The Last of Us

Last Day

From the roster we could see the last runs had gone through late-Feb. Four, five months ago.

There was a shorter run: shorter than the removals, taking in towns, any open harbour. Anchorages a nightmare, frequently: wrecks up and down the coast, cos nothing got tied proper for the weather.

Shipping lanes: empty. Told us about the last. Belfast picked up a man – a farmer – on Colonsay. Guy had set fire to his fields and was brought mainland in April.

By consensus he was a one-off. Oldest by a mile, how’d he lived? All the rest was for clean-up.

Murdo saw first. There was an early front: low coming in from sou-west. Punching through that, over above: smoke. Stood out hardest at dusk, then we lost it. Too far, not Morven, not Mull, not even Inner Hebs.

So then we get off shift. Inverness said they’d pick up in the morn, otherwise not keen to send out a search, conserve this, conserve that, usual story.

Calum goes on his VHF, runs up and down the channels. Got a bit of stick from Donnie: said there was something like half a boat between here and Newfoundland, so he was better off shelving it and focussing on salvage.

Admit I couldnae sleep – thinking about that smoke. Set me thinking on everyone I was missing.

Family. Pals. All the older folk.

When ye meet or hear of someone from before it’s like: no way. Can’t believe there’s an auld-lifer.

Skip, he has a nephew who’s survived. So Skip has his family. That’s pretty remarkable.

Kept asking him, what’s it like? There’s someone from your before. What does that feel like?

He’s a dour bugger though. Hard to get a word out of him for what went. Nor any word of outlook.

Where did my kind go, I think, when I’m not guarding against thinking too much. Where are they?

Stayed up late, blethering to Donnie. Why’d I come to the coast? he asked. All the way up here?

Had tae think. Know something: clearest answer, crazy but. It’s hardest being in the city. Even the towns. When ye’re there it hits ye, ye cannay escape it.

Empty streets. Whole districts: empty. No cars on the roads. No folk in the town centres.

Here at least, looking out where there was never much in the first place, ye can pretend no much changed.

The wool over yer eyes, Donnie said.

So what? I answered back. Better that than getting to see how bad it did us.

Plus in the city there’s all the eyes on ye: all the time, so ye feel like a museum piece. Some type of freak.

Hundreds – no thousands – of kids, looking at ye like ye’re the faither and mother they need. Because it was the adults that got it worst: which makes us, the few survivors above the age of twenty, truly remarkable.

I won’t say lucky. Remarkable will do for now.

Next morn, the front in. Overcast, rain. So you take the chance, or what? Plus we had a fix, or maybe no. Western Isles, southern end? Donnie thought it was off the map and a waste of diesel. I didnae.

Cleared a bit on the way out. We could use the trip for salvage, I said to Skip, laying it thick. He didn’t have much to say to that. Anyway, it was a chance for fishing, and we’d maybe get the fuel back good from cars.

Basking sharks halfway. Idled for a bit, watched them: until they dropped and disappeared.

Boat never got into the bay last time. Big Spanish trawler holed on rock-reefs at its entrance, buoy to beacon, so too risky. She was slicking terrible in Jan when we came, which put us off anchorages closer.

She’d broken up, now: rudder, hull, one side, radar, mast the other. Skip navigated the channel, face like thunder. I kept out his way meantime.

Already binoculars on the beach, three of us.

Nothing doing. Nobody.

Murdo looked fed up, like I felt. But it was on the map for salvage: so it wouldnae be a waste, no really, we could recce here for a bit, then run a lorry up the Uists. Maybe work the chain, make some dough? Skip said nothing.

Dogs, gulls setting off a racket. No place to tie, pier-boats wrecked side-on against each another. We dropped the dinghy, which took long enough, Skip too crabbit, or lazy, or both mebby, away to sleep in his cab.

Murdo’s bet was for a whin-fire. But that couldnae be right: the smoke was coming from inside the village, far side of the bay. Then we saw something on the pier.

An SOS in stones. Plastic bags, kids’ clothes.

Radio said nothing. Skip ran the channels. We started shouting, but it made the dogs bark like crazy.

Murdo used his loudhailer. We waited on the boat. Blew the air-horn. Gulls didnae know what hit them.

Then Skip sent up a flare: and when nobody came he said, ‘Check out what’s burning.’

Saw straight away that someone started it. Radioed to Inverness. They said we should stay put. It was a drag, for sure, what could we do? Told us to get masks and gloves on, report back, keep them updated.

Row of three houses: burnt. Blast area, smaller fires set about. Nothing that’d go up on its own though. Two of the houses gutted. Somebody had lit up a bunch of milk bottles, probably petrol or diesel, for the blast.

We shouted, blew our whistles. Nobody came. So we stopped for eating. Clearly were survivors: Murdo found what looked like petrol-gathering: cars sprayed, caps open. Doors of houses marked up: G, B. Had to be kids.

So now everyone interested, even Skip.

Plastic bags on the shore, close to the pier. Had they set a fire for a beacon and then left? No sign on the road. The dogs weren’t cared for, cats feral, half-away.

Ended up house-to-house. Lots of dead at home, they never had time. Checked the mortuary, field hospital at the school. Children’s refuge: someone covered in stones and flowers. The hospital, only the early dead. GP surgery: doors forced, empty. Supermarket: empty. Coastguard’s office: empty. Council offices: empty.

Kids are great trash-gatherers; they build nests just like birds. Seen it on the other islands. Just follow the trails of rubbish, tins, plastic. So there was this one house.

Kid tried to hide at first. Scared. Murdo reminded me to stay wee, kneel down, let the kid come.

There was a marine VHF – not cabled. She wanted a drink. Drank and drank. Face pocked, so safe enough. Scrawny, bad teeth, not starved. Somebody cared.

Asked if we were real. Here to take you home, Murdo says, and the kid goes: I am home. Nice start.

Slow to give her story. Kept asking if we were real.

Scabbed burns to her arms. Gave her a shot of penicillin and tetanus when we got back to the boat.

She started to talk. That’s when we found out about the others. Skip radioed Stornoway: a band of us there – about half a dozen adults – who still had access and could sweep south to look for the kids. Problem was, they reckoned in Stornoway they were further off than us, plus their boats were dry, so any rescue was gonna end up ours.

We filled up from the cars. Settled her by the cabin. Rucksack, toys. Tatty letter she wanted to keep. Then as we motored away the kid said she wanted to stand free.

Watched her as she watched the sea-churn, the bay, the birds. Kept asking me: When will you know?

Said I’d keep radioing Stornoway. Gave her a jumper, oilskins for heat if she was going to stand out like that.

One thing she said – boats of the fishermen came out with us. Tailed us. That gave Murdo his fright, but he’s soft in the head that way, he believes in spirits.

Held onto her, and we both watched. And that made things better – I guess – because when we got out the sound, out past the trawler, she said, ‘They’re gone.’