Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie

by Peter Trevorah

  At this, the grey, straggle-haired gentleman rose abruptly – if unsteadily - to his feet:

  “You leave her alone, you bully!” he said. “I was talkin’ to her. We was havin’ a lovely ol’ chin-wag.”

  Really?

  His voice was one of those rasping, gasping voices – wrought from years of whisky and cigarettes. Think of Tom Waits’ singing – that will give you the idea.

  He moved towards me and put his face close to mine. (Oof! Alcohol breath.)

  “So, you can just piss off now,” he said. “Piss off, I said! We wants to be alone, together-like.”

  I looked at Deb – she was still a thousand miles away from ‘the action’. Then it suddenly struck me: my zombie-sister had an admirer!

  And, moreover, he was now challenging me for her affections.

  I stifled an involuntary laugh – this was getting just too bizarre for words.

  I could not afford to have a physical confrontation with Deb’s would-be beau – conflict would undoubtedly attract Deb’s attention and arouse her baser instincts once again. (That would surely end in tears.) I smiled:

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your pleasant chat with my dear sister …”

  “ ‘Sister?’” he echoed, faintly.

  “…but,” I continued, “she has been quite unwell of late and needs to have her afternoon rest. All part of the treatment ordered by her doctor. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I see,” said the man faintly, seeing his prospective lady-love slip from his grasp.

  “George,” I said. “May I call you ‘George’?”

  “Sure – but me name’s Arfa,” replied the man.

  “Well, Arthur,” I said. “I’m sorry about our little misunderstanding just now. So, I’d like to make it up to you.”

  I reached into my pocket and retrieve a crisp, new fifty dollar note and handed it to him. The ledger was squared.

  Smiling, I grasped Deb’s hand and, somewhat too roughly, pulled her up from her comfy chair. Instantly, she was transported back from her Hollywood back-lot and into the TV room of our down-at-heel living quarters.

  It seemed that Deb immediately experienced some separation anxiety from Gene and his smiling, long-legged dancing partners. She turned on me and growled loudly and in an unexpectedly threatening manner.

  Suddenly, everyone else in the room was wide awake.

  I gave her the now-standard ‘Bad-girl!’ routine and smacked Deb’s hand. She didn’t respond too well to my reprovals on this particular occasion – Gene and the troupe had obviously impressed her mightily and she had wanted dearly not to be parted from them.

  So, I had to give the stern-parent routine another go - and she finally came to heel, with a final, muted, snarl (and a hiss, thrown in for good measure).

  Everyone else was staring goggle-eyed at me and at her. I smiled at them in return. They knew exactly what they were looking at now – and guessed how nearly they had become Deb’s dinner. So, I gave them each fifty dollars as well and ordered them to keep quiet under pain of some unspecified but dire threats.

  (“…I’m here on Official Government Business!” I concluded)

  That, I figured, would probably be enough – Deb and I would be gone within an hour or so and our co-residents need never see us again. None of these folk was likely to go to the local police station. They knew better to mind their own business and ‘not get involved’. Besides, one suspected, some of them were already well known to the local police – and known not for their good deeds.

  With that, ‘Arfa’ started to say some tender words to Deb - by way of a fond good-bye perhaps – but Deb thrust forward her face and clicked her teeth at him, sharply and repeatedly. (Was that clear enough for you, Arthur?)

  Arfa and his fellows all beat a hasty retreat from the room. Thirty seconds later, I peered though the grime of the hallway window and saw the five co-residents pouring through the front door of the building and onto the footpath below. They were hastening away without a backward glance. (To the nearest bottle-shop? Maybe.)

  Now: back to our room, pack quickly and leave.

  Chapter 21

  The Southern Princess

  By the early 1980’s, there were relatively few international passengers passing through the Port of Melbourne. There was, of course, the occasional passenger cruise liner that called into the port and, even rarer still, the occasional military vessel on a goodwill trip.

  But, with those modest exceptions, people just didn’t travel by ship much anymore – and hadn’t routinely done so since the late 60’s. Travel by air had become so much more affordable, efficient and convenient.

  So, by the early 1980’s, the customs arrangements at Victoria Dock, in the Port of Melbourne, were very definitely focussed on the freight passing thorough the port rather than on any passengers. In fact, when the burqa-clad Deb and I arrived at the customs gate near North Wharf, I got the very distinct impression that we were to be regarded as a nuisance rather than any part of ‘the main game’.

  We presented at the customs gate at 6.10pm, as instructed by Captain Blunt. I clearly could see The Southern Princess moored at North Wharf, not far away. There was only one person manning the customs office (which was situated adjacent to the boom gate entry) – and we were his only obvious customers.

  We were on foot, with our meagre baggage, having just been dropped at the gate by a taxi.

  The Customs man casually leaned out of a sliding window, next to the gate.

  “Passports?” he asked.

  I handed him our two passports. He scrutinised them and, of course, noted that he could not verify Deb’s identity because she was wearing an all-enveloping burqa.

  “I have to see the lady’s face,” he said, somewhat testily. “Otherwise, I can’t verify her identity. Also, I need to see your tickets and boarding pass for … which ship is it?”

  I hesitated a little. There was only one officer on duty – and it was certainly after 6.00pm. So, I took the plunge.

  “We are travelling on The Southern Princess. However, the situation is delicate, sir,” I said. “I understand that it has already been explained to a gentleman in your office by the name of ‘Malcolm’.”

  “Well, Mate,” he replied, with rising irritation. “I’m Malcolm and I don’t know nuthin’ about it. Now, as I said, I need to see this lady’s face and I need to see your travel papers, too - before you go any further than where you are standing now.”

  Deb emitted a low but very audible growl – she didn’t like Malcolm’s tone, it seemed. The customs man withdrew hastily back inside his window when he heard the growl. He half-slid the glass panel shut and, as he did so, he looked to me for an explanation.

  “My sister’s powers of speech are somewhat limited. Words often come out sounding like growls. Please forgive her,” I said, fumbling for the hand-written note that Captain Blunt had given to me.

  This was not going well.

  Deb started again - with a somewhat louder and more threatening growl. Something was building. Was a full-scale ‘tantrum’ in the offing? I hoped not because I knew exactly where that sort of thing led!

  “That’s quite enough, Deb!” I scolded. “You’re frightening the gentleman.”

  Deb snorted and then fell silent. I found the Captain’s note and handed it to ‘Malcolm’ along with an envelope containing two thousand dollars.

  Bribing a public official in the course of his duties is not an action I would normally contemplate, you understand. After all, I was an Officer of the Supreme Court of Victoria and had taken my Oath of Office in the presence of the Chief Justice himself. Normally, a criminal act like bribery was so far beyond my personal experience that it didn’t bear thinking about.

  But the rules all change when there’s a zombie apocalypse in full swing, don’t they?

  Well, maybe not. Anyway, I can honestly say that bribing ‘Malcolm’ felt like the most natural thing in the world at
the time.

  Malcolm read the note and smiled broadly. I fancy he even allowed himself a brief chuckle. He flicked open the envelope and ‘counted’ the money by eye only – obviously, Malcolm had a highly trained eye for such things.

  “Pass!” he said tersely and, returning our passports, retreated completely back into his office, slamming the window shut as he did so.

  (What a lovely fella.)

  I picked up our meagre belongings once again – they were held in a couple of very battered suitcases that I’d picked up at an Opp Shop that morning – and entered the wharf area.

  o0o

  Within no time, Deb and I were approaching the gangway of The Southern Princess.

  As we got to about 50 metres from it, I could see, even in the dark, that it was an absolute rust-bucket.

  I stopped in mid-stride.

  Given the choice, I wouldn’t have even sailed on the Yarra River in it. Flaky and faded paintwork covered large, visible spots where the rust was blistering through the metal hull. Here and there, up toward the deck level, I fancied that there were actual holes, small pin-pricks of light, in the hull – well above the water-line, of course.

  It was a curious vessel - to my uneducated mind, a sort of hybrid or transitional type of ship. It must have been constructed when containers were just starting to be used as the main means of shipping non-bulk cargo. (The early 1960’s?). Towards the front of the vessel were stacked a number of those familiar shipping containers. (But not that many - The Southern Princess was no leviathan.) Behind the standard shipping containers, amidships, were stacked assorted boxes and crates of various, non-uniform, sizes.

  And, at the stern end of the ship, was to be found the bridge and modest living quarters for captain and crew – and for us, as it turned out.

  But, regardless of its conformation, how on Earth was this ship still rated as sea-worthy? And how on Earth had I chosen to sail in it? (Answer: sheer, pressing necessity.)

  Perhaps this was why ‘Malcolm’ had allowed himself a wry chuckle. Perhaps this was why Captain Blunt had not dared to try and extort even more funds from me.

  The mere sight of the freighter caused me a mild panic attack. Soon, however, by dint of breathing slowly and deeply, I got my emotions under control once again.

  After all, hadn’t this ship just sailed all the way from Hong Kong?

  And it was already fully loaded with freight – so the good people who had just entrusted Captain Blunt and his crew with their valuable freight must have thought it would get back to Hong Kong, mustn’t they?

  Reasoning thus, I plucked up my courage once again and resumed our walk towards the gangway.

  Chapter 22

  Shipboard Life

  The crewman who stood watch at the gangway had obviously been warned to expect visitors. He summoned Captain Blunt when we arrived. A shout proved sufficient – it appeared Blunt was on deck.

  As he walked down the gangway, his step abruptly slowed. The sight of my burqa-clad sister had taken Blunt by surprise. He kept his eye on Deb as his feet touched the dock. He stood before us, eyeing Deb up and down.

  “She’s a Muslim,” he said, stating the obvious.

  “You’re very perceptive,” I replied, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  “Is this a forced-marriage thing?” he asked. “Are you taking her overseas to marry someone?”

  I said nothing – I was happy for him to believe our flight was driven by some deeply significant cultural or family need. I took an envelope containing ten thousand dollars from my breast pocket. I handed it to him without saying another word.

  He opened it and ‘counted’ it by eye – just as ‘Malcolm’ had just done. (Quite a skill, really.)

  He looked back to me and shrugged.

  “What do I care?” he said. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

  He turned and led the way up the gangway.

  o0o

  Had The Southern Princess ever been meant to carry paying passengers? I doubted it. Nevertheless, squeezed between the captain’s cabin and the ship’s galley was a small cabin with a single bunk on either side of it - and a minute writing desk squatted, between them, beneath the porthole. A single, naked light-bulb lit the cabin – albeit dimly.

  It was quite clean but, just like the rest of the ship, shabby and worn – the sea-going equivalent of the rooming house we had just left.

  The Captain showed me the facilities – such as they were – and invited us to make ourselves comfortable. I thanked him and tipped the crewman who had carried our bags – I had decided that being on good terms with the crew on such a small ship (on such a long voyage) was an absolute must.

  The Captain smiled broadly at me and wished us both ‘bon voyage’. Suddenly, his pocket filled with my cash, he seemed to regard me far more kindly than when he had told me to ‘fuck off’.

  As soon as the Captain and his crewman left, Deb angrily tore off her burqa and flung it vigorously to the floor.

  “Deb-deb hate burk!”

  It was clear to me that she still detested the garment which had protected her so well from prying eyes. She could not be relied upon to keep herself dressed in it. This was a problem – particularly when we were to be living among others at such close quarters.

  “I think you’re going to have to spend a lot of time in the cabin, my love,” I said, as gently as I could.

  She snorted and stamped her foot on the thinly-covered metal decking.

  I locked the cabin door.

  For amusement, I had acquired a small, transistor radio along the way – with a supply of batteries to last us for the journey. After unpacking our few belongings, I tuned it to a popular music station. This seemed to calm the Deborah ‘beast’ for a while.

  Later on, I tuned in for some news. You will understand that I’d had rather a lot on my hands and had not found the time to keep fully abreast of current events. So, I wondered, how was the latest zombie apocalypse going exactly?

  Actually, if the newscasts were to be believed, it was going pretty well – unless, of course, you were one of the infected.

  As you will recall, the first wave had occurred in the same way as any epidemic: it had started at a single point (Parkville) and spread rapidly from there – and the authorities had been totally unprepared for the onslaught of the undead that had followed. It had therefore taken a long time – and much overseas military assistance – before the plague (and its carriers) had been brought, very bloodily, under control.

  This second wave, however, was entirely different. The initial infection, as such, had occurred when certain women (mainly) had been bitten by zombies ten years previously. It was only years later that they had started exhibiting serious symptoms of that infection, dying and then returning as zombies.

  So, there had been no ‘ground zero’ this time round - and no irresistible wave of infectious, ravenous zombies spreading from that point. Individual females had simply fallen ill over a wide geographical area (including some women overseas). Most importantly, the authorities had learned their lessons from the first wave – and now knew very well how to combat a plague of this sort: isolate and exterminate.

  Was that strategy working? Well, yes, it seemed. There were no more pitched battles of soldiers versus entire armies of zombies. There were no major population centres being completely over-run and their inhabitants being devoured. There were just local ‘incidents’: a few people devoured, here and there, followed by a swift and very official ‘eradication’ of the problem.

  (The most notable exception to this pattern had been the scientific community stationed at Macquarie Island – an Australian sub-Antarctic territory - where twenty or so scientists had been over-run and slaughtered to a man.)

  Mind you, when ‘Joe Public’ had handed over his flu-ridden wife or daughter to be ‘quarantined’ under the pre-determined official plan, he probably didn’t realise that a bullet to her brain would inevitably follow – and follow in very short
order.

  But, as you know, I had not handed Deb over for ‘quarantine’ when the government had ordered me to do so – she was now entirely my problem. She was my sister and I was not going to hand her over to friggin’ government executioner.

  o0o

  So, what did my sister and I actually do on our ‘Pacific Cruise’?

  Initially, not much.

  Weather permitting, I took Deb for stroll on deck once a day. She reluctantly allowed herself to be dressed in the burqa if I solemnly promised that a walk on deck was her reward. She seemed to like just standing and looking at the ocean. The constant movement of the waves seemed to mesmerise her – like daytime TV. I wasn’t sure if it was a zombie-thing or a Deb-thing. Then I found myself staring at the ocean for long periods of time – with my brain switched off - and decided it was neither. It was just a ‘thing’ that anyone could do.