The Survivors (Book 1): Pandemic

by Burns, Alex

  I stood up and wrapped my arms around my mother, not sure if I was trying to comfort her or draw comfort for myself.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I’m still actually even alive or if I’m in some kind of hell. Sarah, Lucy, Chris, Alan… all my neighbours dead,” I said hollowly. “Tristan… I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead or anything!” My voice rose almost hysterically. I forced myself to stop and take a few deep breaths.

  “When did you last speak to him?” Mum asked.

  “About 5 days ago. Maybe 6? Messages stopped going through, and then the power went out.”

  “It might not be as bad over there as it is here,” Mum said weakly.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “So who’s still alive?”

  “What is it like in Melbourne?” Mum asked, obviously stalling. I unravelled myself from her arms and went back to the kitchen table.

  “Strange. Eerie. Too quiet. Some of the shops have been looted, so obviously there are still some people around, but I barely saw anyone… only the girl who tried to steal my food and some guy trying to break into a car.”

  “Steal your food?” Mum frowned at me. “What happened?”

  It felt easier to talk about this instead of Sarah or the locals that had died.

  “Nothing in the end. A woman broke in last night. Smashed the back door - it’s glass, you remember? I caught her about to clean out all my food. She cleared out pretty quickly once I confronted her though. Maggie was about as useless as Gertrude… oh, shit! I’ve left the cat in the car!” I jumped up. I couldn’t believe it. I’d left the bloody cat in the car. She would be most unimpressed. And the guinea pig!

  “Quite the menagerie you’ve brought with you,” Mum said, following me outside. It was getting dark.

  “I’ve got Charlotte’s guinea pig too. At least, I hope I still do…” I trotted to the SUV. The cat let out a plaintive meow as soon as I opened the door. The shoebox with the guinea pig in it was still sitting on the passenger seat where I’d thoughtlessly put it down. A rustling sound and small squeak reassured me he was still in there.

  “Lucky it’s winter and not a stinking hot day,” I muttered. Mum hovered behind me. I turned and handed Mr Mister’s box to her.

  “You still have that old hutch, don’t you?”

  Mum nodded. I grabbed the cat carrier and pulled it towards me. Gertrude’s green eyes glared out at me.

  “I’m sorry, my darling,” I crooned at her. Poor kitty, she’d been in there for half the day. I put the carrier carefully down on the grass and got the litter box and her other things out of the car.

  “What else did you bring?” Mum asked, peering through the car door.

  “Oh, you know. Just my life…”

  Mum gave me a look, unsure what to reply to that. I relented with a sigh.

  “Clothes. All the food I had. Some other stuff…” I said with a vague wave of my hand. “I’ll unpack properly later. I should let the poor cat out, she’s been stuffed in here since this morning. She’s gonna hate me. Where should I put her?”

  “Put her in your old room. Tilly doesn’t go in there much, it shouldn’t smell too much like her,” Mum said, referring to the old cat we’d had since I’d been fifteen. She spent most of her time sleeping these days.

  I carried her back inside, and to my old bedroom which looked like it hadn’t been touched since the last time I’d been home a few months beforehand. Mum followed me with the litter box. I set up the tray, and a bowl of food and water for her, made sure the door was shut and triple checked to make sure Tilly wasn’t lurking somewhere in the room, and then opened the carrier. Gertrude streaked out and dived under the bed. I lay flat on my belly and looked at her. She’d backed up right into he corner and was staring at me.

  “Come on, puss. There’s food and water here for you, and you must be desperate for the toilet.”

  Gertrude just stared at me and swished her tail back and forth.

  “Have it your way,” I said with a sigh. I pushed the water bowl under the bed near her. She cautiously sniffed it and then after a glare in my direction, started lapping the liquid up.

  I left her to get acquainted with her new home and went back outside. Mum was rummaging around the car port (there was no room for an actual car in there, it was so full of junk), looking for the old hutch.

  “Found it!” Mum said triumphantly after a few minutes of mild cursing and muttering and one scream when a very large huntsman spider had dropped down onto her shoulder.

  I helped carry it out and we put it down on a nice looking patch of grass near the back door. Sammy, the pony, neighed at us from the fence, stomping his feet for attention. I ignored him.

  “There’s some fresh straw down in the chook shed,” Mum said. Obediently, I jumped the fence and started walking down through the fruit trees towards the chook shed, which also doubled as a wood shed, random storage shed, and Sammy’s shelter from storms. Sammy trotted up to me and head-butted me. I paused and scratched him behind the ears, and stroked his long face. I still wasn’t entirely sure why Mum had a pony. Sarah and I had spent countless hours begging for a horse when we were kids, but she’d always just laughed at us. A couple of years after the divorce though, Mum had sent me an email titled, ‘new ride on mower’. Utterly bemused, I’d opened the email, wondering why on earth she’d think I’d be interested in her new lawn mower. Picture attached, was all Mum had written. I’d clicked on the picture. It was a pony. A tiny pony. He was barely bigger than Maggie, but as we’d quickly discovered, he had the attitude of a fully grown horse.

  With Sammy at my side, I made it down to the shed. I peeked inside the section where the chooks were. It was getting dark, and the hens were all lined up on there perch, clucking away at my disturbance. Or perhaps they were clucking at Sammy. He stood next to me, eyeing the birds. I turned towards the straw at the back of the shed. Sammy blocked me. I tried to step around me, but he moved again, pushing me towards the chicken feed bin and neighed at me.

  “You’re a weird horse, you know that right?” Mum had told me that he loved chicken feed and was always trying to get into the chook shed when Mum fed the hens. I carefully pushed him out of the way. I didn’t want to piss him off too much and make him kick. Those hooves looked like they’d be painful. I managed to grab an armful of straw and headed back up to Mum and the hutch. Sammy kept trying to herd me back to the chicken feed bin. I laughed at him, then got irritated when he wouldn’t let up.

  “Mum! Your bloody pony is bullying me!” I yelled out.

  Mum wandered slowly down towards us. She had a carrot in her hand. Sammy spotted it and trotted over to her, leaving me free.

  “You’re just rewarding bad behaviour,” I said with a shake of my head once I was safely out of Sammy’s domain.

  Mum didn’t say anything, just took the straw out of my arms with a slightly dazed look on her face. Together we set up the hutch and then introduced Mr Mister to his new digs. He ran around the cage, sniffing all the corners, and then went to work attacking the green grass. We stood there watching him for a minute, until the dogs came running up. I quickly closed the hutch. Horatio didn’t have the best track record with guinea pigs.

  The sun was low on the horizon, with a bit of golden light breaking through the clouds. My hands and nose were feeling a bit on the frozen side and I gratefully parked my cold body in front of the roaring fire in Mum’s living room. Charlotte’s movie had finished and she was wandering around the house, looking a little lost. The dogs were both snoozing in front of the fire. Maggie took up so much space. She looked like a giant, furry black rug. Tilly, the old grey cat, was curled up on the chair closest to the fire. She hadn’t paid the new dog the slightest bit of attention.

  “Come and help me cook dinner, Charlotte,” Mum said. The house was strangely quiet without the usual talkback radio or TV on. Just to have a bit of background noise, I put on another DVD. I didn’t even care which one.

  I just stood there, s
lowly rotating myself in front of the fire, watching the dogs, half listening to Mum and Charlotte in the kitchen and mostly trying not to think.

  Once dinner was ready, Mum served up bowls of steaming pumpkin soup. The three of us sat around the dining table and quietly ate. The clink of spoons against bowls was the only sound we made. I actually managed to keep my food down this time.

  I tried to stay awake, but I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” I said, throwing an apologetic glance in Mum’s direction. She was staring down at Charlotte, slowly running her fingers through the little girls hair. Mum looked up, startled, almost as if she’d forgotten I was even there.

  I kissed both Mum and Charlotte goodnight, gave the two dogs a pat on the head and went to my room.

  Gertrude had evidently decided that the top of the bed was better than under it and was curled up on one of the pillows. She opened a wary eye when I opened the door, but closed it again when she saw it was only me. It was cold out there, the heat from the fire unable to make it in. I shivered as I undressed and quickly climbed under the covers. The sheets were cold, and I curled up in a tight ball, waiting for them to warm up, missing Tristan. He was always so warm, like my own personal radiator. I pulled the cat under with me to speed the process up. She started purring and I just stayed in the moment, petting her and scratching her under the chin.

  I closed my eyes. The events of the last twenty-four hours came rushing at me and I could barely breath. My sister was dead. My brother-in-law was dead. I clutched Gertrude to me so tightly that she bit me.

  The tears came flooding out again and refused to stop. How could this be real? No sister, no best friend, no idea if my brother, dad or fiancé were even alive. Most of my friends were probably dead as well. I couldn’t process it.

  A restless sleep eventually claimed me. Death stalked my dreams, apart from one. It had felt so real. I was just sitting around my dining table with Tristan, Lucy, Alan, Sarah, Chris, Tom, and Yi-Ling. We were eating tacos. Laughing at something. I didn’t want to wake up, but I did and the tears started flowing all over again.

  Chapter Twelve

  My head ached worse than a hangover when I woke up the next morning. I lay in my childhood bed, rubbing my eyes. Mum had been threatening/promising to turn the room into a proper guest bedroom for years, but somehow hadn’t got around to it. I was absurdly grateful to be in my familiar old room, in my old bed, even under my old doona and quilt that Aunt Helen had made me for my 13th birthday. She’d made me a bigger one for my 21st birthday. That was still on my bed in Melbourne and I panicked suddenly when I realised I’d left it behind. What else had I forgotten?

  The cat had migrated down to the end of the bed sometime during the night, probably to get away from the irritating crying and sobbing her human had been doing.

  It was another cold morning. I could hear magpies warbling in the tree outside my window, but the rest of the house was silent. The golden morning sunlight streamed in through the gap in the blinds. I reached up and pulled one of the blinds back and blinked rapidly to clear my eyes. It looked like a crisp, sunny morning. I sat up so I could see properly. A layer of frost clung to the blades of grass where the sun hadn’t kissed it yet. I threw the covers back, then immediately pulled them back up again once my body registered the cold air. I couldn’t see my breath, so it wasn’t utterly freezing but it was damn cold enough. My heart skipped a beat as I imagined how Tristan would grizzle about the lack of central heating and our cold mornings. I liked to rib him for being Canadian and complaining about the cold, but the truth was our houses weren’t built as well as theirs were when it came to insulation.

  I spied my old fluffy pink dressing gown in the wardrobe and dashed over to it, pulling it on. My slippers were still in the car, so I pulled on yesterday’s socks instead.

  Mum was already up, sitting quietly at the kitchen table, staring into her cup of tea as if she’d find answers in there. The silence struck me again. Mum was a fiend for talk back radio, and I was so used to it being on in that house.

  “Morning,” I said, sinking down into the chair opposite her. She jumped and then smiled wanly at me. I looked at her closely.

  “Did you sleep at all?” I asked, studying the dark shadows under her eyes.

  Mum shook her head. “I couldn’t. I just sat there watching Charlotte sleep. It sounds silly, but a part of me was scared she’d stop breathing if I wasn’t watching her…” Mum trailed off and stared out the window. “And then I kept wanting to check on you. For all I know, you’re the only child I have left.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I wish Tom would get in touch,” Mum said after a moment.

  “Me too.” I tried to calculate how long it had been since Tom and his girlfriend had cleared out and gone bush. I was loosing track of days again. I’d left my calendar back in Melbourne as well.

  “What day is it today?” I asked Mum after sitting there for a few minutes and failing to figure it out.

  “Is it Tuesday?” she asked tentatively.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I think it’s Tuesday.”

  “Okay. We’ll go with Tuesday.”

  “We need to tell Charlotte,” Mum said. “She asked me last night when she could see her parents again.”

  “What did you say?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “I told her we’d talk about it in the morning,” Mum said quietly, spinning her cup round and round on the saucer.

  “Does she have any idea what death even means?” I asked faintly, with a worried frown.

  “I don’t know. She was only a baby when your Gran died, and no one else close has yet, as far as I’m aware.”

  “And that guinea pig is her first pet…”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My head throbbed. Mum got up and made herself busy making a fresh batch of tea.

  I wasn’t sure how long we’d been sitting there, sipping our cups of tea in silence, when we heard the pitter patter of little feet.

  Charlotte poked her head around the kitchen door. She was still in her pyjamas and clutching Sarah’s old pink teddy bear. I blinked at it. I’d had no idea Mum had kept our old toys. I wondered briefly if my old blue blankey was stashed away somewhere. I’d refused to go anywhere without it when I’d been about three years old. It had been rather battered by the time Mum and Dad had persuaded me to leave it on my bed each day. I opened my mouth to ask Mum what had happened to it but the words died on my lips.

  Mum’s eyes were welling up again, and her lips were pressed firmly together. I got up and tried to distract the little girl from Mum’s distress.

  “Good morning, my favourite niece!” I said heartily. My voice barely sounded like my own. Charlotte giggled though.

  “I’m your only niece, silly!”

  “You’re still my favourite,” I said, sweeping her into a hug. “Did you sleep okay?” Charlotte wrapped her skinny arms around me and nodded.

  “But I heard a monster in the night.”

  “A monster?” I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Mum. She looked puzzled.

  “It roared!”

  “Was it a possum?”

  “No, it was a monster!”

  Mum shook her head slightly and cleared her throat. “I heard it too, honey. But I think it was a possum. They sound pretty scary sometimes.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Positive. There’s a family of possums that live in the old oak tree. Sometimes you can hear them running along the roof. They make a lot of noise for a cute little marsupial. And when they fight with each other, they make giant roaring sounds, just like a monster. Do you know why they might do that?” Mum asked, ever the teacher.

  Charlotte shook her head. “To be scary?” she asked after a moment.

  “Exactly!”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, really. They make those scary noises as a warn
ing to the other possums. They can be very territorial,” Mum said matter-of-factly.

  “What’s ter-tor-al?”

  “Territorial. It means they like their own space and don’t like visitors,” I said. “A bit like old Auntie Edith.” Charlotte giggled. She’s met Mum’s old grouchy spinster aunt a few times. I started to laugh as well, and then suddenly stopped. Auntie Edith was probably dead. The thought seemed to cross Mum’s mind as well and looked wide eyed at me and sat back down rather quickly.

  “I… um…” I felt flustered and at a lost of what to say or do. “What do you want for breakfast?” I asked Charlotte, retreating to the normalcy of the mundane.

  “Um…” Charlotte bit her lip and looked at the kitchen table. There wasn’t much on there.

  “We’ve got… what have we we got, Grandma?” I asked Mum. She shook herself again and took a steadying breath before turning a smile on us.

  “We’ve got toast and cereal - weet-bix and corn flakes and some muesli - or you could have some yoghurt or fruit or I could make some porridge… whatever you like, sweetheart.”

  “You have yoghurt?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t had any fresh dairy since the first week of quarantine. I’d been drinking my tea and coffee black or with powdered milk. I’d assumed the milk Mum was using was powdered.

  Mum nodded soberly. “Needs to be eaten in the next day or two though, most likely.”

  “Well, I know what I’m having,” I said with conviction. I didn’t know when I’d get the chance to eat yoghurt again. I had no idea how to make the stuff. “What about you, Charlotte?”

  “Um…” Charlotte tapped her lips with her finger. “Toast, please. With vegemite. Like the way Mummy makes it, not how Daddy makes it.”

  “And how does Daddy make it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  Charlotte wrinkled up her nose. “Too much Vegemite.”

  “Okay. You got it. Lots of Vegemite,” I said.