The Human Condition

going to thrive without us here to screw it up.'

`The human condition?' Wilcox sneered. `What the hell are you talking about?'

    Bushell shrugged his shoulders.

    `I can't think of another name for it. I was looking out of the window last night watching birds flying from building to building...'

    `Fucking hell,' Jones interrupted, `he's lost it. I've long had my doubts about him but I think he's finally lost it...'

    `I was watching the birds,' Bushell continued, ignoring him, `and I started thinking about the difference between us and the animals. Seems to me there's one huge difference that doesn't often get talked about.' He paused to give the others opportunity to make a cheap joke or to throw another insult in his direction. Unusually they were silent. `The difference is,' he explained, `that we know we're eventually going to die and they don't. Animals strut about the place thinking they're going to go on forever, we spend our lives worrying about how they're going to end. That's what I mean when I talk about the human condition. We're too preoccupied thinking about death to enjoy life.'

    There followed an unusually long moment of contemplation and reflection which was only disturbed when Proctor remembered the bodies on the stairs.

    `That's all well and good,' he said anxiously, `but what are you going to do now? Are you going to wait for the bodies to get in here, or are you going to kill yourself and get it over with?'

    `Neither.'

    `What then?'

    `Get rid of a few bodies if I can and try and slow them down a little. Then sit here and drink myself stupid with what's left of the bottles Paul and Elizabeth kindly fetched for us last night.'

    `And how do you propose to slow them down?'

    `I've been thinking about that too. We've already established that they'll keep moving forward until they can't go any further, right?' `Right?' Elizabeth agreed.

    `So instead of letting them stop here on this floor where we are, let's help them go a little further.'

    `What are you suggesting?'

    `Lead them up onto the roof.'

    `And?'

    `And that's it. What they do up there is their business. If they stay true to form they'll follow each other up, one after another, until there's no room left.'

    `Then what?'

    `Then they'll either start forcing themselves back down, or they'll start forcing themselves over the edge!'

    `Brilliant,' Jones grinned. `Absolutely fucking brilliant!'

    He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was the man in a dress really suggesting they spend their last few days sitting in a luxury hotel suite watching three week old bodies push each other off the roof?

    `It's worth a go, isn't it?' Bushell smiled.

    `Okay,' Jones said, surprising even himself, `let's do it.'

    The roof of the building was accessed from a narrow staircase which led off an unremarkable looking doorway at the top of the main stairs. With the bodies continuing to make unsteady progress towards them, Jones and Bushell crept up towards the hatch that would lead them outside.

    `It's locked,' Bushell grunted as he tried to push the door open.

    `Don't you have the key? You've got keys to everywhere else.'

    `Sorry.'

    `Smash it open then.'

    `What about the noise?'

    Jones looked down the staircase, back into the heart of the building. Even from this distance he could see indistinct, shuffling movement.

    `Bit late to worry about that,' he mumbled.

    With limited space to manoeuvre his bulk, Bushell swung himself back and then crashed his shoulder against the door. It rattled in its frame but didn't open. Another couple of attempts were equally unsuccessful.

    `Let me,' Jones said, pushing the other man to the side. He launched a barrage of well aimed kicks at the lock. The wood began to splinter and crack. Another few kicks and it flew open.

    The two men climbed out onto the roof. A phenomenal wind threatened to blow them off their feet. `Jesus,' Jones said, having to shout to make himself heard, `bit blustery, isn't it.'

    Bushell didn't answer. He was already busying himself with trying to pull the door off its hinges. For the bodies to be able to keep moving forward the doorway would need to remain clear. The only way to make sure that happened was to remove the door completely. Jones picked up a discarded strip of metal from the roof and, using it as a jemmy, began to prise at the hinges. A couple of minutes of grunting and groaning and the wood splintered and gave way.

    `That's it,' Bushell said, dragging the now