Aftermath

you caught us by the skin of your teeth.”
    “Anyway,” Michael said, leaning back against the cabin wall and watching Harte intently, “more to the point, why are you here?”
    “You’re making a habit of abandoning your mates, aren’t you?” Harry added unnecessarily.
    Harte finished his water, wiped his face again, and tried to explain.
    “It’s Jas,” he said. “The fucker’s completely lost the plot. We were getting ready to clear out and he went ape-shit. We were just trying to get our share of the supplies and he flew off the handle. Before we knew what was happening there were guns going off and he was fighting with Jackson and all sorts.”
    Michael looked at Harry. “Sounds about right from what Cooper and Donna said. That’s the guy who thought living on an island was a bad idea? Cooper said there’d probably be some trouble with him.”
    “You can say that again.”
    “So what exactly happened?”
    “I didn’t see it all—”
    “Too busy plotting your escape?”
    Harte ignored Harry’s cheap jibe and continued. “Jas reckons the island is too restrictive. Thinks it’s too cut off.”
    “Doesn’t make any difference these days,” Michael said quickly. “Where you are is far less important than—”
    “Listen, you don’t have to convince me,” Harte interrupted, “I’ve already had this argument. I was planning to go with you, remember? Look, no one really knows what the best long-term option is anymore, no one can, but most folks seemed to have decided that going with you guys was the safer option.”
    “And this Jas wouldn’t let them?”
    “That’s about it.”
    “So what do we do now?” Harry asked. “Just head back home like we agreed?”
    “You can’t,” Harte said, an uncharacteristic urgency in his voice. “The only reason people aren’t here is because they couldn’t get away, not because they didn’t want to.”
    “And what about you? Are you just here because you were still hoping to catch a lift?”
    Harte shook his head and looked at both of the other two men. He wasn’t sure what they thought of him. Did they believe anything he said?
    “I came back because I want your help,” he said. “I know I ran away before and yes, I did it because I was a coward and I didn’t want to go back to the castle. But you’ve got to believe me, this is different. My friends are trapped back there, and I want to get them out.”

 
     
    33
     
    The castle was a hive of frightened activity. The beaten-up bus sat useless in the middle of the courtyard like a beached whale. Its other tires had been slashed to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere, and all the supplies which had been loaded onboard had been removed. All around, people carried out Jas’s orders, passed to them by Kieran, Bayliss, Ainsworth, and Field. Field himself stood guard in front of the gate, a rifle held where everyone could see it, his presence alone enough to deter anyone from trying to get out. He occasionally barked instructions at Howard and Bob, who were shoveling the remains of the dead into wheelbarrows, then dumping them into the overfull cesspit. They were both exhausted, too tired to even think about rebelling now. Jackson’s body had been taken over to the cesspit area too. His corpse had been left by the outside wall, wrapped in a tarpaulin and dumped next to where Steve Morecombe had been buried a week and a half earlier. No one would notice the stink over there, Field had said.
    Jas watched the proceedings alone from the top of the gatehouse, keen to put as much distance as possible between himself and everyone else. It had taken him more than an hour and two cans of lager to stop shaking after Jackson’s death. He was overwhelmed by a raft of unexpected emotions: guilt, fear, anger, remorse … but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t my fault. What’s done is done , he kept telling himself. I need to get this lot back on track now. Let them forget about the helicopter and that bloody island and all that bullshit. Another few weeks and we can move out of here .
    But he kept coming back to one dark thought.
    I’ve killed a man .
    He tried to focus on something—anything—else, but it was impossible. He hadn’t actually sunk the knife into the other man’s chest, but he may as well have. Over the months he’d destroyed untold hundreds of those wretched cadavers which walked the dead world outside, dispatching even the least decayed, most human of them