The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

I can’t believe it’s October.

In the weird limbo of this After world, it’s so easy to lose track of time as it slips past us. With houses and stores still decorated for Christmas, it’s hard to remember we left the holiday behind us months ago. We’ve lost summer and passed through a frozen winter since then. Now, we’re coming back into warmer weather; there’s no more ice and it should be warm enough to actually dry the rain up properly soon. Soon, we will have moved full circle and the decorations will be timely again.

So much has stayed the same through these long months and roads. The orange tint to the sky, staining everything an eerie, Mars-like colour. The low cloud-cover creating a ceiling that weighs on us, heavy with shifting threat. The rain falling in the afternoon and eroding everything in its path. The more recent additions of the Sickness and the mindless husks that it makes us.

A lot has changed, too. The landscape is scoured down, stripped of everything green and growing. The infrastructure that let us live in accustomed comfort is gone, shattered into useless chunks of brick and metal. Fresh water cannot be trusted. There are no protections except what we make for ourselves.

More than any of that, we’ve been changed. We’re not the same people who stumbled out of the wreckage after the bomb hit. Soft edges have been replaced by lean lines, through hunger and fighting and struggling and walking, so much walking to try to find something better. All of us bear scars from our battles; some, only on the inside. They can show more clearly than the skin we cover up.

Last month, I turned twenty-three. Despite keeping this journal, I completely missed the day. It’s sad, like the sound of a single party hooter blowing in an empty room.

I feel a lot older than that. I don’t feel like the girl who was still skipping around on Cody’s arm a year ago, with no idea that he was screwing my best friend. I don’t even feel like the girl who floundered after his image shattered, trying to find out how to be someone without him. She went out and got a tattoo on her back; I keep forgetting it’s there.

Dad hasn’t seen it yet. I wonder what he’d say.

My best friend Matt has changed a lot, too. Not the bruises or his pale, thin look. That’ll fade as he gets better. Not even the scars he doesn’t think I’ve seen, from the time before the Seekers found him. It’s the things that matter to him that have shifted..

I haven’t seen his natural hair colour since he was old enough to buy his own bleach, and once he discovered gel it was short spikes all the way. Now it’s dark and shaggy, down past his ears with little blonde tips. He was always meticulous about how he dressed and showered more often than I did, but his jeans are torn and stained, his shoes have seen better days, and his shirts smell as good as mine do. He doesn’t take longer to get ready to go out than I do any more.

He doesn’t seek to stand out, either. He isn’t so eager for attention, not the way he was, though not even the end of the world could make him a shrinking violet. I guess we’re all dented in our own way.

The hard part about looking back is turning around again. When I contemplate the future, I feel even more lost and disconnected. The past stuns me – I see the path we’ve walked and can barely believe that we’ve made it all this way. But when I look forward, I struggle to see even the next step. I don’t know where we’re going any more. I don’t know if here is all there is for us – I hope not. I desperately hope that this isn’t it.

There must be more. I didn’t pick the name of our group, but I believe in it. It’s who I am now: a Seeker. It’s foolish, but I miss the road. It was always more than just surviving for us out there. It’s the striving for more that I miss.

Maybe I’ll never be happy in one place. Maybe I’m looking for something that doesn’t exist any more.

I don’t know, but a part of me wants to find out.

Hey, it’s Matt here.

Bet you didn’t think you’d hear from me again. Tell the truth, neither did I for a while, and I think Faith was there too.

She’s off at the admin building, harassing the General again. The rain’s running late tonight – it’s only a fine mist, but still not something anyone wants to walk in. She won’t be back until after it stops completely.

I hope she’s all right over there. She can look after herself well enough, but her mouth isn’t always smart. It has a habit of running away with her and they don’t even need their military weapons to be a danger to her. She still believes that basic decency will stop people from doing what they want, until they prove otherwise. Even after everything.

I had to insist that she go, though. She didn’t want to leave me – she thinks I’ll evaporate when she’s not looking. It’s touching but it’s time for her to do what she needs to do. If that means going to berate the leader of this place we’re in, then she should go do that. I’m still stuck in this bed, so I’ll be right here when she gets back.

I haven’t read over any of her posts. I won’t lie – it was tempting (who wouldn’t be tempted by a chance to read someone else’s diary? Especially when they might have talked about you?). She knew it was a risk when she left the laptop with me for safekeeping. But I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to see what the past few days did to her. I still haven’t got over it all myself.

She’s so thin. Not physically – well, she is a bit, but that’s not what I mean. She’s worn down and papery on the inside, so easily torn.

I’m not quite egotistical enough to believe that it’s all me. It’s this place. It wears at all of us – it’s not just her; I’ve seen it in others around here. Contrarily, the ones least affected by Haven are those I despise most: the Sharks. Not exactly a model that any of us with a heart and a conscience want to emulate.

I feel like there’s stuff I should write here. About nearly dying. About seeing the Sharks again. About Faith and her dad.

I’m not ready for all that yet. Faith works her issues out in words, typed into this blog as if that helps them make sense. That’s not me. Sometimes it is, but not right now. I guess we’re all hardening against the world in our own way.

I can talk about Faith and her dad, I guess. That’s okay. He’s a good guy, never gave me crap about anything, though once he did ask me, “Are you going to lead my girl into trouble?” I laughed – if anyone else had asked me that, I would have been angry, but he sounded like he didn’t want to ask at all. Always did struggle with the whole fatherly thing; women are a mystery to him, including his daughters. He did his best to tick all the boxes he knew about.

Back then, he frowned at me and said I’d better look out for her. And I did. I have no idea if Faith ever knew about that, my little promise to her dad. I think she would have been furious with both of us.

It was an off-hand comment from Thorpe that took me to find him. I haven’t had much to do with the machine shops and garages – they kept sticking me up on roofs, taping plastic down to keep the rain out. There are so many guys here that I just hadn’t seen him. Then the big lug goes and mentions a MacIntyre, and off I run to see if it really is my best friend’s father.

I wouldn’t have been so pleased if it was my own father, but that’s another story.

He was so surprised he nearly fell over. I grinned so hard I nearly cried and shouted, “Daddy Mac!” He frowned at me the way he always did and I laughed. He hates it when I call him that. When Faith was about twelve, she decided she hated her name and wanted to be called ‘Mac’, so it was only natural that her father became ‘Daddy Mac’. It gets a disapproving look out of him every time, but he loves it really. Well, it’s a private joke between us. Mostly.

Of course, he asked about his little girl, all propped up for bad news. He almost broke down when I said that she was not only alive, but here, right here. It’s so embarrassing when a guy like him cries – you end up looking away until he’s done, out of mutual discomfort and a weird sense of courtesy. He controlled himself and asked how she was. If I’d been looking after her. All that stuff.

I wanted to drag him off to see her right then, but he said he needed time to clean himself up. Like any of us can ever really wash any more (I still hate that). He made me promise not to tell her that he’s here – he wanted to do it himself. He wanted to go meet her. I wasn’t going to take that away from him.

Of course, that was days before he actually came to see her. I don’t know what held him up. I waited for a few days, got angry and asked him why he hadn’t gone to let her know that he’s alive, and decided to bring her to him. Then… well. That’s when I found Terry and the Sharks.

He got here eventually, though. I saw the look on her face when she saw him. Poor Faith, strong for everyone except herself. I guess that means she still needs her friends, huh?

Speak of the devil, here she comes. I’d know that doorslam anywhere. I’d better put this away and look pathetic so she takes care of me. Not that I need to – I’m pathetic enough already, thanks very much, and Faith is a big softie.

Can’t wait to hobble the hell out of here.

The last time I went to see the General, he was surprised to see me. This time, he was merely displeased when I walked into his office. He asked me why I waited for the rain, and I told him that it was so he couldn’t kick me out. He grunted at that.

Then he said that he could have me thrown out anyway. I didn’t much appreciate the threat and told him so.

Finally, he asked me what I wanted with him this time around. All of a sudden, my stomach clenched in the face of having to tell him. It was readying itself for another unpleasant battle and I didn’t want to do it.

So I asked him about the bombs. I hadn’t got to those questions last time and it seemed as good a time as any. I wanted to know what happened, who set them off, why, where. I wanted to know what happened to the government and all those meant to protect us.

“And you think I have the answers to all of that?” the General asked me.

“I think if anyone does, it’s you,” I said.

He grunted again and looked at me, and then sighed. “You’re a determined one. All right, I’ll tell you what I know.”

If he could have thought of a reason not to, he wouldn’t have told me anything; that much was clear. I’m not convinced that he told me everything, though. But he told me more than I knew before and I took what I could get.

They’d had only a short warning. A sudden blast over the airwaves from HQ, emergency stations, mobilise everyone. Get as many planes in the air as possible. We’re under attack.

Twenty minutes later, the bombs went off. The planes that had made it off the ground were taken out by the EMP. They never had time to do anything about the bombs. Those on the ground were crippled by the blast’s effect on their equipment and the shockwave that followed. They were cut off from HQ until the electronics guys managed to cobble together a working radio.

Information was sparse, even to them. Entire bases had been taken out – Greenberry’s base was a relatively small one and didn’t merit its own bomb. The larger ones did. The whole country was in darkness, each major city hit, infrastructure torn down. They didn’t get much information beyond the east coast – there was only so far that radio waves could reach and the relays weren’t reliable. Stories came through about parts of the southern states escaping, but there’s no telling how true they might. The General believes that it wasn’t just us that was hit – probably some allies as well. Otherwise, help should have come from somewhere.

Immediately after the bombs went off, the General mobilised his people to patrol the region. Looking for invaders (crippling an area is a good way to soften it up for a ground-level invasion, he said, though that was an archaic way to do it), and also to keep the peace. Looting was a major problem.

And then the rain started. He lost over a third of his people to that first rainfall, and more over the days and weeks that followed. They kept sentries out during the rain-free hours, in case there really would be an invasion, but who would want a land so stripped and poisoned?

Since the rain started, communications have broken down. He hasn’t heard from any other bases for a couple of months now. The rise of the shamblers and the desperation of survivors have destroyed what was left in other places, or maybe they just ran out of power to run the radios. Either way, it’s not a good sign and it leaves us equally on our own.

“Who did all of this?” I asked.

The General shrugged. “We never got a straight answer. No-one took responsibility before the comms went dark. It could have been any of a handful of terrorist organisations. It could be the Middle East mobilising against the Western countries. Hell, it could be the Neo-Nazis trying to resurrect the Fourth Reich or whatever they’re calling it now.”

“You don’t know who might have had the technology to do this?”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s not the kind of intel that we ever got to see down here. The lack of invasion suggests it was a terrorist act.”

Like 9-11. All about damage and bodycount. They poisoned the sky. They warped people past death and into hunger. All to make some kind of point? I’ll never understand that mindset.

It makes me more determined not to submit. It makes this blog, this record of what happened here, more important. It makes me more determined to live through all of this and come out the other side.

The General said that he didn’t know if anyone would come to help us. “We’re not counting on it,” he said. If they could have, they would have come by now. Either the rain or their own problems are keeping them away. “So we have to make the best of what’s left for ourselves.”

I looked at him when he said that and it was an effort for him to meet my eye. He’s made awful compromises to ‘make the best’ of this and he knows it.

“Your men shot at us,” I told him. “And you’ve known it since you picked us up.”

He considered lying to me but he also knew that I wasn’t asking. “Yes.”

“You tried to cover it up.”

“I can’t change what happened.”

“You could apologise!”

“I’m sure my men had their reasons.”

“For shooting at unarmed people while they ran the other way? For gunning down terrified people in the street, while they begged for help?”

He looked surprised, so I carried on.

“We saw it ourselves. People asking for help and being shot down. Your men.”

“They do what they have to to protect themselves out there.”

“That wasn’t protection. If it’s all so justified, why don’t they go out in uniform?”

The General looked uncomfortable and I could see him getting angry. I was pressing him; I knew it would piss him off. But I wanted the truth. I got the district feeling that this wasn’t entirely in his control, though; he was trying to justify something he didn’t agree with. He lived with it but he didn’t like it.

“You have to understand something, Faith. Some of the bases we lost contact with weren’t destroyed by acid, or the undead, or a lack of resources. The men there turned on each other. They killed each other for food, they left to find their families. Some went mad with guns and explosives, determined to meet the end of the world with a bang. They’re just as angry and horrified as you are. To keep the peace here, they need their outlets.”

That awful sick feeling was creeping over me again. First sex, now this. Justified, ratified killing. Not shamblers, not attackers, but innocents. Anyone who gets in their way, or just strays too close.

“I can’t control everything they do out there. What would you have me do?”

I stared at him, aware my mouth was open. It took me a long moment to figure out how to fill it. “Tell them that it’s not okay. Tell them that there are boundaries. Apologise.”

That was the best I had. He looked at me and I saw abruptly that he was very tired. Months of holding this place together while everything else fell down around him, here and at the end of the radio waves – it had taken its toll. I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost. There wasn’t much left to say, so I excused myself to digest what I had learned. It didn’t want to go down; like bitter medicine, I knew I had to swallow it but it stuck in my throat. It prickled my eyes with tears that I blinked back. I had until the rain stopped dribbling out of the sky to compose myself.

I got back to the infirmary to find Matt abusing the laptop. I was so relieved to see him sitting up and looking perky that I didn’t mind about him using up what little battery there is left (there’s really not much). It’s the first time in a while that I’ve been able to hug him properly and we both hung on longer than usual. It felt good, like oxygen.

We’re really on our own here. All we have is this, each other, and the stores stolen from the supermarket depot. Knowing it is harder than suspecting it; it tints everything, like the orange cloudcover.

Make the best of it. I guess that’s all any of us can do now.

It’s been a couple of hours since the cutouts came through. I didn’t dare check on the laptop before now.

When I got up this morning, I wasn’t sure about whether or not I would be able to post. The battery on the laptop was critically low and I didn’t want to get caught charging it on the base’s circuits. The last time I tried was too close for comfort. I know they’ll take the laptop if they find out about it, and dammit, it’s mine.

Matt and I were talking about nothing when the idea struck us. He’s doing much better – he’s got his colour back and even tried to hobble around the room today. Afterwards, he was breathless but not flushed or shaky like he was before. I think it’s safe to believe that he’s going to be okay now. As I was watching him today, something relaxed inside me and I felt myself smiling like I haven’t in so long. No reservations, no caution. Just smiling.

As he was crutching his way around the bed, he kept shaking his head so he could see through his mop. I teased him about it and he suggested that I cut it for him. I had nothing better to do at the time, so I went to find scissors. Buried among the medical equipment was a set of clippers, so I brought them back, too.

At first, I had no idea why an infirmary would have a set of electric clippers. Then I thought about the times when they might have to be used – headwounds, or delicately-placed wounds, or just really hairy guys. I looked at them differently after I realised their real purpose, and I didn’t particularly want to touch them. I checked the blades for blood as well as rust, just in case.

If Matt has the same realisation, he didn’t show it, and I know he’s more squeamish than I am. He was pleased to see them, eager to deal with his overgrown shag, but I had to pause.

“We’ll get in trouble,” I told him. I explained what happened the first time I tried to plug in.

He went quiet, musing over the risk and reward, and then gave me a sideways look that was all mischief. I know that look – it means he’s having an idea that’s bound to get someone in trouble.

“They’ll notice one – but will they know if there’s two?” he said.

Neither of us knew the answer to that, but it was a fair bet that they probably wouldn’t notice an extra electrical device. They knew where there was a draw on the system, but did they know how many, or how much? It was risky for many reasons, not least of all what their idea of punishment might be.

I checked with him four times to make sure he really wanted to do it – get caught with the clippers so we could hide the charging of the laptop. Then I pointed out that he would have to trust me with clippers near his head. He laughed and said he was sure.

My heart was thrumming quickly the whole time. We had to wait until the rain started and then for it to start to get dark, when the generators kicked in and sent electricity sluggishly through the circuits. We had a candle to see by, and cutting hair by candlelight is harder than you’d think. Matt had to show me how to use the clippers and I strained my eyes desperately trying not to nick his ears or neck.

It took them a lot longer to find us than we thought. On the plus side, the laptop’s battery is almost completely full – good enough for a while. By the time we heard the approaching footsteps, I was so nervous that I was almost jiggling from foot to foot – I only held still because I had to be careful and concentrate on what I was doing. Then my pulse ratcheted up a couple of notches and I hurried to hide the laptop and its cord.

We were caught red-handed. Me with buzzing clippers in hand and a horribly guilty expression, and Matt with most of his hair on the floor. He does a good wide-eyed expression when he wants to.

The cutouts were less impressed, and none too gentle in taking the clippers off me. I had to struggle briefly so that the one reaching for them didn’t cut himself, and it took me several minutes to convince them to let me show them where the cover was. I was sure one of them would get hurt.

I was terrified that they’d look under Matt’s bed and see the laptop secreted away underneath among the metal struts. I had to make a conscious effort not to glance at it, just in case a loop of wire was showing, just in case it had fallen down to the floor, because one of them might see me look and go to investigate. To me, it pulsed under there like a beacon begging to be located, an itch on my senses. Luckily, the cutouts were oblivious.

After they left, I leant on the bed, shaking. I couldn’t believe they didn’t find it. They had made all kinds of ominous noises about reporting the clipper-incident to the General, but I didn’t really care about that. I still don’t. My laptop is here and charged up, and that’s what really matters.

Put like that, it sounds small and petty. It’s just a laptop. But it’s so much more to me. It’s our story. It’s all I have left of those I’ve lost along the way. Ben, Dillon. Thorpe’s Trevor. Sax. Carter. Those we left behind at the University. It could be used to find those at the University. I don’t trust Haven with anyone there.

No, the laptop is mine and I’m going to keep it. I’ll take whatever the General dishes out. I can handle him, I think.

I didn’t need to explain any of this to Matt – he gets it. He has used it to post too and it means almost as much to him as it does to me. He’s a good friend, too. He’d have helped me today even if he hadn’t put himself in here.

I made him keep some of his hair long at the front. Longer than usual – enough to flop into his eyes. It’s cuter that way. He rolled his eyes at me but he let me do it. For a little while there, he let me do anything I wanted. It feels so strange, trusting and being trusted. Like a tiny piece of home in the middle of a swamp.

Mission accomplished. It’s a tiny victory and we can’t tell anyone about it, but it’s a flag we’ve planted in our hearts. In the face of the obelisk that is Haven, a small win like this matters. It’s for us, it helps us stay who we are.

I don’t like the Sharks or their victories, but I understand them now. I don’t like seeing from the perspective of people like that – it makes my flesh crawl with the kind of unclean that you can’t wash off, not even with water. They’re in Haven, but they’re still Sharks. They do what makes them Sharks.

We’re here but we’re still Seekers. We still Seek – answers, mostly. A safer, better place to be. And I still record it all, for that future set of eyes that will look back and wonder how any of us made it through this.

Here is how. We did things we aren’t proud of. We made compromises and sacrifices. We hid behind a pair of clippers and innocent expressions, and prepared to swallow the punishment. But we stayed ourselves.

It’s worth it.

The General came down to see me today. Well, to see us, but mostly me.

He looked more put-upon than angry. That gave me hope that it wouldn’t be as bad as I feared. He eyed Matt’s new haircut – it really does look a lot better than before, even if it is rough around the edges – and then he ordered the cutouts to wait outside.

He started off by making sure that we knew about the rules regarding power usage. I put on my best innocent face and shrugged, thinking that no-one would mind a small use of the clippers. Didn’t the army approve of things like that?

“Not any more,” was the short reply.

Matt and I glanced at each other and apologised. Promised never to do it again. I knew this was a one-shot deal when we tried it; how I’ll charge the laptop when it runs down again, I don’t know. The General didn’t look like he thought we were sorry enough.

“How were we supposed to know?” I asked. “We only find this stuff out when we get in trouble.”

“And now I have to figure out what to do with you.”

He looked at us and I can just imagine how his cutouts felt at parade inspections. I was abruptly aware of every frayed thread of my clothing and how my hair kept escaping from my ponytail. I felt like a kid in front of him.

I wonder if they even have parade inspections any more. I haven’t ever seen one. Maybe he misses making people feel like dirty insects he’d like to step on.

Finally, he started to speak, telling us exactly what we would and would not do. No using power unless there was an emergency – and no, a haircut didn’t count. I saw the corners of Matt’s mouth twitch as he restrained a comeback – he’s definitely feeling more like himself – and had to restrain a smile. Somehow, I didn’t think the General would appreciate an overly-effeminate exclamation about how sometimes, a haircut really is an emergency, for all our sakes.

We are also not allowed to go out without permission. There will be a cutout (he called it ‘security’) posted at the infirmary at all times. Our meals will be brought to the infirmary for us – I don’t have to go fetch them any more. I am to go back to the dorm at night, now that Matt doesn’t need around-the-clock nursing.

Most of it was nothing new, but it was the presence of the cutout to enforce it all that bothered me most. That’s going to make things awkward, especially if I want to keep my laptop and this blog a secret. Right now, Matt’s keeping watch for me while I tap away. I don’t like being watched, not like that. I don’t like the idea that someone is reporting my every move – someone who isn’t me, to ears outside of this blog.

The General finally wrung muted agreements out of Matt and me, along with a promise that we would behave ourselves, and then he huffed off. I felt duly chastised and deflated into a seat. There was the sharp clip of boots outside in the main room of the infirmary and the murmur of quiet voices; Simon was catching up on the gossip with our new guard. That was a complication I didn’t want to deal with.

I saw the medic briefly, and he was smug and eye-rolling at the same time. He thanked me for making things more difficult for everyone in the infirmary. I hadn’t considered that this would affect him. Maybe I would have if he had been nicer to me.

Dad brought us dinner, though, and that perked me up. I still don’t see him nearly enough. After this, I’m not sure I’ll see him very often at all.

He has never told me off like the General did. He has never made me feel small and silly. He never made me feel like an obstacle he had to overcome. And he’s the one who has taken the most of my crap, when I was teenaged and thoroughly misunderstood, when I was upset and he was the closest person to lash out at.

I spent most of his visit leaning on his arm or shoulder, enjoying his solidity. For a while, he put his arm around me: more demonstrative than he usually is in company, but Matt doesn’t really count. It helped me feel better. Now we have security lurking around, this kind of thing will be harder. Seeing each other will be harder.

I’m not so sure that yesterday’s stunt will be worth it. I can post, so I can vent about how much I can’t do anything or see my friends. I’ll be more stuck here than I was before.

The General knew what he was doing. I’d better go – have to say goodnight to Matt and get to the dorms now it’s stopped raining.

The infirmary was full again today. Blood, bone and bruising, and hands holding onto concussed heads. Worse, there was the scream of acid’s burn among the injuries.

A short time after dawn, the roof of one of the machine shops partially collapsed. Those working below had no warning – just the shriek of protesting wood and metal as the weight above shifted, and then the rumble as it gave way and tumbled down. There must have been a puddle of rain on the roof, because that came hissing down too.

Two died. A dozen more were injured, a couple of them badly. They came in all in a clatter, limping, carried, wavering, and I lost count. Somehow, Simon managed to keep track of them all and told me what I needed to do. For once, I did as he said without complaint; it wasn’t a day for personal feelings.

They can’t be shut away entirely, though. I searched every face that came in, looking for some familiarity. My stomach tightened up into knots when I heard about the deaths. I wanted to know who. I wanted to know where my dad was, and Thorpe, and the rest of the Seekers. I kept my hands working, bandaging and applying pressure, and I soothed with what comfort I could offer.

Matt helped out too. He gave up his bed to a guy with a shattered shoulder and hobbled around on his crutch, trying not to get in the way. He looked after the laptop for me while I rushed around. He lent a hand when an extra pair was needed, to hold a man down while a bone was set or when a splinter longer than my hand had to be removed. He patted shoulders and chatted lightly, and tried not to look too ill when he had to apply pressure on a bleeding wound.

Simon had to dose the guy who caught the brunt of the acid. He’d lost most of his left arm; what was left was raw, the skin gone and the meat cut through in rivulets. He wouldn’t stop screaming, and when I saw the damage, I didn’t blame him. I could see the bone through the blood that we couldn’t stop flowing. I don’t ever want to be able to see someone’s bones like that again – I could feel the horror crawling all over me, as if my muscles were trying to escape one by one.

It got worse, though. Simon put the guy out, much to the relief of everyone’s ears, and then he asked Peter to get him a certain kit. He was pale around the mouth with tension as he tried to get a tourniquet to work. There was just so much skin missing.

I went cold all over when I saw what was on the tray Peter brought back. I have no idea where they kept those blades and I don’t think I ever want to. As soon as I saw them, I knew what he was going to do: saw the rest of that ruined arm off. A tiny part of me was nodding and agreeing that it was probably the fella’s best chance, while the rest of me wanted desperately to vomit on the floor.

I tried to excuse myself, but Simon needed the extra pair of hands. I had to make do with trying not to watch, not to hear the sound of a saw against bone or the wet slap of human tissue piling up in a bowl. I shuddered and tried to focus on little things, but I found myself seeing red covering everything. I noticed that the fella was about my age and he reminded me painfully of Terry. He had a piece of twine tied around his right wrist; a token from another time. I wondered what he might have had tied around his other wrist and then instantly regretted it. Don’t look, don’t look.

It took a long time to stop the bleeding and tidy up the shoulder. Once the bulk of the work was done, I managed to slip away to check on the other patients. I wasn’t sorry to leave that room behind me.

Matt saw me and called me over. I must have looked as shaken-up as I felt, because he hugged me – careful not to get any blood on him – and told me he was glad he didn’t have my job. It was good to have the chance to lean on him for a moment and catch my breath, before a pained moan tore me away again.

Most of the day was a blur. I flitted from patient to patient, checked the same thing four times without realising. I didn’t know what I was looking for until Dad appeared in the doorway. He was bewildered when he saw me and kept asking if I was all right; I was so relieved to see him it took me a moment to realise how awful I looked, rusty with dried blood.

He was fine, that’s what was important; it wasn’t his roof that had come down. Thorpe worked with him and the others were all in other divisions. The Seekers were safe; my dad was safe. I could relax. We had a weirdly quiet dinner in the back storeroom, listening to the treacherous rain.

Been a hell of a day. My cutout guard – his name’s Jonah and he looks about twelve – insisted that I go back to the dorm tonight, as the General had decreed. I’d rather stay with Matt, but if I’m honest, it’s a relief to be out of there. A hard bunk and a change of clothes is a good thing right now.

It’s hard not to watch the ceiling as I sit here. The acid is worming its way into Haven, nibbling away at its supports. And once again, I’m cleaning up the mess it left behind.

Some things don’t change.

It’s easy to forget the other parts of Haven when you can’t see them. I’ve spent so long in the infirmary, only leaving to fetch food and supplies from the kitchens, that I had forgotten what it was like in the dorms.

It’s still weird. It’s full of people I don’t know and faces I can’t attach a name to. But a lot of them seem to know my name and I got more than one hello when I made my way to my bunk. It’s disorienting.

My bunk. It doesn’t feel like mine. It’s a place I slept for a few nights weeks ago. All my gear is in the infirmary, along with everything else I care about. Except for the laptop – with the infirmary so full, I can’t get enough privacy to post, but a tiny storeroom off the dorms after lights-out works well enough.

There are a couple of familiar faces here. I managed to catch up with Jersey – she’s doing much better, and she’s found herself a place in this gaggle of girls and women. By standing up to a man trying to force himself on one of the girls, she has secured the approval and affection of everyone here. The guys might not be too impressed with her, but no-one here cares about that. She’s still healing from the fight, but she’s so much more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. She’s pretty when she smiles now.

Tia is doing all right, too. She a gaggle of friends now – they erupt into giggles frequently. She goes quiet and rabbit-eyed whenever anyone mentions the deal with the guys, though – no-one talked about it before, but it comes up in conversations now, after Jersey’s fight. It was enough to make me draw her aside to see if she was all right. For a stomach-churning moment, I was afraid of what had happened to her when I wasn’t here.

At first, she tried to assure me that everything was fine. She caved all on her own, though, and told me that she wasn’t sure that she wanted to do it. The others say that she should do her part to keep the peace here; most of the women agree that the giving the men sex in their own way is better than having it forced upon them. Jersey tells everyone that they should refuse and disapproves loudly of the whole thing. Tia doesn’t know which way to go.

I didn’t know what to tell her. I hate the deal; I hate what it makes us girls. Every single part of me rebels against it. But I feel bad that another girl has to go in my place to keep this fragile truce in place, and my safety is ensured by someone else lying on their back. So what advice should I give Tia?

Go with your gut, I told her. Do what you feel, and don’t let anyone pressure you. Don’t, for goodness sake, let anyone pressure you into something you don’t want to do.

I think Terry would be upset with me if he knew that I didn’t tell her to just say no. He wouldn’t want his sister even considering it. I don’t blame him; I don’t want to think of anyone I know or care about taking part in it. Neither the girls here, nor any of the boys on the other side. Not that Dale or Thorpe would be interested.

Now I’m wondering if my dad has ever taken part in it. It wouldn’t be like him – he never sought out women after my mother left him. But the end of the world has changed us a lot, made us do many things we wouldn’t have before.

And Matt–

I really don’t want to think about these things. All it does is make me feel ill.

The strangest thing is I feel welcome here; there’s an acceptance that was missing before. I still feel out of place and lost, but the girls all act like I’m part of the furniture. Like we might be friends. Like we might become friends.

That part about being here sounds good. It might be the only part that does.

The infirmary is still full. Many of the injured have been sent back to the dorms to rest and heal – mostly those with minor injuries or broken bones. Those with open wounds are kept close because of the risk of infection.

We’re getting low on supplies. We used a lot of clean bandages yesterday, enough that I was shocked when I went to the storeroom today. There are stacks of soiled ones but no way to get them clean enough to reuse. There’s little chance of getting any more.

I told Simon that we needed to get enough water to start boiling some clean and he grumbled at me; it’s a battle he’s had before. I would offer to help, but I think I’ve used up any credits I might have had here. All I can do is hope that Simon manages to win the argument this time.

The fella who lost his arm – Clancy – has been doped up since he got into the infirmary. He moans about the pain even through the haze of drugs and we had to tie his remaining hand down so that he wouldn’t reach over and mess with his dressings. He doesn’t understand what he’s lost yet. A part of me wonders if it would be better to bring him off the painkillers so that he has a chance to realise what’s happened and come to terms with it. I can’t tell which would be worse torture for him.

The acid didn’t touch Clancy anywhere except his arm and Simon took off all the flesh and bone that was affected by it. Now I wonder if removing the arm might have been the best thing to save Clancy’s life in the long run. If the burn is gone, will that stop the poison from seeping into his system, and stop him from getting the Sickness? Is that one way to get away from it? It’s not something I’m eager to test. It takes months for the Sickness to develop, so we won’t know for some time, and he has to make it through this first.

It’s not looking good for him. Simon’s got that grim tautness about him whenever he goes to check on Clancy’s dressings, the one he has when he thinks things are really bad. He’s not a trained surgeon – he told me that he had learned all that stuff ‘in the field’. He’s done everything he knows how to do, but he doesn’t think it’ll be enough. There’s too much bleeding and the risk of infection is so high here. His chances aren’t good.

I can’t help but think of Matt when that comes up. How bad it got, and how lucky he was. How lucky I was that I didn’t lose him. It makes my throat clench and I want to find a way to stop it. I just don’t know how.

Matt feels the same. He can’t stand to be around the injured when dressings are being checked or changed, or when Simon or Peter or I talk about the dangers. I managed to catch up with him between rounds, and he looked so torn. He doesn’t want to watch someone else get sick like he did; it scares him, knowing how close he got. But he doesn’t want to leave, either, and go back to the dorms like cutouts want him to. At first I thought it was because of the Sharks, but it wasn’t. He thinks the cutouts will try to keep him away from the infirmary, away from me. He’s probably right.

There wasn’t anything I could say. It’s ridiculous that we can both be here in Haven and never see each other, but it’s true. The Seekers I see the most are the hurt ones. I had just got used to seeing him every day, used to having that one warm spot in this place. Now it was going away and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

So I kissed him. I don’t know what part of my brain prompted me to do it – it happened in a rush, but it didn’t stop nearly as quickly as it started. It was one of those kisses that gets away from you, all caught up in itself. When it was done, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves, so we just stood there, leaning on each other.

I was called away before either of us figured out what to say. A short while later, he headed back to the dorms on his crutch, escorted by a grumpy cutout. We had time for a short farewell – a word, a wave, that’s all.

Now I remember that morning last year, all those months ago, when I woke up in his bed. I felt this way then, wondering if I’d done something stupid and ruined the good thing we had. Wondering if was a horrible mistake.

This time, I really hope it isn’t.

Jonah, my cutout keeper, wanted to shove me back in the dorms before the rain today. I don’t know if it was orders from on high or just a personal preference, but before he managed to chivvy me out of the infirmary door, Dad turned up with dinner.

Jonah was about to insist when Dad clapped him on the shoulder and said, “It’s all right, son.” And that was the end of that.

Poor Jonah was left nonplussed while Dad led me off to one of the back rooms to eat. I felt a little sorry for the cutout; we don’t make his job easy. I try not to take out my frustration on him because I know he’s been ordered to be here, but I think it slips through anyway. I should try to be kinder to him; he seems like a nice enough guy, even when he has to tell me it’s time to leave.

Dad caught me up on what’s happening with the Seekers in the boys’ dorm. Thorpe is Thorpe, as stoic as ever. He hasn’t been back to have his ribs checked in a while and Dale is getting increasingly worried about him, so I asked Dad to get him to come see me. The big fella would say he was fine if his own hair was on fire; I wish he looked after himself as much as he did his friends. Maybe Dad can give him that extra nudge and ease all of our worries.

Terry is doing all right. Dad frowned when he mentioned the tensions going on right now – things are still awkward between Terry and the Sharks. I don’t know how much Dad knows about what blew up between the Sharks and the Seekers, but he knows enough to scowl and shake his head, wishing that it wasn’t there. I wanted to tell him all about it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to mention the threat of rape that’s hanging over those boys. It’s just not the sort of thing that wants to fall out of my mouth around my dad.

He said that Matt’s settling back in all right, and shot me a sideways glance. As if he knew that something had happened. Whether he knew or suspected something, my blush gave me away. I’m sure I caught a little smile before he changed the subject and asked how the patients were doing.

We talked about the accident that caused the infirmary to be so full, and I shivered because the rain was beating at the roof over our heads by then. It felt like the rain might hear us.

“Don’t worry,” Dad said, patting my wrist. “The infirmary was one of the first roofs they sealed. Army’s got its priorities.”

“What about where you’re working? Have they made sure it’s safe yet?”

He had one of his little pauses, the ones that aren’t sure if it’s right that I check up on him so much. Like when I used to check that he’d eaten during the day. “They’re checking all the buildings now,” he said. “Making sure that nothing’s loose or being eaten into.”

That was something. He told me that the machine shop that came down was the one responsible for making the parts for the Converter, the machine that’s going to save all of us. Everyone is feeling low, partly because of the sudden deaths and the awful injuries we’re struggling to heal. Dad didn’t say much about that; I think he knew the guys in that workshop, the ones that have died, and he didn’t want to talk about that. I didn’t push him.

Also, it’s going to take time to dig out the equipment and convert another space so that the work can be resumed. It could have put the schedule back by months. He didn’t seem particularly worried by this setback; in fact, he was very calm about it. It’s taking time for people to come around to working again, to pushing on towards making this thing happen. But they will, he said. They’ll pick it up and run with it again. They just need time. Because let’s face it: what else will we do?

Dad went back to the boys’ domain after the rain stopped, and I smiled at Jonah when he came to escort me. He looked at me sideways, unused to it. I suppose that’s my own fault; nice came too late for comfort.

It occurred to me on the way over that I’m probably the safest person who wanders around Haven now. I always have a cutout with me and company is a powerful level of protection. While Jonah might not be the most pleasant company in the whole world – I’m lucky if he says three words together to me – he isn’t unpleasant either.

On the way back tonight, he said the most that he’s ever spoken to me at once before. “You’re lucky. Having family here.”

I skipped around a puddle and glanced at him. “Yeah, I am.” I know that only too well, sometimes. It grabs me by the chest and it gets difficult to breathe, because I’m still afraid to believe it’s true. In case it turns out not to be.

I felt suddenly sorry for Jonah. It’s easy to forget that everyone here has lost someone they care about. The people we love slip through our fingers so easily in this time After the bombs, even if we clench our hands and try to hold on. We’re all damaged and grieving, in our own ways. He saw me with my dad and must have thought that things were so bright for me. But they’re not. It’s not like I haven’t lost people, too.

“It’s not all roses, though,” I said. He frowned at me, so I went on. “I barely see him. And while it’s wonderful that he’s here, I still…. It scares me.”

Jonah’s look turned quizzical.

I sighed and said, “He’s one more that I can lose.”

I don’t know how Dad did it, but Thorpe came to the infirmary today. The first I knew of it was a kerfuffle out in the main room while I was trying to get Clancy, the amputee, to eat something. He was resisting my efforts to get a spoon between his lips and I was just about to give up when I heard voices rising outside.

I went to see what was going on – some of the other patients have been getting snappish between boredom and a lack of painkillers – and found my big fireman friend facing off with the nurse, Peter. I rushed over before something unpleasant happened.

“He’s refusing to let anyone except you deal with him,” Peter said, throwing his hands up. Thorpe looked entirely unapologetic about the matter.

“He’s a friend,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Special, are you?” I wasn’t sure if he meant me or Thorpe, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know.

I bit my tongue on what I wanted to say. “Not that special. I can’t get Clancy to eat anything – do you wanna see if you have any luck?”

“Great, now I’m doing your work too?”

“Consider it a swap,” I said, gesturing at Thorpe.

Peter grumbled away and I had to shepherd a scowling Thorpe into a back room so we could have some privacy. He’s doing better; he said things were fine and his ribs are healing. I noticed a couple of new bruises, though, and a recent scrape on his hand.

“Been keeping the peace again?” I asked while I cleaned up his hand.

He glanced at me sideways but chose to change the subject by asking, “He been bothering you?”

It took me a moment to realise who he meant. “Peter? No, he’s okay.”

Thorpe grunted like he didn’t believe me.

“Why, would you go out there and smack him if he was?” I was kidding, but Thorpe wasn’t. My half-smile faded and there was an odd little pain in my chest when I realised he really would do that. His affection is startling when it sneaks out. “It’s okay, you don’t have to,” I said quietly. “Don’t go getting yourself in trouble, huh?”

“Like you, you mean?”

Despite all the segregation in this place, word travels fast. I wrinkled my nose at him and scruffed his hair – he was sitting down, so I could reach his head without tiptoeing. He was as stoic as ever, pointedly ignoring his ruffled hair. That was when I noticed how short it was, barely touching his collar at the back, the ends all blunt and neat.

“Matt’s work?” I asked. There was an odd, nauseating twist in my innards when I thought about it; the image of Matt fiddling with Thorpe’s hair reminded me of when I saw them together on that morning after. It was ridiculous; a haircut was nothing to feel jealous over.

“They can’t send him back onto the roof until his leg’s better. He’s keeping busy.”

Well, he was doing all right, at least. I tried to ignore the rest and asked about the other Seekers instead. Thorpe said they were doing fine. There was no accompanying scowl to indicate secret concern, so I think that was the truth and not just a stout assurance.

He said that all the able-bodied hands have been put on the recovery effort. First, they covered the ruined area so that the rain doesn’t damage anything else. Now they’re working on salvaging what they can from the wreckage.

“Dad said the mood was pretty bad out there.”

“It’s not the first time something like this has happened.”

I paused to blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“There are lots of rumours.” Thorpe’s tone didn’t give the rumours much weight – he’s heard varying wild stories, no doubt. “Been a couple of accidents around this Converter of theirs now. Half of them are convinced that the whole project is cursed.”

“Cursed?” I wrinkled my nose again, in doubt this time. Thorpe’s grunt agreed with me. I don’t believe in any of that stuff. Why does superstition have to get involved in these things? People are so eager to see patterns where there aren’t any and make a meaning of it.

Or maybe there is a pattern and they’re just blaming the wrong cause. I asked Thorpe what kinds of accidents they were, but he didn’t know; I’d have to ask someone who was around when they happened. It’s probably nothing, though; just people’s paranoia inventing intrigue where there isn’t any. In the After, it’s easy to believe that the world is conspiring against you.

Still, no harm in finding out a bit of history, right?