The Human Condition

won't we?'

    Next morning. First light. Proctor picked up his camera and nervously walked out of the main doors and across the landing, intending to carry out his self-imposed daily duty and ascertain how far below them the advancing bodies now were. He walked out to the staircase and leant over the banister. He immediately pulled his head back. There was no longer any need for cameras and fire-hoses. He could see them. They still had several flights of stairs to climb, but he could now see the first few dead. He ran back to tell the others.

    `How far?' Elizabeth asked as he burst back into the room breathlessly.

    `Not far.'

    `How long?'

    `Not long.'

    `More specific?'

    Proctor shrugged his shoulders.

    `Couple of hours maximum.'

    Doreen began to sob with fright.

    `Shut up you silly cow,' Wilcox snapped with his characteristic lack of concern and compassion, `all you're going to do is get them up here quicker.'

    `So what do we do now?' Proctor asked, his face suddenly ashen grey and emotionless. `Do we just sit and wait?'

    `You might as well,' a voice suddenly said from behind him, `but I'm not ready to. Not yet, anyway.' The survivors turned around. For the first time that morning Barry Bushell emerged from his bedroom. He was dressed as a woman again, complete with blond wig, full make-up and high-heeled boots. He stormed into the main part of the suite with a bright confidence, completely at odds with the others who sat around dejectedly, each contemplating the decisions that they would soon have to make and the horrors they were about to face.

    `So what are you planning?' Elizabeth asked, looking Bushell up and down and admiring his nerve if nothing else.

    `I did a lot of thinking last night,' he explained.

    `And...?' Jones pressed.

    `I tried to see if I was wrong. I wanted to know whether I've been looking at everything the wrong way.'

    `And?' he pressed again.

    `And I think I'm right,' he sighed. `And the more I think about it, the more I realise that it's hopeless. We're really up against it and I can't see a way out. I'm not just talking about the hotel here, I'm talking about what's left of our lives in general.'

    `What do you mean?'

    Bushell thought carefully for a moment.

    `Whatever we do, wherever we go, we're fucked.'

    `Nice.'

    `Seriously, just stop and think about it. I'm not being defeatist here, I'm just being honest. Whatever we decide to do, it's going to be a struggle. We're going to have to fight for absolutely everything, and that's bloody stupid when you think there's probably only a few people left. The world's our oyster, but I don't think we can take any of it. What does that say to you?'

    Blank, confused looks. Silence.

    `Like you said,' Elizabeth mumbled, `we're fucked.'

    `Exactly. The end's coming and there's nothing we can do about it. The only thing we have any control over is what we do with the time we have left.'

    `But we don't know how long that is,' Proctor protested.

    `We never have done,' Bushell argued. `Seems to me that we can spend out last days and weeks hiding in the shadows out there, starving to death, running from place to place and freaking out every time someone farts...'

    `Or...?'

    `Or we can just stop trying so hard to survive and just let things happen naturally. Go out with a little dignity.'

    `You're talking crap,' Wilcox protested. `Am I? Am I really? Do you really think you're supposed to survive all of this? Don't you think there are some things that are bigger than us...?'

    `Please don't start talking about God and divine retribution and all that crap,' Proctor sighed. `I've given all of that up. It's taken me until now to finally see what a load of old shite all that really was.'

    Bushell shook his head and smiled and brushed away a stray wisp of long, blond hair.

    `That's not what I'm talking about at all. What I'm saying is that whatever happened here was the twenty-first century equivalent of the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs.'

    `What?' Jones exclaimed. `Now you've really lost me.'

    `This is our ice-age. This is our apocalypse. This is the end. We should just accept it and let nature take its course.' Bushell's comments were met with an ominous silence. Keen to press his point he spoke again. `Our problem is,' he sighed thoughtfully, `we've all fallen foul of the programme. We think we're bloody superior. We think the planet can't go on without us. It's part and parcel of the human condition. Truth is the world's