Blue

by Brandy Wehinger

  Everything had felt off that day, Virgil remembered. The horses were spooked, startling at nothing, their senses telling them to run. The riders didn’t help either; their sour moods made them impatient with the horses, heavy-handed, unintuitive. All of the signs were telling them to be careful, but none of the Gunslingers were listening. Their tired and foggy minds made them introspective, less aware of their surroundings. They didn’t notice that the desert’s usual sounds — birds crying in the distance and bugs humming — were missing. Nor had they observed the absence of animals. No rabbits and no hopping finches in the sage brush. When Virgil thought back to that day, it pained him that he hadn’t taken in all the warning signs and had just pushed his terrified horse on into disaster.

  Finus had ridden beside him, his jacket collar pulled up against the wind and his wide-brimmed hat low over his face. All of them had stored their weapons away under leather flaps, protecting them from the rain and freeing up their hands to control their nervous horses.

  By the time they realised they were surrounded, it was too late.

  They had been following an old road that cut through the desert valley, and passed through a couple of one-street towns that had mostly catered to travellers before the Plague. Now these buildings were just crumbling piles of wood, overrun by rodents. The Gunslingers were focused on the larger town in front of them. Once they got there, they would turn right and head south. They didn’t see the moving shadows behind the high brush or notice how exposed they were to danger.

  It happened before anyone could react. Twenty or more Corpses were in front of them. They were the fast kind, Variants, and were wide-eyed and moving in half-crouches. They must have been gathering behind the brush without the riders knowing it, or maybe they had been moving and hunting in a mob. It was rare, but it did happen from time to time. Just as bad, they were in a dip in the land where a creek ran through. Gunslingers knew to avoid low-lying ground, but this part of the road was short and relatively shallow, so it wasn’t considered a hazard, even in heavy rains. But as the riders pushed their mounts forward, the horses went deeper in the muddy water and soon were wading up to their bellies, with the riders’ feet dangling in the thick brown water.

  The Corpses appeared first in front of the Gunslingers, a stream of black silhouettes crossing the road. The riders shouted to each other, and pulled out their rifles and crossbows. Virgil looked behind him to see if they could try to make a run back the way they had come. But it was too late. Already, dark frames were gathering in that direction, bottling the riders in. Worse, they couldn’t escape to the left or the right either, because the thick brush was impassable. They’d have to make a decision to run one way or the other and stick with it.

  ‘Forward!’ someone shouted. The horses were terrified, the whites of their eyes showing, their nostrils flared, snorting as they lurched through the water. Somebody managed to get a shot off, but none of the figures in front of them fell. Virgil gritted his teeth, knowing that they would just have to try to run past the Variants and hope that the horses were faster than them. But the horses couldn’t get the momentum needed for a fast gallop when they got out of the water.

  The Corpses were on them, grabbing, pushing one another forward into the riders. Virgil felt like he was in a bad dream — one where the ground was turned to rotting flesh and exposed bone. His panic-stricken horse was actually groaning in its effort to get away from the fast-grabbing hands of the Corpses.

  Virgil heard shots fired, yells, the moans of the Infected, the sound of his own stick smacking the skulls of his attackers. Then he heard his brother’s voice say, almost gently, ‘Virgil.’

  He looked around. Finus was nowhere. Frantically, Virgil swivelled about, trying to locate his brother. Nothing. No Finus. All he saw was his brother’s pale palomino being pulled apart, its golden coat and flaxen hair red with its own blood.

  Virgil felt the corners of his vision start to blur, but somehow he hung onto his horse, kept his arm swinging the stick at his attackers, and he found himself out of the mob and free of danger. Of the six riders, only three made it out alive. Two of the horses died trying to escape with their riders. The four remaining horses died from bite wounds and infections the following week.

  Finus had died and Virgil hadn’t seen it happen or been able to help. He had imagined many scenarios for Finus’s death, and at night would dream of his brother as a bird with a broken wing, afraid, falling from the sky. Some of the dreams were even more graphic, showing Finus screaming for help, clawing his way out of a pile of snapping Corpses. Virgil knew that the connection between Finus and himself was special. They were identical, two parts of one whole, stronger together than by themselves. When Virgil had told his mother the news of Finus’s death, she had scared him. ‘I always knew I’d have one son and I’ve always wondered which one of you boys I would lose.’

  He had joined another group of Gunslingers after that, hoping to start afresh on his own. But the Virgil who arrived at the new post was a quiet, more subdued person. It took him a long time to get to know his new crew and even longer for them to know him. Four years along, Virgil had finally created a different life for himself, albeit a lonely one.

  Virgil wasn’t quite sure why seeing the Blue had brought back memories of the past. Perhaps it was the Blue’s vulnerability as it lay perfectly still in the hope the riders would just pass by. Maybe it was the brief flash of fear in its eyes when it saw Virgil looking directly at it. What he did know was that sleep wouldn’t come easily for him this night.

  XAVIER, summer, 62 A. Z.

  Dear Jessy,

  It’s good to hear you’re getting better at Zombie killing. So you have a machete? Is it like the ones we use for harvesting or cutting vines? If so, that means you were pretty close when you made that kill! I’m impressed.

  I didn’t write to Rose about the marriage thing. Her nanny wrote to my mum and said she thought my letters might scare Rose. That means Rose must be really immature. I turn fifteen next year and so does she, so technically we can start writing to each other, but I don’t think I want to. I don’t really know her and I can’t think of anything to write to her about.

  Our teacher has gone a bit crazier. You know how he has always gone on about the ‘Zombie manifestation’? Well, now he has arranged to study a Blue that the City Council is planning to capture. Little old Mr Ding is going to travel all the way to the City to try to learn something about the Infection. He has even said that it might lead to a cure. You know how Mr Ding has never been able to accept that the Deads are just part of life? I guess because he comes from a time before they were around. All the old people are like that. Anyway, he’s been going on in class about mutations, immune defences, parts of the brain, etc. We have no idea what he’s talking about. But it’s really interesting.

  The science he’s teaching us is getting better. We’re doing more experiments and he’s teaching us technical stuff. You know how he has been building a lab for like the last hundred years? Well, it’s almost done and Mr Ding said that he’s going to teach us how to use the equipment and that he’s looking for apprentices. I know my parents want me to be a Grower, like Dad, but I would rather be a scientist.

  I still want to grow plants, though. I’ve started my own growing baskets and have already got seedlings up and going well. It’s no big deal. And now my dad has said that if I wanted to start working a bit, I could be in charge of some crops. I still have to do all my school work and chores, which is okay.

  I talked to Joaquin about building an enclosure for Bob so he’ll be safe when you get back. He said it was no problem and already knows a place that is pretty secure. We’re going to go start on it this weekend after I help Mr Ding with some stuff in the lab. Don’t worry at all about where to put Bob when you come home. When you get a chance to get away, it will be completely done and ready for you. Jessy, if you don’t want to be a Gunslinger, you don’t have to be. You’re getting good at it, but you could just be a
Sanctuary guard instead.

  Hope to see you soon. Be safe.

  Xavier

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, summer, 62 A. Z.

  THE COUNCIL LEADERS are seeking to retain a young man guilty of having a relationship with a Blue. This is astounding news. Not just for the political implications, but for the fact that in order for this man to interact safely with a Blue, the creature must have cognitive reasoning.

  Blues have been known to exist since the beginning of the Infection, but we have never been able to collect enough information about them to predict their capabilities and assess their functioning. I myself have never encountered one; however, local lore describes a cognisant Zombie with cyanotic skin and grey eyes. My current opinion of the phenomenon is that this variation of the Zombie disease must have manifested from a mutant strain, or perhaps the subject’s immune system was better equipped to suppress the virus or prion’s spread, sparing the higher-thinking areas of the brain.

  Much of what I’ve heard of the Blues has been hearsay or tales from uneducated, inebriated and exhausted Gunslingers. The validity of these tales is questionable. Perhaps artistic licence and humanitarian hope have given the Blues more mental capabilities than they actually have. The common Zombie mindlessly pursues, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. The Blue turns and flees. The observer in these situations might perceive the Blue capable of judgement and deliberate decision-making. My sceptical mind has always thought the Blue’s tendency to run from humans is no more than the instinctive flight that a deer might have in reaction to a loud noise.

  Now I see my critique was perhaps too pessimistic. The man, Elliot, has engaged in a relationship important enough to abandon his family, work and responsibilities. The Blue must have high enough intellectual functioning to engage a normal human being on meaningful terms. Unless, of course, Elliot is in some way damaged or mad, incapable of understanding the severe consequences of his actions. Might he be a lunatic living happily with a shuffling, mindless monster?

  From the fervour of the Council’s warrant, and the air with which this entire affair is being handled, I doubt that this Elliot is simply a crazy fool. Which means, then, that the Blue could quite possibly be a sentient creature with the ability to communicate. The knowledge that could be gained from such a subject! To engage one of these Blues, create a discourse on their capabilities and limitations, and attain a first-hand account of their experiences, would be invaluable. It might just shed new light on the very nature of the disease.

  VIRGIL, summer, 62 A. Z.

  THE GUNSLINGERS RODE into the suburbs at midday. It was the best time to try to get into the City — fewer shadows to obscure hiding forms and extra hours before the darkness of night. It also bought them some time if there were any hiccups along the way.

  Virgil hadn’t wanted to be part of this mission, and had done his best to opt out of it. He had even told Ray that he was feeling poorly, that he’d prefer to stay behind on this one and guard the outpost. Ray just laughed in his face and said, ‘Not gonna happen — end of story.’

  This wasn’t an honourable job. Moving people from settlement to settlement, getting people out of sticky situations, delivering urgently needed medicine — those were the kinds of duties a Gunslinger did when not killing Corpses. This mission seemed to Virgil more like playing the strong arm for some City Leader. It changed the Gunslinger’s fundamental role, and it set a dangerous precedent. Plus, Virgil didn’t agree with execution.

  They made their path through the streets of once-affluent and tidy neighbourhoods. The big houses were derelict and rotting; overgrown gardens and long-abandoned cars made hiding places for Corpses; and road blocks needed to be carefully navigated. One wrong turn could leave them trapped for an ambush.

  The City colony sat perched atop large grey buildings adjacent to the suburbs. Larger structures still, impossibly tall, stood in the distance beyond the colony. Virgil had read that they were called skyscrapers before the Plague. He had never ventured near them. That area was a known death trap, filled with herds of Deads, clogged with vehicles and practically impassable.

  The founders of the City colony had been wise to establish their home on the outskirts of the original city, far from the old city centre. This gave them better access in and out of their colony, allowing them to stay somewhat connected to the other settlements and minimising the number of Deads around them, yet still offering them buildings high enough to inhabit safely. But not too high, Virgil thought. If they had decided to build on those skyscrapers it would have taken hours to crawl up them. Sure, their height was attractive, but nobody would be strong enough to climb a ladder even halfway up.

  Nearing the colony, the riders pushed their horses into a fast trot. They had to get over a sort of bridge that arched up and over a similar bridge below, and swept towards the City. They all knew that, once on the bridge, they were committed to moving forward, with weapons drawn. Well, that or return in the direction they had come from. The side rails and the height made it impossible to escape if Corpses got them cornered. Even so, Virgil glanced down at the ground below the overpass — a mass of thick trees and berry bushes, where numerous Corpses were caught squirming in the foliage. They must be the slow kind of Dead, Virgil thought. Variants would have thrashed themselves out of those branches long ago.

  At last the Gunslingers found their way to a building called the Ariki Hotel, its name written on its front in shiny gold lettering. It had one of the few secure ground-level areas in which to keep their horses in the City. From his reading, Virgil guessed that it must once have been used for deliveries or for storing fancy cars. Now, thanks to its heavy iron bars at the entranceway, it was a temporary stable used by Gunslingers when they visited.

  Virgil and his five companions rode in and closed the bars. They unsaddled the horses, and gave them the precious grain they carried for these kinds of stays. Watering their beasts was easy though, a guttered system had been rigged up years before to fill a large barrel with clean rain water. Virgil walked the inner perimeter to check the bars’ structural integrity — it wasn’t his first time here, but Virgil took nothing for granted. Satisfied, he and the crew — Ray, Owen, Maria, Greg and Jessy — left the barred area, moving in formation, covering all angles: two on point, one on each side, and two in the rear, walking backwards. ‘Eyes open and weapons up,’ Ray growled.

  They covered the short distance to the rope ladders without incident, then each of them had to wait in turn to sprint-climb the thick rungs, leaving enough room behind for the next person to get off the ground as quickly as possible. If Deads came while they waited, those on the ground would be left with nowhere to run.

  Again, there was no sign of marauding Deads, and the crew climbed two storeys up, then through the window of the first resting spot, a secured room. Virgil looked at his companions as they gathered their breath. Amazingly, the fourteen-year-old girl had climbed the most strongly and looked no worse for wear. She was becoming an excellent Gunslinger.

  Once rested, the group started the climb up the ladder leading to the roof of the four-storey building where the colony’s growing boxes were set out in tidy rows. Virgil visited the colonised areas of the City rarely — maybe only once every two years — and when he did, he preferred to spend the night guarding the horses, protecting himself from having to make small talk with new people. But he did admire the industriousness and careful planning of these people. Well-organised and well-timed crops, a system of rope bridges extending from rooftop to rooftop, highly fortified and secure living areas on the top floors, a communal kitchen that served a wide variety of cooked foods; there was even a recreation area. Every inch of available space had been maximised for efficiency. But Virgil knew he could never live here. It would be too confining, too scheduled, and too close to others.

  A guard, clearly expecting their arrival, motioned the Gunslingers to follow him across one of the bridges that led to the Council Leader’s home, a residence that occupied the en
tire top floor of the neighbouring six-storey building. Its impressive front door had been fashioned from the central area of what was once a massive stained-glass window. As they walked through it, a multitude of colours glowed and reflected on their skin, creating an eerie effect. The scent of the house was intoxicating too. The burning of some kind of sweet herb or incense only added to the mysteriousness of the place, separating it from the ugly world outside.

  A tall, elegant, red-haired woman met them just inside the foyer. Her robes were made of a material like spider’s webs, and layered in a draping and flattering style. Virgil thought she looked like a goddess, until he studied her face more closely and noticed that her eyes were icy, her smile forced and insincere.

  ‘Hello, Gunslingers,’ she said. Her voice was educated and self-assured. ‘I am Annette, Leader Grosvenor’s wife. I hope you had a safe journey to our City. Come, I will take you to meet my husband.’

  She led them through various rooms, the opulence of which had one obvious purpose — to impress. It made Virgil cautious and uneasy. They arrived at a study, its walls lined with book shelves, dark wood panels, and the taxidermied heads of large exotic animals. Annette motioned them towards the leather sofas and chairs. ‘I’ll call for some refreshments. Leader Grosvenor will be along shortly.’

  As they sat waiting, Virgil looked at his crew’s faces. Ray, smiling, enjoying himself, probably feeling quite pleased by the false respect and hospitality being shown to him. Owen, Maria and Greg looked less at ease, studying the room with guarded expressions. Only Jessy’s fascination was plain on her face. She must have noticed Annette staring at her because, to break the tension or simply to be polite, she asked, ‘Annette — or do I call you Mrs Grosvenor? Do you really live in this place? It’s very beautiful.’