Brother Mine, Zombie.

by Trevorah, Peter

  Paul and David huffed in contempt – as one - but made no verbal reply. That was a little bit disturbing. After all, Paul hadn’t fully recovered from his bite as yet. Oh well, Paul would soon be at the Baillieu – and no longer my problem.

  We exited College Crescent and entered Royal Parade, heading South. I needed to find entrance on the West of campus which would take me neatly to the front of the Baillieu. I did, of course, have plenty of time to keep a look out but was conscious of the fact that we travelling, in effect, in the service lane of Royal Parade. The width of the service lane was quite tight and I was hemmed in on both sides by a row of mature elm trees. (Very pretty, of course, but a real problem when trying to manoeuvre a large truck.

  I spotted the entrance – eventually and applied the brake very gingerly. I didn’t want to stall the bugger after all of this – and I couldn’t actually remember how re-start one if the engine stopped. I didn’t share this curious fact with my passengers, deciding that they wouldn’t be much interested in my ignorance on this point.

  Left turn. Side swipe the trunk of a very large tree. (Crunch!) Drive over the top of the gate-keeper’s booth. (Imagine loud, metallic, crumpling sound) Smash through the boom gate. (Snap!)

  “Fuck!” screamed my gay friends in unison.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Yes, that did go well, didn’t it?”

  “Are we there yet, Dad?” said Paul, in a weak and quavering voice.

  We continued up a short driveway the name of which escapes me and turned right – over the top of an ancient and revered tree. (I believe it had been planted by the founders of the University to celebrate some significant event or other – which no-one now remembered. It had been classified by the National Trust, I’m told. Yes, we were doing good work here!)

  We rumbled on a slight downhill decline towards the Baillieu entrance – on the way, collecting a couple of stray bollards (not yet classified by the National Trust). And then, as I squeezed the brake pedal once more, I drove past the entrance of the library and prepared for my piece de resistance.

  “What the fuck?” yelled Paul. “You’ve missed the doors. Now we’ll have to run the gauntlet of the zombies to get inside.”

  “Pas du tout. Du calme, mon ami,” I said. (Don’t forget that Paul could speak passable French.). “Watch and be amazed.”

  I brought the lumbering beast to a complete halt – without stalling it – and grinned at Paul and Charles. They didn’t grin back. Their expressions looked decidedly grim.

  For me, this next bit was the easiest. Prior to this day, most of my truck driving had actually been in reverse gear – shifting trucks around the yard of the IPEC depot.

  So, reversing was my best thing – comparatively.

  And so it proved. In a single sweep, with skillful use of my side mirrors, I backed the truck to within a few feet of the library’s glass doors. I didn’t want to get too close – smashing through the barricaded doors would have been a less than desirable outcome – unless, of course, you were a zombie waiting to get inside and devour whoever you might meet.

  As I had been backing, I could see admiring – but definitely gaunt – faces pressed to the inside of the library’s windows. The zombies that had been milling about outside also stopped to observe my performance.

  Were they impressed? Who cared! I was enjoying myself.

  As the truck, once again, came to rest, I think the zombies sensed an opportunity – an opportunity for a feed. There was, maybe fifty or so of them – all youthful and obviously anxious and active. They pressed forward, ready to attack.

  Tough luck, guys – we’d worked this one out in advance.

  David got out of the truck and directed his loudest roar at them. That startled them and, momentarily at least, stopped the press forward. This gave me sufficient time also to exit the cab and climb on the roof of the van. I skipped to the back and dropped down between the rear of the truck and the library doors.

  Opening the rear of the van – two thick swinging doors – created partial protection from the zombies but we needed to be quick because they could still make their way underneath the van’s doors. This would occur, I estimated, in a minute or so, depending on how persuasive David was with his fellows.

  I could see the Baillieu survivors inside observing the unfolding events. I could see Jude looking at me – and the mountain of food inside the truck.

  “Hey, Jude!” I yelled. “Tucker time! Open up.”

  They got the message. The library doors were manually slid open – just wide enough for two men to get through and part of the barricade was pushed aside. Several of the Baillieu’s wasted inmates, including Jude (“Henrietta-Maria”), emerged and a hastily formed two human chains. Jude and I jumped up into the rear of the van and feverishly passed the looser items down our respective human chains. Fresh supplies poured into the Baillieu and I could see them piling up haphazardly inside the foyer.

  I could hear David still roaring at the other zombies but guessed that time was getting very short now. One against fifty – even when the one had access to a non-zombified brain – were desperately poor odds. He would soon be brushed aside by his fellows.

  I banged on the inside of the van walls – this had been my pre-arranged signal to Paul and Charles, who were still safe (relatively) inside the cab.

  I turned to the now-breathless Jude.

  “Time to shut up shop now, Jude. Dave can’t them at bay for much longer” I said, also breathless. “You can come back later – I’m leaving the truck. And, by the way, you’ve got guests.”

  Jude looked at me in amazement. ‘Guests’?

  Paul and Charles answered her tacit question at that moment by tumbling from the van’s roof – their fall broken by the human chains still working beneath them. Even ‘Royalty’ decided to dispense with formal introductions and clambered over the members of the now-disintegrating chains, passing hurriedly through the library doors to comparative safety.

  At that moment, the zombie press broke through and snapping jaws appeared beneath the sill of the van’s still-open rear doors. The human chain sounded the retreat and I pushed Jude roughly out of the cargo section of the truck.

  Her fall, too, was cushioned by the backs of the others.

  I jumped to the ground and slammed the refrigerated van’s rear doors firmly shut. (No sense in letting the warm air in, was there?) The diesel engine was still running – and so was the refrigeration unit, as a result - but for how long?)

  I was abruptly seized by two of the closest zombies and, briefly, wondered if my luck had run out. It hadn’t. The figure of David burst through (actually, over) the press and was swiftly at my side, beating at those who had seized me. He roared with renewed vigour.

  David had saved my life once again. Thanks, Mate.

  Jude was at the last of the Baillieu survivors to get back inside. She lingered at the open glass doors.

  “Pete!” she yelled. “Come back in.”

  That wasn’t going to happen – not without David.

  I turned to her and shook my head and yelled: “Close the fuckin’ door. You’re letting the flies in!”

  Unseen hands swiftly closed the doors.

  I had intended to explain about Paul and Charles – bitten but recovered, apparently – but there was simply no time. They would have to make there own explanations.

  Well, at least everyone in the Baillieu would now eat for the first time in many days. That thought gave me some pleasure. However, David had other thoughts. Mission accomplished, he was heading back to charnel house the basement of the Union Building.

  He had already left the scene of our humanitarian triumph and was trudging Northwards to his now favourite place. I had no choice but to follow – unless I wished to stay and be devoured by his mates whilst unaccompanied.

  Union House it was then.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE ROWDEN WHITE GALLERY.

  Perhaps the entry of the truck – and/or the resulting crashes an
d bangs - had been heard.

  And perhaps the person hearing this had decided ‘It’s now or never’ – and made a desperate dash for freedom.

  I will never be quite sure.

  In any event, as I trailed along behind David towards Union House, a scream split the air – the scream of a living person. David halted briefly to assess the sound – and sniff the air. Then came another scream and David was off at a gallop.

  The scream seemed to come from Union House and, naturally, that was the direction in which David was running. I tried to keep up with him but he already had a head start on me.

  As we entered the building via the South entrance (the Western entrance did not exist at that time), the screams abruptly stopped – in mid-scream. David’s pace did not slacken – if anything, it quickened and I fell further behind.

  I saw him leaping up the stairs, taking three at a time – the basement was now ignored and a crowd of zombies was now starting to come forth from that evil pit. David, however, was ahead of that ‘pack’ and, for my own safety, I needed to keep in contact with him - a feat which I just barely managed.

  David’s blood-lust was definitely up and all thoughts of protecting me seemed to have disappeared. Fortunately for me, the zombies following David were likewise distracted – for the moment at least – and paid me little heed.

  By the time I reached the Rowden White Library/Gallery on the third floor of the building, it was all over. The person who had been screaming so desperately had been killed by the zombies. I don’t think David arrived in time to participate in the actual killing – though I can’t be sure – but he was certainly participating in what followed.

  It may well have been that the zombies had not had a fresh kill for some days – and they were definitely acting as if that were the case. The way they frantically fought over the victim reminded me of one of those wildlife documentaries I’d seen – you now, the ones where the hyenas, lions and vultures are all fighting each other over the same zebra carcase on the veldt.

  It was rough, bloody, noisy and bestial.

  There was nothing I could do but wait and watch – I could not afford to walk away from David unless I wanted to meet the same fate as this most recent victim of the apocalypse.

  Once again, I lost my lunch. No-one cared.

  How had this person – whose identity and even gender were no longer discernible – held out for so many days against the hordes only to be taken when help might have been close to hand?

  The glass doors to the Rowden White Library were open, swinging gently in the breeze, but there was no sign of disruption or violence to be seen inside. I’d say that this was where the person had come from – he or she had not got far before being set upon. Or maybe they had tried to leave and, finding zombies all about, had tried unsuccessfully to retreat back to the library.

  In any event, the feasting zombies had brought their prey to bay within metres of the now-open doors. Based on previous experience, I knew that they (and David) would be occupied for some time with their grisly prize.

  So, I quietly entered the Rowden White and gently closed the doors behind me. I could observe the ‘festivities’ from a distance, through the glass doors and re-join David when it was appropriate.

  I decided to scout around. Just as I had thought, there was no food – only remains and wrappings – to be found. Even the bottled water supply had run out. Perhaps this was what finally had driven the victim to try such a desperate escape. You can survive without food for quite a while but, once the water runs out, your survival time is short.

  There seemed once to have been more than one person there – too much improvised bedding for just one. Was this where poor Meryl had been hiding out as well? Were the zombies now feasting on her last companion?

  Thinking thus was all a bit miserable – though I could empathetically feel something of the exultant mental backwash from David (a vicarious, visceral ‘joy’ I did not welcome).

  I needed to keep occupied.

  One part of the Rowden White was devoted to music. There was then a listening room in the library – comfy chairs to recline in while a selection of music was piped to you through bulky headphones. There was an adjacent room with a number of turntables playing various vinyl records chosen by the students who came in.

  It was a very popular place to spend a ‘lost’ afternoon. Popular listening choices were “Tales of Topographical Oceans” (by Yes) and Emmerson Lake and Palmer’s triple live album – now deeply unfashionable. At that time, they were thought to be music which was perfectly suited to get stoned by. (And who was I to argue?)

  Indeed, as you entered the listening room, you would be confronted by a haze of dope smoke so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of you. (Okay, that’s a minor exaggeration – but you understand my meaning.)

  Marijuana was, of course, still highly illegal in those days – no soft legal options were yet available to those caught offending. However, the local cops in Carlton had long since reached a tacit understanding with the University authorities over the matter. I’m not sure of the details but I think that, whenever some busybody complained about the students smoking dope in the Rowden White, the librarian would be advised that the constabulary were likely to pay a social call later that day – and all dope smoking abruptly ceased.

  A very sensible arrangement, if you ask me. Not that it had affected me, of course. David and I only ever went there for the music! (And we only ever bought ‘Playboy’ for the articles, too.)

  So, there I sat in the Rowden White, calmly observing events I never thought possible. I went into the listening room. Sure enough there were several joints lying on the floor where their owners had left them as they fled on Day One of the plague.

  The temptation to light up was overwhelming. You can understand that I felt the need for a bit of relaxation and cheering up. But I didn’t light up. Two reasons: 1. I needed to keep my wits about me; and 2. I couldn’t find any matches.

  Bugger!

  “Oh well, at least I can play some music while I’m waiting,” I said to no-one.

  The library’s collection of vinyl was quite extensive – your taxes at work, folks. After a time considering my options, I rejected the obvious cheer-up choice of Monty Python’s record of ‘And now for Something Completely Different’ and went with the then-new “Living in the 70’s” by Skyhooks.

  I figured out how to pipe the music through the public address system of the library and turned it up loud, very loud. I observed only the briefest of pauses among those still boisterously feasting outside the library door.

  “Perhaps they prefer jazz,” I said to myself. “I’ll put Wynton Marsalis on next.”

  Yes, the whole scene had an air of unreality about it. But, after all, what was real in the world of the Zombie Apocalypse?

  o0o

  Eventually, ‘Shirley’ Strachan, lead singer of Skyhooks (and then still in his ‘fairy’ phase) finished warbling about the ‘Lygon Street Limbo’ (‘How loooow can you go go?’). By then, the obscene consumption of my recently deceased fellow student had slackened and the undead throng had started to drift away.

  Meantime, the idea of putting on some cool (i.e. calming) jazz had grown on me. I couldn’t find any Wynton Marsalis in the library’s catalogue (how gross!) but thought that Miles Davis’ ‘Kind of Blue’ might do the trick.

  I’m not sure if it was the jazz, as such, or the fact that the zombies had sated their blood-lust, but those few that remained on the upper floors of the building seemed to sink into an afternoon torpor. (Do tired zombies need a ‘nanna nap’? Dunno.)

  In any event, this provided me with an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the undead brother who had shamelessly abandoned me to pursue his obscene carnal pleasures.

  “David!” I called as I emerged from the library. “Get up, you vile monster. We’ve got stuff to do.”

  He remained torpid – staring at me with his dead eyes which seemed to say: “Fuck
off, dickhead! I’m sleeping.”

  So, I kicked him into activity. He was unhappy, roared loudly and, for the first time, shaped to attack me.

  There were limits even to brotherly love, it seemed. I would have to remember that.

  I quickly softened my attitude to him: “Come on, Mate. Help me find a decent radio. There’s got to be one around here”

  .

  CHAPTER 10

  “THIS IS THE BBC WORLD SERVICE”

  On the floor below the Rowden White library was situated the ‘Activities Office’ – which then coordinated all the activities of the various student clubs – and doled out grants to them in a more or less ramshackle way.

  As I recall, the editor of the student newspaper, Farrago, was then situated in the adjacent room. But, no matter.