VICTOR

Victor saved my life. Picture this: 19 years old, with no army experience whatsoever, forced to fight; to murder people I’ve never even met. What have they ever done to me? Nothing. So why drag me, and thousands of others, into a pointless war involving a conflict that can easily be sorted by sitting down and talking. Years after a little dog saved Pablo's life, disaster strikes. But when the light's gone out and you're certain someone's disabled the cord, will there be Victor-y?

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6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

“The death poll has risen to 36,517. Thousands of others...”

I turn off the TV. I don’t want to hear it.

Day 20. The same dog has walked past my house for 3 days in a row. So far it doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with it. Why isn’t it infected?

Online they’ve put up a list of everyone who’s died. Ella’s mum is there, as are 2 of my old friends from college. Apparently now you don’t even need to go outside to die. You just need space between the bottom of your door and the carpets.

Ella finally emerged from our room today. I notice that she’s done her make-up and changed out of her pyjamas. I smile.

“What you looking at?”                                                                                                                             I quickly cover the website with my hand.                                                                                                                                “It’s OK, just show me,” She prises my fingers away with surprising strength. Her face is expressionless; she glances at the list and says nothing.

“Oh.”

“Sorry – I was just looking to see if any of my old friends are on here.”                                                                                                                 “And are they?”                                                                                                                    “Yeah, Mikey D and Joe Francis from college.”                                                                                                                “I’m sorry to hear that.”                                                                                                            “Yeah.”

Later, when I’m cooking food, I realise a shocking revelation: We are down to the last few scraps of food. There are a couple of tins of beans in the cupboard;  a few snacks in the fridge. But that’s about it.

Instead of making casserole like I planned, I get some bread and make beans on toast for both of us. Ella doesn’t say a word when I hand her the plate. She just eats.

We don’t talk for the rest of the evening. Instead we watch the news, where 30 more people have died.                                    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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