Resist

9 BEA

I kneel next to Jazz and place the back of my hand against her forehead. She’s still burning with a fever. The scarf I bound her leg with is sopping wet. I unpeel it and examine the wound. The skin around the gash is yellowing and the smell is gut wrenching. She’s losing so much blood, she’ll bleed to death before long, and if that doesn’t happen, she’ll die of the festering infection.

“Please stop the pain,” she begs in a voice so controlled and desperate, all I want to do is hold her and have her suffering seep its way into me.

I look at the escalator and wonder whether there could be a pharmacy up on the concourse. “I’ll be back,” I say, jumping up with my backpack. I could clean her wound and help stop the bleeding, but only if I can find what I need.

“Please don’t go,” she whimpers. “Bea!”

“Two minutes,” I assure her, clambering up the escalator.

I pause on the sun-drenched upper concourse, taking in the row of stores on either side: their glass doors and windows are smashed in, the stock looted, and the signage covered in graffiti.

A store selling nothing but tights and socks has moldy merchandise strewn across the floor, and an electronics store is littered with broken screens and leaking batteries. And as I should have guessed, the pharmacy has been hit worst of all—tubes, bottles, cans, and loose pills of every size and color are scattered across the floor. I pick my way through the mess and go behind the counter. I use my toe to root around on the floor for anything intact, but the sedatives, painkillers, and antibiotics have already been eaten up by drifters. I do spot a travel-size sewing kit and a small bottle of methylated spirit, which I stuff into my backpack.

I leave the pharmacy and step into a store with faded pictures of exotic foods and drinks in its window. Maybe alcohol will be enough to kill her pain.

I scour every shelf, throwing aside bruised tins and empty cans. Then I lie on the floor to check that nothing has rolled out of sight. Defeat seizes me, and then, as I’m about to return to Jazz, I spot a door with a crooked STAFF ONLY sign hanging from it. When I push, it squeaks but swings opens.

Moldy cardboard boxes are piled high like children’s giant building blocks, and most are empty, but eventually I find six untouched bottles. I pull one out and try to unscrew it, but it’s been sealed with a strange type of lid hidden down inside the bottleneck. I have no time to figure out how it works, so I smash the bottle’s neck against a filing cabinet. The alcoholic stench sends me reeling. I pour a little of the liquid into my hand, sniff, and let the tip of my tongue taste it. Definitely drinkable, but unlike any alcohol I’ve tasted before. It’s thick and red and bitter. I look at the label—Malbec. I stuff the bottles into my backpack, and a scream echoes through the station.

“Jazz?” I fly from the store.

Jazz is writhing in half-sleep. I pull a bottle from my bag and smash it open, take Jazz in the crook of my arm, and pull the mask from her mouth. “Here,” I say, awkwardly filling my cupped palm with the red alcohol and holding it to her lips.

She sips from my hand. “Ugh,” she says. “What is it?”

“Medicine.” She continues to drink, and when she’s drowsy, I lower her onto the floor and reattach the mask. The alcohol calms her down, so I can look at her leg again. It’s bad. So bad, I’m not sure that what I’m doing is a good idea. But I have to try something.

She stirs. “Bite on this,” I tell her. I push a piece of thick cloth under her facemask and slide it between her teeth. I arrange everything I’ve collected on the tiled floor, then run a long piece of thread through the eye of the needle and pour the methylated spirit over it. Then I use the spirit to clean her wound. She squeals, but I quickly tie her hands and legs together with scarves so she won’t try to stop me.

“It’s okay,” I say. She lets out a groan muffled by the cloth in her mouth. “Stay calm,” I add, this time to myself because my nerves and nausea won’t help anyone.

I sit on her chest, bite the insides of my cheeks, and use the tips of my fingers to jam the jutting bone back in place, pulling the skin over it. She bellows and writhes and finally passes out.

I pinch her skin, sticky with blood, and slowly, with trembling fingers, pierce it with the needle and pull the cotton through. Jazz thrashes, as she floats in and out of consciousness, but I keep a knee on her chest, congealed blood seeping through my fingers as I pinch and sew back and forth, back and forth, until the stitches are halfway up her shin, the bone is hidden, and the wound closed.

I pull away her facemask and remove the cloth from her mouth. She’s still breathing. Gently.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because I may have made things worse.

Now, all I can do is wait—for someone to save us, or for Jazz to die.

10 ALINA

We’ve been walking for the best part of two days. My feet have blisters and my muscles are tight and burning. Even Song and Dorian are exhausted and have started wearing airtanks.

“That has to be it,” Dorian says.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, standing on the dip in a cracked road surrounded by miles of flat fields dotted with old brick houses and long-dead tree stumps. Silas unfolds the map, looks at it, and juts his chin toward a set of ornate iron gates, rusting but still standing at the end of the road. “There?” he asks.

“We’ve been circling in on the area all morning. This is the only place we haven’t checked,” Dorian says.

“We can’t waste any more air on maybes,” I mutter. I feel momentarily lightheaded and allow a little more oxygen into my facemask.

“We’ll see,” Silas says, stuffing the map into his coat and leading us down the road, his gun hanging at his side.

As we move closer I make out a lane beyond the gates. I press my face between the railings. “The lane bends. We’ve no way of knowing what’s down there,” I say.

“Then let’s check it out,” Dorian says. He waves Song forward and together they ease open the gates. Silas doesn’t stop them, and neither do I. But it seems strange that there’s no lock.

“Hope they’ve got the kettle on,” Maude says. “I could do with a cuppa.”

The lane is overgrown with weeds and peppered in old bicycles and broken glass bottles, but on either side is a low, sturdy brick wall that looks newly built. Silas has taken the lead again, and I stick close to him.

Suddenly a disembodied voice punctures the silence. “Stop! The lane is protected with mines. One more inch and you’ll lose a leg.” Silas’s right foot is suspended in the air. He tilts his weight into his left heel and steps back.

“We come as friends!” he calls out.

“Resistance,” Dorian says.

“Friends don’t need weapons. Throw down your guns,” the voice calls out. We look at Silas for direction. “Put the guns down or we’ll open fire!” the voice booms. Silas places his gun gently on the ground behind him and we all do the same. Instinctively I put my hands up.

And then we are surrounded. Each of the twenty or so soldiers who appear are wearing balaclavas, but, crucially, no airtanks. They leap onto the wall and aim their rifles at us.

A beefy soldier in a tight tank top, arms covered with black tattoos, all thorns and barbed wire, lowers his gun. “Who’s in charge?” he wants to know.

Silas is, of course, but he doesn’t step forward, not when any one of us might disagree.

“I’m the leader here. Kneel before me, minion,” Maude says, and cackles. I shoot her a warning look;