Arcadium

by Sarah Gray

  Chapter 7

  THE CAR IS quiet for a while and it’s weird. There are five people in this car. I know I said never work with anyone else, but if Trouble wasn’t here, Liss and I would still be walking, battling infected people because I can’t drive. I never even had the chance to test for my learner’s license; I had an appointment but now it’s lost in a dead computer system. And I guess it’s the same for Henry and Kean. If they didn’t get into the car they’d be back there, battling creepies.

  I mean, even as older siblings, there are some things we just can’t do. We’re not perfect, but I’m pretty sure we’ll die trying to be. I’m not coming around to this teamwork thing at all. No Way. I’m just saying, I can see the merit in people with different skills helping each other out for short periods of time.

  The road slopes upward and we wind our way through abandoned cars, onto the Westgate Bridge. The city centre seems to rise up out of the rain mist and everyone looks out the left side windows.

  Tall black suicide fencing shades our view. Apparently in normal times this bridge used to be some kind of pilgrimage for people trying to kill themselves. So many people jumped from its ledges, that after a while they just became tiny articles that everyone skips over in the middle of the newspaper, if they even made it to print at all. It wasn’t until a little girl was thrown over the side that they finally put up railings to stop anything like it happening again.

  Skyscrapers prick the gloom like needles. Some of them are just skeletons of blown out glass. One building is toppled, leaning onto another, smoking from somewhere deep in its torn belly. The white frame of the half dismantled Melbourne Eye Ferris wheel is still there, never to be completed, I guess. It’s far in the distance by the Bolte Bridge, almost non-existent. But I know it’s there.

  The river below is green and swirling slowly. Out the other side, Port Phillip Bay stretches all the way to the horizon. Shipping containers are littered across the yard and a half sunk ship moves gently with the sea.

  There’s a tiny racetrack with a sign that says no speed limit. It’s kind of funny because there are no rules anymore. No speed limits. No one saying this is right and this is wrong. They’re just ghosts of the old world, because if people can get infected by a disease that makes them want to eat everyone else, well… what’s impossible now?

  Trouble lifts his hands off the wheel and then grabs on again. He looks at me and the car shudders. “Ah…” He tips his head and stares at the dash. “Trouble,” he says.

  It’s my turn to look confused.

  Kean leans over. “Are we out of petrol?”

  The car gives a final cough and goes quiet, but we keep sailing along on a wave of momentum.

  “Yep. We’re out,” Kean says. “We can keep rolling as far as we can.”

  “Uh, no. We can’t,” I say, gripping the dashboard. In front of us, dotted through a mess of cars, are a whole lot of infected people.

  “Oh, crap,” Henry says. “We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  We’re touring down off the bridge and my brain clicks into gear. Somehow I have to communicate what I need to Trouble.

  I look at him.

  He looks at me.

  I reach into my bag and pull out the siphon. “Which side’s the fuel cap?”

  Everyone twists around, peering out the windows. “My side,” Kean says.

  I tap the speedo dial at twenty km/h. “Slow,” I say.

  Trouble is smart. He may not speak English but he picks up what I’m saying so quick, like we’re forming our own kind of language. He pulls the brakes gently and we slow to a crawl, sneaking quietly into crowded territory.

  “Ok. We need petrol, so…” I hold up my fists and look at Trouble. There are two cars ahead and I want him to slot ours in between them. I point to the cars and he looks over. Then I manoeuvre my hand into the gap between. And finally I just point eagerly out the window and hold up the siphon.

  Trouble looks down the side of his seat and I hear something click. He’s opened the petrol cap, so I assume he gets what I’m trying to do. We’ll see soon enough. The road is levelling out. We’re almost off the bridge.

  Liss grabs my shoulder and whisper-shouts, “Florence, you can’t go out there.” She grapples at me, trying to get a grip, like her little bony hands are strong enough to hold me down. I just keep my eyes on the car I want.

  “Flo, don’t,” she says. “You can’t. Don’t.”

  Everyone else is silent. We’re barely rolling at a walking pace now. I tighten my grip on the siphon and hover my other hand over the door handle. I can’t tell if I’m shaking because I’m scared or because Liss is clawing at me. My heart’s pumping like an automatic weapon. No time to think. No time for words.

  Just before Trouble slides our car in between the other two, I slip out. Great plopping raindrops smack into my face and I tap my door, so it closes with a muffled humf sound. The car rolls away, slotting perfectly between a silver Ford and a dark blue… something else. I’m not really worried about that one. I’m aiming for the Ford.

  Rain covers the eerie silence. I hunch down and scuttle to the Ford, my fingers slipping over its shiny silver body. The fuel door thingy is already open but the cap is in place.

  Once, a very long time ago, my dad took us to this circus. We were just about to leave but the car wouldn’t start. Out of petrol, he said. Anyway, he had some tube in the back of the car. He went to the next car over, popped open the petrol hatch thing and unscrewed the cap. With the stealth of a ninja he did the same to ours and plunged the tube into the strange car. I remember watching him with my nose pressed up against the glass; mum was huffing in the front seat and silently screaming at him to stop. Dad actually put his mouth over the tube and then petrol started coming up and out. He spat out the liquid and then jammed the other end of the tube into our car. And hey presto, we had fuel again.

  I unscrew the Ford’s petrol cap, and the words please be full, please be full run through my head like I’ve forgotten every other word that exists. Rain presses down on my hair and splatters on the bitumen. I want to look around but I won’t. I have to focus.

  This siphon has a jiggler on the end so I don’t have to get a mouthful of petrol like dad did. I jam the metal end into the Ford, slip the other end into our car and start to jiggle it. I can hear petrol sloshing about in the tank and the metal bit clanks against the sides but nothing comes out. I could kill this siphon, if it wasn’t an inanimate object.

  I shake it harder and I can just see the yellowy petrol rising but it’s not enough. I can’t get the flow going. And then a creepy moan sounds. Close. Too close. My heart stops. An infected lady is just coming round the backside of the Ford.

  I hit the floor, grabbing the siphon as an after thought, and slither on my stomach backwards underneath our car. The lady stops right where I was, her gross decaying bare feet point in my direction. I close my eyes for a few seconds, rivers of rain break around me on the cold road, and I just hope everyone in the car is down and out of sight.

  I see her ankles tour around the other side of our car and I look down at the siphon. That damned metal part has to come out so I can use it as a tube. I check back on the infected lady’s progress and see more ankles, more feet, coming my way. Oh God.

  I grab the metal bit in my teeth and try to pull it out. I chew on the clear plastic tube hoping to bite off the end. The patter of bare flesh on the road creeps toward me.

  Why is it that whenever you do anything under extreme pressure it’s like the faster you try to go the more mistakes you make? My fingers are wet, shaking and slipping like my brain and my body aren’t talking to each other anymore. The metal bit is coming loose in my teeth, but not fast enough. I look back again. Oh crap.

  I don’t care if my teeth are ripped out in the process, this stupid jiggler thing is coming off. I grip and yank.

  The tube flies out, smacking against the road. I freeze. Just for a second, then spit out the metal part.

 
The area behind the cars is clear but those infected are still wandering in my direction, so this has to be quick. I slither out, rise to my knees and jam the tube into the Ford, pretending it’s a straw. It happens quicker than I thought and petrol spurts everywhere. I jam the other end into our car, and spit the fuel from my mouth, feeling like a fire breather. The yellow liquid flows through into our tank.

  The moans are so close I don’t even bother to look up; I dive straight under the Ford, and wiggle all the way under. The Ford is lower and the metal work presses up against my back. I keep shuffling so I can watch the siphon. White, peeling feet slap against the concrete everywhere. Left, right, front and back. There’s no clear ground anywhere.

  I can’t get back in our car from here; it’s wedged too tightly between the Ford and the blue one. I can’t signal the other guys either. So there’s only one option.

  The liquid in the siphon tube starts to bubble, turns to whitewash and the tube clears. Hopefully that’s enough petrol to get us out of this mess. I want the siphon back but I can’t quite reach it. I slide around to get enough space to move my shoulder, trying to be quiet but my jacket is making tiny scraping sounds.

  Around me the feet keep on marching. When they pause, I pause too. And when they move again, so do I.

  At last I reach the siphon. When I pull it out petrol dribbles down the sides and I awkwardly manage to replace our fuel cap. I don’t know if it has to be on but I’m taking no chances. Well, no more chances.

  My hands are covered in petrol and it’s weird; icy cold and slimy to the touch. I can’t click the cover back in place. I’m not brave enough because I just know that the noise will be the sound that signals to the infected people. I drop down and commando crawl to the front of the car.

  I don’t know what’s going on with the other guys in our car. I’m kind of surprised Liss isn’t screaming. Should I be proud that she’s being brave or hurt that she’s not terrified for me? For some reason I imagine them all sitting safely in the car, playing cards, while I lie stuck under this car, risking everything.

  I can see the full bodies of infected people now, wandering in a scattered formation, moving around cars and heading on. A few in front are wandering in small circles and that’s not good for me. I’m poised, waiting for a break and mapping out a getaway path, but everything keeps changing. They move and shift and gather in small groups.

  My hands are vibrating against the road. The car feels like it’s lowering against me, crushing everything. Or maybe that’s because I’m trying to get more air in my lungs.

  A gap opens up. Infected people move to the left and right, creating a straight path, if I clamber up onto the yellow car and go right over.

  That’s it.

  I wiggle out, jump to my feet and bolt with everything I’ve got.

  The infected see me right away. The moans and groans follow me, rising with excitement.

  Each stride I take feels like an earthquake, and everything shifts into slow motion. The rain falls over me as I sprint. Legs and arms pumping, I leap up onto the car bonnet in front. I lose my footing on the slippery paintwork and use my hands to propel myself up onto the roof. Decaying fingers brush at my boots and I have about a second to map out the next part of my getaway.

  I slam across the boot and then down to the road and swerve left. I cut between two cars and shift right, narrowly missing a side mirror with my hip.

  Behind me I hear an engine start and I duck under the belly of a sideways truck. Now I have to push even harder. The road ahead is clear of vehicles and I can hear the car speeding up to me, but infected people swarm to me like moths to a light.

  It’s become a life and death game of Bull Rush, but instead of tagging me and sending me to the sideline, the infected will just eat me. Game over. At least school did prepare me for something.

  I duck left, almost catching a clawing arm to the face. The infected spins and topples as I flash past. I cross into the next lane and surge on. God, they’re everywhere. I reel back as one comes flying across me, and then I launch myself over his fallen body. Where’s that damned car already?

  It flashes past on my right and the back door flings open. The pace is too quick for me; I’m tired, falling back, loosing hope. The car slices across the road sending up a rooster tail of rain spray and I see Kean leaning out, holding the door open. He’s beckoning to me like I’ve got some magic ability to run as fast as a speeding vehicle.

  The brake lights flash and suddenly I’m at the car so quick I almost run straight into the door. At the last second I propel myself sideways and Kean grabs me.

  Trouble floors it and the engine roars. There are hands everywhere, pulling me in, legs poking in every direction. My face is pressed against fabric and cushion. I kick my legs in and the door slams shut, muting the rain and the moans.

  Someone’s talking. It sounds like chanting. For a moment it’s unfamiliar and then I realise it’s actually me, just repeating oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. My hand is still clutching the siphon. I’m lying over Henry, and Kean is hunched over me in the mess of the backseat. I’m soaked.

  Liss is up front with Trouble; she’s gripping the seat staring back at me. My mouth is all gross and slidey like it’s full of spicy dishwashing liquid. But I’m alive. We’re alive.

  And the rain is still applauding for all of us.