Skye City: Survivors of the Plague (The Darkness of Emmi Book 2)

by R. D. Hale

  'And leave my hut to get taken over by these two? No thanks,' Sirah says.

  'You could have a warm bed for the night. Surely, that's worth giving up yours to two smelly boys… Oh and I forgot to mention, Cali has wine,' I say as snowfall shrouds the group and the bonfires fade, increasing the need to get indoors.

  'Wine, you say? Okay, I'm in. Let's do this!' Sirah says and we eagerly rise from our seats.

  Sirah collects the perpetuator and charging cable from the junk shed and puts them inside a rucksack which she carries on her shoulders. Kezan takes the board game into his hut, then escorts us across the snowy rooftop and down the fire escape, saying: 'There's no way I'll be waiting for your return.'

  The rails sting my hands as I climb down the frozen ladder, and when I reach the ground, I pull them into my sleeves. I could really use a pair of gloves. Kezan raises the ladder once we are all standing in the snow-filled alley. We do not bother scanning the area this time because the blizzard is limiting visibility.

  'How will you get back up?' Kezan says.

  'Don't worry, we'll climb the shard again. That's the fun way!' Bex says, but I am unsure that is remotely sensible. If the shard fills with snow and ice, I shall be calling at the fire escape, and hoping they can hear my voice over the wind.

  We hurry through ankle-deep snow to the entrance, even though we must be hidden from anyone crazy enough to brave the storm. All I can see beyond the white streaks are shadows as I squint; my cheeks stinging from the cold. We enter the apartment building, scanning the corridors which mostly lead to rubble or window light. Crossing the lobby, we climb the concrete stairs to the first floor, then knock on Cali's front door. Moments later, we are greeted by a very predictable and suspicious eyeball.

  'For goodness sake, Cali, it's just us. Open up!' Bex says.

  'I told you, no men,' Cali says.

  'Excuse me, lady, I'm no man!' Sirah says with indignation in her broad, bristled face which is part-lit by a window down the corridor.

  'Oh… Sorry… How many are there?' Cali says.

  'Just the three of us, and we've brought a perpetuator. We can get online, find out what's happening out there, and then we can maybe play music and drink that wine,' Bex says.

  Cali opens the door and we follow the dark passage into her living room/kitchen which has been tidied. The laminate flooring has been cleared, the dishes and cutlery have been washed and put away, and our baggage is out of sight, creating much needed space.

  'All the food's in the cupboards now. There's not as much as I thought, but still a decent amount. Enough to last a few weeks if we ration,' Cali says.

  'Well, at least it's bought us time to figure something out,' I say.

  'Let's restore power to this place. Where's your fuse box?' Sirah removes the perpetuator from her rucksack and Cali leads to a cupboard near the front door. Sirah hooks up the perpetuator to the mains supply, flips a switch, and we return to the living room.

  'CUS power on,' Cali says and the compuscreen springs to life, displaying a series of logos. Having power again feels almost miraculous. I never realised how empty life could be without it, even for just a couple of days. Our sanity seems literally dependent on electricity and now the public are losing their minds. Coincidence? I think not.

  'Oh, this one's voice activated? I thought only holoscreens had that function. Ours must be really old.' Sirah sits on the same couch as Cali who nervously shuffles sideways. The compuscreen defaults to The Stratus Report, displaying a list of headlines all about the war.

  'CUS, is there an explanation for the crazy people?' Cali says and a fresh list of headlines appears on the compuscreen. The first reads: Outbreaks of Spontaneous Insanity Increasing in Number.

  'Show the first broadcast,' Cali says.

  A newsreader appears on the compuscreen with a very robotic (but presumably human) face. She says in a deep voice: 'We are receiving reports of further outbreaks of spontaneous insanity. The cause of these outbreaks has yet to be identified. Some have suggested it could be due to the extreme stress of recent events, namely the plague and the war. However, most experts are challenging this view, given there are no documented instances of this happening at any other point in history.

  'Although the outbreaks have occurred across the country, in many cities, they tend to be focused in certain parts of town, with other areas remaining unaffected. This suggests something is triggering this, leading to fears a new weapon could be somehow affecting people's sanity. It is unclear why such a weapon would only affect a small percentage of the population. It is assumed it must have been designed to target the mentally weak. That's assuming such a weapon exists.

  'Another hypothesis is the victims are drug addicts and it is the combination of modern recreational drugs and extreme stress triggering these outbreaks. The concentration of the outbreaks could be related to the distribution of the drugs.

  'Either way, it appears the victims are worthless. Therefore, the San Terian Guard and the military have been given permission to shoot anyone who behaves erratically and fails to follow instructions. Our nation has a war to fight and our efforts will not be disrupted by lunatics.'

  'So let me get this straight, the outbreaks are concentrated in certain parts of town? This means we're in one of those areas. It might be a good idea to leave,' I say.

  'Well, we're not going anywhere in this blizzard,' Bex says.

  'CUS, do you have information on the war effort?' Sirah says, and the compuscreen displays a list of broadcasts and articles. We spend the next couple of hours trawling for every piece of relevant information we can find. The only problem being, this is San Teria's propaganda machine, and most of the information smells like cowshit.

  According to the web, the invasion is small-scale, the enemy's weaponry is primitive, and San Teria is easily winning the battle. Given the fact the coalition involves at least eleven countries, I seriously doubt these claims.

  Advice to the public is to only venture out if necessary. Both sides have supposedly agreed not to target civilians. Stores and workplaces are meant to be open as normal – in direct contradiction to what our own eyes tell us – and officials correctly point out that people need food and money to survive. Price gouging has been made illegal, which is quite surprising, given San Teria's fondness for pricing the poor out of, well, everything. They also remind us that plague vaccines are available to bottom-levellers who sign up to Citizenship, but that would mean workhouses for the girls and military enrolment for the boys. I would rather take my chances.

  'Let's play a drinking game!' Bex says with a shrill of excitement. 'Every time a newsreader tells us we are easily winning the war, or the enemies are being crushed, or the Goddess is great, we have to down our entire glass.'

  'We'll be dead in an hour!' Sirah says.

  'At least we'll go down having fun. Cali, get the wine and some glasses, please,' I say, and Cali does just that with a grin. I was unsure she was even capable of grinning.

  Sirah pops the cork, then stems the explosion of bubbles with her palm. She pours white wine and the tension lifts the moment the first drop fizzes on my lips. I look up from my sparkling greenish drink to see Bex already pouring a second. She is not playing by the rules of her own game.

  We spend the next couple of hours getting to know each other, growing sentimental about the misery which led to this point, reminiscing about the days when hunger and disease were our biggest threats. Cali has well and truly lightened up, and Sirah has gone from scary beast to one of the girls. We drink our fifth wine bottle, feeling pretty damn wasted, thanks to the enthusiasm of San Teria's propaganda merchants. And we have seen enough news so we play music and dance and laugh and just forget the madness. We deserve to let our hair down.

  Fall Out

  Bex and I share the double-mattress in the cramped spare room, and I finally get the rest my body craves. This is about a million times nicer than sleeping on the rooftop with the boys. My bones do not ache from
the cold, and I do not let gun-shots, explosions, or even thoughts of the missing ones disturb me. Those guys can and will take care of themselves.

  In the morning, or maybe early afternoon, I wake a little hungover, yet I do not mind one bit. Last night's party was more than worth the headache. Bex is still sleeping and snow is still falling as I stare through the window, seeing nothing but pretty whiteness. This blizzard is more like the weather you would expect in the Aaral Mountains.

  Bex rises with spectacular bed hair as I grab a towel and clean clothes from a rucksack. I smell so far from fragrant, but if this apartment has one luxury, it would be the bathtub. Thank the Goddess.

  Bex enters the living room where Sirah is snoring on the single mattress; her huge feet poking over the edge. I enter the bathroom and fill the tub with cold, unfiltered water, then take a bath. This is not exactly pleasant, but by 'bath' I mean standing and scrubbing myself with a sliver of soap, then jumping out the tub, and wrapping myself in the towel, shivering.

  I change into the clean clothes I took from an empty apartment – black jeans and a green hoody which are not too bad, actually. I almost look attractive in the mirror of this tiny, orange-tiled bathroom. Shame about my wet hair and lack of makeup, but I think Bex found a bag of makeup so I shall borrow some after breakfast.

  When everyone has bathed, we refill the tub and leave our laundry to soak while we eat on the sofas; my breakfast being a tin of pears. Cali is swamped by a thick woolly jumper, and she still looks frail, but colour has been restored to her sagging, delicate features. I cannot help feeling our arrival is revitalising her, and not just because of the insulin, but our company. Loneliness can be as deadly as any disease.

  'My legs are aching from all the dancing last night, but it was definitely worth it,' Cali says and I notice a sparkle in her eyes.

  'We had fun, eh?' I mumble with a mouthful of pear.

  'Yeah, I didn't think I had the strength to party, but you guys lifted me,' Cali says, unaware she also lifted us. Aiding someone is always gratifying, especially when they then join your team, and prior to our arrival, we were in a dark place. The shadow of torment may still be swirling, but my girls are keeping the demons at bay.

  'My boyfriend Nelson said we need to enjoy every moment we can, and he's right. If we lose our sense of joy, we'll lose the ability to go on. The two go hand-in-hand really.' I gulp syrup from my tin, and put the fork inside, then place the tin on the coffee table with the other empties. 'We should ensure today is just as fun as last night. Let's ignore this war crap. We have everything we need for now, including each other.'

  'Absolutely! You know what, Emmi? You're turning into a little ray of sunshine,' Sirah says, and the unwitting irony dispels the darkness I am struggling to escape, the lingering misery which has tainted every smile, every laugh.

  'Ahem!' Bex sits upright, turning her head.

  'And you too, Bex! If we stick together, we can keep each other's spirits high until this madness is over. The sensible thing will be to move the others into an empty apartment, especially given the cold. They can use a different floor if it makes you feel safer,' Sirah says.

  'Sure, we can't let them freeze,' Cali says, clearly unenthused, but less nervous than previously.

  'When we see them next, I'll suggest it. We were reluctant to move at first, given the uncertainty, but this is definitely the best option,' Sirah says.

  'But will you be staying here?' Cali says, almost pleadingly, and I was hoping that was already the plan, but better to receive confirmation, I guess.

  'Sure, we'll stay for as long as you're willing to have us,' Sirah says with a grin which seems to secure a new friendship. I suppose we are now officially roommates, and I am living inside a real apartment for the first time (early childhood excluded). Shame the building is on the verge of collapse, but refugees cannot be choosers, and I am grateful for any shelter. The cold and cramped conditions seem like no inconvenience, and I can pretend everything is okay in our cosy little bubble.

  'I feel so lucky three strangers came into my life, just when I was giving up,' Cali says. 'Thank you.'

  'You're very welcome, lady. I seem to remember seeing you when the plague first struck. You look a damn sight better today,' Sirah says, a touch patronisingly.

  'What do you mean?' Cali says in a low voice, holding her spoon before her mouth, and I sense the friendly atmosphere is already darkening after like fifteen seconds.

  'When you were asking for help… It must've been hard for you, losing your husband, not knowing if you'd be next,' Sirah says.

  'You must be thinking of someone else.' Cali places her tin of spaghetti hoops on the table, but I am pretty sure she has not finished. 'I didn't lose my husband. I chased him away actually.'

  'That's not true though, is it? Denial is a natural part of the pr–'

  'He didn't die! He didn't die!' Cali screeches, clenching her small fists, and Bex and I gawp at one another. I have never seen our frail friend display such energy, such ferocity. Cali rises from her seat and approaches the kitchen bench where she rests her elbows, shivering beside an open drawer. And I resist glaring at Sirah for ruining our housewarming so quickly.

  'Why would she make up such an elaborate story?' Bex whispers, like Cali could not hear from fifteen feet away.

  'Deflection, maybe,' I say, thinking she probably recollected a plot-line from a movie or something.

  'It's okay, we're your friends,' Sirah says firmly (and totally non-patronisingly). 'We can help you through this.'

  Cali reaches into the drawer and spins around with fiery eyes, wielding a carving knife in her trembling hand. 'I didn't kill him! It's not my fault!' she roars as though she is being accused. 'It's not my fault!' Tears trickle between her wrinkles and she charges for Sirah who dives from her seat, tumbling on the floor.

  I roll over the arm of the couch and fire my phaser as Cali again lunges for Sirah who is sitting on the speckled carpet, shuffling backwards. Sirah catches Cali's knife-wielding arm; the blade inches from her bristled chin as her attacker slumps across her chest. She pushes Cali to the side and sits upright, shuffling away until her back is resting against the other couch. She looks dazed, probably from the secondary effect of the stun blast.

  'She's a… a crazy… What do we do?' I gasp as Cali sleeps on the floor, inches away from the dropped knife.

  'Leave, obviously.' Bex sidesteps towards the door. 'We can't stick around here. If she wakes up and attacks again, we might have to kill her.'

  'Let's take some of the things we collected, as many as we can carry. We'll leave the rest for Cali. We can't let her starve.' I return the knife to the drawer, then approach Cali, placing her into the recovery position with one hand; my other hand pointing the phaser.

  We enter Cali's bedroom and I kneel before the rucksacks and holdalls at the bedside to choose which supplies I am taking. Bex slides open a wardrobe door with the same cheap wood-effect as the kitchen units. 'Look at this,' she says, revealing men's clothing on hangers. 'So much for throwing them in the trash.'

  We unpack all the bags, then re-pack the rucksacks to ensure they contain a variety of things we need – namely spare clothes, blankets, and toiletries. Sirah collects the perpetuator from the cupboard, and we return to the kitchen area for food. Cali stirs so I shoot her again, feeling guilty, knowing even excessive stun blasts can kill.

  We haul the rucksacks over our shoulders, carrying quilts in our arms, and we leave the apartment which was almost home, abandoning the woman who was almost a friend until she lost her mind. We head downstairs, pass through the lobby, and venture into the blizzard, struggling to walk. It seems as though fate is denying us even a crumb of comfort.

  'There's no way we're getting up the shard. We'll have to call for the others,' I say, and we head for the fire escape. We spend ten or fifteen minutes yelling over the blustery wind, consumed by the bitter snow, but no-one comes to our assistance.

  'Only one thing for it. We'll have
to leave the things here, climb the shard, and come back down the ladder to collect this stuff. No-one is gonna find it during a blizzard,' I say, and we place our items under the fire escape, then head around the apartment building.

  My foot catches on something buried in the snow, and as I drag my leg free, I realise what it must be… Or rather, who she must be. Crouching, I dig through the deep snow, then brush away the final layer to reveal a lifeless female face. The orange tinge of the frost makes her seem so beautiful, almost at peace, preserved perfectly by ice crystals. She looks maybe a few years older than me and Bex.

  'It's the crazy who was shot by the soldiers,' I say, ashamed to use that word when referring to a dead person.

  'Fuck, have we not seen enough corpses recently?' Bex says, standing over me and the frozen girl.

  'More than enough, but we can't just leave her in the road,' I say.

  'Well, it's not like we can give her a burial,' Bex says.

  'We could put her in the trash can.' Sirah points to the half-buried bins in a recess of the apartment building.

  'What? No, we can't treat her like rubbish,' I protest; my voice shaking.

  'Well, have you got a better idea?' Bex says.

  'Come on,' Sirah says as I blow warm air into my palms. 'At least, she won't be left to rot in the road. It's the most respectful option we have.'

  We dig the woman out of the snow with our bare hands, and my fingers feel as though they are about to fall off. I reach under her arms and the other two grab a leg each. She is completely rigid. Her bullet-wounds are not visible through the frost, and she is so light, it almost feels like we are lifting a mannequin. We sidestep towards a garbage can, Sirah removes the snow to open the lid, and we toss her body on top of the binbags.

  'I'm so sorry. If there was another way…' I whisper as the lid closes.

  Overstay

  We climb the interior of the shard which is now uncomfortably cold to the touch. As we approach halfway, we reach snow which has collected on the slight ledges we use for hand- and foot-holds. The surfaces are becoming slippery and I am unsure it is safe to proceed. I repeatedly stop to clear snow and blow into my hands to ensure I can maintain my grip. This is slowing me down significantly and my efforts appear to be in vain. Traces of snow are melting on contact and my feet are losing traction.