“This is a sick joke.” said Gabriel from the back seat of the old Ford Cortina. “It has to be.”

Seamus had spotted it too. Services ahead. Less than ten miles from the spot they'd broken down. Had they known, they might never have visited West River and Jermaine might never have died. To Seamus-who had always felt somehow like the butt of a great cosmic joke-this stung in a way he was wholly familiar with. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, willing away the roiling in his stomach.

The dual carriageway was almost empty of any other vehicle. A mass exodus had occurred in the initial days, everyone lured south by promises of shelter and provisions. Seamus had heard stories from survivors of those shelters, how the paranoia had spread just as quickly as the sickness, how men with colds and coughs had been dragged out into the streets and shot, how women had been coerced into favours for the barest minimum of necessities. He had never bought into the whole south idea, or into any idea that involved a great number of people all in one place. He'd worked in care homes for a good few years of his life, he was aware of just how quickly things could spread from person to person; people were dangerous, and people in large numbers even more so.

Jermaine's idea had been to head north, as far north as they could get, where it was cold and houses stood alone in endless wilderness, where the nearest town or neighbour could be ninety or more miles away. His idea had been to settle in one such place, to gather everything they might need along the way, to hit the libraries and learn about agriculture and living off the fat of the land, to find animals that they might breed and milk and gather from. Seamus had never been openly supportive of the idea, but sometimes when he slept he dreamed of it, yearned for it even.

Through the rear-view mirror, Seamus saw that Gabriel was still staring out the window, his neck craned towards the road sign they'd just passed. As soon as they'd found their way back to the car, Gabriel had taken up his usual spot in the backseat. He'd glanced at the passenger side only briefly, chewing his lip with consideration. Seamus had had no such quibble in taking Jermaine's seat in the driver's side. There was no place left in the world for being overly sentimental. Or so the logical side of his brain insisted, but the more irrational, passionate side had taken him to the streets that morning and pounded one of those creatures to death, all in the name of sentimentality. Seamus could still feel the weight of the silver chain against his breast, he wasn't quite sure what he intended to do with it.

Something black was glinting up ahead on the road, a shapeless dark lump almost swallowed up by the overgrowth that would forever now be left untended. Seamus slowed to a crawl as they drew closer. It was a motorcycle. And its rider.

The man still had on his leathers and his helmet, but even with such protection the sun was scorching his skin through the fabric, and a great sizzle of steam was rising off of him. It wafted in through the open window, the taste of cooked red meat. Nauseated, Seamus put his foot down and hurried by. His stomach cramped now in an altogether interested way, and the corners of his lips were wet and dribbling. He wiped his sleeve against his mouth, horrified but entirely helpless against the hunger the stench had stoked within him.

Gabriel was looking at him through the rear-view mirror. It might have been pity on his face, or something else entirely. Seamus did not meet his eyes.

“We should stop at this service station.” said Gabriel at length. “We might get more lucky there than we did in town.”

Luck had not been their friend these past few weeks; they'd lost not only Jermaine, but Sarah before him, and Adam and Amanda before her. How Gabriel still managed to trust in such a flighty, arbitrary force was beyond Seamus, but he would not argue. His stomach was still gurgling, as ravenous as any belly belonging to those creatures. Perhaps this could be a stroke of good fortune, perhaps they would find themselves able to stock up on all the provisions they'd seen through. Ultimately there was little choice in the matter; sooner or later they would have to stop. So why not stop now?

Another sign appeared further down the road, its pole crooked. Services next exit it said, along with a helpful infogram of all the eateries and facilities available. Out of habit, Seamus glanced at his wing mirrors for oncoming traffic, but the roads were as still and empty as ever. He resisted the urge to check his blindspot and veered the Cortina over to the outer lane.

The exit approached, a winding curve to the left. Seamus followed it. Appearing on his right, a Shell garage advertised its diesel and petrol prices in bright red digital letters, further along the road was another exit, this one leading towards a mini-mall, and if he followed the curve of the road all the way around he'd find a vacant parking lot in front of an empty travel tavern. Seamus brought the car to a halt at the turning for the garage. He got out of the car to get a better look. Gabriel followed him.

There was nothing outwardly amiss. From where he stood, Seamus could see the fluttering of old and redundant newspapers shelved on the rack outside the minimart. He remembered coloured images of civil unrest in countries he'd never see, and closer to home politicians turned humble and apologetic in the face of scandal. Through the sun-tinted windows of the minimart, he saw only empty aisles and an empty service counter, behind which bottles of alcohol and packets of cigarettes lay. It did not look to have been ransacked. Gabriel might have been right about their luck after all.

Presently, Seamus turned to face him, but Gabriel was already around the back of the car, lifting the boot, pulling things out and pushing things aside. Several brightly coloured plastic bowls tumbled to the ground, and with a gasp Gabriel almost joined them, but he steadied himself against the car with a white knuckled grip.

“Are you well enough to do this?” asked Seamus, alarmed.

Gabriel did not answer for a long moment. He stood, almost hunched double over the boot, his breathing unsteady and shallow, his knees weak. “I'm fine.” he said at length. He went back to rummaging, his ruckus deliberate and transparent in its volume. He was not of a mind to speak.

Bugger that, thought Seamus.

“Hey.” he said. Gabriel ignored him. “Hey.”

“What?”

“I'm not Jermaine.” said Seamus warningly. “I won't take a bullet for you if one of those things comes at you. No matter how good you are on your knees.”

Gabriel, at least, had the good grace to look abashed. His quick little tongue poked against his right cheek, heavy and useless in the face of being called out. He was as red now in the cheeks as his lips were every time Jermaine had fucked them.

“So I'll ask you again.” Seamus continued. “Are you well enough to do this?”

“... Yes.”

They decided-after appraising the dark, ponderously shifting clouds overhead-that it was an apt time to try to replenish their water supply. Gabriel went out to the footpaths up ahead with the brightly coloured bowls, placing them down in neat little rows. He was still blushing and his tongue continued working a hole into his cheek. As he busied himself with that, Seamus got back into the Cortina and rolled it down towards the garage, towards the nearest pump to refill.

He could see more of the minimart now. One light remained inexplicably on, flickering dully towards the back. The daylight provided just enough light to confirm that the establishment was indeed empty and untouched. Shelves upon shelves of brightly packaged food and drinks lined the aisles; cans of fish with cute fisherman mascots, bottled water and pop in all colours of the rainbow promising hydration and energy, bars of chocolate and brightly wrapped candy, bags of crisps and boxes of cereal, and further along cans of beans and tomatoes and sweetcorn. Yes, they'd gotten lucky this time.

Seamus took care of the car first, filling her up at pump number one with a casualness that was bitter in its nostalgia. How many times had he done this very mundane thing on his way to work, or to a friend's, or a meeting, or his mother's? If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could almost hear Morrissey warbling on about international playboys as Spotify shuffled the thousand or so songs on his driving playlist, of which he rarely listened to more than the same select tracks. Perhaps more than anything, Seamus missed music. He missed songs about love and misery and normal human problems.

An entirely unmusical noise brought him crashing back to the present. He looked over the Cortina to the embankment leading back up to the road. Gabriel was coming down it with an uncharacteristic lack of grace. His long legs looked like a newborn gazelle's as they slid and shuffled down the damp overgrown grass. Why he hadn't just taken the road was anyone's guess.

“Done?” asked Seamus.

“More or less.” He was still blushing. Half his collar was red now. “Hopefully it's a good storm when it eventually comes.”

Seamus resealed the fuel cap and hung the pump back up. He wiped the excess grease on the front of his trousers then went around to the boot. He was alarmed at how little remained in it, most of it was empty cans and wrappers they'd not yet gotten rid of. He took out the jerrycans and his metal bat. Gabriel reached for his cricket bat.

They filled the jerrycans first, and once they were deposited back in the boot they made their way over to the minimart and its one flickering light.

A tabloid newspaper promised raunchy beach photos of a nobody celebrity. Turn to page 17 for more. There were certainly some things that Seamus didn't miss about the old world.

It took a bit of tugging and pushing to get the defunct automatic door to slide inwards and allow them entry, but after a few choice words and some heavy grunting, it relented and they were in. Even as his eyes went wide and his mouth grew wet at the thought of all this food, Seamus knew they'd never fit it all in the car. He considered briefly the possibility of setting up home here, perhaps at the travel tavern if-or after-it had been cleared out, but even as he thought about it he knew it wasn't right, that it wouldn't work. They'd found this place easily enough, it was not a stretch that others might find it too, others less savoury and willing to share than themselves.

No, the best idea was to stock as much as they could, then hit the road again and continue north. A lonely place with no neighbours, no towns, no nothing. That, that was perhaps the only thing Jermaine had ever been right about.

At the side of the door, a tower of baskets remained undisturbed. Seamus reached for one with his free hand. He heard Gabriel do the same behind him. They had no sooner taken a step towards the first aisle when they heard it, low but persistent, a whirring noise coming from the back of the mart where the single light flickered on. Off. On. Seamus had been around enough corpses to know what it was. And sure enough, he could see them now that he was looking for them; flies, hundreds of them flitting around.

He turned to Gabriel, “Keep close.”

If something not altogether dead was in here with them, Seamus was convinced it would have made a jump for them already. But that didn't mean there wasn't something else unpleasant in store for them at the back of the mart, where the flies had formed a black cloud.