Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

“You were thinking about how screwed I am,” I said helpfully. “Until yesterday, I’d have said my implant wasn’t a concern, but that EMP proved me wrong. Instead, I get to worry about running out of whatever medication you give me. Or my cerebral shunt clogging and my hydrocephalus killing me with no one around to replace the shunt. Or being unable to disinfect my catheter and getting a UTI with no antibiotics around, or my KAFOs breaking with no one to repair them, or my scoliosis getting worse with no one around to build a brace.”

The scoliosis was a best-case scenario. It meant there’d be time for it to get worse.

Samira seemed unsure of what to say. For a moment, I wanted to leave it at that. Make her feel even a fraction of my dread. Make her prove me wrong.

Then I just wished I hadn’t said anything at all; it wouldn’t make a difference.

I stood. “I should get my ID papers if I want breakfast. People are already queueing.” In the time it would take to grab my ID, stow my cathing gear, and perhaps replace the sloppy clothes I’d used as pyjamas, I bet that line would grow twice as long.

“Come see me at noon. I’ll have that medication, and I’ll have talked to the physical therapists.”

Noon. I could last that long, especially once I got some food in me. My stomach groaned in anticipation.

Samira hesitated. “Do you want to talk…?”

“I’ve had half a year to consider my odds.” I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We’re all doomed. Some of us are simply more doomed than others.”

The line for breakfast was huge. I thought it was just the number of people, but the closer I got, the more I realised it was something else: at the big counter between the hall and kitchen, volunteers were rifling through files the same way Samira had done.

“You’re kidding me.”

Manually looking up each individual. Checking their dietary needs and allowances. Marking off breakfast. For hundreds of us. No wonder it took so long.

Finally, after an hour and a half, I managed to walk away with an apple, a protein bar, and vitamin-boosted water, and thumped onto my bed where Vera and Ginta waited in the near-dark.

“Sorry. I got in line late.” It was nice switching back to Latvian. I bit down, savouring the apple’s sweet, sticky freshness. Maybe I should have eaten the protein bar first, get something solid in, but actual flavour couldn’t be beaten.

“You said you had a song in mind? From your album, or…?” Vera looked at me with eager eyes.

“Something newer.” Bite, chew, swallow. Even the needling in my legs felt less urgent. “I performed it on the way here.”

“Wish we could’ve seen those concerts,” Ginta said wistfully.

“Now you’ll be in one.” I reached into my bag for a few torn pieces of paper. I’d jotted down lyrics with a stubby pencil. I put them under the light Ginta was holding. “Here’s the chorus. I need backup voices for this part, and this… Vera, did you get those drums?”

“The kitchen gave me some containers. Not the same, but I can build a rhythm.” Excitement coloured her cheeks. “I only played in the school band so far. Backup.”

“Can you do something like this?” I hit my thighs with flat palms, creating a quick rhythm that was a pale imitation of anything my old band could’ve done. The thwacks doubled as welcome distractions from the pain, numbing my skin for half-moments.

Vera mimicked the rhythm on her own thighs, nodded.

“Okay, so the English chorus goes like…” I sang a fast version, emphasising the key line, which was in spiteful-enough-to-spit Latvian: “ But you made up your mind, one look was enough— Ginta, can you sing that line, but kind of quieter…”

Ginta mimicked me. It took a few tries to get the right tone. It wasn’t the way I’d done it originally—more subdued—but her quieter version made the line all the more venomous.

“Yes! That, that !” I bounced from excitement, my apple nearly rolling from my lap. I’d almost forgotten about it. I took another bite, my mind working overtime to incorporate Ginta’s approach into the rest of the song. I missed my producer for a fierce second, but shoved that feeling into a dark corner alongside the stabbing in my legs and my maybe-headaches and the thought of home.

“So, first refrain. Originally, I had it like this.” I launched into the old version, but didn’t get far.

“Do you mind?” someone hissed in English.

The sisters turned as one. “Sorry, we’ll keep it down,” Ginta said.

The man shone his flashlight from a few beds away. I squinted at the glare. “How can you be singing at a time like this?”

“You’re welcome.” I planned to say more, but clenched my jaw as sudden pain jolted through my right calf.

“Have some respect. We’re trying… trying…”

“I’m glad you girls are having fun,” a neighbouring woman pitched in, “but this isn’t the time.”

“We’ll go somewhere else,” Vera said.

I’d have given them the finger, so I guessed it was a good thing Vera got there first.

At noon sharp, I knocked on the medical bay entrance. The door opened, revealing that military guy from this morning. He looked wary. “Yeah?”

I peered past him. More people sat upright than last time, and some beds were empty. “Samira said I should come by.”

One patient—a woman Mum’s age—laughed weakly. “Samira? Good luck with that.” She sat on the edge of a high stretcher, a flickering candle beside her and a loose-leafed paperback in her lap.

I stepped inside. “What do you mean?”

“She’s just talking to her fiancé,” Military Guy said.

“Pft. Samira’ll be gone the moment that fiancé finds a shelter with electricity.” The woman’s English was solid—smoother than mine—but I detected an accent I couldn’t place. “I overheard them talking, you know. He went outside.”

“Outside?” I said. Outside was ruination. The dust cloud was so thick you’d need an air filter to breathe. The minimal shaking we’d felt would have had far worse results topside. It was only another twenty-four hours before the shelter was supposed to empty out, but anyone sensible would make of those twenty-four hours what they could.

I planned to.

“To find help ,” Military Guy said.

“You think she wouldn’t stay gone? Find a shelter with fresher air, lights that work, hot food? Fewer refugees, pre-starved, pissed off, and needy as hell?” She gestured at herself and sneered. “Ha!”

“You need to lie down and stop talking nonsense.” Military Guy pointed at the patient. “At least you’re getting stronger.”

“Damn right.”

“’Cause of Samira. She hassled a lot of people to get you that diet. So have faith, will you? And you .” He turned his pointed finger at me. “Samira got your meds ready.”

“How fast do they work?” I asked. “I’m giving a show—tomorrow morning, right before we leave.”

The woman laughed, but Military Guy only shook his head. “Follow me.”

I didn’t feel pre-show jitters the way I used to. Perhaps it was the medication. It felt like lying down after a long day on tour, finally letting my muscles relax. No frantic back-and-forths, no triple-checking my equipment, no peeks at the audience.

That would’ve been difficult, anyway: only a handful of people knew we planned to perform in an hour.

“It’s almost nice, knowing no one gives a damn,” I told Vera and Ginta. We each had a container-turned-drum in our laps and were scribbling on them with black markers. Professionalism was too much to aim for, but we could at least avoid advertising frying oil and salted peanuts. While Vera and I went for all-black containers, Ginta clamped hers between her knees and used her one arm to black out the logo and draw elaborate patterns on the remaining white areas. Her shoulder kept jolting forwards when the container shifted, as if to reach for it, but she didn’t say a word.