The End: Surviving the Apocalypse

by Palmer, Richard

  About The End: Surviving the Apocalypse

  An eery tale about the end of times. Prepare to be amazed, shocked, thrilled, and moved.

  For All Zombie Fans

  Contents

  The End: Surviving the Apocalypse

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Q stifled a yawn. Mrs Mason was discussing pastoral art theory again. Yellow suns and blue skies and green grass and bloody baa baa sheep.

  “Aren’t you sick of this stuff?” she said to Hannah, who sat next to her. “We live in Sydney. What does this have to do with our lives?”

  Hannah kept her attention on her own work. Q sighed and scrawled on the page in front of her, then stared at the back of Mrs Mason’s head as the woman turned to the blackboard again. Why oh why did the woman insist on that blue rinse to conceal the gray hairs? It was like growing a wart to cover a pimple. She studied the others in the classroom. They all looked tiny, reduced; as if she were living a miniaturized life. Discarded by the sea of destiny. Gasping at its shore.

  She stole a look at Hannah’s work. “Nice,” she said.

  Hannah grimaced at the interruption and pushed a neat blond plait behind her right ear. Her friend’s hair ended each day as it began – perfect. They were so different.

  “Sometimes I think I’m wasting my life,” Q said. “I’m not stretching myself, you know? I’m not working with my equals. Sorry, forget I said that. I’m in a grump.”

  “Like the heffalump?” Hannah said. “Pass the pink.”

  “Exactly!” Q handed over the purple crayon. “I knew you’d understand. I have all these abilities that I’m never allowed to use. It’s like I have a secret identity.”

  “No. If it were secret, you wouldn’t tell me about it all the time.”

  “I feel I have all this unfulfilled potential.”

  “I dunno,” Hannah said. “I’m six and I color in better than you do.” The girl put up her hand. “Mrs Mason, I’m finished. Can I have another one?”

  Mrs Mason smiled at Hannah, and then frowned at Q. “Quentin!” she said.

  Q sighed and stood. She removed the child-sized chair that clung to her adult-sized bottom and walked to the front of the Kindy Koalas to get Hannah another worksheet. She always felt too large at work. It wasn’t because her colleagues were three feet tall and her boss, Mrs Mason, looked like a withered voodoo doll. It wasn’t her surroundings at all. It was Q. Broad shoulders, muscled legs, brown static-shock hair – she was bursting from her skin. Too much energy with nothing to channel it into.

  She returned to Hannah’s desk and handed the fresh sheet to her friend, then flipped her own scribbled page facedown. Mrs Mason would freak if she busted her stealing the kids’coloring sheets again. The Blue Ogre glanced at the Cock-A-Doodle-Clock and, such was the blight in her soul, didn’t crack a smile. “Quentin! Have you forgotten?”

  “No, Mrs Mason. I’m going.”

  Hannah pulled up one corner of Q’s drawing, peered at the blood-red sun and muddy plains and sighed. “Q never could stay between the lines,” she said.

  *

  He was late.

  She stood outside in the cloud-choked light. All that she could see were bricks and buildings. There was no horizon. There was just more city. The Kindy Koalas were part of Saint Cedric’s – elementary to senior high in the bowels of Sydney.

  Vengeance Betti said it was almost one forty-five. Mrs Mason, who had no appreciation for manga, was always telling Q that a cartoon watch with blades and bosoms was an inappropriate accessory for a teacher’s assistant. Q had managed to convince the principal that her watch had aesthetic integrity and would provide the kids with valuable cross-cultural influences, but she was pretty sure Vengeance Betti would meet Billie the Brontosaurus Bin some day soon.

  One fifty-three. They were going to run into naptime.

  She heard an ancient engine approach up the long driveway. A white VW labored toward her. It came to a halt and she scanned its bumper stickers. Mountain pygmy possums. Greenhouse gas. Whales.

  Great. He was late and he was a hippy.

  The special guest parked in front of reception and disembarked, long limbs unfolding from the small car. He pulled a battered guitar case from the back seat, stretched, and turned toward the school.

  Q saw the most beautiful face she had ever seen. Thick lashes. A sad half-smile, like he was the only one who saw the joke and the punchline was the end of the world. Black bed hair.

  He was forgiven.

  The man stood there, an exotic prince in a dull country. She accepted a warm handshake but couldn’t bear those dog-brown eyes. She switched her gaze to the gray sky instead, which made no demands.

  “I’m Rabbit,” he said.

  Q blinked twice, fast, and recovered. “Like the disease?” She flashed him a winning smile.

  “No, like the animal.”

  “Oh.”

  “My mother calls me Narayan, if you prefer.”

  Quentin snorted. “I sure don’t want to be your mother!” She stared at the sky again, this time hoping for alien abduction.

  “And you are?” Rabbit said.

  No little green men today. She’d have grin it out. “I’m Q—winton.”

  “Winston? Like the fat man?”

  Q snorted again. “No! Quentin. I’m Quentin. People call me Q. And other things too, when they think I can’t hear.”

  “Cool. Q?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I have my hand back?”

  *

  Q was back inside with the evil monkeys. Sarah made kissy-kissy noises at her and Rabbit. Jimmy threw a paper airplane at her head, which she caught and crushed. Couldn’t they show some respect? This one time, couldn’t they make her look good?

  “All right, you lot. This is Rabbit—Narayan.” There were a few giggles. Q scowled and then prompted them with raised eyebrows.

  “Good afternoon, Rabid Narayan,” the children said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Q said, face flushing.

  Rabbit smiled that smile, just for her. “Kids are great, aren’t they?” he said. And the world was a good and happy place.

  He turned his smile on the whole class. They settled in an instant. “I thought I’d start with a song,” he said. “Do you all love singing as much as I do?”

  “Yeah!” said the girls.

  “Mph,” said the boys.

  “You probably know this one,” Rabbit said, “but I’ve updated the words and made them more contemporary. I’ll sing a lin
e and you can join in with the ee-i-ee-i-oh. Do you want to practice?”

  “Yeah!”

  The kids threw themselves into the song. Q didn’t hear them. She was busy drinking in Rabbit’s ripped jeans and full lips. This man was a preschool rock god.

  “I think you’ve got it,” Rabbit said. “Let’s kick it.”

  Mrs Mason leaned over and whispered to Q, who jumped. She had forgotten that her boss was in the room. She had forgotten about everything, except him.

  “This is going well,” Mrs Mason said. “I might step out for a cool glass of water.”

  For a cigarette, more likely. Q settled back to enjoy Rabbit’s voice. It was deep and rich, a chocolate fondue voice. Q could listen to that all day. She wondered what he was doing here, in her class, in this school. What could a man like this have say to a bunch of undeserving kidlets that was important enough for him to give up an afternoon of love-making and basket-weaving, or whatever it was beautiful hippies did on a gray day? He was a mystery.

  Hang on. What were “sow stalls”, and why were they in verse three with the pigs?

  Q registered that the class’s high-pitched echo had dribbled away. She considered her charges. Josh’s eyes were red. Charmaine had both hands over her ears. Tanya was rocking backward and forward, arrhythmic. Why had the little monsters stopped singing?

  She dragged her lust-stricken attention away from the voice and focused on the actual words.

  “At birth their babies are all killed,

  Ee-i-ee-i-oh.

  Their horns are docked, with drugs they’re filled,

  Ee-i-ee-i-oh.”

  Oh.

  Q solved the riddle of Rabbit in a hot rush of blood to the stomach and did what she had to do to save them all. She threw a chair at the fire alarm.

  *

  “And you say it went off by itself?”

  Principal Macklin was inspecting the troops. Q had received a nod of approval for her unusually quiet and well-ordered class, but then the principal discovered the smashed cover on the fire alarm in her classroom. Suspicion was an ugly master.

  “We were singing ‘New MacDonald’, sir. I made them all line up and march straight out to the assembly point, but there was some pushing. They may have knocked over a chair.”

  The principal’s face remained set. Q could tell he wasn’t buying it. He knew someone was to blame and he intended to find out who it was. There was nothing else for it. She leaned in toward him. “One of the staff may have broken the smoking ban, sir,” she said. He marched back up the line. His nostrils twitched as he passed Mrs Mason.

  A small hand reached up and found hers.

  “Q?” said Hannah.

  Hannah’s troubled face reminded her that, for all her wisdom, the girl was only six years old. “Yeah?” said Q.

  “I keep thinking about those poor piggies.”

  “I know.” Mr Macklin continued his examination. Q watched the empty place where she had last seen the white VW, but it was pointless. The miracle was gone.

  “Q?”

  “Yeah, Hannah?”

  “I don’t want to dream about the piggies. I don’t want to sleep any more.”

  “Me neither.”

  Chapter Two

  Q wheeled her bike into the garage and leaned against the cold bricks. She didn’t even have his number.

  “That you, Quinny? How was work?”

  She launched a side-kick at the punching bag hanging from the rafters. The garage shook.

  A kelpie ran in to greet her, whined, ran outside, pounced on a stuffed toy and returned. Q sat down to wrestle with the dog and replayed the afternoon’s circus in her head. When would have been the right time to ask Rabbit for his number? While Sophie was screaming? After Apple wet herself? Kids. They always got in the way of the important bits of teaching, like picking up cute boys who didn’t know enough about her to be scared off.

  “No training tonight, Quinny?” Her father stood in the driveway, wearing a stained tracksuit and smelling like peppermint. She must have busted him smoking on the veranda again. She was a one-woman intervention today. It was sad that he thought he could hide it with a pre-teen trick like mouthwash. Still, at least the smoking got him out of the house.

  “It’s Friday, Dad. No training on Fridays.” Q swept the dog from her lap, stood to kiss her father’s cheek, then spluttered at the cigarette smoke filming his skin. Her father grinned. He understood this non-verbal routine of reprisal. It was a game they often played.

  She picked up her bag and climbed the veranda steps.

  “Friday already?” He trailed after her. “Don’t you train Fridays too?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “The boys’ll be disappointed if you don’t show.”

  “Nah. They hate that I’m better than them. Big Tony only likes it when he’s on top.” And there she went again. Mouth disconnected from brain. If it were a disease, there’d be a cure.

  Her father walked into the kitchen and poured himself a scotch. “You want a drink, sweetie?”

  “Coke. Thanks.”

  He paused, fridge open, stroking the old photo stuck to the white surface. “We used to go out to dinner every Friday. You remember? Your mum loved Chinese food. Just like you.”

  It wasn’t a connection. Everyone loved Chinese food, even the Dalai Lama – and don’t think he hadn’t tried not to.

  Q hated that photo of Linda. It was over a decade old and the edges had turned yellow and rough, as if nibbled away by creatures with little appetite. But the colors were still hyper-real and made Linda look like a Bollywood princess. Maybe her dad had had it touched up. Q didn’t recall her looking so rosy and bucolic. What she remembered was not wanting to kiss the cool dry skin, a premonition of the dead flesh that followed.

  Q flipped open her phone and headed into the lounge. She didn’t hear the fridge door shut, which meant he must still be there, running a brown thumb over the picture.

  “Hannah?” she said, lying back on the couch.

  In lieu of answering, the girl yelled at her brother, Michael, who always wanted to do whatever Hannah did and was no doubt trying to grab the phone from her so he could talk, too. Q was looking forward to the day Hannah discovered boys, in case Michael did, too.

  “You should use your landline,” Hannah said. “Mobile phones give you tumors.”

  Q grunted. “I can’t believe I let him get away without even getting his number!”

  “Who?”

  “The most beautiful man on the planet,” Q said. “Rabbit.” She listened to Hannah yell at Michael again, then explained further: “That man who sang about the piggies.”

  “Him! He was weird. He might like you.”

  Q snorted. “I doubt it. Anyway, it’s too late for true love. If you meet your partner after high school, you’ll never know their history, and then how can you ever be sure they’re not a spy who’s only sleeping with you to maintain their cover?”

  “Maybe you already have the tumors – Michael, you’ll get such a smack – if you like him, you should go find him.”

  “I don’t know how,” Q said. “And there’s no point anyway.” He was a real boy, not one of her fight club offcasts. He’d want a real girl.

  “Mum says I have to go finish my homework.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. See you Monday. Bye.”

  Q rolled off the couch. She walked past the kitchen and saw her dad still standing in the same position. He’d have to move soon. His glass was empty. She walked down the hall to the study and booted up her computer.

  “Don’t you kids have someplace to go on a Friday night?” her father said.

  “Friday night is so over, Dad,” Q said. “It’s all about ten past two on a Tuesday these days.” She logged on and stepped out.

  *

  Qaranteen crept through the undergrowth. She moved with stealth and strength, like a jungle cat or waiter doing the five-plate carry. They couldn’t hear you, but if you made a wr
ong move, they always found you. It was like they had a sixth sense. Well, the only sense they had was sight, so it was more of a second sense, but an unnatural second sense. Demonic things.

  She stopped dead. She had one in her crosshairs. She lined him up, took a deep breath and squeezed as she exhaled.

  “Boom! Headshot.”

  On screen, the Apocalypse Z zombie toppled. Q grinned and picked up her can of soft drink without taking her eyes from the screen. She tried to tip it down her throat, missed her mouth, poured it onto her chest instead and glanced at the wet, sticky stain spreading through her shirt.

  On screen, a hole erupted in Qaranteen’s chest. Blood fountained out. Her avatar collapsed.

  “What?” Q thumped the desk as her character pitched forward onto the ground. A text message scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “You’ve been Qaranteened!”

  “Not witty, Slendrous D,” Q said. “It’s not even accurate. You didn’t lock me away, you killed me. Get a new line.”

  She checked with her crew on their real-life status. Slendrous D gave the all-clear for Christchurch, New Zealand. Yuli Zuli reported a fine Moscow day full of gibberous fall colors, although that last bit may have been a translation error. Jeremiah BownZ said that his shift was quiet, that he’d refined his survival technique for distilling urine and that the Grab ’n’ Dashin Lincoln, Nebraska was experiencing a Class One zombie outbreak. Q had long since learned to ignore JBZ’s updates, suspecting his frequent reports of a demonic client base had more to do with his sales technique and tendency to practice the less palatable aspects of survivalism during working hours. Mumbai, Munich and Boulder hadn’t checked in. Damn amateurs. Sheffield’s wife had clearly made good on the threat to disconnect his account because he’d been absent for two weeks now. How was anyone meant to sustain a global anti-zombie survivalist movement in conditions like these?

  She clicked out of Apocalypse Z and scrolled through some of her other sites to see what had been happening for the last – wow, for the last six hours. Midnight already. Time flies when you’re killing things.

  India was having elections. Vanuatu had had another earthquake, poor bastards. The French farmers were on strike again. She followed a link to a New York paper and scanned an article.