The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

Today, my heart has been pulled a hundred different ways. I have seesawed so much – despair, euphoria, pain – and now I’m wrung out and don’t know what to do next. A part of me can hardly believe that all of this is true.

It’s so muddled. I don’t know where to start. I want to skip to the end but I don’t want to forget the beginning. My heart remembers the beginning and aches.

I was up most of last night. Matt’s fever was still high. Simon had given him what drugs he could but they weren’t doing much. He said that if Matt wasn’t better by the next afternoon, we would have to look at more extreme alternatives. When I asked him what that meant, he looked grave and gestured towards the injured leg.

“Remove the source of the problem,” is how he put it. I went cold all over and suddenly couldn’t speak at all. The idea made me sick.

“What?” I said eventually.

He looked at me sadly and sighed. “If it comes to that, it’s the leg or his life.”

I told him to get out. He couldn’t have either. He just couldn’t.

I couldn’t sleep, my head full of Simon’s ultimatum. Matt drifted in and out all through the dark hours. I talked to him, even sang a bit, though he probably didn’t hear most of it. I’m not sure if it was more for him or me. I had to keep him from slipping any further away, and they say that people can hear even when they’re asleep. Even in comas, they hear the voices around them. It was a slender thread between us, trembling on the air. I can’t even remember what I said to him – stories from when we were kids mostly, as if the weight of memories might be enough to hold him down.

He was awake long enough to drink something earlier. He smiled at me and asked how I was doing. I said I was sick of looking after his lazy ass and he laughed weakly. We knew it wasn’t true but pretending seemed better for both of us.

He fell asleep again a little while later. When I was sure he was out, I left the room to get some air and have a little break down. It’s so hard, doing this again. It was like this with Dillon. I kept telling him that it would be okay, just hold on, it’ll be all right. I talked to him about nothing and tried to keep his spirits up. He smiled and squeezed my hand and thanked me. And then he went away.

I don’t know if I can face that again. I don’t have a choice, not really; I can’t hide from this. I won’t. He’s my best friend and he’s always there for me when I need him. I won’t leave him alone, and I won’t let him leave me either. He’s not allowed.

When I got back to his room, Simon was there with his grim face and regretful expression. I told him no. I didn’t care if it was time or if it was his best chance. They’re not taking any pieces of him, and the infection was most likely too entrenched in the rest of his system by now anyway. The Sharks have taken so much from him and they’re damn well not getting a limb too. He’s going to be fine, if only to spite them and because I said so.

It was the perfect time for Matt to wake up. I’m not sure how much he heard. He asked me quietly what was going on. I didn’t want to tell him, but his expression asked for the truth and I didn’t have the heart to deny it. When I told him what Simon wanted to do, the horror that crossed his face was enough for me.

“He doesn’t want it,” I told the medic. “And he doesn’t need it. He’s gonna be fine.”

Simon knows how stubborn I can be and it wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight. He told me that it was my choice, heaped the responsibility on my head, and then left us to it. I think he knew that putting it that way would make me waver, but I can’t believe that I might be wrong. I’ve lost so much lately that I’m not losing any more, not even a part of a friend.

I sat down with Matt and he tangled his hand up with mine. His hands are still bandaged – I told him that he knows how to fight, and that he needs to keep doing that for just a little while longer, until this thing it out of his system. I wanted to tell him that he’s not allowed to go but the words wouldn’t come out of my throat. He thanked me and I kissed him instead.

“I have a confession to make,” he said suddenly. I looked puzzled, so he went on, “You remember that person you saw, when we first got here?”

I nodded. Sometimes, I couldn’t get that image out of my head: the incomplete one from the day we arrived here. The face I didn’t quite see, the body I don’t quite remember, the reason I shouted out.

“I think I know who it was. There’s someone here you need to see. Should’ve told you days ago, but he made me promise not to. Wanted to tell you himself.”

I stared at him, trying to think of who it might be and failing to come up with anything. My head has been too full of Matt and the General for there to be room for anyone else.

“He was s’posed to come see you.” He squeezed my hand. “Guess he got a little held up.” He nodded towards the door and I slid off the bed.

When I turned around, everything stopped. The world tilted and I thought I was falling, but I hadn’t moved. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

I was five years old and my sister was telling me that Santa Claus didn’t exist. I was eighteen, watching her being lowered into the ground. I was nineteen, watching my mother back out of the driveway for the last time. I was twenty-two and my boyfriend was screwing my closest girlfriend. My heart was breaking and, every time, there was that same hand on my shoulder, the same wordless hug.

“Daddy?”

I have only ever seen my dad cry once before. It was right after my sister died. I couldn’t sleep and came downstairs to get a drink. He was sitting in the dark, weeping quietly with his head in his hands, his whole body shaking. I almost went to him, but he was so private about it that I didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to show that to us and I respected his desire, retreating back to my room as unobtrusively as I could. I always wondered if maybe I could have comforted him that night.

Yesterday was the the second time I’ve seen my dad cry. There was no attempt at privacy. When I saw him, I couldn’t move – he had to come over and put his arms around me, and I collapsed into him. I clung and spilled, sobbing so hard I thought everything inside me would fall onto the floor with the stains and the footprints. It didn’t ease until I was exhausted by it, and then I realised that he was crying too. His face was buried in my shoulder and he was hugging me as if he was afraid that I might dissolve in his grasp like sand.

I have no idea how we stayed standing. My legs wanted to fold up and Dad was just as shaky as I was when we finally peeled off each other. We looked at each other and had one of those embarrassed, ‘oh look how silly we’re being’ laughs. He ducked his head and swiped at his cheeks as if that might remove the evidence, and I let him. He has never been a demonstrative kind of person; with Dad, it’s all in the little things. It’s the breakfast he makes when I’m feeling down or hungover, it’s the way he winds my scarf around my neck three times when it’s cold out. It’s the holiday he books when I need to get away from everything for a while.

My mother used to get so frustrated with him. The little things were never enough for her, not in the end. He tried, but balloons screaming ‘I love you’ were never his style and he always seemed to get the big gestures wrong. Or at least not right enough for my mother. She accused him of not caring once, but that has never been his problem.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. It was a while before we were each able to believe that the other wasn’t going to evaporate in a moment’s inattention. It hadn’t sunk in – he was here, really here, alive and in one piece. I couldn’t bring myself to break contact; after I grew brave enough to look away, one hand rested on his arm, connecting us.

I looked around at Matt and found him gazing at us vaguely. He was smiling, almost, and slipping back into sleep. I said his name and stepped to his side, taking his hand in my free one. He roused enough to answer me.

“It’s all right, Faithy,” he said. “Just need to rest now. Hello, Mr MacIntyre.”

“Hello again. Get some sleep, son.”

The wrenching euphoria of seeing Dad plunged into the familiar despair as I stroked Matt’s hair and watched him fall asleep. There was a hard lump in my throat as I counted his breaths and felt them slow and steady. They didn’t stop. I was so scared, but they didn’t stop. He was just sleeping, and by the time I realised that, I was crying again.

Dad drew me off to the gurney on the side of the room, where we could sit and talk without disturbing my sick friend. The stumbling explanations fell out as we tried to fill in the gap between us. We talked about Matt first, about the fever and how frightened I was. He said that he was glad Matt and I had found each other, and that we had been looking after each other all this time. Been doing it most of our lives, so it’s good we kept on with it.

His voice thickened when he started to apologise to me for not being able to look after me and I had to stop him. No. It wasn’t his fault. He kept himself alive and well, and that’s the best he could be expected to do for me. So many have been lost. So many killed in so many different ways. We were so far apart – the bomb stretched a once-small city into a sprawl of hazards and challenges. It’s amazing that we’ve both made it this far. It’s even luckier that we found each other, after so much time and miles. No apologies, or I would have to start saying sorry for taking so long to get here.

I still couldn’t let go of him or his big, familiar, grease-marked hand. I told him about the Seekers, about the journey we’ve taken, about my friends. I left some parts out for both our sakes. Some of it would only hurt us both if hung naked on the air. I told him that we stripped the car yard and he laughed and said he did the same.

He had waited at home for a long time. Over a month, until he stopped being able to scrounge food from the neighbourhood. Jim and Natalie from next door were with him for a while, until he put them in a car and sent them off in search of their kids up north. Then he went to the yard and lingered there for a while. He met people too, formed his own group. They heard the signal and came to Greenberry for the same reason we did; they just made it months before we did.

He stopped at one point and cupped my face in his hand. “I wanted to looked for you,” he told me. I’ve never seen him so earnest before, as if he was afraid that I wouldn’t believe him. Of course I believed him. “I didn’t know where to start. We heard that the CBD came down under the bomb, that there weren’t any survivors….”

I stopped him before he wound himself up too much. There weren’t many survivors. We had moved around so much that he couldn’t have hoped to find us. I was lucky, that was all. Just like now: lucky.

It didn’t occur to me until now why his words rang so wrong with me. When we sent the survivors out of the central business district of the city, they went to the hospital. When we got to the hospital, they had been sent on elsewhere; it wasn’t until we got to the Emergency Coordination Centre that we found out where they’d gone. Here. They were supposed to come here.

Had none of them made it? Or is it just that no-one talks about it? Is there any information passed around here at all?

That thought makes me so angry. How many hopes have they killed by not saying anything about this stuff?

Dad says he never gave up hoping I was still alive, just like I clung to the possibility that he was out here somewhere. I guess we’re alike in that way.

We talked all the way through the rainfall. I finally grew strong enough to let go of him, but only so that I could go check on Matt. The sick fella took some water but he didn’t wake again until much later in the night.

Dad is working with the mechanics. I should have known. He’s the one who helped them fix the ignitions. I told him that he has to show me how to do that and he laughed. I always did like getting dirty; used to drive my mother crazy. I think it pleased him that I took an interest in his work. Now, I’ll use any excuse to spend time with him.

But not yet. I have to get Matt well and back on his feet first. It’s not going well – he was moaning half the night, sliding in and out of delirium. He had quietened by morning, which was a relief because Simon would have used it as an excuse to try to cut his leg off.

Dad left at first light. “You take care of that boy,” he said. “I’ll see you both soon.” Then he kissed my forehead and hurried off before he changed his mind.

So now, here I am again, sitting by the bedside as the darkness thickens outside behind a veil of acid. Matt is pale and clammy, but he’s still here. Dad is out there. He’s definitely out there, just a short distance away. He’s alive. There’s still a part of me that reels whenever I try to believe that. Another part of me wants to get up and dance, wheel about the room out of sheer emotion. The rest of me is terrified I’m going to lose something precious very soon, because there can’t be this much goodness in the world any more. I can’t have everything I want; it just doesn’t work that way any more.

Luck is a fickle friend, and I don’t know if she’s smiling my way or pondering when to stick the knife in.

In the hopes of getting Matt to take something more than just water, I went to the kitchens this morning and tried to get something soup-like.

It feels like forever since I was working in there with the girls. They greeted me with nods and sidelong glances; I’m not sure what they’ve heard, but there has definitely been talk about me. Perhaps it’s paranoia, but it felt like they were all sizing me up, weighing me against the latest rumour. I can’t begin to know what it is they’ve heard; it could be about Dad, or my last meeting with the General, or my friend in the grip of a fever. Or maybe something completely different, something that’s happened while I’ve been busy.

I didn’t ask. I don’t want to worry about it right now; I have enough crawling around in my head, begging to be heard. I took the can of soup they gave me and the instructions that it was for us to share, and I left. I could feel their eyes on me as I went.

He didn’t eat any of it. I’ll try again later.

Dad came by to see me again today. He brought dinner with him, slipping in just before the rain came. He would usually sit and talk with the boys, he said, so he might as well come and talk with me.

I can see how this might be habit-forming. Sitting down to eat with him feels so normal, even though we’re perching on hard chairs and using a gurney as a table. We talked about nothing, exchanged stories about our travels – harmless stuff mostly, nothing too weighed with emotion or meaning. It was like comparing our days after we had been working, me at the bookstore and him at that car yard. An off-kilter, time After version.

We stumbled over ourselves, because we’re not used to each other any more. A couple of times, Dad looked at me, completely lost for what to say next. The third time it happened, he grimaced and shook his head.

“Faithy, you went and grew up while I wasn’t looking.”

I stared and him and asked what he meant by that, unsure about how to take it.

“You led your group, when before you spent so long following your sister, or that friend of yours.” He meant Bree. “Then you gave the General a grilling, and no-one has dared to do that.” His smile was secretly pleased that someone had given the General a hard time.

I told him how I ended up in charge and he smiled at me. I was sheepish when I admitted how I had pinned the General in his office for that talking-to and he laughed. It felt like the first time in forever that I had honestly smiled.

“Good for you,” he said. Then he added something that made my stomach flip-flop on itself. He said he was proud of me.

Abruptly, I felt like crying. “Don’t say that, Dad.” It was out before I could stop it. He looked puzzled and I struggled to know how to explain it. “You’ve only had the highlights – it wasn’t all like that. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

I killed a man. That’s what I wanted to tell him. My mouth wouldn’t form the words and my heart didn’t want to see his face fall. I wanted to say how awful I was, but it wasn’t fair to burden him with all that.

He covered my hands and I realised that they had curled into fists in front of me. “I know you, Faith. That’s enough for me.”

I bit my lip so that I wouldn’t say any more and just nodded. He was kind enough to change the subject, though he chose to talk about Matt and that isn’t guaranteed to make me feel better right now. We went to check on him and found him the same as before – hot, clammy, and lying quietly. At least he hasn’t been restless today.

Dad said that Matt will be all right. It was a jolt to realise that he was the first one to do that. I’ve said it plenty of times. I’ve been told that he’s in danger, he’s slipping, he needs more help. I’ve been told to hang in there, keep trying, don’t give up. But no-one else has said that he’ll be okay.

Words have a strange power. It doesn’t make it any more true to hear it, but it helps. I guess that’s why I write this blog – to try to make it more real and permanent by putting it into words.

Something’s going on. I have to go.

Matt got worse last night. He was writhing and making wordless, painful noises – that’s what dragged me away from yesterday’s post. For a while, all I could do was hold him down so he didn’t hurt himself.

I begged him to stop. My heart was thrashing in denial because my head kept whirling with ‘this is it, this is the end’. Dread crept over me like clammy ice. I can’t have them both. It’s not allowed, and so he was being taken away.

He was fighting so hard and I couldn’t help but think he would lose. This was the last of his strength, spinning itself out in a last-ditch attempt to shake off the infection.

When he started to calm, it was out of exhaustion rather than victory. He was shaking and gasping, snatching at the air while his limbs settled down on the bed again. Don’t go, I said to him. Don’t leave me. Stay. Stay here. I can’t lose you like I lost Dillon. I just can’t. You mean too much to me.

We went around like that twice more last night. Each time, he was weaker when he finished struggling. Each time, I was convinced that we were done, that he’d finally had enough.

Shortly before dawn, it was the fever that broke. Matt drifted down into a quiet slumber and the catch left his breathing. I didn’t know whether to trust it or not, so I sat up watching him, tracking the rise and fall of his chest, sponging off his face and neck. Looking for any sign that he was still in trouble.

The orange sunlight had crept over most of the room by the time he woke. He groaned and blinked up at me, then he said that I looked terrible. That wasn’t the phrase he used, but it was enough to make me laugh the kind of laugh that is all sharp edges and desperate relief. I cut it short before I slid into weeping. I feel like I’ve done little other than cry lately.

I managed to get him to eat something. I wanted to keep him awake, keep him talking and looking at me, but I let him fall asleep again. It’s good sleep now – it’s the rest he needs. He’s weak and pale, but his temperature is coming down and he’s over the worst of it. I’m too nervous to say that he’s on the mend, but that’s what it looks like.

I was so tired that I fell asleep not long after he did this morning. Simon woke me up, asking what I was doing. A small, mean part of me thinks he knew that I had been up for the past three nights and had only just gone to sleep, but I’m trying not to listen to it. He said there was work to do and I rolled over and went back to sleep. If it was an emergency, he would have woken me again, but he didn’t.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired or because of the draining events of the past few days, but I’m finding it hard to believe that Matt is going to be okay now. I want to be relieved but something is coiled too tightly inside me. It’s poised, holding its breath. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and I have no idea what colour it is.

Sometimes, I tell myself I’m being paranoid and silly; it is what it looks like. I just can’t feel that right now. I want to curl up on his shoulder and sleep, and know that he’ll be all right when I wake up. But there’s no room for me on the bed and I can’t bring myself to have that much faith.

Also, something is bothering me about the soup that I gave him. Not the soup itself – that was fine, I made sure – but the can it was in. I just can’t put my finger on what’s bothering me.

Hopefully things will make more sense in the morning.

I figured out what’s wrong with the soup can. It’s the brand. The logo on the label is the same as the one hanging over the supermarket depot that we saw being emptied, not that far from here.

We saw men with guns and a big truck. No uniforms, not like the cutouts here. They shot at us, they shot down people asking for help. They took the food and scattered everyone else before them with blood and fear.

I flushed cold and then hot when I realised. I paced around the little room, weighing the can in my hand as if I wanted to pitch it at someone. If the General had appeared at that moment, I would have.

When we saw the truck at the depot, I wondered how they could have got it started. The bevy of mechanics here figured it out, with my dad’s help. I wonder if he knows what they’re doing out there.

I’m angry that I didn’t notice before. I worked in the kitchens for days, but never had to fetch supplies out of the storerooms. I don’t think the other Seekers did, either. I wasn’t really paying attention to labels or packets – I was too glad to see food and know I’d be fed.

Now I remember my first conversation with the General in his office. I traced our route on the map for him, twice. He knew we’d been in the vicinity of the depot, and they had our vehicles with their decoration of bulletholes, so he knew that we had been shot at. The next day, I was moved out of the kitchens to the infirmary and Jersey and Tia were shifted into other jobs. There’s no coincidence in that; he knew we’d notice.

He told me that they had enough supplies to last for months. He never said where they got them from. I didn’t think to ask – I assumed the army had stocks for emergencies and calamities. Apparently, that wasn’t enough.

It’s not the food that makes me angry. It’s not the supplies they stripped out of the depot and stockpiled here. It’s not that they left nothing for any other survivors, because let’s face it, there aren’t many out there any more. It’s not even that they tried to hide where they got it all from.

It’s those people they gunned down in the street. It’s the bullets that chased us as we fled. They attacked and killed when they didn’t need to. How can they claim to want to help people and rebuild civilisation, if they’re going to do that? It doesn’t make any sense. Worse than that: it’s wrong.

It’s not the sort of group I want to be a part of.

Matt woke up while I was pacing and asked what was going on. I tried to tell him it was nothing; I didn’t want to upset him. But he knows me and my expressions, and he pressed for the not-nothing that was bothering me. So I sat down and told him, as calmly as I could.

“There must be an explanation,” he said.

I took a deep breath and nodded. There has to be something; I might not like all of the General’s choices, but he does have reasons for them. “I’ll ask him.”

Trust Matt to settle me down when I’m running in angry circles. He’s feeling better, he said. His temperature is almost back to normal but he still has some recovering to do.

Yesterday, I was so sure that this wasn’t real. I was afraid to believe that he would be okay. Today, that fear pales in the orange sunlight, when he smiles and looks like himself again. The swelling had drained from his face and the bruises are fading. I can see both of his eyes. I’ve missed their clarity.

I want to believe that it’s going to be all right and I won’t lose another person I love to this broken world. It feels good to want to believe in something again.

It also feels good to have something to strive for, even if it’s just the explanation of something awful.

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.