Purification

knowing full well that his question was a pointless one.
    Cooper had already dragged himself into the front of the vehicle and was now sitting alongside two suited soldiers.
    There were a further two troopers sitting in the back with Michael and three other survivors. Obviously soldiers who had been out fighting on the battlefield for some time, the survivors gave them as wide a berth as was possible in the close confines of the military vehicle. Their cumbersome protective suits were covered with a layer of mud, blood and dripping gore which had been picked up during the relentless fighting outside.
    Cooper didn’t even bother trying to reply to Michael’s question.
    ‘Do we just keep going all fucking night?’ Michael cursed, holding on to the back of Cooper’s seat as the armoured vehicle lurched down a sudden incline. He looked out through the blood-splattered glass in front of the driver. The view was frighteningly limited. ‘The motorhome’s got less than half a tank of fuel left,’ he continued, ‘we can’t keep going indefinitely.’
    When his comments were again met with silence from Cooper he slumped back angrily in the nearest seat and turned round to look out of the back of the vehicle. Behind them the pointless and costly battle continued to rage with frequent explosions and brilliant flashes of light illuminating the dead world for a fraction of a second at a time. The personnel carrier dipped awkwardly to one side as the ground over which they were driving became increasingly rough and uneven. Following close behind was the prison truck and, further back still, Michael was able to see the lights of the motorhome as it struggled to keep up.
    For a second he contemplated trying to stop the convoy so that he could try and get out and get to Emma and the others. But there were still too many bodies around to risk it. Far too many bodies.
    Michael held his head in his hands and screwed his eyes shut. He tried to clear from his head some of the nightmarish images he had witnessed in the last hour but it was impossible. Everything had happened so fast. How had it all gone so very wrong so quickly? A couple of hours ago the bunker door had still been sealed and they’d been relatively safe and protected. Now they were exposed and vulnerable again, running once more without direction or defence. He thought about the people he’d seen killed -
    several soldiers, Bernard Heath and at least one other survivor. It had all been so pointless. He couldn’t stop thinking about Bernard. He pictured him lying dead on the hanger floor, surrounded by scores of bodies and soldiers still trying to fight. Christ, he hoped he’d died quickly. He hoped he wasn’t suffering. Imagine lying helplessly in the middle of that nightmare, unable to move and slowly bleeding to death, just waiting for it all to be over…
    ‘We have to hit a road at some point,’ Cooper finally said, snatching Michael back from his dark, depressing thoughts again and bringing him crashing back to reality.
    ‘Then we’ll stop and try and work out where we are.’
    ‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ the other man snapped, ‘how can we stop? If we stop then we’re going to…’
    ‘If we’re sensible we can afford to stop for a little while,’ Cooper interrupted, his voice slightly louder - just enough to silence Michael’s emotional outburst. ‘We’ll stop and regroup and decide what to do next. If we’re quick enough there won’t be time for any more than just a few bodies to find us.’
    Michael nodded and grunted to show understanding but he wasn’t really listening. He was trying to keep himself calm and under control. Again he found himself looking out of the window at the motorhome struggling to move across the rough terrain. He was thinking about Emma and what he would do if anything happened to her. At the same time he watched the constant, dark movement all around them as bodies turned and traipsed through the night after the uncoordinated convoy. He was trying to get used to the bitterly painful fact that they were exposed and on the run again.
    In the prison truck Steve Armitage skilfully steered along the wide furrowed tracks that the military vehicle in front of him had left behind. At his side was Phil Croft, watching the scene like a hawk, terrified and shaking with nerves but still alert. In the back of the truck more survivors sat huddled in the darkness, not knowing where they were now or where they were going,