by Sarah Gray
Chapter 4
I WAKE WITH a crick in my neck, a cold back and Liss as my blanket. I poke her and she grumbles, and then, as if remembering she’s in the middle of an apocalypse, her head shoots up.
“Calm down, it’s just me.”
Liss twists around so she can see my face. “Do we have to go out there today?” It’s her whiney voice but I can’t blame her after yesterday.
“Yes.”
“But they’re out there.”
“They always are. But haven’t I protected you so far?”
She looks away. “Yes.”
“And is there any reason to believe I wouldn’t keep doing that?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll keep on.” I rub my eyes. “It won’t always be like this, Liss. Not forever. Should we get some breakfast?”
Liss climbs out of the bathtub and sits on the sink counter, swinging her legs around. She’s watching me like it might be the last time she ever sees me again. My limbs are all heavy… I think that might be an adrenaline thing, or a being shoved into a cramped space thing or maybe a combination of both.
I swear I’ve had more than a years allowance of adrenaline in one shot yesterday — which, I might add, was super helpful seeing as I was stuck in a bin and couldn’t run anywhere. Thanks a lot, body.
“I might have a look around this house, see if there’s something to eat.” I listen through the door. “I’ll go out, you lock the door behind me and listen. When I give you the ok you can open it again.”
Liss nods and stands behind the door. We’ve done this a few times before. I know it’s pretty risky going in blind but I didn’t hear any movement last night and that’s usually a good sign its empty.
“Ready?” I say.
Liss unlocks the door. She pauses, both hands clasping the handle.
I nod and try to look calm. Liss pulls the door open a crack so I can peer through. I give her a thumbs-up and she pulls it open just enough so I can slip out.
The door closes and I’m in a dim hallway, alone. There’s a painting on the wall of some fruit, and I can’t tell if it’s leering at me or just teasing me. I haven’t had fruit in that long.
To my right is the front entrance, all closed up, and next to that is an open door with a bedroom behind it. The double bed is still made perfectly, not a crease on it. The décor is a weird brown and pink floral that reminds me of old people. All the photo frames on the bedside tables are face down.
I move on slowly, passing an archway that opens up to the lounge room. This screams old people too: brown shag carpet, reclining chairs and one of those old TV’s with the huge backs on them.
The kitchen is next. A big open space with green-flecked benches and a wooden table and chairs in the very middle. All the other doors are closed, so I pop open a cupboard hoping for food, but it’s all plates and cups. It’s weird how everyone organises their kitchens so differently.
I pull open a load of cupboards, exposing useless pots and pans and crystal wear, when I get that weird feeling like I’m not alone. There’s a low guttural growl, like a defensive animal.
I look up slowly, my hand still on the cupboard door.
It’s looking at me, standing side on in an open archway that runs from the kitchen to the joined lounge… the only place I didn’t check.
When I step into a situation and it goes bad like this, I find the first few seconds are given over to the oh crap response… like I literally say the words in my head, but it’s more than that. While I’m standing frozen for those few seconds, my brain goes wild noticing all these random details just before my body has a chance to kick into action. It’s like a computer downloading information at super speed.
The infected man’s head is twisted towards me, eyes glaring, lips snarling. My old people guess is confirmed. He’s wearing a cardigan and brown pants, his face has deep wrinkles and what’s left of his hair is a puff of white. He actually kind of looks like a mad scientist, the way his hair sticks out at odd angles.
The infected man and I seem to jump into action at the same time. I back away, pulling out one the chairs, just as he charges. And man, does he come flying, he must hate that I’m in his house. I lift the chair and use it to kind of joust him. We lock together for a moment and he swipes wildly at me. I lean away out of his reach and put all my effort into shoving him back. He stumbles. I throw the chair after him.
I reach into the cupboards, fire some dinner plates at his head, but every single one misses, smashing into the wall. Liss must be freaking out.
I dive under the table as he hurtles toward me, and it’s like being in a cell with wooden bars. Mad scientist man reaches in, saliva dripping from his mouth, and I kick out. I crush his hand against his chest. I hear some bones snap but it’s not enough. I need to go for the head and I need to go for the kill. This is one I can’t run away from.
There’s something surreal about fighting an old infected man in his kitchen. It’s like a video game and that’s the only way I can make sense of it. Like I’m the main character and he’s just another pixel-created enemy in my way.
He actually catches my boot and pulls me out a bit, trying to manoeuvre into a biting position. My hand flies back, pushing away the other two chairs and I see it. The perfect weapon is sitting in the cupboard on the bottom shelf.
I slam my hand back, find the handle and fling the frying pan up as the man’s head comes down to chew on my leg. It makes an almighty clank and a spray of blood showers across the table. I drop the frying pan and reach for another one, crawling out the other side of the table. This is the part I hate… but it’s just like a video game… just a game… no consequences… no laws… no right or wrong. He’s not living. He’s already dead.
I run around the table and slam the new frying pan into the man’s head. He’s already reeling from the first hit and this one bends him back over the sink. Now I really go for it, hammering the frying pan against his skull. It makes weird squelching sounds and his hands are having some kind of spasm attacks. On the third whack his head caves in but I keep going until he stops moving. His infected blood drains into the sink, trickling away.
When I stop there’s not much head left. Just flesh and bone and bits of brain. I drop the pan in the sink over his mashed head and check my hands. There’s a light spray of blood and I grab a tea towel.
I’m still catching my breath when all my senses return. Liss is screaming, banging up against the bathroom door. I know it’s selfish but I give myself a minute, standing in the still kitchen, watching my hands shake.
I ditch the bloody tea towel and flick the rest of the cupboards open. I grab a plastic bag and pull out some tins, so fast I don’t even look at the labels. When it’s half full I go and unlock the front door. Finally I say, “Liss, open up.”
The crying stops and the door pops open a crack. Her wide grey eyes are staring out at me. “You’re not dead?”
I put my hand on my hip and roll my eyes. “Have you no faith in me, little sis?”
She blinks.
“Backpacks? Lets go.”
She throws me my bag and we escape into the front yard. I was going to get her to check the bathroom cupboards for stuff we might need but I decide that the quicker we get out, the quicker I leave it all behind.
“Hang on,” I say. The front fence is a decent height so I kneel on the damp grass. “Can you get the antiseptic wipes out? And the can opener.”
I feel Liss unzip my backpack and rummage around. She hands me a wipe and I run it all over my hands, in every crevice and sneaky space. I run it under my nails too. Most of the blood is gone already; it’s just a precaution. The last thing I need is to wipe my mouth and infect myself with left over blood.
“You want to open us some tins?” I try to hide my shaking hands from Liss.
“What do you want?” she says.
“Whatever. Surprise me.” I check over my arms and chest. “How’s my face?”
Liss inspects i
t. “Still needs some work.”
“Oh, ha, ha. Any blood?”
“No.” She stares at me. “What happened?”
I think of lying but there’s no point. “The owner happened. He was in the kitchen.”
“But you won?”
“Don’t I always?”
Liss hands me a tin of sliced pears and she has some alphabet spaghetti. I load the rest into my backpack, discarding the dog food.
“Lets keep going,” I say. “We can eat and walk.”
We peer out into the road and when we know it’s all clear we stick to the fence line and carry on.
You’d think there’d be loads of jump moments like that in an apocalypse but it’s more strung out tension and your imagination making up things. Still it doesn’t make up for anything. It still sucks.
I hate being on the streets after such a close encounter. Something in me just believes infected are around every corner, seconds from jumping out. Moving is the best thing I can do right now.
“Hey, look.” Liss uses her spoon to point. “It’s Trouble.”
I look over. It’s not more infected, just the Chinese man we seem to be calling Trouble. He’s a few houses down, in a front yard doing pull ups on a tree branch.
When he sees us his face brightens and he starts doing the pulls ups one handed so he can wave.
“Show off,” I say under my breath.
He comes over to us and does this kind of bow greeting. I don’t know a word of Chinese. I can’t even remember how to say hello so I just nod. He points in the direction we’re going.
“Yep,” I say. “That’s where we’re going.”
He nods and steps out onto the footpath.
“Hi, Trouble,” Liss says.
Trouble gives her a thumbs-up.
“Ok, well… nice chatting to you. Bye,” I say.
Liss and I keep walking. And Trouble walks in the same direction. He jogs a few steps to catch up.
“Ok,” I say. “Guess we’re going the same way.”
“Is he with us now, Florence?”
“No. We’re just heading in the same direction.”
“Oh.” Liss shovels a spoon of pasta letters into her mouth. “Flo, how many pull ups can you do?”
I stare straight ahead and forget to answer. Oh, the joys of having a little sister.
It’s weird walking with someone else, let alone someone whose English vocabulary starts and ends with the word trouble. Still if you only know one word in these times it might as well be that one.
