Wild Abandon (34 page)

In the kitchen there was blood on the chopping board and evidence of someone having decomposed, right there and then, into a pool of pungent sludge, half in the sink and half running down the cupboard door. The fridge was open and had been ransacked by scavengers. Also, something was cooking in the oven, but Albert did not dare look.

Out in the yard, the light felt thick. On the bench there was a wedding dress stained with red. Three bodies were lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the shade of the tarpaulin. On the gravel, one of the zombies had written
I CUT MYSELF QUITE BA
in blood but had died before it could finish the message. Near the workshop someone had drawn a cock and balls using vegetarian sausages. Scattered in piles here and there were shiny metal shells—used ammunition, most likely, it seemed to Albert. The slanted light gave the henge of portable toilets long shadows. One of them had been pushed over onto its door. They would stay like that for millennia. An empty pan
had been tipped up next to the apple tree, staining the soil with blood, into which armies of ants and worms were amassing. The static of a burgeoning fly population. Apples rotting on the ground.

“Just you and me then, Albert.”

Kate went to the decks and held up the last ever record. Its label was blank, white, and Albert thought that if the world’s ending had wiped all human music, then in all honesty, after tonight, he wasn’t bothered to see it go. Just then the hens made a noise and it was good to know that at least the animals had survived. Somewhere, far off, the guttural yell of other beasts, unknown. Thin clouds filtered the sunlight and there was a bonfire smell. He and Kate stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle of the yard, waiting with the sun on their closed eyelids. Eventually they heard footsteps on the gravel behind them. They turned around to see their mother—or what looked like their mother—puffy and newly arisen, carrying a glass pint of orange juice and wearing men’s shorts and an unfamiliar jumper.

“Stay where you are, bro,” Kate said. “I know what this looks like, but it’s not really her. It is not even a
her
. Sometimes the body keeps moving after death.”

Kate walked slowly forward, then sidestepped round, coming behind the figure who resembled their mother and covering its eyes with her hands.

“Remember, we can’t be sentimental,” Kate said, then she leaned in close to its ear and said a few things that Albert couldn’t hear—presumably last rites—before letting go and taking a step back. “It’ll die down any second now. The last few spasms.”

She was right. The body immediately fell down on one knee. The glass bottle dropped from its hand but didn’t smash. Its mouth dropped slightly and the body keeled, falling sideways, silently mouthing “ow” as its head hit the ground. The body jerked a bit, its feet knocking the pint bottle, which rolled farther away, and it kind of nuzzled the gravel, its mouth ajar, close to a cigarette butt, little bits of dirt sticking to the side of its face and then one more jolt and it stopped, eyes still open.

“Sorry you had to see that.” Kate stood astride the body and spoke up to the sky. “Our parents are gone and we are orphans in a barren and ruined world.”

Albert came to look down at the body. He waited for it to move or twitch or for a little smile at the side of the mouth.

“It’s over,” Kate said. “Just you and me and one pretty major cleanup operation. Corpses for compost.”

The body’s mud-covered hands looked like they had been dead for centuries.

“I’m sad,” Albert said.

“Me too.”

“
You’re
not sad. You’re loving this. I’m
actually
sad.”

“Would our parents have wanted their passing to be a miserable affair or a celebration?”

“A miserable affair.”

“Do you want to close its eyes?”

The body had not blinked or visibly breathed and it was impressive.

“Not really,” Albert said, but he knelt down anyway. “Why do they close the eyes?”

“To show who’s living and who’s not.”

He reached forward with his thumbs and softly shut them.

Kate picked up the body’s arm then let go and it slapped on the ground as it landed, deadweight. Albert took hold of its wrist and felt around for a pulse but couldn’t find one. The body actually hadn’t moved or done anything apart from looking sincerely dead for some time, and this was no longer fun.

Albert put his ear to its mouth and listened for breathing.

“We don’t have time for your soppy bullshit, Albert. Take the legs.”

“Okay, stop now please, Mum.”

“You’ll feel better once it’s on the pyre,” Kate said, taking both arms, preparing to drag the body.

“Very good. Joke’s over.”

His sister waited for him.

“You can stop now,” he said.

The body stayed still. Kate stood there waiting. Albert shook his head and looked around. Then he took hold of both legs and the body opened her eyes.

Thanks: Matt Cape, Laura Emmerson, Ally Gipps, Gregg Morgan, Jeane Mowatt, and Amhurst Community; Agnes, Emma, Julian, and Reuben Orbach, and Paul Mitchell, Laura Stobbart, and Brithdir Mawr; Francesca Alberry, Simon Brooke, Ahmed Murad, Alastair O’Shea, Dylan O’Shea, and Burbage Farm; Tobias Jones, Francesca Lenzi, and Pilsdon Community; Savannah Lambis, Emily Kitchin, Rob Kraitt, Yasmin McDonald, Linda Shaughnessy, and Donald Winchester at A. P. Watt; Matt Clacher, Anna Kelly, Juliette Mitchell, Anna Ridley, and Joe Pickering at Penguin; Ryan Doherty at Random House U.S.; Megan Bradbury, Seth Fishman, Joel Stickley, and Caroline Pretty; Tim Clare, Chris Hicks, John Osborne, Ross Sutherland, Luke Wright, and Homework; Priya and Nick Thirkell; Mum, Dad, Leah, Anna, and Marc Hare. Special thanks: Noah Eaker, Georgia Garrett, and Simon Prosser. Special thanks and special apologies: Martha Orbach. Extra special thanks: Maya Thirkell.