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  It took him a full minute for his sleepy mind to realize it was much lighter now. It was time to make a move. He looked around the coach. One or two others were beginning to stir and stretch, aching from a night of uncomfortable sleeping.

  Mum was asleep, her neck cocked at an angle that was going to be stiff and sore when she came to. Grace was still fast asleep on her lap.

  ‘Morning.’ The black lady with the long nails gave him a warm smile across the aisle. ‘You OK, love?’ For a moment he struggled to remember her name, then it came back to him.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Eva.’

  He rubbed his temples. His head throbbed dully with fatigue . . . and stress, predictably. On the usual Richter scale of headaches, it was just a minor tremor, though.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ He craned his neck. ‘Where’s Mr Mareham?’

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘Yeah. He said he’d wake us up when it got light.’

  Eva shrugged. ‘I only just woke up myself.’

  Leon pulled himself up out of his seat, stood and stretched the stiffness out of his limbs then looked down both sides of the aisle for any sign of him.

  Pretty much every seat was taken. Ben must have decided to remain in the compartment, then. Sleeping on the cold hard floor, if that were even possible.

  ‘I’m gonna go wake Ben. He said we should get out of here when it was lighter.’

  Eva nodded eagerly. ‘No way I want to stay cooped in ’ere another day.’

  Leon pushed past the half-open door into the space beyond. It was still gloomy. The small windows in the coach doors let in only a small amount of the dull grey light from outside.

  Jeez. It stank in here. The smell from the toilet cubicle had had the night to stew and fester and was now producing a heady, eye-wateringly bad odour.

  He stepped across the segmented rubber matting. ‘Mr Mareham?’

  No answer.

  ‘It’s Leon. You said we should make a move when it got . . .’ He squeezed past the luggage rack into the other half of the linking foyer and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes struggled to assemble what he was seeing into something that made any kind of sense.

  The first thing that he did recognize was Ben’s smart, polished black shoes, on their side, one on top of the other, like twins in a bunkbed. Above them, the light-grey flannel cuffs of Mr Mareham’s trouser legs had risen up an inch to reveal a playful pair of lime-green socks. It was the next part that didn’t make sense. At the knees, the material was dark and spots of moisture had soaked through, becoming a solid stain of dark brown as the material approached Ben’s waist. The last thing that Leon could make sense of was the waistband of his trousers and the bottom of his shirt, which, once, had been a crisp, freshly laundered white, but was now a mottled sepia colour.

  The shirt disappeared into a tangled mass of quivering dark jelly that reminded him of the dripping Mum used to set aside from Sunday roasts in a tray on the counter. In amongst the jelly, he thought could make out the uniform curve of ribs and the distinct disc segments of a spinal column.

  He fought an urge to retch as he finally comprehended what he was seeing.

  The skeleton of Mr Mareham, poking through the jelly here and there, was unaffected, unliquidized and told an instant story. Ben had died as he slept. The bones indicated he’d been lying on his side, knees drawn up, hands balled beneath his rolled-up jacket, propping up his bloody, tufted-scalp skull.

  Leon retched again and this time vomit spattered the floor in front of his trainers. He reached out and steadied himself.

  Oh shit . . . Oh God.

  His eyes were getting used to the pale gloom and picking out more details. The dark jelly – that used to be Ben Mareham – seemed to have spread in a peculiar way: thin filament lines snaked and weaved in all directions across the rubber-mat floor.

  He quickly looked down at his trainers to check if he’d stepped on any.

  No.

  He traced the lines, picking up on one ‘tributary’ that seemed thicker and more established than the others around it, thin lines that fanned out and came to feathery dead ends. He followed this line, increasing in thickness until it started to look like a length of electrical flex, then thicker, like tarred rope. It squeezed through the narrow gap beneath the door and disappeared into the next coach.

  He stepped carefully up to the door and peered through the scuffed window.

  ‘God, no!’ he gasped and took an involuntary step backwards.

  There was even less of James left . . .

  The dark tributary that had sneaked under the door in the last couple of hours had . . .

  Oh God, . . . had been a part of James reaching out for a part of Ben.

  . . . James . . .

  . . . reaching out for Ben . . .

  . . . making contact with him as he slept . . .

  Right behind him, Eva screamed. ‘OHMYGOD HE’S DEAD!’

  Her hand grabbed his shoulder, her long nails digging in. ‘OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!’

  She pulled him roughly backwards by the arm. ‘IT’S GOT INSIDE!’

  Leon wanted to shake her off. Wanted to take another few seconds to make sure he fully comprehended what he was seeing. Not with ghoulish fascination, but with a desperate need to understand how they were all eventually going to end up.

  He also wanted to run.

  She dragged him back into coach D. ‘EVERYONE!’ she bellowed. Those few who were still fast asleep jerked wide awake; the rest all spun to look in her direction.

  ‘GET OUT NOW! GET OUT NOW!’

  Leon caught his mother’s eyes. They were wide, round and questioning. He nodded at her and then looked at all the other eyes locked on him and Eva. ‘She’s right. We . . . W-we got to get off this train. Now.’

  One of the previously drunk lads, all three now fully sober, stood up. ‘Hold on . . . the warnings ’ave been that we got to stay inside, not go out and—’

  ‘It’s inside now!’ yelled Eva. ‘It’s in our coach!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It got under the door . . . got Mr Mareham while he was sleeping . . . and it’s growing this way!’

  A wave of voices and gasps rippled down coach D. Leon saw faces crammed into the doorway at the far end, and over their shoulders other faces appeared, trying to listen to the commotion going on this end.

  ‘Growing . . . What the hell does that mean?’ asked the man. He looked much less like a smart city trader this morning with his dishevelled hair and untucked pink office shirt.

  Mum stood up protectively in front of her son. ‘Leon? What’s happened to Ben?’

  ‘The virus . . . it’s grown, Mum. It came right under the door, like a fungus or something,’ he started quietly. For the benefit of everyone else listening, he raised his voice. ‘This thing is growing . . . feelers, tentacles . . . or something, across the floor, like it’s . . . like it’s looking for us!’

  ‘It found that old man,’ added Eva loudly. Her shrill voice carried down the coach like a police siren. ‘Turned him to . . . mush!’

  Mum stepped past both Leon and Eva, pushing through the half-open door into the gloomy compartment beyond. The coach went quiet, awaiting her return. Seconds later, she reappeared, ashen-faced. She looked ready to faint or vomit.

  ‘We . . . we can’t stay here any longer,’ she said quietly to Leon. She looked down at Grace. ‘Come on, honey, get your things. We’re getting off.’

  ‘Mom? But . . . what if . . .’

  ‘NOW!’ she screamed.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked the young man.

  ‘It’s light,’ she replied. ‘The warning mentioned flakes. Like snowflakes. We can see them coming down now.’ Every pair of eyes in the coach was on her.

  ‘And I don’t think anyone’s going to come for us.’

  Leon jumped down on to the gravel beside the tracks with a heavy crunch.

  The noise startled some birds roosting on the electric cables above and they scattered
into the cheerless grey sky with the sound of beating wings.

  The sight of them was vaguely encouraging. Birds . . . are they immune?

  He held out his hand for Grace and guided her down. Then his mother. He heard the impact of other feet landing to his left. Word appeared to be spreading quickly down the train that outside might be a safer bet than staying on the train. Doors were swinging open and other passengers were hastily joining the exodus.

  He held out his hands for Eva. By some unspoken arrangement, Eva had become part of their group.

  Mum turned towards the front of the train. Ahead of them was C, the coach they’d started in, then B, the coach that had first been infected. Beyond that was A and the driver’s cabin at the very end. Then it was a straight, empty track flanked by raised banks as far as she could see.

  ‘Norwich has got to be that way, then,’ said Leon. Mum stared warily at the coaches ahead of them.

  ‘Mum?’

  She stirred. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I know, we’ve got to go that way.’

  Leon stepped slowly forward, loose stones clattering beneath his feet. He veered to the right, off the gravel bed and up on to the lower slope of the embankment, as far as he could get to the right before nettles and brambles stopped him, giving the coaches as wide a berth as possible.

  He led the way forward, past C, towards B, the first of the two First Class coaches. Behind him he could hear Mum’s footsteps, Grace’s and Eva’s. Morbid curiosity compelled him to look to his left to try to snatch a glimpse of what was inside the First Class coaches.

  He found a break in the nettles and brambles, and clambered several steps up the steep bank until he was high enough to look down and into the front part of the train.

  He heard Mum telling Grace to keep walking, to not copy Leon. Just keep walking and looking forward, hon. They passed by below him as Leon slowly scanned the length of coach A. Every window appeared to have a delicate pink lace curtain drawn across it for modesty, as if each one were a dear old lady’s dressing room.

  But they’re NOT curtains, are they?

  They were sheets of fine, semi-opaque membranes revealing vein-like threads within, and hinting at the slaughterhouse horror beyond.

  Shutter-click images of Ben and James flashed into Leon’s head: the soft tissue of their bodies melting, leaving behind raw bones that dangled unwanted or unneeded shreds of cartilage; their clothes stained dark, hanging on empty frames, like poorly stuffed scarecrows.

  You DON’T think about Ben, OK, son? Dad’s firm voice, scolding him. You DO NOT replay what you saw. He’s gone. James is gone. All those poor bastards in there are gone. They’re in a better place now.

  OK, Dad.

  That’s my boy, MonkeyNuts. Now . . . you just think about walking to Norwich.

  Leon took several staggered steps back down the embankment and hurried to catch up with the others.

  ‘I don’t want to know what you saw,’ said Mum quickly.

  Leon nodded.

  They were in front of the train now and swerved back on to the rail tracks, preferring the wide open way ahead, the gravel, the sleepers, the rails, rather than the steep bank, with its nettles and brambles and the stunted overhanging trees at the top that cast forbidding shadows.

  He turned round and saw that they were at the head of a long trail of bedraggled commuters picking their way slowly between the rails.

  You listen to what that old guy said, son. You help Mom where you can. She’s strong, but she’s not Wonder Woman.

  He trudged in silence beside Grace and Mum. He reached out and put a protective arm across his sister’s shoulder. Forty-eight hours ago she would have gone Eeww, and shrugged him off. Forty-eight hours ago she was giving her lame older brother agony-aunt advice.

  She let go of Mum’s hand and squeezed his gratefully.

  CHAPTER 21

  About ten o’ clock in the morning, the sound of crunching gravel and weary footsteps was broken by someone calling out for everyone to stop. Leon turned to see a young woman waving her phone around like a rallying flag.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘I’ve got a signal! I’ve got 3G!’

  The news caused everyone to stop trudging along the sleepers and turn to converge around her. Most people’s phones had been flat this morning. There were just a few people with a trickle of battery power left. There was a hope – everyone was thinking it even if they weren’t saying it – that the world was still out there, phone networks still operating, internet still alive and well, power stations running, law and order . . . somebody still making decisions. And the only reason they were getting nothing on their phones was that the train had dumped them in a signal black spot.

  Leon, Jennifer, Eva and Grace joined the crowd gathering around the woman.

  ‘BBC website!’ said someone quickly. ‘Don’t mess about, love! Get the news website!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ She sounded hassled as she tapped at the screen. ‘What is it . . . dot co dot uk? Or—’

  ‘Here . . .’ Someone snatched her phone off her and directed her browser. Faces pooled around the dull screen, brightness whacked right down to preserve what was left of her charge. They waited for the page to load.

  ‘Shit. I’ve only got five per cent,’ said the girl apologetically.

  Leon shuffled around until he could see the screen. The red BBC logo was up, but the page was just a blank grey ‘place-holder’. He looked at the expectant, anxious expressions around the phone.

  Finally the page loaded. One picture, one headline. The picture was of the British prime minister. He looked haggard, pale and terrified.

  West African Virus in UK: Emergency Measures in Full Force.

  ‘For God’s sake . . . someone read it out loud!’

  The young woman nodded. ‘The prime minister declared a state of emergency late last night. All airports, ports, stations and motorways are closed with immediate effect. Everyone is instructed to stay in their homes, to only drink bottled water, NOT tap water, and to wait for further announcements.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  She shook her head. ‘COBRA, the emergency authority mobilized in times of extreme crisis, has declared a number of martial laws with immediate effect. One: full home quarantine – no one is to remain outside. Two: army and police have full authority to shoot on sight anyone breaking home quarantine . . .’

  She looked up from the screen. ‘OhmyGod.’

  ‘Is there any more?’

  She looked back down at the screen. ‘Three: COBRA, military personnel and police have full authority to requisition any supplies and resources required to remain operational.’

  ‘That’s crazy!’ someone barked out.

  She shook her head. ‘There’s another article . . . Cases of infection have been reported in most if not ALL countries. Media services, internet services and phone services have gone down in many places . . .’

  ‘This has got to be some kind of reality-TV wind-up, right?’ said one of the beered-up lads from coach C. He looked around hopefully. ‘Like some sort of Derren Brown thing?’

  ‘. . . the virus is able to cross all animal species barriers without exception and is lethal in all cases, although the rate at which it kills seems to vary. The etiology as yet is unknown . . .’

  ‘This isn’t happening,’ insisted the young man. ‘Come on. It’s clearly a wind-up.’

  ‘. . . The origin is suspected to be either an artificial, genetically engineered pathogen, or, as some experts have suggested, quite possibly something extraterrestrial in origin . . .’

  The man laughed, relieved. ‘There you go, then! Alien invaders! OK. This definitely IS a wind—’

  ‘Shut up, mate,’ said his friend. ‘Just shut the hell up.’

  ‘. . . possibly an organism carried in dormant form on a meteorite and “revived” on contact with liquid-form water . . .’

  The young woman stopped. She swiped at the screen.

  ‘Is there more?’

 
She shook her head. ‘It’s buffering again . . . Hold on . . .’

  They waited in silence for a full minute, listening to the breeze stirring the stunted branches of the trees planted along the top of the bank. Leon looked up and noticed there was no birdsong to be heard. It was ominously quiet. No distant hiss of traffic, no buzzing of insects. Just the breeze herding the heavy, low, grey clouds along above them.

  ‘Its . . . The article’s gone!’ she said. She looked up at everyone, her eyes wide and moist with tears, her mouth hanging open. She turned the phone round to show everyone. Leon leaned forward to see what was on the dim screen.

  BBC news service suspended: 7.43 a.m.

  ‘That was posted over two hours ago!’ cried someone.

  Leon turned and looked for his mother. He found her staring at him, mouthing his name. Leon?

  ‘Mum, it’s gone. The BBC’s gone!’

  It suddenly became very noisy. The young woman wanted to use whatever charge she had left in her phone to try to call her parents while she had a signal. The young man was still insisting this was some extreme reality-TV-show stunt and was being told to shut up by his friends. A woman who’d been repeating what the girl had been reading out for the benefit of those out of earshot started to cry. Eva’s loud voice was booming, imploring them all to stay calm.

  Leon pushed himself out of the knot of people towards Mum.

  ‘What’re we gonna do now?’

  She held out her hand, grabbed his and pulled him towards her. ‘I don’t know, Leo, I just don’t know . . . I . . . I . . .’

  She’s the brittle type, Leon. Ben’s words were there in the back of his mind.

  ‘It’s cool, Mum. It’s fine. We’re just going to keep going towards Norwich, right?’

  She nodded, distracted. ‘Yes . . . yes, Norwich. That’s . . .’

  ‘Mum?’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Grace?’

  ‘She said she needed to go to the toilet.’

  Leon shook his head as though to say, You just let her wander off like that? He was going to say more when he caught sight of Grace standing up from behind a tall cluster of nettles at the top of the bank. She was starting to pick her way down the slope towards them when she stopped where she was, craned her neck curiously and scrunched up her eyes.