was relatively happy and, all things considered, he felt good. He could do whatever he wanted now. He was in charge. If he wanted to wear a dress then he'd wear a dress. If he wanted to walk around naked, then that was what he'd do.
It was starting to get late. This was the time of day he really didn't like. This was when he found it hardest being alone and when he started to think about everything that had happened and everything he'd lost. His sudden change of outfit had been deliberately timed to give him a much needed confidence boost to help him get through the long, dark and lonely hours until morning. As much as he was comfortable in his own company, there were times when he needed the isolation to end and when he desperately needed to see and speak to other people. He lit lamps in all the windows of the suite at this time every night, praying that someone out there would see them but at the same time also hoping that no-one would. He had to let the world know where he was, but in doing so he left himself feeling vulnerable and exposed. But he couldn't not do it, he continually reminded himself. He would be safer with other people around him. Problem was that so far there hadn't been any other people...
Bushell walked around the perimeter of the vast suite (which covered almost the entire top floor of the building) lighting candles, lamps and torches in every available window.
Distracted by the increasing complications of his own already complex situation, he remained blissfully unaware of sudden movement and confusion outside. For the first time in a week a vehicle had entered the city.
'You're a stupid fucking idiot, Wilcox,' Elizabeth Ferry screamed hysterically. 'I said keep out of the city, not drive right through the bloody city-centre. Fancy a little late night shopping do we?'
'Shut up,' Wilcox hissed. 'If it hadn't been for the fucking noise you two make with your constant bloody talking I wouldn't have taken the wrong turn in the first place!'
'Don't bring me into this,' Doreen Phillips snapped. 'It's got nothing to do with me.'
'It's never got anything to do with you, has it, Doreen?' piped up Ted Hamilton from the seat directly behind her. 'Of course it's your fault. It's got everything to do with you. You're a bloody trouble maker, you are.'
Doreen turned round and glared at Ted who, as usual, was filling his face with chocolate.
'And you're a fat bastard who should...'
'For Christ's sake,' Elizabeth sighed, interrupting her, 'give it a rest, will you?'
Doreen immediately stopped talking, folded her arms and slumped into her seat like a scolded child.
'Just keep going,' John Proctor's comparatively calm voice suggested from three seats back. 'We're here now and shouting at each other isn't going to help. Just keep driving.'
Nick Wilcox took one hand off the steering wheel for a couple of seconds, just long enough to rub his tired eyes. He'd been driving for what felt like hours and he was struggling but he wasn't about to let the others know. They annoyed him beyond belief. He'd so far only found five other living, breathing human beings since all of this began. So why did it have to be this five?
This ragged, dysfunctional group of survivors had been together for just three days. They'd found each other by chance as they'd each individually wandered through the remains of the devastated world. Elizabeth and John Proctor had been the first to meet, Elizabeth having walked into the church where Proctor used to preach just as he was tearing off his dog-collar and walking out. A cleric of some thirty years standing, his already wavering faith had been shattered by the cruel and unstoppable infection which had raged across the surface of the planet. If this God is so powerful, loving and forgiving, he'd asked Elizabeth , then how could the fucker let this happen? Proctor's sudden loss of faith had been as powerful and life-changing as his initial discovery of the church had been in his early days at college. In all seriousness Elizabeth had suggested that the plague might be some kind of divine retribution - a Noah's ark for our times. Proctor told her in no uncertain terms that he thought she was out of her fucking mind.
Ted Hamilton, a plumber, part-time football coach and full-time compulsive comfort eater, had been on the roof of an office block