The End: Surviving the Apocalypse

by Palmer, Richard

  “Hey!” said Q, scampering to her feet. “Did you see it?”

  The man paused. He glanced at the cooking pot clutched in her hand. He was quiet too long, as if preparing an answer rather than providing one. “I killed it,” he said at last.

  “Lucky you had your gun with you,” Q said, thinking it a bit too coincidental. “When the attack happened.”

  “I was out hunting.” The man turned to go.

  “What was it?” Q said.

  “Rabid roo,” he said. “Go home.”

  “Wait!” Q called. “We need to—”

  In the distance, an engine revved. In defiance of the ordinary spectrum, Rabbit turned a greener shade of gray. “That’s the Yowie bus,” he said. They ran.

  *

  It was gone.

  Angela sank to the dirt, bereft. She traced a hand in a tire divot. “They left,” she said.

  “They must have gone for help,” Rabbit said.

  “They left us!” Angela’s voice rose.

  Rabbit shook his head. Q leaned against a tree and pulled out a stashed candy bar from the pocket of her cargo pants. It was half-melted and, like a rebound romp on a summer’s night, full of warm, sticky reassurance. She tore off a piece and handed the rest around. Such was Rabbit’s level of shock, he ate it without even asking if it was fair trade.

  “Those bastards!” Angela said. “I hope their intestines are ripped out and eaten by diseased marsupials!”

  “Wow,” Q said. “That was weird and aggressive. Welcome aboard.” She pulled out her little black book and wrote a few lines, then flicked back through the pages while planning their next move. She wanted to check in with her crew and Hannah, but they would surely have warned her if there was an outbreak in Sydney. The hippies hadn’t gone for help, but she was sure they’d inadvertently send it anyway. She wondered if they’d stop in the first town they came to and start raving, or if they’d make it all the way back to Sydney. How long would it take before the police arrived? Could the hippies explain where this place was, or did they only know the menu plan?

  Q’s brain caught up with what her eyes were reading.

  An unexplained head shot during a military exercise. Visa refusals for North American tourists on health grounds. A series of homicides at a scout camp in the Snowies. High absenteeism at Saint Cedric’s. The unseasonal pandemic plan requested by the government.

  A few months ago, events were listed weeks apart. Over the last few pages, there was an entry every day.

  Cluster!

  Apocalypse Z had warned her about this. Her little black book had prepared her for this. And she’d missed it! Maybe her crew was already in trouble, or already gone? She’d been so busy waiting for the main event she hadn’t recognized it when it came. How?

  Too busy chasing Rabbit, that’s how. Idiot! “I gotta go talk to creepy old caretaker guy,” Q said.

  “Don’t leave!” Angela said.

  “What do we do?” Rabbit asked.

  “Check the huts. Get everyone together who’s left.” They had plenty of clubbing weapons and kitchen knives, but no guns, and Q had brought their only large blades. It wasn’t promising. “When you’ve got everyone together, build a big fire. Make sure there’s plenty of wood. Get more if you need it but don’t go far and stay in pairs.”

  “Why do we need a fire?” Rabbit asked.

  “It’ll get chilly soon,” Q lied. Fire was good for morale and meals and it would give them something to do. She doubted it would keep the monsters at bay.

  “You’re not going back out there?” Angela said.

  “Be careful,” Rabbit said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Q stalked, pressing down the outside of each foot before rolling onto the ball. She was quiet, but not silent. She hoped the background screech of birds would cover her.

  She moved uphill toward the cabin, shivering in the chill shade. The sun had already slid past the peak of the mountain and breakfast seemed long ago.

  Q slowed when she neared the cabin, then stopped behind a large trunk. There were sounds inside – the steady murmur of a single voice. Was the man talking to himself? Princess Starla had died horribly in the bush. This freak had been nearby. Every time Q saw him, he had a gun, and the last time she saw him, he’d pointed it at her. What if the only dangerous thing out here was the fat man?

  She pictured the cabin’s configuration. There were two windows at the front and one door. Another window lay on the west wall and two on the east. She didn’t know about the rear. There might be another door. She would have to make sure he didn’t escape through an unseen exit and double around to surprise her. Q didn’t know if she was here to talk, raid supplies or fight, but she was ready for all three. She’d find out soon enough.

  Left foot, right foot, left foot, pause. Drop below the line of the windows. Creep forward. Pause.

  She was below the window at the front of the cabin now. The monologue continued but no longer sounded like a man talking to himself – it was a radio. That was good, because it meant he might not be insane, and she might get to listen to the news. It was also bad. If he wasn’t in there talking to himself, he might not be in there at all. He could be anywhere. Hiding in the trees. Lining her up in his sights right now.

  The back of Q’s neck itched.

  Ignoring it, she crept over to the door and tested the handle. It turned. She slid it open and slipped inside.

  *

  Q was so overwhelmed by the smell of stale cigarette smoke that at first she couldn’t pick out the details in the dark interior. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a table, a one-burner gas cooker on the floor, a mattress in one corner. A man sat on the only chair, a lit cigarette between two fingers. He wasn’t listening to his radio any more – all his attention was on Q.

  It was the first time she had seen him unarmed. Good timing.

  They regarded one another. Q registered more details in the room without breaking eye contact. There was almost nothing on the floor. The walls were covered with guns mounted in brackets, mostly bolt-action rifles, but also pistols and shotguns and three semi-automatics. She recognized a .22 target rifle and a .32 pump action, the kind she used sometimes on the range. His armory was better than the one they had at her club.

  Ash fell from the man’s cigarette.

  Q spoke. “What are you, some kind of American?” She gestured to the weapons on the walls.

  The man laughed.

  He’d need to take two steps to get to his nearest gun. Q could get to him faster than that. She relaxed a fraction, then saw something even more reassuring. On the table in front of him, beside the radio, was a book. Apocalypse Z.

  Q sauntered over. “Thank God,” she said. “I thought you were some kind of weirdo.” She pointed to the radio. “Outbreak?” she said.

  “Class Three,” he said.

  “Q,” she said, extending her hand.

  He shook it. “Dave.”

  He stood and offered her the chair. She giggled at the chivalry, but stopped when she saw his expression. It didn’t look as if he entertained much. She thanked him and sat down.

  They listened to the broadcast as the last of day’s light disappeared and the room filled with darkness. The reports said that people were bitten, then they stopped eating everything except raw meat. They slept a lot and were very thirsty, then didn’t drink or eat at all. Then they turned into flesh-eating monsters.

  “How far has it spread?” Q said.

  Dave grunted. “Dunno. Damn reporters. Useless.”

  “Sydney?” Q asked.

  He grunted in the affirmative.

  “Canberra?” she said.

  He grunted again. “The pollies turned. It’s bloody mayhem.”

  “Who’d have thought Parliament was run by a bunch of brain-dead monsters?” Q guffawed, then stopped. A Class Three outbreak meant anyone in a built-up area was in trouble, and the situation would get worse. The people who tried to help—doctors, cops, leaders of an
y kind—would be the first to get bitten and turn. Every hour made friends into enemies. Her eyes prickled. Never mind her crew, they could look after themselves. But what were the chances for her dad? Could a tubby alcoholic who couldn’t waddle uphill escape the hordes? Would the kelpie do any better?

  “Sorry about the hippy,” Dave said, misinterpreting her expression.

  “Thanks,” said Q. “I thought you might have done it at first. But the bullet holes were clean. You shot her after she died.”

  Dave nodded and recited a line as comforting as a nursery rhyme. “Two in the head …”

  Q finished it for him. “… make sure it’s dead. You got the thing that attacked her?” she said.

  “Yeah.” His face drew tight. “I shot it in the head. It wouldn’t fall. I kept shooting till it did.”

  Q filed this disturbing news away for later reference. “Thanks for the firewood,” she said, steering him away from a memory that upset him. Apocalypse Z could only prepare you so much.

  Dave shifted. “Might scare them off.”

  Q swore and leaped to her feet. “I gotta get back. I left them at the campsite.”

  “The hippies?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Alone?”

  They ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The campsite was a sorry sight indeed. Rabbit had built a fire as instructed. That done, he had collapsed to the ground and ceased all mental activity. Three others had joined him around the circle—the Scarlet Terror, Sheath and Angela. Angela was the only one who looked like she was coping with the situation. She was asleep.

  Don’t run. Frightens the troops.

  Q slowed to a walk as she approached. Dave followed her lead, barely puffing from their sprint. He sure was fit for a fat man.

  She scanned the surrounds. The fire blazed at the center of a circle of logs. Its light reached the nearest two cabins but showed nothing beyond. A seedpod cracked in the flames like a shot.

  Dave grunted, as if to ask Q if this small mob was it.

  “Looks like it,” Q said.

  He grunted again, as if to say that hippies had no business in the bush during an outbreak when what he needed were trained anti-zombie survivalist troops.

  “If you’re gonna be a pessimist,” Q said, “you should keep it to yourself and make your grunts less eloquent.”

  “Uh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Rabbit’s empty gaze fell on Q. Relief broke over his face like a sunrise. “You’re okay!” He jumped up and gave her a hug. It was almost worth the end of the world.

  Reluctant to end the physical contact, Q mumbled through the folds of his shirt. Tragically, he let go and stood back to listen. “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘Rabbit, meet Dave. Dave, Rabbit’.”

  Dave’s face hardened. “Rabbit?” he said, as if he didn’t think this was an appropriate name for a man.

  “You should hear what she calls the rest of us,” Sheath of Power said.

  Q nudged Angela awake and then introduced Dave to the hippies. “You’ll like Dave,” she said to Sheath, giving him a gentle tension-breaking elbow in the ribs. “He’s a persecuted minority.”

  Sheath rubbed his ribcage. “Indigenous?” he said, looking Dave up, down and around.

  “Smoker,” Q said.

  Angela switched her attention from the hulking newcomer to Q, and yawned. “I had the strangest dream.”

  No wonder she was so calm; the poor woman was in denial. “Sorry, Angela,” Q said. “That wasn’t a dream.”

  Angela sat up. “You mean I sat a Latin test in the nude in front of my in-laws?”

  “Oh,” Q said. “That was a dream. But the thing with Princess Starla—”

  “—Melissa—” said Rabbit.

  “—was real.”

  “I remember,” said Angela.

  “Where’s Kate?” Q said. “Did she go home in the van?”

  Rabbit shook his head. “Tinkabella left alone.” He frowned. “She’s not a good driver.”

  Typical Rabbit. The woman had stolen their transport and left them stranded in hostile territory, and he was worried about her. He was such a beautiful idiot.

  “Kate’s in her room,” Rabbit said. “She said she needed to be alone to think about things.” He frowned again.

  Q was worried too, but for different reasons. Pious Kate’s behavior was becoming increasingly bizarre. Normal people did not want to be alone at a time like this. Even hermits, like Dave, did not want to be alone at a time like this. And Kate had already confessed that she’d been bitten. Q reached for her little black book to log her concerns, then stopped. What was the point? The thing she’d been preparing for all those years had happened, and she’d missed the signs.

  “What’s going on, Q?” Rabbit asked.

  Could they handle the truth? Would she be able to control them if she was frank, or would they panic and get themselves killed? She decided to stall.

  “Outbreak of roo rabies,” she said. “It is September.” She turned to Dave. “Are they buying it?” she said softly.

  Dave grunted in the negative.

  “Come on, Q,” said Angela. “Stop this silliness. I know you know more than you’re telling.”

  It was a voice ripe with maternal authority and it bypassed Q’s conscious mind and connected straight to her hindbrain. She straightened her shoulders and almost spilled the lot, but managed to choke it back in time.

  Angela waited until Q finished spluttering, then continued in the same tone. “Melissa’s been eaten, you’re all chummy with creepy old caretaker guy—”

  Dave grunted.

  “Seriously, man, you should hear what she calls the rest of us,” said Sheath of Power.

  “—and you don’t find any of this surprising,” Angela continued. “It’s as if you were expecting it to happen.”

  Q counted stars. Dave counted his feet.

  “Well?” said Angela, as single-minded as Q wasn’t. “I’m waiting.”

  “Mmmbees,” Dave said. He broke first, as he only had two feet to count.

  “What was that?” Angela said. “Now stop playing silly buggers and speak up!”

  Q made like the French and surrendered. “A zombie ate Princess Starla. Ooh, good name for a film, I should write that down.” Such was Q’s inexperience in discussing zombies with people who didn’t think about them hourly, the group’s reaction took her by surprise.

  Sheath was furious. Rabbit’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way. He still looked sexy, though. Angela and the Scarlet Terror laughed. It was not nice laughter. It was to a giggle what a closed fist was to an open hand. “Come on, Q. Be sensible,” said Angela.

  “Is this one of your games?” Rabbit asked, as if he didn’t find it funny but was prepared to forget the whole thing if Q came clean.

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, even from a right-wing close-minded industrialist capitalist ego-centric conformist like you,” said Sheath. He paused to collect more furious “ists”.

  Q cut in. “Princess Starla—”

  “—Melissa—” Rabbit said

  “—is dead, suspected eaten,” Q continued. “Dave shot a creature that would have been human but for all the bits that kept falling off. Tinkabella got so spooked she stole the van and fled, even though she can’t drive. Back me up here, Dave. It’s not paranoia if you end up right.”

  “Ridiculous!” said Sheath of Power.

  “How do you explain it?” said Q.

  “Easy,” said Sheath. “Mass hysteria and infection caused by a new human/animal virus fostered by the unnatural diet and confinement of modern farm animals and our merciless subjugation, slaughter and consumption of those animals. It’s an outbreak. Like swine flu, or mad cow disease.”

  “Fine,” said Q. “We have a fatal outbreak of zombie flu. Symptoms are death, reanimation and an insatiable craving for human flesh. I hope you’ve all had your shots. I’m gonna go check on
Kate.” Q stormed off.

  Angela completely undermined her dramatic exit by joining her.

  “I’m having an angry alone moment,” Q said. “We can’t be angry alone together.”

  “I know,” the woman said. “But my sweater’s in my room and it’s cold and I’m too chicken to go by myself.”

  “Fine,” said Q. “Then you have to explain to me why you were so mean when I was trying to explain.”

  “You took us by surprise,” Angela said. “We’re not used to hearing monster stories presented as fact. Maybe it’s a regular homicidal lunatic trying to kill us? I’ve seen that movie. Several times.”

  “Be that way,” Q said, substituting sulk for anger. “It’s not my fault that me and Dave are the only ones who psychologically prepared for this day.”

  “Q, there’s ‘prepared’ and then there’s ‘crazy’.”

  Q considered. “Is that like the difference between always carrying a sharp pencil, and regularly burning off your fingertips so that no one can forensically frame you for a crime you didn’t commit?”

  “Wow,” Angela said. “The fact that you had that example handy was a double demonstration of the principle. But I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I thought that book of yours was a joke. A quirky joke, not a very funny joke, but a joke.”

  “Apocalypse Z is like gonorrhea, Angela. There is nothing funny about it.”

  They had reached the cabin. It was impossible to see inside; the windows were impassive black shapes. She nudged at the door and it creaked open.

  “Q,” Angela said softly.

  “Yah?”

  “You don’t regularly burn off your fingerprints, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Angela sighed. “Good.”

  “It hurts way more than you’d think.”

  Q stepped inside. For the second time that day, she had to strain her eyes in the darkness to detect a possible enemy before that enemy could detect her. The possibility of attack in this enclosed space made her gut clench. She held her breath and searched.

  Pious Kate wasn’t there.

  Q relaxed and walked into the cabin. She flicked on her head torch and screeched.