What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER ONE

I can't even be sad about it. I just feel numb.

I weave through the broken shells, keeping an eye out for anything that might prove to be useful. Blankets, pillows, bottles, anything. Or maybe my precious tampons.

It's not long before the cloying smell of rot and death fills my nostrils, but I keep walking, arm to my nose, my sleeve distilling much of the stench.

What surprises me most about the dead bodies isn't the fact that they're just lying there, prone, one half out of the car as if they tried to crawl out, while the other lies sprawled, as if trying to crawl under the car; no, it's the fact that they're only starting to decompose. That's why the smell's so strong.

But what were they doing? Were they sleeping in the car when someone attacked them?

A quick survey of the inside of the vehicle doesn't give anything away; it's been ransacked just like the rest, nothing left behind. Actually, come to think of it, there's no blood, either. So how did they die? Did they have something valuable on them? Did they have a shotgun, maybe a trusty bat like the one I've got slung through my pack?

I don't wait to find out. Hell, I don't even want to know. I'm only passing through.

I spare a glance over my shoulder at all the other cars, at a heavily treed ridge off to the side of the highway. Despite the distance, it overlooks my current location, perfect cover for someone keeping tabs.

As I turn back around, to continue heading east, I pause in my movements. I look this way and that, my long hair flying in my face as I search my immediate surroundings. Nothing. So I listen, hoping my ears might pick up on what my eyes can't. This comes up trumps, too. But something's not right – there's this vibe–

There's a sound, very quiet, like a scratching. It's so soft the breeze – which is barely there anyway – conceals it. I look around for the sound, and take a hasty step – okay, jump – back from the dead woman lying beside the car. She doesn't move, thankfully, so it wasn't her. I stand still, waiting, listening. There it is, the sound I heard and almost missed before.

The sound comes again, a little louder this time, and I can't help but be surprised; my mind tries its best to come up with a name for what I'm hearing.

No way.

Ignoring the dead woman and praying that she's one hundred percent dead, I drop to my hands and knees, and as I try to ignore the stench, my eyes watering and vision blurry, I take a peek under the car, past the dead guy hanging upside down from inside.

It's dark underneath, the afternoon sun sitting in the wrong spot to provide little light for me to see properly. But when my eyes adjust, as I search the shadows – there. Huddled against the tyre opposite, little body shaking, is a puppy.

Collar around its neck, leash still attached, it whimpers, barely audible. It's hard to tell what breed it is, but seeing it there, possibly stuck, makes my heart skip a beat. I have to save this puppy. I have to–

There's an explosion of sound, a giant crack that reverberates above me. Then there's a crash, glass smashes, and it rains down on me like glitter as I scurry over the dead woman and under the car. There's the sound of metal on metal, not once but twice, and huge holes rip through the open door, taking with it some of the dead man still hanging out of the vehicle.

Bullets pound the asphalt where I'd been, echoing like thunder, indicating that whoever's shooting at me is far away – but it doesn't betray their position. I have no idea where the bullets come from, what direction.

I'm now right under the car, my pack so bulky it's difficult to move any further. I'm practically wedged in. And I'm right by the puppy, which could be a problem in itself because I have no idea if it's friendly or not.

Hand card with gravel, I reach out to it, not too fast, and allow it to sniff my fingers. For a split second I think it's going to bite me, but instead it licks, little tongue working, and when it tries to move forward, to try and get closer to my outstretched hand, it gets stuck – its leash is caught around the tyre it's huddled against, and it can't move. It whimpers again, eyes sad. It's tiny, maybe a month or two old. Did the puppy belong to the couple who were gunned down in this car?

As soon as I get out of here, I'll save the puppy, take it with me–

Everything's quiet but the whimpering puppy. No one's shooting anymore. Are they waiting for me? Are they waiting for me to think everything's safe, get out from under the car and then they'll pounce?

Obviously they mean to kill, because really, why else would they be shooting? I'm an easy kill, being out here on my own. A solitary target. And they've got the upper hand while I'm stuck under here with nowhere to go.

It's been seven years since the end of the world, and to think I've survived that long to only end up stuck under a car, it now being the main contender for my grave, is disconcerting. Hell, it's unfair. It's downright rude.

Death is inevitable, whichever way you look at it, but I at least want a say in how I go down. I don't want to be trapped under here, to starve or die of dehydration. The situation is pretty pathetic. I want to go down guns blazing. I would like to die trying to get away.

No matter what happens, I can't let anything happen to the puppy. If I escape and get shot in the process, I risk injuring it. Maybe before I die I can tell the people to take the puppy with them, so at least it gets the chance to live.

But are these people – person, whatever – who are shooting at me good? Would they take the puppy and care for it, or would they just leave it to die?

It's stifling under here. And no matter how deep a breath I take, all I inhale is death and metal. My nose pretty much touches the undercarriage, just like the tips of my boots when I try to change position.

I take another deep breath. Okay. I have one chance to get this right, and if I'm wrong, well ...

In the limited, cramped space of the undercarriage, I shrug off my pack – which involves a difficult manoeuvre of moving limbs, of twisting my body and a nonstop stream of fuck this and fuck you and fuck the prick who can't even aim properly – and somehow get it onto the ground beside me.

Now, if this part of the plan fails, well ... let's just say I hope it's quick, that the guy's nice in that perspective.

"I'm unarmed!" I shout, my voice bouncing off the metal and ringing in my ears. I hope to god that whoever shot at me is nearby and can hear me. "I'm unarmed! Don't shoot!" And then, without a second thought, I shuffle awkwardly to the edge of the car, and pushing my pack over the top of the dead woman, I toss it into the open, where I'd last been shot at. Next, to truly make my plan stick, I toss my gun out as well. It clicks and rattles as it skitters across the road.

So I wait. And it's the longest wait in history, as I strain to hear for footsteps, of perhaps more gunshots, of anything. I can't breathe. I feel so useless, so vulnerable, so stupid. I'm glad my parents aren't here to see this. If anything, I've just made the whole situation worse. I've tossed everything away, from food, supplies, to protection. The guy shooting at me can simply take my stuff and continue on his merry way. He can leave me to die without having to lift a finger.

The wait is agonising. Time's slow and fast all at once. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. If whoever shot at me takes my stuff and disappears, then I'll take the puppy and – and–

He's taking too long. Maybe he didn't hear me.

"I'm not armed!" I shout. "I'm unarmed!"

And again, I wait.