The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

The cold snap is still crackling ice at us in the mornings and we’re having trouble deciding what to do about it. There’s no way for us to know if it’s going to be like this all winter, or if it’s just a passing weather system. Chances are, it’s going to get worse and worse. The thick cloud cover is already struggling to chase it away.

The Wolverines aren’t eager to leave and take our chances out in the city. They’re comfortable here and we have enough supplies to see us through for a while. We all know that we’re safest together and no-one is willing to break that. Not yet.

Most of us are focussing on making sure we have everything ready to go – most of us Seekers, anyway. The vehicles have been overhauled to within an inch of their lives; I’ve run out of things I can do to them. We’ve packed them on top and inside with as much fuel as we have cans to hold, along with spare parts and tools. That just leaves equipment to keep us warm and alive.

I got out of the yard today, joining the foray into the surrounding buildings for supplies. It was good to stretch my legs and get away from Kirk’s poisonous looks. And, if I’m honest, the reminder of his healing face. I still get a little shock and thud under my ribs when I see it. I did that.

Sally was with us – the supply-searchers tend to travel in a group now rather than pairs, in case of shambler trouble – and I got the chance to talk to her a bit. She’s never very forthcoming, but she’s still a friend. Sometimes it’s good to chat with another girl, someone who understands, and lately she’s been warmer than usual towards me. I think it’s because of Kirk but I don’t want to ask.

I asked about the baby and how Masterson was taking it when we were out of earshot of the others. She said that she was okay – her usual brush-off response, but with more feeling this time. She’s not comfortable with the subject so I didn’t press her on it, and after a few minutes of searching through someone’s wardrobe, she said, “He hugs me at night, really tight. As if he’s afraid I might slip away while he’s asleep.”

She didn’t say any more about it, just gave me a smile and kept on with the work at hand. I think part of why she comes out on these forays for supplies is to get out from under his thumb – he’s attentive to the point of being suffocating, always near her, always watching, always telling her what to do. She doesn’t complain, of course, and I can’t tell if she likes it or not. Her little smile gives her away, though; there’s a part of her that likes mattering so much to someone.

They’re the only part of the group that hasn’t come to share blankets with the rest of us. I don’t think Masterson will let her; he doesn’t want to get too close to any of us and he doesn’t want to share her either. He’s already grumpy enough about being so close to her. I remember his broken words about the family he lost to the rain and wonder if that part of him will truly heal, even with a new child to salve it.

She asked about me and Matt, if we really were just pretending. It was hard to know what to say. Of course we were; we’ve known each other forever and we’ve never been that way. It’s so hard to explain without sounding lame.

And besides, Ben’s coming back. He promised. He could be lying dead somewhere, torn to pieces, eaten or melted down to just boots and belt buckle, but I can’t believe that. He promised he would come back. How long should I wait for him? How long does it take to give up hope?

I don’t think I’m going to let anyone leave now. They all have to stay so that I know where they are. I’m so sick of people being missing, just missing, and having no idea if they’re even breathing any more.

I had no idea that I’d said all that out loud until Sally came over and patted my shoulder. “Yeah,” she said. I don’t think she gets just how crazy it makes me, but she understands. I asked her if there was anyone she was looking for, someone she missed and wondered about too, but she just shrugged and shook her head.

So many barriers there. So many fences around the soft centre of her, propped up one against the other in an attempt to protect. I don’t blame her, but it makes me sad to think about how she came to defend herself so desperately. I think those defenses have been up since long Before the bomb went off; she has been amongst the worst of people for a long time. If that’s how she handles things, I won’t try to change her.

Maybe it’s a skill I need to develop. I don’t think I’m doing a good job of handling things lately.

Tonight, our radio chirped.

We’ve been carrying the radio for weeks now, stolen from a boat and fixed up by Sax. Whenever there was a spare car battery to power it, we’ve scanned the frequencies for signs of life. It was something to do in the hours when it was raining and it was too early to sleep. I think we’ve all taken a turn at least once, poking at the dials and listening to the crackle, straining our ears for a trace of order behind the chaos of white noise.

The Wolverines thought we were crazy when they first saw it. Clinging to the shard of the world we’ve lost, desperately hoping for that technological contact with someone else. Maybe it is a little nuts, but we can’t be the only ones. We send out our messages in the hope that there’s someone out there doing the same thing.

“Hello, is anyone listening? We’re survivors, we’re the Seekers. If you can hear this, please talk back.”

I think we’d all given up hope of ever hearing a response. The searches had become rote, almost cursory. People started to add their own twists to the message, started telling jokes to the imaginary audience and refusing to give the punchline unless they answered. Even Masterson joined in, but never in a serious way. I don’t think he wanted to hear anything on the radio.

So, of course, he was the one fiddling with it when the chirp came through. Scanning through the frequencies, going, “Blip blip blip. Blip blip blip?” Like a bored kid with a plastic telephone.

I don’t know what the chirp was; I was in a different room. Nugget ran in and tugged on my sleeve, then on Matt’s, and ran out again. She was fetching everyone, and by the time we emerged to see what was going on, Masterson was in full denial mode.

“…don’t know what it was! It just sounded like something. It was probably just the radio… burping.” He was standing and backing away from the machine, hands held up as if he was afraid to touch it again.

Dillon was kneeling next to it, head cocked over the speaker, fingertips carefully toying with the dials. He looked up at me and shrugged, shaking his head; he couldn’t hear anything.

“Try sending a message,” I told him, ignoring the others and their demands to know what Masterson had actually heard.

“Hello, this is the Seekers. Is anyone out there? Anyone, hello?”

Everyone stopped talking to listen. I don’t think I was the only one holding my breath. The radio crackled, and crackled, and then burbled something incomprehensible.

“See?” Masterson demanded while the rest of us broke into grins.

It couldn’t be anything but good news, a sign of life, a sign of someone else out there trying to reach out. There was backpatting and excitement, and Dillon looked like a deer in headlights until I gestured for him to answer. He was nervous but puffed up with the responsibility.

“Hello, we can’t quite hear you. Can you send again? …over?”

We quietened to listen, but Dillon had to repeat himself three times before we heard any kind of answer. Again, it was garbled so badly we couldn’t make out words, but we were sure that it was a voice. A person trying to speak to us.

We kept trying, and wound up draining the battery it was hooked up to. Rather than suck another one dry, we decided to try for a better aerial and position before we send the call out again. That might help clear up the signal. It’s a job for tomorrow.

There’s someone else out there with power and a radio. They might be no better off than we are, but they’re reaching out. They’re trying to search for something better. Maybe it’s someone at the Emergency Control Centre, that place we’re heading towards whenever we can. Maybe they’re not all we hope they are, but we are still going to try to find them.

Cross our fingers for tomorrow and a better signal.

The boys tried all day to get the signal back on the radio. They took it up to the roof and tried all kinds of ways to extend the aerial. I’m not sure I want to know the details of what they did – I have visions of Dillon standing on Thorpe’s shoulders on the edge of the roof, holding up a thread of wire. Even a couple of the Wolverines got involved after they heard about the signal.

They didn’t have any luck. There was a whisper of something a couple of times, but it was just as unintelligible as yesterday. I told them not to drain any more batteries; none of us know enough about how to make a better aerial. Maybe our travels would bring us to somewhere that would give us clearer access to the signal.

Travels. We’re not travelling anywhere; we’re still here at the car yard. The Wolverines are still refusing to leave, blaming the ice and claiming that we’re comfortable here.

It reminds me of something my mother used to say. She hated the car yard: she said that after Dad got it, that was it for him. He came here every day, he did his work, he went home, and he was happy with that. She was a climber; she wanted more, always had an eye on the next step. When Chastity and I were kids, it was our next steps she was all caught up in. She always wanted us to be doing better than we were. When we started to do our own thing and think about leaving home, she got on Dad’s back more and more.

That’s probably why she left. Her big hope for something big and bright died with my sister, and I don’t think she could face fighting for another one. Those last months weren’t good for any of us, and not just because we missed Chastity. It was a relief when she packed up and drove away. I feel awful saying it like that, but it was. For all of us, I think.

And now here I am, stuck in the car yard, in a much more literal sense than Dad ever was. He never wanted more than this, but I do. The radio is taunting us with shadows in its white noise. There’s more out there and I have to know what it is. I know I’m not alone in feeling this; some of the others are as restless as I am. Dillon has his family to get to. There’s the promise of organised help. There’s so much more and I’m sure it’s better than what we have now.

I never thought I’d agree with my mother, but I do. I want more. I want to go places.

But unlike her, I won’t go on my own.

The shamblers came again, and this time, the rainfall was too far off to offer the hope of a solution to the attack.

The first thing we saw were people fleeing, live people, running as if their lives depended on it, which they did. One of them was bleeding badly – one dark side of her shirt glistened wetly. They were bare-headed and coatless, chased out of wherever they had been holed up before they could dress properly against the cold.

They didn’t notice us, not even when we started shouting and banging on the glass. A couple of the others ran outside, but the runners had passed by before we could get out there to call after them. The Wolverines asked if we were crazy, encouraging them to lead the shamblers right to us.

“What, you mean like you did?” Masterson said. I had to hide my smile; for once, I agreed with him.

Straggling along like they always do, the dogged pursuers came into sight. They were quite focussed on heading down the street, following the blood trail of their quarry like blind dogs.

Then they smelled us. A few peeled off the tortoise-paced chase and started across the yard. The ground was still slick with the melting ice and some of them slipped and fell down. Most of us laughed, Wolverines and Seekers alike.

There was something hilarious about it. So dangerous, and so ridiculous at the same time. They were a horror movie spoof, Zombies On Ice, Bambi in bad makeup. I think if I had laughed, it would have turned into hysteria.

“The doors, block up the doors,” I said instead. As amusing as they might look out there, they’d be much less funny inside.

To their credit, everyone helped without complaining: wedging furniture up against the doors; weighing it all down with every heavy thing we could find; sending the kids out of the way, just in case. No-one could forget that this was why we put up with each other in the first place.

Thorpe raised an eyebrow at me and I shook my head; we both agreed that the gun wouldn’t help us here, not with this enemy. Blunt objects applied directly to the head seemed to work best and we didn’t know (or trust) anyone who could shoot.

Then all there was to do was watch them come and be ready to put our shoulders to the barricades in case they slipped. I think my heart was trying to break my ribs in its efforts to get out of there.

It all went well at first. The barricades held, even as more of the shamblers pulled off the road and wandered over to help lean against them. From inside, there wasn’t much we could do but watch.

Then they started to find holes. They started to batter and worm their way in, and everything went to hell. I don’t know what happened – one minute the barricades were barely letting them squeak in and we could pick them off one at a time, and then they were everywhere.

I turned around and there was one baring its stained teeth, leaning towards me. I shouted for help and tried to hold it off. I think it was Thorpe that hit it first – I remember a flurry of movement and the spatter of cool blood, and then it dropped to the floor. There were too many to notice details, and a lot of panicking voices.

It took me a while to realise that I couldn’t see any of the Wolverines. My stomach fell out of me as I realised that they’d left us alone in here with these things, abandoned our truce when we needed them most. It was down to us.

They hadn’t fled. I spotted them lurking near a side door, pushing something into the room. It was a tall stack of old, heavy wheel rims, and they were pushing it towards a clump of incoming shamblers. They were getting it ready to tip over, to crush the attackers, but I shouted at them to stop. They were too close to the windows and one of the barricades.

They didn’t stop. I know they heard me – a couple of them looked over – but they didn’t stop. They shoved their stack over, toppling it onto the unwary dead, crushing skulls and limbs indiscriminately.

There was an almighty crash as the window gave way, showering shards down onto those pressing outside. The forerunners fell over, and those behind didn’t hesitate in clambering over the top of them to get inside. To get to us.

The falling stack hit the side of one of the barricade, making the already-unstable conglomeration of shelves and tyres shift. With more shamblers adding their weight to that side of it, the barricade groaned and a part of it gave way, spilling itself onto the floor. A couple of our attackers were caught in it – the Wolverines, watching, cheered at the sight of it – but Dillon was over there. I heard him scream as he went down.

I ran for him, scrambling over the spilt rims and pieces of ruined barricade, and had to lay into one of the fallen shamblers on the way. It was down but not out, and latched onto my ankle as I tried to get past it. I don’t like how used to smacking skulls I have become, but I didn’t even think about it. I hit it until it let go and then pushed on to where I saw Dillon last.

I had to pull a tyre off him. He was ashen under there but glad to see me. He couldn’t get up – one of the metal shelving units had fallen onto his legs – and from the look of him, he was in a lot of pain. Stay there, I told him. Don’t move. I couldn’t get him out right then; there were too many shamblers coming in through the broken window.

The Wolverines were whooping and bouncing around – I could see them out of the corner of my eye as I tried to keep the attackers away from Dillon. I called for help and saw a couple of Seekers already making their way towards us. I caught sight of Kirk looking over at me and he smiled to himself when an undead hand grabbed hold of my arm.

This was no accident, I thought. This is him getting back at me for fighting him off. This mess, all of it, he did it on purpose. He could have killed us all.

I went cold inside as I tried to twist out of the shambler’s grip. The hand tightened, trying to draw me close enough to devour, and fingertips dug into my upper arm. When I tried to pull free, it tore deep scores down my arm. I beat it off as best I could with only one hand, but it didn’t let go until the others arrived. Matt first, then Thorpe, Masterson and Sally.

Dillon screamed again as a shambler climbed onto the shelves pinning him down, the extra weight pressing on him. We got rid of the damned thing, then Thorpe lifted the shelves up to give me space to pull Dillon free. He was so pale and his legs didn’t look right.

I hear him now. I have to go.

Where did I get to? Things have been happening so fast lately that I hardly know where I am.

With Dillon injured and unable to get up, the Seekers gathered around him to fight off the wave coming in through the empty windowframe. They just kept coming and coming.

I looked across the showroom floor, and there was Kirk, grinning cockily. Dale was crying out for help but Kirk was taking his time, walking around his friend to get a clean swipe at the shambler chewing on him.

Kirk never saw the pair moving up behind him. I shouted at him but he didn’t even glance in my direction, focussed on his target. One minute he was lifting a crescent wrench to take aim, and the next there were hands all over him, pulling him towards hungry mouths. Then there were so many people screaming that it was hard to hear anything.

They had hold of his arms and there was no-one close enough to help him. He couldn’t pull free on his own, not grabbed like that. There was snapping and a lot of blood, and then I didn’t watch any more. Conroy managed to get over to help Dale but they didn’t get to Kirk in time. I remember catching sight of his legs sticking out from the back room, one foot twitching.

The mess attracted the other shamblers in the room. Maybe it was the hot blood hitting the air and spreading all over the floor. Whatever the reason, we suddenly had a reprieve as the staggering attackers shifted towards him.

“We have to get out of here.” I’m not sure who said it. It might even have been me. There were no verbal answers, just a general air of agreement, this was not a place any of us wanted to be any more.

It was an effort to pull my attention around to what needed to be done. I took Sally and ran out to the yard, dodging the shamblers still making their way across the slick footing towards the violated showroom. We started one of our prepared trucks and she backed it up to the shattered window, blocking the portal. The others managed to get the gear thrown into the back while I struggled to start a second engine on my own. I nearly ran it into a wall, but the brakes bit in just in time.

There was no order to it. Just fill up the back of an offroader with whatever packs came to hand, move it out of the way, and do the same with the next one. We ran over the shamblers that got in the way, though that didn’t always stop them. My body didn’t know what to do first – it was a fight between a stomach that wanted to throw up, a heart that wanted out of my chest, and skin that was desperate to crawl off and hide.

Finally all the engines were started, the gear was all piled into vehicles, and we just had to get the injured in too. Dillon screamed when Thorpe picked him up, and again when he was laid on a back seat. Dale had to be helped into the back of another offroader. We were all covered in someone’s blood.

Finally everyone was in a vehicle – even Nugget with a wide-eyed Jones clutched to her chest – and we took off. Shamblers crunched under our tyres and we slid on the mess of blood and ice, but we were all determined to get the hell out of there in the pieces we had left.

We drove for a couple of hours after we saw the last of the zombies. I don’t know how we all stayed together – somehow I ended up in front and the others followed.

Zombies. That term doesn’t seem funny any more, not even a little bit.

We found ourselves in an industrial area and set about looking for a warehouse we could close up for the night. Something we could make secure, though I don’t think any of us will feel secure again. We found one eventually – big enough that we could all drive in and with roller doors we could close after us.

Then there were injuries to deal with. Most of us were torn or bitten somewhere. Masterson was hurt, so I helped him first; then he got to work on patching everyone else up. We barely had enough bandages to deal with it all.

I have four long scores down my upper arm where that shambler grabbed me that felt they were filled with hot lead. It was worse when it was washed with antiseptic – I thought my arm would burn right through and come off. When it was finished, I could barely see and was shaking all over. I can’t believe that Matt had this every day on the bulletwound in his leg.

And then there was Dillon. One leg was broken by the shelves that fell on him, snapped clean through, the doctor said. We scrounged around for something to splint his leg and tore up blankets to lash it all together. The Wolverines gave us a bottle of vodka and we got him drunk before Masterson set the leg. I held onto him and he screamed so loudly. At some point in it all he passed out; I didn’t even realise until someone told me that it was over and to put him down.

We’re all putting up with pain at the moment. I never thought I’d want two small pills so much in my life, just a little relief. The kid has it worse than any of us, and we haven’t tried to move him since his leg was set. He only cries when he thinks no-one will see.

I’ve spent as much time with him as I could. There’s so much to organise: going through what was grabbed in the flight from the car yard, checking the vehicles to see what damage has been done, checking on the injuries, trying to talk to the Wolverines. They’re in a mess, down to only three of their previous six. Jersey won’t talk to anyone except in snaps. Dale has lost a lot of blood; we’re not sure if he’ll pull through.

We’ve set a watch on the roof during the light hours, in case more shamblers turn up. Everyone’s too shell-shocked to talk much, and I’m a little afraid of what will be said once we get past that. I’m afraid of what I’ll say.

For now, all we can do is try to tend to our wounds and hope we avoid attention.

No-one has mentioned Kirk since we got to the warehouse. I keep catching myself listening for his name, ready to turn and snap the speaker’s head off, but it hasn’t come yet. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I keep going over that day in my head. The way the Wolverines disappeared after the shamblers got inside, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Their great plan of toppling a pile of metal onto our attackers. The broken window and the barricade falling on Dillon. The way they bounced around their targets, taunting them, like it was a game.

There’s not a single person that wasn’t hurt in all of it. Even Nugget was grabbed – she bears a handprint on her arm in vivid purple and blue. She’s sticking closer to Thorpe than usual, so I guess he was the one who freed her.

When I think about it, I get so angry. My chest grows tight and my eyes prickle. I can feel the words queueing up behind my teeth, pushing to get out. I want to shout at someone, I want to ask them, “What were you thinking?”

If Kirk was here, I would have ripped into him already. Probably right after all the injured were dealt with and poor Dillon had passed out from the pain. But he’s not here and I can’t bring myself to blame the other Wolverines as viciously. Kirk was the ringleader, the one who gave them bad ideas and encouraged them to carry them out. I can’t be sorry that he’s gone; everyone’s safer now. In pieces, but safer.

I heard Rico’s name come up earlier, something about him being so wrong.

It wasn’t until I stopped to think about it that I realised it was strange how the shamblers came at Kirk from behind, from the back room. There were no broken entries there; the attack had come from the front. The only place they could have come from was the room where the sick Wolverines had been. Rico and Sean. Now I remember Jersey’s frantic shouts and the surprise on Kirk’s face in a different light.

We thought they’d got rid of the bodies. They can’t have known what would happen, that the Sickness would turn their companions into the danger that stumbles down the streets, mindlessly sniffing out prey. None of us thought to tell them about it; I thought everyone knew.

Dale didn’t see them, but Conroy and Jersey did. Their friends tore Kirk down and ate him. It makes me shudder to think about it – I remember seeing Sax that way, empty and broken, coming at us with hunger. It makes my stomach clench up. Conroy has been quiet since it happened, doing what has been asked of him, trying to make sure that everyone is all right. Jersey has been increasingly snappish; I get the feeling that he’s as wound-up as I am and ready to punch something.

I can’t vent my feelings at them. It wouldn’t be fair. We all have our difficulties to deal with.

If I’m honest, I feel guilty about what happened. Kirk’s viciousness towards the Seekers was my fault after what happened between us. I hated seeing the face I cut every day and wondering when he’d get back at me for it, and now both reminder and threat are gone. That’s a relief to me, and that makes me feel guilty too. It’s ridiculous – he’s a grown man, responsible for his own actions, and he brought that cut on himself. But still. I shouldn’t be relieved he’s dead.

There’s something wrong with the world when all you want is a bad guy so you can feel vindicated in taking everything out on him.

Sleeping arrangements have been awkward. The floor of the warehouse is hard and cold, and we can’t pile together any more. Injuries mean that it’s too uncomfortable and painful to huddle for warmth; it only takes one person to shift wrong in the middle of the night, nudge the wrong part of someone else, and then the yelp wakes everyone up.

Instead, we each have our own clutch of blankets in a ring around a makeshift fire pit. The concrete floor is at least safe enough to light a fire on, and broken-down crates and pallets burn quite well. We have heat and light, though both escape us far too easily in a room this size.

Maybe that was what gave me such disturbed sleep last night. I woke fitfully and kept falling back into the same dream, deeper and deeper, like a swimmer struggling to stay above the surface of the water. Each time I came up for air, I fell down further than before and it was harder to pull myself out again.

I’m alone and running. I don’t know where the others are or where these endless corridors led. They look familiar but I can’t place them – a scrap of mall, an angle of back hallway, half of an alleyway, all muddled together. They all seem to go somewhere, but there is always another turn, another stretch to cover. Every door I stop long enough to try is locked.

It’s nether light nor dark; a halflight lets me see enough to keep my footing and glimpse something to stretch for. There’s a red pall to everything and I wish for a glimpse of white. It feels like I’ve forgotten what true, pure white looks like.

Behind me, someone is following. I catch sight of him in the corner of my eye and hear his footsteps tap-tap-tapping their way through my head. I can’t make out anything about him – no details, no identity, no face at all. Just the pressure at my back, driving me forward, and his terribly slow footsteps. He’s no shambler; he moves with patient determination, unhurried. My noises fall messily against his, ragged breaths and skittering steps. I run as fast as I can, turn corners and wind around on myself, but he’s always there, pressing me forwards.

He’s gaining on me. Inexorably, the steady sound of his heels clipping on the floor approaches, driving my pulse higher and higher into my throat. I’m slipping. I’m exhausted, growing leaden as I push to keep on running. There has to be some way to get away from him, but there isn’t. He’s closing on me.

I don’t look back, but I feel him reaching out for me, fingertips at my back, stretching, almost….

I jerked awake with the sound of my own name in my head and my ears, inside and out. Struggling for breath as if I really had been running, it took me a moment to realise that Matt was there, stroking my hair. I must have whimpered in my sleep and he came over to make sure I was all right.

I apologised, but I leant into him when he put an arm around me. He just smiled and shook his head. His warmth was so welcome right then and I was only too happy to share in it, even though I felt like an idiot.

It’s not exactly surprising that we might have nightmares, not after everything that’s happened. What’s surprising is that this was the most vivid one I’ve had in a long time, and there wasn’t a shambler or drop of acid rain in it. I don’t know if that makes me more or less of a mess.

It’s stupid, how these dreams can affect us so badly. I could feel it there, riding under the surface, just waiting for me to slip back under. I could feel those fingers a breath from my back, no matter how hard I strained away from them.

“I don’t want to go back to sleep,” I told Matt. He shrugged and stayed with me, and we talked quietly about nothing while we watched the wood burn down into embers in the firepit.

For that short time, it felt like the time Before. He felt like my old friend, the one who would chatter on at anyone about anything; a comforting susurrus of words that always made me smile. It felt like we were camping, stuck out somewhere with no showers and a sad lack of marshmallows.

I woke up on his shoulder this morning; I don’t remember falling asleep on him. The chaser hadn’t come back.

I told Matt that he must be my lucky teddy bear and he laughed. I haven’t seen him look so honestly amused in a long time; it almost broke my heart.

“I can live with that,” he said.

I think we both can.

The inaction is getting to all of us. We twitch at the slightest sound as we wait for the next assault, nerves fraying at the edges even more than they were before. Sharp words have been exchanged more than once over the past couple of days; in lieu of an enemy, others in the group will do.

We’re fracturing. Cracks are working their way between us and bile is bubbling up in the gap. I can see it happening; I can feel it. We’re slipping and there’s nothing to hold onto but each other. Nothing to sink our nails into.

I came back from my watch stint on the roof to find an argument raging. Thorpe was standing with a hand on Nugget’s shoulder, keeping her behind him, and Matt was next to them with a clenched jaw and tightly-coiled fists. Opposite, Jersey and Conroy were glaring at them, poised like they were expecting a fight. Jersey seemed fired up, while Conroy was grim and determined not to back down. In the middle, Masterson waved his hands and spewed words over the Wolverines. I ran down the stairs as soon as I saw what was going on.

“…because you’re fucking idiots!” Masterson was well into a word-vent by the time I came into range. “You bring all this shit down on us and you think you still have a right to make demands! What the fuck have you done to help us?”

He was saying the kinds of things that I had been holding back for days; my mind ticked off the points he was throwing at them. Hearing it, I’m glad I didn’t say it, though I think I would have felt better if I did. Jersey weighed in to argue with him and the volume escalated.

When the two of them were nose-to-nose and a hair away from actual violence, I stepped in. I didn’t want to get in the middle of it, but beating on each other is not going to solve anything. I had to grab Masterson and push him back a step before they stopped yelling and looked at me.

“That’s enough!” I told them. They both started to protest that they were just defending themselves – he said this, and he said that – and then they started to reach past me to get to each other. I never thought I’d have to hold two men apart; luckily they weren’t trying too hard, because my injured arm is useless at the moment. “What are you, five years old?” I think it was the disbelief in my voice that made them stop in the end.

Then it was quiet and I had to figure out what to say next. I hadn’t thought this through beyond the desire to stop them arguing. Now what? How do I finish this? They both looked like they were about to start justifying themselves as soon as they had permission, and something small in me was so very tired of it all.

“You know what,” I said finally. “I don’t care what this is about. We’re together because we need each other – it’s that simple. We-” I looked at Masterson and, by proxy, the Seekers, “-wouldn’t have got this far without their help. And you-” It was the Wolverines’ turn now, “-have caused us more trouble than we ever needed. You nearly got everyone killed.” They looked like they wanted to argue that, but wisely kept their mouths shut; I think the conversation would have fallen apart if they had tried. “We can’t keep on this way, or none of us are going to get through this.”

“Get through to what?” Jersey demanded. “There’s nothing left.”

“We don’t believe that. That boy over there? He has family out there, and we think we know where they are. And him? He’s a fireman and knows about an Emergency Coordination Centre that might have some actual coordination going on. So we’re going to find them. That’s where we’re heading.”

“If you don’t want to sign up to that, then perhaps you should go do your thing elsewhere,” Masterson added. I wasn’t going to go that far but he had no such compunctions.

“You saying you want to kick us out now?” Jersey’s hands were fists again and Conroy’s expression was gaining a belligerent edge.

“No. We need to decide where we’re going from here,” I told him, stepping on Masterson’s foot before he could interject. He had his mouth open ready for it but I wasn’t prepared to let him do that. “All of us. Stay together, or separate.”

“Stay together as one group, you mean?”

I hadn’t meant it that way and blinked at the Wolverine in surprise. But he was right; that was what it meant. It made sense. It was time we made this arrangement a proper teaming-up before the competition killed someone else. I don’t like making decisions like this on the fly; I looked at the other Seekers, but none of them looked upset at the notion, so I went with it.

“I guess I do mean that.” I shrugged, then winced because the motion tugged at the gashes on my arm. “But we all need time to figure out what we want to do here.”

It took some patience and glaring, but I got the two groups to split up and go to cool off. As they moved away, I let out a long breath; the tension left me shaky. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand having danger coming from every direction.

I suppose that there might be a resolution for that part of it soon. If only we can agree on a way to go.

The warehouse is big but it’s getting claustrophobic. Too many egos and tempers rolling around in there for anyone to be comfortable, underlaid by the naked pain our friends are in that is pressing on all of us. We would love to be able to ease it, if only we could find a way.

The more mobile of us went out to look for supplies again. This area is full of warehouses and factories, some of which have already been broken into, but we checked them anyway. We found a warehouse full of children’s toys, the import sticker marked ‘URGENT’; last-minute Christmas deliveries, I think. It’s so weird to think about Christmas now; it seems so long ago, but there are still decorations up in the offices around here. We’re still waiting for the clock to tick over for us.

We also found a few places with more useful wares – blankets and fresh clothing. There was so much that we fetched one of the offroaders and stuffed the back full so that we could go through everything back at our new base.

The idea of Christmas and gifts reminded me of another celebration – birthdays. No-one has mentioned having one, but I think I’m the only one who really keeps track of the date, thanks to this blog. Matt’s birthday is soon, in just a few days; I hadn’t forgotten, but it hasn’t seemed important until today.

I found a couple of things in today’s haul that I think he’d like. I don’t know what made me do it, but it seemed so important at the time. I hid those little things in the hopes that we can do something about his birthday, and somewhere in it all I decided that we were going to celebrate it. It’s time for the Seekers to get a new tradition.

I caught Thorpe alone (not easy these days, with Nugget tagging onto his sleeve whenever she can) and told him what I wanted to do. He looked at me like I’d grown another head.

“You really think now is the time for that kind of thing?” he asked me.

“Yeah. I think all of us could do with a celebration right now. It doesn’t matter if it’s silly games or just talking. We can’t let everything be… like this.”

“You’re crazy.”

I smiled at him then, shaking my head (I knew better than to try to shrug with this stupid arm). He’s not wrong. “Will you help?”

“What do you need?”

I had no idea what to tell him. Once again, my mouth had run ahead of my ability to plan, so we agreed that I’d let him know. I was going to leave it at that, but I caught something in his expression and it held me back. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I– none of us are, really. You never complain, so I wanted to ask.”

“I’m fine.” Thorpe’s good with the brick walls, so I tried something else.

“Okay. Listen, I wanted to… thank you, I guess.” He looked puzzled “You’re always there when we need you, and you’re so good with Nugget. She’s taken a real shine to you.”

“She’s just following the damn cat.”

I looked at him to check if he’d meant to make a joke, then laughed anyway. He almost smiled. Suddenly, I wanted to hug him, or give him something in lieu of actual physical contact. I opted for the latter and went to seek out Sally, because if anyone here will help me put together some kind of party, it’s her.

She agreed, so we’re planning a party. Quietly, to surprise everyone. Or at least, everyone we don’t drag in to help make it happen.

The more I think about this whole birthday idea, the more I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. It doesn’t feel right to make a fuss of one person when there’s so much else going on. I don’t know how many birthdays we’ve missed.

I don’t know how many of us will live to celebrate our next birthday.

Normally, I would talk to Matt about this kind of thing. But it’s his birthday that has brought all of this up, and I’d still like it to be a surprise for him. It sounds silly when it’s stated so plainly but I want to hold onto every little thing that might make this special for him, and for everyone else too. I still believe that we need a celebration right now.

I went to Sally to talk about it again and told her about my concerns. I want this to be right, I want it to work. I want it to make everyone feel lighter. She smiled at me and made such a simple suggestion.

“So make it about everyone.”

It took me a moment to think through what she was suggesting. It was the perfect idea, though. There’s no reason that Matt should be the only one to get presents, why his life is the only one to be celebrated.

Sally and I spent some time working out what we’d do, what we needed and what we have. I think it’s the most that the two of us have talked in a single stretch, probably more than we’ve said to each other in a whole week before. It was nice. I had forgotten how good it was to talk to a girl, to have someone I might call a girl friend.

I’ve never set out to do something like this before; our traditions have happened by accident or on spur-of-the-moment decisions. It’s stressful business – what if I screw something up? What if I forget something vital? What if it all goes horribly wrong?

“Will I have to make a speech?” I asked at one point, my stomach slithering down towards my feet.

Sally laughed at the look on my face, shaking her head. “Someone will have to.”

“Oh, shit.”

She patted my hand. “You’ll do fine. You always do.”

Do I? I have no idea; most of the time I just make stuff up as I go, my mind galloping in the background to try to prepare my mouth for what’s about to fall out of it. All of a sudden I had a craving for notecards and colour-coded ink.

To pull my head away from all of that, I looked at the girl sitting next to me, swathed in her layers of clothing. We’re all like that, bundled up against the cold, three pairs of socks and four shirts. It was impossible to know what shape she was under all of that, though I was sure she must be showing by now. She must have that one soft bulge on her skinny frame.

“It would be a good opportunity to tell everyone,” I told her cautiously. “Use one birthday to announce another.”

Her hands went to her belly, then shifted off as if she knew that the gesture gave her away. “You wouldn’t….”

“Oh, no, no. You should, but I won’t.” I won’t tell her secret, but I think the group should know. I don’t think she should have to carry it alone.

It made her uncomfortable. “Maybe,” was all she would say.

I changed the subject and we made some plans. We only have a couple of days left before Matt’s birthday and there seems like so much to do. We did rule out cake, though – any cake that hasn’t decomposed by now is too scary to think about eating.

Luckily, we have plenty of candles. Enough for one each.