'I reckon there've got to be more survivors than we think,' he answered her. 'Damn it, it would take hundreds of germ bombs to destroy a whole country the size of Britain. The Continent, the States, you've got an even better chance of dodging the germs there. All we can do is sit tight, hold on and wait.'

You can, Jon. Me, I'm going out there and even if I don't find Eric I'd sooner die than go on living like a prisoner, not knowing when you're going to be attacked.

His conversation dwindled and she could tell he was becoming drowsy. At length his breathing became regular and she knew he was asleep.

Cautiously she slid off the bed, crawled on her hands and knees towards the bedroom door, stopped every time a floorboard creaked. But he didn't waken. Down the stairs, dressing in the living-room. She wouldn't need anything except a torch. Eric would surely have some food and if not then perhaps she could persuade him to accompany her to a deserted cottage or farmhouse where there was sure to be an abundance; these throwbacks didn't understand what packaged food was.

She let herself out into the night, clicked the door softly shut behind her.

And that was when she saw them. And they had seen her, too!

The throwbacks were in the yard, ten or fifteen of them, an ominous semi-circle of them stealthily closing in on the cottage, surrounding it. Stooped creatures that would have seemed more natural walking on all-fours, every one of them carrying some kind of improvised weapon, scythes, pitchforks, clubs.

Sylvia froze, cringed. Searching their bearded squat faces; they all looked the same in the faint starlight, might all have been cast from the same mould. They stopped, watching her.

She fought to make her vocal cords work, struggling to get words out and when finally she succeeded all that she managed was a hoarse frightened whisper. 'Eric . . . are you there, Eric?'

No answer. No movement. Staring at her, eyes narrowed as though they suspected a trap. Shuffling forward a few paces, stopping again.

Sylvia screamed, a long shriek of sheer terror, and in that instant movement returned to her limbs. Panicking, turning back, her fingers struggling with the heavy door handle, slipping, unable to secure a grip and turn it. Pulling, pushing, knowing that they were coming for her, smelling their rancid animal odour. Eric wasn't amongst them, he wasn't like this', he would not hurt her.

She screamed again, an inarticulate yell, tugging at the door. Don't touch me, you brutes. 'Jon . . . Jon!'

And then she felt their grip, claw-like fingers digging into her arms and shoulders, dragging her out of the porch, lifting her up, carrying her. She struggled, kicked until they grabbed her legs, grunted their surprise and lust at finding one so unlike themselves. Curiosity, others crowding round, prodding at her, hurting her, starting to tear her clothes.

She almost passed out. They would rape her, maybe kill her when they had finished with her. Perhaps they had already murdered Eric; he would not let them do this to her.

Sobbing softly, her eyes closed because she could not bear to look, wanted to die now and get it all over; there was nothing left to live for. Kill me, please1.

Suddenly there was a deafening explosion, an ear-splitting report that ripped through her, a vivid flash that she saw even with her eyes closed. A sensation of falling, hitting the ground, lying there, not understanding, not wanting to. Oh God, I want to die, please let me be dead.

A second explosion and then she heard her captors screaming, primitive cries of pain and fear. Opened her eyes, saw but did not understand. One of them was lying on the ground, a still, crumpled form from which blood poured out of innumerable wounds. Surely he was dead. Two others, bleeding but still upright, whimpering, pawing at their bodies in shocked amazement. The rest were running, howling.

'Sylvia . . . Sylvia are you all right?'

She recognised Jon's voice, got to her knees. A sliver of orange light played on her, momentarily dazzled her. A torch, coming from an upstairs window.

Two more loud reports. She recognised the stabbing flames of a shotgun blast, screamed as she saw the two wounded throwbacks stagger, clutch at their faces. Oh Jesus God, they didn't have faces any longer, just scarlet bloody mulch, their screams drowned by the blood that spouted from where their mouths had been seconds before. They hit the ground, did not move again.

Sylvia knelt there, tried not to think, heard the door opening, Jon's bare feet running across the yard. Smelled the sharp tang of burned gunpowder, coughed and was almost sick.

'Sylvia. . .Sylvia. . .'Still holding the gun, helping her to her feet with his free hand. 'Are you OK?'

'I'm all right.' The words came instinctively, a habit of civilised society. Somebody asked you how you were and you said you were OK even if you were ill. Polite conversation because nobody was really interested in your health.

This was neither the time nor the place for formalities, though.

He was helping her back to the house, supporting her weight, moving backwards so that he did not have to turn his back on the dark night, holding the heavy twelve-bore one-handed.

He kicked open the door, bundled her through, slammed it behind him and forced the key to turn. Then he shone the torchlight on her, ran the beam anxiously over her, breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw nothing more serious than scratches on her face and arms,

'What the hell were you doing out there?' Angry now, demanding an answer, 'You're fully dressed. Where were you going?'

She bit her lip and in that one instant made up her mind to tell him. Better now than later, tell him the truth. She had not got the ingenuity right now to think up a plausible lie.

'I was leaving.' She was surprised how calmly she spoke. *I was going to find Eric because he's out there. It was Eric who came here for me that time. My husband, alive and . . . one of them.'

He stared. Disbelief on his pale features. 'You're mistaken,' he said, almost said, 'You're crazy,' but checked it just in time. 'You imagined it.'

'No, I didn't,' she screamed, suddenly sensed a wave of hysteria threatening to engulf her. 'It was Eric. He's been out there watching the house for weeks now. He needs me!'

Jon Quinn closed his eyes for a second or two. I don't believe it, I won't. I do, it's feasible. Jackie's out there somewhere too. She's got to be.

'If it's Eric,' he swallowed, hated himself for saying it, didn't quite know how to put it, 'then , . . then it won't really be him. I mean, not the Eric you once knew.' Just as Jackie won't be the Jackie I once knew.

'It's still Eric though.1 Her voice was subdued, she wanted to cry but couldn't. 'My Eric.'

They've surrounded the house,' he muttered. 'We've got a fight on our hands. There are hundreds of them in the hills, starving and without adequate homes. It's them or us, I'm afraid.'

She nodded dumbly. I still want to go to Eric though. If we've got to die then I want to be with him. But she made no move towards the door, just asked, 'What are we going to do, then?'

'Nothing much we can do except fight.' He tried to smile. 'They're frightened of guns, I've proved that. It all depends on how determined they are. We'd better get back upstairs, the bedroom window is the best place to hold them off from.'

They went back upstairs and Jon returned to the window, looked out. There was nobody in sight, just those three bloody corpses in the yard. He felt physically sick, Christ, it was bloody murder whichever way you looked at it; they had been ordinary people like himself once.

And if Eric Atkinson was out there somewhere then the chances were... his heart threatened to stop then speeded up ... so was Jackie.