The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

We spent most of today searching for a missing fella. I’d like to say that it was worth the effort, but we didn’t find him.

Last night, I went around and tried to take stock. It was easier once everyone had settled down and stopped moving around so much. All of the Seekers were accounted for except Jones. Poor Nugget is still upset about that; she won’t say anything except his name if she’s questioned, or offered food, or told to cheer up. I’ve seen her looking under chairs and in cupboards in the hopes that he’s here somehow. No-one has seen him since we left the warehouse, but I don’t think any of us has the heart to tell her the obvious. He’s gone and he’s not coming back.

Dillon and Dale were made comfortable with the rest of those needing attention on padded seats and sofas. Our two injured boys are looking better, though Dillon still can’t put weight on that broken leg. Thorpe is usually hovering around there, keeping an eye on them. I offered to relieve him for a while but he told me that he was fine. I don’t know how to talk to him, not after the thing with Matt, so I left him to it.

I don’t think it’s a thing between those two. I’ve hardly seen them exchange five words since that morning. It’s a shame – I think they might be good for each other – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved.

Matt has been mostly keeping an eye on the newcomers, making sure that they get what they need. He has an easy way with people – always has – and they seem to trust him. Most of them are automatically wary with me and I’m not sure why. The rumours about the Seekers, perhaps. I wish that my name wasn’t attached to those whispers.

Bree’s group was short a person last night. Steve – the wannabe Pride-member who had a bandaged arm and seemed to be getting sick the last time I saw him – was gone and they couldn’t tell me where. Bree was pale and refused to say much about it. Perhaps the Sickness took him and they left him behind. They said that’s what the Pride had done.

They didn’t ask us to look for him. This morning, one of the runners we picked up yesterday was missing. A man in his fifties – his wife was desperate for our help in finding him. He went off to relieve himself sometime after dark and didn’t come back. No-one on watch saw him go or what happened after. We searched the campus buildings, calling his name – Norman, are you there? Norman? – but there wasn’t any answer.

His wife is distraught. They had made it this far, through all this craziness. They haven’t been apart in nearly forty years, she said. Childhood sweethearts, married young, parents, grandparents, and now surviving the end of the world. They saw each other through all of that.

“We live in each other’s pockets, got used to the lint and lost pennies,” Iris told me. Now she’s alone and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

I had no comfort to give her. He’s probably dead and we all know it. I suggested that she help Sally with making sure people were fed and she went off with a vague air. Hopefully the purpose and activity will help her.

We picked up seven in total. Iris and Norman were the first, scooped up by Matt in the offroader behind mine. There’s a young boy, Estebar – just short of Dillon’s age, so eleven or twelve years old – who keeps asking if we’ve seen his sister. He last saw her a few days ago, so I think she’s lost. The Asian fella in his thirties hasn’t said much to anyone and keeps to himself. I don’t know his name. Janice and Tom are a dark-skinned couple, about my age. They keep to themselves too, but seem well-adjusted with everything that’s happening. Caroline is the last one that was picked up and she’s far from well-adjusted. From her shell-shocked look, she lost someone close to her recently. I don’t know who.

We’ve been sharing our supplies carefully with these runners. There’s always at least a couple of the boys watching over the stocks, but there’s only one or two of the newcomers that I think are a danger in that way. The Wolverines in particular are grumbly and defensive, and have convinced Thorpe to help them. He seems to be spending a lot of time with the Wolverines lately, but maybe that’s just because they stick close to injured Dale and Thorpe is always near our healing pair.

We have a fire tonight, lit carefully in a drum dragged inside. Tom has offered to tell stories about the land – his family goes way back in this area, he says. Tales of the past to ward off the present; it sounds like a good way to pass the evening while we try not to listen to the rain.

Tomorrow, we’re going to have to make a decision. Who comes, who is left behind. I look at them all and know I can’t be the one to say. I don’t want fear to make the choice either. In this group of friends, allies, and strangers, I don’t know which way it will all go.

For tonight, we’ll remember what was. I think I hear Iris crying somewhere.

The temperature dropped sharply sometime overnight, solidifying the treacherous ice into solid sheets and rime around the windows, encroaching every surface it could get its clammy hands onto.

Jersey swore when he realised that it was as thick inside as it was outside. We’re going to have to be careful when it melts; I’m not the only one watching the ceiling for signs of creeping ice and building drips. No-one wants to wake up to that.

We were supposed to be heading out today, but instead we huddled in. We broke down furniture and fixings for wood to burn, leaving only the padded seats for some of our number to rest on. The fire drum we’re using is not doing the best job of heating us, but it’s certainly better than nothing and safer than setting the carpet alight. We’ll probably rip that up and burn it, too, if it stays this cold.

Someone found a pair of crutches yesterday and Dillon has been practicing with them since then; he’s determined to get around under his own steam again. The activity helped him to keep warm, too, and he wasn’t the only injured person struggling around the floor in an effort to keep the blood pumping. At least there’s always a pair of steady hands around to offer support when they need it.

We found Norman today. Conroy returned with a solemn face from a perimeter patrol – we do circuits every now and then to check for shamblers wandering in our direction. He had found bloody clothes and a belt buckle poking out of the ice. He had the buckle with him, worked loose of the ice’s grip. There was no room there for a body, he said; the rain must have got rid of it.

He didn’t want to ask Iris if it was her husband, so I did it. With my heart on my tongue and feeling ready to throw up, I sat down with her and showed her the buckle. She stared at me and said nothing. The whitening of her knuckles answered the question for me. I covered them with my hand and told her how sorry I was. I asked if she needed anything. I asked if she wanted me to leave her alone and she twitched the tiniest nod. I didn’t know what else to do for her.

My hands were shaking when I left her to her grief. It was a silent thing, stony and shocking. She looked so lost, sitting there on her own.

Ben came over and told me he was sorry. He sounded so sincere that it brought the tears into my throat, and all I wanted right then was a hug. He patted my shoulder and told me to go warm up by the fire, and then he went away.

I went to go hold my hands over the flames for a while, hating that the fire is the same colour as the tainted sky outside. I miss blue and green. I miss trusting the sky. I miss not having to think about telling someone that the person she loves is dead.

Matt came over and asked me if I was all right. I told him what Conroy had found and he put his arm around me. I didn’t know what to say to him, or whether I should lean into him the way I wanted to. Everything feels so much more complicated now. He said something soothing that helped push the lump down, out of my throat.

I stood there for a long time with my head down and my hands out, trying to get warm and shivering anyway.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Matt roused us. I remember hearing his voice sliding into my dream, and then Ben was shaking my shoulder and telling me to get up.

Everyone gathered at the windows and glass doors, looking out like children who had heard that Santa had been spotted against the moon. There has been no moon for months and Santa didn’t come last Christmas, but we all looked anyway. I’m not sure what we hoped to see.

“There, there!” There was pointing and straining as we strove not to touch the icy glass.

It was there: a single square of light against the blackness. Not the scorched orange of the sky, not the white of stars, but a warm, electric yellow. It beamed steadily across to us from such a distance, not a fiery flicker in its form.

Those who spotted it whooped and slapped their neighbours indiscriminately. I think I laughed and grabbed onto Ben’s cold hand. It’s hard to know why it was such a stirring sight, but it made my heart lift in my chest. Electricity, power. Safety, perhaps. Survival. Promise. All those things, bundled into one small square of light and shone in our direction.

It went out and our breathing almost stopped. We misted up the glass before it came on again. Then someone scrabbled for a pen and started to scribble on the window, trying to record its position.

There’s someone there. There’s a survivor who can run electric lights even after six months of a broken, powerless world.

No-one said that we should go find it. No-one questioned the assumption that we’re going to set out and see who’s there, first thing in the morning. Our consensus was immediate and, for once, without paranoia. We just have to go and see what gives.

This morning is orange and hard, frozen solid outside annd reflecting the tainted light back at us. There’s a black square drawn on a window that we think is pointing us towards the right building, like a symbol from a movie I saw a lifetime ago.

The building is tall and dark today, but not as far as we had feared. It doesn’t seem worth the fuel to drive there, so we’ll walk, heralded by the steam of our own breath.

The footing outside is slippery but we’re all gearing up anyway, even the injured. Dillon wants to go on his crutches, but I plan to keep a close eye on him; I don’t trust the ice. Thorpe is supporting Dale. We won’t move fast but we’ll get there.

Time to wrap up and make a move. Wish us luck.

There wasn’t time to post again yesterday. It’s all been very bewildering.

It was slower going than we thought, and not a straight or simple journey between the social building and the source of the light. The footing slowed us down, and I wound up half-carrying Dillon after he fell down a couple of times. He was trying to be brave but I know how much that must have hurt. He called me the steadiest crutch he’d ever had and tried to grin at me. I said he was a heavy lump and needed to stop eating all the cake.

It seemed to take forever to get to the right building. A sign outside said that it was the Department of Chemistry and Biological Sciences. It’s a strange construction, looking like a work of slapdash modern art at the bottom and then soaring plainly up into the sky above. We didn’t figure out what the wreath of pipes and tubes around the lower level were for until we tried to approach a door.

There was a clang and all of a sudden, it was raining. A spurting waterfall dribbled down from those pipes and forced us to jump back, squealing. There was a frantic moment when we checked ourselves and each other for burns, patting clothing and checking for pain. Nothing more serious than a few spots burned through some of our many layers, luckily. The injured and young were moved to the back of the group even as the water dribbled to a stop.

“Sadistic fucker,” Masterson snarled as he made sure that Sally was all right. Only he could be that offensive and tender at the same time. She patted his hand soothingly, knowing it wouldn’t work. It never did.

He was right about one thing: someone did it. On purpose. It turns my stomach to think about what might have happened if our frontrunners had been a step or two closer.

Some of the boys started shouting at the building, wanting to know who was there and what they thought they were playing at. For the longest time, I thought that we wouldn’t get an answer. That was all we were going to get: a distant light and a spurt of channelled water. Blank walls and a door we can’t reach. Jersey and Conroy were going to smack the pipes down until I pointed out that they’d only splash themselves if they tried. It was enough to make them pause.

“Whoever it is, they’re well-protected,” I told them. “Do you really blame them?”

We were starting to think about leaving, deflated into kicked tyres. Then a window three storeys up opened and a head poked out, just enough to throw words down at us. I caught a glimpse of a wisp of white hair.

“Go away!”

We all looked at each other. Yet again, I was the first to give up on someone else stepping up. “We saw your light,” I called up.

“I have nothing for you!”

I hesitated. It wasn’t like we came with a plan. “We don’t actually want anything from you.”

“Then what do you want?”

Hope. Salvation. Rescue. A hot shower. “Just to see who was here and… what’s going on.”

“That all? I’m supposed to believe that, am I?” He sounded like a man who had learned better than that. I can imagine how. “Who are you?”

“The Seekers.” It was mostly true, though the actual Seekers were outnumbered in the group now. I was hoping the reputation might help us here.

“Who?”

Guess not. “We’re just… survivors.”

The head hesitated, and then the window slammed. We all looked at each other, nonplussed, and didn’t know what to do next. Do we give up and go? Those injured and weak from running rested while we dithered. Then a window on our level opened a crack and he peered out at us.

“There’s nothing for you here. Go away.” Now that he wasn’t shouting, there was a faint accent curling up the edges of his words.

Masterson shifted and his eyes narrowed. “Dr Kostoya?”

“Yes? What?”

“You missed your last appointment.” The doctor glanced sideways at us and shrugged. “He was a patient.”

I was just starting to hope that we had a way in when one of the runners shouted, pointing down the street. There was the unmistakable outline of a shambler, shuffling brokenly towards us. There were dismayed noises on both sides of the chemistry department’s walls.

“They followed you! Why did you bring them here?” Dr Kostoya demanded.

“We came from the other direction,” Matt pointed out.

“Move the injured,” I said, going to grab Dillon. There was a flurry of movement as we shuffled our configuration, putting the young, weak and hurt inside a ring of healthier, fightier bodies. There are so many of us now that there was more confusion than consensus and the whole thing took longer than I liked. It’s a good thing that the shamblers don’t move too fast. By the time we were done, there were three of them in sight.

We don’t go anywhere without being armed any more, bearing weapons on our packs without thought. Like soldiers with their swords and shields strapped to their backs. We’re even getting practiced at taking down the shamblers – bait in front, hitter behind going for the head. Some habits are both comforting and disturbing.

Ben and Jersey took down the first one, and Thorpe stepped up to help deal with the the two behind it. By then, we could see more coming over the rise and my stomach headed for my shoes. There were so many that we would struggle too keep them off us. We didn’t even dare to put our backs against the wall for fear of the waterfall protecting it.

“Kostoya, take the injured in,” I asked while the boys made sickening crunching noises on the shamblers. I tried not to flinch and failed. “Please, just the injured and the kids. They can’t be out here.”

I could barely see him for the reflection on the window, but I knew he was looking at me. I saw surprise slide into his expression. “You have children out there?”

“Yes! We need your help. Please.”

Someone called my name and I was pulled away to form up the front line. I tried to keep track of heads, told Nugget and Estebar to stay with Dillon. Ben was wincing like he was in pain and the other expressions around me were grim, even the Wolverines. They weren’t relishing the idea of this fight. The tips of bats and pipes and poles circled the air nervously.

“Come on then,” said a voice behind us. “Inside now, hurry.” Kostoya was at the door, holding it open, beckoning to us.

At first we didn”t dare trust him. The waterfall was high in our minds, a threat that might drip on us as we ducked inside. Kostoya had to step half out of the door before we would believe that he wasn’t going to turn the sprinklers on again. Then we harried the injured through the door and into the first room we came to. The doors snicked behind us and I didn’t know whether to feel safe or trapped.

When the shamblers got close to the building, we heard the drip of water again; Kostoya had turned the acid on again. The shamblers stopped and wavered for a few long moments, and then turned and headed away. We had no idea that the rainwater would drive them away so easily, but we hadn’t ever wanted to handle the damn stuff.

The shamblers are still wandering around the campus, so now here we are. Holed up in the chemistry department, trying to figure out who this Kostoya is and what he’s up to here.

It’s been a strange couple of days here in the Department of Chemistry and Biological Sciences. We’ve been trying to catch our breaths and get a handle on what’s here at the same time. It has been like snatching a lungful of smoke when you’re drowning.

The cold outside is winching down on the world. The rain is falling more as sleet than water and the ice is taking longer and longer to melt away in the mornings. We haven’t been eager to go outside in all of that, even if the shamblers weren’t out there. They’re still wandering around the campus, searching for prey they can’t get to thanks to the watery barrier latched onto the exterior of this building.

Inside, it’s much warmer. There’s a boiler somewhere in the bowels of the building, and there’s fuel enough to heat at least some of the rooms. Dr Kostoya, the denizen of this particular haven, has given us one of the teaching rooms to squat in while we wait out this freezing weather. We’re enjoying the chance to sit around without a few of our many layers on. No need to chance an indoor fire here or sit huddling in blankets.

We’ve been able to take stock. Masterson says that the injured are doing all right and none of us appear to have the Sickness right now. The runners are getting their strength back, and Bree’s little group are still tagged onto our edges. The Seekers are still making decisions for everyone but I don’t know how long that will last. As people get comfortable, they get confident and start to question. I don’t blame them but it does make things more complicated for all of us.

Dillon is doing better. He’s spending as much time on the crutches as he can, practicing moving around on them. I told him to take it easy, but he looked at me and said that he didn’t want to slow us down.

“Look after yourself,” I told him. “That’s the best thing you can do for everyone. We won’t leave you behind, hopalong.”

He seemed relieved but he did another circuit of the room anyway. “Just because,” he said.

Dale seems to be getting stronger, too. He hasn’t been up and about as much as the kid, but he’s shifting for himself more. Thorpe continues to keep an eye on him, though he doesn’t need to carry him any more. I’m starting to wonder if Thorpe is busying himself with the Wolverine as an excuse to stay away from Matt.

Ben is still frosty whenever my friend hangs around me for too long. I’m doing my best to ignore it; I’m not going to let his insecurity dictate who I can and can’t talk to. I don’t like to upset him but Matt and I have done nothing wrong.

Ben has been snappish since we got here, and it’s not just because of his trust issues. I noticed after we got inside that his ears were bright red, along with a stripe on his neck where his scarf had slipped. I tried to check it but he wouldn’t let me; he kept saying that he was fine. It looks like sunburn – and we were outside for most of the morning – but it still doesn’t quite make sense. We used to wander around all day when it was warmer and no-one got burnt, not with the constant cloudcover and orange sun-filter. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want me to make a fuss and it’s not worth fighting over.

He said something cryptic today about not everyone being what they appear. He was looking at Jersey when he said it, and then his eyes followed Sally as she passed in front of him. I know she’s keeping herself bundled so that no-one notices her baby-bump, but I have no idea what Jersey might be hiding. Maybe he didn’t mean that. Whatever he meant, I don’t like the taste it laid on the back of my tongue.

We have enough mysteries to keep us busy right now; we don’t need them swelling up within our own ranks.

Dr Kostoya has been elusive. He visits us every now and then, mostly to berate us about straying outside of the room he’s allowing us to stay in. He’d like us to stay in this room or leave – preferably the latter. He knows that he can’t evict us forcibly, so he’s making do with putting up fences around us. I can’t say that I blame him.

We haven’t seen anyone else since we got here. It’s possible that he’s here alone; that thought saddens me and it’s no wonder he doesn’t trust us. I keep trying to catch him for a conversation, but he’s here and then gone again. It’s like he knows that I want to talk to him and is doing his best to avoid it. I have no idea why.

The others want to explore the building, but in an effort to exhibit good faith, I’ve been keeping everyone as close as possible. I don’t know if it’s working; I can’t be everywhere.

I just realised why I don’t like how this is going. It’s politics. I hate politics, with its power struggles and promises to keep people happy. Compromises of the sort that leave me feeling dirtied. Checking familiar faces for the lie I’m starting to think is there.

Things were simpler when we were on the move, all heading in the same direction.

The circling undead were spotted rotating in our direction just before dawn. I woke to hear the sounds of quiet chortling from the windows. There were a couple of the guys on watch; they hadn’t bothered waking anyone. I don’t know where Ben had got to – I think he was checking the other sides of the building.

I got up to see what they were looking at: distant shamblers struggling to move towards us. It was like a sad version of dead deer ice skating. Feet slid out from under them every other step and they fell hard. Their instincts were so dented that they often didn’t put their hands out to stop themselves. I don’t know if I imagined it, but I’m sure they were leaving blood behind on the ice.

They just kept getting up. Over and over, like a mouse too stupid to figure out the maze. Fall, get up, fall again. I expected at least one of the group to give up and start crawling, but none of them did. Perhaps the ice repelled them, the way the rain did. Maybe they knew, in some part of their off-sparking brains, that they were falling onto rainwater and they shouldn’t stay on it.

I winced when they fell down. The boys – Jersey and one of the siblings, Terry – laughed, and I have to admit that after a few times it did start to be amusing. It was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help myself. I pulled away before I grew callouses to match the boys’.

People started to get up not long after that and I got distracted by the necessary business of organising food and water for everyone. There’s so many of us that we’re burning through our supplies at a shocking rate; we’re going to need to venture out soon to search for more. I counted heads before most of the group woke up (it’s the only time everyone’s still enough to do it), and there’s twenty-two of us now. Wow.

It wasn’t until after the morning rounds of supply-sharing had finished and people were getting restless that I realised they were gathering by those windows. Returning there, I saw that the shamblers were still making their painstaking way towards us. They were much nearer by then, across the street and closing in.

We’ve grown complacent here behind these walls with the protective fall of acid water. More and more of the group were laughing at the shamblers’ trials, at their slip and fall. Two fell down at once and a cheer went up.

They were close enough to see clearly. Their skin was scorched red and black, peeling and cracking. Underneath that, they were bone-white and blue, bitten by the frost. None of them had more than a layer of torn clothing on. Their claw-like hands seemed stiffer than usual, frozen in place. My stomach turned over uncomfortably as I wondered if they would shatter if they fell too hard.

They were stumbling over the kerb before the building when we heard Dr Kostoya clattering down the stairs towards our room. He was calling out something incoherent, his accent twisting words in his haste. I was closest to the door when he stopped there and told him to catch his breath and try again.

He looked at me with eyes starting to go rheumy. I felt his terror slide right down into my belly and went cold all over.

“It’s frozen. In the pipes. The water’s frozen.”

The meaning dominoed in my head as I stared at him. Then all of a sudden I was shouting for everyone to arm themselves. The pipes were frozen and there was no protection for us, just a gaggle of shamblers about to crawl in through the windows we were pressed up against. I had to explain it twice before the idea caught fire and raced around the room, leaving us all scrabbling for defences in its wake.

Those who didn’t have weapons broke furniture for legs to wield. Dale was told to lock the door behind us, shutting himself and the kids away. It was the best we could do for them. I looked at Kostoya and shoved him into the room as well; he was still struggling for breath after running to us and shaking all over. Better he stay where he’ll be safe.

We had to hurry to get outside before the shamblers started to pound on the door – in close quarters, they had the advantage. Our best advantage was our speed and staying out of their grasp; theirs was their persistence and strength.

It was a mess. Our footing was only marginally better than the shamblers’; I think the only one of us who didn’t fall down was Ben. My hips and knees are bruised from it. My left arm, the one that was scored by a shambler in the last big throw-down we had, had to be forced to work, mostly by adrenaline. It aches all the way through now and I can hardly lift it.

At one point, a falling shambler knocked me down and then started to crawl up me, stretching its mouth wide. I screamed and shoved at it, but it was too heavy to dislodge. My heart was climbing up into my throat in panic when it was suddenly lifted off me and tossed aside. I scrambled to my feet to the sound of a bat rising and falling on it, over and over until it stopped twitching. Then Ben turned around and asked if I was all right.

I got off lightly. Several of the others were bitten or torn; their screams pulled the rest of us over to help. I was surrounded by painful voices and the sound of bats crunching flesh and bone, and the low, hungry moans of the shamblers. It’s the sort of situation that circles my nightmares until I’m devoured by it.

The sudden silence at the end of the fight was like a slap in the face. None of us could quite believe it; we kept looking around for more and finding none. There was blood splattered on us, some of it our own, and our breath misted in front of our faces.

I realised then what was missing from the shamblers when they were coming towards us. Their breath didn’t mist. I don’t know if they had breath at all, except to moan with. What they did have was too cold to condense.

We retreated back inside to the kids and the injured, locking all the doors behind us. I wasn’t the only one shaking as I sank to sit down. There was no time to rest; there were injuries to see to. Only a couple were serious and required Masterson’s attention; the rest were cleaned and bound, using up the last dregs of our supplies. I felt Ben keeping an eye on me the whole time, and that was comforting.

When we were done and resting, Dr Kostoya came over to where Ben, Matt, Dillon and I were sitting. He thanked us for beating them and said that he was going to work on the problem, washing his hands over and over each other. We offered our help and he looked at us for an uncertain moment.

“Perhaps yes. I will look at the situation and… let you know.”

He excused himself and hurried back up the stairs to whatever part of the building he resides in. I think he’ll be back. I hope he’ll be back.

There were a few developments overnight, none of which were good for any of us.

The first one was Jersey’s trouble in getting up this morning. He was hurt far worse than he told anyone yesterday – I bandaged a bite on his arm, but he’s bleeding under his shirt. He wouldn’t let anyone help him, but disappeared off to deal with it himself. Masterson tried to look at it and got a fist in the face for his trouble. I’m worried about the Wolverine and now our doctor is too grumpy to look at anyone.

Ben told me a couple of days ago that Jersey was hiding something. Now I’m not the only one that suspects there’s something going on with him.

And then there’s Ben. By this morning, he had another red stripe on his neck, extending up over his jawline this time. He wouldn’t let me look at him but it certainly looks like sunburn to me. It can’t be – we couldn’t have been outside more than an hour. He seems to be in some pain with it and it’s making him snappish. I tried to talk to him, so he got up and went on patrol around the building. I wanted to chase him but I can take a hint.

About the time that Ben made his abrupt departure, I caught the drift of an intense conversation in the rest of the group. A clump of about ten of them were facing off and the volume of the discussion was escalating. I went over to see what was going on and had to shout to get them to shut up long enough for someone to tell me.

“They want to throw out everyone who got bitten yesterday,” Matt said. He was so tense that his hands were curled into fists, even his bandaged one. He had fallen on it badly on the ice; he wasn’t bitten.

When I asked why they wanted to get rid of the bitten, Tom, one of the runners, spoke up. “They’re afraid we’ll turn into those beasts outside.”

I can’t say that I blame them. We’ve faced that threat from within, we’ve seen our own rise up in mindless hunger, lunging for people once called friends. It’s terrifying; no-one was denying that.

“Do we know that’s how it works?” I asked. “Those we’ve seen with the Sickness weren’t bitten.”

“We’ve seen some who were.” I can’t remember who spoke – another of the runners, I think.

“What about the priest?”

“Plenty of us have been bitten and haven’t got Sick!” That was Matt again, I think.

He had a point, but it spiralled the argument up until I had to shout for silence again. I felt so small, standing in the middle of the group – I think everyone was gathered by then, except for Ben, and Bree’s little troupe. It was a few long seconds before the voices died down and then I was pinned by every pair of eyes in the room.

“We’re not going to throw anyone out for being bitten. If people start getting Sick, then we’ll talk about it. But we’re not acting on paranoia, and we’re not going to kill people.”

Jersey started to say that they weren’t talking about killing anyone, and I had to point out that yes, that’s exactly what they were talking about. Throwing them out, injured and without supplies, to fend for themselves on streets infested with shamblers – they’ll die. We all know it.

“We’re stronger together. Let’s stay that way as long as possible,” I told them.

No-one spoke up to argue with me that time. The resistance was there, riding under the atmosphere in the room, but it didn’t form into words. I waited a few nervous heartbeats, then I walked out of the circle. My hands were trembling and I went to repack my gear to have something to do.

Janice and a couple of the others thanked me. That helped. Then Matt came to see if I was all right and I was grateful for the support. I started to feel like I’d done something more than just push back the tide. I’m too scared to feel comfortable, though.

That tide is going to come in again. As soon as someone gets sick, it’s going to blow up worse than it did today. I’m dreading it. I don’t know how long I can keep hold of control here, or even if I should. If it comes down to a real debate, will anyone listen to me?

I don’t feel qualified; I just feel strongly. And very, very small.

Today, a group of nearly a dozen of our amalgamated number went out to look for supplies. I stayed behind with the kids and the injured, along with Sally and a couple of the boys for security. My arm’s still not working very well after the fight, so I’m taking the chance to rest it while I can.

Dr Kostoya showed his face to report that he has been pouring hot water on the pipes and they’re all unfrozen now. So we can try to feel secure again. It was nice of him to try but very much too late. We keep our watches and weapons close.

Ben stayed behind too. He said that he wanted to make sure that we were protected here, but I have my suspicions. I think he stayed because he didn’t want to go outside and get burnt again.

I managed to catch him alone and asked him what was wrong. He keeps himself separate from everyone else and barely talks to me at all. He doesn’t even talk to Thorpe, his fire-fighting buddy he’s known for years. I don’t remember the last time I saw the two of them sitting together, laughing at some private joke. Certainly not since Ben got the Sickness.

He shook his head in answer to my question but he didn’t walk away like he keeps doing lately. I took a chance and pressed him.

“The Sickness changed you,” I said. I had meant it to be a question but it didn’t come out that way.

He looked at me and I couldn’t tell if the shadow was on or in his eyes. “Yes.”

“How? I mean, in what way? Is that why you got burnt?” He still bears the red stripes across his cheeks and neck.

He nodded but he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t read him; he has become good at closing off his expression.

“Ben, I want to help you. But I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“It doesn’t scare you?”

“That you’ve changed?” It’s not a reaction that had crossed my mind. “No. Should it?”

He touched my cheek gently. “No, not you.”

As answers go, it wasn’t a very comforting one. There was a warm, happy spot in my belly that wasn’t sure if it should be there. “Then let me in, Ben. Tell me what’s happening with you.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I will, when I have it figured out.”

I wanted to help him figure it out. He could see it in my face and the shutters were down; the words died before they fell out of my mouth. The answer was no and that was that. I never could change Ben’s mind about anything – that much of him was the same as ever.

He kissed me on the forehead by way of apology, and that was the end of the conversation.

The foragers didn’t find much today. They came back to the chemistry building in high spirits but with empty hands. At least the chance to get out seems to have done them good and they didn’t see any shamblers.

I talked with Matt about the situation with Ben. He was supportive but had no answers either. What can any of us do? There are nervous flies in my belly looking for a way out. I felt a little better after talking to him, though; I can always count on Matt for that.

I guess we’ll find out the truth soon.

Dr Kostoya allowed a few of us upstairs today. We caught him sneaking around downstairs when the foragers were heading out and he asked if we would give him a hand with something. I went up with Ben, Sally and Conroy.

He has settled himself in his lab with a bed of piled blankets on an old couch in his office. “My home away from home is now just home,” he told us with a shrug.

We were much more interested in the things he had set up in the lab. So many pipes and tubes, tubs and bowls and vats. At first, he didn’t want to talk about any of that stuff – he asked us to help him hook up a new pump to a nest of pipes in the corner. It was a big, heavy thing that had to be held up while it was propped in place and attached to the system.

We struggled to get it into position, but it seemed a lot lighter than it looked. Kostoya was surprised while he hurried around us, fastening things. I couldn’t help but notice that Ben didn’t seem to strain under it as much as the rest of us did, but maybe that’s just yesterday’s conversation colouring things. I’m looking for changes now, so maybe that’s why I’m seeing them.

Kostoya explained the pump after it was dealt with: it would stop the water in the defensive pipes from freezing. He babbled something about convection but I missed exactly what he was saying. I did catch that he has a rainwater tank on the roof that he’s using to supply the system.

That’s not all he’s using the rainwater for, either. Conroy and I peeked at some of the things he has on the counters and were quickly shooed away from them.

“You’re investigating the rain?” Conroy asked him. Of all of us, he’s the one most likely to understand the professor’s mumblings.

“Yes! Of course. What else would I be doing here?” Kostoya was flustered and defensive, but not enough to chase us away. I think he liked that we seemed interested; we reminded him of his long-gone students.

“What have you found out about it?” I said. I didn’t know what I hoped for; it has been so long since we had any chance of discovering anything about the rain that I had given up on answers.

A lot of things, he told us. He’d discovered so many things, and yet he had barely scratched the surface of it. It’s not organic, he said, and it’s not just laced with acid. It’s more than that. And despite it bearing a faintly green tinge, it’s linked to the orange taint to the clouds.

But it can be filtered clean. With the right mixture of stones and soils and enough time, the acid can be sifted right out of the rainwater. It can be made safe.

“Won’t even make you sick,” he said, holding up a glass of water that looked muddy but brown rather than green.

It took me a long moment to realise what he meant. Ben was silent and Conroy’s mouth fell open just a heartbeat before the penny dropped inside my skull.

“The Sickness is linked to the rain?”

“Yes, yes of course.” Kostoya seemed surprised. “What did you think caused it?”

None of us knew what to say to that. It makes an awful kind of sense. I went through the list of those I had known with the Sickness: Sax, with his burnt arm; Ben, with the acid splatter over his chest; Alice, with half her face missing; and, more recently, Steve with his bandaged arm. Of the others – the priest, the Rats – I don’t know if they had ever been burned by the rain, but it’s entirely possible.

Our stunned silence was broken by Sally’s abrupt departure. The lab doors flapped in her wake.

Kostoya decided that was a wonderful idea and shooed us all out. Down in our teaching room again, things were strange. Conroy was fascinated; Ben was silent and internal; Sally was curled up and apparently asleep. I turned it all over in my head until the others got back, my feet carrying me in restless circles around the building. It’s hard trying to keep watch with such a distraction.

I think the rain just got a little more terrifying.

Yesterday’s revelation spread around the group like fire on a wet log: in sputters and with much smoke. A new word attached itself to the rain and rose out of the ashes: poison. It’s not just acid: it poisons us, makes us Sick, and twists our bodies into those empty shells stumbling around on the ice outside.

Conjecture ran around like a scared child, pinballing from one possibility to the next and failing to find safe arms to hide in. I didn’t hear all of it, and I didn’t understand some of what I did catch. I strove to stay out of it all, and managed to do that until I heard the voices rising towards paranoia and hysteria. I wasn’t the only one calling for sanity and sense.

Give people a little information and they’ll make up a host more to fill in the blanks, truth be damned. Most of what they make up is frightening.

I had to promise to prevail on Dr Kostoya for more answers; it was the only way I could shut up the maybes and what-ifs. Today, that’s what I went upstairs to get. I managed to convince most of the group to stay downstairs – I didn’t want the entire mob turning up and freaking the poor old fella out. The shamblers outside are terrifying for their hunger and my group are no different.

Kostoya wasn’t pleased to see us, but when we explained that we wanted more information from him, he relaxed. I could see it slipping into his expression – relief and the familiarity of the teacher’s pose.

“We have a lot of scared people downstairs,” I told him. I asked if he’d come down to talk to all of us, because the Chinese whispering was giving me a headache. I was afraid that I’d misunderstand the science and get it all twisted.

He hemmed a bit and bustled around the lab in his nervousness, but we pleaded and eventually he agreed. He followed us down and hovered by my elbow until everyone was seated and ready for him.

Standing off to one side, I looked at the room and felt suddenly off-kilter. It was so familiar and yet not at all what it should have been like.

Here were all these people – my friends and strangers who might become friends – gathered behind the desks, students waiting for the professor to speak. They were bundled up in various types of clothing, a mishmash of leather and cloth, felt and suede. Jackets and scarves and the occasional hat pulled down over ears to keep them warm. Thin and worn, with a thread of toughness in all of them.

There were no pens and paper, no notes waiting to be taken. But their expressions were open and expectant as well as guarded, doubtful, hopeful. In one or two, there was downright derision, but they were at least silent about it.

It was a strange classroom in the time After. Standing up by the blackboard, Dr Kostoya stood with his elbow-patched jacket and white hair sticking out in random directions. He didn’t take up the chalk and start writing. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to dive in or bolt from the room when he took a deep breath.

He dove in. He told us about the bomb scorching the sky, about chemicals suspended in the atmosphere and the conditions that bring it raining down on us. He told us about how the acid interacts with the human body, how it works like a poison in the bloodstream, corrupting the cells it comes in contact with. It takes a long time to build up to a noticeable state – months, in most cases. Sometimes it takes less time, but the chances of absorbing enough acid to do that without dying are fairly slim.

He wasn’t so sure about exactly what it did to the human body to make it into a shambler – he’s a chemist, not a biologist, and he hasn’t had a ‘live’ subject to examine. From his observations, he suggests that there’s a deadening of the neural system, along with most brain functions. They’re left with basic motor functions and base survival – eating. He suspects they’re trying to assuage a chemical imbalance by seeking fresh meat that hasn’t been tainted by the rain; that’s why they don’t just eat each other.

His words turned my stomach over, but they made sense. Kostoya looked at me when he was finished to see if he had covered everything, but I had nothing for him. The others were ready to fill in the gap.

Jersey asked if the Sickness could be caught by being bitten. Kostoya replied that it was possible, but unlikely – exposure had to be above a certain level for it to have any real effect. He said that there would probably have to be blood transfer.

Terry asked if the Sickness could be caught from others suffering from it. The answer was the same: not impossible, but probably required direct blood contact.

Conroy asked if there was a cure. Kostoya spread his hands and said that he wasn’t a biologist or a medical doctor. He didn’t have the knowledge or the resources for that kind of thing. Masterson spoke up to say that it was unlikely someone could be brought back from the shambler state; it’s difficult to return brain function to a person at the best of times. This was far from the best of times. It might be possible to prevent the changes wrought by the poison, but not to undo them. If one had the knowledge and resources to figure it out. And the time.

It was a lot for us all to mull over. The room descended into shards of conversations as the new information was turned over, like rocks, to see what crawled underneath. There is always something crawling underneath.

I caught Kostoya before he could slip out of the room. I asked him, “Is it possible for someone to recover from the Sickness without becoming one of those things?”

He looked at me and shrugged; he thought Masterson was a better person to ask. “I suppose it’s always possible that someone could have a natural immunity. It’s a very virulent chemical compound, according to my observations. It hasn’t left any organic material unchanged in my experiments. But it’s definitely possible.”

I thanked him and he fell out of my fingers before I could think up anything else to ask him. Hasn’t left any organic material unchanged. If someone could be immune to it, then they could be resistant. They might not be changed at all, or they might be changed… differently. Ben was watching me when I looked across the room at him and my innards went cold.

I didn’t noticed Sally until much later, after the foragers got back with some supplies. Her eyes were red from crying and she was hurrying away from Masterson, her head ducked down.

Even with all the talk of the rain, I hadn’t even thought about who might yet get Sick. Who had been burned. We’ve all been wrapped up lately, so it has been easy to forget about the bandages and scars.

Sally’s arm was burnt on the boat while we were visiting Dillon’s house. There was a nasty splash of acid scored across her forearm; I helped her dress it when it was fresh. I don’t know if it’s enough to make her Sick, but I don’t think that’s all that’s upsetting her. I’d ask her about it, but I don’t think she’d talk to me and I have no comfort to offer her.

I need to go and see Kostoya again. I need to ask him what the rain’s poison might do to an unborn child.