Chapter 14: Chapter Chapter Fourteen: City of the Dead

There was not another living thing anywhere between Stirling and the outskirts of Glasgow. For thirty miles Hunter drove in near silence. The M9 gave way to the M80 and this road was just as quiet as its predecessor. Again, all of the vehicles on the road had been pushed into the side of the road. Just west of Cumbernauld lay the first real obstruction. At its busiest point, the road had been blocked by a large pile-up. The emaciated remains of a half dozen bodies had been lain at the side of the road. Other bodies were still seated in their cars and vans - awaiting emergency services that had never been called and were never to come. Hunter described the scene and narrated the next few minutes as she struggled to find a way around the mess. Soon Hunter reported that she’d re-joined the M80.

The next obstacle came just as they tried to join the M8, Scotland’s busiest motorway. The long, gently curving interchange included a bridge blocked by a jack-knifed lorry. Hunter stopped the Mini to investigate, despite MacGregor’s protests.

“What’s happening?”

“Blocked road. We’ll have to turn around and go back the way we came. There’s no way round and there’s no hard shoulder on this bridge.”

“Why did you stop?”

“There’s something not quite right. I can’t put my finger on it.”

The thing that presented itself as Hunter began the first of three or four movements that would be needed to turn the car around. MacGregor heard the voice first. He recognized it immediately, impossible as it seemed.

“Oh my God,” Hunter whispered, “it’s Sharpe.”

“I thought it was,” MacGregor replied, “That’s impossible.”

“He hasn’t got any hair,” Hunter said.

MacGregor could hear the voice now. Sharpe was shouting. The voice was unmistakable, but it was obviously not the Sharpe he’d briefly known – and killed. The car came to a lurching halt.

“You’re stopping the car?”

“I can’t get past him,” Hunter said.

MacGregor was about to suggest that Hunter just push past him with the car. She opened her door and got out of the car.

“Oh fuck.” He followed after her.

“It’s so wrong!” Sharpe’s voice was much closer than MacGregor realized. The words were delivered with a surprised, almost anxious tone. MacGregor had never heard anything like the kind of sincerity that the nerve-tingling voice now invoked in him. Sharpe was so close that MacGregor backed away automatically. His elbow collided with the open door. Something passed in front of him. He felt long, delicate strands of hair stroking his cheek like a feather. It was Hunter, moving between him and Sharpe.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Sharpe?” Hunter said, “What is wrong and who are you?

are you?”

“Like something hollow, but turned inside out,” Sharpe replied. His voice had the same perpetually optimistic and marginally excited tone as before. “That’s how wrong this is. It’s all the wrong way around.”

“Eilidh…” MacGregor hissed.

“No,” she said loudly, cutting him off. “Why are you here? Sharpe died inside the object we left in the north of Scotland. The black ball. We called it the Sphere of Darkness. You died inside that, Mr. Sharpe.”

“It’s wrong,” Sharpe said, “Something hollow that was turned inside out. It’s the same as that.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Hunter said, “What was turned inside out?”

“It’s wrong,” Sharpe repeated, “Like something hollow, but turned inside out. That’s how wrong this is. Like something hollow turned the wrong way around.”

“He’s not making any sense,” MacGregor muttered.

“Shit!” Hunter exclaimed.

MacGregor felt heavy movement. Sharpe had pushed Hunter to the side in a swift and powerful motion.

“Look out, John!”

MacGregor felt Sharpe’s massive hands grabbing the collars of his jacket. He tried to move away but was pinned against the Mini’s door.

“Get off me, you lunatic!” MacGregor snarled.

Sharpe’s fingers clawed at the parka’s waxy treated cotton, pinching MacGregor’s skin beneath with the force of his the big man’s grip. MacGregor pushed hard against Sharpe’s chest, but he couldn’t break free.

“It’s wrong!” Sharpe shouted. Droplets of his spittle landed on MacGregor’s face. “It’s wrong.”

“Fuck! You keep saying that,” MacGregor said, “but we have no idea what it means. What are you anyway? Why don’t you let me go?”

Sharpe’s grip on MacGregor relaxed slightly. “You?” he said, “I’m here because of you!”

MacGregor pushed against the Mini, finally getting out of the corner he’d backed himself into. Sharpe was a strong and heavy opponent, but not all of MacGregor’s muscles had deserted him. He turned slowly to the right and then twisted back to the left with all of his strength. His forearm hammered against Sharpe’s left wrist, dislodging it. He twisted free of Sharpe’s right hand before the big man could regain his grip.

“I’m here because of you,” Sharpe said quietly. “It’s wrong.”

MacGregor was backing away from the voice. He felt afraid, remembering that they were on a narrow bridge. He moved his feet quickly but carefully, skimming the ground as gingerly as he could. Sharpe was stumbling towards him.

“I’m here because of you.”

“Stay back!”

The voice belonged to Hunter. She was in front of MacGregor, but not as close as Sharpe. MacGregor kept backing off. His foot skimmed something that might have been the remnants of the raised road surface markings.

“John, stop moving. You’re going to go over the edge.”

MacGregor froze in his tracks. Sharpe was still coming towards him. He could hear the heavy, unsteady footsteps and the gasping, grunting breaths. He heard the familiar metallic sounds of Hunter’s weapon.

“Stop!” Hunter shouted. “Stop or I’ll shoot! Do you understand?”

“I’m here because of you,” Sharpe said tiredly. “Think of something hollow. Turn it… turn it inside out. Turn it…”

“I said fucking stop!”

There was a gunshot. MacGregor heard the bullet whiz through the air. Sharpe was still coming forward. Hunter fired a second warning shot. MacGregor heard a third bullet smack into the road surface near his own feet. He fought the impulse to move further backwards. In his mind’s eye he imagined an infinite drop into certain death just a pace or two behind himself.

“Oh shit.”

It was Hunter. MacGregor knew what had happened just as he heard the clicking of the Heckler and Koch. The weapon was empty.

“It won’t fire!”

“Where is he?”

MacGregor needn’t have asked that question. Just as the words tumbled out of him, Sharpe’s hands grabbed at his throat.

“You!” Sharpe yelled, “I’m here because of you…”

MacGregor twisted free of Sharpe’s grasp just before the big right hand could join the left at his throat. He sidestepped to the left, reaching for Sharpe. He planned on pulling the big man into the abyss he had avoided. His hands found cloth and he gripped it tightly. Sharpe was still coming towards him. MacGregor imagined that the forward momentum would guide him over the edge of the bridge. He pulled hard, spinning Sharpe around.

“Shit,” Hunter said.

“It’s wrong!” Sharpe shouted.

There was a flurry of movement. MacGregor wasn’t sure if he let go of Sharpe or if Sharpe broke free. Somehow, he found himself tumbling onto the hard road surface. There were strange sounds. Hard impacts. Fists hitting muscle and flesh. He imagined Sharpe grabbing hold of Hunter, pummeling her with his heavy hands and killing her. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on something cold and sticky on the road surface. By the time he was standing, the sounds had ended.

There was a moment of intense and complete terror. Sharpe had killed Hunter. He’d grabbed hold of her and had broken her neck or thrown her into the darkness that only he could see. Now he was alone with only moments to spend contemplating his final breath before Sharpe laid his hands on him again and threw him to his death. He stepped backwards without thinking. His heel touched something hard. He imagined a curb or low wall. He froze.

“Don’t move John! The voice belonged to Hunter, “It’s alright. He’s… gone.”

He felt soft hands taking his own hands. Hunter’s hands were shaking. He squeezed them and allowed her to pull him back from the edge.

“What happened?”

“I think he’s dead,” Hunter said. “I pushed him over. Kicked him over.”

“You him over?”

“I used to practice karate.”

“Alright. So you karate kicked that big fucking idiot off this concrete bridge?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ. So how high up are we? I mean, is he dead?”

“Well, dead,” Hunter said. “That wasn’t Sharpe. That was something else. Simard wasn’t Simard, either. The Simard, I mean. The real Simard died outside of the sphere, like Braverman and the others. Like everyone, John.”

“What did Sharpe… it… mean about that inside out stuff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he really dead down there?”

“It’s dead. It fell about thirty feet to the road below.”

“But are you sure? We can…”

“Its head is cracked open like a melon. I can see a pool of blood about… wait a moment,” she walked past him. “Well, it looks like about a meter or two of bright red blood. So it’s demised, John. He, it, whatever you want to think of it as. Dead as a dodo.”

“Okay.”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They got back into the Mini without another word. Hunter reversed in a slow arc, turning the car completely around. She drove the little car back down the long bridge.

“I’m going to drive over the grass for a bit. So be prepared for a few bumps.”

“Okay.”

Hunter was not kidding. The Mini lurched and bumped over some rough ground. Then there was a crack and a loud scrape as the car slammed its bumper back onto the hard road surface. MacGregor instinctively gripped Hunter’s wrist with his right hand, but he still bumped his elbow off the glass.

“Oh shit,” Hunter said, “are you alright?”

“I’m alright, but what about you? That’s some pretty rough driving.”

“Sorry. I just want to get out of here. I’ve never kicked someone off the edge of a concrete bridge before. Come to think of it, I’ve never shot anyone, either. I just want to go home. We’re so close now.”

“Okay,” MacGregor soothed, “let’s just chill out then and get there in one piece, yes?”

The car jerked to the left, then slowed considerably. The engine, which had been almost screaming, quietened to a muffled rumble.

“We’ll get there in one piece,” Hunter said. “I’ve been driving for thirty three years.”

Hunter’s driving was still jerky and sporadic. The Mini was swerving around obstacles in the road, MacGregor realized. But she was rushing. She wasn’t using the safe and sensible pace that had got them this far. Now MacGregor could feel the impatience and urgency in Hunter’s ragged handling of the vehicle. The Mini’s engine shrieked at times from the punishment it was receiving. He could smell burning rubber and petrol fumes.

“If it wasn’t Sharpe, what was it?” MacGregor shouted.

“What?”

He didn’t really care what the answer was. He didn’t really care what she thought. He just wanted to distract her. He needed to break the spell that had been cast upon her.

“What are these things? The people we’ve seen, I mean.”

The car slowed down a little, MacGregor noted. Hunter had been breathing harshly, but now she exhaled long and loud.

“I wish I knew. But it wasn’t Sharpe. Whatever it was, it was much…

than the one pretending to be Simard. This one had no facial hair. Not even any eyebrows.”

“Oh. Shit, that’s weird. Why didn’t you say that before?”

She laughed. “Does it make it any more unbelievable than it already is? Sharpe came back from the dead, but he was hairless. At least Simard had a full head of hair and a beard. I think Sharpe was made Simard. A long time after. That’s why he didn’t have any hair on his head. He didn’t have the time to grow any.”

“Simard?”

“Simard had a full beard and a full head of hair. I mean of hair. But I don’t think it was Simard. Whatever it was, it was out here longer than Sharpe.”

“What did Simard say to us?

That was it.”

“

Hunter corrected. “He used the F word too, John.”

Hunter’s driving had slowed to a safer pace. MacGregor was much more focused on this than the conversation. Every motion of the car made him more nervous, but he felt his nerves beginning to calm. He decided that it was a good idea to keep the conversation moving. Hunter obviously knew the route that she was taking. It was just a question of them getting there in one piece.

“Simard was naked. What about Sharpe?”

“It looked like some kind of peachy grey boiler suit. Exact same outfit that the man we saw on the A9 was wearing. No pockets. The material looks like cotton, but it could be anything. Seemed kind of stiff. Like some kind of onesie for adults.”

The Mini wasn’t twisting and turning so much. The engine was almost inaudible over the constant drumming of the road surface.

“What are they?” MacGregor asked.

“Aliens?” Hunter suggested. “The SOD obviously came from another world. The Forth Rail Bridge was lifted up and toyed with by something much more powerful than anything mankind could offer. So perhaps the broken records are aliens who’ve taken human form. Perhaps they’re trying to communicate with us.”

The radio was dead. It had been since they’d begun their journey from the north. They’d driven over a hundred miles and the only life they’d encountered had been a handful of strange individuals with a mouthful of words to explain themselves. MacGregor shook his head.

“I don’t understand how an alien race could be advanced enough to lift the Forth Rail Bridge bring the dead back to life only to have them speak a bunch of gibberish at us.”

“I don’t know the answer to that either, John,” Hunter said. “Perhaps we’ll find something else. Perhaps we’ll find a way to communicate with… it.”

“It?” MacGregor asked. “Don’t you mean them?”

“Perhaps.”

The road ahead was blocked. Hunter braked sharply.

“Argyll Street has been wrecked,” she said. “Demolished. Like a bomb has gone off or something. There’s broken glass everywhere. I’m going to turn left and take a side road.”

“Be careful.”

The Mini moved slowly. MacGregor thought of his flat. It was less than two miles away. He knew that Jackie was dead. There was no reason to return there. But somehow he still felt an urge to return. Hunter was following the same chain of thought, he knew. But they were both going to find an empty treasure chest at the end of their quests.

“It’s an airplane crash. A big jet. Flattened Argyle Street and a part of George Square. It looks like it fell straight out of the sky.”

“Shit.”

“The fuselage is intact, mostly. Wings have broken off. One of them is missing entirely. There are two engines on the left wing. Each one is about twice the size of this car. Hold on a moment.”

The car came to a slow halt.

“More glass on the road,” she said. “The impact looks to have shattered windows for quite a distance.”

“How far are we from your home?”

“Not far. We could do it on foot.”

“The glass?”

“Hmnn,” she mused. “We could avoid it on foot if you don’t mind holding onto my elbow. The car’s going to get a flat if we run over something.”

“I don’t mind taking your elbow,” MacGregor said.

“Okay. I’ll come round to you. We’ll leave the Mini here. The flat is about a quarter mile away.”

She tapped his wrist three times. Then the car lurched as she made her way out the door. It slammed shut and after about five seconds MacGregor felt his door opening.

“Take my hand.”

“Okay.”

She’d left the submachine gun behind. It was empty anyway. Still, he would have preferred it. He almost literally kicked himself for not insisting that Hunter bring more weapons from the Southern Marker. Now they were unarmed. Or so he thought.

“I took the pistol,” Hunter said. “It’s in my pack.”

“Oh thank Christ for that.”

“You’ll need to show me what to do with it.”

“I will, but just get it. Just in case.”

Hunter retrieved the pistol. MacGregor asked her to describe it and learned that it was an expensive nine millimeter automatic made by Sig Sauer. The model number P229 was stamped on the front of the slide. MacGregor, on handling the weapon, decided that the weapon was a smaller version of some larger design. The gun reminded him of the James Bond’s Walther PPK. The mechanisms required to cock and fire the gun were straightforward.

“Seven bullets.” He slapped the magazine back into place. “Pull back the slide to chamber one. There’s no safety catch. You need to squeeze the trigger quite hard to make that first shot. Or you can thumb back the hammer first. Then it’ll be a single action.”

“I don’t care. Just tell me what’s the easiest thing to do.”

“It’s ready to fire. Thumb back the hammer and then squeeze the trigger. That’s it. That’s all you need to do.”

“What’s this thing for?”

He probed her fingers with his own, finding the metal latch that she was tapping.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s the magazine release. We’ve only got 7 bullets and unless you’ve got a spare magazine that’ll have to do.”

“Well, I don’t want to shoot anyone or anything. I’ve already killed two people. Or two of those things.”

MacGregor nodded. Hunter moved the weapon to her left hand and took MacGregor’s elbow with her right.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry I was mean to you before. After we… well. After we had sex. I’m sorry.”

They were standing in the warm midday sun. MacGregor’s skin tingled where he knew his receding hairline was slowly burning. Somehow, there was still a faint lingering odor of aviation fuel. And burning rubber, and burned hair. Then the wind carried the foulness away and there was a moment when all he could smell was the delicate afterglow of Hunter’s perfume mingled with the Imperial Leather soap.

“It’s alright, I guess,” he said. “I’m past it. I just thought that it was more than it was.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunter interrupted. “I just need to tell you that, okay? John? Do you understand?”

“I think so, yes.”

He didn’t understand at all. At this moment he was too busy worrying about the glass at his feet and the smells that seemed to be getting stronger. Hunter tugged at his arm, leading him along a path only she could see. The wind changed again and a strong draft of petrol or aviation fuel assailed his senses once more. And the smell of burning rubber was stronger. He knew it wasn’t right.

“Something’s wrong,” he said.

Hunter stopped pulling at his arm, presumably to focus on her senses. He heard her take a deep sniff. She was testing the air. Then the ground shook violently.

MacGregor gave a reflex shout of terror. “Fucking hell!” He let go of Hunter’s hand, struggling to stay on his feet. The ground continued to shake and tremble. He could hear windows breaking in the distance. A wall collapsed somewhere across the street, the bricks and mortar hammering down on a bus or truck. There was a horrendous screeching and wrenching, like some enormous metal object was being ripped apart and somehow screaming in anger and agony.

“The railway track!” Hunter shouted. “Shit, John, come with me. We’ve got to run!”

He didn’t hear the last word. The wrenching cry of ripping iron completely obliterated all other sounds. Hunter had him by the sleeve of his jacket. He held tightly to his white cane even as something hard and heavy slammed against it, knocking the last section of the collapsible aluminum out of its socket. Hunter dragged him for a few meters. The ground was shaking. MacGregor imagined that the earth was erupting. It was almost impossible to stand. But Hunter was pushing him forward. He for Hunter, but his words were lost in the maelstrom of noise. He shouted again, but it was absolutely useless. He couldn’t hear himself, let alone hope for Hunter to hear him. Heavy objects were falling from the sky like meteorites hitting the earth. They moved forward, running together alongside the wall. Behind them, it seemed the apocalypse had arrived. Hunter kept moving, not letting go. Suddenly, there was no wall. They were in the open again. He stumbled over a brick. His foot crushed a heavy shard of glass. He panicked for a moment, imagining sharp spears of pain jabbing up through the soles of his boots. Hunter continued, not loosening her grip in the slightest. He crunched more glass, kicked more bricks. His left ankle scraped against something sharp and hard. He felt an icy cold shock of pain running up his leg. Then Hunter’s hand was on his chest. She was pushing against him, trying to slow him down.

“Wall!”

She screamed the word in his ear, but he still barely heard her. Then the wall slammed into his face. He would have broken his nose, but the palm of Hunter’s hand turned his head to the left just in time. He winced as his cheek rubbed hard against dry, crumbling brick. Then he fell to his knees as the whole world around him seemed to come apart. Behind him, a building was collapsing. The whole earth seemed to be coming apart.

“Trains!” Hunter yelled. “Trains are dropping out of the sky!”

The screaming of metal had stopped. The thunderous noise of falling debris was all that remained. He got to his feet. Hunter’s hand was like a vice on his wrist, almost painful. He didn’t care. She was running with him again. They were following another wall. Turning left, turning right. The ground shook. Something enormous slammed into the ground some distance away. He could finally hear the sound of his own screaming.

“It’s stopping!” Hunter shouted. “John, it’s stopping!”

She was still running, still leading him through a maze of brick and stone. He went with her, silent. The mayhem was dying down. Whatever had happened was at an end.

“Harold Jinks music store,” Hunter said. “We’re just around the corner.”

“I know this place,” MacGregor gasped. “When I first lived in Glasgow I used to come here for used records. Jefferson Airplane, The Doors. Stuff like that. I didn’t think they were still in business.”

“We’re almost there,” Hunter said. “That was incredible. Almost… almost unbelievable. The railway track was lifted into the air, along with a high speed train. Then they were just tossed to the ground. But there was nothing there. Whatever it was, it’s invisible.”

There was heavy creaking, glass smashing, bricks falling. But it was in the distance now. Hunter’s grip wasn’t so tight. The pain in his ankle was beginning to shine through the rest of the kaleidoscope of smells, sounds and sensations that assailed him from every angle. He could hear again - not just the unbearable din of tortured metal and exploding stone but detailed sounds. There were more dull smashes and crashes in the distance, but he could make out Hunter’s heavy breathing. It even sounded like she was laughing.

“Trains? In the air?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Keep moving. We’re almost there. Trains, track. About eight carriages. Lifted into the air and just dropped onto the ground.” She laughed quietly, “It’s incredible. It’s almost like a dream.”

“A nightmare,” MacGregor gasped. “I don’t have dreams like this.”

The crashing had stopped. Far away, something heavy rumbled and trembled. The ground was settling. Perhaps another building was collapsing, MacGregor thought. He could still hear Hunter laughing as she dragged him further into the darkness.

“We’re here,” she said. “Oh thank God!”

She fumbled with a door handle.

“Locked,” she said. “And I don’t have my keys. Oh well. Don’t be alarmed, John. I’m going to kick the door in.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” MacGregor smiled wryly. “Okay. Thanks.”

Hunter took a step back. She drew a breath and released MacGregor’s elbow. He missed her touch immediately and, with the rumbles and clatters still echoing in the distance, yearned to feel her hand on his arm again. Hunter made her move and hammered her foot into the door. Her aim was good and true, shattering the mechanism on the first kick. The door swung open and battered against the plaster on the interior wall.

“Impressive,” MacGregor said.

“Mae Geri,” Hunter informed him. “But don’t be too impressed. We had a break in some time ago and Hamish repaired the door frame. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t stand up to much of a kick.”

They were on the ground floor of a two storey building. Hunter’s flat was the first floor. The door she’d broken through was the external security door. Once upon a time, MacGregor imagined that his place at Albert Road might have had the same thing. But it had been removed long before he’d moved in. She led him up a flight of steep, echoing steps towards the door of the flat she shared with Hamish. MacGregor was about to offer an attempt at shoulder charging the door but it almost broke his heart when Hunter lightly rapped her knuckles against the wood instead.

“Hamish?”

Her voice and the resonant vibrations of it bounced around the plaster walls and stone ceiling. She knocked the door a second time.

“I’m really sorry,” MacGregor whispered.

“It’s stupid, John. I know that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I really…” She took a step back. “…fucking don’t!”

Her foot hammered into the door lock. The lock held. She kicked again and then a third time. MacGregor heard the wood splinter and crack. Hunter’s fourth kick smashed in the door altogether. It slammed into the wall hard, bouncing back into its frame once more.

There was a smell in the flat. It was the now obvious stench of decay and death. MacGregor wondered if it was Hamish’s body, crumpled up in a corner somewhere. He hoped that it wasn’t but he knew that it had to be. Hunter left him standing and moved into the flat. She was heading for somewhere specific, MacGregor realized. And she reached it before he could even finish his chain of thought.

“Hamish.”

MacGregor followed the voice. He bumped into a wall, toppling something that might have been a telephone table or news stand. He turned left, the shortened white cane going out before him. It touched Hunter’s hip and he felt his way toward her. His hands found a rough, unpainted wooden doorframe. She was standing there. He put his right hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“He’s dead.”

He rested his hand on her shoulder, almost not touching her at all. He could feel the muscle behind her collar bone. He forgot what it was called. Long ago, when he’d visited the gym, he’d have remembered the name of the muscle. All he knew now was that Hunter’s shoulder muscle was tense. He wanted to squeeze it in order to show some support, but something stopped him.

“Is there anything we can do?” MacGregor asked carefully, nervous of every action and inaction he might make.

“We can bury him, I suppose. Say some words, perhaps. I don’t know. Do you know something, John? Do you know that Hamish always wanted a Catholic funeral? I promised him that I’d take care of it. As for me? I couldn’t care less. I just told him to do whatever was the cheapest option. I suppose Hamish was thinking about his mother and his sisters. It would have been important to them.”

She retreated backwards and he went with her. She closed the bedroom door.

“There isn’t much I can do about it now,” she said, “But I can bury him. And I suppose I can read something from his Bible. You never know, perhaps Hamish and his family are right.”

“About what?”

“About there being a God.”

“You don’t believe in God?” MacGregor asked.

“No. Do you?”

MacGregor sensed warning in Hunter’s tone. But he had to be true to his thoughts, his beliefs. Sure, his faith had been tested over the years. But he still did have a strange kind of faith in .

“It’s… kind of personal and weird,” he verbalized his thoughts as best he could. “I believe in something, but I don’t know what. I’m not a Catholic, Protestant, Atheist or whatever. I’m sort of a kind of person.”

“Agnostic,” Hunter said. “You’re an agnostic.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“You don’t believe that God exists one way or another. You’re an agnostic.”

“I didn’t say that,” MacGregor protested. “I just said I couldn’t my faith. I believe in . I just don’t know what. It doesn’t seem to match any of the religions I’ve ever heard of.”

“That’s agnostic, John.”

He didn’t want to argue with Hunter anymore. Her tone did not suggest that he do so. Even if it hadn’t, he wasn’t up to anything more than sipping coffee and nibbling the biscuits she’d opened from the ration packs. He settled into a silent moment, but Hunter broke it with her words.

“My mother was a Catholic. I can remember by first communion. My father, still drunk from the night before, shouting and screaming at my mother to get his suit ready. My mother had already had her first few drinks of the day. It was about ten o’clock in the morning and she was already drunk. I was seven years old, John and dressed in a virginal white dress stained with my own mother’s vomit and blood. I thought the whole thing was absolutely ludicrous. Religion, I mean. It took me a little bit longer to realize that the whole notion of there being an omnipotent supreme being watching over us was just as stupid. But I did.”

“I didn’t realize you were a Catholic?” MacGregor said.

Hunter didn’t answer right away. Instead, she lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke sharply.

“That’s the wrong thing to ask me,” she said.

“Oh.”

“I’m a lapsed Catholic, I guess. Even that’s stretching things a bit thin. Officially? Well on LinkedIn and on my CV I’m Church of Scotland. That’s basically the easiest way out. Can’t put Agnostic on my CV. Heaven forbid.”

MacGregor sipped his coffee quietly. The atmosphere in the room was cold. Hunter was angry, he could tell. He didn’t want to make things worse by saying the wrong thing. And, after all, what could he say? Hamish’s corpse was literally lying in the bedroom next door. How did he expect Hunter was going to act? He lit a cigarette and waited for Hunter to continue.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have offered you a smoke. I have a few packs here. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m a lapsed Catholic. That means I was born a Catholic, but I’ve . My faith lapsed a long time ago. It took me years to find the courage to tell my father I didn’t believe in God. By the time I was ten years old, my mother wasn’t in a fit state to care what I believed. And when Helen was killed, mum just gave up even pretending that she wasn’t an alcoholic.”

“Helen?”

“My twin sister. She was thirteen years old. She and her friends went swimming in the harbor one night. She drowned.”

Hunter said the words so calmly that MacGregor didn’t take it in at first. Realization came to him as he dragged on his cigarette.

“Your sister drowned?”

“My twin sister drowned.”

“I’m sorry,” MacGregor said. “I… I didn’t know you had a twin sister.”

“I don’t. She died. No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, John,” she sighed, annoyed or frustrated at something. “She died a long time ago. What was your brother’s name? The one who died, I mean?”

“Jason.”

“Jason, of course. Well, you know how I felt about Helen. You understand.”

“I understand,” MacGregor said, even though he didn’t.

“I had a second sister. An older sister. Hazel was her name and we were much, much closer than Helen and I. In fact, my memories of Helen are just the saddest things. I was so angry then. At mum and dad. At God. At the priest and the whole Catholic church. I focused all the negative energy onto Helen. I can’t remember even crying when she died. No, I think I do remember, John. I remember that I didn’t cry ”

She was crying, he realized. It surprised him. Her voice sounded so stone cold and indifferent. But the sobs were real. He reached an arm towards her, but she was sitting further away than he realized. But her fingers found his and meshed together in a miniature personal embrace that surprised him.

“She had faith, you see. Despite it all, Helen still believed that God had a plan for her. Poor naïve, innocent and pious Helen. I had about a year of therapy coming to terms with my relationship with Helen. The time wasted hating her. The guilt when I realized what we’d missed out on. And, of course, the anger towards my mother and father.”

“What did you hate about your sister?”

“It was her , John. I was jealous of the faith she somehow held onto. I was angry she didn’t share my bleak, Godless outlook or existence.” She laughed through her tears. “We were twins, after all. I know it sounds ridiculous but I hated her because, somehow, she still managed to keep a positive outlook on life even though we were both in the same abusive family.”

Hunter’s fingers slipped away from his. He kept his arm out, waiting for her to take his hand again. She didn’t. He withdrew his hand and drank from the slightly musty smelling coffee mug.

“This ration coffee is much better than I remember.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry about your sister,” he repeated.

“Thank you, John.”

He sat in silence, sipping his coffee and smoking his cigarette. There were no other sounds now besides the sound of Hunter breathing. Her nose was slightly blocked, but she has stopped crying. Somewhere in the room he could hear the sound of a clock ticking quietly.

They shared one of the ration packs. There was bottled water in Hunter’s flat and they drank from that. It tasted much fresher than the ration pack water, MacGregor thought. Hunter suddenly decided that it was time to bury Hamish. MacGregor hated the idea for many reasons. For one thing, the horror of Hunter having to move her partner’s remains seemed more than he thought anyone could endure. But Hunter maintained that what was left in the bedroom wasn’t the man she remembered. MacGregor had already learned that arguing with Hunter didn’t yield good results. He didn’t continue the discussion and instead asked what he could do to help. As it turned out, there wasn’t that much he could do.

Hamish’s remains were located in the bedroom. He’d died in his sleep, she guessed. MacGregor considered saying some words about how it would have been better that way, but they died in his throat as Hunter just got on with the practicality of it all.

“I’ll wrap the sheet around him,” she said. “Stay where you are and I’ll hand the corners to you.”

“Okay.”

She moved around to the other side of the bed.

“Okay, put your hands out right in front of you,” she said. “I’ll hand you the corners.”

MacGregor could still hear the ticking clock in the lounge. He couldn’t help focusing on the sound. He wanted to be out of this room, out of this place. Hunter was handling the remains of her life partner without any real connection. She was handing the sheet to him like they were making the bed together. He felt like asking if she was okay, but somehow it didn’t seem like a safe option. To do so, he felt, would break the spell that she’d cast upon herself and shatter the bubble she was protecting herself with.

There wasn’t much weight to Hamish’s desiccated body. Hunter could have managed to carry it herself, she said. But MacGregor helped anyway. He tried to maneuver himself to the top of the bed, but Hunter was too quick for him. She took the bundle of thin sheeting that was wrapped around Hamish’s head and shoulders. MacGregor had the feet. He could clearly feel dry skin and bone through the fabric. It was horrific. He wondered, momentarily, what Hunter must feel like holding the heavier and much more ghoulish end of the package. But she said nothing and made no complaint or sounds of disgust.

Hunter led the way out of the flat and down the stairs again. She carried Hamish’s body along an echoing corridor on the ground floor and finally through an unlocked door into the back yard. It was cold here. The sun didn’t reach round this far – or at least not at this time of day. The air smelled like garlic. MacGregor associated the smell with fishing, as it reminded him of a river near his father’s childhood home on the Scottish border. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it was a strong one.

“Just set him down here,” Hunter said. “I’ll get a spade. There are lots of weeds, but I think we’ll manage.”

They put Hamish’s body down on the ground still wrapped in his makeshift funeral shroud. The long grass was still damp from the rain. Hunter went off to find the spade and MacGregor was left standing alone in the shade. He listened to Hunter fumbling with the lock on some shed or outhouse, then there was a crash.

“Don’t worry,” she called over, “I just smashed the lock open.”

She returned a few seconds later and began digging without a word.

“What can I do to help?” MacGregor asked.

“Keep your feet back,” she snapped, “Unless I cut off your toes.”

He stepped back a pace. Hunter dug into the ground. She worked in silence for about five minutes, not stopping once.

“That’ll do it,” she said. “He’s… he’s light enough. I can… I can get him in.”

MacGregor felt a great wave of sadness falling on top of him. Everything Hunter had told him. The way she had told him. The body of her partner lying at her feet. The hole she’d prepared for him. It was devastating. MacGregor felt it right through to his bones. He shivered more from the terribleness of it all than the cold in the overgrown yard.

He moved toward her. “Eilidh, let me help,” he whispered.

“I can do it.”

“I know,” MacGregor said. “But you don’t have to.”

“Yes I do,” she said. “There are no white knights. There are no angels or saviors, John. I always knew that.”

“I will help you,” MacGregor said, “I’ll try to help you.”

He felt her hand on the left side of his face.

“Yes,” she said, “you would. But you can’t.”

She moved. He felt her lifting the body. The remains were not that heavy. He knew she could do it. He bent down to help and offer physical support. But it was too late. She lifted the shovel.

“Just like that,” she said.

She started shoveling earth back onto the body. After a minute, she stopped.

“The Bible,” she said.

“What?”

“I need to say something for Hamish,” she said, “I’ll get the Bible.”

He was suddenly afraid again, but he didn’t want to argue. Hunter disappeared, leaving him alone with the half buried body. He considered trying to shovel earth onto the corpse himself, but immediately discounted that as one of his worst ideas of the day.

Hunter returned within two minutes. It was a very long two minutes. MacGregor was literally counting each second as Hunter returned.

“Alright,” she said, “here we go.”

He heard her turning the pages. She was looking for something, but there was something wrong in the way she was handling the book. Her actions seemed rough and overly careless. He was sure that he could hear the paper tearing as she searched the book.

“Okay,” she said, “how about this. This is from the Book of John.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

MacGregor was about to comment. He was trying to form something positive to say. But he heard Hunter sobbing quietly. He listened carefully and quickly realized that he was wrong. She wasn’t crying. The sound she was making was the hoarse croak of choked laughter.

“I don’t understand what that even means,” she said. “But how about this…”

She turned more pages.

“For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”

The laughter had stopped. Hunter’s voice was cold and emotionless.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted…”

“Eilidh…”

“Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer; from the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I…”

“Eilidh!”

“What about that, her tone was acid-sharp. “Are you going to lead me to the rock?”

“Eilidh, please,” MacGregor said. “This isn’t what Hamish would…”

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are…”

MacGregor took a step towards Hunter. He reached out for her with a view to taking the Bible away from her or wrapping his arms around her. He wasn’t really sure he was going to. Hunter stepped away from him and continued to speak.

“It’s alright, John. It’s I’m not losing my mind. I just needed to say something. I just needed to say something. He wanted me to say something.”

He reached for her, taking her into his arms. She almost fell or collapsed into his grasp. He felt the Bible dropping to the ground.

“Eilidh…”

He stopped talking. Far away, something heavy was moving. The earth was rumbling. Then he heard the now familiar sound of the earth being torn apart.

“Oh fucking Hell,” Hunter said. “Again with this.”

He felt both her hands against his chest, pushing him away.

“We have to get out of here,” MacGregor said, beginning to panic. “We have to get shelter.”

“Shelter from what, John?” Hunter shouted. The wrenching and screaming of masonry and metal had quickly escalated to an incredible level. “

He thought of the body they had been burying. Or covering up. It didn’t seem that Hunter had dug too deeply into the ground. Hamish needed more earth. More earth and more words, MacGregor thought.

“He needs more… earth!” he screamed.

Even as he shouted the words, he knew they seemed insane. Hunter couldn’t hear him. MacGregor couldn’t hear himself. He felt his stomach drop lower and he was sure that he was going to lose the contents of his bladder, or his bowels, or both at once. The very air itself seemed to be vibrating. Communication was absolutely impossible. He was on his knees, pushed there by some unseen force. Then he felt the pain in his shoulder and down the left side of his body. He realized that something had struck him. He was lying on his face, coughing in the freshly disturbed earth and screaming out his lungs for Hunter to help him.

The noise was indescribable. Around him, chunks of debris were falling heavily into the ground. This was it. This was death. He hoped that it would be quick and painless. He closed his eyes and started to curl up into a ball. Something enormous smashed into the ground beside him. He waited for the next massive object to crush the life out of him.

“Fucking moooove!”

It was Hunter. Her hands were on the collar of his shirt, hauling his body into a sitting position.

“Get… the fuck…

It was hard to move. He could barely feel the left side of his body, let alone move it. There was a pressure on his chest. It was difficult to breathe. High above there was a thunderous groan and ear-splitting shriek. Something was being torn apart up there. Hunter was shouting in his face. He could smell her breath and feel the heat of her fury as she yelled at him. He felt like he was having a heart attack. Was he too young for that? But it was Hunter’s knees on his chest. Her right hand slapped his face hard.

“John!”

She pulled him to his knees. Something massive thudded to the ground fifty or a hundred meters behind MacGregor. The ground rumbled, shook. Buildings were collapsing. The infinite wall of noise had yielded to a loud roaring jumble that almost seemed to resonate like some incredibly huge mechanical device. Breaking glass, smashing wood and bricks exploding. Heavy objects falling into the earth and against each other. But, mostly, the thunderous throbbing roar of sound that moved right through his body like a continuous shockwave.

“John, get fucking up!”

The next thing he felt was a stinging punch right in his stomach. The pain surprised him. He shouted soundlessly in the mad cacophony of chaotic sound. But then he was struggling to his feet. Hunter was pulling him upright. Getting him to his feet.

Something hard had struck him. The left side of his body throbbed from his shoulder to his buttock. But he had sensation in his fingers again and imagined that he could feel his toes also. Hunters arms were around his shoulder. The white cane was no longer in his hand. This time, he knew it was gone forever. He allowed Hunter to take him wherever she was going. He didn’t know where. It didn’t matter. He was just running blindly and hopelessly, guided by her vice-like hands on his shoulders.

The sound of the city’s destruction was dying down now again. Everything was collapsing back to the ground. MacGregor felt the pain in his side now for the first time. It was like a knife stabbing into him.

“Brace yourself,” Hunter said.

“What?”

He was reaching for his side when Hunter pulled out the object that had pierced him there. He screamed involuntarily, swearing loudly.

“Let’s get inside,” Hunter said. “I’ll clean it up. It’s not too deep.”

“Inside where?” MacGregor gasped. “Didn’t the whole fucking city just fall apart?”

“No,” Hunter said, “that was a railway engine. Or parts of it. We’re lucky it didn’t crush the whole building.”

“It sounded like it did. What the hell was all that noise?”

“The building across the way was hit by something else. Another train carriage or a piece of track. It was completely demolished. Some of the debris bounced over in this direction.”

“But the noise. Jesus Christ! The sound was… unbelievable.”

“Yes. That was the rail track splitting down the middle. Then it was just dropped. And there was nothing holding it up, of course.”

Hunter’s voice echoed. MacGregor felt familiar concrete under his feet. They were back in Hunter’s building.

“Is it safe?” he gasped. “Oh shit, I think I’m really hurt.”

“Relax, John. It was your cane. I pulled it out and we can put a stitch on the hole after I’ve cleaned you up.”

“No,” MacGregor staggered forward, “there’s something else. I think I got hit by some falling masonry or something. I can barely feel my left foot. My shoulder is killing me.”

“Let’s get back to my place,” Hunter said. “I can look at you there.”

They returned to Hunter’s building. MacGregor found sensation returning to his foot the more he moved it. His left shoulder didn’t hurt so badly either. By the time Hunter was sitting him down on her sofa, he already knew what she was about to tell him.

“Something heavy skimmed you,” Hunter said, “You were lucky. It looks like you lost a little skin off your shoulder and at the small of your back. Not bad enough for stitches. I’ve got a few plasters that’ll put you right.”

“Thank fuck,” MacGregor said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the language.”

“It’s the end of the world, John,” Hunter said smartly. “I think I’ll let you get away with a little potty mouth.”

MacGregor said nothing. A sudden thought entered his head. It was entirely the wrong thought to share with Hunter, he knew. Somehow, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Rapture,” he said quietly. “I mean, I know it The Rapture. I know it . But if you weren’t a lapsed Catholic, isn’t that what you would think?”

“Hmnn,” Hunter said. “Let me get my needle and thread. And let me think about that for a minute.”

MacGregor was confused. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

“Not at all,” Hunter said. Her voice was in another room. She was opening drawers, looking for things. “You’re wondering if I think this is the wrath of God.”

“Umm…”

“Because I blasphemed during Hamish’s eulogy?”

MacGregor was about to protest. Hunter was back in the room, walking towards him slowly.

“That’s what you think happened? God heard me shouting at Him and decided to throw a tantrum?”

“Eilidh, I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

MacGregor shivered. Hunter sat down heavily on the sofa next to him. He realized, suddenly, that she might not be so wrong. The chaos had started as they’d begun to lay Hamish to rest. He shook his head.

“I know it’s not possible. I know this isn’t The Rapture, for a start. I mean, for fuck’s sake, if it The Rapture then it seems a bit unfair. Like you and I are the only ones who got left behind? No I know it isn’t The Rapture. I… I don’t know what this is, but it’s not that.”

“You’re rambling, John,” Hunter said. “I think you really do believe this is The Rapture. No, that’s wrong. I think you think that believe it’s The Rapture. And I think you’re worried now because you know I’m going to put some stitches into you.”

“I am fucking worried about that!” MacGregor snapped. “But I take it back. Whatever I said or whatever I thought. No, this isn’t The Rapture and you don’t believe that it is. It was just a passing thought that’s all.”

“Relax John,” Hunter said. “Who knows. Maybe it the end of days. Now, let me have a look at that hole in your side.”

He opened his shirt. It had already stuck to the dried blood and he had to peel it away. Hunter began to dab at his soreness with something wet. He recognized the smell as isopropyl alcohol. It stung as she liberally cleaned his wound. He sucked in his breath and prepared himself for the new pain.

“Do you really mean that?” he said, “Do you really think it’s even remotely possible that this is The Rapture?”

She stopped cleaning his wound. She cleared her throat and sighed tiredly. There was a long, deliberate pause before she spoke.

“Of course I don’t,” she said. “Don’t be so completely ridiculous, John.”

The stitches hurt. Hunter gave him three of them. By the third one he was almost ready to cry out in pain. She put a plaster over the stitches and then cleaned the grazes on his shoulder and back. This hurt, too, but not on par with the stitches. His left foot throbbed. Hunter examined it, but said that there were no broken bones. She guessed he’d have a large bruise there soon enough. Next, she made coffee and cooked up some more food. Outside, something else was being torn apart elsewhere in the city. The sound was distant. Hunter, investigating, guessed that the epicenter was a least a mile away.

“I’m sorry about The Rapture thing,” MacGregor said. “I wasn’t thinking. I can understand that you’d find it offensive.”

“I don’t,” she said. “I was joking with you, John.”

He didn’t know what to say. He stood there with his mouth open, wincing as she dabbed at his wounds.

“Okay. So what do we do now? Should we go down and finish what we were doing?”

“The rubble buried him fairly well. I don’t think we need to worry. I think our next step is to visit your flat.” Outside – some distance away – the tearing of metal and brick punctuated her words. “I don’t recommend we leave now. Let’s wait until the gods have calmed down a little.”

They waited and smoked more cigarettes, drank more coffee. The gods seemed to stay angry for a long time, MacGregor thought. Hunter nibbled on some hard pasta she kept in a cupboard. MacGregor tried a bit of the linguini, but didn’t see the attraction. There were tins of tomatoes, kidney beans and tomato soup. Hunter decided against opening the fridge for obvious reasons. All the cereal was stale, and so were the digestive biscuits Hamish had kept in a plastic container shaped like an elephant, which shrieked when it was opened. Finally, MacGregor settled on the tinned tomato soup. The noise outside returned as they ate, but it was much further away. If Hunter’s analogy was right, it didn’t seem like the gods were angry. If anything, it was more like they were playing.

The ground rumbled. Ornaments fell from cupboards and shelves in Hunter’s flat. MacGregor felt that he was going to jump out of his skin each time something new fell to the floor. Hunter didn’t seem to like the idea of carpets. Everything was stone or wood and everything that fell gave a crash or a smash.

“It’s alright,” Hunter said out of the blue, “it’s all happening far away from here.”

“How far?” MacGregor stuttered.

“A mile, perhaps a little more?” Hunter replied. “Really, it’s a safe distance away.”

“Safe distance?” MacGregor laughed. “How safe is any distance?”

He felt Hunter’s hand on his left knee. It was a gentle and reassuring touch.

“We’re safe for now,” she said.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course not, John,” she sounded irritable once more, “Look, we both know what situation we’re in. Whatever’s going on. Whatever this really is. Well, at least we’re in it together. If the walls are going to come crashing down on us. If we’re going to be torn apart or crushed into pieces,” she exhaled loudly. “Well, at least we’ll be together. For me, that’s something.”

He’d tensed up at the sound of her impatience, but then the change in her tone as she finished speaking soothed him. For a moment he could ignore the madness in the city outside. Hunter’s hand squeezed his leg.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why?” His voice was hoarse, which surprised him. He fumbled for the now cold coffee and brought it to his lips.

“I’m sorry for being so… mean spirited. I…”

“Jesus, Eilidh, it’s alright. I’ve got no idea how tough this has to be for you. I’m so, so sorry, for all of this. I really am.”

“John, I’m the one who should apologize,” Hunter said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so… emotional.”

He felt her hand on his knee again. Her index finger tapped his inner thigh. He winced slightly. Hunter’s hand moved. He thought it was his imagination, but then he knew that it wasn’t. Her hand moved towards his inner thigh.

“Ah,” he shifted nervously in his seat, “Eilidh…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” she said. “It’s all my fault. I’ll make it up to you.”

Her hand moved quickly and smoothly, her fingers gliding over the surface of his trousers like the inquisitive tongue of a snake. He twisted away from her touch, hoping that it would be enough. But her hand remained in place. Her fingers searched the fabric for his slumbering manhood.

“Come on now, John,” she said. “Don’t be a prude…”

He closed his legs, trapping her hand between his thighs. She pulled it free with a violent jerk of her wrist. Then he felt the hammer blow of her fist against his knee.

“For fuck’s sake, Eilidh!” he shouted. “You can’t just fucking talk to me as if I’m a dog and then expect me to... to…”

She snarled some obscenity he didn’t understand. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

She didn’t say anything else. She had left the couch. She was walking across the room. Then she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Eilidh…”

“Quiet! Listen.”

“What is it?”

He held his breath. Hunter had stopped moving. He imagined her standing, hands on hips, in the middle of the room. He wondered what sound she was talking about. It took him about ten seconds to realize that there were no sounds at all. The chaotic turbulence of destruction seemed to have ceased.

“Perhaps God’s tantrum is over with,” Hunter whispered.