The Cure for Sleeping

Chapter Five

Tonight, my home is the attic of a convenience store. It's a small space, dark and cramped, boxes leaning against the walls in half-hearted stacks. The only entrance is the little window I shattered to break in. Even with my hoodie covering the hole, cold air still creeps in and steals the warmth from my skin. But, it's dry and off the ground –relatively safe, when you compare it to sleeping on a park bench.

I would be worried that I've stumbled upon someone else's hiding place, that they would come seeking revenge, but everything is covered in a thick layer of undisturbed dust. A cobweb falls against my face as I dig into a dinted can of Spaghetti-O's with my fingers.

I lick the weird gelish tomato sauce off my fingers, mindful of my lip. It's starting to heal now, but the left side of my face is bruised black and blue. That girl –Thea, I remember- was doubtlessly unstable, but she had a mean swing.

I lie back on the grimy floor, using my backpack as a pillow. I haven't really stopped thinking about the group since I ran. I've talked to people in the past few weeks, of course, but not like them.

Two weeks after the first Insomniac attack, I came across a lady in a green grocer. We were both there to raid the freezers –now without power- when we heard guns firing outside. We hid under a desk in the office for at least an hour, and she told me about herself. Her name was Anne, she had two sons hidden away, and she was a nurse before this. She also told me what she knew about the Insomniacs. Their eyesight; their hearing; and the fact that they don't eat people like in the movies, that they only want to spread their virus. She told me everything she'd heard, before we split the dripping bags of no-longer frozen carrots and went our separate ways.

Nine days ago, I was breaking into a house to see if they had food, when I found a rifle pointed at my head. On the other end was a little old man, his voice garbled from smoking. He yelled at me for a while, and just when I was about to bolt, thinking the Insomniacs were coming, he realised that I wasn't there to kill him. I stayed with him for the afternoon (he had biscuits) and he told me stories. About his parents escaping Poland during World War II, his family moving to America. His name was Mr. Lezinger. He showed me how to shoot his rifle. Gave me the peanut butter.

Both of these meetings were over quickly, though. The mother and I split as soon as the gunfire ceased, and I left the old man's house before nightfall. They were people, human interaction for a few hours, but they weren't the same as what the group of teens have.

Hidden underneath the high of adrenaline in my system and the utter fear of the situation, I had fun with them. Their jokes and sarcasm was a change from the drone of my own head. They have each other to bounce off, to support.

I have no one.

I roll to my knees, rearranging my pack into a more comfortable pillow. It doesn't matter what those guys have. I'm not allowed to get attached. Anyway, they're probably dead by now.

Funnily enough, this doesn't make me feel any better.

I'm punching my bag, a last ditch effort to soften it, when I still. Something feels strange. I angle my head to the side and listen. Grasshoppers humming, something small scuffling in the dumpster outside, and... humming?

It takes me a moment to realise what the sound is, after a month in its absence. Electricity.

Sure enough, the small window in the attic ceiling is suddenly aglow with light, filtering brightly through the fabric. I scrunch my eyes shut, night vision ruined. This shouldn't be possible. The electricity was the first thing to go after the city was abandoned, and the only lighting I've seen in the time since is fires and torches. Neither is a good idea, with the Insomniac's eyesight. So who the heck is the bright spark who wants to light up a whole building?