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 f
inally 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."
Michael thought I was pretty? I felt my cheeks burn, and leaned in closer to listen.
"What if she's dangerous, or crazed? You don't know anything about her. She's clearly a loner, and that says things about her mental state. What if she’s a thief? What if she’s a serial killer and playing on our pity?"
Michael’s deep voice was firm and commanding, and rose to my defence. "The only thing it says about her mental state is that she’s been through a lot of pain, doc. You saw her face when we were talking. Even Maddy could see it. She honestly thought we were going to rob her or kill her – or worse. Just think about what it must have been like to live like that for so long."
I heard footsteps, but they weren't coming closer; it sounded like he was pacing.
"We can't just abandon her." It was Michael’s voice again, low and solemn. "If she wants to go, that's one thing. But forcing her out would be wrong – it’s both immoral and unethical. Frankly, doc, I’m a little disappointed that you would even suggest it. She’s a human being, just like all the rest of us, and she’s traumatised. She needs us."
My heart leapt into my throat, and the flush faded almost as soon as it began. Dr Cross wanted to throw me out? It felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. I wasn't surprised though, really. I probably wouldn't want me around either.
There was silence in the room, apparently as the men were thinking over their decisions, while out in the hall I slumped against the wall. Tears ran down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with a corner of my towel.
"Ah, what is it with you and picking up strays?" There was a heavy sigh. "I suppose you’re right. She does deserve a chance. But I must insist that if she becomes any kind of threat to Madeline, you evict her immediately or we will leave. You understand, of course."
The sound of footsteps came again as the men parted ways, heading in opposite directions. I didn’t know where the doctor went, but it was Michael who emerged from the doorway where I was eavesdropping. He turned to head in the direction of the bathroom, then froze when he saw me right there, in tears.
"If your friend doesn’t want me here, then I’ll go," I said softly and sniffled, not wanting to blow my nose on their nice towel. With as much dignity as I could muster, I shoved myself away from the wall and drew myself up to my full height. Then I gave the handsome young man a long, hard look, trying my best to pretend I hadn’t been crying like a baby a second before. "It’s okay, I understand. This is your home, not mine. I wouldn’t feel right staying here if it made you and your friends fight."
I gave him the faintest of smiles, then turned and limped my blubbery mess off in the direction I was at least slightly certain my room was. The truth of the matter is that I wasn’t comfortable with the situation at all and I wasn’t sure how to react. The whole thing was overwhelming, and my automatic response to the unknown was to retreat.
Behind me, Michael swore under his breath. The sound of his footfalls behind me sped up, so I picked up the pace to try and outdistance him. Injured and vulnerable as I was, he caught up with me easily; his big hands captured my shoulders from behind.
I tensed, automatically expecting to be beaten or violated. Even though I had already come to understand that Michael was a gentle man by nature, my instincts were so warped that I was ready to defend myself in a heartbeat. But one thing held me back: No matter how hard I fought, violence wouldn’t fix the terrible emptiness that I felt at the thought of being alone all over again. I had tasted the simple joy of human acceptance, and I longed for it – but the last thing I wanted was to tear apart other people’s relationships in the process.
Michael didn’t hurt me, of course. He just held me gently, close enough to him that I could feel his body warmth on my back, but not quite close enough to touch.
"The doc’s just a cranky old man, and he’s always picking a fight over something." Michael’s voice was hard at first, but it softened as he spoke. The last words were almost a whisper, and I sensed something in them that I didn’t quite understand. "Don’t pay any attention to him. I want you to stay."
I couldn’t think of an answer.
He turned me around to face him, as gently as if I were a porcelain doll. I stared up at him silently, and saw the look of concern on his face.
"Nobody should have to be alone unless they want to be," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "You don't want to be alone, do you?"
The tears sprang back unbidden. Although I tried to blink them away, the lump in my throat made it impossible. The pressure of spending all those years alone was just too much for me to bear. My head ached and I felt like I might burst at any second. I looked away and tried to think of an appropriately sassy response, but all I could think of was little Tigger, the kitten who had been my only companion in many years.
Did I really want to be that alone again? It hurt just to think about it. These people were so nice that it brought me back to another place and time. A time when I was young, before I needed to be afraid of everyone. Back to being with my family, safe and loved.
Did I really want to go back to the endless silence, where the only kind of conversation I could have was with myself?
No, I really, really didn’t.
I shook my head and closed my eyes against the onslaught of pain. Michael seemed to understand my turmoil. He put his arms around me and drew me up against his broad chest, holding me so tenderly it was like he was afraid he might break me if he squeezed too hard. I tensed right up, before I realised that he was just hugging me in an attempt to comfort me. I hadn’t been hugged since Grandma died. I barely even recognised what it was.
It felt… nice.
Lacking the experience to know what to do, I just stood there pathetically, my face pressed up against his chest. The tears flowed freely, and he held me as I cried. The longer he held me, the weaker my defences grew and the more the wordless emotion poured out of me. But even when my shoulders shook and I struggled to muffle the convulsive sobs that fought their way out, he was there for me, like a pillar of strength to hold me up while I was weak.
Something in me had burst. Over the years, I’d built up an emotional dam to survive. That dam had been full to bursting for a very long time, and every day it was a battle to keep it under control. Something about the warmth of human contact made it impossible to keep forgetting and keep suppressing, and so I wept.
I wept for all the things I’d lost, for all the things I’d never have, and for all the lives that had been snuffed out in futility all around me. For the unbearable pain I’d suffered in silence all these years, with no kind of vent or release to keep me sane.
I had no idea how long it was before I regained control of my emotions, but when I did I felt exhausted, dra
ined and sore all over again. I leaned against him for almost a minute longer while I caught my breath, before I finally broke the embrace. He let me go, but kept his hands resting on my shoulders, his face full of kindly concern. Not a word of judgement, no questions, he just waited, giving me as much time as I needed until I was ready to talk to him.
"Bleh." My first word was not an elegant one. "I think I'm dehydrated now." I buried my face in the towel and scrubbed away salty tears with the dampest corner I could find. Michael blinked owlishly at my comment, and then cracked a smile.
"We better get you something to drink, then." His voice was soft and husky in a way that sent shivers down my spine. Without asking permission this time, he slid his arm around my shoulders and led me off toward the kitchen – and I let him. I was not in the mood to fight.
I let him seat me at the table and watched listlessly as he poured two glasses of cool water from the fridge. He set one down in front of me and seated himself across the table, sipping deliberately from his glass. I mostly just played with mine, more interested in figuring out the weird feelings that careened through my gut than drinking water.
It was a good five minutes before he finally broke the silence. When he reached out to me, it was with the dry, sarcastic brand of humour that I always resorted to; apparently he had noticed already, and turned my own verbal weapon back against me. He was trying to get a rise out of me, any kind of rise, so that he could assess the extent of my psychological damage – and I knew it.
"Are you moping?"
"Yeah," I answered without missing a beat, then heaved a dramatic sigh. "Apparently my brain is broken. I feel stupid and rude and– and–" I looked up at him, finally seeking out his kind eyes. "And I'm sorry I hit you."
"You do pack a mean right hook." He smiled and rubbed his jaw sheepishly. "Don't even worry about it. I understand. Big, scary guy sneaks up behind you in a dark, terrifying hospital, and almost shoots you in the butt? I'd have punched me, too."
The Survivors (Book 1): Summer Page 13
