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  She’s seen something.

  ‘Mom!’ she called out. Mum turned towards Grace’s voice, relieved. Grace said something else, but it was lost beneath all the other raised voices. She pointed a finger.

  Mum and Leon turned to look in the direction she was now pointing: back down the rails. It looked like a blizzard of feathers billowing up the long straight track towards them, carried along on the fresh breeze, swirling in lazy unpredictable circles. Feathers, as if some children’s pillow fight had got out of hand, or a flock of pigeons had smacked into the windscreen of a truck on a highway.

  It was almost pretty, like cherry blossoms rolling along an abandoned rail track beneath a dark foreboding sky. It was a movie poster. A piece of hotel-lobby art.

  He looked at his mother. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Is that . . . is that . . . ?’ Her mouth hung open, unable to finish her question.

  The flakes. Dad’s flakes.

  ‘Mum . . . that’s the virus! It’s got to be!’

  She was just staring at it, rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open . . . entranced by it, or too stupefied or terrified to snap out of it,

  ‘Mum!’ He grabbed her shoulder roughly. ‘MUM! WE GOTTA GO!’

  It looked like it was coming slowly, lazily. A jog across flat ground could easily have outpaced it, but they weren’t on flat ground. They were in a long, straight gulley, flanked by steep banks covered in thick tangles of weeds. Trapped in its path, unless they made a start climbing out of the way . . . right now.

  Mum nodded. ‘Eva!’ The woman was just a few metres away talking animatedly with a woman from another carriage.

  ‘Eva!’ Leon echoed. He headed over and grabbed her arm. ‘Look!’ he said, and pointed down the tracks at the approaching cloud of particles. It was much closer now. A slight updraught was carrying the white flecks up into the sky while the banks on either side channelled it towards them. Leon wondered if there was any way of avoiding it, whatever they did.

  ‘Ohmydays!’ she gasped, confused for a moment by what she was looking at, but sensing immediately it wasn’t a good thing.

  ‘It . . . it’s the virus,’ said Leon. ‘I think—’

  ‘THE VIRUS!’ she screamed. All heads turned to look in the direction her long fingernail was pointing. ‘LOOK! IIIIIT’S COMIN’!’

  The effect was instant. Panic. There was none of that stiff-upper-lip reserve any more, that uniquely British incapacitating fear of looking like an idiot . . . of embarrassment. Leon pulled on Eva’s arm and pointed up to Grace still standing at the top of the small slope.

  They scrambled off the rails and sleepers, off the gravel and up on to the bottom of the steeply ascending bank.

  Mum joined them. She grabbed Eva’s other arm. ‘Come on!’

  The woman was large and struggling in her impractical work heels. She kicked them off and bent down to pick them up. ‘Ow! There’s prickles an’ stuff!’

  Leon looked over his shoulder, the cloud was now only twenty or thirty metres from them. The banks either side of the tracks were dotted with people following their lead, scrambling uphill through waist-high weeds.

  ‘Keep moving,’ said Mum, tugging Eva’s arm.

  One of the beer lads from coach C joined them – not the one who thought he was on some reality show, but the one who’d told that idiot to shut up.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ he said to Leon. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ He planted his hands against the small of Eva’s back and pushed.

  Eva yelped as bristles and nettles and sharp twigs stabbed at her bare feet.

  The man managed a grin. ‘We’ll look like idiots if that’s just the stuffing from some kid’s teddy bear.’

  Leon turned to look again and wondered whether the man was right. It actually looked just like that. Not feathers, but soft toy stuffing.

  He turned to watch the dozen or so people who’d chosen to remain on the tracks, either because they too thought it was the stuffing from a toy or pillow, or maybe because they were too tired to react, too bemused by the sight, or too afraid of looking foolish . . . or, like that young man down there, still utterly convinced that this whole thing was some elaborate reality-TV stunt.

  As the cloud began to engulf them, Leon saw the man who was convinced he was being filmed by secret cameras stare at something on the back of his hand. He flapped his hand vigorously as if he were trying to shake off a horsefly.

  The feathers are sticky?

  The fluff was settling as the light breeze abated and the particles began to seesaw lazily down.

  Leon turned back to the task in hand and pushed Eva from behind more insistently. She was puffing and wheezing as the incline steepened. ‘I can’t go any faster, love,’ she gasped.

  Grace was hopping up and down at the top, screaming and pointing. ‘OhmyGod! Look! LOOK!’

  Mum glanced back over her shoulder. Leon looked again. Others down on the tracks were now beginning to do the same thing as the disbelieving city lad: frantically rubbing at their hands, their cheeks, their arms.

  Leon met his mother’s eyes. She nodded. ‘Come on! For God’s sake, move it!’

  I’m . . . trying . . . I’m . . .’ panted Eva.

  They were two-thirds of the way up, the incline now at its steepest and the nettles and brambles thickening.

  We’re not going to escape it.

  As if to confirm his suspicion, Leon spotted a solitary particle of white fluff lightly settling on to the topmost leaf of a tall stinging nettle just ahead of him.

  ‘Shit!’

  Leon turned in time to see the man beside him flick his hand. Their eyes met. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘Nettle sting.’

  They were nearing the top now. Grace was shifting from foot to foot anxiously. ‘Over there!’ she shouted, pointing to something beyond the bank. With a last team effort and a cry of exhaustion from Eva, they emerged from the brambles on to the ridge of the embankment.

  ‘Over there!’ said Grace again. ‘There’s a barn!’ Leon looked across a field striped with deep plough lanes and rows of dark green florets of broccoli, towards a rusty-looking corrugated-iron barn where several tractors were parked up.

  ‘OK,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s head there.’

  The others began to make their way slowly across the field. But Leon hesitated. He turned to take one last look down the bank at the people still on the tracks. No one seemed to be sick . . . yet. But they did all seem to be preoccupied with rubbing furiously at their skin.

  He saw the young man, star of his own reality show, sitting down heavily on one of the rails, no longer rubbing, or scratching the back of his hand, but instead dipping his head to one side as he closely inspected his hand. The stupid, bemused, Hey I’ll play along grin was beginning to vanish from his face.

  CHAPTER 22

  They were now well clear of the curious cloud of fluff as they crossed the field. All the same, they hurried, looking furtively up at the sky as they stepped from ploughed rut to ploughed rut, winding their way diagonally across the field towards the tractor barn.

  Five minutes later they made it under the corrugated-iron roof, just as a few drops of rain started to patter lightly against it. Eva sat down heavily on a low stack of wooden pallets, her bare feet so caked in mud that they looked like a new pair of misshapen ankle boots.

  All of them were struggling to catch their breath.

  ‘OhmyGod, ohmyGod,’ wheezed Eva over and over again.

  ‘Do you think . . . just a sec . . .’ started the young man. He sucked in a breath a couple more times to recover his voice. ‘Do you think that was it . . . the virus? Or did we just run from, I dunno, a bunch of pollinating dandelions?’

  Leon was slumped against the large, ridged tyre of one of the tractors. ‘I saw it settling on them and sticking to them, like . . .’ He tried to think what it was like. But he couldn’t come up with anything. It was like nothing he’d ever seen.

  ‘I saw that too,’ said Grace. She shook her he
ad as if she didn’t want to agree with her brother, but couldn’t deny it either. ‘Those people on the track were rubbing and scratching . . . like it was starting to hurt or itch them or something.’

  The light tapping of raindrops on the corrugated roof increased in tempo and insistency.

  ‘Maybe it was some kind of industrial pollutant,’ said Jennifer. She looked at her kids hopefully. ‘A truck carrying something could have gone over on a motorway nearby, or it—’

  ‘Oh . . . it’s the virus.’ Eva spoke with such certainty that everyone turned to look at her. She held out her right arm and twisted her hand palm upwards to reveal the slightly paler skin near her wrist. There was a mottled dark patch. ‘Flake went an’ touched me right there.’ She bit her lip. ‘I was hoping maybe the stinging was a nettle.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got it now . . . haven’t I?’

  Jennifer instinctively tugged at Grace’s hand and pulled her back a few steps. ‘I don’t know, Eva.’ Leon could see it on Jennifer’s face – she did know.

  ‘Have we got it too?’ asked Grace. ‘We were touching her!’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No. You’re OK, Grace. I’m OK.’

  Leon looked at the young man standing beside him. He had one hand tucked behind his back.

  ‘I . . . look, sorry . . . but something happened to you too. I saw you shaking your hand back there.’

  The man shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, mate. Really.’

  ‘Show us,’ said Jennifer.

  He wheezed a laugh. ‘Nothing. A scratch.’ His hand remained behind his back.

  ‘Show us,’ said Jennifer more sharply. She softened her tone quickly. ‘Please . . . you have to.’

  The young man’s face flickered with shame or pain. He held his hand out. The back of it was mottled red and glistened wetly where a weeping sore was beginning to develop. ‘Shit,’ he hissed angrily. ‘I’ve got this thing too, right?’

  Jennifer shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But . . . please stay back—’

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch anyone.’

  He stepped slowly past Leon, crossed the muddy floor and sat down next to Eva. ‘I think you and me, we’re out of the gang now, love,’ he huffed. ‘Which is bloody typical of my luck.’

  He looked up at Jennifer and rattled out a humourless laugh. ‘Figures . . . I got Top Six-Month Salesperson yesterday. That’s what me and my mates were drinking to. My big win.’

  Eva was staring at her arm. The mottled pattern on her skin was spreading. The skin itself was glistening and blistering like a burn. She probed it lightly with her finger and the skin gave way and tore open like wet tissue paper, spilling a thin rivulet of blood down towards her palm. At the sight of her own blood, her shoulders began to shake and she started sobbing. ‘This isn’t happening to me.’

  ‘Looks like we’re going to be melting buddies, love,’ said the man. He grinned drunkenly and offered her his uninfected hand. I’m Greg, by the way.’

  Bemused, in shock, Eva squeezed his hand in response, then dipped her head down, cradling her face in her arms.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Jennifer. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish we could do something to help.’

  ‘Don’t think there’s much you can do,’ said Greg. ‘It looks like we’re both screwed.’

  He sat back and smiled. A pink-stained tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Actually, do you have anything to drink? My mouth’s dry as shit.’

  She shook her head, but then Grace said, ‘Sure.’ She dug into her shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of grape-flavoured water.

  ‘Grace! No!’

  She stepped forward and was handing it to him before Jennifer could intervene. Greg reached out for the bottle, careful to make sure there was no skin contact. ‘You know . . . I can’t give this back to you, love?’

  She nodded, smiled. ‘It’s OK. You can keep it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pulled the lid off and took a deep swig, swilling it round in his mouth before swallowing it. He held the bottle out to Eva. She took a sip then handed it back.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Leon.

  Greg frowned and grinned at the same time. ‘Weird. Dizzy. Kind of like being pissed. Like, first-pint-at-lunchtime pissed, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Eva?’ asked Jennifer. ‘How about you?’

  She sat up straight, her eyes firmly closed. ‘I feel tired. Very tired . . . like it’s my time. My time . . . to go.’

  She eased herself back on the pallet, so that she was lying down, comfortable, looking up at the corrugated-iron roof and the shards of grey light spearing through its rusted holes. She half smiled. ‘I think . . . I think that’s the Lord reaching down for me.’

  Greg chuckled at that and lay down beside her. ‘More like being stoned on a good joint.’

  ‘Are either of you in any pain? Discomfort?’ asked Jennifer.

  Neither of them seemed to hear her. The rain drumming on the roof was getting louder and more insistent, and heavy drips were beginning to splash down through the holes on to the ground.

  ‘Greg?’ said Leon. ‘Eva?’

  She had started singing something softly. It sounded like a gospel hymn of some kind.

  ‘Hey, that’s really nice, Eva,’ said Greg dreamily. ‘Don’t stop.’

  Leon watched a trail of blood thickened with mucus, roll out of his left nostril, down his cheek and soak into the hair around his ear. He lifted his infected hand up to his face and stared up at it. A long ribbon of pink gel dangled down from it in a loop, swinging inches above him.

  ‘Wow. I’ve never seen the inside of my hand . . .’ he said drunkenly. ‘I can see the bones . . . the tendons . . . the muscles . . . fascinating.’

  Leon turned to look at his sister. Her face was white, her eyes round with horror.

  ‘Mum,’ said Leon quietly. He nodded at his sister.

  Don’t let her watch this.

  She nodded, got up and tugged Grace after her. ‘Let’s take a look around, honey, see if we can find supplies, anything useful.’

  They disappeared off between the tractors, and Leon turned and resumed watching over Eva and Greg. Eva’s arm was stretched out above her head now, like she didn’t have a care in the world, was just some dreamer lying among the hay bales. Leon could see the process was accelerating. The infection seemed to be spreading quickly; her skin was mottled all the way up to the elbow now and faint dark lines showed the infection snaking ahead like scouts before an advancing army. The flesh along her forearm and around her wrist was drooping like melted wax, exposing glimpses of bone and tendon.

  ‘Can either of you hear me?’ asked Leon.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ whispered Greg after a while. ‘I hear you, mate.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now . . . Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Thirsty,’ Greg replied, smacking his dry lips. ‘Thirsty work . . . this . . . melting business . . .’

  Leon looked at the plastic bottle of grape-flavoured water. He wanted to help them any way he could – hold the bottle to their lips – but he couldn’t touch it now.

  ‘The water’s right there . . . It’s right beside you, Greg.’

  The man’s bloodshot eyes swivelled to the right. ‘My sight . . . Shit . . . It’s going . . . I can’t see . . . all blurry . . . just light . . . glowing light.’

  ‘It’s the Lord!’ whispered Eva. ‘Coming down for us.’ Blood bubbled out of the side of her mouth. She started to gag and cough and turned her face to the side. Pink froth spilled out of her mouth on to the ground, accompanied by several loose teeth.

  Leon wanted to leave, and yet felt he had to stay. To bear witness. On the one hand he was storing up images in his head that were going to torment him with nightmares, but on the other he needed to know what it was going to be like when they inevitably got this infection. He was certain it was going to happen to them, sooner rather than later. They were going to d
ie – he was going to witness Mum, Grace, himself . . . dying just like this.

  He needed to know what it was going to be like. How it was going to feel.

  Greg’s left leg began to twitch and kick, almost in defiance, like it was the last part of his body putting up a fight. He started to moan and a deep gurgling came from the back of his throat, like he was now experiencing some sort of discomfort.

  ‘Greg? Can you hear me? Is it . . . hurting?’

  The moan became a whimpering cry, no longer the voice of a young man but the tearless mewling of a small boy.

  ‘I . . . don’t wan’ . . . to go clothes shops, Mum . . . I don’t want to . . .’ Greg muttered. The rest of his words became an incoherent childlike jumble. He was silent for a few moments then suddenly began to shriek. The shrill sound lasted just a couple of seconds before it turned into a guttural click as something within his throat collapsed or snapped or gave way.

  Enough! God, enough! You’ve seen enough.

  Eva’s upper arm was now beginning to slide off the bone like slow-cooked meat. The pooling liquid beneath seemed to be organizing itself, several small threads emerging from the pool like feelers, snaking centimetre by centimetre across the ground – explorers charting a new continent.

  ‘Leon! Come on!’ Mum’s voice. ‘NOW!’

  He stood up and backed several steps away from the two bodies.

  ‘I . . . I’ve got to go,’ he said softly. Neither of them seemed to hear him.

  Eva resumed humming her hymn, while Greg just gurgled and whimpered.

  CHAPTER 23

  Leon figured it was just about midday when Mum finally did what Mr Mareham predicted she would do.

  She cracked.

  None of them was wearing a watch, and all three of their smartphones were now flat out, so they were down to guessing the time by the position of the barely glimpsed sun.

  She snapped without warning, just like Ben had said she would. They’d left the barn, Mum not wanting to risk staying near the infection a moment longer than they had to. There was no knowing how long into the virus’s life cycle it would be before it started releasing those lethal floating particles. They’d made their way across field after field hoping to find a farmhouse, a petrol station, an out of town retail park, a main road . . . even hoping to find a police roadblock, despite the fact they might be shot on sight if they did.