Disintegration

standing a little way back, leaning against the side of the bus, trying to convince the others that he was, in some strange way, helping. Hollis picked up a tray of food but stopped before climbing on board.
    “You might want to try getting something we actually need while you’re in there,” he said as Harte staggered toward him carrying more beer.
    “There’s plenty of room,” he replied, indignant.
    “Don’t forget about the others. Not everyone drinks, you know.”
    “We are thinking about the others. Look!” Webb smirked, holding up a bumper-size pack of disposable nappies. “For Ellie’s plastic baby!”
    Stokes let out a roar of laughter. Hollis was not impressed.
    “You know what I mean.”
    “There’s plenty of room,” Harte said again, clearly irritated. “When those lazy bastards actually come out here and start taking risks like we do every week, then I’ll start giving what they need a little more consideration. Until then, we’ll get the essentials, but I need booze. Me and Stokes are having a competition to see whose liver rots first.”
    “He’s got a point,” Lorna said quietly as she slipped past and dumped the food she’d been carrying.
    “I know,” Hollis admitted.
    “There’s loads of clothes and bedding back there,” Jas said as he stumbled toward them, his arms laden with bags. “They’ve got everything.”
    “Then we should get everything,” Stokes suggested, still keeping his distance from the workers, “and quick. The population are starting to show an interest.”
    “What?” Lorna asked, immediately concerned. “Where?”
    He pointed toward the back fence. There was a hole where several wooden slats had broken over time. Lorna crouched down and peered through the gap. Stokes was right. She could see a mass of spindly, unsteady legs on the other side of the fence. Hollis jogged back to where he’d left the van parked at the other end of the track. There was an unsurprisingly large crowd of corpses gathering outside the front of the store too.
    “Many?” Stokes asked when he returned.
    “Enough,” he answered, picking up more food. “We should get this lot shifted and get home.”

 
     
    7
     
    It was just after three in the afternoon, but it felt much later. The sun was beginning to sink lazily below the horizon, drenching the flats with hazy, warm orange light. The unexpected brightness and heat indoors was almost enough to give the illusion of it being an August afternoon, not postapocalyptic late October.
    The frenzied activity of earlier in the day had slowed to a virtual standstill. Since the looters had returned the group had scattered themselves throughout the building, each person taking a little treasure for themselves—some food or drink, clean bedding or fresh clothes. Jas sat alone in the corner of his room. Next to him the remains of the best meal he’d eaten in days was spread over the dirty carpet. It had all been cold, processed, high-sugar, nutrition-free crap but he didn’t care. It tasted relatively good and it filled his stomach and that, he decided, was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last felt this full.
    The room was becoming dark save for a few slender shards of incandescent light which squeezed between the boards, covering a single narrow window just above his head, illuminating strips of peeling, water-stained wallpaper. Despite its shabby appearance, Jas liked the isolation of this particular flat and retreated to it often. One day he might make an effort and drag some sticks of furniture in here, he decided. Until then he was happy to relax on an inflatable camping mattress. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. The effort of the morning had worn him out. Six weeks on and he was still finding it impossible to get used to this stop-start, stop-start existence. Life either ran at a snail’s pace or hurtled along at breakneck speed and there didn’t seem to be any in-between. Truth be told, he preferred it when things were moving quickly. He found it easier to lurch from crisis to crisis than to sit alone in cold, empty rooms like this and think. Because thinking, he’d discovered, inevitably meant remembering, and that still hurt as much as it had on the first day. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He carried it everywhere with him, even though he had no need for it anymore. He took out the last remaining photograph of