Autumn Page 0,51

and screwed his eyes tightly shut, hoping with all his heart that he would fall asleep and wake up somewhere else. Although no-one else had seen or heard him, in the cold light of day he felt ashamed that he had allowed a chink to appear in his brash and arrogant exterior.

It was a strong, safe and sound house and Michael need not have worried. In spite of all that he had imagined in the darkness, nothing and no-one had managed to enter Penn Farm. Still drugged by sleep he stumbled into the kitchen and lit the gas stove. The constant low roar of the burner was strangely soothing and comforting and he was glad that the heavy silence of the early morning had finally been disturbed. Slightly more relaxed, he boiled a kettle of water and made himself a mug of strong black coffee which he quickly drank. He made himself some breakfast but couldn't eat much more than a couple of mouthfuls.

Bored, tired and restless, he desperately needed to find something to do. As he had already discovered to his cost recently, these days an unoccupied minute tended to feel like an hour and an empty hour seemed to drag on for more than a day.

A open door from the kitchen led to a large utility room which Michael wandered into aimlessly. He had spent some time in there yesterday, but no longer than half an hour. In the furthest corner of the room was a pile of empty cardboard boxes and other rubbish that the survivors hadn't yet been able to dispose of or find a home for. This had been the least important room in the house as far as the three of them had been concerned and, as such, they had paid it little attention other than to use it as a temporary store. Michael thought for a second or two about trying to sort the room into some kind of order but, if the truth be told, he couldn't be bothered. He wanted something to do, but it needed to be something interesting. He needed more than something that would just distract him. He wanted something that would grab his imagination and fully capture and hold his attention.

High on the wall opposite to the door he'd just walked through was a wooden shelf. Little more than a warped plank of wood held up by three rusty brackets, the shelf was piled high with junk. Curious, Michael dragged a chair across the room and climbed up to have a closer look. On first sight there seemed to be very little of any interest - some old garden tools and chemicals, faded and yellowed books and newspapers, glass jars full of nails, bolts and screws and the like - but then he came across an unexpected and unmistakable shape. It was the butt of a rifle. Cautiously he pulled the gun free and stood there, balancing precariously on the chair, admiring the cobweb and dirt covered weapon. Instinctively he reached up again and felt his way along the shelf, first to the left and then to the right of where he'd found the rifle. With his fingers at full stretch he grabbed hold of a dusty cardboard box which he dragged closer. Now standing on tiptoes with the rifle wedged under his arm he teased up the lid of the box and saw that it was full of ammunition. Like a child with a new toy he picked up the box, jumped down and carried everything back to the kitchen.

Emma got up at half-past eight and Carl rose three-quarters of an hour later. They found Michael sat at the kitchen table, carefully cleaning the rifle. He'd been working on it for over two hours and the job was almost complete.

Michael glanced up at Emma and noticed that she looked tired. He wondered whether she'd had as little sleep as he had. Although they'd only slept (or not slept) a few feet apart he hadn't dared disturb her in the darkness of the night.

'What are you doing?' she eventually asked him once she'd made and drunk a very necessary mug of coffee.

'I found this earlier,' he replied, stifling a yawn. 'Thought I'd have a go at cleaning it up.'

'What's it for?' Carl asked. Those were the first words he'd uttered since coming downstairs.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. Deadpan, and with a complete absence of any sarcasm or humour in his voice he replied.

'Shooting things,'