T W O
An hour after dawn, the survivor twitched. He slowly lifted his arm, as if checking he still could, then touched the gash on the side of his head. He drew in a sharp, painful breath.
He opened his eyes.
`Don't move,' Phil said, giving his voice a bit of a snarl. He needed to seem as scary as possible. For the minute, anyway.
`I won't… my-' The survivor suddenly choked. `Mask,' he gasped, ` I can't…' He wrenched himself up off of the ground and onto his knees, his whole body juddering, until he was heaving blood-tinged phlegm onto the road.
Phil connected the dots and yanked the fabric from last night out of his pocket, pushing it into the survivor's hand. Then, whilst the survivor couldn't move, picked up the shovel from where he left it.
The survivor gasped a few times, then slowly sat up, holding the cloth in place. `Why aren't I dead?' It was muffled.
Phil glanced over his shoulder again and decided to speak fast. `I'm gonna die if I'm alone out here. So will you.'
The survivor flinched slightly. He knew what things hid in the dark.
`We can stick together for a while, both find new colonies and never see each other again.'
The survivor snorted, tying the mask around the back of his head. `I'd actually rather be dead.' Now, none of his face could be seen. Not even his eyes, behind those filthy, scuffed goggles.
Phil pressed the shovel into the survivor's throat. `Really?'
There was a long, long silence. `I guess I could stay with you. To find a new colony.'
Phil moved the shovel. `I'm keeping this.'
`Fuck you.'
The survivor said it in the same tone as he might have said "thank you". Phil shrugged, and turned back to the airport. It had burned itself out overnight. The sight of the empty, charred shell made his insides wrench.
`Did you kill all of them?'
Even though Phil was certain what the answer would be, he had to make sure.
The survivor laughed, the sound of it flinty and harsh. `Yeah.' He stood up. `Why? It isn't like you care.'
`I care,' Phil said quietly.
`Where are we going, then?' The survivor carried on like Phil hadn't said a word. `Do you know somewhere?'
`Well… that depends. Do you know how many humans are left in town?'
`Yep.' The survivor pointed to himself. `My group was the last.'
`You're kidding.'
He snorted. `Nope. So. You'd better have a plan.'
Anger flared up from the pit of Phil's stomach. `I do, actually. Manchester. I think there's colonies there. For both of us.' Most of the other big cities got flattened, but Manchester had stayed intact. Kind of. And even though it was useless, Phil needed to go home as much as he needed to eat when he was hungry. Just once, before something killed him. Once was enough.
`Manchester.' The survivor said it slowly, then laughed again. `Not the worst place. I won't kill you 'till we get there.'
Well… technically, until they got there was better than before they got there. `Deal.' Phil held out his hand. The survivor looked at it and rolled his eyes.
Before they left, he went back into the airport, praying that the food hadn't been incinerated. It was a deathtrap in there, charred beams all over the place. He could barely see through the haze of smoke.
Once, he came across a big pile of ash, with a smaller pile of ash next to it. Lydia's tarnished earrings were lying beside the small one. His dull heart-ache got worse. At least he never saw Amy or Adam.
The airport Burger King had a walk-in freezer at the back. It wasn't cold, because the electricity had been gone for so long, but it was strong and protected their food.
The stench of burnt meat wafted out of the metal room, and Phil gagged.
Black, cracked body parts hung down from the ceiling on hooks. He covered his nose with his sleeve and pulled the arms and legs down. Everything else was too awkward to carry.
When he finally got outside of the airport, the survivor was nowhere to be found.
He peered at the buildings and the cars, looking for a flicker of movement. He almost hollered a name, but then realised he didn't know what the survivor's name was. And yelling "human" would just sound stupid. What was he, an alien out of Doctor Who?
He settled for yelling, `Hey!' instead.
`Calm yourself, I'm here.' There was a squeaking, rattling noise. Phil looked to his right and saw him coming down the street, pushing a shopping trolley filled with cans of food. Then he looked at what was in Phil's arms. `Excuse me. What the hell are you holding?'
Phil shifted awkwardly. `Um, what's your name?' He asked, changing the subject.
The survivor glared at him. `You are not bringing those.'
`What else am I meant to do?'
He kicked at the road, sending grey spraying into the air. `Jesus Christ.'
`They're not your friends,' Phil lied, shifting the limbs a little. `This is from last week.' The survivor glared at him.
`That isn't true, because you wouldn't have killed my lot if you still had food.'
`Either I bring these,' Phil snapped, losing his patience, `or I'll have to eat you. Can you just suck it up, please?' And he dumped the cooked arms and legs into the shopping trolley.
They walked in dead silence for a very, very long time. Phil stared at his feet for most of it, watching one boot shuffle in front of the other. It was surprisingly mesmerizing.
`Dan,' a voice mumbled. Phil blinked at the human beside him, who was kicking a stone along the road. `My name's Dan Howell.'
`I'm Phil Lester.'
That was the extent of their conversation.
After a while, the light began to fade, just as they reached the fly-over under the motorway. Behind them, the dark, lifeless buildings started to look a lot more threatening. Phil shuffled his feet. `Do you have a lighter or anything?'
`Yeah. I set fire to your airport, remember?'
Phil picked up half a brick, channeling all his anger into turning it to dust. Behind him, Dan got a fire going. The light threw its flickering circle for a good metre. By the time that happened, night had properly fallen.
Phil sat inside the circle, his knees pressed into his ribs, the skin on his shoulders prickling and tightening. The feeling spread down his spine. Across from him, Dan was glancing over his shoulder and trying to pretend he wasn't.
`I'll take the first lookout. If you want,' Phil said. Dan said nothing, but after a beat lay down, using his rucksack as a pillow. He was snoring almost instantly.
A few minutes later, Phil realised he really should have let Dan take the first shift. He hadn't slept for… he was too tired to actually work it out, but more than twenty-four hours, at least.
For an hour or so, the greying outlines of the road and buildings were visible, but soon the inky black swallowed them up as well. There was nothing outside of the flickering circle, and the sleeping human on its other side.
Phil twitched whenever he thought he heard something, but there was nothing sliding through the shadows. No smell, either…
`Could you shut up?' Dan said into his rucksack.
Briefly, Phil imagined rolling Dan into the dark and waiting to see if anything got him, but managed to restrain himself. `What do you mean?'
`Humming. You were humming.'
`Oh. What song?' There was a low moan from the dark, and both of them jumped, waiting and keeping their eyes trained on the long road. But nothing happened. It was the wind. Yeah, had to be.
`How the hell would I know?' Dan snapped, obviously recovering first.
`Forget it.' Phil turned around and rested his head on his knuckles, ignoring the pain in his chest. If Dan wanted to be an insufferable, self-centred, irritating bastard, who couldn't even show any courtesy after killing Phil's entire colony, then-
`Interrupted by Fireworks.' Phil looked over his shoulder, seeing Dan had leaned up and was watching him. `It's from an old video game.'
The words triggered a memory. Wrapped in a blanket with only his hands sticking out, plonked in front of the PS1, in his old flat, a warm bag of microwave popcorn against his hip. `Oh. Yeah. I remember now.'
`You remember?' Surprise was etched into Dan's face. `I didn't think you…' He stopped talking abruptly and began staring at his hands, but the hurt grew inside of Phil, bigger and bigger, flopped over and curdled into anger.
`Your turn to take watch,' he said, yanking off his raincoat and punching it into a pillow. Dan jumped and took a breath.
`Just leave me alone,' Phil said before his companion could get a word out. ` And you'd better not let the fire go out. I bet you'll fall asleep,' he added spitefully, not waiting to see Dan's reaction, and squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw stars.
It was the usual set of dreams: the first was about his family. They were always on a train platform, and for some reason, Phil knew that if they got on the train they'd be gone forever. He was trapped in the ticket booth, watching through the glass. When the train pulled in, he would begin screaming and crying, pounding on the window. It never worked. They always got on the train and vanished.
After that, he'd dream about normal life; chasing someone down and chopping them up, stuff like that, but always with dry, choking sobs.
But that night, a new one appeared. Phil was sat behind the customer service desk in the airport, with a leg cramp. Standing over him, looking in the opposite direction, was a shape, a silhouette in the cloud of smoke. He had to stay silent, or it would hear him. It- she- was searching for him.
He shifted slightly, trying to ease the cramp, and his boots squeaked against the tiles.
Her head snapped to the side, a full ninety degrees and her body didn't move an inch- Phil tried to run but he was frozen, watching her lean down, with her eyes filled with blood and her tongue lolling on her chin-
`Hey, wake up.'
Phil moaned, his head pounding. His nerves were still jangling with the leftover terror of the dream.
The voice came again. `Wake up.' A foot prodded into his belly. Phil realised dimly that he was trembling all over, and knew that if he fell back asleep, then he'd go straight back to the nightmare. He forced his eyes open.
Someone stared down at him through their scuffed-white goggles. `What the fuck were you doing? You were choking or something.' Dan. His name was Dan.
`Doesn't matter.' Phil's vision went wobbly and dark, and his stomach twisted. The pain began running up and down his body. `Where's the trolley?' He didn't get an answer quick enough. `Where?' The word came out like a fist banged onto a table. Dan stepped back slightly.
`I hid it over there.' He was pointing towards a tangle of brown sticks. A silvery handle gleamed among them.
As he ate, Phil took a guess at what Dan was doing; turning away, his nose and mouth squishing up, probably wishing he still had his shovel so he could cut Phil's head off.
What Dan was actually doing was kicking out the fire, and glancing over at the zombie curled up on his knees, wondering whether he should be blamed for trying to survive.
A few bites later, the hunger was gone. Phil wiped his mouth on his sleeve, quivering slightly. When he felt better, he pulled the trolley out of the dead hedge, hearing the tins clatter together. He picked up one of them and turned it over, smiling as he recognised the old brand.
Dan reached over and plucked it out of his hand, tugging at the ring-pull and drinking the baked beans like they were Coke. He gulped a mouthful of muddy water from a banged-up bottle. Then Dan scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving it dirtier than it had started, and pulled his mask back up. `Okay. Which way are we going?'
`We're that way,' Phil said, pointing at the slope. `That road leads onto the M1. Then we'll follow it and-'
`Turn off at the M6, then carry on down the M56,' Dan said smoothly.
`Show off,' Phil muttered, beginning to pull the trolley up the hill to the road above. It looked like the weather was going to turn on them. It had been a dry few months, but the sky looked blacker than usual around the already dark horizon.
`Firstly, I wasn't, and secondly, why's showing off a bad thing? I bet it's just the word people use when they want to shut someone up or make them feel bad.' The trolley became a little lighter as Dan helped, pushing it from the other end.
Phil flicked his eyebrows up. `You've been called a show-off a lot, then?'
A little noise came out of the human's mouth. `Something like that.' It pulled a laugh out of Phil.
Suddenly, the trolley became a lot heavier, slipped out of Phil's hands and went crashing right back down the bank.
He swore. `What happened?! Oh my God…' there was a trail of arms, legs and cans of baked beans, all scattered down the slope.
About halfway down, Dan was on the ground, his teeth gritted and breathing fast. He was holding his ankle. `Slipped,' he hissed. `On the ash.'
`You're kidding.'
Dan glowered at him from under his eyelashes. `Yes, Phil. I let the trolley fall, meaning we'd have to do this shit all over again, just to mess with you.' He let go of his ankle and began clapping, then winced and held it again. `I'm fine, thanks for asking.'
`Oh, shut up.' His glasses were spider-webbed with cracks; Phil could barely see Dan from where he was, but even with his dysfunctional eyes, that ankle didn't look too good.
Carefully, just in case he slipped and broke his leg or something, Phil edged down the slope until he was sat next to Dan. Up close, it looked even worse, and Phil could tell how much pain Dan was trying to breathe through. `I need to take your boot off… don't move.' Slowly, Phil undid the laces and eased off the tatty hiking boot, and then peeled away the crusty sock underneath.
The skin was mottled purple-black under the layer of dirt, and was deepening by the second. It was at a weird angle, too. Phil hissed through his teeth.
`Can you move your foot? Round in a circle.' He moved his wrist in a circular motion. `Like that.'
Dan just about managed it, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and still breathing fast.
`It probably isn't broken…' Phil murmured, mostly to himself. Dan bit out a laugh.
`Oh, that's good. I'm just in actual agony, then.'
`You'll live. You just need crutches or something,' he said eventually.
`Is there ibuprofen left anywhere?'
`Um.' Phil leaned down and saw that Dan's ankle was so swollen it looked waterlogged. `I'll find something. Maybe.' Then a really, really awkward thought occurred to him. His hands were cold. They'd probably be better than an ice pack.
Then Phil imagined having that particular conversation, and wanted to rip his intestines out himself.
`You're just leaving me here?' Dan called down, the moment Phil got onto the road.
The already familiar irritation rose up from Phil's stomach. What was he meant to do for this person? He spun around. `You wanted painkillers. I'm finding you painkillers. You can't walk, can you?'
`I mean, I don't have a weapon or anything.'
Both of them looked at the crumbling buildings and old, burnt-out buses, stranded on the verges around the road. If a pack of animals attacked Dan, and he didn't have a weapon…
So, this would mean trusting him. Specifically, trusting him to not throw the shovel at his neck like a very long, very lethal frisbee. Trusting Dan, who'd already tried to kill him twice.
Phil hesitated, his hands tightening on the handle.
Suddenly, Dan lifted up his head, something new in his eyes. They said, I won't do anything. They said, please don't leave me. Give me a weapon, at least.
Something inside Phil's chest twisted. Pity? Guilt? Either way, it made him reckless.
`Argh- fine.' Phil tossed the shovel onto the slope, and kept his eyes trained on Dan's hands. Dan didn't say thank you (of course), but drew the shovel close to his chest.
After he'd put the trolley upright and sorted out the gammy wheel, Phil collected up his food and Dan's food, then dumped it all in, leaving it behind a car. There wasn't any point in hiding it back in the hedge. If any dogs were hunting, they'd smell it.
`I'll look over there,' Phil called, waving his hand in the direction of the old flats. One of them was bound to hold something.
Dan nodded. His face was set and blank again, like the shutters had come down. He'd been vulnerable for precisely two seconds- to get what he wanted- and now Dan The Murdering Bastard was back.
Phil stalked off down the road, weaving around the cars. It'd be difficult getting in some of the flats, but he knew better than to check the pharmacies. They were the first looted, along with the Apple stores.
I bet Mum would've gone on about consumerism. To be fair, she'd be right. The world was ending, but Phil could remember seeing ten year olds throwing rocks to get at the iPods, thinly protected by a sheet of glass. He could remember everything about that day- like his mind had hit record in HD.
The burning. The screaming. The smoke. Soldiers wearing surgical masks and riot gear, firing their guns into the crowd.
Phil stopped in the middle of the road and squeezed his eyes shut. He did his usual trick- imagining the memories playing on massive TVs in his head- then imagined pulling them all off of the walls, and locking them in a cupboard. Winding a chain around it. Tossing it into an abyss so deep he never heard it land.
His head was quiet again.
Phil carried on walking down the empty street, pulling his raincoat around him.
The flats loomed up in front of him, bars across the windows. His heart sank at that, but Phil got lucky; someone had left a window open on the first floor. Most of the flats were locked, and most of the ones that Phil could get into had already been looted. But someone had left a little bottle of ibuprofen in a bathroom cabinet on floor sixteen.
When Phil brought it back, Dan's face lit up with a genuine, relieved grin. It was so infectious he had to smile back, because that was the kind of smile where you simply couldn't help it.
Well, he couldn't.
Dan shook two tablets into his hand, balled up some spit and swallowed them, screwing up his face. `Aaah… hate pills.' He looked up. `Thanks.'
`No problem.' Phil realised his stomach was left warmer than he'd like from Dan's smile. `Give that back,' he said curtly, to make up for it. Dan looked around him, then remembered the shovel and slid it over the ground.
When it was safely tied to Phil's back again, he pretended to be fascinated with a bird hobbling beside a car. It had a missing wing and two beaks sticking out of its head. Poor thing.
It was depressing, but better than looking at Dan.
Who was talking.
`What?'
`God, you're so rude.' Dan was shaking his head.
`I'm not! I'm not normally. What were you saying? You think you can move now?'
`No,' Dan said slowly. `I was thinking about what you said last night. How you remember that video game. What else?'
`You mean… what else do I remember?' Once Dan had nodded, Phil began chewing his lip. He remembered everything, clinging onto the memories like they were lifelines. But there was no way he'd make himself that vulnerable to Dan, so he compromised. `Some stuff. Like where I used to live. Books, games. Normal things, I guess. And obviously I remember my brother and parents.' Phil kept his tone light and shrugged at the end. That seemed fairly I-don't-really-care. No, these memories aren't the only things stopping me from curling into a ball made solely of trauma, why do you ask?
Dan was frowning. `I always thought you lot didn't remember anything.' Then he shook his head. `Sorry. Was that rude?'
`Oh, yeah. But no, if you get… turned, then you know who you are. Your personality's the same. The only difference is, if we don't eat humans, we die. Actually, dying's not the right word. We just decompose, but we're alive at the same time. You can't die, that's the scary part.'
`Sounds bad.'
`It is,' Phil said softly, a little window opening in his mind. Through it he could see all of the people he'd known who'd refused to eat meat, resisting even that terrible hunger, and what they'd eventually looked like. How he'd finally had to leave them behind because they couldn't walk, mouldering away piece by piece in endless hiding places.
Dan gently straightened out Phil's hands. They were clenched so tight part of the skin on Phil's hand had blistered open, one of his knuckles poking through. He kept hold of them. `Don't. You'll hurt yourself.'
Dan's hands were so warm against Phil's cold ones.
`I'm sorry.'
Shock flooded him.
Dan's lips twitched down. `I'm really sorry. If I'd known what happens to you, that you all care about each other, I wouldn't have come after you. Killed your friends.' He looked down, as if only just realising he was still holding Phil's hands. He let them go.
Immediately, Phil wanted them back, to hold Dan's scarred, dirty hands and whisper, I forgive you.
He also wanted to pin Dan to the ground, forget about what hid in the shadows and smash his head into a bloody pulp. Tear his pretty face apart until nothing was left, make Dan suffer for killing his friends, make him hurt like he was hurting-
Instead, Phil pulled the shovel from his back and ran to the nearest car.
He lifted it high and smashed the window. He screamed and took out all of the grief and fucking unfairness on the metal rather than the flesh.
Every time the shovel pounded into the car, Dan flinched. Eventually he gave in to the coward inside of him and pressed his hands over his ears, so he wouldn't have to hear what he'd done.
The zombie let out one last screech and hurled the shovel through the windshield, shattering it into a billion pieces. Then he walked three steps, finally gave in to the buzzing numbness in his head, and dropped to the road, not feeling anything. Hoping he never felt anything ever again.