There was a commotion in the camp - one loud enough that it could be heard through the thick, wooden walls of the schoolroom. A dozen young heads looked up from their books and glanced at each other, curious as to what was going on. The teacher slapped her desk with the yard-long metal strip that she used as a pointer. "Back to your lessons!"

Stacey raised her voice, joining in with the other students. "Miss Keane! What if it's trouble?"

Miss Keane brought her ruler down onto Stacey's desk, uncomfortably close to the teenager's knuckles. "There's no alarm, so I suggest you ignore everything going on outside this room. You are here to learn." The teacher swept the room with her glare, daring her students to contradict her. Then, satisfied that she had reasserted her authority, Miss Keane continued. "I can see that you require some form of reassurance, otherwise you will not settle. So, I shall go outside and see what is going on." She hauled her tattered greatcoat from its perch on the back of her chair and walked to the schoolroom door. "No slacking now!" she called over her shoulder by way of a farewell.

As soon as the schoolroom door closed behind Miss Keane, her students began chattering in wild speculation.

"What do you think it is?" Bobby, an 8-year old, was the youngest in the class. He looked nervously at the other students, hoping they would reassure him.

"Reck'n it's something important," Mary replied. "Question is, what?" She spun on her chair - an old barstool she had claimed as hers by virtue of being the oldest of Miss Keane's students - and made for the window that overlooked the camp gates.

Bobby juggled on his seat. "But Miss Keane said - !"

"Blow it out your ears!" Mary levered the window open and leaned out, stretching forward until her feet dangled a few inches above the schoolroom floor. Another half-dozen of the children crowded around her, eager not to miss out on what was going on, but there wasn't enough room for all of them at the window.

Stacey hung back. "C'mon. Tell us what's going on out there."

"A'right." Mary strained to see through the huddle of buildings between the school and the gates. "Looks like there's a crowd. Ev'ryone's there. Somebody's talking to them, making a fuss."

"Who?"

Mary shot Stacey a vicious glance. "There's a lot of people out there, okay? Now, shut it." Then she hauled herself further into the window frame, until she was balanced half-in, half-out of the room.

Stacey moved closer to the window and listened intently. She could make out the noise of the crowd. From the sounds of it, the inhabitants of the camp were agitated. The sound of their voices rose and fell. It took a minute or so for Stacey to pick out those she knew well. "I think they're talking about ... ." It was difficult to follow the threads of the various conversations, but one word kept being repeated. "Babblers."

"Babblers?" Mary slid back into the schoolroom and turned to stare at Stacey. Her face was pale. "You're kidding me - right?"

"I think that's what they said."

Mary sucked at her lower lip. "Right. I got to find Ma, tell her." Suddenly, she grabbed Stacey by the collar of her shirt and thrust a fist under the younger girl's nose. "You'd better be right! If you're scarin' me - !" She left the rest of the threat hanging unsaid, then ran out of the schoolroom.

Outside, the voices were beginning to quiet down, with a single voice rising above them. Stacey recognised it as her father's. She elbowed her way into the window so she could hear better. With the rest of the crowd now silent, her father's words were carried by the cold, November air.

"You all know what we got to do!" The note of authority in her father's voice was unmistakeable. "We got homes and families to look after! So, get your gear! Be back here in thirty!" The crowd began to break up; worried-looking knots of people hurrying back to their homes.

Sure that nothing more of interest was going to happen for a while, the students returned to their seats - just in time for Miss Keane to return. She looked at her students and flashed them a nervous smile. "Right. No more lessons for today. Get your things and go home." Miss Keane looked around the classroom and pointed at the empty barstool. "Where has Mary gone?"

One of the students raised a hand. "She went home, Miss Keane."

The teacher nodded. "I'll talk to her later. The rest of you - go!"

Obediently, the students got to their feet.

* * *

Stacey picked her way through the alleys of the camp, making her way back to the cabin she and her father called home. Like the rest of the buildings inside the camp's perimeter, it had been built, added to and improved over the last decade. In that time, the camp's population had grown from a dozen to a few hundred; all of them fleeing from the Babel virus.

Of course, the Babel virus had a longer, more scientific name; but nobody bothered use it, let alone remember it. The name given to it by the doomsayers and the media had stuck. It had come from the effects of the virus. People who had been infected by it and who survived had the language centres of their brains scrambled. They spoke no known language, had no discernible grammar. Communication with them was impossible by any means. As the virus had spread across the world, the mechanisms that sustained civilisation broke down.

The infected became known as babblers. They carried the virus, spreading the infection wherever they went. The authorities made attempts to contain them, but these were futile. Hospitals became overcrowded, and temporary containment facilities became permanent. Families would hide the infected rather than give them up. In the end, society became fragmented and atomised. The uninfected fled and formed small enclaves away from the cities. Strangers were to be feared.

Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth; and from thence did the LORD scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth.

Stacey's home was a single-storey cabin. It had three rooms and a loft where Stacey slept under the rafters and wooden shingles. Her father slept below, by the hearth. This had been their arrangement since Stacey had reached puberty three years ago. "Old enough to sleep on your own," her father had said. "And better if you do." Her father was already there, buttoning up his padded jacket. "Hey, little girl! Home early?"

"Uh-huh." Stacey hung her battered magical girl backpack on a hook by the door. "School's out. Miss Keane sent us home. Babblers."

Stacey's father got his gun - an old bolt-action rifle with a hunting sight - down from the rack by his bed and checked the mechanism. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"You're the one who said it was." Stacey glanced sideways at her father. "Or are you lying to me?"

"It's nothing to worry about." He retrieved a faded box of ammunition from the drawer of an old dresser and began to count out brass cartridges.

"Then I'm going to come with you."

"You're too young."

"I'm fourteen!" Stacey snorted in disgust and folded her arms. "This is just as much my home as it is yours. More, even. You're older than me, so I've got more claim on this place than you have. Besides - what if I lose you?"

"And what happens if I lose you?" Stacey's father locked eyes with his daughter. For a moment they stared at each other, then Stacey's father looked away. "Alright. I can't argue with you." He gestured towards the gun rack. "You want to be an adult? I'll treat you like one. Get."

Stacey scrambled up the ladder to her loft. She quickly shucked the clothes she had been wearing for school, then pulled out the clothes she wore for hunting trips with her father. These ones were loose, warm and comfortable. Like her father's hunting clothes, they bore old stains: reminders of the times they had spent together in the woods around the camp, following the game trails. Then, once she was dressed, she joined her father. "I'm ready."

"Get your rifle. Then you'll be ready."

Stacey retrieved her gun - an almost exact copy match for her father's weapon - and went through the routine of checking it. "I'm ready now."

Her father nodded in approval. "Come on, then. There's babblers out there."

The pair made their way to the camp gates. There were already about two-dozen people gathered there, dressed in hunting gear and carrying assorted weapons. They were talking, trying to work out a plan of action. Stacey, revelling in her new status, wanted to contribute and tried to follow what was going on; but her father held her back. "Just listen and do as you're told." Obediently, she stood just behind her father and listened.

"Where did Alvin say he saw the babblers?"

"About three miles nor' west, by the fish pond."

"Sure it was a babbler?"

"I'm sure. I called out, but they didn't say anything. Just that word salad shit."

"They?" Stacey's father gave Alvin a questioning look.

"Alright - there was just one. But you know what babblers are like. Where there's one, there's always others."

"Well, we won't take any chances then." Stacey's father cleared his throat. "Here's how we do this."

It took ten minutes for the hunters to agree their plan. Then they left the camp and headed into the woods in twos and threes.

* * *

It was cold in the woods, and the bare trees gave very little cover. Stacey and her father kept low, creeping through the undergrowth, trying not to disturb the tangle of grass and shrubs. They kept their weapons - bolt-action rifles - close to hand. Whoever they met out here as likely to be armed and just as wary. While they couldn't make themselves understood, Babblers were still intelligent.

"There!" Stacey piped up. She pointed to a stand of trees no more than fifty yards away. "I think I saw something."

Her father pulled his mask down, revealing a lined and dirty face. "You sure, Stacey?"

"Course I am, dad."

"Good girl." The man fumbled a battered pair of binoculars to his eyes and adjusted them, focussing on the grove of spindly trees. He watched in silence for a moment. "Oh yeah. Got it. You got sharp eyes, Stacey."

Beneath her mask, Stacey blushed with pride. She enjoyed it when her father praised her. "You think it's a babbler?"

"What else could it be? There's only one way to find out. Get your gun."

Stacey shifted to bring her weapon up, and sighted it towards the nearby trees. She could just about see her target - a shroud of camouflage fabric behind a boulder. "Got them."

"Good girl." Stacey's father stood up slowly, keeping his rifle down by his waist. He looked directly at the trees. "You know what to do," he told Stacey, then he strode forward. "Hey! You!" his voice boomed. "We need to talk!" There was no response, but Stacey saw the stranger shift slightly.

"Come on! We're friendly!" Stacey's father put his rifle down and waited, watching the trees. "We won't shoot you!"

"Vizhny?"

The syllables sounded wrong to Stacey. Babbler. She thumbed the safety catch on her gun and tried to get a clear line of sight to the figure behind the rock.

Her father raised his hands. "See?"

The figure behind the rock got to its feet, uttering nonsense syllables. Now Stacey could see it clearly. The babbler had its hands out as it advanced, gesturing between itself and her father. For a moment Stacey hesitated. Yes - it was a babbler, but it had once been a person. Perhaps something could be done to help it? Then her father glanced backwards, catching her eye. No. Stacey had told her father he could depend on her.

She recited the mantra her father had made her learn when he taught her to shoot. Sight. She looked down the barrel of her weapon. Exhale. She felt her body relax. Squeeze. Her gun barked. The babbler stopped, a look of surprise on its face, and crumpled silently to the ground. It lay there, the only movement coming from the swathe of cloth wrapped around it.

Her father turned to look back at her, a smile on his face. "That's my girl. Now, let's make sure you did a good job."

Stacey stood up, using her rifle to support her trembling body. "Yes dad."