Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie

by Peter Trevorah

  There was, of course, an horrific familiarity to all this for those who had survived the zombie apocalypse of the early 70’s – but there were key differences, too.

  In the first zombie apocalypse, all those who returned as zombies had been male – this time around, so far at least, all the returnees were female.

  In the early 70’s the outbreak had started in the Parkville area, in or around Melbourne University – and then rapidly spread from that area (just like any ‘normal’ epidemic).

  This time, there was no Ground Zero, as such – the incidents were spread all over. Mainly individual zombies running amok but occasionally there were two – never more than two at once, so far.

  Ben and I sat glued to the television screen – struck dumb by the fascination and horror of what we were seeing and hearing.

  I had placed Deb back in the Loveboat and did whatever I could to make her comfortable. I checked on her from time to time – no rapid changes were observed.

  At about 10.00am, Ben finally spoke the unutterable words we had both been thinking for some time:

  “Deb’s one of them, isn’t she? She’s going to turn into a zombie.”

  I had watched my brother, David, become ill, decline and, ultimately, undergo the change.

  He had taken a whole week but all of the other males whom I had seen bitten on day one in the 70’s outbreak had succumbed much more quickly. He had been the last one of that group to die and change. (Only the gay guys had lasted longer and they never actually died – they just ‘recovered’, like all the girls did.)

  David had lost consciousness on about day 4, as I recalled. So, if Deb was following the same path – and I guessed that she was indeed doing that – she was already well down that path. (The banshee-woman at St Vincent’s had supposedly sickened, died and returned all in the same day.)

  “Isn’t she?” repeated Ben, since I had not replied.

  I grunted non-committally.

  Ben decided not to press the point – we continued to watch the unfolding events on TV, in stunned horror.

  The reports just kept coming in. Casualty departments of all the major hospitals – just like St Vincent’s – had been hard hit since they’d been totally unprepared for zombie attack. By now, they had also accumulated a significant number of desperately ill patients who, it seemed, were potential zombie-women ready to undergo ‘the change’ at any moment.

  I was glad that Deb and I had fled while we still could – the news reports made no mention of what had been done to protect the hospitals from those ‘suspected cases’ who had already checked in for treatment.

  Based on what I had experienced during the zombie apocalypse of the early 70’s, I could guess what was now happening to the ‘flu-ridden’ women whom we’d seen waiting miserably at St V’s: terror-driven extermination at the moment of change, if not before.

  This was not going to happen to my baby sister.

  The inevitable ‘expert’ was wheeled in to be interviewed by the news anchorman. It was some retired judge who had conducted a Royal Commission into the circumstances surrounding the earlier outbreak – which had generally been regarded as a whitewash. (The commission’s report had failed to identify the precise cause of the outbreak – but, at the same time, hadn’t hesitated to exonerate all those who had been widely suspected of triggering it - a curious outcome, you might say.)

  To start with, the interview was fairly rambling and unfocussed. The anchorman was keen to play up the human drama of what was happening. (Who needed and expert for that?) News footage of various grisly incidents was played and replayed – and the ‘expert’ was then invited to comment.

  “Horrific,” he would comment. “Most regrettable” (And so on in that vein.)

  Eventually, after much inconsequential palaver, he was asked the two burning questions: why the outbreak was occurring now and why was it, apparently, only affecting females at this time.

  He fudged and prevaricated. He put forward possible explanations which only an imbecile would accept. In short, he either didn’t know or, if he did, he didn’t want to say.

  “Thanks very much, Mr Expert,” I said aloud – to no-one in particular.

  o0o

  In the days and weeks that followed, however, some plausible explanations emerged.

  The key observation that led to the competing theories was that all the initial cases of the 1980’s outbreak involved women who had been bitten by a zombie in the 70’s outbreak - but had survived.

  So, some said that the initial infection was a lentivirus – like HIV – and therefore, whilst infecting the host, did not actually produce serious symptoms until some years had passed.

  But that did not explain why men had gone down, more or less, straight away with severe symptoms in the 70’s while women had been spared.

  Still others said that the initial infection worked like chicken pox and shingles. The same virus that causes chicken pox continues to lurk about in the body, often for decades, only to re-emerge later and cause a severe and painful disease known as ‘shingles’ – usually, when the victim’s immune system has been compromised.

  This alternative still did not explain why men had been badly affected when first infected – and it had the added difficulty that many of the women who subsequently developed severe symptoms were in the prime of life. (And no reason was ever offered why a bunch of young women should, simultaneously, have had compromised immune systems.)

  The third explanation that was put forward was more subtle – and I’m not sure I fully understand it even now. So, stick with me – and if you don’t understand it, join the club!

  It is said that the infection attacked a gene which, in men, resides solely on the Y chromosome. (Men have a single Y chromosome which has a mere 30 functional genes on it.) Once the gene in question on that chromosome is attacked, it rapidly undergoes epigenetic change. It ceases to function and pretty soon thereafter, the man is zombified.

  The equivalent gene, in women, resides on the X chromosome which has about 900 functional genes (as against 30) – and women have two copies of each of those genes because they have two X chromosomes.

  So, women had an inherent edge when it came to defending themselves against epigenetic change firstly, because their X chromosomes are more robust and secondly, because when one of their X-chromosome genes did get knocked out by the infection, the other X chromosome could come to the rescue and repair the damaged one.

  To my non-scientific mind, that technical explanation seems more plausible than either of the competing ones but - and there’s always a ‘but’ - why, after a decade of good health, should the women start succumbing in significant numbers within mere days of each other?

  And why should gay guys have been protected – since they had the same Y-chromosome problem as any other bloke?

  (Perhaps one of the wilder conspiracy theories will yet prove to be correct – but I won’t trouble you with any of those.)

  o0o

  At Mid-day, the anchorman, now looking tired and haggard, after hours of continuous broadcasting, announced that there was to be ‘A Message to the Nation’ from the Prime Minister.

  Ben and I waited, our red-rimmed eyes still glued to the small screen of my TV.

  Chapter 7

  A Message to the Nation.

  The Rt. Hon R. J. Hawke – then recently elected Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia - appeared on our TV screen.

  Grim-faced, he sat behind an imposing, dark-stained wooden desk. His customarily crooked mouth was drawn into a tight line.

  An Australian flag was draped on the wall behind him – to add gravity to his words, I suppose.

  “Men and Women of Australia, …” he commenced (an introduction he had borrowed from a previous Labour Prime Minister).

  He told us what we already knew – or had reasonably guessed: hundreds of women had been struck down suddenly with severe fevers and some dozens had now died - only to return, almost immediately
, as zombies.

  “My Friends, it pains me to inform you that my advisers believe that this is a second wave, a second wave of the dreadful events that we Australians experienced only a few short years ago – and that we had hoped might never return….”

  Bob spoke well - it was a gift, really. And he could change the way he spoke according to his audience: gruff and hard-edged for the toughest wharfies, more cultivated but no less forceful for the housewives that he glad-handed at the supermarket - and now a third, statesmanlike, register for ‘The Nation’.

  This was definitely, sombre, measured and, in the end, (as was Bob’s way) tearful.

  (Was this an act? Probably not. What he had to say was indeed grim.)

  “…I am informed that the infection is now widespread and the cases of further infection are increasing at a geometric pace. I have therefore to announce a complete and immediate quarantine of all affected persons. Without this drastic measure, the medical authorities fear that the infection will, once again, spread unchecked throughout the nation through the bite of those who have already succumbed - and even more draconian measures, military measures, will then be required …”

  “Quarantine?” said Ben. “What does he mean by ‘quarantine’?”

  As we sat together on my brown velour, pine-wood couch, I could not bring myself to answer that question

  The Rt Hon R. J. Hawke PM, however, immediately did so:

  “…Accordingly, all state health departments advise that this infection is henceforth declared a ‘notifiable disease’. Any person known to be suffering from it must be immediately reported to the emergency services via the standard emergency telephone lines so that preventative measures may be initiated without delay…”

  Ben turned to me, still with a question, a new question, on his face: ‘preventative measures’?

  Ben had not been intimately involved in the first wave of the zombie apocalypse since he had lived interstate at the time. He’d not seen much ‘action’ as the outbreaks in his state had been mere ‘spotfires’ ahead of the main ‘front’ of the epidemic. He’d not witnessed what I had seen at ‘Ground Zero’, and beyond, the slaughter of the innocent by the zombies and the merciless retribution of the armed forces.

  I answered Ben’s second unspoken question: “It means we’re supposed to hand Deb over to the authorities for her to be euthanased.”

  Ben looked aghast – at first.

  “Oh,” I added, “they might wait until the moment she passes on before actually putting a bullet through her brain – but, in the end, what’s the difference? Termination is termination.”

  Ben opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish – nothing emerged for a time.

  We watched the rest of Bob Hawke’s speech in silence. The walls of my unkempt bachelor pad seemed suddenly to be closing in on me – though brilliant sunlight streamed through my North-facing window.

  Eventually, Ben spoke first, somewhat uncertainly: “Oh, well, if that’s the law now, I suppose we’d better call triple ‘O’.”

  Instantly, a volcanic rage rose in me, a rage I’d not felt since the body of my brother, David, had been cast out from their desperate refuge by the survivors of the first wave. I had not allowed that decision to rest then – and I certainly was not going to allow my beloved sister to be cast out now.

  As Deb lay unconscious in the next room, I rose slowly from the couch and snapped off the television switch with deliberation. Trying unsuccessfully to contain my fury, I turned upon the still-seated Ben and, without really meaning to do so, struck him a fearful blow to the face.

  I’m not sure whether it was by fist or open hand – I wasn’t thinking too clearly – but he fell limply to the floor as I completed my swing.

  I thought that maybe I had killed him but he soon roused himself without my having to do anything to assist the process. He put his hand to the point of my blow, his left cheek and jaw. As he roused, he could also see I was still standing over him. He cowered and whined. He begged for me not to hit him again.

  “No-one’s calling triple ‘O’,” I said in a low growl. “No-one’s surrendering my little sister.”

  “Okay, Pete,” he whined. “Okay. I just wasn’t thinking. Deb will stay with you. You’ll look after her. You’ll take good care of her, I’m sure. She’ll be fine…”

  “… and no-one is calling the authorities. Got it!?” I bawled.

  “Fine, Pete,” he continued whining. “Just as you say. No calls. Deb stays put…And I’ll…I’ll get out of your way.”

  And, with that, Ben climbed to his feet and fled from my flat, leaving the door ajar.

  Deb and I were alone once again.

  Chapter 8

  A Visit from the Police

  Around midnight, Deb was still unconscious, much the same as she had been throughout most of the day.

  I hadn’t eaten anything. Truth be told, there was nothing in my fridge except several ancient cartons of extremely dodgy milk. (I’d eaten all my dried muesli and frozen peas.)

  I was playing some classical music (Vivaldi?). Actually, my tastes turned more to punk at the time but I did not find The Dead Kennedys’ music very conducive to thinking – and I did need to think.

  (I had once defended the Dead Kennedys’ music in an obscenity trial – and lost miserably. ‘Too Drunk to Fuck’ was a step too far for Mr Pat Street SM. I, myself, blamed the conclusion of the piece, the recorded sound of vomiting into a toilet bowl, for turning the decision against us. But for that, who knows?)

  Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. A solid knock at the door – not just a gentle rapping but an insistent thump. My reflections were interrupted. Making sure the security chain was in place, I cautiously eased the door open. (Fitzroy was a pretty rough suburb in those days and I never took unnecessary risks.)

  Two large uniformed police stood at the door.

  Ben! The miserable, treacherous bastard!

  I kept my calm as far as possible: “Yes, officers, may I help you?”

  “May we come in?” asked one.

  I knew better than to raise suspicions by refusing – and my flimsy, plywood door would definitely not withstand the force of a policeman’s boot.

  “Sure,” I said, cheerily. “Come in and take a seat. Fancy a cuppa? The kettle’s just boiled.”

  They came in, sat themselves down on the pine-wood velour couch and accepted the cup of tea. We exchanged pleasantries for a short time. Then, I realised that I recognised one of them – a prime opportunity to ingratiate myself!

  “Say, aren’t you the chap who was informant in the (name deleted) coroner’s inquest?”

  He expressed surprise but confirmed that this was indeed the case – but he obviously didn’t recognise me. Was I that unmemorable? I jogged his memory.

  I had been a witness in a probable suicide investigation. The victim had died in an adjoining flat, by gunshot. Everything pointed to suicide: broken relationship, serious health issues, alcohol and drug abuse, estrangement from parents, unemployment etc. etc. Apparently, only I had actually heard the fatal shot – but I had not only heard that shot. I had heard two shots – in quick succession.

  And the police had only found one spent cartridge at the scene.

  I mean, who shoots themself twice but hides the first spent cartridge before shooting themself the second time? This was a fairly obvious question – to me, at least.

  The interviewing policeman thought my memory may have been faulty – it wasn’t – and suggested that I might alter my statement accordingly – I didn’t.

  So, the Coroner was very much puzzled by my statement - but there was nothing else to suggest it was anything but a suicide. So, he let the investigation rest there.

  So, here I was, sitting once again, with that interviewing policeman. How could he not have remembered me? As I have said, was I that forgettable?

  Eventually, after we drank our tea and reminisced about the coroner’s inquest – though I chose not to remind him of his cl
umsy attempt to suppress relevant evidence - he got to the point of his visit.

  “We’ve had a report of a young female person apparently suffering from ‘advanced ‘flu-like symptoms’. Is there such a person here?”

  (The Prime Minister’s quarantine directive was being carried out with unaccustomed efficiency, it seemed. That was not usually the pace at which any new law was put into effect – at least, not in my experience.)

  “Certainly,” I replied. “That would be my kid-sister, Deb. She gets really bad hay-fever this time of year. You know, on a North-wind day like today, the grass-pollen gets into her - and her nose and eyes just run like taps. Her throat closes over and she struggles to breathe. It’s awful. You know, she’s suffered really badly from it ever since she was a kid. It’s a surprise she hasn’t died from it. Nowadays, though, I just dose her up with anti-histamines. They make her very drowsy and she passes out like a light. Problem solved – for a while.”