The Sun-seekers Part 1

“Jordan, wake up. It’s time.”

Mum poked me in the ribs for at least the third time, and I moaned, opened my eyes and sat up. “Do I have to go?” I asked.

She ignored me. Of course you have to go, her stiff shoulders told me, as she pulled on her protective suit.

My brother, Darren, was in his heat-proof boots already. “Come on, Kiddo,” he ordered. “Quicker we go, the quicker we can eat. We need to beat the Wranglers, otherwise they’ll grab the lot again, like last time.”

That got me moving. My stomach was aching with hunger. It seemed a long time since breakfast, and this was our only chance to reap any food from up on top, before our greedy neighbours dived in and stole the lot.

I dressed quickly, cursing under my breath as the heat-resistant zip on my trouser bottom caught briefly, exposing a strip of bare skin. It was important to cover every inch of skin, in case of burning.

“Watch your language, Jordan Wilks!” Mum snapped. “Your father’s still listening, you know, and he won’t be happy with you fussing and cussing.”

I mumbled an apology, casting a sideways glance at my father, encased in his healing pod. I doubted if he could hear anything, deep in his medically induced sleep. It would be weeks before he was recovered enough to emerge; months before he could even consider returning to work. It was down to us to get supplies now. He couldn’t do anything to help us in his state. The raw, crimson burns were still visible on his face, testament to where he’d been caught by the wildfires raging through the country. Mum had done her best to heal him with her salves, leftovers from our old life when she would rub honey and chamomile into our grazes, promising a quick recovery. Those old natural balms were a rarity now, with very few flowers left or the bees to pollinate them.

Darren checked we were ready, opened the hatch and we climbed up the stairs into the kitchen. The heat hit me straight away, despite the protective suit, and a horrible dryness constricted my throat. I leant on the kitchen table, trying to prevent the dizziness from sending me toppling to the floor.

Mum put a gloved hand on my back, steadying and comforting me, and behind her helmet, I thought I saw the flicker of a reassuring smile.

Smiling was not something she’d done for a long time.

Mum used to smile all the time, teeth glowing and dimples punctuating her cheeks. She’d dance around the table as she cleared the dishes, singing old gospel songs, her voice deep and emotional as she celebrated her faith and the joy of being alive. Then she would start playing with the words, punctuating the lyrics with her own thoughts. “Oh happy day, Oh happy day-ay-ay, when Jordan washed, when Darren dried, they took my plates away.”

“Oh Mum,” we’d groan, catching the washing up sponges and tea-towels. “You’re so embarrassing.”

She would laugh, head flung back, long locks flowing, catching the sunlight as it poured through the windows. She was fully alive in those moments, and beautiful.

It was several years since I had heard her sing.

Mum guided me to the door. Darren already had his glove on the handle. We did the last-minute checks of each other’s outfits – helmets done up, gloves on, all skin covered. You couldn’t skimp these details, not if you wanted to stay safe. We nodded and stepped outside.

The moon was deep yellow, hanging low in the sky. The stars twinkled as they always had. For a moment, you could imagine that everything was the same as it always had been.

But the heat told you it wasn’t. Despite it being night-time, the air was heavy and humid, sucking the energy out of all life. There was still a shimmering haze of heat as I gazed out across the arid fields, despite daylight having passed by hours ago.

Darren beckoned us to move and we all trudged forward, struggling to lift our feet from the parched ground. The gravitational pull had increased as the world’s heat had risen, and I sometimes feared that my feet would become stuck in the barren soil, like the old pictures of scarecrows stuck in the middle of tall corn fields. No scarecrows were needed now; birds had not come to our fields for months.

“There’s nothing left,” Mum cried, her voice muffled by the helmet.

“Those damned Wranglers must have been in here already!” Darren said, and I noticed Mum didn’t reproach him for swearing. “Spread out. There must be something we can use.”

We obeyed him instantly. I moved towards the gate, thrilled when I saw a couple of yellowing husks hiding below the dead, bare hedge. The chewy grass seeds would enliven our rations of algae soup nicely.

Staring out further, beyond the gate, my heart began thumping fast with excitement. Wasn’t that something growing out there, beneath the blackened oak tree which had been burnt to a stub in the last lightning storm? I turned to Mum and Darren, about to tell them, but they were already busy, scrabbling at a small patch where the honeysuckle used to bloom each year, searching for old flower bulbs to grind into flour.

I checked all around me, the moon helping to illuminate the stone path. No-one was in sight. I knew the dangers of stepping beyond your boundaries – my parents had lectured Darren and I many times, but I couldn’t resist. Imagine if I found a good amount of food, just beyond our gate. I’d be the family hero if I could bring back a rich harvest to feed my family. I imagined Mum’s full smile and Darren’s approving nod. Maybe Dad would even wake up and praise me.

Only an idiot would let that chance go.

I pushed open the gate, and moved as quickly as I could to the blasted tree. Glancing back, I saw Mum and Darren still engrossed in scraping the arid soil with small trowels. I knew that it would take them ages to break through the solid mud, starved of rain for months. Striving to be brave, I crept forward, each shadow terrifying me, telling me to retreat. It wasn’t unheard of for stabbings to occur at night now, as each family fought to keep their own members alive. The idea of neighbourhood was a thing of the past.

At last, I reached the base of the old tree, tripping over the exposed roots and landing awkwardly on the ground. Even through the heat-resistant trousers, I could feel the searing heat scorching my knees. I winced but pushed myself to search for the crop I thought I had seen.

Then, I found it; a patch of grass, at least 30 centimetres high, waving gently in the breeze, slightly yellow but strong, revealing a clutch of green leaves and delicate white and yellow flowers. A miracle! Astonished, I reached out a gloved hand, running my fingers across the petals, afraid they would disappear as quickly as I had found them. I longed to lift my helmet visor to smell the flowers, suddenly transported back in time.

Years ago, when normal people were just finally starting to worry about the changing climate, Mum and Dad made us all go on family walks, dragging Darren and I through woods and meadows and along the banks of the river.

Dad said. “Look at the dragonflies; look at the swans; look at the buttercups. Isn’t it so good to get close to nature?”

“Not when it’s this hot,” I’d moaned, bored and irritable. “I’m boiling!”

“You should be grateful for the sunshine!” Mum reproached me. “It gives you your food, you know that? When I was a little girl…”

Darren intervened, moodily providing the end of her sentence. “When you were little, it rained all summer, and snowed all winter. We’ve heard it all before, Mum. I wish it would rain. I’m sweating like a pig.”

He was already turning into a teenager by then, and didn’t want to be out with any of us, especially when other people were around to see him.

We’d spotted the Wrangler family on the other side of the river, making a racket as they pushed and shoved each other, far too near to the riverbank to be safe. They were our neighbours, a loud and untidy rabble who drove my parents wild with their overgrown trees and brambles and all-night parties.

One of the older daughters screamed, her voice making us all turn to stare. She leapt away from the riverbank, her blonde hair swinging around in an arc. She had on a see-through skirt, and her long legs were fully visible.

Darren gave out a ragged sigh and threw a stone in the river, rippling the water.

The girl looked across at him, one hand on her hip as if to challenge him. He threw another stone, this time aiming to skim the water, but it fell short of our side of the riverbank, rolling away into a grassy verge, where it landed amongst a clump of daisies. I felt the girl’s jeering laughter echo across the water, and was surprised to see Darren turn redder than a poppy.

He’d never been bothered about the stupid Wrangler family before. I couldn’t understand what had changed. I scowled back at the girl, anger chasing through my veins. I kicked the daisies, taking a savage delight in destroying their petals, barely acknowledging my parents’ remonstrations behind me.

Now, I cradled a daisy in my gloves, and tears brimmed for all that had been lost.

A dark shadow crept over me and fear gushed through my stomach. I turned to see a figure standing only a few metres away, one hand perched on hip, watching me. I knew at once who it was. I swear I could see the jeering smirk on her face, burning into my skin. Then I saw the flash of steel, as she revealed a small knife, reminding me that she was no longer some silly teenage girl, but a skilled hunter. I grabbed a handful of the flowers and grass, leapt up and ran for the gate.

“Mum! Darren! They’re coming!” I shouted.

Their heads snapped round in alarm and Darren jumped up and sprinted to the gate, dragging me through the opening.

The figure slunk away, hips swaying like an angry lioness. I knew it would not be long before she would return, accompanied by the rest of her hungry clan. Outnumbered and vulnerable to attack, there was nothing to do but retreat inside again. The harvesting trip had ended in failure yet again, apart from my feeble find.

One day, I promised myself, I would be able to defend us against any raider, and would protect all that I cared for. For now, I had to be content with the small bunch of grass stems and daisies clutched tight in my fist, a promise of survival against all the odds.