Carl was transfixed – his attention captured by a deadly combination of morbid curiosity and uneasy fear. As the cadaver approached he could see that both of the man’s pupils had dilated to such an extent that the dull iris of each eye seemed almost to have disappeared. The eyes moved continually, never settling on any one object, and yet it seemed that whatever information was being sent from the dead eyes to the dead brain was not registering at all. The body moved ever closer to Carl, looking straight past him. It didn’t even know he was there.

‘Fucking hell,’ Michael cursed. ‘Watch out will you?’

‘It’s all right,’ Carl sighed. ‘Bloody thing can’t even see me.’

With that he lifted up his arms and put a hand on each one of the man’s shoulders. The body stopped moving instantly. Rather than resist or react in any way it simply slumped forward. Carl could feel the weight of the body (which was unexpectedly light and emaciated) being entirely supported by his hands.

‘They’re empty, aren’t they?’ Emma said under her breath. She took a few tentative steps closer to the corpse and stared into its face. Now that she was closer she could see a fine, milky-white film covering both eyes. There were open sores on its skin (particularly around the mouth and nose) and its greasy hair was lank and knotted. She looked down at the rest of the body – down towards the willowy torso wrapped in loose, dirty clothing – and stared hard. She was looking at the rib cage for signs of respiration. She couldn’t see any movement.

Michael had been watching her as intently and with as much fascination as she’d watched the body.

‘What do you mean, empty?’ he asked.

‘Just what I said,’ she mumbled, still staring at the dead man. ‘There’s nothing to them. They move but they don’t know why. It’s almost as if they’ve died but no-one’s told them to stop moving and lie still.’

He nodded thoughtfully and watched another one of the creatures as it wandered aimlessly across the road a little way ahead of the van. Carl again looked into the face of the body he was holding and then dropped his arms, allowing it to move freely again. The second he had released his grip the corpse began to stumble away.

‘So if they’re not thinking, why do they change direction?’ he asked.

‘Simple,’ Emma answered. ‘They don’t do it consciously. If you watch them, they only change direction when they can’t go any further forward.’

‘But why? If they can’t make decisions then they shouldn’t be able to realise that they’re stuck. When they hit a wall shouldn’t they just stop and wait?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘It’s just a basic response, isn’t it?’ Michael said.

She nodded.

‘Suppose so. It’s just about the most basic response. Christ, even amoebas and earthworms can react like that. If they come across an obstruction then they change direction.’

‘So what are you saying?’ he pressed. ‘Are they thinking or not thinking?’

‘I’m not sure really…’ she admitted.

‘You sound like you’re saying that they might still have some decision making capabilities…’

‘Suppose I am.’

‘But on the other hand they seem to be on autopilot, just moving because they can.’

Emma shrugged her shoulders again, becoming annoyed.

‘Christ, I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I think.’

‘So what do you think? What do you really think has happened to them?’

‘They’re almost dead.’

‘Almost dead?’

‘I think that about ninety-nine percent of their bodies are dead. The muscles and senses have shut down. They’re not breathing, thinking or eating but I think that there’s something still working inside them. Something at their very base level. The most basic of controls.’

‘Such as?’ Michael asked.

‘Don’t know.’

‘Want to take a guess?’

Emma seemed reluctant. She wasn’t at all certain about what she was saying. She was improvising and having to think on her feet.

‘I’m really not sure,’ she sighed. ‘Christ, it’s instinct I suppose. They have no comprehension of identity or purpose anymore, they just exist. They move because they can. No other reason.’

Conscious that she had become the centre of attention, Emma walked away from the van towards the row of shops to her right. She felt awkward. In the eyes of her two companions her limited medical experience and knowledge made her an expert in a field where no-one really knew anything.

On the cold ground in front of a bakery the body of a frail and elderly old man struggled to pull itself up. Its weak arms flailed uselessly at its sides.

‘What’s the matter with it?’ Carl asked, peering cautiously over Emma’s shoulder.

‘Don’t know,’ she mumbled.

Michael, who had followed the other two, nudged Emma’s shoulder and pointed at an upturned wheelchair which lay a few metres away from the body. She looked from the chair to the body and back again and then crouched down. Fighting to keep control of her stomach (the rotting skin of the old man gave out a noxious odour) she pulled back one of his trouser legs and saw that the right leg was artificial. In its weakened state the body couldn’t lift it off the ground.

‘See,’ she said, standing up again. ‘Bloody thing doesn’t even know it’s only got one leg. Poor bugger’s probably been using a wheelchair for years.’

Disinterested in the crippled body and feeling nauseous and uneasy, Carl wandered away. He walked alone along the front of the row of silent shops and gazed sadly into the window of each building he passed. There was a bank – its doors wide open – and next to it an opticians. Two corpses sat motionless on dusty chairs waiting for appointments with their long since dead optometrist. Next to the opticians was a grocery store. Carl went inside.

Inside the shop was dank and musty. The pungent smell of rotting food tainted the damp air. The smell acted like smelling salts in suddenly reminding Carl of all that had happened. In a fraction of a second he was reminded of the nightmare of Northwich, the loss of his family and everything else that had happened in the last week. He suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable and unsafe. Looking over his shoulder constantly he began to fill cardboard boxes with all the non-perishable food he could find in the tiny little store.

Emma and Michael arrived at the shop seconds later. In little more than a quarter of an hour the three of them had transferred much of the stock to the back of their van. In less than an hour they were back at Penn Farm.

Michael and Emma sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. It was almost four o’clock. Carl had been working on the generator outside for the best part of the afternoon. The back door was open. The house was freezing.

‘There’s got to be something driving them on,’ Emma mumbled. ‘I can’t understand why they keep moving and yet…’

‘Fucking hell,’ Michael cursed, ‘give it a rest, would you? What does it matter? Why should we give a damn what they do as long as they’re not a danger to us. Christ, I don’t care if I wake up to find a hundred and one of the fucking things stood around the house doing a bloody song and dance routine. As long as they don’t come near me and…’

‘Okay,’ she snapped, ‘you’ve made your point. Sorry if I don’t share your short-sightedness.’

‘I’m not short-sighted,’ Michael protested.

‘Yes you are. You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself…’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘No it isn’t. I’m looking out for you and Carl too. I just think we have to face facts, that’s all.’

‘We don’t know any facts. We don’t know fucking anything.’

‘Yes we do,’ he sighed. ‘For a start it’s a fact that it doesn’t matter what’s happened to the rest of the population as long as nothing happens to us. It’s a fact that it doesn’t matter why millions of people died. What difference would it make if we knew? What could we do? What if we found some fucking miracle cure? What are we going to do? Spend the rest of our lives sorting out fifty-odd million corpses at the expense of ourselves?’