The Apocalypse Blog Book 3: Into the After

By Melanie Edmonds

"The world is broken. It's broken and it wants to kill us. All of us. I think it might succeed."

At Christmas, the city was attacked by an unknown force. All Faith and her friends know of it is the fallout: a tainted sky that throws down acid rain, and a Sickness that kills and warps everyone it touches.

There is no help coming. There is no food being grown or fresh clothes being made. All they have to live on is what they can scavenge, and those supplies are only getting harder to find.

It's August now. They've lost friends and gained new members since the bomb went off, and it's time to start looking for a way to sustain themselves before there are no more scraps to find.

The only lead they have is a distant radio message. Will it hold the promise of a future? Can they forge a new world in the ashes of the old one?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Edmonds
• Release date: Apr 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476450131

Melanie Edmonds

Melanie Edmonds is a technical writer by trade and fiction writer by love. She has a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing, and has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. She writes primarily science and speculative fiction, and her published work includes web serials such as the Apocalypse Blog and Starwalker.

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The Apocalypse Blog

Book 3: Into the After

By Melanie Edmonds

Copyright 2012 Melanie Edmonds

Original cover by MoeJoe, adapted by Beth Harvey

Smashwords Edition

Discover the rest of the Apocalypse Blog saga at Smashwords:

Book 0: Before the End

Book 1: End of the Old

Book 2: Rising

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Table of Contents

Part 1: Haven

Nuts

Huddle

Small mercies

Eight

News

Elephants

Before the last step

To Greenberry

Rough awakening

The General

Green plastic men

At the window

Catch-up

Food for thought

Usefulness

Chief no more

The path we tread

Empty beds

Across the courtyard

Care and feeding, part one

Care and feeding, part two

The disposal of monsters

Temporary

Not the fish

In hand

Against the flow

The big picture

Shark attack

Tell me something

Care and feeding, part three

Comparing notes

Interrogation

Fever

The unseen face

Lucky

Words

The final struggle

Label link

Retrospective

While the cat's away

Best of it

Clipping cover

Paying the price

Collapse

Girls' domain

Cut off

Setback

Curse

Three

What we want

Itch

Nothing

Behind the curtain

A little piece of me

Shunned

Fate and other f-words

Love and leaving

Part 2: Great Escape

Small print

Add-ons

Reluctant saboteur

Glass flowers

The real future

Options open

The ferret and the food store

Amateur action

The uselessness of flowers

Waiting for the storm

Anywhere but here

Punishments

Day of the Dead

A rest in darkness

No sweet sorrow

Muted

Plus one, minus two

Seekers old and new

A matter of consent

A wealth of bad ideas

Punishing warning

Soon is now

Gathering storm

Storming the gates

Parting gift

Moving forward

Dust in the distance

Familiar shores

Head count

A story in shambles

Out of ashes

Motives and open mouths

Seeking affirmation

Reunited

The lyrics of reunion

Baby in waiting

Saviour in the belly

Same old situation

We are one more

Breaking it down

Danger of maybes

Little bit of love

Part 3: The Farm

Fields of glass

Holding on to what's important

Who and why

Biting in the belly

Holding the baby

Zombie sharks

All the unsaid

Mindless prophets

Examination by an unfriend

Write it on the broken sky

Fire on glass

Unpacking

Rude awakening

Fear and intimacy

Unmasked

Slaves to the After

Anniversary, part one: blog

Everything to me

The weight of maybes

Painless

The only thing

Soundlessness

Teeth and bone

Anniversary, part two: bomb

One of many

Boxed in

Ownership

Who to be

Homemaking

A baby called Hope

Anniversary, part three: rain

Previously, in the Apocalypse Blog:

On Christmas Eve, Faith was in the Central Business District of the city when a bomb went off overhead and changed everything. She found herself in a group of firefighters and survivors, struggling to get to safety while the city fell down around them.

The bomb had scorched the sky, creating a layer of orange cloud that settled over the city like a death shroud. A week after the explosion, those orange clouds let loose rain laced with acid that ate through anything organic in its path: plants; pets; people.

Since then, the rain has come every day, chasing the survivors into shelter where they huddle for the night and wait for the water to stop falling. Faith and her group of Seekers hurry across the city's ruins in the dry hours, using vehicles if they can, going from one spot to the next on their map, always searching for the next sign of hope.

The rain kills everything it touches. Those who survive a burning, agonising death are destined to fall Sick and die, months later. But they don't just die. Warped by a poison in the acid, they rise with a mindless, insatiable hunger and hunt down any living person they can find.

As the weeks and months pass, signs of other survivors grow fewer and fewer. The Government is gone and there's less food to scavenge every day. The Seekers need to find somewhere to start again, somewhere that doesn't rely on the dregs of a broken world to survive, because soon, it will all run dry. They need to find a way to build a future.

They have a lead on a last possibility: a radio transmission promising food, shelter, and safety.

This is Faith's story, blogged every day on the laptop she was carrying when the bomb went off, in the hope that sometime, somewhere, someone will read it and know what happened when the world came down.

Part 1: Haven

Nuts

24 August - 5:30pm

We're still in the warehouse district, moving painstakingly from one to the next in search of supplies. We had more luck today than we've had for a long time: our search for something edible turned up nuts. Boxes and boxes of foil-packed nuts. Peanuts, cashew nuts, Brazil nuts, hazelnuts, walnuts.

What is it about Christmas and nuts? They have shiny red and green packets, desperate to remind us of that time of year. Poor things have been sitting here since that fateful December, waiting for someone to come along and celebrate with them. Well, we obliged, so happy to find a fresh source of food - and one meant for human consumption - that there was even some dancing.

We rushed back to the vehicles with them. Matt couldn't wait to ask the two convoy guards if they wanted to eat some nuts, which made Dale grin and Thorpe look unimpressed. I haven't laughed that hard in a while.

After we had crammed as many boxes as possible into the campervan, we had ourselves a little feast. Terry was the first one to make himself sick. We all laughed when he rushed off to throw up, but it's hardly surprising. Too many nuts aren't good for you; my stomach isn't entirely happy, and I didn't stuff myself as much as some of the others.

We think that someone stashed them. They were on the upper floor of a stockroom, tucked away at the back behind a row of action figure boxes. If we hadn't been desperately checking everything we could, we would have missed them. And I think Terry and Tia were messing around with the action figures.

It all led to a tense debate. As Dan pointed out, if someone stashed them, then they meant to come back. They're organised and mobile. They sought to hide them from other survivors, which means they're protecting themselves. Understandable, but it means they probably won't be friendly if we come across them, even if they never find out that we stole their nuts.

There's no way to know when this group came through here or if they might still be alive. We're fairly sure that the Pride never made it this far south - they were spreading eastwards before they were overtaken by the Sickness - so it probably wasn't them. We could be worrying over nothing, over people long dead or twisted into shamblers. Or they could be on their way back here right now to pick up their stashed food.

If there's one stash, there's bound to be another. We don't dare turn away from that possibility. We need more than nuts to live on - despite them being packed with all kinds of good things for the body - and we haven't found the supermarket depot yet. There's too much to do here to let ghosts chase us away.

Nevertheless, we have another reason to guard the vehicles now. And to stick closer together.

Gotta go - time for dinner. Nuts, with a side order of dog biscuits. Who said the end of the world couldn't be tasty?

That might have been me.

* * * *

Huddle

25 August - 10:38pm

Don't have a lot of time to post today. We're not sure we dare show any light; in the thick darkness under the clouds, any glimmer is too much. I have turned the brightness on the screen down so much I can barely make out what I'm typing.

We found the supermarket depot today. Clearly, we're not the only ones who know about it. There was activity inside but we didn't get close enough to see what.

There were guards on the gate. Armed guards, with guns. They looked well-equipped - cleaner and less cobbled-together than the rest of us. Clearly, they haven't had to wear whatever clothes they came across in their travels. They looked so official - so normal - that we almost didn't see them at all. We stopped far too late and stared at them. They looked as startled as we did, staring back at us.

Then they grabbed for their weapons and shouted. Not friendly shouts, either. Guards on the gate wouldn't intimidate away shamblers, so they had to be there to defend the store from other survivors. We didn't even think about it; our instincts told us to run, so that's what we did.

It's not a good sign that they chased us. It's probably worse that we led them straight back to our vehicles: in our panic, we ran back to Thorpe and Dale and our fastest ticket out of there. We forgot that it's not a quick job to get the vehicles started.

There was so much shouting, lost in the frantic effort to get to safety. Get away, anywhere, where the men with guns can't find us. Push, come on, push, release the clutch, come on.

The two guards who chased us didn't attack, not right away. They stopped and radioed someone: there's no mistaking that tilt of the head towards the shoulder. They held their guns ready a short distance away, and when our engines roared and we were scrambling into the vehicles, they opened fire. We shouted and flattened down, hoping for the best.

No-one was hurt. I'm sure about that. But they punctured the vehicles, both of them. The offroader's rear windscreen is peppered with holes. How they didn't hit someone, I don't know.

We drove hell-for-leather in any direction but towards the depot. Tia was behind the wheel of the campervan - she's small, but crazy. It was her idea to dive right into a warehouse and close up the doors, shutting off the engines and huddling down while we listened for pursuit.

It came. Eventually, we heard their engines grumbling slowly along the warehouse district roads. So loud, so obvious. We were right to stop: otherwise, they could have just followed our noise right to us. I think that's what they were looking for, because they didn't check inside the quiet buildings. They were looking for noisy runners, not crouching rabbits.

They've been circling ever since, even through the rain. We don't dare move or light a fire. We're back to huddling in blankets and hoping that no-one notices us. I don't like the look of these new people. They're too organised.

I'm not sure what we'll do in the morning. What if they're still out there?

Have to go - time to put the light out.

* * * *

Small mercies

26 August - 8:16pm

After a tense night in which none of us slept much, we weren't sure whether to welcome the leak of orange light back into our world. The sound of distant engines still floated to us and no-one wanted to draw attention to our position by starting our vehicles.

This left us with a dilemma. Do we abandon the vehicles and sneak away, or take the chance that they've given up looking for us? We've spent so long gathering supplies that we're reluctant to leave any of it behind, but we can't possibly carry it all. There's just too much.

I spent a little time going over what was packed into the campervan, to see how much we might be able to take and what we could afford to leave behind. Behind the stacks of nut boxes, I found Dillon's pack. I stopped then. There's no way I could leave it behind and I can't carry it as well as all my own gear. We had to find another way to get out of this: I wasn't ready to give that up.

Maybe they're reasonable, someone said when we gathered together to talk about our options. The group was a morass of hope, doubt, and bruised cynicism. No-one wanted to take that first step into the firing line, just in case.

It's always me. Faced with a reluctant situation in which someone needed to step forward, I always blink first. This particular choice was more perilous than most we've faced, but I didn't see any reason to break the pattern this time. I'm not completely stupid - I suggested we watch them for a while before introducing ourselves. Matt tensed up and Thorpe managed to look even more closed and unhappy than usual, but they didn't argue.

So off we went. Sneaking through the streets, creeping up towards the depot, we were like ninja in cracked boots and rainbow scarves. We were less ninja-like when we fumbled around inside a warehouse, trying to find somewhere to watch the depot from without being seen. It was more like a comedy of shushes and thumps and muttered swearing.

We didn't have to wait long for one of those distant engines to turn up: a big truck rumbled in to turn its empty back end to the depot. Seems like they're emptying the place, taking the supplies elsewhere. That means there must be a lot more of them somewhere.

I'd love to know how they got a truck that big started. I have a mental image of people lined up on either side like ants, all straining to haul the great thing into motion so the engine can stutter into life. Somehow, I think they've got a better solution than that. I'm a little jealous.

It all seemed so normal. Ordered and ordinary. One of the guards smoked a cigarette like it was a treat, blowing curls into the air. It seemed safe. I was about to get up and go out there when Thorpe clamped a hand on my shoulder and held me down.

That's when we heard the flap of feet approaching, the kind of patter on an empty street that brings panic along with the rasp of air over teeth. There were three of them, one of them white-haired, running for all they were worth. From the direction they came from, it looked like they followed the truck in. When they drew close, they started waving their hands, calling out. We didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying. Help us, help us. The shamblers are coming.

The guards didn't listen. They lifted their weapons and we ducked down, closing our eyes and ears. There was nothing else we could do. We might have been able to avoid the sight, but even with our hands over our ears, we couldn't escape the sound that bounced off the walls at us. The punching rattle, the screams. The too-soft thuds. Our own hearts thrashing in our chests.

I saw Terry holding his sister tightly. Thorpe still had a hand on my shoulder and I had a grip on Matt on my other side. We barely dared to breathe as the silence fell down around us; I think Dan was the only one of us still looking out of the window.

We should go now, he said.

We slunk away like bad dogs. I glanced back once and saw the guards calling for help from within the depot. The stumble of shamblers was already pulling itself into sight up the street and the recently dead wouldn't distract them for long.

We ran back to the vehicles, detouring wildly around the long tail of the shambler chain. Some of them broke off to follow us; we just kept moving, not daring to stop even to fight. We'll be fine, we'll be fine, just keep going.

At least it's easy to outrun the shamblers. I was scared for my group and suddenly aware that we might get lost here. Melted by the rain, the buildings all looked the same. Luckily, Tia has a good sense of direction and led us back.

The fear was notching up in my stomach while we got the vehicles going. We could hear distant gunfire and faint shuffles. We had to get out of there, get away. We shouldered the big doors open and drove out in the direction that would take us far from all of this. Then it was all about scrambling and getting away from that area. We put the warehouses in our rear view mirrors and hoped that the shamblers peppering the streets would keep the men with guns too busy to come after us.

They just tore those people down. They didn't need to. Just shot them and left them there to be devoured. A nice little delay for the shamblers while the guards prepared themselves. And we almost went up and offered ourselves to them. I almost did.

I feel like things are falling away from us. We're short of water, the fuel cans are empty, and the tanks are running dry. We had to find somewhere undercover for the vehicles before the rain came because of the damage to the rear windows. I don't know how much longer we're going to be able to use those vehicles. We need to find new ones, and a fresh source of fuel to run them.

We haven't lost everything, though. We didn't lose anyone today. I feel like we might at any moment, and the others feel it too. We sat closer together around our sad little fire tonight. But for today, we're all here.

We're grateful for small mercies, but we're not looking forward to tomorrow.

* * * *

Eight

27 August - 5:54pm

We are an even number again. There's a part of me that wants to fight that one little fact; Dillon's place with us can't ever be filled. It can't. But it's only our number that's even, not our hearts.

Still, I can't begrudge the one who has joined us. In fact, I was pleased; after the past few days, we needed something to pick us up again.

We were trying to fix the vehicles when it happened. Plastic sheeting over the rear windows and pock-marked panels, secured with the fabulous wrap of duct tape. We switched to our last spare set of tyres, too; with all the acid on the roads, in ice or puddles, the treads have been wearing down far too quickly. It might be pointless unless we find more fuel to keep them running, but at least they'll last a little while longer.

The sound of an engine approaching set us all on edge. We downed tools and ducked out of sight, taut as harp strings. It wasn't a big engine - in fact, it sounded thin and rattly - but you never know. These days, you just never know.

It almost went past us without comment. A single person on a motorcycle, anonymously helmeted, drifting slowly down the street. My first thought was that the guards from the depot were sending out scouts. Then Terry scowled and Dale leaned forward, staring at the back of the rider's jacket. A design had been roughly painted on, one I found familiar but couldn't make out.

Dale had no such problem. He ran out into the street, ignoring hissing and grabbing from the rest of us. With two fingers in his mouth, he whistled, brazen and piercing. We winced at the recklessness of it, while the rider heard and turned back. The rest of us quickly hurried out onto the road, forming up around Dale in case he needed our support and protection.

As it turned out, he didn't need us or any kind of protection. The rider came back to stop right in front of us and shut off the engine, unworried by the mob of us standing there. When the helmet came off, we saw why. It was one of us, come back to the group, come back to the road.

The first thing I thought was that her hair's grown and she looks more like a girl now.

Jersey. Most of us were pleased to see her. Even Dale was grinning and went to slap her on the shoulder. He has apparently forgiven her for the months of lying while they were running as the Wolverines, when she hid in their group as a boy. There were no hugs - she's not into that - but there were plenty of friendly buffets and pats and what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here.

Got sick of sitting on my ass at the university, she told us, wheeling the bike towards where our vehicles were stashed. So I thought I'd come see if you guys needed a hand out here. Heard where you were over the radio. I know Dale and Dan have been talking to the ones we left behind fairly often, when we can get a signal.

There's obviously more to it than that but none of us pressed her on it. She has her secrets; the difference now is that we all know they're there, and that makes it okay. Almost. But the cans of soup and beans she brought with her soothed a lot of ruffled feathers. We ate well tonight because of her.

The only one who hung back from the greetings was Terry. He's still bruised over believing that she was a guy and has been brooding since she turned up. It's not like him and even Tia is worried. It's putting bluster into Jersey's attitude - no-one wants a fight right now, least of all her, so she's trying to breeze right on past the unpleasantness. I can't blame her for that. He'll get over whatever it is in time.

Eight's lucky, according to the Chinese. I don't know if it's lucky for us. My mind keeps wandering back to the eighth we lost; little Dillon, he's never far away from my thoughts these days. I still miss him, still ache when I remember him. He taught me what it was like to be a big sister and I liked being that for him.

I miss the ones we left at the university, too. I miss the clutter and chatter of them, and their faces around the fire. Their stories and the susurrus of their voices. It's good to see even just one of them again. I'm glad she's here.

Eight will do. Eight feels right. Welcome back, Jersey.

* * * *

News

28 August - 9:22pm

We're stumbling a bit today. Last night, we came across a crate of vodka bottles hidden in the back of the old bar we were bedding down in. One thing predictably led to another after that.

There were stories and silliness, and Jersey gave us news about what has been happening back at the university. We had heard from them over the radio - though only shards - and we were all eager to catch up with them. I think we're all glad to know that our friends are still there, that they didn't disappear as soon as they were out of sight. That the shamblers haven't risen up and swallowed them.

Sally is huge now. From everything the two doctors can tell, she's doing fine and so is the baby. They think she's due in about ten weeks, and Masterson is getting snappier each time that number goes down.

Dr Kostoya has adopted everyone who will listen to his chemical babblings. Conroy is straining his brain cells trying to keep up - though completely in his element - and even the kids are playing with the ridiculously long words. The little ones don't get it, but the chemist only requires that an audience listen to him, not understand. That will come with time, he says.

Kostoya's work is coming along well, they think. They've set up a water filtration system and he's still tracking down the exact nature of the poison. From the little shudder that Jersey gave when she mentioned the acid, I think part of that 'tracking down' involved her and her recently-tainted bloodstream. The acid burn is one of the reasons why she wound up here with us.

Bree and her little friends are still at the university, becoming a more integral part of the group now that we've gone. Now I've gone. I didn't really want to hear about them.

Food is becoming an issue for them, too. They have the water situation sorted out, but all the filtering in the world won't turn it into something to sustain the human body on its own. Their scavenging parties are ranging further and further afield, stretching themselves thin over the threat of shamblers and other survivors. They've been attacked a few times by both the living and the broken.

She didn't say much about Janice and Tom. Someone did ask - Tia, I think. The couple was good to her, especially when she was recovering. Tom's not well now, but not from injury or starvation. Jersey said something about testing, and I think that's another reason why she's here. If Tom has the Sickness, she doesn't want to watch what's happening to him. She doesn't want to see her own future.

She won't talk about it, breezes right past it all, but it's there in between her words. It hangs over her like a lie and a secret. Rather than sit and wait for the inevitable at the university, she came to us, spent days searching for us in a way that might have got her killed so easily. All on her own. I don't know if I could have done that.

For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel isolated. I'm never alone - there's always the others here with me, crammed in close - but outside of our circle is the gulf of our empty world. Even with the radio, voices carrying over the distance, it's not the same. Gossiping with Jersey felt like a family reunion, with word of cousins and aunts and a crazy old uncle. It's good to know they're all still there, even if we can't see them right now.

There's not enough to eat: my stomach is rumbling and we just got done with dinner. We're all hung over after last night, head-sore and drawn. But it was nice, talking about distant friends. Talking about the world out of our reach as if it's still there. At some point, I fell asleep with my head in Matt's lap.

A little news goes a long way.

* * * *

Elephants

29 August - 5:16pm

Spring is coming in very slow steps. There's less ice around now. What little forms overnight is usually gone by the time we're all up and ready to go in the morning. It's not warm enough to dry up all of the water, though, so we still have to be careful with our footing - no-one wants to put a boot in a puddle, let alone fall down in one.

Jersey is still with us; we've strapped her bike to the back of the campervan. Terry isn't talking to her but everyone else is getting along with her just fine, even Tia. I think she's spending time with the ex-Wolverine just to spite her brother.

I catch Jersey watching Terry sometimes and the look on her face is familiar. It's how she used to look when she talked about Rico, the fella who ran the Wolverines until he got Sick and died. She looks pained and slightly sad, with a frown to cover the softer feelings behind it all. I didn't realise before what it meant but it seems so obvious now. I wonder if she ever told Rico how she felt. Probably not - how could it have ever worked, while she was pretending to be a boy? And now Terry knows the truth about her gender but is so angry over the deception that he's ignoring her. That's probably her worst fear when it comes to him.

Much as I might like to, I can't tell her that I sympathise; she hates pity. That's part of why she created the lie in the first place: she wanted to protect herself, on her own terms. I can't believe she kept up the pretence for so long; she was with the Wolverines for months. I know I couldn't do it.

The tangled nature of it all is giving me a headache. This is why I prefer not to lie: it's too complicated and fraught with hurt when it all comes down. At least thinking about it is taking my mind off how hungry I am.

Greenberry is directly west of us now; if we head any further north, we're going to just make this whole trip longer. We've decided to strike out for it, just run there as fast as we can.

Our progress hasn't been great. We've been limping along, stopping periodically to check for supplies - food and fuel mostly. We've managed to scrape enough fuel together to last us for a while, but every source we've come across had already been broken into and sucked almost dry. Even the vehicles abandoned on the road.

I keep thinking about that truck and how much it must guzzle in order to keep moving. I think we all know who has been through here ahead of us, scouring the landscape like locusts. Thinking about it makes me nervous: those guards with guns might come back at any time, they might pass through here again. I catch myself listening for distant engines and gunfire when it grows quiet.

The shortage is pressing on all of us. It's not just that we're hungry and cold; those are just symptoms of a bigger problem. As much as we've all tried to pretend it doesn't exist, the problem is becoming the elephant in our room.

There's nothing new coming into the world. Everything we find, everything we scavenge, is all that's left. There are no farms growing fresh food, no factories making new products, no refineries producing diesel. We've known this since the bomb went off, but now we're running out. We're burning through what little we've got and, one day soon, we won't find anything to live on.

The world's not done breaking yet: it won't be over until we're all dead. It's doing its best to make that happen. And it might not take that long.

* * * *

Before the last step

30 August - 9:22pm

We stand on a threshold now. The rain is battering outside and night has fallen, but we know it's there, just outside the walls of this little salon.

Once again, we have run up against the edge of what used to be civilisation. I don't really know what to call it now. Shelter, perhaps. All that's left of what people built in the world. And beyond it is the bare open ground.

With two vehicles held together by duct tape, plastic, and oil, we can only hope that they'll last long enough to carry us across the gulf. The rain still comes every day, even though the earth is so thoroughly soaked that it doesn't seem to be able to take any more of it. The earlier the ice melts, the bigger and more persistent the puddles seem to be.

Somewhere out there in the open space is Greenberry. The source of the radio signal, the one that still loops over and over. There's a chance that it's just a machine out there, mindlessly talking to the empty air. We've tried, but there hasn't been any answer from whoever set up that signal. We don't know if there's anyone left watching over it.

It could be nothing. But it's the last place we've got left to go. We're Seekers and this is the only thing left to seek.

After this, I don't know what we'll do. I don't want to think about it but it's hanging over us, as huge and dark as the gaping bare landscape outside.

We're all quiet tonight, all thinking the same thing. The map shows a small cluster of buildings at Greenberry, just inside a wide sprawl of what were once green, rolling hills. Barring obstacles, we should be able to get there tomorrow. One quick jump across the gulf and there's shelter waiting for us on the other side.

I wonder how many other people have sat here like this, looking at the last step and churning over what they'll find. I wonder what they found, and if it'll be the same as what we'll find tomorrow.

I can't stand this. The quiet, the waiting. None of us will sleep tonight. Even Jersey has lost the shine on her determined bounce.

There must be something else to do in this place. Something else to find. I'm going to find it. If nothing else, the search is something to do.

I guess that's why they call us Seekers.

* * * *

To Greenberry

31 August - 7:50pm

It took us less than half a day to get here. The roads were clear - conspicuously so - and the worst obstacles were the puddles that had gathered on the tarmac. We went around them when we could, and restrained the urge to lift our feet up inside the vehicles when we couldn't. Faithful things, they didn't leak.

What we found was a mix of good and bad signs. There was a sign that told us we'd found the right place (as if there might be another sagging cluster of buildings out here somewhere). It said 'Greenberry' in such clear letters that it might have been recently cleaned. Touched up, even. It was hung on a pair of wire gates that weren't locked; the chain dangled free. They barely squeaked.

The buildings themselves are suffering from the rain just as much as everything else. Dulled to a dirty brown, they clump together as if grumpy at the isolation. The roofs all seem intact, though; there's no sign of acid inside just yet. All that they protect are empty offices and garages, bare tables, abandoned chairs, a radio that ticks over and over, and a generator growling patiently in a basement.

There isn't a soul here. That was the part that hit hardest, when we least expected it. The realisation sank in slowly as we crept around; then we looked at each other and knew, and it winded us. No-one was waiting for us. Our hopes were hung on unravelling threads.

We weren't ready to be crushed just then. We checked out every building, looked into every cranny, thought about poking at the radio, and stood staring at the generator for a while.

Someone has to have fuelled it up, Jersey pointed out.

Dan was crouching next to it, peering intently. No more than a week or two ago.

A week. That was something. That was not nothing.

From the look of it, the generator was charging a series of batteries, switching itself off and on again in cycles. The radio was running off the batteries. Whoever set it up did a good job; they must have known what they were doing. I borrowed one of the batteries to charge up the laptop.

After we had checked everything, we retired to one of the larger buildings to ponder our options. I think the fact that we didn't go straight back to the vehicles showed that our minds were already made up. If someone filled up the generators so recently, then they might come back to do it again. The only problem was whether or not we had the supplies to wait long enough.

We barely have enough for tonight, never mind tomorrow. We can stretch it out for a couple of days, but beyond that we're in trouble.

Oddly enough, we're not as solemn and down as I thought we'd be. It's not all bad news. There's that tiny thread of hope, taut and straining but holding itself together by its own raggedy edges. It was enough to prompt a couple of the others to start singing, and then Dan joined in, humming the guitar part. I took up the drums and we all belted our way through the choruses.

It kept us together. It stopped us thinking about the oncoming rain and the blankness outside. It made us ignore the gnawing inside. And it put a smile on our faces.

There might be something here, among all this empty dirt. There just might.

* * * *

Rough awakening

1 September - 9:51pm

Guns woke us up today.

Not distant, not barking at the low sky. Not firing at all. Not even outside.

They were inside, pointing at us like hollow fingers. Luckily silent, but they were still enough to stop our hearts when we saw them.

It's not a pleasant way to wake up. In the dim of dawn, those on guard never saw them coming. They were just suddenly here, swarming in and around us, and pointing.

They're all dressed in the same uniform: professionals. Army, unless I missed my guess. We found the base that the ECC talked about. We found the place so many were sent for help. I wish that it felt like a good thing.

There were questions, so many questions. Who were we, what did we think we'd find here? We're Seekers, we told them. We're trying to find out what's left. What's next? How we're going to survive to tomorrow, to next week, to next month. We're just... looking for answers, even if we're not sure of all of the questions yet.

We can't blame them for caution: you never know who's carry weapons now, or what they might do for a bite to eat and the chance to live just a little longer. But I lost it when I heard them going through the vehicles. They had no right. No right at all. We had worked for months to get that stuff together and they were taking it all. Tools, clothing, equipment.

I have to be honest: that wasn't why I was so upset. All I could think about was Dillon's stuff. Those last little bits I have of him, still crammed in his pack. They had claimed it - they took all of it. Even his soccer ball. So I went off at them, told them exactly what I thought of them, ignoring the hands that were trying to hold me back. There were a lot of voices shouting but mine was the loudest, right until I got the butt of a gun to the face.

I'm not sure what happened next - I saw stars and my knees buckled. Someone caught me. By the time I could see again, everything was blurry and Thorpe was standing over me like he was ready to pop the guy's head off. Someone kept saying my name, wouldn't stop until I answered. I still have a headache from it, and a nasty lump. There must be an impressive bruise too, according to the winces my friends give when they look at me.

The uniforms went through everything, even our packs. They missed the laptop - they saw a skinny case with paper in it and didn't look any further. Thank goodness I kept those notes and maps in there. I don't dare let them know I've got it and it still works; they'd take it, I'm sure. They'd take the hearts right out of us.

When they were done pillaging our stuff for everything of use, they escorted us into our vehicles. A couple of them rode with us - though there was barely room - and the rest braced our pair of worn vehicles in their military trucks. I'll never know how we didn't hear them coming.

I think it's the only time I've wished one of the cars would break down, just to spite them.

We drove for a couple of hours, heading into the open space. After a while, I couldn't even see the bump of Greenberry against the horizon and we were still going. The road seemed unending, carrying us off and away, but it wasn't even noon when roofs prickled the skyline before us. Rising up out of the rolling earth, from what used to be grass and trees and training grounds, were barracks and buildings. Hard edges, fenced off