Autumn Page 0,83

finished his drink, stretched and looked around the living room. The house felt much bigger tonight - perhaps even too big - and Carl's sudden leaving was the obvious reason why that seemed to be the case. The room they sat in was filled with random flickering shadows from the fire, trapped indoors as the curtains at all of the windows had been drawn tightly shut. The survivors were afraid to let even the thinnest sliver of light escape out into the night for fear of attracting more of the wandering bodies to the house. When they needed to speak to each other Emma and Michael both instinctively talked in hushed whispers which echoed around the empty house, and when they needed to go into another room they crept through quietly, taking care not to make a single unnecessary sound. They didn't dare do anything that might alert the outside world to their presence at the farm and the constant oppression was making Michael feel claustrophobic. He wanted to scream or shout or play some music or laugh or do pretty much anything other than sit there and watch the hands on the clock on the wall slowly march round another hour. But they both knew that they couldn't afford to take any chances.

Michael glanced over at Emma sitting curled up on the chair. She looked tired and sad. Her eyes were heavy and she was deep in thought.

'Come here,' he said warmly, holding out his arms to her.

Not needing any further encouragement, she slid down from the chair and sat next to him. He gently put his arms round her shoulders and pulled her close. He lightly kissed the top of her head and held her tight.

'It's bloody cold tonight,' she whispered.

'You tired?' he asked.

'Knackered,' she admitted. 'You?'

'The same. Can't sleep though.'

'Nor me. Too much going round my mind. I can't switch off.'

'Don't need to ask what you're thinking about, do I?'

She shook her head.

'Not really. Difficult to think about anything else, isn't it?'

Michael held her a little tighter still.

'Just wish he'd stopped,' he said, his voice suddenly sounding unexpectedly strained and cracked with emotion. 'I still think I should have stopped him. I should have locked the stupid bastard in his room and not let him leave. I should have...'

'Shh...' Emma whispered. She pulled back slightly from Michael to allow herself to look deep into his eyes. The low orange flames of the fire highlighted glistening tears which ran freely down his face. 'There was nothing that either of us could have done and talking like this is just pointless, we've already had this conversation. We both know we would have done more harm than good if we'd tried to stop him...'

'I just wish he was here now...' Michael continued, having to force his words out between sobs and deep breaths of air.

'I know,' she whispered, her voice soothing and low.

The two friends held each other tightly again. After a brief moment of awkwardness and reluctance they finally both began to cry freely. For the first time since they had lost everything on that desperate autumn morning two weeks ago, they both dropped their guard, relaxed and cried. They cried for all they had lost and left behind, they cried for their absent friend and they cried for each other.

The unexpected and much needed outpouring of emotion which Emma and Michael shared acted as a relief valve - diffusing otherwise insurmountable pressure, soothing troubled minds and breaking down unnecessary (and imaginary) barriers. Once their tears had dried (it could have been minutes or hours later - neither was completely sure) they began to relax and then, gradually, to talk freely again. Michael made them both a drink of hot chocolate which they drank together as they watched the fire die.

'You know,' Michael yawned, lying on his back and watching the shadows flickering on the ceiling, 'I'd have bought a house like this if I could have afforded it.'

Emma, lying at right angles to him with her head resting on his stomach, smiled to herself.

'Me too.'

'Really?' he asked, lifting himself up onto his elbows and looking across at her.

'Yes, really,' she replied. 'It's a dream house, isn't it. A lick of paint and it could be beautiful.'

He sighed and yawned again.

'Apart from half a fucking million rotting bodies on the other side of the fence it's okay, isn't it,' he mumbled sarcastically.

Emma ignored him. She tried to stifle a yawn but