Disintegration

Jas answered quickly.
    “Like hell. Doesn’t look like nothing.”
    “Just piss off, Webb,” he said. “It’s none of your business.”
    “Yes, it is. That’s my stuff you’re taking.”
    “It’s our stuff,” he corrected him.
    “Whatever. Point is, it’s not your stuff, you thieving bastard. I’ve been watching you for the last half hour. I know where you’re stashing it.”
    Jas sighed dejectedly. How could he explain to this stupid little shit what he was doing without him thinking he was simply creaming off the best of their supplies for himself—which, if Jas was completely honest with himself, he was. Did he need to explain himself at all?
    “Look,” he began, deciding he should give it a shot and see how Webb reacted, “at the moment everything we’ve got is scattered around this place. Most of it’s up by the restaurant and the conference room, lots more still out in the bus.”
    “So you thought you’d help yourself?”
    “All I’m doing,” he replied, determined not to give Webb opportunity to argue, “is putting some of it somewhere else. What if there’s a fire and half the building goes up in smoke? What if someone gets sick like Anita and Ellie and we have to shut ourselves away from them? What if the bodies get in here?”
    “Bullshit,” Webb spat, full of animosity. “You’re a liar. You’re not going to tell anyone else where you’re putting this stuff. You’re taking it for yourself, you fucker.”
    “Shut up,” Jas said, struggling to remain calm and not overreact. He’s not worth it, he silently told himself. Unable to suppress his anger, he dropped the box he’d been carrying and moved threateningly toward Webb.
    “You’re a fucking thieving bastard,” Webb continued, his anger unabated and his confidence buoyed by booze. “Wait till I tell the others what you’re up to.”
    Jas lunged for Webb and grabbed him by the neck. After checking that no one else was around he pushed him up against the nearest wall, knocking his head back with a satisfying thump.
    “Do yourself a favor and shut up,” he said, his voice disarmingly calm. “You’re not going to tell anyone anything.”
    “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Because if you do,” he whispered, moving even closer so that his face was now just millimeters from Webb’s, “I’ll tell them what you did to Stokes.”
    Webb immediately stopped struggling. He mouthed a few silent words but, for a second, he was unable to respond.
    “Didn’t do anything,” he eventually mumbled. “I didn’t do anything.”
    “Yes, you did,” Jas said ominously. “I saw you.”
    Not waiting for a response, he picked up his box and disappeared back into the building, leaving Webb standing useless and alone outside.

 
     
    41
     
    “If there’s one thing we’ve got plenty of here,” Ginnie said, her arms fully loaded, “it’s white sheets.”
    Hollis moved to let her through and watched as she disappeared outside to find Martin and Caron. Gordon followed close behind. Those two seemed to be attached at the hip, he thought as he pushed past him, desperate to catch up. Finally Lorna came through, her hair tied up in a long ponytail, struggling with yet more linen.
    “Here, let me,” he said, holding the door open. She smiled briefly, but didn’t say anything. Hollis ducked into the kitchen to pick up another pile of sheets, then followed the rest of them out.
    The early morning cloud had remained but had steadily lightened from dark gray to a brighter white as the sun tried to break through. It wasn’t much after eight but it felt much, much later. Funny how our body clocks seem to have synchronized themselves with the sun and the moon, he thought as he walked across the lawn toward the others. Previously he’d have got up when it was time to go to work and gone to bed when he’d finished watching TV or come in from the pub. Now the only thing which happened with any regularity was the steady progress of the sun across the sky, and they’d all matched their daily routines to the light. Up at dawn, ready to sleep by dusk.
    Martin was flapping like an overprotective mother hen. Caron seemed to have a better grasp of the task at hand.
    “No, Martin,” she protested, “we need to start over here and put the letters the other way up to how you’re suggesting. Down the lawn, not across it, see? H … E … L … P…”
    As she spoke she pointed to where she thought each letter should go.
    “She’s