Callan stood near the door with a soft, understanding expression. “Really, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” She squeezed into the seat on the end of the table. “My mother died when I was seven, and my father was incapable of looking after me—I mean, it wasn’t that he didn’t care, but he was in his early fifties and that generation was far less capable than it is today. I was the youngest child, and both my sisters were teenagers. I got shipped off to live with an aunt and uncle. First in Hawthorn, then Diamond Creek, but nobody wanted me.” Evelyn leaned across the table and put a hand over Julie’s. She gave an appreciative simile. “It wasn’t until I met Eric that I found someone that wanted me.” She gathered herself, before continuing. “And I’ve had him ever since. To lose that now… it feels like I’m seven years old again and nobody wants me.”
“
No,
” Evelyn said. “That’s not true. We want you. You’re part of our family now.” There was a chorus of agreement.
“That’s right,” Kristy said. “Don’t forget that. Ever.”
Julie accepted their support with more tears. She picked at the food as the children crawled into their beds and the others each found a sleeping place. But it took Evelyn a time to fall asleep; the image of Callan stealing glances at her stuck in her mind’s eye well into her dreams.
EIGHT
Kristy woke to strips of grey light beneath the blinds, bumping into Dylan as she rolled over with pins and needles in one arm. She slipped out of bed, added clothes, and went outside, stepping over bodies lying on the floor of the camper.
Hard morning sunlight greeted her, promising another hot day. A light wind tickled threads of her hair, and on it, she smelled the slow decay of the town below. They would go there soon, and that thought filled her with dread. On the road and the outskirts of townships, they were mostly safe. Heading into the more populated areas, they faced great risk.
Necessary risk.
They were far from their destination and wouldn’t make it there without guns and more supplies.
She wandered about the camp, looking over the four-wheel drive and thinking about Dylan. She put an arm around him last night, chasing a little comfort, but he rolled over, disinterested. What was happening? Had he lost interest after sleeping with her? It had happened to her before, early in her relationship career, but with Dylan, a man she had known for so long, and with honesty she had never encountered, it seemed implausible.
The others rose soon after, stretching, sluggish, slipping through the camper door so as not to wake those still asleep. Kristy went back inside to check if Dylan was awake, and found Julie standing at the kitchen sink, clearing away clutter and assembling the remaining food in a pile.
“Good morning,” Kristy whispered with a smile. Julie returned the greeting, and Kristy admired the woman’s spirit to keep moving on. Kristy tried to wrangle breakfast duties off her, but she insisted on it. Kristy supposed it took her mind off other things. She even managed a smile as Sarah and Jake sat at the table waiting for boiled eggs.
Kristy kept thinking about the change in Dylan. He had gone outside, so she decided to confront him, draw it out in the open, and ask questions from which he couldn’t hide. She found him conversing with Callan and Greg by the farm vehicle.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” He followed her to the edge of the clearing with an expression of annoyed expectance. “What’s wrong?” But as she waited for an answer, it came to her with a pang of worry. “Are you sick?”
His face twisted into an expression of disbelief. “What?”
“Your eyes are red. Your nose, too.” She put a hand up to his forehead, but he stepped away.
“What are you doing?”
“Dylan, you look—”
“I’m fine.” He circled and headed back towards the others. “Stop doting over me. You’re not my mother.”
She was incapable of a response. Greg wandered over, his soft smile holding her feet still. “He’s not himself at the moment. It was pretty bad down there yesterday. Just give him a day or two, he’ll come around.”
“I hope you’re right. He looks sick.” She wondered whether he had somehow contracted the virus. What if he’d taken in a splash of blood or a scratch had gotten dirty? The possibilities were endless. Was irritability a symptom? Part of her wanted to chase after him, thrash out the issue, but mostly she was scared it would become worse.
“Could just be something he picked up along the way. We’re all running on empty at the moment.”
Greg had a point. Kristy lacked energy. She could do with a day or two of sleep.
Back in the van, Julie had prepared a basic breakfast of eggs and fruit. Sarah, Jake, and Evelyn all sat at the table eating in silence. Julie held up the frying pan and offered Kristy one of the soft fried yolks. She took one and snavelled it down, her stomach grateful. Evelyn began making a list of things they would need. Kristy contributed a couple of items, but her mind was elsewhere.
She tried to find Dylan before they left, but he had disappeared. She fought a battle of leaving him be, as Greg had suggested, or insisting upon a discussion about whatever was bothering him. The thought of him somehow being infected preyed on her mind. And if he didn’t want to be with her anymore, she wanted to know that, too. But after sweeping the clearing, she still couldn’t find him...
Callan insisted on using the grimy blue Toyota four-wheel drive they had found at the farmhouse. It wouldn’t break any land-speed records, but it had a bull bar on the front, reinforced sides, and heavy-duty tires. Their range of weapons was limited to two tire irons, the biggest knives from Julie’s kitchen, and a hammer Greg had found under the sink.
Kristy waited as the others climbed aboard the van, and Callan and Greg into the Toyota. They were set to drive away when Dylan finally returned. Kristy watched as he went directly for the four-wheel drive, feeling her hopes sink. She jogged across the clearing to him.
“You’re not coming with us?”
“I wanna discuss strategy with Callan and Greg.” He kissed her softly on the lips, but Kristy felt anything but romantic as he climbed into the car. She walked back to the van and slumped in the front, peering out the window, feeling her loose grip on their relationship slipping away. She considered asking Evelyn for advice, but raising it with another person in any sort of depth would only make it more real. For now, she had to sit tight.
Evelyn led them in slow, cautious progress through the outskirts of Yass, the smell growing worse as the farmland and scrub became a sketchy line in the rearview mirror. As they entered the fringes of the township, the first abandoned cars greeted them. The van drove on over broken glass and bloodstains on the roads, even up on the curb where the occasional traffic accident blocked the way. There were no packs of feeders, but they saw more than two dozen wandering about before they hit Main Street. Several approached the van as it drove past, one close enough to thump on the side, but after what they had witnessed in the last week nobody flinched, and the energy they had once possessed to kill every zombie they saw was now sensibly conserved.
Evelyn circled the streets looking for the hunting store, passing another selection of shops where the supermarket sat silent. Kristy watched Evelyn navigate the van, wondering how she had ended up in the driver’s seat again. She supposed it was fitting; Kristy felt safe with her behind the wheel. Her concentration was impeccable, and she handled the camper as though she had been driving one for years. Kristy had no doubt that Evelyn’s work at the Army facility had saved lives.
“I drove my grandfather’s tractor when I was a girl, and all through my teenage years,” she said when Kristy queried it. “Used to ride up and down the paddocks slashing grass. Even though he could have done it himself, I think he wanted to make a farmer out of me.”
“I know you think you got the better deal of this,” Kristy waved a hand around, indicating the van and the people, “but we did pretty well too.”
Evelyn laughed. “Trust me, I still owe you guys.”
Kristy felt comfortable talking to Evelyn, as though the two had been friends for years. She listened well and had a wise head on her shoulders for such a young age. It was her chance to get Evelyn’s take on Dylan’s behavior, and asking a question was easy. “Have you noticed anything strange about Dylan since yesterday?”
“Since the Army base?” Kristy nodded. “Nothing stranger than anybody else has been.” She looked away in thought. “He’s been a little quiet, but … why?”
“Something’s not right. I can just sense it.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. That’s the way men are, isn’t it?”
Evelyn smiled. “He’s probably still a little rattled from yesterday. Based on what Greg said, they had some pretty scary moments down there. I’m sure he’ll be good soon.”
They hadn’t even talked about what had gone on underground. Maybe that was the problem—Dylan needed to talk about it. If Kristy knew what had happened, she might be able to help. Still, she wasn’t sure which way to go from there.
The men had taken the lead in the four-wheel drive, and now stopped at the curb outside a shop with a sign that read YASS OUTDOOR SPORTS AND CAMPING STORE. It was a tiny shopfront with two large windows and a glass door that might once have been a house. On the right was KING CHARCOAL CHICKEN, on the left, the AUSTRALIAN HOTEL, a wide, two-story building that would fit three or four normal size stores.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Kristy said. “I hope it’s got guns.” If they didn’t find a decent stash of weapons here, their chances of gathering enough supplies in Yass were limited. With the irons and knives, they could probably scratch out enough to keep them going until the next town.
Greg pulled the glass door open, and they all disappeared inside the shop. A cold feeling washed over Kristy, as though it might be the last time she saw them, but she ignored it. Every day—hell, every
hour
they were up against this sort of stuff.
They soon returned, Callan with an armload of guns, and Greg lumbering behind carrying a brown cardboard box. They split the loads between the Toyota and the campervan, and in two more trips, they had enough ammunition to last weeks. Kristy picked through the pile inside the doorway of the camper, enjoying the feel of the rifles and pistols.
“We’re back in business,” Greg said as he placed the last box of ammo at the foot of the pile amongst flashlights, ropes, and a plethora of camping equipment.
“It might look like a lot,” Gallagher said, peering up from a folded map laid out on the table, “but we will burn through that pretty quickly.”
Greg smiled at her. Kristy tried to return it, but she knew it wasn’t becoming of her. Greg frowned and put a hand on her arm. “You okay?”
She tipped her head from side to side. Greg was the last person with whom she could discuss Dylan, but she was grateful for his sentiment. “I’ll be okay.” This time she did smile, and in it was her appreciation of his friendship, that he had been able to get past her relationship with Dylan, and not outwardly portray any bitterness towards her. Kristy knew from experience that was a difficult thing to do in such a situation. Greg hadn’t been drinking, either, and she wondered whether he had turned his own corner. “How’s your leg?” He nodded, indicating it was much better. “Did you finish all the antibiotics?”
He smirked. “Yes, Doc. No grog either. Have you noticed?”
This time her smile was radiant, and the response in his features warmed her. He drew back, beaming. “I did. You’ve been quite amazing, you know.” But she was cautious not to overplay her position and mislead him. “Keep up the good work and you’ll be the healthiest of us lot in no time.” He stepped from the van with the last lot of ammunition for the four-wheel drive. Things between her and Greg were returning to normal, and she was thankful for that at least.
NINE
Callan led them through a thin gap in the sliding doors of the Ritchie’s supermarket. He’d thought about bringing Blue, but decided the dog was safer in the campervan. Unlike the stores they had visited in Albury, this one was almost untouched. Its location—on a side road off the main street of Yass—kept it from the bulk of traffic. The Woolworths supermarket closer towards the center of town had probably received far more attention. Callan didn’t care—as far as he was concerned, they had struck gold.
Greg, Gallagher, and Evelyn—who had, using Kristy’s influence, convinced them to let her join—followed Callan into the store. He was glad to have Evelyn along. By Kristy’s report, she had fought superbly at the defense facility, although it meant he no longer had only himself to worry about. Whilst he would always look out for Greg and Gallagher, they were more conditioned to fighting. Evelyn was not. And if he was honest, he had developed a soft spot for her, and her kid, which meant he really had two people to consider.
In pale light from the outside, they ran hunkered through the cash registers and into the main body of the store, where shadows lurked and who knew what else. Callan had the 9mm pistol cocked and ready. Greg broke several trolleys away from a long stack just beyond the registers and swung one each towards the others. Staying together, they rolled their rattly trolleys towards one end of the store.
“Stay alert,” Gallagher said.
The aisles were clear and the shelves patchy, although it would be more than enough for their requirements. Callan guessed that whoever had run the store had insisted on keeping some stock right up until the death knock. Thankfully, given its location off the main street, few people had discovered it yet.
The smell was horrendous, and despite having dealt with it every day, it made him nauseated. The thick scent of moldy food struck as they strolled into the former fresh food section. Callan and Evelyn both covered their noses. With the lights off, dark corners loomed, and nearby something scurried away. Callan raised his pistol and followed the moving shadow, but it was only a rat feeding on the wheel of a watermelon scarred by a thick layer of dark green mold.
At the edge of a pallet of green oranges, Gallagher almost tripped over a feeder hiding underneath a flap of waste cardboard. Callan thought it was dead, but it kicked like a giant crayfish and rolled over onto all fours, hissing and grunting. Greg stepped forward and placed the barrel of his rifle against its head.
“Wait!” Callan shouted. The gun boomed, shattering the silence. “Jesus, man, we don’t want to draw any more of them.”
Greg kicked the zombie over with his foot. It wore a brown shirt and black slacks—the supermarket uniform. Dark, thinning hair led back from a crusty face, with large, bulging eyes that would never close. “Sorry.”
“Alright. Let’s do this quickly. Non-perishables and all the processed food we can get our hands on. Two per aisle, we leapfrog one aisle at a time. Evelyn and I will take number one.”
Callan didn’t know why he had chosen to partner her. Perhaps it was that he thought she probably felt most comfortable with him. He glanced her way as he led her into the first aisle, the pistol locked in his right hand. Her soft eyes and high cheekbones cut pretty angles. Had he thought that about her before? He didn’t know. The shadow of Sherry’s presence clouded most of this thought. It was nice to move beyond that, if only fleeting, but he knew his head should be on the job.
Focus.
Evelyn laid her rifle into the trolley and pushed it into the bakery aisle. Beyond, in the next row, the sound of movement drifted to them above the silence.
Just Greg and Gallagher,
Callan told himself. But images of his time with Dylan back in Albury had burned terrifying memories into his mind.
The bakery aisle contained flour and other useful ingredients. They managed a handful of packages each, and rounded the corner into the next aisle where pasta, sauces, and other items filled most of the shelves. The place was silent. That made him uncomfortable.
Callan jerked his trolley to a stop as he spied the type three. Evelyn almost crashed into him. He placed a finger on his lips and she bit down a response. It hadn’t noticed them yet. It stood with its back pressed against the wall near the rack of fridges full of curdled milk and spoiled cream. Something had its attention in one of the other aisles. Callan stepped backwards, rolling the trolley away, until they were out of sight.
“Jesus,” Evelyn said, scooping her rifle out of the trolley.
“I have to kill it.”
“We need to leave.”
“
No.
We’re not finished. Wait here.”
Callan pressed himself against the rack and tiptoed towards the end of the aisle. At the corner, he clicked the safety off and raised the weapon. Before it reached position though, a rabid growl greeted him, and then it was on him, the stained blue overalls, the smell of rot and death knocking him to the floor.
Evelyn screamed.
Callan fell backwards, searching for the zombie’s stomach with the gun, but the thing outweighed him by thirty pounds. He hit the tiles with a thud, the breath exploding from his lungs, and the gun discharged, blowing a hole in the rear wall.
The zombie took hold of his throat. He pried a hand at one bony arm and brought the weapon around, aiming for its head, but it swatted the gun away like a cardboard prop. His free hand grabbed for the arms, but its strength surprised him. His breath slowly dissolved and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he choked to death.
Gunfire roared, disintegrating the zombie’s head. Callan turned away as blood spread across the floor and shelves, covering pasta sauce with dark muck. He rolled away, coughing for air, and scrambled to his feet.
Evelyn maintained the rifle on the feeder, gun smoke drifting around her thick brown hair. She looked cooler than he would ever be, her face stern, uncompromising, ready to do it all again if needed. In that moment, she was a kick-ass woman and he thought she had never looked better. The thing had caught him off guard, but she had saved him. Perhaps he wasn’t as capable as he thought. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
She managed a smile, but her hands were shaking. “No. Now we’re even.”
Gallagher and Greg arrived, their trolleys half-full of stock, and they all agreed to finish as quickly as possible. They parted again, moving down the next lane stacking water and potato chips into gaps in their loot. They entered the confectionary aisle, the shadowy loading bay doors at the end of the aisle peering back at them. Callan paused at a stack of colored sweets, his mouth watering. He split open a pack and shoved a handful at Evelyn. They chewed, smiling like children.
Movement near the doorway caught his attention. “What’s that?” He let go of the trolley and cocked the pistol. Evelyn’s brow furrowed, eyes on the space ahead.
“Where? I can’t see anything.”
Callan pointed. “There, beside the doorway.”
“It looks like a… man.”
Callan approached, pistol cocked. “Greg! Gallagher! Here!”
The man lay up against the wall beside a pallet of empty cardboard boxes, camouflaged in his brown uniform. Callan stepped in front of Evelyn, conscious she didn’t get too close, and stopped about ten feet from the man. He stirred, moving one leg, rotating his head towards them slightly as though he were waking from sleep. Callan knew immediately that he was more advanced than both the man who had killed himself returning from the lake, and the one driving his family in the back of the truck to Melbourne. A tingle of apprehension touched the skin on his arms.
The skin on the man’s face had washed out of color except for the blotchy red marks where sores had appeared. His hair was thinning, showing a pink, cracked scalp underneath. He was frail, as though coming off a bad illness, and a red wound on his shoulder that was probably a bite glared at them. But mostly, he reminded Callan of Eric—same age, similar look, except for the advancement of the disease. The memory of their good friend stung.
Greg and Gallagher arrived. “He’s sick,” Callan said. Gallagher crouched before the man, placing his rifle on the floor nearby. “Don’t get too close.”
“I’ve already got the virus.”
Callan had forgotten that. Gallagher was taking the serum Klaus had formulated. But it was too late for this man. The man made a noise as he tried to face Gallagher. Callan edged closer. “He’s trying to say something.”
At first, the words were soft and unintelligible, his mouth and tongue dry. Gallagher went to one of the trolleys and removed a bottle of water, cracked the top and put it to the man’s lips, then helped him sit more upright against the wall. His words were surprisingly clear after the water. He peered around at them all, his blue eyes lucid, as though the virus hadn’t yet touched them with its poison.
“You killed the other one, didn’t ya? I felt it.” Nobody spoke for a long moment. Gallagher, squatting beside the man, glanced up at them. “They call me, you know? The crazy ones. They got some kind a power of the mind. The other ones too, they feel it. They’re scared of ‘em.” He launched into a coughing tirade, and Callan imagined his ribs rattling. It lasted half a minute.
“What do you mean they call you?” Callan asked in a slow, incredulous voice.
“I hear their thoughts. They talk to me. With their mind.” He blinked, rubbing his eyes. “Sounds crazy, I know, but this whole thing is goddamn crazy, isn’t it?” He sat up, and Gallagher gave him some more water. He took three long gulps. “Never mind if you believe me or not. But let me tell you this: they’re planning somethin’, the crazies. Tryin’ to turn everyone like them so they can take over. They’ve been working on that since the beginnin’. They take the weaker infected and make ‘em stronger.” He looked up at them. “They’ll win, you know. They won’t stop until there are no humans left.” He looked at Gallagher’s rifle on the floor, then up towards Callan. “Can you people do me a favor?” He lay back against the wall.
Nobody spoke. It was probably the right thing to do. Callan would do it if nobody else wanted the job, but he hoped Gallagher or even Greg might volunteer. This man reminded him too much of Eric. He had killed plenty, and would kill again, but every context was different and sometimes it was harder.
“I’ll do it, sir,” Gallagher said, collecting the rifle. He stood, nodding for the others to leave.
They pushed their trolleys back down the remaining aisles together. Evelyn jumped when the shot rocked the store. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sound.”
Greg loaded his trolley with several boxes of matches. “You will.”