Perhaps that was for the better. He might be able to keep her safe but Kingsley knew he could never give her happiness again.
Opening the front door, Kingsley tiptoed in and, pausing for a moment to listen for any sound from within, called Emma’s name. When there was no response, he called it again, treading into the living room.
The sight of the room was quite a shock.
Emma wasn’t obsessed with cleanliness like some OCD sufferers, although she did have to keep all the tins and jars in the kitchen cupboards with their labels facing forward. And she did always keep her living space tidy. Which was why the sight of the coffee table askew, the broken phone on the floor next to the spilled potted plant, the cupboard doors hanging ajar in the kitchen, hit Kingsley like a punch in the face.
There appeared to have been a struggle in here, he thought. There were shoeprints in the dirt from the knocked-over plant pots on the carpet. The question of who had struggled, and whether it was snappers or other survivors they had struggled against, worried Kingsley. Had Emma been hurt?
The shattered phone on the floor was hers. He bent down and pressed the buttons, tried to turn it on, but it was dead.
“Emma, are you here?” he called as he went into the hallway and started up the stairs.
Her bedroom door was half-open. He nudged it the rest of the way. The room was empty. Normal, not in disarray like downstairs. The bed was made but crumpled clothes were slung across the sheets, a discarded outfit.
Emma wasn’t in the bathroom or the spare bedroom, either.
Hopefully she had taken her car, and it hadn’t been stolen. Hopefully she was headed somewhere safe, with her sister, Leena, maybe.
Whatever had happened, Emma was gone.
“Come on mate,” Eric said from his shoulder as he stared into the empty bedroom. “Let’s go back to the bus. We don’t want to leave it too long.”
After a moment’s consideration, Kingsley shook his head.
“No.” He looked his friend in the eye. “You guys go. I won’t be joining you wherever you’re planning to go next.”
“Ridiculous,” Eric said. “You’re not doing this too, not after Sammy.”
Kingsley pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling too tired to argue. “I’ve made my mind up, Eric… I’m just not made for groups, for community. I’m not made for society. I’m supposed to be alone, and that’s what I want. I refuse to let anyone rely on me ever again, because I’ll always dance on the edge of danger and make poor decisions – that’s just the way I am – but I can’t let those decisions affect other people anymore… I’ve made my mind up.” Kingsley thrust the crossbow and bolts toward Eric, offering them to him. “Please – go.”
Eric was taken aback. Probably because he had read the look on Kingsley’s face. The look of cold, iron stubbornness. Unlike Sammy’s spontaneous decision to run off in the night, this was something that had been brewing in his mind for a while. Since before the apocalypse, even.
And Eric knew from his voice and the look on his face that there was no changing his mind.
“Whatever you think of yourself, Kingsley, your biggest flaw is your stubbornness.” Eric pushed the proffered crossbow back. “Keep it close,” he said, before turning and leaving.
8.
The men in the van had introduced themselves to Emma as Mark (the leader) and Sebastian (the young one). The older gentleman in the back they told her was John. Of the bus they were pursuing, Mark explained that they were after a group of four survivors on the bus who had not only killed one of their friends but also stolen the bulk of their supplies and weapons – including a crossbow, some expensive knives, and some other mace thing Emma had never heard of.
This murderous, thieving group sounded dangerous to Emma. She didn’t like the idea of confronting them, especially as they were better armed than the three men in this van. She decided to voice her concern.
“Is it a good idea to go after these people? I mean, if they have better weapons than you don’t they have an advantage?”
The side of Mark’s mouth twitched and Emma thought she had angered him for a second. But he kept his eyes on the road and spoke levelly.
“I was a push-over my whole life, before the dead started getting back up. I avoided conflict at all costs, let people walk right over me… and all it ever did was land me in shit. My wife left me because of that unwillingness to fight, for myself and for our marriage. It took me thirty years to learn that I wasn’t going to get anywhere in life continuing that way.”
His hand wrung the steering wheel as he talked, his words underlaid with the friction squeak of leather, veins popping out on the back of his hand like parasitic worms under his skin.
“One day, I snapped. Not long after the divorce, I’m walking in town, staring at my feet, thinking about my life choices. I wanted to change, but didn’t know where to start… Then this old man comes waltzing towards me, bumps into me. I wasn’t looking where I was going but there was plenty of room on the pavement – he could have avoided me easily. But he starts getting aggravated, he starts ranting about how some people have no respect. I was pissed off and I think I told him to go fuck himself or something. But then… then, he swings his cane at me. I’m even more pissed off now and suddenly I think, No more, I’ve had enough, and my fist is flying at his face and it feels so satisfying to hit him. It was like all the anger I had ever felt in my life was suddenly being released, and I felt lighter.”
The van clipped a
