The Survivors (Book 1): Summer (14 page)

I was so broken that I needed a seven-year-old to translate my reactions to rational adults.

I finally looked up, and found the old doctor looking worried and Michael standing nearby looking confused and upset.  He was the first to speak, his gruff voice a little grainier than usual.  "We would never do that to you, or to anyone else.  We’re good people.  I would rather die than steal from you."

He sounded like he really meant it, too.
 I lowered my head, feeling ashamed of myself for judging them before I knew anything about them.  Seeing the hurt on his face stung like a snake bite, even though I didn’t quite understand why I cared at all.

I guessed it was because I
’m still human, and human beings are innately social creatures.  Even me.  
Especially
me.

"
We must do your next injection, and then you should rest."  Looking embarrassed, the doctor hurried to change the subject again.  He leaned over to grab a small leather satchel that was beside my bed and fussed around inside it.

If it was a tetanus shot then I agreed wholeheartedly, but I was feeling shy and reclusive now, too ashamed to say a word.
 The little girl was still hugging me, watching my face intently.  I understood that she was trying to comfort me, and I felt no urge to push her away. She was so small, unthreatening and sweet.  Even my somewhat overzealous self-defence mechanism didn’t kick in over her touch.  While the doctor was preparing his medication, she tried to distract me with her childish cheer.

Leaning up against me, she whispered in my ear.
 "My name is Madeline.  What's yours?"  Then she gave me such a sweet little smile that even I couldn't resist.

"
Sandy." Out of instinct alone, I put an arm around the girl's gaunt frame and gave her a little sideways hug.  "Thank you for the flower."

"
You’re welcome."  She beamed brightly, and then pointed at the old man.  "That's my granddaddy."  Her finger shifted to Michael, who had finally relaxed enough to look amused by the exchange.  "That's Mister Officer Chan.  He looks after me and Granddaddy; and Mummy too, before she died."

"
Maddy-monkey, come down from there and leave the young lady be," the doctor scolded gently, busy filling a syringe from a small, official-looking medicine vial.

"
It's okay." I suddenly felt protective.  "She's fine.  She reminds me of my sister."  I looked at the girl and added softly, "My sister was about your age when I last saw her."

"
Is your sister dead, like Mummy?"

I flinched.
 Oh, from the mouth of babes.  There was no point denying it, this child clearly understood death better than most.

"
Probably."  I nodded, sadly.  "I didn't see her die, but the last time I saw her she was driving away with my daddy and I never saw either of them again."

"
Aw.  I would have liked to play with her."  Madeline looked crestfallen.

"
Alright, enough of that.  Injection time," the doctor advised, shuffling closer to me with a syringe in one hand and a cotton swab soaked in cleaning alcohol in the other.  I tensed up immediately, since I’d never liked needles, and drew a disapproving sound from him.  "Hold still now.  This will only take a moment.  Unless you
want
to get tetanus, of course?"

He did have a point.
 I nodded curtly, and looked away.

I felt the fluff of the swab on my arm as the site was being cleaned, then the prick of the needle followed by that creepy sensation of something being injected into my body.
 As much as I hated that feeling, I held still like a good girl.  One little prick was a hell of a lot better than getting lockjaw.  Like he promised, it only took a second and then he was pressing a clean rag over the tiny wound to staunch any bleeding.

"
There, all done."  Despite his stern face, his voice was soothing.  I took the rag from him as soon as he would let me, and kept pressure on the wound.

"
You were a real doctor, weren't you?"  It sounded like a stupid question after I'd asked it, but he seemed to understand.

"
Yes, I was a general practitioner.  I'm sure there's an office around here somewhere that still has my name on the door.  I also studied pharmacology, which has come in rather handy these days.  I make most of our medication, when I can find the resources."  He paused when he noticed me staring at him expectantly.  "My name is Dr Cross, but you may call me Stewart.  We are rather informal around here."

"
Thanks," I answered with a sudden surge of sarcastic humour.  "I wasn't looking forward to having to call you 'Granddaddy'."

Madeline giggled, Michael laughed, and even Dr Cross cracked a smile, the first one since we'd met.
 I felt a little better after that, a little more accepted.  Maybe they would forgive me for assuming they were thieves and murderers.

At least, I hoped so.

The other survivors interrogated me a few minutes longer, and then left me in peace with instructions to rest
.  I couldn't fall back to sleep so I just lay there staring at the bare concrete walls for about an hour, trying to figure out where I was.  The place looked like a bunker, designed to withstand a bomb blast or an assault by armed forces, but I couldn't think of a reason for Hamilton to have a bunker.  Hamilton was small by city standards, with only a couple of hundred thousand residents in its prime.  It was mostly a farming hub for the lush Waikato region, and all the businesses required to support that industry.  Why on earth would it have a bunker?

The more I lay there and thought about it, the more I realised that I wasn’t going to get an answer without asking
– and the more I started to realise that I was going to need a lavatory soon.  That was an uncomfortable feeling.  Someone must have been dealing with my biological needs while I was unconscious, but I was in no way ready to trust anyone with that while I was awake.

Stuff doctor's orders, it was time to get up.

I shoved back the blanket and swung my feet to the floor, then stretched my arms up over my head to get the blood-flow going again.  Despite the fact that I hadn’t really slept, I felt pretty good, or at least better than when I first woke up.  Who knew daydreaming was good for the body
and
the soul?

With great care, I rose to my feet, keeping my weight on the heel of my injured foot.
 Although that made walking awkward, Dr Cross had warned me repeatedly not to go tearing my stitches.  Still, I was restless and it was time to move.  They had implied that there were other people here, which meant more potential risks that I needed to assess.

I also kind of felt the need to apologise to Michael for bruising his jaw.

While I was dressing, I decided in a rare moment of trust to leave my other belongings where they were.  If these people had wanted to rob me, then they would have done it while I was unconscious.  They’d chosen not to, so I could not imagine that they would suddenly change their minds.  It would just make no sense at all.

Once I was properly clothed, I opened the door and stuck my head out into the hall.
 I found myself in a long concrete corridor, lit by fluorescent bulbs that cast the passages in a dull artificial glow.  Occasionally one flickered, reminding me of the hospital – I shivered at the thought.  Still, people lived here, so there must be a lavatory somewhere.  One problem at a time.

I picked a direction at random, and headed off along the corridor, limping slowly to avoid putting undue strain on my foot.
 There was a doorway up ahead on my left, which turned out to be another small room with a cot much like mine.  Judging by the scattered toys and the mountain of pink clothing, I assumed that it must be Madeline's room.  A second cot, neater than the first, lay against the opposite wall.  Although I couldn’t be as sure, I guessed that was likely to be the doctor’s bed.  Neither of them were there, so I moved on.

The next doorway along was on the right.
 When I looked inside I found a small kitchen area, with a table, chairs and a couple of tatty couches.  It probably used to be a break room for the people who worked in this building forever ago, but right now it was empty as well.

There were a few more rooms on the left which appeared to be storage rooms.
 They were packed with goods appropriated from around the city, everything from food and clothing to old computers and cell phones.  There were a couple of large refrigerators which I imagined must be the 'cold storage' that Michael mentioned, and a few big metal drums that I assumed contained fuel, water or possibly rice.

For survivors, they were quite well stocked.
 No wonder they didn't feel the need to steal from others; they would not have to go hungry any time soon.

Beyond the storage rooms was a dead end, so I headed back the way I came to try another direction.
 The place was quite extensive and solidly built.  I could understand why they had chosen this as their base of operations; it wasn't pretty, but it sure felt safe.

I passed more rooms, a couple of which had been converted into bedrooms, a few were obviously storage, and some seemed to serve no purpose at all.
 A noise from one of the rooms further down the hall drew my attention, so I slipped up to the doorway to see who was inside.

I found Michael Chan sitting on a narrow, metal-framed cot, whittling away at a wooden plank with a chisel.
 There were a few other pieces of wood scattered around him, along with a hammer, screwdriver, nails and other tools.  As someone who had always been interested in handcrafts, I noticed he wasn’t very good at woodworking, but at least he was trying.  Effort always counted for something.

His head was down so he didn't notice me at first, which finally gave me the opportunity to really study him.
 He was tall, probably a good three inches taller than me, which would put him at a little over 6’, and he was built quite large, with broad shoulders and muscular arms that told me he spent a lot of time engaged in physical activity.

Unusually large for someone with a Chinese last name.
 I pondered that thought, and although I was curious, I didn’t know him at all and couldn’t really guess at his origins.  Right now, he was dressed in civilian clothes.  Jeans, boots and a t-shirt that was a little too small for his powerful frame.

I found that I didn’t mind.
 After all these years and so much abuse, it was strange to admit that I found him rather handsome.  Well, he was handsome.  Almost beautiful, in that sculpted way Chinese men could sometimes be.  He possessed a strong jaw, angular cheekbones and a fine, straight nose, with short black hair combed straight back from his forehead.

It was still his eyes that fascinated me, though.
 They were dark brown, fathomlessly deep and yet so kind and gentle.

I was off in my own little world, getting myself all addled with conflicting thoughts and emotions, when he suddenly sensed my presence.
 His head shot up, startled.  For a moment I thought he was going to leap to his feet and defend himself, but then he seemed to recognise me, and relaxed.

"
You're supposed to be resting."  His gruff voice was somehow both scolding and caring simultaneously.  It finally occurred to me that the gruffness wasn’t from hostility, but rather the result of an old accent that my ear just wasn’t used to hearing.

"
I did rest."  I lifted a brow pointedly.  "But nature’s calling, and no one told me where the loo is."

"
Oh."  His laughter was a friendly sound; I decided that I liked it.  He set aside his woodworking and rose, to move over to where I peeked around his doorframe.  I retreated, my instincts making me naturally skittish, but he made no attempt to touch me.  "I'll show you the way.  This place is pretty big."

He headed off and I fell in behind him, resting one hand on the wall as I walked to help keep my weight off my foot.

"I would offer to carry you again, but I'm afraid you'll hurt me."  He shot me a teasing look over his shoulder, but kept his pace slow enough for me to keep up.

"
I can walk."  I snorted in mock indignation.  "Just not very well."

He chuckled and turned a corner, and I hurried to keep up with him.
 For some reason that I didn’t want to think about too closely, I found watching him walk quite fascinating.  The ill-fitting outfit was flattering on his lean physique.  As I watched him, I found myself experiencing an unexpected rush of emotion, the kind of feelings that I hadn’t dealt with in a very, very long time.

I was so distracted by trying to decipher what those feelings actually meant that I didn't notice straight away when we reached our destination.
 The lavatory turned out to be a large, military-style bathroom, with a row of toilet stalls along the back, a wall of lockers and benches down the middle, and a half-dozen shower stalls to our right.

The shower stalls had originally been open-faced, but the survivors had hung colourful shower curtains in front of each to provide some degree of privacy
– a fact for which I was grateful.   I inspected the room thoughtfully, before making my way towards the toilets.  Halfway there, I noticed something that made me gasp.  "You have toilet paper?  Real toilet paper?"

"
And hot water, too."

His dark eyes twinkled with mirth when I spun around to stare at him in surprise.

"Really?  Hot water?"  I could hardly believe it, after how hard I'd worked trying to get the tank working back at Ohaupo.  "Can I—?"

"
Knock yourself out."  He moved over and opened one of the lockers with a dramatic flourish, revealing that it was being used as a makeshift linen cupboard.  Neat stacks of towels in an assortment of cheerful colours filled it, along with various personal hygiene items.

"
How do you guys have so much
stuff
?" I blurted.  Given how hard I had struggled just to survive, seeing such a stockpile was mind-boggling.

"
Well, I've been using this as a base since the outbreak happened."  He shrugged sheepishly.  "This is the underground portion of the police precinct.  Since I was serving here, it just made sense.  There were hardly any other survivors in this area to begin with, so I've had time to collect stuff.  There isn’t a lot of competition."

"
The others weren't here with you from the start?"  I tilted my head inquisitively and looked up at him.

"
No.  It was just me and Sophie – my niece – for three or four years before I found Stewart and his family.  He's from around here, but his son's family were down in Otago.  He went all the way down there looking for them, only to find out his son was already dead.  He found his daughter-in-law was still alive, though, and that she had a little baby with her.

"
They managed to get back to Hamilton, and I found them one day while they were scavenging in the ruins."  He smiled shyly and shot me a sideways glance.  "I couldn't very well leave them out there, so I brought them back here where it’s safe and warm.  We've acquired a few other stragglers since then, and, well, here we are."

"
Huh."  I looked down at my feet thoughtfully.  I guess I was the latest straggler.  That was food for thought.  

After a moment of silence, Michael waved and made to leave.
 "You do your thing.  Just call if you need me.  Sound travels down here, so chances are good that I'll hear you – or someone will."  

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in that big bathroom.
 I stood there, pondering, for a couple of moments before I realised that I was wasting precious shower time.

I quickly ducked into a stall to relieve myself, before turning my attention to enjoying the longest, hottest shower of my adult life.

***

They had soap.
 They had shampoo and conditioner.  They even had razor blades.  Shaving wasn't exactly something you had time to do when you were surviving in the ruins of a shattered civilization, but I did it every chance I got.  I hated the feeling of hairy legs almost as much as I hated being sweaty.  It might have been a bit pedantic, but I liked to feel clean.

The hot water was amazing.
 I practically roasted myself washing and shaving every part of my body that I could reach.  It was a difficult prospect with doctor’s orders to keep the bandages dry, and in the end I just gave up.  A hot shower trumped clean bandages any day of the year.

After three shampoos and a conditioning, my hair felt cleaner than it had in a very long time. Oh, the sweet, glorious smell of shampoo, I’d almost forgotten how wonderful it was.

I must have spent at least half an hour in there, getting nice and clean, but when I finally convinced myself it was time to get out I felt absolutely wonderful.  The world seemed like a brighter place.  I was so clean, so very clean.  Pruney, but clean.

Of course, feeling good never seemed to last long for me, in my fucked-up little life.
 Something always went wrong.

I dried myself and dressed back in the clothing I was wearing previously, and then braided my hair to keep it out of my face while it dried.
 Sodden towel in hand, I looked around for an appropriate depository for soiled articles but couldn’t find one, so I took it with me as I left the bathing hall.

I made my way back in the direction I suspected the kitchen was, and heard voices speaking softly in a room nearby.
 Curious, I inched closer until I could hear what they were saying.

"
She's emotionally scarred, son.  I'm not sure it's good for the others to have someone like her around here.  Look what she did to your face."  

The voice sounded like Dr Cross, and 'son' turned out to be Michael.

"Of course she’s emotionally scarred.  Put yourself in her shoes and think about what she’s been through.  You and I have always had someone with us to keep us real, but she's a pretty, young girl all on her own.  I'm not at all surprised that she hit me; I must have scared the hell out of her.  The poor thing."