Z-APOC: When John Met Sarah

by Joe Ducie

  Some risks were unavoidable.

  Hot and bothered from the pump, John sat on the rim of the jeep’s trunk and knocked back a half-litre of water, resting Thumper on his knees. He watched, amused, as a troop of kangaroos bounced across the highway, disappearing into the scrub and trees. After the tank was full, John filled his two ten litre jerry cans. All things being even, he’d only need to stop once on the drive back to the dock at Port Macquarie.

  As he loaded his gear and closed the trunk, a figure emerged from within the darkened interior of the petrol station, crunching glass underfoot and moving slowly.

  “Hello,” she said, brandishing a tyre iron like a club.

  John waved away a few buzzing flies and regarded the woman. She was older than he was, but then at eighteen, a lot of folk were. Not old old, though. Mid- to late-twenties, closing in on thirty, perhaps. Her skin was a healthy tan, and her eyes shone like dark sapphires in the heat of the hazy day. A head of frazzled auburn hair clung to her brow. She wore a pair of dirty-white sneakers, khaki shorts, and a blue tank top stained navy with patches of sweat. Over her shoulder, she carried a tartan Burberry bag. John recognised the design. His mother had owned a matching scarf.

  “Happy Halloween,” he said, and moved around to the front of the jeep, cricket bat in hand. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  “I...” She hesitated, and tried for a smile. “Jeez, that’s just what a girl wants to hear. I was travelling with a friend. She went into town this morning, to see about a car or a bike...”

  “Young? Brunette? Jeans and a Wallabies jersey?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah.” John kept his eyes away from the gore caked onto the jeep’s bumper. “I’m sorry. I saw her go down in the town centre. I... There was nothing I could do.”

  The woman nodded again and wiped a quick tear from her cheek. She threw the tyre iron to the ground and fought back a sob. “I knew... when she didn’t come back. I knew... Oh, Annie. I’m so sorry.”

  “Wasn’t your fault,” John said. “Z’s got her.”

  “No...” The woman rubbed her hand on her shorts and offered to shake. “I’m Sarah. Doctor Sarah Bell, Canberra.”

  John considered, and then nodded. He took her hand. “John Allen. Perth.”

  “Perth? You’ve come a long way from home. You don’t fear the dead?”

  As soon as she said the words, two Z’s stumbled around the side of the servo as if summoned, dressed in ragged overalls and stinking like a year’s worth of decay. They caught sight of John, standing out in the open, and moaned low in their throats.

  With a curse, John stepped in front of Sarah and readied Thumper. The Z’s staggered toward him, the world’s worst drunks, and as the first one got within arm’s reach, John swung. His bat connected with the side of the creature’s head and made a resounding, sickening thud.

  The Z’s may have been lifeless, reanimated corpses, carrying infection in every bite, but they had one weakness—they were rotting, however slowly. A good swing with the cricket bat popped most of their skulls like grapes, and John, a year into surviving the end of the world, was good with his swing.

  “No, I don’t fear the dead.” John swung Thumper again, cracking the other Z’s head like an egg. Two sixes over the fence, and it’s back to the pavilion for lunch. Blood and gore, flecked with bone, splashed the road. He took a deep breath. “I fear the living, Sarah. What we became, after Z-Apoc took a hold. At least with the dead, you know what to expect. With the living…” John used the cuff of his shirt to gently wipe some blood splatter from Sarah’s cheek. “Stranger danger, I’m afraid. We’ve all had to do terrible things to survive.”

  “You… you don’t seem too bad.”

  John smiled. “According to the laws of where I’m from, a place we call Haven, I’m supposed to leave you out here alone now.” He shrugged. “And if you try to follow me, I’m supposed to kill you.”

  Sarah took a step forward and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him tight for just a brief moment. John froze, even under the blistering summer sun, as gore dried into the grain of Thumper’s wood. The pull of her arms forced the sweat on his back to press uncomfortably against his shirt. He shivered, but not from the sweat, expecting a quick knife in the back and to be relieved of his valuables.

  “You’re a sweet thing, John Allen,” Sarah Bell said.

  John stood for a moment, silent and worried and caught in a past that felt like it had never existed. Another life—another time. You’re a sweet thing, Holly Beckett had said, a year to the day. He cleared his throat. “You’re going to like it on Haven. We’ve got pinball and baby turtles.”

  “You’ll take me with you?”

  John sniffed and cleaned the mess off Thumper on the Z’s overalls. “You say you’re a doctor. We need doctors.” John got back in the jeep and unlocked the passenger side door. “Or you could stay here, I guess.”

  Sarah nodded slowly and then got into the jeep. “Oh my, it’s cool in here, that’s a relief. But my mother warned me about getting into cars with strange men.”

  “This isn’t a car,” John growled his best Batman-like growl. “Eh, well it is, I suppose.” He keyed the ignition and reversed out of the servo back onto the Pacific Highway. “We’ve just gotta make a quick stop before we hit the open road, okay.”

  “Where?” Sarah asked quietly, still clutching her tartan bag.

  “There’s a Woolworth’s distribution centre not far from here. Need to check it out for supplies. That’s what I do, for Haven, I’m a Runner.”

  Sarah glanced into the backseat at the crate of weapons, protective gear, and the bulging backpacks of medical supplies. “Right.” She looked beyond the backseat, out of the rear window and down the highway toward Sydney. “But let’s not linger, John. I don’t want to be here for nightfall.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They found the centre easily enough—a warehouse the size of a football stadium—just off Jilliby Road. A chain link fence surrounded the main depot, bush scrub clinging to the bottom few feet. A redbrick laneway led up to the main gate, which was barred and locked and damn-near impregnable.

  John cursed.

  “Isn’t that a good sign?” Sarah asked. “No one’s been here.”

  “Maybe.”

  John had a pair of bolt cutters in the trunk, but it would take half an hour to cut a section of the fence down to get the jeep in. He reversed out, off the laneway and into the scrub.

  “Hold on to something,” he said, and revved the engine.

  “What are you—?”

  John dropped the clutch and hit the chain link fence going about sixty kilometres an hour. The metal buckled and the Cherokee pulled the fence down ten metres either side of the impact. The jeep jumped over the fallen metal screen, hiccupped over the speed bump, and came to a sudden halt in an abandoned parking lot.

  Gripping the dashboard, Sarah whispered, “Are you mad?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  John made a few slow laps around the distribution centre, and found no sign of Z’s or that anyone had made this place home in the last year. A few semi-trailers and rigs, branded with the green Woolworth’s logo, were parked in the loading docks—which were open.

  “A way inside,” John said, as the Woolworth’s jingle from the old T.V. ads bounced around in his heads. Da-dum-da, the fresh food people, took on a new meaning these days. “You coming in?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Parking the jeep close to the docks in case of a quick getaway, John killed the engine and pocketed the keys. He didn’t know how long this would take, and didn’t want to waste fuel—or risk stopping to refuel and gaining another passenger. If Sarah really was a doctor, then Haven would take her, even though they were already fifty people over capacity. Only so much room on an island, after all.

  Geared up, John slung Thumper over his shoulder, ducked under a roller door on the loading dock, and stepped into the distribution centre. H
e strained his ears, listening for any sound, particularly the low rasping of air being squeezed through dead lungs, and heard nothing.

  What he saw, however, made his heart leap into his throat.

  “Holy... dreams of Californication,” he breathed.

  Aisles upon aisles of shelves, stacked at least ten metres high, were fit to burst with canned food, clothing, and all manner of supplies. John just stared, thinking how great he’d felt finding a pack of noodles an hour ago. Entire boxes, hundreds of boxes, of the same noodles sat unopened on wooden pallets nearby.

  A set of metal stairs led up to a network of walkways built over the long aisles, and a row of windowed offices in the eastern corner overlooked the entire operation. With the windows and the open dock doors, enough sunlight streamed in to dimly illuminate the warehouse. Near the stairs stood a row of shopping carts.

  “Let’s get to it,” John whispered, as if a loud noise would shatter this Eden.

  The centre had most of the items on John’s list, and a whole load more. For whatever reason, this place hadn’t been sacked or looted. The warehouse was a little out of the way, off the main roads, but not that far from the highway. Never one to question his good fortune, John grabbed a cart and only wished he had more room in the jeep.

  I’ll have to tell Haven about this immediately. We need everyone—every Runner—to come down here and stock up.

  John packed several hundred cans of tinned food into his cart, and Sarah helped, loading a cart of her own. Then he came back for portable electric stoves, water filters, medical first aid kits, and a store of flashlights. Their third trip netted bottles of Coleman fuel, toilet paper, batteries, packets of yeast and 10kg sacks of salt and whole wheat flour. Sarah helped load a cart of hygiene products, including tampons, shampoo, toothpaste and brushes, mouthwash, and condoms. The fourth trip, as mid-afternoon became early-evening, was for luxury items. The Cherokee was near fit-to-burst, but a little room remained under the passenger seat and in the glove box for a few more things.

  John grabbed pencils, pens, and pads of paper, and fifty rolls of duct tape. He took scissors and sewing supplies, vinegar and olive oil, liquor, chocolate bars melted in the wrapper, candy, socks, underwear, shirts, and twelve cartons of Winfield Gold and Blue cigarettes. I’ll have to stash some near the dock to bring back later.

  After the fifth run, even the legroom in the passenger seat was knee-deep with loot, and John knew he was going to be welcomed back to Haven a hero. Sarah rubbed her arms, sore from the heavy lifting, and kept glancing anxiously south, toward Sydney and the rest of New South Wales. The sun had nearly sunk below the horizon, casting a deep, mauve shadow across the sky. One or two dull stars twinkled high above.

  “Can we go now?” she asked.

  John consulted his special list of black market goods. He had everything, save two items. “One more trip. I need to find some Coco Pops and canned dog food.” The last was for Old Alby, who was keeping an unauthorised Pomeranian on the island.

  Sarah looked like she wanted to protest, so John, keys to the jeep safe in his pocket, ducked back into the warehouse. He carried a flashlight this time, as most of the natural light streaming in through the windows had gone, and found what he was looking for inside ten minutes. The dog food was next to a pallet of barbeque propane tanks along the aisles toward the back of the depot. We could use a few of those... “No, too heavy. Next trip.”

  Backtracking to the loading dock, he ran into Sarah heading the other way. Her face was drawn, pale, and her eyes wide with fright. John shelved his supplies and unsheathed Thumper from the loop on his belt.

  “Up,” Sarah whispered. “We have to go up.”

  “What—?”

  John heard them before he saw them. The low, guttural moans carried well in the large warehouse. He nodded and followed Sarah up a set of dusty metal stairs onto the walkways above the aisles. He switched off the torch, using what little natural light remained to see the damage. From their vantage point, John held a commanding view of the warehouse, and felt his stomach tie itself in knots at what he saw below.

  “Why now? Why’d they come here now?” John spat, looking down at the hordes of biters washing over the aisles. A few quickly became dozens, became hundreds, streaming in through the loading dock. The most Z’s he’d ever seen in one place, outside of the cities, crawling all over his treasure trove. An ungodly stink rose on the air. “Christ on a stick.”

  “He sent them for me...” Sarah whispered.

  “What?”

  “We have to get out of here! Now!” Sarah set off at a jog, and John had no real choice but to follow.

  But she didn’t make it too far. Darting ahead in the dim light, John watched Sarah stumble and fall flat on her face. Her leg made a loud crack as the limb went one way and the rest of her went another. She cried out, loud enough to rouse the dead. John caught up and swore—some of the slats in the walkway, access panels for the rising forklifts, had slipped and fallen through to the floor below. Whimpering, Sarah pulled her leg from the gap. Blood trickled down her shin, soaking her sock, and over her white sneaker, dripping the ten metres or so onto the heads of the Z’s below.

  The creatures started to moan, drawn by the blood and her cries, and shambled up the first few steps of the stairs to the second level.

  “Oh...” John groaned, and almost laughed. “Shit.”

  He pulled Sarah up by her arm and along the walkway, crying and dragging her useless leg behind her. She swayed in his grip, tears ran in rivulets down her face, but she hadn’t let go of her bag. If anything, she clutched that all the tighter.

  The moans of the infected rose higher, as if they were speaking to each other, heated and excited, chasing fresh prey. The walkway shook as dozens of pairs of feet clambered up the stairs.

  “Come on, faster!” John snapped. If we can make it to those offices...

  “I can’t...” Sarah breathed through the pain.

  A group of Z’s were going to cut them off on an adjacent walkway just ahead. Slinging her arm over the barrier, keeping her up on her good foot, John gripped Thumper in both hands. The Z’s closed in on them and John, a practiced musician, made his instrument sing.

  Heads flew—literally—and corpses tumbled to the floor. John kicked them over the side, clearing a path, to get at the rest of the gang. Thumper swung and sung, a cacophony of dull, wet thuds, and John used the narrow path to his advantage. The Z’s could only come at him two abreast. But if he wasn’t quick, they’d close in from behind too.

  The way ahead clear, John collected Sarah and pulled her limping and crying along the rest of the walkway and into the offices. He saw one room with the blinds drawn, the door ajar, and didn’t hesitate. He pulled Sarah over the threshold, let her fall to the floor, and slammed the door. A lock? Yes! He snapped it shut and listened.

  Sarah tried to stifle her cries.

  Blood and flecks of brain matter had soaked well and truly into Thumper’s grain. The cricket bat was snapped down the middle, as if John had hit a six into orbit—or a dozen skulls.

  “Farewell, old friend.” He tossed the bat aside and knelt down next to Sarah, turning his flashlight on to inspect her wound.

  Her left leg was most definitely out of order. A white nub of bone had broken through the skin just above her shin. An ugly break, and well beyond John’s skill to repair.

  “Yup, you’re not walking on that. What should I do, Doctor?”

  “Please... don’t leave me.”

  Low, guttural howls and the rasp of air in dead lungs echoed throughout the warehouse. So much for not causing a ruckus this trip to the mainland. This is why you travel alone. People only slow you down.

  “Leave you?” John chuckled. “Honey, we only just met. More importantly, we’re somewhat surrounded.”

  Sarah shuddered and clutched her all-important Burberry tote bag close to her chest. Her tanned skin turned a whiter shade of pale, as blood leaked out of her leg.

 
; “I’ve been looking for you for a long time…” she whispered. “So very long, it seems.”

  John nodded. They were safe for now, locked in the office. A name plaque on the desk read Norris Wellington – Floor Manager. Nothing dead or worse was trying to beat its way inside. The blinds were drawn and the only light came through the window overhead, a dusky azure of twilight, bleeding orange, and barely enough to see the room. It would be completely dark soon, which had its positives and negatives.

  But they couldn’t stay here. Sarah needed help—the kind of help Doc Harvey back on Haven could offer. Haven was a day away, though, at least a day, and a few hundred kilometres by boat.

  “Let’s try and stop you from bleeding to death, eh?”

  “A long time,” Sarah said, staring through the wall. “Kind eyes, even when you… you kill them. Kind eyes.” She smiled, and almost focused through the pain. “You’re not a bad man, are you?”

  Tell that to your friend I let die. John shrugged out of his pack and dug around for the first aid kit. Two bandages, some antiseptic, burn cream, a few bandaids, and ibuprofen.

  “What’s in your bag, Sarah?” He needed to keep her awake, lucid—fighting.

  “You need... set the leg. Straighten...” Strands of auburn hair hung in her eyes. She brushed them aside and wept, drifting on the edge of consciousness. “My bag? The future. The future is in my bag.”

  “Is it?” He took off his belt and folded it in half. “Bite down on this then.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  John knelt at her feet and cupped her left foot, white sneaker stained crimson. “This is going to hurt.”

  Sarah whimpered between the leather. John cocked an ear toward the door. He could still hear the harsh rasping of the Z’s, but at least they weren’t just outside on the walkway. For now, they’d lost them. For now, they were safe, but that wouldn’t last.