Brisk. That’s the word that best described the wind as they sailed their dinghy towards the jewel shaped island of Scarba. Uninhabited since the 1960’s the island was their chosen place for a secluded honeymoon. Back in the 2010’s Jake and Emma would have had their honeymoon in the Maldives or somewhere. But in 2028 Scotland was as exotic as it got.

The coronavirus that had first appeared in 2020 had mutated and mutated, keeping always just out reach of science and it was now a dread plague that killed relentlessly. Everyone older than about 18, except for some lucky few who were immune, like Jake and Emma. The virus had wiped out two thirds of the adult population over the last eight years. As if pestilence wasn’t enough, in 2025 Donald Trump managed to get himself re-elected, had himself declared ‘President For Life’ and set about systematically destroying the World order. Now the mad octogenarian was the Lord of Misrule over riot, famine and chaos. Everywhere was in ruin.

With few better options available they had their father’s old sailing dinghy and planned to spend their time together in the only building on the island, Kilmory Lodge. The Lodge, once a farm steading, had been converted to accommodation for shooting parties but had been unused for years.

They made fast the boat at the tiny inlet of Pol na h-Ealaidh, and began to unload their stuff. It wasn’t a long walk to Kilmory Lodge, maybe half a mile at most. Emma was heaving a large bag off the boat and saw something move out of the corner of her eye, but looking up there was nothing.

“Are you sure this place is uninhabited Jake?” She asked.

“Apart from some feral goats and sheep,” said Jake looking up.

They made their way up the track in the gin-clear afternoon sunlight. They walked through the covered archway into the steading yard. The back door of the house part was wide open. A small, dirty child sat on the step in the late afternoon sunshine and stared at them. It was hard to tell who was the more surprised, the girl or Jake and Emma.

“Hello, what’s your name?” Emma said. The girl jumped up and ran into the house.

“There shouldn’t be anyone here,” said Jake.

Another older girl of about 13 years of age appeared in the doorway and stared at them.

“Who are you?” She said.

“I’m Emma and this is my husband Jake,” said Emma, “who are you?”

“I’m Daisy. I look after the little ones,” said the girl.

“Hi Daisy, it’s nice to meet you. Are you here on holiday with your parents or something?”

“Orphanage,” said Daisy, “no parents, we’re the orphanage kids. We was moved here to avoid the plague.”

“Oh, I see,” said Emma, “how long have you been here? Could you take me to the Matron or whoever runs the orphanage, we’d better have a talk with them.”

“We’ve been here for ages,” said Daisy, “we came when I was little. We was all moved from the old place one night and came here on a load of boats. They said it would be safe and a good education.”

“And where are the grown-ups then Daisy, who’s in charge?”

“No grown ups. They’re all dead. They got the covid. We’d only been here a few days before the bossy one got sick and then after that all ten of them got sick and died. We were all ok though.”

Jake and Emma looked at each other. “Who looks after you all then,” said Jake.

“We look after ourselves. We’ve sheep and goats and fish and bees and neeps and tatties. Everything. The older kids make it all work.”

The very small child had reappeared and was hanging onto Emma’s jacket.

“Mummy?” she said.

“No, not mummy,” said Emma, gently pushing her back to Daisy.

Six girls of about fifteen or sixteen came under the archway and into the yard. One had a surprisingly large bony goat over her shoulders and a couple of the others had a strings of about a half dozen fish each. The biggest of them, the girl with the goat did not look pleased at all.

“What are you doing here,” she said, making sure they all kept their distance, “why have you come?”

Emma explained. While she was talking, a lot more kids, maybe twenty or so, came through the archway and headed for the house.

“You can sleep in those rooms in that apartment at the over there tonight,” said the girl pointing across the yard away from the house. “I need to talk about this with the others.”

Jake and Emma, suitably dismissed and really tired from their long day went to their rooms. After a good supper and some wine and a lot of talking they crawled into their sleeping bags.

“Back to the mainland tomorrow then,” said Jake, “tell the authorities, such as they are, in Oban and let them sort this mess out.”

The next morning Jake and Emma were heaving their bags out into the courtyard when the six girls from the previous evening came up to them.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Oban to get help,” said Emma.

“No, you’re not,” said two or three of the girls together. The big one stepped forward. “You’re staying here,” she said, “We’ve decided. We don’t need help. If you go off the island they’ll come and get us and then we’ll all eventually get sick. We’re safe here. You’re staying.”

Jake and Emma pushed past and walked the half mile to their boat. It was not there.

The girl was behind them.

“We took your boat last night, and rowed it down to the south of the island,” she said, “by now it will have been pulled into the whirlpool at Coryvreckan and sunk. Everyone will assume you drowned. You’re staying here.”

© Steve Dalzell 2021