How To Lose Weight And Survive The Apocalypse

Chapter 8

I had never felt such a pure and extreme agony before. Nothing came close. Willing my legs to keep moving, I shook my face and hoped that no one saw the tears that I couldn't stop from flowing down my cheeks.

Everyone else was miles ahead of me; they couldn't know how much pain I was in. A sob broke out of my chest, causing my throat to clench tighter, the air whistling as it pulled in and out of my lungs. I can't do this.

And up ahead, I could see a monstrous hairpin turn, looming like coiled dragon, poised to destroy me.

The day had begun so well. Despite my hangover, I'd rallied everyone to pack up and get moving quickly. The weather was on our side, and we squinted in the brilliant sunshine as we looked at the sheer volume of crap we planned to take with us.

"No way does all of that fit," said Bailey, gesturing at the pile.

I agreed, but rather than freak out, I organised everyone like worker ants, diving the massive pile into smaller piles. "This pile is the essentials," I explained. "Food and shelter. These piles are the nice to haves – bed rolls, toiletries, stuff we can live without but it would be great if we didn't have to. Everything else is non-essentials – clothing and personal items. This is what we need to cull."

"No!" squeaked Nev, clutching her hair straightener and makeup bag closer.

"Nev, don't be that girl," scorned Bailey. "Where are you even going to plug that into?"

My eyes narrowed at Bailey's tone, and I wondered if this harshness was in defiance of our chat on the beach earlier.

But then Bailey spoke softly. "Look, no one is going to Snap Chat you anytime soon. Let go a little bit. You're completely gorgeous without all this crap anyway."

"I am?" Nev sounded like the thought had never occurred to her before; that scrubbed and natural, she could be beautiful. She was, of course, because she was skinny. She didn't need perfectly flicked eyeliner and barrel curls when she had long limbs and a toned torso.

Annoyed, mostly at myself, I tore off another hank of the iced bun that was serving as breakfast. "So here's the deal: you want it, you carry it. Personal items go in your backpack. The essentials, we'll divide up between the six trailers."

"Five," interjected Rueben. "Mischa won't be able to tow a trailer."

Before I could reply, he quickly said, "I'll carry Mischa's share in my trailer."

"Carry an extra half load," I said, trying to be generous and atone for last night. "We'll split the other half between the other four adults."

We worked quickly, cramming, culling, considering, condensing. Nev agonised over whether she needed her eyelash curler more than an extra can of dog food. From what I could see in Simon's bag, he was packing about 90% alcohol and a box of baby wipes. "What?" he said when I asked him about clothes. "We're on the road for a couple of weeks, not the next decade. Surely there's a men's clothing store in Tassie I can pillage when we arrive?"

I forced everyone to add the rain-proof jackets to their bags, then we mounted up. From the first push of the pedals, I realised how heavy the trailer was. Even with its light-weight frame, it was filled with cans, bottles, sleeping bags and tents. Plus the backpack on my shoulders and the two-litre water bottle strapped to my crossbar.

Mischa sped past me, cheerily dinging the bell of her miniature ten-speed, and Nev and Bailey were animated and chatty as they headed out through the gates. I pushed after them, feeling like I was pedalling through sand.

Rueben pulled up beside me, pacing my bike. "We're off."

"We are." I glanced behind us at the Kombi, sitting forlornly in the driveway. "I'm sorry we have to leave your van."