The Survivors (Book 1): Summer (18 page)

Frozen with indecision, he waited for hours to see if perhaps his parents would return.
 He sat in his favourite armchair, the one he’d spent many hours in doing homework while he was growing up, and stared at the door.  Hoping, praying.

His parents never came.
 No one did.  Finally, he forced himself to make a decision on his own.  He needed to find out what happened to his brother.

It was close to sunset when he reached his brother's house.
 Again, the door was unlocked so he let himself in, and called out his brother and sister-in-law's names at the top of his voice.  There was no answer.  On the wall near the door, the telephone hung off the hook; the endless dial tone was a low, sad sound.  He picked it up and set it back in the cradle, not sure what else he could do.

Then, he heard the baby crying from upstairs.

He raced up as fast as he could go, taking the stairs two or three at a time, to find his tiny niece sitting in her crib.  She was exhausted, filthy and starving from being trapped there for so long without food or water; her bed had become a cage.  

When she saw him, the two-year-old cried his name and reached for him frantically with tiny, grasping hands.

He scooped her up without a moment of hesitation and carried her back down the stairs to her high chair.  Although he had no children of his own, paternal instincts kicked in and soon the toddler was fed and changed.

She was terrified though, he told me.
 Terrified of being abandoned again.  Any time he put her down, she started crying.  Any time he left her line of sight, she screamed.  He was desperate to leave before he went crazy, but he couldn't leave the baby behind.  It just wasn’t an option.

While he was gathering the little girl’s things in preparation for their departure, something out in the back yard caught his eye.
 He told me how he went outside with the baby huddled in his arms, and found his brother and sister-in-law standing there in the semi-darkness on the lawn.

They were completely unresponsive, and stared off into space with cold, glazed eyes.
 They didn't even blink when he and Sophie called out to them, nor did their eyes focus when he moved into their line of sight and waved to them.

They were already gone.

Sophie was too young to understand.  She cried and cried when he took her away; she didn’t understand why they were leaving Mummy and Daddy behind.  She didn't know what he knew, that once the infection took their speech away, there was no turning back.  That wasn't his brother anymore, it wasn't little Sophie's mummy and daddy.

But how could he possibly explain that to a two
-year-old?

Fuelled by terror and a desperate need to protect the one family member he had left, he took the tiny child and carried her south.
 He walked non-stop through the night, pausing only to eat, drink and feed Sophie, and then he picked her up again and walked some more.  Eventually, Sophie fell into an exhausted sleep in his arms, but still he walked on.  He’d never walked so far in his life, and by the time he reached safety it felt like his legs were about to drop off.

With no other option and no one to give him a better idea, Michael took his precious cargo back to the only safe place he could think of
– his home away from home in the crew quarters beneath the Hamilton police station.

There, he raised her like his own daughter, and taught her all the hard lessons he had to learn to survive in the world after humanity was gone.
 He watched her grow, taught her to read and write, played with her she was little, and told her stories about her daddy from his own childhood.

He was always honest with her and never babied her.
 He took her with him when he was scavenging because experience was the only way that she would learn.  Sophie had been a sweet and intelligent child who learned quickly, and soon became as useful as any of the adults who later joined the group.

***

"If only I hadn't been so lenient."  He finally turned to look at me, his eyes filled with so much sadness that my heart dropped into my stomach.  "If only I'd insisted that she stay home where it’s safe.  I only turned my back for a second.

"
I didn’t notice that she’d run off.  We were out poking around, and I guess she saw something that caught her eye.  I have no idea what it was, and I guess now I’ll never know.  I only heard her scream, but by the time I got to her it was too late.  The infected had already torn her throat out and it was— hitting her.  She was still alive, but only just.  I managed to get it off her, but she was bleeding out and I knew she was dying.  I tried to get her home, but she didn’t make it."

Michael drew a deep, rough breath and put a hand over his face, like he didn’t want me to see his emotion.
 But I knew and I understood.  It was a fresh wound, still raw.  It had only been a few days since he watched the little girl he loved like a daughter die a horrible, painful death.  Even after so long alone, I still felt all the human emotions, like sympathy, remorse and grief.

In that moment when he needed me most, I put aside my fear of other survivors completely.
 I wrapped my arms around him and just held him, not saying a word while he grieved for the poor child snatched away long before her time.

With each of us distracted in a different way, it wasn’t until much later that any of us realised that we’d forgotten one important thing: night had fallen, and the kid named Dog still
hadn’t come home.

That was an oversight that we would come to regret.

I slept poorly that night, tossing and turning in my bed as my mind went over and over Michael’s story.
 For the longest time, there had only been one story in my head, and that was my own.  I had never even considered the terrible things that other survivors had gone
t
hrough, and now my psyche was in distress.

In my nightmares, it was me making that long, long trek between the cities, frightened and alone except for a little girl begging and begging and begging to see her mummy again.

Please, please,
she pleaded in my dream, twisting her little hands in the fabric of my uniform.  Her little face was a blur, since my subconscious didn’t have a face to give her.

I want my mummy…

Just before dawn, I awoke in a cold sweat, unsure whether it was the nightmare that had interrupted my sleep, or some sound I heard.  Years of living on my own had left me a very light sleeper.  I felt like I might have heard something, but I couldn’t be certain.  I lay awake in the dark, straining my ears for anything out of the ordinary, but I heard only silence.  I brushed it off as a figment of my imagination, then rolled over and closed my eyes once more.

Then I heard it, clear as a bell: A whispery voice begging for help, but struggling to form the words.
 I came awake instantly and was out of bed a second later, dressed in nothing but a grey nightshirt.  There was a wet cough beyond the door and a faint scraping sound.  

I froze, listening intently.

The noises were so soft that I could barely hear them.  I was the closest, so it seemed unlikely that anyone else would hear them at all.  It was up to me to investigate.

I fumbled for my taser in the dark before I switched on the light.
 My room was as I'd left it.  The noise was definitely coming from outside.  I thought I could hear someone crying, and then there was another sodden cough.  Whatever was out there, it couldn’t possibly be a threat.  It sounded pathetic, injured.  Harmless.

I didn’t feel reassured.
 My back was up, so to speak, and I was ready for a fight.

Then my sleep-addled thoughts darted to something that someone said the day before.
 I think it was Michael.  He mentioned another survivor, a deaf boy that was staying with them.  I thought back to the previous night, and realised I hadn’t seen anyone matching that description come back to the bunker.  I was paranoid, but I wasn’t stupid; I swiftly put two and two together.

Taser in hand, in case whoever or whatever had injured the boy was still nearby, I threw open the door and stepped out into the murky hall.

A moment later, the weapon slipped from my fingers and clattered to the ground.  My hands flew up to my mouth in horror.

There was so much blood.
 So much blood.

"
Dr Cross!"  I turned and raced down the corridor with no thought of my foot at all, panic and adrenaline dulling the pain.   When I reached the doctor’s door, I beat on it with my fists and screamed his name as loud as I could until finally it opened.

"
What?  What is it?"  The doctor looked sleepy and confused.  I couldn’t get the words to come out the way I wanted, so I just grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him back to where the wounded survivor lay in a puddle of blood.

I’d seen enough death in my lifetime to know how much blood is in the human body.
 I could hardly believe that poor boy was still breathing.

The kid lifted his head and looked at us pitifully with his one remaining eye
; the other had been torn from his head along with half his scalp.  Flesh hung in tattered strips off the bone around the empty socket.

"
Help…"  Blood dribbled from his lips as he struggled to speak, but then he coughed again.  It was a terrible spasm that racked his entire body with pain, and blood sprayed from his mouth across the cold concrete floor.

"
Oh, sweet mother Mary."  Dr Cross dropped to his knees beside the young man, ignoring the blood that soaked his trousers.  I heard a cry behind me, and turned to see that Skylar and Ryan had joined us.  The doctor looked at us and started issuing orders.

"
Skylar, fetch my medical kit, now."  He words were a command and Skye jumped to obey them.  "Ryan, go check all the outside doors are closed.  And you—" He pointed at me. "—go fetch Michael!"

I nodded and raced off, limping as fast as my body would let me.
 The leader of the group slept in a different area of the building, so he was unlikely to have heard the racket we were making – or so I assumed.

As it turned out, I underestimated exactly how loud I'd been screaming.
 As I rounded the corner into the corridor that led to Michael's room, I found myself face to face with a broad, bare chest.  I crashed into it before I could slow down, and almost bowled him off his feet.

He managed to brace himself just in time and caught me before I could fall.
 

"
I heard something..."

I was out of breath from the run and the panic, and struggled to form coherent words.
 I only managed to get out one:  "Dog."

It was enough.
 Michael looked in the direction that I pointed, immediately understanding what I meant.  He set me back on my feet and raced off, with me in hot pursuit.  Every second was precious, while a human life was bleeding out on the floor.

I was the last to return to the group besides Ryan, who was still off checking on our security.
 During the short time I'd been gone, Dr Cross had acquired a bundle of towels and was trying frantically to stem the blood flowing from the young man's terrible, terrible wounds.

The face wasn't the worst of it, I realised with horror.
 Poor Dog's torso was a mess of deep cuts, with chunks of flesh missing completely in a number of places.  His left hand was gone, severed at the wrist and pumping blood from the ragged stump.  The doctor had managed to staunch it with a tourniquet, but I feared it was already too late.

"
Help me get him into his bed." The doctor looked at Michael, who hurried over to obey.  He knelt to carefully lift the youth in his arms, trying hard not to jostle him but the injuries were so extensive that it seemed like an impossible task.  The boy looked so small and fragile compared to Michael’s lean bulk that in my imagination he weighed next to nothing.  With half of his face missing, I couldn’t even guess at his age.

Silently, I hoped I would have the chance to ask him one day.

Dog cried piteously, his one remaining hand grasping at Michael's shoulder as he was lifted.  He was in excruciating pain and fighting for his life, I realised.  Terrified.  Alone.  Trapped in a dark, silent world.  His one remaining eye darted about but blood hindered his vision, and I could see the muscles inside the empty socket twitching convulsively to match.  The sight was almost enough to make me throw up.

The poor boy.
 I’d never really wished death on another human being in my life, but right now I found myself praying he would die soon just so that he wouldn’t have to suffer any more.  It seemed impossible for us to save him.  I couldn’t bear to watch his torment, but I couldn’t just run away and hide.  Nobody should ever have to die alone.

Suddenly, the boy’s good eye cleared and found Michael’s face; recognition flashed across what was left of his.

"Muh… Muh…"  

He stumbled over his words, obviously trying to say his friend’s name, but he couldn’t get it out.
 Tears gathered in his eye and he began signing frantically with his one remaining hand, trying to express with his own language what he couldn’t do with the spoken word.

"
Calm down, buddy.  You're home, we've got you."  Michael tried to reassure him as he carried him to his bed and gently lay him down on the sheets.  I wondered if the boy could even see him clearly enough to read his lips.  The moment he was safely down, the doctor shoved Michael away and went to work trying to save the poor kid's life before he bled to death.

Skylar and I huddled by the door, watching with mute despair as the doctor began his makeshift surgery.
 When Michael joined us, Skye handed him a towel from the bundle she clutched.  He was covered in blood from moving poor Dog to his room, and he accepted it without a word to wipe himself down.  

Once he was as clean as he could be, Michael tossed the towel out into the hall and looked around to check on the rest of his group.
 He took one look at me then put an arm around me and pulled me up against his side.  My expression must have been transparent as glass – I was pretty upset.  Okay, really, really upset.  I felt no desire to protest, strike him or shove him off.  I just hugged him back in silence, shaking like a leaf from the adrenaline and horror of it all.    

I’d seen wounds before, terrible wounds, even wounds that I’d inflicted
– but I’d never felt so helpless.

Ryan returned, out of breath from his run.
 

"
The doors are all locked, I don't think anything followed him in," he announced breathlessly and joined us in our huddle.  He took Skylar's hand to comfort her, and looked around at the rest of us. "There's blood everywhere.  Is he...?"

"
He's alive, but I don’t know how much longer he’ll last."  Skylar’s voice was grim.

I half-expected the doctor to yell at us and tell us not to give up hope, but he was too busy to even notice us.
 This was not some TV drama where the patient always makes a miraculous recovery by the end of the episode.  Our reality was so much more brutal.

A life hung by the slenderest of threads.

With a flash of guilt, I realised that it came down to me, one choice made in a heartbeat.  If I’d slept a little bit deeper, then we would have awoken come morning to find nothing but a corpse in a puddle of blood.  It might have even been Madeline that found him.  Somehow, that thought was even more horrifying than anything else.

I’d
almost missed the sound of the poor boy’s struggles.  I’d almost decided to just roll over and go back to sleep.  Tears welled up in my eyes and I brushed them away hurriedly, trying to reassure myself that there was nothing more I could have done.  But try as I might, I couldn’t quite shake the unreasonable feeling that somehow, this was my fault.

The four of us stood dumbly for ten minutes before Skye excused herself to go check on Madeline, and Ryan left to go start the job of cleaning up the blood before it congealed.
 Michael offered to help him, but Ryan declined.  Someone needed to stay with the Doc in case he needed anything.

He was right, of course, so we stayed.
 One by one, the doctor stitched torn flesh back together where possible, or bound it as best as he could where it was not, until the youth was a mass of bandages with just one eye and a patch of soft brown skin visible.  The eye was closed in blessed, drug-induced sleep.

Thankfully, Dr Cross stockpiled anaesthetics.
 Just looking at those injuries made me feel nauseated – I could only imagine how poor Dog felt.  It seemed like it was only sheer willpower that had kept him alive for so long.

At last, exhausted, Dr Cross sat back and looked at us.
 His face was a mask of regret.  "That’s the best I can do, but he’s lost a lot of blood.  He needs a blood transfusion, but even with one I'm not sure he'll live."

"
But there’s a chance he’ll survive?"  Michael asked, his voice sharp and hard.

Dr Cross hesitated, then shrugged.
 "There's always a chance."

Michael nodded curtly and slipped his arm out from around me.
 He moved past me, further into the room, and dragged a worn old chair close to the bed so that he could sit down.  He offered his arm to the doctor without a word, who stared back at him in confusion.

"
What are you—"

"
I'm O-negative, the universal donor.  
Do it.
"  Michael’s voice was a hiss; looking startled, the doctor nodded and started setting up his equipment for a transfusion.

Great, more needles.
 I already felt queasy, but at the same time I didn’t want to leave Michael to suffer alone.  That seemed so wrong.  Although my moral code might have been a little askew after all these years, I still had one.  Michael was my friend, and he was doing something very brave.  He deserved my support.  Lacking any other option that was remotely useful, I sat down on the floor beside his chair and rested my head against his leg.

He looked surprised by the gesture, and stared down at me thoughtfully.
 I felt a gentle hand stroke my hair as we both tried to ignore the needle being inserted into his arm.  Even though no words passed between us, there was a silent understanding: I was offering comfort, and he was accepting it.  I took his hand in mine and put my cheek against it, giving him what support I could from simple closeness and human warmth.

It was true that I was socially retarded, but I wasn’t without instincts.
 There were risks associated with what he was doing, but I understood why he
had
to do it.  It was his friend’s life at stake.  If there was even the slimmest chance that he could help, then any risk was worth it.  If he didn’t, how would he live with himself afterwards?