her, almost leeringly, as if wanting to see her try that manoeuvre. But she didn't move.
Lark was still rattling on, though, like the insensitive lout he was. "I'm sure you'll find a pan in the cupboards that you can use," he said, "or you can use the sink - I think it still drains okay." He smiled, somewhat politely or ironically (Geri couldn't be sure which) as he pointed over to the small sink and cupboards next to the washing machine.
"Fuck you " Geri said. She had decided he wasn't being polite, so why should she.
"Listen, I'm sorry about this," he countered, "but we need to know you're clean. McFall said he saw you sneeze."
"It's hay fever. I already told him that."
"Sure, and if it doesn't develop into flu in the next couple of days, you'll be welcomed back into the house."
"I just want to leave "
"Go back out there? Are you mad? Seriously, you're better in here. But I'm warning you, there'll always be one of us around, so don't try anything stupid."
Geri got up from the chair, feeling the muscles in her leg seizing up. She rubbed them, trying to ease the stiffness. Her wounded foot still hurt like a bitch, causing her to limp. She grimaced with the pain, setting herself down in the chair, again. She looked up at Lark, but he had disappeared back into the kitchen, it seemed. So much for someone always watching.
Her hand ran over the front pockets of her jeans. She checked for the bump in the denim - the bullet she had acquired from earlier still in her pocket. Again, she pulled her long t-shirt down to cover her pockets, smiling to herself. She couldn't believe those idiots had missed that one.
She rose from her chair, limping over to the generously glassed patio windows. It looked out onto a small garden that had once been someone's pride and joy. There were colourful flower beds, pepper-dash stones and an ornamental fountain - all landscaped to perfection. Yet, without tending, the garden was becoming wild. A mass of sombre-looking green weeds threatened the daintily coloured tulips. Grass sprouted up through the stones like hands from a grave. From the sky, the evening sun looked on like a powerless god.
Geri ventured over to the cupboards, wondering how best to take her piss. She fumbled through the cupboards, finding a sizable pan that should suffice. Nosily, she opened a couple of nearby drawers, finding nothing but scissors and plastic cutlery and other useless household items. She opened another drawer, noticing cotton wool, antiseptic, bandaging and waterproof plasters. She took the lot, throwing all the items into her new pseudo toilet bowl. Adding a roll of kitchen towel to the pile, she proceeded back to the white plastic dining table that looked out onto the garden.
She sighed, setting up her makeshift toilet behind the table. In the dim, evening sun, she undid the button and zip of her jeans, rolled them down and squatted to piss into the pot.
This is as bad as it gets, she thought to herself.
McFall stood looking out onto the street from the upstairs window. The light was dimming, evening's shadows moving in to throw a curtain over the day's events. He would be settling down to sleep soon, and it couldn't come soon enough. He felt knackered after all that had happened, all the excitement of the day's events. He promised himself never to go out there again, unless he really fucking had to.
Through the flower-patterned curtains, McFall could see a couple of the dead wandering aimlessly through the streets. It was the same story every night, almost as if they were on some sort of evening patrol, but they never seemed to cotton on to the fact that there were survivors in this particular house. And even when they did, just like before with the girl, it seemed to leave their minds like goldfish when you tapped their bowl - suddenly and momentarily riled before becoming quiet
Lark was still rattling on, though, like the insensitive lout he was. "I'm sure you'll find a pan in the cupboards that you can use," he said, "or you can use the sink - I think it still drains okay." He smiled, somewhat politely or ironically (Geri couldn't be sure which) as he pointed over to the small sink and cupboards next to the washing machine.
"Fuck you " Geri said. She had decided he wasn't being polite, so why should she.
"Listen, I'm sorry about this," he countered, "but we need to know you're clean. McFall said he saw you sneeze."
"It's hay fever. I already told him that."
"Sure, and if it doesn't develop into flu in the next couple of days, you'll be welcomed back into the house."
"I just want to leave "
"Go back out there? Are you mad? Seriously, you're better in here. But I'm warning you, there'll always be one of us around, so don't try anything stupid."
Geri got up from the chair, feeling the muscles in her leg seizing up. She rubbed them, trying to ease the stiffness. Her wounded foot still hurt like a bitch, causing her to limp. She grimaced with the pain, setting herself down in the chair, again. She looked up at Lark, but he had disappeared back into the kitchen, it seemed. So much for someone always watching.
Her hand ran over the front pockets of her jeans. She checked for the bump in the denim - the bullet she had acquired from earlier still in her pocket. Again, she pulled her long t-shirt down to cover her pockets, smiling to herself. She couldn't believe those idiots had missed that one.
She rose from her chair, limping over to the generously glassed patio windows. It looked out onto a small garden that had once been someone's pride and joy. There were colourful flower beds, pepper-dash stones and an ornamental fountain - all landscaped to perfection. Yet, without tending, the garden was becoming wild. A mass of sombre-looking green weeds threatened the daintily coloured tulips. Grass sprouted up through the stones like hands from a grave. From the sky, the evening sun looked on like a powerless god.
Geri ventured over to the cupboards, wondering how best to take her piss. She fumbled through the cupboards, finding a sizable pan that should suffice. Nosily, she opened a couple of nearby drawers, finding nothing but scissors and plastic cutlery and other useless household items. She opened another drawer, noticing cotton wool, antiseptic, bandaging and waterproof plasters. She took the lot, throwing all the items into her new pseudo toilet bowl. Adding a roll of kitchen towel to the pile, she proceeded back to the white plastic dining table that looked out onto the garden.
She sighed, setting up her makeshift toilet behind the table. In the dim, evening sun, she undid the button and zip of her jeans, rolled them down and squatted to piss into the pot.
This is as bad as it gets, she thought to herself.
McFall stood looking out onto the street from the upstairs window. The light was dimming, evening's shadows moving in to throw a curtain over the day's events. He would be settling down to sleep soon, and it couldn't come soon enough. He felt knackered after all that had happened, all the excitement of the day's events. He promised himself never to go out there again, unless he really fucking had to.
Through the flower-patterned curtains, McFall could see a couple of the dead wandering aimlessly through the streets. It was the same story every night, almost as if they were on some sort of evening patrol, but they never seemed to cotton on to the fact that there were survivors in this particular house. And even when they did, just like before with the girl, it seemed to leave their minds like goldfish when you tapped their bowl - suddenly and momentarily riled before becoming quiet
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