The survivors of Park Mews had made the most of their location and seemed to have a good thing going. The underground car park was stocked with enough food and water to last for several weeks. They had weapons and a medic in the form of a resident who was a local GP.
The shutter at the bottom of the ramp was firmly closed and barricaded, and since the power had died, it could no longer be opened electronically. But it could be opened manually, when it was deemed safe to do so, to enable foraging excursions using one of the many vehicles parked inside. They even had extra fuel stored in rows of jerry cans in a cool corner of the underground space. They had already started growing additional fruit and vegetables and were in the process of constructing a water collection system.
But more than all this, more than everything else put together, the survivors of Park Mews had something else that was going to give them the best chance of surviving in the long term. The residents of Park Mews were organised, united, and committed to one another.
The two women talked into the night. They shared their personal stories of survival, and those of others they had met. They laughed and they wept. They talked about what had, or might have, happened to family and friends. Sylvia had lost her husband on Day 3, when the infection ravaged the village. They talked about the past, and they talked about the future. When there was nothing left to say, they went to bed, Lisa returning to the room in Michelle's house, where she was as physically close to Neil as she could be.
She slept right through and woke the next morning with a thrill of excitement. Sunlight streamed in the window around the edges of the blind. It felt late. She leapt out of bed and rushed downstairs. Michelle and Sylvia were already at the window. They turned to look at her. Sylvia was smiling.
"He's coming."
She beckoned her over.
The street below was empty apart from a few infected. A rhythmic, metallic clanging was coming from the far end of the street to their left. The infected were shuffling towards it. She looked at Sylvia quizzically.
"The others are distracting them," Sylvia explained. She pointed toward the cars blocking the archway.
"Watch!"
Lisa looked towards the barricade. There was movement inside her car. The driver's door was closest to the street.
It opened.
Neil clambered out, standing up to his full height. He was holding a crowbar in one hand and, bizarrely, what looked like the domed lid of their barbeque in the other. Her heart skipped a beat or two, and she gasped out loud. Barbeque lid or not, he looked magnificent. He glanced up at the window for a split second before darting across the road to his left, disappearing out of sight beneath the building.
"Come with me!"
Sylvia hurried from the room.
Lisa followed her downstairs and outside, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. Sylvia slipped into a building a couple of doors down. Lisa followed.
She was sure they were in the stairwell of the flats diagonally opposite their house. She knew the flats. They had balconies that opened onto the street. The occupants of the ground floor flat were notorious for their loud parties that regularly went on all night. She and Neil had often been kept awake by the drunken chatter and music well into the early hours, half irritated and half amused … and, if they were honest, a tiny bit jealous.
Then, she was inside the flat. There were two men on the balcony outside. They were hauling someone over the wall. There was loud laughter. Sylvia stepped back from the door, a huge grin on her face.
Neil walked into the room.
They looked at each other for a second, almost unable to believe what they were seeing. He opened his arms, and she entered them. They closed around her. She had no words. No tangible thoughts. Her senses were flooded by the feel of him, the smell of him. She pressed herself into his body.
That night as she slipped into bed, she cuddled up against his broad, smooth back and lightly kissed the tattoo of a sun between his shoulders. He reached for her hand, pulling it across his body and holding it tightly to his chest as they fell asleep.
She was home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.M. McKenzie is from the UK Midlands. Wait for Me is her first full-length novel.
In 2019, she published a short story called Puschkinia, a gentle tale about a lost wedding ring and the role of an innocent child in breaking down prejudice and misunderstanding.
In 2020, she got through to Round 2 of the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge with her entry in the spy genre called, Option 3. Later that year, she was proud to co-author My Rachel with S.J. Gibbs. This is a personal memoir of the lives of S.J. and her daughter, Rachel, who was born with severe cerebral palsy. Rachel is now in her early thirties and the book recounts the relationship between mother and daughter and their fight for life, truth and justice.
Along with her colleagues from JAMS Publishing (jamspublishing.com), J.M. has also contributed to a series of anthologies called, Words Don’t Come Easy, Words Don’t Come Two Easy and Words Don’t Come Threely.
She is currently working on a new novel, The Ice Factory, which is about a traumatic loss of innocence. However, she hasn’t ruled out the possibility of a sequel to Wait for Me.
