by West, Mark
‘Well, screwed or not screwed, we need to get moving before that thing comes back, or worse, his friends revisit us.’
I pause for a second to gather my thoughts. ‘You’re right. We’ll stick to the plan and get the hell out of here.’
Chapter 21
DOUG
Doug pulls his arm back inside the cabin, places his foot down on the accelerator and picks up speed as fuel injects into the cylinders. He checks his rear-view mirror. The Infected are still tagging along and Woolworths is now far in the distance. He smiles.
‘I’m just like farmer Joe, guiding his sheep through the fields,’ he says with a chuckle, honking the horn a few more times in satisfaction. He leans over and spins the dial on the truck’s radio, static crackling loudly through the speakers, until he hears a clunky voice. ‘Those of you who have survived the—’ Static cuts across the man and Doug frantically reaches for the knob, fine tuning the dial until the voice returns. ‘Seek refuge amongst the dead. They walk all around us. Day or night they will find us. They rush us the flu vaccine to help, stick us with needles and say we will be okay. But were they tested? This is my question to you who survive …’
He preaches like a pastor at church, his words long and drawn out.
‘No. No, is my answer. I know the truth about this so-called vaccine that has caused us all this pain and misery. We can’t back down! We must stand up and fight if we are to survi—’
Static explodes through the speakers and Doug spins the knob again finding only more static. He gives up and switches it off.
‘Whoa, that was strange. I better tell the others about that.’
He adjusts himself in his seat, scans the buttons on the car stereo and finds one with CD on it. ‘I wonder?’ He presses it. Music starts blaring through the cabin and the lyrics ‘Shake it off’ scream over and over. Doug bobs his head in unison with the beat. ‘This is more like it!’
He continues driving along the road until he is happy with how far he has taken the horde and picks up speed, taking a left turn and looping back around towards the main road where he will meet Rohan.
Something hits the van causing the tyres to screech and the cabin to shake. Doug feels the steering wheel jerk in his hands.
‘What was that?’
He glances at his side mirrors and spots a few Infected about fifteen metres back from the van. He shrugs and turns up the music, figuring he must have run over something. Minutes later there is another impact. This time it comes from the back of the van, sliding it sideways across the road and causing it to shake worse than before. In a panic, Doug plants his foot further down on the accelerator, causing the tyres to spin. He skids further sideways and starts to fishtail down the road, clutching the wheel in terror as smoke streams up from the burning rubber ripping into the asphalt. ‘Shit!’ His heart pounds like a fist is trying to punch through his chest as he raises his foot and places it onto the brake. The van begins to slow, the spinning tyres regaining grip of the asphalt and he straightens the van, eventually coming to a halt.
‘Bloody hell!’ Doug shakes his head in disbelief and checks the mirror, spotting Infected about twenty metres back. ‘Good. Stay back.’ Feeling breathless, he slowly releases his hands, allowing blood flow back into fingers, and unclicks his belt so he can breathe a little better. The near crash, has him sweating from every nook and cranny so that his clothes cling to his skin like gladwrap.
‘I’m going to need a shower when I get back,’ he says, flapping his shirt in and out.
He leans over to the side window, looking back to where the impact happened, but can’t see anything. He checks the other mirror, but it only reveals the side of the van side and empty road. He looks to see if it was a kangaroo. But there is no trace of an animal lying on the road. He shrugs. ‘As long as I keep moving forward.’ And turns the key. The van roars to life first go and he lets out a small sigh, thankful there isn’t any damage to the engine. ‘I sure hope the food’s okay.’ He places his foot back on the accelerator.
Doug sees a blur of movement in the corner of his right eye, and before he has time to turn something slams into his door. The van shifts sideways, coming to a sudden halt, and the momentum throws Doug out of his seat and onto the passenger side in a slump.
Dazed, he opens his eyes to find his body sprawled out over the gear stick. His head is bleeding, and when he checks his arms he finds small cuts across his wrists. ‘Could be worse.’ He puts both his hands on the passenger seat to push himself upright. ‘I could be dead.’
When he falls back into the driver’s seat, he feels a slight twinge in his back, like a spasm but less painful. He shrugs it off, ignoring the dull throb that remains and assumes it’s just bruising. He inspects the driver’s door to find it’s completely crumpled in, glass shattered into small crystals that fill the cabin. He peers out through the window and begins searching for the thing that hit him, but spots nothing on the ground except more broken glass and a few pieces of shredded metal.
‘What the hell?’
Loud groans fill the cabin. Doug glances back at the mirror to see Infected just metres away, fanning out and ready to attack. ‘Holy shit!’ Doug reaches for the keys to restart the engine but they’re missing. ‘Where are the damn keys?’
Frantically he checks the footwell and spots a glint of silver below his right shoe.
He leans forward with his right arm and presses up against the wheel, bumping the horn. He ignores it and leans in closer. His fingertips brush up against the tag on the keyring, but it’s still just out of reach and he flops back in his chair.
The Infected have now reached the back of the van. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Beads of sweat and blood drip from his face, and he can feel his body burning with anxiety as he hears them thump up against the sides. He attempts to move the keys closer with his foot, but can’t get his leg to move. He tries again, but his leg doesn’t respond. ‘Move leg!’
He punches his thigh in frustration, but feels no pain. Confused, he hits it again, this time a little harder than before. Nothing, not even a twinge. He hits his other leg and is met with the same lack of response.
His face goes cold with the realisation that he has no feeling in his legs: nothing below his waist. His heart sinks and shock washes over him. He sits there staring down at his useless lumps of meat, remembering the twinge in his back. He looks up to find he is surrounded by Infected. They circle the car, more joining in by the minute.
His gun is resting on the floor on the passenger’s side. Doug leans across and grabs the arm strap, pulling the gun to his side and checking the magazine: eight rounds left. He cocks the bolt in position, tears streaming down his face, and lifts it to the window.
Pointing it down awkwardly, he spots a female who has her hands hooked around the side mirror and is attempting to climb in through the window. Doug fires, but she ducks and the bullet strikes another Infected in the chest. He reloads, flicking the used cartridge over his shoulder and taking aim once again.
The woman tries to duck the shot again but moves in the wrong direction. Her mouth blows wide open, spraying a shower of blood on the Infected below. But it doesn’t stop her; she retains a tight grip on the mirror. She eventually hooks a hand over the edge of the window and begins pulling herself up. Doug empties the dead round quickly, shooting the woman through the head just as her second hand comes over. She falls to the ground, but is replaced by another.
They are surrounding the van like hornets protecting a nest, all angles covered, spreading out strategically in all directions, and pounding relentlessly on the vehicle. There’s nowhere to escape. Even if Doug manages to grab the keys and start the truck, he can no longer drive.
A child is riding a man’s back to the front of the bonnet. He starts to climb up, his hands gripping the side of the hood while a leg slowly swings over. Another Infected climbs up his side door. Doug doesn’t take any chances this time, shoving the gun’s muzzle into the man’s mouth and firing, makin
g his head explodes into a mist. The man’s place is quickly taken. Doug shoots this one before he has a chance to climb. He has three bullets left, no spares. Every shot counts. He fires a sixth shot at a small girl who is using an older woman as a bridge, knocking her to the ground, killing her.
Only two shots left. Doug looks at the door on the passenger side. Infected are pulling on the handle, trying to get it open. Luckily, it’s locked and seems to be holding. The man and child have now scrambled over the bonnet to the windscreen on their hands and knees. They claw at the windscreen, infected hands and mouths covering the glass in smears of flesh and blood. Doug watches in fear as the child moves its arms across the glass, impaling a hand on the wiper. The wiper snaps off at the base and remains in the child’s hand, which continues to thrash about.
Doug watches in horror as small cracks appear in the corners of the glass. He is out of options and knows that he has only one choice left and stares down at his gun. A loud scream echoes through the air, but from which direction?
The scream doesn’t last long. When it ends, he peers around to see all the Infected standing still, yellow eyes staring back in a deathly gaze. The grunting ceases, along with all the banging and growling. Silence takes over, except for the dripping blood from the child’s arm that has been skewered like meat for a barbecue.
Doug twists his body and peers around as he tries to alleviate the burning sensation creeping along his back. ‘God damn legs!’ Eyes follow his every movement, like paintings in a haunted house. He catches movement in front of the van and cranes his neck in attempt to see between the smears of blood. A figure is jogging down the road towards him. The pace of the figure quickens the closer it gets, arms pumping. The person is wearing a blood-splattered grey trench coat and holding what looks to be a metal baton. Suddenly there’s hope; someone has come to help.
When they are just metres away, Doug yells, waving his arms frantically for attention, ‘Help! Help!’ But there is no response. Without slowing, the person leaps into the air and lands on the bonnet with a loud thud beside the man and child who ignore him. Doug turns the barrel of the gun in the direction of the man in the trench coat, gripping tightly to the stock, finger lightly touching the trigger. ‘C … can you help me?’
The man peers down through a clear section of glass, cold, dead eyes locking onto Doug’s. They both stare at each other intently. Swirls of red and yellow pulsate around the man’s pupils, causing a shiver of dread to run down the back of Doug’s neck. Something isn’t right.
The man eventually breaks eye contact and begins sniffing the air like a bear. He taps the windshield a few times with the tubular pole, taunting the fragile glass. He stops, and without any warning he thrusts the pole into the air, striking it back down directly in the centre of the windshield, causing it to explode into millions of tiny crystals that shower Doug like rain.
Frozen with fear, Doug ever so slowly takes aim. He pulls the trigger, and in a split second the other man and the child lunge forward, ripping Doug from his seat and onto the bonnet of the van. Doug doesn’t fight back. He knows it’s over. He holds tightly to his rifle with one thought in mind – one bullet left – and pulls back the bolt, removing the old cartage, and reloads. The child is pulling at his legs and the man biting into his stomach. He screams as the biting turns into tearing, and shuts his eyes trying to concentrate on his one mission. He swings the gun around, barrel now in the direction of his face and tries to slide it into his mouth. A hand pulls it away and the realisation that time has run out overwhelms him.
Something grinds into his shoulder. The pain pulsates, sending his mind into a spin of agony. He tries to scream, but blood is filling his mouth and choking him. With his last ounce of strength, he rips the gun free of the grasping hands and slides it back up his chest and into his mouth.
Hands and teeth of wild animals are ripping at his flesh. He can feel himself being engulfed as more and more bodies envelope him. He quickly slides one hand around the stock and another on the handle, pulling the trigger before it can be ripped free again.
The rifle doesn’t fire. The gun is dragged away by an unknown pair of hands. His only hope of a quick death has slipped away from him. He has nothing left. With no hope Doug lies there without struggling: a warm meal for the horde.
Chapter 22
HOME
It feels just like old times. The tunes are playing, our conversation is flowing, and I forget all about the death and destruction until we pass a pile of mutilated bodies burning on the side of the road. The cloud of smoke drifts across the highway. There is no avoiding it, it’s right across the entire road. We drive through and I try and hold my breath, knowing it won’t smell pretty.
The stench of roasting human stings my nostrils and I feel my eyes burn as the smoke wafts into the cabin through unsealed gaps. I gag, quickly winding down my window when we’ve passed through, begging for fresh air to blow in. I take a few sips of water, trying to clear my throat of the taste of overcooked meat. I don’t want to think about what else was with it and spit the water out the window, willing my mind to forget.
The highway is mostly clear. We pass only a few cars that frantically speed in the opposite direction, bags and personal items overflowing from boots and makeshift roof racks. I watch them in my rear-view mirror as they disappear and wonder if they know about the Infected in the next town, or if they are just desperately trying to escape something left behind.
Lincoln points to a nearby field on the other side of the road. ‘Check it out.’
I slow the truck when I see a two-storey house on fire. Flames lick the sides of the weatherboards all the way to the top of the corrugated roof sheets. In the centre of the building is a large hole where more fire and smoke is pouring out. It resembles an active volcano. There is a stone feature wall on the left side of the house that the flames have not yet compromised. I can only assume they will be arriving soon.
‘Can you see them?’ Lincoln asks.
‘Yep.’
Infected are emerging from around the side of what appears to be a woodshed, just on the edge of the bush. One after another they walk slowly towards the burning house. I count at least eighteen before I give up and concentrate on the road again.
Lincoln shifts in his seat, attempting to see the last moments of the building. ‘They’re attracted to the flames,’ he adds. ‘Dozens are coming out from the bush, perhaps hundreds.’
Hundreds. The number rolls through my mind. ‘Let’s keep going. We’ve got lost time to make up.’ I take one last look in my mirror and press down on the accelerator.
It’s not long until we pass Amy’s car. Lincoln points it out; I nearly miss it. The small Ford Focus is now resting peacefully against a tree just off the road. Its front is caved in and the side panels are covered in a thick spray of mud where the tyres must have been spinning. I play back the images of her story and how she escaped. How she was all alone through the event. How she eventually got away, only to run off the road and hit a tree. Luckily for her she wasn’t going very fast at the time, otherwise I’m sure we would be passing her grave.
‘Good thing you found her.’ I say.
‘You can say that again. She was about fifty metres back, walking on the road in a bit of a daze. Said she was slowing down to miss a kangaroo when another came out. You gotta love air bags. I reckon they saved her life.’
We don’t slow down again until we reach the capital, which is looming in the distance.
It’s around two in the afternoon when we approach Canberra’s outer border. Right away, we notice smoke trails in the distance forming tall trees in the sky. Fires still burn in patches in the suburbs, some so wide it seems they have wiped out hundreds of homes, others no larger than a smouldering football field. I watch the fires and wonder how far they will spread before they eventually fizzle out. I hope to God they don’t continue and wipe the place off the map. I wish there was something we could do, because I feel so helpless right now.
‘Damn, are you seeing this?’ Lincoln shakes his head with disbelief.
I let out a long breath before speaking, ‘I hate to think what’s going on down there.’
‘You sure we need these panels? Is it worth risking our lives for this shit?’
‘We don’t have a choice mate. The longer we leave this, the harder it will be to get them.’
‘I guess.’
‘Hopefully the place isn’t overrun, and we get in and out. We’re cutting along the edge of Canberra, not through it. If we run into trouble we’ll turn around and leave quicker than we came.’
‘Yeah. Well mate, I really hope we don’t run into any of those screaming blokes again.’
‘Me too.’
We pass a couple of groups of Infected and steer off to avoid them as best we can, sticking to the main road that allows us to take a wide birth around the city. We pass multiple cars pulled off to the side of the road, with the occasional one that has overturned. At times I’m forced to steer off into the fields or along paths to avoid a pile up, or worse, Infected who are wandering aimlessly around.
Lincoln leans over and grabs another Millers, just as I can see Fyshwick burning in the distance.
‘Steady on. How many is that?’
‘Fourth.’
I shake my head. ‘I think you better make it your last. We need to focus mate, we’re almost there and things seem to be getting kind of hairy.’
But I don’t argue the point, because I know I’d be drinking too if I wasn’t driving. Drink can’t solve all the issues in the world, but it can help you forget about them.
When we arrive at the front of the store it’s late afternoon. The sun is low, and I can feel a brisk chill in the air. The main building, more of a shed, is about fifty metres off the highway, tucked away in the bushland back from the road. Around the side is a tractor with a white van parked next to it. And out the back I can just make out an old rusted shipping container and a few bins overflowing with rubbish.