Issue Three: Resistance Isn’t Futile

The child put his finger into his mouth and stuck out his tongue. At least he understood English. Joe put out his hand, and the child clung on, fingers sticky with black dirt. The smell that hit Joe was like opening a rotting bag of composted leaves with underlying shit and a faint metallic blood note. Joe looked at the child’s head. His dark hair was long and matted and an adult louse scooted across his forehead. Who last cared for this child? Where was his mother?

Joe now had things to plan, not just his usual food search, but a trip to the pharmacy for some specialist nit shampoo and some fresh clothes. The Nike shop was around the corner. Joe had taken all the trainers in his size, but there were loads of children’s sizes. No one else had been in the shop, the sweating sickness had taken them quickly, there was little time to loot. A few others survived but they’d left the city to grow food on a farm. They’d asked him to go with them but he wanted to be here, where his family were buried. He’d seen no one since then.

'Did you enjoy my singing? Can you sing?'

The child looked up, dark eyes under the filthy hair, and continued to chew his fingers.

'Where have you been all this time? Is there someone with you?'

Tugging on Joe’s hand, the child rubbed his stomach again.

***

 Later, on Joe’s kitchen table, a pile of clothes sat alongside a large bottle of brown shampoo and a nit comb. Joe made do with a washcloth and one kettle full of rain water most mornings, if there was enough. The solar panels were still working, and although he could manage the electrics with no problem when the panels went, he had no means to repair them. No point in trying to look up the instructions online. There was no online. He plugged in the kettle.

'I can’t keep calling you, child. I’m going to call you Bob. This kettle of water is for your bath.'

Bob smiled; his face covered in tomato sauce. He’d eaten half a tin of beans and drank three glasses of water. Joe worried he might not keep up with this new demand on his food and water supply.

'When everyone died, I didn’t speak for months, and when I did, my voice was squeaky with rust. Bunged up with phlegm. Took me days and weeks to regain any strength in voicing words. Now I talk all the time to myself, and sing in the opera house once a week, on a Monday.'

Joe tried to run his fingers through Bob’s hair. Bob flinched and pulled away, but he didn’t make a sound.

'We are going to have to clean your hair. You must be feeling terrible with the number of fleas and nits you have. I might have to shave your head. You’ll look like me then,' Joe said and laughed, rubbing his bald head. Bob stared at him; mouth wide open.

'Can you laugh Bob?'

Bob stared back.

***

Once Bob had come out of the bath as a small blonde girl, her hair shorn and dressed in the superman pyjamas Joe had selected, she’d refused to let his hand go.

'I guess I’ll call you Bobbie now.' Joe said. 'Or do you have a name you like better?'

'Rosie.'

The word was small, and not rusty at all. Perhaps Rosie was a chatterbox and, if so, who had she been talking to?

'Are there more of you?'

Rosie nodded and looked Joe in the eye. She held three fingers up.

'If we go back to the opera house tomorrow, do you think you could take me to them? Perhaps they too would like to come here?'

'Yes.'

'That is what we will do, Rosie. How about a song to get you to sleep? There is a special sleepy song called a lullaby.

'Twinkle, twinkle, little star.' Joe began, Rosie held up her hands and wriggled her fingers like stars.

'You’ve heard this song before. Did you sing it at school?'

'Mumma sang.' Rosie said, her face creasing into a frown.

'I’m not sure I can remember all the words, would you help me, Rosie?'

Rosie’s lower lip quivered. She started to sing, moving her hands from side to side.

'How I wonder what you are.'

As he sang along with Rosie, Joe dreamed of next Monday; the opera house was going to be buzzing and humming with his very own choir.