The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

Today has been mostly about supplies. I made sure that Ben was comfortable – he kept assuring me that he felt fine, just needed rest – and joined Thorpe, Masterson and Dillon to search the locale for food and water.

It’s easier to search other people’s homes if you don’t look at them too closely. Just focus on the cupboards and drawers and shelves; ignore the personal effects, the fading decorations, the unopened presents under the drooping trees. Go for those places that people put food and drink, check for second fridges, take the alcohol if that’s all that’s there.

I suppose one good thing about the bomb going off in the holiday season is that many had stocked their cupboards. I try not to think about the family members it was intended to feed.

It’s easier if you focus on every single tree’s bark and ignore the wood. The forest reaches too far and too deep, and it’s too empty for comfort.

We didn’t see any signs of shamblers in our searching, but we all kept weapons within each reach anyway. I don’t think any of us feel comfortable without something hard and swingable close by now. I still have the knife I got so many weeks ago – months now – tucked in the back of my waistband. I used to be scared of what it meant; now I know that I’d reach for it without thinking if I needed to. I don’t know what that says about me any more – I never liked the notion of pragmatism.

This bruised, scarred world is eroding all of us. We’re a part of it more fully than any of us would like, even though we haven’t embraced it as much as some have. The sad part is that I get it. I even get Bree and Kingston, the compromises made for survival. It doesn’t mean that I like it.

We managed to find enough food and liquid to keep us going for a little while. There was some comfort in that.

Ben hasn’t been eating much – he’s giving back almost as much as I’m giving him. I think he doesn’t think I’ve noticed, but I have. I’ve stopped taking my meal until he’s finished with his, because we can’t afford for any of it to be wasted. I figure that if I’m going to get sick, I’ve already done enough to catch it; eating his untouched food isn’t going to make any difference.

He’s cold, too. We’ve had to start carrying heavier blankets with us because of how cold it gets at night, but blankets just don’t seem to make any difference to him. When he lets me, I snuggle up to keep him warm. It seems like he only just thaws when morning rolls around and it’s time to get up. He says that he’s okay, but it can’t be good. I talked to Masterson about it and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Matt’s leg seems to be healing all right, though. We’re all scared of infections with open wounds and no water to clean them, but between antibiotics and painfully-applied antiseptic, he seems to have avoided getting sick with it.

I’ve held his hand while his bandages are changed when I can, and while his grip is tight, he never complains. That’s not like the Matt I knew; he used to mutter something under his breath if he tore a nail or cut himself shaving. I just hope that he’s not hiding anything with this new stoicism of his.

They’re not good now, but they’re getting better. I have to believe that my boys are getting better.

I’m so tired. I guess I should spend more time sleeping and less time writing this blog.

This is the only way I get to unload. I can’t bring myself to complain out loud – everyone here is in the same position I am, and some of them have it much worse. I do what I can for them; it helps me as much as it does them, I think. I can’t burden them with the viper doubts curling up in my chest, or the stony fears squatting in my stomach. It’s not fair to them.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m going to burst and the only way to stop it is to write it down. This blog isn’t just a record of everything that’s happening to us: it’s the only way I sleep at all. It’s the only way I can make peace with even a part of what I see every day.

I don’t know how the others do it. They don’t have this. I offered it to some of them, but they refused. Ben said he didn’t have the words, and Matt said he knew I told it all for him. Thorpe just shrugged, and Sally looked at it like it was an alien artefact. I wouldn’t trust Masterson with the laptop.

So I collect their stories for them. Like mosquitos in amber, I hope they’ll stay here forever for some future scientist to discover and learn from. I hope our stories matter to someone, somewhen. I’ve even started burning backups, just in case, though that might be paranoia nibbling at my edges.

It all seems pointless when we’re scared about what each hour will bring, what new threat will turn up on our doorstep next. But it seems so important not to forget all of this. Maybe that’s arrogant of me. I don’t know any more. I live by the knife in my waistband but I can’t do without a word-vent every day. Hand to mouth, head to keyboard.

So little of this world makes sense any more. Why should I be any different?

Sally hasn’t talked to anyone since the Pride returned her to us. She has spoken words, answered questions and offered suggestions, but she hasn’t talked, just talked. Nugget achieves the same end by not speaking at all; I’ve never seen anyone as good at vocal hiding as Sally is.

It doesn’t help that no-one really knows what to say to her. No-one wants to ask about what happened that night – we don’t want to remind her of it, and we don’t want to hear about it. Our imaginations fill in the gaps easily enough and with taller, worse stories than the reality. But then, they might not be so far from the truth, and that possibility is frightening for all of us.

The hardest thing is not to seem like we pity her. She quietly refuses to let anyone do things for her: she carries her own pack and helps with the food distribution every morning and night. She catches me watching her sometimes and gives me a little smile or a pat on the arm; don’t worry, Faith, don’t worry.

I worry. Of course I do.

I know she limps when she isn’t paying attention or thinks no-one’s looking. I know she throws up in the morning, and doesn’t eat much for breakfast because of it. I suppose it’s a good sign; it means that the baby is still all right.

The baby. The tiny life is still an enigma in my head. On one hand, it’s a kernel of hope, a promise of new things and continued living, the basis of species survival in the face of an apocalypse like ours. On the other hand, it’s dangerous, could damage or kill Sally in many ways, will slow us down, and its chances of survival aren’t high. The good far, far outweighs the bad, but I don’t think it can be ignored. We should prepare somehow. I feel like we should do something.

I would bring it up with the group, but they don’t know about it. Masterson doesn’t want to admit it’s really happening, so he won’t talk to me about it and gives me filthy looks when I try. Sally doesn’t want everyone to know and it’s not my secret to tell. I don’t understand. She’s going to start showing soon, and what then?

Do I just wait for it to be too obvious to ignore? Will that be enough time to make any kind of preparations? We’re struggling to feed and shelter ourselves most of the time; I feel like we’ll need months to gather everything we’d need to deal with a baby.

I can feel the ‘what if’s lining up in my head, behind my fingers and tongue, wanting a route into the world. They’re not helpful; there are too many. We can’t plan tomorrow, let alone six months ahead.

I wish I knew how to talk to Sally. I wonder if Bree spoiled it for me, if she has tainted my trust in women. Maybe it’s just that Sally is the only other woman here.

I wish I was the one telling everyone that it’s all going to be okay.

We’re still at the motel. Matt is doing better – he’s up and limping around now.

Ben is not doing so good. He said that he was hungry, but he didn’t eat anything I brought him. He seems paler and thinner than before, if that’s possible. There’s no fever – he’s still cold to the touch – and he’s sleeping more and more. I don’t know what to do to help him and neither does the doctor. I’m scared the sickness will take him after all.

A few of us got together today and looked at the map – we’re badly off-course. Fleeing from the Pride and then the shamblers has sent us recklessly eastwards – we need to turn south if we’re ever going to get to the Emergency Coordination Centre. It’s hard to believe that there could be any coordination left after all this time, but we have to try. We don’t have anywhere better to go.

The problem with the ECC is that it’s up in the hills. It was positioned where they thought it would be the most use in a crisis: out of the suburbs, above any danger of flooding, but still easily accessible by road. There’s a big green swathe around its cluster of buildings on the map; in reality, it’s brown and stripped down to the soil by acid rain. The notion of being that far from shelter makes the skin between my shoulderblades crawl, as if it can already feel the bite of the water.

If we’re going to get there, we need vehicles. Scooters won’t work – they’re no protection if we get caught away from a roof. We need something enclosed.

I had looked over the map a hundred times before I realised where we were. Just a short way northwest is a familiar intersection of roads: that’s where MacIntyre’s car yard is. The place my dad spent all his days, polishing and selling cars. The place I used to run around when I was little, weaving between the gleaming machines with a stolen spanner in hand and an exasperated mechanic in chase.

Dad wasn’t at home when we got there. Maybe he went to his yard instead. Maybe he’s waiting for me.

I know we can get vehicles there. I know he has off-roaders – proper ones, not the faux ones sold to housewives who think that the school run requires a small tank. When I mentioned that to the others, they said–

Something’s going on. Better go see what it is.

Shouts disturbed my post yesterday, coming from outside the motel.

Everyone was immediately on edge, grabbing weapons and peeking out from the edges of curtains. I joined them in time to see a group running ragged across the motel’s courtyard. I knew that look on their faces, hunted and shocked at the nature of what chased them. Dillon offered to go to the roof – he found a way up there a couple of days ago – and took off as soon as he had the nod.

The newcomers swept in and smashed against the doors. We had locked all the outer doors and they started up a frantic hammering, trying to bash their way in. They sounded like shamblers on speed. It was hard to know if they were running from the broken dead or the Pride, but I suspected the former.

Either way, it was dangerous to let them break in; we couldn’t lock a smashed door behind them. Thorpe rapped on the glass of a nearby window to get their attention and asked them what they wanted here. Of course, they immediately began all shouting at once, trying to batter their way in verbally instead of physically.

Shamblers, it came down to, though they used the z-word. There was something in the way they said it that knew how ridiculous it sounds. Dillon came sprinting down from the roof then to tell us that they were close, just outside the motel; this group had been followed right to us. And there were a lot of them – a whole bloody herd, the kid said.

We had a choice to make and no time to make it in. Do we let them in or leave them out there to face the shamblers alone? We don’t know these people. They might turn on us, or run off and leave us to face their pursuers alone. I knew what my heart wanted – the right thing, the benefit of the doubt – but it was too bruised to speak loudly.

Inside, we looked at each other with that grim knowing that we should take a chance on them. Dillon said my name, confused that there was even a choice to make. Outside, their begging continued into our silence, and then broke off abruptly. They were shouting then – no, no, don’t do it, stop!

Before we could see what was going on, a trash can shattered the window next to Thorpe. A body scrambled in after it, no doubt the can-chucker. The big fireman was so angry that he punched the interloper in the face, dropping him onto his butt on the shard-strewn floor.

“We can’t close a broken window, you fucking idiot,” was the sentiment of his abuse.

The sweaty weasel stared up at him, touching the blood streaming from his nose in shock. Everyone else was standing and staring, inside and out. I unlocked the door before anything else was irreparably torn open and the newcomers skittered inside. More than one of them was bleeding and I saw at least one fresh bite-mark.

Thorpe looked ready to whale on the stupid weasel some more, so I stepped in and said that we needed to barricade up the window, and right now. The herd of shamblers were just stumbling into sight and that was enough to close mouths and motivate feet into finding things to block up the portal. Mattresses braced with furniture that choked up the corridor soon solved the problem.

When it was done, we all stared at the oncoming horde. I wanted to go around and barricade every door and window, but there was no time. There were too many ways into this place for those inclined or uncaring enough to use brute force and persistence.

They were halfway into the courtyard when they stopped suddenly, their heads lifting as if they had heard something. Their coordinated shuffle broke into a hurried smatter of motion, if they can be said to hurry at all. They turned and swarmed across the road into closer buildings.

Some of them didn’t make it. The stragglers were caught by the rain when it came about half a minute after they smelt it.

It was one of the most horrific things I’ve seen. The sheet of gleaming green-grey came down and melted them, pallid skin to red to white bone in sodden streaks. They just kept going as if they couldn’t feel it, as if their eyes weren’t burst and their reaching hands weren’t shorn away and shortening with every second. They kept moving on eaten-away legs and crawled on stumps. They didn’t stop until their heads were gone, washed away.

I wasn’t the only one who felt like throwing up; I wish I’d thought to cover Dillon’s eyes, but it all happened so quickly.

After it was done and the rain was filling up the gap between us and the shamblers, attention turned to the newcomers that had led them to us. We couldn’t throw them out, so we told them to go to the other wing of the motel. We didn’t want them near us.

They grumbled and spat, but they went. I noticed that the weasel wasn’t with them; I don’t know where he slipped away to while we were watching the oncoming storm.

I had a sudden fearful thought that he had gone into one of the rooms when a door opened behind us. I turned around to see Ben standing in the doorway, looking at us in puzzlement. He hasn’t been able to stand on his own since he got sick, but there he was and I grinned with delight.

“What’s going on?” he asked, before I bounced over to hug the stuffing out of him.

We spent an awkward night, keeping an eye out for those shamblers in case they decided to come looking for us, or the other group. They never came and we all breathed a little easier by morning. We kept to ourselves today, in case the shamblers were still close, but we’ll be moving on tomorrow. Heading northwest towards Dad’s car yard.

Ben’s more like himself, brighter, moving around and talking. The relief bubbles up in my chest when I’m not paying attention and threatens to burble out in something incoherent. Tomorrow is looking better.

Last night, Ben drew me aside to quietly hand me a bombshell. I didn’t know what to do with it, of course; I still don’t.

He’s been quiet since he came out of his room, withdrawn like he’s been ever since he got sick. I thought it was just because he was ill, but now I’m not so sure.

He had to leave, he said. He had to go find Hugh – his sister’s husband, the one that left her and never came back. He had to find out what happened to him; he had to know why his sister was left alone to despair and die, with his beautiful little nephew. He needed to find some answers.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All this time, all this fighting to stay alive and for him to stay with us, and now that he’s getting better, he wants to leave. I understood his reasons, I could comprehend them, but they sounded false to my ears. My brain was too busy filling up his words with other meanings.

Was it me? Did I do something wrong? (I’d try to make it up to him, whatever it was.) Was he afraid of making us sick? (Because it was way too late by now, if that was likely.) Was he better at all, if he thought that going on his own was safe? (Maybe he better lie down again.) Did he really think that we wouldn’t go with him, if he needed to do this?

No, he said. He couldn’t ask us to come, and it would be safer if he went alone. He’d be able to move faster on his own. Without us.

“I’ll come back, Faith,” he said, putting a chilled hand to my cheek. The gesture grabbed me by the heart and I swallowed painfully, feeling cracks forming. “I know where you’re headed. Once I have this figured out, I’ll catch up.”

Don’t go. I begged him, but he was stone. We need you, we all need you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ben change his mind about something once it’s made up. The thing is, he always agreed with me before.

I started to cry and he hugged me awkwardly, kissed me on the cheek. I tried for more, in case that might make him stay, but he pulled away and picked up his pack. The crack in my heart widened a little bit further.

“Now?” I asked him. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yes. I’ll be back, Faith.” He made me promises I couldn’t absorb while I was wondering how I was ever going to tell the others.

I begged him not to go, pride all shrivelled and forgotten. He looked at me with regret and then left by a back door. The rain had stopped and it was thick darkness outside. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run after him and drag him back physically; I wanted to scream at him for doing this. It hurt so much I didn’t know how to breathe any more, and the air outside swallowed him, leaving me staring at the black hole of the doorway.

Thorpe found me like that, tears streaming down my cheeks. I don’t know how many times he asked me what was wrong, what had happened, before I heard him. I tried to tell him, I tried to explain, but it all curdled in my throat until all I could throw up were broken phrases and choking sobs. He asked me if Ben was dead, shook me until more words tumbled out. I think he got enough to understand, because he stopped asking.

He was the closest chest, so I buried myself in it. He was awkward about it, but I couldn’t care about that just then. I was useless for anything except seeking comfort, even when the others started trickling in, wondering what was going on. I couldn’t hear what he told them; it was all a blur, swirling around my swell of pain.

Someone touched my hair – I think that was Matt, the gesture felt familiar – and Thorpe handed me off to Sally. She sat with me and held me while I cried myself out, until my eyes were hot and my head felt three sizes too big.

Someone else closed and locked the door behind Ben.

We were supposed to get moving today, but it didn’t happen. Dillon spied the shamblers still in the area from his rooftop vantage point, barely a block away, and we didn’t want to chance a meeting with them. I wish we had been able to go; I wish I had anything to do except sit here and think about this.

I miss him. I don’t understand why he had to go alone.

There’s an ache where he used to be.

The group that had led the shamblers to us slipped away sometime over the past couple of days. We didn’t care; if anything, their absence was welcome, because we didn’t have to worry about what they’re up to and if anyone was breaking more windows.

This morning, the herd of shamblers they brought to us finally stumbled on the motel. Dillon had been sent to the roof to check on the best route out of here before we left; he was only gone a couple of minutes before Masterson called us over to the window. There were bodies scattered all over the courtyard, upright and stumbling, heads lifted like blind dogs. A heartbeat later, the first thump came from down the corridor as they found the wall and started to try to get in.

Things were frantic then. Our assembled packs were shoved somewhere out of the way and we all grabbed weapons. I asked what we knew about them, how we could fight them, and everyone came back with the same answer: the head. The only time we’ve seen them stop is when their heads have been mangled. Luckily, there wasn’t time to think about that too deeply.

It’s getting harder and harder not to use the z-word. It’s like they want it.

Thump, thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. More of them were joining in, and we all knew that the combined pressure of their persistence would break a way in eventually. I wanted it to be sooner rather than later, because the waiting was shredding our nerves, one heedless thud at a time.

And there was something curled up in my chest that wanted the chance to have a go at these things, these monsters that have dogged our steps and haunted the dark hours. They stole our friend and keep trying to devour us. I wanted to hit them and to keep hitting until they stopped coming. A part of me knows that it wasn’t all to do with them, that they were convenient, but I didn’t care at that moment.

I needed to stand and fight. I wanted to tell the world that I had a right to live, no matter what it threw at us.

I was angry for a lot of reasons, some of them far from righteous.

Dillon came slip-sprinting back from the roof, breathless as he gave his news. There were more coming from the back of the motel – there was no way to escape that way. My stomach lurched, partly in horror because I hadn’t even considered it. Running should have been my first option, but I hadn’t even thought about it. I closed my eyes, disappointed with myself.

A door creaked down the hall and metal pinged in protest. They were almost inside. I told Dillon to get back up onto the roof and to take Nugget with him. I don’t know where the damn cat was, but he could look after himself. He always seemed to find us after the bad stuff was over.

Masterson snagged the boy by the arm before he could slip away again. “You could always make yourself useful and throw stuff at them, y’know,” the doctor said.

He was right. I wondered then if the roof wouldn’t be the best place for all of us, until I remembered about the rain. We’d go up there only to have to come down into a shambler-infested motel or be melted by the rain.

Then a window broke and there was no time for such considerations. Just calling to each other and trying to fend off the mindless hunger of yellow-toothed mouths.

It’s harder to break someone’s skull than you’d think. The movies always made it look so easy – one quick whap and down they go. It’s nothing like that. For starters, it’s not easy to hit someone in the head when their arms are outstretched towards you. Then it’s hit and hit and then hit again, until that fear starts to climb up into your throat, wondering if their skull will ever give way. It’s a sickening crunch of bone and the squish of something softer. Then they judder and crumple, their strings snapping.

We almost cheered when the first one went down, but three more had clambered inside in the time it took us to deal with that one. The narrow corridor made it difficult for all of us, but we all pressed on.

I’ve never been good at fighting. Until the bomb went off, I’d never had to before. I’m better with words when it comes to this kind of thing; in combat, I have a tendency to flail. Who knew that baseball would ever come in useful for something like this? But I had never been that good at sports.

One thing no-one ever tells you about fighting is how tiring it is. By the time the second one went down, my arms felt like lead. I kept going because I didn’t have any choice, and my world narrowed to gasps chilling my teeth, the coppery taste of blood, fending off hands and trying to get the bastards to stop the only way I knew how.

At one point, I heard Sally scream. I looked over to see Masterson with a frighteningly furious expression, whipping his metal pipe at the head latched onto her arm. It let go and crumpled. Motivation was a telling factor.

I thought about Sax, corrupted and broken. I thought about Ben, how he had almost joined these things, and how he left anyway. I thought about the others we’d lost, and the sleep that fear had stolen from us. I thought about the compromises we had to make to survive. It helped. It kept me swinging.

There were so many of them, and there were only five of us left. Even with Dillon and Nugget raining pieces of the roof down on them outside, they kept coming. It wasn’t until the other group returned that we managed to really put a dent in their onslaught. I’m not sure where they came from – flushed out of another building and driven back this way, I think – but they didn’t hesitate to join the battle when they reached us. I think they knew there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

Two groups together managed to make headway against the shamblers. There were too many of us for the corridor and so many of them clambering inside from different points that we took the fight outside. Space was our friend: we were able to get around behind them and avoid their reaching arms completely.

Finally, I couldn’t lift my bat any more. It was sticky and matted – which I didn’t want to think about – and felt like someone had filled it with molten metal while I wasn’t looking. We all looked the same: stoop-shouldered and panting. There was a hole in the onslaught and more bodies lying around us than I cared to count. It looked like a twisted version of a warfield.

“We need to go,” I said. There were more coming, moving up the street and lurching in our direction. They were a pressure on our senses, though they moved too slow to be a danger to us once we were in motion.

We dug our packs out from under the bodies and called the kids down from the roof. There was a bounce in Dillon’s step that ebbed away when he got a close-up look at the corpses lying around. The other group looked at us and we looked back, and we moved off in a single clump by mutual consent. We were safer together.

None of us were sorry to leave the motel behind.

The group travelling with us call themselves the Wolverines.

“Aren’t they little ratlike things?” Masterson asked them. “Vermin, right?”

“No, dude, like the comic character. Wolverine.”

“Oh, right.”

We’ve agreed to stay together for the time being, for the safety of numbers. There’s no real trust between the groups yet; that’ll take time and I don’t like how some of them look at us.

There’s six of them, all men: Rico, Conroy (the comic fan), Jersey, Kirk, Sean, and Dale. They asked us where their friend Dennis – the weasel who broke the window – had gone, but none of us have seen him since we blocked up the pane. Last seen running down towards our rooms, they said. He must have been caught by something hungry. They didn’t look particularly upset; apparently, smashing the window wasn’t his first stupid act, and he wasn’t missed.

I felt bad for him. To not even be missed by the group – I can’t imagine that. Masterson is a pain in the ass and not well-liked, but I think he’d be missed. Not just by Sally and not just because he’s a doctor – I think we’d grieve for him. I hate the idea anyone means so little that those who knew him can step on without a flinch.

I had to work hard not to think about Ben too much while they talked about the weasel being missing. I could feel the tide rising behind my eyes and closing my throat, and had to fight it back. I still look for him when we stop for a while. He is missed.

It’s one of the reasons I keep this journal: so that no-one is forgotten. Not even Dennis, the wild window-breaker, the weasel who ran off without his group and into something’s jaws. He bucked against them all the time, they said, always doing his own thing and causing trouble. No matter how many times they tried to teach him a lesson, he never got the message. Not quite there, they said, though I don’t believe that. He looked frightened and desperate for those few seconds I saw him – not crazy. He knew exactly what was going on.

There’s also the possibility that he was reacting to more than the shamblers chasing them. I really don’t like how some of the Wolverines look at us.

We pushed on today, after spending half an hour trying to explain our route to the Wolverines without telling them our actual plans. We aren’t moving quickly – Matt is still limping badly and leans on me or Thorpe sometimes, and the Wolverines have injuries too. We’ve patched them up as best we can, but I think a couple of them are sick.

Another clump of shamblers blocking up a street forced us to detour to avoid them; we gave them a wide berth in case they picked up our scent. They seemed intent on a single building, shuffling into a clot around it. I think another reason we went so wide around them was so that we couldn’t hear whoever they were focussed on. It’s easier to ignore screams and pleas you know are there if you can’t hear them.

We’re not far from the car yard now. I can’t think about that too much right now – we have to keep an eye on the Wolverines. They think they outnumber us because we have kids with us; I think they might try something. I had to hide in a little side room to get this post done, just in case. We’re far from trust now.

I’d better go check on the others.

Last night, we found a row of shops with apartments above them about mid-afternoon. We settled the injured and ill upstairs to rest, and the able-bodied went to see what could be gleaned from the establishments below.

I didn’t like to leave Matt on his own – not with these Wolverines around – so I asked Sally to stay with him. To my surprise, she seemed relieved and went straight away. The kids were admonished to stay in sight, but of course Nugget disappeared as soon as we entered the first shop. On the plus side, she found a stock of canned drinks and that eased tempers all around.

I didn’t have to worry about Dillon straying too far away; he has stuck close to me ever since Ben left. He watches me with a worried expression, even when I tell him that I’m all right. It aches – of course it does – but I’m carrying on anyway. I give him hugs and we both feel better.

We retreated up to the apartments when it started to rain. Matt and Sally were fine, though glad to see us. I don’t know who visited them but someone clearly had.

Dillon called me over to the window just as the light was dying outside. The last slants of orange sun were reflecting off the windows opposite ours, and there were faces in them. My insides turned in chilled twists at the sight of them there like that, just standing there. Motionless, sightless, waiting.

The sun went down, and we kept someone on watch through the water-streaked windows. But it had been a hard few days and we were all strung out at the limits of our strength.

We fell asleep.

We were woken up in the early hours of this morning by thumps downstairs. We heard windows going, one pane at a time, under the weight of accumulated bodies. My innards lurched painfully as I pulled myself up out of sleep, knowing exactly what it was.

Kirk was outside our door when we got up to investigate – I think he was peeking in. I don’t know what for and there wasn’t time to ask. He just grinned at us and said that we’d better look lively, because our company didn’t. He’s about my age, cocky with a rakish edge that fails to be charming. There’s something calculating about the way he shares expressions with us. I’m not the only one he unsettles; Matt stays away from him and most of the Wolverines.

It was so hard to see anything while we got ourselves together. Peering out of the window revealed little except that there were a lot of them down there, making the darkness heave in jerky motions. They were unsubtle in their passage across the shop floors towards the stairs leading up to the apartments – we could track their progress in crashes and crunches.

We knew from our last encounter that it was easier to deal with them in the open, rather than in the confines of corridors. We also knew that we didn’t have much time.

“C’mon, we can take ’em,” one of the Wolverines said. I couldn’t tell which one just from his voice.

“In the dark, when we can barely tell each other apart?” Masterson’s tone was scathing and I could almost hear the other mens’ hackles rising in response.

I stepped in before he got himself smacked. Again. “We don’t know how many they are. If they got around us, we’d be overwhelmed before we knew it.”

“Yeah, right. And what else would you suggest? More running?”

I looked at the others in the castoff light of wavering flashlight beams, counting heads and trying to work out what to do. They were right: running wasn’t a good option, not with the ill and injured among our number and in the darkness.

“We need a rearguard,” I said. I have no idea if I even used the term correctly – too many movies, I guess. “Keep the shamblers busy while we get the rest of us away. Dillon, Nugget – you two run up ahead to make sure the way’s clear, but stay within sight of us. Do I need to ask for volunteers to help the injured, or to stay back and fight?”

The last was aimed pointedly at the Wolverines and their eagerness for another dust-up with the shamblers. They tossed it about between them while we got everyone downstairs and shouldered packs. In the end, I had Matt leaning on me, Sally supported one of the Wolverines, and another of their number – I think it was Jersey – carried the sickest one. That left Thorpe, Masterson, and three Wolverines to keep the shamblers off our tails.

It worked better than I had hoped. I had to shout for the kids to stay where we could see them, and eventually called Nugget back to run messenger between us and the boys behind, so that they didn’t fall too far behind.

We kept going until the shamblers were out of sight by a length of at least a few blocks, then the boys caught up with us and we found another building to break into. It was getting light by then, that odd seeping that tasted like an orange apology for sunlight. We collapsed for a while and tried to get some more sleep, though we posted stricter guards that time. No more sleeping on the job for any of us.

We had lost some supplies in the shuffle to get out of those apartments. Things we couldn’t really afford to lose: some food, most of those cans. We hadn’t packed them before we lost the light. What little daylight we had today between exhaustion and the rain was spent looking for replacements.

I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t running on my last thread of energy.

We are definitely not used to travelling with people we don’t trust.

The way we have always worked – the Seekers, that is – is that we share everything. Everyone carries a portion of what we find depending on what they can manage, and food and drink are handed around between us when we stop to eat. I think we just got used to it that way; we’ve had children and injured people with us so often that it wasn’t possible for everyone to carry their allocation of supplies. Things got tense when supplies grew thin and hoarding instincts kicked in, but we got through it. There was never any one person left hungry; it was all or nothing.

We’ve been with the Wolverines for a bare few days, and there hasn’t been a discovery of supplies without some kind of fuss over who gets what. We tried to agree to just let each group keep what they found, but that didn’t satisfy them. The other guy always has the better stuff and luck isn’t always fair.

Early this morning, when most of us were still asleep, a couple of the Wolverines caught Dillon alone while he was on watch. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, or what they took from him.

I found him sitting by a window, looking out, hunched up and hugging his knees. He had been crying; I could see where he’d scrubbed at his cheeks to hide it. He couldn’t hide the bruises, though. I made him show me how bad it was and saw florid colours on his ribs and arms. Nothing broken, at least, but that’s not a comfort.

The idea of anyone hurting Dillon like that made me feel sick, and then tense and hot all over. I hugged him carefully and stood up, ready to go and tear strips off the damn Wolverines. I was furious, partly with myself for not keeping a closer eye on all of this but mostly with them, and I intended to give them a piece of my mind. But Dillon grabbed my hand and asked me not to. Matt was in the room by then and agreed with the kid; confronting them about it was a bad idea.

“You can’t win with them that way,” he told me. He had a look about him that took me a while to place: it was the same one he carried when we found him with the Sharks. It was that look that made me stop.

“I’m not going to live this way,” I said. Matt looked away from me, uncomfortable with the whole thing. But I had to do something; I couldn’t just let this happen to the people I care about. It’s not good enough.

When everyone gathered to eat, I could see the Wolverines watching us, waiting to see how we’d react to the attack on Dillon. We did a fairly good job of acting like nothing was wrong, not rising to their bait, but supplies were still a problem. Our packs were lighter than they should have been, though theirs weren’t.

While we were all together, I proposed a new way of doing things. There are four able-bodied members in each group capable of searching. We would pair up, one Seeker, one Wolverine, and pool everything we found in one place. Mixed pairs would keep everyone honest, and we would split up the supplies so that everyone got an even share.

They didn’t like it, but their attempts at arguing fell flat. They tried to claim that the kids shouldn’t get full portions – they don’t eat as much, they can’t carry it – but the rest of us spoke up to counter it. Thorpe said he’d carry the kids’ food if necessary. And what about Jones? Does the cat get a share too? No. Nugget hugged the scrawny creature defensively when we said that we’ve never fed him anything except scraps.

Eventually, it was agreed.

Dillon stayed back with Matt, which meant I didn’t have to worry about either of them too much. I was partnered up with Conroy, who kept trying to impress me with chattering about how this reminded him of a movie he once saw, or a particular storyline in some comic book. As if any of that stuff mattered any more.

He sidled towards me a couple of times, as if he was going to try something lame like a yawn-stretch-arm-around-shoulders move. Making him carry our find kept his hands busy, though; it was worth the risk of him slipping things in his pockets.

Today’s supply-search went well, despite all the angling and grumbling. I suspect the Wolverines are still hoarding when they can, but our packs are filling up again. That’ll have to do for now.

As for the watches, we’re doing that in our own pairs – no single Seeker is going to get caught out again. It means that we’re getting less sleep, but better that than another beating, or worse. No-one is to go off on their own, for any reason. Both Sally and I tried to convince Nugget of the seriousness of this, and I think the solemn little girl understood.

I wish there was another way to do this, but I guess this is the best lemonade we can come up with right now.