I feel like I've been dunked in ice-water, horror freezing the very blood in my veins. A flurry of images rush through my head, a flip-book getting faster and faster. I see my dad smiling at me, the echo of his voice when he calls me 'princess', then the horrible picture my mind conjures of the plane crash that killed him; the torpedo-shaped craft reduced to smoking, twisted metal after the 1st Wave knocked it out of the sky. I see the terrible pain on Mum's face when she realises he's never coming home, and the way she tries to keep all the grief locked up inside so she can be strong for us girls. I see the churning, frothing water that surged through Havant, sweeping away cars and people like matchsticks. The smell of salt is strong in my nostrils, my ears roaring with the sounds of the sea. I see Mum's face, barely visible above the foam, her hand helplessly grasping and mine unable to reach her. I remember her going under and never coming back up. I remember looking for her after the water subsided, but never finding her body. There was no telling how far away the water carried it, or even if I'd recognise it when I saw it. The last few weeks flash through my mind with a force that leaves me reeling. The world is crumbling to pieces around me, but I've held on for Lola's sake. Now even she is slipping away.

"Maddy?" Lola looks up me, her eyes huge. The fear on her face breaks my heart.

But I force a smile and wipe the sweat from her forehead. I have to stay strong for her, even as I'm shattering inside. "Nothing to worry about, kiddo. You probably picked something up from that silly pigeon." I mock-wag a finger at her. "I told you they can make you poorly."

My voice breaks on the last word. Poorly is when someone needs a day off school and a hearty serving of chicken soup. Poorly doesn't begin to describe the horror that is the Red Death. I think of Lola, my darling baby sister, as a plague victim and it's all I can do to keep from screaming. I imagine a fist jamming down my throat, holding the scream back. I cannot fall apart now. Lola needs me. She probably doesn't even understand what's happening to her.

Lola coughs, and already I can hear the wet rasp of blood in her lungs. The Red Death strikes hard and fast. Her skin is like fire under my hands. I have to cool her down. Other survivors told me they'd seen people recover from the plague. There was no explanation for it; it was like the Red Death just...let them go. The rumours about a refugee camp weren't true, but I cling to this one with both hands, praying to anyone that might be listening.

Please let there be a chance. Please let Lola live.

Lola coughs again, and I am galvanised into action. If she's to have a chance of fighting this, I have to try and bring her fever down.

"Lola, listen to me," I say. "I'm going to get something for your temperature, okay? I need you to stay here and be very quiet."

The thought of leaving her, sick and alone, punches a hole right through my heart, but I don't have any choice. Anyone who gets a good look at her will know she's sick, and Luger warned me that reporting anyone infected was one of the only two rules imposed in this place. I don't know what happens to people who are reported, and I don't want to find out.

Lola nods and coughs again.

Before I leave, I fetch the meat mallet and push it back into her hands. If she wasn't sick I'd tell her off for putting it down yesterday so she could pet some stupid pigeon.

"I'll knock three times when I get back so you know it's me. If anyone else tries to get in, hit them with this," I say, tapping the mallet with my finger.

Instructing a six-year-old girl to attack someone fills my stomach with nausea, but I can't pretend that the world isn't a dangerous place anymore. Lola needs to know how to protect herself because I might not always be here for her.

Outside in the square the bonfire blazes, huger and fiercer than ever. More people must have died in the night, their bodies like wood to feed the flames. The air reeks of smoke, sewage, and decay. I skirt around the edges of the massive funeral pyre and head for the waterfront, planning to soak some rags in seawater so I can place them on Lola's head. It probably won't be enough to break her fever, but it's all I can do.

But when I reach the waterfront, all I can do is stand and stare.

This part of Gunwharf used to be occupied by a small marina. Sleek white yachts and catamarans were moored in neat lines to a long wooden pontoon, like giant seabirds bobbing on the surface of the water. Alongside the marina, the iconic Spinnaker Tower rises to the sky, the sail-like structure dominating the skyline for miles around. But the marina is gone now. The smaller boats were simply washed away, but a couple of larger ones lie on the concrete area around the tower. One of them is wedged half in, half out of a former restaurant. The Gunwharf streets are crumbling and rubble-strewn, the edges battered to debris, abruptly descending into the ocean. And the ocean itself is clogged with corpses, a gruesome raft of rotting flesh and tangled bones. Blood and putrid tissue bob on the wavelets, seaweed mingling with the hair of the dead. Seagulls amble over the bodies, happily pecking away. I can't tear my eyes from the body closest to the crumbling waterfront wall. Every time the water moves, the dead arm sort of slaps against the stonework like it's wordlessly asking for help.

Bile rises in my throat and suddenly I'm glad that I never found my mum's body. It's bad enough that my last memory of her is being tugged under by the inexorable force of several tonnes of water, but if I'd had to see her like this, her skin purple-blotched and her body swollen to twice its normal size, bits and pieces of her face pecked away by seagulls...I don't think I could have handled it.

My plans for getting seawater-soaked rags back to Lola are ruined. It's a safe bet that some, if not all of these people died of the plague. That means their diseased blood has leaked into the ocean, contaminating it. I can't fight the Red Death by putting plague-riddled rags on Lola's head.

Desperate tears burn my eyes and I swipe them away. Crying isn't helping. Plan A failed, so now I need a Plan B.

Where else can I get water? With the world the way it is now, fresh water is more precious than anything - I can't believe there's any left in Gunwharf, not now I've seen how many people are here, and the conditions they're living in. But maybe there's another option.

Some of the shops and restaurants are separated from the main plaza by a narrow strip of water that reaches almost as far as Vernon Gate. In the summer months it's postcard-pretty, the sun turning the water to golden ripples, the air tinged with salt. Now it's a dumping ground for yet more bodies. I don't look at them as I cross the bridge that leads over the small stretch of water.

I recognise the restaurant in front of me - Cafe Rouge. The facade is painted red and it makes me shudder. The few times I came here before the Waves, I thought the red looked welcoming. Now it reminds me too much of blood. The tables and chairs, and wooden boxes of flowers that used to sit outside are gone, washed away, and the awning that once projected across the windows now dangles from a metal bar driven into the brickwork. I stand in the doorway, remembering coming here in the days before the Others and breathing in the delicious smells of steak and garlic. All I can smell now is smoke and rot.

There's no time to dawdle. I venture into the restaurant, keeping my eyes pinned on the ceiling so I don't have to see what's become of this place. This is where me and my friends used to come and eat; it holds particular memories for me, and I'm afraid that if I look around now and see what's left, see the corner table we always used to get, I'll break down. My friends are dead. My parents are dead. Lola might be dying. The best I can do is try and distance myself from all this.

I cross quickly to the bar and climb over it. Walking around it would be easier, but in my periphery I can see more than one bloated body. I've trodden on enough corpses already. Behind the bar, the wall is lined with display cases, formerly exhibiting a range of wines. Amazingly, the glass cases have more or less survived, though most of the bottles have been swiped. Most, but not all.

My gamble has paid off. Wine makes thirst worse, rather than alleviating it, so there isn't demand for it like there is for water. I help myself to two bottles of white. There's something faintly ridiculous about me raiding booze in the aftermath of an alien apocalypse, and a hysterical giggle escapes my lips, quickly followed by the sting of tears. If only I was stealing these bottles to drink, rather than hoping they can cool my sick sister's fever.

Tucking the bottles under my arm, I hurry out of Cafe Rouge. I don't ever want to go in there again. I don't want to see the ruins of somewhere I used to know and love.

I'm halfway back to Lola when I hear a scream. That isn't surprising; screams are the background beat for the world now. But there is a raw desperation to this scream that makes me take notice.

"No, please." The voice is male, ragged with tears, and it's coming from the direction of the bonfire. I should go straight back to Lola, but I find myself heading towards the voice. That sick feeling is filling my stomach again, forming a block of cement. Something's happening here.

I stop before I reach the bonfire, squinting through the pall of smoke that hangs in the air. Luger is standing before the flames, his arms folded across his chest, watching as his henchmen drag the body of a young woman towards the bonfire. Another man is kneeling on the ground at Luger's feet, his hands grasping Luger's jeans. He's saying something but I can't hear it. Tears carve tracks through the filth on his face.

Luger shakes his head, says something to his henchmen.

"No," the kneeling man screams, launching himself up and charging at the henchmen. Luger swiftly intercepts him, jabbing a fist into the man's nose. So much for the no fighting rule. Although Luger probably considers himself exempt from that. It wouldn't be the first time a leader ignored their own edicts. The crying man falls to the ground, clutching his face. He stretches a hand up to the body Luger's henchmen are dragging, but she's out of reach. The men throw her into the fire, and there's a brief flare of brightness as her long hair ignites.

And then I see something that almost makes me throw up. The burning woman lifts her arm, sparks shooting off the blackening tips of her fingers.

She's not dead.

My knees buckle and I grab the nearest wall for support. Luger's men just burned a woman alive. Is this why he told me that people have to report anyone who's caught the plague? So he and his minions can burn them? I think of Lola and my stomach turns to ice. If they find her...if they know that she has the Red Death...

The wall is rough beneath my fingers and I use the pain to ground myself, to keep my head clear. Panic is a thick fog choking my brain, but I can't let it overwhelm me. I have to stay strong for Lola.

Luger approaches me, and I force a blank expression onto my face. Apparently I don't do a very good job because he sighs and shakes his head.

"I know what it looks like, but we don't have a choice," he says.

I don't trust myself to speak.

"We have to kill off the plague it spreads any further," Luger says, raking a hand through his hair. "It's the only way to try and save everyone else."

I still can't speak, my voice is lodged somewhere in my throat. So I just nod. I don't want to have this conversation. I need to get back to Lola so I can get us both out of here. There's no way we can stay now, not when Lola is sick. It's too dangerous.

Luger's eyes slide to the bottles tucked under my arm, but he doesn't say anything. Teenage drinking is hardly a priority anymore.

I want to run from him and his men, but I force myself to maintain a steady walk. It's imperative that he doesn't think anything is up with me. If he catches sight of the true horror roiling inside me, he might follow me and try to persuade me to his way of thinking. I have to seem indifferent.

But as soon as I'm out of sight, I run. My heart is a drumbeat in my chest, thudding so hard it hurts. I have to get back to Lola. I have to work out a way of getting her out of here without anyone seeing that she has the plague.

My feet slow when I reach the kitchen where I left her, and my heart jumps into my throat. The chair is pushed to one side, the stainless steel door hanging ajar. Lola would never have left, not when I told her to stay here, which means someone else has got in.

I approach the door, holding the bottles of wine aloft like weapons. I've never thought of myself as violent before. Even when the Others came and unleashed 3 Waves of hell on the world, I only thought about hurting or killing them as some abstract, impossible thing. But I realise now that if Lola's life is in danger, I will kill to protect her. I will use these bottles as weapons and end another person's life. I guess our humanity is one more thing the Others are taking away from us.

I ease into the kitchen, my feet silent on the floor. Lola is pressed against the far wall. A boy stands in front of her, his skinny shoulders hunched up around his neck. He's taller than me, but the lankiness of his frame makes me think he's a few years younger, barely a teenager. He hasn't filled out his body yet.

Lola's tied her rag mask back across her nose and mouth, and her long hair falls down to hide the rest of her face. Despite the fear and anger pounding against my ribs, I feel a flash of pride. She's managed to hide the fact that she has the plague. If she can hide it from someone this close to her, we can get out of Gunwharf unchallenged. What we'll do after that, I don't know, but I can only handle one problem at a time.

The boy takes a step towards Lola, completely unaware that I'm standing behind him, gearing up to brain him with a bottle. Lola lifts her meat mallet, wildly swinging it in his direction, and I feel another flash of pride. My little sister is a fighter after all. Maybe she can fight off this disease.

"Just gimme the sweets," the boy yells, and my gaze flicks to the plastic box sitting on a countertop beside Lola, still part-full of gummy snakes.

"Hey," I say, and the boy spins round. Fear flits across his face, then he draws himself up, trying to look tough. It doesn't work. I was right about his age. He's still a few years away from needing to shave, and his limbs look like matchsticks.

"What do you want?" he says in the most belligerent tone he can muster.

I pin him with my hardest look. "Get out of here."

He shakes his head, trying to puff out his narrow chest. It doesn't work.

I don't want to hurt this kid. He's just trying to survive and I get that. But if he goes near my baby sister, I'll bash his brains in. My intentions must show on my face for the kid falters, his face turning the colour of old milk.

"Get out of here," I repeat, but I'll never know if my intimidation tactics work for, at that moment, Lola starts to cough. Her small frame doubles over and blood spots form on her rag-mask. There's even blood in her sweat, colouring strands of her damp hair.

The boy stumbles back, almost tripping over his own feet. He points a shaking finger at her. "The blood plague," he whispers. "She's got the plague."

He's gone before I can stop him, a wiry streak darting out of the kitchen and fleeing through the ruined restaurant. I should chase after him, stop him before he can tell anyone what he's seen, but Lola suddenly collapses. I dart forward to catch her, dropping one of the bottles in the process. It smashes on the floor, and the smell of wine rises into the air, clashing with the stench of smoke and rot still stubbornly worming its way through the closed window.

Gently I lower Lola onto the floor. Her skin is like fire, her mask saturated with blood. I pull it away, flinging it into a corner. Dark drops ooze from the corners of her mouth. There's an old t-shirt scrunched up in the bottom of our rucksack, and I tear it into strips. I open the surviving bottle - thank goodness it has a screw-top rather than a cork - and splash wine onto the rags. The wine is warm, and I realise there's no way it's going to bring down Lola's fever. But I lay the rags across her forehead anyway because I can't just watch and do nothing.

Lola coughs, her lungs bubbling with fluid, and spits up black stuff. I wipe it away with another rag, trying not to breathe in the rotten milk smell of the plague.

"Maddy?" Lola whispers, her bloodshot eyes staring up at me. "I'm scared."

She knows what's happening to her. I was foolish to think I could keep it from her. Lola might be naive in many ways, but she isn't stupid.

"It's okay, kiddo, I'm here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you," I soothe.

Famous last words.

Even as I'm debating the quickest way out of Gunwharf and whether it's easier to carry Lola in my arms or over my shoulder, footsteps pound through the room outside.

Luger strides into the kitchen.