David Moody - Dog Blood

Within the cities, the closely confined masses of refugees continued to produce vast amounts of garbage, none of which was collected or treated. As well as quickly becoming a physical hazard, the huge quantities of waste that quickly gathered also contributed to the acceleration of disease. Rats and other vermin benefited from suddenly plentiful supplies of food, and those drains and sewers that had not been damaged by the fighting instead became blocked with debris.

From late May onward, an increase in temperature combined with frequent heavy downpours of rain to further accelerate the decline in conditions in the refugee camps.

Every available scrap of indoor space had been utilized to house the displaced, but inevitably the demand far outweighed what was available. As a result, huge numbers of people were left outside. Some were housed in tents, RVs, and trailers, but most made do with temporary shelters constructed from whatever materials they could find. More than 30 percent of the total population of the refugee camp was forced to live outdoors-hundreds of thousands of exhausted, vulnerable, malnourished people left to the mercy of the elements.

“Block it up!” Mark yelled as rainwater poured in through the broken top-floor hotel window. The room was dark, almost pitch black despite it normally being bright at this time in the morning. The stormy dawn sky over the city was swollen with rain. It had been falling with the force of bullets for more than fifteen minutes already and showed no signs of abating. The guttering and drainpipes serving the dilapidated old building couldn’t cope with the sheer amount of water flushing through them. A blocked section of gutter had overflowed, and the water had seeped behind a rotting fascia board, then flooded through the window frame. More water seeped through a broken pane of glass.

“Block it with what?” Kate shouted, using a bucket, a wastebasket, cups, and whatever else she could find to catch the water.

“I don’t know. Stay there. I’ll go and find something.”

“Don’t go outside,” she pleaded, struggling with her heavily pregnant bulk to turn around and stop him. “Please, Mark.”

“Just to the end of the hall, okay?”

He didn’t give her time to answer. He weaved around the bottom of the double bed, where Katie’s traumatized elderly parents lay terrified, cold, and wet, then ran past the permanently locked bathroom door. He unlocked the main door, took off the security chain, and put his head outside. Just a handful of people out on the landing-a rain-soaked woman from the room next door (who obviously had problems similar to his) and the Chinese guy with his three kids who slept in the broken elevator. Mark looked up and down, then spied a wooden hatch on the wall between two of the opposite rooms. The fire hose that used to be hidden behind the small square door was missing. He pulled at the hatch, then pushed down on it from above, feeling the hinges begin to weaken. A few seconds of violent shaking and pulling and he yanked it free with an almighty splintering crack. He ran back to room 33 with it, stopping only to pull the one remaining curtain down from the side of a large gallery window overlooking the street below. Jesus Christ, things looked bad down there. Crowds of people were pressed up against the sides of buildings, desperate for whatever shelter they could find, woken without warning by an early morning deluge of ice-cold rain. The main street itself, Arley Road, a wide, relatively straight, and gently sloping strip of pavement, looked more like a river. A fast-moving, debris-carrying torrent of rainwater surged down it toward the center of town.

Back in the hotel room, Mark threw the curtain to Kate, who started mopping up the water that was still cascading down the glass, then spilling down the windowsill and soaking the carpet.

“Who’s that?!” Kate’s elderly, confused father yelled in panic, lifting his head off the pillow for the first time in hours. “Is it one of them?”

Next to him, her mother lay on her side, sobbing, the dirty bedclothes pulled up tight under her chin.

“It’s just Mark, Dad,” Kate shouted.

“It’s me, Joe,” Mark said, leaning closer to the old man so he could see his face. He’d lost his glasses weeks ago. Mark didn’t know whether he recognized him or not.

Mark leaned the hatch door against the window over the broken glass and used a phone directory to wedge and hold it in place.

“Save the water,” he said to Kate.

“What?”

“The rainwater… save it!”

“Where?”

“In the bathtub.”

The flow of water into the room temporarily plugged, Kate carried the half-full bucket across the room, her bare feet squelching on the damp carpet. She knocked on the bathroom door.

“Let me in.”

There was a brief pause; then the latch clicked and the door opened. Another adult refugee appeared, her face drawn and haggard-looking.

“Everything okay?” she asked. Kate nodded.

“Mark said we should try to save the water in the tub.”

The woman nodded and took the bucket from her. Mark passed her several water-filled cups that he’d collected from by the window.

“Makes sense to try to hoard as much as we can,” he said, taking back the empty bucket. She nodded but didn’t answer.

The flood stemmed temporarily, Kate walked away and sat down exhausted on a rain-splashed chair next to her parents. Her mother continued to sob, but Kate couldn’t face trying to comfort her. Instead she closed her eyes and ran her hands over her swollen stomach.

Mark picked up the last pot of water and carried it to the bathroom. The rain seemed to finally be easing. The woman in the shadows took it from him and emptied it into the tub.

“Thanks, Lizzie,” he said.

I CAN’T STAND MUCH more of this. It must be hours since Mallon left me. Can’t smell the food anymore, but I know it’s still there, and I want it. My guts feel like they’re somersaulting one minute and being ripped open the next. The pain’s unbearable, almost like my body’s eating itself from the inside out. I try to put the hunger out of my mind, but frustration takes its place. The frustration turns into confusion; then the confusion turns into fear. The fear makes my aching shoulders, arms, and legs feel a thousand times worse. I try to lie still, but even the slightest movement is agony.

What the hell was that? Something’s moving over me. It feels like there are insects crawling over my itching leg. Maybe there are? I haven’t looked at my legs since I woke up strapped to this bed. Who’s to say that itch isn’t an open, untreated wound? Who’s to say I haven’t got some kind of infection, that there aren’t maggots and worms and Christ knows what else feeding on my flesh? I can feel them wriggling and squirming inside the cut, digging deep into me, boring through my skin.

Then it stops again.

Am I just imagining things? Or was it something bigger? A mouse or a rat?

The dripping is the only distraction. It’s constant now, almost like machine-gun fire, and it never fucking stops.

I could end this. All I have to do is talk, he said. Just give him that one small victory and I’ll have some light and food and water. Christ, I need to drink something so badly…

I open my mouth to shout for help, then stop myself. What the hell am I thinking? Have I forgotten what Joseph Mallon is and what his people did (and are still doing) to my kind? They’re the reason all of this happened. If it wasn’t for them we wouldn’t have had to kill and my family would still be together. We had to kill them for protection. This whole war has been fought in self-defense… that’s the only reason. They made us do it. And to think, I was about to beg one of them for mercy… Christ, what kind of a person would that make me? I’d be pissing on the memory of all those who’ve already died in the fighting.