The Risen

The Risen Part 2

A few hours ago, and a couple of hours after darkness had fallen, Nate said goodbye and set off, for all the world looking like the schoolboy he had still been a few months ago, only now his backpack empty and his clothes black – black jeans, two black jumpers (for it was February-cold) and black gloves. Two large knives dangled from a belt and rubbed his thighs – one for each – as he crouch-walked through the rubble and onto the street.

Once on the street, he paused. Everything looked much the same as last time, but still it did nothing to quell his fear. Only until he had been silent for five minutes did he straighten his back so that his head appeared over the roofs of the burnt-out or abandoned cars. Without electricity, streetlamps stood like totems that no longer bore witness to the mundane, their heads creating black holes in a star-filled darkness; blinded house-fronts no longer cast their muted yellow glow into the world, or televised the lives within as families with their feet up stared at screens. Boards now vainly made houses faceless; or those without boards were mausoleums and ransacked opportunities.

These, Nate could barely make out. The moon was waning and could not help.

"Add to checklist; night-vision goggles," he whispered, and set off.

His breath condensed in front of his face, but he could not see it. He walked upright with the hedges and walls of front gardens to his left, passing the cars that stood unmoved. None blocked his path. He knew the layout, however; had scavenged what he could from the glove and otherwise hidden compartments of undamaged cars, until no longer useful.

He walked the streets in the direction of school; his sixth-form stay so nearly over, until it was over for good. Paths he had walked before with headphones in ears. Now he walked wishing he'd never even worn headphones in his life. He strained his ears as he walked, so much his eyes began to ache, listening for the quietest sounds.

The path lead on to the main road and started to wind its way down towards the river Severn. This road was clear of vehicles; people's cars had been mostly locked up tight in garages, or at least lined up outside houses, when things started to get bad. Avoiding exposure, Nate again kept the verge to his back as he walked, this time a wooded area where deer had sometimes accidentally found themselves too close to civilisation.

On an earlier expedition, Nate had come across the tattered bones of a deer in the middle of the main road, heading south, away from the river. It was The Smell that first alerted him; ringing bells as it sometimes did looking for houses open to scavenging. He'd briefly flashed his torch on a barren, flesh-torn ribcage, and quickly left the scene.

At the river now, the once-blockaded bridge was thankfully the same. Cars had been lined up across the crest, two or three deep, but at some point someone in a lorry had hurtled into them at 80-miles an hour and forged a page through the middle. Some of those cars now glinted in the starlight, twisted metal straining for attention.

Nate had crossed to the other side only once, a few weeks ago, desperate for food. On the other side, shops lined the street and it had not taken long to take a fill of goods from one of them. As this was a bottleneck for whatever pedestrian traffic there may still be, he had watched the bridge for an hour before satisfying himself that there was no one waiting. This time, he didn't have that luxury.

Exposed, he started up the bridge. He wanted to stick to one side, but those paths were blocked.

Streaks of oil and god knows what else trailed down from the crest, and The Smell rose up. Nate halted. He listened. He drew out a knife and held it in a reverse grip.