by Toni Cox
Feeling spooked out by the dead around me, I get into my car and race home.
The complex is graveyard silent; - even the neighbour’s dog is not barking - and I leave the car in front of the garage.
Once inside, I get my suitcases out of storage and start packing. Somehow, I know I am not coming back here. Two suitcases and three plastic storage boxes later, I heave everything to my car. I’ve packed everything I think I may need, including the fluffy toy dog my granny gave me when I was born. I never travel without Tommy.
I’m about to leave when I hear the whine. It sounds pitiful, and I pause, tilting my head to listen. I think it’s coming from the neighbour’s yard, and I inch to the boundary wall, carefully looking over it.
The huge German Shepherd is hanging by his collar from the fence that divides my neighbour’s back yard from his front garden. The dog must have tried to jump the high fence to get out and gotten caught.
He whines again, and I can now hear that he is struggling to breathe. He may have been annoying, but I can’t leave him like this. I get into my car and drive out of the complex and up the road, stopping in front of the neighbour’s gate.
The gate is closed and won’t budge, so I clamber over it and make my way around the back to where the dog is hanging from the fence. I wonder if the owners are dead within the house.
The animal sees me coming and begins to struggle.
“Shh,” I soothe him, “I’m here to help you. It’s alright. Hold still now.”
He squirms under my touch, and his eyes roll back in their sockets. I’m afraid he will bite me, as he bares his teeth. The chain is so tight around his neck; I cannot get it loose.
“Hold on,” I tell him.
I glance around until I find something I can use to pry apart the spikes of the fence — the owners’ golf clubs. I wedge one between the wooden spikes and yank with all my force. When it snaps, I fall back, smacking my head on the ground.
“Ow.”
The dog drops down, and his legs give way beneath him. He lies there, panting. As I get up, he wags his tail.
“Happy now, are you?” I ask. “Thirsty?”
Rubbing the back of my head, I open the gate to the back yard and fetch his empty water bowl and fill it at the tap. He tries to get up when he hears the water. I hurry to bring it to him.
I sit with him while he drinks, nearly lapping up the entire bowl. The tag on his choker chain says his name is Morgan. I take it off him, so he does not get hooked on it again.
“I can’t take you with, Morgan. I don’t even know how to look after myself. But I’ll unhook the gate, and you can get out of here, okay?”
Morgan wags his tail.
I get up and walk across the garden towards the gate. Morgan finally gets to his feet and slowly follows me. He sits down again when I pry the cover off the electric motor for the gate and switch it to manual. Then I slide the gate open and move to my car.
“Hope you make it out there, bud,” I say as I climb in.
When I get back to Kloof Road, I keep myself busy by turning the guest room into my new living quarters. I also park my dad’s car in the garage and lock the driveway gate.
It isn’t enough to distract me for long, and I soon become intensely aware of the silence around me. Sitting on the armchair with my knees pulled up - I don’t want to sit on the couch where my parents died - I switch on the TV, hoping the BBC is still broadcasting.
There is no lady, but a green banner across the screen keeps repeating the same message the lady had announced before. It makes me wonder if she is still alive.
I don’t want to feel all doom and gloom, but I can’t help it. Everything I know is gone, and I have no one to turn to for help. I don’t know what to do next. The thought of my parents brings back the tears, and they run freely down my face, blurring the green strip across the TV. I wish I knew what happened, if there is anyone else out there, if anyone I know survived. I have so many questions, and only a hollow aching in my chest to keep me company.
Wrapping my arms around me, I stop myself from shivering. Not from cold, but from shock. It had to come. I rock, knowing I should drink something sweet, but unable to get off the armchair. I can’t do this. My world has fallen to pieces. My mind rebels against everything it has seen during the last two days and shuts down to any rational thought.
A wail sounds eerily in my ears, and it takes me a moment to realise that it’s me. All my pain, all my fear, comes out of me in wild, hysterical cries. I scream until I am hoarse and then scream some more.
I get up and pick up the nearest object to fling it across the room. The vase shatters satisfactorily against the wall. I laugh maniacally and find something else. A horse head statue sails through the air, knocking a painting off the wall.
I am unstoppable as I move through the house. Nothing is safe as I trash my mother’s carefully placed decoration, scattering them into thousands of pieces on the floor.
When I get to my parents’ wedding candles, I hesitate with them in my hands. Shaking, I place them back on their shelf, shocked that I almost stooped that low.
I crumble to the floor amid the chaos, sobbing.
Why did this happen?
Why am I alive?
Please, God, if you’re out there, let me die.
Chapter 4
A new day, and I am still alive. After seeing the destruction I caused when I woke up this morning, I make a decision. I will stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with my life, such as it is.
I put the kettle on to boil and sweep the kitchen. The mess is not as bad here as in the living room, but I broke a bowl that contained apples, which are now scattered across the floor.
When the water boils, I make my tea, take my tablets, and then head to the small lounge. I didn’t go in there last night, and everything is still in its place. This used to be my mother’s lounge, where she watched her programs while dad watched the news in the living room.
It takes me a moment to find the channel that shows the BBC News, but it’s just the same green banner again. I leave it on; it gives me comfort to think there may be others out there, somewhere.
After I finish my tea, I put on the new clothes my mom bought me. The CAT boots, the Levi jeans, and the Sissy Boy jersey over a strappy top. I wear it in honour of my mom, but I have to admit it looks good on me. Not that there’s anyone to see me wear it. I shake the thought off and set to cleaning the place.
It takes me longer than anticipated, and by lunchtime, I am starving. Sipping elderberry juice, I look at the edibles in the fridge. Some of the items in there will have to be thrown out unless I eat them today.
I make myself a concoction with egg, tomatoes, ham, left-over potato, and cheese, and eat it while standing in the pantry, looking at the shelves.
There is probably enough food in there to last me two months if I am careful. The selection is broad, and I have to smile at my mom’s penchant for shopping at the German butchery down the road.
There are other imports on the shelves, too. Stuff only rich people would buy. Italian olives, French snails, Norwegian canned salmon, Spam. I decide it’s time to go shopping for regular stuff.
I still feel unsettled negotiating the empty streets, especially knowing there are rotting corpses inside those parked cars. The Meadowdale shopping mall is down the road, and that is where I am headed. It has a Checkers supermarket, as well as other shops, such as a pharmacy, that could come in useful.
There is a crowbar in the trunk of my car so that I can force my way in, but when I get there, the doors to the mall are wide open. I hesitate; this is way too easy.
Holding the crowbar firmly with both hands, I enter, keeping my back to the shop fronts. Some of the smaller shops are closed, but the larger ones are open. Again, the eerie silence gives me the creeps.
I soon discover I am not alone. How, and why, these people would have been at work when they died, I will never know, and I give them a wide berth.
&nbs
p; Taking a shopping trolley, I enter Checkers and stroll down the aisles. It feels weird to be shopping without having to worry about money. My conscience stops me from taking things I don’t need, and I stock up on noodles, packets of soup, sauces, canned foods, and toiletries.
A trip to the shop would not be complete without getting tea and coffee, and I rush to get a second trolley to load up on as much pasteurised milk, boxed cappuccino, and mint tea as one trolley can hold.
I load everything into my Polo; cramming it into the trunk, the back and passenger seats; and then head to the pharmacy.
This Dischem is smaller than the one at East Rand Mall, but I prefer it. In the second last aisle, I find the last two bottles of olive leaf tablets. I grab more pro-biotics, as well as sanitary pads and my favourite charcoal toothpaste. At the tills, I steal one of their pretty shopping bags and stuff my loot into it before leaving.
Outside, I stop, suddenly feeling the weight of being alone.
The parking lot is vast, almost completely devoid of cars. A blustery wind has come up, and I shiver even though the sun is shining. Paranoid, I run and cannot get the key into the ignition fast enough once I am in my car.
I don’t know what spooked me, but I am glad to be driving. It only takes five minutes to get home, and I distract myself by emptying the car and sorting it all onto the shelves in the pantry.
When I’m done, I stand back and admire my haul. This should last a while. From the kitchen, I take my mother’s notepad and pen and jot down every item in the pantry. I may as well keep a record, so I know how much I consume in a week. Who knows how long I need to live like this before I am rescued?
Rescued. Switching on the TV, I stare at the green banner. What if there is nobody there anymore? Hope drains from my chest as if someone pulled a plug. I sob. No. It can’t be. They have electricity. Someone must be there to keep things going, to air the signal. The lady said they didn’t know how many countries were affected yet; surely, that meant they were investigating. I cling to that hope with what determination I have left.
It makes me rethink my situation, though. I cannot pick up a local signal, not on TV or the radio. If I wait to be rescued by the British Forces, I may be here longer than I want to be.
Checking the time, I decide it’s early enough and get into my Polo. The police station is a few blocks away. I turn out of the gate and right onto Kloof Road, hating the speed humps as I maintain at least 60 km/h. The thought of being outside in the dark frightens me.
I swing into Kings Road and then left onto Van Buuren. The police station is on the corner, opposite the restaurant where I saw the dead couple. I shudder. The station’s inner parking lot is full of police cars. I have never seen it like this. They must have all dropped off their cars before going on sick leave.
Soon I pass the offices on the right; I don’t know what’s in them and I don’t want to find out. I’m heading for the main office, where you can get your ID certified and affidavits done. The door is closed, but not locked. When I push it open, the smell almost overwhelms me. Pulling my shirt over my mouth and nose, I tough it out. Behind the counter is the object I am after - their police radio. It’s like the mother of all CB radios.
Stepping over the dead police officer, I try to ignore his grotesque features, but the way his black skin has burst open and the pink flesh underneath is showing through is making me retch.
When I reach the device, I realise I have another problem. It’s heavy. For a moment, I consider taking a mobile one out of their cars but quickly dismiss it. The range is simply not broad enough.
My project management brain is now fully engaged. I have a problem, and I need to solve it. This is one of the areas of my job I excelled at. Stephan loved this about me. The thought of him makes me want to do him proud.
I look around. The office is bare, besides two office chairs, some stationery, and a filing cabinet. I smile and pull one of the chairs alongside the table with the radio.
After I unplug it, I hoist the thing onto the chair. Everything wobbles dangerously for a moment but then balances. I then push the chair towards the end of the counter, and its plastic wheels scrape under the weight.
When I get to the dead cop, I know I have to move him to get the chair by him and steel myself for the task. On a hook around the corner is a police jacket. I take it to wrap my hands in, as I don’t want to touch the man. The noises he makes when I pull him out of the way are disgusting, and movement releases a fresh waft of stench. I never knew dead people stank like this.
I’m about to walk away when I see his service weapon in its holster at his hip. It’s a 9mm, semi-automatic, similar to those I’ve used at the shooting range with my dad. I hesitate, then unbuckle the holster from around the man’s hip and yank it free. Landing on my butt, I clutch my prize to my chest.
Dropping the holster on top of the radio, I push the chair out of the office to my car. It’s twilight now, but it gets dark quickly in Africa, so I need to hurry if I want to get home while there is still light.
The couple still lies entwined across the road, and I look at them sadly for a moment before I climb into my car. I’m about to close my door when I hear noises. I freeze, listening, hopeful.
Then I see them. Two dogs, on the island in the middle of the street. They appear as if they had been fighting, except now they are watching me. I like dogs, but these two look anything but friendly. Slowly, I pull my right leg in and then slam the door shut.
At the sound, the two dogs race towards the car. I fumble with the key as they launch themselves at my door, snarling, barking. Their claws screech across the metal and I can see their teeth as they bite at the glass.
I rev the engine and put it into reverse. Turning the wheel, I spin backwards, flinging the dogs to the right with the motion. I faintly hear yelps before I speed off without looking back.
The damn thing doesn’t work. I sift through everything my father told me about these police radios, but cannot get a signal. Not even static. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I cry again.
Desperate for some company, I rifle through my father’s records. Pink Floyd, Rolling Stones, CCR, The Beetles, Queen, and several classical records. My father has quite the selection. I settle for Queen, as Mozart is not really my thing. Strangely, I feel as if their songs were written just for me as I listen to their lyrics. I also want to break free and find somebody to love.
A week goes by before I pluck up the courage to venture outside again. Safe inside the house, I first take stock of everything I have and realise there are certain items I may need in the long run. For starters, I need to get that bloody radio working. To do that, I need to return to the police station to get the antenna off the roof.
Armed with the toolbox from the garage, and the holstered 9mm at my hip, I drive back there.
One of the dogs must have been killed by the car - or at least wounded - and I notice that the other dog then feasted on the animal. Kill or be killed. This is the world I live in now.
I drive into the police yard and quickly close the gate behind me. If the other dog is out there, he’s not going to surprise me this time.
Walking around the small complex, I check the roofs for the antenna. I finally see it and cringe at the size of it. There’s nothing for it. I have to have it.
Getting up to the roof isn’t difficult, as the buildings are low. I hoist the toolbox up with the rope I brought. Once on the roof, the aerial isn’t as big as it appeared from the ground.
The bolts holding it in place are rusted and tight. I try several spanners before I find the right one and then I don’t have the strength to turn it. My hand slips and I graze my fingers on the rusted plate the antenna is attached to. I swear repeatedly. Setting the spanner back in place, I smack the thing with a hammer until the bolt eventually moves. Success. I repeat this with the other three bolts until the plate comes off, and the antenna almost falls over. I catch it just in time.
Getting down is not as eas
y. First, I lower the toolbox, then the antenna. The drop from the eaves is close to three meters, and I don’t want to jump in case I break something. From this angle, the way I climbed up seems impossible to go down with again. I pace the roof, looking for a way. The drainpipe does not look sturdy enough to hold my weight, but it is my only option.
I get onto my stomach and slide off the roof, wrapping my legs around the pipe. I slide further until I can hold the pipe with my arms. The thing creaks under my weight, and I slither down quickly.
My left ankle twists when I land, and I yell, but it isn’t so bad that I cannot walk. Cursing my bad luck, I gather my stuff and shove everything into the car. This had better be worth it.
At home, I put disinfectant on the graze on my hand, before looking for a place to mount the aerial. The entire roof is covered with solar panels, and I don’t want to go up there in case I break something; they are my only source of electricity.
The satellite dish is mounted high on the building behind the house. There is no way I can reach it, but I know that’s where I will get the best signal. I settle for the roof of the guard’s cottage instead.
The smell, when I get there, reminds me about the dead man. I will have to deal with him, but my priority is the antenna as I lean the ladder against the building.
The cordless drill whines shrilly as I drill the holes. It’s harder than I thought and kneeling for so long hurts my ankle. I thank my lucky stars for my background in engineering when the bloody antenna is finally in place.
Chapter 5
My ankle is swollen, and the graze on my hand is red and hot. Scratching through the medicine box, I look for something to strap up with, and an antiseptic ointment. I find plasters, small bandages, disinfectant, antacids, headache tablets, and finally, some Betadine. I slather the antiseptic ointment on my hand and wrap one of the bandages around it.
