Brother Mine, Zombie.

by Trevorah, Peter

  “Indeed,” said Charles. “My court had been much reduced of late and there was need to preserve our standards. The Roundheads press upon us even now, as you have seen for yourself.”

  Fine.

  “Did you get sick, too, Charles?”

  Charles considered his answer.

  “No, Oliver. I cleaned and bound my wound – just as I did for Paul – and there was some discomfort but …no, I did not get ill. On the other hand, I thought Paul had died. He lay there without moving, pale and feverish, for several days. I was in the process of planning a simply wonderful funeral service at the cathedral when he started to recover. I had the music planned and everything. Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ would have been suitable, don’t you think? Though I know the Pope is not a big fan. In any event, Paul proved to be an ungrateful wretch and, unexpectedly started to recover. However, today is the very first day he has really been up and about.”

  So, what was the pattern here? Two gay guys – one openly and obviously gay, the other not. One is virtually unaffected by the infection and the other becomes desperately ill but, eventually recovers. (And, having recovered, the gay guys then become unpalatable - literally - to the zombies.)

  Well, at least they’d done better – a lot better – than the apparently straight guys who had been bitten and fled to the Baillieu with me and David. All of those guys became zombies.

  But could I generalise on the basis of a sample of, say, twenty guys? Were all gay guys immune to the infection – to a greater or lesser extent - just like the girls all were?

  Hmm. Maybe not. Don’t know. Not my job to find out. Leave it to the researchers.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE FRIDGE TRUCK

  There wasn’t much point in discussing matters with Charles. He was definitely in his own little world and very happy to be there. Paul, however, was a different proposition.

  It is true that he was religiously self-deluding. After all, not everyone receives visitations from the Blessed Virgin Mary – particularly when they may just have been engaging in forbidden sexual acts. However, he seemed basically rational and I desperately needed a sounding board to plan my (and David’s) next moves.

  So, when David and Charles both chose to rest, I took him aside.

  “How far do you think the plague has spread?” I asked.

  “You’re assuming it is spread only by zombie bite?”

  “Yes, no-one who was hiding in the Baillieu showed any symptoms unless they had been bitten. So, airborne or waterborne infection seems unlikely,” I said.

  “Well, the infection will have travelled only as far – and as fast - as the zombies,” replied Paul, not unreasonably. “So, how far can zombies travel in, what is it now? Nine days?”

  This sounded like one of those questions from Monty Python’s Flying Circus: ‘If you tie a coconut shell to its leg, how far can an African swallow fly in …?’

  “Zombies can walk as fast as living people but the ones I’ve seen trend not to travel in straight lines. They just mill about in much the same place.”

  “Let’s think about that,” said Paul, warming to the conundrum. “You wouldn’t see the ones who had cleared off, would you? Because you yourself have stayed put – more or less…”

  A fair point.

  “…Now let’s say a small but significant percentage of zombies choose to wander off in a particular direction and just keep going. How far would this vanguard of the infection has gotten by now?”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Let’s suppose there is indeed a leading edge to the infection, carried forward by a small band of fleet-footed and unidirectional zombies. They would have to be travelling at not less than 20km per day – after making a proper allowance for lost time due only to absolutely essential murder and mayhem.”

  “Agreed.A reasonable estimate,” said Paul. “20 km per day by nine days. So, the fastest group of zombies – and therefore the infection itself - is now nearly two hundred km away from central Melbourne.”

  “But that means the infection would have reached all the major regional cities in Victoria – Geelong, Ballarat and Bendigo,” I observed, stating the obvious.

  Paul shrugged: “I just hope none of them can drive or fly!”

  This casual remark – made in jest - made me think of David. You never quite knew what he might be capable of - particularly if he could tap into my mind at will.

  But there was no time to worry about that possibility now.

  How many people were within a 200 km radius of Melbourne if you included the major regional cities of Geelong, Ballarat and Bendigo? I didn’t know. I wasn’t up on population statistics at the time. I guessed, maybe, two or three million at the time.

  And let’s assume that none of the girls or gay men in that area are infected – or, at least, maybe got infected but didn’t go on to become zombies – how many potential zombies does that mean? Somewhere between one and one and half million?

  Perhaps a lot of folk, knowing what was on the way, had fled in front of the leading edge of the epidemic – that would reduce the numbers substantially. Then again, so far as I could see, there had been a total news blackout – so how would people find out they needed to flee before it was too late? And, once the numbers of zombies had grown from hundreds to thousands, or tens of thousands, wouldn’t the leading edge become like an irresistible tidal wave, sweeping all before it?

  Paul and I calmly debated all of this, debated the end of civilisation as we knew it (or so it seemed) but reached no firm conclusions. The information we had was paltry – we were simply working on guesswork.

  “So, where’s the fucking army?” I said. “Their helicopters appeared on day one, hovered overhead for a few hours and then pissed off. What the hell use is that?”

  A good question, thought Paul but neither of us was Hannibal or that famous Chinese military tactician whose name I can never remember. What did we know about military stuff?

  Well, actually, I’d been in the Army Cadet Corps – toy soldiers, if you like. I’d been on a few overnight bivouacs, listened to a few lectures from regular army guys who were just back from ‘Nam. That set me, ever so marginally, ahead of Paul – and I said so.

  “Okay then, Hannibal,” he said, with only a hint of sarcasm. “Tell us what you’d do if you were in charge of the Australian Army?”

  Er?

  “The problem is unprecedented and spreading rapidly,” I started. “So, I’d abandon those who had already been affected and concentrate on containment.”

  “Hmm,” said Paul. “All the evidence suggests that they have, in fact, done that. So what then?”

  “I’d call for help. The problem is too big for our forces alone – we’d need the yanks. And they’d come because they wouldn’t want the problem to spread beyond our borders – and don’t forget that all our borders are sea borders. So, the infection could potentially be stopped from spreading overseas if enough effort is put into the problem while it is still in Australia. Block up the air and sea ports, for starters.”

  Paul agreed that this made sense: “But where are all the Yanks?”

  “They’d still be coming” I said. “By and large. It takes time to gear up for a war – even one like this. And don’t forget – unlike us – their best troops are still bogged down in Vietnam. There’s still a war on there, you know.”

  (This was well before the Fall of Saigon in 1975 – as you will have guessed.)

  “And our own troops?” asked Paul.

  “You haven’t been reading the papers, my friend,” I replied.

  Our own troops had not long returned from the war and been demobbed. The morale of those remaining had been destroyed, firstly by what had happened to them (and what they had witnessed) in that war and, secondly, by the reception that they had received upon their return home. To our great shame, our soldiers were reviled in the street and ignored by those in the government which had sent them (often as 19 year old conscripts whose ‘number’ came up in a publ
ic ballot).

  Many were even spat upon when they returned. They had not asked to go to that war and, in most cases, had only served their country in the way that their revered fathers and grandfathers had done before them. The injustice that they suffered would not be addressed until many years later – and, even then, inadequately and too late for the many who had died (often by their own hand) in the meantime.

  Of importance to the zombie apocalypse that was now occurring, the Australian Army was, just then, not in prime shape to meet the challenge that unexpectedly confronted the nation.

  But, as it turned out, they were not so far away even then.

  After a time, Paul and I realised we could do more than speculate as to what may have been happening outside Melbourne. So, the conversation turned to more immediate matters.

  “The folks back at the Baillieu are starving, you know,” I said. “Really starving. They’ve had nothing substantial to eat since this all began – just a few snacks from the vending machines.”

  “And they are not likely to get re-supplied any time soon, I’d guess,” said Paul. “But why are you concerned? They kicked you out, didn’t they?”

  “David and I were a package deal: kick him out and you kick me out,” I said “And they had to kick him out, didn’t they? I hold no grudges. They are still good kids.”

  No argument from Paul. I continued:

  “I’d like to get some food to them – to keep them going until relief comes. If it comes. Any ideas?”

  I expected that Paul would think this a dangerous, if not impossible, idea to achieve. But, no. His response was as quick as it was matter-of-fact:

  “There’s a truck parked just to the North of the cemetery in Lygon Street, a refrigerated truck like they use to make deliveries to supermarkets. I saw it on the afternoon of day two, just before every thing went black for me. The diesel engine was still idling at the time and the refrigeration unit was still running. No sign of any driver. The truck might still be there.”

  Amazing.

  “And full of food?” I asked.

  “Probably. I didn’t bother to check inside. Charles and I had already raided the gate-keeper’s house. We didn’t need any more food at that time – and it wasn’t worth the risk of our exposing ourselves by going out into the open. However, as you can see, I made a mental note of the vehicle for future reference.”

  “Will you come with me and David to check it out?”

  “Fuck off!” said Paul. “You don’t need me and, even if you did, I’m not yet that hungry.”

  There was nothing more to be said. I called out to David. He didn’t come. I needed to go inside the crypt to arouse him from his afternoon torpor. (Yes, I did kick him and, yes, he did complain loudly.)

  “Come on, Dave. We’ve got work to do.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE RELIEF OF THE BAILLIEU

  I t was just as Paul had described: a large refrigerated truck, ‘parked’ at a set of traffic lights in Lygon Street, the door of the cab wide open and no driver in sight – and the diesel engine was still idling. (Frugal beasts, those diesel engines.)

  The vehicle was otherwise untouched – what good was it to the zombies?

  So, David and I approached, and opened the rear doors without difficulty. The driver had obviously only just started his delivery run – the refrigerated compartment was absolutely full of frozen foodstuffs of all kinds. Meat and poultry – frozen and processed. Fruit and vegetables. Pallet loads of it. Literally, tonnes of it.

  More than enough to feed the fugitives in the Baillieu for weeks.

  “Hey, Dave. Paul is a complete genius! We could have spent weeks looking for something like this.”

  David said nothing – not even a grunt came from him. This stuff was now unimportant to him and, I guessed, he wanted to be elsewhere (the basement of Union House) more than ever.

  “Too bad, Dave,” I said. “I’m not going back there.” (Not unless I absolutely had to.)

  I was minded to jump into the cab and drive straight to the Baillieu but I had another idea. I would drive it back to the crypt in the cemetery, or, at least, as near as I could get this lumbering great vehicle to it.

  “Jump in, Dave,” I said. “We’re going for a little ride.”

  David reluctantly complied – he had no other pressing engagements.

  Of course, you might object that this sounds all highly improbable – and indeed it was, the finding of the truck, at least. But there was no improbability about my being able to drive the truck. True it is that I did not possess an articulated vehicle licence and had never tried to get one. True also is it that, if called upon to drive this vehicle further than the mile or so that I now needed to drive, I would probably have crashed the truck or damaged it irreparably.

  But this was not the case – and I was perfectly capable of driving this thing, at low speed and in the low gears, for the required distance. For you see, during my last Summer holidays, I had worked in the yard at IPEC (a now-defunct trucking firm). I was, of course, only paid to load trucks but, from time to time, I was called upon to shift trucks in the yard to get them out of the way of essential operations.

  Shit! I knew quite enough to move this baby – at 5 mph or so.

  Having moved the somewhat tattered driver’s seat (the driver must have been a much bigger man than I was – and tough on the fabric) and then, having re-acquainted myself with the basic controls, I crunched the gears loudly and we were off – at a crawl.

  I had time to try the radio – still no broadcasts worth listening to. No news. No information. What were the ‘authorities’ up to and why weren’t they here, rescuing us?

  After an uncommonly long time, we reached the intersection of Lygon Street with Princes Street and I executed a right-hand turn (taking down a traffic signal in the process – no matter). Then, after a further crawl towards College Crescent, I decided to abandon the idea of actually entering the cemetery. (Perhaps I wasn’t quite as good at driving trucks as I had thought.)

  Meantime, I caught David, in the (much less shabby) passenger seat, waving at the numerous zombies who had stopped at the side of the road to observe the spectacle of my miserable driving. Cheeky bastard!

  None of them waved back – I guess waving isn’t a regular zombie-thing. (And David was, and is, no regular zombie.)

  I pulled the truck up outside the main entrance of the cemetery and ‘parked’ in the middle of the road. (There was, of course, no other traffic to be obstructed.) I left it idling.

  “Come on, Dave,” I said. “We’re going to get Paul and Charles.”

  David didn’t seem to want to leave the comfort and fun of the truck cabin. He was enjoying the ride and his elevated position above the hoi-poloi – or so it seemed to me. So, I dragged him out. He came with me back to the crypt but only with considerable bad grace. (Lots of huffing and groaning.)

  I met Paul outside the crypt.

  “We’ve got the truck. It’s bursting with food – enough to feed a small army. It’s parked outside the front entrance. You and Charles must come with us. You’ll be much safer with the others at the Baillieu, now that they will have food.”

  Paul turned it over in his mind. There was a problem.

  “How will I sell it to Charles? He thinks the zombies are roundhead soldiers from the mid-17th century. He doesn’t understand the danger we are in by staying here – more or less alone and isolated.”

  “Leave it to me, my Friend.”

  I ran into the crypt, ahead of David and Paul, exclaiming breathlessly:

  “Your Royal Majesty, I have just received word from Henrietta-Maria (i.e. Jude). The cavalier troops have regrouped not far from here. She begs that you join them and take command.”

  A king should sit at the head of his army, shouldn’t he?

  “Oh, goody. I do love that girl!” came Charles’ joyous response.

  No more problem – it was Paul’s turn to admire my own wit and guile.

 
Quickly Paul and Charles gathered their essential belongings and, with only minimal resistance from the zombies who had gathered about, in apparent curiosity, we succeeded in getting back to the truck and piling into its cab. (Speed was the key.)

  “And now, to the Baillieu!” I shouted.

  o0o

  Once again, I battled with the gears of the vehicle: Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

  Paul helpfully assisted the process by saying: “Are you sure you can drive this thing?” and “Have you broken it?” (and other questions in that vein.)

  Thanks, Paul.

  In any event, I eventually found a gear that was low enough to allow the truck to move off with a lurch.

  “Now, that’s a fine gear,” I observed as we cruised along at 4 or 5 mph. “I think we should stick with that one, don’t you?”