The Survivors (Book 2): Autumn

by Dreyer, V. L.

  “Sandwiches,” I told him proudly. It really shouldn’t have been so exciting, but it was. After ten years without bread, I relished the thought and the texture of something so simple. The idea had come to me just before we left, so I had found an old Tupperware container in one of our cupboards and packed it full of the fixings of a good sandwich: tomatoes, lettuce, smoked fish and the delicious rewena bread our Maori neighbours baked.

  Anahera understood my longing for bread like nobody else, and had sent along a freshly-baked batch when Hemi came to trade with us. Who would have thought that something as simple as bread would become more exciting than cake?

  I sliced the bread thickly and carefully arranged the other fixings upon it, with Michael watching over my shoulder the entire time. As soon as he had figured out what I was doing, he was riveted by the idea. Although Michael had been born in China, he’d grown up in New Zealand and that made him just as much a Kiwi as I was when it came to our tastes in food. Ten years of living on rice was a bit much for anyone, so he longed for bread just as much as I did.

  The fresh produce wouldn’t last forever outside in the heat though, so we had to eat it before it went to waste. I filled the sandwiches full to bursting, then I carefully picked one up and handed it to him, and took the other one for myself.

  We enjoyed our old-fashioned lunch immensely, far more than either of us would have liked another boring meal from a can. Although Michael never complained, I knew he must be as frustrated as I was with having to live that way. The introduction of a steady supply of fresh food into our diet had brightened both of our moods almost as much as the new romance blooming between us. It brought back memories of decades past, and made us feel… human again.

  After lunch, we waited until the heat died down before we slathered on a fresh coat of sunscreen, picked up our backpacks, and moved off. The wind picked up just after midday, bringing pleasant gusts to cool us, which made the walk much more pleasant. My foot felt a little better for the rest, but I longed to soak it in the cool waters of the Waikato to take the swelling down. It already felt like we’d been walking forever, and we were unlikely to reach Arapuni before sundown. I wondered if we would find somewhere safe to rest before nightfall.

  In contrast to what Rebecca had said about the bush being dense in this part of the country, the land directly east of Te Awamutu was flat and pleasant with only a few trees sprinkled along the route. The roadway was narrow and cracked, flanked on either side by gorse bushes that kept all other plant life from encroaching too closely on the road itself. Aside from the long grass that stuck up through the cracks in the asphalt, the walk was relatively easy. Still, the road was so well-preserved that I regretted losing the Hilux – we would have made good time in those conditions.

  Beyond the gorse, long grass waved placidly in the wind. We watched it for any sign of trouble, but held our weapons relaxed with the safeties on. If something as large and dangerous as a pig approached us, then we would be sure to see it coming long before it got close enough to concern us.

  The road took a bend, and we followed as it wound its way into a small patch of woodlands. A flash of neon yellow amongst the trees caught my eye. I nudged Michael and pointed it out. His expression turned grim when he spotted it, but he nodded and walked on regardless. What I’d seen was an old sign post warning non-existent drivers of the school up ahead.

  I had no doubt that we shared the same thought: we both dreaded the thought of finding an infected child.

  The trees began to clear as we reached another bend. We looked, and saw the overgrown remains of a primary school nestled within the curve of the road. The playground was rusted and bent by a decade’s worth of weather, but what made me freeze and grab Michael’s hand was the sight of a small human figure sitting on the swings.

  He saw her at the same time I did. I looked at him. He looked back, and I saw my own indecision reflected on his face. I knew that we shared similar feelings about the infected. Despite our experiences with the mutated ones, the regular infected were objects of pity, to be put out of their misery whenever possible.

  “We can’t just leave her there,” I whispered, shifting my shotgun into the crook of my left arm. With my right hand, I drew my taser out of my pocket, and then I looked at him again. He nodded his agreement and adjusted the weight of the rifle in his hands. I understood the precaution. Our encounters with the violent, mutated infected in Hamilton had left us both tense and on edge.

  With stealthy footsteps, we crept closer to the young girl on the swings. We were wary, but we’d both done it before. This time, though, something was different. Just as we were closing on the lone figure, I grabbed Michael’s arm to halt him and paused, listening intently. He glanced at me in surprise, then seemed to realise what I was hearing: the girl on the swings was singing quietly to herself.

  We exchanged looks of shock as we both reached the same conclusion. Either that little girl was some kind of infected that neither of us had seen before, or she was actually alive. Michael grabbed my arm and pulled me back out of earshot.

  “Are there any groups of survivors in this area?” he whispered urgently.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard of any, but things change.” I shook my head slowly, unable to tear my gaze away from the young girl. She had her back to us and hadn’t noticed us yet. I couldn’t guess her age without seeing her face. I couldn’t even identify the language she was singing in.

  “Maybe she’s on her own,” Michael said, and then he looked at me as though seeking my advice. I stared back at him, turning the thought over in my head, trying to decide the best way to proceed. Eventually, I came to a decision.

  “I’m going to talk to her. Stay here,” I said. I offered him my shotgun, which he took from my hand with a frown of obvious concern.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “I’m happy to do it, if you want me to.”

  “No, I’m less threatening.” I shook my head firmly, my mind made up. “Goodness knows what she’s been through. I don’t want to scare her. You just cover me, okay?”

  Michael nodded slowly, but I could see the worry in his eyes. He knew better than anyone else in the world that my past experiences made me skittish around strangers, but this was different. This wasn’t a big, strapping man, it was a young girl. I could handle a young girl. At least, I hoped I could.

  Armed only with the taser hidden in my pocket, I circled around the edge of the playing field until I moved into her field of vision. She didn’t seem to see me at first; her attention was focused on something nestled in her lap. Once I was fully in front of her, I slowly walked towards her, making no attempt at stealth and no sudden movements. As I drew closer, I could hear her singing again. The words were nonsensical to me, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out that she was singing in a foreign language that I didn’t recognise.

  The girl was young and small, fragile from malnutrition, with long, tangled dark brown hair that hung almost to her knees. She was so thin it took me a while to pinpoint her age at around thirteen or fourteen; her rag-clad body showed a few of the earliest stages of puberty, but not much. In her lap, she nursed what appeared to be a very threadbare teddy bear. At least, that’s what I hoped it was. All I could really see was light brown fur.

  I did a quick calculation in my head and worked out that she must have been three or four when the virus hit. A surge of sympathy hit me along with the realisation that she would have been hardly more than a toddler when she was left on her own. I wondered if her parents had been immune, or if she’d been completely alone since she was a little child, and somehow miraculously survived all these years without any adults to help her. I wondered if she spoke English, or if she just remembered a song her mother had sung to her as a baby. There was only one way to find out.

  “Hello,” I said softly, halting about five metres from the swings. The girl looked up sharply, her otter-brown eyes huge against skin the colour of milk chocolate. I recognised her ethnicity as
someone who originated from India, but I couldn’t even begin to guess which province.

  The girl didn’t say anything, just sat there looking totally shocked by my unexpected presence. She didn’t seem to be frightened so much as bewildered, which made sense since she probably hadn’t seen another human face in a very, very long time.

  It occurred to me that she might only speak Hindi. Maybe her parents had never had a chance to teach her English – or maybe she’d just forgotten over the years. I raised a hand and waved a harmless greeting, then repeated myself. “Hello.”

  The girl looked at my hand, then looked at my face, then looked down at her own hands. Slowly, as if uncertain what to do, she raised her hand and waved back at me. The confusion on her face tugged at my heartstrings; her eyes were so big that she looked like a little girl, despite being in her early teens.

  In an effort to make myself smaller and less intimidating, I eased my backpack off my shoulders and set it down, then sat down on the ground a few metres away from her.

  “Can you understand me?” I asked, speaking gently so as not to frighten her, but slowly and clearly.

  The girl stared at me while the question sank in. It was a look I understood better than most; after a decade of isolation, it was hard to think in terms of questions and answers. Conversations were no longer second nature. At last, she nodded hesitantly and found a question of her own. “Are you… real?”

  The question confused me a little, but I took it in my stride. “Yes, I’m real. My name is Sandy. What is your name?”

  Her brow wrinkled. For a moment it seemed like I’d lost her, but I just waited and gave her time, not rushing her for an answer.

  “Priyanka,” she said at last. All of a sudden, she was off the swing and kneeling on the ground in front of me, almost close enough to touch. Those enormous eyes studied me through her tangle of dark hair, somehow seeming entirely too large for her little face. “Sometimes I see Mama and Baba in my dreams. Are you a dream?”

  “No, I am real and you are awake.” I shook my head slowly and extended a hand towards her, palm up, to show her that I was real and she could touch me. To my surprise, she did. The girl grabbed my hand and turned it over, staring at it as though it was the first she’d ever seen besides her own. Up close, I could see that she was a filthy little thing, but I ignored it. Under the grime and the smell was a little girl, and she was all alone.

  “Real…” She touched my hand with covetous fingers, then laid her hand over mine and compared them, looking fascinated by the contrast between her dark skin and my fair skin. Eventually she looked up at my face again, and I saw that her eyes were rimmed by tears. “Thought all people gone. Thought I was only one.”

  “No, there are still some people out there,” I told her, turning my hand over slowly so that I could hold hers. It was so tiny and bird-like compared to mine that I was almost afraid to break it. To my surprise, she not only let me hold her hand but seemed happy for it; she ducked her head down and sniffed at my hand. I felt a spot of moisture on my skin and couldn’t tell whether a tear had fallen on me or if she’d licked me for some reason, but either way I managed to keep myself from flinching.

  It was a child-like fascination, inquisitive, young. With no adults to care for her, she’d never had the chance to learn anything more. Her education had stopped as a toddler. Even Skylar’s education had included the company of other human beings.

  “I want,” she whispered, nuzzling against my hand like a little child. “I want. I want. No go, please. No go.”

  My heart just about broke when I realised her cheeks were wet with tears. I found myself stroking her tangled hair without even thinking about it, letting her work through her emotions at her leisure. In my mind, all I could see was a cherub-faced child, toddling the countryside all alone, confused, frightened and hungry. Without anyone to care for her, it was a miracle that she’d survived.

  Over her head, I saw Michael approaching with a look of concern on his face, but he relaxed when I gave him a reassuring smile. I tilted my head towards a patch of grass beside me. He understood that I meant it was safe for him to join us, so he did. He settled cross-legged a little way away and hid the weapons behind his back. The sound of his bulk settling on the grass attracted the girl’s attention, though she still clung to my hand as though afraid to let me go.

  “This is Michael. He’s a friend,” I told her, and then looked at him. “Her name is Priyanka. I’m pretty sure she’s alone out here.”

  “Michael.” The girl repeated his name, stumbling over the pronunciation a little. Wide-eyed, she looked back and forth between us, then down at her own dusky-skinned little hands. “Different?”

  “Our mamas and babas come from different places,” I explained, using her own language to help her understand. Her speech was obviously stunted due to limited exposure to other people, but there was no reason to assume she was unintelligent. “People look different in other places. Michael is also a boy, while I am a girl, like you.”

  “Ah-hah.” She made a universal sound of understanding and leaned back on her haunches to examine us both. The movement let me get a good look at the object she’d been cradling; I was relieved to see the fur did belong to a ratty old teddy bear, as opposed to something less savoury. It was so ancient its fur had worn bare in patches, and the stitches around its throat had come loose to reveal the dull grey stuffing within.

  Seeking a way to bond with the girl, I pointed at the teddy bear. “Would you like me to fix him? His head is about to come off.”

  The dirty little girl looked down at her teddy bear uncertainly, then back up to me. “Fix?”

  “I can sew his head back on for you. Make him all better. See, his insides are coming out?” I leaned in closer to point out the damage, but made no attempt to take the bear from her in case she misinterpreted the action as a threat. She seemed to understand, though.

  “Make better, please,” she said, holding her precious bear out to me. I smiled at her manners, and gently took the teddy from her outstretched hands. Priyanka inched closer to watch while I opened my backpack and dug out the tiny sewing kit I always kept with me during long journeys. It was one of those things that had proven itself well worth the minimal weight over the years. Things always tended to break at the least convenient moments.

  I caught Michael watching with interest as I deftly threaded a needle and began sewing up the gaping wound in the bear’s neck with small, neat stitches. Being a survivor made you self-sufficient; I’d learned the patience required for tidy sewing through trial and error. Fast, sloppy stitches would only come loose again, and force you to do the work all over again.

  The girl’s eyes widened as the wound shrank, as if I were showing her an amazing magic trick. I suppose to someone with the life experience of a three-year-old, it was. There were a lot of things she’d been denied beyond just the obvious.

  The learning that took place in those early formative years was so much more in depth than just reading, writing and arithmetic, and she had missed out on all of it. I felt pity for her, and sympathy – it would be hard to learn those lessons later in life, but I hoped that she’d be willing to try.

  She showed patience beyond her years as she watched me work. I suppose she felt the passage of time much like I had when I was out on my own; the rise and fall of the sun only provided a vague sense of when to eat and when to sleep, but time was more or less meaningless.

  Eventually, I closed off the last stitch and bit the thread short, then offered the newly-repaired bear back to the girl. She took it reverently, as if she had just witnessed a miracle, and turned it slowly within her hands. Then all of a sudden, she smiled and hugged the bear to her chest. “All better. Fix.”

  “All better,” I agreed, feeling a flush of pride at the joy I’d brought to her with something so small. I guessed that bear must have been with her for a while, but I doubted she would be able to explain its origins. I tried a simpler question instead. “Wh
ere do you live, Priyanka?”

  The young girl looked at me thoughtfully, and then stared around herself as though seeking an answer. Finally, she shrugged and hugged her teddy again. I took her silence to mean she lived wherever she could.

  “Where did you sleep last night?” I asked, trying another tactic. That one she could answer more easily; she pointed at the playground, towards a small, sheltered enclosure at the head of the rusty old slide. I nodded my understanding and asked another question. “What do you eat?”

  She looked down at her feet and shrugged again, absently plucking at the long blades of grass around her. I felt a stab of sympathy, intuiting that expression meant that she ate whatever she could find. Judging by her small size, it wasn’t a lot.

  I exchanged a glance with Michael, and he gave me a nod. There was an understanding between us, a survivor’s code: we couldn’t leave this poor girl on her own any more than Michael could have thrown me out when he found me.

  “Would you like something to eat?” I asked her, leaning forward to look her in the eye. Her expression changed so swiftly that I couldn’t decipher the emotions. I saw fear, longing, hope, and so many others all twisting together. Her response was another shrug.

  I saw right through her mask of nonchalance. She was just a little girl, and she was half-starved. I reached into my backpack again, pulled out the small lump of rewena bread left over from our lunch, and held it out to her.

  She stared at it as though afraid that it might be a trick, and then looked up at me with confusion on her grubby little face. I smiled at her reassuringly and broke a tiny piece off the bread, which I put it in my mouth to show her that it was edible. It didn’t take a psychoanalyst to know that she wanted it but was just afraid to take it.

  When I offered it to her again, she snatched it from my hand. She seemed poised on the verge of flight, about to leap up and scurry away with her prize like a frightened animal – but something held her back. She looked back and forth between us, uncertain. We sat there patiently with smiles on our faces, watching her indecision.