Bar None (20 page)

"Jess," I say, but she holds out her hand as if to ward me back.

"My fault," she says. "You gave me the chance . . . so many times. Now I have to go through this. ..on my own."

"No," I say. "Not on your own."

She almost smiles, but the tears start flowing again. "To begin with, I do," she says.

I nod, stand and walk away. There are other doorways leading from here, other rooms, other bars, and I know that soon I will get to know them all. But for now I need something familiar.

Back in the first bar I replenish my orange juice, sit in a window seat and wait.

There's a bang at the front door, another, and then it bursts open and Michael falls in. He's wounded. Blood flows from several injuries on his face and scalp, and he's holding his left arm awkwardly across his chest.

"What happened?" I ask.

He looks at me, and for an instant his eyes go wide, frightened. Then he shuts the door behind him and relaxes against it. "You're not supposed to be up yet."

"Who says?"

"No one. It's just . . . well, things are still changing, obviously."

"Are you all right? What happened?"

"Bit of a rumble at the wall." He winces as he pushes himself from the door and approaches the bar.

"The factions that don't want change?"

Michael looks at me for a long time. I become increasingly uncomfortable beneath his examination, yet I do not look away.
Answers
, I think.
He owes me some, and he knows it. Maybe now, with me down here alone, him injured . . .

"There have been talks," he says. "The change is accepted. Really, it always was. It's the way of things. What some factions can't accept is you and your friends."

"Us? What have we done?"

"You remember." He leans over the bar and grabs a couple of pint glasses.

"Bit early, isn't it?" I ask, but I am remembering the dying mother, the happy child disturbed by her unsettled father. People I do not know in places I have never been. All mine.

Michael pours the beers—First Gold—and hands me a glass. "Sit down," he says. "We need to talk."

We choose a place by the fireplace. It still radiates warmth, and there's something about an empty pub that always feels cool, however warm it really is. The beer tastes good. No, not good.
Perfect
.

"You remember things," he says.

"Yes. Ashley, and what happened to us."

"And other things."

I nod. "Stuff I shouldn't know."

"It's a story, a living history rather than one written in books. There's you, your two friends, and many others who have been brought here. But there are certain groups that believe the progression should be total, with no allowance for history. I can't believe that. I never have, and I never will."

"Progression?"

"The world moving on. Humanity will be wiped clean, but why should it be forgotten? It's part of the planet's story, after all. An important part, both good and bad.
Why should it be forgotten?"
He speaks as though he's trying to persuade me of things, when in reality I hardly understand.

"So what is Bar None?" I ask. "It's no place normal."

"As I've told you, it's the last bar on Earth. It's a real place, just . . . changed. The last bar, the last place, and you . . ."

"We're the last people."

"Soon enough."

I take a drink, close my eyes to savour the taste.
The last people
.

"We're humanity's memory."

Michael nods. "Does that make you scared?"

"Yes. My own memories are painful enough."

"You'll be safe here. You'll be protected, and you can do what you want within these grounds."

"And the things—the factions—that don't want us here? They want us wiped out, right? Want humanity to be gone, with no memory?"

"You'll be protected from them."

I look at his arm, the blood still dripping from the cuts on his face. "For how long?"

"Always. But I have to ask you one thing. I have to ask
you
to decide."

"To stay or leave."

"Free will. I can't force you to stay here."

"Like a vampire, right? You need my permission to come into my head?"

Michael looks away.

"Free will. That's what God supposedly gave us."

He drinks.

I stand, finish my beer and place the glass gently on the table. "The door's open now?"

Michael nods hesitantly. He looks surprised. I like that, because it means he can't read me quite as well as he thinks. I may be human and he may be something else, but I still own myself.

Without looking at him again I open the door and go out into the front garden. I close the door behind me and breathe in the fresh air.

It's beautiful here. Plants I recognise, birds I know, the perfect garden of a perfect pub where all of humanity can be discussed and remembered over pints of perfect beer. Really, what more could I ask for right now?

I look beyond the garden at the wall of vegetation I cannot possibly know. There are things moving up there, maybe alive, maybe some part of the new species of plants. This is how things will soon be, Michael said, but there must come a point where what actually exists beyond the wall, and what I now see, are the same.

I decide to take a walk.

I reach the wall where we fell into the garden the previous day. Past the wall I see only a jungle of new plants, with unknown shadows shifting here and there inside. For some reason I feel safe, even though this new place exudes a deadly malevolence. This is how things will be, not how they are. But really, what does that change? It's only a matter of time.

I climb onto the wall and step forward.

I land beside the Range Rover. It's a wreck, rusted and holed, as though it has been here forever.

The view before me changes instantly, back to something I can almost recognise. It's not normal by any means, but the road is still vaguely visible, and I can see stone walls dividing fields, hedgerows planted by hopeful farmers, gates and fences that are already smothered with rampant growth.

And ahead of me, a few dozen footsteps away, the things that had run at us from the hillside, shooting and killing Danny the Irishman in the process. They have taken root. They were once people, perhaps, but now their arms and legs have stretched, thickening into gnarled branches and fresh shoots. They scream when they see me. I scream back, shock and terror pushing me back against the stone.

The first of them reaches with impossibly long arms, clacking twigs together and rumbling in its chest. A chuckle? Hunger? I cannot stay to find out.

I lift myself up and roll back, tumbling to the ground behind the wall once more. For an instant I hear the gruff chuckling continue, but then it fades and is replaced once again by the sounds and smells of what will be.

My heart is racing, and I think I'm going to be sick. But there is a spread of bluebells around me—flowers I know and love—and suddenly I realise that this bluebell spring will not be my last.

"We're both staying," Cordell says. Jessica is beside him on the bench. Her face is red and puffy, her eyes distant, but she still gives me a small nod. That means a lot.

I sit opposite, glancing back at the wall.

"What did you see?" Cordell asks.

"Things changing. Has Michael spoken to you?"

"Yes, both of us."

I nod. "Good. Good."

Cordell drains his pint. "So what now?"

I smile, pick up his glass and stand. "What's yours?"