Doomsday's Child

by Pete Aldin

  “How close?” he asked. “The dead?”

  “I dunno. Three hours away. Four. Five. Not sure how fast they all move.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “Fire tower's on a hill,” she said. “Sticks out of the bush. Can't miss it. That way.” She jerked her head and must have triggered a big spasm. She groaned, clamped a hand to her chest.

  Lewis shuffled backwards, clasping the aid kit to his own chest, attention torn between her and the trees to the far north of the valley. There was nothing there. Yet.

  She clutched at Elliot's boot. “Gotta. Get. Going.”

  “Cochise, get our gear,” Elliot said, then when he didn't respond, barked, “Over there! Get the gear! Bring it here! Move!”

  Lewis stumbled backwards then ran for the weapons and pack.

  He asked her, “Can you stand?”

  “Can you give a lady a boost?”

  He took her elbow, let her hold his arm with her good hand. She got up, eyes narrowed, jaws tight. She was as light as a child.

  “We can do this,” he told her.

  “My hubbie used to say that. Whenever things were at their worst.” She lost focus for a moment, sinking into a memory, her smile sad. Then she blinked and said in a whisper, “Not very reassuring.”

  “Maybe he made me do it, let you know he's still around,” he tried.

  She nodded. “That's a nice thought. But he might still be alive, far as I know. Back in Wollongong.”

  He chuckled. “Oh.” Then she had a story for being on the island too. Birds of a feather. He experimented with letting her stand alone. “Okay?”

  “Fine. Thank you. For letting me come with you. Really don't want to face the shitstorm alone.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You just saved our lives.”

  “They're not safe yet, mate.”

  When Lewis returned, Elliot swapped the M4 for the SIG. He made Lewis shoulder the backpack while he got his map out.

  Birdy frowned down at it for a while then tapped a spot. “There.”

  He told Lewis, “We're headed here. Those deaders come, we get caught in it, you run, you hear. Don't wait for us and don't come back for us if we go down.”

  Lewis swallowed, nodding as Elliot shoved the spare 9-mil mags in the pack with the map. Then the teenager turned east, striding ahead of them.

  Elliot slung the rifle and spear gun, waved Birdy ahead of him and followed watching her unsteady gait, his mind swarming with nightmare images of an oncoming storm.

  10

  The bushland was harder going the other side of the valley: rutted gullies snaking through small hillocks; pools of stagnant, mosquito-ridden water; slippery rocks poking randomly from the topsoil; screens of intertwined saplings to detour around.

  Within twenty minutes, Lewis was well out in front, scouting easier pathways while Elliot stayed back with Birdy. Her breath came hard in the still warm air, her face pale, eyes narrow. But each time Elliot would go to ask her how she was doing, she'd brush off his concern before he got the words out, suck in a deep breath and push herself harder for a minute or two.

  As they waited while Lewis checked the other side of a rise, Elliot asked her, “So you got stranded here too?” He kept checking the rise, wondering if he should have gone himself, leave Lewis back here with Birdy.

  Ah, shit, he has to learn sometime.

  Leaning on a eucalypt trunk, she replied “Not exactly.” She closed her eyes.

  Eager to keep her sharp, and eager to keep her distracted, he said, “You wishing you were back in Wollygong?”

  “Wollongong.” She opened her eyes. They were moist. “So a little personal information then? Real reason I stopped for you two? I thought you looked a lot like my husband and my son. I thought since I can't be with them, maybe I could give another father and son some assistance. Like, join-another-family kind of thing.” She made a face. “Sad, huh?”

  He shook his head, but added, “I'm not his dad.”

  “Obviously. I can see that now. But I couldn't from the air.”

  “So … You're here and they're … in that unpronounceable town near Sydney. You were working here?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Pssst!” called Lewis. He waved them forward from the top of the rise and ducked over it. Elliot shook his head, wishing the teenager would stay in sight.

  He gestured. “After you.”

  “A gentleman,” she said and stumbled on. “And if you are a true gentleman, you might end up giving me a piggy back soon.”

  *

  A plain black and white plaque proclaimed the tower to be ten meters high and sixty years old, constructed as a fire lookout. The fire tower sat atop Mount Terror: the Terror part struck Elliot as appropriate under the circumstances, though Mount was a little overstated—the bald hill poking a couple hundred feet above the eucalypt forest around it was more like a bump. Then again, that too may have originated in the Australian love for irony.

  It consisted of a white aluminum-and-glass box the size of a bedroom atop a steel-mesh platform and supported by four pillars. The pillars were braced by diagonal steel crisscrosses. Various connotations of radio and cell phone aerials sprouted at all angles from the box and its legs; Elliot counted nine of them. Four flights of steel stairs led up the exposed middle of the structure. The construct sat inside a ten foot high chain link fence in a grassy area maybe fifteen by fifteen yards. A row of solar panels inside the fence promised power—maybe some clever park ranger had left an electric razor and a well-stocked beer fridge up there. Well, he thought as he tested the lock on the gate, a fella could dream.

  “We'll have to climb over,” he said, grateful for no barbed wire. But this was going to be tough on Birdy who had paused halfway up the hill behind them to gaze up at the tower and suck air.

  Lewis pointed to a slim brick building nestled against the outside of the fence on the opposite side. He'd been looking at it longingly the whole time they'd approached. “I need to use the dunny.”

  Dunny?

  Oh.

  “Me too,” Elliot agreed, acknowledging the pressure in his bowel. Packing away all that steak and eggs ...

  He glanced down into the shadows between trees, cocked an ear to listen to the approach of a murderous horde above the trilling and hooting of forest birds. Nothing. If what Birdy said was accurate, they had hours yet. And maybe, if Lady Luck decided to shine on them just this once, the sea of undead would wash past elsewhere, missing them entirely.

  “You first,” he told Lewis. “Just don't stink it up too much.”

  The teenager flashed him a dirty look as he stalked away.

  The sun was touching the trees that surrounded the bald hill he stood on. Fantails and parrots swooped and chirruped, catching last meals of the day, or vying for places to rest for the night. A black beetle whirred up to him, considered alighting on his shirt, changed its mind and passed through the chain link. He leaned his head against one of the fence uprights, the steel frame as cold as river stone in contrast to the harsh sunshine and high humidity. He smacked his lips, wishing he hadn't imagined beer fridges, and grudgingly pushed himself away from the fence to wander around to a rainwater tank on the side of the toilet block where he’d spied a spigot. He placed his canteen beneath it, turned it on. The dull notes of trickling water comprised the best music he'd heard in years.

  “Can I have some privacy?” Lewis complained from within.

  After a beat, Elliot replied, “No” and took a long swig from the canteen. The water was warm and plasticky. But it would be clean enough, safe enough. He swallowed, wiped his mouth, took another. He topped up the canteen, screwed the cap back on, crouched by the spigot. He flipped it open again and stuck his head under it, scrubbed at his face and hands, turned it off, wiped his hands on the dry grass around him.

  Birdy was trudging the last few steps up to the gate. He watched her try the lock and lean her head where he'd
leaned his. Yep, getting over there in her condition was going to hurt.

  He patted the tank.

  “Quit it! What are you doing?”

  “Relax, Cochise.”

  It was half full. If the cabin above had food, they could stay here a couple of weeks. More if they got some good rain. It might give them space to let things cool down. If there was food. There wasn’t much left in the backpack.

  The run of a toilet paper holder made him stand. “About friggin' time.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Leave some of that paper for me.”

  “All right! God!”

  “No, my name's Elliot.”

  “Geez!”

  He chuckled and lay the canteen on the ground. “Water out here if you want some.” There was a flush and Lewis struggled with the latch a moment before appearing, blushing and angry, the first time he'd seen the young man that stirred up. That was fine with Elliot—anger keeps you alive.

  He kicked the canteen across the grass. “That's for drinking, but wash your hands under the tap first.”

  “I'm not an idiot.””

  “Good to know. I'll be out in ten.”

  “And I'll stand here and annoy you.”

  “Whatever floats your boat, Cochise.”

  He closed the door with another chuckle and got ready to drop some kids off at the pool.

  *

  Getting Birdy over the fence with a cracked rib and a banged up hand was never going to happen. They used a shovel leaning against the toilet block to clear enough dirt from under the fence for her to lie on her back and use her legs to push herself through. Elliot and Lewis climbed, then filled the hole in enough to stop the undead from following Birdy's lead.

  The tower cabin was more cramped than he'd expected. Barely three feet between any wall and the metal table occupying the centre. The table was spread with maps, a clipboard, an aging portable DVD player, and a scattering of biros. Elliot added his pack and weapons to the detritus there. Lots of gritty dust. A sagging cardboard box beneath contained an eclectic stockpile: Wiggles and Seinfeld DVDs with covers so faded he could barely read them; insect repellent; sunscreen; a cloth sunhat; a packet of plastic forks; half a box of Kleenex; dry crackers two months past their use-by date; a tupperware container with a fistful of trail mix; a pack of Styrofoam cups; a pair of field glasses; a large first aid kit; a spare roll of toilet paper; a leather satchel with shoulder strap that could replace Lewis's pack. Some of this stuff was going in that satchel, he decided; the sunhat could replace his Shell cap left in the Torana along with the other gear those witches had stolen from him.

  A steel roadcase big enough for a bass amp had been installed as a storage cabinet in one corner. Someone had screwed a landline telephone to the side. A CB radio sat on top beside a small pile of paperback novels and a forty page printout titled FIRE MANAGEMENT. Post-it notes with phone numbers and a child's sketching of a koala had outflanked the telephone. Two camp chairs had been folded up in the opposite corner.

  No beer fridge.

  But there were two desk fans screwed into the roof upside down. If there was a God, the solar panels were connected and functioning. He tried a fan and to his pleasure it hummed to life, sending a stream of delicious moving air across his scalp.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He lay the rifle on the table and Lewis did the same with the speargun. Birdy rattled one of the folding chairs until Lewis helped her unfold it. She settled into it gingerly and groaned with relief.

  “Any more painkillers?”

  Elliot put his pack on the table and rummaged for codeine. Lewis tried the phone, made a disappointed sound when there was no dial tone. Then he flicked the radio on. “You should try to reach someone.”

  “I should?” Elliot said, handing another pill to Birdy. There were only four left in the packet. “That will have to do for the moment.”

  Lewis sighed theatrically. “Okay, I will.” He lifted the mic and thumbed the button, spoke meaningless innocences into it. There was no reply. “Is this tuned in?”

  “You have to try different frequencies, Lewis,” Birdy said.

  “But what are you gonna do if someone answers?” added Elliot.

  “Just, like, ask for help.”

  “Okay, Einstein. What kinda help you gonna request?”

  “Like, evac. That kinda thing.”

  It was Elliot's turn to raise an eyebrow. “Evac. So you're Delta Force now?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Mm.”

  Elliot stuffed the toilet roll, bug repellent and sunscreen in Lewis's new satchel and opened the crackers. Birdy closed her eyes, resting. Lewis pushed buttons, changing the frequencies and listening to various shades of static. Elliot chewed on stale biscuit. “And what if the guys answering aren't people you really want evacking you? What if those bikers hear you?”

  “Bikers?” Birdy murmured. Her eyes stayed shut.

  “It's not fair,” Lewis muttered, but he put the mic back and went to the window to survey the forest.

  They shared crackers and trail mix for dinner, washing it down with warm water. Elliot plugged in his recharger, slotted in the batteries from his beard trimmer and flashlight. The DVD player had charge, so Elliot slouched in the other camp chair and played two Seinfeld episodes, marveling at the high-waisted jeans and laughing his ass off, while Lewis used scrap paper and biros to commence a new sketch, seated in the lotus position near the door where the light was best. From her own camp chair, Birdy snored.

  “That was stupid,” the teenager said when the second ep was over.

  “What was?” Birdy asked, stirring. She looked around confused for a moment before getting her bearings, smacked her lips.

  “That was genius,” Elliot told him and hit pause. He took out his battery charger and plugged in the DVD player in its stead. It would serve as a nightlight when night fell.

  “Anyway, it doesn't feel like we should be laughing when people keep dying.” He rotated the page, coloured in a patch heatedly.

  “Sometimes that’s the best time to laugh,” Elliot replied. “Show the universe you're not letting it win.”

  Lewis chewed on a lip considering that. “Okay. But even the Wiggles would've been better than that crap.”

  “Four grown men dancing around in turtle-necks?” Birdy leaned forward and adjusted the bandage on her forehead. “I'd rather not.”

  “They were wearing worse than that in his video.”

  Elliot chuckled. “Must admit, I prefer a t-shirt and camo pants any day.”

  “Classy,” Birdy told him. She stood, braced her thighs against the table and reached for the canteen. “Watcha drawing there?”

  Elliot leaned closer to see too. It looked like the same kinds of swirls and curves Lewis had been playing with at the farmhouse and the car, but this time …

  Lewis stopped shading and considered his image. He said quietly, “My sister.”

  Elliot suppressed a groan.

  “Looks pretty good from here,” Birdy commented.

  “Probably shouldn't do that,” Elliot said. When they turned to him, he explained, “Better to put our old lives behind us. Face forwards.”

  “Not sure that's true,” said Birdy.

  Elliot frowned at her, made a quit it gesture where Lewis couldn't see it. “I've always found it better not to dwell—”

  Birdy turned her back on him, interrupting. “You go right ahead, Lew. Your sister would be proud you're remembering her this way.”

  You shitting me?

  “Thanks,” Lewis said in a small voice.

  “She died?” Birdy's question was gentle.

  “Yep.”

  “You see it?”

  A pause then, “I heard it. Kinda.”

  “You ever want to talk about it, let me know.”

  “Okay.”

  Birdy gave Elliot a stern look over the top of the canteen as she drank. He shook his head and stood, slipping past her to st
are out the windows at the darkening bush. He couldn't see much. Enough light in the sky to trace the shapes of clouds, the sillouettes of birds or maybe bats. The bush itself was a dark green blur.

  There was a scrape of paper beneath the table behind him.

  “Had enough?” Birdy asked.

  Elliot turned to see Lewis disappear behind the table. “He told me we sleep when it’s dark.” A hand appeared above the table, pointed at the window. “Getting dark.”

  “I noticed.” She regarded the floor with discomfort. There was no bedding and the floor was wood, marginally better in Elliot's opinion than lying on steel mesh. Sure he’d slept in worse places, but he wasn't getting any younger.

  “If you want,” he said, “we can break a few branches off those conifers down there. They'll be softer than this.”

  “I'm okay,” Lewis replied.

  Ignoring him, Elliot added, “How you feeling?”

  “Like crap,” Birdy said and drank more water. “Sure you got no booze? Pity.”

  He pushed off the window. “I'll cut those branches.”

  She stopped him with the heel of her injured hand against his chest. “I'll be fine. If you just drag me that roadcase to put my feet against, I'll sleep in the chair.”

  “That's not real good for the posture,” he said.

  “And the floor is? Branches are?”

  “Have it your way. The chair it is.” He dragged the roadcase closer to hers as requested, then folded his up and lay it across the table. He pulled a spare shirt from his pack for a pillow and draped another over Birdy's knees. She murmured thanks and braced her feet against the case.

  Elliot rolled up his pillow and lay down on the opposite side of the table to Lewis. The young man lay with hands beneath head, watching the ceiling fan. “Should I keep watch?” he asked suddenly.

  Elliot scratched his chin, considering the question. It was going to be full dark within an hour and the susurration of treetops below them was loud enough to mask the approach of anyone dead or alive. But there was nothing he could do about the light or the wind. There would be nothing for Lewis to hear or see. While he didn't think a zombie could scale a chain link fence without alerting him, people could. “I doubt I'll sleep well enough to let anything creep up on us. You get some rest.”