The Survivors (Book 1): Summer

by Dreyer, V. L.

  There was even a tiny purple flower sitting on the table beside my bed, in a makeshift vase made out of a shot-glass.

  A flower? That’s strange, I thought as I stared at it. I was so focused on the bloom that at first I didn't notice the door crack open, nor the little face peer through. My attention snapped to the doorway when the child peeking at me giggled, but she shut the door before I could get a good look at her.

  Someone was out there and they knew I was awake. Animal instinct kicked in.

  I swung my legs out of bed and examined my foot, finding it stiff but relatively functional. I resisted the urge to tear the bandages off and douse the wound in bleach; the bandages were far neater than anything I could have done myself, so I could only hope the wound had been thoroughly disinfected.

  Feeling woozy from fever and possibly painkillers, I managed to get out of bed and limp the three steps to my clothing before the door burst open again. Michael hurried in, followed closely by a stocky older gentleman and a small girl of six or seven years of age.

  I was still so weak and disoriented from my recent illness that when Michael swept me off my feet and tucked me right back into bed again, I didn't have a chance to protest. Probably a good thing, for his sake; there was a huge green-black bruise along his jaw from where I'd hit him and it was only just starting to fade.

  Something else for me to feel guilty about, when he had been so nice to me. I’d add that one to the list.

  Everyone was suddenly talking all at once and I was having trouble keeping up. I didn't know how to respond to so many questions, coming from all angles. It was like a verbal barrage and I didn’t know how to counter-attack. After so long alone, it was hard enough to follow one line of conversation, let alone two or more.

  Amazingly, it was the little girl who saved me.

  "Shh." She silenced the adults with a sharp gesture, then fixed them with a pointed stare until they fell quiet. She pointed at me with one little finger, and with wisdom beyond her years got right to the heart of the matter. "She has been alone outside, probably for a very long time. Talk one at a time so she can understand you."

  I couldn't help but smile at the precocious child, and she smiled back at me. She leaned in close and whispered to me. "I picked you a flower. I hope you like it."

  Aww. Well, that explained that.

  "Sorry," I apologised automatically. "But she's right. It's been a few years. Longer, I think." My voice was dry and croaky from thirst, but it gave validity to my claim. Michael smiled, looking a little embarrassed, and the older gentleman frowned deeply.

  "How are you feelin—" Michael started to ask, but the older man cut him off with a gesture.

  "You hush, young man. Who is the doctor here? I am. I go first, and you may talk to her afterwards." He scowled at Michael, who held his hands up in self-defence. The doctor then turned penetrating hazel eyes back to me, and eyed me over the scratched lenses of his spectacles. "As for you – I am going to touch you, as I must examine you. Please refrain from hitting me. The boy says you pack quite a punch."

  The gentleman had a strange accent that I couldn't quite place. His demeanour, though less than friendly, spoke of a professional candour that put me relatively at ease. I nodded my consent, and braced myself for the unfamiliar sensation of human touch.

  Must not freak out. Must not freak out. Must not freak out.

  To my own amazement, I managed to refrain from panicking, as the examination was blessedly short. He leaned over me to check my temperature with the back of his hand, and then felt behind my ears with calloused old fingers. He checked my pulse, peered into my eyes, ears and the back of my throat then finally ended up asking me the exact same thing Michael had tried. "How are you feeling?"

  "Sore," I admitted, absently rubbing one of my shoulders. It felt like I’d slept on it for a long time, long enough for my arm to go to sleep. "A bit stiff. Really thirsty, too. How long was I out?"

  "Three days. It was touch and go for a while there; you were very ill," the old man answered, and his expression softened just the tiniest bit. He opened one of the drawers beside the bed to show me the contents. Inside, a couple of bottles of water were flanked by several precious items of personal hygiene – toothpaste, a toothbrush, a bar of soap and a few other things.

  Things that were once life's necessities, but were now rare and valuable. I was surprised to see them; putting them in the drawer beside my bed was obviously an offer for me to use them. It was generous beyond belief.

  I was suspicious.

  I looked at him uncertainly then looked at the water, afraid to reach for it in case it was a trap. With a disapproving click of his tongue, the man snatched a bottle out and put it right in my hand. He even opened the lid for me, then made impatient hurrying gestures until I drank deeply and quenched my intense thirst. I immediately felt better as the cool water poured down my dry and scratchy throat. I supposed running a fever did that to a body.

  "Where did you come from?" He demanded while I was still swallowing the last sip of my water.

  I peered at him questioningly. "Originally or most recently?"

  "Most recently, of course." He frowned at me, as if I were silly just for asking. The older fellow was a bit grumpy, I decided, but he was a doctor and that counted for a lot in this day and age. Behind him, I saw Michael hide a chuckle behind a cough, and pretend to be fascinated by something on the floor. He looked amused, but I was so isolated that I couldn't figure out what he found so funny.

  "South. I’ve been travelling around the south for the last few years. Most recently in a rural area about twenty kilometres south of here," I answered, although I was wary of the question. My distrust ran deep, though I didn’t have the courage to ask why he wanted to know.

  "Rural?" He repeated my answer, and I nodded. "Mm. Did you see any horses? Or pigs?"

  "No, just sheep, some chickens, and a few cows." The pieces were coming together; his line of questioning suddenly made sense. He was trying to work out my chances of exposure to tetanus and other infections. "A lot of the fences were down, though. There could have been horses in the past, I can’t be sure." I paused to consider. "I wasn’t attacked though, so I doubt there are any pigs left in the area."

  "Attacked?" The doctor’s brow furrowed, and behind him Michael looked equally confused.

  "Attacked by the pigs?" I peered back at them. Were we speaking different languages here?

  "Why would pigs attack you?" The doctor asked, bewildered.

  "Because of the infection?" I was incredulous, but the looks on their faces said they didn't have a clue what I was talking about. "Do you guys live under a rock or something? Pigs can catch the infection. It makes them crazy and violent. Kind of like…" I trailed off when something clicked. Michael stared at me, wide-eyed with understanding, and I stared back.

  "Great." When the news had sunk in, Michael squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "Psychotic zombie-pigs. They’re really a thing now. Please tell me you’re kidding?"

  I shook my head, and he groaned.

  The doctor sat down heavily in an old wooden chair beside my bed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Ah, just what we need. At least that explains how the mutation happened."

  "I think I remember reading that humans and pigs are genetically similar." I suddenly felt sick in the pit of my stomach. I’d only encountered a pig once in my travels, and it was so riddled with infection that it screamed a horrible sound and charged right for me. Like any sane person, I had panicked and fled. The only reason I’d survived was because both of the animal’s back legs were so badly mutilated that it couldn’t keep up.

  The men looked horrified when I shared the story with them, and I shot a worried glance at the little girl, but she seemed totally disinterested in the grown-up talk. I wondered briefly how traumatic her short life must have been, but given her age it was the only life she had ever known.

  "What about survivors?" T
he doctor decided to change the conversation, seeking information from me. "Did you see any other survivors? Why did you come north?" The questions came quick and fast, forcing me to take a second to process them before I replied.

  "No, no other survivors where I was most recently. I-I usually stay away from other survivors." I looked down at my hands, twisting the edge of the sheet nervously between my fingers. "I came north because I lacked the medical supplies or expertise to treat the infection I was bound to get from that." I gestured at my foot. "I stood on a nail in an orchard. I knew there was a hospital here, so I hoped to find antibiotics."

  "An orchard? That explains the fruit." Michael smiled at me. Despite the smile, I felt my stomach lurch. He must have read the concern in my expression, because his smile faded quickly. A look of uncertainty flitted across his face, as though he wasn't sure how I would react. "I didn’t want to leave it in your truck to rot. I put it in our cold storage for you."

  "You didn’t eat it?" This time I was genuinely surprised, and pleasantly so. I had expected from the moment I awoke in a strange place that I would have been robbed of all my supplies and left with nothing.

  "Of course not!" Both the constable and the doctor looked mortified at the very thought. "We are not thieves. What kind of people do you think we are?"

  I looked at my hands, feeling a sudden rush of heat in my face and neck as embarrassment and guilt curdled once more in my belly. Again I’d misunderstood, applying the template of past cruelties against good people who didn't deserve it, and now I had upset my benefactors. I felt like crying, but that wouldn’t really help anything. Everything was just so confusing.

  "I-I’m sorry," I apologised softly, not sure what else to say.

  A small body alighted on the bed beside me, and a pair of skinny little arms wrapped around me. I glanced sideways and discovered the little girl looking up at me with huge, doe-brown eyes. She translated my unspoken thoughts to her elders, then gave me a tiny smile. "She thought that we were going to hurt her and take her food."

  Tears blurred my vision and I hurried to brush them away, afraid to show weakness before others. How could this child have known me so well, and yet the grown men did not understand me at all? I felt so confused, so out of place. The child wasn’t the traumatised one, I realised suddenly. I was.

  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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  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.