Autumn

The apparent tranquility of their isolated location belied the turmoil and devastation that they had left behind them. The three survivors stood together in silence and took stock of their surroundings. They were standing in a farmyard, about twenty metres square, boxed in by the stream, the farm buildings and the forest and littered with rusting farm machinery and unused supplies. On the furthest side of the yard (opposite to where the track crossed the bridge) were two dilapidated wooden barns. The farmhouse itself was a large and traditional brick-built building with a sloping grey roof which was dotted with green and yellow lichen. From the front the house appeared to be roughly rectangular. Three stone steps led up to a wooden porch which was the only protruding feature. Tacked to the side of the building was an out-of-place looking concrete garage with a grey metal door. Twisting ivy covered between a half and a third of the front of the building and the unchecked leaves had begun to crawl from the house across the roof of the garage.

‘This looks perfect,’ Emma continued to enthuse. ‘What do you two think?’

As he was standing closest to her she first looked towards Michael for a response. Not for the first time today he seemed to be miles away, wrapped up in his own private thoughts.

‘What?’ he mumbled, a

‘I said it looks perfect,’ she repeated. ‘What do you think, Carl?’

‘Not bad,’ he said nonchalantly, leaning against the side of the van. He was deliberately trying to hide the fact that being out in the open scared him. He didn’t know who (or what) was watching them. ‘It’ll do for tonight.’

Michael slowly climbed the steps to the front door. He opened the porch and stepped inside. The other two watched from a distance, keen to know if anyone was home but too unsure to get any closer. Michael, on the other hand, was too tired to waste any more time. He banged on the door with his fist.

‘Hello,’ he yelled. ‘Hello, is anyone there?’

Carl found the volume of his voice unsettling. He looked around anxiously.

When, after a few seconds, there had been no reply to his shouting and thumping, Michael tried the door. It was open and he stepped inside. Emma and Carl looked at each other for a moment before following him. By the time they were both standing in the hallway he had already been into every room downstairs and was working his way through the second storey. He eventually reappeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Well?’ asked Emma.

‘It looks okay,’ he replied breathlessly as he walked back down.

‘Anyone in?’

He nodded and pointed towards a room on their right. Emma peered through the door into a large and comfortable sitting room. A single body – an overweight, white-haired man wearing a dressing gown, trousers and slippers – lay twisted painfully on the ground in front of an ornate open fireplace. Feeling a little safer now he knew that this was the only body, Carl went into the sitting room and walked over to the corpse. There was an unopened letter on the ground next to the man’s lifeless hand.

‘This must be Mr Jones,’ he mumbled, reading from the address on the front of the envelope. ‘Mr Arthur Jones, Pe

‘No sign of Mrs Jones?’ wondered Emma.

‘Couldn’t find anyone else,’ Michael replied, shaking his head. ‘And he looks too old for there to be any little Joneses here.’

Emma noticed that Carl had sat down next to the body. He was staring into its face.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. No response. ‘Carl, what’s the matter?’

He shook his head, looked up at her and smiled.

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

Carl quickly looked away, hoping that the other two hadn’t picked up on the sudden anxiety and unease he was feeling. Christ, he thought, he had seen literally thousands of dead bodies over the last few days, so why did this one in particular bother him? Was it because this had been one of the first bodies he’d actually sat down and looked at, or was it because this was the first body he’d seen with an identity? He knew the man’s name and what he’d done for a living and they had broken into his home. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t believe in ghosts or anything like that but, at that moment, he was convinced that somehow Mr Jones would get his revenge on the three intruders.

Michael sat down in a comfortable armchair and shielded his eyes from the early evening sunlight which poured into the room.

‘So will this do?’ he asked. ‘Think we should stop here?’

‘There’s plenty of room,’ Emma replied, ‘and there’s the stream outside for water.’

‘And it’s not easy to get to,’ Carl added, forcing himself to get involved in the conversation and ignore Mr Jones. ‘Bloody hell, we had enough trouble finding it.’

‘And it’s a farm,’ Michael said. ‘There’s bound to be much more to this place than just this house.’

‘Like what?’ Emma wondered. Michael shrugged his shoulders.

‘Don’t know,’ he gri

With that he jumped up from his seat and left the room. Carl and Emma followed him as he walked down the hallway with the entrance to the kitchen and the wooden staircase on his left and a succession of rooms on the right. He looked into (but didn’t go into) a living room and a small office as he walked towards the back of the house. He stopped by the back door and looked back at the other two over his shoulder.

‘There you go,’ he said, gri

Intrigued, Carl and Emma peered past him. On the small lawn at the back of the house was a large gas cylinder mounted on a firm concrete base.

‘Wonder what’s in the shed,’ Carl mumbled, looking into the trees at the bottom left hand corner of the garden.

‘Probably just tools,’ Emma guessed. ‘You know, lawnmowers, that kind of thing.’

‘Then what are those?’ he said, nodding into a small store room to his left. Emma peered into the gloom and saw that everything she had thought would have been kept in the shed had been housed in this little room.

‘Only one way to find out,’ she said and she stretched past Michael and opened the door. She led the three of them across the lawn.

It was obvious that this was far more than just an ordinary garden shed. It was too big and strong to be a potting shed and too small to be anything to do with the farm stores. Carl pushed the door open and leant inside.

‘What’s in there?’ Michael shouting, watching the other man with interest.

Carl reappeared.

‘You won’t believe this,’ he gasped. ‘It’s only a bloody generator!’

‘What? For making electricity,’ Emma said stupidly.

‘I bloody hope so,’ Michael sighed under his breath. ‘That’s what they usually do.’

‘Will it work?’ she then asked, equally stupidly.

‘Don’t know,’ Carl replied, ‘I’ll have a go at getting it going later.’

‘We’ve got plenty of time to try,’ Michael added as he turned and walked back towards the house. ‘Think we should stop here then?’ he asked sarcastically.

Neither Carl or Emma bothered to answer but it didn’t matter. Individually they had all decided to stop the first moment they’d arrived. Pe