Who We Were | Book One

1. The Lucky Ones

"Is this thing on?"

A crackling voice came from the small box on the windowsill. I dropped my pen and turned the dial, hearing the static fade into familiar voices.

"We're on. Do you want to start?" She spoke again.

I swung my legs from the kitchen window, dangling my feet over the five-story drop into the street below. Falling to my death was the least of my worries. In fact, I would've embraced it.

Nobody got the luxury of a quick death anymore, rather, the painful hours of the Transition.

I picked up the pen and opened the red leather notebook in my lap. I flicked past the first entry from January and scribbled the date onto a new, wrinkled page, 6th April. It had already been too long.

"Survivor One and Two here." The man was Scottish, his accent was thick and unforgiving.

I looked at the suburban streets as the gentle wind lifted my hair from my shoulders. The city stood like a skeleton, almost empty now the Infection had taken whatever the fires had not.

"This is broadcast number 73 and we are reaching out to anyone who is still alive out there... There are more survivors."

The air was heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and thick smoke which hung in a haze.

"If anyone hears this, you are not alone."

The coffee shop on the corner opposite was now a derelict shell of its former self.

No more tinkering of china mugs. No more impatient tapping of businessmen in the morning as they argued into their phones. No more bitter smells of overpriced caffeine.

Instead, blown-out windows lined the street, glass fragments scattering the tarmac like glistening snow.

"We have a camp." It was the woman speaking now, Survivor One. Her voice was soft, calm and steady.

"Everyone is welcome. Anyone who is out there... If you need help, we have it here."

My eyes scanned the pavements below where bodies were strewn like a neglected dollhouse. There were no burials anymore. Nobody would dare to approach a corpse so they rotted out in the open. Their eyes, now clouded windows into their former selves, were left staring out at the unravelling civilisation.

"Do not wait for someone to come and help you," Survivor One crackled. "Nobody will help you. There is nobody to help you. Do yourself a favour and help yourself."

An army truck sat abandoned in the street, fractured tarmac laying beneath its slashed tyres. They came to help with guns loaded and trucks ready, but all people wanted were answers. Most had already accepted their fate.

"We're in Cornwall," Survivor Two explained for the first time, his voice coming through more muffled. "We've set up signs. If you follow them, you'll reach us."

"Cornwall..." I muttered as the sounds echoing below caught my attention, diverting my gaze from the black box in my hands.

If I hadn't noticed their jagged movements and their wide eyes, they could've easily been mistaken for humans.

I watched as one bumped against the rotting shoulder of another, creaking screams escaping their jaws as they made contact.

"Idiots," I mumbled as I turned my attention back to the voices in my hand.

"The Infected are not alive," the woman began again. "They are no longer your loved ones. You cannot save them."

She paused, her breathing coming through as muffled pulsations. "For god's sake, stay out of the cities."