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The two women entered the kitchen area and Dr Reynolds poured two coffees from the unattended machine on the small counter. One or two groups were scattered around the dining area talking in lowered voices. Kate poured cream into her coffee, Dr Reynolds took hers black. They found a table by a grey-green wall and the doctor gratefully sank into a chair, flicking ash into the scrupulously clean ashtray as she did so. Kate sat opposite and looked intently into the big spectacles windowing her companion's eyes.

'How long will Steve be like this?'

Dr Reynolds blew a stream of smoke across the table, turning her head slightly to avoid Kate. ‘You really care for him, don't you? I thought you were strangers before Doomsday.' 'Doomsday' was the title given to the previous Tuesday, used with superficial lightness, but the dark word appropriate to how everyone in the shelter felt.

'He saved my life.' It was a flat statement.

Dr Reynolds watched a fly land in the sugar bowl and wondered as it walked frustratedly over the wrapped sugar lumps if the insect had any idea of the catastrophe that had engulfed the world outside.

She waved her hand and the insect flew away.

She looked back at the girl. 'Who did you lose?'

Kate's eyes lowered. 'Parents. Two brothers. I assume they're gone.'

The doctor leaned forward and Touched her wrist. That may not be so, Kate. There's still a chance they survived.'

The girl shook her head, and there was a sad, tearful smile on her lips. 'No, it's better this way. I don't want to live in hope for them. And I wouldn't want them to have suffered. Better to believe they went instantly and with as little pain as possible.'

Dr Reynolds stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

'Maybe that's the best way. At least you can't be disappointed. Did you have a lover, a boyfriend?'

'I did.' She didn't categorize. 'But that ended months ago.' The familiar pain was there, familiar to Dr Reynolds because she had observed it in the faces of so many in the shelter. She had seen it in her own reflected image each time she looked into a mirror.

'It's funny,' Kate went on. 'I can't remember his features. Each time I try to concentrate on how he looked, his face becomes hazy, like a badly focused picture. But in dreams it's so clear...'

‘You know, Culver had nobody.'

Kate's attention returned, not swiftly, because memories sought to overwhelm.

'He told you that?'

'Not directly.' Clare reached for another cigarette. 'I wish I could give these up, but there doesn't seem to be much point, does there? I mean, what else could happen?' She lit up and shook the match into the ashtray. 'Couple of nights ago, when his fever was at his worst, Culver was crying in his sleep calling out something, perhaps a name - I couldn't catch it.'

'It could have been someone who died in the attack.'

'No, I got the feeling it was long before. He said over and over again: "I can't save her, the water's got her. She's gone, gone ..." My guess is that this woman, girlfriend or wife, was drowned and in some way he feels responsible.'

Why do you say that?'

'Just a feeling. I suppose his dreams reveal classic guilt symptoms. Perhaps they had a tiff and he wasn't around to drag her out of the water. Who knows? Whatever, he's still bothered by it. Maybe that's why he went for you out there in the tunnel.'

'Because of guilt?' Kate's eyes widened in surprise.

'No, no, not exactly. But it must have been very tempting to leave you there and sneak into the shelter.

Let's face it, the odds were against all three of you surviving an attack from those monsters. Did you know he also pulled Dealey into safety when the first bomb hit? Maybe he's trying to make amends for something he didn't do in the past, or maybe he just doesn't care about himself. Maybe both reasons.'

'It could be he's just a very brave man.'

'Uh-huh. Could be. I haven't met many of those, though.' She flicked ash. 'Anyway, to answer the question you asked before we got re-routed: Culver should be up and around in a day or two. He's sleeping now, but why don't you pop down and see him later. I think you'd be welcome. In fact, I think you'd be good for one another.'

'It's too soon for that. Too much has happened.'

'I didn't mean it that way. I meant you could give each other some comfort, some moral support, if you like - God knows, each of us needs it. But as you implied, if it comes to sleeping together, it's precisely because so much has happened that from here on in, nothing will be too soon. Kate, have you any idea what we've got to face when we get out of this shelter? I'll re-phrase that: if we get out of this shelter.'

'I don't want to think about it.'

"You're going to have to. We all are. Because we may be all that's left.'

'Dr Reynolds—'

'Forget the formality. Call me Clare.'

'Clare, I'm not a fool. I've got some idea of what's happened outside and I know it's going to be grim -

no, not grim, awful, God-bloody-awful - and I know that nothing will ever be the same again. I didn't care at first, but now I want

to live through this, I want to survive, no matter what the world has become. For now, though, just for a little while, I need to adjust. Give me that time and I'll help you in anything you want. I can't promise I'll make a good nurse - I hate the sight of blood - but I'll do my best to help in any way I can.'

Clare smiled, patted Kate's hand. You'll do,' she said.

They drank their coffee in silence for a while and the doctor wondered how any of them would really cope once they were outside. The prospects were daunting, not least for members of her own profession, for she knew that at least half, if not more, of the city's hospitals would have been demolished by the blasts, and many, many doctors, nurses and medical staff would have been killed or injured. The demands on the services of those who survived were too enormous to contemplate.

The 'triage' system of selective treatment would undoubtedly have been put into immediate operation.

The injured would be placed into three categories: those unlikely to survive after treatment; those likely to survive after treatment; those likely to survive without treatment. That meant that anyone with severe radiation sickness, or suffering from fatal burns or injuries, would not receive any treatment at all (or -

and she knew this had not been agreed upon in discussions before the nuclear attack - merciful overdoses of morphia might be administered. She secretly hoped this would be the case). Even in normal times there were only enough burn units in the whole of the UK to deal with no more than a hundred severe cases at once, so what hope now?

Mass blood-transfusions for haemorrhages caused by radiation or injuries would be impossible; only five thousand or so pints of blood were stored in London for emergency use, and how many of those reserves would be left after the

devastation? And how long would the Ministry of Health's drugs stockpiles of morphine, aspirin and penicillin last?

She tried to close her mind to all the possibilities crowding in, but they were ruthless harpies who refused to give her peace.

In the days, weeks, that would follow, other environmental hazards would arise. There would be millions of decomposing corpses, both human and animal, lying in the streets or under rubble, food for insects ... and vermin. God, there were supposed to be a hundred million rats, double the human population, living in England alone, only strict measures controlling their constant growth in numbers.

Those measures would not exist any more ...

'Are you all right?' Kate was leaning forward anxiously. ‘You suddenly went deathly pale.'

'Uh? Oh, just thinking. Just considering the mess we've got ourselves into.' She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, then lit another. 'Shit, I should stop doing that. Cigarettes might not be so easy to come by from now on.'

'Do you want to share your thoughts?'

'Not particularly, but since you ask...' She rubbed her neck and twisted it in a circular movement, easing the stiffness. I was just mulling over the diseases that are likely to be rife when we eventually get out. Without proper sanitation, and with everything rotting up there, enteric infections—'

Kate looked puzzled.

'Sorry - intestinal infections could soon reach epidemic proportions. Some of the illnesses will be respiratory -pneumonia, bronchitis, that kind of thing - while others will be disorders such as hepatitis, dysentery, tuberculosis. I think typhoid and cholera will spread. Rabies, too, since we failed to keep it out of the country. Any sickness, you see,

any debilitation, will be exaggerated, and will lead to worse illnesses. Simple measles could become an epidemic. Any childhood infectious disease could wipe out thousands, maybe millions. Meningitis, encephalitis - that's a sleeping sickness caused by inflammation of the brain - even venereal diseases. The list is endless, Kate, just damn-well endless, and I don't think any of us - the government, the medical profession - can do anything about it! They've killed us all, maybe not tomorrow, nor the next day, but eventually. We don't have a hope in hell.'

It was all said in a flat monotone. An underlying hysteria in the doctor's voice would have been less frightening to Kate. Others in the room were looking in their direction and she wondered if they had heard, soft-spoken though Dr Reynolds' words had been.

'Clare, there must be some chance for us. If we can get to another part of the country...'

The other woman sighed deeply. 'I wonder just how much of the country is left. We've no way of knowing how many missiles were used against us. And whatever parts haven't been destroyed will be subjected to fallout drifting on air currents. Oh, Kate, I'd like to have hope, and I know as a doctor I shouldn't be talking like this, but all I feel is a despairing numbness inside, a huge dull-grey blankness. It won't allow room for anything else.'

Kate searched in the older woman's eyes for some sign of inner conflict, a softness, an indication of hidden tears perhaps, or even anger. But the eyes were expressionless. Not cold, not dead. Just void of all emotion.

Kate shuddered inwardly, and a chill Touched her with the knowledge that the nightmare was not over.

It had only just begun.

Culver looked around the sick bay, hoping he might find one of the other 'patients' awake, eager to talk. He was bored, annoyed at his confinement. The others were all asleep, as he guessed they would be, for they had been heavily sedated. Three engineers and one ROC officer had given way under the pressure so far. One of the engineers, a young man somewhere in his late twenties, had sliced his wrists with a razor blade. Only blood spilling beneath the toilet door had saved him. The woman, whom Culver had seen wearing the Royal Observer Corps uniform on the first day inside the shelter, had tried pills stolen from the medical store. The sound of her retching as they forced a rubber tube into her throat had roused him from a deep sleep the night before.

He sank back onto the pillow, an arm going behind his head to prop himself up. Five days he'd been out, according to the doctor, the radiation sickness hitting him first, then reaction from the rat-bite jumping in like some eager bully who wouldn't be left out of the fun. Well, he'd been lucky. The dose was minor although weakening, and Dr Reynolds had found something to counteract the infection. She had explained about the disease the vermin carried and as a precaution had inoculated everyone in the shelter against it. They were safe inside, she had said, but eventually they would have to surface and it was just as well to be prepared

for any dangers that might be out there. Rats would be the least of their problems, Culver had thought.

He lifted the sheet to examine the bite. The wound was no longer dressed and looked an angry red. It felt sore, but not too painful. He'd live.

Letting the sheet drop back over his naked body, he stared up at the bunkbed above. As with the aftermath of any debilitating illness, everything seemed fresh, even the turgid colours of the sick-bay walls. The neon lights shone cleaner, brighter, the wires beneath the bed overhead sharp, their pattern precise. Even the filtered air smelled fresher. He could hardly recall the agonies he had gone through -

save for the acute stomach cramps - but Dr Reynolds had told him he had become yellow as a Chinaman at one stage. Sudden spasms of muscular pains, constant vomiting, and delirium had been the results of the fever, all, she assumed, intensified by the radiation his body had absorbed. Fortunately, the antidote had worked quickly and much of the toxicity had been sweated out or flushed from him within the first couple of days. After that, total exhaustion held him in its smothering embrace and complete rest was the only cure for that.

Culver felt fit enough. Maybe just a little weak, but he was sure his strength would soon return when he was up on his feet. If only he knew where they'd put his clothes.

He pulled the sheets back and swung his legs onto the floor, then rapidly swung them back and covered his lower body, as the door opened. The girl entered and smiled when she saw him half-sitting in the bunkbed.

‘You look good,' she said, walking towards him.

He nodded. 'I feel, uh, okay.'

She sat at the end of the bed, leaning forward a little to avoid the top bunk. We were worried for a while. I never

realized the human body could lose so much waste in such a short period of time.'

"Yeah, well I'd rather forget about that. Did you look after me?' He seemed surprised.

'Dr Reynolds and I took it in turns. Don't you remember? She was with you all the time when your fever was at its peak, though.'

He rubbed the stubble of his chin. 'Sudden images flash into my mind.' He was silent for a few moments, then said: 'I remember you watching me. I remember your face looking down. You were weeping.'

She avoided his eyes. 'I didn't know how serious it was, whether you'd survive. You looked so awful.'

‘You were worried?' Again he looked surprised.

Kate moved closer and ran her fingers through his Tousled sandy hair, using them as a rough comb.

There's a brightness to your eyes.'

'I guess it's all the vitamins our lady doctor is pumping into me.'

'She says that in a strange way you've been luckier than the rest of us.'

He gave a short laugh. This I gotta hear. Just how does she figure that?'

‘You've been away from it. Your mind's been concerned with just one thing over the past few days: self-preservation. Even through your delirium it's been fighting, refusing to let go. And Clare - Dr Reynolds - says your mind's been doing something else too.'

Culver gently caught her wrist to stop her fingers moving through his hair. 'What would that be?'

The brain is a remarkable machine, it can do several things at once. While it was helping you pull through, it was also adjusting.'