Turning

by Melinda Chapman

  New members looked to the old ones to make decisions, so Cam and Mari became leaders by default. They only met after the pandemic began. Cam often talked about his job at a big financial firm in Sydney before the pandemic. They all had lives before it, but Mari simply couldn’t picture him in a suit. On the other hand, it never bothered him that she didn't share anything about her own life.

  Cam always kept her serious side in check. He would make up jargon about zombie survival as if it were a corporate job. He often said, “Never consolidate your zombies.” The two of them created a grid system through houses and backyards where they could lose any undead completely within a few fence lines. Climbing of any kind slowed zombies down. So if they ran into trouble, they could bolt over fences and cross to the other side of the road.

  Walking along linear routes such as open roads and highways was a death-trap because it would attract a mob quickly. If Mari stayed in their line of sight, it would take hours to shake them. One never knew what might be waiting around the next corner, and leading a trail of zombies could turn it into an ambush.

  Mari prayed that Cam and her other friends were okay. A lot could have happened in the week since she went missing. She looked down at her arm. Cam had to be alive. If he turned, no one would stand a chance against the big guy.

  Exploring houses for food also slowed Mari down. Apparently, there was next to nothing in the regions surrounding bases and camps. Organised teams had cleaned the area out of food and fuel in an ever-increasing radius. It made reaching the camps all the more difficult for survivors.

  Survivors. Mari wasn't one of them any more, but it was hard to stop thinking like one. In the very least, her mission should be to return her supplies to the group. It could mean the difference between life and death for a friend. Helping survivors had always been Mari’s priority, and the bite had not changed that.

  Six hours had passed, and there was still no sign of her crew. It was three o'clock, putting her at around 13 A.I.

  Berating herself, Mari kicked a letterbox. The post snapped, and the metal compartment smashed apart on the ground. Hundreds of tiny, transparent spiders evacuated the solid brick of dried envelopes and newspaper. Immediately, Mari scanned the surrounding.

  There was no other sound, except for a rusted bicycle wheel spinning in the breeze. Leaves had wedged in the spokes, creating a windmill. The rest of the upturned bike was buried in the overgrown lawn and was barely visible. Mari glimpsed a rotted foot between the grass and the twisted bike frame. The sneaker glittered in the sunlight, at least in the spots where the gold hadn’t worn off. She walked past, unable to take her eyes off the limb. The flaring sparkle captivated her.

  The dry, filthy skin of her forehead wrinkled into a frown as she realised her more complex thoughts were becoming a struggle. She still had no plan. All that she could do with any conviction was walk. Being infected, Mari would be turned away or killed if she reached the camp. But she wanted to head in the direction of people. Her incredible urge to find other humans, to re-join her group, was illogical. Insanity.

  Cam, Gordon, Simone, and the others were out there somewhere. One was all she needed. One person to look her in the eyes and say that she’s still human. To see not only who she was before the bite but before any of this happened. Her desperate thoughts were soon defeated by exhaustion, but the aching loneliness remained.

  Mari continued to walk, avoiding roads and sidewalks as much as possible. The binoculars weighed heavy on her neck and pounded her chest with every step. But they were necessary to search well ahead for her crew and zombies. In her weakened condition, Mari’s safest option was to hide from the undead.

  Over the last hour, she noticed a definite drop in their population. She could make out a few wading through the uncut grass between houses. Some were visible in the windows head-butting walls and gnawing on furniture. Only one or two were in the same vicinity at any time. Was the region being patrolled? If so, she was heading in the right direction of the camp.

  Occasionally, zombies gravitated to the cars dotting the streets. There was no explanation to why zombies liked cars so much. Perhaps, the alarms sounded like screaming humans to them. Or was it more abstract than that? To a walking virus, a car with a person in it could appear as a cell with a nucleus to destroy. More likely, it was because many of them were attacked and infected near vehicles themselves.

  When the evacuations began, the traffic was gridlocked, and thousands of people were trapped in the streets. Some tried to flee. Others survived in their cars for as long as they could hold off. In time, they all fell prey to the growing mob of undead.

  Normally, if she was in a healthy state and the odds were good, Mari hunted and killed zombies. Her group had a proactive stance. Getting rid of zombies was just as important as their own survival and aiding other survivors. Some groups had a defensive stance where they only focused on avoidance and survival. Mari noticed that morale was better in the proactive groups, and despite the added risk, their members lived longer.

  She checked her watch again, which she had been putting off for a while. It was nearing 16 A.I., but she felt reasonably stable for someone who might be an hour or two from transformation. It was possible the initial margin of error wasn't needed, and she had a little more time. She needed a mirror to check her torso for patches of grey skin. Until she found one, there was no point wasting time on it.

  Impending death slipped into focus yet again, but not in the usual form of anxious mental chatter. Instead, her imagination spurred alternate visions of her fate. They were so fleeting and surreal that she pushed them easily to the edge of her mind. It was like ignoring a stack of paperwork sitting in the middle of the floor. She had grown accustomed to it enough to go around it.

  The major intersection ahead hooked her attention. There wasn’t anything particularly special about this scenery except for one thing. There was an unusual build-up of abandoned cars on the road. Mari crept to the corner and picked out the last house on the left. It was a two-story with a good view. The northeast corner window would be perfect for assessing the general area.

  First, she circled the property, checking the exterior for multiple exits. A trampoline in the backyard was in jumping distance from the sloped porch veranda. There was a lattice shade attached to the side of the front balcony, which extended down to level with the roof of a sedan. With her fragile wound and dizzy head, she prayed she could just leave using the stairs.

  From the front window on the second floor, Mari peered through the fine, disintegrating curtains. Down on the intersection, a network of cars sprawled out from the centre of the crossroad in all four directions. It appeared to have layered up over time. Drivers navigating the tight gaps probably attracted zombies and got caught in the ever-thickening web. But humans weren’t the only victims. Hundreds of dead zombies were strewn between the cars in varying stages of decomposition.

  What happened here?

  Her heart pumped faster. A strong gust blew, causing an inflatable object to flop around in the centre of the intersection. Mari raised the binoculars. Although the lens had a fine film of grease to cut reflections, she could still see clearly. The flaccid shape was a plastic hamburger attached to the roof of a fast food van. It was exactly the kind of noise, large movement, and bright colour that Mari avoided.

  Scoping the area, she spotted twelve zombies entranced by the object. The distraction could work to advantage, and she could slip past the zombies unseen.

  Out of nowhere, a rifle shot broke out from across the intersection. Mari ducked to the floor with her whole weight falling on top of the wound. The shot triggered a car alarm, drowning her cry. The agony was so unbearable that she vomited all the water she drank that day. Her elbow gave way as she tried to get up, and she fell face-down into the wet carpet.

  Move, you useless corpse!

  Grimacing, she forced the futile anger down and dragged her aching body back to the window. About thirty zombies were in view. They
shuffled toward the centre of the web of cars, drawn to the beacon of the alarm. Mari tried to locate the origin of the gunshot, but she became distracted by the undead weaving their way like drugged lab rats through a maze.

  They were a fascinating bunch, more so than any she’d come across. In the soulless, vacant mob, she caught glimpses of the people they once were. A young woman was sporting soccer gear and boots with her once neat ponytail pulled half out. A man with a bright red jacket had a VIP event pass dangling above his potbelly. Mari smiled bitterly. There wasn’t any place he couldn’t access these days.

  Her concentration shifted to her hiking boots and survival gear. Usually, her ponytail was tucked under a plain cap and out of reach of zombies. For most of winter, she wore a balaclava. Whenever she could find them, she wore motorcycle jackets because the fabric helped protect her skin from scrapes and tumbles. So many months of pure fighting.

  Sometimes she fought for days alongside her crew in order to collect a single survivor. All the lives she had saved and the humanity she had helped preserve meant nothing now that she was infected. No one knew it better than Mari; a zombie was just a zombie regardless of their past.

  Again, she raised the binoculars to her eyes and scrolled across the crowd. There was something about them that she couldn't comprehend before. Could it be that their frightening expressions weren’t of aggression toward humans? Was it their own terror of turning that froze on their faces? They were once human beings just like her. So were the countless number of zombies Mari had killed over the year.

  Without warning, the binoculars dropped and swung by the strap. Her palm flattened across the sudden constriction in her chest. After some time, her pulse calmed, and she put the binoculars in her bag. Only a quiet throb remained in her neck when she returned her attention to the zombies.

  The first five reached the central car. Ten more converged on the inner circle with their mouths salivating with mushroom-brown mucous and eyes popping out of their barely covered skulls. They groped and thumped the vehicles surrounding the blaring alarm, desperate to find humans.

  Mari became acutely aware of her own hunger. As she watched the remaining undead reach the middle, she forced herself to imagine eating human flesh. Her stomach turned with instant repulsion. Surely this confirmed she was still human?

  The rapid firing of a heavy machine gun cracked across the intersection, and Mari ducked from the window again. It sounded like a .50 calibre. Bullets punctured the fence and the house, but the shots appeared random. The majority was directed at the intersection. Still, she had to be cautious. Mari pulled the bag to her back and crawled into the room behind.

  Keeping a distance from the street was safer for now. A tree obscured her view, but she could make out a man at the petrol station on the opposite corner of the intersection.

  He was firing on the undead from the gun mounted to an army jeep. A flurry of zombies panicked, arms flailing, until bullets riddled their bodies. Some scrambled free only to be shot down climbing over the blockade of cars. The gun sprayed until nothing was standing, and the grey, rolling lumps blended in with the asphalt and tyres.

  The ringing of fire died down, and distinct laughter cut through the faint echo that remained. The man, pantomiming his movements, pretended he was still shooting the zombies before he reloaded his weapon and walked back inside the petrol station.

  Who was that man? Looking around the room with renewed urgency, she realised she was in a couple’s bedroom. There had to be something here she could wear to cover the bite wound. The room was cluttered with personal trinkets, the underwear flung on the floor, and the used tissues sitting on unfinished books.

  Twigs and downy feathers were nestled in the round shade of the wall lamp above the bed. Bird droppings were splattered on the pillows and the wallpaper behind in a spectacular fireworks pattern. In the relative normalcy of the room, it looked like an absurd feature wall.

  Mari crawled to the wardrobe and flung it open. Pausing, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging inside the door. 17 A.I…you have to check! She pulled up the singlet to reveal her abdomen.

  The light coming through the leaves on the tree outside the window created muted shades all over her skin. Panic beat in her chest. Holding her breath, Mari scrutinised the reflection. Her olive skin was sallow and dirty in patches. But not grey.

  Scouring the hangers of clothes, she found a dark green parka with a fur-lined hood. The jacket was probably too warm, but it was her best option. The cuffs would fit snugly at her wrist, and the thick, puffy lining would conceal the bandage.

  In a handbag, she discovered two sugar sachets from a café. One had split open and spilled sugar throughout the bag. Mari scooped the sugar and threw it in her mouth and squeezed the sweetness from the grains between her tongue and teeth.

  Fresh blood smeared across the wardrobe door beside her. Her wound was seeping. She picked up her gear and sprinted downstairs to the kitchen. Before she put the jacket on, she replaced the outer bandage and wrapped her arm in cling film to minimise leaking. The inner dressing would have to hold. Enduring intolerable pain in order to prevent standard bacterial infection seemed pointless for a dying human. At this stage in the transformation, she was also at a greater risk of blacking out. There was no guarantee what awaited when she woke up again.

  Chapter 3

  With head lowered and body hunched to level with the cars, Mari travelled in a loop around the intersection. Her intense gaze never left the fuel station. There was a good chance the man would spot her and mistake her for a zombie. Not being fired upon was her number one priority, but hunching was also more comfortable than standing up straight. Her arm ached so incredibly that the pain echoed in every nerve of her body.

  Once she reached the station, the click of a gun jolted her out of her misery. Frozen on the spot, she traced the sound until she found him through the reinforced glass of the late night service window. He had a rifle extending out of the narrow hole that was normally used to exchange money.

  Mari cautiously raised her hands in the air and waved. The man fidgeted before he relaxed and beckoned her forward. A grin spread across her dry mouth, and she licked the prickle of blood from the split skin of her lips. Ironically, Mari was waving an infected arm to prove to him that she was human.

  With her hands still in the air, she headed toward the double door. Tools and other objects were littered across the concrete as if a hardware store had exploded and dumped all its stock everywhere. Mari noted shovels, pipes, bats, and even a few chainsaws. All of them were perfect weapons. A couple of shotguns were poised against the petrol bowsers in the middle of the fuelling area.

  There was an object at the man's disposal from any point. This was probably his elaborate backup plan, should the undead be attracted to the gunshots from the station instead of the car alarms. Instinctively, Mari’s gaze locked onto the shotguns, and her step veered in their direction.

  A bullet cracked past her head. Her knees gave out and crashed to the ground. Don't vomit. Not in front of him. Faced down, she took several deep breaths to ease the sudden dizziness and found herself staring at an ant. It marched along a seam in the pavement and stopped, befuddled by the three-foot weed bursting through the cracked concrete. Her head felt so heavy that she struggled to look away from its microscopic world.

  Get your shit together, Mari. If the man had any human brain of his own, he would immediately suspect she was infected. His lukewarm welcome might turn cold, but at least a shotgun and a gamut of other weapons were within her reach.

  A small ring of metal pressed into the nape of her neck as the man’s shadow fell across her back and stretched along the concrete floor.

  “No need to be scared, little lady. Just back away from my guns.”

  From his voice, he sounded alert and clear-throated. Did he have food and water?

  Mari’s own voice was hijacked. “Food! Please. I need food!”

  “Mmmm, I bet y
ou do. Pretty hard to find round here, ain’t it?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Come along. Let’s get you inside before you attract some friends.”

  He helped her up by the upper arm. A nervous sweat sprung from the pores on her temples. If he grabbed her forearm, she would scream in pain, giving away her injury. Distance needed to be created. That’s what got her into this mess. No less than five paces. She shook herself out of his grip and stepped forward to increase the gap.

  “Whoa! Okay. I won’t touch you. I won’t touch you,” he sniggered as he nudged her through the door. “Happy not to. You stink something chronic.”

  Mari bit her tongue and glanced over her shoulder at him. With the rifle fixed to his hip with one hand, he lazily waved for her to go right. His footsteps shuffled to a stop behind her.

  “Hey. You’re not hurt somewhere, are you?” he asked.

  “No.” She surveyed the shelves in the aisles for food but saw nothing.

  “Well, you definitely need a bath then. Food’s over there.”

  Her search moved to where he was pointing. A box, a ridiculously small box, was on the counter. Feverishly, Mari ripped the plastic off three chocolate bars with her teeth.

  “Pace yourself,” the man said. He walked to a cafeteria table nearby and sat in a chair with the rifle across his legs.

  “I’m not planning to stay,” she replied and sucked down her last mouthful of chocolate and caramel. The overload of sickly sweetness coated her tongue and throat. Soon, the nerves all the way from her gut to her pharynx tickled, though she couldn’t tell if it was tantalising or irritating.

  While she was occupied with eating, the man stared at her, his hands resting on the rifle. His irises were the lightest grey, probably faded by the sun. The cataract had partially formed over one of his pupils, although he didn't look much older than forty. In contrast to his bloodshot corneas and reddish tan skin, the stark irises were piercing.