Chapter 3

I stop the car. I click off the seatbelt, pocket the keys and stumble out the door. I fall on my hands and knees, kiss the salty asphalt. I've reached the coast. Seabirds squawking and waves lapping at the shore. Salty air, salty road. Salt, salt, salt.

I feel like running away from myself, to get rid of my craziness. My mind is jarred and incoherent, like a scratched DVD that keeps jumping scenes. A breeze carried from the ocean blasts dry sand into my face. Sand up my nose, sand in my hair, blood in my mouth. This feels like a dream.

Before me is a series of dilapidated abodes, watching the ocean from their sunken wooden frames. Sand crunches underfoot, splayed over the sidewalk in ugly grey mounds. I pick out a house faded blue, go inside and rest on the living room couch.

My head aches with crowding thoughts. I can't stop thinking about the Soul I killed. Maybe mum was right. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe staying at home would only make me grow insane with loneliness, just as it is here, and now. I pull my sister's teddy from my bag and hold him tight against me, finding some extra comfort resting my head on the plush cushions. The sound of the waves lapping lightly at the shore and the soft whistle of the wind lull me to sleep.

I wake intermittently, only to find myself in another dream. It happens so fast I haven't the time to process or question the authenticity of what I'm seeing. My father's embrace, which crushes me into a thousand pieces. The Soul's head explodes and from the stump of his neck erupts black, snake-like demonic spirits. On the desert road, I watch a flock of crows decend upon me, their jet black wings blocking my view of the sky. I feel one of them land heavily on my neck and tear at the flesh of my nose.

I am torn from oblivion, agasp. My breaths come unnaturally quick, as if the air isn't sufficient enough for my lungs to function properly. It takes my brain a few moments to register where I am. For a while I lie there, flat on the couch, figuring out what I should do. Teddy, who's been partially squeezed behind the sofa, looks at me blankly. Soughting through my thoughts is like wading through water weeds. Salty air blows in from under the door and broken windows. Gulls cry outside, waves lash at the shore. A storm is brewing. I want out of this nightmare.

Standing brings a wave of nausea, and I realise I'm slightly dehydrated. Before I drain the last of my bottled water, I go to the kitchen basin and check for water. Some would think what with the war, water systems should have been destroyed by the bombings. That was true for our town in Louisianna - we had to get our water from a nearby spring - and most other places, but not for all. From what I can remember, the coast has an independant system from the city, feeding from a resovior a few miles North. And thankfully, it works.

It takes a second for the water to come, and it runs lovely, cool, and clear, fizzing at the metal drain. I refill my bottle and wash my face and hair, ridding the collection of sweat, blood and dirt. By the time I'm finished, a pool of murky reddish brown has formed in the sink. It is washed away before I can really think about it. But I still feel the presence of the Soul I killed. I still feel the urge to curl up into a little helpless ball on the couch and consume the overwhelming guilt. To fight it, I search the house for any useful items. A bit of canned food in the overhead kitchen cupboard. Plastic bottles in the dishwasher. A green Ben-Ten watch on the counter top. Shotgun ammunition in a bedroom's desk drawer. Car keys in the pocket of the jacket on the dining table.

I check the garage, just in case.

Nothing.

I want to get this patrol car off my hands as soon as possible. Because they could find it, and find me. Wait. That reminds me of something.

In the passenger glove box is the grey cylindrical shaft. This time, I examine it closely. Turns out a button on the top - or the bottom - sends a fine spray of clear, odorless mist through the air. There are no labels or anything. It seems like some sort of liquid for skin application. At odds between taking or leaving it, I try it on a small cut on my arm I've just noticed. Miraculously, it disappears from my skin in an instant, bearing no trace it was ever there.

I take the time to check myself in the bathroom mirror, applying the spray to the various cuts and bruises I've earned over the past few weeks. I decide to make the most of the water and take my first proper bath in months. A sigh escapes my lips as I slide into the hot, soothing water. Flakes of dirt-encrusted skin wash away before my eyes, settling at the water's suface. When I'm finished and toweled off, I look nothing like what I'm used to, almost what to I looked like before the invasion. I stare at my reflection, tracing every inch of naked skin, which feels lighter and fresher than it ever has. My wild, crazy look has been transformed into the image of a seventeen year-old girl. I do my hair up the way I used to at school, letting the natural curls roll over my shoulder and end at my chest, frayed at the ends. I almost look normal. Crazy, but normal.

That's my girl.

My heart leaps into my throat at the sound of the voice. My skin flares, my muscles tighten.

It's dad's voice.

I stand, suddenly heavy on the bathroom floor, naked and vulnerable, and dad's soft, irritating voice prickles over my body like thousands of vile fleas.

Dad's voice doesn't speak again, only I can feel his presence, embedded in the back of my mind, injected into my skin, his hot breath in my ears, his image etched onto my eyes, his name at the back of my throat.

He is everywhere, and nowhere.

The idea scares me into motion, as I draw my spare non-bloodied clothes from my bag and slip them on. My skin itches slightly against the fabric - or perchance it's my imagination again. How does a crazy person tell, anyway?

I laugh aloud. It comes out strangled, wild, somewhat neurotic. It's scary, being in control one moment and complete disarray the next. At least I am preoccupied with tasks. The remainder of my day is full of them. Checking the house over again, scrubbing my blood-dried clothes, taking stock of food and water supplies, hanging clothes out to dry, wringing out wet socks. It's like the sensible part of me is setting up these little determinate tasks, as if leaving the breadcrumbs for the insane part to follow.

But it also feels like I'm avoiding what's more important, and that is what I'm going to do from here. Do I attempt to find other survivors? Should I look for a boat? Should I just stay here for a while, until I sort myself out? Do I go back home? Should I rather go someplace else? I'm stuck. I want to be everywhere else but here, yet I already feel myself becoming complacent. I can't help but notice that the life of a Soul seems a lot more enticing than the life of a human. They have everything. A seemingly limitless abundance in food, water, shelter, clothing, electricity, vehicles and weaponry. We have next to nothing. They could easily wait us out, until the human resistence dies out completely. Except they focus most of their efforts to colonise every last millimeter of the Earth, to replace every last human being. They are the ultimate predator. Seemingly untouchable.

Then I remember how easy it was to kill one. A simple finger-flex. A bullet fired. They bleed, as much as I do. They are limited to the boundaries of human capability, as much as I am. I feel dangerous just thinking about it. I have a weapon, after all.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon along the coastline, searching for any beached watercraft or signs of human life. From either end of the three mile-long sand crescent, there is nothing. Not a trace of human survivors. The docks are further east. But I keep looking. Eventually, I spot something off to my right, the undulating bulge of something floating in the water. It's a motorboat, caught in amongst some sharp rocks. To my luck, the outboard motor is still attached, coupled with spare oars. I kick off my shoes and socks, hike my jeans up to my knees and wade into the murky green. It's colder than I expected. Waves roll over my feet, sucking at my ankles, frothing madly at the shore. Fortunately, the boat is moored in the shallows. I haul it ashore, ignoring the burn in my wrists and forearms. When I was a kid, I wasn't keen on the water. The uncertainty of what lurked beneath and an addiction of horror films in my early teen years are both accountable for this fear. I pull it as far up the beach as I can, before looking for a boat trailer. Being a coastside town, it doesn't take very long to find one. Using the patrol car, I hoist the boat aboard the coupled trailer and drive it onto the road. Now what? Good question. I'll need to give it more thought.

The couch finds me again, and I almost instinctively reach for the TV remote before realising all electricity has been terminated from outside the zones. I suppose it's the homey kind of aura around the place that's causing these feelings. The setting sun blares through the open windows, throwing long shadows over the floor. Objects such as chairs and lampshades turn into animated creatures that dance in the flaring light. I am very aware of my craziness, but there is a genuine degree of admiration at the sight of these characters. It's like I'm watching my childhood stories and wonders come to life, outlined in the pleasant orange hue of the sun. Unlike last night, where the cold stare of the moon cast creatures of fear and intimidation, the sun emblazes them in a comforting and protective light. They sing and dance to songs from the dead world, their rhythms and lyrics as fresh as they were when I first heard them. I find myself singing along with them. That's one thing the Souls don't have. Music. Or art. Or anything expressive, for that matter. They wouldn't appreciate it, let alone understand it. It must seem beneath them - an imperfection, a hamartia in the human race.

Maybe that's true. But I won't believe it.

We are burdened entering this world, attaining the knowledge that everything on earth eventually dies. We grow up believing that we a cared for by a higher power, that our lives are significant, that the world dies with us. But the truth is, we aren't cared for. We aren't in control. The world doesn't care that you die. It lives and breathes on a much vaster scale than we could ever imagine, and we don't even have the humility to try. I knew well before the colonisation that there would come a time when humans no longer existed, would no longer be remembered, and everything is ultimately for nothing. I'd never have believed it, but I am witnessing oblivion. Right here. Right now. This is the end of the human race. I am at odds between a breakdown and accepting this as fact. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but I'd have much rather left the world while humans were still abundant.

And the time will come when the Souls meet the same fate. Regardless of their efforts, the planet will not sustain them forever. It may come thousands, even millions of years from now, but it will.

They may be our successors, but they are not our superiors.

I am bereft of a sense of direction. If I want to leave by boat or car, I have a certain limited window. But that also means a life of running and hiding.

The boat is mended by the week's end. I've managed to plug the miniscule holes in the hull with bits of bubber and waterproof tape - both of which I'd found in the garage. The outboard motor is fixed somewhat, drilled into the aft deck with the work of an unsteady hand. It sits aloft the trailer, awaiting use. Sometime soon I'll get the feeling to move. I'll make a decision. But the days wear on to dusk. The nights are long and fervid. I'm surprised they haven't found me yet. They haven't been looking. Or are they waited somewhere in the shadows, for the perfect opportunity to strike? I won't ever know for sure.

Sleep becomes even more difficult from my craziness. The voices in my head become less vivid as this insane persona of mine embedds itself further in. There are times I want to end it. My mind wanders thirstily at the thought of flipping that shotgun around and blowing my brains out. I could be with my little sister, mum and dad. I do wish I believed in angels. I do, I do, I do.