Completely stunned by the tone of my words – but probably not understanding them – she immediately stopped screaming. For a minute or so. Then she resumed the performance – only, this time, louder and angrier.
I resumed my rebukes:
“That’s extremely bad behaviour indeed,” I exclaimed, being as firm and demonstrative as I could. “I hate naughty girls! I hate them!”
And, with that, I crossed my arms and turned my back on her.
I could hear her straining violently against her bonds. Surely she could not break through the close-woven fabric of a seat-belt. Fearful that she might actually do it – since zombies are completely disinhibited and therefore notoriously strong – I wanted to steal a reassuring peek at her. Just barely, I resisted the temptation. The raging continued for, maybe, half and hour but I stood stock still and stared into the amber flame of the kerosene lamp. My back remained turned to my (hopefully) well-bound sister-zombie.
With the frightening image of my sister’s hate-filled face still burned into my mind, I was starting to think that my ‘plan’ was a dud. I had observed – at very close quarters – that male zombies (at least) behaved very much like particularly violent two-year-olds. Their thought processes, such as they were, were entirely undisciplined and self-centred – but not complex.
As any parent will know, most two-year-olds can be ‘brought into line’ with firm and consistent handling. However, the problem with this particular ‘two-year-old’ (i.e. Deb) was that she was going to eat any firm-handed ‘parent’ long before the training had achieved its purpose – unless, of course, she was physically restrained from doing so (which she presently was).
Then, just as I was thinking of abandoning my ‘plan’ as a bad joke, the banshee’s wailing slowed and diminished ever-so-slightly in volume. I decided thus to hold firm, back turned, for a while yet.
Another 15 minutes: the wailing petered out to a halt.
Another 10 minutes: was that a sob – from a zombie?
On the stroke of the hour since the change, a whisper: “Deb-deb not naughty girl.”
I fuckin’ nearly fell over!
CHAPTER 11
Toddler Taming for Zombies
So, at least one female zombie could speak.
During the first wave, when all the zombies were male, none of them could speak – so far as I knew.
Actually, that’s not quite true. I did hear one male zombie utter one word, “Gween”, in reference to a cat that seemed greatly to prefer the company of zombies. I guessed it was the cat’s name – though none of the zombies with whom it shared quarters ever explained the precise connection.
But now, my little sister zombie had outdone them all by uttering an entire sentence. Okay, I know that “Deb-deb not naughty girl” is not technically a sentence since it lacks a verb (and the indefinite article) – but I would argue that there is an implied verb ‘is’ before the ‘not’ and, after all, who really needs an indefinite article?
Oh, well, suit yourself – it doesn’t really matter anyway. Deb’s utterance neatly confirmed my previous conjecture that zombies had mental capacities much like two-year-olds. What she had said could’ve come from the lips of any sulky toddler.
Oh course, merely quelling one tantrum does not mean the toddler is tamed. Far from it. Two-year-olds act like they do because the emotions they are suddenly feeling are brand new to them - and therefore are not yet controlled by them.
This insight was, of course, important to remember when dealing with Deb. I could not keep her bound hand and foot indefinitely and, assuming she was unbound when she had her next ‘tantrum’, I would need to be very careful not to get torn into bloody shreds and consumed.
‘Positive Reinforcement’ was thus the order of the day.
We had time on our hands as we took refuge from the firestorm that was happening in the outside world – and I would use all of that time to preserve the existence of my little sister.
I continued to monitor what was happening beyond the forest retreat. As feared, desperate and awful news came via my car radio. Because the affected women had, over the last ten years, spread throughout the entire nation and beyond, attacks and sudden death came without warning in all parts of the globe. There was no defined ‘front’ to which to send the troops in order to halt the spread of the plague and, no doubt, new strategies (apart from mere quarantine) were being devised as a matter of urgency.
For the moment, I simply had to concentrate on myself and Deb – the rest of the world would just have to look after itself.
By degrees, I released Deb’s bindings – all the while talking to her in firm but affectionate terms. I needed her to respect me but I needed also, if possible, to revive in her any tender memories which might remove me from her menu. Affection and respect: I suppose that’s what we should feel towards any loving parent.
Could any zombie be made to feel that? We would see.
On the third day at the shack, I released Deb from her bindings completely – there had been no further banshee impersonations but I remained very much on guard. I did not know what might act to set her off again but I was under no illusions: she would definitely ‘go off’ again – and probably soon.
I knew that, if I ever failed to keep control of Deb during even one of her tantrums, it would probably be the last one I saw.
There was a seasonal spring located near to the shack. Over time, I had widened and deepened it. I’d also collected some of the local rocks to form a rough edge about it and transplanted some water-grasses and reeds from the local creek into it. Its inhabitants now included frogs, yabbies, water boatmen and many other kinds of bugs that came, originally, from that same local creek.
I had turned what had been a slightly boggy, grassy depression into something that not only I but also the local wildlife seemed to enjoy.
Kangaroos and wallabies visited it regularly for drinking water – seemingly in preference to the creek since, at the creek, they were exposed to view whereas, at the spring, they were completely enclosed and hidden by the surrounding bushland.
Just before Deb and I had arrived at the shack, there had been a heavy storm and the spring was now overflowing. The frogs were croaking in full ribbit. (At least they were happy.)
I decided that this secluded, peaceful but life-filled place was a good spot to take a ‘new- born’ zombie, a good spot to re-introduce her to the world of the living.
Having dressed her in warm clothing, I led Deb by hand to the spring and sat her on a rock beside the cool, clear water. She dipped her hand below the surface, raised it to the light and let the water trickle through her fingers.
She turned her dead eyes to me for re-assurance. It was hard for me to see the lively, cheeky spark gone from those eyes but they were, at least, no longer filled with blood-red fury and hatred - as they had been when Deb had first changed.
“Nice,” she said. “Hand wet.”
Good words. I liked them.
She uprooted a ribbon-weed (I don’t know the proper name) and played with it for a while before discarding it. After she discarded it, I noticed a sizeable leech clinging to her hand. I could see that it was writhing about, apparently trying to latch on for a feed of blood. (How ironic.)
Within 15 or 20 seconds, it simply dropped off and swam away in the spring’s water. Deb was obviously not to the leech’s taste. (I can say that the little buggers never seemed to reject my blood – on the contrary, once hooked on, they clung on for dear life until completely gorged with my red corpuscles.)
We stayed at the spring for an hour or so. Amongst other things, Deb watched a mob of kangaroos come and go without their showing any obvious anxiety. (Then again, she was not about to snack on them, was she?)
All in all, this first ‘outing’ went quite well and I decided to return to the shack while progress seemed positive. Deb had not spoken any more words. That was okay by me. I was happy for this two-year-old to learn at her own pace.
‘Bed-time’ was a
lways a bit fraught, however. Deb still did not take kindly to being tied up. (Understandable but I was not going to have her free to move about while I slept.) I softened the transition to bed by reading bedtime stories aloud to her. (There was stored in the shack a box of battered books that she and I had read as kids.) As with reading to any small child, you can never be sure how much they understand of what is being read - but the mere fact that an adult is giving them their undivided attention generally seems to please them.
Thus it was with Deb.
By day 10 at the shack, the supplies of food that I kept there were running low. I didn’t normally stay for more than, say, three nights (i.e. a long weekend). So, in some ways, it was fortunate that I had as much food there as I did. Deb, of course, did not require food since she had no detectable metabolism – or, at least, none detectable by any of the usual measurements.
In any event, I needed to venture out to get food and – while engaged in that task – I would put a newly hatched plan into operation. Merely to get food would require a round-trip of no more than, say, three hours – from shack to town and back again.
To set my longer term plans into motion, however, would take at least overnight. I would need to return to the city.
I could not risk taking Deb – now clearly recognisable as a zombie – to any populated area. So, though it broke my heart, she was going to have to be tied to her bed for the best part of a day – and I would just have to deal with her accumulated rage upon my return.
I comforted myself with the thought that she would come to no physical harm – after all, she was already dead.
Nevertheless, I did feel a pang of conscience upon leaving the shack, with Deb once again strapped securely to her bed. Her dead eyes looked pleadingly at me as I went to the door.
So, what did I do? I placed a small toy wombat on her bed, clearly in sight beside her pillow. Brown and battered, it had been one of her favourite toys when she was a child and had been with her, at school, during the first wave of the zombie apocalypse. She had apparently clung to it desperately during the days when she was sheltering in the science lab and waiting to be rescued from the onslaught that was happening outside.
How had this ‘security’ wombat made its way to my shack in the intervening years? I can’t honestly say. Maybe she had left it there on some previous visit – though she had rarely been there before.
Dunno. All I know is that this love-worn wombat was now proving of use – both to assuage my feelings of guilt and to allay Deb’s apparent anxiety.
Chapter 12
Buying a Burqa – and Meeting an Old Adversary
I had decided that Deb needed to be hidden from sight.
I thought (briefly) that, maybe, I could wrap her in bandages – like an Egyptian mummy.
That wouldn’t attract attention, would it? Not much! And, in the present circumstances, any ‘mummy’ that appeared in public was sure to be identified for what it really was: a zombie.
So, scratch that idea.
What else?
At that time, there were very few Muslims in Australia. However, the horrific, fratricidal war that had taken place in Lebanon during the mid 70’s had increased that number. Some of the Lebanese migrants were, of course, Maronite Christians but others were Muslim.
It was the Muslims who attracted most attention in an Australia that, even then, was still largely Anglo-Celtic. As a student at Melbourne University – and later as a worker in the City – I had often eaten at the cheap Middle-Eastern eateries in inner-suburban Coburg.
I confess that I found the unexpected (but welcome) appearance of belly dancers during the meal of at least as much interest as the then-exotic food. But, from memory, those establishments were mainly Turkish.
In any event, I had seen traditional Islamic dress for the first time in the Coburg area. Like most migrant groups, the people from Lebanon – and also from Turkey – tended first to gather together in one area for mutual comfort and support. In this case, Coburg was the area of choice.
Coburg was a suburb not far to the North of Melbourne University but there was nothing academic about it. On the contrary, it was a fairly run-down, multi-ethnic area – and had been so for some decades.
Don’t get me wrong. The streets of Coburg in the early 1980’s were not exactly teeming with women clad head-to-toe in Burqas. Far from it. Headscarves and long, flowing dresses, yes – but burqas were still a rarity. But not so much of a rarity as to be completely unrecognised (nor unrespected).
During my time at the shack with Deb, this had set me thinking. If I could cover Deb in a burqa, and I myself could be clothed in something vaguely compatible (maybe a woven, white skull-cap?), we could both pass largely unnoticed and unmolested in public - with a bit of luck.
(But I didn’t think I could grow a long, bushy beard in the available time.)
So, anyway, where did one get a burqa?
I guessed, correctly, that Myers and K-Mart did not stock them. So, my first stop was the Post Office at Kyneton where I grabbed the Yellow Pages and found the phone number of a mosque. (The list of mosques was very short in those days. I think I chose the one – then new – in Carlton but I can’t be sure on that point.)
As I waited for the phone to be answered, I readied myself to weave some elaborate (but entirely implausible) cover story about me and my sister being recent converts to Islam. However, in the event, I did not need to call upon the cover story (which was just as well).
A women’s voice came down the phone in a polite Arabic greeting. I fancied it may have been ‘Salaam Alaikum’ but would not swear to it. (I think this was the first time I had ever spoken to a speaker of Arabic.)
I returned the greeting in English (and asked myself what on Earth I had been thinking to call up a mosque out of the blue!)
To my surprise and relief, the person who had answered the phone immediately switched from Arabic to impeccable English - with only the slightest trace of a Middle Eastern accent. I wondered idly where she had been educated – but, not wanting to be diverted from my task, did not ask her. (Perhaps she was a convert herself?)
Somewhat nervously, I explained my need to find to find a supplier of traditional Islamic clothing. Only too willingly to assist me, she promptly gave me the names of a number of commercial shops along Sydney Road (Coburg). She assured me that, at each of these shops, high-quality headwear and dresses could be obtained quite inexpensively – and that they would undoubtedly comply with Islamic requirements for female modesty.
“Thank you very much,” I replied – with genuine gratitude. “But, actually, my sister is seeking something more traditional. She is no longer satisfied with merely wearing the hijab. She now insists on wearing the full covering of a burqa.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. The well-spoken office assistant then explained to me, in effect, that most Muslims considered this to be more than was required by the Koran and that only particular ethnic groupings favoured it. As I recall, she mentioned the Yemen and Afghanistan – but, again, I could be wrong. My mind was running a mile a minute and I was beginning to think that my ill-considered plan was destined for certain failure.
“…So, where exactly do you and your sister come from?” she asked – presumably expecting me to nominate some deeply traditional Islamic state.
“Oh,” I explained. “We’re fifth generation Aussies. We were born in Melbourne.”
There was another pause at the other end of the line. I could almost hear her thinking: “This guy must be nuts - if he really were a local Muslim of long-standing, how would we not know of him? There just aren’t that many of us here.”
However, it was my great good fortune that this particular servant of the Prophet was too polite to pose this obvious question – and thus, taking my chances, I plunged on:
“So, you see, now that my sister has furthered her studies, she wants to be as devout as possible and wear the full burqa. I know, of course, that it’s no
t strictly required but she just begged and begged me. So, I told her I’d try to source some here for her rather than enquiring overseas. Do you think that is possible?”
“Certainly, it’s possible, Sir, but …”
She paused a third time, still too polite to complete her sentence. Ominously, this pause was much longer than the first two. But I guessed she then thought “What the heck!” and gave me the details of a dressmaker she believed might help me.
I thanked her profusely for her guidance, uttered some half-baked words of blessing (again, what on Earth was I thinking?) but made sure that I concluded the call as quickly as possible.
This proved to be ‘the easy part’.
o0o
I rang the dressmaker.
Her English was relatively poor. She sounded quite elderly. And, broken though her English was, she still managed to give me the third degree (that the well-spoken office assistant at the mosque had studiously refrained from doing): What sort of Muslim was I? (In those days, I didn’t even know there were any different kinds of Muslim.) Where had ‘our people’ come from originally? (“Cornwall”, I promptly replied – that stumped her.) Could the work wait until after Ramadan? (“What’s Ramadan?” I thought.) And on and on it went for about twenty minutes.
Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie Page 5
