Bar None by Tim Lebbon

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    "He's right. We won't be back."
    Cordell nods and walks to the second Range Rover. "Don't get too far ahead," he says to me quietly as he passes by. He's frowning. For the very first time that day, I feel a sense of fear at what we are about to do.
    I mount the bike and kick it to life. We have already agreed to a preliminary route, and I tick off the road names and numbers in my mind. It sounds easy enough, but it's inevitable that we will encounter obstructions on our way. There will be abandoned vehicles of all kinds, untamed undergrowth, and perhaps fallen trees from the winter storms just gone by.
    And maybe other things , Cordell said.
    Like what? Jacqueline asked.
    People .
    I zip my jacket and make sure the woollen gloves allow me adequate sensation. I have no helmet—Michael came without one—and my glasses will have to suffice in place of goggles. People , Cordell said. I think of that now, and every bad apocalyptic movie I have ever seen comes back to me again. Roadblocks manned by cannibals, a river of zombies stumbling along the tarmac, biker gangs raping women and slitting men's throats, road gangs shooting a driver for the gallon of gas in his or her tank . . . Each situation seems ridiculous individually, but I know that Cordell is right. There will be people out there, and many of them may not have weathered the past six months as well as we have.
    What do we do if someone asks where we're going? Jessica asked.
    Tell them to mind their fucking business , the Irishman said.
    We have an air rifle and a shotgun. It's not a country where automatic weapons and rocket launchers are lying around to be claimed, yet there are places where a determined gang could find such things.
    I shake my head and rev the bike. Jacqueline smiles shyly behind the windscreen of the first Range Rover, the Irishman sitting beside her. Cordell starts the second vehicle, adding to the noise. Jessica is his companion.
    I'm on my own. And this is no time to get scared.
    I lead the way along the gravel driveway. I move slowly to begin with, slipping into second gear and leaving it there for a while. The bike rides smoothly, crunching over gravel and responding well. It feels good beneath me. I'm warm and safe, my thinning hair combed by the breeze.
    I can hear the large Range Rovers following me, their heavy wheels crushing gravel aside whereas mine simply rides over the surface. They contain our worldly goods, everything the five of us owns: our food, a few bottles of wine, two guns, gallons of water stored in old milk churns, and a selection of books from the Manor's library. We are carrying some of our past and all of our present with us, and for a while the future will exist only until the next bend in the road.
    I reach the gates, pass between them and turn right without pause. As I straighten and shift gears I look to my right, through the budding hedge at the Manor. It looks so old and badly maintained, so lifeless, and I wonder whether it has borne that appearance for the past six months. I thought we brought life to the place, but perhaps not. Even with candles burning in its windows, I think maybe it simply looked haunted. I glance higher at the tower, and for a second I see my own pale face watching from its balcony. I swerve the bike across the road and regain control, then look again. The face has gone. It was never there at all, of course, but its absence makes me eager to be away.
    I look over my shoulder, nod at Jacqueline at the wheel of the vehicle behind me, and start to pick up some speed.
    That wasn't me , I think. That wasn't anyone . I wonder if Michael had sensed me watching him zigzag between stalled vehicles down in the city. I feel no probing eyes on me now, but that is no comfort.
    The road bears left and down, passing between a high ceiling of trees whose branches meet overhead. The budding leaves already form something of a canopy, and the road is speckled with their shadows. As spring advances so