There aren’t so many of us any more. We don’t know how much time we’ve got. We’re not quite the only ones left; occasional contact from people like Swawilg or Panthersan shows that there are other isolated groups across the globe, probably holed up in similar places to us – defensible position, source of fresh water, good view across the surrounding countryside, but not too obvious. But it’s a while since we’ve heard from Nilpferd or Maki, Ravi or Deano. The lights are gradually going out… And we know that, sooner or later, they’ll be coming for us too, and we won’t be able to hold them off.
For the last six weeks, or however long it’s been, we’ve been too caught up in day to day events, first dealing with the sheer shock of the world falling to pieces, then desperately scrambling for any means of survival; no time or energy to think about anything else. But things have been quiet recently – a pause in the relentless hostilities, enough for some people to start feeling just a little bit of hope that we might make it through, and even for us pessimists to conclude that we could afford to let down our guard slightly and try to relax. “It’s time,” said Darcey’sDad. AliM and Barbryn, who’d kept the Spill ticking over even in the darkest days, agreed. The Prof, who had all the data, muttered something about Zeno’s tortoise and that so long as the ceremony was always taking place tomorrow and never today, RR could never actually come to an end – but TinCanMan and SOWC sat on his head until he agreed. Ladies, gentlemen and the terrifying zombie hordes of the Guardian management, we present: the Spill Awards 2015. Continue reading