The Legacy by Gemma Malley

computer screen. ‘Although I wish I knew what was going on. I’m sick of being treated like a convalescing child up here in the middle of nowhere.’
    There was something about the way he said it that made Anna’s stomach clench. A few times recently she had found Peter pacing up and down, a look in his eyes that she recognised, that she feared. Eyes that darted around, thinking, noticing, planning. ‘I don’t mind not knowing,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s a small price to pay.’ She looked over at the children then back at Peter; he nodded immediately.
    ‘You’re right,’ he said quickly. ‘Of course you’re right.’
    And she was right, Anna thought to herself defiantly. They’d earned their freedom, earned this new life.
    ‘We’re happy here,’ she said, not sure why. ‘We’re happy here. Aren’t we?’
    Peter looked at her for a second or two, then grinned. ‘Of course we are, Anna. We’re very happy. So, picnic?’
    She handed Ben back to him and moved over to the kitchen counter. ‘Picnic,’ she agreed.
    ‘Nic nic,’ Ben said immediately, taking Peter’s hand and leading him towards the kitchen door. ‘Nic nic playtime.’

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    Chapter Six
     
    Jake Gardner hauled himself out of bed and walked slowly and painfully to the bathroom. Ignoring the female voice warning him not to use more water than was absolutely necessary and reminding him that cold water was more bracing and healthful than warm, he turned the hot tap on full, perching on the side as his bathtub – a luxury he was glad he’d refused to give up in spite of high taxes, warning letters and threats to have it removed – filled up. He was shivering, his face hot, his skin an odd yellowish colour – although he’d spent so long looking at it, trying to establish what the problem was, that he’d forgotten how it usually appeared. The thirst was new. He felt as though his body had been starved of water. A fever, he’d thought, then dismissed the idea. Impossible. Ridiculous.
    Jake knew all about disease. He worked with it day in, day out at the poultry production centre. But people were not chickens. The rules for humans were different. There was no such thing as human disease. There would be another explanation. Maybe he’d exerted himself more than necessary recently.
    He eased himself into the bath, sighing with happiness as the warmth enveloped him even as his teeth still chattered.
    A plague on your people. He remembered the line from somewhere – he couldn’t recall where. Plague. Pestilence. Things man brought upon himself, he found himself thinking. But these were crazed thoughts. There were no plagues now; there were no gods now either. No higher powers – except of course the Authorities. Was this a punishment for refusing to throw out his bath? Was this his penance for being wasteful?
    He shook himself. His mind wasn’t his own – racing, darting, seeing things where they weren’t, like a dream where things were movable, where the usual laws of physics didn’t apply. If only he wasn’t so cold. If only he could warm his bones up somehow.
    Cull them. If disease is left it will spread, infect the entire barn. You’ve got to get them early. He imagined himself as a chicken, running from his keeper, stumbling, his large body too heavy for his pockmarked legs, colliding with other chickens, knowing that it was futile, that he was going to die, going to be taken . . .
    No, I’m human. Humans don’t get ill. Longevity. Did I take my Longevity? Yes. Yes, I took it. Take more. Yes, I’ll take more. Now. The water was still warm; he didn’t want to leave its embrace. Afterwards. I’ll take them afterwards. He hadn’t been to work today. Nor yesterday. Had he been missed? What were people saying? He must go in tomorrow. He just needed some sleep. It was fatigue, plain and simple. Or perhaps he’d been bitten by some insect. He looked down at his body and felt his mouth fall open in shock. It seemed to be