Barry Bushell. Now there was an interesting character. It had taken Proctor some time to work him out, and he still wasn't sure whether or not he understood him. Bushell had been understandably annoyed when the other survivors had arrived and had made such a mess of his precious hotel. Even now he'd maintained a slight distance between himself and the others. He spent a lot of time alone in the master bedroom. No-one else ever went in there. Proctor had initially admired his confidence in wearing women's clothing but he struggled to understand why he did it. There must be some underlying sexual issue or confusion, he'd thought. Whatever the reason, he'd been surprised when, a couple of days ago, Bushell had reverted to wearing more `normal' clothing. He'd plucked up courage to ask him why he'd changed his appearance again after being so defiant for so long. Bushell had explained that he'd done it to shut the others up. He'd said he'd had enough of the constant digs and jibes from Wilcox and Elizabeth , and tireless and pointless questions and sideways glances from that bloody annoying woman Doreen. Why didn't they just leave him alone? What difference did it make to any of them what he was wearing? That said, he personally found it easier to relate to Bushell when he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt rather than full drag. It really shouldn't have made any difference but it did. Bushell now sat on his own in the doorway of his bedroom quietly reading a book that he'd already read at least twice before in the last week.
Elizabeth and Wilcox had a strange relationship. They seemed to detest each other and enjoy each other's company in equal measure. One minute they were fighting, the next laughing. They were of a similar age and background, maybe that was the connection? Proctor sensed that the decision to fight or laugh was predominantly made by Elizabeth . She was fairly attractive (very attractive when compared to Doreen who was almost forty years her senior) and, although he hadn't seen or heard it for himself, he suspected she used her femininity to twist Wilcox around her little finger. Perhaps he was doing her a disservice? Perhaps he was jealous?
Now Doreen he couldn't stand. No ifs, buts or maybes, he simply couldn't abide her. He hated her grating voice and her witch's cackle of a laugh. He hated her smell and the cloud of cigarette smoke which followed her around the room. He hated her wizened, wrinkled skin and her yellow teeth. Most of all he hated the fact that she moaned constantly about everything, anything and everyone. She had more aches, pains and problems each day than the rest of them put together. No matter how low or desperate someone may have been feeling, Doreen had it worse. It had reached the stage where Proctor now tried to avoid all contact with her, which wasn't easy when they were trapped together in such a confined space.
It was interesting just how little the rest of them had to do with Paul Jones. Wilcox in particular hardly ever spoke to him. Perhaps there was an element of competition there? Perhaps they both considered themselves to be the all-important alpha male of the group? Whatever the reason they kept their distance from each other, although in all fairness Paul Jones tended to stay apart from everyone else. He both infuriated and fascinated Proctor. Such an isolated and solitary person who, when he could be persuaded, added so much to the group. He was obviously intelligent, perhaps too bright for his own good? His distance from the others came across as an unpleasant arrogance and superiority. Perhaps he just wasn't very good at relating to other people? On the other hand perhaps he really did consider himself to be better than the rest? Funny, Proctor thought, that these six people should find so many faults with each other. There they were, all living under the same cloud of uncertainty and fear, and yet they couldn't work together. He was as bad as the rest of them and he'd freely admit it. Shame though, that in the face of such uncertainty, they still preferred to splinter and fragment because of trivial differences rather than trying to work together for the common good.
Doreen and Wilcox were sat at the dining table playing cards, their faces long and emotionless. Close by Elizabeth dozed on a sofa. Like Bushell, Paul Jones also had a small area of turf which he'd marked out as his own. His usual position was sitting on a chair looking out of the wide floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the front of the hotel. From there he could just about see the rear-end of the bus sticking out of the gaping hole in the wall where the building's main entrance had once been. Although much fewer in number, even now more bodies were still stumbling through the rubble to get into the building. Ten days on and the volume of dead flesh which had forced itself into the building was continuing to increase.
An uncomfortably familiar mixture of boredom and curiosity forced Proctor to get up from where he sat and wander over to Jones. Jones noticed him but didn't react, hoping that if he didn't acknowledge the other man he'd go away again. He didn't.
`Any change?' Proctor pointlessly asked.
Why the hell did you ask that question, Jones wondered? Was he really that desperate to start a conversation, or was he just too stupid to look out of the window for himself? In response Jones grunted and shrugged his shoulders.
`Still more of them coming?'
Jones grunted again.
`You'd think they'd have given up by now, wouldn't you?'
`Suppose,' Jones mumbled. Finally, a response! `Fuck all else to distract them round here though, isn't there?'
Now it was Proctor's turn to grunt an unintelligible answer. Talking to Jones made him feel uncomfortable. He never knew what to say for the best. He could never gauge the level of the conversation and Jones always seemed to gain the upper hand, leaving him looking and feeling stupid. He turned around and was about to walk away when he stopped himself. Looking round the vast but strangely empty suite there didn't seem to be any point going anywhere else. Nothing was happening. Might as well stay here and look out of the window.
Proctor knew that it annoyed the other man, but he couldn't help himself incessantly asking unnecessary questions.
`Think they'll ever stop?'
`What, stop moving or stop trying to get in here?'
`Both.'
`Yes.'
`Yes what?' `Both. Yes they'll eventually stop moving and yes, they'll eventually stop trying to get in here.'
`When?'
`Quarter past six tomorrow night. How the fuck should I know?'
`Sorry.'
`They'll stop moving when they've rotted down so much that they just can't do it anymore and they'll stop trying to get in here when there's so fucking many of them crammed into this fucking building that there's no more room for them. And please don't ask me which is going to happen first because I haven't got a fucking clue.'
Proctor took that as his cue to move. A sudden tirade like that from Jones meant that he'd had enough of speaking to you and it was time to disappear before he told you to go. Dejected, Proctor turned and ambled slowly back towards the middle of the huge penthouse apartment. It had been an impressive sight when they'd first arrived there. Now the Presidential Suite looked as ragged and rundown as the rest of the decomposing world. Tired, bored and uneasy, he walked towards the kitchen to look for scraps of food. He knew there wouldn't be much there. They were rapidly running out of supplies. Maybe he'd find something in the rubbish that one of the others had missed...
Proctor waded through the discarded boxes, bags, wrappers and other litter that covered the floor of the suite's small kitchen and thought about Jones' words. He was right, the bodies would keep trying to force their way into the building until there was no more space. That was a terrifying thought, and one which had generated a lot of animated discussion but very little action over the last ten days. If things kept progressing as they had been ? and there was no reason to suggest that they wouldn't ? then a time would inevitably come very soon when the building in which they now sheltered would be filled to capacity with dead flesh, leaving the group stranded without supplies in their once-luxurious top-floor airlock. But what could they do about it? They'd talked and argued about the problem on and off without reaching any conclusion or workable solution. There had so far been enough food in the kitchen and enough space between the living and the dead for the survivors to enable discussions to be put off until tomorrow, and then the day after that, and the day after that. On the whole the group seemed content not to do anything until they absolutely had to. Proctor sensed that soon, one way or another, they would have no choice but to take action.
Proctor had, for his part, tried to do something constructive. Granted it wasn't much, but (as he frequently reminded them), it was more than the rest of them had done. A once keen photographer, five days ago he'd found a digital camera and batteries lying around the Presidential Suite. Bushell had brought them back with him from an
