crack his skull open; wouldn't that be nice? But there was just as big a part of him that really didn't want to break his back and not be able to move, laying there dying slowly. Not a good end.
Better than Joanne's. Better than Stevie's.
It was like the bow and arrow: the more times he'd done it, the better he'd become. Now, Robert was so used to it, he could scale even the largest of oaks. Up through the branches he went; strong hands, roughened by the elements, hauled him higher and higher. The tips of his boots found notches and ridges, much like a mountain climber scaling a rock face.
When he was high enough, he looked down at the scene. It was then that he actually saw the men. No yellow plastic suits, no gas masks or flamethrowers. Just blokes dressed in ordinary clothes, if a little the worse for wear: trousers, shirts, some in jumpers. They were carrying bags, had backpacks slung over shoulders. They knew each other well, were chatting and… yes, even laughing once or twice. Robert's eyes scanned the men but he could see no sign of rifles, automatic or otherwise. Which begged the question, who were they and where were they going?
He decided to find out. Call it a policeman's curiosity, which he didn't even know he still had, or an attempt to find out as much as he could about a potential enemy. Whichever way you looked at it, he was on the move.
Robert leaped from one tree to the next, trailing the men at height until they headed out across a field. If he wanted to know where they were going now, Robert had to break cover and follow on foot. But this didn't mean exposing his position. The men would still have no idea he was behind them.
As he crested a small hill, Robert saw where they were making for. In a big field just off the road, folk were gathering in fairly large numbers – large for post-virus times at any rate. Dozens of them: men, women and children. Some brought sacks, some trunks, some holdalls. From his hiding position behind a hedgerow, Robert noticed there were a couple of cars, a couple of vans, but these were few and far between. He guessed petrol was a rare commodity these days, with nobody to keep refilling pumps, without anyone to bring it over from abroad.
Some had reverted to using horses for transportation. Robert watched as a woman dismounted her steed, swinging a bag down as she went. Set up here and there were makeshift tables, trays with legs, or blankets laid on the ground. People were getting things out of their bags to place on these, arranging them carefully.
My God! It's a bloody car boot sale. Robert thought to himself. To his surprise, he found the corners of his mouth curling up. An honest to goodness car boot sale!
Only there weren't enough 'car boots' to justify the name. It was more like a market, just not as well laid out as those in Mansfield. The purpose was the same, however. Except Robert saw that here the traders were swapping items rather than paying money for them. In this 'society' what use were coins and bits of paper with the Queen's head on them? This part of England, at least, appeared to have regressed back to the barter system. Having seen nothing of his fellow man in an age, Robert was suddenly engrossed in the unfolding dramas; the flurry of activity as people from miles around gathered to do business. He'd completely forgotten what it was like to be in the proximity of other human beings, to have that contact with them. Was there a part of him now that missed it? No, it was better that he shut himself away, pretended the rest of the world didn't exist. Live out the remainder of his life ignorant of how the human race was getting along. It had no need for him and vice-versa.
But the same twist of fate that had saved him, killing the two most important people to him in the process, had other ideas.
Robert had been so distracted by the ad hoc market, he didn't notice the man behind him until it was too late.
'What ye doin' skulking about there?' said a voice with a thick, Derbyshire accent. 'Aye, you there – you with the hood on. Get up and turn yessen around. And don't get any funny ideas about that bow yer carryin'.'
Robert rose slowly, trying to stop himself from shaking. Was it fear or just excitement at being addressed after so long, at having someone other than a wild animal acknowledge his existence? He heard the distinctive click-clack of a gun being primed for action. And, sure enough, when he turned around, he was greeted with the sight of a man – early 40s, though he might have been younger, it was hard to tell after what he must have gone through in the past couple of years – and he was holding up a double-barrelled shotgun. It was a farmer's weapon, probably wielded by an ex-farmer. There'd certainly been enough of them round these parts. The ruddy complexion had faded somewhat, but Robert could tell that he must still spend a lot of his time outside. The pigeon-chested man wore a checked shirt beneath a tank top with holes in it, his trousers were loose as if he'd lost weight, and his boots had definitely seen better days.
'I'll say it again. What ye doin' spying back here?'
Robert said nothing, not even when the man lifted the shotgun higher, not quite aiming at him, but not pointing it away, either. Robert held up his hands to show he meant him no harm.
'What's a matter, can't ye speak or summat? Bit slow, eh?'
Robert shook his head to indicate that there was nothing wrong with his faculties. It had just been so long since he'd spoken, he wasn't even sure if he could anymore. Carefully, he began to reach across into his open coat.
'Keep yer hands where I can see 'em,' instructed the man, moving forward.
'I…' began Robert. The sensation of talking felt odd; alien even. The look of shock on his face must have registered, because the man frowned.
'Just what's yer game? We don't want no trouble at the market.'
'No game. No trouble,' Robert assured him. With each word, his voice grew stronger. 'I've just come along to trade.'
'That so?'
'It is. If you'll let me…?' Robert reached into his coat again, very slowly, the shotgun trained on him the whole time. 'Easy… easy… See, in my pouch.'
The man drew nearer to get a better look. 'Rabbits?'
'Rabbits,' repeated Robert.
Then the 'farmer' began to laugh: long, hard chuckles that caused his frame to shake. 'Oh, that's a good un,' he said eventually. 'Rabbits… Judas Priest! What yer thinking of swappin' for them scrawny devils?'
Robert shrugged, pulling down his hood. 'Whatever I can.'
Lowering his shotgun, the other man wiped the tears from his eyes. 'Aye, I'd be interested to see it an' all. Well, come on. Let's take yer down there, then, before all the best bargains are gone.'
For a second, Robert hesitated, the very thought of meeting, of mixing with that number of people was terrifying. What if the men after him should happen by? 'Is… is it safe?' asked Robert.
The man frowned. 'Safe? What yer talkin' about?'
He didn't have a choice, he had to ask. 'The… the men in yellow suits. The ones who set fire to the bodies.'
He looked at Robert like he was insane. 'Where yer bin, on Mars or somethin'?'
'Something,' admitted Robert.
'They haven't bin round for ages, that lot. Not since the early days.'
'What happened to them?'
'Dead,' said the man, his face stern. 'Like everyone else.'
'So there was no cure?'
'Cure?' He laughed again, but there was a bitterness to it this time. 'There were never any cure. Look, are ye comin' to the market or not? I haven't got all day.'
Robert gave a small nod, and they began to walk across the field. The closer they came, the more he wanted to run – even though he knew the fear was irrational.
What if he's wrong – what if they're still out there somewhere, looking for you?
You heard what he said, they're all dead. Only the O-Negs are left. It's the grand total of the human race.
But…
'So, yer a poacher?' the man said, interrupting Robert's argument with himself. He nodded at the bow to emphasise what he meant.
'Can you poach something that doesn't belong to anyone anymore?'
'I meant before, like?'
