40 ALONE
Every morning, in those moments before I become fully lucid, I think I’m trapped in a nightmare, and the only way to sever the connection is by contact with another human being, so I seek out Scott lying beside me.
I’ll put a hand out to reach for him, only to find his side of the bed is empty. That’s when I realise I really am alone.
Heaving sobs rack my body like small seizures, and I cry until I’ve run out of tears. Then I drag myself out of bed to face the day. The baby needs nourishment, so I must eat, and even if I want to waste away and die, the baby’s needs take precedence over what I want. I’m little more than a walking incubator.
At times, I wish I’d taken that morning after pill. At least then my life would be my own to do with what I want. After I shot Scott, I could have turned the gun on myself, so I’d be free of this life devoid of all hope. Sometimes I resent this thing growing inside me, but it’s a double-edged sword because the baby is the only thing keeping me going.
Except today, I wonder why I’m doing this. What’s the point? The world I knew has been laid waste by those dead bastards. Why bring an innocent child into this hell?
And then there’s the normal fear: what if I go into labour and something goes wrong? What if the cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck? Babies have died in hospitals when that’s happened, even when there’ve been midwives and doctors around. What if the head gets stuck, or I can’t stem the blood loss? What if I lie there, the life draining out of me, and my baby is left all alone to be dragged off and eaten by rats.
So many things can go wrong, and I’ve imagined them all. My stomach feels nauseous with worry. I’m going to vomit.
I rush to the bathroom. “Breathe, Emma,” I say to myself, bending over the sink.
I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. A mad, wild-eyed woman with unkempt hair and bags under her eyes stares back at me. She’s a stranger to me, and I touch the mirror to make sure it’s really my reflection. A chuckle rises in my throat. I pity the baby who’s born to that mamma. She looks crazy.
Then I heave my guts out.
41 STILL HERE
Summer has gone and autumn has left the island’s trees barren. Every day I watch and pray for someone to come. Anyone so I can escape this aching loneliness that gnaws away at my insides like hunger pains. Apart from an empty rowing boat I found on the beach, all broken up by the waves and tossed aside, there’s no sign of any other human life on this planet.
Every morning I awake, not to rejoice at being alive but to commiserate with myself. How can the pregnant wee lassie fae Glasgow still be alive when everyone else has perished? Why do I get to be the unlucky one?
In an effort to stay sane, I’ve painted a rock as Tom Hanks did in Castaway and named it Fiona. Well, I have to talk to someone. I’m well aware that my descent into madness is nearly complete. What am I gonna do, section myself?
Days find me sitting on my special rock at Mustafa’s favourite beach. I sit there for hours listening to the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the pebbles. Sometimes I hear familiar voices, and when I close my eyes I can see the four of them walking up the beach: Doyle marching, Kenny fiddling with those specs, Mustafa rocking that white t-shirt and Scott, my lovely reliable Scott, sprinting towards me because he wants to feel his baby kick.
In my more lucid moments, I write in a journal about everything that happened to us. If anyone survives this apocalypse, there are so many things they’ll need to know, and I fear I won’t be around to tell them. This is my footprint in the sand. My evidence that I was here: that we were all here.
It’s my writing on the wall, like Kenny’s message at Craigen Castle, written in charcoal for any other survivors who might come by. Did anyone ever read it? Will anybody ever read this?
So if you’re reading this, I’ll tell you this much: we didn’t deserve to end up as dust. We fought hard to stay alive. To salvage something of this world for you, for my baby, for the future of mankind.
We weren’t superheroes like in a movie or a novel; we were real flesh and blood people with real feelings, with our own faults, our own beliefs, our own desires. We didn’t choose to be thrust together in a battle for survival, but we made the best of what we had to work with. We did what we had to do and at times, we did it well.
Every day, I try to see something positive about my situation. There’s enough tinned food here to last me a lifetime, so I know I won’t starve to death. But I know that I can’t stay here forever. Once the baby comes I should leave here because living alone is no life for a child. There must be people out there. Maybe on other islands.
Being human is all about how we interact with others and the relationships we form. Without that, are we not the same as the dead bastards, doing things simply to exist and not through any conscious desire?
Without each other, we may as well be flotsam. I refuse to be flotsam. I choose to live.
42 NEW BEGINNINGS
I’m standing on the beach, and as I so often do, I close my eyes and pretend I hear the voices of Scott, Muzz, Kenny, and Doyle. I tell myself that if I time things just right, if I manage to open my eyes at the precise, exact, right moment, I’ll see them standing there, and life will be as though they’d never left.
It hasn’t worked so far, but what do I have left but my imagination?
I inhale the salty sea air. My stomach is so big, there’s hardly room for my lungs to expand, and my back is so strained that walking along the shore is hazardous to my health. Seagulls fly back and forth in the breeze. I wonder where they’ve been, if they know of any other survivors, if they know if the apocalypse is over. Have cities sprung back to life; are there people and new civilizations…
Something’s not right inside me. I feel a dribble of water down the inside of my thigh, then there’s a sudden release of pressure, and a gush of water cascades down between my legs. I know I haven’t wet myself, and when the contractions start, I buckle over.
Hot waves of pain grip my stomach and sear all the way down my back, pain that blocks out all thoughts and knock my legs out from under me.
I’m on my back, writhing on the beach, the seagulls fluttering above me unable do anything but watch the agony play out below them.
It’s time. I gasp. I manage to get my legs under me and assume a squatting position. My bladder empties. I’m ready.
In the precious seconds of respite between the contractions, I try to focus on something else, the birds, the waves, the sea lapping against the shore, the sky, anything to make something other than pain the centre of my universe.
I imagine Scott’s here talking to me, saying soothing words, telling me I’ll be okay, but it doesn’t work; none of it works.
Then I start to think I’m hallucinating. None of this can be real. It can’t be. I’m not squatting on the sand, my body heaving in time to waves of pain, about to give birth, alone.
I’m really in bed, in our flat in Glasgow, and any minute now, Scott’s going to shake me awake because I’m having a horrific dream. Then Archie will turn up at our door, this time wanting to scrounge some breakfast. He’ll march on into the kitchen, take a gulp out of the orange carton instead of pouring himself a glass, and leave the bread out in the open again. He'll be my boyfriend's annoying pal before he died and tried to eat us.
A laugh escapes through the wall of pain, a maniac’s laugh, my laugh.
Panting on the sand, I push my baby out and into the world. She arrives, a shrieking bloody bob covered in grey gunge, landing with a plop onto the puddle of blood beneath me.
It’s a girl. It’s a girl. Oh my God, it’s a girl.
I sit back on my haunches and reach for her, but right away, I fear something’s not right. Her head is out of shape, squashed, or maybe it’s too big for her body, and it doesn’t loll around like a normal newborn’s. She gazes up at me with eyes that remind me of a wild cat’s feral glare stalking a meal. I expected her to take her first breath and cry like babies do, but instead, she hisses, and I see that she has sharp little teeth that glint in the sun like shiny razor blades.
I see the zombie mother’s baby...in my baby.
My stomach cramps. I scramble backwards, but we’re still attached, by the umbilical cord.
I grab for it. My baby grabs for it. With her teeth.
“No,” I cry.
My baby bites through the cord. Blood gushes out my end, nothing from her end. She devours the piece that’s in her hand.
I scoot back, transfixed by the horror, terrified by the amount of blood pooling on the sand. I’m bleeding to death.
I grab the cord that’s pumping my blood out, try to squeeze it, tie it, anything to stop the flow, but I’m getting dizzy and weak, and the cord is slippery in my hands. I keep dropping it. I keep bleeding.
My baby is on her hands and knees, lapping from the blood pool like a kitten at a bowl of milk. My fading mind can only ask why. How did this happen?
I think of the midges, the bites I’d suffered. One must’ve been like the one that got Mustafa. I don’t know how long I’ve been infected, but I’ve been doomed all along.
Now all that’s left is my baby. Soon I’ll no longer be around to care for her. She’ll be on her own. Alone. With nothing to eat, except me. And I now accept my fate. Feeding her is the only way I can be a mum for her.
I lie down, on my side and pretend Scott is spooning me, telling me he loves me while I watch my baby crawling towards me, hissing, spiky teeth clicking.
Come to me, my baby.
I do what I’ve got to do.
Squinting into the bright light, the sun I think, I smile at the four figures coming down the beach. Scott’s so desperate to see his baby, he’s running. Doyle’s sprinting along, his head on a swivel as though he’s on the lookout for any incoming threats. Mustafa’s muscles are rippling underneath his He-Man t-shirt. Kenny’s glasses shimmer in the sunlight as he tries to keep up with his pals.
I call out to them, “Over here, you guys. I’ve just had the baby.”
They gather around and gaze down at me, the light so bright behind them they look as shimmery as ghosts.
I can’t believe it. Finally, I’m saved.
THE END
ALTERNATIVE ENDING
I hear the crunch of boots marching towards me. In my muddled state, I tell myself it's Doyle although I know that can't be right. Then I hear shouts. At first, I can't make them out.
A man looms over me. He's wearing a Royal Scots uniform like the one my grandfather once wore and he's carrying a rifle.
"What the fuck is that?" His lips are curled into a snarl making him look ugly. "Shouldn't we just kill it?"
It takes me a few moments to realise he's talking about my baby. Before I can summon up the words, he flicks out a boot and kicks my baby. My baby had chewed through the umbilical cord or the force could have ripped him free of me.
He kicks him so hard he's flung up in the air like he's a football and he's ripped away from me before he can feed.
"No," I scream, scrambling over to where my baby is, wanting to cover him with my arms, with my body so I'd take the full brunt of the next kick that was coming. But, I'm too weak to make it all the way.
"Christ, Mackenzie, what the hell do you think you're doing? It's a bairn for Christ sake. Take another kick and I'll take a shot at you myself."
This voice was a strong one; a man used to giving orders. Raising my head took so much effort, but when I did I had to look up and up, squinting into the sun. There stood the biggest man I'd ever seen. He was no giant, but he was as wide as he was tall. He looked like Scottish legend William Wallace. Like Mackenzie, he was wearing a Royal Scots uniform. He had a face carved out of granite and kind eyes.
"Is that your baby, lass?"
"Yes," I managed to say. My throat was so dry it was a croak.
He knelt down beside me. Strong arms lifted me into a sitting position and he handed me a flask.
"Here," he said. "Take some of this."
As the cool liquid ran down my throat, I almost purred with pleasure. It was Irn Bru.
The big man caught my expression. "You weren't expecting that. Were you, hen?"
He turned to gaze at my baby who was crawling towards me, teeth clicking like piranhas. Considering everything I'd seen, a newborn baby with teeth who could crawl, didn't seem that big a deal. All I knew was that I loved that child because he was a part of Scott and me. Maybe of all of us.
He marched over to my baby and scooped him up with a paw sized hand. It didn't seem to bother him that my baby was spitting and biting. He held him at arms length, but beamed at him.
"Tough little fellow, ain't you? You've no idea how special you are."
Special? I didn't understand. The other soldier had treated my baby like an abomination. He'd wanted to kill him.
"You don't know. Do you lass? Since this all started, no bairns have been born. At least none alive. Yours is the first we've seen. Whatever that virus is it's done something to all the women. Maybe even to all the men too. We don't know yet. So this wee bundle here is precious. Through him, we might find a cure." He scowled at Mackenzie. "And, this dunderheid here was gonna kill him." He muttered something under his breath about civilians.
Mackenzie looked suitably chastised.
"Now we need to get you to a doctor. The bairn too. Get him checked out." He paused for a moment. "Are you alone, lass?"
"Yes." My voice crackled with emotion as I said it. "I'm alone."
When they helped me down the beach towards their boat, I had some hope that one day, everything that'd happened would be something we'd read about in the history books.
THE END
PICK YOUR BRAIN
(A short story)
"Miss McBride, in all my years of representing clients whom other less well attuned legal brains would turn down as unwinnable, I have never come across one single case I could not win." He pursed his lips. "Until now that is. Do you honestly think citing a..." He cleared his throat. "And, I'm quoting your expert witness Professor Romero here.” A virus that renders people incapable of rational thought and gives them an uncontrollable compulsion to consume human flesh, especially human brains,' is going to assist your boyfriend in his defence after he was caught by two police officers, standing over the lifeless body of his friend, clutching a baseball bat soaked in the blood and chunks of brain matter from the deceased who was later found to have died from multiple brain injuries consistent with several blows to the head from a baseball bat?"
"Yes," I said. "It’s the truth."
Charles Benson, who had so many letters after his name it was like a game of Scrabble, eyed me like I was the last lunatic left in an asylum. "Did one of my learned colleagues put you up to this?" His eyes swept the room. "Are there hidden cameras? Is this some TV prank show?"
His reaction was hardly a new one. I'd encountered similar reactions from other barristers who were convinced I was delusional. "No," I said, defiant, "this isn't a prank. This is real."
He raised his chin. The gesture reminded me of a haughty child.
"Well, in that case Miss McBride, I can't help you. It’s a psychiatrist you need, not a man of law."
Condescension seeped from his every word.
It was hard to hide my disappointment. I'd been sure he was the one man who could help us and argue that Scott had acted in self-defence. His friend, Archie was trying to eat him.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Benson." And I was genuinely sorry. If he couldn't help Scott in this way he'd have to help him in another.
"I honestly thought someone of your calibre who'd successfully argued that a man wasn't guilty of murdering his wife because he mistook her for a lion, would have a more open mind." I paused to eye him with disdain. "Perhaps you could speak to Scott and explain why you won't help him. He's a teacher and a well-respected pillar of this community just like you. It'll only take a minute. He's outside."
Charles Benson's face went pumice grey. "No, I'm sorry, I don't have the time. My next client will be here."
I stood up and walked over to the door. "Well, in that case our business is over, Mr Benson. But there's one last thing you can help me with."
With a nod of the head, I opened the door. "I think you should meet Scott anyway, so you'll understand. You see, in the attack he was bitten. More like a scrape caused by teeth sliding against his skin really. He didn't turn as quickly as they do in the movies or in The Walking Dead."
I gave a wry smile. "Well, things are seldom as they are in the movies."
Scott shambled into the room, feral eyes glowing as he saw his prey. His nails were ragged and torn and bloody from eating the two prison guards on the way over and the secretary outside.
Charles Benson's eyes were wide with terror. "You better leave now, or I'm calling the police."
His words were strangled.
As Scott pinned him to the desk and sunk decaying teeth into his fat flesh, I couldn't resist one last parting shot.
"Do you believe me now, Mr Benson?"
He was unable to answer. Scott had ripped out his throat - the blood that spurted out of the arrogant lawyer's veins reminded me of raspberry sauce on an ice cream cone. Blood is never as red as you think, not when you get used to it.
Scott devoured the lips, then the nose, followed by the brain. The intestines he gorged on like cheesy string. Benson's fingers he wolfed down like hot dogs.
Once he was done, he licked the blood and flesh from his teeth.
I wagged a finger at him. "Christ, Scott, we’re gonna run out of lawyers soon."
Scott drooled. "HUNGRY. BRAINS."
My face softened. "Okay, but we need to tidy up this office and go. We have more legal brains we need to pick.”