“I’m Dave, by the way,” the tawny-haired Englishman said, shaking mine and Petr’s hands with a Cheshire grin. “It’s nice to meet you here at the end of the world as we know it.”
“Kevin,” the pasty, bespectacled one introduced himself next.
The gangly black American with an overbite was Josh. That left Amit, a slight man with caramel skin and dark doe-like eyes. We then exchanged some trivia about ourselves and learnt that they were all medical students at Bristol University. I was just telling them about the year I had spent in London when we heard loud sobs—the poor, young Polish receptionist finally broke down in tears and was crying uncontrollably with her face buried in her nimble hands.
“I doubt we’ll learn anything more tonight,” Dave said. “How about a nightcap, everyone? I have some bottles of rum in my suitcase that seem just perfect for the occasion.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said as others around me nodded vigorously. “But first I simply cannot watch the lynching anymore, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”
It was true that I tended to avoid crowds as much as possible. But it was also true that, being a petite woman, I was obliged to devise strategies for safely passing through them. And when avoidance was not an option, aggression had to be. As hard as my strength allowed, I jabbed my braced elbows into the ribs of taller, larger people in my way, part of me feeling delinquent but another part pleased by the ‘Ooofs’ and ‘Oooows’ I managed to elicit. I reached the reception desk and walked around it to stand by the desolate Polish girl, more than a little surprised that nobody else had thought of doing the same with less well-meaning intentions. Her eyes widened in shock when she saw me, but I tried to smile at her reassuringly.
Then I proceeded to bang my fist hard on the desk.
“Shut up!” I roared from the bottom of my lungs.
The hall went silent, bar the sound of the television that could finally be heard. A wide-eyed reporter was on the screen, rambling away in quick Italian.
“You’re all wasting your time, you morons!” I told the onlookers emphatically, my face hot from being flooded withblood. “No amount of yelling at her will make this girl, thischild,know things she doesn’t know. Return to your rooms. Or stay here and pick someone your own size to bully. Or go out and get yourselves arrested for all I care. But you will not harass her anymore.”
Stunned silence ensued as I became painfully embarrassed by the fact that I must have been barely visible over the reception desk, which reached almost to my shoulders. I knew that I could not possibly hope to be taken seriously. Persons of my size rarely possess any semblance of authority, and I was further disadvantaged by being a young woman with the ‘face of a doll and tits of a porn star’, as Petr was a little too fond of saying. All I really hoped to do was give the angry mob someone else, namely myself, to tear apart.
“Who thehellare you?!” a larger black man with horn-rimmed glasses enquired, one beefy arm wrapped protectively around the waist of a beautiful, pregnant woman.
“She must have a way to get more information!” said a pale, elderly man. “She ought to at least try, it’s her job.”
“I t-t-tried to call owners but t-they don’t p-pick up,” sobbed the girl.
“Her job is to give you keys to your room and to make you some coffee, you idiot,” I told him heatedly. “She already did more than she had to. I’m taking her away now. Save your questions for when someone from the military comes to drop our supplies off tomorrow.”
I put a hand around the girl’s shoulder, awkwardly so since she was taller than I. I led her away towards Petr and the Englishmen. To my astonishment, nobody tried to stop us, and no one was yelling anymore. The room was filled only with the rambling of the Italian reporter on the screen and the disgruntled but pacified murmurs of people deciding what to do next. Some of them were already retreating back upstairs. Petrwas repeatedly trying to call someone on his mobile phone, only to get disconnected immediately. I was sure he was anxious to reach his family back in Prague.
“T-t-tsank you.” The girl gave me a timid smile despite the tears that continued to roll down her freckled face. “That vas r-r-really kind.”
“What’s your name, honey?” I asked her.
“Monika.”
“Tell me, Monika, do you drink? Because as far as I understand, these kind gentlemen have some rum they need help disposing of ...”
4
GONE DARK
Two members of the military arrived at midday the following day. Before the soldiers could knock, Monika shot up from her seat on the couch to let them in, having seen them approach from the window. She was pale, dishevelled, and bleary-eyed—due to the previous night’s rum consumption, no doubt—but she still looked markedly fresher than they did. They were both dark-haired Italian men in their late twenties, and their olive complexion had an unhealthy grey tinge, suggesting they hadn’t slept properly in a long time. Helmeted, dressed in khaki greens, and each carrying a semi-automatic rifle, they brought two boxes of food supplies.
They asked us to ensure that all the guests were gathered in the common room before they repeated what the announcement had already told us the night before. The city was in a strict lockdown. We were under quarantine until further notice. Martial law had been declared. The streets were being patrolled by armed forces, military, and police alike, who were under unambiguous orders to arrest anyone on sight. Their instructions said to shoot those resisting arrest, infected or uninfected. And shoot they did, we knew, for we had been kept awake for most of the night by scattered sounds of gunshots.
“You can’t keep us prisoners ’ere!” the large, black Frenchman with horn-rimmed glasses spoke up.
I had learnt the previous night that his name was Francois, and his stunning, pregnant girlfriend was Delphine.
“Would you rather go out and help us clean this mess up?” One of the soldiers indicated the television screen, which showed footage of a large group of infected clawing at the glass door behind which the scene was being recorded. Their eyes were utterly mad, and their face and teeth were red with fresh blood.
That settled the argument.
The quarantine worked out as promised for the first few weeks. Two military officers brought us supplies around midday every day and asked if any of us felt sick. Fortunately, the answer was always no. The food was plentiful, if a little bland and unvaried, and as such, it gave us no reason to argue over its distribution. Monika volunteered to do most of the cooking, claiming that she wanted to keep her mind occupied. When she wasn’t in the kitchen, she busied herself with tidying up the common areas of the guest house. And with watering the omnipresent orchids, apparently the hotel owner’s favourites, their blooms at once delicate and indecent looking.
“You do realise you no longer work here, don’t you?” I tried telling her one day, to no avail. “Youcanlet others help.”
