The Survivors (Book 1): Summer (7 page)

"
Mum, are you alright?"  I’d asked, reaching over to take her hand.  She had turned and looked at me with dark, sunken eyes, and then shrugged.

"
I don't feel very well."  Her voice was husky, and her skin felt hot and clammy to the touch.

"
Well, off to bed with you, then."  Grandma had hidden her emotions behind a mask of strength like she always did, and bundled Mum off to rest.

That was a week ago.
 The fever didn’t break, and Mum was starting to have trouble speaking.  Grandma had banished me from the room while she tended to my poor mother, so I was curled up on the couch watching yet another news report.  This one was about the immune.  They’d discovered that some people were resistant to the disease, and they hoped that immunity would give the scientists enough information to protect the rest of us.

The anchorman still hadn’t shaved.

It was then that I realised that I hadn’t seen any other people on the news in days.  I wondered if they were all sick.  Was this anchorman the only one left?  That thought scared me, so I hugged Mushkin tight and buried my face in his rumbling warmth.  Maybe if I wished hard enough, Mum would be okay, and Dad would arrive with Skylar in tow.  We'd be safe and happy forever.

Grandma's cool hand landed on my shoulder and interrupted my wistful delusion.
 When I looked up and saw her expression, dread clamped its ice-cold talons around my heart.

"
You need to go say goodbye to her," Grandma told me softly.  All the humour was gone from her voice, but somehow she stayed strong.  Her daughter lay dying and yet she managed to keep her wits together.  It didn't occur to me until much later that Grandma felt like she had to stay strong for my sake.

I picked Mushkin up, and headed for the bedroom where my mother spent the final week of her life.
 I made no attempt to wipe the tears from my cheeks.  There was no point;  I knew I'd be crying again soon enough.

I also knew that I was about to lose my mother forever, and that there was nothing in the world I could do to stop it.

Mum lay limp in her bed, propped up on as many pillows as we were able to scavenge from around the house.  Her skin was so pale she looked like a porcelain doll.  There was a clammy sheen of sweat on her brow that never seemed to go away.

I wondered briefly why Grandma would let me near her when she was so sick, then I realised that it was already too late for us both.
 If my mother had the disease, then we’d both been fatally exposed already.

It was only a matter of time.

I sat down beside her and reached out, taking her clammy hand in mine.  I gave it a gentle squeeze; she opened her eyes and looked up at me helplessly.  Although she tried to speak, when she opened her mouth nothing came out.  

"
She can't talk anymore," Grandma explained softly, her expression unreadable.  I was about to lose my mother, but she was about to lose her only daughter.  I could not imagine how she felt.

I made no attempt to stop the tears rolling down my cheeks as I leaned over to stroke my dying mother’s forehead.
 I couldn't think of what to say.  Everything seemed inadequate.  How do you say goodbye to the one person you love more than anyone else in the world?

Lacking any other option, I just told her the simple truth.

"I love you, Mum."

The only response she gave me was a tiny smile and a gentle squeeze of my hand.
 She was too far gone to reply, but she still understood.  Then suddenly, Grandma was bundling me out of the room, though I fought to stay longer.

"
Please," I implored her, feeling completely helpless,  "at least let me stay with her until the end."

Grandma caught my shoulders as I tried to get by her and held me firmly.
 "You can't, sweetheart.  I made her a promise when she could still speak; now I have to keep it.  Take Mushkin outside, I'll join you soon."  She turned me around and ushered me out the door.  With no other option, I took my fat old cat out and sat down on the doorstep to wait.

A few minutes later, a single gunshot shattered the silence
. My head jerked up in surprise.  Not long afterwards, Grandma stepped up beside me, her face a mask of grief.  There was a small handgun clutched between her frail fingers.  I looked up at her in horror, and she looked at me with more emotion than I’d ever seen on her face before.

"
She made me promise."  Grandma's voice was choked up, grief and guilt warring on her face.  She sat down beside me on the stoop, staring down at the gun in her hand.

Then she looked at me.
 I realised with a jolt that her skin was clammy, and now that same sheen of sweat shone upon her brow as well.

"
Sandy, I need you to make me a promise."

***

The promise had been the same one that my mother swore her to.  When the disease took them to the point where they became helpless, they chose a quick and painless death over waiting for the inevitable.

My grandmother and I buried the body of my mother in the back yard.
 A week later, I buried my grandmother alone.  Then it was waiting, waiting for weeks, waiting for the fever to claim me as well.  All alone, just me and my cat, living on the supplies we brought with us from Auckland and what was already in the house.

Eventually, they ran out and I started to get hungry.

After a month passed, I realised that if I wasn't sick now then I wasn't going to get sick.  I was one of the immune – alive but all alone.  I needed to leave, to find food somewhere, but without my parents to guide me I couldn't even think of where to begin.  I was absolutely terrified, but I was so hungry I could think of no other option.  My choice was either to lay down and die with my family, or find to some way to survive.

I chose to live.

I took Mum's car and drove away, with Mushkin curled up on the seat beside me.  For the first year or so, he was my loyal companion and followed me everywhere.  But he was already old by the time the plague hit.  One night, we curled up to sleep together, and he just never woke up.

After he died, I really was all alone.

***

The kitten was aggressive with its affection and demanding but it helped me to centre myself, to bring me back to the present and to focus on what needed to be done.
 I patted it gently, letting its soft fur bring back pleasant memories from childhood, happy memories of nights spent curled up with my beloved Mushkin, safe and warm in bed.

I tried not to think about the fleas.

Eventually, I calmed down enough to function.  It took a while, but the kitten's sweet-faced inquisitiveness helped.  Whenever I started to slip away, she nudged me with her little head and brought me back to the present.  Finally, after I cried my way through utter despair and out the other side, I felt strong enough to get up.  I would have to do something about that damn 'Function' building, or else I would not be able to sleep tonight.

There was an unspoken code amongst survivors.
 A way to both respect the dead, and warn others away from something they really didn’t want to see.  I had come across a few marked sites during my years on my own, and I knew without anyone ever having to tell me what the black mark meant.  With that in mind, I set off in search of tools.

I found what I needed stashed away in the workshop I discovered earlier.
 While I was gathering things, an idea began to grow in the back of my mind.  I initially planned to bury Benny and his beloved wife together, but it seemed more appropriate for them to spend their eternity with the community that they loved.

A coil of rope slung over my shoulder and a can of spray paint in my pocket, I returned home to fetch Benny and Margaret.
 It was not a pleasant trip, dragging a decaying corpse a few hundred metres along the street in the bright summer sun.  He was already starting to fall apart, but I managed to keep him intact long enough to get him into the function centre.

I left Benny in the lobby.
 I couldn't bring myself to open the inner doors and take him all the way inside.  I reassured myself that Benny would be happy just being close to his friends.  It felt right.  I straightened up his rotting limbs with as much respect as I could and set the jar of his wife's ashes into his wrinkled old hands and his wedding photo on his chest, then I stood back and looked down at him.

"
Rest in peace, Benny," I whispered.

Leaving them to their eternal sleep, I backed out of the function centre one last time, pulling the outer doors closed behind me.
 I slipped the coil of rope from my shoulder, and then I wound it around the door bars and pulled it tight, knotting it a few times until I was satisfied.

A few knots wouldn't be enough to stop a determined survivor, but it would keep anything inside from getting out, which was really the point.
 I rattled the doors to check that my knots were tight, and then fished my can of spray paint out of my pocket.

It took a bit of shaking to get the thing going, but when I
did, I painted a large, black X across the doors, the universal sign that meant 'you really don't want to see what's in here, buddy'.  I went over it a few more times, making it as bold as possible, then below it I added three simple letters:  R I P.

I didn’t think I could be any clearer than that.

The kitten padded after me as I spent the rest of the day keeping myself busy.
 Occasionally, would she vanish, only to appear again a few minutes later in the most unexpected of places.  After a quick cold scrub to get the stink of death off my hands, I hunted down the hot water cylinder of my new home to see if I could figure out what was wrong with it.

I was
no electrician, but I had learned enough over the years to be self-sufficient.  My father had taught me the basics of automotive engineering when I was a teenager, and I’d picked up a bit at school as well.  The rest was really just logic, combined with large amounts of trial and error.

It didn't take me long to figure out that the heating
coil was blown.  I could replace it, but I would have to find another one in order to do so.  There were quite a few homes scattered around the outlying reaches of town.  With any luck, one of them might have a spare.  

Another problem for another day.

On the plus side, at least now that I knew where all the bodies were, I was less worried about stumbling over a corpse in an unexpected place.  You never quite got over the horror of tripping over a dead person when you didn’t expect it, particularly if the corpse belonged to a child.

I eased myself out of the cupboard where the hot water cylinder lived and stood up, and then I moved to the window to check on the weather.
 There were clouds rolling in from the west again, thicker and darker than the ones the night before, warning me of foul weather yet to come.  I opened the window and stuck my head outside, drawing in a deep breath through my mouth and nose.  Sure enough, the tell-tale taste of a storm was on the air.

Probably best to stay indoors then, rather than out in the open.

There were still a few hours left before dark, and at least a couple before the storm arrived, so I decided to use them wisely.  I returned to the automotive workshop, to see if I could salvage one of the cars.

They were a pack of rust-buckets after so many years without maintenance, but not entirely without hope.
 There were even a couple of different choices.  There was a sedan up on the hoist, and another out in the yard, a hatchback parked by the gate, and a four wheel drive under shelter.  I chose the four wheel drive, for practicality and comfort.

After the end of the world, you couldn’t really trust the roads to be well-maintained.

I found the keys in the office, discarded amongst piles of records that probably once meant something to someone, but not to me.  I didn't care who the owner of the vehicle was.  If they were still alive, they would probably have taken it already.  No one had claimed it, so that made it mine.

It was a good machine, a double-cab Hilux with a canopy over the back; solid and well-built.
 One thing I’d learned is that Japanese cars really were made to last, and the parts were common and easy to find.

After a quick peek through the windows to check for corpses and rats, I unlocked the driver's door and climbed behind the wheel.
 The interior was still in good condition, less dusty than most due to being safely sealed for almost a decade.  The smell was a little off, but that could be fixed with a bit of airing out.  Resting one hand upon the wheel, I put my foot on the brake, slipped the keys into the ignition and turned.

Nothing.

Ah well, you didn’t get something for nothing in the scavenger's life.  I tried the key again, listening closely for telltale sounds that would let me know what was wrong.  Again, there was nothing.

I concluded that the battery was flat, and hauled myself back out of the driver’s seat.
 Not all that surprising; most of them died after a while.  I popped the bonnet and propped it up with its little metal arm, then leaned in to get a closer look.  A few cobwebs, but not much in the way of rust.  That was a good sign.  The battery terminals could use a good clean, but I knew how to take care of that with no trouble at all.  

I didn't bother trying to find another vehicle to jump start the battery.
 After ten years, there was just no point.  It was safe to say that the other cars were just as dead.  However, I did strike it lucky and find a mobile charger not two metres away, in good enough condition that it looked like it would still work.  It took me a couple of minutes to disconnect the battery and move it to the charger, but when I did the lights glowed steadily, reassuringly.

It would take all night to charge up, so I filled in the time with general maintenance.
 I checked the fluids, and found that there was still a full tank of gas that looked fine, but the oil was congealed and dirty.  That was probably one of the reasons that its old owner had brought it in for maintenance all those years ago.

Ah, well.
 No time like the present, right?

***

By the time I was finished draining the old oil and cleaning the components that needed it, the storm was getting close.  As I hauled myself out from beneath the Hilux and wiped the grease from my hands, I spotted the kitten watching me from a workbench nearby.  Her little head was canted curiously as she regarded me, as if she were trying in vain to figure out what I was about.  I offered her a hand, but she turned her nose up and danced away from me, playing hard to get.

"
Have it your way, then," I told her, and walked over to a sink nearby instead.  With some difficulty, I cranked open the rusted tap to wash my hands.  There was some old, harsh soap nearby, crusted up over the years, but still useful enough for scrubbing the grease from my skin.

Craaaacka
-boom
, the sky agreed.  

Startled, the kitten inflated like an angry puffer-fish and vanished down behind the workbench.

"Pussy."  I chuckled to myself, amused.

Then the rain started,
an explosive downpour that set off a deafening cacophony on the roof above my head.

Hm.
 Perhaps the kitten was right.

Even though there was still more than an hour until sunset, the clouds obscured the sun and left me in near-darkness
– a situation that I'd never really much cared for.  I always preferred to be somewhere safe, secure and easily defensible when darkness fell; danger often lingered in the shadows.

The workshop was more or less waterproof, so I left the battery charging and decided to return home for the evening.
 There was an old oilskin coat hanging by the doorway, which I liberated and shook free of spiders, then draped over my head.  I was going to get drenched one way or another, but the token gesture made me feel a little better.

Out into the weather I went, huddled beneath my oilskin as I darted from shelter to shelter, keeping close against the edge of the buildings so that I could avoid the rain as much as possible.
 Despite my best efforts, I was soaked by the time I finally burst through the door of the old video store.  I dropped the coat somewhere in the dark interior and shoved the door closed behind me, muttering soft profanities under my breath.

Mum would’ve been so furious if she’d heard, but I was a grown up now and could swear as much as I damn well liked.
 Still, I cringed and apologised to her memory inside my head, like I always did.

Sorry, Mum
.

I shuffled through the sea of plastic shards and retreated upstairs, locking each door behind me.
 I’d left an upstairs window open that morning to let in some fresh air, so now one of the curtains was sopping wet, and there was a puddle on the floor.

I hurried over to close the window before it became a flood, and then retreated to the bathroom, shedding clothing along the way.

My boots will be wet for days,
I thought morosely, wishing I that I owned a spare pair. I didn’t even have a change of clothes.  I did have a few spare pairs of underwear, but that was really about it.

Clothing was yet another thing to add to the weight I had to carry around on my back from place to place.
 Unfortunately, you couldn’t eat clothing so when it came to a choice between clothes and food, it was the clothes that got left behind.

I removed my taser and the other contents of my cargo pants from their pockets and dried them carefully on a towel, then set them in a neat, organised row on the dresser.
 Each one of them could mean the difference between life and death one day, so each of them was assigned a specific place.

Off went my underwear and bra, flung over my shoulder into the bathroom and replaced a moment later by a spare set of knickers and an undershirt from my backpack.
  It wasn't really cold despite the weather, so I just stayed that way.  There was no real need for modesty beyond a little personal grace, since there was no one around to see me.

Left with little to do to pass the time, I returned to the living room and stared out
the window at the raging storm – and found myself face to face with a bedraggled, miserable-looking tabby.

"
Mew?"
 She mouthed, the sound muted by the glass, as she perched haphazardly on the windowsill waiting to be let in.

"
Well, aren’t you a determined little thing?" I smiled to myself and cracked open the window just enough for the kitten to squeeze through.  In a blaze of fur she was inside, just as soaked to the bone as I was.  By the time I closed the window again, she had claimed the couch as her own and settled in to groom determinedly.

"
How the hell did you even get up here?"  I watched the kitten with amusement, but of course, she didn’t answer.  The logical conclusion was that she climbed up, but no one ever said my imagination was a logical place.  In my head, she bounced up like a cartoon character, and that was how she got her new name:  Tigger.

***

The storm raged outside as I tinkered with the television, curious to see if I could get any life out of it.  Not that there were any shows worth watching anymore, but there was still the news.

As I
had discovered in the months and years following the outbreak, that poor, unshaven man my grandmother had criticised was one of the immune as well.  Every evening at 6 o’clock sharp, he came on and spoke for an hour about whatever he felt anyone wanted to hear about. The 6 o’clock news was an old tradition, and he seemed determined to keep it going for as long as he was alive.  I appreciated his stoicism, and I respected it.  It was nice to have one thing left in life that I could rely on.  

Plus, he was kind of cute.

Over the years, he had been the only form of male companionship I felt I could trust in any way, so I had developed a bit of a crush on him.  Of course, I mocked myself mercilessly for it since I knew full well the anchorman didn’t even know I existed.

I wondered what would happen when he died.

I had no idea where he broadcasted from.  Would someone find his old studio and take over?  Or would yesterday's traditions die right along with him?  It was something that I didn’t like to think about, but death was inevitable.  

I often wondered how he got his news.
  In the past, he’d mentioned that people could call his studio and gave a cell phone number and a radio frequency, so I guessed it just came from other survivors.  I had no news to give, so I’d never tried it.  In my little world, keeping away from other people was the only way to stay safe.

There was a soft click as I reconnected a loose wire, then the telltale hiss of snow.
 I wriggled out from behind the television and sat down in front of it, fiddling with the tuning and scanning channels until finally I found the one I wanted.

The anchorman's solemn face filled the screen, a week's worth of whiskers fuzzing his jaw as he spoke into the camera.
 He was a handsome fellow, in his early forties with dark hair and bright blue eyes that somehow always looked so sad.  His shirts were always crumpled, his hair looked like he'd probably cut it himself in a mirror, and his chin was perpetually overgrown.  In some strange way, he always seemed to embody the way I felt at the end of the day – rumpled and worn, and far older than my years.

Something about that was comforting.

"...Repeating our top story, survivors in the Greymouth region are encouraged to relocate at the earliest possible time to another location, as supplies have run out.  A bus departs tomorrow morning at dawn from the town hall for Nelson, and all survivors are encouraged to take it..."  
His voice was a morose drone, repetitive yet strangely restful.  I relocated from the floor to the armchair, and curled up to watch.

It was morbidly fascinating, watching the news after the end of the world.
 There was never any good news.  Everyone was dead except for a handful of us.  The anchorman was our only form of communication aside from actual word of mouth or the occasional two-way radio.

Still, the sound of another human voice was pleasant and welcome, even if it was from someone as obviously depressed as our anchorman.
 I leaned my head on my hands and closed my eyes, letting the sound of his voice soothe me.

Eventually, it lulled me into sleep.

***