The Last of Us

by Rob Ewing

  That’s fire: big fire. I can’t hear any sound of it.

  Dogs run past. Their mouths go big, shut, big.

  I run away to the fence, to the back of the next house, to behind the neighbour’s bins.

  It’s like the sun came up again. Light that makes the sky seem dark everywhere else.

  Now I start to hear again. My one ear hurts. The dogs, barking. The roar of an angry giant.

  All the sound turned up again. A roar of fire, twisting up above the roof of their house into the sky.

  Arm wet. Face wet?

  Glass in my arm. It makes me gasp for seeing it.

  The whole street catches fire. Sparks go up in the wind making islands of fire in the gardens and houses.

  I go away, far away to my street. Far away from where their burning street looks like a volcano. Sparks go up in a curtain, along with smoke which rubs out the sea, the big hill, even the top of the sky.

  Next morning there’s still smoke. There are birds? No: silver flakes going up and up in the air. It’s ash.

  The smoke goes up; the ash sideways.

  I go and sit on the wall. I can hear the wind, the birds, with one ear only. My other ear doesn’t work.

  The street looks like when someone runs a black pen over your drawing: there’s squares of blackness where the houses of Righ a Tuath used to be.

  Calum Ian and Duncan’s house is the worst. It’s burnt down to ribs, rafters.

  There’s still some flakes of burning ash. I watch one single flake singe a patch of grass, then go out.

  It’s when I get off the wall that I feel how my arm is sore. My sleeve feels thick, heavy. It’s stuck like glue to the skin just beside my wrist.

  I try to peel it away, but it hurts the worst.

  One of the cars exploded. I remember. The glass came from there, or from one of the houses? I never knew that glass got smashed when there was fire.

  There’s still a proper fire in one of the faraway houses along the street, so I don’t go there.

  Ash dropping around. It goes up in swirls along the road, collecting in piles in the gutters.

  Elizabeth sits beside me. I show her all the ways of moving my arm which hurt.

  ‘Never meant to do it so big. The fire.’

  She raps the top of my head: ‘Killed your brain cells.’

  ‘Stop doing that, please! Would you be really mad at me this time?’

  Elizabeth: ‘Don’t be a stress-cadet. Seriously, you shouldn’t be worrying about things you can’t mend.’

  ‘Mum used to say Hell mend them. Or was it Heaven mend them? I forget.’

  Elizabeth: ‘You can only be mended by God.’

  Me: ‘I don’t believe in God.’

  Elizabeth: ‘Hell mend him, then!’

  Then she skips away, singing a happy tune.

  When the soreness comes it’s like a person breathing: or a drum going bang-bang-bang.

  Elsa comes with me to the hospital. For some reason I can’t get my balance on the bike, so it ends up I leave it at the fence beside the playpark on my way.

  Elsa trots beside, my sidekick. I don’t even have to give her biscuits or sweets now to keep the bribe going.

  ‘A bheil on t-acras ort?’ I ask.

  She closes her mouth for attention, also to tell me she understands, she’s a Gaelic dog.

  We walk from the road, up to the grassy sticking-out land. Everything got further than I remember. My arm is bigger, or maybe feels bigger? Elsa waits while I get comfier by putting my fingers, my arm inside my jumper.

  ‘Tapadh leat,’ I say to her. ‘Stay patient.’

  We get to the door for the link corridor between the old folks’ home and the hospital. There’s the same old smell as before. Dust, dried-out floor, unused air.

  ‘Dè thuirt thu?’ I ask Elsa.

  Elsa waits. She doesn’t want to come in, not even for a biscuit, not even after a pat or any friendliness.

  ‘Stay on lookout,’ I tell her.

  The white room is still a big mess. Maybe even more so, which makes me wonder if Elizabeth or Calum Ian came back when I wasn’t there. It looks like an animal got in – there’s splodges of cat shit in trails – though where a cat came and went in by I don’t know.

  I find about six different packets. I line them up. I try my absolute hardest to remember which ones were medicine, and which ones were poison. The best attempt comes with closing my eyes: to remember the day me and Elizabeth came here. Her words, her instruction. What she did. What I did while she was being the adult.

  I look for the medicine book she used, but it isn’t here. With no better ideas I line the tablets up in alphabetical order: AMIODARONE. ATENOLOL. DIGOXIN. FUROSEMIDE. GLIPIZIDE. HEPARIN. IMDUR. OMEPRAZOLE. TRIMETHOPRIM. WARFARIN.

  Still, it doesn’t make the memory of things clearer, so I read the packets. They all have long lists of side effects and actions and characteristics, but nothing that gives any clues as to whether they could be poison or not.

  I look at my arm. The bit showing beside my sleeve is red, like Duncan’s face was. The red bit hurts when I don’t even press, though especially when I do.

  ‘Colour in the edges. Did you not see Elizabeth do it with the cut on her leg? Good remembering. Are you going to do it now? Don’t force – I will!’

  But I’m too much of a coward. Plus the pen hurts, even over the skin that’s meant to be normal.

  In the end I collect up all the tablets, poison or not, so I can check them in the dictionary later.

  Elsa is waiting for me outside. She wags her tail like crazy, like I was gone her whole entire life.

  ‘Wouldn’t leave you,’ I say, to soothe her. ‘We’re buddies, sidekicks. Remember? What’s going to work?’

  Elsa’s eyes flash at me: Teamwork.

  The air got hot, or is it me? Either way Elsa’s the best at patience with the time it takes me getting home.

  I try to push the bike, but it gets too heavy, so we dump it beside a paint-peeling boat.

  Elsa leaves me at the gate. Some big dogs go past, making small yelps and running – then she’s gone.

  I shout and shout on her – but I guess dogs are her true world, better than being a sidekick.

  I look at the islands: past the trawler, past Snuasamul. The islands where the sun goes down in winter. Nobody lived on them when I was little. Not even before I was true. But hundreds of years ago, people lived there.

  So there must’ve been a last person there too. Maybe a girl, like me? So if there was then it’s a shame we never lived in the same time. Because if we did, we could’ve been sidekicks. We could’ve helped each other, with the teamwork you get in humans.

  Back home. I don’t like cold hands. Or cold feet. Mouth dry: lips too. I put down all my shopping, which is really just the tablets. Then get wrapped up in my duvet.

  How can you feel cold when it’s sunny outside?

  I hold the picture frames, with Mum’s picture and her letter in them. For seeing better I take down the cereal packets that Elizabeth stuck to the skylight.

  Mum has a good smile. Her photo got faded, but not her smile. In fact this makes it better. Brighter.

  Her letter is losing its tape-creases. And now I think I know what be bright in the world means. It doesn’t mean make a fire, or noise, or act to reach people. All it means is: just be a part of all the stars you can see in the sky.

  Because the world is just another part of the sky.

  I could take just one tablet for safety – then wait. Duncan couldn’t wait when he needed his. But it doesn’t matter, because I know which one’s the poison. It’s the one called WARFARIN. I remember Elizabeth saying that now.

  Sometimes my memory works better.

  Do the checks: radio, same old noise. Tucking into bed, smell of fire on my jumper, trousers. I feel less thirsty, so maybe that’s a good thing.

  This morning I spoke to you Mum, explaining things. Asking for some answers. Telling you where to look.


  You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.

  There’s enough clothes on the island. Of all different sizes. I could grow and still find clothes to fit.

  Plus there’s shoes. And trousers, in the second-hand shop. Plus clothes left in the Cròileagan.

  I could keep teaching myself to read. The library has all its books. I could borrow all the books from people’s houses to make it even bigger. I could teach myself sums, though that’s harder than reading.

  And for food. I miss milk, miss cereal. I miss bread and I miss bananas and apples. All types of fruit.

  In the spring we found tiny strawberries in the polytunnels. They tasted the best ever, but they were only a nibble. There’s no apple trees on the island. Or at least if there was any I wouldn’t know where.

  There’s a new light in the rainbow Elizabeth made. I’ve never seen it since the sun turned into all-day.

  Could go and check? But not before I’ve had a rest. When I get up again I’ll check what it was.

  Make another list tomorrow: of all the skills I got, so I know the best strengths of mine to use.

  Last day

  From the roster we could see the last runs had gone through late-Feb. Four, five months ago.

  There was a shorter run: shorter than the removals, taking in towns, any open harbour. Anchorages a nightmare, frequently: wrecks up and down the coast, cos nothing got tied proper for the weather.

  Shipping lanes: empty. Told us about the last. Belfast picked up a man – a farmer – on Colonsay. Guy had set fire to his fields and was brought mainland in April.

  By consensus he was a one-off. Oldest by a mile, how’d he lived? All the rest was for clean-up.

  Murdo saw first. There was an early front: low coming in from sou-west. Punching through that, over above: smoke. Stood out hardest at dusk, then we lost it. Too far, not Morven, not Mull, not even Inner Hebs.

  So then we get off shift. Inverness said they’d pick up in the morn, otherwise not keen to send out a search, conserve this, conserve that, usual story.

  Calum goes on his VHF, runs up and down the channels. Got a bit of stick from Donnie: said there was something like half a boat between here and Newfoundland, so he was better off shelving it and focussing on salvage.

  Admit I couldnae sleep – thinking about that smoke. Set me thinking on everyone I was missing.

  Family. Pals. All the older folk.

  When ye meet or hear of someone from before it’s like: no way. Can’t believe there’s an auld-lifer.

  Skip, he has a nephew who’s survived. So Skip has his family. That’s pretty remarkable.

  Kept asking him, what’s it like? There’s someone from your before. What does that feel like?

  He’s a dour bugger though. Hard to get a word out of him for what went. Nor any word of outlook.

  Where did my kind go, I think, when I’m not guarding against thinking too much. Where are they?

  Stayed up late, blethering to Donnie. Why’d I come to the coast? he asked. All the way up here?

  Had tae think. Know something: clearest answer, crazy but. It’s hardest being in the city. Even the towns. When ye’re there it hits ye, ye cannay escape it.

  Empty streets. Whole districts: empty. No cars on the roads. No folk in the town centres.

  Here at least, looking out where there was never much in the first place, ye can pretend no much changed.

  The wool over yer eyes, Donnie said.

  So what? I answered back. Better that than getting to see how bad it did us.

  Plus in the city there’s all the eyes on ye: all the time, so ye feel like a museum piece. Some type of freak.

  Hundreds – no thousands – of kids, looking at ye like ye’re the faither and mother they need. Because it was the adults that got it worst: which makes us, the few survivors above the age of twenty, truly remarkable.

  I won’t say lucky. Remarkable will do for now.

  Next morn, the front in. Overcast, rain. So you take the chance, or what? Plus we had a fix, or maybe no. Western Isles, southern end? Donnie thought it was off the map and a waste of diesel. I didnae.

  Cleared a bit on the way out. We could use the trip for salvage, I said to Skip, laying it thick. He didn’t have much to say to that. Anyway, it was a chance for fishing, and we’d maybe get the fuel back good from cars.

  Basking sharks halfway. Idled for a bit, watched them: until they dropped and disappeared.

  Boat never got into the bay last time. Big Spanish trawler holed on rock-reefs at its entrance, buoy to beacon, so too risky. She was slicking terrible in Jan when we came, which put us off anchorages closer.

  She’d broken up, now: rudder, hull, one side, radar, mast the other. Skip navigated the channel, face like thunder. I kept out his way meantime.

  Already binoculars on the beach, three of us.

  Nothing doing. Nobody.

  Murdo looked fed up, like I felt. But it was on the map for salvage: so it wouldnae be a waste, no really, we could recce here for a bit, then run a lorry up the Uists. Maybe work the chain, make some dough? Skip said nothing.

  Dogs, gulls setting off a racket. No place to tie, pier-boats wrecked side-on against each another. We dropped the dinghy, which took long enough, Skip too crabbit, or lazy, or both mebby, away to sleep in his cab.

  Murdo’s bet was for a whin-fire. But that couldnae be right: the smoke was coming from inside the village, far side of the bay. Then we saw something on the pier.

  An SOS in stones. Plastic bags, kids’ clothes.

  Radio said nothing. Skip ran the channels. We started shouting, but it made the dogs bark like crazy.

  Murdo used his loudhailer. We waited on the boat. Blew the air-horn. Gulls didnae know what hit them.

  Then Skip sent up a flare: and when nobody came he said, ‘Check out what’s burning.’

  Saw straight away that someone started it. Radioed to Inverness. They said we should stay put. It was a drag, for sure, what could we do? Told us to get masks and gloves on, report back, keep them updated.

  Row of three houses: burnt. Blast area, smaller fires set about. Nothing that’d go up on its own though. Two of the houses gutted. Somebody had lit up a bunch of milk bottles, probably petrol or diesel, for the blast.

  We shouted, blew our whistles. Nobody came. So we stopped for eating. Clearly were survivors: Murdo found what looked like petrol-gathering: cars sprayed, caps open. Doors of houses marked up: G, B. Had to be kids.

  So now everyone interested, even Skip.

  Plastic bags on the shore, close to the pier. Had they set a fire for a beacon and then left? No sign on the road. The dogs weren’t cared for, cats feral, half-away.

  Ended up house-to-house. Lots of dead at home, they never had time. Checked the mortuary, field hospital at the school. Children’s refuge: someone covered in stones and flowers. The hospital, only the early dead. GP surgery: doors forced, empty. Supermarket: empty. Coastguard’s office: empty. Council offices: empty.

  Kids are great trash-gatherers; they build nests just like birds. Seen it on the other islands. Just follow the trails of rubbish, tins, plastic. So there was this one house.

  Kid tried to hide at first. Scared. Murdo reminded me to stay wee, kneel down, let the kid come.

  There was a marine VHF – not cabled. She wanted a drink. Drank and drank. Face pocked, so safe enough. Scrawny, bad teeth, not starved. Somebody cared.

  Asked if we were real. Here to take you home, Murdo says, and the kid goes: I am home. Nice start.

  Slow to give her story. Kept asking if we were real.

  Scabbed burns to her arms. Gave her a shot of penicillin and tetanus when we got back to the boat.

  She started to talk. That’s when we found out about the others. Skip radioed Stornoway: a band of us there – about half a dozen adults – who still had access and could sweep south to look for the kids. Problem was, they reckoned in Stornoway they were further off than us, plus their boats were dry, so any
rescue was gonna end up ours.

  We filled up from the cars. Settled her by the cabin. Rucksack, toys. Tatty letter she wanted to keep. Then as we motored away the kid said she wanted to stand free.

  Watched her as she watched the sea-churn, the bay, the birds. Kept asking me: When will you know?

  Said I’d keep radioing Stornoway. Gave her a jumper, oilskins for heat if she was going to stand out like that.

  One thing she said – boats of the fishermen came out with us. Tailed us. That gave Murdo his fright, but he’s soft in the head that way, he believes in spirits.

  Held onto her, and we both watched. And that made things better – I guess – because when we got out the sound, out past the trawler, she said, ‘They’re gone.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Karolina Sutton, Norah Perkins and Lucy Morris of Curtis Brown, and to Katie Espiner, Charlotte Cray, Suzie Dooré, Cassie Browne and Ann Bissell and all the team at the Borough Press. Thanks to Claire Ward for her fantastic cover design. Thanks also to Donald Sinclair for checking my Gaelic; and to Jamie and Elspeth Traynor and Miranda Barkham.

  Special thanks to Karin for all her support and encouragement over the years, and to our three children, whose book title suggestions – Life’s a Beach, Staying Alive – were better than any I came up with. Thanks also to the real-life Elizabeth, for the gifts you gave. And thank you mum, for everything.

  A final thanks to the people of Barra and Vatersay, for their warmth, humour and kindness during our stay there.

  About the Author

  Rob Ewing is a GP who spent several years living on a small island off the Scottish coast (with more than five other people). His poetry and short fiction have been published by New Writing UK, New Writing Scotland, and performed on BBC Radio. The Last of Us is his first novel.

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  http://www.harpercollins.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor