The Last Mutation Page 3

  Billy made a list, he called it his family tree. He was so proud as he stood there beside me to show me it, and it took all me efforts not to shrink away from his touch or scream when I saw it.

  His name was at the top (no sign of mine on there even though I’m the one carrying the child) and below it, branching off were names of the children he planned to have, each of them paired off together, boy and girl, the names of their children below them. He had given them all biblical names lifted from his favourite book. I asked him how he could guarantee there would be more children, and even if they were, there was no guarantee on the sex. He had an answer to that one too. He said there would have to be a little bit of population control. I half suspected what he meant by that, but he elaborated and left little doubt. He said if we happened to have too many of any one particular sex, they would have to be culled on birth to ensure a good balance. He said it like he was referring to some kind of animal, not a child, not another human. He then said I should be good for maybe the first eight or nine children before I would be too old and he would have to start looking for a replacement. He said this with such calm assurance that I was almost able to accept it. He said he didn’t like to have to do it, but we all had to make sacrifices in order to make sure the human race continued. I nodded and told him I understood, even though I didn’t. None of it made any sense, none of it would sink in and stay in my mind. All I can do is keep thinking about escape, getting out of here. It’s going to have to be soon. I know now that nothing up there could be worse than what’s happening down here.

  Which, incidentally, brings me to my plan. I think I have a way to do it, although the more I think about it becoming a reality, the more afraid I get. I stole some sleeping pills from the medical supplies. Tonight, when Billy is up and talking to the static on the radio, I plan to crush them up into a powder. Tomorrow morning when I make breakfast, I’m going to mix it into his food. I was uncertain how much to give him. The package says no more than four to be taken every twenty-four hours, but I really want to knock him out so I intend to crush up six. That should give me enough time to get some supplies together and get out before he wakes up. I’m pretty sure he would be too afraid to follow me out of here. This shelter is his life, the one thing he loves and cares about. Besides, even if he did follow me, he wouldn’t know where I’d gone. The truth is, I don’t know where I’d go either. Whatever is going on up there is a mystery to me. We’ve been down here for well over a month, and apart from the chaos of those first few days, there has been no noise of any kind. I feel so sick, so scared, but I have to do this. I can’t stay here with him, not anymore. The things he has planned are frightening and disgusting. Taking my chances on the surface seems to be my only option. I only hope things go smoothly.

  DAY FORTY-SEVEN

  Billy’s dead.

  I’ve been sitting here trembling in the bunker for the last three hours and didn’t know what else to do but write in this book. It has been my one constant, my friend, my companion. As I sit here, I can see him on the floor. He’s surrounded by plastic dishes and food, his white T-shirt almost fully saturated with blood. The handle of the carving knife is still sticking up out of his chest. I keep looking at him and expecting him to stand up and scream at me that it was all a joke, but his eyes have been open and staring at the roof since it happened, so I think I can be safe to assume he’s definitely dead. This isn’t what I wanted, this isn’t how I planned it to be. I have blood on me. God, it’s everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on the table. On me and this book I’m writing in. There was so much of it. I feel sick, and yet strangely relieved. He was broken, damaged beyond repair. The man I one loved died on the surface long ago without me realising. This monster I have been trapped with is – was – a stranger to me. I’ll be leaving soon, but first, I need to tell what happened, if only to try and justify what I did to him. I’ll be taking this diary with me and leaving it somewhere safe. At least it might give me a little closure and help me to move on. It will be a symbolic gesture, leaving behind the last memory of the worst time I can recall as soon as I feel safe enough to move on alone. First though, an explanation.

  One thing I never accounted for in my plan was Billy’s meticulous inventory taking. It was an oversight, a mistake. The truth is, I thought I was outsmarting him, but he was wise to it. He knew the pills had gone, and put the rest together. He’d been watching me, just waiting for me to do exactly what I did. We sat there at the small table, two strangers who had been changed beyond recognition. I set the plate of eggs and beans in front of him and waited for him to start eating so I could put my plan into action before I lost my nerve. Billy didn’t start to eat though. He sat there and stared at me, that look in his eye making me fear him in the most unimaginable way. He pushed his plate away and asked me if I thought I was clever, or special. I was screaming inside at this point, but played dumb anyway. He told me he had given me the opportunity to be a part of something special, something beyond the mundane life we had before. I tried to answer, but he swept his arm across the table, sending plates and glasses crashing to the floor. I was too afraid to move, too afraid to do anything other than sit there and watch as he stood up, taking his time, leering at me across the table top. He said he said he wasn’t as stupid as I thought he was, he said he knew everything I was thinking, everything I was planning. He said he’s read this journal when I was sleeping and was just waiting for me to make my move. Words don’t come easy when faced with things like that, so I just sat there and looked at him, unsure what I should even say. He told me I wouldn’t be allowed to leave. That I was carrying his property. He said he had tried to do things the easy way but I wasn’t to be trusted, and so now things would change. He said he was preparing a room, a place for me to live where he could keep an eye on me. I told him I wouldn’t be his prisoner, and he said it wasn’t my choice to make, that he didn’t see any other way until I learned my place. I panicked at that. I saw visions of a small, dark, windowless room and hours spent alone unless it was time to feed or fuck. I lurched to my feet intending to run, but he was too quick, and was around the table and had a hold of my hair. He pulled me close to him, teeth gritted, nose inches from mine. He told me he’d kill me before he let me leave, and I believed him. It was right there in his eyes. My hands reached for something, anything, knocking pans and cups to the floor from the side of the sink where they were waiting to be washed. My hands found the handle of the knife, and although I’d like to say I took a second to consider the consequences, it would be a lie. I aimed for his chest, for the black heart that drummed inside him. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the knife was razor sharp and went in easy. He didn’t scream, or fall down straight away. He held on to me for a while, mouth open, eyes wide and disbelieving. I just watched him, trembling and crying. Those few seconds felt to me like they had lasted a lifetime, then he let go of me and crumpled to the floor.

  That’s where he is now. Still staring. I know in Victorian times they had a belief that a murder victim’s killer was imprinted on their eye after death. I wondered if that was the case with Billy, if I was the last thing he had seen before he shuffled off to meet the god he thought he was so close to. It doesn’t matter now. I thought about staying, maybe dumping the body somewhere outside and coming back, but I don’t think I could do that. This place is tainted. It’s his place, and even though he’s dead, he will always be here, leering at me.

  No. I have to leave. My fate will be at the mercy of whatever is on the surface. I only hope there is something out there to live for.

  GOODBYE

  This will be my final entry. It will be a shame to leave this journal behind, but I don’t think I want it with me anymore. It came from the shelter, and like it or not, it reminds me of Billy, and what I did to him. It’s odd that I feel so attached to it. Just thoughts on bound paper, but they were mine and helped me through some rough times. The hardest part of this entire ordeal was getting the courage to open the hatch and cli
mb out into the world. I don’t need to tell anyone who finds this what the world is like now, and I wish I had some insight into whatever devastating event has happened and changed the future of humanity forever. The truth is, I probably know less than most. The good news is there are still some good people out here trying to survive. A nice family have taken me in and let me stay for a few days. They have a son, a little boy. They are everything Billy and I were not. They are strong, a unit doing all they can to protect their child. I’m not starting to show yet, but I soon will and then won’t be able to deny what I’m carrying around inside me. Part of me is afraid that this child will be like its father and carry his traits, but then I look at the world as it is now and see it in part how he did. Sure enough, something awful has happened, and the suffering will go on for some time yet, but humanity isn’t dead yet. Our species are fighters, and incredibly adaptive. One day, when that white light in the sky dims, and that awful smell of burning matches fades away, it will be left to those of us who are left to rebuild. Ironic maybe, that it’s a similar idea to the one Billy was trying to push, but I think they are different enough for me to write it down. The fact that there are already survivors of whatever happened is a testament to our strength. I’m going to leave this journal here in the home of these wonderful kind people who have taken me in. Tomorrow, we are all going to go back to the shelter and take all the supplies we can carry then set out to help as many people as we can. I honestly don’t know if there is a long-term future for us, but I’m determined to make the best world I can for my unborn child. How far we will get is anyone’s guess. But I don’t feel like I need to write anymore down. I have people around me who I can talk to, and to lift that weight off my shoulders when I feel close to breaking. They understood what I did to Billy and why I had to do it, which is more than I could have ever hoped for. Mark, the husband of the family I’m staying with, even offered to go down to get the supplies from the shelter, so I don’t have to look at Billy’s body. I’m grateful for that. If I’ve learned anything from this whole ordeal, it’s strength. I’m stronger now than the woman who first went down into that shelter, and I suppose in a strange way I have Billy to thank for it. I won’t thank him though; he doesn’t deserve it. Now, I want to focus on looking forward and hoping the future holds something for us, for all of us. I can only hope that it does.

  Malorie

  CHAPTER TWO

  It had been three days since the Collector had eaten. His wanderings had taken him out of the city and into what would once have been countryside. There were no green fields or crops anymore. They had died after the event. Now all that remained was dead, spoiled earth in which nothing could grow. Trees which were once lush with foliage were dried up, dead relics to the past. Many had fallen, some leaned precariously close to joining them. Such things were ordinary to him, and so he paid them no attention. He walked on, hands in the pockets of his blue rain jacket, shoulders bunched against the bitter chill. His stomach growled in need, but the man ignored it. There was nothing he could do right now to satisfy its cravings. He still had water at least. Precious water to keep him alive just a little longer. He had collected it during the rainstorm. It was brown and tasted of ash, but it eased his persistent thirst. He stopped walking, all thoughts of hunger, thirst and the rub of new boots on tired heels forgotten.

  There was a man on the road.

  He was sitting on the stoop of a partially collapsed church. He was old and completely bald, his dirty skin cracked and pitted like well-worn leather. The two strangers stared at each other, unsure what to do. The man approached, keeping a cautious distance.

  “You ain’t one of them bad ones, are ye?” the old man said.

  The Collector said nothing; he simply stood there and stared.

  The old man grinned, his mouth for the most part toothless. “No, it seems you ain’t one of them, are you?”

  Still, the Collector didn’t speak. His instinct told him to run, but part of him was curious. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw another human being who actually wanted to talk to him. Most walked by with their heads down and did anything to avoid eye contact. The old man was different. He seemed interested.

  “Come on closer, boy. I won’t hurt ye. There’s been enough hurt in this world as it is.”

  The Collector moved closer to the man, coming to within ten feet of him, still cautious and ready to run at the first sign of trouble. The old man made no effort to move, he simply sat there, hands folded in his lap. One knee of his grey pants had a hole in it, the bony appendage poking out.

  “You look like hell, son. Where ye headed?” the old man said, flashing his toothless grin.

  The Collector shrugged.

  “You’re one o’ them drifters, ain’t ya? No idea where ye wanna be but nowhere to stay either.”

  He nodded.

  “Come on, son, there must be somewhere ye want to get to?”

  The Collector decided there was no immediate danger. The man was both old and alone, and showed no sign of hostility. Maybe he was just interested in the lives of those who passed on the road. He looked far too weak to do much walking of his own. The Collector looked at the half-collapsed church at the old man’s back and wondered if this was where he had decided to see out the rest of his days.

  “Well, son, you got a tongue in that mouth? Where is it ye wantin’ to get to?”

  The Collector shrugged off his backpack and rummaged inside. He took out the postcard of the beach and showed it to the old man.

  He leaned forward and screwed up his eyes so he could see it, then started to laugh, slapping his leg with the palm of his bony hand.

  “What’s so funny?” the Collector said.

  “Nothin’, son, it’s just I ain’t seen the sea lookin’ like that in more than thirty years. Easy to forget it was once blue and not that shitty grey colour it is now.”

  “You’ve seen it? The sea, I mean?” the Collector asked.

  “Oh yeah. You’re not too far away from it right now as it happens, although, it don’t look much like that picture anymore.”

  “Where is it, which way?” the Collector said. All caution in him was gone. He was excited by the possibility of actually seeing the ocean.

  “Now you just hang on. It’s not as easy as just running off down the road and getting there. Well, it is, but you wouldn’t want to right now.”

  “Why?”

  The old man leaned closer, lowering his voice even though there was nobody else around. “Cannibals.”

  “What does that mean?” the Collector said.

  “You don’t know about the cannibals?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “Not an it, it’s a they. Came through here a couple of days back. I had to hide. Nasty people.”

  “What’s so bad about them?”

  “Well, they…” The old man hesitated, then stood, wincing as his tired joints creaked in protest. “Tell you what. You come on inside, and I’ll tell you all about it. By the looks of you, you haven’t eaten for a few days either.”

  The Collector looked past the old man to the half-collapsed church, then at the sparse land around them.

  “You don’t need to be scared of me, boy. I’m just an old man. What I do have is food, shelter and information. Believe me, you’ll want that last if you intend to make your way down to the coast.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it ain’t like your picture postcard. You go down there, and you need to be aware that there are things in the water that might change your mind. Now are you comin’ in or not?”

  The old man shuffled into the church, disappearing into the dark and shadow-draped building. The Collector stood there, torn as to what to do. He had learned over the years to trust his instincts, and they were telling him that he was in no immediate danger. He looked around at the desolate landscape, then followed the old man into the church.

  TWO

  The old man lit candles, illuminating the broken interi
or of the church. Old pews still lined one side of the room, the other side mostly rubble. There was a faded painting of Jesus on the wall and a large wooden crucifix, another dusty monument in a place where long-dead gods were worshipped. Nobody believed in such deities anymore. Nobody believed any supreme being could allow them to live on in such a brutal and hopeless world in cruel and hopeless conditions.

  “Sit down, sit down. Take a load off,” the old man said as he walked. He was hunched over and walked with a limp as he lit more candles.

  The Collector walked to one of the pews which has been arranged near to a small coal-powered stove. The old man sat, folding his bony, dirt-pitted hands and looked at the Collector, his face a ghastly dance of shadows in the flickering candlelight.

  “So you say you want to see the ocean?” the old man said, his voice echoing through the broken remains of the church.

  The Collector remained silent. Although he had no reason not to trust the old man, there were too many dark, shadowy recesses in the old building for him to feel comfortable.

  “Don’t say much, do ye, son?” the old man said, pulling up an old stool. “Well, can’t says I blame ye. Maybe that’s the best way to be in this world.”

  “The ocean…you said you’ve seen it?” the Collector said, his voice echoing around the cavernous space.

  The old man nodded. “I used to work on it, or at least back before the event.”

  “I don’t remember it, before, I mean.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. How old are ye, son?” the old man said.

  “I don’t know.”