Disintegration

7

It was just after three in the afternoon, but it felt much later. The sun was beginning to sink lazily below the horizon, drenching the flats with hazy, warm orange light. The unexpected brightness and heat indoors was almost enough to give the illusion of it being an August afternoon, not postapocalyptic late October.

The frenzied activity of earlier in the day had slowed to a virtual standstill. Since the looters had returned the group had scattered themselves throughout the building, each person taking a little treasure for themselves—some food or drink, clean bedding or fresh clothes. Jas sat alone in the corner of his room. Next to him the remains of the best meal he’d eaten in days was spread over the dirty carpet. It had all been cold, processed, high-sugar, nutrition-free crap but he didn’t care. It tasted relatively good and it filled his stomach and that, he decided, was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last felt this full.

The room was becoming dark save for a few slender shards of incandescent light which squeezed between the boards, covering a single narrow window just above his head, illuminating strips of peeling, water-stained wallpaper. Despite its shabby appearance, Jas liked the isolation of this particular flat and retreated to it often. One day he might make an effort and drag some sticks of furniture in here, he decided. Until then he was happy to relax on an inflatable camping mattress. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. The effort of the morning had worn him out. Six weeks on and he was still finding it impossible to get used to this stop-start, stop-start existence. Life either ran at a snail’s pace or hurtled along at breakneck speed and there didn’t seem to be any in-between. Truth be told, he preferred it when things were moving quickly. He found it easier to lurch from crisis to crisis than to sit alone in cold, empty rooms like this and think. Because thinking, he’d discovered, inevitably meant remembering, and that still hurt as much as it had on the first day. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He carried it everywhere with him, even though he had no need for it anymore. He took out the last remaining photograph of his wife and children, sandwiched between useless credit cards and redundant bank notes. There they were: Prisha, Seti, and Annia, still beautiful despite the horizontal crease in the picture which ran across their smiling faces. And just behind them, sitting with her arms around them all, was his Harj. God, how he missed her.

“Bloody hell,” a voice yelled suddenly from one of the other flats nearby, distracting him from his darkening thoughts. It sounded like Driver or Gordon, and it seemed to have come from the general direction of the shared apartment. Jas jumped to his feet and ran toward the source of the sound, tucking the photo back into his wallet as he moved. What had happened now? He guessed it was probably a fight, most likely Webb and Lorna at each other’s throats again.

Jas burst into the shared flat and immediately stopped and screwed up his face in disgust. The stench hit him like a punch in the face. Anita was leaning over the side of the sofa, spitting and retching. On the pale yellow carpet beside her was a puddle of vomit, the color and consistency of red wine. Most of the others who were in the flat were now standing around the edges of the room, backs pressed against the walls, as far as they could get from the foul-smelling, bilious mess on the floor. Only Caron was brave enough to get any closer, but even she was forced to quickly scuttle out of the way as Anita lunged forward and threw up again. The sound of her heaving, followed by the splatter and splash of vomit, made the bile rise in Jas’s throat and he struggled not to be sick himself. He leaned out of the door he’d just come through, desperate to get some air.

“Can somebody get me something to clean this up with?” Caron asked as she scrubbed at the floor with a strip of sick-soaked rag. No one moved. “Come on!” she snapped, the tone of her voice finally prompting Gordon to start looking through some of the boxes of supplies which had been collected earlier. As Anita began to retch again Jas took the opportunity to get out. He stepped back out into the corridor and walked straight into Harte, who was coming the other way.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked, concerned.

“Anita’s chucking up,” Jas answered. “Must’ve eaten something dodgy.”

“Something we brought back with us?”

“How am I supposed to know? Go and have a look for yourself if you’re that interested.” He sighed, grimacing. His stomach was still churning.

“No thanks,” Harte replied, gingerly peering around the edge of the door. “She’s probably just gorged herself like the rest of us. I’m not feeling too good…”

“What’s all the noise?” Webb shouted, appearing at the end of the corridor with a can of lager in one hand and three more in the other. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”

“Anita’s sick,” Harte replied. He watched Webb stop and consider his options. It didn’t take him long to decide what to do next.

“Fucking stinks in here,” he said over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.