by West, Mark
Both girls smile nervously. The blue-eyed girl touches his arm. ‘Thanks. You saved us.’
‘Err … um … that’s okay.’ He looks at his feet, feeling his cheeks going red again.
All three start walking once more, moving deeper into the bush, eyes scanning the area, ears pricked, ready to run.
‘What’s your name?’ The brown hair girl asks, ducking under a low branch.
‘William. You?’
‘I’m Cynthia. This is my little sister, Eden.’
William examines the pair for a moment. Both are similar in height with bony shoulders and long, slender arms. But Eden’s hair is blonde and straight, whereas her sister’s hair is dark and curly.
‘You’re sisters?’
‘That’s right,’ Eden says, jumping in and resting a hand over Cynthia’s shoulder. ‘I’m the smarter one.’
Cynthia giggles and brushes Eden away. ‘Whatever, numbat.’
‘But you two don’t look much like sisters? I mean—’
Cynthia cuts him off, raising her hand. The nails look viciously sharp.
‘Half sisters, dummy. Same father, different mother.’ She turns to Eden. ‘Eden is sixteen and I’m seventeen. Dad was bad.’
Both girls chuckle. William looks at them blankly; he isn’t sure what they are trying to say.
‘Don’t look at us like that silly,’ Cynthia laughs. ‘It’s a long and boring story, but basically, when Mum found out about Dad’s shenanigans, she couldn’t keep us apart.’
‘What about you?’ Eden asks. ‘Anyone with you?’
William shakes his head. ‘Just me.’
‘The entire time?’ Eden questions, the pain clear in her voice.
‘My friend was killed at the very beginning. I kept to myself after that. Better that way.’
William isn’t sure why he made up the part about having a friend. Perhaps opening up to strangers isn’t part of who he is anymore. He’d prefer to keep his secrets hidden. It’s a lot easier that way.
Eden wipes at her eyes. ‘We lost our family the day it happened.’
‘We were both upstairs,’ Cynthia adds, ‘in my bedroom. We heard screaming and went downstairs. There was some guy in our kitchen attacking Dad. Mum was on the floor. We ran. We’ve been running ever since.’
William pushes back a thick shrub, allowing the girls to pass. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘North,’ Eden says. ‘We met someone a few months back who mentioned something about a shelter.’
‘Shelter? Like a safe place?’ William feels his heart jolt at the prospect of hope: the chance to find his father.
Cynthia nods. ‘Sounded like it. The man abandoned us a few days later, but he kept talking about Brisbane.’
‘Apparently, they’re using the stadium as a fortress against the Infected,’ Eden adds.
‘How did he hear about it?’
It’s the first time William has heard about any sort of resistance against the Infected. It could all be made up.
‘Radio. He showed it to me and Eden. It didn’t work at the time because it needed batteries, but it seemed legit.’
William watches Eden from the corner of his eye as she wipes dirt from the side of her cheek, mesmerised by her soft but grubby complexion. He hasn’t seen a girl his age for a long time.
Eden catches him looking and gives him a little smile. ‘Worth a shot. Will you come with us?’
William shrugs. ‘I um …’
Inside he wants to jump with joy at the thought of finding a safe haven. It’s been hard living alone, scavenging for food and searching for a place safe enough to sleep. Not that he sleeps very well. The winter months were the worst. Coming from Goulburn, you’d think he would be used to the cold. Not at all. He had almost frozen to death in the streets. He left Goulburn a week after the outbreak. The prison, situated on the edge of town, was full of the worst Australia had to offer. The thought of the prisoners escaping scared him, and the town creeped him out with its old buildings and lingering Infected.
William lived with his dad about ten minutes out of town. They were at the supermarket buying pasta for their dinner. It’s what his mum used to cook until cancer spread throughout her lungs and she died. It had been hard for them to come to grips with the loss. She had been the best – intelligent and beautiful, like an angel. Dad always told him she was like a sunflower in the middle of a meadow full of clover – one of a kind.
They were at the register, items moving along the conveyor belt, when they saw the first Infected. At first, they thought it was a joke when people started banging on the shop’s windows: faces painted red, eyes yellow. A few people had even laughed, filming the spectacle on their phone, posting for their friends and followers. But people stopped laughing when one of the Infected came into the store and attacked the screaming manager – blood everywhere, people running about like headless chooks.
As Infected flooded in, William and his dad rushed to the back of the store. They found a small broom closet and quickly shut the door. The pair waited for over an hour until the cries for help died and there was silence.
His dad wanted to see if it was safe.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ William pleaded.
‘I’ll be back. I need to see if anyone needs help.’
‘But I need your help, Dad.’
But it wasn’t enough to stop him from going. Minutes passed, then hours. He never returned. Since that day, day one, William has been alone. No friends. No family. No one.
‘Well?’ Eden asks again, nudging William playfully in the ribs. ‘Will you come with us?’
William stops. In the distance he spots a small town, no more than a few kilometres away. There is, no smoke, no movement and no sign of life. From where they are it looks completely deserted.
He turns back at Eden and gives her a nervous smile. ‘Why not. I’ve always wanted to visit Brisbane.’
He was over being alone.
Chapter 6
Return of the dead
Amy fires her gun twice before running for her life. It’s been like this for months now. Always moving, always running. Ever since they were attacked at the Block, she has been fighting to stay alive. It hasn’t been easy. She has had to do things she never dreamt she’d have to do – horrible, unspeakable things.
She remembers the feeling of panic as she watched Jackson and Victoria run to the tree line while the Infected surrounded her. The Infected swiped at her feet, snapping at her flesh. She screamed, but they didn’t let up. They never do.
But Amy had a saviour – the gun Jackson had left her. Her last resort. It was an act of pity, an act of kindness and respect before her imminent death – a thank you.
Amy’s back slams hard against a wall and she gasps for air. She brushes her long black hair away from her face and checks the rounds in the magazine. Three bullets left. Not enough time to reload. She peers around the corner.
The Infected are running up the road in her direction – dogs sniffing out a fox. There are six of them, each one as deadly as the other. Two break away and head down another street.
They're trying to cut me off.
Her muscled shoulders push back off the wall and she begins running for her life – again.
Chapter 7
Soaked clothes
I don’t bother to save my sodden clothes. The guy in the photos is around my size – shoes and all – so I dump my clothes on the floor and dress in the fresh ones I find in the cupboard.
I run a comb through my tangled hair and smooth down my beard. Both areas are getting a little out of control. Victoria says I’m turning into Keanu Reeves – the bum, not the Matrix version. Most of my bulk is gone. I’m ripped, but I’d barely make lightweight. All this running and eating is doing wonders. But who knows what will happen when the food runs out and we are left scavenging for berries. That’s no problem at the moment. Everyone perished or turned so quickly that food is still almost everywhere, except for fresh veggies.
The one thing I miss is meat – a solid leg of lamb or T-bone steak. Most of the animals on the farms are dead; carcasses picked clean by crows. There’s nothing left. The winter was brutal, and before that was a long drought that turned the soil into stone. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything as tasty as a homemade burger.
I listen at the door again. The thumping has stopped, replaced by the feeble scraping of defeat. ‘Thanks for the clothes,’ I take a few steps and pause momentarily. ‘And the bag too.’
I run my hand along the canvas strap. It’s a Nixon Smith, made to last and built for extremes. It seems the owner was a bit of an adventurer. I managed to replace half my stuff: knives, compass, watch, rope. The only thing missing is a gun.
I found a safe behind an old painting but left it alone. There might have been a gun in it, but it wasn’t worth bashing at for hours to only achieve a few dents. Perhaps the room with the Infected has the spare key. Either way, I’m not too fussed. I’m sure my gun is at the bridge.
Heading downstairs, I load up the food in my bag and slip a few of the knives I found in my new cargo pants. The pants are bulky and hold a lot of heat, but they were too good to leave.
When I’m ready, I make my way to the front door and peer through the side window. The street looks deserted. If I had time, I would check the rest of the houses in the area. The thing is I don’t. It’s already mid-afternoon and I have a few kilometres to walk to get home. Plus, clearing houses on your own isn’t ideal. I miss having Lincoln with me. But Lincoln’s dead, like so many of my friends at the Block. One of those twisted freaks got him during the attack as we were trying to leave, taking a chunk out of his arm. The last I saw of him he was cutting down Infected like a samurai. But he didn’t stand a chance.
Taking one last look behind, I exit the house and shut the door, marking it with an X in black texta. It’s time to get my stuff back. I need my gun. It’s the only one we have.
I arrive at the bridge about an hour later, after encountering dozens of Infected along the way. With no gun, I spent most of my time avoiding roaming Infected as best I could, stabbing the odd one I caught alone.
I wonder where the majority of the Infected have gone to. I estimate there are around half a million people at the Gold Coast, less the tourists, however, I see no more than a dozen or so at a time. If there were that many people in the area, shouldn’t the streets be packed?
Victoria’s theory is that most of them got confused and wandered out to sea. They don’t drown, so she imagines them walking around at the bottom of the ocean getting nibbled by fish. It would explain a lot, but I have another hypothesis. I believe they have assembled somewhere – a building maybe, or out west.
The ones trapped in houses are dumb. I label them as non-thinkers. They are mostly walking types and don’t seem to have the fine-motor skills needed to open doors or fire rifles – thank God! A few months ago, I accidentally let one free when I left a back door open. When it walked out it ignored me and wandered off. It seemed to be heading somewhere, like it was on a mission or something. I believe the trapped Infected are trying to meet up with the others, perhaps before they rot to death. Although my rotting theory has pretty much gone out the window.
They do smell like garbage, but they never seem to rot into the ground. It’s as if they regenerate muscle and skin, only to have it fall away the moment it grows back. It’s a vicious cycle: something I have to investigate along with an entire list of other unanswered questions.
To back up my theory, I get this strange feeling I should be somewhere. I can’t describe it, but it’s kind of like the tingling sensation but more in my gut. Like ‘chlorine belly’ after drinking too much pool water. I’ll work it out one day, and when I do, I’ll come for them. But at this moment I just want to survive.
I spot my bag and gun resting by the edge of the bridge. The Infected I shot is now covered in flies. A pungent stench is lingering in the heat. As I approach, I glance back down the road. A deep orange is reflected in the bitumen, making everything seem spookier. It’s dangerously quiet. I see no trace of the one that didn’t jump, and I’m a little relieved, because I’m tired and not in the mood for a fight. I check my watch. It’s 5.30 pm. I’m still kilometres from home. Better get moving.
I unzip my old bag and remove a few of my essentials, leaving the pack under an overturned sign in case I need it one day. With so much stuff still around, I doubt I will, but you never know. I walk over to my gun and pick it up.
The stock is a little chipped, but that’s about it, and it’s in no worse condition than when I found it. I had a pressing thought that perhaps it might have been stolen, or, worse, used against me. With the way the Infected are evolving, it won't be long before they use guns.
I shake the thought away and peer over the bridge. The blood in the water has disappeared, but I can still make out a few remains bobbing in the water.
‘Good riddance.’
Chapter 8
Apartment struggles
The apartment door bursts open and Amy runs inside, throwing her bag onto the floor. She spins on her heels to shut the door when a hand slips in at the last moment. It wedges between the door and jamb, flapping about with grasping fingers. Amy grunts and pushes harder on the door, holding back the weight of the Infected with sheer determination. It snarls in fury – a call for her blood.
Amy removes a knife from her pants, revealing a rusted, bloodied blade. As old as it seems, Amy knows it’s still as sharp as when she found it, despite killing more Infected with it than she can count.
The Infected starts to bounce against the door. Her muscles begin to fatigue. It’s now or never, because any moment it will be coming in. Amy stabs at the arm. Blood squirts from the deep wounds, splattering the floor, walls and ceiling in bright red and black. But the Infected is relentless and doesn’t withdraw.
Amy’s boots begin to slide as blood pools on the tiles. The door inches ever wider. She stabs more furiously, slicing at the partially severed arm until it dangles like a surrealist interpretation of fruit from a tree.
Not today, junior.
A shoulder appears. Amy thrusts the knife into the Infected’s flesh and twists. The creature barely reacts. Her plan isn’t working. It’s coming in. She cries out in frustration and jumps back from the door, allowing the Infected to burst into the room. It is over six-foot tall and bare-chested. Foam froths from its mouth and its torn and tattered arm flays about flicking blood across the room. Amy staggers back holding the knife in front of her.
The Infected lunges, mouth open like an angry bear. Amy dives to one side, narrowly missing the jaws of death. The Infected crashes into a table. Its wet hands slap the timber surface, reminding Amy of the horrors of her neighbour, Norma. Amy can hear more Infected approaching. She spins and runs to shut the door, but the Infected cuts her off. She knows she must kill this one before she is overwhelmed. She slashes with her knife, splitting open its chest. Blood gushes to the floor. The Infected slips, as if on ice, allowing Amy to duck a swinging arm and move away.
The Infected rights itself and comes at her again. Amy plans her attack. As it swipes at her dumbly, she dances to her left, prompting it to turn. She catches sight of its hollow eyes and drives the knife into the side of its skull. Within a second it collapses to the floor.
Leaving the knife, Amy runs to the door and clicks it shut. Moments later the Infected are thumping at it from the other side.
That was close.
Breathing heavily, Amy pulls her knife free, wiping it on the Infected’s ragged jeans before slipping it back in its sheath. She removes the spare rounds from her bag and reloads her gun.
Twelve bullets left – crap!
She tosses the empty packet across the room. She would have to make them count.
The room is now decorated with blood and smells like a pigpen. Amy goes to the window and opens it, peering out over the city below. She is on the third floor of a large apartment
block. Down below she can see Infected prowling the streets. In the distance, a roller coaster peaks through the trees, silent.
‘Hello, Gold Coast – I made it.’
Chapter 9
Home
I arrive back at the house hours after leaving the bridge. Dusk is approaching and an ambient glow bathes the extravagant houses. It feels like I’m in Miami.
I check my surroundings. I’m alone. I kick aside a small rock near the entrance and pick up the spare key, unlocking the gate before placing it back. I move inside the yard, careful not to bump the string connected to a cluster of tins – our alarm system. It’s the best I could do. Nothing else seemed as effective.
Victoria is waiting by the open front door, Isabelle on her hip. Victoria’s long brown hair glows in the dimming light. She smiles. Isabelle spots me and squeaks with delight. Thank God everyone is safe.
‘Hey, you two,’ I say warmly, gesturing everyone inside. I run a hand along Victoria’s back, feeling her smooth skin, and kiss her on the lips. ‘I missed you.’ I turn to Isabelle. ‘Hey, you.’ I take Isabelle and hug her. She babbles in response.
‘You’re in new clothes.’ Victoria’s querying eyes look me up and down.
‘Decided to swim. Forgot to get my gear off.’ I shrug guiltily.
I won’t tell her about my encounter with the Infected. I rarely do. It only causes her to worry, so I bend the truth. That way I keep her safe from doing anything stupid. Not that she would, now we have Isabelle.
‘I killed a few Infected today. By that house I told you about.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I was right. People were living inside – a couple. I couldn’t save the woman, but the man got away.’
We walk into the lounge at the back of the house, away from the road and prying eyes. We keep the curtains shut at all times. Victoria switches on a light. A warm radiance fills the room, making me appreciate the solar panels and battery keeping the place together.
