World War Moo by Michael Logan Page B

the side and feigned interest in some distant object that just happened to be in the same eye line as her breasts. Out of all the methods, she preferred the blatant staring, which had the virtue of honesty. At one point, after meeting a particularly discomfited fifteen-year-old whose eyeballs were vibrating with the effort of not looking, she’d snapped and said, “Why don’t you just bloody stare at them for ten seconds to get it out of your system, and then we can try to talk to each other like real people?” Unsurprisingly, he’d skedaddled in a fugue of embarrassment.
    Some of the girls at school weren’t much better, basing their assumptions on her appearance and accusing her of trying flirt with their boyfriends. Early in Ruan’s development, one girl had made the mistake of slapping Ruan when her boyfriend began writing unwanted soppy love notes to her. Nobody made the same mistake again. Her fondness for nice clothes had only made it worse. The girls assumed that choosing to adorn her body with well-fitting, gorgeous outfits was a deliberate ploy to steal their men, when in fact she just loved the way they looked and felt. There had been a point when she considered dressing in the frumpy rags that passed for clothes in her mum’s cupboard, but she decided not to change her behavior for other people. It was their problem, not hers. Yet she couldn’t escape the fact that people often made up their minds about her based on genes, over which she had no control. Sure, exposure to the elements and the scars and worry lines she’d picked up over the last seven months had no doubt dimmed her youthful glow, but it hadn’t reduced the size of her chest. Rory’s reaction came as no surprise.
    The woman handed the leaflet to Fanny, who in turn passed it to Ruan.
    â€œResist: You Are More Than Your Urges,” Ruan read aloud from the bold headline.
    Underneath, an introductory paragraph exhorted people to remember that they were human and not to give in to the imperatives of the virus. She stopped after the first few lines and looked at Fanny. “Do you really think the infected can resist the urges?”
    Fanny looked at her companions and put an arm around Ruan. “Come outside.”
    They strolled to the water’s edge, where Ruan picked up a flat stone and skipped it across the loch. A sad smile kinked Fanny’s lips. “My son used to love doing that.”
    Ruan took note of the past tense and chose not to pursue it, for it could lead to a conversation she didn’t want to have. They fell silent, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. There was no birdsong. Virtually every bird that could be caught had long since been wolfed down by the hungry population, while the rest had presumably developed the sense to keep their beaks shut or migrated permanently. After a suitably sensitive time elapsed, Ruan held up the leaflet. “So, you really believe this?”
    Fanny nodded. “The fundamental question is: Are we creatures of biology only, or are we something more? I’ve never believed in any one god, but I think we are creatures of spirit. A virus can’t infect our spirit.”
    Ruan’s experience had taught her the exact opposite. “Look at that village,” she said, nodding across the water. “If they knew you were immune or uninfected, whichever it is, they would be over here in a shot to tear you to shreds. How can you believe anybody can resist?”
    â€œI think a line has been drawn with this virus, between those who want to evolve and those who want to devolve,” Fanny said. “We all have to choose which side of the line we stand on.”
    We ? Ruan thought.
    The strange behavior of Fanny and her band suddenly made sense. The residents of Arrochar must have known that people lived here. The fires would have been visible at night across the loch, which was only a few hundred meters wide at this point.