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

by R. D. Hale

  I sit before the flames, then peer through the doorway to the frozen ruin which provokes memories of a happier time. A more innocent time. And then I am struck by an idea.

  Venturing into the cold, I place my hands in my sleeves and roll two balls of snow, placing the smallest on top of the largest. I enter the alley and find an old coat in a garbage can, then I remove the buttons by unpicking the threads. This proves difficult because numbness stops my fingers from moving properly.

  Upon return to the ruin, I place the buttons onto the smallest ball, giving my friend a pair of big black eyes and a smiling mouth, and then I wrap the coat around his body. He looks so handsome I could hug him.

  'Hey, Emmi, what you doing?' Scoop sneaks alongside me, admiring my handiwork.

  'The last time it snowed like this, we were still in school. Do you remember? I still had my mother,' I murmur. 'Seems such a long time ago. This is one of my few memories from back then – building snowmen.'

  'I remember. And I can remember having a huge snowball fight too. That day was a lot of fun,' Scoop says.

  'I remember wishing it would snow every day… It makes everything so pretty, dresses everything up, and suddenly, it's like you're in a faerie tale,' I say and Scoop bends forwards, scrunching a handful of snow which he rolls into a ball.

  The others emerge yawning, and do the same, building a family of snowmen, finding sticks for arms, old rags for scarves, even a flat cap for mine. Our creations could not be more perfect and suddenly I am flooded with emotion. The magical frozen scene blurs in shimmering fire-light as I sob, feeling embarrassed but unable to stop myself.

  'Hey, what's wrong?' Bex rubs my shoulder.

  'I-I don't know. It's just so beautiful, it makes me… happy.' I wipe my tears with icy fingers.

  'You're crying because you're happy?' Scoop says.

  'Yeah, I know it doesn't make sense… Hey, I have an idea.' I crouch to collect a handful of snow, squeeze it together and throw the ball splat into Scoop's face. The others roar with laughter as he brushes the powder from his lips, gasping.

  The others take up tactical positions in the ruin, and we have a snowball fight until my hands are so cold they actually burn. And then I just fall back into the snow and spread my arms, tuning out the distant but relentless crackling of gunfire.

  We remain in our smoky room for a couple of days, waiting for conditions to improve and our strength to return. The sun shines pretty much the entire time, almost as though the blizzard never happened, but its rays are not strong enough to clear the ground. The snowmen melt gradually, depressingly, and sludge spills into our room. We find cardboard boxes to sit on, but they get damp so we find more and layer them up. And we continue to raid the bins for bonfire fuel.

  The snow is now less than knee-deep and compacted, making walking a damn sight easier. Therefore, we grudgingly opt to move on, resuming our search for the rebel base. Our journey is exhausting, not least because we are no longer following tank tracks, and we continuously go back on ourselves. I swear we are now in the general area, but we cannot pin the place down. Most buildings are at least several stories tall, meaning we could be just around the corner and none-the-wiser.

  I am tempted to find another resting place, but then I spot barb-wire fences at the end of a long road, glimpsing what look like factory buildings. This is definitely an industrial estate. The only question is: Is it our industrial estate?

  We follow the road, and as we get closer, the business signs are familiar. We enter the gate which is wide open, following the road past building complexes until our target comes into view. Or, what is left of our target… Collapsed walls and piles of rubble are surrounded by body parts poking from the snow. I place my burning eyes in my palms, knowing I must check for familiar faces, for Nelson. Knowing even if he is among the dead, I may never identify him.

  Why did I ever fall for someone inside a bloody warzone? This cruelty is too extreme for my heart to cope. I cannot bear to live in a world where everyone is dying, yet that is the world I have always lived in. The process of death is just speeding up.

  The surrounding buildings are mostly still standing, but bear bullet holes and scorch marks. Terror torments my every move as I search the snow, digging at every hint of a body, unable to stop because the need for answers is too strong.

  I dig out a familiar face – one of the rebels we partied with, whose name I do not know. He was about Nelson's age, one of his friends. His skin is grey and blue with hints of red at the lips. His eyelids are glazed by ice as though his tears have frozen. I feel so ashamed to not know his name because I cannot tell anyone he is gone.

  I continue the search, moving through the ice and rubble. Many of the dead are wearing the uniforms of soldiers and so I disregard them. As far I can tell, none of the rebels were wearing uniforms because their strategy was to blend in.

  I see so many dead faces, some as young as me, some with gaping holes or scorch marks, some do not even have faces. I cry each and every time I examine someone unfamiliar.

  With a shaky breath, I enter the remains of the base, climbing over a broken wall and into one of the few intact corridors. As I wander through the building, my face is occasionally met by the breeze coming through blast holes. The soles of my shoes are sticky and cling to the floor. I probably stood in congealing blood at one point and never realised.

  I call Nelson's name as I check bodies, but I do not find a single person alive. Nor do I spot another corpse I recognise more than vaguely, maybe of a person I saw around the base, but never met. Yet it is impossible to feel relieved when so many are dead and when there are so many unknowns. My friends could be among the faceless, or beneath the rubble, or in prison. How will I ever know? I climb through a blast hole into a car park where the vehicles are scorched shells.

  'Nelson, where are you?' I scream and a shadow rises from behind one of the farthest burnt-out vehicles.

  'Emmi, is that you?' the shadow says, emerging from the carnage to reveal a familiar face disguised by a short beard. It is Smig. In the weeks (or is it days?) since we last saw one another, he has aged years. His complexion has turned beige with orange blotches, his eyes are pink and his cheeks are paper-thin. For someone so strong, he appears so weak, ravaged.

  'Sure is. Thank the Goddess you're alive!' I say, unable to control the emotion in my voice. 'We thought we'd be safe here, and came to find the place in ruins. We've spent hours checking the dead for recognisable faces.'

  'And?' Smig reaches my side, breathing heavily.

  'We found one who's familiar. We partied with him before we left. I don't know his name… What about you?' I lower my head. 'I… I… Did you see anyone die?'

  'Too many… As you've probably guessed, the military came. Someone picked up their approach to the industrial estate, gave us time to grab weapons, but our mechs wouldn't start, even though our armoury is EM shielded, and we were outgunned by theirs. We killed many of their soldiers, but a single rocket vaporised an entire group of our guys so we had to move fast.

  'As the rockets destroyed our buildings, many fled, some hid like me. I didn't want to hide. I fought as long as I could, but it was hopeless. People were being mowed down. I moved to a safer position, ready to continue the fight, but I realised I was out of sight so I just waited.

  'As time passed, it grew clear we had been decimated. All I could hear was the clanking of mech feet and the occasional roar of gunfire as they extinguished the last of us. I hid among stacks of crates and prayed they wouldn't find me. By the time I emerged from my hiding place, everyone was dead or gone,' Smig says.

  'You think Nelson…'

  'Some raced away in jeeps and transports. Others could've made it to safety on foot. I can't even guess how many would've survived, but I'm sure it was a decent number… Fuck, I just want revenge. I won't hide next time…'

  'I'm glad you hid, Smig. I could've been identifying your body…' I visualise Smig lying in the snow with the other rebels and I sh
udder. 'So you've been staying here since the attack?'

  'Yeah, the sleeping quarters are still intact. I was able to locate the canteen, or what remained of it. I collected as much food as I could, found the service droid trapped in the rubble, still wearing its pinnie. It kept asking if it could help. Its voice was distorted like the battery was running out. I took the food into the sleeping quarters to wait out the storm.

  'When I found you, I was checking the surroundings, considering leaving. I've stayed here too long already. It's not nice being alone with your thoughts.'

  'Tell me about it… If the storm has achieved one thing, it's settled things down. I still hear fighting, mostly in the distance, but I haven't seen any foot soldiers in days. It's hard to get around in the snow,' I say.

  'Perhaps we need to stay here for now. I know it's not exactly pleasant, but we can hide away in the sleeping quarters. Pretend we're not surrounded by the dead,' Smig says.

  'Let's go find the others. They're knocking around somewhere,' I say, and we patrol the outskirts of the ruined base until we find the gang near a collapsed wiremesh fence. They seem as enthused about checking corpses as I am, and the offer of shelter, of warm beds, is too good to turn down.

  We venture into the remains of the building, passing corpses on our way to the sleeping quarters. And we enter to find the bunks neatly made and the food and equipment stacked in the corner. A single skylight is the only thing preventing darkness due to a lack of windows. The room has lightbulbs and a holoscreen, but I highly doubt they are functioning.

  'We have clean clothes, showers… The hot water's still working, if you can believe that. If we wanted, we could last a few weeks in here, maybe more,' Smig says and I shrug at the thought of this small mercy.

  We place our bags down and lie on bunks, and for a moment it seems as though everything is okay, like the complex is still intact, the rebels are just doing their regular work, and the war has not even begun. Denial is the last refuge of happiness, I guess. I wrap myself in the blanket and cannot stop my eyelids from closing.

  The Ruined Base

  I wake in the sleeping quarters with my heart pounding, following a tormenting dream, and it seems as though I have returned to the time when I was awaiting Arturo and Myla's return. Then it occurs I am still waiting, that although our circumstances have changed significantly, the wait continues. And then a worse thought occurs: this wait may last the rest of my life. I may never receive answers. I may never receive closure.

  The gang are sound asleep with the exception of Smig who is sitting in the corner, beside the food supplies, eating messily. I climb from my bunk and sit beside him on the food-splattered tiles, saying, 'Morning.'

  'Hey,' Smig says, shovelling canned mashed potato into his mouth, getting some on his beard, looking like a homeless bum, but my layers of grubby clothes mean I probably look no better.

  'I really thought we were coming here for safety, for answers, but the answers are never coming, are they?' I say wearily.

  'What do you mean?' Smig says.

  'No-one's gonna be able to tell me Arturo's dead. No-one's gonna be able to tell me Nelson's dead. No–'

  'Whoa, why the sudden pessimism?' Smig says.

  'The body I found yesterday – I didn't even know his name. I can't tell his friends, family… So many are dying. Some are leaving no trace. Even the ones that are leaving a trace, it's not like someone can come and identify them, or give them a funeral. The dead will simply be collected and incinerated, and people will spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened, hoping for the miracle that will never come. The hope for miracles is becoming exhausting, Smig.

  'Every time I think I've found one, it gets taken away, snuffed out, like I am being deliberately tormented. It makes me think the Goddess is real, and this is some sick game she plays. We are just her toys…'

  'I thought you might have a sensible point until you mentioned the Goddess!' Smig rummages through the supplies and retrieves a six-pack of Dog beer. He removes a can from the plastic ring and hands it over to me, but I hesitate.

  'It's always our answer, isn't it? Getting smashed. Always has been, ever since we drank our first beers, way back when I was ten. Since then, alcohol or drugs has been our crutch. It's a wonder I've lasted so long.

  'They say it's toxic, did ya know that? I didn't believe it for a while. Thought it was San Teria's way of stopping us having fun, but heavy drinkers always die young. And then there's the fact you end up in a state, dunno what you're doing. We can't be smashed when danger's all around us,' I say.

  'Are you really saying you'd rather be sober when we're stuck in here? Bullets and missiles don't care how wasted you are, and it's not like being sober will help you outrun them.' Smig cracks open the can and gulps the beer down, gasping.

  Sighing, I grab a can and do the same, and the crack and fizz prompts the others to climb from their bunks. They eagerly stumble to the corner, sit on the cream floor tiles, and five sleepy-heads drink beer for breakfast. Shit, why not?

  'So what's the plan? We stick around here until supplies run out? I suppose it's perfect camouflage with all the corpses outside. No sane person would choose to stay,' I say.

  'You can say that again. Perhaps we're all crazies now and we don't even know it!' Bex chuckles and I take three gulps of beer to calm my nerves.

  'Yeah, maybe we've been having bursts of insanity and running around, biting people, and then we have no m-memory!' Oscar says, and as I gaze wide-eyed at this ramshackle bunch, their theory is all too plausible. I mean my own mental health is far from stable, yet I am probably the level-headed one.

  'You know what? You laugh, but that might be the scariest thing you've ever said. How would we even know?' I say.

  'Like you said, no sane person would stick around here. In fact, no sane person would stick with these boys, but here we are!' Bex says.

  'Hey!' Scoop and Oscar say together, frowning, and I feel a sense of pity not normally reserved for the boys. A sense of appreciation for my fellow crazies who are getting me through this nightmare, one way or another. They rarely have anything useful to say, yet they can still be productive in their own haphazard ways, and they offer company, even if they are incredibly annoying. Alone, I would have surrendered to my fate by now.

  'You know what? We give these two a hard time, but if there's one thing I can say about them, they're loyal. Wimpy, but loyal. Always have been. Maybe we go too far. It's easy to forget boys have feelings too,' I say.

  'Fuck, Emmi, this war's making you grow a heart as well as a backbone. I miss my cheeky little airhead. When did you start thinking?' Bex says.

  'When I had to, I guess,' I say.

  Makeshift Morgue

  Time drifts into what is probably the afternoon, but the lack of windows makes it impossible to know. We have not ventured from the sleeping quarters, other than to shower and change. Fortunately, the room has plenty of clean outfits so we do not bother washing our laundry which is dumped in the corner. The lack of heating means we layered up again, and my clothing feels restrictive, making it hard to relax, plus boredom is kicking in.

  'Holoscreen, play some music,' I say from my bunk, but the device does not respond to my command, and I feel like throwing something at the damn thing. Our only source of entertainment, our window to the outside world is just a blank sheet of glass fixed into the wall.

  Something to break the silence would be nice. Something to access Sonet would be even better. 'Holoscreen, power on, damn it!' Even a few minutes of power could allow me to send messages, find the answers I need. Why did I not contact the others at Cali's house?

  Sleep deprivation, delirium, nervousness… An urgent need for news on military activity… A surplus of white wine… I guess that would explain why I was so absent-minded, but I am still angry with myself.

  'Yeah, I've tried to activate it several times. It doesn't make sense. The showers are electrical and the hot water still works, so some parts of this b
ase definitely have power,' Smig says.

  'Well, we can search the rest of the base, see if we can find anything working. Gotta be worth a try,' I say.

  'We can, but do you really wanna see what's out there, again?' Smig says.

  'No, but I've seen plenty of dead bodies now. A few more won't make a difference. While we're out there, we can move them, place them inside a room, a makeshift morgue,' I say monotonously, unwilling to be confined to the sleeping quarters, unable to allow our men to rot in full view.

  While soldiers are contributing to the killing, I would rather contribute to the clean-up, restore the honour which was stolen, embrace the horror they only glimpse in the heat of battle while telling themselves they have it the toughest.

  'You've gotta be kidding me!' Bex shrieks.

  'Leaving bodies scattered around is disrespectful. I'm not talking about collecting all the bodies from outside. Just the ones in the building. If we're gonna be walking around this place, we don’t wanna be passing the dead every day. Once the temperature increases, this place will stink until it becomes uninhabitable,' I say.

  'Emmi, this is probably the worst idea you've ever had. Let's do it!' Bex says, and we climb from our beds, heading into a corridor with bullet-riddled walls.

  'A room in the other corridor is quite large, and should be far enough to keep the smell away,' Smig says. 'If we grab a leg each, the corpses should be pretty easy to move. We may as well get started.'

  The others dither as Smig and I approach a mangled corpse farther down the corridor. I glimpse his shrivelled grey face, but I must not dwell on it. I must not dwell on him. For now, he is just another body waiting to be processed.

  We each grab an ankle and drag the corpse across the tiled floor; the lack of friction making our task easier. We turn two corners, then follow another long corridor, passing bodies in sticky pools of blood. Bex, who has not joined in the dragging, holds open the door, shuts her eyes and turns away.