“How bad are they?” Steve asked.
“Bad. I’ve seen them kill men in cold blood, cut their throats, or shoot them at point blank range. If you’ve got something of value, they’ll take it.”
Claire said, “The city’s a big place. Maybe they won’t hang around long.”
Alexander shook his head. “They don’t go further into the city.” There was a quiver in his voice. “Nobody does.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the bad ones are.”
Lauren had a terrible feeling she knew what he meant. “The smart ones?”
“Yeah. They’re smart. And fast. And they’re building an army, changing all the slow and stupid ones into whatever it is they are.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” The man disappeared from view and the group dispersed from the window.
Lauren fed Harvey, changed his nappy, and put him down for a sleep. She led a tidy up of the apartment, and Steve took Alexander to refill the fuel drum for the generator from the supplies room on the level below. While they were gone, Lauren locked the door and checked the street from the window for signs of the men. A single zombie wandered along the road picking through the rubbish.
She sorted the packs of supplies into meals, rationing the quantity by weight. Steve and Alexander reappeared with fuel, batteries, and nappies. Lauren found herself drifting past the window often, looking down onto the street. Their existence frightened her. Zombies were one thing, but humans causing trouble were more unpredictable.
By late afternoon, the men had returned, meeting in a group at the intersection of Queen and Franklin Street. There were six of them, all wielding long barrelled weapons, firing them into the sky like firecrackers. The people in the apartment crowded around the window, but when one of the men looked up towards them, they fled from view.
Lauren wouldn’t let anybody approach for another ten minutes. She crawled to it on her hands and knees, peeking over the skirting board. The group had disbanded, but she saw two groups of two walking down the street searching each building. She knew it was only a matter of time before they reached her apartment block. After that, the countdown would be on and she was helpless to stop it.
THIRTY-FIVE
Julie woke to light coming in through the high windows of the church. At first, before the fog had cleared from her mind, she forgot where they were; she even forgot that Eric was dead and that her life had been completely destroyed. She lay there staring up at the high roof of the nave, ignoring the hard wooden floor biting into her hip, and waited. She had followed a similar process each morning since Eric’s death. The tears would come and she would lie there a while longer and let them. It was cathartic. But on this morning, there were no tears. She lingered, thinking of her day ahead without him, but still she did not cry. Confused, Julie slipped out from under the blankets.
She left the nave and followed the small passageway towards the back of the church. The clatter of movement sounded from the kitchen. She found Harlan, the minister, pottering about, assembling supplies on a small table. There were several bags of flour and a carton of eggs. Maybe she could make pancakes for the children; they always seemed to cheer them up.
“Good morning,” she said, greeting him in a soft whisper.
“Morning.” Harlan offered a toothy smile. “How are you feeling after a nice rest?”
“Better.”
“The rain has passed. There’s no sunshine, but it’s warming up again.”
“It’ll be hot soon.”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “I suppose it will. Although this building keeps quite cool.” He rearranged the stash of food, adding salt and a packet of teddy bear biscuits. “Would you like a tea, or some coffee?”
“I’d love a tea, please.”
“We still have bottled gas.”
He filled the kettle and ignited the gas hot plate. The tin began to whir. Harlan washed two mugs, glancing at her from time to time with a smile, as if reading her posture and expression. Julie tried to remain impassive. She thought about her inability to cry, and wondered what it meant. Of course the lump of sickly lead in her stomach was still there, but it was as though she had run out of tears. She felt a stirring of guilt and tried to push the thoughts away.
“Are you alright?” Harlan asked as the water warmed.
No, she thought, I’m not. Was she ready to have this discussion? He would pry it all out of her, no doubt. She supposed he was better than any of her traveling companions. She had been more religious as a child, attending services each week, but it had drifted with her marriage and children. Eric had never been one for faith. Julie supposed that if she were truthful, she didn’t know if she still believed. But Harlan had a kind, gentle way about him, and before she debated her action any longer, the words rolled off her tongue. “My husband died a few days ago. I’m still … struggling with it all.”
“Oh.” His eyes averted, his lips pouted. “I am sorry.” He put two tea bags into the mugs decorated with fading flowers. “Do you find strength in God?”
“Once. A long time ago.” She waited for him to show scorn, but he did not look up. Did she go further and tell him how she really felt? She wanted to hold it in, but she had in truth been seeking such a discussion with somebody of an older vintage. “I’m not sure I believe anymore.”
This time he would yell and order her from the church. He took the lid off the sugar bowl and scooped two spoons into his own mug then raised his eyebrows to Julie. She nodded. “One please.” She waited for him to finish, still expecting his wrath. When he didn’t speak, she said, “You’re not going to say anything to that?”
He smiled. “Our beliefs as an individual are our most important right. Nobody should tell another what to believe in. No religion enforces this. You’ve seen things, experienced them, and consequently, they have altered your belief. My job is not to make a believer out of you, but to put your circumstances in the light of God and let you make your own decision.”
She was taken aback by his acceptance and logic. “Why do you think he died?”
“Sometimes there is randomness in the world. People’s actions create circumstances. Their decisions. We can say God did this to punish us, or to test us, or any of that, but the truth is, I don’t know why He did it. I can’t always find an explanation. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in Him. Maybe there was a reason your husband died. Maybe you just don’t know it yet.”
Harlan continued. “My view is that God, and through his son, Jesus Christ, has provided us a set of beliefs and values to which we can uphold ourselves. If everybody did that, the world would be a much better place. People don’t though. They have their own moral compasses and from this they make decisions and take actions, and as a result of these, there are consequences for all of us.”
Julie thought that was a fair and reasonable way to put it. God was not responsible for everybody’s actions. He set an expectation and it was up to people to live to that. She wanted to tell him about the way she had been feeling and what it all meant. He had put in her in a comfortable space because he had not forced his religion on her. He accepted her beliefs as her own, and she knew he would not judge her now. She could tell him the rest. They sat, sipping at the steaming brown liquid. He was patient, as though he knew her pain was coming.
“I’ve been thinking about killing myself. Since Eric died, I’ve wondered about the point of going on. My life has always revolved around him. What will become of me? What will I do?”
“What has stopped you carrying out these thoughts?” The question shocked her. She stared at him. “It’s a fair question. It must be something important. Your grief is palpable—from the moment I saw you, I knew you had recently lost someone close. Part of you aches to leave this world, but there are reasons keeping you here.”
Julie felt dumbstruck. “I don’t know.”
“Are you still considering it?”
“Not as strongly.”
“Why?�
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She lacked the emotional stability to consider this before, and knew it was only with Harlan’s presence and support that she could do so. If she loved and missed her husband so much, what was keeping her alive?
Harlan went on. “Suicide is never the answer. I believe we all have a part to play, and sometimes it takes us a while to understand it. You’ve found your place in the group.”
“It’s my camper—Eric’s and mine—perhaps they are keeping me around for it.”
“I’ll warrant that’s not it. You don’t notice it because you’re too humble, and you’ve done the same thing all your life. I’ll argue that Eric relied on you more than you him, and I’ll go further and say these people rely heavily on you, too, and will more so in the future.” Julie blew air as if he was making it up. “We all need leaders—every one of us—and leaders come in different forms. Some are physical; others are emotional. Leadership is not always about standing at the front with a gun and shooting dead your enemies. Leadership is about stability and direction. You feed them, you organize them, and you comfort them. They drive the van, but you decide where they go.”
A sharp thought struck Julie. She couldn’t recall when, but at some point yesterday, she thought they might have asked for her approval to do something. “I think the suicidal thoughts have passed. You’re finding your place in this world and you are essential to the ongoing survival of this group. You just need to understand your purpose and hone in on that.” Harlan lifted the cup of tea to his lips. “It will get easier. You’ll never get over it, but eventually you’ll learn to live with it.”
THIRTY-SIX
The first thing Dylan thought of when he woke was Kristy. He lay there thinking of her absence and how it would impact his life. It was a different kind of sadness to that of his mother and father. He had only gotten to really know her over the last seven or eight weeks. They had always been friends, but their intimacy since returning from the lake had forged a special place in his heart. He would miss her desperately. But he still had Lauren to consider. He was banking on her still being alive, and it kept him going, able to keep the demons of Kristy’s death behind the gates. Physically and emotionally, he had improved. The increased dosage of serum was clearing his mind and making him more sensitive to the world. That was both good and bad.
After breakfast, he and Greg slipped out the back doorway of the church as the first light of dawn raised its face in the eastern sky. The rain had passed. The camper was still intact. Further to the damage of the previous night, remnants of bloody smears covered the side doors and back window, the rest washed away by the rain. They swept the rear of the church and found no sign of feeders, although they saw a dozen or more wandering near the main road, consistent with them moving vast distances in packs, leaving little trace of their previous existence.
They replaced the food they had eaten from Harlan’s stores with some of their own and returned the blankets and pillows to the campervan. They would leave soon, and Dylan looked forward to that. As Greg crossed to the campervan from the church with a box load of food, a man appeared holding a length of pipe. Dylan spotted him as he reached the vehicle and thought he probably had come from the side street.
“Give it to me,” the man said, holding the bar up poised to swing. His clothes were dirty and ragged on his skinny frame, his face gaunt and chiselled.
“This?” Greg asked, holding out the box. The man nodded.
Dylan grit his teeth. Was there no respite in their existence? Zombies, men, weather, lack of food; it was all working against them. He felt like pulling the gun from his waistband and shooting the man dead. He could do it in seconds, but he got a sense that although armed, he didn’t pose a real threat. The man continued watching the box of food. Hunger dripped from his expression. It was hard to feel hatred for that. They were desperate, just trying to survive. Dylan and the group had food today, but what about tomorrow? They might be in the same situation.
“Look, mate, you don’t need to steal our food. We can give you a little, but that’s it. We have people here. Young children who need it more than you or I.”
A second man appeared out of the bushes holding a pinch bar. He tightened his grip and it moved like he knew how to use it. In his mind’s eye, Dylan imagined pulling the 9mm out and killing them both. A third and fourth man jogged down the road, one clutching a baseball bat, the other a metal bar that would kill a man with a single blow. Hold off, another voice reasoned. One of the men rifled through the box Greg had left beside the camper door.
He looked up at Dylan. “You think we wanna do this?”
“We all have a choice.”
“That’s right. The choice to live or die. The time for being nice has passed.”
“I don’t buy that. I’ve witnessed more humanity of late than ever before. You want to take from us, fine, go ahead. We’ll think of something to tell the kids when they’re crying from hunger.”
The third man tightened his hands around the baseball bat. “We’re sorry, but only the strong will survive in this world. Only—”
Greg made a face of disgust. “Ah, fuck off, man. You sound like something out of a movie. That’s bullshit. Maybe the strong will survive and everyone else will die, but you lot will be alone and eating shit from cans every day, scrounging around the dumps for leftovers, until what? You run out of clean water and edible food? You’ll die too, because there won’t be anyone else to work with to help you fix it all up again. Is your head that far up your ass?” The man did not respond. “Where is all of this going? If we win the battle against those things, the only hope we’ve got is joining up with others and rebuilding. Growing fresh food, making clean drinking water.” He shook his head. “The sad fact is that we’ve almost had more run-ins with people than the zombies. Can you believe that? We’re killing each other when our enemy is much stronger. They’ll wipe us out before we even realize what’s happening.”
Dylan was speechless. He’d never heard Greg talk like that before. His timing was superb. He wanted to slap him on the back and tell him he was brilliant. Instead, he gathered himself and tried to carry on the momentum. “There’s a priest inside that church who is giving up his own food and offering shelter to anyone who needs it. He’s running out of supplies, and when he’s done, he’ll probably die. He’s too old to go and get it himself, but he still gives it over freely, without thought of himself. You don’t need to steal it from him or us. We help where we can. Jesus, we’ve picked up enough people along the way. Others have given us food and shelter too. If we have any hopes of getting back to where we once were, it has to work like that. You get it?”
The men were silent. Their weapons had fallen by their sides, and two of them refused eye contact. As he had suspected, these men were desperate, not violent.
“We need antibiotics,” one of the men said. He signaled another. “Dennis had an accident.” Dennis lifted his shirt, revealing an angry red cut about six inches long on his belly.
Greg glanced at Dylan, who nodded. If it were antibiotics they wanted, it would be a small price to pay for a safe resolution. “We’ve got some antibiotics.” Greg pointed towards the church. “I can get some.”
The first man nodded. “We’d be grateful. And… any food you can spare.”
Greg disappeared inside the church. Dylan still hadn’t taken out his gun, but if they tried any moves, he was poised to do so. “You could join up with us,” Dylan said. “We’ve come a long way. We sort of know what we’re doing.” After he said that, he thought of his parents, Johnny, Sherry, Howard, Eric, and… Kristy. They hadn’t known what they were doing then.
“Where are you headed?” Dennis asked.
“The city. My sister was staying there before all of this happened. I need to find out if she’s alive. Either way.”
Greg reappeared with two small boxes of antibiotics. He walked up to Dennis and held them out. “These will do the trick. I used them myself a week or so ago. Got a nasty gash on my
leg that got badly infected.”
Dennis reached out for the boxes and took them. “Thank you.” He slid the plastic shells out and popped a pill, then swallowed it.
“What about after the city?” the first man asked.
“Tasmania, we think. We’ve got a guy inside who can drive a boat. That’s the plan, anyway. As I said, you’re welcome to tag along. The more we have, the stronger we get.”
The men passed glances between each other. “Thanks. But we’ve got unfinished business here,” the first man said. He considered his next words. “Be careful in the city. Not only are there zombies running around, but there’s another group of men who will kill you on sight, no questions.”
Greg gave thanks, then reached down and picked up the small box of food. He walked over to the first man. “Here. We’ve got enough.”
“You’re good people. True to your word. I thought you were full of shit. Most are.” He nodded to the others. “Good luck.” And then they were gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was the heat that finally woke Ahmed. Although the curtains were drawn, the warmth of the room told Ahmed it was late morning. No air-conditioning in the afterlife, he thought. It wasn’t the afterlife, but it might as well have been. Maryam was dead. He felt empty; as though he’d spilled his insides with all the tears he’d shed for his dead wife. He still couldn’t fathom that she was gone, despite having completed her burial according to Muslim custom late the previous night with gunfire and explosions sounding around the streets of Broadmeadows. It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do, especially after her changing.
Ahmed thought about what his father would say. Weak. Crying like a woman. But if he was so weak, why had he survived? It was not unacceptable for a man to cry over the loss of his wife. And besides, he didn’t care. His father was dead, and he had endured.
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 21