Brother Mine, Zombie.

by Trevorah, Peter

  I did screw down the lid very firmly, using the big, ornate keys provided. I then drove the short distance to the station carpark and, upon arrival, could see that there were still only a few folk, mainly military, loitering about in the early morning darkness.

  Good. That’s what I had hoped for. Now to try and be a sergeant.

  I left the vehicle parked (and running) at the gate of the northbound platform. This was, of course, a no-standing zone but, after all, I was a sergeant in the Australian Army. Who would challenge me?

  I approached a small knot of soldiers who were waiting on that platform and tried to assume a firm, but affable, tone with them.

  “Ah! Gentlemen,” I said. “You’re just the ‘volunteers’ I need.”

  They turned and looked at me with suspicion. “Volunteers”? They seemed to say, as one. “What for, exactly?”

  “I have one of our fallen colleagues waiting at the gate. He’s a heavy chap and I need some blokes to help me get him onto the station.”

  This, apparently, was explanation enough and “No worries, Sergeant” was the general reply. They followed me back to the ute but, as they did so, I picked up a half-muttered comment: “He looks a bit young to be a sergeant, doesn’t he?”

  Hmm. Yes, that might yet prove to be a difficulty.

  Not unexpectedly, some folk (including the station master) had gathered about to watch.

  No problem. This had been expected.

  “Hey, Sergeant,” said one of the soldiers. “This is the fanciest coffin I’ve ever seen.”

  “Nothing but the best for our fallen comrades,” I replied.

  The soldiers nodded in agreement. Another said:

  “We heard that the zombies got some of our guys in the battle. Do you know if that’s true?”

  Now that was a tricky question. I guessed from the broadcasts I’d heard that the official line was ‘no casualties’ but here was I with a recently-deceased soldier’s corpse. So, I put it back to the soldier. I leaned, very obviously, on the coffin and said: “Well, Private. Tell me what you’ve been told.”

  “We were told by our commanding officer that there were no casualties at all – but that’s not what some of the blokes who were actually at the battle have told us.”

  I smiled ironically and patted the coffin tenderly:

  “We can’t go about believing rumours, can we? Our brave comrade must have died of a bad head cold, mustn’t he?”

  “Come on, Sarge,” the soldier persisted. “You can tell us what happened.”

  Still smiling, I said: “Sorry, private. Security.”

  Then another piped up: “Okay. Let’s assume this guy was not killed by zombies – because that didn’t happen to any soldier – but, if it had, wouldn’t that mean he becomes a zombie as well. From the bites, I mean.”

  I grimaced.

  “Private, I’ve seen what’s inside this coffin. There isn’t enough left of this bloke to make even a small zombie – not even if you stuck all the bits back together with ‘Tarzan’s Grip’.”

  A uniform look of revulsion covered the faces of all those present – and the questioning ceased.

  Reverently, the soldiers helped me get the coffin off the tray of the ute and onto a railway trolley. They stood by silently, waiting to assist in loading the box onto the train when it arrived.

  Good blokes, these men.

  The train arrived within a few minutes and, without fuss, both David and I were loaded into the baggage compartment. Citing various regulations, the train guard tried to persuade me to leave the coffin and travel up front, with the other passengers.

  “Sorry, Mate,” I said. “I’ve got my orders. I don’t let this coffin out of my sight.”

  He shrugged and walked back to the rear of the train.

  CHAPTER 16

  AN OFFICIOUS MAJOR

  I arranged some of the other pieces of luggage that were in the van and propped myself up against the coffin. I could hear David’s continuous grumbling but was not particularly troubled. The baggage car of the train was particularly noisy and we were sharing it with no-one else.

  “So, my dear brother, grumble away!” I thought – but didn’t say so.

  The train was typical of the time – some of this type are still running on Victoria’s country rail-lines. A diesel locomotive with a string of faded red passenger carriages but only one allocated to ‘First Class’ (bigger, comfier seats, a bit quieter overall). The train was slow, lumbering and the carriages swayed from side to side as they made their way along tracks that had (then) not been upgraded since, maybe, the Great Depression of the 1930’s. (Excellent ‘Susso’ work back then, redoing the train tracks – almost as good as working on the Great Ocean Road or the Ivanhoe Boulevard – but I digress again! I’m showing my age. Confabulation is such a curse.)

  Anyway, from my personal point of view, every thing was going swimmingly – until we reached Kyneton station, about an hour out of the City.

  “Stow my luggage in that car, Private – and be snappy about it!”

  These were the first words I heard come from the Major.

  The door of the baggage car slid open and a timorous private appeared, weighed down by numerous pieces of luggage – obviously not his own. He did his best to place them inside the carriage but managed to drop one case, hitherto held under his arm. It fell to the floor with a loud thud.

  “You imbecile! I’ll have you court-martialled …”

  And so on, in that vein, for a full two minutes. The private stood to attention and absorbed the vile invective that came from his superior officer. Terrified and silent.

  So furious was he that the major was oblivious to the fact that the train was slowly starting to move out from the station.

  “Get off, you fool!” he yelled at the private – who did so immediately and without question. However, it was too late for the major himself to alight from the baggage car and take his place among the other passengers (presumably, in the first class section of the train).

  David and I were stuck with him for the time being. (He was just the sort of guy who would notice my lack of socks: “You’re out of uniform, soldier!” I could almost hear him saying.)

  Completely ‘in character’, he harrumphed and turned to me.

  Instinctively, I arose, snapped to attention, and saluted the superior officer. (My cadet training had come in handy once again.)

  He returned my salute in a perfunctory fashion.

  “Sergeant, did see what that damned-fool private just did with my luggage?”

  “Yessir!” I replied.

  The Major harrumphed again and stared more closely at me.

  “You look awfully young to be a sergeant. How old are you?”

  “I’m 23, sir – recently promoted, sir,” I replied, keeping my eyes straight ahead.

  He stared at the name on my chest badge.

  “Well, Sergeant Smith, I’m sure that’s commendable. But you still look too young to me. For myself, I blame the Vietnam War – it made promotion too easy. Never would have happened in Korea or Malaya, when I was about your age.”

  I remained at attention. The Major had not ordered me to ‘stand easy’. I knew better than to relax without an officer specifically allowing me to do so. The Major was still looking me up and down. He flicked an eye in the direction of the coffin.

  “Yours?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I replied. “Coffin detail, sir.”

  “Hmm,” said the Major. “Who is it?”

  “One of ours, Sir,” I replied.

  “Well, it would hardly be a fucking zombie, would it, Sergeant?” (A reasonable point.)

  “No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

  Why was this bastard so interested in me and the coffin? How long before the next scheduled stop when, presumably, he’d get out of the baggage car?

  He contemplated my words further.

  “You say he’s one of ours. Was he killed in the recent action?”

  I remember
ed that the official line was that there had been no casualties.

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir,” I replied, a slight quaver creeping into my voice.

  “Because,” he continued. “There were supposed to be no casualties on our side, Sergeant. Isn’t that so?”

  “I understand that to be the official position, sir,” I said, with a degree of uncertainty.

  Uncertainty – the enemy of convincing falsehood!

  “So, this soldier must have died of a head cold, Sergeant?”

  “That would have to be correct, sir - since no-one was killed in the recent action.”

  The Major smiled benignly. My plainly duplicitous answer seemed to please him. Perhaps he would leave me alone now? How long to the next stop?

  “That’s an extremely fancy coffin for a soldier? How is that, Sergeant?”

  “I am led to believe it was the only coffin readily available at short notice, sir,” I replied.

  A truthful answer! But one that the Major didn’t like at all.

  He held out his hand towards me: “Show me your orders, Sergeant!”

  I reached into my inside pocket and pulled out the envelope that I had stolen along with the uniforms. I handed it to the Major and kept my eyes to the front, still standing at attention.

  He read the document: “Where is the rest of your squad?”

  “In the front carriage of the train, sir. Only I need to travel with the coffin.”

  I guessed that he would be simply too idle to check the front carriage for the rest of my squad.

  “But there’s no mention of any coffin in these orders, Sergeant. How is that?”

  “Well, sir, you will recall that, officially, there were no military casualties in the engagement outside the university.”

  “And you were there?”

  “Yessir, I was,” I replied.

  “And were there? Were there casualties, Sergeant? Unofficially, of course,” pursued the Major.

  This put me in a dilemma: did I reveal what was obviously a military secret (i.e. the fact that there had actually been casualties) or did I refuse to answer the direct question of a superior officer? I took the same line as I had before:

  “I’m not at liberty to answer that question, Major.”

  I waited, still staring straight ahead, still standing at attention. David had been listening in. He was obviously still unhappy. I could hear him making little grunts and groans of protest from within the coffin – and, so, I think, could the Major.

  “Can you hear something, Sergeant?”

  I put on a puzzled expression and responded: “Only the noise of the train, sir.”

  David’s unhappy noises subsided for a moment but the Major was still not content:

  “Well, Sergeant,” he said. “I understand that you may not be able to answer my questions directly…”

  Okay.

  “…but you can satisfy my curiosity by opening the coffin, can’t you?”

  “Certainly, sir,” I stammered. “But our comrade is in particularly bad shape and I …”

  “Sergeant, I have seen action in Korea, during the Malayan Emergency and in ‘Nam as well. How many broken and dismembered human beings do you think I have seen during that service?”

  The question was patronizing – but he did have a point.

  I didn’t answer. I was running out of ideas.

  “Open the box, Sergeant! That is a direct order!”

  I commenced, slowly and with feigned difficulty, to unscrew the fastenings that held down the lid. Could I delay the process until we reached the next stop? Maybe – but probably not. The Major became impatient at my progress and started to bellow at me just as he had at the private who had carried his luggage.

  David picked up on this aggravation, of course. Firstly, he could hear the angry words being directed at me and, secondly, I’m sure he could empathetically sense my growing anxiety and fear.

  After several long minutes, I started unscrewing the final fastening. The Major roughly pushed me aside with a curse and completed the task himself.

  “This is not going to be pretty,” I thought. But what could I do?

  As the Major commenced to lift the lid, a grey arm clad in military fatigues shot through the gap between lid and box. David’s hand closed swiftly and securely around the Major’s windpipe – and, quietly but efficiently, crushed it.

  David had made his first kill in the flickering of an eyelid. I knew better than to try and intervene now – there would have been no purpose.

  The Major’s limp body slumped to the floor of the carriage and David freed himself from the coffin. David fell upon his prey and feasted. Soon, the floor of the carriage was swimming in blood. David’s busily gnawing face was buried deeply in the flesh of his victim, as seemed to be customary among zombies.

  So much for getting him cleaned up. So much for fresh clothing.

  Was this a good time simply to cut my brother adrift? Yes, probably – on any rational consideration of the circumstances.

  But this was not going to happen – for better or worse, he was still my brother.

  So, now for a change in plans: forget Swan Hill and get off this train as soon as possible (assuming I could drag my brother away from his prize.)

  CHAPTER 17

  CASTLEMAINE GARDENS

  There was simply no point in remonstrating with David – anymore than there would have been with a pride of lions or a pack of hyenas. David was a killer – that was now a part of his nature.

  However, I needed to get him away from his kill before we arrived at the next scheduled stop. I calculated, correctly, that the crime (if such it truly be) would be discovered almost as soon as we pulled into the station. The kill had been very messy and bloody. It was entirely instinctive and David had given no thought to concealing it. If we’d had the time and equipment, it would have taken hours to clean up and dispose of the remains. We had neither.

  David continued his bloody, messy feasting as I considered our options. He was not being at all helpful.

  There really was only one option: flee the train at the earliest opportunity and hide in whichever place best presented itself.

  Castlemaine was the next scheduled stop. It’s a medium-sized town of, maybe, 10,000 people. It was once much bigger – as were many such towns – during the Victorian Gold-rush of the 1850’s and 1860’s. But now it relied on agriculture and tourism. I was familiar, in general terms, with its layout as I had visited elderly relatives there several times in my childhood.

  Where to flee to? Where to hide? I guessed that I had about ten minutes only to weigh my options.

  There were abandoned mineshafts but they were way out of town. Any mines closer in had been blocked off or filled in decades ago. So, forget that idea.

  I remembered that, when I was a kid, I’d played in the botanical gardens. Castlemaine had fine botanical gardens – for such a modest town. When it had been larger and more prosperous, I suppose the wealthy burghers had decided their town needed such a place for genteel weekend recreation.

  There was a largish lake in the gardens with a small island for nesting waterfowl. And the gardens were within 100m of the train station, on the edge of town. With luck, a lot of luck, we could sprint there before the mess in the baggage car was even discovered.

  I turned to the noisily-feasting David:

  “It’s a crap option, Dave. Any better ideas?”

  He uttered the words ‘gronff’ and ‘nunff’ but I don’t think it was by way of a reply to my question.

  It was nearing dawn. The train slowed on its approach to Castlemaine station. I dragged David away from the Major – or what was left of him – and slapped David’s bloody, gory face. This was not to express my disapproval, of course. This was merely to get his attention.

  I dragged him to the doorway of the baggage car. He roared in complaint and tried to return to the current object of his interest. I pulled him back and, placing my face close to his, roared back:
“We stay and we die!”

  He looked longingly at what lay on the floor – but, at last, he understood. The immediate blood-lust was ebbing away and now he could hear me above the frenzy of his own ‘thoughts’ (whatever they were).

  He trusted me, it seemed, and would follow my directions despite his urge to stay and finish his grisly undertaking.