by Perrin Briar
The figure’s foot snagged on a clinging arm of foliage. The man growled and seized the bush, tearing at it with his hands and gnashing it with his broken teeth. He pulled his leg free, hissing at the jungle around him, daring an unseen challenger to face him. Then he became very still, his shoulders heaving with heavy breaths.
Jack crept closer, almost directly above the figure. The back of the man’s head was matted with blood. His teeth jutted through a torn hole in his cheek. He stared, unblinking, gormless in expression. Flies buzzed about his head like a living halo. The man stood, eyes glazed, taking an unhealthy interest in the tree before it. Jack knew it was actually sleeping, or as close to sleeping as it was capable of getting.
Jack turned and ran his eyes over the shrubs dotted around the area. His eyes passed over half a dozen before he stopped at a fine specimen two dozen yards away. A course rounded object rose up, peering over the top, and then ducked back down again.
Jack’s eyes scrubbed the jungle floor again, and this time came to the trunk of a large baobab tree. He made out the curved outer skin of a small coconut shell he knew to be one of his brother’s kneepads. And then again, he saw a protuberance of scruffy unkempt hair over the top of a fallen log.
Jack pointed down at the zombie, and from behind the hedge, the tree and the fallen log came OK hand signals.
Bill stepped out from behind his shrub first, followed by Fritz from behind the tree, and Ernest the fallen log. Each wore a hollowed-out coconut helmet, shin, knee and elbow pads of the same material, and boots of a tar-like substance Bill had found bubbling up near the west coast of the island. Itchy and uncomfortable, the tar nonetheless was hard and moulded well to any shape before it set. They each also carried a long stick with knobbly protrusions on the end.
Bill crept up to the foliage of the hedge the zombie had fallen through and peered between the leaves at the unfortunate creature. The jungle was silent, disquieted by this most unnatural of beings in its midst.
Bill raised his hand and flicked his fingers forward.
The foliage on two sides of the zombie rustled, and Fritz and Ernest burst out, yelling at the top of their lungs, brandishing their cudgels. The zombie growled, looking from one target to another, and in his momentary confusion Bill rushed from the foliage and brought his stick down on the back of the zombie’s rotten skull. It caved in with a satisfying wet crack. The body hit the jungle floor in a formless lump.
“Well,” Fritz said, taking off his helmet. “That was uneventful.”
“What would you prefer?” Bill said. “For it to breathe fire?”
“No,” Fritz said. “But something more exciting than that.”
“It’s the safest way,” Bill said, using the zombie’s clothing to wipe the blood off his cudgel. “It’s when it gets exciting that it’s most dangerous.”
“Couldn’t we make it a bit of a challenge sometimes, though?” Fritz said.
“You want to dance with it first?” Bill said.
“At least it would make it more exciting,” Fritz said.
Bill pulled half a dozen broad leaves off a tree and laid them on the floor like a big blanket.
“When they attacked us, washing over us like a swarm, was that exciting?” he said.
“Yes,” Fritz said with a grin.
“You say that now because we lived through it,” Bill said.
“By the skin of our teeth,” Ernest said.
“Precisely my point,” Bill said, bending down to pick up the zombie’s body. “Give me a hand with this, would you?”
They laid it on the leaves and folded them over like they were wrapping a present.
“It was exciting though,” Fritz mumbled. “I mean, we can cut back on hunting them for a little while, can’t we?”
“We can’t,” Bill said. “There could still be others out there. And others could come to our island at any point.”
“But let’s tone it down a bit,” Fritz said. “Sweeps every other day.”
“What will you do on the other days?” Bill said.
“Anything,” Fritz said. “Nothing. Chill sometimes, enjoy the beach. I’m not saying we should completely relax—someone will always have to stay on watch, but the rest of us can relax a little. We’ve been here almost a year and we haven’t enjoyed any of the island yet.”
“We’re not on holiday,” Bill said.
“But we’re not in a prison either,” Fritz said.
“Did you know that when the crossbow was first invented the British refused to use it?” Ernest said. “It required no skill, and they thought that to take someone’s life ought to require skill and honour.”
“This is a zombie,” Bill said. “I’m not sure it cares much about honour.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Fritz said with a sigh. “At least the island’s getting clean now.”
Bill shook his head.
“It’ll never be clean,” he said.
“This is the first one we’ve seen in, how long? A month?” Fritz said. “We’ve swept the whole island four or five times. There can’t be anymore left.”
“Take this cudgel,” Bill said, holding the weapon up for them all to see. “Once dowsed in the blood of our enemies it will never be clean again, no matter how many times we scrub it. There will forever be evidence of them on it. We must stay vigilant. It took a month to find this one, but that doesn’t mean we won’t find a dozen next time. Or a thousand.”
“I said getting clean,” Fritz said.
“It’s either clean of them all or not at all,” Bill said. “One of them could get the drop on us at any time.”
Jack snatched a length of vine down from the tree and handed it to Bill, who wrapped the package up into a nice bundle.
“Every time you say this I wonder if you really understand the situation we’re in,” Bill said.
“I understand,” Fritz said. “I also understand the need to let our hair down sometimes.”
Jack hung on the branch by one hand. He let go and dropped to the jungle floor.
“You’ve only got a few hours left,” Ernest said to Jack, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “Aren’t you worried?”
“I’ll get it later,” Jack said.
“Later?” Ernest said. “There isn’t much time later, is there? It is happening today, you know.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Jack said. “You just worry about how much Mum is going to love me, and how much she’ll forget all of you.”
“Forget us,” Ernest said, nodding. “Yeah… That sounds just like Mum all right.”
Foliage crunched somewhere to their right. The Flowers snapped to attention, clubs grasped tight in white knuckles. They waited, but there was no other noise.
“Is this more exciting?” Bill said to Fritz.
“It’s a start,” Fritz said, not taking his eyes off the jungle.
“It’s okay,” Bill said. “I don’t think there’s anything-”
The zombie lurched from nowhere, mouth mawing open, and fell upon Ernest’s back, who was knocked onto his front. The zombie bit at the back of Ernest’s head, its teeth grazing the coconut helmet. It bit into it and tore a chunk out of it.
Fritz seized the zombie by the back of its jacket, lifted it, and threw it against a tree, its head snapping back and smacking the trunk, leaving a splatter of blood.
Fritz swung his cudgel and buried it in the zombie’s face, caving in its head. Its eyes popped, dribbling over the cudgel, a thick putrid green liquid running down its face. It slumped onto its knees and then its face. Fritz remained alert, watching the unmoving figure and casting about them for any other aggressors.
Ernest screamed, his face twisted and contorted in pain.
“He got me!” Ernest said. “He got me!”
Bill pulled the collar of Ernest’s jumper back and checked his skin.
“He didn’t bite you,” Bill said.
“He did!” Ernest said.
“No, he didn’t,
” Bill said. “Your skin’s not broken. You’ll be fine.”
“Not my neck, my leg!” Ernest said.
“He didn’t get anywhere near your leg,” Bill said.
But Ernest clutched his leg, clearly in some discomfort. Bill knelt down beside him.
“Stop your whining,” Fritz said. “Wuss!”
“You try getting mauled by a zombie and see how you like it!” Ernest said.
“It doesn’t count as mauling if there’s no contact,” Fritz said.
“There was contact!” Ernest said.
Ernest’s jeans had been torn. Blood caked the material, making it stick to his skin. Bill tore the jeans open, revealing a nasty-looking gash just under Ernest’s knee. Blood dribbled down his leg.
Bill looked at the place where Ernest had been pushed down onto the ground. There were thin jutting flint stones, standing up like a Stegosaurus’s frilly spine plates, one of which had been licked with blood around the edges like a murderer’s knife.
“You’ve got a bad cut to your leg,” Bill said. “Nothing too serious. Though the pain might be severe.”
“You think?” Ernest said through gritted teeth.
Bill turned to Jack.
“We need some Pain Killer Pansies,” he said.
“Which colour?” Jack said.
“Blue ought to do it,” Bill said.
“You can get your present while you’re at it,” Fritz said.
“I’ll get it later,” Jack said.
“Fritz, wrap the other zombie body up,” Bill said. “We’ll bury them together.”
Jack flew up a tall baobab, hands finding the handholds with ease, and popped his head up above the canopy, disrupting a nesting parrot, who cawed, “Tosser!” before taking wing. Jack had taught the parrots the virtue of self-expression himself.
Jack couldn’t remember the complicated names Bill had for the plants with medical properties that grew over the island, but he could recall them if they described their appearance or special properties, like Pain Killer Pansies, Yellow Pokka Dots, Disinfectant Geraniums, or Jack’s personal favourite, Diarrhoea Daisies.
A delicate blue flower with yellow flecks on the petals poked above the canopy. Jack plucked one and then dived back down the tree, the hard skin on the bottom of his feet heating up under the friction. He hit the ground hard, bending his knees to absorb the impact.
He took off at a run, throwing his arms back as far as he could, stretching out his strides to their full length. He skidded to a stop beside Fritz.
Bill had cleaned the wound and wrapped a tourniquet around it. He took the blue flower from Jack. He tore up the petals and mashed it between his hands. He put them into a concaved leaf in the middle of his palm and added a splash of water, turning it into a thick paste-like substance.
He handed it to Ernest, who swallowed it. After a moment the relief washed over Ernest’s face.
“Let’s get him home,” Bill said. “Fritz, can you give me a hand?”
Fritz wrapped Ernest’s arm around his shoulder.
“Jack, aren’t you coming?” Bill said.
“No, I need to get Mother’s present,” Jack said.
“Still haven’t got it sorted?” Bill said. “I haven’t seen you making anything.”
“That’s because I’m not making it,” Jack said. “Nature’s making my gift.”
Bill smiled.
“Have you ever thought about becoming a poet?” he said.
“No,” Jack said with a frown. “Why?”
“No reason,” Bill said. “Come on, let’s get Ernest to the treehouse.”
They carried him away.
Jack turned and ran through the jungle, a broad smile on his face. He moved through the jungle like he’d been born there. Of all the family members Jack was the one who took most to their new surroundings. Every time he headed into it he didn’t feel like was entering a dangerous landscape—quite the opposite, in fact. He felt like he was heading home.
He wore no gloves or shoes. He loved the crunch of the vines he gripped with his hands and used to swing up into the trees. He liked to feel the rough bark on his skin, the squelch of wet moss and sticky sap between his toes. The hard skin on his hands and feet were like wearing natural protection anyway.
And, always at his side, his trusty climbing companion Nips, who kept pace with him every step of the way.
Jack flew up the first tree of sufficient height. He stood in the crook of a tree branch, a branch that for all the world had the appearance of an old man’s bent crooked elbow, and looked out at the jungle around him.
A flock of blue and yellow parrots took wing, shimmering like flashes of gold in the bottom of a river. The truth was Jack had planned his gift with great care. He had scouted the entire island and found the most beautiful and rare flowers. He based his opinion of how beautiful and rare they were by how difficult they were to reach, a train of thought that would bring him every bit of satisfaction in retrieving them as he hoped his mother would in receiving them.
He would begin with the most difficult plant to reach first, a purple pretty with bright pink spirals, which jutted from a small rock in the middle of a cascading waterfall, and then work his way back toward the treehouse, stopping off to pick the easier ones along the way.
He stood at the bottom of the waterfall, cracked his knuckles, and began to scale it, the water rushing over him, washing away his sweat and exhaustion. The water roared, pushing against him, resisting him, but Jack’s movements were confident and sure.
He got to the rock in the vertical river and looked upon his quarry: the purple-pink flower. It was beautiful, and would serve as the centre piece of the whole bouquet. He plucked it, and was surprised when the broken stem retracted back into the ground, like a tortoise in its shell. Jack descended the waterfall and took off back into the jungle.
The sun beat down hard on him, drying his hair and clothes before he even got to the next flower. His heart raced in his chest. He couldn’t wait to see his mother’s reaction.
II
LIZ HELD the ladder with one hand and carried a silver tray of sandwiches in the other. She sat the tray on a large table in the centre of the clearing crammed with food. There were fruit pies, a pork stew, freshly made bread, salad, and potatoes cooked half a dozen different ways.
The centrepiece was an evil-looking goblet with a skull worked into its handle, and large jewels inset around the rim. It was the only really decorative thing they had. Liz screwed up her face. She always felt like she should have been wearing a mask made from a man’s skull every time she picked it up.
Liz cast an eye over the dining table. The sausage roll plate looked suspiciously empty. Francis sat beside it.
“You haven’t been eating the sausage rolls, have you, Francis?” Liz said.
Francis shook his head, some of the crumbs falling from his lips.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Liz said. “There seem to be a lot less here than there were when I went inside.”
“I’m sure,” Francis said, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
“Hm,” Liz said. “I suppose I’ll just have to trust you, won’t I?”
Liz turned and looked up at the pair of treehouses. They were like something from a painting or museum—beautiful to behold but not meant to be lived in.
After the zombie horde had attacked, the Flowers had searched amongst the treehouse wreckage. The family was able to salvage a good number of their personal items as well as the panels they had used to build the treehouse in the first place. They had dragged the pieces to one side.
There were enough to rebuild a single treehouse. For the other, they went into the cruise ship and took apart a cabin, lying the pieces down in the clearing. The cruise ship slipped into the sea like a woman committing suicide, never to be seen again.
Bill had stood with his hands on his hips and said: “We need nothing but a little double-sided sticky tape and good old elbow grease.
”
He got to work the very next day, chopping down trees, clearing away those closest to the tuft of clearing in order to give them a clearer range of any approaching creatures. It worked, as while they toiled on their new home they had to stop occasionally to deal with straggler zombies, who emerged in ones and twos.
At the end of each day, Bill and Fritz took the rotten, emaciated fly-infested corpses down to the cemetery where they were buried. Bill complained that there were so many graves now, each marked with a simple wooden cross, that they would soon need to expand it.
It had taken three months but they had rebuilt the treehouse, and it came with one important improvement: it now stood on a tall pile of heavy square flint blocks.
They had used Lightfoot the donkey and Valiant the bull to drag the rocks from the bottom of the incline up to the top of the hill. Only Francis could handle Valiant, who would glare at anyone but the small boy.
Once they were finished, Bill said: “I’d like to see them eat through this!”
“They could,” Liz said.
“With rotting teeth?” Bill said.
“They’d chew through the rocks even if they only had gums to chew with,” Liz said.
“Yes, but that should give us enough time to drop a few heavy rocks on their heads,” Bill said.
Bill had also formulated a strong bleach using materials from his natural apothecary. They washed everything that had come in contact with the zombies, and burnt their clothes.
They were offered a dramatic reminder of the danger that existed in the world, where great swathes of the jungle were left empty, like a wild fire had torn through it. Wherever zombie blood had spilled no plant life could be coaxed into growing there again.
Bill and the Flower boys emerged from the jungle. The smile on Liz’s face curdled when she saw what they were carrying between them.
“What happened to Ernest?” Liz said, rushing to him.
“He’s fine,” Bill said. “Just a bit of a scraped knee, that’s all.”
“You don’t normally need to be carried if you scrape your knee,” Liz said. “Ernest, are you all right?”