Backwards Into Hell

Part Two: The LFG

Jake's Diary

Thursday 28th October

The day snailed on and it wasn't until mid-afternoon that Lottie began speaking again.

One note had been heavily dissected, there was no suspicion of murder and we decided to bury Abe—or what was left of him—later that night.

'Suicide,' David had muttered under his breath once Lottie had retreated to her room.

Of course, we, dear readers, know the real story.

After a while, Lottie, much recovered, ventured back to the dining room and spent hours reminiscing. She went on and on about how he'd built the bakery from scratch, turning them from a poor family to a rich one, but not a word was said about his son. And for as much grief Abe's death had brought, Lottie was flushed with relief. Her mind was far quieter, and her mannerisms less anxious.

While she whined on, Anais and I listened from the kitchen, doing our best to produce a healthy, nutritious meal from whatever we found in the freezer. Lily listened dutifully, making all the right noises and keeping an eye on Caleb.

David, meanwhile, disappeared to the lobby and attempted to worm a confession out of Darren. He mainly wanted an explanation for the empty graves, something I was more and more sure was The Old Man's work. An occasional exasperated shout would echo through the walls and my heart would jump.

Darren had found me out.

Would David?

As I bunged a frozen piece of ancient fish into the gas oven, I considered my next moves. The biggest threat to my plan was David. He was more muscular, smarter, and braver than I was. Lily could be cunning too, but she was wrapped around my finger.

Who to get rid of next?

Darren? Anais?

It was risky. Yet—I shut the oven door—if it looks like another suicide, it'll work.

At about three pm, Anais and I emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming pile of food.

It was a stew full of everything we'd found in the cupboards: Pot Noodles, spices, beef, herbs, gravy, frozen fish, and bread on the side. Everything had combined into a surprisingly tasty, brown, chunky liquid.

Everyone ate with relish—having missed a proper lunch—and I watched Lottie from the corner of my eye. Sadness clung to her like a wet blanket but she was learning to ignore it.

He's gone. Focus on you.

I suspected it was merely a brave face.

As we ate, a comfortable but melancholy silence nestled between us. We were past the long, awkward stages of forced questions and polite conversation. Instead something else bound us—a shared trauma and a shared want to return to normal life.

As I listened to their thoughts and slurped the brown fluid, one person stuck out.

We're never going to get out of here.

Anais was hunched over his bowl of stew, gripping his spoon so tight that the skin over his knuckles stretched even. It gave me pause for thought so I cleared my throat.

'I've been thinking,' I began and everyone's heads flicked up. My heart thudded as I felt the spotlight shift. 'We might be here a while, and I know it's been suggested before, but we should start farming.'

'Mmm,' said David through a mouthful of soup. 'We can't live on tins. Anyone know how to garden?'

David's eyes traced around the table as, one by one, we shook our heads. Anais's mind continued to swirl, louder than all the others and trapped in a terminal anxiety that centred on Darren.

He dropped his spoon. 'We're never getting out of this, are we?' said Anais.

Lily frowned. 'We shouldn't think like that.'

'No. It's exactly how we should think. The whole planet's just disappeared, three people are dead, and Darren...' He gestured lifelessly to the lobby door and let his hands smack the table like dead fish.

'Darren is under control,' finished David.

His words did nothing to comfort Anais, however, who, after his outburst, sat in a sulk for the rest of the evening, the same dark cloud dusting his mind.

Where did everyone go?

                                                                                       ***

After our eventful early dinner, or extremely late lunch, the day drew into evening and we made solemn preparations to bury Abe.

David, completely unable to relax, worked on the boat as Lily and I sat with Lottie and waited—with saint-like patience, I might add—for her to choose a reading. Anais stayed boarded up in his room, and Darren was quiet in the lobby.

The funeral began at eight. It was a quick one, no one wanting to linger on what had happened. Lottie laid the flowers—a bunch of blue Michelmas daisies we'd found near a bush—and paused to say a few words.

While she spoke, I did nothing but think of Anais. While I could have planned another suicide, it would appear too convenient, suspicious maybe. So at the last minute, I changed my mind.

There was a better way to get rid of him—or, at least, a more fun one.

Lottie began to read. It was a poem she'd chosen. Emily Dickinson.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.