Brother Mine, Zombie.

by Trevorah, Peter

  o0o

  Now, you may ask what kind of loser would voluntarily lead a zombie into a cemetery with him? Hasn’t everyone seen ‘Night of the Living Dead’? Wasn’t that the protagonists’ first big mistake? (i.e. going to a cemetery full of zombies).

  Well, that may be. However, I knew that cemeteries are full of dead people, people who, being under the ground in recent times, could not possibly have been bitten by the recent crop of student zombies – and who, equally, were unlikely to have participated in any recent medical experimentation (if that had been the root cause of the plague).

  Furthermore, I’d seen no evidence at all of buried folk rising from the dead of late (spectacular though that might have been). On the contrary, every zombie that I had seen was young and male.

  So, by this logic, and, given that there were no living folk in cemeteries to attract the attention of any passing zombies, I figured that the cemetery was the safest place around in which to find refuge. Besides, David seemed amenable to the suggestion – in preference to the basement of Union House.

  Thus, it was ‘all good’.

  I thought one of the big family crypts would be good – very solid, very weather-proof. So, after entering via the Eastern gate, I headed with David in that direction. Sure enough, there were no signs of mayhem and destruction. No pools of coagulated blood, no dismembered, rotting corpses, nothing like that at all.

  Lovely! I had chosen well.

  Then a slight movement in the afternoon shadows. David didn’t see it at first – zombies have poor eyesight, remember?

  “Whoever or whatever you are,” I thought,” for God’s sake, stay still.”

  It didn’t. This time, David spotted the movement and immediately let out an almighty bellow.

  He broke free of my grip and was off in hot pursuit. The small figure ran for all it was worth – and I set off after both of them, cursing loudly.

  David’s zombie blood was up.

  (Oh, I forgot, they don’t have blood, do they? Hmm. Maybe they’ve got blood but it just doesn’t move about much – what with no beating heart and all.)

  Anyway, the chase was on. Both David and the small, retreating figure were vaulting tombstones and dodging around pencil-pine trees. David was gaining in the pursuit but not a lot – though both were definitely leaving me behind. I noticed the small figure was headed to where I’d been taking David anyway, one of the large family crypts.

  David roared and the small figure ‘squealed like a little girlie’ – though I was reasonably sure it was not a girl. It sure didn’t move like a girl. In fact, though male, it seemed to be a dwarf of some kind.

  “Open the fucking door,” it screamed as it ran. “Paul! Get the door open now! There’s a fucking zombie!”

  Yes, definitely male – and familiar, definitely familiar.

  ‘Paul’, whoever he was, was too slow. The main door of the crypt remained firmly closed as the small male reached it – and within seconds, David fell upon him with a triumphant roar.

  “Oh, shit,” I thought. “David’s just caught lunch.”

  And I knew, from what had happened to Meryl yesterday, that there was not a thing I could do to prevent David’s mealtime form taking its tragic course.

  Nevertheless, I had to try. As I approached the pair, apparently locked in deathly embrace, I yelled all sorts of threats and curses at my beloved brother. I can’t remember exactly what they were except that they were dire and foul. No response or acknowledgement was forthcoming from David, in any event.

  And just as I expected that David would deliver the coup de grace to the small man, an amazing thing occurred: David released his grip, stood up and walked away, making the same type of grunt that he had made when I had so recently offered him an apple – utter disgust.

  The small man lay on the ground, passed out but physically unhurt. The main door to the crypt opened a crack and a quavering voice croaked: “Are you okay, Charles?”

  I looked carefully at the man on the ground.

  ‘Charles’? Yes, I knew this guy. His real name was Peter but he called himself ‘Charles’, as in Charles the First, beheaded king of England. He imagined himself as royalty – and even grew the royal goatee of the period. All of his special friends bore the names of the royal court.

  Jude – you know, the one who, presumably, was still holed up in the Baillieu Library – was dubbed ‘Henrietta-Maria’ and, for what it was worth, Charles had dubbed me ‘Oliver Cromwell’. (I only realised much later that, coming from Charles I, this was a dire insult – since Cromwell had been responsible for Charles’ beheading - but I’d not been at all fussed by this at the time of my ‘christening’).

  Charles, at that time, was the only openly (and very obviously) gay acquaintance/friend that I had. And don’t forget that, at that time, male homosexual acts were still punishable in Victoria as felonies under the Crimes Act of 1958. (‘The abominable crime of buggery’, as it was then described.) So, ‘coming out’ was not without its risks back in those days.

  So, who was the ‘Paul’, still cowering in the crypt? That could wait.

  More to the point, why had David scorned a fresh meal of Charles? Were zombies homophobic? Surely not. Any meal of human flesh is a meal. Isn’t it? Who could be so picky? Besides, zombies seemed perfectly happy to devour either male or female flesh – so why reject the flesh of a gay.

  I stared again at Charles immobile form. Something caught my eye. His sleeves were hitched up and his forearms were bare. On the right forearm was the distinctive round mark of a bite – just as David had had before he changed into a zombie (and still had).

  I could see the marks of individual teeth, human teeth, very clearly within the wound.

  Was the wound red and angry? Was it suppurating? Did infection seem to be spreading from that locus?

  Not a bit of it. It was clean and well-healed.

  If Charles had been bitten by a zombie – which seemed likely - he had not succumbed to his wounds. He was still alive and, despite having just fainted, very well.

  So, I guessed, the reason for David’s repugnance at eating Charles’ flesh was not that he was gay but that he’d been infected. He was like a zombie – only not – and zombies don’t eat zombies!

  And, if that line of reasoning were correct, did that mean that the girls back in the library – the ones who’d also been bitten but recovered – would also now be able to withstand a zombie attack? And, if so, who among them would willingly put the theory to the test?

  I could see that that might have to wait.

  CHAPTER 6

  CHARLES AND PAUL.

  “Well, at the very least, old chap, you’re brother’s table manners are appalling.”

  This, in Charlespeak, was a dire insult, the worst he could summon in the circumstances.

  “Sorry, Charles, there was nothing personal, you understand. He just thought you were lunch,” said I, as apologetically as I could.

  David loitered in the background and repeated the ‘disgust-grunt’ at the suggestion of eating Charles (which, fortunately, Charles did not understand.)

  “Very well, Oliver, His Royal Majesty will overlook this most egregious insult to our person,” said Charles, adopting his most haughty manner. “We shall speak no more of it.”

  “And, really, Oliver,” Charles continued. “Your Roundheads have been behaving in the most beastly way…”

  My Roundheads?

  “…my fine young Cavaliers have been treated very poorly, very poorly indeed.”

  His Cavaliers?

  I looked to Paul (whom I now recognised). Paul had emerged from the crypt once he realised that David’s attack was over.

  “You would be Oliver Cromwell?” he asked tentatively.

  I shrugged. That’s what Charles had always called me.

  “And, may I take it that your brother has naturally become a general in the Roundhead army?”

  Behind Charles’ back, Paul nodded and smiled in an exagger
ated fashion, suggesting that I ‘play along’. He pointed to Charles, now seated and recovering from his ordeal at David’s hands.

  I thought I understood what was going on. So, I addressed my next question to Paul:

  “Has His Royal Majesty taken the recent Roundhead advances very badly?”

  Paul smiled with relief. I had indeed understood what was going on.

  “His Royal Majesty is much affronted by the advance of the Parliamentarian Army into his sovereign territory. He prays them all to leave immediately.”

  “My dear Oliver,” interrupted Charles. “Surely you can do something about this business. You are, after all, the titular head of the Parliamentarian forces. Surely you can recall these accursed Roundheads. And, if not you, what about General David? Surely you could do that for your Sovereign Lord.”

  Charles, it seemed, was now living in the era of the English Civil War of the 1640’s. This had been his fantasy playground from the first day I had met him. Now he had retreated there completely – for reasons that were not hard to guess at, given his recent traumatic experiences.

  “Well, Your Majesty, I’ll see what I can do. Shall we discuss it over tea – I have some fine provisions we might share while we discuss the formal terms of the disengagement.”

  I raised my backpack – filled with tinned ham and Christmas puddings. Paul’s face filled with joy – evidently, he and Charles had also been starving.

  “A fine proposal, Good Sir,” responded Charles. “Paul, lay out our finest tableware.”

  “Certainly, my Liege,” simpered Paul.

  Charles had always, in my experience, spoken in an exaggerated upper-class English accent. Indeed, I had assumed he was English at first. In fact, he was 6th generation Australian and had been educated in a Catholic boys’ school – where the Brothers had, apparently, not known how to cope with their first openly and flamboyantly gay pupil. Curiously, for this era at least, he was much beloved by his fellow students – to the point where he was made the mascot for the school’s senior football team. (Charles, being short of stature, was definitely no athlete and the ‘position’ of mascot had, reportedly suited him just fine.)

  We adjourned to the interior of the crypt – David followed reluctantly. Evidently, he still wanted to go back to the basement of Union House. High Tea with pseudo-Royalty was, evidently, not his thing.

  “The Dutch will come to my rescue,” muttered Charles, a propos of nothing in particular. “They are sympathetic to my cause.”

  (As is happens, the Dutch did provide help to the Royalists’ cause – but then got very grumpy, and declared war on them, when the Royalists didn’t pay their bills. The English Civil War ended soon afterwards and the Dutch simply forgot to declare peace for 335 years – until a Cornish historian reminded them of the situation. The longest declared war in history – and no casualties on either side. Remarkable.)

  Tea was duly served by Paul – ‘one may run out of food completely but one never runs out of tea, does one?’

  Paul did not look as well as Charles. In fact, ‘pale and wan’ would be fair description. I decided to raise this with him.

  “You’ve been unwell, Paul?”

  “Yes, Charles tells me that I nearly died after ….But I don’t actually remember.”

  Hmm.

  “Where were you bitten?” I ventured.

  “Here, in the crypt – while I was with Charles,” he replied.

  “Oh,” I replied.

  Why were Charles and Paul together in a family vault at Melbourne General Cemetery, I wondered. I chose not to enquire.

  “Actually,” I continued, “what I meant was which part of your body was bitten?”

  Paul’s pallor suddenly flushed crimson. Obviously, he had not been bitten on the forearm like Charles. He stammered something unintelligible, sighed and said:

  “If you must know, one of the zombies bit me on the left buttock.”

  I stifled a childish giggle. The mental image of what had occurred – and of what had been occurring immediately beforehand – was pretty clear in my mind.

  Paul seemed unamused by my involuntary mirth: “It wasn’t funny, Peter! It was quite terrifying, actually.”

  I composed myself and, with difficulty, removed the grin from my face.

  “Of course. Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. …So, may I take it you were taken unawares by this rearguard attack?”

  He nodded in a sullen fashion.

  “There was just the one – there haven’t been many zombies passing through the cemetery. So, after we managed to fight it off, we decided to stay put. We managed to scavenge some food and cooking equipment from the gate-keeper’s house without being noticed again. So, we’ve been here ever since – or so I believe.”

  There was an obvious gap in his memory – a gap which I thought Charles could not (reliably) fill. I decided to pursue the matter.

  “How did you manage to fight the, er, ‘Roundhead’ off?”

  “Well, Charles was completely useless…” he commenced.

  Charles frowned and started to protest.

  “…Correction: His Royal Majesty immediately took command of the situation and, by dint of bravely fainting, allowed me to deal with it…”

  Suitably mollified, Charles fell silent.

  The story that emerged (after lots of hand-waving and recounting exaggerated deeds of valour) was that, with a profusely bleeding left buttock, a naked Paul had been able physically to repel the initial attack of the zombie – which then turned its attention to a less troublesome target: the supine and unconscious figure of Charles. This explained how Charles, too, had been bitten – albeit on a more ‘decent’ part of his body.

  “…So, at that point, I sought divine intervention …”

  (Paul was very pious.)

  “… and, lo, my prayers were granted and an apparition of the BVM entered the crypt to come to our aid in the time of great need.”

  “What?” I said, incredulous. “The Blessed Virgin Mary suddenly came to this non-descript family vault?”

  (Paul had gone loopier than Charles – or so it seemed.)

  “Yea, verily,” said Paul, pointing to a shattered tomb ornament that lay on the floor nearby. “The Blessed Virgin solemnly instructed me to take to my bosom a graven likeness of herself and, wielding it with all my might, to smite mine enemies unto their death. Thus, divinely inspired, did I.”

  Was Paul serious? Did it really matter?

  “Amen,” said I. “So, you whacked the ‘roundhead’ on his noggin with a statue of Mary.”

  “All in accordance with Holy Writ,” stated Paul. “Truly, I am now a latter-day David.”

  David, who had not been paying much attention to this drivel, heard his name and grunted disapprovingly.

  “Okay, whatever,” I said.

  Charles thought he was a headless English monarch and now Paul thought he was the poet-king of the ancient Israelites divinely inspired by the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  Okay. Let’s deal with that, shall we?

  Paul, too, had been an interesting character. We’d met briefly before University days – at a French seminar at Monash University. I clearly remembered my first encounter with him. I remembered him being surrounded by a bunch of gorgeous young women and richly entertaining them with his charm and his wit.

  And, no, I had not been jealous – well, not very much, anyway. (I simply didn’t advertise my charm and wit quite so shamelessly – that’s my story, anyway.)

  Thinking back, the main topic conversation with the young ladies had been the aphorisms of Oscar Wilde – a topic with which these middle-class, suburban girls seemed entirely unacquainted.

  Since running into Paul once again at university (he was continuing with French) I noted that he still had many close friends who were girls but, to the best of my knowledge no girlfriend, as such.

  And now, I find that he had been ambushed in the crypt in the ‘exclusive company’ of Charles who was, as I’ve sai
d, openly gay.

  Both had been bitten but, unlike every other male I knew who had been bitten, they had recovered.

  I decided to explore further.

  “Paul, you said you became ill after you got bitten?”

  “Certainly. That’s true. I remember the day after the attack, when we scavenged in the gate-keeper’s house, but nothing again until yesterday. It was like I was asleep for those days. His Royal Majesty tended to me, - or so he says.”