From the Cotton Clouds

These cotton clouds are gonna kill us one day, thought Michael.

As he looked out of the lounge window weeks after the Moment, as some people called it, or the Summer Snow event going by others’ description, he wondered why the city had turned on itself.

The inevitable cracks started after the announcement by the government. By the fifth week after the Moment society was at war with itself, blood spilled across the streets, families fought families, and factions battled for supremacy. Public services stopped functioning after a few days and the private sector followed a few days after them.

Michael anticipated his friends’ arrival, many of whom had made their way to his home to formulate a plan for the coming days. None subscribed to the idea of the conspiracy theories that had been floated on social media or had been discussed on street corners by the know-alls of the world. But they witnessed the anarchic protests first-hand. Society was falling apart.

So, they set off with their backpacks loaded with as much as much as they were able to pack in. With their pockets filled.

Trung told them of Southampton offering a way out.

Before them, at the outskirts of London was a vast maze of roads, torn apart by the sudden explosion of vegetation laying claim to the land and wresting it from humanity. One of the effects of the sky changing. Since the day the snow fell the world had become a pulsating horror of almost sentient, twisted flora.

Michael had led the small group of friends through the most troubling parts of London making sure they had avoided the overcast parts of open land. It made for slow going but he knew he could keep them from harm as they took note of the wind as well.

Things seemed positive for them all as they took a short break under an overpass. Abandoned vehicles were strewn about the motorway, some had given themselves to the unrelenting power of the flora and the harsh destructiveness of the elements. Ever since the clouds changed.

Michael decided the group needed supplies. It was time for a jaunt. They had managed to consume a great deal of food and medical supplies on the way to the M25 ring road.

“Marv, come on, mate. Time to go before the dark rolls in,” Michael called as he perched upon the verge. “Just a thirty-minute walk north and we’ll reach the service station.”

Marvin, gruff in demeanour, marched along the verge, past Michael and carried on walking. Michael shook his dark shaven skull, rubbed his stubbled chin and followed him closely.

Neither man wanted to remain in the open air for too long because the clouds had started to gather. These heavy and thick clouds seemed to move with an urgency they had seen once before. The day they had seen people melt for the first time. To watch people simply form terrible puddles of flesh on the pavement. Started by a viscous liquid formed by the cotton clouds.

Michael moved to the front entrance of the service station as Marvin made his way to the back to see if there was anything else he could find. There was no power, some of the windows had been smashed and there was evidence of some-kind of scuffle in one of the aisles with blood smeared on the black and white check floor. As he searched the cans of food on the shelves, he could hear Marvin enter from the back door and start his own search.

Generally, this small group of explorers had encountered friendly types. Some antagonists liked to grandstand but put simply, there was never a deadly encounter with these people.

“How we doin’ there, fella?” asked Michael.

“Bag’s nearly packed. You?” he called over the shelf as he continued grabbing food and supplies.

“Yeah, I’ve managed to get what we need.” Michael replied.

Marvin moved to the entrance and stared up at the sky as the cotton clouds burgeoned. He announced to Michael, “Fings are looking rough out ‘ere. We should get a move on before all that catches up wiv us.”

Thick white clouds shaped like cotton balls were massing in the east with what felt like a northerly wind blowing. That was a recipe for disaster as far as they were concerned. They had to make it back, even though they had encountered usually cordial people there might come a time when that changed. They simply couldn’t stay here. Food was no longer being produced and when the supplies would start to dwindle that’s when things would begin to fall apart. When chaos would tear at the very fabric of the remains of society.

In the near distance there came a sound very similar to a car engine but, they hadn’t seen a working car for over two weeks or so. Michael stood at the entrance of the store listening intently for the ever-increasing sound of the now distinct vehicle roar.

Marvin joined him and asked excitedly, “Is that a motor?”

“I think it is ya know...”

Marvin dashed into the forecourt to gain a better vantage point for the potential of a vehicle.

“Mate, come back. We don’t know what they intend to do ‘ere,” Michael called with a harsh whisper.

Marvin gestured for Michael to stop fussing and stepped further towards the motorway edge. The car was visible now, a red sports car of some kind but Michael wasn’t that good with the make of vehicles. They could get him from A to B and that’s all he needed.

As it drew nearer the roar of the powerful engine grew even louder as if the driver had really put his foot down, and then he could see why. The driver had seen Marvin and was now moving across lanes to get nearer to him.

“Looks like they’re pulling over, fella!” he called back.

Michael shouted a warning just as the car smashed into his friend. His body fell apart in an instant with his limbs scattering across the forecourt and into some bushes and his head bouncing off the roof before coming to a rest in the middle of the road. The car, which Michael noted was a Chrysler Crossfire, which was an odd time to recognise a car, swerved a little then straightened up and continued along the motorway. He watched as it crested over the horizon and was gone. A fine red mist sparkled against the day’s final golden burst of sunlight before catching the evening breeze and spiralling into the sky.

The journey back to the underpass was longer than it should have been, thought Michael. Watching one of his friends become nothing more than roadkill for some sadistic piece of shit filled him with a desperate sadness he was unable to shake.

For the sake of the group, he’d returned to the store and grabbed one of those bags–for-life filling it with necessities for the coming days but feeling so hollow and disjointed that he thought it was a dream. Heavy footsteps, pounding the asphalt on the way back, drained his remaining energy.

So, this is where we are?

After the incident at the service station a lot of the group had grown to mistrust Michael’s judgement. Some even called for him to be replaced as the overall decision maker. He hadn’t fought against the decision to try and oust him but ultimately, he had the trust of many of the people in the group. They continued, to Southampton.

After days of avoiding the heavy clouds and the thick summer snowstorm that raged for half a day then took another few hours to settle the group had made some decent progress towards Southampton. A few members had decided to go their own way. Others apologised for reacting the way they did after Marvin’s death.

Sharon and Becky, sisters from Birmingham the group had met on the journey south, trusted Michael implicitly. The same could be said for BB, Hastings and Arnold. But of the remaining dissenters the most vocal were Ellen, Marlene, Jamie and Munch. Even though they remained with the group they always called Michael’s decision-making into question. Until today. After that terrible incident.

He told the group the best time to travel would be in the thickness of the settled snow so long as they covered their body with protective clothing and sealed the gaps with duct tape. He was sure the roads and streets would be devoid of the rabble that now dominated the landscape.

It needed to touch bare skin.

Although it was draining having to traverse the toxic crystals that had settled on the roads and dead grass they had no encounters. Nothing to worry about and, to give them that extra lift, had found a huge, abandoned house in the middle of a meadow.

Once the group had settled in, Michael took Becky and Sharon on a task to collect more supplies, this time on bicycles. Another group, BB, Jamie and Munch, headed out to the west. Michael asked them to remain in the house as it was too dangerous given the weather conditions. Munch scoffed at his caution and left anyway. BB said he’d look out for them in case things got dangerous.

“Went fairly smoothly to be honest,” Becky told the group of survivors after they got back from a successful shop raid.

They had returned with a family of six in tow. A mother, her four children and their uncle. She told them that their father had become separated somewhere close to Brighton as they too made their way to Southampton. She was hoping he would find his way eventually if they just continued to the port.

Whilst Michael unpacked the bags with George and Josie he made note of the missing team of BB, Jamie and Munch. Looking at the local maps on their mobiles the loot to the west was much closer than that of the east, and yet they were still out. Michael said nothing and continued to unpack.

As darkness descended the whole house fell into slumbering silence. The exhausted adults got some well-earned rest and the new addition of the kids, drained from the trauma of losing their father to the madness, were sprawled out over the cushion-covered floor of the master bedroom with their mother.

Michael sat out front, waiting for the other team to return. There was an ominous sense about their fate. He wondered if they had succumbed to something along the way.

A few hours later, he saw a figure stumbling through the tall grass holding their ribs it seemed. Coughing and spluttering, stopping to catch their breath every few moments. It looked like BB. His silhouette against the backdrop of the rising sun was a wretched sight. Michael rushed out to him and, after a careful visual assessment, decided that he was not infected with the snow and put a supportive arm around him. He said nothing. Asked no questions. The others were gone. He knew.

The group, having lost some along the way and gained others, marched along the motorway and had reached a place called Medean. In a small ditch, flipped upside down, was a red sports car.

The Chrysler?!

An arm, badly disfigured, hung out of the window. Grey and unmoving, it looked and smelled like the driver had been there for days. Michael felt nothing. There was no sense of joy or victory. There was nothing.

He approached the car whilst signalling for the group to hold back. Between the mangled fingers was a heart-shaped silver locket with the name Hope engraved into it. He gathered it into a hand and stood.

The group carried on to Southampton. Perhaps just delaying the inexorable end.

He caressed the locket gently. His brown eyes glittered.