The Last Woman in the World by Inga Simpson

Author:Inga Simpson [Simpson, Inga]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

thirty-three

Rachel switched off the lamp and blew out the candles. ‘It’s the surgery. They’re probably just looting.’

‘Do they know we’re here?’

Rachel looked towards the kitchen, lit by lamplight. Light that would be seeping out around the blinds, down the hallway, and under the door. ‘Why don’t you get Isaiah and come back here.’

Rachel pushed her chair back from the table and padded into the kitchen to turn off the lights. She felt her way into the hall, past the shopping trolley, to take an aluminium walking pole from the old copper bucket by the door.

They wouldn’t find much in the surgery – the remaining veterinary and medical supplies, medications and bandages. There was no till, no cash, no valuables. Only what might have been in the wallets of the bodies they removed and three flat phones. In the house, there was the generator, power, alcohol, cash, gold. But they didn’t know that.

They stood in the dining-room doorway in the dark, Hannah holding Isaiah to her, Rachel holding the walking pole like a sword. They heard voices, the opening and shutting cupboards, something crashing to the floor. Rachel tensed, waiting for the men to force the door, to come inside, into her sister’s house. To ruin everything. For the nightmare to continue until its inevitable end. The end of her, then Hannah – and then Isaiah. Stop.

Why weren’t they in the heads of the looters?

Hannah was trembling, sniffing back tears.

Rachel put her hand on Hannah’s shoulder and left it there.

Then the noises faded, stopped. Footsteps and low voices passed along the laneway. Two or three people. They were male, Rachel was sure of it. The footsteps paused, outside the window, as if seeing or sensing something. Rachel held her breath, gripped Hannah’s shoulder to stop her from crying out. And then he walked on.

Rachel dropped her arms. ‘God.’

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

‘Probably,’ Rachel said.

‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘I’m not driving in the dark,’ Rachel said. ‘We won’t know what’s around us, ahead of us. They’ll follow our lights. Let’s pack the ute and leave at dawn.’

The old EH Holden utility had been her father’s, the pale green duco an original colour remade in a custom gloss enamel. She unhooked the tarp, flicked it back. The tray’s oak boards were like a warm hug. ‘This will be yours one day, kiddo,’ her father had said, when she was still only waist high on him. He probably imagined teaching her to drive in it, the years ahead they had together.

‘Does that even work?’ Hannah said.

‘That is a classic. And Mon keeps it running,’ Rachel said.

Rachel loaded water canisters, the camp cooker, tinned and dried food, fruit, what was left of the bread and soup. Sleeping bags, woollen blankets, a change of clothes, first aid kit, her medication, drops, nappies and an empty duffel bag.

Hannah handed over a single shopping bag – her and Isaiah’s things. All she had left in the world.

‘How will we get fuel?’

‘I had it converted to gas.

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