by Lily Herne
‘Ginger!’ I said. ‘Get Saint out of here!’
He nodded, his face grim, and picked Saint up as if she weighed nothing at all.
The fire was raging now, dancing down the aisles. ‘Lele!’ Ash called as Ginger headed towards the door.
‘Don’t worry about me. Help Ginger!’ I said. ‘I’m coming!’
Ash and Ginger were at the doorway, Saint in between them, when we heard the sound of roaring.
We were too late.
Another bike skidded to a stop at the doorway, blocking our exit.
A figure dismounted and stepped forward. Despite the smoke that was causing tears to course down my face, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her long dark hair shimmered down her back, the silvery T-shirt she was wearing accentuated the rich brown glow of her skin, and although her eyes were shielded by mirrored shades, her beautiful face showed not the faintest trace of emotion.
‘Ripley?’ Saint said in shock, and if Ginger hadn’t been carrying her, she would probably have slumped to the floor.
Holding his side where Ash had sliced through his jacket, Paul moved to stand next to her. Ripley looked at Saint, her perfect face still expressionless, and pointed out into the mall. ‘Just go.’
‘You . . . you’re a Guardian?’ Saint said.
‘Go,’ she said, her face still betraying no emotion.
I couldn’t see Ginger’s face, his back to me, but I could tell by his body language as he carried Saint out of the store that he was as shocked as she was.
‘Lele!’ Ash shouted as I turned back into the store. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m right behind you!’ I said, but all I could think about was getting back to Thabo. I couldn’t leave him. Guardian or not, I just couldn’t leave him.
Taking a deep breath, and pulling my T-shirt up over my mouth to keep out the worst of the smoke, I staggered blindly back into the store, stumbling towards the children’s section. Thankfully there was a break in the smoke and I sank to my knees where he lay. ‘Come on, Thabo,’ I said. ‘We have to get you out of here.’
He still lay motionless, even when I shook his shoulder as hard as I could. There was no way I could carry him out of there.
‘Thabo!’
His body shuddered, and he grasped my hand.
‘Don’t worry about me, Lele,’ he said, and I knew from the dead sound of his voice that I was too late. ‘Everything’s better now.’
‘You don’t understand, Thabo – you have to fight it. There’s something inside you, you have to –’
‘I understand everything perfectly,’ he said. He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual lopsided grin. This one was as fake as Paul’s. ‘I know everything. Nothing hurts anymore, Lele.’
As I watched, his dark brown eyes seemed to liquefy and swim, and then they merged into a black, blank nothingness. He was gone.
I tried to yank my hand out of his grasp. I could barely breathe now, my lungs were burning, but he wasn’t letting go.
‘You know, Lele,’ he said. ‘You’re more like us than you know. We are all connected.’ There was the flash of something in his other hand, and then I felt a sharp burning pain in my palm.
‘What?’
‘Look,’ he said.
I looked down at my hand. The wound was deep, blood welling up where he’d sliced it open with a shard of glass.
I tried again to pull my hand out of his grip, but he held fast.
‘Look deeper.’
It was hard to see through the roiling smoke, and I couldn’t make out anything at first, but then the breath froze in my lungs. Way down deep in the wound, barely noticeable silver strands curled and glistened under the welling blood. They were fainter and finer than the ones that had knitted Thabo’s wound together, but they were still there.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘You have the potential to be like us. The seed was planted long ago. When you die, you will live. You see?’
‘Lele!’
I could make out Ash’s shadowy figure staggering towards me, and then, suddenly, Thabo released his grip and I was free.
I backed away from him, holding my hand out in front of me, vaguely aware that Ash was dragging me towards the exit. I moved like an automaton as Ripley and Paul stood back to let us pass, horror, nausea and disbelief melding as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
No wonder I had never had any lasting injuries whenever I was hurt.
No wonder the Rotters didn’t try to attack me.
Why would they attack one of their own?
16
So now you know my big secret. Sorry I didn’t warn you at the start that it was going to end like this, but would you have believed me anyway? I barely believe it myself.
But I didn’t hide everything. I told you in the beginning that this story would end with a funeral. And it does.
The four of us are standing around the pyre Ginger has made in the Deadlands, watching as the flames engulf Hester’s body. There’ll be no crappy Resurrectionist funeral for her. She won’t end up as one of those shambling things she’d fought so hard against.
I make a fist and shove my hand deep in my pocket. It’s been three days since Thabo sliced into it, and there’s nothing but a faint scar to be seen on my palm. Sometimes I try to convince myself that I just imagined the silvery tendrils that glistened deep down in the wound, but that’s just wishful thinking. Still, I haven’t told the others what I know in my heart: That we’re even more different from the people in the enclave than we assumed. That something happened to all of us a long time ago that’s changed us forever, something connected to our other halves – our twins. That we’re not entirely human, not entirely Guardian, but something in between. That there’s a reason Saint’s knee healed so quickly. That there’s a reason the Rotters ignore us.
Saint’s taken to wearing her dark glasses all the time, and although I can’t see her eyes, her cheeks are wet. She may have recovered from her knee injury, but she hasn’t recovered from seeing Ripley again, from knowing what she’s become. What she’d chosen to become. Because I have to assume that Ripley was the same as us; that for some reason she’d chosen to join the Guardians. Yet, I can’t forget Thabo’s final words to me: ‘When you die, you will live.’ So perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps Ripley didn’t have a choice, after all. Perhaps when she encountered the Guardians in the mall, when she was trying to get medicine for Hester, she was mortally wounded and had no choice but to change. It’s not a comforting thought.
I want to tell Saint that the Guardians were wrong, that Paul was wrong. I want to tell her that there is such a thing as love, and that Ripley proved it by letting us go, that we all prove it daily by sticking together. And that not even the Guardians can destroy it. But now’s not the time. I’ll wait until later, until we’ve finished making the journey to the Agriculturals – the only place we can go now.
Ginger stares straight ahead, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks as Saint moves nearer to him and he takes her hand. All of us know that whatever we do, we can’t go back to the mall. And, at least for now, Ginger will have to live without his DVDs, his comic books and his endless bottles of Coke. But of all of us I think he’s the strongest. Even now he’s rubbing his hands over his cheeks, wiping away the tears. And when I look over to catch his eye, he manages a small smile.
Next to me Ash stands with his head bowed. He puts his arm around me and I rest my head against his shoulder. As I watch the smoke from Hester’s pyre curl upwards I think about Jobe in Mandela House, about Dad and the Mantis working for the Resurrectionists back in the enclave, the half-brother or sister who will arrive in the months to come. I hope I’ll have a chance to meet him or her one day. I wonder if Thabo made it out of the flames unscathed, and if that matters now that he’s no longer who he used to be. I think about Zyed and the others at Malema High, playing into the hands of the Resurrectionists, whose hold over everyone is growing daily. I think about the future of the city. And I t
hink about the funeral all those weeks ago – Gran’s funeral – where this story began.
A mournful Rotter moan floats towards us, and, as if on cue, it starts raining.
But there’s a flicker of hope alive inside me, even now. You see, this is the end of my story, but somehow I’ve kind of got the feeling that it could actually just be the beginning.
LELE
We smell it before we see it.
‘Oh, man, not another one,’ Saint says, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Whose turn is it?’
We both look over at Ginger, who’s lying nearest to the fire, his orange hair curling out of the top of his sleeping bag. He rolls over and snores, but I can tell he’s faking. I grab my sketchbook out of my rucksack and chuck it at him. ‘Nice try, Ginger, but I know you’re not really sleeping.’
‘Am so,’ he mumbles.
‘Seriously, Ginger, it’s your turn. And get a move on – it’s stinking up the place.’
‘All right, all right.’ He sits up and kicks his sleeping bag off his legs. The Rotter is stumbling towards the campfire, its raggedy arms hanging at its sides. ‘Yuk,’ Ginger says. ‘It’s one of the soggy ones. I hate the soggy ones.’
It reeks of that old book odour that all the Rotters stink of, and something else, something dead.
‘Just get on with it,’ Saint sighs, flapping a hand in front of her face. ‘It’s rolled in something disgusting.’
Grabbing a smouldering log from the edge of the campfire, Ginger prods the Rotter in the leg, herding it away from the clearing. It turns its head in Ginger’s direction and blindly thrashes out one of its bony arms. The suit it must have died in clings to its limbs, but its eyes are nothing but holes in its skull. ‘Go on, fella,’ Ginger says. ‘Go and find your mates.’
The Rotter lurches out of camp, but it doesn’t go far before it throws back its head and lets out a low, mournful moan. The sound echoes through the bush. There’s a pause of a few seconds, and then there’s a louder, answering chorus. Crap. There must be a pack close by. I know they won’t harm us, but still, it’s not really what you want to hear in the dark. It was one thing coming across a bunch of the walking dead on our excursions to fetch supplies from the mall, quite another to encounter them staggering into our camp. Saint thinks they must be attracted to the warmth of the fire, which creeps me out. I don’t like to think of them as still human, as things that might have feelings or whatever.
Saint groans. ‘I’m getting so sick of this crap.’
‘Really, Saint? I never would have known, you only mention it every single day.’
‘Whatever, Zombie Bait.’
I don’t really blame her for whingeing. Being at one with nature is all very well, but it’s not much fun waking up with a wolf spider inches away from your face. Not to mention the fact that we all stink – it doesn’t matter how often we wash in the freshwater streams, the odour of wood smoke seems ingrained in our pores.
I shiver and shuffle deeper into my sleeping bag. We’ve been out here for weeks, and although summer is on its way the nights can still be chilly. We should really scrounge some tents from the mall, but there’s no way we can risk going back there.
Another group moan floats towards us from the direction of the enclave. It’s louder this time, and Saint and I share a glance. The Rotters are usually only this vocal when they sense there’s going to be a relocation or a funeral – fresh meat to add to their numbers.
‘What time do you think it is?’ I ask.
‘Dunno,’ Saint says. ‘Four, five a.m., maybe?’
I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, check my boots for scorpions and pull them on.
‘Where are you going? You’ve already done lookout duty.’
‘Yeah, I know. Can’t sleep.’
Ginger nods knowingly at Saint.
‘It’s not like that, Ginger,’ I snap at him. ‘I’m just going to see if Ash needs anything.’
‘Yeah, like some lurrrrve,’ Ginger says.
‘Ha ha, guys. We’re just friends. How many more times?’
Saint stretches her arms behind her head and yawns. ‘You might be fooling yourself, Zombie Bait, but you’re not fooling us.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Hurry up and get it on already. There’s only so much lovesick Twilight crap me and Ginger can stand.’ She holds out a hand and Ginger slaps her palm.
‘Whatever. Give me your torch, Ginger.’
He leans forward and I snatch it out of his hand. ‘Come on, Lele, don’t be like that,’ he says.
Giving them both the finger I start pushing my way through the fynbos and head towards the lookout point. I hate it when they tease me about Ash. It’s a seriously sore point and they know it.
Early-morning light bathes everything in a bluish glow, and I don’t actually need the torch’s beam to light my way. The top of Table Mountain appears in front of me and the occasional light from the enclave below winks through gaps in the trees. A porcupine snuffles out from behind a bush and bumbles across the path.
Ash is leaning against the large boulder that provides the best vantage point up here, and for a second I’m able to watch him without him being aware of me. It looks like he’s reading something by torchlight. But that’s nothing new. He’s always reading.
I take a step forward and a branch cracks under my boot. He whirls around, shoving something into his pocket.
‘Sorry! It’s only me . . . What’s that?’
The shadow cast by the rock hides the expression on his face. ‘Nothing. Why aren’t you sleeping?’ He sounds exhausted.
‘Another Rotter came into camp. Woke me up.’ In fact, it’s been ages since I had a good night’s shut-eye. Thanks, guilty conscience.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s growing long, and flops over his forehead. I can’t remember the last time he smiled at me. Or smiled at all. Hester’s death took its toll on all of us, but it hit Ash the hardest. She’d been a mother figure to every one of us, but he’d known her since he was seven years old, and they’d had a bond that the rest of us didn’t – and couldn’t – share.
I climb up onto the boulder and perch next to him. From this distance it’s easy to pretend that the enclave is a peaceful place, all its citizens happy and equal. I swing round and let my legs dangle. It’s a long way down, but we chose this spot on purpose. Saint had wanted us to camp out on the beach at Blouberg, but an oil tanker had run aground there, a decade’s worth of pollution still clogging up the sand. And none of us wanted to find refuge in the crumbling, overgrown buildings that used to make up Cape Town’s metropolis. The blackened shells of the hotels and convention centre are way too spooky and dangerous.
So we’d set up camp on a koppie with a good view of the enclave, and far enough away from the mall to feel safe. Looking down at the lights makes me feel closer to Jobe, and I know Ash feels the same way about his own twin, Sasha.
‘You think they’re okay?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
‘Jobe and Sasha.’
‘They have to be.’
Sometimes I think that Jobe and I share some kind of mental twin connection, but I know it’s only wishful thinking. It sucks not being able to see him whenever I want to, but Ash and Saint insist that we should give it some time before we dare return to the enclave.
‘So how will we know?’ I ask.
‘Know what?’
‘When it’s safe to go back?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Lele.’
‘But we can’t stay out here forever –’
He turns on me. ‘I said I don’t know. What more do you want from me?’
‘Sheesh, sorry, okay . . . ’
He scrubs a hand over his face. ‘Yeah. Me too. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’
I’m reluctant to leave, but it’s pretty clear I’m not wanted here. Ash has never been one to witter on about kak – that’s Ginger’s forte – but since the fire at the mall an awkwa
rdness has crept in between us. And after what happened with Thabo, I’m not sure he even thinks of me in that way any more. If he ever did.
The worst of it is that it’s partly my fault. Ash isn’t an idiot, and I reckon he knows I’m keeping something from him.
And he’s right.
I am keeping something from him. I’m keeping something from all of them.
The secret burns inside me, but I’ve left it so long, too long, and I don’t know how to even start to tell them what I know.
Ash suddenly reaches over and grips my arm. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘Listen!’
All I can hear are the moans of the Rotters and the hoot of an eagle owl. Then I catch it – a faint rumbling sound. A wagon? This early?
‘You think it’s Guardians, Ash? They don’t usually –’
But my words are cut off as a piercing scream carries towards us. A human scream.
Oh crap.
‘Come on!’ Ash holds out a hand to help me down – I don’t need it, but take it anyway – and together we hare through the bushes, back to camp.
Ginger and Saint are booted up and waiting for us. Saint has tied a bandanna over her wild mop of hair and is attaching spiky metal weights to the chains wrapped around her wrists; Ginger is hefting the axe he’s been using since he lost his chainsaw. I can barely lift it, but it looks like a toy in his hands. He swings it once around his head. ‘Sounds like it’s time to party!’ He grins.
Another scream cuts through the bush.
‘Save your breath, Ginger,’ Ash says, sliding his panga out of the holster on his back. ‘Sounds like you’re going to need it.’
‘This isn’t a relocation,’ Saint says. ‘What do they think they’re doing?’
We’re hiding behind a thatch of wattle trees, twenty metres from the enclave fence, and the scene in front of us is made even more chilling by the shadows the Port Jacksons are casting around the clearing.
An elderly man, a woman about the same age as Dad and a teenage boy are cowering on top of the roof of a high, covered wagon. The family – if it is a family and not just a random bunch of escapees – are clustered in a tight, terrified bunch. There’s no sign of the horse – it must have panicked and broken free of its harness. And who could blame it? There are at least twenty Rotters surrounding the wagon, bashing their bodies against the cart’s sides and rocking it dangerously. And more are heading towards it, moving with that eerie speed they always find when they get the scent of blood in their manky nostrils.
