by Toni Cox
When I wake again, it is dark outside. I see three missed calls; one from Bronwyn, and two from my mother. There are several messages, too. I respond, letting everyone know I am fine, before dragging myself to the kitchen to make more tea.
I don’t feel like coffee or food, but I know I need some nourishment. At the stables, two other girls said they had been down with a stomach bug, so I take my pro-biotics with a glass of elderberry juice. I can’t afford to be off sick from work because of a stomach bug.
After taking the rest of my elderberry juice, I fill a hot-water bottle with boiling water and make my way to the bedroom. The TV is still on, and I hesitate in the lounge, staring at the flickering screen. Pieces of yesterday’s conversation with my dad surface in my mind as I watch the red band proclaiming BREAKING NEWS move across the bottom of the screen.
In a daze, I switch the TV off, the remote dropping out of my hand before I can put it back on the table. Bed. I angle towards it, bouncing against the door frame on the way into my room. Before I reach my soft comfort zone, the half-empty glass of juice slips from my grasp to spill on the beige carpet. I stare at the blood-coloured stain, not caring.
Hugging the hot-water bottle tightly, I curl up under my blankets and close my eyes. Silence. Just the dull thud-thud of the ache at my temples.
When I wake, sunlight streams through my window. My headache is as bad as it was last night, and my throat is on fire. I fight the fever pain in my body and drag myself out of bed, heading for the bathroom. My legs are so weak I can barely walk.
I’m too tired to make tea. Taking my tablets and juice back to bed with me, I dial the number for my office.
“Hey, Susan,” I croak, “it’s me, Erika. I’m not well. Could you let Stephan know I won’t be in today?”
“Sure, honey. You’re the third one to phone in sick today. Must be a bug going around. I’ll let Stef know. You just get better, okay?”
“Thanks, Susan.”
I hang up and drop my phone on the bed. My eyes close involuntarily, but I force them open to take my tablets and drink my juice. I need to keep my strength up if I am to fight this bug, whatever it is.
Finally losing the fight, I drift off to sleep again. Tossing and turning, I wake frequently from strange dreams, bathed in a sickly sweat that makes my t-shirt stick to me. So thirsty. Too weak to get water. Drifting off to sleep again. Waking, screaming, pain. I have no sense of time as I lay there, waves of agony washing over me. My mind tells me to pick up the phone, call my parents, call a doctor, but my body is too weak to comply.
Eventually, I fall into a restful sleep, without dreams, without pain.
I wake up from it slowly, like you would on a lazy Sunday morning, and it is dark in my room.
The pain is gone. I stretch my limbs, testing. Strangely, I feel fine. No aches, no stiffness, no more pounding headache.
I get out of bed, and my first stop is the bathroom. Then water. I have never been this thirsty. When I check the time, it is eleven thirty. Too late to phone anyone.
Heading back to the bedroom, I change out of my soiled clothes. Grimacing, I do the bedding as well. The mattress is wet. I must have been really out of it.
Wearing clean pyjamas, I take a blanket from the cupboard and curl up on the sofa. I fall asleep straight away.
A pain in my neck wakes me during the early hours of the morning. I sit up, stretching, cursing the odd angle I had been lying in. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I see it is almost time to get ready for work. I head for the shower, washing off the terrible night’s sweat.
Dressed and ready, I finally make myself some tea. The hot liquid feels good and revives me, but it also reminds me that I haven’t eaten. I pack some muesli to take to work.
When I check my phone to see if it is time to leave, I almost drop my cup when I see the date. I phoned in sick on Monday … now it is Friday.
“Oh, God.”
Panicking, I dump the cup in my sink, grab my car keys, and rush out of the house.
The neighbour’s dog is barking frantically as I open my garage. I pull the Polo out and zoom down the driveway. The gate doesn’t work, so I have to open and close it manually.
Frustrated, I climb back into my car and race down the street. By the time I get to the BP Petrol Station, I realise something isn’t right. All the traffic lights are out, which is not that unusual, as we have regular power cuts in South Africa, but there is also no traffic.
I see several parked cars, some of them in the middle of the road, but not a person anywhere. Taking my foot off the accelerator, I let the Polo coast down the street, staring at the eerie scene around me. I hesitantly drive down Van Buuren Road, the tree-lined way usually one of my favourites. Even here, I have to swerve past oddly parked cars and a minibus taxi. The parking lot by the gym is almost empty when at this hour it should be packed. The guy that has the flower stand next to the parking area is glaringly absent.
My heart is hammering wildly in my chest as I pass the shops and the police station. A line from an old movie floats up in my memory. I see dead people. There, at the restaurant on the corner, are two bodies on the pavement. A man and a woman. From the look of it, he had her in his arms before she died. I swallow the lump in my throat, terrified.
Putting my foot hard on the pedal, I speed around the corner with screeching tyres. I have no idea what is going on, and I just want to get away from here. Haring down the road, I fix my eyes ahead, ignoring the crazy world around me. When I finally reach the Murray & Roberts building, I zoom into the underground parking, coming to a squealing stop right in front of the elevator.
I sit there for a moment, breathing heavily. I don’t know what to think. Am I still hallucinating from the fever I had?
“Pull yourself together,” I tell myself.
Shaking, I climb out of the car and glance around at the deserted space. Besides my Polo, there are only four other cars here. I see Stephan’s SUV and hope moves my feet towards the elevator.
I push the button, but the light does not come on. Of course; no electricity. I climb the stairs to the first floor where reception is. It’s empty; not even the security guard is at the entrance. I carry on up the stairs to where the offices are on the second floor. An unnerving silence greets me as I open the door to the large, open-plan space. The only light comes from the windows; the shadows I cast on the office desk dividers as I walk by is just creepy.
“Shit.”
I drop my bag and rush into Stephan’s private office. My boss is slumped over his desk, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle.
“Stephan.” I touch his shoulder. He is cold to the touch. “Stef?”
Bracing myself, I take him by the shoulders and push him back in his chair. A scream escapes me when I see his bloated face, and I become intensely aware of the smell. I gag.
Crying, I run from his office, passing the deserted workstations, and back down the stairs.
Only when I am in my car and the doors are locked, do I stop to think about what I just saw. He’s dead. They’re all dead. My head reels. This must be some kind of nightmare. With shaking fingers, I start my car, my thoughts turning to my parents.
I turn back onto Van Buuren, drive by the empty parking lot of the Woolworths shopping complex on my right, and then turn left up Kloof Road. From this side, my parents’ house is quite a distance up the road, and the numerous speed humps add to my frustration as I try to get there as quickly as I can.
To my surprise, the huge metal gate is open. So is the door to the guard house. My father’s Range Rover stands in the driveway with the driver’s door ajar.
I fear nothing good has happened here as I pull the Polo in to park. Loath to climb out to check, I sit, trembling, gathering the strength I will need for what I think I will find.
Tears roll down my face as I make my way through the open front door. The foul stench of decay greets me as I enter, and my worst fears are realised. As with the couple on the streets, my father hold
s my mother in his arms, her hand clasped in a death grip over his.
I break down on the carpet in front of their bloated bodies, and sob. Nothing can still the terrible pain exploding within my chest as I look upon their distorted features. Pieces of skin are peeling off, and their eyes are bulging out grotesquely.
Eventually, I cover them with a blanket. I can’t look at them any longer. It hurts too much. The tears won’t stop.
I wander around the house, looking for Jane, but she is not here. Searching the yard, I find the guard in his room where he lives behind the house. He looks worse than my parents, flies buzzing around his face, which has burst open at the cheeks.
My stomach can’t take it, and I retch, depositing the tea I had for breakfast onto the guard’s floor. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and leave, shutting his door firmly behind me. I can’t deal with this.
As I walk back across the yard, I notice something strange and stop to listen. Unsure of what made me stop, I turn in a circle, shivers of fear running down my back. With goosebumps forming on my arms, I then run to close the massive gate, suddenly afraid. I don’t know what has me spooked, but there is something odd about the …
I halt, leaning against the now-closed gate.
The silence! I can hear dogs barking in the distance, and birds singing in the trees, but the constant hum of traffic and electricity the city usually produces is eerily absent.
My mind tries to comprehend what is happening, attempts to piece together the events of the days before I fell ill.
Bronwyn and I went riding. I went shopping with my parents. The red banner across the TV screen surfaces in my mind. Simian Flu. I shake my head. That happened in China.
Glancing up at the roof of my parents’ house, I note the solar panels my father had put up. With so many power cuts in South Africa, my father wanted an alternative source for when the lights went out.
Determined, I go inside. I know where the switches are and head straight for the basement. Most South African homes do not have basements, but ours is enormous, containing the batteries for the solar panels, as well as a generator. My father keeps his hunting gear locked up down here, too. I switch off the mains and switch over to solar power. The way my father has it set up, it is a simple flick of one switch.
Racing back upstairs, my hands shake as I turn on the TV.
The thing flickers to life but only gives me static. Frantic, I go through the channels, becoming more hysterical with every static picture I see. When a BBC lady suddenly talks to me, I scream and drop the remote. The picture is distorted, but the sound is good. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week and she certainly isn’t wearing any make-up.
… not alone. Make your way to Hyde Park Barracks, London, where you will be given shelter and food. We do not yet know how many are affected by the Simian Flu, or which countries are afflicted, but we will help you get in contact with your loved ones. We will keep reporting around the clock. Spread the word, help as many as you can. These are dark days and …
I turn off the sound but leave the TV on as I sit on the coffee table.
Numb.
Alone.
Dead.
Chapter 3
As evening arrives, I try the TV again, hoping to find a different channel. If England is broadcasting, then maybe other countries also are. I flip channels in vain and eventually give up. I try the radio, going through all FM and AM frequencies, but get nothing.
Drained of hope, I lie on the double bed in the guest room. The stench in the living room is too awful for me to sleep there. Pressing one of the scatter cushions to my chest, I cry. I am exhausted, confused, and heartbroken. My world has been turned upside down, and there is no one to help me. I don’t know what to do.
I must eventually have fallen asleep because, when I wake up, bright sunlight streams in through the window. Out of habit, I check my watch. 8 a.m. It takes a moment for yesterday’s events to come back. I cry anew as this altered reality hits me. I don’t want to get out of bed, but my bladder tells me otherwise.
Walking along the passage toward the living room, everything looks so normal; I can almost forget what is going on. At least, I wish I could. The stench is now almost unbearable, and I gag as I enter.
I have two options - leave here to go to my apartment, or bury my parents. I want to take the easy way out, but my parents deserve better.
The linen cupboard is full of crisp, white sheets. I take four. From the room next to the pantry, I retrieve a pair of rubber gloves and then move all the furniture off the living room carpet. I shake out one of the sheets and lay it flat on the floor.
Steeling myself for what I am about to see, I remove the blanket from my parents. Lifting it intensifies the smell, and I gag, worse than before. There is nothing in my stomach, but bile burns my throat. Pieces of their skin stick to the covering, and I fling it across the room, shuddering in disgust. I ball my hands into fists and close my eyes briefly, searching for the strength for what I need to do.
Although I am sporty and fit, I am considered petite by most standards. My mother is even smaller than me, but moving her fifty kilograms proves more difficult than I expected. After prying her fingers off my father’s hand, I manage to drag her onto the sheet on the floor. I look at her; her once pretty face ravaged by the illness that has taken her life.
I decide she needs some beauty to take with her and run into the greenhouse in the garden. I pick the Barberton Daisies my mother is growing there. They are her favourite.
Arranging the yellow flowers all around her face and over her body, I am finally satisfied and wrap her in the sheet. I use scissors to cut the second sheet into strips so I can tie it all up. She looks like a mummy. I giggle.
I drag her body out of the way and lay the second sheet on the floor. Looking at my dad’s slouched body on the couch, I worry how to get him to the sheet. He is a big man; I’m guessing nothing less than ninety kilos. I want to be gentle with him, but there’s nothing for it. Taking him by his feet, I put my full weight behind it and pull. His rear end slides off the couch, and his torso topples over to the side, his head hitting the floor with a soft thump.
I cringe.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say.
Grabbing him underneath his arms, I try to lift him, but he is too heavy. I fall back, landing on my arse with my father in my arms. He stinks. I try again, this time rolling him across the floor onto the sheet. It works. I wrap him up and then tie him as I did with Mom. I stare at them for a while before I can rouse myself to go outside.
In the shed, I find the gardener’s tools. Taking the pickaxe and the spade, I go to the bottom of the garden and start digging. Six feet under, they say. I never understood how deep that was until now and wonder if it will be alright only to make it three.
I have to take a break. I have neither eaten, nor have I had anything to drink, and I feel weak. Bright spots dance in front of my eyes and I’m afraid I may pass out. I lie back on the grass, staring at the blue sky above.
Conceding defeat, I drag myself up the gentle incline of the garden and back into the house. The stench hits me, and I realise why I’ve had no appetite. Gagging, I go to the kitchen and open the fridge.
Taking a bottle of orange juice and a Woolworths’ sandwich, I go outside. Once in the fresh air, I force myself to eat. The sandwich is surprisingly good, and I devour it in a few bites.
It takes much longer than I thought to dig the graves, and it is almost dark by the time I drag my mother’s body across the lawn. My back aches, but I place her as gently as I can, arranging more flowers on her white, mummified form.
Next is my dad. His sheet has spots on it where the foulness of his rotting flesh has seeped through. I don’t want to touch it and put the gloves on. Dragging him to his grave takes forever. I fall over twice before I eventually get him there. There is no placing him carefully, so I roll him in, closing my eyes as he drops disgracefully to his final resting place.
“Good
bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. I love you. Thank you for everything.”
I pick up the spade and fill their graves with soil. My back spasms with the hard work and my arms burn with the strain, but I keep going until they are fully covered and there is a slight mound over their final resting places.
With my hands, I pat the soil down and then gather rocks from all over the garden to line their graves. It is fully dark by now, and I stumble around, bumping into things. I start crying again.
When I open my eyes, I am lying on the bed in the guest room, with no idea how I got here. It is morning. I am alone. The urge to cry again is strong, but I resist it. I swing my legs out of bed and look around the room.
There is nothing comforting here, except for the memories of my parents. What I need is a way forward. As I think about it, some survival instinct kicks in, and I make a decision.
I get up and remove my filthy clothes, dumping them in the bin. I have no desire ever to wear them again. Next is a hot shower. I silently thank my dad for the solar power, and scrub my body, washing away not only the dirt but also the memory of yesterday’s task.
Still wet, I search through my mother’s cupboard for slacks and a t-shirt. I squirm while putting on her underwear, but I have nothing else. Luckily, we have the same shoe size.
I have no set plan, except that I want to fetch some things from home and bring them to my parents’ house. It feels safe here. I also want to drive around. Maybe there are other people like me out there.
The streets are as they were on Friday; deserted, except for the randomly parked car. When I get to the BP Petrol Station, something makes me pull into the parking lot, and I get out of the Polo to investigate the cars seemingly abandoned there.
To my horror, most have people in them. All dead. All in various stages of decay. I think of the other parked cars along the roads, and it dawns on me that they must have died while driving. What can kill that quickly?
