chasing Lizzie

Air rushes through my nose and mouth to the back of my throat, as my mouth stretches and permits me to exhale and achieve the widest yawn possible. Regretting opening my eyes, I pull the duvet covers over my head. Hesitantly, I stretch my arms and legs out like a starfish. It’s just another morning. Waking up at five for four years, and still I’m not resigned to it being my future routine. Should I move, or should I stay? To get up to wee or not to wee— that is the question. Once I give in I’ll regret it. The contrast of the cold outside of the bed really doesn’t seem all that appealing. Not when I’m under a thick duvet and surrounded by mountains of pillows. But as with every morning, the need to get up becomes undeniable, tugging relentlessly at the delicate web of comfort I’ve spun around myself overnight. Regrettably, no amount of hiding is going to stop the sound from the wind moving between the trees splaying my sanctuary with whispers of the outside world. Even the smallest sounds are waking me these days. And I need to start closing the window before sleep locks its gentle chains around me each night.

It’s not like I really have anything to get up for these days. It’s been five years since the sickness began, and the world has been silent for the last three. What started out as the first wave of a pandemic turned into a new and grim way of life. Multiple strains of virulent viruses cascaded through the globe, one after another, with relentless ferocity. Hospitals overflowed, and the once unimaginable sight of mass cremations became the heartbreaking norm. In the beginning, there was a semblance of order—a cautious optimism that humanity could withstand the biological onslaught. But as the days turned into months, and the months into years, the numbers told a devastating story. The population kept declining at an alarming rate. In 2058, the UK’s population plummeted from 66 million to 40 million. By 2059, it had plunged further to a mere 20 million. Now, I’m uncertain how many are still alive. At first, people fled the cities in desperation, seeking refuge in isolated rural areas. The urban centres, once bustling with life, descended into chaos and lawlessness. Those who remained within the city limits turned on each other, driven by a primal urge to survive. In response to the escalating violence, the army and police forces consolidated their strength, merging to form a singular entity known as “The Defence.” Faced with the disintegration of society’s legal framework, they reinstated the death penalty—swift and final justice for those who committed heinous acts, as there was no longer a system to ensure long-term imprisonment. Fear became the ruling sentiment, driving people into hiding. Then radio communication died out and I was left to hide away, and wake in silence.

Now I wake each morning knowing my world has changed. If I see anyone, I know it’s safer to run and hide. For a long time, remote locations transformed into sanctuaries, as survivors sought to distance themselves from both the invisible viral enemy and the tangible threat of fellow humans. The isolation has bred a new kind of community—scattered, fractured, but bound by the sheer will to endure. In this fractured world, a different kind of normalcy has evolved. Silence reigns where once there was bustling activity. The air, once filled with the sounds of everyday life, now carries an eerie stillness. What remains is a stark canvas painted with the remnants of humanity’s struggle to adapt, survive, and perhaps eventually rise again. But I don’t want my old world back. For me, the silence feels safe, and the trees waking me is somewhat reassuring. Others can’t handle being alone though.

In the last three years, there’s been a fragile and tentative resurgence—a glimmer of cohesion amid the pervasive desolation. Groups have begun to come together, forming fledgling communities striving for a semblance of order and mutual support. Really, I’ve been in hiding for too long to know the full truth.But new signs have started popping up on the main roads, hinting at these hopeful communities. They beckon the weary and the wary, promising protection, companionship, and a fresh start. These communities are allied with the Defence, and create pockets of relative safety in an otherwise brutal world. Yet, the reality remains stark: violence is an ever-present threat, both from within and without. In these communities, you trade autonomy for security. Being found and joining the communities would mean I’d have to abide by the rules overseen by the defence, which would dictate my daily existence. Shelter and companionship come at the cost of individual freedoms, and it’s a choice many have made, who seek to escape the unchecked cruelties of a solitary life. But that’s not for me. For me independence far outweighs security.

For me and those who choose to go it alone, life teeters constantly on the edge. The dangers are myriad—hunger gnaws persistently, the cold threatens, and the risk of assault lurks around every corner. There’s no one to rely on. Loneliness is its own peril, gnawing away at one’s resilience just as much as the physical threats. If I weren’t alone, maybe someone would make me a coffee—a simple, human gesture that now seems like a distant memory or a far-off luxury. But solitude is my reality, and I must survive long enough to craft that small comfort for myself. In this desolate existence, I am one of the lonely, forsaken souls, navigating a world that has forced us to redefine what it means to live. Life to me is my freedom and I won’t be free if the defence finds me.

Unfortunately, my reality, like that of many others, never held the opportunities and freedoms the older generation took for granted. I was born into a time when the success rates of female pregnancies had plummeted. Some suspected it was the side-effect of a worldwide virus, altering the balance of genders. My parents had their own beliefs, attributing it to gods will, against what they called a pandemic in sexual deviance. In the year of my birth, the ratio had gone from one female for every five males. My mother lamented with a heavy heart that the shift in birth rates undid the hard-won progress of the women’s movement, casting our society back into a primitive state. She was right. In response to the crisis, misogynistic legislation surged. By the time I was born, laws mandated that every female register her relationship status at the age of 18. Before that, starting at 16, fertility tests became compulsory—and a grim precursor to a journey I did not choose was developed. The establishment of the Board of Counsellors was devised with the aimed to support young females. In reality it served as a tool to push us into finding long-term pairing partners early on. The guiding hand of the state left little room to make the choice to remain single, framing our lives primarily within the context of our reproductive potential and societal ‘responsibilities.’

My mum would often talk about what the world was like when she was a teenager, painting vivid pictures of a time before everything changed. She grew up in an era when the decline in female births was just beginning, and she experienced firsthand the rapid onset of restrictive laws that transformed her life almost overnight. It was a pivotal time for her generation, which bore the brunt of the emerging crisis and societal shift that followed. For me, the landscape was already dramatically altered by the time I became aware of it. I vividly remember my first encounter with the counsellors when I was just 10 years old. The night before their visit, I could hear my mother raising her voice at my father, her tone fraught with frustration and worry. It made me uneasy, though I didn’t fully understand what was causing the tension. The next day, the air in our home was thick with anxiety. My parents sat me down in the living room, their faces etched with concern as they glared at the counsellor who had visited us. She asked me simple questions about my future aspirations and hobbies, speaking in a gentle and friendly manner. At the time, I perceived her as a kind figure, oblivious to the deeper implications of her visit. My parents’ insistence and worry seemed overblown to my young mind. With the innocence of childhood, I did not grasp that she was compiling a profile on me—a foundation for future scrutiny and control. As I grew older, the pieces began to fall into place. The routine visits, the mandated tests, the insidious erosion of privacy, and autonomy—it all started to make sense. I realised that my life trajectory was not mine alone to dictate; it was being meticulously charted by an external force that valued compliancy over individuality.

My mum would often vehemently proclaim that the counsellors were the devil incarnate, embodying everything that was corrupt and wrong in our world. She was steadfast in her belief that god would kill the sinners and the councillors would go to hell. Her fervour imprinted on me early on, to the point where I once believed I would go to hell if I so much as entertained anything the counsellors said. Despite my initial fears and my mum’s rigorous teachings, the counsellors were the ones who provided my formal education. They introduced me to the stark reality of declining birth rates and drilled into me the world’s newfound emphasis on having multiple partners as a strategy to alleviate societal unrest and boost population growth. This modern ideology was in stark contrast to the values my mum instilled in me.By the time I turned 16, my perspective on both the counsellors and my parents had drastically evolved. I began to see them as equally extreme in their views—each side more focused on dictating the terms of my sexual and romantic life, than what I personally desired or needed. Everyone was anxious about my choices, scrutinising whom I might engage with intimately and timing it to fit their disparate but equally restrictive agendas. As my awareness of the broader situation grew, I realised the dangerous implications of remaining undecided. Failing to make a choice about my future drew unwanted attention, putting me at risk of harassment or even kidnapping. The moment loomed closer when I would have to go with the counsellors to one of the learning colleges after registering, or find a partner before the registration deadline.

The notion of registering horrified me, as much as the thought I’d never be able to have coffee again. And that’s saying something because I fucking love coffee. In addition, it placed a neon sign on me that declared me as fresh meat. Such a status forced requiring protection, and amplified my fears. The implications of being a commodity in a world driven by reproductive urgency was terrifying, making me feel more like an asset than a human being. When my younger brothers were little, they’d often tease me about being a girl, indulging in the innocent yet annoyingly persistent sibling banter. Their jabs were harmless back then, just typical childhood antics. But as we got older, those light-hearted teasing sessions transformed into moments of mutual concern. I began to notice their worried glances, their unease reflecting the same anxieties that had started to consume me. I hated the incessant conversations about my future sex life and the looming threat of being kidnapped. Everyone seemed so fixated on it that it became the defining narrative of my teenage years. The constant chatter made me feel unsafe, and deep down, I knew I was right to feel that way. It was never safe to venture out alone, a reality that became ever more pronounced as society’s rigid expectations suffocated my sense of autonomy. The safety concerns persisted, even as our world changed dramatically. The catastrophic loss of almost everyone’s lives altered the dynamics, but it didn’t eliminate the inherent dangers to being a woman. The lingering fear and the remnants of societal pressures remain etched in my consciousness although I’m now alone. Speaking of consciousness, I need to move. Musing about shit that’s happened and what I can’t change is not going to change anything. Shit happens! And life’s not fair. Everyone I’ve loved is dead, it sucks to be female and I don’t like waking up so early to my monotonous life, but I still have coffee.

Sighing, I pull myself into a sitting position on the bed. The familiar ache of waking up in yet another makeshift haven follows me every morning, but at least it means I survived another night. I grab my extra-large jumper, the one that feels like a comforting embrace, and throw it over my head. It might be fraying at the edges, but it’s a cocoon of warmth against the chill that invades every crevice of this desolate world. Next, I pull my socks up as far as they will go, a small but necessary armour against the unknown I face each day. My hand instinctively checks the knife still in its sheath, securely strapped to my thigh. The cold reassuring touch against my skin is a lifeline, a whisper of security in an unpredictable world. Reaching under the covers, I grasp the handle of my trusty baseball bat, feeling the solid weight of it in my hands. It’s more than just a weapon; it’s like hugging a bedtime best friend, a protector in these vulnerable moments. I’ve meticulously crafted safe places to hide and sleep all over this town, finding solace in my thorough preparations. Hidden knives, baseball bats, and cricket bats are stashed in easy-to-access spots in every corner I frequent. These precautions help me feel a semblance of safety. Clinging to the bat, I stretch my legs over the edge of the bed and rise. The room is quiet, the silence broken only by the creaking floorboards beneath my feet. With a bat in hand, I walk out of the room and descend the stairs, the steps creaking a little as I go.

In the kitchen, I open the cupboards, grateful for the stash of bottled water I’ve accumulated. I grab a bottle and unscrew the cap, taking a long, refreshing drink. It’s not coffee, but it will have to do for now. The liquid feels revitalising as it travels down my throat, a simple yet essential comfort. With the bottle in hand, I move to fill the kettle, its weight comforting in its familiarity. I retrieve the camping stove hidden away in the oven, a necessary precaution to avoid leaving any telltale signs of habitation. Despite the eerie quiet that has pervaded this place for the last four years, I can’t afford to be complacent about my safety.

Setting the kettle on top of the stove, I turn on the burner and watch as the flame flickers to life, small yet steady. I take a moment to relish the heat emanating from it, savouring the slight warmth seeping into my fingertips. The kitchen is too quiet, the kind of quiet that heightens every creak and whisper of a breeze, making me hyperaware of my vulnerability. To combat the silence, I grab my phone from the side counter and connect my earplug. Music fills one ear, providing a soundtrack to my solitude while still allowing me to stay alert. Only one earplug though—as I always need to be ready to catch the first hint of danger. If that’s even possible. Finding a balance between the need for some semblance of normality and the unyielding necessity for vigilance is the constant tightrope of my existence. The soft hum of tunes adds a gentle noise to the oppressive quiet, and I find solace in the familiar melodies, though they feel like echoes from another life. The kettle begins to simmer, and I breathe in deeply, ready to face the day with a weary but determined heart.

Walking back up to the bathroom, I brace myself for the routine ordeal. I sit on the commode, a hollow connection to the civilised world that once was. The toilet no longer works, which is literally a shitty situation. It pains me as I finish and prepare for the next grim step, my mind wandering back to a time when this ritual was effortless. With a practiced grimace I empty the commode into my shit bucket in the bath. The stench immediately assaults my senses, and my gag reflex kicks in, making my eyes water and my stomach churn. It’s a task that never gets easier, no matter how frequently it’s done. It sucks, but it sucks even more on the days I have to dig a hole and bury it. I miss running water and hot baths. There was nothing like submerging in a steamy tub after a long day, the hot water melting away stress and fatigue. Now, even the simple luxury of clean water feels like a distant dream. I long for the convenience of a fully functional home—flipping a switch for instant light, turning a knob for an endless supply of water, both hot and cold. I’d love to just turn things on and not worry about running out of power or whether I have enough bottled water stashed away.

On the subject of power, I’ve managed to find some solutions. Three years ago, during the early days of searching for supplies, I ventured to an Amazon warehouse. It was a hazardous trip, driven by the hope of salvaging anything useful. I managed to fill a small van with an assortment of valuable items—things I thought would make survival a bit more manageable. I drove the loaded van to the next town over for safekeeping and began the painstaking process of moving items into several safe houses I had methodically established. That day, the van was shot at five times. The memory still makes my heart race, and my palms sweat, and for days after, I couldn’t stop shaking. It increased my fear of the unknown—could it have been raiders or the defence? To this day, I have no idea who was shooting at me, but I vowed never to drive a car anywhere again. Despite the danger, that trip turned out to be one of my best finds. Among the assorted items was a box of portable solar power banks. These devices have become a lifeline, providing small but crucial comforts. With solar power banks, I can listen to music, a minor miracle in this silent, desolate world. It helps me avoid the insanity of endless solitude and the unhealthy habit of talking to myself.Listening to some of the oldies can change the course of my day. Sometimes, it has me running down the stairs, belting out the lyrics I remember from better days. These little moments offer a reprieve from the relentless focus on survival.With a deep breath, I exit the bathroom and shake off the memories.

I make a black coffee and walk back up to the bedroom. Stood in front of the mirror, my reflection stares back at me with wild intensity. The morning light creeps through the curtains and there’s a determined look in my eyes. Carefully, I lower my steaming coffee mug to the floor, enjoying the warmth against my fingers for a brief, grounding moment. With a sense of purpose, I grab the baseball bat and swing it over my shoulder, the weight of it a discomforting reminder of my lack of strength. My posture is both defiant and poised, a warrior in a domestic battlefield.

As I glance at myself in the mirror, my lips curl into a wry smile, the kind that mixes mischief with a sprinkle of self-assured madness. There I am—dishevelled hair, cheeks flushed with adrenaline, and eyes that sparkle with a hint of chaos. I know I look like a crazed woman, and the realisation brings an amused chuckle to my throat. It’s the kind of look that says I’m ready for whatever comes next, which is so not true. I know my limits. With a final glance, I nod at my reflection as if sharing a private joke. Turning away from the mirror, I decide it’s enough insanity—and vanity—for today. The battle bat can rest; the day has just begun, and I have other conquests to pursue.

Jumper over my head and socks off I grab a bottle of water, bar of soap and flannel. I start scrubbing myself clean from head to toe, before shivering and rapping myself in a blanket. It may be May, but it’s still cold at 6 in the morning. I detach the leg strap with small knife in its sheath from my thigh. I lift the mattress to the chest bed and pull out all my goodies.Throwing on pants, leggings, sports bra and thick socks I’m halfway presentable. I run a brush through my hair and tie it back. Then sit on the stall in the corner and slip on my hiking boots before pulling my fitted hiking coat on.

With deliberate steps, I walk back to the bed, each footfall a quiet testament to the morning’s surreal ritual. My room’s a sanctuary, chaotic in its own right, yet it reverberates with an unspoken order only I understand. My hand reaches beneath the mess of blankets and pillows, searching for a familiar leather sheath. Pulling out my favourite large hunting knife, affectionately named Mary, I feel a surge of comfort and confidence. The knife fits perfectly in my grip. Securing my sheath on my left thigh, I take an extra moment to adjust the straps, ensuring Mary’s positioned for easy access. Once Mary’s settled, my hand drifts to the smaller hunting knife that had been my backup, used less, but vital in its own right. I toss it back under the bed. It isn’t just a piece of metal; it’s an insurance policy, a hidden ace awaiting its call to action.

Feeling indifferent I grab for the backpack and throw it over my shoulder. I’m set. One more glance in the mirror and I assess my reflection critically. Clad head to toe in all black, I look fairly presentable, the ensemble emphasising a sleek, almost predatory elegance. However, the monotony of my wardrobe, steeped in dark hues, is beginning to wear thin. I really need to introduce a splash of colour to my looks—a decision long overdue. With a sigh of resolution, I muse about taking a trip to Fat Face next week. Something with flowers, perhaps, to infuse a bit of sunshine and warmth into my stark, almost gothic attire. The thought of vibrant floral patterns weaving through my predominantly somber closet seems oddly appealing, and would be a contrast of light against the dark canvas I typically wear. But my mind drifts towards a more radical idea—why not embrace my gothic aesthetic completely? Green hair dye. The concepts rebellious, edgy, and downright thrilling. A trip to the local hairdressers could easily transform that fleeting idea into a vivid reality. Camouflage would reach new levels of creativity, and if anyone caught sight of me, they’d probably sprint in the opposite direction, assuming I was some unpredictable, crazy entity. The notion brings a wicked grin to my face—why not fully embrace this unconventional persona? Despite the musings on change, my current look—dark brown hair, smouldering eyes, and pale skin—still carries its own unique charm that completes the “I suck your blood” vibe I’ve been cultivating.

Grabbing the coffee off the floor, I continue sipping on it and descend the stairs for a final time. Entering the living room, I sit and stare at my mantle place and look at the picture of Thomas. We didn’t really have the chance to give marriage a go. Or work out if we liked each other more than friends, but I miss him. I miss everyone. I miss talking to my mum every Tuesday and hearing my dad in the background going on. Most of all I miss Owen and Oliver coming to take me shopping every weekend, and them moaning about are parents being extremists and hypocrites. That being because Lillie, another girl in the church was about to turn 18 and are parents, with hers were trying to pair them together, so she didn’t need to register. To be honest it was funny seeing my brothers going through what I had, which was in all our minds arranged marriages. However, it was better than my brothers never having a relationship and me being harassed and having to leave for the councillors’ college. There was so much pressure to do the right thing. Then everyone got sick, and the pressure I felt seemed trivial. I didn’t know what to do. It all happened so fast. I lost Thomas, my brothers and parents. All I could do was order food online and wait. That had me considering ending my own life. The world around me was in chaos and didn’t seem like a world I’d like to live in. During the first year of the sickness the news was all you could watch on TV, and there would be power cuts for days at a time. When I couldn’t’ order food I raided empty houses. Begrudgingly, I’ve lived off a lot of dried and tinned food since. It’s a good thing I’m not fussy.

I shake myself. Staring at old pictures doesn’t help. Reminiscing about what life was like makes me feel miserable, but I can’t help saying hello to Thomas. He did look after me and made this home feel safe. Sadly, feeling unsafe now is not something I worry about the same way. A dwindling population will do that. These days I’m torn between feeling like I can’t be bothered, and needing to find something to do. With no people there is no structure to my monotonous life.

Walking into the kitchen, the aroma of coffee greets me. I pour myself another cup, letting the comforting warmth seep through the ceramic mug and into my hands. My eyes scan the pantry shelves until they land on a tin of baked beans. I use the tin opener to break the seal and release the unmistakable smell. Whilst doing so, I can’t help but chuckle to myself, the old childhood rhyme coming to mind: “Beans, beans, the musical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot.” One spoonful follows another, and soon I’m devouring the entire contents of the tin. With a satisfied sigh, I sip my coffee. The playful rhyme lingers in my head, adding a touch of humour to an otherwise ordinary morning. The day has just begun, and already it’s off to a weird start.