Despite the warnings, we still took regular trips to the beach. Warnings were far too commonplace by now to worry us. Do not go out in the midday sun. Ignore the apple trees, and stick to canned fruit. The people in the forest are not to be trusted.
But I had loved the beach before everything happened. Despite it being little more than a muddy bank overlooking the bridge, my Dad and I spent hours down there. Drawing lines in the mud with sticks. Watching hundreds of cars drive across that huge steel triumph. At night the lights glowed in the town on the other side of the river, and I waved to hidden neighbours.
The remaining cars are rusted skeletons, and apart from the glimmer of a few fires the town is long since dark. But I still find solace on the beach. I might be the last ever person to do so.
The tide is out. Murky rock pools scar the landscape, and a green foam leaves slimy marks near my ragged trainers. What crawls towards me has a shell, and almost resembles what snails used to look like. I poke the translucent skin with my shoe, and a rainbow coloured mucus spurts out.
I look for Dad, desperate to ask him how everything got this bad. But he is of course not there.
