Mine (Book 2): Sister Mine, Zombie

by Peter Trevorah

  Something was not quite right with its mistress, it seemed.

  But soon, the dog apparently decided that the zombie Bella was ‘near enough’ and more enthusiastic hand-licking recommenced. The dog began to leap and bound with excitement, running in circles from one girl to the other – but ignoring me and Deb completely.

  This was good enough for me – it confirmed the three sisters had indeed come from this farm.

  The dog must have been tied up for a few days – after greeting Bella, it headed for its water bowl and drank deeply. Then, obviously hungry as well, it found a half-open bag of kibble in a nearby shed - and proceeded to consume its contents greedily.

  The dog’s barking had not caused any obvious reaction from within the farmhouse. The large, wooden dwelling had been in darkness when we arrived and remained so. Nothing stirred inside. Then I noticed that the front door was swinging gently in the night air.

  Not a good sign as to the fate of other recent occupants of the home – but at least I would not now be needing those keys to get inside.

  The three sisters – with the kelpie’s tail wagging along behind – wandered off towards the open front door and went inside without hesitation or investigation. (After all, who bothers to investigate what they are already familiar with?)

  I took Deb’s hand and we followed at a sensible distance.

  The zombie sisters had entered the house in single file, one after the other.

  Immediately after the last one entered, the now-familiar cry of the banshee emanated from within the house and my blood ran cold. I was all for leaving straight away but Deb seemed unfussed and would not allow me to release the grip of her hand.

  She looked to me – but her dead, sunken eyes gave me little reassurance.

  With that, the zombie sisters retreated from the house, walking backwards through the front door – it was as if they had simply changed into reverse gear. There was no panic, merely an orderly, single file, retreat.

  None of them was screaming. So, I gathered that it was someone else who was raising the hue and cry. But who? Shortly after the third sister emerged backwards from the doorway, I got my answer. Another figure followed, facing the sisters and screaming and gesticulating at them as if doomsday had just arrived.

  She was an older woman and her cries did not seem to be of the ‘normal’ threatening kind. This, of course, was no surprise since I well knew that zombies did not attack other zombies. So, why was she screaming with such vehemence at the three sisters – and why were they all meekly backing off without protest or resistance?

  The older woman, alternately bobbing her head and then raising her arms in the air, continued to wail at the girls and forced them back across the yard in the direction of me and Deb. As they came closer, I could discern that the woman bore signs of recent attack – human bite-marks to her face and arms – but she was basically still intact. (That is to say, most bits of her were still where you’d expect them to be.) She had been attacked – and, obviously, infected – but not devoured.

  Then I put the all-too-obvious pieces together: the older woman was the mother of the three sisters and, when they had succumbed, at least one had attacked Mum. And now their mother had become a second generation zombie.

  Mother wasn’t at all happy about this, it seemed. So, the girls were all ‘in big trouble, Miss!’

  In the darkness, I now observed two other forms, much less complete, on the ground nearby. They were positioned in an unnatural sprawl, resting up against the wire fencing that surrounded the farmyard – as if they’d been backed into the fence and had fallen there. Male clothing was on or near them. Father? Brother? Not sure but, in any event, these guys were definitely not going to re-animate like mother had – there simply was not enough of them left for that.

  I found these observations personally disturbing. A close female relative had been bitten by the sisters but not devoured – but the male relatives had been pursued, brought to bay and torn down – and then become breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  As I contemplated this revelation – in rising terror – events suddenly took a bad turn: ‘Mum’ noticed my presence. Her wailing instantly changed register - from mere reproof of her cannibalistic daughters to something much more familiar to my ears, something that said: ‘Fresh meat – eat now!’

  Running away very fast seemed to be a good option as the middle-aged zombie-woman (still wearing her best embroidered apron, of course) rushed headlong at me. Deb, however, continued to hold my hand tightly and restrained my attempted escape.

  I observed the sisters standing by and watching completely impassively – just as Deb had done as I fought those same three sisters back at the dam. ‘Mum’ approached within a foot or two, close enough for me to catch a whiff of her fetid, screaming exhalation. (Not nice.) Crouching low, she turned her face to Deb, widened her eyes and let her have the full banshee cry: “Let him go, bitch” she seemed to be demanding. “He’s my dinner!”

  Deb remained unruffled – I, on the other hand, was absolutely shitting myself.

  “Brother,” said Deb, in a calm, child-like voice, when the wailing had briefly subsided.

  The lady in her best embroidered apron remained silent, straightened herself up and turned her back on us. End of discussion: I was no longer on the menu.

  Family ties? Well, they had apparently not stopped the men of the farming family being eaten by the three sisters – and Mum? Maybe the key to survival is having a zombie actually stick up for you when an attack threatens.

  Had something similar happened back at the dam as I was being drowned by the sisters? How would I know? I was unconscious and heading rapidly towards eternity at the time. So, I’m still trying not to think too hard about it – it just does your head in!

  Later, when I had composed myself, I realised that this encounter meant that women – or, at least, some women - were not immune to infection upon being bitten by another, infected, woman. Obviously, the infection had, over the last ten years, developed a way of immediately overcoming a woman’s natural defences. So, a woman now bitten by another female, would no longer have a long period of latency before succumbing to the change.

  And the men?

  Well, so far, I hadn’t seen any men who’d been left sufficiently intact to be reanimated. So, at that point, the question was largely academic – but, maybe, I thought, this time round, all the blokes were just girly food!

  I put aside this grim reverie: hadn’t I come to the farm to get a car? Ah, yes. I knew there had been a reason for all this.

  I saw that there was indeed a choice – just as I had remembered it: a decrepit tray truck, a somewhat newer tractor and a fairly modern-looking ute.

  I decided to take the ute. It already had keys in the ignition. So, once again, I neatly avoided the problem of having to persuade the tall sister with the keys to part with them. (I hadn’t been looking forward to that particular ‘negotiation’.)

  While I had been making my choice (and observing more closely what had become of my fellow males), Mum, the sisters and Deb had all left me and gone inside the house.

  Back to happy families! (Obviously, zombie-mums don’t bear grudges for too long.)

  It briefly crossed my mind just to take the ute and leave Deb with her own kind – since she seemed so comfortable with them. But I knew what was coming to that farm – sooner or later, ‘the authorities’ would come and check the place out. Upon discovering Mum and the sisters, several shots would ring out and there would be no more ‘happy families’.

  So, Deb had to come with me whether she wanted to or not.

  I went inside in search of a cup of tea, wondering idly whether such a thing remained within the domestic repertoire of the zombie-mum. (Then again, I could make my own.)

  Chapter 17

  On the Road Again

  I hadn’t driven a ute since my student days.

  I’d had a holiday job involving chemicals and, whilst driving the company ute, had spi
lled a large (and unsecured) container of concentrated hydrochloric acid in the tray of the vehicle.

  Without realising what had happened, I had continued driving, with the car’s back-draft bringing the lethal fumes through my open window and into the driver’s cab. Inhaling the fumes for the rest of the journey, I was not a well boy by the time I got back to the factory.

  Upon my arrival, the boss immediately smelled the acrid fumes and saw what had happened in the tray of the vehicle. He was thus extremely worried that the tray may have eaten away by the several gallons of the highly corrosive spillage

  Naturally, he didn’t give a fuck about my well-being – my lungs probably still bear the scars.

  Moral of the story: avoid casual jobs where the employer is happy to put you at risk.

  But I digress!

  In any event, here I was, driving a ute down the Calder Highway towards the city of Melbourne. (I was definitely not heading for the hills as I had given the bound policemen to believe back at the shack.)

  Beside me sat a very grumpy zombie-sister, now clad in a full burqa.

  She had made it plain that she did not wish to leave the pleasant company of her zombie ‘sisters’ – nor even their zombie ‘Mum’ (to whom she had taken quite a shine after their initial contre-temps over the topic of my edibility).

  She had also made it plain that she didn’t wish to be encased in the burqa that I had, with so much difficulty, obtained for her – and placed on her.

  I overcame these objections by playing the ‘stern parent’ once again – of which I will spare you the details.

  The parting of the ways – back at the farm – was, if not exactly tearful, then certainly emotional: moaning and groaning all round, together with frequent and liberal hissing directed at me by all (since I was obviously the one causing the ‘happy home’ to be broken up.)

  Once we got back onto the road, I decided to tolerate Deb’s protest-noises and mono-syllabic complaining for a time. After all, even a zombie-girl has got to ‘vent’, I suppose.

  After about half an hour or so driving on the near-deserted highway, we were approaching Diggers Rest.

  At that time, Diggers Rest still had the character of a modest rural town (it’s now, in effect, an outer suburb of Melbourne) and the highway did not then simply by-pass the town. One had to actually pass through it en route to the city of Melbourne and, more than that, there was only one point at which one could cross the Melbourne-to-Bendigo train line.

  Here’s an easy one for you: guess where ‘the authorities’ decided to set up their quarantine barrier?

  Yep, that’s right: the quarantine barrier – or road block, if you prefer – was set up at the Diggers Rest level crossing – with no obvious way around it.

  So, here was the first test of Deb’s Muslim disguise.

  But, Deb had not yet stopped grumbling about my forcing her to leave her newly adopted zombie ‘family’.

  “Deb!” I hissed between clenched teeth, as we approached the roadblock. “Shut up! Stay completely silent until I say.”

  She ignored me and kept on groaning and babbling her complaints. She was obviously pretty worked up – a bad case of unresolved ‘separation anxiety’?

  I took the ute out of gear and started to coast. As the ute started slow down, I took my left hand off the steering wheel and, after fumbling around with Deb’s burqa, found the outline of her right hand under the thick grey fabric.

  I smacked her hand hard and growled: “Deb-deb bad girl! Very bad girl! Deb-deb be quiet.”

  She squeaked a protest at such rough handling – but fell silent when I raised my left hand, poised to strike her once again.

  “Not bad girl,” she muttered – and then fell silent.

  I brought the ute to a full halt and two men emerged from a small workman’s hut (the mobile sort that council workers use). It had had been set up beside the road-block. The men came to my car window – one a uniformed policeman and the other? Not sure – a civilian volunteer/vigilante, perhaps.

  The policeman shone a torch in my face as I wound down my window and then played the light upon the burqa-clad figure sitting beside me.

  The policeman started into his spiel. The new zombie plague was ‘being brought under control’ but there was ‘no room for complacency’. Further outbreaks ‘could occur at any time’ and many zombies remained on the loose, ready to attack and infect …etc. etc. etc.

  No surprises there – the officer’s spiel had been well-rehearsed. I was just wondering how much of it was accurate reportage and how much was mere propaganda when the man who was not in uniform broke in suddenly (and very cheerfully):

  “Salaam Alaikum”.

  Shit! This guy was probably the only Muslim in Diggers Rest at that time. (For all I know, there are probably hundreds there now.) He’d seen Deb’s burqa and thus recognised a person of his faith.

  “Salaam, Mate,” I replied with a smile and in the broadest Aussie accent I could muster.

  (To this guy, there was no point in pretending I was anything other than an Anglo-Celt.)

  The Muslim man was obviously surprised at my unconventional response. So, I continued:

  “My sister’s a recent convert to Islam. She’s very devout – she’s even trying to convince me to join up, too! But my Arabic still needs a lot of work. But I can say ‘Allah hu Akbah!’ She says that’s pretty important to know.”

  (At that time, this phrase, used in the West, had not yet acquired the unfortunate stigma it bears today. These events were well before the ‘War on Terror’.)

  The Muslim man was puzzled by my queer performance but seemed prepared to humour me. The policeman was equally puzzled. The two of them moved away from the car and towards their hut. I smelled fragrant coffee in the night air – obviously something was brewing back at the hut. They had a discussion. It seemed the policeman wished to see who was under the burqa but the Muslim man was vigorously shaking both his head and right index finger at this suggestion.

  The policeman was still suspicious. He returned to my window:

  “Can we speak to your sister,” he asked.

  Double-shit! I thought.

  “Sure,” I said. “But she may not speak to you – you are not a close male relative. Women who are as devout as my sister do not speak to men other than close relatives. It’s a morality thing, you know.”

  The policeman seemed dubious and turned to his colleague with a question on his brow. The Muslim man shrugged: ‘Could be’.

  The policeman turned back and addressed himself to Deb:

  “Excuse me, Miss, could you tell me your name please?”

  “Deb-deb not bad girl. Be quiet.”

  Deb’s tone was still very sulky – my very recent smack and abmonition was still obviously peeving her. However, for Deb, this really was quite a speech. The policeman immediately picked up on the pettish nature of it. He turned back to me:

  “Did your sister just tell me to be quiet?”

  (Well, actually, no. At least, not intentionally. But she might have.)

  I smiled: “I did warn you, officer, that she wouldn’t speak with you. You’ve obviously offended her religious and moral sensibilities...” and then, turning to our Muslim friend, I added “…I think you’d better explain it to our infidel mate, Mohammed.”

  ‘Mohammed’s’ eyes widened visibly – even seen in the dimness of the nearby street-light.

  “How did you know my name, sir?” asked the Muslim man incredulously.

  I smiled benignly - as if I had indeed read his mind. (But, of course, it had been no more than an inspired guess on my part. The gentleman could just as easily have been Hassan, Ali or Tariq, for all I knew.)

  The policeman and the Muslim man exchanged glances.

  “Let them through, please, Sir” said Mohammed.

  We bumped across the train lines and passed along the highway without further problem – but I was astute enough to realise that this bizarre encounter could easily hav
e ended very badly. Luck was clearly still on our side but I had no desire to ride it unnecessarily.

  Chapter 18

  A Room and a Bar.

  Deb and I parked in a dingy side-street and checked into a very down-at-heel rooming house on the City fringe. Actually, it was not more than half a mile from my (far more comfortable) flat in Fitzroy – but I guessed that the flat was probably still under at least occasional surveillance by the local police – on the off-chance that I was foolish enough to return there after evading capture in the bush.

  Ever stayed in a rooming house? Well, some are better than others. This one was about average for the time, I suppose. It was clean enough but everything was spartan, worn and shabby: the floor was covered in cracked linoleum, the two single beds in our room were sagging and creaky, the walls were covered in peeling and faded wall-paper (All patterned in lime-green - why?). The single window to our room had not been cleaned in living memory and was obscured by a thick, brownish film of city grime. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a table that rocked alarmingly and a plywood wardrobe with a door that didn’t close properly.