The End: Surviving the Apocalypse

by Palmer, Richard

  Pious Kate stood behind the door, back pressed against the wall. Her eyes were wide, the whites too prominent. Her breath was fast.

  “Kate?” Q said. “Are you okay?”

  Pious Kate did not answer. Q took a step back and tensed, waiting for outstretched hands, a moan and a charge. None came.

  The woman focused on Q. Her breathing slowed and she shook her head. “It’s you.” Pious Kate’s tone made the sub-text shrivel.

  “Yup. Me!” said Q, artificially bright. “How ya feeling there, Kate? You’re not coming down with the… flu, or anything, are you?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Pious Kate. “I never get sick. My system is too pure. I’ve been vegan since birth.”

  Q chuckled, thinking of jerky, which was something she often did even before she met Pious Kate.

  Angela decided the cabin was safe and sidled in. She rifled through her bag for a sweater, keeping a watch on the two women.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time up here on your own,” Q said.

  “Yes,” said Pious Kate. “It’s a retreat. That’s what you do on a retreat.” She pushed past Q and walked out into the night.

  “Do you want your coat?” Angela called after her.

  “I don’t feel the cold,” Pious Kate said.

  “No, you wouldn’t, not through the chill of your soul,” Q said.

  Angela straightened up. She was wearing four different sweaters, one over the top of the other, and she swelled beneath them like an overfilled patchwork balloon. She also wore a hand-knitted pink woolen beanie with a bobble on it.

  “What?” said Angela. “I need to stay warm. I’ve had a shock.”

  “So have I, now. So have we all—” Q stopped. She’d forgotten about Hannah. Was she okay? What was happening in Sydney?

  “What’s wrong?” Angela said.

  “Nothing. I need some stuff. Go ahead without me.”

  “Okay.” Angela hurried back to the campsite, leaving Q alone in the hut.

  Q rifled under her pillow and pulled out the satellite hotphone. It was out of charge. She swore, clicked on the wind-up charger and cranked as fast as she could, then dialed, mouth dry. She ran her hand over the sleeping bag on her bed. Its cold folds felt like a shroud.

  The phone rang out. Q swore.

  She crouched on the hard floor and pressed her fingers into her belly, trying to stop it lurching. Maybe Hannah was busy and couldn’t reach it. She would be alert for the next call. Q had to give her a chance to stop whatever she was doing. She’d count thirty breaths, then try again.

  She got to twenty-five and realized she’d been taking quick, flat breaths to make the count go faster. She made herself start over. When she got to thirty, she sat on the bed and dialed.

  On the fifth ring, the phone connected.

  “Hannah! Are you okay?” There was no reply, just yelling in the background. Q had a dreadful premonition of a small, dead girl with perfect pigtails, holding a phone and not knowing what to do with it. “Hannah! Can you hear me! Are you safe? Can you talk?”

  “You should have been here, Q.” Hannah’s voice broke. The girl was having trouble breathing and talking, but she was still able to do both. She was still alive.

  Q said a silent prayer and gave her friend a moment to catch her breath.

  Then Hannah told her about the monsters. It had started with Mrs Mason, who had arrived at class that afternoon despite the fact that a substitute teacher had been called in to cover for Q. At first it had been funny. Mrs Mason had walked into the closed glass doors of the Kindy Koala classroom with a thump!, like a bird that lost its way. Then she walked through the glass doors, grabbed Charmaine and bit the girl’s pinkie off.

  That was less funny.

  Q listened to the sounds beyond Hannah as the girl spoke. There were voices in the background, which was good. Two of them sounded adult, which was great. There was also a steady, low sobbing.

  “When did it happen?” Q said.

  “Two forty-five. Most of the kids were asleep but they woke up fast.”

  Q fist-pumped the air. She knew there had been a point to all that naptime training. “What happened next?”

  “Charmaine ate Marie’s foot.”

  “Those two never got along.” That meant Charmaine had turned in less than a minute. Q logged another piece of information to her tally.

  “I ran into the corridor,” Hannah said. “There were kids everywhere. Some of them weren’t acting like kids.” Q understood. She always knew it would happen one day. The little monsters had become little monsters. “Did you try the fire exit?” Q said. It was a standard escape drill for the Lethal Littlies.

  “It was blocked.”

  “By what?”

  “Mrs Dunkett, the counselor. She was—” The girl stopped talking. There was silence. No breathing, no muttering in the background, nothing.

  “Hannah!”

  The girl came back on the line. She must have covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Mrs Dunkett was—”

  Hannah wasn’t able to say what Natolia was, but Q could guess. “Do you remember my finger food cooking class that she walked in on?”

  Hannah giggled. “I told you it was meant to be food to eat with your fingers, not food that tasted like fingers. How did you know what fingers tasted like, anyway?”

  “Practice,” said Q. “Where are you now?”

  “In the sports hall,” Hannah said.

  “Good. Heavy doors and no windows.” And no way out. “How many are you?”

  Hannah listed the survivors. There were four adults and six kids, five of whom were from the Lethal Littlies, which was no surprise. They had been trained to deal with this exact situation. “Have you barricaded the doors?”

  “With the ping-pong table and the gym mats. They’re rattling.”

  That meant Hannah and her crew were surrounded and had no chance of making a run for it. “I left a copy of the pandemic plan taped under the ping-pong table,” Q said. “There’s a section on siege in the sports hall. Tell Mrs Carroll to go get it and read it to the group.”

  Hannah issued instructions, as calm as if she were showing a newcomer how to do an over-the-shoulder throw. She and her group of survivors might be the last fresh meat in the school. How many Z were waiting outside? Would they stagger off to harvest the suburbs or would they stay, patient as death, waiting for their chance?

  “The monsters called to us before,” Hannah said. “Some of the others said to open the door but me and Lisa said no.”

  “Good,” said Q. “That’s right. Sometimes a zombie can say your name.” It was a lie, but a helpful one. Anyone trapped in a mob of ghouls was already bitten. There was no point damning a group to save someone who was already dead, even if they didn’t yet know it and could still talk.

  “One of the zombies sounded like Michael,” Hannah said, her voice on the edge of a chasm.

  “It wasn’t Michael,” Q said. “They’re good at doing impersonations. He’s fine.”

  “I know,” Hannah said. “It’s stopped now.”

  Q opened her eyes very wide and tipped her head back to study the ceiling. Hannah had survived. That was what mattered.

  There was a knock on the cabin door. “Q?” It was Rabbit’s voice.

  Q thought fast. She doubted Rabbit had been the one to smash her other phone, but she didn’t know who had, and she couldn’t afford to lose this one. Even if he was safe, would he keep her secret?

  No. Rabbit would share this with the others, because he shared everything.

  “I’m getting changed,” Q called out. She spoke to Hannah, soft and urgent. “I gotta go, Hannah Banana. Good luck.”

  “But—”

  “Listen. Keep this phone. If anyone tries to take it from you, do a Kimbo Combo. Call me if anything bad happens.”

  “Like Mrs Mason eating the class?”

  “Anything bad you can’t handle.”

  Rabbit knocked again. “You okay?”r />
  “I don’t want a stupid phone!” Hannah’s voice cracked. “If you’re not here when the monsters come, what’s the point of you?”

  Rabbit pushed the door open. Q slid the phone into the pocket of her cargo pants.

  “Sorry to barge in,” Rabbit said. “I was worried. And we don’t know what to do. We need you.”

  It was one pronoun away from bliss, but it would have to do for now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The fire burned bright, flames cheery as balloons. Cold had come with the setting sun, and they huddled in the glow.

  Dave smoked. Sheath coughed, muttering about cancer and stirring a large pot over the coals. Angela and the Scarlet Terror gazed at the fire, unfocused and silent. Pious Kate had joined the subdued group and she sat to one side on her own, sucking on a bottle of water like an outsized infant.

  Scared troops are dangerous troops.

  Q quickened her steps and gave a jovial greeting. She got a few murmured responses, and she and Rabbit joined the somber circle. She tried to strike up a cheerful conversation. “Who here wants a big helping of yummy lentil curry?”

  Rabbit looked alarmed. “Is the situation that bad?” he said.

  “No! Not at all. Everything’s fine,” Q lied. “We’re all together, Kate’s here, we’re here, everything’s fine.”

  A burning stump snapped in the middle of the fire. The Scarlet Terror shrieked.

  “How about some music?” Angela said from deep within her cocoon of clothing.

  “A singalong! Great idea!” Q leaped up and grabbed Rabbit’s guitar, which lay outside the circle of firelight. “Maybe something different this time,” Q said as she handed the instrument to him. “Nothing to do with animal mutilation.”

  “If you say so,” Rabbit said, as if this ruled out all of the good songs. “I could take requests.”

  “I have one.” The Scarlet Terror, glassy-eyed, held up her hand very straight. It was the first thing she had said for hours. Q gave her an encouraging smile.

  “It’s by R.E.M. I’m not sure what it’s called.”

  “Hum a bit, I’ll pick it up,” Rabbit said.

  The Scarlet Terror hummed.

  Angela piped up. “Not that one,” she said.

  “It’s fine, I know it,” Rabbit said. He hummed, strummed, then sang the chorus in his beautiful deep voice. He stopped when he came to the part about the world’s end. Chords straggled into the night like crash victims in shock.

  Another burning branch cracked. The Scarlet Terror whimpered. Q flicked a bug off her knee and into the fire. She was remembering why she hated hiking so much. It was like nightclubbing – it sounded more fun that it was, and afterwards she always felt tired, chafed and lumpy. And that was before the threat of a zombie attack.

  Maybe she could sneak off and call Hannah back. Would the others notice?

  She slapped a mosquito.

  “Relax,” said Rabbit, strumming, and continued singing to himself. At least the music was having a soothing effect him. Q tried to overhear the calming words, but gave up when he got to a line about “assault and battery hens”. Those words could only be soothing for Rabbit.

  She slapped another mosquito, swore again and pulled a bottle of insect repellent from her pocket. She sprayed, noting with approval that the smell of DEET was nowhere near as strong as that of her Ocean Flowers spray, even though she’d applied the fragrance twelve hours ago. This perfume stuff sure gave value for money.

  “You don’t need all that poison,” Rabbit said, still strumming. “A few deep, calming breaths is all you need.”

  “I’ll calm down when things stop trying to eat me,” she said, and wished she hadn’t.

  “Can anyone say Freudian?” Angela said.

  Q said it several times under her breath, wondering what the challenge was. Hippies were strange.

  “What’s the plan?” said Sheath. “Sit here and wait for the police and hope they show up before some maniac in the woods tries to kill us?”

  “Or some maniac sitting right here,” Angela said. Dave scowled.

  “The van’s gone,” Q said. “What options do we have?”

  “We could walk back,” Rabbit said.

  “If we follow the track, it’s sixty kilometers before we reach a town,” Q said. “Unless you want to bush bash it, and then it’s fifteen miles before we’re lost and starving.”

  “He must have a car,” Angela said, pointing a stick at Dave. “To get supplies and things.”

  Dave grunted, then said, “They deliver.”

  Q thought that unlikely, but she didn’t want to push the point, partly because she didn’t want a fight with this man and partly because she was glad they were cut off. The hippies didn’t know it yet, but this was the best place to be during a Class Three outbreak. The middle of nowhere.

  Dave took his short-wave radio from his pocket.

  “That’s not a good idea,” Q said.

  Dave switched it on. The Sydney station he and Q had been listening to earlier wasn’t broadcasting any more. Dave turned the dial, navigating the dips and swells of static. After a minute of white noise, he switched to AM.

  “You’re listening to Dazza on Snowy Mountains Radio, live with the latest on the living dead! Here’s one for those who can still hear, Shandi with ‘Sugar Bomb-Bomb Baby,’” said a laid-back male voice.

  “What did he say about the living dead?” Angela said.

  “It’s a concert,” Sheath said. “Or a tribute band.”

  Dave turned the volume mercifully low as Shandi wailed out her latest thesis on love for a modern girl in a modern world.

  “Guess it’s not the end of the world after all,” said Q.

  “Have you heard that song?” said Angela.

  They listened to Shandi until Dazza returned. “Wasn’t that fantastic, kids?” he said. “And here’s a text from Sue in Tumut. ‘What did one dyslexic zombie moan to the other? Brian, Brian!’ Thanks Sue, we all need some light in these dark times.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Pious Kate. “There’s some stupid nationwide practical joke.” She was shushed.

  “If you’ve just tuned in, we’re getting ku-ra-zee reports. Darwin says it’s Dawn of the Dead, Sydney’s swamped with rabid swine flu, Brisbane’s been declared a disaster zone, so no change there—”

  “—did he say Sydney?” said Angela.

  “—and those wacky Taswegians think there’s some kind of sinister plot by the logging companies because all their forestry protesters have been eaten!”

  “You don’t believe this idiot, do you?” Pious Kate said. “Come on!”

  “I dunno, Kate,” Rabbit said. “You didn’t see Melissa. It was pretty bad.” His eyes glazed over.

  Dave settled the argument with the volume control. Dazza yelled. “I’m not sure what’s going on, kids, but if your ma’s acting aggro, watch out! And we’d love to hear your stories. Send in a text, day or night, to Snowy Mountains Radio, we’re broadcasting twenty-four-seven, live, we never shut down—”

  The transmission broke. Static returned.

  “What was wrong with that freak?” Pious Kate said. She kicked dirt at the radio.

  “Everyone has their own reaction to shock,” Rabbit said. “I guess that’s how DJs deal.”

  “What did he say about Sydney?” Angela said, her voice splintering. “What’s happening in Sydney?”

  Dave kept the dial moving, hunting for another station, but found only the gravel roar of static. Q leaned over and switched it off. “Save the batteries,” she said. “We’ll hike uphill tomorrow and listen. There’ll be better reception.” Both Dave and Q understood that reception wasn’t the problem, but there was no need for everyone else to know.

  “What about the airport?” Angela said. “John and the kids flew to Melbourne today. Will the airport be safe?”

  Q considered the early signs she'd missed. Texan flu. Sudden transmission breaks in a US reality show. Email silence from Je
remiah BownZ in Nebraska. The outbreak probably started in America. It would have been spread around the globe by infected people travelling from the source. Any major international airport would be a disaster zone once the outbreak got going. There’d be Z coming off planes and attacking the crowd, and half of Sydney trying to flee by air, including more diseased. The roads would be impassable, blocked with cars. Footpaths would be clogged with the dead and the undead. If Angela’s family had even made it to the departure lounge, they would have stayed there forever. If they made it onto a plane, what were their chances of survival? She imagined being strapped into a seat while airhostesses offered a choice of chicken, beef or disembowelment.

  “They’ll be fine,” she lied. “They probably got to Melbourne. Things would be better there.”

  “I have to go,” Angela said.

  “No one’s going,” Dave said.

  “I have to help them!” She leaped to her feet.

  “Angela,” Q said. “Which way’s home?”

  Angela looked one way, then the other. She pointed at the muddy tracks left by the hippy van. “We’re so far away,” she said.

  Rabbit took two steps over and hugged her. He was rewarded with wet, heaving sobs.

  Pious Kate began crying too, but daintily. “Rabbit,” she sniffled. “What about Angela’s poor little children?”

  To his credit, Rabbit stretched out an arm to the great big faker and hugged them both.

  “Right,” Q said to Dave, taking advantage of the distraction. “Let’s get sorted. Shelter?”

  “This’ll do,” he said, nodding his head around the campfire and cabins.

  “Are we safe from attack here?” she said.

  He grunted. “Nowhere’s safe.”

  “Water?” she asked.

  “Tank’s full. Creek’s clean.”

  “Food?”

  Dave fiddled with the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I got rations.”

  Q nodded. Was he happy to share? She didn’t want to push it. “We brought stuff too,” she said, gesturing to Sheath’s cooking pot. “And I guess there’s roos and rabbits and trout?”

  He grunted in the affirmative.

  “Excellent,” Q said. “Plenty of weapons in your cabin, and we can make clubs, too.” She paused. There was a personal question she had to ask but wasn’t sure if she knew him well enough. She lowered her voice. “What’s your zombie plan?”