The Infected (18 page)

Sammie, I have heard the expression “shat myself” used it so, so many times, but I never really understood it until that moment. I felt like I was going to poo in my pants and had to ‘clench’ to stop myself from doing just that. I turned towards the source of the noise with my rifle raised and my finger already half pressed on the trigger. Ready… What I saw was a grubby face in between the flurry of grubby hands pummeling the window. My finger tightened on the trigger and I reset my aim for the point between this
thing’s
eyes. But then I noticed something different. This
thing
– I was still unable to tell whether it was male or female due to the smudged dirt which had now covered the window – had a life in its eyes that I hadn’t seen in anything other than the occupants on our bus since yesterday afternoon. This person was not one of them.

“Stop!” I yelled over the commotion. “Don’t shoot!” “What?” cried Sandra. “Fucking kill it!” I reached out and lowered Corne’s rifle. “I don’t think it’s one of those
things
– look at the eyes.” Lourens and Corne leaned in closer. The banging stopped and the person took a step to the right, our left, allowing us to get a better look. Through the grime, the matted black hair and the sheer fear in the eyes, I could see that it was a stunningly beautiful woman. She was probably in her mid-thirties, was short and petite, had short black hair, which I am sure once clean would look amazing, and deep dark green eyes. She was wearing a khaki shirt and dark green cargo pants caked in mud. I noticed that there was a round circle of blood on her pants above her right knee and that her arms where covered in a host of scratches. I motioned for her to go to the front of the bus and I started making my way there. “You can’t seriously be thinking of letting
that
onto the bus,” screeched Sandra at me from behind. “I forbid you to!” she shouted, and if it wasn’t for the seriousness of the whole situation I probably would have laughed at that. Lourens opened his mouth to say something, but seeing me point the rifle at his wife silenced him. “I
am
letting
her
in and she is going to come with us,” I said firmly and turned towards the door. Sandra didn’t say anything else for quite a while after that.

It turns out that the exhausted woman that I let onto our bus was Rita Coleman, a 38-year old advertising executive who was on holiday at one of the game reserves just outside Hoedspruit – Ingwelala – with her boyfriend when this happened. They were settling down for dinner when they were attacked by the lodge staff. Her boyfriend and the three other guests didn’t make it… She had been hiking through Big Five country since then (she said that she would rather take her chances with the animals than with what she had managed to escape from at Ingwelala).

I cleaned and dressed her leg – there was luckily a small first aid kit in the bus, a Tourist Guide Association’s necessity. She had injured her thigh on a sharp branch when trying to avoid a lone buffalo. She said that either she was fortunate to not see many animals, or she was just in such a state that she didn’t notice them. She managed to bypass Hoedspruit by going around the back of the town when she started to see more and more people in the street, and then she, and I hate to think what would have happened to her if we hadn’t stopped where we did, came across us in the bus.

She had some water and a bit to eat before falling asleep, probably out of sheer exhaustion. I lay her down and we decided to keep moving. She mentioned that she had family in Nelspruit so we decided on the spot to head in that direction.

The route was pretty quiet apart from the odd stranded car (and odd stranded
thing
) to dodge in the road, but as this area is mainly a holiday destination and it was the middle of the school term, there wasn’t much happening. By the time Rita awoke we were halfway to Nelspruit and had filled up the bus with petrol at an eerily deserted petrol station along the way. We stocked up on the limited food and drinks that they had there as the convenience store which I had hoped we could stop at was swarming with
things
, and Sammie, my angel, I hope you believe me when I say that I tried to call you from the back office of the petrol station. Obviously, as I am sure you will have guessed, I had no luck. The phones were down and they have been all the way from Hoedspruit.

Rita directed us from there as she had been this way “a million times” she said, and as we neared Nelspruit and saw a rise in the number of hungry looking people in the streets (and cars, lots of them – overturned, crashed, empty), she took us the back roads through the least populated parts of the city. Her sister, who decided to stay in the area where she was born, as opposed to Rita who was now based in Cape Town, luckily still lived on the family plot outside of town.

When we turned into the driveway, after making sure that there was no-one in sight, Rita broke down. I think it was purely due to the fear of her sister being dead. I had the same feelings about you my love… The tears started coming harder as we pulled up to the front of the house, but that was because she could see her brother-in-law peeking out the front window. Her sister, Anne, opened the door and cautiously let us in after making sure through the security gate that we were ‘fine’.

Anne and her husband, Gordon, graciously let us clean up and spend the night with them – being on the outskirts of town we were relatively safe and only had one interested visitor who Corne took care of with one shot. They had heard a radio broadcast that morning, before losing all their TV, radio and phone signals, saying that Bloemfontein would be used as a “halfway house” for the survivors of what the news was calling an “advanced and sophisticated terrorist attack”. After a decent sleep, again guarding the house in shifts, but with more people this time, we decided to leave at first light for Bloem. Rita, Anne and Gordon, however, not through a lack of us trying, were going to try hold out where they were as long as they could so that they could give their father a fighting chance of making it to them from his retirement home in Knysna.

So at 5:45am we climbed back into the bus, with some tinned food from Anne as well as seven or eight two litre Coke bottles filled with water, and headed in the general direction of Bloemfontein. And that’s where things are at right now with me… There have been some hair-raising episodes so far, with one of them almost getting into the bus one night while we slept just outside of Standerton (Corne had fallen asleep during his shift) and Lourens blew the
thing’s
head apart, meaning that we spent the next day cleaning bits of brain and fragments from its skull from the bus – seriously gross but better than being dead, I suppose.

We have bumped into a lot of other
things
along the way – they are horrible Sammie – like things you see in your nightmares. They are like us. They look like us too. But they are so far away from being like us that it is scary. I wonder what’s happening my babe?

We have seen a few groups of other ‘normal’ people too, and some of them have also told us about this whole Bloemfontein thing, while we have told others about it too. (How weird is this? I actually bumped into a girl I used to go to school with who was on her way from Witbank to Bloemfontein with her fiancé and his family – what a small world! Wasn’t the easiest situation to try and catch up in – there was one of the
things
that had just been shot by them at our feet, but it was nice to see her anyways. A bit surreal though). We have tried to follow a couple of groups in convey along the way, but it just doesn’t work out – people have to stop for supplies while others just want to move one – some have to take detours to try find loved one and friends and other times you just need to stop and freshen up while other groups want to push on towards Bloem. I guess there is safety in numbers, but to tell you the honest truth Sam, I haven’t felt safe for… well, since I heard Harold on the radio that day.

Okay my love, I better go. The internet café that I am at is in the centre of town and it is starting to get dark. We haven’t seen any of them since we arrived in this shithole (excuse the French) but I don’t want to put any of the others at risk. I love you with every fibre of my being and can’t wait to be with you again. Please take great care of yourself my Sammie – I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.

All my love – forever more. We’ll get through this together.

Your Lily

I still cannot tell you how grateful I am that Lily’s is okay – it is still surreal, and that is a word which I have heard so many times since the start of all of this. Nothing seems real, does it?

Have a good evening all of you out there. Enjoy the rest of your Monday! (PS. I had to check the calendar to see what the day was yesterday – haven’t done that for ages. When I saw that it was a Sunday I had a flashback to my days of school. Sunday was always a great, relaxing day around our house. And we all used to watch the Sunday night movie on M-net as a family. But one thing that always put me in a bad mood on Sunday evenings was when I heard the Carte Blanche theme tune (an investigative journalism programme on South African TV – a 7pm, Sunday night staple for many years). That used to indicate to me that the weekend was coming to a close and I would have to go to school again the next day. I remember that vividly. Come to think of it, this whole thing would be the exact sort of state of affairs that Carte Blanche would have investigated…)

Take care

Sam W

11:52am, August 4

I just had to pop on to tell you this. I just had myself the juiciest, tastiest tomato that I have ever eaten! And it was still green! I just couldn’t help myself – I needed to taste something fresh, something grown, something of the earth. I have been dreaming about it for the last week! I also had two leaves of lettuce (if you call them that?) Oh. My. Word. I am the best gardener in the world. I just had to tell you that.

It is getting warmer and warmer by the day. I am in shorts and a T-shirt as I sit here and type this. And with the warmth, eventually will come rain. And with the rain, I’ll eventually head to Bloemfontein. And when I get to Bloemfontein I will see Lil again. The way I feel now, this whole thing will be worth it if I get to hold her again, even if it’s just for a minute.

Take care

Sam W

6:36pm, August 5

Have to tell you that I just had the most amazing onion and mayo supper. That’s all.

Sam W

3:15pm, August 8

Hey! It’s raining! Not much, but I suppose you could call this the first summer rainfall… I doubt that it is going to rain long enough for me to drive to Bloemfontein, but at least it’s a good sign for things to come.

In the meantime, in preparation for my road trip – now that Lil has got in touch and is heading to Bloemfontein herself, I am getting seriously excited – I have been collecting petrol for the R8. First I went down to the rubbish collection spot in the complex. Then I went straight back to my place to get something to block my nose – it seriously stinks – I knew it would smell bad but I couldn’t believe how horrible it actually was. So I went back with a soccer sock, one of those long ones, tied around my face, which didn’t make too much difference, and searched amongst the rubbish for two litre Coke bottles – I managed to find 12 of them.

After a quick but thorough wash I was back out in the complex, trusty nail gun at my side. This time though I was out to siphon some petrol. I cut a metre long piece of hose from one of the ground floor units and headed to the first car. I’d never done it before but kind of recalled from hearing about people doing it that you just give a good suck once the hose is in the petrol tank and gravity and centrifugal forces and other stuff that I have no idea what they are, does the rest.

So I was pretty confident when I got the petrol cap of a white Hyundai Tuscon open with a screwdriver, pushed the hose in as far as it could go, and gave a big suck, empty two litre Coke bottle ready and waiting. Let me tell you this straight off the bat – petrol tastes fucking horrible. The first time I tried, I sucked and sucked until my cheeks were sore – you know how your cheeks get when you blow up too many balloons? Yes? It’s a weird pain, isn’t it? Well, that’s how I felt, so I pinched the hose as hard as I could and gave one big, final suck… and then I had petrol in my mouth. And on my neck and clothes. By the time I eventually cottoned on to what was going on, I managed to fill up three quarters of a Coke bottle – I am sure if I had got it all from the start I would have filled up at least two, if not more of them.

After my second wash of the day, I moved on to the next car – some dodgy Ford with blue flames down the side. Nice... But that one was running on fumes – well hardly – even when I pried open the petrol cap, with absolutely no effort at all, I could hardly smell anything. Typical. But the next one was a jackpot – a Merc – a notorious petrol guzzler, and it filled up all of my bottles in one shot! And I had no trouble with the siphoning – I think it was the pinching the hose that did the trick. So then I had all twelve bottles filled up and half a tank of petrol still to be used. What now?