The South Reclaimed

PrologueIt was the thick walls that had saved them. Walls that had kept prisoners contained since the city had been founded now kept death at arm’s length. Before the plane had come, before fire had rained down on the corpses that roamed the street, the small group had fled to the bluestone walls that only held the memory of death. The cells became home, and for once the occupants were not desperate to escape them. Meghan had been the one to suggest the gaol, dragging her partner, Josh, and his friends from their house when she had seen their neighbours eaten. She had tried to call her father to warn them, but they had refused to come, insisting that what was happening was not real, it was just another skirmish. That it would all be over soon because the police would intervene and stem the riots. She had not waited for them, instinct telling her that there was no winning this battle. Josh had been sceptical at first too—it had taken seeing his brother torn into pieces to convince him otherwise. Meghan had nearly lost him then when he had tried to wrest his arm from her hand to save him. His shock, and her panic, had been enough to pull him away from the teenager’s grasping hand. Matt had been the one to suggest a foray into the hospital across the road. The need for food and medical equipment was growing as the days passed with no sign of the end. They had watched the parade of the dead, waiting for the right time. This had put them in prime position to watch as another group snuck out the door, breaking into a car to smash through the barracks fence beside them. Meghan had wanted to call to them—the first new faces they had seen since they had sought refuge. Josh had stopped her, pointing out that there was no way of knowing if these people could be trusted. Not wanting to go against the group, who were all in agreement with not hailing the new group, Meghan had shut her mouth. Her father had been right in the end. The government had intervened. They had responded with explosions. Josh had suggested finding a way to the roof, to let them know that there were survivors in the building. Meghan had allowed the promise of rescue to bloom, only to watch as the fragile assurance was swallowed up in the fire. They fled to the lower levels, praying for the walls to hold. The concussion rolled through the gaol, shaking them roughly and forcing them to hold on to one another for support. The shaking didn’t confine itself to shaking the people; the foundations of the gaol were tested to their limits, cracks fissuring up the aged mortar as the bomb did what time had failed to do. The walls crumbled. This time, Meghan did not hold her tongue. If the rest of the group didn’t want to come, she would leave in the last tank on her own. This time, there was no argument.