He wasn’t a regular visitor to number twenty-two. The old couple that used to live there hadn’t been much company since they died two summers ago. Was it two or three? Did time ever have less meaning? Tick the days off until the day you die.
He had smelled them dead long before he saw them dead. Even at twenty metres. He watched their food parcels mount up, taking the best – least bad – for himself.
The government had promised that all bodies would be taken away within three days for screening and safe disposal. Another broken promise. At least Mr and Mrs van der Merwe weren’t likely to ever blab to anyone about Connor’s little digging project.
The house had remained empty ever since. Was there even anyone left to live there? A combination of isolation, bad food, lack of personal hygiene (soap was now a luxury few people had), no hope and good old Covid-19 had really put a dampener on population growth.
He popped his head up, meerkat-style, and looked around. Coming up underneath the van der Merwe’s Ford was a stroke of good fortune. Cover. He slid underneath the car, pulling his backpack behind him. Across the dusty floor, avoiding the oil slick. Ford. Crap then, worse now.
He held his breath and assessed his options.
From his house came the sounds of the police searching. Looking for him. The crunch of a boot on glass, hushed whispers, the rustling of bodies moving through the undergrowth and the rookie cop retching. He must have found what was left of his buddy. Connor couldn’t suppress a grin.
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