by Owen Baillie
He took them around the fringes of the Latrobe High School, trying to get back to the Bass Highway, which went all the way to Mole Creek Road.
“Something stinks,” Tyler said. “That’s gross.” Ashleigh made a noise of displeasure.
Even with the windows up, Mac knew that smell. It was decomposing bodies. The main street was lined with cars that appeared to have been trying to flee the area. In many, lay the dry, crusty bodies of the dead, exacerbated by the heat. That was from where the stench was coming.
“Keep your arm over your nose for now,” he told the kids.
Mac made a left turn off the main strip and almost ran into another traffic accident. This time, a white and orange bus lay up on the curb, its side dented by two cars now pointed in opposite directions. Mac spotted people moving through the bus’s tinted brown windows.
“You see that?” Smitty asked, adjusting his dark glasses as he sat forward.
“Yeah,” Mac said.
“You think they’re infected?”
Mac narrowed his gaze. They were still moving. “Might be. Hard to tell.”
Dutch opened the door. “We’ll find out.”
“Wait, Dutch!”
Dutch took half a dozen steps forward to the end of the Commodore and took his stance, then brought the gun up into his sights. Mac leapt out, hanging on the door. “Dutch!” It wasn’t like his old mate to be reckless, walking into a situation they hadn’t scoped out.
From behind one of the two cars, an infected poked its pale, fleshy head up. Dutch fired and its leering grin exploded in a cloud of blood and mucus. Another appeared, then a third, and Dutch was firing, taking them out with deadly precision, leaving behind bloody spatters on the side of the bus.
Nothing moved on the outside, but a gruesome face—bulging eyes and dark sores—pressed up against the glass within, answering Smitty’s question. Dutch lifted the shotgun and fired. Glass exploded in a shower and a hole opened up in the middle of the woman’s face. She toppled forward onto the road with a smack. Others within the bus moved past the shattered window. Dutch fired another round and Mac watched one of the inhabitants fall backwards out of view.
On the blacktop, something moved at the far left side of the bus. Still holding the shotgun up at his sight, Dutch moved sideways.
“Get in the car, Dutch,” Mac said. “Leave it. We’re wasting time and ammo.”
There was a noise like crunching glass, and a person appeared, stepping out from the shadows. This thing wasn’t shuffling though. It moved with a control that belied its status. Dark eyes zoomed in on them. It was shirtless, its hair almost gone, and even from thirty yards away, its muscles rippled as though it had been pumping iron for years.
“The fuck is that?” Smitty asked, hanging off the door. From inside the car, Ashleigh cried out.
“I don’t know.”
Dutch took aim and pulled the trigger of the Stevens shotgun. A loud, flat crack sounded. The thing moved—quicker than Mac had ever seen anything move—and the bullet clunked into the edge of the bus. With shocking speed, the thing disappeared around the other side of the bus.
Dutch lowered the gun. “Out of shells. Toss me some more.” His eyes blazed. Mac hadn’t seen that look since Afghanistan, when Dutch had a craziness about him that still left Mac amazed he had survived. “I can kill it.”
“No, Dutch. Get in the car. It’s gone. We need to keep going. There’ll be other chances.”
Dutch tightened his hands around the shotgun. Finally, with his free hand in a fist, he returned to the car in silence.
Mac gave Ken a wave and slipped back behind the driver’s seat, sighting a narrow gap on the left side of the road they could squeeze past. Mac headed for it, edging the Commodore with its lowered body kit up onto the curb. There was the scrape of fiberglass as one of the spoilers hit the concrete. Mac realized a little scrape no longer mattered and accelerated forward. And then they were around the bus and moving towards clear roadway. In the rearview mirror, Ken was climbing the curb.
Mac spied movement in his right mirror. A shadow dashed out from behind the bus and he knew instantly the infected man wasn’t done with them yet. Mac saw Ken still guiding the truck over the curb, the trailer bouncing as it went up the gutter. “Come on, mate. Be quick.”
Ken dropped down onto the roadway, the trailer crashing with a bang as it rolled off the edge. He started to take off as the infected thing crashed into the hood of his Nissan. Ken swerved left and struck the gutter, rolling up onto the curb again as the thing grabbed at the door. Ken pulled hard towards it, trying to run the thing down, but it was fast, moving deftly out of the way as the vehicle bounced onto the road. Ken punched the gas and the car took off with a screech, but the thing yanked the front door open and leapt up onto the edge, holding onto the roof with both hands. The car skewed right and slowed.
“Oh, fuck,” Smitty said. He began to open the door.
“NO!” Mac yelled. “Shut it. There’s no time.”
Smitty did, and Mac took off, pulling the wheel hard to the right as he turned the Commodore in a circle towards Ken and Shelli. He got it around and sped towards them, the engine racing. The thing was standing in the open door now, reaching into the car and attacking Ken. All Mac saw were his friends under threat. He’d done a dozen different driving courses in the special forces and knew how to strike an object a specific way. He slowed at the last moment, aiming the edge of the front end at the door and struck it with a loud, metallic bang, slamming it shut on the monster. Mac’s car skidded to a halt several yards in front and he swung the door open. Smitty and Dutch followed.
The thing was gone. Mac ran to Ken’s door and found the older man grimacing in pain. Mac put a hand on his shoulder.
Ken turned and nodded. “I’m all right.”
Mac slipped a hand alongside the edge inside the trailer and lifted out an axe, then circled the front of the car, searching for the infected thing. Smitty and Dutch followed with their guns raised. They circled the vehicle but couldn’t locate the thing.
“Smart fucker,” Smitty said. “He wasn’t hanging around.”
Mac returned to Ken and Shelli. “Did it get you?”
“No,” Ken said. “I’m all right.”
But Mac thought the door might have struck him. It was mangled and wouldn’t close easily. Mac pulled it open, and it made a heavy, clunking noise as if the mechanism was twisted. He closed it and forced it shut. It locked, but who knew if it would open again, and Mac didn’t want to risk them being unable to drive with the door closed. They still had a way to go.
“Sorry,” he said to Ken. “I don’t know if it’ll be any good.”
“Sorry?” Ken said. “You saved our lives, Mac.”
“Goddamn lucky,” Smitty said. “Great piece of work, Mac.”
Dutch said, “You should have let me kill it.”
34
Jim guided the car through the back streets and onto the main road. His hands were shaking, his heart thumping against his chest. One of these days, he was going to have a heart attack. The idea had been to relax a bit over the holidays and unwind after another heavy year at school and the marital issues with Alesia. What a joke, he thought.
He drove at a steady forty, watching the landscape as the road dipped and slowly rose. Surprisingly, it was clear ahead, and as he passed familiar houses and properties, Jim wondered whether the people inside had survived so far, like him, or had succumbed to the virus. In all likelihood, most of the inhabitants were either sick or dead. Still, there might be some people alive, he thought. That was why he had made the sign—to let others know of the school and its safety, if they needed it.
As he climbed the hill, the first stragglers appeared on the shoulder at the top, wandering like hitchhikers. Seeing them now, he felt like a different man than the one who had driven through the mob the day before. He was proud of surviving the episode at the house. Surprised, but proud.
A handful of infected alon
g the roadside were no longer a threat. But as he rolled up over the hill, he saw hundreds of them shuffling towards the school from different directions. He saw tiny dots as far away as the football field at the bottom of the hill. They were moving east along Ironbark Road, even lining up at the school fence on the north end.
A woman of Indian or Sri Lankan appearance cut across the road about forty yards ahead. She’d probably come from one of the houses set back up the slope on the other side of the road. Jim didn’t slow, though he couldn’t bring himself to run her down, either.
He started down the slope on the other side of the hill. Through the trees, the school came into view, and Jim felt a cold chill. They were everywhere. Numbers of them had somehow gotten inside the perimeter; others were wandering all over the road. Ahead, past the entrance to the school, the large tanker Jim had watched speed past the day before had crashed, turning over onto its side and blocking the road.
“Shit.”
He drove another fifty yards and turned into the driveway. They would be on him in moments. He had survived escaping the garage but was now about to face another ordeal that would test his resolve. He grabbed the spear off the front seat as two of them arrived, clubbing their bloody hands on the hood. One made its way to the driver’s door. If he didn’t move now, they’d trap him in. He buried his fear and swung the door open then leapt out, the spear gripped in his right hand like a shortened javelin. The smell hit him, their fetid bodies turning his stomach.
A sickly man wearing a tattered black shirt and the remnants of a white tie came for him. Jim stared into its sunken yellow eyes and saw nothing but desperation for his flesh. It bared bloody teeth and opened its mouth as it reached him with its hands out. Jim pushed them away with his left hand, raised the spear with his right, and jammed it through the thing’s left temple. Blood spurted out, but the thrust was weak and didn’t quite pierce the skull. Arms out, it came at him again, gurgling as Jim tried to move. It drove him backwards against the car. He spun left and thrust the spear into the same spot. This time it went halfway up the shaft. More blood in a spray. The thing collapsed, and Jim yanked the spear free.
Breathing hard, he staggered for the gate, arms and legs feeling like they were filling with lead. The second one had other ideas, and Jim knew he would have to finish it first. As he raised the spear, something grabbed him from behind. He spun, finding a grim-faced man with a beer gut poking out beneath a blue trucker singlet. Jim thrust the spear forward, but the trucker moved at the last moment, and it sliced his cheek. A deep, crimson wound like a smiling mouth opened up. Strong, calloused hands groped for Jim. He shoved the fat truck driver backwards onto his ass. Lungs burning, Jim spun to face the other one, but it was on him, scrabbling for his throat. He struck out with the spear, hoping it would find its mark. It did, piercing the thing’s neck, and it fell to its knees. Jim yanked the spear free and lurched towards the gate, turning in a circle to make sure there were no more of them.
The trucker was still gurgling on the ground. Others were walking down the road towards him, but he had time. He wondered about his heart again. He had never felt so winded in all his life, so physically tired. He reached the gate on jelly legs and fumbled the keys out of his pocket. He snatched a glance back and saw the trucker had not only climbed onto his feet but was shuffling towards him. The others from further along the road were closing in too.
The padlock was on the other side of the gate. Jim stuck his hands through the holes and fiddled to get the key into the slot. It took him a moment, but he finally slid it in, turned the lock, and separated the shank from the body. As he snatched the chain off and pulled it through the gate holes, a hand grabbed the back of his shirt.
He jerked around with the chain in one hand and slung it like a whip. It struck the thing across the head, drawing blood, but the infected man only looked back with a blank stare and dove for him with its arms outstretched. Jim fell back against the fence, trying to shove it away. Hands clawed at his neck and it fell on him with its overpowering stench, squashing the last remnant of breath from Jim’s lungs. He was unable to get the spear around. Instead, he began to slam his right fist into its face, driving it backwards until he had enough space to push his way free. Jim went left and turned straight into the other one. It collapsed on him and he fell to the rocky driveway.
This is it, he thought. I’m done. They lunged on him, awkward, imprecise, trying to bite his arms and shoulders, grabbing for him, but he squirmed like a worm on a fish hook, gravel digging into his back. He couldn’t keep doing that all day though. The chain was ineffective and he had lost the spear. He was squashed. They were effectively sitting on him and he was unable to move them off.
The phone in his pocket started ringing. For a long moment, he didn’t recognize what it meant. Then it struck him like a jolt of electricity that it might be Steph.
It energized him unlike anything else. Screaming, Jim wriggled his shoulders, twisting and turning his body with every ounce of fight he had left. He was able to get the right one free and then roll left, shoving one of the infected off. The other, with its open mouth close to his bicep, took an elbow to the face, giving Jim a second’s reprieve. He made it to his knees, spotted his new best mate, the spear, and dove for it. He got his hands around the shaft and scrambled onto his feet as one of his attackers came at him.
Jim thrust the spear but missed everything. He caught his feet and went again, aiming for the spot just above the eye to the right side of its skull. The spear tip slid into its head with a wet thwack and the infected man crumpled to the ground. Jim swiveled as the other one closed in. He reached out and grabbed it by the throat, then dug the pointed end deep into its eye. He yanked the spear back and the thing toppled backwards.
Over. It was over. Jim fell onto one knee, gasping for breath, lungs burning, chest feeling like it might burst. He fumbled the phone from his pocket. Steph. Missed call. He resisted the urge to call back, knowing he needed to get inside the gates first.
As he returned the phone to his pocket, he noticed his arms and torso, now soaked in blood and gunk from the wounds. On trembling legs, he dragged the bodies out of the way, then pulled the gate open and stumbled back to the car. Others from the tanker had almost reached the gateway. Jim fell into the seat. With a shaky leg, he hit the accelerator too hard, and the wheels spewed gravel. The car shot through the gates, and he had to jam the brakes. He pulled the handbrake on then fell out onto the stones, using the car door to climb onto his feet before hurrying to the gates, where he pulled them shut just as the others were arriving. They grabbed hold of the chain link and shook it, but Jim slipped the chain through the holes and snapped the padlock into place before they could do much else.
He lurched back from them and took his phone out, then dialed Steph’s number. She answered in a high-pitched voice.
“Dad?”
“Steph, what is it?” In the background, he heard yelling and screaming.
She was running as she spoke, her voice bumpy. “We’re being attacked. There’s a group of them—the sick ones—and they found our hiding spot inside the park.”
Jim froze. “You run, Steph. You take your sister and you hide, you hear me?”
“I’m trying. I don’t know where Mum is.” Her voice was muffled and broken. “Here, Lily. Come here.”
“Lily, you stay with your sister!” His voice was scratchy, throat parched. “Get away from it, Steph, far away.”
“We’re not close at the moment. Some guys are fighting with them. We’re getting some distance now.”
“You keep going, Steph. Where are you? What caravan park are you in?”
“I have to go, Dad. I can see Mum. I’ll call you back soon and let you know we’re okay.” The hand holding the phone was shaking almost uncontrollably. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too. Tell Lily for me.”
And then she was gone. Jim’s whole body shook, his heartbeat thundered. He was certain to have a he
art attack now. Tears sprung to his eyes. He was sobbing. He felt a raging anger at the back of his head that couldn’t be extinguished. To be so helpless; he would rather face a thousand of the infected himself than have his two daughters face it.
Two infected stood at the gate coveting him. Jim ran at them, aware he was losing control. They didn’t move or respond. He raised the spear in his right hand and slammed it through one of the holes in the chain link and into the bloodshot eye of a bald man. Half the spear disappeared in a spurt of warm fluid. Jim yanked it out and he fell back like a felled tree. The other one dropped onto its knees and began feeding.
Jim staggered away from the fence, crying now, then turned and walked back to the car. He tossed the spear into the front seat, got in, and accelerated towards the office.
35
Kumiko crawled back along the hallway towards Dan, making sure to keep her head below the window line. He sat with his back against the wall between a set of glass doors, stealing glances every thirty seconds, assessing the positions of the infected as they spread throughout the school grounds. Kumiko reached Dan and slid back against the wall beside him. “How many?”
“Five, so far. Mostly around the library. One wandered up close before. Draw the curtains,” Dan said, gently pulling aside one of the long fabric pieces that had been tied back on one corner of a wide window.
“What about the door at the front? I didn’t lock it.”
Dan shook his head. “Me neither.” He started to get up when Kumiko put a hand on his knee and push him down.
“I’ll go.”
She crawled away from the wall and along the remainder of the hallway, passing the toilets, the pigeonhole area where mail and memos for the teachers were placed, the reception desks, and finally past the principal’s and vice principal’s offices. She stood when she reached the staff room and hurried over to the main doors. As she reached out to turn the handle, she saw a flash of movement from the stairs. She jerked back from the window until she recognized it was Jim coming towards her with a thin, relieved smile on his face. He looked like he’d been through a war. Splashes of dark red had dried across his neck, face, and arms. His shirt was smeared with more blood, his hair matted, and his eyes had a deep weariness, as though he’d seen the end of the world.