The Human Condition

asked as he joined them. He'd been sat on his own but he preferred the company of others. Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder at him but didn't bother to answer.

    `Not a lot,' Proctor replied. `No surprise really.'

    `I wouldn't be too sure,' Elizabeth said, her face still pressed hard against the glass. She'd diverted her attention away from the horizon to the more immediate area around the base of the hotel building. `Have you seen what we've done?'

    Concerned, Wilcox peered down. The largest crowd of bodies that either of them had yet seen had gathered around the entrance to the building and were pushing their way inside through the huge hole the survivors had made with the bus last night.

    `Bloody hell,' he cursed under his breath.

    Proctor stood up and joined them. The sight of the massive gathering below them made his legs weaken with nerves. His mouth suddenly dry he swallowed hard and looked around for Bushell.

    `Barry,' he shouted. Bushell appeared from the master bedroom and walked over to where the others were stood.

    `What's the problem?' he asked anxiously. Proctor nodded down and Bushell looked towards the ground. `Christ almighty,' he sighed.

    `They can't get up here, can they?' Wilcox wondered timidly, concerned that he really was to blame for this unsettling new development. He looked over towards Bushell for an answer. Bushell shrugged his shoulders.

    `Don't know. Can't see why not. If enough of them keep pushing forward from behind, my guess is they'll start climbing eventually.'

    `But they won't get up here, will they?'

    Bushell shrugged his shoulders again.

    `This place has one main staircase in the middle of the building,' he explained, still staring deep into the vast crowd below them. `There are a couple of fire escapes, but they're blocked off as far as I know. To be honest, I didn't look into security too deeply when I got here. There didn't seem to be any need when the place still had a front door.'

    Wilcox glared at him for a moment.

    `So what are you saying?'

    `If there are enough of them and they keep coming, who knows what they'll be able to do. Give them enough time and there's every chance they'll manage to get up here.'

    `Can we still get out of here if we need to?'

    `Well, I think we can get back down no problem,' Bushell sighed, `but what we do once we're down there is anyone's guess. Thanks to you lot the building is surrounded. I can't see a way out.' `Let's all keep calm and try and get things into perspective,' Proctor said quietly, doing his best to prevent panic from spreading. `The chances of them getting to us are slim and we're so high up here that they'll probably disappear long before they even get close.'

    `You reckon?' Elizabeth snapped. `There doesn't seem to be much else happening in town this morning, does there? It looks like we're the main attraction.'

    Bushell, Elizabeth, Wilcox and Proctor stood side by side at the window and stared down. The streets below were filled with grey, staggering bodies and in the absence of any other distraction the whole damn rotting mass seemed to be making its way towards the hotel.

    There were already thousands of them down there, and thousands more were dangerously close.

DAY NINE

THE GARDEN SHED

    Lester Prescott thrives on order and uniformity. On many levels he has constantly proved himself to be an inept and dysfunctional human being. He finds it difficult to connect with people emotionally. Although he has tried, over the years he has proved himself to be a boring and dull husband, a passion-free and unimaginative lover and, perhaps worst of all, a disappointment both as a father and role model. Lester has, however, excelled in other areas of his life. His home is pristine and perfect and is situated in a relatively well-to-do residential area, he is well respected socially and is the most accurate and productive accountant ever to have been employed by the firm of Ashcroft, Jenkins and Harman. Lester Prescott thinks in black and white. Show a child a cardboard box and they'll turn it into a spaceship, a plane, a car, a robot suit or whatever else their unrestricted imaginations can create. As far as Lester Prescott has always been concerned, however, a cardboard box is, was and only ever could be a cardboard box.

    Prescott and his long-suffering wife Janice have been married for twenty-seven years and two months. For twenty-five of those years they've lived in the same semi-detached house a third