by C. B. Harvey
The Old Fella’s parting words reached him only faintly, twittering on the breeze.
“’Cause it’s who you always were.”
CHAPTER THREE
HE TRUDGED HIS way through downtown Melbourne. Initially, when he’d left Mansfield, he had doubted the apocalypse story. On the outskirts of the city, with tufts of clouds describing slow passages across the enormous blue sky and the eucalyptus gently rustling, the world had looked as suburban and normal as he’d remembered. Sure there was no-one around, but here, in the middle of a hot day in the middle of nowhere, you wouldn’t necessarily expect to find anyone. It was easy to imagine the good, genteel burghers of the towns he passed through hidden inside their wooden houses, absorbing fatuous daytime telly while the air conditioning hissed soothing nothings in the background. In fact, it was so ordinary, so plain, that McGuire felt a familiar hatred blossoming in his gut. His horror was that he had been misled, perhaps even robbed: that the old order, of dull conformity, of predictable, cosy obedience, had somehow reasserted itself in the face of supposed calamity.
As he moved through the suburbs, however, the suspicion had soon dissipated. The first indication was the body of an elderly woman lying in segments on her driveway. She was drawn out, the top half largely intact apart from the arms, which had become partially detached at the shoulders and elbows. The bottom half had given way at the stomach, her abdomen and legs some way distant, attached only by portions of exposed skeleton. For the most part, the eyes and tendons had been gnawed away by birds and insects. The remains of her clothing, a floral dress and sun hat, flapped wistfully in the mild breeze. The stretched, desiccated corpse reminded McGuire of the effect achieved by pouring salt on unsuspecting slugs, a pastime he had delighted in as a kid.
The more he travelled toward his destination, the more corpses he saw. They lay in the doorways of burnt-out houses, in heaps upon the street, sometimes whole but frequently partially eaten, surrounded by patches of dried blood and decaying viscera. In some cases flies and ants frantically buzzed and crawled over heaps of bones. McGuire passed a flock of maggies picking enthusiastically at the remnants of a figure in a tattered bus driver’s outfit. Rather than flying off, the birds regarded him with fleeting, imperious disinterest, before returning to their endeavours.
He continued walking, eventually entering the city proper, passing old and new buildings, some with windows and doors smashed, some daubed with portentous or simply inane graffiti, others apparently untouched, seemingly for no good reason. Vehicles were dotted around, many in perfectly fine condition, others burnt out or crumpled wrecks. Here and there were piles of rubble, while at other points the streets and roads were completely clear. Evidently this was what a sophisticated, urban twenty-first-century city looked like three to four months after the Cull. A haphazard, incongruous mix, of things unscathed and things disrupted by humanity’s fevered attempts to survive, or at the very least to make sense of what had occurred.
McGuire headed up William Street before coming to an amazed halt at the junction with La Trobe. A huge animal, predominantly white with a greenish tinge, its lower body caked in mud, was toying fixedly with something—a ball, perhaps—in the middle of the street. The nearer he got to the creature, too engrossed to register his approach, the more sure he became of what it was. McGuire carefully pulled the assault rifle from off his shoulder.
It was a polar bear. He wondered how long the creature had been loose. Presumably someone had cared for it—and maybe the zoo’s other attractions—since the Cull had hit. Perhaps the zoo keeper had died, or run out of food, or simply decided to let the inmates have their liberty. Whatever the reason, sweltering downtown Melbourne wasn’t exactly conducive to the animal’s well-being. The poor fucking creature was over-heating, judging by both its lugubrious movements and its absorption with its toy. Which, McGuire realised, as he concealed himself behind the wreckage of a crushed Toyota some twenty metres distant, was actually a human head. He wondered whether this was the same person who’d released the bear, and whether they’d belatedly seen the folly of their decision, however briefly.
McGuire felt an unusual sensation, something he struggled to put his finger on: remorse, he realised with a smile. Not something he’d felt since, well, since that unfortunate incident with his parents all those years ago. Sure, the polar bear was a killer, but that was its nature. This was a monarch amongst beasts, by dint of Nature, or of God, or of Evolution, whatever flawed system you chose to describe the universe with. He followed its listless toying with the human head through the cross-hairs of the rifle. It was beyond remonstration, beyond critique, beyond moralising. It simply was.
But he had a clear shot now, and even monarchs have to die. The creature had turned from playing with the head and was staring directly at him. In its mournful eyes he seemed to see an understanding, a recognition that its time was at an end, perhaps even a desire to die. McGuire pulled the trigger and a burst of gunfire rattled out, exploding into its hide with a ripple of scarlet. McGuire had expected it to roar, but instead it arched its back, pulling itself into a standing position, stretching its neck, whorls of dust billowing in its wake. It turned to him, its expression ponderous, blood oozing from the holes perforating its hind quarters. McGuire reluctantly squeezed the trigger again, and the creature collapsed backward on to the street.
McGuire moved toward the hulk, glancing around himself warily. The bear was dying, but not yet dead. He knelt by the creature, stroking its bloodied hide. Those patches that weren’t matted by blood or mud were curiously wiry to the touch. Given the context, to waste cartridges was ridiculous, a soft, silly action that might come back to haunt him. And yet a thing of its power, weak and dying, was to McGuire an abomination. He stood, pointed the assault rifle at its head, and ended its reign.
He followed La Trobe, passing more inert vehicles, some damaged, some untouched, including an overturned ambulance that had clearly been looted, its contents strewn across the road, and the inert form of a bulldozer, its scoop raised in comical salute to the destruction of civilisation. Eventually he arrived at the intersection with Swanson Street, his attention piqued by a plume of black smoke hanging above a nearby building.
Intrigued, his rifle slung once again, McGuire headed down Swanson a short way, arriving at a grand building sporting fluted columns and a life-size bronze statue which the accompanying plaque identified as ‘Sir Redmond Barry.’ Further details were largely obscured by a sprawling graffiti tag executed in crimson and black that spelt the word ‘Forever’ without explanation. McGuire had visited the place some thirty years previously on a school trip, a few months prior to the unfortunate incident with his parents. This was the famous State Library of Victoria, home to over two million books, and more besides. Many of the books seemed to have been distributed down the steps and across the parched front lawn and forecourt, where they lay fluttering in the breeze like dying butterflies.
Aside from the black plume gently folding in upon itself before spiralling outward again, more black smoke was emanating from the depths of the library itself. McGuire began ascending the steps, picking his way over the debris, including a wealth of glass and splintered wood. He was mildly surprised that the place should have become a target for pillaging. He’d passed so many other untouched buildings, all liable to offer up treasures of more practical use in the wake of the apocalypse. Maybe the looters had possessed a penchant for the historical. Maybe they were just fucking idiots. As he ascended the second run of steps, the fitful noise of a failing alarm system gradually became audible.
McGuire pushed through the doors and crunched his way across a floor strewn with shards of glass and porcelain, past cracked walls with gaps in the plaster. The acrid smoke became thicker as he progressed. McGuire paused to wind a ragged bandana around his mouth and nose before proceeding, and to remove his hat. The source of the smoke quickly became apparent in the mammoth, octagonal hall at the heart of the building, billowing up toward t
he glass-domed ceiling. A group of people were gathered around a pyre constructed from wooden furniture, cracked computer terminals, exhibition cabinets, and yet more piles of books. For an intrigued moment he thought they were burning people too, but then he realised the melting forms he could see were mannequins, presumably drawn from various exhibits. The group were whooping and laughing, swigging from tinnies of beer and bottles of wine, seemingly unaware of McGuire’s entrance. None of them looked older than twenty.
“Is this a private party or can anyone join in?” he rasped, levelling his assault rifle at them.
“Who the fuck are you?” demanded a woman with a pink Mohican, pistol in one hand and beer can in the other, her discordant voice echoing across the chamber. She probably wasn’t much more than eighteen, and McGuire found himself marvelling at the amount of lacquer she must be using to keep the Mo erect. He couldn’t help admiring her commitment to her haircut, what with the apocalypse and everything; clearly this was someone with a sound grasp of priorities. Around her, the others pulled themselves to their feet. A couple of them had clearly been in the midst of intercourse and were struggling to adjust their clothes.
McGuire grinned. “You’re just a bunch of fucking kids. You wouldn’t survive ten minutes on your own out there. Who’s in charge?”
“I am,” said a thick, familiar man’s voice from behind him, just before a pistol butt smashed into the back of his skull.
A FEROCIOUS PAIN and the whiff of cooking meat brought him back to consciousness. He looked down to see the girl with the pink Mohican gleefully holding a blazing table leg to his exposed midriff, and realised it was his own burning flesh he could smell. She stepped back from him with a mischievous grin, leaving him to grimace. His hands were tied behind him to some sort of wooden pole, and his ankles had been bound together. A couple of people were holding him up, but in response to an unseen instruction they stepped away, and he momentarily struggled to maintain his stance without their support. In front of him was the pyre, into which a couple of young men and women were feeding hefty-looking tomes; possibly encyclopaedias. The fire roared its appreciation.
“Did no-one tell you?” said the familiar voice, close by. “You’re meant to be dead. At least that was what Danny Kline said.”
McGuire turned his head toward the bearded, muscle-bound bloke beside him, wearing a battered black leather jacket and a perpetual hang-dog expression. “Danny Kline, eh? Fuck yeah.” Despite his predicament he couldn’t help but feel a wave of pride. The Danny Kline. How cool was that. “Trouble is, Ritzo, you old fuck, rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” The smoke from the fire was making his eyes water.
Ritzo pushed his swarthy face close to McGuire. “I’ll say, mate. Danny Kline called you ‘Dead Kelly,’ and the rest of the papers and shit joined in. I mean, you can’t blame ’em. The police were adamant they’d bring you down, by hook or by fuckin’ crook. Then, lo and behold, a body turned up. The head was mashed up, but the cops were pretty sure.”
“Maybe I’m a ghost,” McGuire suggested, shifting his face awkwardly away from Ritzo, lest the stench of his rotting gums cause him to vomit. McGuire fixed on the fire again, watching a mannequin bubbling into oblivion.
Ritzo smirked, following his gaze and emitting a wistful sigh. “Yeah, well—that’s the likeliest outcome of this scenario, mate.” He pulled away from McGuire, pacing. He clearly wasn’t sure what to do.
“But you, Ritzo,” said McGuire quickly. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”
Ritzo eyed him sceptically. “Is that so? Fuck me.”
“That final job. Somebody ratted us out. Who was it?”
Ritzo’s face split into a sneering laugh. “I don’t fuckin’ know, man. We thought it was you. You were the one that got away. Didn’t see you for dust. The rest of us poor bastards had to fight our way out. It was a fuckin’ bloodbath.”
McGuire clenched his fists, in the process testing his bonds, wincing at the pain from his scarred hand. No two ways about it, he was tied up pretty fucking tight. Ritzo’s famed interest in kinky sex had clearly turned out to be a transferable skill. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Because you’re a fucking psycho, man. We all knew it. All of us.” He added, sotto voce, his face ruddy in the glow of the fire, “Even Lindsay knew it.”
McGuire tilted his head suddenly toward Ritzo. “What happened to her? Did she make it?” The burn on his chest throbbed like crazy.
Ritzo shook his head. “I dunno. I remember the police leading her off. I had my own problems, to be perfectly fucking frank with you.” He peered intently at McGuire. “Why’d you come back, mate? You should’ve stayed out there in the Bush. Now I’m gonna have to fuckin’ kill you.” There was the merest tinge of remorse in his voice. Something McGuire could work with.
McGuire gazed steadily back at him. “Kill me? Why the fuck would you kill me? The pair of us together...”
Ritzo waggled his finger at McGuire. “No, no, no. You don’t get it. The world’s changed. Not just the future, but the past too. Look at this place.” He spread his arms, taking in the vast arching hall, his voice ringing out. “It’s a monument to the past. No-one gives a fuck anymore. We’re all too busy feeding ourselves and fighting each other. And that’s a good thing, mate, it really is. ’Cause for most of us, the past fucking sucked big time.” He stared at the fire.
McGuire nodded toward the pyre, towards the youngsters still nourishing it with encyclopaedias. “So I guess that’s why you’re helping the past on its way.”
Ritzo smiled languidly. “I’ll show you what I mean, Kelly.” He beckoned to the girl with the pink Mohican and to another girl, probably the same age, with dyed blonde hair and a ring in her tongue that glittered in the firelight. Ritzo smiled at the pair meaningfully, and they responded in kind. The girl with the Mohican kissed him hard on the lips and the blonde did likewise, then the two proceeded to snog each other. Ritzo turned, jubilantly, back to McGuire. “See?”
McGuire shook his head and laughed. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me. This is your gang, is it? A bunch of fuckin’ teenagers?”
Ritzo pushed right up to McGuire, furious. “You don’t get it, man, do you? I’m tellin’ you, it’s all gone.” He thrust his arm towards the door. “Did you not see it out there? The rubble? The half-eaten corpses? Civilisation, fuck me, all it needed was a nudge, not even a shove, to come tumblin’ down. Most people are dead. But not me, man, not Ritzo—I survived, and I’m gonna have a nice fuckin’ life out of this.” He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned into McGuire’s ear. “This is the thing, mate. Now I’m a leader. They trust me, they follow me. But I’ve gotta, like, exercise discipline, you see? They gotta see I’ve got the balls, that I’m the Top Dog.” He pulled away, glancing anxiously toward the fire and biting his lip.
McGuire had read his mind. “So you’re gonna throw me on the fire?”
Ritzo looked fleetingly surprised, then shook his head despondently. “Mate, I wish I didn’t have to, really I do. But there’s no other way. Shootin’ or stabbin’ just doesn’t have the same impact, y’know?” He turned back to the pyre, the flames dancing in his regretful eyes. “You gotta burn.”
McGuire smiled, nodding. “Okay, mate, I understand it. It’s business. I’d do the same thing in your position.”
Ritzo looked at him with something approaching affection. “That’s big of you, Kelly. I appreciate it. Let’s not end this on bad terms.”
“Can I have a ciggie?”
Ritzo stepped away, smiling. He waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, whatever, fuck it. Jess, give ’im a cigarette.”
The surly girl with the pink Mohican pouted, then reluctantly produced a tatty packet of Camels from within the confines of her leather jacket. She pulled a half-smoked cigarette out, stepped forward and stuffed it without ceremony into McGuire’s lips.
“Uh, a light?” he asked around the fag.
Sighing theatrically, the g
irl lifted the still-glowing table leg toward his cigarette. In that moment McGuire blew hard, so that the embers from the table leg billowed upward into the girl’s face. Immediately her lacquered hair burst into flames, the girl stumbling backward, screaming in terror and colliding with Blondie. By now the other gang members were on their feet, clutching weapons, uncertain what to do, looking to Ritzo for direction.
“For fuck’s sake!” raged Ritzo, pulling a pistol from his jacket. He strode towards McGuire, pulling the hammer back and raising the weapon, clearly intent on shooting him at point-blank range, all thoughts of a Wicker Man-style execution gone. As he stepped in, McGuire suddenly let himself slide down the pole, lashing out with his bound feet as he did.
McGuire’s boots smashed into Ritzo’s bollocks, causing him to buckle forward and collapse. Seizing his chance, McGuire lifted his legs up and over the dazed man’s head, wrapping them around his neck and crushing his windpipe. Ritzo’s eyes bulged, the gun in his hand flailing uselessly and clattering to the floor, his hands clawing ineffectually at his throat. McGuire could see the rest of the gang, frozen in indecision, save for Blondie who was emptying a stubby over the head of her Mohicanned friend in a frantic effort to extinguish the flames. The only other exception was a young bloke with high cheekbones and cracked black spectacles, who stumbled toward McGuire and Ritzo clutching a knife.
“Release me or I’ll kill ’im,” growled McGuire, tightening his grip on Ritzo’s neck still further. Ritzo’s piggy eyes were screwed shut, the capillaries across his cheeks pulsing crimson like they were fit to burst.
The youngster hesitated, looking behind him to the other gang members, but they gazed back at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes, their gawky bodies immobile. Abruptly, the youth dropped down behind McGuire, slicing through the ropes securing him to the wooden pole. His hands and feet free, McGuire grabbed the knife from the dazed youth as he backed away. Severing the bonds securing McGuire’s ankles meant Ritzo had been released too. The bearded man slumped back, gasping for air and scrabbling at his bruised neck.
