Resilient

by Toni Cox

  When we get there, the place is as creepy as it was the first time, except that the dead have now been eaten away within their uniforms.

  It’s easy to spot the enormous satellite dish, and we drive across the overgrown veld to get to the building that houses the operating equipment.

  The door is locked, and it takes Hunter several tries with the crowbar before he can force it open. Bronwyn and I go in, clearing space, while the guys bring in the generator from the Jeep.

  It’s a two storey building, divided into several offices, crammed with technical equipment. I have no clue what I am looking at, but Hunter moves around with purpose.

  While Andrew and Hunter set up the generator and the equipment, Bronwyn and I bring in our bags. If we hope to establish communications, we have to be prepared to camp out here for a while.

  We drop our sleeping bags upstairs, and then carry up the food, toiletries and other essentials. We leave the bottled water for the guys.

  “Are you sure it’s going to be safe with the generator inside?” Andrew asks again as Hunter rigs the final cables.

  “We can’t leave it outside for in case it rains. We’ll shut the door on this room, and I’ve connected a pipe to the exhaust. I’ve made a hole in the window and used duct tape to hold the pipe in place. The fumes won’t affect us, although the noise might drive us crazy after a while.” He winks at Andrew.

  “We’re all set up,” I say. “You guys just need to bring in the water.”

  “Alright,” Hunter says, smiling at me with a sparkle in his eyes. Damn, he’s sexy. “Let’s get this party started.”

  It’s dark by the time everything is in place. The vehicles are parked under a tree next to the building, and Morgan has just come in from marking his territory.

  Andrew closes the door, and throws the inside bolt across it, as we broke the lock when we entered.

  We have a limited number of jerry cans with petrol, so the generator is strictly for operating the communications equipment. In the communications room, where Hunter works, there are solar lanterns so he can see what he is doing. Up in the sleeping quarters, we make do with candles. We brought plenty. Right now, though, no one is thinking of sleep. We’re too excited, and huddle around Hunter as he turns knobs, flicks switches, and changes cables.

  We have no clue what he is doing, but it looks impressive. When the equipment starts to emit static noise, we are more excited. Hunter keeps working.

  Bronwyn and I eventually get up to rustle up dinner. It’s cold and boring, but we don’t care as we watch Hunter work.

  Around 10 p.m. the equipment screeches and squeaks. Hunter frantically works the buttons, but in the end, he is rewarded with only silence.

  “We’ll try again later,” he says at one in the morning, yawning.

  Andrew and Bronwyn go to their room, where Bronwyn has set up their sleeping bags and belongings. I go to my little room, Morgan at my heels. There is a blanket for him in the corner.

  “Mind if I join you?” Hunter says from the door, his sleeping bag in hand.

  I look at him blankly, already half in my sleeping bag.

  “Don’t worry,” he smiles, sheepishly, “I just want some company. Okay if I lie next to you?”

  My heart does a little somersault, and I want to shout out my assent, but I just nod, pretending not to care. Lying on my side; facing him; I pull the edge of the sleeping bag over my shoulders.

  “I didn’t expect to have success on the first day,” he whispers; his face so close I can feel his breath on mine. “It may take us several days to establish any kind of contact at all.”

  “If there is anyone out there,” I say bleakly.

  Hunter reaches out and strokes my cheek. “Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

  Screeching wakes us. Hunter is already on his feet; I can hear him cursing in the dark, looking for his flashlight.

  “What’s going on?” I hear Andrew call down the passage.

  “Quiet,” Hunter shushes him.

  Glows from flashlights now appear in the hallway, and I get up to follow them. The screeching, accompanied by irregular thuds, is coming from downstairs.

  Weapon in hand, Hunter leads the way. We follow, sleepy-eyed. It’s 4 a.m.

  We pass the room with the generator and, for a moment, it drowns out the unearthly screeching. Hunter first heads to the communications room, probably thinking something is broken, but then we realise the noises are coming from the front door.

  “Shit,” Hunter curses.

  “Hunter?”

  “Primals.”

  “Shit,” I repeat.

  “Turn your lights off,” Hunter orders.

  We stand there, in the dark, listening to the noises around us. From the sounds, we can tell that most of them are at the door, but some have moved around the building.

  Although there are metal burglar bars on each window, I am terrified they will get inside. Morgan stands next to me, growling, and I kneel to keep him quiet, and for my own comfort.

  “What do we do now?” Bronwyn asks, her voice trembling.

  Hunter checks his watch. “They should go away at sunrise. Until then, there isn’t much we can do. Let’s go back upstairs; at least there, they should not be able to hear us.”

  We do as he asks, but none of us can go back to sleep. We huddle in the room we’ve turned into our kitchen, and I make us tea on the little gas stove.

  The hours until dawn stretch before us. No one has anything to say, and we just sit there, listening to death scratching at our door.

  When the sun finally does rise, it takes another two hours before it gets too hot for the Primals and they eventually move away. Looking out of the top floor windows, we try to determine where they retreat to, but they spread out, and we lose sight of some of them.

  “That was intense,” Andrew says.

  “We’ve survived worse,” I say.

  “Alright, back to battle stations,” Hunter orders.

  “I’m just going to take Morgan for a walk quickly.”

  Hunter looks from me to the dog and back again. “Not alone, you’re not. Let’s all stretch our legs,” he suggests. “We need to bring in the rest of the petrol cans, anyway. Who knows how often we’ll be able to go out there with those things watching?”

  We grab our weapons, and Hunter leads the way out. It’s a bright day and promises to get hot. It’ll probably be safe during daylight, but we don’t take chances as we move over to the vehicles.

  As a group, our backs to each other, we keep our weapons trained into the surrounding bush. The long grass of the veld makes us nervous, especially as we can’t see Morgan when he moves through it.

  When we get to the Jeep, we hurry to retrieve the jerry cans. Bronwyn and I take the guys’ weapons, while they carry two cans each, and we make our way back.

  By the time we reach the building, Morgan isn’t yet with us. I whistle, but he doesn’t come.

  “Morgan,” I call him.

  “Shh.” Hunter puts a hand on my arm and slowly pulls me backwards.

  I hear it now. Deep growls emanate from the sparse treeline to the left of the building, interspersed with hissing sounds. Bronwyn and Andrew have already retreated to safety.

  I whistle again. “Morgan,” I whisper in a quivering voice.

  Now he’s barking; aggressive, vicious. The Primals are screaming back at him. We hear a commotion in the bushes. There’s a scuffle. Branches snap. Inhuman shouts of pain. A yelp from Morgan.

  I can’t take it. Tears run down my face. My face contorts into a snarl as I lift my automatic rifle and stride towards the bush before Hunter can stop me.

  “Erika … shit.”

  I hear him following me, but my mind is totally focused on the noises ahead. Nobody messes with my dog.

  “Morgan,” I shout at the top of my voice, “come here, boy.”

  The quality of sounds within the bushes changes as the Primals realise I am out here. I feel m
yself becoming the target. Firing a short burst into the tree line, I stop.

  “Morgan!” I yell.

  When the German Shepherd comes dashing out of the scrub, I want to cry again, but there’s no time for that. Along the edge of the bushes, I see ghostly faces snarling at me.

  “Get out of there!” Hunter screams.

  Morgan surges by me, and I fire another burst of shots into the trees. I hear screams of pain but also screams of fury. Turning, I run.

  I glance back when I get to the building; several Primals are out in the open, giving chase. Hunter is yelling at me to get inside. I slip through the open door, and Hunter closes it, slamming the bolt down seconds before the Primals bang against it.

  “Right,” Hunter states, “that didn’t go as planned. They may not like the sunlight, but if there is prey in the immediate vicinity, they will risk it. Guess Morgan will have to do his business right outside the door from now on.”

  I’m on my knees, arms around Morgan’s furry neck. He’s licking my face. I’ve checked him for injuries, but he got away unscathed - this time.

  It takes some while for us to settle. Our nerves are frayed. I make tea, and everyone eats a little. Then, it’s back to work.

  We crowd into the communications room, and the process starts again. Hunter teaches us how to use the machine, so we will be able to take turns.

  “Who knows which countries are still transmitting,” he says. “Europe is in the same time zone as us, but other countries are not. We’ll have to work shifts if we hope to catch someone.”

  At five in the afternoon, we eat dinner, and then Hunter sends Andrew and Bronwyn to lie down. They’ll take the day shift tomorrow.

  “We’ll work tonight,” he says to me, “but you can doze a bit if you like. Bring a blanket.”

  We’ve been up since early this morning, and the monotonous, repetitive task of saying the same thing over and over into the communication equipment all night long makes the hours seem longer than they are.

  Around the building, the eerie sounds of the Primals taunt us, adding tension to our already wound-up minds. Morgan lies by our feet, looking up every time there is a bang on the door or fingernails screech across a windowpane.

  “My name is Jackson Hunter. I’m transmitting from Pretoria Air Force Base in South Africa. If anyone is out there, please respond.”

  Every minute he repeats it until it’s my turn.

  “My name is Erika Marais. I’m transmitting from Pretoria Air Force Base in South Africa. If anyone is out there, please respond.”

  I don’t know how many times we’ve said it during the night, but by four in the morning, my mind can’t think of anything else. My name is Erika Marais. I doze off in my chair, knowing Andrew and Bronwyn will relieve us in the next hour.

  “This … the … of the British … can … - … us?”

  I’m suddenly wide awake. Hunter is leaning over the equipment, adjusting knobs.

  “This is Hunter. I can hear you.”

  Chapter 18

  I can’t describe how I feel. We came here to establish contact, but now that we have, I realise I never actually believed we could.

  Of course, I’m ecstatic, but there are other feelings within me I can’t come to terms with. I don’t share them with the others, but Hunter senses there’s something wrong.

  The connection to the British Armed Forces is tenuous at best, but we manage to communicate to them where we are. They give us survival advice, and such; nothing that really helps us. I guess they can’t really do much, half a world away.

  “We have to tell them,” Hunter says.

  I look at him. Mute. I guess that’s what we’re here for.

  Once we tell them what we know about the research, and about who I am, their tone changes very quickly. It’s from ‘don’t worry, you’ll be okay’ to ‘sit tight, we’ll be there soon’.

  “Well,” Hunter says, “I hope they mean it because our food here won’t last forever.”

  “Neither will the food we left out for the horses,” says Bronwyn.

  “Here’s to hoping they still have planes,” Andrew says, bringing in the bottle of champagne we brought for in case we did make contact.

  “I forgot about that,” Bronwyn laughs and takes a glass out of his other hand.

  We celebrate with champagne and baked beans for breakfast, before Hunter and I retreat to our room. I’m beat, and even the excitement of finally making contact cannot keep my eyes open longer.

  My dreams are strange. Primals, horses, needles, gas masks, dogs. I cannot find peace. There is such turmoil within me.

  When I wake, I feel Hunter’s warm body pressed against mine, his arm draped around me. He is sound asleep. I close my eyes again, for once giving in to not being in control, and I let myself be protected.

  “You had bad dreams,” Hunter says a half hour later. “You kept crying out in your sleep, so I held you. It helped.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  We go downstairs. Bronwyn is fast asleep on one of the chairs, her head leaning against the wall at an odd angle. Andrew looks up from a book he brought when we walk in.

  “Any developments?” Hunter asks.

  Bronwyn startles awake and rubs her eyes.

  “They said they are getting a team of scientists together to come down here. The General said it might take a few days.”

  “Alright, at least now we know what they are doing. You two get some sleep. Erika and I have it from here.”

  Andrew takes Bronwyn’s hand, and the two make their way upstairs. I take a seat in the chair Bronwyn just vacated, and Hunter sits at the controls.

  “How long until sunrise?” I ask, looking at Morgan already sitting by the door.

  The Primals are quiet now, but we know they are out there. We won’t risk going outside while it’s still dark.

  “Another hour or so.”

  The morning drags, with nothing more to do other than stare at the communication console. London has gone quiet now; probably preparing for their mission.

  At 10 a.m., we take a break, and Hunter leads the way out the door. I’ve got Morgan on a leash attached to his body harness; not taking any chances.

  While I walk him in a ten-metre radius of the front door, Hunter stands guard with his rifle. All seems quiet, but I can feel their eyes on me. Morgan is edgy, too, and he looks up frequently before he finally does his business.

  When Andrew and Bronwyn come down at 5 p.m., the Primals are already back at the building. They are noisier than last night; more insistent.

  “I think there are more of them now,” Hunter says, worried.

  “They know we’re in here; trapped,” I respond.

  Bronwyn has a hunted look on her face. Andrew holds her.

  “We should stick together,” Hunter comes to stand by me, taking my hand. I see Bronwyn’s eyes widen. “No more shifts. We’ve made contact, so now we just wait. Let’s bring our sleeping bags down here. There’s enough space.”

  He’s right. We feel safer together. As the night wears on, the noises outside increase. We can now hear them climbing the bars on the windows. Somewhere on the top floor, a glass shatters.

  Andrew and Hunter move around the building, locking the doors to the rooms we don’t use; just in case, even with the burglar bars on the windows. It makes us feel better.

  By morning, we finally find some sleep as the Primals go quiet. With Hunter breathing softly down my neck, and Morgan’s head resting on my feet, I can finally relax. Help is on the way.

  We’ve been here a week, but have been unable to go outside the past four days. It’s as if the Primals in the area sent out a signal to all others, and now there are a hundred of them.

  They lurk within the shadow of the treeline during the day, but do not hesitate to come out should we even so much as open the door. The moment it gets cooler, they emerge, swarming the building. They look terrifying with their emaciated, pale bodies, sunken, black eyes, and bald heads.<
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  Their hands are bleeding from where they’ve scratched them raw on the door or side of the building, or where they’ve cut themselves on broken glass. In their eagerness to get to us, fights break out, and there are now several dead ones lying in the veld around the building.

  We’ve dedicated one of the upstairs rooms for Morgan to use as his toilet. It took me a while to convince him that it was alright for him to go there, but he now takes himself there when he needs to.

  Our food is running low; we could only take so much with us in the two vehicles in one trip and had planned on doing supply runs back and forth if needed.

  Almost all the windows are broken. The Primals are insistent in their desire to get to us. Hunter has reinforced the door with a filing cabinet, and we only use light in the communications room, which has no windows.

  “This is Hunter. General Smythe, do you copy?”

  Silence.

  “General Smythe. Do you copy?”

  We try every ten minutes now, but the last correspondence we had was two days ago. They’re on their way; it’s all we know.

  “Do you really think they’re coming?” Bronwyn asks.

  “We better pray they are,” Hunter says, squeezing my hand.

  The storm of Primals continues to rage around us, their noises a constant reminder of the danger they pose. Morgan has long given up barking every time they stick their arms or legs through the broken windows.

  There isn’t anything else we can do. We sit tight, rationing our water. We haven’t flushed the toilet in days, and it stinks. We haven’t washed, and I’m sure we stink, too.

  I snuggle close to Hunter in the corner of the communications room, wanting to close my eyes for just a moment when there is a heavy thud against the front door.

  We all jump with fright as the filing cabinet moves: just a fraction, but enough to make us worry.

  Hunter struggles out of his sleeping bag and grabs his rifle. Morgan is now frantically barking at the door. Andrew throws his full weight against the cabinet, returning it to position.