Dog Blood

living in what used to be their classroom. Tables and chairs have been shoved to the sides of the room, the wood-tiled floor now covered in litter and discarded clothing. Random scraps of material have been used as bedding, and in the far corner wisps of smoke climb up from the ashes of a fire built from torn-up textbooks. The room is in a horrendous condition. It smells like a toilet and feels like a slum, but if I look past the dirt, the bruises, the blood, and the other stains and marks on the faces of these kids, they look completely fresh and alive. Their eyes are bright and full of life.
    There’s a boy who looks about the same age as my son Edward, squatting on top of what used to be the teacher’s desk. If he came to this school they’d probably have been classmates, but I don’t recognize him. He’s digging into the wood with the tip of a fearsome-looking knife. I automatically go to tell him not to, but I stop myself-it doesn’t matter, and he’s not going to listen to me anyway. It’s already clear that these kids do what they like, when they like. That’s probably how they’ve managed to survive.
    “I’m looking for my daughter.”
    He shrugs but doesn’t say anything.
    “Are there any other children here?”
    Still no answer.
    “This is a waste of time,” Paul whispers. “We should just get these kids into the van and get out of here.”
    I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had some answers.
    “Are there any adults here?”
    The big kid sitting on the desk finally looks up. “There was.”
    “But not now?”
    He shakes his head.
    “So what happened to them?” Paul asks.
    “They went.”
    “You didn’t go?”
    “No point.”
    “What about the war? The fighting?”
    “What war?”
    His answer surprises me. I take a step forward and accidentally kick an outstretched leg, which is immediately pulled back out of sight. I crouch down and see a small girl curled up under a desk on a bed of soiled cushions and pillows. She doesn’t react, but she watches me. She remains perfectly still, her eyes following my every move. These children, I think to myself, must have a strangely blinkered view of what’s left of the world. Like all kids, they’re only interested in themselves. I know they’d kill any Unchanged stupid enough to get too close, but do they feel the same compulsion to go outside and hunt them down as the rest of us do? As long as they’re warm and relatively comfortable and they’ve got a decent supply of food, what more could they want? They’re nesting here.
    “I’m going to check the rest of the place out,” I tell Paul, eager to keep looking for Ellis. I leave the classroom and work my way back toward the main entrance, checking the other rooms as I pass them. They’re all empty.
    “There’s no one else here,” a quiet voice says when I reach the top of the stairs. I turn around quickly, but I can’t see anyone. A little girl cautiously steps out of the shadows and looks up at me with huge, saucer-shaped eyes. I try to estimate her age, but it’s difficult. She appears completely innocent but at the same time strangely switched-on and knowing. She’s a pitiful sight-desperately thin, pale white skin, dirty and bedraggled with long, knotted hair. She’s wearing pajamas and has bare, muddy feet. Her clothing is bloodstained, and instinctively I’m about to ask her if she’s hurt herself. But then I realize the blood is more than likely from someone else, someone she more than likely killed. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. We both stand there awkwardly, staring at each other in silence, until something I see just over her shoulder catches my eye. It’s a line of metal coat hooks, hung on a long wooden rail about a yard and a half off the ground. The name on the peg directly behind her is Edward McCoyne. The girl suddenly becomes invisible as I reach out and lift a small cloth bag off my son’s peg.
    “That’s just old stuff,” she says. “My bag’s down there. Want to see it?”
    “No, it’s okay…”
    I open the bag and take out Edward’s soccer shirt. His name’s on the label inside the collar, written in pen in Lizzie’s handwriting. I remember when we bought this for him. Christ, he nagged at us for months to get it because all the other kids had one like it. The team changed part of their uniform a couple of weeks later and the little shit stopped wearing it, complaining that he didn’t have the right one anymore and…