V. is sleeping on the floor; can he hear the book rattle against the table? I am trying to write quietly, but I’m going too fast. I suppose tomorrow I won’t be able to read this. Trying to save my candle. I’m so angry. I should have dragged the old man down an alleyway and found out what he knew. P. would have helped me.
The way V. looks at her… I feel uneasy, then irritated at myself. She’s a pretty young woman, and he’s young too, and if they want to look at each other any way they want, they should. I’ve got no skin in the game either way. But they still look. And I still watch them looking. Wish I could stop. I have other things I need to think about. The heart beats on as if it intends to live, as if it deserves to do so, even if it can’t come up with a reason why.
July 23
Fucking traitors! How they creep amongst us, like cockroaches disguised as our neighbours. That old man, I knew it.
Shaking. Can’t write.
Later
Ambushed and attacked while we were out. Not by the usual. By a mob of humans, silent, their faces covered. And in broad daylight, blue sky. It was so strange to see a group of people now that for a second I stopped, startled, and V. had to leap in.
We couldn’t run, it was far too late. Ended up fighting them off by the absolute skin of our teeth. I badly injured one, leaving him in the street, and the others ran. I think: They weren’t sent to kill us, just incapacitate us. Stop them, someone said. They ask too many questions. Even though we have all discovered just how easy it is to kill someone. How delicate the human body really is.
They knew where to find us. We’ll have to move flats now. That’s what I get for getting attached to this one. I could kick myself.
V. said, We’re onto something.
I agreed. Told him this was the most important thing we could be doing now.
He said, Oh, you’re on a mission now. You think you’ve found something to live for. A ‘purpose’ in life.
I don’t know why, but I got so angry for a second that I could barely see. Maybe it was just the obviousness of it. Maybe it was… I don’t know. I flew into a rage, I almost slapped him; I drew my hand back.
I said, If you think that’s laughable, then you’re a fucking coward. That’s what you are. Laugh at it, then. Laugh. So we know what you are.
And you’re a hypocrite, he said. You told me your only goal was survival, that everyone’s only goal now was survival. And now you go and change your tune because your ovaries hurt or because you want people to think you’re a hero or whatever. As if there will be history books later for children to read.
I did slap him then, and while we were both still reeling, I said, Everyone’s only goal is survival now. And that means we all make sure everyone survives.
He stared at me, his cheek reddening. A little drool of blood from the corner of his mouth. I was startled by the blood, remorseful; I didn’t think I hit him that hard. I’ve never slapped anyone before.
I said, So go on. Abandon me then. If you have a mission of your own. Some better mission. As if the reasons we’re doing something matter so much to you, as if any reason could be better than any other reason.
No, he said. I want to help.
Because you can’t think of anything better to do with your life, I said.
I suppose so, he said.
We went to sleep after that, exhausted, in separate rooms, as usual. It was the most awkward thing in the world. But we’re not giving up.
August 1
Exhausted. Can barely move. Bleeding seems to have stopped though. Should have attempted stitches tonight, but disoriented; couldn’t see. Will unwrap it and try tomorrow.
Bedroom door shut tight, barricaded with a bookshelf. Glad I brought a flashlight. The stranger sleeps outside, uneasily, groaning and struggling on the floor before falling again into silence. No flashlight for him; the statues roam outside, they might see his light. Not so mine, in this windowless room. Well, anyway, the sound means he’s alive.
The classic mistake. I’ve seen this in the movies too. The stranger rescued, fulsome in his gratitude. Infiltrates the greater group and then turns out to be… some kind of traitor or cannibal or zombie or something. But what the movies never adequately show is that you cannot leave them to die, you just cannot. Something in you wants to, and you turn to go, and then it’s as if your skeleton turns, your muscles turn, while your gaze stays fixed in the middle-distance.
Humanity! I think it only as a curse now. It’s my bane, my enemy, it comes at me in waves, like labour pains, all those years ago; the world ended and I see it again as if recognizing an old enemy on the far side of the street. You! I hiss, between the waves, in the troughs, gasping for breath. You again! And it is also, besides enemy, foe, loathed one, the only thing I think I can still love. I am otherwise dead inside, numb as stone. I look inside myself and see a paleness where others have rich red blood, or pure sunshine and ice; no, never mind the stuff that seeps through the bandages now. Spoiled milk. Light shines into me and is eaten immediately and eagerly by the dark.
Bloody, awful humanity! I saw him scrabbling over the broken stones, cutting his hands and wrists, not crying out for help; we never do that now, it’s not wise, it only attracts things. For a second I froze. The thing after him was huge, twisted; in fact, it looked a bit like it had survived a fall from a building, and was in that death posture, twisted and curled, but it could still run. When you have twenty or thirty legs you do not miss a handful. It skittered after him over the rocks, screeching, followed by its entourage, all fangs and eyes. The worst ones I’ve ever seen.
And then I unfroze, and picked up my hoe.
It was a short fight; they tend to be. The statues are numerous and malevolent and dangerous but they are shoddily made, and they can be immobilized, if not killed; a dozen rapid blows of the hoe had its head half-off, and then it reared, disoriented, and fell upon its followers, and we swatted them away as we ran for it. One of them clawed me, deep, bad. Yet I still held him up as we found this place, darted up the stairs, shut the firedoors behind us. The rest of the world called it Brutalism, this blocky concrete stuff; now, after the end of things, we call it Utilitarianism. Because it’s useful, see—well, that’s not fair. Being a brute is useful too, now.
I taped him up, asked him his name, didn’t understand his answer. Went in here and shut the door. His eyes in their round masks of blood were luminous, grey-blue, a small white flame burning behind each pupil like the reflection of the sun in a bottomless lake. I know nothing about him except this.
And something else, something that makes me unnecessarily uneasy, because it’s… it’s a big city, and there must be warehouses, storehouses, caches, other things I don’t know about, but everyone now, two years post-Invasion, is like a scarecrow, skinny and tough, and light enough to sling over your shoulder. But he, the stranger, is very, very heavy. Not merely muscular but bulky. Like M. Solid, big bones and over that, the dense good flesh that we all used to boast about, even as models and actors grew skinnier and skinnier.
I don’t want to say it, but.
What has he been eating?
My flashlight dims. Can They affect that even here? Do I write so slowly now? I will write more tomorrow, if we are alive.
Something stalks up the stairs, metal against concrete. If that thing phases into this room through one of those weird tears in the air it is going to get an extraordinarily heavy tactical flashlight jammed down its gullet. Leave us alone for one goddamn night, goddamn you!