uncoiled the tubing and fed one end into the wagon’s gas tank. She had no idea how far down it went so gave an experimental suck on the end still in her hand. She gasped as the fumes burned her throat and took deep breaths before she fed the tube in further and tried again. This time, she could not suck. She let out a deep breath and sucked again, harder. Nothing except more stinging fumes. Another deep exhalation and another huge suck . . . and she was gagging on the most disgusting liquid she had ever tasted.

  Coughing and spluttering, she whipped the tube from her mouth and clamped her thumb over the end. She doubled over, spitting and retching, desperate to expel the burning, foul taste.

  When at last she could straighten, she used her free hand to unscrew the cap to her gas tank and then held the tube over the opening. She could see the liquid inside the tube, like pale urine. Moving her thumb away from the end of the tube, she quickly fed the tube into her tank. Now she could feel the liquid flowing down the tube.

  She held it in place until the flow stopped. Only then did she grab a bottle of water and rinse her mouth.

  Once back behind the wheel, the tube stashed safely in her trunk where she would not notice the fumes it gave off, she started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge crept up to a quarter and con
tinued, hovering just below half. The station wagon probably had a larger tank, but she had succeeded in syphoning most of its contents into her own car.

  Diane did something very much out of character: she threw back her head and uttered an almighty WHOOP!

  Chapter Eleven

  It had been a few days since Peter had heard any sign of life outside; two days since the man.

  Electricity still coursed through the cables, water still ran clear from the taps, but he didn’t think either would for much longer. He had watched all the DVDs with varying degrees of interest and enjoyment. He had exhausted his supplies of fresh food. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and wind-driven rain spattered the cottage windows. A few degrees’ drop in temperature and that rain would turn to snow. He still had enough logs and coal to keep the cottage warm, but that was insufficient reason to stay. In truth, he was bored.

  There were also, of course, other considerations. Soon the others would be on the move, heading this way. He didn’t think they would set out just yet. They would need to make sure that the virus had finished its work. But neither would they want to delay for too long.

  Some would be coming by air and the longer they waited, the more chance of something going wrong with the ground and satellite guidance and communications systems upon which modern aircraft so heavily relied. Like the electricity and water supplies, these systems would continue to operate for a period without being maintained, but not indefinitely. Indeed, some would fail when the electricity failed and he was already anticipating that occurring.

  Nevertheless, it would be a few weeks yet until they began to arrive in any numbers. They were coming from all around the world and it might take up to a month for everyone to get here. Peter intended to be far away by then.

  For now, he felt it was time to get out and about. See if there were any survivors in the vicinity. It was a risk, but one that he wanted to take. Falling in love with Megan had taught him the pleasure—and pain—of loving another. Living with her for sixty years had taught him to care for others, for humans. If he could find some survivors, there was a chance that he could save them.

  Provided he could get them to believe him . . . That was a problem he would have to try to overcome as and when it arose. It wasn’t something that he could plan for so it was pointless trying to.

  Peter went into the kitchenette to make a cup of tea. Might as well, he thought, while he still could. Tea would be one thing he would miss when the electricity failed.

  As he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped, for now. He was still there.

  The man hadn’t been the first to try opening Peter’s front door, but the first to bang upon it when finding it securely locked. Peter had ignored the rattling of the door knob, but had paused the DVD he had been watching when the banging started. He sat there quietly, waiting for it to stop. When it had, Peter stood and crept upstairs to the tiny window in the bathroom at the front of the cottage. He peered through, but the street seemed to be deserted. He moved to the window in his bedroom, at the back of the cottage.

  Peter could see from here the back end of the tarpaulined Range Rover. As he looked down, a man came into view, moving around the vehicle, pulling at the tarpaulin. Peter stepped back a little into shadow so he would be hidden if the man happened to glance up.

  The man was in his forties; tall, balding, rough-shaven. He paused now and again to lean forward and cough, resting his hands on his knees and expelling large wads of phlegm as each fit of coughing tailed off. The man straightened and began tugging at the tarpaulin again, but it didn’t move. Peter knew that the man would have even less success in untying the knots in the string which he had used to secure the tarp—he had learned many things in his years in the merchant navy; tying knots that could not easily be undone was one of them. Of course, his knots would not defeat a keen blade, but the man did not seem to possess a knife for he gave up tugging at the tarpaulin and walked unsteadily to the outhouse.

  He grasped the padlock and tugged it. Peter stayed still, watching from the shadows. He was not in the least concerned that the man would be able to break the padlock open with his hands alone. The man let go of the padlock, turned to one side and vomited. He looked down at the small puddle for a few moments as if fascinated by what he saw there.

  Then he stepped to the side, like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. For a few paces, he stumbled sideways onto the small lawned area until his legs became entangled with each other and he fell. The man stayed where he was, flat on his back, arms spread wide in the shape of a crucifix.

  As Peter now looked from the window of the kitchenette, the man still lay there, face turned skywards. But he hadn’t moved since he’d fallen two days ago. There had, however, been some small changes. The man’s left hand was now missing three fingers. One of his cheeks had been torn away, leaving a flap of skin that fluttered in gusts of wind. Foxes, probably. Maybe dogs or cats, already going feral.

  The kettle boiled and Peter made a mug of tea. As he sipped it, he came to a decision. Tomorrow, he would venture out. He wouldn’t go far, only a two- or three-mile radius for now, taking in the neighbouring villages. Depending on what he found there, he could increase the range, but he would only explore the surrounding areas for the next two weeks.

  Then, he was leaving.

  * * * * *

  After the girl in the nightdress, Bishop did not find any more survivors in the hotel. He had explored every inch of the Park Plaza and spent his last night there sitting on the roof terrace, enjoying the balmy summer air.

  With nightfall, many areas of the city remained in darkness as the Grid started to fail. Within a night or two, the only lights would come from places, like hospitals, that had their own emergency generators. They, too, would fail soon enough with no-one to refuel them.

  Even as Bishop watched, lights in parts of the city winked out. He knew it was coming; sure enough, the floor-level subdued floodlights that gently lit the terrace flickered and faded.

  Bishop went inside and made his way down the staircase to the Ambassador Suite, the darkness relieved only by the soft glow of the hotel’s battery-powered emergency lighting. The keycard no longer worked, but that was all right since the room doors defaulted to unlocked in the event of total power failure.

  His suitcases remained packed. New clothes, food, drinks . . . he had been well provided by the hotel and hadn’t needed to open the cases except to add the jewellery and other precious items he had scavenged, though he preferred to think of it as salvaging. He had taken the automatic pistol from the holdall and spent a morning thoroughly cleaning and oiling it using the small kit he kept in a side pocket of the holdall.

  After a moment’s consideration, he clicked off the pistol’s safety and placed it back inside the holdall, but at the top. He would once more keep the holdall unzipped and within easy reach on the passenger seat next to him.

  Hoisting the holdall over his shoulder by its strap, a suitcase in each hand, Bishop made his way to the hotel basement and car park, stepping carefully in the dim light. His footsteps echoed in the cave-like space.

  The Mazda had not been tampered with. It was parked alongside some other expensive vehicles in a caged area of the car park. The electro-magnetic lock that secured the steel-mesh gate to the small compound had unlocked in the power failure. Bishop swung it open with a gentle kick.

  He unlocked the car and squeezed the cases into the boot space. The concierge had been true to his word and had raised the polyvinyl hood. Bishop decided to leave it in place. His only real concern about driving to the airport was encountering some crazy survivor who had managed to arm himself with a firearm. Leaving the hood up would make him a more difficult target.

  As he settled behind the wheel and gunned the accelerator, nodding to himself that the period of inaction did not sound as though it had done the engine any harm, he glanced at the holdall on the seat beside him and had second thoughts
. He reached in and extracted the pistol. He placed it in the door well next to his right thigh. From there, he would be able to draw and level the weapon with his right hand quickly and, if needs be, unobtrusively.

  Bishop set off for Melbourne Airport.

  He was familiar with the layout of the city and found alternative back-street routes with ease in the few places where abandoned vehicles blocked his path.

  During one of his detours, not far from the banks of the Yarra River, he approached a snarl of cars and vans that were blackened as though they had been torched. The wreckage partially blocked the road ahead, but the Mazda was small enough to squeeze past. He slowed down to do so and as the car eased past the last of the burnt-out vehicles, Bishop could see a pile of bodies lying in the road beyond the wreckage. There must have been twenty or thirty men and maybe half as many women thrown higgledy-piggledy on top of each other. At the same time that he noticed the bodies, the stench of putrefaction swept through the open window and he hurriedly closed it.

  Bishop had good reason to be glad that he had closed the window and had kept the hood on the Mazda when the passage of the car past the bodies disturbed the multitudes of flies that had settled on them and they rose buzzing into the air like a plague of locusts.

  He waited until he was well clear before winding down the window again.

  Not long after that he encountered a man. He emerged on the run from a side street and stopped in the road ahead of him. Bishop considered for a moment simply mowing him down, but curiosity got the better of him and he slowed down.

  The man looked to be in his late thirties, unshaven and straggle-haired. He watched Bishop approach, unmoving but poised to spring away like a startled hare.