“No trouble,” Callan said, holding his palms up.
“You shouldn’t have that torch on,” the man said in a deep, raspy voice as though he’d smoked too many cigarettes. “They’ll see it. They’re attracted to light.”
Greg switched it off and said, “Who?”
“Don’t be dense. The fucking zombies. The dead, or undead. Whatever you wanna call ‘em.”
Callan felt his skin chill. “They were infected with the virus, weren’t they? It turns into that.”
The man licked his lips. “Some of them just die. It’s bad. They’re everywhere. You’re crazy standing out there after dark.”
Callan swallowed, but his dry throat caught and he had to cough to clear it. “Is there… anyone alive? Hiding? Like you?”
The man shrugged. “Maybe. Most of ‘em are dead though. Dead or turned into zombies.”
“All of them?” Greg blurted out. “Not everyone can be dead?”
The man wiped his nose again. “Son, on the last news report ten days ago, they estimated seventy five percent of the country had the virus. Nearly everything had shut down. Banks, supermarkets, hospitals. People were dyin’ like the plague. Hell, it is the plague! Once you’ve got that virus you’re either dead… or you come back.” He hung his head, and then looked up at them. “If you survive until tomorrow, be prepared for what’s happened to this town. It ain’t a sight you’ve ever dreamed of seeing.”
A long, high-pitched scream sounded from a street or two away.
Callan jerked around. “What was that?”
“Leave,” the man said. “Leave town and go back to where you came from. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” The door crashed shut. The lock clicked, and the chain slid into place.
“Shit,” Callan said. “We should have just changed the fucking tyre. We’d be done by now.”
“Let’s do this. Fast. No torch.”
They ran in short strides down the steps and onto the broken pathway under a crack of moonlight. Callan felt for the crooked pavers, leaping from one to the other as they sped across the dead lawn. Twice he missed and felt the pointed edge of the stones. Reaching the curb, he spied the dark shape of the Jeep along the road.
“Shit!” Greg yelled from behind. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Callan halted and his friend hopped into him. “What is it?”
“My ankle. I rolled it on the edge of the fucking pavers.” He stopped, holding his right foot off the ground. He tried to take another step. “Oh, fuck that hurts.”
“Grab on,” Callan said, leaning into Greg’s shoulder. He braced his legs as Greg leant on him.
In the distance beyond the Jeep, a terrible moaning noise sounded. Callan froze. Greg stood, foot raised. “What the fuck is that?” He whispered.
Callan shook his head. “I don’t wanna know. Let’s move. Slowly, no noise. The Jeep’s just over there.” He wished they had brought the axe or tomahawk.
They made short, difficult steps, along the gravel. Another groan sounded, followed by an angry grunt, and several cries. Callan took Greg to the passenger side where he fell against the door. He realised the moment they opened it, the internal light would alert anything in the vicinity to their location, and they still had to change the tyre.
He tapped on the window, pressing his knee against the door so Kristy couldn’t open it.
The window slid down.
“Where have you been?” Kristy said.
“Shh. Trying to keep you safe. Greg has hurt his ankle. Flick the switch on the roof so the lights won’t come on when we open the door.” Two clicking noises sounded. “Dylan, I need your help to change the tyre.”
“Fuck the boat,” Sherry said. “Is it really that important?”
“Yes babe. It has all our fuel and most of the food. We might need it.”
Dylan said, “Couldn’t we get more from town?”
Callan shook his head. “I don’t wanna take the chance, there might be nothing left.”
“What about your life?” Sherry said.
“It won’t come to that.”
Greg fell into the front seat and Callan closed the door with a gentle click. Dylan got out. “Let’s do this. You hold the torch. And bring that axe.” He stuck his head in the door and said, “Keep the engine running, no lights, and be ready to punch it.”
They unhooked the trailer, prepared for a quick getaway, then unloaded the gear in the back of the Jeep and removed the tyre iron and jack.
Crouching beside the flat, Callan said, “Okay, now turn on the torch, but keep the beam low to the ground.” Dylan complied. “Good. That’s perfect.”
Something grunted, perhaps fifty yards away, and made a high-pitched shriek.
They froze and looked at each other. Dylan glanced at the axe lying beside him. Callan took a deep breath and then proceeded to place the jack under the trailer chassis.
He pumped the handle and the trailer slowly lifted. He had changed a good number of tyres in his time, and now unscrewed the wheel nuts with practised speed.
“What’s the story with you and my sister?”
Dylan snorted. “Nice timing. You’ll feed me to the zombies if I give the wrong answer?”
“Maybe.”
“No story yet.”
Callan grunted as he lifted the wheel off the axle and dropped it on the road with a thump.
“You like her?”
Dylan seemed to consider this. “You wanna talk about this now?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I like her.”
A cry sounded, like a person in trouble, followed by growling, and then sudden silence.
Dylan passed the torch to his left hand and picked up the axe. Callan moved faster, unbuttoning the spare wheel from the chassis under the shaking torch light and lifting it off. He slipped it straight onto the axle and the trailer shook. With trembling fingertips, he tightened the nuts.
“You know Greg likes her too.”
“Yeah. We spoke earlier.”
Callan picked up the wheel spanner and began to tighten the locks.
“I don’t think it’s the best time to be starting a relationship.”
“I don’t even know if she-”
“She does. As much as it pisses me off, I’ve seen it, and she likes you.”
“Why-” This time, the noise sounded more like the growing murmurs of a protesting crowd. “That does not sound good,” Dylan said. “It sounds like there’s a group of them.”
“Shit,” Callan said, tightening the third nut. A chilly shiver touched his spine. He felt exposed, expecting at any moment to feel the cold grip of the undead. Through the silent night, they heard the unmistakable sound of movement: feet crunching along the dirt road.
Dylan stood, maintaining the torchlight on the wheel. “Can we do this any faster?”
Callan rattled the spanner onto the final nut. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
“Please do. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with Kristy. I don’t know why her liking me pisses you off so much, and I’m sorry about Greg, I didn’t know he liked her until today.”
Callan inserted the square end of the tool into the jack and twirled the lever. The trailer started to drop. “Let me just say, if you hurt her, you’ll have two angry fuckers to deal with.”
The trailer settled back into place. Callan snatched the jack out from underneath. “Let’s move.” He opened the Jeep’s rear window and tossed the jack and spanner into a pile of bags. “Leave the flat. We’ll get another one.”
“You smell that?” Dylan said, twisting his nose in disgust.
“I’m trying not to.”
As Dylan guided the torchlight, Callan lifted the trailer head onto the tow ball. It resisted, then he pushed harder, and it clunked into place. He slipped the chain over the hook, but left the electrical adaptor unplugged.
Kristy knocked on the window, signalling that she was now in the backseat.
Callan yanked the driver’s door open
, and then jumped into the chair, clipping his head on the doorway. Pain exploded in his head. No time for that. He took the headlight switch between shaky fingers, his heartbeat racing, and turned it.
Shock rendered him immovable.
“Get going, man,” Greg said.
Sherry gasped, “Oh my God.”
He had imagined what a group of them might look like, young ones and old, but his creative side had always been limited, and he could never have imagined the terror that stood before them. We’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die. “Pull your fucking head in,” he said under his breath.
In the twin cones of light, dozens of dead people stretched along the street, wandering in random patterns from around the corner. Men and women, old and young, their faces bloated and bloody, their eyes listless, their pale, dead expressions shining in the golden light. Their dirty, tattered clothes hung from their bodies, and some were shoeless, others wore one, or both. They squatted in the gutters chewing on the deceased, blood dripping from their chins and hands. Several fights transpired, the combatants punching and biting until only one remained standing, and then a horde converged on the fallen. Their movement was unhurried, patient, as though they had a lifetime to feast at the buffet, and the crowd was edging towards them.
“He was right,” Callan said. “I thought he was full of shit.”
Greg said, “They’re all dead. All fucking dead.”
“Is that Mrs Baker?” Sherry said, sobbing.
Callan squinted. “I think so. And that might be Frank Carter getting attacked by the tree.”
“You have to drive through them.” Greg said in a slow, disbelieving voice.
The lead zombie was twenty yards away and closing in a slow gait. Others were following, drawn to the headlights, while more stood either side, lost in their own madness.
“I know,” Callan said.
He reached out and stuck the stick into gear, but still couldn’t accelerate. A month, ago he might have spoken to some of these people in the street. Now they were dead. Not just dead, but… He had a premonition that this was only the beginning, that what they had witnessed tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, if they survived that long, would make this seem mild. What if mom and dad are like this? Would he be able to kill them? He closed his eyes, thinking about the camping trip, wishing they were there now.
“Callan?” Kristy said, wiping away tears. “Please go. I don’t want to stay hear any longer.”
He opened his eyes. “Okay.”
Something banged against the driver’s window. Callan jumped.
“Shit!” Sherry screamed. “What is that?”
One of them, Callan thought, although not the vague, indifferent kind that stood in the headlights. Bright, blazing eyes, watched them with cheeks puffing in anger, as though they had done this. It still had a full set of bloody teeth, and when it opened its mouth and snapped its jaws shut, the sound carried through the window. Saliva trickled from its lips, and only a few long strands of hair remained, leaving a grey, parched scalp. Bleeding hands climbed the glass leaving smears and the thing pried its fingers between the window and doorjamb.
“GO CALLAN!” Sherry shrieked.
The thing slammed its fists against the glass, and Callan punched the accelerator to the floor, screaming like a kamikaze pilot. The engine revved and the car bolted forward.
The undead turned towards the vehicle, their infected bodies slow and bungling. We won’t make this, Callan thought, this might be the end. He urged the car on through gritted teeth swerving to strike them as if he was playing a video game. The others with their hungry faces fell like daisies under a lawn mower, thudding against the fender and disappearing underneath the car. It bumped and bounced and Greg’s head hit the roof amidst the girls screams. The Jeep hit one with a solid thump, splitting it in half. The upper part spun across the hood and rolled up the glass, leaving a trail of red gore.
As the last one within range fell, they reached the bend and Callan jammed the anchors on, throwing them into a slide. He thought they were going to end up around a tree, the boat pulling hard to the right, but he gunned the engine and the car swept side to side, then straightened. He felt like he was going to puke.
“Whoooaaaa,” he said, as the last one disappeared in the rear view mirror. “That was close.” He cackled, and wondered if he was becoming hysterical. “Greg, buddy, did you see that?”
Greg sat rigid, his fingers pressed against the door. “Good driving man.”
In the rear-view mirror, Kristy clutched Dylan’s hand in a double grip. Callan looked away. Sherry had a trembling fist over her mouth, her eyes large and skittish.
“You okay baby?” He wished he could comfort her.
She gave him a cold, hard look and slumped back against the seat. “No Callan. No I’m fucking not.”
“Jesus Christ people, we just made it out of hell!” He had thought they were trapped, that the zombies were going to line up and block the way, then mob the car and turn it over and pull them all out, goring them to death. His heart was still hammering. Get a grip. Dylan and Sherry were wild eyed, and he probably was too, but he felt relieved they were still alive. The number of zombies coming along the road had been staggering. Why were there so many? What had happened to cause it? Had everyone turned into a zombie? They knew so little about everything.
His relief faded as he thought about the next choice. Which direction? He had skirted the city centre hoping to avoid trouble, but if the zombies were everywhere, what did it matter? He decided to push through the main street and take the most direct route home. They were still fifteen or twenty minutes away.
“Little change of plan,” Callan said. Dylan sat forward, hopeful. “We’re driving straight through the centre of town.”
“We’re stopping at my parent’s house?” Dylan said.
“No,” Callan said. “We’ve been through this. I’m going home.”
Sherry said, “That’s just crazy. We need to stop. I need to get out of this fucking car, Callan. You brought me on this stupid trip so you’d better take me somewhere safe.”
“I will babe, I will. But I need to know if mom’s okay.”
5. Home
Callan’s stupidity infuriated Dylan. He had to think of something else to stop himself inciting an argument. Callan’s house was too far. They would have to drive through another five mobs like the previous one and next time they wouldn’t be so lucky.
The situation was worse than they had imagined. Survival rates would be low. The idea that he would never see his mom or dad again left him with an overwhelming feeling of terror. He wanted to throw up, and considered fleeing the convoy and trudging home to find out either way if they were dead or alive. He understood Callan’s desire to investigate his house first, but it put the group at greater risk. They had to stick together though. Alone, they wouldn’t last twenty minutes.
The car burned down East Street, turned the corner and hurried along Main. Dark shops crowded the road on both sides, and they could see straggling zombies at the fringe of the headlights. More cars sat parked at the curb, their windows shattered.
They chased the bend around Jameson’s park where shadows promised fresh horrors. Dylan grabbed the front passenger seat as Callan brought the car to a sudden halt, the tyres chirping in resistance.
Ahead, milling at the intersection of Lauren and Jackson Streets and far beyond, were thousands of them. A cold skin crept over him. If their previous encounter had seemed dangerous, this would surely mean death. The bulk of them wandered about the road, turning in small circles, bumping into each other. The odd one stood gnawing on the neck or limb of an ignorant victim. It was one enormous zombie party. Bodies lay on the street in lifeless layers, some dead, others moaning. Even in the headlights, they could see the blood splashed across their faces and clothes. Several shops were alight, and glass lay shattered over the bitumen. He felt sure that one of their parents had to be in the group. The odds of all surviving seem
ed infinitesimal.
The Jeep sat a hundred yards away and so far, the horde hadn’t noticed the headlights. Dylan was certain they wouldn’t get through to Callan’s house in this direction. Back to the Riverina Highway was the only option if Callan insisted on his original plan. Dylan’s home was five minutes’ drive. His parents lived in a double storey house on a hill, and an electrified, barbed wire fence surrounded the property. It might not stop a thousand hungry corpses but it would prevent individuals from strolling in.
Pointing this out to Callan would only cause trouble though. He needed to figure things out for himself, and Dylan thought he might be close.
“I don’t like our chances of making it through that,” Callan said.
“There’s too many of them,” Greg said.
Callan smashed a fist against the steering wheel. “Fucking fuckkkkkkk!” He lay back against the seat. “I can’t win. If I drive on, we’ll die. If I don’t go home… ”. He glanced at them. “What if we go home and they’re in trouble and because we went there, we saved them?”
Kristy opened her mouth to speak, but Dylan put a finger to her lips and shook his head. He knew Kristy and the others agreed with his plan, but her brother was close to the same deduction.
In a softer voice, Callan said, “I’ve tried to make the right choices today. All the decisions have been about safety. Going home was supposed to be the least risky move. I really thought that.”
Dylan wanted to tell him it had always been risky.
“But that…” Callan glared at the mass of zombie’s. “That’s madness. This entire fucking thing is madness. That last one that pounded on the window, who tried to get in… there was something different about him. He was scary. If they had all been like that, we’d be dead.”
“What are you thinking?” Greg said.
“How far is your house, Dylan?”
Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I Page 7
