Storm

by Virginia Bergin

  Everyone (except the keen amateur historian) is still saying no to that, but that day might yet come…because what we need is a proper testing kit, to see if the water’s safe—and even though we hear rumors, like the ones about how the phones and the Internet are going to come back, nothing seems to have happened just yet.

  Sort of sounds like it could be OK, doesn’t it, lazing around on a beach with your true love while the environment—hopefully—sorts itself out?

  Sometimes, for minutes at a time, it is OK…but I think I have yet to get through a whole hour without some awful, sad, or scary thought—and the nightmares? They haven’t stopped either. I can’t even say that it’s getting better day by day, because it doesn’t seem to work like that. You can have one day with a lot of really good minutes in it, and the next day…not.

  Sometimes I find I can’t be with Dar and Princess Priti, and then I just sit with Bridget for a bit. She lets me talk to her. She is not my mother, but it helps.

  Bridget says none of us will ever forget what has happened. She says some things are so bad, they are remembered by the whole planet for thousands of years.

  Yup, it’s definitely actually fairly tricky for the world to get back on its feet after an apocalypse. It’s hard enough getting back on your own feet. But I am. I will.

  Mom, I am still breathing.

  …I’d better wrap this up.

  Um…what else is there to say?

  Hn.

  Although Darius can still annoy the out of me (he says I have to say that it’s mutual), we don’t fight quite as much now…but the one subject we are guaranteed to snarl about is…going home.

  I want to go home.

  You’d think the Spratt would be up for that; I mean, what with the prescription glasses and the prescription meds alone, he’s got to have a fairly serious interest in rebuilding some kind of society where you can get stuff you need.

  I have less of a serious interest since I persuaded Glaring Barry to remove my braces, although I would quite like to get a replacement tooth. Dar says I look cute without it, like a sexy pirate queen.

  But he says a lot of things like that, with a goofy smile.

  OK—OK! With a sexy, goofy smile. Now quit pouring sand onto my back, Dar—yes, it does feel nice, but go away and let me finish this.

  He has gone. But he says I’ll never finish because I don’t know when to shut up.

  But he said that with a sexy, goofy wink.

  We will be going back.

  I mean, I’m guessing probably the whole of the UK has gone on vacation for the winter, but we’ll go back.

  I know this in my heart—where I also know Dar really feels the same. I think he is just trying to buy us all time.

  But spring is here already, in this place so far from home; in the UK, it’ll just be getting going. There will be daffodils flowering on the bank where Zak’s mom, Sarah, chewed wheel ruts into the mud trying to get me home—on that night, the very first night when the rain fell…

  No, I’m stopping myself. I’m not going to do this. That world has gone.

  In the new world that I sort of keep feeling like maybe we should lend a hand with, I’m not sure what I’m up for doing exactly. I’m not even sure that I’d be up for doing much. In some ways I feel, like… So maybe I already did enough?

  And also: But what could I do? I’m officially useless, remember?

  Where I will start is with what I need to do. I want to put a copy of this story in Dartbridge Library, right next to my earlier epic tale of survival. I want to do this just in case people in the future need to know what happened. No more lies must be told.

  I want to do that and then go look for Whitby… He cannot be dead. My mind refuses to allow the possibility. And sometimes my mind is right.

  And then—is it wrong that this comes last?—go look for my dad.

  I have ended up where I started: Where is my dad?

  And this is where I have the Spratt for sure. He wants to look for his mother.

  Together, we’ll go and do that.

  With the Princess. With Priti.

  I will start asking her questions about the rest of her family—about grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles and cousins—but I will do it very gently, because I know how much this stuff hurts.

  We are the orphaned children of the apocalypse, and we will come home.

  Also: the British Army has got my cell phone.

  * * *

  * Annoyingly, that is what people have started calling it. I was not the calm, crucial center of the storm of revolution, I was at the heart of a “confusion.” Do not get me started.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank:

  My family.

  Steve Geck, Kate Prosswimmer, Elizabeth Boyer, Alex Yeadon, and the team at Sourcebooks.

  In the UK, Rachel Petty, Helen Bray, and the team at Macmillan Children’s Books.

  My agent, Louise Lamont, at LBA Books.

  Dr. Matthew Avison (University of Bristol), for kindly providing excellent scientific advice. Again, I am very sorry about the made-up bits. I blame Ruby.

  My consultants: Ruby T, Stan, Aidan, Kate, and Luke…and their Taunton and Totnes families.

  The readers…since H20 was published in 2014, your support and encouragement has meant everything to me. To the people who emailed and tweeted, who blogged and vlogged:

  thank you so much!

  I would also like to thank my lovely friends, big and small. Most especially: Hilary Hunt, Donovan Hawley, and Jackie Pridham.

  The fabulous Hilary Beard.

  My friends and neighbors in Hotwells, Bristol.

  And:

  Alice, Lucy, Benedict, Finn, Héloïse, Isadora, Nathan, and Rosie.

  Vx

  There are many books about clouds and about survival. The ones I have are the following: The Cloud Book: How to Understand the Skies by Richard Hamblyn, and SAS Survival Guide: How to Survive in the Wild, on Land or at Sea by John “Lofty” Wiseman.

  About the Author

  Virginia Bergin grew up in Abingdon, Oxfordshire, and went on to study psychology, but ruined her own career when, while dabbling in fine art at Central Saint Martins, she rediscovered creative writing. Since then she has written poetry, short stories, film and TV scripts, and a play that almost got produced—but didn’t. In between and alongside more jobs than you’ve had hot dinners, she has worked as a writer on TV, eLearning and corporate projects, and has twenty-two broadcast and non-broadcast TV credits. Most recently she has been working in online education, creating interactive courses for The Open University.

  She currently lives on a council estate in Bristol and has taken to feeding the birds.

  Visit her at virginiabergin.com.

  Thank you for reading!

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