The Last Mutation Page 7

  INTERLUDE FOUR:

  EVERYTHING COMES WITH A PRICE

  The wheelchair had started to squeak. For the last half mile of desolate, empty road, that repetitive sound had been second only to the sound of Sally’s voice, neither of which seemed likely to stop anytime soon. She sat in the chair, hands clasped and twitching, chin slick with drool.

  “I’m hungry,” she whined, her voice nasal and slow, and difficult for most to understand.

  Her dutiful sister, Delia, understood it well enough though. Since the day of the event five years earlier, she had been the only outlet for it. The older sibling by two years, the twenty-four-year-old knew not to react with anger. Instead, she half-tuned her sister down to a low whine and focussed instead on the sound of the wheel squeaking as they walked the endless road.

  “You said you were taking me out, you said it would be somewhere nice,” Sally said.

  “We’re out, aren’t we?” Delia replied, trying to keep her cool and hide her anger, neither of which were easy when she was so mentally and physically exhausted. She pushed the wheelchair along, letting the tension between them simmer.

  “You said it would be a special day. You don’t care about me, just because I’m disabled you think I don’t matter. I have rights, I should get special treatment.”

  Delia stopped pushing the chair. Her sister always did this and reverted to the disabled card when it suited her. She was bitter and selfish, and used the fact that she wasn’t able-bodied to her advantage. Delia had tried to explain that the world was a different place now, but she was either unwilling or unable to comprehend it. It was times like this when Delia’s frustrations came out in full force. “If you think you can do better on your own, be my guest,” she snapped, hating herself for doing it immediately.

  Silence.

  Now even the chair wheel wasn’t punctuating the quiet. Sally sat there for a moment, drooling and twitching, greasy hair flopping as she swung her head in involuntary movements. Delia knew well enough not to wait for an apology. They never came. Apparently being disabled meant she no longer had to have manners either. Instead, Delia resumed pushing the wheelchair down the edge of the road, the maddening squeak re-joining them.

  “Just you remember who looks after you. Who washes you and cleans you, puts you on the toilet and finds us food and shelter. I’m doing the best I can. Your attitude doesn’t help.”

  “But you promised we could go out. It’s not fair. You never do anything nice for me.”

  Delia swallowed the things she wanted to say, the hateful, nasty things that were so desperate to come out. Instead, she looked out over the desolate land and took a deep breath. “I do the best I can for us, Sally. Just look around, the world is a mess. It’s not all about you.”

  “It should be. I didn’t ask to be like this. I should be a priority.”

  She once again fought the urge to react, and again let her eyes drift over the barren landscape. Everything was dark, washed out. There was a word for it that wouldn’t come to her immediately, then arrived as she set her gaze on a snake of stationary rusting cars which had been at some point abandoned on the road.

  Sterile.

  That was the word she had been searching for. It had been only five years since everything changed, and she already struggled to remember anything of the old world. To think of it like it once was, so full and hectic, everybody moving with such urgency that they didn’t care who they stepped on to do it, seemed alien to her. Stupid. It was easy to say now, of course, because things had changed beyond any comprehension. She was sure a mistake had been made, and those who survived the event had done so by accident. Surely its intention was to kill everyone, not leave a few wretched souls behind. The pair went on, Delia pushing her sister’s wheelchair ahead of her, ignoring the skeletal remains which littered the streets. She had never seen a dead body before the incident, and now saw them as only part of the furniture of the new world. A sprinkling of garnish on earth’s barren corpse. They didn’t bother her. To her, they were the lucky ones.

  “It’s not fair. I’m disabled, my needs should come first,” Sally said, apparently not content to let the point drop.

  Delia knew she couldn’t react, but was furious nonetheless. She had sacrificed everything to help her sister. It was always with her in mind that she did things that would have been unspeakable. Scavenging from the dead, or stealing from the weak just to make her sibling as comfortable as possible in a world where just survival alone was a luxury. She had endured countless nights with little or no sleep, and was always thinking forward to the next day and how they might get through it.

  “Can you hear me? Don’t ignore me.”

  “I hear you,” Delia said. “We’re going somewhere, aren’t we?”

  “But where? I’m cold. I’m hungry. This isn’t fair. People like me should come first.”

  “Please, just give it a rest, will you? Just shut up and be quiet for five minutes, can you at least give me that?” She had snapped and knew it wouldn’t help. She was well aware that her sister had become spoiled and craved constant attention. She had been that way before the event and seemed to have no intention of changing things now just because the world was dying.

  “See? You resent me. You wish I were dead. Just because I’m disabled, you think I’m no use. It’s not right, it’s not fair. You hate me. Everyone should go out of their way to help people in my position.”

  “Look down there,” Delia said, cutting her sister off. She pointed down the gentle slope of the road. At the bottom, a cluster of stalls made up a makeshift market. People who, from their vantage point, were tiny, scurried around and tried to bargain and barter for the things they needed to survive. “See? That’s where we’re going.”

  “The market? We came here last week. Besides, we don’t have any money. Plus, if you remember, my wheelchair won’t get around there, and you know it. They don’t think of people like me and the access I need. You’re doing this on purpose. You resent me and want to make me feel bad for my disability. Well, I won’t do it. It’s unfair.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do?”

  Sally was silent. She sat in her chair, hands flexing as she looked at the cluster of stalls in the distance. “It’s not up to me. You’re the able-bodied one. I can’t do everything, you know.”

  “We need food. Water. Maybe we can barter with someone down there.”

  “With what? We don’t have anything. Besides, I need your attention, not those people. I’m family. It’s not my fault I can’t help myself. You owe me.”

  Delia tuned out the sound of her sister’s whining and went on, pushing the wheelchair ahead of her. She focussed her energy on the squeaking wheel, keeping that at the forefront of her mind so she didn’t have to listen to the never-ending self-pity and moaning from her younger sibling. Hate was a strong word, and one she didn’t quite have the ability to justify feeling towards her. She supposed the nearest she could think of to explain how she felt was burdened. Existing alone in the world was hard enough. Caring for her sister and her demanding nature made it almost impossible.

  ***

  The market was ramshackle at best. Tattered stores selling foraged goods were arranged in a rough circle for the wanderers who happened to pass on the road. Sally was right. It wasn’t wheelchair friendly. People glared at them as they tried to inch their way through the crowds of people trying to beg and swap items.

  “I told you we shouldn’t have come here. You’ve done this on purpose to embarrass me because I’m in a wheelchair, haven’t you? It’s not fair. You hate me,” Sally moaned.

  Delia ignored her and concentrated on not running into anyone. She saw the wood ramp she had been looking for and made for it, pushing the wheelchair up it onto the raised stage.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

  Delia pushed the chair into the centre of the stage, flicked on the brakes, then stood beside her sister, looking out into the eager crowd.


  A man joined them. He was filthy, his hair in greasy knots, beard thick and salty. He looked from sister to sister then handed Delia a bag. She looked inside. Six bottles of water. Some bread and cheese. Discreetly tucked away at the side, a handgun and two boxes of ammunition.

  “Just like we agreed last week, if you still want to go through with it” the man said, holding Delia’s gaze.

  “What’s going on, why are we here? Everyone is staring at me. Take me down from here right now,” Sally said, glaring at her sister.

  Delia paid her no attention. She closed the drawstring on the tatty canvas bag and slung it over her shoulder. “This looks right. The deal stands,” she said, locking eyes with the man.

  The man smiled and put a hand on Sally’s shoulder.

  “Get off me, this man is touching me. Delia, tell him to stop. Tell him he can’t do this to me, I’m disabled.”

  Delia tuned her sister out and locked eyes with the man. She thought this part would be hard, or at least cause some kind of conflict within her that would force her to change her mind, but her heart had grown cold like the world, and any love that once existed for her sister had perished some time ago. She turned, adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder and then exited the way she had come, heading down the ramp towards the crowd.

  Sally saw her go and started to call after her. “Wait, where are you going? You can’t just leave me here with these people. I’m disabled, it’s your job to look after me. Delia? Delia? Can you hear me? Come back here.”

  Delia paused and looked over her shoulder. For a brief moment, she locked eyes with her sister, then glanced at the awning above the stage.

  The words ‘Meat Auction’ were penned in unsteady hand on a banner pinned to the top of the framework. She glanced at the man who had given her the bag, nodded, then turned away as he started to take bids for their latest fresh delivery. Soon enough, Sally’s cries were lost to Delia as she pushed her way through the crowd. She felt no shame, no sadness, only a sense of relief and for the first time optimism that the road ahead might not be quite so challenging anymore. She disappeared into the night, another anonymous face with a guilty secret trying to make the best she could of the situation. At last, she felt as if she was finally free.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The world was slow to come into focus, the memories of his ordeal for the time being, unremembered. He blinked, taking in his surroundings. He was in a room, the paint on the ceiling faded and chipped. Slowly, his senses came back to him, but he didn’t move. He lay perfectly still, trying to sense and feel his environment and piece together what had happened to him. He was in a bed, an actual real bed, the material soft under his body, itchy cover pulled up to his chin. He slowly moved his head, taking in more of the room. Basic furnishings. A tired dresser. A tatty armchair in the corner, chunks of foam missing from the arms. A window, the world nothing but a square of grey sky from his vantage point. A door. Warped, the blue paint cracked. He listened, holding his breath, trying to piece together how he got there, where he even was. He could hear muffled voices, but couldn’t place where they were coming from. He tried to move, the bed creaking in protest as he touched his head. He felt bandages instead of the gash which he expected to be there, which added to his confusion. He could remember the old man in the church, McCarthy. He could remember being captured and put in the cage. He remembered planning to escape, to attack one of the brothers when the chance arose, and then…nothing. Everything was blank. He knew he had been injured in some way, but the details were still hazy.

  For a sickening moment, he thought he was back there, that he had fainted before he got too far away and they had come back for him. That, however, didn’t seem right. They were all about bars and cages, not beds and bandages. He sat up and swung his legs out of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He stood and staggered to the window. Outside was a faded wooden building, the side filling his entire field of vision.

  “You’re awake then.”

  He spun towards the voice, another surge of nausea almost making him topple to the ground.

  “Easy, take a breath,” the woman said from the door, keeping a close eye on him. Like most people, she was ageless. In a world without makeup, or hair products, everyone had the same dishevelled, grimy look to them. She had short, greasy hair which was dirty blonde and streaked with grey. One eye was milky white and stared sightlessly at him. The other was brown and regarded him with caution.

  “How did I get here?” he asked.

  “We found you a few miles from here. We almost left you there assuming you were dead until you happened to move. Lucky for you, or you would have died there.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Somewhere safe,” she said, keeping her distance. “That cut on your head was pretty ugly. Looks like you might have a fractured skull too. Lucky for you, we had people here who can help.”

  “What kind of people?” he asked, recalling his experiences with McCarthy.

  “Good people. People who are trying to rebuild something from what we have left.”

  He looked around the room, panic setting in. “My bag, my things…”

  “Over there in the corner. Nobody has touched them. That I promise you.”

  He went to it, opening it and checking that his things were in there, fragments of lives from a dead world, not quite sure why he was so protective over them. The woman watched from the entrance to the door.

  “You got a name?” she asked.

  The Collector glanced at her and shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody ever gave me one that I remember.”

  “So what do people call you?”

  He thought about it, shrugged, then sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t really talk to people long enough to get to the names part. I suppose I just don’t have one. I call myself the Collector, I suppose, if I have to use something.”

  “That’s no good,” she said, smiling at him. “Names are what makes us human. Without a name, you might as well just be dead.”

  “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “I do. My name is Betty.”

  He grunted and nodded, then sat on the end of the bed, unsure what to do next.

  “We can’t introduce you to the others if you don’t have a name. How about we give you one now?”

  He looked at her, overcome with emotion he thought had long been burned out of him by the daily grind of existence. “You’d do that? Give me a name?”

  “We don’t have any right to do that, as it’s not ours to give.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I can help you choose a name. Something people can call you. It might seem like a little thing, but it makes all the difference. All it comes down to is choosing the right one.”

  She thought for a moment, folding her arms and leaning on the doorframe. “Let’s see, what were your parents called?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember them.”

  “Alright, then where are you from, which city?”

  He looked at her, blank and embarrassed. “I don’t know. I don’t remember ever coming from anywhere. I just…was.”

  “Are there any names you like?” she asked, keeping calm and patient.

  “I don’t really know any.”

  “Alright, wait here. I have something that might help.”

  She left him. He listened to her feet echo on tired floorboards, then a door opening down the hall. A few minutes later, she came back and held out a book, its front faded, spine frayed, pages yellowed. On the front was a picture of a child. The title of the book read: 101 Baby Names for Boys and Girls, Second Edition. He took it and looked at the picture.

  “Baby names?” he said, glancing at her.

  “Just names. Babies grow up into adults. That thing’s been hanging around here since before we arrived. Lucky for you, we didn’t throw it out.”

  He opened the book, the pages brittle with age and giving off the distinct smell only old, well-thumbed paper gave. He sta
rted to read.

  “Those are the girls’ names. Move on closer to the middle,” Betty said, coming into the room and sitting on the bed beside him. He did as she said, moving to the middle of the book and to the long list of boys’ names. He smiled, never imagining he would ever get to choose what he would be called.

  “Abraham. I like that,” he said, glancing at her.

  “Well, that’s just the start. Keep looking. Choose one that really sings to you.”

  “Sings to me?” he said, frowning.

  “Not actually sings, but…you’ll know the one when you see it. Just take your time.”

  He looked at the lists, considering each name in turn. “This one,” he said, pointing to one. “I like this one.”

  Betty leaned over and looked at where he was pointing. “Ethan? I like it. Good choice.”

  He smiled and handed her back the book. “Thank you…I’ve never had a name before.”

  “You have, you just don’t remember it. From now on you are Ethan. That’s all that matters.”

  “Ethan,” he repeated. It felt strange to say it. He grinned.

  “Do you feel up to a walk? I can show you around the place. Introduce you to some of the others.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You can leave your bag here if you like, or you can take it with you. It’s up to you.”

  “No, I’ll leave it here,” he said. He trusted Betty. Although the experiences with McCarthy were still fresh in his mind, he felt he could trust her. For the time being at least. Besides, she had already helped him more than anyone else he had ever met in his life had bothered to do. He reminded himself that not everyone in the world could be bad, and that somewhere, good people still existed. He stood and stretched. Betty walked to the door, then turned back to him.

  “Come on then, let me show you around the place.”

  He exited the room and followed her as she walked down a hallway, the floorboards bare and dusty, walls a pale blue. There were other doors spaced evenly down one side. The other was windowless.