No Longer Alone
Sirens, high-pitched and wailing, shattered the afternoon. Even from this distance Dal could imagine it – the car, white and blue, a symbol of justice in the time before; he knew it would now be terrorizing one poor stray or another. He was grateful he'd taken his rollerblades with him – they'd got him out of more than one scrape with the Locos. He often felt guilty about the kids less fortunate than him, those who were unable to get away fast enough and captured by Zoot and his tribe – but Dal knew there was nothing he could do except get caught himself. It was looking after Number One that mattered now, nothing else. He wondered what his father would have said about that.

It was four months since he'd left them now; since he'd said his goodbyes to the corpses he'd once called "mum" and "dad". His mother had been the first to fall sick, slightly feverous one night and then in a critical condition the next morning. Dal's father had stopped going to work to stay at home and look after her – for what better doctor could she have than him? And then the inevitable happened and he too succumbed to the virus and it was left to Dal to look after them both, until they died.

The whine of a police siren suddenly came from only a couple of streets away. Dal felt cold – he had been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed them getting closer. He could even hear the Locos' chanting; Power and Chaos! He realised he was shaking and tried to force himself to calm down – it was fear that the Locos lived off and his fear would get him caught. Quickly he started packing his belongings into his rucksack – he'd been counting the tinned food, trying to work out how long it would last him before he needed to get some more – and as he fastened the clip and slung the bag over his shoulders, the first Locos rounded the corner.

Dal was on his feet, one foot forward, then the other, praying that he'd be able to outrun them because there was no way they could not have seen him. Inwardly he was furious at himself for sitting out in the open like that just begging to be prey for the tribes. It could have been the Demon Dogs that found him. As it was, he supposed he was lucky it was the Locos – after all he'd managed to outrun them before now, so surely he could do so again. He flew down the road as fast as he could, looking for a side street, a hiding place, anywhere he could escape to and evade capture.

They were close now, so close – he was sure he could feel the heat of the car's engine, but he didn't dare turn back to look. As he turned into another road he felt his legs beginning to ache – he could only sprint on his rollerblades for so long, and he hoped he could get away from his pursuers before his legs gave up on him. Behind Dal, the Locos were cheering and screaming wordless war-cries, punctuated every now and then by a "Power and Chaos!" They echoed off the abandoned buildings until Dal wasn't sure which direction the cries were coming from. He had to concentrate – if he didn't, he might as well give up already.

But he knew he couldn't go on for much longer. His feet were numb, and his shoulders were sore from the heavy rucksack, and it was only adrenalin keeping him going now – a pure need to survive. The Locos were alongside him, flanking him, blocking any means of sideways escape.

And then – unbelievably – someone was coming towards him, rollerblades a blur against the tarmac. It was a girl, Dal saw – short-haired, and with a green line painted across her face from cheek to cheek. She was holding something – a tin – and as Dal came nearer to her, she threw it above his head – right at Zoot's chariot.

Amazed, the Locos faltered, looking up at their leader for further instructions. Dal couldn't help himself and he looked over his shoulder. Zoot was leaning forward over the top of the car, clutching his forehead and cursing, and a girl with braided hair was fussing over him – but then Dal's rescuer grabbed his hand and cried, "Come on!"

They fled down the road, the angry yells of the Locos behind them.

"They'll try to follow us!" Dal cried.

"Yes, but we've got a head start on them!" the girl shouted back. "I took them by surprise. Quick, down here!"

She led him down an alley that he hadn't noticed before, almost invisible from the main street. There was old junk here, and the scent of stale cigarettes. It was the kind of alley Dal's mother used to warn him about; well, any danger there would have been in the old days would be long gone now.

"Behind here," the girl said, gesturing at a sheet of corrugated metal. They crouched down, breathless. Dal could hear the police siren getting louder – he felt his heart pounding against his chest. If the Locos came down here there would be no escape. They probably wouldn't even try to capture him. They'd just slaughter him – he'd heard rumours of them doing it to other strays, and everyone knew how crazy Zoot was, so it was most likely true.

He heard the sound of the car's engine; he could even hear Zoot himself, the angry cry of a warlord.

And then to his amazement and relief it was fading away; the Locos were going, having lost their prey and nursing their leader's wounded pride. Dal sank down against the wall, not hiding his relief from his companion. "They've gone. They've actually gone."

"We should stay here for a bit, though, just in case," the girl said.

Dal looked at her properly for the first time. She was older than him, he thought, by two or three years. He realised that her hair wasn't short after all – it was bound up in tight little knots on the top of her head. And her face under the paint was strong and unyielding, and yet kind as well – a face that he had once known, now hardened by loss and the cruel new world.

"Amber?" he breathed.

The girl turned, her eyes wide, and Dal knew he hadn't been wrong. "How did you…" her voice stopped short, and then she smiled, her eyes alight with incredulity and joy. "Dal! It's you, isn't it?"

"Yes," he laughed, "Yes, it's me."

"Oh, Dal…" Amber whispered. "I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I'd never see anyone I knew again." She hugged him, suffocatingly tight, and he hugged her back, both of them so happy and amazed to find that friends still existed in their desperate world.

They talked for hours. They both had stories to share, and some they couldn't share, but right now they felt invincible, like nothing could hurt them. Amber told Dal how she'd been evacuated with most of the kids, and how she'd come back to find the city in anarchy, ruled by tribes of children who weren't children any more. Dal told Amber how he'd spent the last few months simply surviving; how he'd travelled from one hiding place to another, always looking for food. There was never enough food – the warehouses were controlled by the various tribes, and the individual homes had mostly been raided. Wistfully he told Amber of how he dreamed of being self-sufficient one day – to grow his food from the land and not steal it from the houses of dead people.

When it was getting dark, Amber and Dal went back out onto the street, looking for a safe place to shelter in for the night. It was colder now, and the world was silent, no longer filled with the noise of traffic or electricity pylons or planes or anything else from the time before. Sometimes they heard, far away and clear, an owl's keening cry; or a little closer, the sound of something rustling through cardboard and bins – an animal or a child, it didn't make much difference.

"There's a house, down here," Amber said quietly. Dal looked at her – there were, after all, lots of houses. "One without any… people… in," she explained, and Dal realised with a sudden nauseous feeling that many of the houses would still be occupied by adults, rotting slowly in their beds.

"How do you know?" he asked her.

Amber's expression didn't change. "Because it's my house."

Dal felt surprise and guilt – and then he realised that if Amber's house was on this street then –

"I didn't realise," he said. "I didn't recognise it."

She squeezed his hand, compassionately. "It's okay. It must be a while since you've been here. Do you want to go back? Go inside again?"

Dal gazed up at the window of his old room as they passed. How long had it been since he'd last slept there?"

"Not now," he replied. "Not…" Not in the dark, he wanted to say. But he couldn't – he was scared, and scared to let Amber see that he was.

"Maybe tomorrow then, if you want to," Amber said, and Dal knew that she understood.

"Here we are," she announced, and Dal recognised the house, designed in a way that used to be called modern, just like his own. Shards of glass were scattered on the ground and he saw that one of the front windows was smashed in; but then so were the windows (or even doors) of most of the houses in the city.

"It was like that last time," Amber said, noticing Dal's gaze. "It must have been raided. Come on, we should be able to get in round the back."

"Okay." He followed her lead, careful not to step on any of the broken glass.

Inside, the house was much as he had remembered it, from the few times he'd been there before. Amber's family had lived there for a couple of years before Dal's family had moved to the city, and their parents had become quite close friends. Dal followed Amber upstairs, noticing the musty smell of a place that was unlived in.

"I bet it's been a while since you slept in a bed, right?" Amber smiled as she pushed the door open.

"Yes," Dal agreed, looking round. It was strange, this room. Everything in it – from the neatly made bed, to the shiny posters of celebrities on the walls – looked as if they were from a world the virus had never touched. You could almost imagine it, he thought – imagine that if you pressed the light switch then the electric bulb would come on, or if you dialled a number in the telephone there'd be someone waiting on the other end. Not – silence.

Amber said softly, "I don't come up here too often, because when I'm here it's hard to leave."

"Thank you," Dal said. "For everything. Thanks for saving me from the Locos earlier. They could have killed me, you know – and you as well!"

"I just can't stand to see them treating other people like that." Amber placed her rucksack on the floor and held her hand out for Dal's. "Treating other humans – helpless kids – like that…"

"Everyone's different now," Dal told her. "People don't care about each other any more. Hey-" his face brightened suddenly – "I think you hit Zoot himself, earlier!"

"Yes," Amber smiled ruefully, "well I almost wish I hadn't. Fighting against the Locos makes me as bad as them…"

"But you were trying to save me!" Dal interrupted. She always had been too honourable. "You're much better than them!"

"but I don't think I did any lasting damage, and hopefully they'll think twice before they go after their next victim," Amber continued. "Although that was my last tin…"

"I've still got four or five," Dal offered. "You can share them. You did save my skin, after all."

"Thanks," Amber said gratefully. "I'll go find us some bowls, shall I?"

"Do you think things will ever get better?" Amber asked wistfully.

They had eaten – cold baked beans – and done their best to clean the plates without water. Now they were back in Amber's old room, she on her bed, Dal lying on a mattress on the floor. He had been offered the bed, but he'd insisted that its owner take it. Now, as he stared up at the white-painted ceiling, he thought about what she was saying.

It was a strange world now – unlike anything the human race had gone through before – those people usually considered to be among the most vulnerable in society now they only ones left. Of course people would go crazy, he thought. Last year they were kids, minors, with their adventure stories and movies – and now they were living in the story.

"I don't know," he answered, after a while. "I've never tried to think too much about what's going to happen next week, or the week after… what the future will be like… I've been too busy keeping myself alive now."

Amber sighed. "Well it can't get much worse than it is at the moment."

"I hope not."

Amber didn't say anything else, and presently her breathing changed and Dal guessed she was asleep. He stretched back on the mattress and considered things. Until now he'd just been living; just trying to make it from one day to the next, determined that there was no one else left in the world who wasn't just out for themselves. But he had been facing death earlier, and Amber had come to rescue him despite the danger – and she hadn't even known who he was. Maybe they could stick together now, watch each other's backs. Dal hoped she'd want to. He'd had just about all he could take of things, being on his own.

Maybe even one day they could break free from the city and find a place where there wasn't constant warring, and Dal could build the farm he dreamed of.

Through the window stars sparkled in the black sky. The nights were silent here, no longer filled with the sound of commuters travelling back in the early hours of the morning, or the gentle buzz of electricity. Sounds he took for granted, as part of the patchwork that he used to call "silence". He'd never heard anything so still and dead before those first weeks, when the electricity died along with the adults. Somewhere far away an owl cried, mournful, surreal. Something coming to call from out of the endless night. Maybe the next morning would be better. He wasn't alone any more now, and he didn't have to be again. Together he and Amber could see things through.