Perhaps.
It seems unlikely. Why devote a special effort to track down one zombie when there are thousands on the loose and creating mayhem?
I guess I’ll die never really knowing.
In any event, it was about midday when I heard the approach of a vehicle, bumping along the barely defined dirt track that led into my heavily forested property.
I had been dozing in the dappled light that covered the area around the spring – but that dozing had abruptly ceased.
Deb paid it no attention – she was still playing at being the fairy princess. (It appeared that the long-suffering toy wombat had now become a vassal of some sort to her – a knight, a jester, a servant? Who knows? She was content.)
I recognised the low throb of a V-8 engine before I saw the vehicle that carried it.
Through the trees, I spotted the blue and white form of a police divisional van – it was headed for the shack.
I stood and grabbed Deb firmly by the shoulders, facing me. She was startled but did not react with any aggression. I looked into her dead eyes and said as calmly but as firmly as I could: “Deb-deb stay. Deb-deb stay here.”
I pointed directly to the spring to emphasise the point. She seemed to understand. So, I released her from my grip. Looking a little puzzled, she stepped into the spring water – in obedience to my apparent command.
“Near enough,” I muttered. (There was no time to finesse the situation – as long as Deb stayed out of the way of the police, who cared if she got her feet wet?)
In the near distance, I heard the divisional van come to a halt and the engine die. Then: thump, thump, thump – three car doors being closed.
Three visitors.
I decided to face them. Was this the best way to protect Deb from detection? Hmmm.
As I emerged from the bush, I saw two uniformed police officers standing on the balcony of the shack and surveying the scene. I greeted them as cheerfully as I could muster in the circumstances:
“G’day! Can I help you gentlemen with anything?”
They swung around to view me as I continued to approach. They asked me to confirm my identity. I did so willingly and stopped close by, looking up at them from ground level.
The more senior of the two then addressed me in a very formal tone:
“We have reason to believe that you are acting in breach of the recently imposed quarantine regulations – that you are harbouring a female who has been afflicted by the plague. Is that the case? Is our information accurate?”
I shrugged and tried (badly) to remain nonchalant:
“No zombies here, officers. You can check for yourself.”
(In saying this, I knew that a proper search of the surrounding bushland would take more than a couple of non-specialist police officers – especially on foot and without the usual search and rescue gear. So, in effect, my invitation to them to search was pretty safe.)
The senior officer looked to his feet, on the decking of the balcony:
“What’s all this golden, glittery stuff here? Is that yours?”
The friggin’ fairy dust! Deb had spread her ‘magic’ absolutely everywhere that morning.
“Nah,” I said. “I’d say some of the local kids have been playing here. I don’t spend a lot of my time here. So, the local kids come around and play whenever they like. They don’t usually cause any trouble.”
Plausible.
The officer then looked through one of the windows in the shack, observed the ‘sleeping arrangements’ and grinned broadly:
“And I suppose you put the kids to bed and tie them up with seat belts, do you?”
“Explain that one away, Pete,” I thought to myself.
I feigned incomprehension – it was the best I could do in the circumstances.
The senior officer started to ‘read me my rights’ and to inform me that I was to be charged under the relevant regulations. I remained silent. I had, temporarily at least, run out of plans, either clever or stupid.
As I was being read my rights, the junior officer started to fiddle with his utility belt, trying to remove his handcuffs – presumably, for immediate use upon my person.
As he was fumbling with belt, I observed that his holster was unclipped – and that his Smith and Wesson service pistol was thus loose within the holster.
(It had not, until that moment, occurred to me that I had heard three visitors arrive and that, as yet, I was only dealing with two.)
As I was observing the junior officer fumbling with his belt, the now-familiar cry of the banshee rent the air – followed immediately by a high-pitched scream, a male scream, for help.
The attention of the officers instantly switched from me to the direction of the spring – where I had left Deb. The officers both vaulted the rail of the balcony, rather than retreating to use the steps. They fell heavily on the ground, quickly picked themselves up and ran past me as if I no longer mattered. (And, in truth, I didn’t.)
I remained rooted to the spot, indecisive for just a moment – to pursue and defend Deb or just cut and run? Try to be a hero or just save myself?
I’m not quite sure what decision I would have taken – my car was, after all, close at hand and ready to go. But, in the event, the decision was made for me.
I looked to the ground where the officers had both fallen heavily – one pistol, presumably the young constable’s, had been jogged loose and was lying in the grass, glinting dully in the sunlight.
I picked it up and slowly released the safety catch. I did not intend just to bluff – if push came to shove.
The police were by this time, maybe fifty metres ahead, sprinting urgently in search of the cause of the great commotion. I ran after them, pistol in hand.
I was close behind by the time we reached a dismal scene.
Ben lay on the ground. His throat had been torn completely out by Deb. His life was still gushing out of him. Deb, still clad in her pink tutu, fairy wings and tiara, was crouched over him and howling to the heavens in triumph - like the fearsome predator that she was. She had started to tear at his abdomen – as zombies always seem to do.
I saw, as if in slow motion, the senior officer draw his pistol, assume a steady pose and take aim on my beloved and precious kid sister (whom, I admit, had temporarily become a hideous, bloodthirsty monster).
“Drop it!” I roared – and loosed off a round from the pistol in my own hand.
(I don’t think I was actually aiming a the senior police officer – but the bullet did in fact whizz by uncomfortably close to his left ear, close enough, it seemed, to make him believe I meant business.)
With his back still to me, the policeman dropped his weapon. Surprised by the sound of my shot, Deb ceased her carnal activities – for a moment or two. During that moment, Ben’s head flopped to one side and his eyes closed. He would experience no more of Deb’s predation. He was now beyond saving.
“Put your hands up!” I screamed, my voice trembling with emotion.
The officers complied without hesitation. The senior officer then started to re-gather himself and talk to me:
“Now, don’t make this any harder for yourself than it needs to be. Just hand me the gun and …”
I loosed off another shoot – this time above the heads of the officers. The senior officer fell silent.
“This is how it is, gentlemen,” I said in a low and deliberate tone. “I talk. You listen - and comply. No hesitation, no discussion.”
Oblivious to the exchange going on about her, Deb returned to feasting upon her erstwhile partner. What had Ben said to so upset her? Perhaps he had merely triggered an unfortunate memory of their most recent fighting? Again, I’m never likely to know. Whatever it had been, Ben had more than paid the price.
I explained – in surprisingly calm terms –that I appreciated that the police officers both had loving families that were awaiting their return from work that day. I explained that, unless it was absolutely necessary, I did not wish to do anything a
t all to prevent that occurring.
I also explained, however, that, for better or worse, Deb was my family – and that, if it proved necessary to choose between their families and mine, I would choose mine.
The senior officer had not fully understood what I was saying. Once again, he tried to negotiate with me. I cocked my weapon again with a very definite click. He thought better of the idea.
Soon, I had the younger officer bind his senior with the seatbelts that had been lying on Deb’s bed. Then, with the still-cocked pistol in one hand, I bound the younger officer myself, all the while reminding him of how easily a cocked weapon could be accidentally discharged.
Was I proud of the trauma that I caused that day to two police officers who were doing no more than carrying out their duties?
No.
Was I proud that my actions resulted in saving my beautiful sister from certain destruction?
You bet.
Having immobilised the police, it took some time for me to prise Deb away from her first victim. Doing this had never been a huge problem for me with my brother, David, ten years earlier. As you may recall, David and I were identical twins, empathetically joined since conception – he would never have attacked me (I think).
But Deb? Well, I couldn’t be sure what sort of a reaction that the customary swift kick in the rear would produce. I couldn’t be sure that I would not become victim number two.
So, I played the ‘outraged parent’ role once again:
“Deborah T!” I commenced. “You have been a very naughty little girl!”
She lifted her gore-covered face from within Ben’s guts. The ballerina costume would never see another performance of “Swan Lake” – or any other ballet - and it was definitely no longer coloured just pink. The tiara lay on the ground beside Ben’s fresh corpse and the fairy wings, though still white, were all askew, completely unairworthy.
I picked the jar of fairy dust, took a handful and threw it into the air. I watched as the dust sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the eucalypt leaves. (I allowed myself this much hysteria, at least.)
Eventually, the ‘outraged parent’ carried the day and I was able to bundle the blood-soaked Deb and some of her belongings into the subie.
As I was about to get behind the wheel, I called back to the police:
“Where are you stationed?”
“Castlemaine,” replied the young constable.
“I’ll give them a call in an hour or so. So just sit tight,” I said. “And, by the way, you can have your pistol back – I won’t be needing it in the High Country.”
I carefully uncocked the weapon and placed it on the grass where the police could see it.
I did make that call to the Castlemaine Cop-shop – but I was never going to the High Country. I was headed back to the City – in due course.
Chapter 14
On the Run – Still
Actually, I was more than a little conscious-stricken about leaving the cops tied up at the shack - and this caused a momentary, and potentially fatal, lapse of judgment.
After leaving the shack, the next small town that we passed through was Taradale – pop. 300 or so.
The main street, then the Calder Highway, was pretty much deserted and so I made a quick ‘pit-stop’ at the public phone box. I covered Deb in a tarpaulin and make her duck down in the car while I made the call – just in case there was a passer-by (there wasn’t). As I said, I called Castlemaine police station and told the officer in charge where he might find his missing men. Naturally, he wanted to keep me on the line, pretending he had not understood my message. (I presumed that he wanted to trace the call or, at the very least, to detain me and obtain more details.)
I immediately hung up. The call would have been recorded – so, if there had been any lack of clarity in what I had said, they could replay it.
We were less than half an hour by road from the shack. I should have delayed the call. Within ten minutes of making the call, there were two police helicopters circling the area. Perhaps that was merely a coincidence – perhaps not. Either way, I made a bee-line for my next bolt-hole.
In my rambles through the bush, I had once stumbled upon and old mining settlement. It was not marked on the standard ordnance map – not even as a ‘ruin’ - but, on the ground, the remains of the settlement were clearly visible. Obviously, from the air they were invisible – otherwise the aerial photograph from which the ordnance maps were made would have shown it.
To the best of my knowledge, it had never been given a name and remains, to this day, anonymous.
However, the inhabitants of the settlement had obviously remained in the area for a significant time. One could make out the bases of, maybe, a dozen homes – presumably made of wattle and daub which had long-since perished and rotted away. The beaten-earth of the paths that passed between the homes and the mine-shafts were still clearly discernible. One or two or the former homes also still showed signs of exotic plants left over from gardens that had once been cultivated there – the ivy had adapted particularly well to the area and I guess that the presence of purely decorative plants suggested that the miners had brought women-folk with them.
Here and there were to be found the detritus of the settlement – and old cook pot here, a rubbish heap there. Importantly, however, the miners had stayed long enough to build two large and well-constructed dams. Of these, one was still in good shape and full to overflowing with water. (The other had developed a terminal leak and held little water).
My own ancestors had mined for gold in that general area and I had often wondered if any of them had lived in this abandoned settlement. I suppose I’ll never know that either.
In any event, as I was confident that the settlement was no longer known locally and had been reclaimed by the forest to the point of invisibility (from the air), I decided this was a good place to hide – at least until ‘the heat’ cooled down.
It was also a good place for me to clean Deb up from the awful mess she had made during her recent homicidal activities.
o0o
It seemed Deb understood the concept of a wash but was entirely unable to do it herself – and, more to the point, was unwilling to allow me to assist.
“Deb-deb not dirty,” was the general mantra that she used on me when I tried to persuade her. (That mantra might sound familiar to any parent of a two-year-old.)
I looked her up and down. She was still wearing her fairy princess outfit – minus the tiara – but looked appalling. Ben’s clotted blood and viscera covered Deb from head to toe, deeply staining the formerly pink outfit. Her hair was matted and slimy.
I assumed the forceful parent role. (How long would it keep working, I wondered.)
“Deb-deb is a disgusting little grub,” I reproved. “Deb-deb will have wash or there’ll be no bed-time story.”
Unexpectedly, this minor threat had struck a very sensitive chord with my ‘two-year-old’. Her bottom lip dropped and she started to whimper. Was this the little girl who had just torn a grown man to pieces and devoured him?
“We live in strange times,” I thought.
I collected some soap and a towel from the car and led her to the edge of the dam (i.e. the one which had lots of water in it, of course). I handed the soap and towel to her:
“Deb-deb wash now,” I said.
Deb’s bottom lip quivered some more and she merely looked at the soap and towel helplessly.
Then I remembered a scene from ten years previously. On the run with my brother, David, the same problem had confronted me. I had needed him to clean the gore of his latest victim from himself but he simply couldn’t even commence the task. It had been beyond him.
I had thought that, because Deb had some speech, she might be more capable than David had been. Apparently not.
So, I did for Deb what I had done for David all those years previously. Like an infant, she stood passively and let me peel her disgusting garments from her and gently sponge the filth from her
body. Though her skin was decidedly grey and her eyes sunk dark into her head, there was a certain fragile vulnerability about her.
As I had done with David, upon seeing her naked in this way, I shed a tear for what had become of my beautiful and much loved sibling.
However, no sooner had I dressed her in fresh clothing than the time for sorrowful reflection passed. The banshee wail rose once again. This time, however, it was not Deb.
I turned in the direction of the cries and observed three young female zombies running swiftly towards me. They had apparently approached from behind as I had busied myself washing Deb.
Oh, shit!
Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie Page 7