Horatio hauled himself up in the back seat and gave a magisterial gruff. I told him to stay there as I got out. Most of the dogs backed away, though a couple of the more craven breeds approached on their bellies. I patted one on the head and immediately regretted it, as the musky scent of the pack reached me. Two of the bigger dogs started snapping at each other’s legs in a fussy dispute. The ones on the pavement hadn’t even bothered to move, just lifted their heads to check if they were required. Beyond them, I saw the reason they were gathered here: a pet shop, dark behind two glass doors. But I wasn’t sure if it was the smell of food they were after or the fat golden Labrador that lay flat on the linoleum, trapped inside her gilded cage. I made to turn back to the car, but the Labrador locked eyes with me. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I breathed and stepped up to the pavement.
I rattled the doors, but they were locked. One of the fighting dogs edged closer behind me. When I made eye contact his lip twitched, showing his teeth, like a cowboy raising his shirt to reveal a gun. The Labrador whimpered a plea, but I didn’t know how to help her. A growl made me whip round, but the fighting dog was snarling at Horatio in the car. That gave me an idea. “Go back”—I flapped my hands at the Labrador inside the store—“go on, move back!” She just scuffled her legs against the lino and remained prostrate. I went round the bonnet to get in the car, and reversed up onto the pavement, inching back against the glass doors: in the side mirror I saw the Labrador struggling away. I edged back, giving the accelerator more pressure when the car made contact. There was a second of resistance, and then the glass burst in a glittering shower that spattered down over my rear bumper. Right, that was it. I’d done my bit; she could get out and fend for herself. I’d grab some food for Horatio while I was here and get moving. I crunched into the shop.
The Labrador tottered forward on arthritic legs. I used my key to slice open a few sacks, spilling dog food across the floor. That would keep the pack going until the scavenging instinct kicked in. I pocketed some dog treats and heaved a bag of food over one shoulder before picking my way across the broken glass to the car. The old Lab followed me into the sunlight. “Sorry,” I told her, as she came up to the car, “you’re on your own now.” As though she understood, she doddered away along the pavement, while I stowed the food and treats on the back seat. But the fighting dog stayed, eyeing me or the food, I wasn’t sure. He was standing between me and the driver’s door, head low, lips drawn.
I lifted a piece of paper from the back seat, one of the kid’s drawings, slowly scrunched it into a ball, and threw it into the road. His eyes followed, but he didn’t. His focus swiveled back, and he pulled the trigger, lunging forward to grasp one ankle and whip my legs from under me. I sprawled hard onto the ground, realizing the dog’s massive strength as he gripped the leg of my jeans and dragged me along a foot or so, until I swung my loose leg and slammed my boot down onto his muzzle. He released me and started shaking his head frantically, distracted by a scrap of denim stuck between his teeth. I scrambled up and got into the car. Through the shock, my ankle started to sting where he’d broken the skin.
The car gave a shimmy as the engine fired. The fighting dog had selected a new victim and gone after the Labrador, who cowered, one front leg lifted in submission. I thunked the gear stick into drive. From the back seat, I grabbed the treats. I let the car roll closer and ripped a packet open, holding the meat sticks out the window, calling out—“Hey!”—to the big dog, who ignored the food even when it landed between his front legs. Maybe he wasn’t even hungry; maybe this was just pack mentality, the alpha male asserting himself. He loomed over the old Lab, up on his claws, tail high, teeth bared. The old girl gave a yelp, a cry of incomprehension or perhaps defiance. In a thrash of movement, he went for her neck.
An ammonia smell of dog and my own fear sweat filled the car as I over-revved the engine. No more heroics, I told myself: Get out of the city; stop for nothing; don’t look back. But I did look back, and as I pulled away I watched the Labrador haul herself onto her front legs and make it about six inches back toward the pet shop, before slumping onto the pavement, either dying or resigned to it.
Less than a mile along the motorway, just outside the city, Joni’s new car was parked at a careless angle on the hard shoulder. It rocked slightly, and I could see the kids climbing about in there. As I pulled up in front of it, Lola was picking her way delicately down the steep embankment from the direction of a bridge above the carriageway. I assumed she had gone for a pee, but then I saw Joni coming from the other side of the central reservation, shouting as she jogged, pointing up to the bridge.
“We must’ve scared him off,” Joni was yelling as my window rolled down. Lola made it over to me first.
“There’s a child,” she said, “on the bridge.”
Joni straddled the metal barrier and arrived in a few steps. Her cheeks were flushed, hands businesslike on hips as she scanned the surrounding fields. I restarted my engine.
“I can take Billy and the boys the rest of the way,” I said, putting my seat belt back on. “Are you okay to have a girls’ car again?”
Joni’s eyes swiveled round to my face and stopped there. “We saw a boy, Marlene. He ran off, but he’s here somewhere.” She and Lola watched me, as though waiting for a cue.
“I hate to say it,” I grimaced, “but I rather think everyone’s dead.”
Lola looked down at her feet, tossed her hair back up, and moved toward the other car. Joni pursed her lips. “We saw a child. A boy,” she said, “in pajamas. He was up there, and when we stopped he ran that way.” Her arm swept from the bridge to a copse on the far side of the carriageway. “And now we need to find him,” she finished in her best don’t-fuck-with-me voice. “Come on, Lola,” she called. “Now that Marlene’s here to watch her own kids, we can climb down to those trees.”
“Why?” I asked. They both stopped and turned back to me again.
“Pardon me?” said Joni.
“We can’t take him with us. He might be infected.”
I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could see my kids in the car behind. Billy in front, arms stretched across the steering wheel as though he were driving a bus. Maggie pulling her hair over her face, inspecting the strands. Charlie propped up over the back seat, looking my way and batting an upside-down Peter’s feet away from his head. I waved and he waved back.
“Infected how?” asked Joni.
They both stood in the middle of the motorway, arms folded, squinting at me like I was the sun and I was guilty of burning them. I told them about the terrorists, the bombs, the man-made virus. “We only survived because we were in the forest. We can’t risk making contact with anyone who’s been exposed.”
Lola looked back in the direction we had come. “You saw a body. Maybe you’ve been exposed too. Maybe we were all infected while we were in the city.”
The slight wind dropped, and the bordering trees stopped bristling. All living things held as still as the asphalt beneath our feet. I undid my seat belt. Opened the door and slid down onto the carriageway.