When she wakes at dawn, Angel knows what she has to do.
‘Everyone will be at the church. It’s still standing and it’s safe. That’s where I’ll find my father.’
Mrs Reyes still looks exhausted, but she nods wearily. After dipping their faces and hands in a bucket of cloudy rainwater, they set off in the direction of Santo Niño.
The journey is slow and difficult because there’s so much mess obstructing their progress, and Angel soon realises she is desperately hungry. She and Mrs Reyes have had nothing to eat since yesterday when they finished the snacks collected from the wrecked store. There’s not so much to scavenge now. Too many people have had the same idea and what’s left is wet and spoiling.
They’re thirsty, too. Water is an even bigger problem than food. The taps are not working and the water in the creeks and ponds is too dirty to drink. Angel observes some desperate people scooping water out of a puddle and filling buckets but she knows that the water will make them sick. It’s full of debris from the storm and brackish from the salty sea.
She runs her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth. They have to get a drink soon. They’ve been walking for several hours and Mrs Reyes is flagging. Angel can’t remember it being this far to the church.
The two of them sit quietly on top of a pile of smashed-up timber. All around below them people are at work, pulling out salvageable items, retrieving things like mangled bicycles and motos, building makeshift shelters from pieces of wood and sheets of iron. Many are using bricks and chunks of wood as hammers; others have managed to salvage the odd useful tool from the mess. A few families have commandeered a large boat that’s teetering atop the rubble. They are sleeping in its cargo hold, which stinks of fish, but at least it’s out of the rain. There are still fairly constant heavy showers interspersed with the occasional burst of hot, steamy sunshine and the sickly smell of death and decay is pervasive in the afternoon heat.
‘Shall we get going again?’ Angel asks Mrs Reyes gently.
The old woman has her eyes closed, resting. For a moment Angel thinks she must be asleep but then she nods wearily. ‘Yes, my dear. We must push on.’
Angel helps her to her feet. ‘You know, I do wonder why the government isn’t handing out water and food yet. Where’s the army?’ Mrs Reyes says.
Angel nods in agreement. Water, power and phones are all still down. It’s more than a full day after the storm and they’ve seen no sign of any help. She squints into the distance. The church is still a long way off.
‘Let’s find somewhere to sleep before it gets dark. We’ll make better progress tomorrow after we’ve had some rest.’
The two of them hobble along. Angel’s cuts and bruises are aching now. She’s concerned about the wound on Mrs Reyes’s face. It’s weeping red fluid and very angry looking. As well as food and water, they really need a doctor. Angel feels completely helpless and more than a little scared.
I don’t know what to do, she repeats over and over in her head. I don’t know what to do. I wish Papa was here. She struggles to hold back tears as they trudge along through the wreckage. Everything is so bleak. The smell of rot is everywhere. People are pressing pieces of cloth to their mouths and noses, but it’s impossible to completely block it out.
They are near the centre of what used to be the city and everyone looks exhausted and desperate. So far, Angel has not seen a single person that she recognises. They all evacuated before the storm hit, or they’re safe at the church, she tells herself. But she only half believes it.
She slows down to wait for Mrs Reyes, who is trailing along behind, progressing at a snail’s pace now. She helps the old woman climb over a mountain of rice that has spilled out of a storage warehouse. The water from the storm has washed tons of it out into the street and it’s wet and stinking as it ferments in the sunshine. The rice squelches under her feet. It’s absolutely disgusting. She holds her breath, trying to block her nose, but it’s unavoidable. The sour stench will stay with her for days, in her hair, on her clothes, the taste of it stuck in her throat. She gags uncontrollably as she and Mrs Reyes slide down the other side of the sludgy pile. She can’t understand why people are collecting the rice in buckets and tubs and then she’s aghast when she realises why. ‘They’re not going to eat that, surely?’
The old woman nods. ‘People are hungry, child.’ She looks grey and exhausted. She puts her hand on her chest, breathing heavily.
‘I’m not sure that I can go much further,’ she tells Angel. ‘My heart is fluttering.’
Angel looks around worriedly. They need somewhere dry and safe where Mrs Reyes can rest, and she must find them some water at least. She scans the surroundings for any landmark that she might recognise, trying to get her bearings. At first it all looks the same, just piles and piles of broken and damaged buildings, but her gaze settles on a hand-painted sign.
‘WE NEED FOOD!’ it says. ‘BARANGAY 18.’
‘That’s where Issy lives!’ she exclaims. She knows the way to Issy’s house well.
‘Come,’ she says excitedly to Mrs Reyes. ‘This way!’
They start down the narrow alley. It’s full of mud and junk, but a few houses have survived Yolanda’s fury. Angel is quaking inside as she shepherds Mrs Reyes through the debris. What has happened to her friend? She thinks of the last time she saw Issy, that afternoon at school when her mother and brothers came to fetch her. Before the storm, before everything changed.
Angel wonders how long it will be before they can go to school again. She wonders if the school is even still there. She sends a quick and silent prayer for her teacher, Mrs Fernandez, and the other students. Absently her hand goes to her neck where the pearl hangs safely on its chain, tucked beneath her T-shirt. She squeezes it tightly, sending another wish to the heavens, for her father.
Mrs Reyes is barely able to walk when they reach a rickety gate, hanging by one hinge and propped open with a piece of broken cement. Someone has placed some long planks through the gateway and into the house, forming a kind of bridge across a sea of mud. Much has changed, but Angel is sure that this is Issy’s house and she calls out: ‘Issy! Issy! Are you here? Oh, please be here …’
A figure with a sweep of dark hair is crouched over a small cooking fire on the porch. She looks up and jumps to her feet when she sees who it is.
‘Angel!’ Issy exclaims. ‘Thank God you are safe!’ For a moment, Angel doesn’t recognise her friend with her drab clothes and unkempt hair, but her warm smile is unmistakeable.
The two girls run to each other and hug tightly.
‘You made it!’ Angel cries joyfully.
‘We all did, but only just …’ says Issy.
Angel turns to Mrs Reyes, who is leaning against the gate.
‘Mrs Reyes and I made it through the storm together. She saved me.’
Issy nods seriously. ‘I am so glad to see you again, Mrs Reyes.’
‘She’s not well,’ says Angel. ‘Can we rest here for the night?’
‘Of course,’ says Issy with concern and the two girls support Mrs Reyes on either side as they move her into the house.
When Issy’s mother sees Angel, she pulls her into a fierce embrace. Normally very careful with her appearance, Maria is wearing a stained shirt and trousers and her hair is covered in a scarf.
‘Veronica will be beside herself with worry. I wish we could tell her you are safe, but there is no communication anywhere in the city.’
‘So the whole network is down?’ asks Angel.
‘Yes, but even if it was up all the phone batteries are flat. With no electricity there’s no way to charge them.’
Angel explains everything that happened to her as the three of them prepare some food amid the wreckage of the living space. Issy’s house is more substantial than Angel’s, reflecting her father’s higher income. The walls are cement brick and there are three separate rooms, a small fridge and even a television. Today the house is still standing and the roof is still on, but the water has damaged everything inside. The electrical goods are ruined, the furniture is broken and all the other household items are damp and filthy.
The family and their surviving neighbours have collected whatever provisions they can find from the nearby store and Issy’s father and brother are out looking for more. They have flour and some tinned sardines, and a small amount of bottled water that Issy and Maria readily share. Angel and Mrs Reyes struggle not to gulp it down, they’re so thirsty.
Issy and Angel prepare some flat cakes with the flour and fry them in a pan over the fire. It’s not much, but Angel still can’t help gobbling her share down. Mrs Reyes only manages a little. The old woman falls asleep on a damp mat on the cement floor under the watchful eye of Maria.
‘She needs a doctor,’ she whispers to Angel.
They observe Mrs Reyes’s chest as it rises and falls erratically in her sleep.
‘I will go tomorrow into the centre and find what help there is,’ Angel vows.
She also needs treatment for her cuts, especially the one on her foot, which is becoming infected from walking around in the putrid slush. Issy’s mother does her best to wash it but she has very little clean water and no antiseptic. There’s only so much she can do.
Just before nightfall, Issy’s father, Danilo, trudges through the door, carrying a plastic bag.
‘It’s not much, but …’ He spots Mrs Reyes first and frowns in confusion at the old lady asleep in the middle of the floor. Then he looks up and sees Angel.
‘Thank goodness.’ He hugs her with genuine relief. Seeing him reminds Angel of her own father. Danilo is chubby and bald, always cheerful, where Juan is slim and wiry with a serious demeanour, but they are both loving fathers who are devoted to their families.
‘How are the others?’ he asks hesitantly.
Angel doesn’t trust herself to speak so she shrugs helplessly, her eyes shiny with tears.
Justin comes in then, looking even wearier than his father. His cargo pants are shredded and his long fringe is dirty and matted with salt as he pushes it out of his eyes. When he sees his sister’s friend the grim line of his mouth lifts just a little.
‘Good to see you, pipsqueak,’ he says solemnly.