by Jack Dann
‘I don’t have a horse, or a bike. But I’ve got a gun,’ Trev said. The outriders laughed.
‘Well mate, perhaps some farmer needs help with a rabbit problem. Doubt you’ll hit anything with that old thing though.’
I could hit you, Trev thought, but bit his tongue. They were in hiding, and desperate for cash. Last thing they needed was trouble with the law, though he ached to lay into the cocky prick.
Swanny had started work yesterday for a local preserver. The days of fridges and canning had gone by the wayside, and he worked on an assembly line, pushing wax seals into glass jars full of fruit and meat.
‘That’s womens’ work,’ Trev had laughed at the time, but Swanwick was the only one with a job. Trev had pounded the pavements till he wanted to pound some heads. No luck.
They’d discretely tried to change some of the Danish notes, with limited success. Alice Springs had been left alone during the Invasion, but many sons and husbands had gone off to fight throughout the district. The hostel had accepted one note with great reluctance, providing a week’s accommodation. They would not do this again.
‘A fortune and nowhere to spend it,’ Trev moaned, not for the first time that day. He flopped onto the uncomfortable bed, waiting for Swanny to come home so he could hit him for beer money. Literally.
Making sure that the door was closed, Trev went through the bag one more time in the vain hope that some Australian currency had been in Buchanan’s safe. There was nothing but the Danish money and some boring looking papers. With nothing better to do, Trev actually took the time to read them, took a closer look at the maps that they’d snatched from the safe.
What the hell was Buchanan doing? Trev thought, his head spinning. What he held in his hands amounted to high treason, spoke of sabotage and troop movements. Perhaps I’ll get some sort of reward for turning this in. We killed a Danish spy!
He’d only known Buchanan was a wealthy landowner near Port Augusta, went there with the pretence of looking for work. We bungled the heist, but I reckon we’ve come up with something better than loot! he exulted. This will clear my name!
He was still sitting there on the bed, surrounded by enemy money and plans for sabotage and invasion, when the door opened. It was another person he’d seen in the hostel, another labourer down on his luck.
‘Sorry mate, wrong room,’ the bloke said, doing a double take when he took in the scene. The white and red kroner of New Denmark was distinctive, and to be seen with so much of it could only mean one thing.
‘Oh Christ!’ the man said, slamming the door a moment before Trev blasted away with the ever-present shotgun. There were screams of pain, the sounds of running and doors slamming.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck it all!’ Trev said, pushing the bed up against the door and jamming more shells into the breech of the gun.
‘I’m not a spy!’ he shouted through the broken door, letting off another round just to show he meant business. ‘I’m a fucking thief.’
Wallis had navigated hundreds of miles of cracked highway, and when the barren landscape gave way to the green outskirts of Alice Springs, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was literally driving on the fumes in his tank, the boot full of empty jerry cans. The old car had begun to overheat, and he doubted it would make the return journey.
No wonder this place was spared by the Plague, he thought. No zombie would ever make it across that wasteland.
He noticed the smoke from several fires rising above the town, wondered why he couldn’t hear the bells of the fire brigade. There was screaming in the distance, and as he prowled through the streets in the cruiser, Wallis saw people darting into doorways as if the devil was on their heels. The engine began to struggle as the tank ran out, and the car stalled in the middle of the road, engine ticking.
Where the hell is the petrol station?
A young lad ran around the corner and didn’t see the police car, running into the driver’s side door. The Chief Inspector launched a beefy arm out of the window and grabbed him by the collar before he could flee.
‘What’s going on?’ Wallis demanded.
‘The camels are coming!’ the boy cried. ‘They’re eating everyone. Mister, you’ve gotta get out of here.’
Camels?
‘Give me that,’ Swanny said, pushing the young girl to the ground and taking her bike. His knees knocking against the handlebars, he poured as much energy as he could into making that pink-tasselled wonder-machine go. Something from the depths of hell was hot on his tail, several somethings that had devoured all of the little old ladies at the preservery. He heard the horrible honking cries behind him, heard the sick crunching sounds as the beasts caught the screaming little girl and tore her apart, eating her alive.
‘Whatthehellwhatthehellwhatthehell!’ he screamed, losing his bladder control and not caring. A great rotting head loomed out of an alleyway, square teeth nipping at him as he sped past. He felt the hot stinking breath of the camel on the back of his neck, whimpering as the teeth barely missed him. The great empty clacking sound of the teeth striking each other made him moan with fear.
‘Camels do not EAT people!’ Swanny sobbed. He had to find Trev, Trev would know what to do.
He took the side streets when he could, hoping he would be able to find the hostel. They’d only been in Alice for two days. A wrong turn could mean becoming a camel snack. I’ve got to get Trev and the money, get the hell out of this place! Their problems with the law seemed so less important right now.
There was a shotgun blast, and then another. Trev! he thought, steering towards the noise. He’s alive! There was another shotgun blast, and Swanny rode into view of the hostel, abandoning the bike in the street. Within seconds, someone else nicked it to flee from the undead camels, but Swanny didn’t care. He’d found salvation.
‘Take that, you bastards!’ Trev yelled from somewhere inside. ‘I’ve got plenty more where that came from!’
One of the camels had tried to walk into the front door of the hostel and got stuck. It roared with impatience, and Swanny could hear it bashing at the internal walls with its great heavy head. He wouldn’t be going in that way.
Creeping down the back alleyway, Swanny froze as something knocked over a bin. It was a cat, screeching in terror. It tried to bolt for safety, but as it ran across the street one of the abnormally swift camels struck like a snake and swallowed it whole. Then it looked up, pale dead eyes regarding Kevin Swanwick. He felt his bowels release, and ran up the alleyway, undeath hot at his heels.
‘Oh sweet Jesus!’ he said, leaping through the window. Broken glass and shit covered him, and Swanny lay in a painful pile on the floor. The room stank of cordite, and Trev was loading more shells into the shotgun.
‘Where in the hell you been?’ Trev demanded. ‘Hang on, did you piss and shit yourself?’
‘The camels!’ Swanny managed, a split second before the zombie camel rammed its dead head through the window, blood-stained teeth snapping at Swanny. Trev emptied the shotgun into its head, round after round until he was leaning outside the window to finish the job. Finally, the horrible beast was silent and presumably still.
‘What in the bright blue fuck was that?’ Trev said incredulously. ‘Never seen a camel do that before.’
‘Um, Trev.’
‘Yeah, what.’
‘What the hell were you shooting at before?’
They moved the bed and opened the doorway. Numerous trappers and shooters had been running down the corridor to deal with the stuck camel; Trev had murdered every last one of them.
‘I thought they were coming for me,’ he explained weakly. ‘What else was I supposed to do?’
‘We need to go Trev, we need to go now,’ Swanny pleaded. He reached for the duffel bag, swept the bundles of paper and money into it.
‘Leave the money!’ Trev said. ‘That shit has done nothing but curse us. I say we burn it.’ But Swanny held onto it.
Despatching the stuck camel with several well-placed r
ounds, Trev and Swanny stepped over its twitching body, and into the absolute anarchy that was post-camel Alice Springs. Somewhere in the distance were the sounds of screams; it seemed the movement of the undead herd had passed this spot.
‘Not looking for a shooter, eh?’ Trev said as he walked past the dismembered corpse of the foreman. ‘“Smart way’s to round ‘em up and bring ‘em into town”,’ he mimicked, poking the dead man’s head with his boot. ‘Not too flamin’ smart, are you?’
Trev!’ Swanny whispered. ‘We need to get a car or something. Stop messing about!’
Momentarily stunned by Swanny’s rare display of backbone, Trev complied. They both had guns now, though Swanny didn’t realise the rifle from the hostel wasn’t loaded. It made him feel better at any rate.
There was a noise behind them, and the pair of petty thugs turned, only to see a morbidly obese police officer. Trev swore.
‘Behind you,’ the man said calmly, raising his pistol. The pair turned, firing at the camel that lurched drunkenly towards them. Swanny panicked and threw his useless rifle at the undead beast, which the stranger dropped with a well-placed shot to the eyes.
‘You there,’ the cop said. ‘Forgot to do your bag up.’ Swanny looked down, saw the kroners sticking out of the open duffel bag. The man had a pistol levelled at Trev, and gestured for Swanny to drop the bag.
‘Over my dead body,’ Trev said, lifting the shotgun. He was so focussed on the fat man that he didn’t hear the camel until it pounced on him, all peg teeth and grinding punishment. Swanny squeaked with dismay, and was frozen with fear. Several camels were running towards them, honking and slavering, broad feet kicking up the dust as they charged. The policeman grabbed him by the collar, jerked him into a different direction. Swanny was too terrified to object.
‘I’ve a score to settle with you,’ the fat man said, ‘but you and I have bigger problems. I know you can shoot, you shot my brother-in-law.’ He handed Swanny a revolver, which the young man took with disbelief.
‘We need to get fuel, and we need to leave. Help me and I promise not to leave you for the camels.’
It was a no-brainer, even for Swanny. They almost made it too.
At long last, the dead man staggered into Alice Springs. How long he’d travelled was beyond his limited understanding, but he’d finally made it as far north as he’d ever been in his previous life. It was glorious, a dream come true, and he took in the vista with a moaning wordless amazement. Hordes of the undead staggered around in the streets, half-eaten and moving. Even more of a surprise, the great spitting beasts of the desert were there. In a few instances, the camels were quite happy to let the more damaged undead ride around on them.
Shuffling forward, the zombie was greeted with moans of recognition and acceptance from the newly raised dead. Let the fresh ones fight over the other places. The dead would always have this town.
AFTERWORD
‘Undead Camels Ate Their Flesh’ was written as my week-four story at the Clarion South workshop, when Gardner Dozois was our tutor. I’d intended to write a serious Big Idea piece to impress him, and all I could come up with was this piece. In response, Gardner led the class in a rousing rendition of ‘Undead Camels Ate My Flesh’, sung to the tune of ‘Camptown Ladies Sing This Song’. The man is a legend!
This story is everything I would love to see in a movie … some sort of messed up Mad Max/George Romero disaster with a healthy dash of black humour. And camels.
— Jason Fischer
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EUROPA
CECILY SCUTT
CECILY SCUTT is a Perth writer and storyteller in love with the crossover between the local and the fantastic. Her short fiction has appeared in the literary journals Southerly, Westerly, Hecate, and in Eidolon. Her story ‘Descent’, which appeared in Dreaming Down-Under, was an ABC Radio National Short Story in 2003 and 2005.
An award-winning performance storyteller, she is always booked for Children’s Book Week in Western Australia, where she tells her original stories of fridge ghosts, clockwork whales, bathyspheres, the boy who took the Bag of Winds to school, and refugees abducted by the Moon. Her performance stories for adults have reached conferences, national festivals, literary readings, cafés and libraries. A series of these tales was featured on the Faster Than Light radio show in 2001.
Cecily is currently working on the second draft of a first novel, and the first draft of a second.
Her story ‘Europa’ is a lyrical and poetic meditation on home, memory, myth; and a personal voyage on Homer’s wine-dark sea, which is due north and west of Fremantle, Australia…
The old jetty is crowded, but I can’t see Yanni, even from the yacht’s high prow. I lean on the hot railing and scan the milling groups. Perhaps he won’t turn up. Behind me Mick stoops around the sail, and the boat knocks against the jetty’s stumps, mast arrogantly scratching at the sky. My newly ex-boyfriend, in immaculate ironed whites. ‘Where’s the old codger then?’
‘He has to catch a bus, doesn’t he. He’ll be here.’
But perhaps he won’t. I imagine him hunched over the table of his tiny flat, trapped by fear. He would have the blinds pulled down.
The boy leans at the side of the ship …
Yanni’s white head threads through the crowd at shoulder height, bobbing like a lost fishing float. He is the only person here without sunglasses. A kind of shabby red blanket bulges in one arm. Finally he sees my wave.
I look away from Mick’s classic ‘Meeting my Elders’ act; the slightly raised voice, the use of ‘Sir’. Yanni merely scowls, standing four-square on the jetty’s edge. ‘We are not aristocrats here. My name is Yanni.’ He glances at the gleaming hull and continues more formally, ‘I say thank you now for letting me come on your boat.’
I expect him to be nervous on the water, clumsily gripping the rail, but he jumps in smoothly and helps with the canvas. I sit out of the way, next to his faded bundle, and wonder if it is only deep water, then, that is the problem.
The yacht shudders from its mooring and angles out across Fremantle harbour. The sun beats off the sail. When Yanni moves to the bows Mick leans forward.
‘Ginny, I’m sorry about Friday, hey …’ I think of Mick, slurring through seven vodkas, declaiming to an entire party that my dress, which he’d persuaded me to buy, was too short, and my laugh, apparently, too loud. Then he’d cried all over the same dress, out on the back veranda.
‘Whatever, Mick.’ If I hadn’t promised Yanni, I wouldn’t be here. But Yanni has no phone to ring. And I said I’d help him go back to his country. Old as he is, this could be a last request.
He is crouched at the front now, eyes on the western horizon. Something in the tense muscles of his neck makes my own knuckles tighten on my knees.
The boy leans at the side of the ship and imagines . . .
I met Yanni feeding the ducks. A tiny man in a checkered shirt, crooning at the water’s edge. The back of his head pink where every fortnight the barber runs his shaver up through white bristles.
‘This one,’ he tells me, ‘was some people’s pet. One day they go on holiday, just dump her here. She was too frightened to eat.’ He says it frroiten. Every day he brings her special breadcrumbs. She knows his whistle.
He tells me young people are too frroiten too. No one joins the union, fights for the workers. Before he retired, he was in The Party. ‘I am always in the front line,’ he says.
I see him often after that. Soon he is dropping by my house, bringing me Greek newspapers, ‘to see the pictures’, and grimacing over my coffee. In Greece, he says, they take their politics seriously; when the Communists march, even the Chancellors of the universities parade in their robes behind the red flag. ‘I wish I could go there,’ he says, squinting at the smudgy text. ‘I could meet my cousins, too, before I die.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘I’m too poor. It’s too far.’ He sloshes cold coffee around his mug and fumbles with the newspaper. ‘A
lso,’ he says, ‘I don’t like the sea.’
‘You could fly.’ I could help you, I am about to say.
‘Even so —’ He frowns at the window.’— you must cross it.’
Nudging through the Suez Canal, the ship rides high above the ground, ramparted like a castle. The boy runs from side to side, shabby boots clumping on the salty deck. To the right, the smog of the great stack wallows back across pallid Egyptian desert; to the left rise the red hills of the Sinai, grinding suddenly out of the land.
Red beyond red beyond red. Like the cliffs of Hell. Like his own home mountain captured through the stained glass of their village church. When he was smaller he thought the tinted slopes were burning. Breathless, he runs from the deck to fetch his mother.
‘Red, red, will Australia be red?’ he chants, as he drags her to the port rail. In the westering light he can see their shadows drifting on the banks beyond, fluid and elongated.
‘I don’t know. Wait and see.’ Her scarf is slipping back and scarlet gleams in the dark hair at her temples. Seeing his eyes there she tugs the black cloth away. ‘In Australia all the women walk bareheaded in the street. They wear hats only to keep off the strong sun.’ She shakes her head and her hair slips in tendrils round her shoulders. She is beautiful.
Still he looks doubtfully at the sailors grinning and staring in the stern. He holds her hand. ‘Will we be happy there?’
‘Yes.’ The red hills parade slowly past.
Out of Aden the ocean opens green and empty. The ship steams across the sea like a snail across a mudflat, slow and solitary. The boy watches the water for dolphins.
His mitera has discarded her black scarf, and smiles at the other passengers. The Greeks on board will not talk to her — a widow or worse, travelling alone, why is she not with her family? — so she speaks with the English, practising for the new country. Each night she washes his linen shirt in che basin, and brushes her glossy hair with oil.