by Sarah Gray
***
We’re one of the first groups in the mess hall, sitting politely at one of the long tables down the back. I watch the other people wander in. They’re all in the same white gear and they head straight to the food line. No one looks at us, which is kind of strange when you think about it. It’s not like survivors come along all the time.
“Should we eat now?” Kean says.
“Finally,” Henry replies. “I thought you’d never ask.”
We all get up and follow Kean into the queue. There are three huge stainless steel pots sitting in a warmer, but the lids keep the contents a secret. Kean reaches the server first. She’s an older woman, maybe in her fifties, with pale hair and small glasses that sit on her nose and keep steaming up. “ID,” she says. “It’s in your left cuff.”
“Really?”
The server gives him an impatient look. “Last time I checked.”
Kean glances back at me. “Sorry, we’re new here.”
“You got that ID? No ID no service.”
“Man, how many times have I heard that before?” Kean says to me as he rolls back the left cuff of his jacket. Sewn in is a small black metal tag. “Hey, what do you know? I’m number three five eight.”
The server writes the number down in a notebook and spoons out some rice and peas onto his plate. I show her my cuff. I’m three six zero. She gives me the same rice and peas mix. At the end of the line I collect some cutlery and a glass of water, and wait for Liss. Both Liss and Henry get smaller portions but they also get a glass of milk.
“This is so weird,” Kean says as we walk back to our table. “I feel like I’m in jail.”
“Well, I like it,” Henry says. “No running, no screaming and no dying. Plus an endless supply of food and DVD’s.”
“You have to go to school tomorrow, remember.” Kean says. “You looking forward to homework and maths equations and Shakespeare?”
Henry narrows his eyes.
“I bet school doesn’t change, even in the apocalypse,” Kean says.
“Dammit.” Henry spoons a lump of rice into his mouth. “Where’d they get milk? Think they’ve got cows here?”
Kean picks up the milk glass and stares at it. “It’s probably UHT milk, the stuff that lasts for years.”
“Ew.” Liss pushes her glass away.
Kean takes a big mouthful of Henry’s milk. “Still tastes the same.”
Liss seems to change her mind and takes a tiny sip of milk. “How come you guys don’t get milk?” she says.
I shrug. “Too old maybe?”
“Where do you suppose they get all this food?” Kean pushes the peas around his plate. “Three hundred people a meal. That’s a truckload of food.”
“I don’t know.” I look at Trouble; he’s glancing around, slowly chewing on the rice. “And water and electricity…” I add.
“And gas…” Kean says. “To gas us with.”
“I guess that bit kind of makes sense in a quarantine centre.”
“Does it? Shouldn’t they be trying to cure everyone, not knock them out?”
“I don’t know.” I lift my hands in surrender. “I’m not an expert at this.”
“I’m just peeved they took our stuff. Trouble’s legendary baseball bat, the dictionaries, your backpacks, your boots!”
“And my chair,” Henry says with a full mouth.
I look over. “They took your chair?”
“Yeah, this is a different one. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, but it seems like overkill.”
“It’s like starting all over again, hey.” Kean punches his brother in the arm.
“I think it’s weird how no one talks to us.” I take a sip of water. “We should be like new shiny toys or something.”
“And they pretend we’re not even here. Think they’re worried about us bringing infection?”
“Maybe.” I shrug.
We finish the rest of our plain meals and head back to the room. I’m so used to going to sleep early because there’s not much you can do in the dark. But now I’ve no idea if it’s dark outside. All I’ve got to go by is the clock on the wall. I sit there and watch it till our lights go out (guess we have a curfew). Then I just lie there thinking about what tomorrow’s going to bring.
