Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie

by Peter Trevorah

  I estimated that this was one company only, 200 - 250 troops, perhaps. Maybe there was a second company searching elsewhere but I could only deal with what I saw before my eyes. Anyone else would just have to wait.

  As evening was approaching, I saw the company come to a halt and make a bivouac for the night.

  From a distance, I could see the soldiers were not moving quickly. I guessed these guys had been marching for a week without any ‘contact’ with the enemy. If they had spent any time at all in the jungle, they would now be muddy, fatigued, footsore and covered with numerous bites from insects and leeches.

  They probably hadn’t bathed in a week either. In the tropics, that’s a long time and simply invites ‘dermo’ in folk unused to the heat and humidity.

  In short, they were probably not at their physical or mental peak for battle.

  I hastened back to where I had left Deb, David and the other 1500 or so zombies. They hadn’t missed me at all. They hadn’t moved much either.

  Deb came and greeted me – a strange occurrence in itself – and said:

  “Boys want pig-hunt. Boys hungry.”

  “The boys will hunt tomorrow,” I said, grimly.

  I then noticed, in the moonlight, that Deb’s eyes seemed no longer to be as dark and sunken as I had remembered from a few days previous – when I had left her and David with the others.

  At the time, I passed it off as a trick of the light – but I confirmed this observation the next morning when the sun rose. I didn’t know what to make of it. I had other things on my mind.

  Chapter 33

  Hannibal Revisited

  As dawn broke, the zombies were already well in position – just as they routinely did for one of their pig-hunts. No special instruction required – which was just as well since zombies are not quick learners – but, in assuming their positions, absolute silence had been maintained.

  The only difference in ‘the trap’ was that David had lined up his troops as one, uphill from the derelict roadway. This time, there were no separate‘pig-drivers’ nor ‘pig-catchers’.(This was just as it had been during my previous time with David on the island.)

  David’s ‘army’ was simply strung out in three, close, parallel lines, overlooking the side of the track which ran along the floor of the valley. From end to end, each of the three parallel lines stretched about 1000 metres. The undead were spaced at roughly two-metre intervals from each other.

  The lines were, respectively, seven, nine and eleven metres (more or less) back from the ill-defined edge of the track. Concealment within the dense undergrowth, at that distance, was complete. This was far enough, and the zombies were quiet enough, to be undetected by a bunch of weary, unwell and unsuspecting soldiers as they marched, single file, along the now-narrow dirt path.

  They marched within two or three metres of the river’s edge. It had rained heavily overnight and the river was in full spate. A vigorous, young, river makes a lot of noise as it bounces and jumps over the large rocks in its bed.

  This, I thought, was a good thing.

  I sat to the rear of the third line – maybe fifteen metres back from the edge of the path. I observed the invaders as they commenced to file past our lines. My heart was beating out of my chest. The hearts of my chosen comrades did not beat at all. David, at my insistence, was positioned much further up the valley, towards its head.

  Through his strong empathetic link to me, he would know when best to give the signal – and he would give it from a place where no other zombies were to be found. He would draw the soldiers’ fire in those crucial first few seconds.

  After what seemed an eternity, ‘Tail-End Charlie’ (the last soldier in line) stumbled past my position. David would know that now was the time.

  Within seconds, a truly apocalyptic roar resounded a thousand metres to my left and, as one, 1500 zombies then emitted their own deafening chorus as they leapt down the valley wall, hurtling forward and onto the path. Like some huge, elongated battering ram, they drove themselves into the single file of 200 stunned and unprepared soldiers stretching along the riverbank. As one, they lifted it from the pathway - and carried it forward the few metres that were necessary to see it drop over the riverbank - and into the all-consuming turbulence below.

  There were several short burst of automatic weapons fire – some soldiers, at least, had been marching with cocked weapons – but very few. I saw none of the nearby zombies fall to their fire. (I observed later that a mere seven of them had suffered slight damage.)

  I estimated that, within ten seconds of David giving the signal, at least 190 of the two hundred soldiers had been forced, by the sheer weight of their unarmed, but numerically superior, enemy, into the raging waters of the river. Weighed down by their heavy packs and weapons, and sick with fatigue, they had struggled only briefly – and then sank out of sight into the boiling murk.

  As to the ten or so who had fallen short of the water’s edge, another, more grisly fate awaited them. In the frenzy of battle, David’s fellows had reverted to their more traditional ways and forsaken their pork-only diets. I could not help those unfortunates – I knew, from past experience, when not to interfere in the intimate affairs of blood-crazed zombies.

  From start to finish, the battle lasted no more than twenty seconds – it was a complete rout.

  I cannot claim credit for the plan. It was not, in fact, mine. Hannibal of Carthage had used much the same plan when defeating a Roman legion for the first time – though his men had at least been armed.

  Even during the Vietnam War, a modified tactic of this type had been used, to devastating effect, by the Viet Cong against an American force of an even larger size to the one we had just defeated.

  Less than five minutes after David’s battle cry, I stood on the bank of the river, looking blankly into the passing torrent. The soldiers whom I had just seen wearily walking past me had now simply disappeared. I guessed they would next be seen washed up on a beach or trapped in distant mangroves.

  I felt sick.

  Deb, who had been in the thick of the brief ‘action’, came to my side. She was carrying the back-pack of one of the soldiers. She lifted it to me – for her, it was a prize of war, I supposed. I stared at it – there was something oddly familiar about it. It was a two-way radio. It was more compact than the ancient one I had used as an Army Cadet twelve or thirteen years previously (which contained heavy lead-acid batteries and ran on valves) but I recognised it for what it was.

  Suddenly, it crackled into life: “Alpha Company, status report to GHQ requested. Please report the co-ordinates of your position and details of any contacts made. Over.”

  Without thinking, I took hold of the hand-piece, pushed the transmit button and spoke in a trembling voice:

  “ GHQ, we regret to inform you that the brave soldiers of Alpha Company have today paid the supreme sacrifice for their nation. Do not send any other brave men to their needless death. We, the inhabitants of this island, wish only to live in peace and pose no threat to you. Please be advised that you are not welcome in our land and must leave immediately...”

  My voice gave out completely at that point. I released the transmit button and lifted the unit from my waiting sister’s arms. As I hurled it into the angry, writhing waters of the river, I heard:

  “Who the fuck are you and what game are you playing at?”

  True. Who the fuck was I - to speak on behalf of David, Deb and their comrades? Well, the architect of their victory, I suppose. The architect of their continued existence.

  David soon came and joined the ‘festivities’ at our section of the line. He roared in triumph, like an undead Julius Caesar. I let him have his victory ‘speech’ for some time – whilst the others chorused their own triumphs - and then spoke to Deb urgently.

  “Planes will come soon. Drop bombs on us. Must move.”

  Deb immediately clicked back into Mother-Hen mode and let out her banshee cry. Reluctantly, the victorious army ceased their tri
umphal chorus and accepted the order – even David – and we moved off, as one, melting back into the jungle.

  o0o

  Conveniently, not half an hour later, the Earth, once again, began to rumble and shake violently. I heard a series of several distant explosions and, standing atop of opposite rim of the valley, I could clearly see a vast column of ash rising into the stratosphere, streaked through with frequent flashes of lightning.

  One of the two dormant volcanic cones in Simpson Harbour must have erupted – and it looked like a very significant eruption to me. The two guided-missile destroyers and the troop ship anchored in the harbour would need to evacuate immediately.

  So, we had some unexpected breathing space – but I knew the military would be back as soon as the eruption died down (and the harbour could be re-entered safely). One does not lose over two hundred troops, in supposed peacetime, and just let it rest, does one?

  Chapter 34

  Deb

  We started another forced march to the South-West, away from the scene of the battle. As we trudged along, under the cover of the dense green canopy, we could hear more explosions to our rear. Some were merely the distant thuds of the ongoing – and increasing – volcanic eruption. Others were more specific and close.

  I guessed that, on their way out of Rabaul, the ships had dispatched a couple of helicopter gunships to find where Alpha Company had met its end. I guessed also that, based on past reports of the company’s position, the helicopter gunships had found that place – and thrown whatever arsenal they had at it: heavy machine gun fire and air to ground missiles.

  However, we were long gone and not visible from the air. It would now take days for a search party to reach the spot and establish what had happened – if it could.

  At the end of day three after the battle, we had covered still more difficult terrain – mud, swampy ground and mountains. We got about 50km away from the battleground, by my calculations. Once again, our troops were done in – time to stop and rest. We would not be harassed now.

  As night fell, I moved to the edge of a nearby clearing to observe the startlingly purple sunset caused by the still-rising, still-spreading cloud of ash. The others remained safely hidden under the shelter of the forest – maybe 100m away. Zombies aren’t much interested in beautiful sunsets, as a rule.

  I sat and Deb came and sat beside me, showing a quite unexpected interest in the natural wonder.

  “Deb like sunset?” I said.

  She nodded her head, again a little unusual.

  I looked at her face. Yes, her eyes definitely no longer seemed as sunken nor as dark-rimmed.

  And then I noticed something else about her, something as subtle as it was surprising: as she marvelled at the purple sky, her eyes were scanning across it – as if to take in as much of its beauty as she could. But that wasn’t what surprised me. What surprised me was that, as her eyes scanned across the sky, they performed saccades.

  Saccades are those small, involuntary jerks that everyone’s eyes make but few notice they are even making them. They are essential for good vision because they create a sort of synthetic movement of the outside world which the brain, attuned to detecting movement, can better detect and process.

  Why was this observation important?

  Because zombies’ vision is relatively poor – their eyes move in large jerks and otherwise stare fixedly.

  Zombies’ eyes do not saccade.

  I contemplated this as Deb and I sat side by side, watching the darkening tropical sky. When the sky had almost turned completely dark, Deb nudged herself a little forward and put her head on my lap.

  This, too, was very unusual – zombies do not show affection and do not gladly receive it either.

  Now I was becoming quite confused by my sister’s behaviour – but said nothing. After all, it was quite a relief to feel a little human affection (if that’s what it was) after so many months living exclusively with the undead.

  Then, from the dark, came a small, childish sob - and then another.

  Deb was quietly weeping – this was definitely not what zombies did!

  I placed my hand gently on her long, filthy, matted hair and stroked it. The feeble sobbing died away and Deb seemed to go into a deep relaxed, torpor.

  “What’s happening now to my little sister?” I whispered in the dark.

  No response.

  I kept stroking her long-neglected and lice-ridden hair – for want of anything better to do – until my hand accidentally strayed onto her brow.

  It was damp with sweat – and warm!

  I whispered several expletives in the dark but Deb did not rouse. She was, I now guessed, simply asleep.

  I was shaking with disbelief at what my senses were telling me. I, too, had broken out into a sweat.

  “Another test,” I thought.

  I lightly moved her hair aside and put two fingers lightly on her neck – near where I thought her carotid artery had once functioned. This was the place, on my own body, where I had always felt for a pulse after vigorous exercise – to establish my heart-rate.

  At first, I felt nothing and was desperately disappointed. But, after all, my fingers were shaking wildly with nervous energy – and so I persisted.

  Soon, I felt a clear pulse, strong and regular as she slept.

  Deb was no longer a zombie.

  How could this be?

  o0o

  The next morning, I am pleased to report, nothing had changed: Deb was still just as alive as I was.

  However, she did not realise what had happened. She still acted as if she were still a zombie, bossing around the others just as she had always done – and the others still accepted her precisely as they had in the days before. She acted and spoke like a young primary school kid (though perceptible progress was occurring on that front as well).

  On the other hand, David, as my identical twin, was able to tap into my psyche.

  Immediately, he knew something major had changed and came to me with a question on his face.

  I spoke in a low voice, not wishing Deb or the others to hear.

  “She’s alive again, Mate,” I said. “She doesn’t know it yet but she definitely is.”

  I sensed that he understood what I had said – and he definitely knew that zombies like himself were different to living folk.

  He leaned forward and placed the back of his hand against my belly, his accustomed way of communicating closely with me: there was fear in his touch.

  I felt a painful, stabbing pang of fear. What was David now afraid of? I met his questioning stare with incomprehension.

  He pushed his hand hard into my belly – to make me understand, I suppose – and howled pitiably like a baby.

  “You think we might leave you again?” I said. “Is that it?”

  He withdrew his hand. That, indeed, was ‘it’.

  I would need to chew it over but, before doing so, I needed to reassure my simple-minded brother: “Deb and I aren’t going anywhere, Mate. We’ve got nowhere to go now.”

  David seemed to accept this. He turned away and walked back, to be with his people.

  It was true enough, what I had told my brother – Deb and I had no immediate way of getting off the island, even if we had decided that’s what we wanted. More to the point, after being responsible for a large number of military (and civilian) deaths, we were hardly likely to be greeted like the Prodigal Children if we returned to civilisation.

  Then again, how many people would actually know about what we had done?

  o0o

  The months passed on New Ireland without the military returning – the volcanic eruption had continued fitfully during that time and thus Simpson Harbour remained effectively unusable.

  Deb’s body continued to heal itself. In time, she looked almost as she had before succumbing to the infection. Deb’s intellectual progress also continued unabated. By this time, she was acting like a ten-year-old, she had started to take care of her appearance, washing and c
leaning herself like a normal child.

  Despite this change, the local zombie men continued to accept her as one of their own and, just as with me, no attempt was made to attack her. We were still, after all ‘King David’s’ siblings.

  During these happy months, however, one thought continued to nag at me: if Deb had recovered – unlike any known male zombie – why not the other females, the victims of the second wave?

  One day, at Deb’s urging, she and I took a hike to a nearby beach. Deb liked to make picnics for me. After we’d poked about for a while in the rock-pools, we returned to the grass mat she had recently woven for me. We started on the feast of tropical fruit she had brought with her in another of her recent creations, a woven basket.