by Mark Dalligan

The harsh cry of a seagull cracked Jim's dream. He woke out of the tumbling shards of remembered times. Sunlight filtered through the orange tent wall. Absently he stroked his chin, measuring bristle growth. Before finding the dog he'd sometimes slept the day through.

"Ben!" he called. "Come on boy."

The ground shook and then the tent flap parted as a huge Great Dane bowled in, slobbering kisses over his master.

"Yeah boy, I'm pleased to see you too. Fancy some breakfast?"

Ben barked enthusiastically, pulling Jim's sleeping bag away. Half an hour later they set off on their walk.

The ancient Essex town of Maldon was a few miles distant. Jim wouldn't pitch anywhere closer to a former high population centre. He preferred to stay out in the open, invisible.

The green hedged lane was clear of cars, though here and there one had ploughed into a field or lay squashed flat against the crumbling tarmac.

One terrible morning, Ben has returned with a gift of some child-like remains from one of these cars. Jim had buried them deep, too deep he hoped for crows and foxes.

Maldon high street was deserted. There were other survivors but they kept to themselves. W.H. Smith's doors had been forced, perhaps by someone looking for a good read. More likely they were hankering for the discounted giant chocolate bars the store had tried to force on customers whenever they bought a magazine.

Jim himself was surviving on a diet high in olives and dolmades, washed down with retsina, all from a little Greek taverna tucked away in a side street.

While his master started the day with a glass of wine, Ben was content to gorge on canned dog food. Jim watched, the chunks of flesh disappear into the dog's wide jaws with slight revulsion.

After the meal they went to Morrison's supermarket, intending to fill a trolley and wheel it back to camp. There were a couple of people, unwashed and crazy looking. Ben growled and they maintained their distance.

It was approaching midday. Jim lengthened his stride, he hadn't planned to be in town this late.

The screaming started as they passed the Renault dealership. A high pitched scream that lasted for a long time before abruptly stopping. It was hard to gauge direction, but came from somewhere near.

They walked on but as they reached the town outskirts there were more screams, and the ground began to tremble.

“Ben! Down here”

The man and dog lay behind a garden hedge as the ground began to vibrate. They bounced like a beans on a drum skin.

An elderly man stumbled down the road. In one hand he held a whisky bottle, in the other, vodka. Behind him, the relentless thudding of gigantic feet brought a robot quickly into view. High as a church steeple, it thrummed with electronic life.

“Guess we should shut our eyes Ben.”

The machine caught the man and decapitated him. Skilled metal fingers stripped clothes away, throwing the rags to the floor. The body was dropped amongst a dozen other naked forms at the bottom of a huge wire basket.

“World must be almost shopped out by now, boy,” Jim observed. “Let's hope they go somewhere else soon, where the shelves are better stocked.”