A Single Girl's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse (9 page)

There was a brain-shattering scream from the direction of the camp, followed by four clear gunshots. After a pause there were several more shots in quick succession.

“Thank God,” said Q. She ran toward the sounds.

The walkers had returned.

Tinkabella, in tears, paced a small, tight circle. The Scarlet Terror made indiscriminate posies from pink flowers and strands of grass. Sheath of Power looked as if he had just eaten the porridge.

“Rabbit, see who's hurt,” Q said. “Angela, go find my phone and check the cabins.”

Q jogged round the campsite but saw nothing to justify the churn in her gut. She had known something was wrong! Why hadn't she done something?

When Q returned, Angela handed over what was left of her phone. It had been smashed into pieces. Someone had cut them off.

Rabbit had better news. No one was hurt. “But Melissa didn't come back from the walk,” he said under his breath.

“Who?” Q said.

“You know – long brown hair, tie-dye shirt, about this tall?”

“Oh, you mean Princess Starla, champion of the people and warrior of the way?” Q walked back to the group.

Despite the sobbing, Tinkabella looked the most cogent of the returned walkers. “What happened?” Q asked her.

The woman was snuffling too hard to answer. “Pull yourself together!” Q said. “What would your avatar say?”

For all the wrong reasons, this was the right thing to say. Everyone gawped, forgetting their trauma in their confusion. “Melissa was attacked,” Tinkabella said.

“By what?”

Tinkabella shook her head. “It was big, like a person.”

“It made noises like a sick animal,” Sheath of Power said.

“It smelled like rot,” Tinkabella said.

“No it didn't, it smelled like candy canes!”

“It had blood on its claws and teeth!”

“It couldn't walk straight. It limped like a hunchback penguin.”

Sheath of Power brought the description to a close. “I think it was a roo with rabies.”

“That makes no sense,” Q said, writing in her little black book. “Firstly, we don't have rabies here, and b, a roo doesn't look anything like a person, and three, why would an animal attack Princess Starla? She didn't go Irwin on it, did she?”

Rabbit interceded for the group. “Q, what did you say?”

“It wasn't a roo with rabies,” Q said.

“You weren't even there!” said Sheath of Power.

“I heard gun shots,” said Angela. “What was that?” No one knew.

“We better go see if Melissa's okay,” Rabbit said.

“She's not okay,” said Tinkabella, who had recovered enough to avoid volunteering. “We should get in the van and get out of here.”

“Not until we've checked on Melissa,” Rabbit said.

“I'll come,” said Q.

“Me, too,” said Angela.

“Good on you!” Q said and jabbed her lightly on the arm.

Angela rubbed the spot. “If there's a rabid roo, I want to be near the chick who can punch through brick walls.” They headed off, Q pausing to grab a long-handled cooking pot on the way.

*

They did not hurry and barely spoke. Angela asked once if they should walk quietly, so as not to attract attention, or loudly, to scare off whatever was out there. Q didn't think it would make a difference. There had been gunfire. That meant either the attacker had been dealt with or was more than they could handle. But they still had the gunman to worry about.

The path went northwest and uphill. It was easy to follow. The walkers had used an animal track, which was now well- trampled and lined with scraps of cloth. They had not been careful on their flight back to camp. All they had wanted was to get away.

The group found the spot a mile away from camp. Princess Starla was still there, or at least most of her was. Tinkabella was right. The woman did not need their help. Not any more.

“Shiva,” said Rabbit, and vomited.

“I always said walking was bad for your health,” Angela said.

“You're calm,” Q said.

“Twins,” Angela said. “Plus, it's either that or join Rabbit in the vomiting, and in my house, only one adult is allowed to hurl at a time.”

Q regarded the body. It was the first corpse she'd seen since Linda's. She hadn't been at the hospital when the woman died so she hadn't seen the body until the funeral. It had looked healthier than the live version in those last few weeks. Q kept expecting Linda to leap up during the service and yell at Q's father for neglecting their training schedule. The burial itself felt like murder, the body was so lifelike. Q had decided death would never again take her by surprise.

This body did not look healthy. It looked like it had been eaten by something that wasn't a member of the clean plate club. Q felt something hot and sour in the back of her throat and turned away. Ridiculous. It couldn't hurt her. It was dead. What was wrong with her?

She turned back to the body and pixelated the scene in her head, like level six on
Crypt Robbers
. That was better. She trod a careful circle around Princess Star – around the body. She didn't want to touch anything. Touching might make it real. The smell was a problem, too. She wasn't used to smells like this. Meaty, raw and rotten, a mix of blood and shit and something she couldn't identify.

Focus
.

There were two clean bullet holes in the forehead. They may not have been what killed Princess Starla. Some ghoul had torn off most of the face and there were large chunks missing from the mid-section. There was less blood than Q had expected. There was also a long, flattened trail leading away from the body, as if something heavy had been dragged through the scrub. Like a second body.

There was no trace of gunman or ghoul. Maybe they were the same person, and there was a maniac on the loose. She had one lead candidate for that theory. Q considered following the flattened trail, but decided against it. She probably wouldn't find anything that way. Worse – she might.

Rabbit was back, pale and sweaty. He nodded, opened his mouth to ask a question, then turned away to vomit again.

Angela kept her distance and breathed through her mouth. She was an unlikely ally in an emergency, pale, tubby and with absolutely no firearms training, but Angela sure kept her head in a crisis, and her breakfast. Her kids were lucky to have her.

Hannah! Q better get back to camp and call her hotline to check that her friend was okay. Just in case this problem wasn't local. “We gotta get back,” she said.

“Shouldn't we try first aid?” Rabbit said.

Q and Angela exchanged looks. Q tried to exchange looks with the body, but was hampered by its lack of eyes. “You haven't done a lot of first aid training, have you?” she asked Rabbit.

He replied with a dry retch. They headed back.

*

It took them longer to return. Angela talked constantly to Rabbit about whether it was likely to rain, and how glad she was that there was no snow this late in the season, and how much her kids would love tearing up the bush. Rabbit's face was the color of the gum leaves around them. The gray-green skin was the first thing Q had seen on him that didn't look good. She'd thank Angela later.

They were almost back when they heard quick, light footsteps. They stopped. “Is that it?” Angela said.

Q shook her head. “Don't think so. Too regular. Tinkabella said it limped.”

A figure stepped onto the track ahead of them. It was the large-bellied caretaker. He pulled his rifle up into the firing position and sighted along the barrel toward them.

Q leaped across Angela and Rabbit and knocked them to the ground. They landed in a tangle. She stared at the man from the dirt. He stood on the path, quite calm, as if he had resolved something. He lowered his weapon and turned to leave.

“Hey!” said Q, scampering to her feet. “Did you see it?”

The man paused. He glanced at the cooking pot clutched in her hand. He was quiet too long, as if preparing an answer rather than providing one. “I killed it,” he said at last.

“Lucky you had your gun with you,” Q said, thinking it a bit too coincidental. “When the attack happened.”

“I was out hunting.” The man turned to go.

“What was it?” Q said.

“Rabid roo,” he said. “Go home.”

“Wait!” Q called. “We need to—”

In the distance, an engine revved. In defiance of the ordinary spectrum, Rabbit turned a greener shade of gray. “That's the Yowie bus,” he said. They ran.

*

It was gone.

Angela sank to the dirt, bereft. She traced a hand in a tire divot. “They left,” she said.

“They must have gone for help,” Rabbit said.

“They left us!” Angela's voice rose.

Rabbit shook his head. Q leaned against a tree and pulled out a stashed candy bar from the pocket of her cargo pants. It was half-melted and, like a rebound romp on a summer's night, full of warm, sticky reassurance. She tore off a piece and handed the rest around. Such was Rabbit's level of shock, he ate it without even asking if it was fair trade.

“Those bastards!” Angela said. “I hope their intestines are ripped out and eaten by diseased marsupials!”

“Wow,” Q said. “That was weird and aggressive. Welcome aboard.” She pulled out her little black book and wrote a few lines, then flicked back through the pages while planning their next move. She wanted to check in with her crew and Hannah, but they would surely have warned her if there was an outbreak in Sydney. The hippies hadn't gone for help, but she was sure they'd inadvertently send it anyway. She wondered if they'd stop in the first town they came to and start raving, or if they'd make it all the way back to Sydney. How long would it take before the police arrived? Could the hippies explain where this place was, or did they only know the menu plan?

Q's brain caught up with what her eyes were reading.

An unexplained head shot during a military exercise. Visa refusals for North American tourists on health grounds. A series of homicides at a scout camp in the Snowies. High absenteeism at Saint Cedric's. The unseasonal pandemic plan requested by the government.

A few months ago, events were listed weeks apart. Over the last few pages, there was an entry every day.

Cluster!

Apocalypse Z
had warned her about this. Her little black book had prepared her for this. And she'd missed it! Maybe her crew was already in trouble, or already gone? She'd been so busy waiting for the main event she hadn't recognized it when it came. How?

Too busy chasing Rabbit, that's how.
Idiot!
“I gotta go talk to creepy old caretaker guy,” Q said.

“Don't leave!” Angela said.

“What do we do?” Rabbit asked.

“Check the huts. Get everyone together who's left.” They had plenty of clubbing weapons and kitchen knives, but no guns, and Q had brought their only large blades. It wasn't promising. “When you've got everyone together, build a big fire. Make sure there's plenty of wood. Get more if you need it but don't go far and stay in pairs.”

“Why do we need a fire?” Rabbit asked.

“It'll get chilly soon,” Q lied. Fire was good for morale and meals and it would give them something to do. She doubted it would keep the monsters at bay.

“You're not going back out there?” Angela said.

“Be careful,” Rabbit said.

Q stalked, pressing down the outside of each foot before rolling onto the ball. She was quiet, but not silent. She hoped the background screech of birds would cover her.

She moved uphill toward the cabin, shivering in the chill shade. The sun had already slid past the peak of the mountain and breakfast seemed long ago.

Q slowed when she neared the cabin, then stopped behind a large trunk. There were sounds inside – the steady murmur of a single voice. Was the man talking to himself? Princess Starla had died horribly in the bush. This freak had been nearby. Every time Q saw him, he had a gun, and the last time she saw him, he'd pointed it at her. What if the only dangerous thing out here was the fat man?

She pictured the cabin's configuration. There were two windows at the front and one door. Another window lay on the west wall and two on the east. She didn't know about the rear. There might be another door. She would have to make sure he didn't escape through an unseen exit and double around to surprise her. Q didn't know if she was here to talk, raid supplies or fight, but she was ready for all three. She'd find out soon enough.

Left foot, right foot, left foot, pause. Drop below the line of the windows. Creep forward. Pause.

She was below the window at the front of the cabin now. The monologue continued but no longer sounded like a man talking to himself – it was a radio. That was good, because it meant he might not be insane, and she might get to listen to the news. It was also bad. If he wasn't in there talking to himself, he might not be in there at all. He could be anywhere. Hiding in the trees. Lining her up in his sights right now.

The back of Q's neck itched.

Ignoring it, she crept over to the door and tested the handle. It turned. She slid it open and slipped inside.

*

Q was so overwhelmed by the smell of stale cigarette smoke that at first she couldn't pick out the details in the dark interior. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a table, a one-burner gas cooker on the floor, a mattress in one corner. A man sat on the only chair, a lit cigarette between two fingers. He wasn't listening to his radio any more – all his attention was on Q.

It was the first time she had seen him unarmed. Good timing.

They regarded one another. Q registered more details in the room without breaking eye contact. There was almost nothing on the floor. The walls were covered with guns mounted in brackets, mostly bolt-action rifles, but also pistols and shotguns and three semi-automatics. She recognized a .22 target rifle and a .32 pump action, the kind she used sometimes on the range. His armory was better than the one they had at her club.

Ash fell from the man's cigarette.

Q spoke. “What are you, some kind of American?” She gestured to the weapons on the walls.

The man laughed.

He'd need to take two steps to get to his nearest gun. Q could get to him faster than that. She relaxed a fraction, then saw something even more reassuring. On the table in front of him, beside the radio, was a book.
Apocalypse Z
.

Q sauntered over. “Thank God,” she said. “I thought you were some kind of weirdo.” She pointed to the radio. “Outbreak?” she said.

“Class Three,” he said.

“Q,” she said, extending her hand.

He shook it. “Dave.”

He stood and offered her the chair. She giggled at the chivalry, but stopped when she saw his expression. It didn't look as if he entertained much. She thanked him and sat down.

They listened to the broadcast as the last of day's light disappeared and the room filled with darkness. The reports said that people were bitten, then they stopped eating everything except raw meat. They slept a lot and were very thirsty, then didn't drink or eat at all. Then they turned into flesh-eating monsters.

“How far has it spread?” Q said.

Dave grunted. “Dunno. Damn reporters. Useless.”

“Sydney?” Q asked.

He grunted in the affirmative.

“Canberra?” she said.

He grunted again. “The pollies turned. It's bloody mayhem.”

“Who'd have thought Parliament was run by a bunch of brain-dead monsters?” Q guffawed, then stopped. A Class Three outbreak meant anyone in a built-up area was in trouble, and the situation would get worse. The people who tried to help—doctors, cops, leaders of any kind—would be the first to get bitten and turn. Every hour made friends into enemies. Her eyes prickled. Never mind her crew, they could look after themselves. But what were the chances for her dad? Could a tubby alcoholic who couldn't waddle uphill escape the hordes? Would the kelpie do any better?

“Sorry about the hippy,” Dave said, misinterpreting her expression.

“Thanks,” said Q. “I thought you might have done it at first. But the bullet holes were clean. You shot her after she died.”

Dave nodded and recited a line as comforting as a nursery rhyme. “
Two in the head
…”

Q finished it for him. “…
make sure it's dead
. You got the thing that attacked her?” she said.

“Yeah.” His face drew tight. “I shot it in the head. It wouldn't fall. I kept shooting till it did.”

Q filed this disturbing news away for later reference. “Thanks for the firewood,” she said, steering him away from a memory that upset him.
Apocalypse Z
could only prepare you so much.

Dave shifted. “Might scare them off.”

Q swore and leaped to her feet. “I gotta get back. I left them at the campsite.”

“The hippies?” Dave asked.

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

They ran.