Aftermath

went home again,” he said under his breath. “They’re just people. Just people like us. We’ve all lost everything.”
    Kieran left the office and went out onto the shop floor. The bodies around the window reacted, immediately trying to move closer toward him. Michael watched Kieran as he walked into a central area of relatively clear space and waited. One by one, those corpses which could still move gradually made their way toward him. And, one by one, he destroyed them.
    *   *   *
     
    Howard found a van in a dry shelter around the back of the building, half-loaded with car parts, ready for a delivery run which never happened. He carefully removed the driver—who had died half-in and half-out of his vehicle—then turned the key in the ignition, expecting nothing. When the engine burst into life he yelled out with delight, surprising even himself with the uninhibited volume of his voice after so many weeks of enforced silence. The beautiful mechanical sound had an immediate revitalising effect on the others.
    “There’s still a few hours before dark,” Lorna said as they grouped around the van. “We could be at the port and away before long.”
    No one replied. No one needed to. Within minutes they were ready to leave.

 
     
    55
     
    The constant wind and rain refused to let up, battering everything, buffeting the sides of the van as Harte drove themtoward the center of Chadwick.
    “Head straight for the marina,” Michael said, nervously stating the obvious.
    “What else was I going to do?” Harte quickly replied. “Stop for a pizza?”
    He was struggling to see out through the rain, windscreen wipers on full speed. Michael sat in the seat next to him, his stomach churning with nerves. Had the others got away safely before the weather had broken? Had they got away at all? If they’d delayed leaving for any reason, then there was a strong possibility they’d still be here, under cover somewhere, waiting out the storm. Worse still, what if the storm had hit during their crossing? That didn’t bear thinking about.
    Harte drove down roads he’d followed many times before, past things he recognized and which sparked strong memories: the petrol station he’d used as cover to make his escape from Jas and the others, and The Minories—the shopping mall they’d been looting that day. And as they approached the town, he looked out into the distance toward the apartments where he’d spent a couple of weeks alone in the midst of all this chaos. Strange now, he thought, how he almost felt a kind of fondness for those days. Things had generally been easier while he’d been on his own, much less complicated, but it hadn’t been an easy ride. The solitude had been alternately stimulating and soul-destroying. It was by no means perfect, but there was a lot to be said for the isolation. He could also see that the helicopter had gone. That had to be a go sign, didn’t it?
    Harte tried to drive down the route he knew best to get down to the marina, but he couldn’t get through. The roads were blocked. Many more slow-moving corpses had dragged themselves down the narrow streets than had been here last time.
    “We might as well leave the van,” Michael suggested. “It’s not far now. We’ll get there quicker on foot.”
    Harte stopped the van and before anyone else had chance to move or say anything, Michael was out and running toward the marina. He sprinted down the road, skidding in gore, occasionally changing direction to avoid the odd corpse which desperately reached out for him. The others followed as best they could, their line becoming spaced out as large gaps appeared between the fittest and the slowest. Caron, Hollis, and Lorna brought up the rear. Lorna refused to leave the other two behind, and they were the last to reach the water’s edge. There they found the others. Howard, Kieran, and Harte had stopped short of Michael, who stood alone at the end of the jetty, hands on his knees, doubled-over with effort and breathing hard. Even from a distance they could sense his pain.
    The marina had been destroyed.
    Every boat—every single boat, no matter how large or small—had been damaged beyond repair. And this wasn’t storm damage: everywhere they looked they saw ruptured hulls, broken masts, slashed sails … several smaller vessels had been burned out and were now just floating wrecks. Others had sunk, parts of them still jutting out of the water, reminiscent of the way the bones