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  There is no ice spray for my ankle, so I just strap it with another bandage, hoping that keeping it stable will heal the sprain. I’ll have to take it easy for a few days.

  Unable to do anything else, I turn my attention to the police radio. I think I have it set up correctly now. Static comes through, therefore I know the aerial is working.

  Flipping through the channels, I spend hours attempting to reach someone. All I get is silence. I refuse to give up hope and decide to try again tomorrow. My body aches from climbing up and down roofs, and I want to get a good night’s sleep.

  In the morning, I don’t feel any better. I have a slight fever and my hand throbs. When I take off the bandage, the graze has become infected. Sighing, I rewash it with disinfectant and reapply the ointment, before wrapping on a fresh bandage. The olive leaf tablets I take will help with the healing process, but what I really need is an antibiotic. Probably a Tetanus shot, as the metal I cut my hand on had been rusty.

  I just can’t seem to catch a break. Why is all of this happening? Collapsing back on the bed, I give in to a moment of weakness and cry. I wish there were someone I could talk to, someone to help me deal with this.

  Curling up into a ball under my blanket, I go back to sleep. I have no will. No energy.

  I have no one.

  Hours later, the pain in my hand wakes me. My stomach is cramping with hunger pains, and my mouth is as dry as the desert. I still have a fever. I know what I must do, but don’t know if I have the energy to do it. Reluctantly I get dressed and then swallow several headache tablets for the pain.

  My ankle hurts working the clutch pedal, so I take a slow drive to Meadowdale Mall. On my way, I see a pack of dogs run across the street. I watch them, but they move off in the opposite direction to where I am going.

  Parking next to the pharmacy, I take my torch and go in. There is enough light coming in through the window to see what’s in the aisles, but what I am looking for is in the back. This time I grab a shopping basket. It’s not like someone will miss it.

  Behind the prescription counter, I search the shelves for broad-spectrum antibiotics, pain killers, antibiotic cream, and anything else I might need in the future. I find vials of tetanus toxoid and add them to my basket. In one of the aisles, I discover sterile wipes, needles, and syringes. The next aisle has a spray for my ankle and the proper bandages. I pick one of the purple ones but then decide to take all eight rolls. Never know when they might come in handy.

  With my basket full, but an idea forming in my mind, I fetch a new one. I scour the pharmacy, filling basket after basket with items I may need in the future.

  Enough sanitary pads to last a year; shampoo and conditioner; body wash and soap; toothbrushes and toothpaste; vitamins and disinfectants. The list just goes on, and I laugh. I’m having fun. It’s probably the fever that has me giggling like a schoolgirl, but I’m making the most of my shopping spree.

  Going back behind the counter, I take no prisoners. Every antibiotic on the shelves ends up in my basket. So do all the painkillers. Flu medication, stomach medication, asthma pumps, anti-depressants, insulin, and a range of stuff I don’t even know what they are for yet.

  After I stack all the baskets in my car, I go in once more. I grab a blood pressure monitor, a nebuliser, a blood sugar tester, and other equipment they have in the little clinic forming part of the pharmacy.

  The stuff hardly fits into my car, and I sit squashed all the way home, but proud of my loot. I’m exhausted, though, and I leave everything but the antibiotics, tetanus injection, and painkillers in the car.

  Two days later, I feel better. With The Beatles playing in the background, I turn the second guest room into my hospital ward. The built-in cupboards in this room are empty, besides the extra linen for the bed, and are perfect for storing the medicine from the pharmacy.

  I have lost track of the days I have been alone. I woke up on a Friday, and I think it is Friday again now, but I am not sure. What I am certain of, however, is that the guard in the cottage is rotting and I need to get rid of him today.

  After the trip to the pharmacy, I realised that my car might be too small for this new world I find myself in. I pull my dad’s Range Rover out of the garage and park my Polo in its place. I smile when I see that the tank is full. The Polo’s is almost empty. Delighting in the power of the V8 supercharged engine, I take the long way to the mall. I clearly recall my dad telling me about the 700nm of torque this car has when he bought it.

  My first stop is Checkers. Taking a trolley, I wander along the cleaning products aisle and load it up with bleach, disinfectant cleaner, rubber gloves, cloths, scourers and room spray.

  On my way out, I glance inside Pick ‘n Pay Clothing’s shop window. The doors are open and, although I can see a person lying at the back of the shop, I go in. The idea is to get a pair of slacks and a shirt to work in that I can throw away afterwards, but I end up with a heaped trolley. I can’t help it; it might be the end of the world, but I am still just a girl.

  After I load the Range Rover, I move to the Paint Trade store. Its doors are closed, and I need to fetch my crowbar. I try to pry the doors open, but it doesn’t work. Taking a step back, I swing the crowbar and smack the window. It cracks but doesn’t shatter. Frowning, I retreat a ways and then hurl the crowbar at the window with all I’ve got. The glass explodes into a million pieces, and I raise my arm to shield my face.

  When all is silent again, I peek over my arm, then look around the parking lot. Oddly, I feel as if I am being watched.

  I shake it off and, flashlight in hand, enter the store. All I need is a plastic ground sheet and duct tape. As an afterthought, I get twenty litres of paint and some brushes, too.

  When I slam the lid of the trunk, shivers go down my spine. With my back pressed against the car, I survey the empty parking lot. There are noises out there, but I can’t pinpoint where they are coming from. Adding to my discomfort is that I can’t identify the sounds. It’s a mix of cackling hyenas and the barking of a dog. There are no hyenas in the city, so I don’t know what I am hearing.

  Terrified, I get in and speed off, almost killing myself in the process. The Range Rover has so much power that I can’t keep it steady as I put my foot down hard on the pedal. It swerves left and right before I bring it under control.

  Heart hammering wildly in my chest, I drive home, wondering what could be out there.

  Elias, the security guard, was a big man. He is lying in his little kitchen on the linoleum floor, flies buzzing around his reeking, decomposing body.

  It takes all my willpower to start what must be done. I wrap a scarf around my mouth and nose and put on the rubber gloves. I open the ground sheet and place it next to Elias’ body. It then takes all my strength to roll the man over, and I’m sure, if he wasn’t dressed, pieces of him will fall off. I throw up next to him on the sheet, silently apologising for his undignified send-off.

  Once he is on the sheet, I wrap him up and seal it with duct tape. I apologise again for what I must do next. Tying a rope around his foot end, I tie the other end to the Rover and pull him out of the cottage, up the drive, and out of the gate.

  There is an open field; a miniature nature reserve; across the road from the house. I don’t know where else to put Elias and, since he has worked for my father for the last seven years, I think he deserves a place close to us. I already feel so bad about how I treated him.

  It is rocky here, and I can’t dig a grave. I place the body as far back from the road as I can and then collect the red rocks that litter the open veld of the reserve. When I am done, Elias’ body is completely covered in rocks; I place wildflowers on top before I drive back inside.

  I had intended to clean the cottage as well, but carrying rocks has worn me out. My body aches and I need to eat. Food has not been a priority over the past week, and it’s starting to tell. I’ve lost weight, and I feel weak after the exertion.

  After I shower, I cook myself a proper meal — spaghe
tti bolognaise. The only thing missing is a fresh salad. I decide to put make a vegetable garden on my to-do list.

  Fixing up the cottage is a terrible task, but I make myself do it. I rip the linoleum flooring out of the kitchen and drag the stinking mats across the road. It takes four days to wash, scrub, sanitise, and repaint the place, and even then the stench lingers. I leave the doors and windows open, hoping that, with time, the smell will go away.

  I have started to talk to myself; a clear sign I am going mad. The loneliness is the worst, so I try to keep myself busy.

  The gardener’s shack is full of implements, and I make use of them to plot out my vegetable garden. I spend several days digging up the ground, dividing the area into rectangles, and making paths between them, but I cannot delay the inevitable forever.

  With the 9mm at my hip and my dad’s hunting rifle on the passenger seat, I drive to Builders Warehouse, about a kilometre further than the mall; it used to be one of my favourite places to shop. They have an amazing garden section, and I know I can get plants and seeds there, as well as gardening equipment I may need. I park the Rover at the entrance and start by loading bags of fertiliser and potting soil.

  After that, I go inside, pushing a trolley. It is dark inside, and I have a creepy feeling the moment I enter. Hurrying through the store, the beam from the flashlight dances erratically across the shelves I pass; I am sure I can hear noises behind me.

  The gardening section has a transparent roof, and I feel safer, but don’t let my guard down as I quickly select what I came for. My trolley is almost full when I hear the noises again.

  I turn, staring at the dark entrance to the rest of the store. The sound closes in, but I don’t see anything. I draw the 9mm, holding it out in front of me with shaking hands, the trolley between me and the door.

  When a couple of rats come squeaking from the dark into the light, I laugh out loud with relief and lower the gun. The rats lift their heads and their whiskers twitch as they smell the air. I smile at their cute faces.

  My smile soon freezes as the rats come straight for me, followed by several more. I grab my trolley and move around the side of a flower display. The pack of rats follows me; there must be at least fifty now. They were making the noises I heard when I came in.

  I dart into the dark interior of the shop, the flashlight playing tricks, making me see rats everywhere. I hear them behind me; hundreds of tiny feet scrabbling across the concrete floor. I scream when one attaches to my jeans, but I don’t stop running. The trolley wobbles as I turn the corner to exit the shop and I almost lose control.

  Once out of the door, I let go of the trolley and turn around. My eyes widen in horror when I see how many are after me, and I slam the doors shut before they can get out. The thing on my leg tries to bite me, reminding me that it’s there. I scream again, swatting at it, and it flies off, hitting a metal dustbin with a satisfying thunk.

  The runaway trolley hits the Range Rover, leaving a small dent in the rear fender, but it’s still upright, and I quickly transfer the contents into the SUV. I am beginning to loathe these shopping trips, no matter how necessary they are.

  I decide then always to make the trips worthwhile. Today is the day I will make a list of items I need to survive; and not just for a month or two. This is my life now, and I am going to make the best of it.

  Chapter 6

  Week six. I am keeping record now. It keeps me sane. Sort of.

  My vegetable garden is coming along nicely but takes a lot of work. With spring, weeds flourish, and the growing grass gets out of hand if I don’t trim it. I never knew to look after a garden is this much work. I also tend to my parents’ graves.

  Another objective I now work on every day is a means to gather water. The summer rains will start soon, and I need to make the most of it. The water from the taps ran dry several weeks ago, but luckily, the house has two Jo-Jo tanks, and I boil water from there for now.

  Again, I cannot delay the inevitable. I will have to do a supply run soon, especially for water. I think I will make a trip to Makro, a bulk store and a division of Wallmart.

  Taking my weapons, I eventually drive to the store, which isn’t much further than the builder’s mart. The gates to the massive store are open, but I drive past, heading for the delivery entrance.

  As I had hoped, the trucks are parked there. Finding keys is a bit trickier, but I finally find a set for one of the trucks in an office. I have wasted precious time looking for the keys, and I hurry, driving the truck around to the parking lot. The big vehicle stutters and smokes, but after running for a while, evens out. I let it idle while I go into the liquor store, bringing out all the 5L water bottles I can find. It’s hard work loading them into the truck, but I am fitter. I have been eating well and working in the garden has toned my body.

  Before I move the truck around to the main entrance, I survey the parking lot. I am more careful now, aware of my surroundings. Grabbing a flat-bed trolley, I head for the entrance. The door has been forced open, and I approach with caution. Abandoning the trolley, I pull the 9mm and step through. There are high windows on the till-facing side of the store and therefore enough light to see by. It’s quiet and, peering down the aisles, I can’t see anything.

  I return to fetch the trolley. Someone must have broken the door before the event; it’s the only way I can explain it.

  List in hand, I systematically go down the aisles, neatly packing my goods to maximise the load capacity of my trolley. I have to make two trips already, with all the items I need. Candles, light bulbs, more duct tape, jerry cans, hose pipes, tools, camping equipment, and all manner of survival gear. Then, I need the regular stuff, like toilet paper, canned food, dried food, toiletries, and more water.

  The shop is an end-of-the-world paradise, and it takes forever to load everything. Closing the doors of the truck, I remember the flashlights. Dammit.

  Cursing, I head back inside — the beam of the one flashlight I own flickers ahead of me. I am on the last set of batteries. I need to get rechargeable batteries and a recharging machine, as well as new flashlights. The batteries and chargers are in front, by the tills. I shove all of them into a shopping bag, then head to the back for the flashlights. As I haven’t been down this aisle, I look around carefully to ensure there isn’t anything I may need.

  A stack of boxes lies in the centre of the aisle, blocking most of it. I have to climb around them, and when I lean on a box to balance myself, the moan of pain from underneath it almost gives me a heart attack.

  I drop the shopping bag and kneel. A man is buried beneath the heavy boxes. When I touch his clammy forehead, his eyelids flutter. He is pale, even with his dark complexion.

  “Can you hear me? Where are you hurt?”

  He doesn’t answer; I don’t think he is awake at all. Standing, I try to move the boxes, but they are indeed heavy. When I take a closer look, I see that the corner of one has him pinned at the groin.

  Using my knife, I slit the box open. Neatly stacked packets of screws explain the weight. I grab them, two at a time, emptying the box as quickly as I can. Once light enough, I heave it off and toss it to the side. He moans again but does not wake. My knowledge of medicine is rudimentary, but I check his body for injuries as best I can.

  I am frantic now; he is the first living person I have seen in weeks, and I cannot let him die. Sprinting to the front of the store, I fetch a flat-bed trolley and drag it to the back.

  There is nothing I can do about his pitiful moans as I awkwardly manoeuvre his body onto it, but internally I cringe with every sound he makes.

  Quickly shoving the flashlights into the bag with the batteries, I dump the bag onto the trolley as well and then push him as fast as I dare towards the exit.

  My heart is beating so fast, I think it may explode. I need to remain calm, I tell myself, as I pull him as gently as I can manage onto the back seat of the Rover. I will come back for the truck later.

  All the days of loneliness are w
ashed away as I race home. I repeatedly glance over my shoulder to look at the man. I cry, I laugh, my hiccups keeping me company as I test how fast the Rover can get up the hill.

  Turning the corner gently, I pull up to the house and ease the SUV through the gate. This man is hurt; although I don’t yet know where and to what extent; and I don’t want to move him too much before I stabilise him.

  Leaving him in the car, I hasten to my makeshift field hospital in the spare room and grab supplies. I’ve had ample time on my hands and read the instructions on the equipment I stole from the pharmacy. I pray basic knowledge is enough.

  I put a brace around his neck; I’ve heard you’re not supposed to move patients with neck injuries. It may already be too late for that, as I manhandled him to get into the car, but I don’t want to do further damage. Putting on the brace, I notice blood on the back of his head. It is so dark that it blends perfectly with his tight, black curls of hair. I stare at my shaking hand, blood and hair clinging to it as I move it out from under his head.

  “Shit!”

  Grabbing a bandage, I wrap up his head. I’m not sure what to do next. I want to give him a saline solution - it’s what they do in hospitals - but for that, he needs to be in bed.

  Thinking frantically, I remember the blow-up mattress in the garage. Mr Head-wound moans as I climb from the back seat and I mumble an apology, before sprinting off to get the blow-up.

  Pumping frenziedly with my foot, I can’t blow the damn thing up fast enough. When it is finally done, I lay it in front of the Rover’s back door and climb inside. As gently as I can, I pull Mr Head-wound out. An unresponsive person is heavy as hell, and I curse under my breath as I try not to hurt him more.

  Once he’s on the mattress, I take a breather and sit next to him. I hold his hand, whispering that everything will be alright. It feels good to be talking to someone, even if he probably can’t hear me. Before my emotions get the better of me, I drag the mattress into the house. It’s easier than carrying him, but by the time I get to the spare room, my back is killing me. With the last of my strength, I put the man on the bed.