by Liam Brown
I shook my head. Who was I kidding? Museums and archaeologists were relics of the old world. No one would ever find us here. Our vanishing would go unmarked by the world at large, like so many millions before us. Only my family would notice I was gone. One more misery to add to all the others. And that was if they noticed at all.
Still, I decided to keep my distance from Jazz. The less exposure, the better my chances. I needed to be alone. For a moment I thought about barricading myself in one of the classrooms. One look through the dusty windows made me change my mind. The spidery handwriting of a lost generation. All those faded hopes and dreams captured in crayon.
This is my family…
This is my house…
When I grow up I want to be…
It was too much to take.
I had to find somewhere, though. With every passing minute, my symptoms were getting worse. My chest wheezy, my throat raw. I hardly had the strength to keep standing up.
With nowhere else to go, I found myself clambering up the side of the boat and descending the stairs into the dim glow of Jazz’s secret bedroom.
And there, curled up amongst the dusty silk sheets, I lay down and waited for the end.
‘YOU SHOULD EAT something.’
I woke with a start, unsure for a moment of where I was. Then it all came rushing back to me with sickening clarity. The school. Jazz. My torn suit. I sat up too fast and the room began to spin, my vision speckled with a detonation of stars. When I finally managed to focus again, I saw with a start that Jazz was sitting at the end of the bed. Though still pale, he looked slightly brighter than earlier. In his hands was a bowl, wisps of steam curling from the top.
I shook my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I know. But you told me to eat earlier and it made me feel better. Now it’s your turn.’
All I’d eaten since last night was a lone chocolate bar. I was starving. Only I didn’t dare to eat. Even with my suit ripped, taking my mask off seemed unthinkably reckless. Especially in this room, with Jazz so close I’d probably be able to smell him.
I shook my head again.
‘Look, if it’s me you’re worried about I can just leave it here,’ Jazz said, reading my mind. ‘Just promise me you’ll eat something, or you really will get sick.’
With that he placed the bowl down on an upturned crate that doubled as a bedside table and disappeared back up the stairs.
I don’t know how many hours passed while I lay there, writhing under Jazz’s shiny sheets. By then I was in too much pain to sleep. My stomach cramped with hunger and my bladder was ready to burst. Every so often I would glance over at the bowl of pale brown soup that Jazz had left for me. By now, a thick skin had congealed over the surface. Even so, the sight of the liquid nearly pushed me over the edge. My tongue felt swollen and heavy in my mouth, like an old piece of meat. It occurred to me that even if I somehow managed to avoid the virus, I might end up dying of thirst.
I rolled over and pulled back the sheets. The wound was nowhere near as serious as I’d initially thought. It was more of a graze than a cut. In the old world it would hardly have warranted a plaster. On the other hand, the tear in the suit was pretty bad, the material flapping open, exposing nearly my entire knee. I tried to think back to what I knew about the virus. It was strange. In the first months after we returned to our apartment, the news was full of almost nothing else. There were flash reports with each new discovery, confident scientists explaining the exact mechanism that helped the virus to spread. Like most infectious diseases, it was transferred from person to person through contact. A cough or a sneeze. An unwashed hand. A kiss. Once contracted, it worked its way down through the respiratory tract, binding to the surface of healthy cells, reprogramming them and replicating itself, killing the host cells in the process. ‘Like a killer cuckoo,’ I remember one jovial scientist chuckling. Once infected, you were rendered allergic to human skin particles. Dander. Dust. The problem was, there was no reliable test to find out if you were sick, until you keeled over. Hence the safest option was to assume everyone was infected and avoid all direct human contact. At least in the short term.
Back then, the breakthroughs came thick and fast. It seemed a vaccine was only ever a few weeks away. Until then, it was a case of hanging on. Of sitting tight and keeping a stiff upper lip. We shall overcome and all that patriotic nonsense they tend to roll out in times of national disaster. As the months became years, however, the idea of a cure seemed to drop out of the news. Whenever it was mentioned, the scientists seemed less optimistic. They’d purse their lips and puff out their cheeks, muttering about mutating genetic codes. Impossible working conditions. The death of key colleagues. The loss of vital research. The focus now seemed to be on making the present more palatable. Advances in streaming services and VR technology. The ever-broadening range of rations available to us. The stabilisation of electricity and water supplies. The way they made it sound, there was no reason to want to leave the comfort of our homes, even if it should one day become safe to do so.
Lying there on Jazz’s bed, I began to do some calculations. The way I saw it, there were three possible scenarios I was facing. The first was the bleakest: I’d contracted the virus years ago, and up until now I had successfully avoided exposure to enough foreign skin cells to trigger symptoms. If that was the case, then the game was up. I was already a dead woman. The rip in the suit saw to that. Whether or not I took off my mask and ate the soup, it made no difference. I had three days.
In the second scenario, I still hadn’t contracted the virus, but Jazz was a carrier, who had somehow managed to remain asymptomatic up until now. Presuming he hadn’t infected me yet, the dust wouldn’t affect me. I should leave the mask on, wait for three days to rule out scenario one, and then leave. Simple. The only problem was that I’d probably die of dehydration before then.
Finally, there was a chance that neither of us was infected. That would explain how Jazz had managed to stay alive so long. In this scenario, there was again no need for the mask. So long as it was just the two of us here, I was safe to eat the soup.
The more I puzzled over these three outcomes, the more I realised I didn’t have a choice. All my options were taken away the moment I tore my suit. Now all I had was maths. And the maths was telling me that my very best chance of survival was to get some liquid into my body.
Willing my terror away, my shaking fingers worked the zip on my suit until I managed to lower my hood. And then, with a final gasp of filtered air, I undid the loops around the back of my head. And lifted off my mask.
I blinked.
Looked around.
Everything seemed brighter. More real. It was like moving from 2D to 3D. Though I knew it was irrational, I could almost see the virus in the air, suspended like second-hand smoke. I held my breath for as long as I could, but in the end I had no choice. I exhaled, then breathed in deeply, filling my lungs.
Then again.
And again.
The air smelled thick. Heavy. I was so used to the sterile, climate-controlled environment of my room, that it took me a moment to place certain scents. Damp. Mould. Freshly cut wood. And, strongest of all, onion soup.
I reached for the bowl, the brown liquid slopping over the sides. The first spoonful was a severe test for my gag reflex, the contents like cold mucus. I persevered, forcing the salty broth down my throat. By the time I got to the last spoonful, it was almost palatable. Once I’d finished, I finally dragged myself out of bed. My legs felt weak and shaky, the floor seeming to lurch violently away from me. This was the virus getting to work on my nervous system, I told myself. It wouldn’t be long before I couldn’t stand at all. Before my breath became a rasp. At the thought of this, my head began to spin even faster, anxiety setting my fingers and toes tingling. For a second it felt like my airwaves were closing up then and there. I collapsed back onto the bed. Grabbed my throat. Gasped for air.
Then I remembered Amber, all those years ago, back at the
cottage.
‘In-through-your-nose-two-three-four…’
‘Out-through-your mouth-two-three-four…’
After a minute or two, the room swam back into focus. I wasn’t dead. Not yet. With a Herculean effort, I forced myself back to my feet. And then, very slowly, I made my way up the stairs and out onto the deck.
It was lighter up there than I’d been expecting, crisp dawn sunshine filtering through the windows and the cracks in the roof. Peering over the edge of the railing, I spotted Jazz standing in the centre of the hall, his back turned away from me. I called out to him.
‘Hey, I’m up. Thanks for the soup. How’s the leg?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Hey!’ I tried again.
Still he didn’t move.
I was about to call out a third time when I noticed that, for some reason, Jazz was holding the axe aloft, the handle gripped tightly in his fist. I gave an involuntary shiver as the spectre of a hundred horror movies flashed through my mind. Was this the part of the film where the laid-back loner suddenly reveals himself to be a bloodthirsty psychopath? Was I about to be slashed and dismembered like so many B-movie extras?
I was about to turn and run when something stirred on the far side of the hall. I didn’t move. Crouched in the far corner of the room, half hidden in the shadows, was some kind of animal. Instantly, I knew it was a dog. The same dog that had bitten Jazz. It must have picked up his scent and was back to finish him off. Any moment now, it would stalk into the room. An ear torn off. An eye gouged out. Its jaw split open on one side to reveal blood-red gums and two rows of terrible teeth. A childhood nightmare made flesh and fur. A living, breathing monster.
‘Come out,’ Jazz called into the shadows, gripping the axe tighter. ‘Come out now or you’ll be sorry.’
The dog shifted its weight again. Pacing. Prowling.
And then it spoke.
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
The dog took a step forwards.
I blinked. Tried to understand what I was seeing.
As the dog padded out into the light, I saw it wasn’t a dog at all.
It was a person, dressed in a white protective suit and mask.
A person I knew.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ the person said again.
And this time I recognised the voice.
And nothing made sense. Nothing.
Because the person standing in the hall was Amber.
TWENTY-THREE
EVEN WITH THE text message from the government, Colin wasn’t convinced it was safe to return to the city.
‘Maybe we should wait?’
‘Wait? For how long?’ I asked that evening, once I’d finally managed to pin him down for long enough to talk about it. ‘Days? Months? We haven’t got enough food to sit around twiddling our thumbs, hoping the authorities come to our rescue. We’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. They’re going to deal with the cities first. That’s where the infrastructure is. It could be years before they get around to helping people out here. That’s if they even bother helping us at all.’
Colin crossed his arms defensively. He was standing on the far side of the living room, with his back against the wall. About as far as he could get from me without actually leaving the cottage. ‘But the text said we need to stay indoors and avoid physical contact. Shouldn’t we start doing that now? I mean, squashing into the car and recycling the same air for the next few hours seems a little risky, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh for God’s sake. It’s not like you’re about to go hitchhiking with a bunch of strangers. It’s us, Colin. Your family. The same people you’ve been living with for weeks. And no one’s got sick yet, have they?’
‘No. But the man said—’
‘The man who’s currently dead in the garden. The man whom we killed? And while we’re at it, don’t you think that’s another reason for us to leave? Even if by some miracle someone does turn up to rescue us, how do you think it’s going to look when they stumble across a corpse laid out on the lawn? Not to mention the other two buried under the flower bed…’
‘That’s not fair. We had nothing to do with them, and you know it.’
Still, my point seemed to have got through to him. Several times over the course of the day, I caught him lingering by the window, peering out anxiously at the back garden. That evening, as we each sat in our separate part of the house having eaten our miserable excuse for a dinner, Colin suddenly called us all through to the kitchen. ‘I’ve made a decision,’ he said. ‘It’s time to pack. We’re going home.’
We would leave for the city first thing in the morning.
I GUESS I’D expected the kids to be excited to be going back to the city. Strangely, this wasn’t the case. As we loaded up the car the next morning, a sense of gloom seemed to settle over them. Swinging the boot shut, I tried my best to be upbeat.
‘I bet you’re excited to see your bedroom again?’ I said to Charlie. ‘You’ll have your books. Your toys.’
Charlie only shrugged, though. ‘I’ll probably have to burn them anyway.’
‘What are you talking about? Why on earth would you have to burn your things?’
‘That’s what Amber told me. She said the virus would be all over everything and we’d have to burn them or we’d catch it and die like everybody else.’
‘Well that’s just ridiculous. Why would she say something like that?’ I turned back to the house and called Amber’s name.
A minute later she trudged out, every inch the disaffected teen.
‘Listen. I want you to come over here and say sorry to your brother for scaring him. Telling him he’d have to burn his toys. What absolute rubbish.’
For a moment I thought she was going to challenge me, but then she gave a defeated shrug, looking at her feet. ‘Sorry.’
‘You could at least pretend you mean it. And you can give him a hug while you’re at it.’
Still scowling, she shuffled forwards, snagging Charlie in a half-hearted embrace. As the two of them came together, Colin emerged from the cottage, a bundle of blankets in his arms. At the sight of the kids hugging, he dropped them and ran forwards, waving his arms as if attempting to put out a fire.
‘Stop! Jesus! Let him go! What did I tell you two about not touching each other? I’m not joking. This stuff is serious.’
At the sound of his voice, Amber and Charlie broke apart immediately.
‘Colin…’ I began, then stopped. There was no point.
Ten minutes later we were leaving the cottage for the final time. Earlier, with the kids out of earshot, Colin and I had discussed covering our tracks, just in case on the off-chance someone came to investigate. We talked about untying the man and burying him. Hiding his car. Staging an accident. Scrubbing the place to make sure we hadn’t left any fingerprints or DNA. Hell, maybe we should just burn the whole place to the ground?
In the end, though, we simply walked out, the broken front door flapping open behind us. There just didn’t seem any point in trying to clean up. I doubted very much the people who’d been here before us would be missed. There probably wasn’t anyone left to miss them.
Climbing into the car, I was again struck by the children’s reluctance to leave.
‘Couldn’t we stay just one more day,’ Charlie whined.
‘Or a week,’ Amber said hopefully.
I shook my head. ‘What is it with you guys? I thought you’d be over the moon. Anyone would think you didn’t want to go home.’
Neither of them answered.
Once we were all in, Colin undid each of the windows. I didn’t protest. It was a bright day and the fresh air was welcome after weeks stuck inside the stuffy cottage. As we reversed down the drive I watched as the small white cottage receded into the distance. I thanked it silently for saving our lives.
WE WERE AROUND an hour from the city when we saw the first car. Though we were beginning to get sketchy Internet reception, the GPS was still out, and at the
sight of the other vehicle, Colin nearly swerved off the road in surprise. I guess, like me, he’d forgotten there was anyone else left in the world beyond our little family. Within a few minutes, though, we spotted another car, then another. Dozens. Then hundreds. It was like an exodus in reverse. All of them heading in the same direction. All of them heading towards the city.
As we turned onto the motorway, Colin suddenly hit the brakes, slowing us to a crawl, then to a total stop. My heart sank. Stretching out as far as I could see was the longest line of traffic I have ever seen. All three lanes were totally gridlocked.
With so many vehicles around us, even Charlie and Amber began to take an interest. ‘Where did all these people come from?’ Charlie asked. ‘Amber told me everyone was dead.’
‘I did not.’
‘Did too.’
I didn’t answer. I too was shocked by the sheer volume of people. It would take hours to get back at this rate. If not days.
In the back seat, Charlie stuck his head out of the window.
‘Stop that,’ Colin snapped. ‘It’s dangerous. You could—’
Before he could finish, Charlie began shouting. ‘Daddy! Mummy! Who’s that? Over there. On the other side of the road. Can you see them?’
I shifted in my seat, trying to see whatever it was he was pointing at.
There were just cars, though. Thousands and thousands of cars.
And then suddenly I saw what he was pointing at. Or rather whom he was pointing at; stalking through the traffic was a man dressed in a hazardous materials suit.
All at once, everyone started talking, our words tumbling over each other.
‘Who is that?’
‘Why is he wearing…?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us.’
‘Is that a…?’
Abruptly we all fell silent.
For at the same time, we saw what the man was holding in his hands: