I found the dog lying by the road. It was already dead. Labrador. Golden. Poor thing. There was hardly any meat on it, but I hadn't eaten anything for a few weeks, save for a tin of peaches I found in a raided Tesco.
The dog tastes foul, but it does the job. I wash it down with a little water. I need to find some more.
I hear a scream off in the distance and grab my knife. My heart's pounding and I keep my eyes on the ground. First rule: Don't look at them. If you see them yawn, you yawn, then you're fucked. My dad taught me that.
He taught me everything I know. Survival. The history of our world. He told me stories about the time before the Yawners. Told me about football and films he liked. He told me stories about my mum, how they met and things like that.
I was too young to remember how the world changed. I was only one. My dad told me it started with the last American president. Some guy called, Obama. Dad says Obama yawned during this speech about some terrorist group, and it spread like nothing before. Dad said the world wasn't prepared for something so simple. He said it was worse than cancer, and AIDS, and Ebola. He said nobody died from the yawning, but it controlled their lives and turned them into the lethargic crazies they are today.
It spread all over the world and soon came to us in Scotland. We survived a short while in our little village. Boarded up the house. Fought off looters. Dad always blamed himself for what happened to mum and I know it haunted him everyday.
Dad heard of some camp down in London. He said it was full of survivors, so a group of us headed out. That was almost four years ago. I'm the only one left.
Something moves behind me and I freeze. The fire I cooked the dog on still burns. I'm staring at the ground. I can hear it shuffling. It's barely lifting its feet. Then the noise. The unmistakeable sound of a yawn.
I grip the knife tightly and spin on my knees. I lunge forward and stick it with the blade. It slides into the little girl's chest. She's only about six years old and she's wearing pink pyjamas, torn and covered in grim. Her hair is a mess, and she has the characteristic bags under her little eyes. The mark of complete exhaustion. She looks at the knife in her chest then looks up at me. She cocks her head to the side and a tear rolls down her grubby cheek. I twist the knife in further and she drops.
The second rule: don't hesitate.
I take the knife out and wipe the blood on my jeans. I grab my rucksack and the last piece of meat from the dog. More screams in the distance. They're coming.
