The Survivors (Book 1): Summer

by Dreyer, V. L.

  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.

  ***

  I awoke to the sound of static and birdsong the next morning, still curled up in the armchair like a sleepy child. Unlike all the times that I'd fallen asleep on the couch as a child, this time there was no Mum or Dad to carry me off to bed, so I had spent the night where I was.

  I sat up and uncurled, my joints protesting at the discomfort of having slept in such a peculiar position, yet I felt physically replenished. Outside my window, a tui sang a love song to its mate, a pleasant and familiar sound. The kitten sat on the window sill, observing the songbird outside with intense interest, oblivious to my awkward stretching. Once my limbs were awake enough to cooperate, I moved over to the window to look out as well.

  The sky looked grumpy and overcast, but it was not raining at the moment. That seemed appropriate, since I felt a little grumpy myself. The thought of spending the day in wet boots did nothing
to help my mood.

  My clothing was still damp, and clung unpleasantly as I pulled it on, but what other choice did I have? I cheered myself with the thought that perhaps, if I got the car going, I could visit some of those outer homesteads; maybe find some clean, dry clothing and spare shoes. That would be nice. I wouldn't be able to take them with me when I eventually left this town, but having them for now would be a treat.

  At least breakfast was readily available, which always cheered me up. Tigger joined me, and ate some more of the cat food from a bowl on the kitchen floor, while I indulged in another can of baked beans. Oh, what I wouldn't have given for some real beans. I’d just about forgotten what they tasted like. Maybe one of the homesteads would have some of those, too.

  Maybe they'd have chickens. Chickens, even wild ones, meant eggs that could be stolen. My new home came with a working stove and cooking equipment. Perhaps tomorrow morning I would have a real omelette for breakfast. Now, that idea really cheered me up.

  All of a sudden, my capricious mood was gone and I was raring to go.

  I packed my essentials back into their pockets and laced on my wet boots, then padded off to check on my Hilux. The air smelt fresh and clean, and it was pleasantly cool after the heat of the last few days. Although the sky was still low and threatening overhead, it was nice enough outside and the thought of fresh food spurred me on.

  When I arrived at the garage, I ducked in through the side door and checked the room for uninvited occupants; again, I found nothing out of the ordinary. The battery was showing fully charged now, so I reinstalled it in the engine and closed the bonnet. Fighting down a wave of excitement, I climbed back into the driver's seat and tried the ignition again.

  The utility roared to life. It didn't sound terribly happy, but it was functional. Functional was what I needed. Keeping it going long term would probably be impossible, but it worked for now and that was enough. I disengaged the engine and tried it again, and got the same response. Content that it was going to work for one more day at least, I hopped back out and scampered over to the big roller doors that blocked my exit.

  They screeched in protest as I hauled them up, and then screeched again when I closed them behind me. I didn't mind. I was suddenly in possession of the freedom of wheels, and that pleased me immensely.

  Just let the other survivors find me now; I'll run them over and they can be damned!

  Chapter Nine

  My first week in Ohaupo passed peacefully, with my days spent exploring the outlying countryside, and my nights spent tinkering and sleeping. It wasn't a good life or even a satisfying life, but at least it was a life. I was, more or less, content.

  Several of the farms did have chickens, and a number of them had vegetable gardens as well. Like the chickens, the gardens had gone wild but that didn't bother me one bit. Wild or tame, fresh food was delicious and it made me feel a good deal happier than I had for a long time. After a few days on fresh vegetables and protein-rich eggs I felt strong and fit and ready to take on the world – or at least, my tiny corner of it.

  The Hilux thrummed contentedly beneath me as I drove out to one of the few homesteads left to explore, hoping this one would yield more treasures to add to my growing stash. I had yet to find a functioning element for my hot water cylinder, and I still longed for a nice, hot shower.

  I pulled the Hilux up the winding driveway to the homestead, carefully negotiating the rugged potholes and overgrown limbs hanging from the trees that framed the path. The house was a large one, someone's retirement mansion after many years of hard work, but just like all the others it was run-down and abandoned. Nature had reclaimed much of what was hers over the years.

  Rose vines crept across the entire front of the house, covering it in a complicated lattice of foliage. Even at a distance, I could see fat, happy bumble bees darting from bloom to bloom, glutting themselves on sweet nectar.

  I parked my truck and slipped out with my taser at the ready, and approached the old home to see what I could find. The smell was unexpected; an overwhelming mix of sweet, cloying scents from a dozen different kinds of flowers that warred for sunlight. I swept my gaze around, alert for danger, but detected nothing more hostile than the bees.

  The gardens were a beautiful sight. Like the bees, I took a moment to enjoy the loveliness that spread out around me, then I turned and picked my way up what remained of the front walkway. Along the way, I bent to pluck a particularly perfect bloom from its stem and lifted it to my nose to savour the scent. After so much death and decay, the flower smelt like heaven on a stem.

  With cautious fingers, I stripped away the thorns from said stem and then tucked the flower behind my ear. It was a silly little thing, but the woman in me longed to keep that beautiful scent close to me for a while longer. It reminded me of my grandmother. I thought of her wistfully, remembering the beautiful flowers she had once grown around her home in Palmerston North.

  Maybe one day I'll go back and plant roses upon her grave. She’d like that.

  With the softest of sighs, I ducked beneath an overhanging vine and slipped up the front stairs to the porch. I tried the front door and found it unlocked, so let myself in. I doubted there was anyone home to complain. A quick glance around the dusty interior told me that I was correct – no one had been home for a very long time.

  The front door opened into a large and spacious dining room, resplendent in hard woods and rose-print fabrics. The floor and fittings were all varnished oak, which had survived the years almost untouched. All it would take was a touch of polish to bring out their shine and have it looking like new again.

  A dinner set waited in a wooden hutch to my left, the kind of good porcelain crockery that stood up well to the years. Much like the miniature set I found in the antique store, these were resplendent in rose prints with a hint of gold around the edge of each plate. The good china, waiting for the family to come home to celebrate Christmas lunch.

  They’ll be waiting a while, I thought with a dreamy kind of sadness.

  To the right of that was a set of wide glass doors that led out to an overgrown veranda. Wall hangings and paintings that spoke of better times decorated the walls, mounted with good, solid wooden frames rather than the cheap, plastic junk that had become more common in the later years.

  A table with enough chairs for six people sat in the centre of the room, and off to one side an archway led towards a kitchen. To my right, a long flight of stairs led upwards into shadow.

  Foliage blocked most of the sunlight coming through the windows, but it was only dim inside rather than truly dark. I could see what I needed to see. I paused to ponder, thinking how beautiful the place must have been in its prime, when it was clean and cared for and the garden was groomed.

  I could imagine a Christmas tree in the far corner, ready to welcome the grandchildren that came to visit on Christmas morning. They were probably all dead now, along with their parents and their grandparents.

  That thought was sobering and brought me back to the present. There was nothing I could do for those people now, except kill them if I saw them shuffling about vacant-eyed at the end of their half-life. For their sake as much as mine I needed to survive, so that one day my descendants could live like this again.

  I went for the kitchen first, as I always did. Ignoring the smell from the long-dead fridge, I made a beeline for the spacious double-door pantry. It was well stocked with all the necessities of life, though most of them well past their best-before date. On the lowest shelf was a veritable treasure trove of canned goods, just waiting to be plundered by a little pirate like me. Arrrrrrr.

  I grabbed an old rubbish bag from a higher shelf, and knelt down to gather up my bounty, pausing to examine each can before I put it into the bag. There was no point lugging something back that was guaranteed to be rotten on the inside, after all. I learned long ago what survived the years and what didn’t, and which things were iffy.

  Then, suddenly, I spotted something at the back of t
he pantry that made my heart skip a beat.

  You knew you were a survivor when the most excitement you'd had in months revolved around finding a single, unopened can of Campbell's Creamy Mushroom Soup in the back of a dead person's larder, wedged behind a huge bag of rotten potatoes. I pulled it free and held it up, drawing a deep breath to try and contain my excitement.

  This flavour had been my favourite in my old life. It brought back memories of snacks shared with my mother in winter, sitting around the table at the end of the school day. Talking, sharing funny stories, and enjoying soup together.

  It was so corny that we could have written scripts for commercials. Back in the days when commercials still mattered, and Mum was alive, that is.

  I knew as well as anyone that canned soups were hit or miss after this long. Chances were good that the contents of this can were a mass of congealed black goo by now, completely unrecognisable as any form of food product. But, for the sake of my memories, I would try anyway.

  I reverently added the soup to my sack of booty and finished clearing out the rest of the cans. To my distaste, I discovered that amongst them was a large amount of cat food. Great, just what I needed. More cat food. Tigger would be happy. Me, not so much. At least I could reassure myself that I had a decent firewall of other food between me and the dreaded cat food.

  Once I was done with the cans, I looked around. A neat row of decorative storage tins painted in pretty colours drew my attention next. Carefully prying them open one by one, I found milk powder, rolled oats and several kinds of pasta, most of which still looked edible courtesy of careful storage a decade ago. I added them – tins and all – to my sack, along with a couple of bags of white rice that I found tucked away in the back.

  White rice lasted forever if the pests didn’t get at it. I practically lived on the stuff when I had access to cooking facilities. Needless to say, I was sick of it but at least it was food. Not terribly nutritious, but it kept the hunger pangs at bay.