Autumn | Page 9

he recognised, he was sat in the freezing
cold in the middle of a park. He had decided that it was easier to be
alone and deny what had happened than face returning to familiar
surroundings and risk seeing the bodies of people he'd known. He lay
on his back on the wet grass and listened to the gentle babbling of a
nearby brook. He was cold, wet, uncomfortable and terrified, but the
noise of the running water disguised the deathly silence of the rest of
the world and made it fractionally easier to forget for a while.
The wind blew across the field where he lay, rustling through the grass
and bushes and causing the tops of trees to thrash about almost
constantly. Soaked through and shivering, Michael eventually
clambered to his feet and stretched. Without any real plan or direction,
he slowly walked further away from the stream and towards the edge of
the park. As the sound of running water faded into the distance, so the
unexpected strains of the music from the car park drifted towards him.
Marginally interested, but too cold, numb and afraid to really care, he
began to follow the sound.
Michael was the final survivor to reach the hall.
5
Michael Collins was the last to arrive at the hall but the first to get his
head together. More than his head, perhaps, it was his stomach that
forced him into action. Just before midday, after a long, slow and
painful morning, he decided it was time to eat. In the main storeroom

he found tables, chairs and a collection of camping equipment labelled
up as belonging to the 4th Whitchurch Scout Group. In a large metal
chest he found two gas burners and, next to the chest itself, four
half-full gas bottles. In minutes he'd set the burners up on a table and
was keeping himself busy by heating up a catering-size can of
vegetable soup and a similar sized can of baked beans which he'd found.
Obviously left over from camps held in the summer just gone, the food
was an unexpected and welcome discovery. More than that, preparing
the food was a distraction. Something to take his mind off what had
happened outside the flimsy walls of the Whitchurch Community Hall.
The rest of the survivors sat in silence in the main hall. Some lay flat on
the cold brown linoleum floor while others sat on chairs with their
heads held in their hands. No-one spoke. Other than Michael no-one
moved. No-one even dared to make eye contact with anyone else.
Twenty-six people who may as well have been in twenty-six different
rooms. Twenty-six people who couldn't believe what had happened to
the world around them and who couldn't bear to think about what might
happen next. In the last day each one of them had experienced more
pain, confusion and loss than they would normally have expected to
suffer in their entire lifetime. What made these emotions even more
unbearable today, however, was the complete lack of explanation. The
lack of reason. Coupled with that was the fact that everything had
happened so suddenly and without warning. And now that it had
happened, there was no-one they could look to for answers. Each cold,
lonely and frightened person knew as little as the cold, lonely and
frightened person next to them.
Michael sensed that he was being watched. Out of the corner of his eye
he could see that a girl sitting nearby was staring at him. She was
rocking on a blue plastic chair and watching him intently. It made him
feel uncomfortable. Much as he wanted someone to break the silence
and talk to him, deep down he didn't really want to say anything. He
had a million questions to ask, but he didn't know where to start and it
seemed that the most sensible option was to stay silent.
The girl got up out of her chair and tentatively walked towards him.

She stood there for a moment, about a metre and a half away, before
taking a final step closer and clearing her throat.
ÔI'm Emma,' she said quietly, ÔEmma Mitchell.'
He looked up, managed half a smile, and then looked down again.
ÔIs there anything I can do?' she asked. ÔDo you want any help?'
Michael shook his head and stared into the soup he was stirring. He
watched the chunks of vegetable spinning around and wished that she'd
go away. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to start a conversation
because a conversation would inevitably lead to talking about what had
happened to the rest of the world outside and at that moment in time
that was the last thing he wanted to think about. Problem was, it was all
that he