little while, smiling at his antics.
After a few minutes, she stood up. ‘Okay, Harris, I’m gonna go visit Mrs Childers now. Chat later, okay?’
She scooped up her basket and headed around to 21, unlocking the door with her bundle of keys. Inside, she walked to the bedroom window and opened it. Crawling out onto the fire escape, she took a moment to survey the area below her.
Once she was assured that there was no one around, she started to climb the stairs down to street level, holding on with both hands to steady herself. The counterbalanced stair swung downwards, propelled by her weight, until it thunked gently on the ground below. It was a bit awkward to climb with the basket still tucked in the crook her of arm, but she took it slowly and eventually reached the bottom.
Before she left the last step she grabbed a nearby loop of rope, tied around the bottom of a drainpipe running the length of the building. As she’d done a hundred times before, Tamlin knotted it around the bottom of the stairs to keep them from swinging back up and leaving her stranded on the ground.
She stepped into the alleyway and took a moment to straighten and smooth her dress. Keeping an eye on her surroundings, she strolled casually toward the street. Apart from the sound of the breeze sweeping along some errant papers and Tamlin’s sandals tapping lightly on the pavement, it was silent.
She approached the gutter, then paused and carefully looked both ways. Left, right, then left again. The street was deserted. There were only three cars in sight—two parked neatly by the side of the road, and a third that had been crashed into the building opposite her. She hadn’t seen anyone actually driving around in a very long time, but she’d been taught to be careful when crossing the road.
Safety requirements satisfied, Tamlin crossed the street and headed toward the crashed car. As she rounded the side of the vehicle, Mrs Childers came into view. The old woman had been crushed between the car and the wall and almost completely cut in half. One arm had been caught as well and was now nothing more than a knobbly stump attached to her shoulder.
The old woman shuddered as she noticed Tamlin. Mrs Childers reached out with her good hand, fingers contorted into claws, her severed stump also straining around to wave in her general direction. The old woman’s mouth was open, but the only noise that came out was a barely-audible wheeze.
Tamlin tutted softly, standing just outside of her reach. ‘Hello, Mrs Childers. You need to be careful. You’re already really hurt, you should sit still. You know that you’re stuck. It’ll only make things worse if you wriggle around like that.’
Predictably, there was no response. Tamlin watched the old woman’s features contort in frustration as she strained against the car.
‘It’s nice to see you, too. I’m sorry I don’t visit you too often, but…’ A wide smile on her face, Tamlin reached into her basket. ‘I brought you a friend so you aren’t so lonely out here! Here, his name is Admiral Fluffybutt!’
Holding the stuffed rabbit where Mrs Childers could see it, she carefully leaned forward until she could drop him just where the old woman would be able to reach him. Mrs Childers made no attempt to take the rabbit, still fixated on trying to throw herself forward at Tamlin.
Tamlin frowned. ‘I really hope you feel a bit better soon. Take care of yourself. Goodbye for now.’
At the side of the road, she checked both ways again, just to be sure, then headed back to the alley. She would normally do a little bit of exploring to see if she could find any useful things to bring home, but didn’t really feel like it today. No, today was too nice a day to go scrounging around. She was going to go play on the roof, or maybe even read a book. Before that, though, she should check in on Martin as well.
Tamlin nodded to herself as she climbed back up the fire escape, the counterbalanced stairs lifting up behind her. Back inside, she climbed the stairwell down to the third floor. At the far end of the hall from the stairs was a janitorial closet. Tamlin set her basket to the side of the door and unlocked it, easing the door open carefully.
Martin sat inside, propped up against the back wall. His ankles were bound tightly together with duct tape that Tamlin had wound around and around them, and his arms were securely tied behind his back as well, fastening him to a heating pipe that stuck out from the wall. He couldn’t really move, except to wriggle around a little bit excitedly when he saw her, and the duct tape across his mouth meant he couldn’t talk or really make any sounds at all apart from muffled grunts.
Martin was a couple of years younger than Tamlin, so he was littler and she’d been able to tie him up so he’d be safe when he’d first gotten sick. She could see his jaw working behind the duct tape, as if he were trying to say something, but knew that if she took it off he would just try to bite her again.
‘It’ll be okay, Martin,’ she reassured him. ‘Sorry it’s so dark in here when I go away, but it’s safest for you to stay put, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.’
The boy wriggled some more and made a muffled ‘mmurrrhhhfff’ noise. Tamlin reached out and gently ruffled his hair. He leaned into it, as though enjoying the contact.
‘You’re lonely, huh?’ She sighed softly. ‘I’ll bring you a friend or two to keep you company, okay?’
Leaning in, she hugged her brother awkwardly, wrapping her arms around his writhing body and holding him tightly. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, jaw still working.
‘I’m happy you’re still here. One day you’ll be better, okay? Then you can come up and you can eat pickled vegetables with me and we can play like we did before.’
Tamlin pulled back and looked at him, cocking her head to one side, as though listening to something. Then she smiled. ‘Love you, too.’
POST-APOCALYPTIC GOTHIC
Prometheus’ Daughter
TALES OF THE SUNDERED LAND
The Flame’s Burden
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Matthew Karabache is addicted to stories of all kinds, devouring those made up by others and creating his own with equal gusto. Mythology and folklore hold a special fascination for him and he plunders them for ideas and other riches like some sort of literary pirate. He has been writing for as long as he can remember and will continue to do so for ever and ever. You can’t stop him, so there. He lives in Brisbane, Australia.
www.matthewkarabache.com
www.facebook.com/matthew.karabache
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