The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2010 (volume 1)

by Paul Haines

  Whenever we get a bit of meat we split it up, an even share for every family in town. Dad says that times are lean, but if the mother-loving-mongrels can hold their horses, we’ll never run out of meat again.

  I was heading to school on my bike when I saw the commotion. There were a bunch of people on top of the main wall, and Dad was pointing at something on the highway side of town.

  I laid my bike down and climbed the ladder up the wall, but it was too packed with grownups to see. I climbed up a pile of tires till I found a gap in the tin that I could see through.

  A yellow school bus was slowly navigating the cracked highway, big clouds of steam rising from the front of it. It looked in real trouble, and was moving at walking pace. The struggling sounds of the engine reached us. It sounded like someone had put a cupful of ball-bearings in that motor.

  As the bus made its way towards our front gate, Dad loaded a bullet into his rifle. Since things had gone bad, we hadn’t had a visitor.

  Someone cried out, and I looked behind the bus. We could see them now, way back in the distance, stretched out across the dusty horizon. Hundreds of figures shuffling through the scrub, a horde of people that seemed to wriggle in the heat haze.

  “Quick!” Mr Wenham yelled out. “Bring all the guns! Bring bloody everything.”

  Perhaps half a mile from our front gate, the yellow school bus gave a death rattle, and it stopped. I couldn’t see much else till the door slid open. A man got out, waving like a crazy. Dad said a curse word, and shot at him. The bullet hit the front of the bus, and the man jumped back in, pulling the door shut.

  “Dad, don’t!” I said.

  “Brought them zombies right to our front doorstep,” Dad said, working the action open and loading another bullet. “If these morons think we’re gonna shelter them, they’re mistaken.”

  “I dunno,” Mr. Donaldson said. “We could do with some fresh faces in here. Some of us are getting a bit . . . bored with the entertainment.”

  “We’ve more than catered for that, you greedy old sod,” Dad said. He looked real mad now. “We’re not a refugee camp.”

  “Please,” I said ‘They’re in trouble!’

  “Someone get that kid off the wall,” one of the grownups said, and Dad yelled at me and told me to go to school.

  I climbed down and saw Billy standing, watching us from his bike, right by where I’d dropped mine. We went to Eric’s house. Mrs Hamilton was probably hiding in her cellar, the way she did every time the town was under attack. There was no point sitting in the stupid school while this was going on.

  Eric took us to his room where he picked up a pair of binoculars his dad had given him, and then we rode to the old church. This was the place where we used to go to Mass, but that was before the Reverend and half the town nicked off. Mum had wanted me to leave with them, but Dad said a lot of bad words and threw all her stuff out the front door and locked her out. Then she went away and never came back.

  I’d come to the church sometimes to throw rocks at the stained-glass windows, and once Danny Wenham reckoned that he dug up a body in the graveyard, though everyone knew that he was just a fat liar.

  Now we laid our bikes on the dirt beside the front door. Eric hung the binoculars around his neck, and then Eric and Billy and I went into the church and climbed the stairs all the way up the bell-tower. We could see everything from up here. We were leaning out through the shutters up around the bell, and Eric was whistling through his teeth.

  “Look at em all,” he said, and let us have a go at the binoculars.

  I moved the little dial till I could actually see the bus. It was packed full of people but I couldn’t see much more from this far, and the windows were all dusty and scratched. The people were all sitting in their seats, perfectly still, and a couple of them were looking out the windows.

  The other mob were circling the bus now, and they were definitely dead meat. You can tell because they don’t walk right, and their clothes are all wrecked and rotten.

  I looked at all the walking dead, and there were hundreds— broken little kids and leathery old grannies and even a mouldy old fella that looked a little bit like the old Reverend whose church we hid in.

  “Give us a look!” Billy said, and I gave him the glasses. Without them you could just see the yellow brick that was the bus, and hundreds of little black dots swarming around it, kicking up plumes of red dust.

  “The rotters will figure out how to get into the bus soon,” Eric said. “If those folks don’t run, they’ll get bitten.”

  “But if they leave the bus, our mob will shoot them,” I said.

  “Deserve it,” Billy said, taking his time with the binoculars. “Pretty stupid, running away from their hidey hole. There’s nothing but dead things out there.”

  “Yep, dead things and wild pigs,” Eric said. “And both will try and eat you.”

  “And they made a lot of noise and got the dead things worked up, brought ’em all here,” Billy said. “Now we’re the ones in strife.”

  I was angry that Billy was hogging the binoculars, but more angry that they didn’t care about the people in the bus. Maybe those folks had run out of food, or their water went bad or something.

  “I know that if I was in that bus,” I said, “I’d want someone to help me.”

  Billy and Eric both turned and looked at me, like I was going soft in the head. Eventually though, I convinced them to leave the church and help the folks in the bus.

  We slid the sheets of tin back to cover the gate on the piggery side, and I piled some extra rocks in front of them in case a dead man tried to get them open.

  “This is really dumb. We are gonna get in so much trouble,” Eric said.

  “I told you, we’re gonna be heroes,” I told him. “Don’t be such a chicken.”

  “Yeah, and we’ll make them pay a fee to get in,” Billy said, pleased with himself. “Then there’ll be food for everyone.”

  We rode our bikes around the wall, but Billy had to show off and go over the jumps he’d made down by the creek. If he broke his stupid head open and the zombies caught us here, I don’t know what we’d do. I guess we’d have two brothers shovelling s-h-i-t in the piggery then.

  We stopped by the highway wall and hid behind an old washing machine. The grownups were all further along the wall, and wouldn’t be able to see us so long as we didn’t move forward.

  “Gimme the glasses,” I said to Eric, who just nodded and handed them over. He kept looking at the bus in the distance, and he turned all white. I reckoned he was about to chuck his guts.

  I panned across the horde of rotters, saw them shuffling forward and kicking up dust and small stones. They were everywhere, so close now that I could see a cloud of flies buzzing around each one.

  The closest one was maybe a hundred steps away from the back of the bus. He wore a butcher’s coat, but the white was gone and it was all covered in black stuff now, and his knife belt was empty. He had his hands stretched forward and fingers clenched.

  From what I reckoned, he was moving at a quick walk now.

  “They’re slow as. We can beat them!” I said. We picked up our bikes, and I made sure Eric had his and wasn’t gonna chicken out.

  Then we rode like hell, rode straight towards the mob of zombies. I rang my bell lots, and Billy whistled between his teeth cause he was really good at that.

  All of the grownups were yelling at us from the wall, and if I knew my Dad, I’d be in a lot more trouble over this than any book report. They started shooting at the zombies, then I guess we were in the way and they were too scared to shoot at the rotters in case they accidentally hit one of us kids.

  It worked, though. The horde began to move towards us, and we led them away from the bus, back towards the highway. Every single one of them went bug-eyed and grabby, shuffling after us.

  “You’re going too quick!” I yelled at Billy, when he got too far away and the zombies lost interest. He did that riding-in-slow-circles thing,
but waited a bit too long before trying to take-off. Butcher Man grabbed him by the shirt and one leg.

  Billy said a word that would have got him ten straps in my house, and fell off his bike. The zombie tripped over the bike, and Billy screamed and kicked and wriggled his way loose.

  He ran like hell, a hundred rotting zombies shuffling after him. Our grownups started shooting from the walls, picking off the nearest zombies, but it was pointless. There were just too many of them.

  I heard gunfire from the bus, and saw that someone had popped a window open to shoot at the zombies snapping at Billy.

  “Stop! Stop it!” I yelled, but it was too late. Some of the zombies were moving towards the noise. Eric and I yelled and rang our bells and stopped pedalling long enough to keep most of the dead folks interested, but a few still went for the bus. They were more shots as the stupid outsiders tried to defend themselves.

  “Bloody idiots!” I said, and I was glad that Nan couldn’t hear me swearing. I yelled at Billy to run back to the creek side, and if it was our school’s sports day he would have won the blue ribbon, he was running that quick.

  The zombie mob split in three. Lots of them were interested in Billy, some of them were chasing Eric and me, and a few were hammering on the sides of the bus, trying to figure out how to get inside. What looked like a dead policeman was pushing at the folding door, so I got off my bike for just one scary second, and threw a big rock at him.

  “Come on!” I yelled. “Over here!” And hopped back on my bike with the wind of dead fingers brushing against my back. Close.

  Between Eric and me, we confused the zombies good, and led them around in circles for a while. When none of them were close to the bus I rode up to it, banging on the sides and pointing towards the town. I waited in front of the door, and knew that the town’s grownups wouldn’t shoot at anyone coming out of the bus in case I got hit.

  A man cranked the partition door open, and nervously climbed out. He was a scary looking fella, covered in tatts, with a big meaty fist wrapped around a cricket bat.

  “You’re a brave little fella. Thanks,” he said, with tears in his eye. I didn’t know what to say, Dad says that a man having a sook might as well be dead so I just nodded and rode away to draw the zombies from the bus again.

  We made sure those people from the bus got a clear run to the town wall. The grownups shouted at us, we shouted back, and the strangers shouted lots too.

  They opened the gates though. I knew they’d do the right thing once they saw the people they’d be saving. By the time Dad was through with me I couldn’t sit for a week, but it was worth it.

  * * *

  We’ve had to give up the piggery. The rotters walk around our town day and night now, so many that even the dead roos have given up attacking. Danny Wenham is going berserk out there, pushing at rails and trying to join in with his new friends.

  The good news is that the pigs are perfectly safe, bad news is we can’t get to them, with all the rotters around. The dead folks aren’t interested in our squealers. Dad says it’s a waste of good meat. You can bet your biggest marble that the pigs are missing their scraps. I hope they don’t suffer for long. Dad says that, in this heat, they should die of thirst in a day or two.

  I heard Dad say to Mr Donaldson that the town didn’t even have enough bullets left to kill all of the zombies that the outsiders brought to our gates.

  But at least we have some new people in town. They’re from a long way away, and they got sick from the water so I feel pretty clever for guessing right. The bus was full and there’s lots of them, even a mum and a dad, and they brought a little boy called Laurence. He’s in school with us now, but he doesn’t talk much and Billy says he caught him crying in the toilets. I told him not to pick on the new kid but even I think he’s a bit weak.

  Laurence’s mum (her name is Mrs Burton) lives in Miss Stewart’s house now. I asked Nan where Miss Stewart would live now, but she wouldn’t say anything. I caught Mr Wenham carrying Miss Stewart out of her house, right on dusk while I was taking our toilet-pans to the garden. I left them on the ground and followed.

  He hefted Miss Stewart up to the top of the wall and for a while he was saying something to her, quietly. Then he dumped her over the side, right into the reaching hands of our dead neighbours. Miss Stewart screamed for a long time before she stopped.

  I’m not sure why she didn’t end up in the cookpot. Nan said that she was tainted meat, but I don’t understand why.

  Dad and Mr Wenham gave Laurence’s mum what they called “the treatment”. They didn’t want us kids to see, but I ran to the window when I heard the screaming. Her leg was gone by then, and Dad was cooking the bleeding stump with part of his welding kit. She was screaming her head off and thrashing around, and it was all Mr Wenham could do to hold her down.

  That’s when Nan started ripping her teeth out with pliers.

  “You won’t need these choppers, love,” Nan cackled. “Can’t have you biting your visitors.”

  Why would she bite anyone? That doesn’t make sense, and it’s not very fair on her. Mr. Burton only had to give his left arm up for taxes.

  We boiled up our share, a big reddy hunk of meat with the tatts still on the skin. I played with my food a while and tried to find the tatts, but I remembered I got maths homework due. Then, I ate up quick.

  The King’s Accord

  Alan Baxter

  The King’s blood soaked his white sheet, scarlet slowly spreading. Royal eyes stared wide and horrified at velvet hangings above the bed, seeing nothing. Queen Sylveen, face drawn in torment, pushed the King’s Guard aside and threw back the heavy, wet sheet. A gaping wound across the King’s stomach, clutched in one desperate hand, yawned up at her. With a cry she turned away.

  The King’s Guard trembled. “Your Highness, I am so sorry. The assassin, he was like a shadow, on the King before I even knew he was there.” He gestured to the ground, a black-garbed figure lying in another pool of blood. “I struck him down with all the speed I had, but I was too late.”

  Sylveen turned her back on her dead husband, lifting her chin. “My husband . . .” Her voice hitched. Clearing her throat she tried again. “My husband is not dead.”

  “Your Majesty . . . ?”

  “Rythell, you will tell no one of this. Send for Andur Mylan.”

  “My Queen, the King is well beyond healing . . .”

  The Queen’s face hardened. “Rythell, do as I say! Tell no one, send for the Court Mage and wait outside this room until he arrives.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Fear and confusion on his face, the King’s Guard slipped from the room.

  The Queen turned, fell across the body of her husband and gave free rein to her grief.

  * * *

  Andur Mylan hurried through the castle, taking stone stairs two at a time. It was a long way from his basement rooms to the King’s tower and it didn’t pay to keep Their Majesties waiting. Out of breath, he reached the iron-banded wooden door and met the stony gaze of the King’s Guard.

  “Rythell, I’ve been summoned.”

  “I know. Brace yourself for a shock.” The guard turned and rapped on the door. “Your Majesty, the Court Mage is here.”

  “Enter.”

  Squaring his shoulders, Rythell opened the door and strode in. Andur paused. A shock? With a wash of trepidation he followed. The Queen stood in the centre of the room. In a pool of blood at her feet was a man dressed all in black, apparently an Ethentian assassin. Andur’s gaze swept across to the King’s bed. His breath caught at the sight of blood and the King’s face, a rictus of agony in death. His jaw dropped. “My Queen . . . ?”

  “Shut the door.”

  “My Queen, are you hurt?”

  “No. An assassin gained entry and murdered my husband in his sleep. If I had not been outside, unable to sleep, I’m sure I would be dead too. Rythell killed the assassin, but his end was already achieved.”

  Andur narrowed his eyes, trying to take
it all in. Rythell stood beside him, head hung in shame. The King dead? It was inconceivable. “Your Majesty . . .”

  The Queen silenced him with an upheld palm. “As you are aware, in three day’s time the delegates from Ethentia arrive to sign the Accord Of Diam.”

  Andur nodded. “The entire Kingdom is aware, Your Majesty.”

  “Obviously someone disagrees with it.”

  Andur crouched to inspect the body of the assassin. “Definitely Ethentian, not just in appearance. He carries an Ethentian blade and . . .” He paused, sniffing at the blood covered steel. “Yes, I can smell Slybane.”

  The Queen raised an eyebrow.

  “An Ethentian poison. This assassin wasn’t going to rely on steel alone to achieve his ends.”

  Sylveen nodded. “There is clearly a part of Ethentian society that doesn’t want to see an end to this war.”

  “There are many, Your Majesty. Here too, I’m sure. A healthy trade exists for the unscrupulous during wartime, not to mention the political aims of some.”

  “Indeed. So this accord must be signed. Therefore, the King is not dead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Queen crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “My husband spent many, many years negotiating a treaty with Ethentia. It’s been his life’s work. Our son will take over the throne and he will rule well, but he is not King Monvald of Trear. If the King is dead the treaty will fall apart and it will become my son’s life’s work to rebuild it.”

  “Maybe not, Your Majesty. Could not Tellon simply declare his support of his father’s work and sign the accord as King?”

  “No more than I could as Queen. The Ethentian’s are a proud and stubborn people and this accord is with King Monvald and Emperor Qoh. The drafts have all been written in these names, the last year has been spent agonising over every single letter of this thing to the contentment of all. Any change now would scupper everything.”

  “Then the accord is lost.”

  The Queen approached Andur, taking both his hands in hers, a gesture unimaginable. Andur trembled. Rythell turned away. “The King can not be dead, Andur.”