Rob Ewing - The Last of Us

A house with tins and tins of dog food.

One man dead at his computer.

One of the firemen from the station at home, on his couch, still in his uniform.

Then I found something: alive. I thought it was a dried-out fishtank. But when I looked close I saw there was a lizard inside. I couldn’t believe it.

It had a frilly neck, like there was too much skin. Its eyes were closed. It wasn’t moving.

I put in biscuits. Then I got a stick like you see people doing with snakes. The lizard moved, once.

I used a bag, and lifted it out. It felt cold, but not cold the way dead people are cold.

We went out to the road. I found some long yellow grass. I made sure the dogs didn’t see it, or the cats. Then I found a bit of sunlight, because I knew from school that reptiles recharge their batteries with sun.

I wanted to say hello. But the lizard just moved off into long grass, slow, slow, then gone.

Now I wonder how the lizard is doing. Did he recharge his batteries fully? Is he looking for other lizards?

Does he see them in bits of grass, or old sticks, or even clouds, like the way I see people?

The sun came up. My blanket got cold on its edges. I can hear the wind going around the walls outside, can see the grass being pushed and pulled by it.

Calum Ian is sitting at the window, alone. I wonder if he’s been outside again. He’s wearing his sleeping bag. I’ve decided that sleeping bags don’t work if it’s too cold.

‘They’ve not moved,’ he says.

His scars look the worst ever. There are two dirty marks going down his cheeks from his eyes.

Mairi’s on the bench at the head of me, curled up so tight she’s nearly gone. There’s just one tuft of her hair. Alex is a bit further up, also buried. The bottle of pink water on the floor beside him is caved-in, finished.

‘You think there’s other people?’ I ask.

Calum Ian keeps looking out of the window, and I almost don’t hear when he answers, ‘Somewhere.’

‘Why haven’t they come?’

‘If they’re getting things fixed. Like the electricity. Like radios. How the fuck would I know?’

I rub cold from my legs, sit up. Outside the sun is making a long yellow waterfall of the sea.

Me: ‘Do you think they’ll be kind?’

‘Kind?’

‘The people. What if they don’t want to look after children who don’t belong? We’ll maybe have to fend for ourselves.’

Calum Ian doesn’t answer. I notice the stink of him: the smell of smoke from his fire-torch.

He’s not looking out at the world now – he’s looking in the way, at us.

‘So I lost my family,’ he says. ‘That should be the worst, but – you—’ He looks away, back. ‘You got an idea why you don’t—? Family. I can’t have my brother. Now you want to talk about fending for ourselves ?’

I stare at the dirt worked in under my nails. The dirt on my skin, on the knees of my jeans.

‘He was going to be the best fiddle-player,’ he says. ‘Practised every bloody day. Oh , I gave him a big row – for collecting books for the fiddle, and not food.’

Calum Ian holds the sides of his head like there’s the loudest noise. He bumps into the bench then kicks it – then keeps kicking until I know it must be hurting his foot.

Then he looks at us and says, ‘Was probably her fault.’

It’s not the sort of talk for saying back to. And I don’t know if he means Elizabeth, or me. Safer not to look at him in case it’s me. He says, ‘It should’ve been me with him on the rib. I’d have kept it close to shore. He’d have survived, would be a certainty. With his brother – for sure, and maybe she would’ve, too… well she’d be here, with you, she’d be all right. Except now he’s – not. I’ve got nobody left in the world.’

‘You have us.’

‘It’s not the same. You’re not my family.’

We just get the wind-noise around the walls. Now-and-then crackle of rain. Alex sniffing.

‘At least you had somebody. Alex – he always knew his mum and dad were gone away. So did Elizabeth. At least you had someone for a while.’

Calum Ian turns to statue. I’m moving the most, Alex maybe second most. Mairi isn’t even as still as Calum Ian.

He comes over, sits beside me.

‘Go back to lying down like you were before,’ he says.

I go back to lying down. Calum Ian has almost a sweet face, or a kind face. Then he puts his hands on my neck. Either side.

He presses, presses. Like he’s trying to choke me.

He lets go, then presses again.

I want to remain calm. Like Elizabeth’s mum said on choking when she came to visit our class – but his hands are too hard. Instead, I try to twist free from one side.

I hear someone crying – Alex.

His hands are bigger, stronger than mine. His eyes don’t look like his eyes – they’re angry and scared, but all at the same time, which is the worst thing.

Then Mairi is there. She’s tugging on his T-shirt. Waving a hand in front of his face.

When he turns and sees her, she waves again.

He lets go. Lets go. Lets go.

He rubs on my neck. ‘Made a red bit,’ he says.

I get away to the window. My legs don’t want to stand me up, they’re shaking too much.

Calum Ian curls himself up in the blanket I just left. His face pressed to the wood of the seat.

The noise he makes isn’t crying – it’s more like a man’s sound, like a man gasping, drowned.

‘I tried, tried. It didn’t come out right… If I could get back – to before … this. I’d be going on that boat. No question. What if it did sink – could it? If it did then I’d just hold onto him – we’d get on with it fine.’

He looks at the ceiling. There’s just cobwebs, one cracked tile by the striplight.

‘You said, you said Dad – learn to swim first. Then I’ll let you on the boat. Let you get sailing. So you were right. The proof’s in the pudding, so I turned out to be a big fat coward after all – are you happy with that?’

He says this last word as loud as he can, so that the racket of it seems to stay even after.

‘Don’t shout, please,’ says Alex. ‘It makes me cold and shivery when you shout.’

For a long time then, there’s just his gasping-breath sound.

The sun comes out: one ray in the edge of the room. It finds Mairi’s foot: she moves to be more in the warm of it.

‘Nothing else I need to try for.’

‘What about us?’ asks Alex.

‘What about you?’

When we look up again Calum Ian has gone back outside, back to search the shore.

I hide the nearest island by covering it behind one finger. That’s how little it is for being far away.

Swirl of birds: going up like one bird’s wing. Coming down like one wing down.

Mairi has opened her eyes. So has Alex. His breath smells stinky, which makes me remember: we need to give him water – so I pour my ration out for him.

‘Boats are coming,’ he says.

I look behind. There’s just a grey wall, the toilet door, the drawn silver shutters from the waiting-room café.

Me: ‘There’s no boats.’

Alex: ‘I can hear them – they’re coming now.’

Me: ‘I’m looking. There’s none.’

Alex: ‘ Told you there was ghost ships.’

That is a bad thought. Can Alex see ghost ships that I can’t? I don’t even want to see Mum’s ghost any more.

He says, ‘Did he scare you?’

And I know it’s not ships he’s talking about. But I don’t know my best way to answer. I have to be like Elizabeth, now that she’s not here. But what kind of thing would she say? To make things better?