SIX
A string of zombies pushed in around their vehicle. Others lurched towards Phil and Tommy’s car. “What the fuck are they doing?” Jacob hissed, sticking the shift into reverse. He could see it all turning pear-shaped in a matter of seconds. Tommy was bent over the wheel trying to get the vehicle restarted. Had he said something about a dodgy starter motor? Beside him, Phil made silent screams.
What did he do? He had a rifle with half a dozen rounds. He could shoot some of them, but the bullets would quickly run out. Did they have any weapons? Only the ax, and he didn’t fancy taking them on with that yet.
Forward was the only way. The idiots had driven too close to him. They could fight for themselves. Jacob stuck the gearstick into drive and gunned the accelerator, but the car didn’t respond. He tried again, and this time the engine roared, propelling them forward. “Hold on.” Rebecca grabbed for the door handle and the center console.
He drove up onto the curb, clipping a pole that held up the awning of a store. It collapsed, part of the roof crashing down behind them onto the zombies. The noise was deafening. He pulled the vehicle back towards the center of the street, clipping several more zombies, causing them to fall under the car with a series of thumps.
From the corner of his eye, he saw more coming from a BWS liquor store, a shambling line of the most gruesome zombies. Their skin had withered to the point that it almost looked like transparent paper; the flesh on their faces had lost chunks, revealing dark holes. They walked with broken feet and bent legs; several had lost their arms; one had lost them both. But they all had teeth and could adequately inflict a bite, which would end with their death.
Jacob lined up half a dozen more and drove hard when engine cut out, the power fleeing under his foot. “Shit! SHIT!” He pumped the pedal furiously. They rolled to a stop as zombies reached them, clapping on the windows.
“Grab the ax.” Rebecca swivelled towards the back seat and yanked the weapon out.
The mirror told him the other car was overcome, like a beehive engulfed by drones. They had two doors open, zombies fighting to get at the fresh meat.
Fists beat against their vehicle. Jacob knew he had to forget about the others and worry about himself and Rebecca.
She screamed at them, furious. “Get away!” If it came down to it, she would take a few out, he was sure.
But zombies covered Rebecca’s side of the car. Jacob twisted again, looking for another way. They were everywhere at the rear, fighting for position against the paint. Only three scrambled along his side and he figured that was their best shot. “Follow me.”
He snatched the ax from her and unclipped the door, pushing rearwards with his backside facing them. Their hands groped at his shoulders and neck. Jacob swung an elbow and felt the hard point connect with a jaw. Bone cracked and one of them fell away. He spun, bringing the ax up into position, and swung in a tight arc to suit their proximity. The blade cut into the throat, jetting blood onto his shirt, sending the second one down like a falling curtain. The third zombie crawled for him, but Rebecca wasn’t yet out of the vehicle, as though she was tied to the seat by some invisible force. Jacob leaned in, reached across the seat, and grabbed a fistful of her shirt. She flew out of the car screeching, clunking her head on the door. In one motion, he swung the ax and struck the third zombie in the cheek, sending a spray of crimson juice. The others, in their bumbling, tattered bulk, were almost there. Burning anger rushed through him, tempting him to stick around and fight.
“
Run.
”
They did, abandoning their vehicle and remaining possessions, their shoes smacking the roadway as they ran down the middle of the street.
Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca.
Jacob kept repeating to himself.
They ran on, hearing the groans and grunts of the feeders chasing, Jacob refusing to turn back. Rebecca had fallen slightly behind. “Keep going,” he said between heavy breaths. The last month or so had conditioned him, but he was still a slightly overweight middle-aged man.
As they sprinted along Station Street, more shops greeted them on their right. Zombies filled the doorways and beyond, in the shadows of the stores, fumbling between aisles and around counters. There was a fish and chip shop, a bakery, a jewelry shop; even a sports store, where Jacob wished they could search for weapons. The Australia Post shop stared back, forever silent, no longer a deliverer of messages and parcels as it had been for so long.
Panting, Jacob stopped. Rebecca stood with her hands on her knees. This was nuts; fifteen minutes before, they were safe in the car, driving towards Melbourne. They had opened a surprising gap, and had about thirty seconds before the line of zombies caught up. They had to get off the road. On their right, a bushy garden area covered an ornate brick square that led to the railway line. The lines ran parallel to the street. Further ahead, a long V/Line train was stuck in the middle of the tracks, and beside it, one of those old handcars.
“Follow me,” Jacob said. They hurried across the road towards the trees, disappearing from view. He knew the zombies would track them if they didn’t get far enough away. He thought about going back and trying to find a car with some keys and fuel, but discounted the likelihood.
They reached a break in the trees. In the fading light, Jacob spied the train station in the distance—a small building on their side of the tracks, a larger one on the other. Lengths of chain fencing ran parallel to the lines. They might have a chance if they reached the other side of it.
He peered back through the scrub and around low-hanging branches. For a moment, he thought they were clear, and then he saw one pushing through the undergrowth towards them. “Quickly.”
They ran, more panting, stumbling, and cursing. Finally, Jacob reached the fence and leapt up at it, lobbing the ax over the top. The chain link rattled, and the weapon hit the dirt with a
thump
on the other side. Rebecca followed up the barrier, although she was much smaller, her hands clawing at the links below Jacob’s feet.
“Climb.”
The zombies were close. Twigs and sticks cracked and popped, their slobbering and shuffling and moaning and grunting audible. They were the slow, uncoordinated type, but in a moment, the chasers would be upon the fence. If they weren’t over it by then, it might be the end. Jacob thought momentarily about dropping back down and kicking them away, but the element of risk kept him attached to the fence and he continued on, swinging his leg over.
“Come on,” he said down to Rebecca, and she started to climb.
One of them reached the fence. It raised a flapping, broken arm, bone protruding from the shoulder, and slapped its hand against the wire. Rebecca glanced down, but still she did not scream. She was almost out of reach, but fear stole her movement. Jacob sat with one leg over the top, poised to drop down the other side.
Instinct took over. He swung his leg back over and lowered himself, fence shaking under his weight, until he was in line with Rebecca’s head. He struck out, the heel of his boot hitting the zombie in the face with a dense thud. It fell away like loose bark from a tree.
Jacob reached out and gave Rebecca a lift. She scrambled up and he followed, using his arms to pull himself skyward, and then they were at the top, throwing their legs over and scaling down the other side. Jacob dropped halfway down and called for Rebecca to do the same; he would catch her, and she did, and he thought her trust
had
to grow after this. He grabbed the ax and they staggered away from the fence towards the building as others reached the barrier, poking their bony fingers and decomposing hands through the wire.
Jacob looked back and saw the faces peering in at them and wondered if Phil and Tommy were amongst them.
SEVEN
Evelyn rolled the van to the back edge of the clearing, beneath the shaggy cover of gum trees, out of sight from the road. Beneath the stony rise, the town stretched out before them, dark houses and the occasional plume of dirty black smoke. She still found it odd that she had become the driver, although she didn’t mind; it was an important purpose that suited her, and with it, she was making a small contribution to the group. That was the most important thing, and held with the values her parents had taught her at a young age. She couldn’t sit back and let these people carry her and Jake. She needed to support their existence, feel like she was contributing.
At fifteen, her father had driven her to the local shopping center to explain the value of work ethic and contribution. “Time for you to get a job,” he said, pulling up outside the entrance. “”I’ll be back at closing time. You should have two offers by then.” She’d waited for him to break out in a smile. “You’re old enough to learn a few valuable lessons. Working in the real world will be good for you. My parents never made me do it, and I suffered for some years trying to acclimatize myself to life.” Still didn’t respond. His expression softened. “You’ll be fine. Smile. Talk with confidence, and tell them you’re capable of anything.”
She had gone in as a timid, sceptical teenager. At lunchtime, she called her father and asked him to come and pick her up.
“How many offers did you get?”
“Seven,” she said with an uncommon pride.
He was silent for a time. “You’re a good girl. You do everything we ask and you never back down.”
They made her pay boarding, too—sixty dollars a week. She had thought that a bit steep, but again, it was about the value of contribution. On her twenty-first birthday, they gave her a term deposit statement for a little over thirty-eight thousand dollars. She cried uncontrollably for ten minutes.
“That’s all the money we took from you as boarding. We added the same amount you saved, and the rest is interest from the investment. Spend some if you like—a new car, or even a holiday.” She hugged them and pledged her eternal love.
Tears spilled down her cheeks at the memory. What wonderful parents they had been. She was upholding those values by working hard for the group and maintaining her contribution. Driving was a big part of that.
She joined the others in the back of the camper, wiping her eyes.
“There’s a farmhouse nearby,” Callan said. “It looks empty, but we’re gonna check it out. Might be some supplies. I’m going with Greg.” She gave him a mocking look. “Anybody else want to come?”
“I’d like to,” Evelyn said.
“Me too,” Jake added.
Evelyn pulled Jake to her. “Is it safe, though?”
“We’ll be fine,” Callan said. “We won’t be long, anyway. Bring some bags though.”
They walked a crooked, ascending path through stout trees that prodded them with spiky leaves. The men held the branches aside when the trail became too tight. Darkness blocked out much of the light, and Evelyn pushed her eyes wide, looking into all the corners. Blue Boy ran ahead before circling back, ears pricked. He was their early warning system.
A chook house greeted them first, no more than loose wire fencing with a square box and a roof, patched together from old fence palings and housing boards. The chooks sauntered around the outskirts, cooing and clucking, picking at invisible scraps in the dirt. Callan opened the gate with a screech. The animals fled like the escapees they were. Greg glanced at Callan, then Jake, and Evelyn read the question in his narrowed eyes.
Do we kill them?
Blue thought so. He chased them around the yard. Callan had to call him off, and he slunk away full of disappointment.
“Later,” Callan said, and pushed on towards the house. “Check for eggs, big guy.” He looked at Jake. Seven perfect eggs went into a bag. Evelyn’s stomach awakened in anticipation.
The rickety old farmhouse stood atop another hill no more than a minute’s walk along a rutted dirt road with tall timothy grass down the middle. It was cut from lengths of timber that had faded to grey stone under years of summer sun. All manner of accessories hung from hooks around a porch that ran the length. A John Deere tractor sat huddled in the grass with weeds growing up through the engine. A beaten up, pale blue Toyota four-wheel drive with dark patches of bare metal on the body sat parked beneath a handmade lean-to. The keys were inside, and after Greg wrenched the creaky door open and climbed up behind the wheel, it started with a tired groan. In a paddock nearby, several sheep ate from a buffet of long grass. Callan talked quietly with Greg about killing one of them for meat, but didn’t know how, and decided he would check with Gallagher. From an apple tree close to the house, they picked a bagful of the ripe fruits, each biting into one as they patrolled the exterior, looking for more opportunities.
There was little more of use, so Callan and Greg entered the house, clearing each room before calling Evelyn and Jake inside. In the kitchen cupboards they found some tinned food—spaghetti, baked beans, tuna—a giant bag of dog food—and some packets of pasta that would last a few more weeks, but beyond that, everything had spoiled.
Outside, they strolled down to a lazy creek behind the house where Callan asked Jake to help him fill plastic containers they had discovered in the pantry. Evelyn stood back with Greg, watching them. Callan assisted Jake down to the edge of the creek, holding his elbow. Callan unscrewed the container, handed it to Jake, and instructed him on the best way to fill it. Jake laughed. Callan laughed. Blue barked. A flash of delight rushed through Evelyn. Jake filled the can, and when he was done, Callan held up his hand and they made a high five. He was a good man, Callan; fiery and opinionated, but he was passionate and caring.
“What was Callan’s girlfriend like? The one that died?”
Greg only paused for a second, watching the boys. “Horrible, mostly. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. He seems like a nice man.”
Greg considered his response. Evelyn thought he might not answer. “He is. He has his faults of course, but he’s got a good heart. He’ll pretty much always do the right thing. Sherry never appreciated what she had. Maybe she understood in the end, but she never got the best out of Callan.”
With the weighty containers of clean spring water, Callan and Jake climbed the stepped bank from the edge of the waterway. Jake reached the top first, but tottered and overbalanced. Evelyn saw in her mind’s eye that he was going to fall backwards into the water. She cried out, but Callan, still holding the container, shot a hand forward and steadied the boy.
“Oh my God,” Evelyn said. Greg laughed.
“Trust me. There’s nobody better to look out for your kid than him.”
Callan gave Jake a gentle nudge, allowing him to gain traction on the treacherous edge, and then he was up, smiling, laughing, offering a hand to help Callan with the water. Blue Boy yapped. Evelyn smiled. They walked back towards them laughing aloud. There had been a number of suitors after Cameron’s death, but she hadn’t quite been ready to consider them, and she’d used Jake as an excuse, sizing up each of the men as a suitable proxy for his father. None had given her the feeling Callan had just now, and she knew that if anything did ever develop between them, Callan would have ticked the first and most important box.
“What’s funny?” she asked as they returned. Jake was almost hysterical.
“Men’s talk,” Callan said, winking. Evelyn nodded and tousled Jake’s hair. She couldn’t recall such laughter from him. He hadn’t looked so happy since before the plague.
As they walked back up the slope to the house under a growing darkness, Evelyn thought of what she and Jake had gone through to be there now; so many close calls, standing at the door of death, almost giving up back in Wagga as the zombies chased them along the street. The thought made her feel ill. She was grateful she hadn’t surrendered; grateful Jake had urged her on, and Alex had picked them up on the street, even for what they had gone through at the barracks. These people—Callan, Kristy, Dylan, Greg, Sarah, Julie—even the new men from the Army base—they were good people, and they were lucky to have found them. But as she drew closer, she realized her exposure to pain and loss—Eric, for example—increased. It reminded her of losing her father all over again, biting deep into her heart, stirring emotions she thought were long buried.
Callan wanted to drive the Toyota back to the campervan. They found some usable diesel fuel in Gerry cans underneath the porch and stacked it in the rear of the four-wheel drive with the water and food.
They reached the camper to find the others setting up for a basic evening meal. The sun had dropped low in the west, casting the sky in an orange hue. The meal would be simple, but none of them would starve. For now, they were free of zombies and the immorality of those humans who would seek to thwart their struggle for survival.
“Can you do me a favor?” Kristy asked. Evelyn nodded. “Speak to Julie. Find out if she’s okay. I know she won’t be, but she needs to know we haven’t forgotten about her. That we care.”
“Have you—”
“No. I thought you could do it. You’ve got the …”
“Experience.” Kristy nodded, eyes downcast. Evelyn touched a hand to her arm. “It’s okay.”
Evelyn approached the rear bedroom and pulled the drape aside, her heartbeat growing more rapid. Why was she worried? Because she understood that people touched by recent profound loss are unpredictable. Some feel they have nothing left to lose. Julie had been with Eric for many years. Evelyn lost Cameron after eleven, and she knew the devastation it caused. It was the first time in her life she had considered the idea of not being around.
She sat on the end of the bed, considering her words. Julie’s earlier outburst had been full of anger, blaming them for Eric’s death, as though they had been the ones to push him out the door towards the carnage. It wasn’t fair, but she knew to look beneath the facade to the underlying emotion; Julie needed someone to blame.
How did she begin? Would Julie scream her out of the room? It might even get physical. Evelyn had struck her mother across the face after a particularly raw comment. She couldn’t recall what it was now, but it had burned deeply.
Evelyn sat on the bed. The other woman didn’t move. The blanket had curled back. Evelyn folded it forward, covering Julie’s back. She watched her breathing, wondering what she might say that would offer comfort and hope. There was nothing. Perhaps it had been a silly idea to try. Julie needed time; that was the only thing that had ever helped Evelyn. Minutes. Hours. Nights. Days. Weeks. One after the other, until every tenth day was bearable.
She was about to leave when Julie stirred. A leg at first, then her left arm, and finally she lifted her head and their eyes met. Julie’s were puffy and red. Evelyn hadn’t seen anyone cry with such profound despair since… since she had done so with Cameron.
“Thank you.” Julie’s voice hitched, full of tears.
Then she lay back down. Evelyn waited for her to say more, but she buried her head in the pillow. What did she say? Evelyn took herself back to when Cameron died, and the days afterwards. Although his death hadn’t been unexpected, it had been until that point in her life the most challenging thing. As she thought about it though, it dawned on her that comparing experiences wasn’t going to work now. It wasn’t what Julie needed or wanted from her.
“We’re all so sorry for your loss, Julie. We loved Eric. He was a caring, wonderful man.” She started to cry. “You’re still here though, and we need you, the way you need us. The way the world is now… we’re here for you, when you’re ready. We’re your family now. I know Eric would want that. Take your time. We’ll be waiting.”
She found the others eating outside on a plastic foldout table and chairs that someone had discovered in a storage compartment of the camper. The sun had finished its final descent, a picturesque view, reminding Evelyn of another time and place. Callan and Jake were joking around again, and this time Evelyn watched the older man without restriction on her feelings.
Kristy set aside a plate for Julie, doubtful she would eat. When someone suggested they turn on the outside light on the camper, Gallagher insisted they move inside, which they did, reluctantly. For just a moment, life had been normal again.
Shortly after, the curtains to the back section moved, and Julie appeared. The conversation ceased. She had dry, puffy eyes, and a red nose. She was still hitching, but had stopped crying. “I’m sorry.”
Callan put the map down, rose, and put up a hand. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
Julie pressed her lips together and nodded, fighting back tears again. An overwhelming sadness filled Evelyn. She fought the urge to go to Julie and throw her arms around the older woman. How she must be feeling. Thoughts of Eric returned. Pressure filled Evelyn’s eyes. He’d been such a decent man. The pain reflected in Julie told them more; how she had loved him, and it reminded her of what she’d had with Cameron.
Evelyn ignored her doubt, stood, and opened her arms to Julie, who fell into them, sobbing.
“I’m okay,” Julie said, almost wailing. “I’ll be okay.”
Nobody spoke for a long time. Finally, Julie pulled away. Gallagher handed her tissues and she dabbed at her inflamed eyes.
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for my outburst before. It was… uncalled for. I know it’s nobody’s fault. Except
them.
”