The Last Girl

by Michael Adams

  The men walked into Bravo Apparel. I didn’t want to be inside Jackie’s experience but I couldn’t look away. No one could. From under the desk, she heard boots on floorboards and coat hangers rattling on a display rack. That’s when Jackie and everyone else knew the outcome had never been in doubt. Whoever was out there hadn’t needed to run to chase her. They’d zeroed in on her hiding spot as surely as if she had a homing beacon in her skull.

  The door to the office opened and the room filled with the smell of stale sweat and the sound of men breathing.

  Hail-Mary-full-of-grace.

  Jackie’s heart pounded so loud in her ears it drowned out her prayer.

  ‘Do you mind coming out?’

  The voice was surprisingly gentle.

  ‘Out you come, Jackie,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  The polite way he said it gave Jackie hope. She lifted her head from the carpet and crawled out from under the desk, blinking up at the Biker as he shone a flashlight on his big hairy face so we all got a good look.

  ‘No drugs, no looting and no guns,’ he said pleasantly.

  Jackie nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, anything you—’

  The words died in her throat when the Cop and Surfer appeared like spectres from the shadows.

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ the Biker said, pressing cold metal against her cheek. ‘Last warning.’

  Jackie winked out of existence a second before we heard the muffled boom from inside Bravo Apparel.

  The Biker walked out of the boutique, tucking a revolver into his jeans, taking his machine gun from his shoulder. The Cop and Surfer followed and they each took a shop to search on that side of the street, using the butts of their weapons to smash glass doors. Farther up the street, more unreadable people appeared, all of them armed, all of them scoping out shops, scanning first-storey windows, staring down alleys and peering into and under cars.

  This wasn’t how it had been with Ray, Cassie and Jackie. They weren’t following thoughts to thinkers. This time they were after people they couldn’t hear and see.

  They were looking for us.

  NINETEEN

  ‘They know we’re around here,’ I whispered. ‘We need to go right now.’

  Of course they did. Our Revivees’ memories of returning to consciousness all centred on the same street just a few blocks away. It made sense that whoever was doing the dosing was holed up nearby. There were a dozen or more of them out looking for us. God knows how many others on the way. Before long someone would smash the street door and come up our stairs. Even if we killed him or her, we wouldn’t be able to do it without telling every one of his comrades who and where we were. Our only chance was to go down the fire stairs and quickly and quietly get very far away.

  Nathan put Evan into a fireman’s carry and we crept through the kitchen door. I stepped softly onto the landing and peered down the alley. They hadn’t got this far yet. But it wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said when we reached the bottom of the fire escape. ‘I’ll check the street.’

  I hurried across the cobblestones to the rectangle of smoky daylight that opened onto the next block. I took a deep breath and poked my head and the .45 around the corner. The street was empty of our enemies, just cluttered with cars and debris and the dying and dead.

  I nodded back to Nathan and he started towards me with Evan.

  Then he was down on one knee, mouth snarled in silent pain as he lowered my little brother to the ground. I scrambled back to him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

  Nathan rubbed his ankle. ‘Twisted it.’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  I helped him up and he tested his weight.

  ‘I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Take these,’ I said, handing Nathan the .45 and the backpack.

  I hauled Evan up over my shoulder.

  ‘Can you manage?’

  I didn’t know if I could but I nodded. ‘Go.’

  Nathan limped to the corner.

  ‘The river’s five or six blocks,’ I said. ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘Can you?’

  We lurched out onto the street. But we hadn’t even gone half a block before Nathan was hobbling and I was struggling under Evan. We’d be finished when one of those bastards came around the corner and saw us. I pointed to an empty taxi, closed my eyes, tilted my head and rested a cheek on the back of my hand.

  Nathan nodded furiously at my pantomime.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he whispered. ‘I look the part.’

  I actually snickered as I eased a passenger door open. His joke made this less real. It was like an action-movie wisecrack. Buddy heroes never died in those flicks.

  We put Evan down on the floor and I hid him under the backpack. Then I crawled onto the back seat and lay face down. Nathan snicked the door closed behind me, circled the vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat. He pulled his cap low, rested his forehead on the steering wheel and held the .45 down by his legs.

  ‘If you shoot anyone,’ I whispered. ‘They’ll all come.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’m gonna mess up anyone who messes with us.’

  The heat in the taxi was stifling. We’d bake to death if we had to keep this charade up too long. Hibernation state or not, I wondered how long the millions who’d crashed out in cars could possibly survive.

  Movement around the corner—doors slamming, glass tinkling—but our block remained maddeningly still and silent. With every passing second they didn’t come closer, I regretted our plan. My plan. Playing possum hadn’t fooled the Party Duder. Maybe if we’d struggled on—carried Evan stretcher-style—we could’ve made it to the river. I imagined what anyone looking would see inside the taxi. A driver and his passenger both in their seats and in each other’s personal space with no evidence they’d tried to distract themselves with devices or drink or drugs. It wouldn’t add up.

  I groped my phone from my pocket and pushed myself up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Nathan hissed.

  ‘Getting into character.’

  I held the phone to my chest and hung my head over its blank screen. At least I was in the posture of a million other Goners now. If the Biker and the rest of those bastards were concentrating on buildings, only glancing at cars, it might be enough to fool them.

  As soft as I tried to make my breathing, it still sounded like rasping sandpaper to me. My heart was even noisier. If they didn’t hear it hammering, then surely they’d see my pulse throbbing in my temples, know I was faking because my blood pressure was supposed to be lower and I looked like I was about to shoot steam from my ears. Sweat trickled from my hair, ran down my flushed forehead, slid off my nose and splattered on my phone. Another droplet followed, slipped down my face, quivered maddeningly on the end of my nose. I wanted to shake ever so slightly to rid myself of it. But if anyone saw me move then—

  ‘Oh,’ Nathan said. ‘Oh.’

  Heavy feet crunched broken glass. Car doors groaned open and thunked shut. Their sounds grew sharper, louder, closer. They were coming our way. Without saying a word. Through squinted eyes, I saw shadows moving around the car ahead of us. This was it. They were almost on us.

  ‘These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,’ Nathan whispered.

  His joke offered no comfort this time. It made me realise our mistake.

  We weren’t Jedis. They weren’t stupid stormtroopers.

  They didn’t know where we were. But they knew who we were. What we looked like. When we’d shown ourselves to Cassie we’d shown ourselves to them.

  ‘Danby and Nathan, if you get out of the car you won’t be harmed.’

  The Biker. I recognised that honeyed tone. He was close. Other footsteps came closer. I heard bullets being chambered. I pictured the goon squad surrounding the taxi with their guns. I saw it as if from outside my body. I guessed that’s where I was about to be.

  ‘Danby and Nathan, if you get out of the car you won’t be harmed,’ he repeat
ed. ‘I promise.’

  We held our poses like kids playing hide-and-seek who try to avoid being caught by keeping their eyes closed. Then, after a few moments, Nathan said in a small but calm voice: ‘Here or there, Danby?’

  I knew what he meant: in the taxi or on the street. Either way, this was the end. We were trapped by killers who hadn’t shown any mercy. Just minutes ago Jackie had made the mistake of hoping and we saw how that went for her. I let one hand drop from my phone to touch Evan’s cheek. It was warm and smooth and that was as nice a last feeling as I could’ve hoped for. I wasn’t scared. I’d burned out on being afraid. I just didn’t want there to be any pain.

  ‘Here,’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Danby and Nathan, if you—’

  ‘Shut the—’ Nathan roared as he reared out of his fake catatonia ‘—hell up!’

  I expected a cacophony as he emptied his gun and they emptied theirs. But there was just a loud bang as something hot punched into my head.

  I slumped onto the seat. Blood filled my eyes. It streamed across my face and pooled around my neck. Strange thoughts came. I was awash and sinking. But this wasn’t my life leaking out. It was death flowing in. I’d always been a tiny boat adrift on an endless sea. The ocean claiming me was inevitable. I felt a smile form when I realised I was holding my phone so tightly it was like it was fused to my finger bones. Future archaeologists would find so many of us like this that they’d conclude the little black rectangles were funerary objects meant to spirit us into the afterlife. Afterlife: now that was a funny word. When life’s over, take afterlife! It was like bonus time. Afterdeath: that was more accurate. Whatever. Wherever. I’d be there in a second. And that was fine. Except it wasn’t. I couldn’t die yet because— because—because . . .

  I needed to make sure Nathan was okay. Because— because—

  Evan—I had to—

  Then I was gone.

  TWENTY

  I was at peace. How could I not be with her watching over me? Ancient dark eyes. Silver hair cascading around milky shoulders. Standing in her gown in front of a classical temple and a fiery sunset. She was more than beautiful, more than mortal. She was an angel. I was in heaven. Then my head started hurting like hell.

  I’m not dead: that much I knew.

  What I didn’t know was if I was glad to be alive. The pain in my skull had at least jolted me back to reality. My guardian angel was actually an old oil painting hung on a plaster wall. My head was bandaged and I was tucked into an ornate four-poster bed under an elaborately embroidered canopy. I pushed myself up against the pillow and looked around the room. The painting wasn’t the only thing from another time. Every piece of furniture glowed from within like a priceless antique. Silver mirrors shone with candlelight from a crystal chandelier. Heavy red velvet curtains hid the windows. There wasn’t a machine of any kind in view. Not even electrical outlets in the walls.

  My head throbbed. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know when I was. The idea of pulling back those curtains filled me with dread. Would I see ladies wearing hoop skirts? Gentlemen in top hats? Horse-drawn carriages? Was that what I was supposed to see?

  All I knew was I had a head injury. I’d been put into this bed to recover. I’d come out of some strange dream I couldn’t quite remember. A name appeared in my mind: Mary Shelley. I knew she had a nightmare and was inspired to write a book in Switzerland in 1816. I could even see her explaining the work to elegant friends in a drawing room while a storm raged outside huge windows. How could I know that? Was that me who’d been there and then? How else would all the details be so vivid?

  I threw back the sheets, lurched from the bed, stumbled across the room and yanked open the curtains. Daylight dazzled. Then my eyes adjusted. Below me was an expanse of lawn enclosed by a white picket fence. Beyond that was a fleet. Not tall ships at harbour. Four-wheel drives parked between ghost gums. The vehicles were being loaded and fuelled by a small army of men and women in modern clothes.

  My involuntary thought—I-can’t-read-their-minds—brought everything crashing back.

  I’d been with Evan. Trying to get to Mum’s. I’d met Nathan. We’d tried to help people. Then those bastards started killing people. I remembered Nathan’s shout and that single gunshot and feeling like my head had been blown off. Then bleeding and fading to black.

  Other flashes came. The taxi door opening. Strong hands lifting me out. My blood everywhere. A blur of cars and streets, a stone gateway, green garden. After that nothing until the portrait of the lady.

  I sat back dizzy on the bed and my mind spiralled out. The Revivees were terrified. Hunkering down. Fleeing for their lives. They were convinced reviving anyone new would sentence them to death. Everywhere they looked—in spare bedrooms, in their sooty yards, in yawning doorways of neighbouring houses and up and down their smoke-cloaked streets—they imagined assassins ready to step from the shadows. They feared that even simple tasks—eating tinned soup, washing and dressing cuts, burying the dead—might somehow invite wrath. Anyone who considered reviving loved ones or picking up a weapon was howled down for endangering everyone. The most selfish had gone to ground in fear that they were about to pay for sins, actual or imagined. Their names and lives came back to me. They didn’t know anything about Evan. They didn’t know about me. They couldn’t tune us. I shut them out.

  I had to get up, get out of this room, get back to Evan and Nathan, get us all to Mum’s. But my head throbbed. The room started to slip and slide. My face went pins and needles and it was hard to breathe. I had to get to the door. But when I tried to stand up blackness pulled me back to the bed.

  My eyes opened on another young angel. It said so on his rock T-shirt: ‘Grievous Angel’. But he was real. I couldn’t read his mind but his face was handsome concern by candlelight.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I’ve given you something to help with the pain,’ he said, leaning in, breath warm and smoky. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  He held a straw to my lips so I could sip from a cup of cool water.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Safe,’ he said. ‘You’re safe.’

  I felt the bandage around my head. I knew I’d be all right. I could think, move and see. ‘Evan?’ I said, fighting back tears. ‘My little brother, he was—is he okay?’

  The man nodded. ‘He’s fine.’

  Relief swept through me.

  But if that was true then why was Grievous Angel’s expression so grave?

  Nathan.

  ‘My friend, he was with me and—’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The guy shook his head and touched his fingertips to his heart. ‘The bullet hit him here. Went straight through.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘Then it got you here.’ He ran his fingers along the side of his head. ‘It didn’t penetrate the skull but it ripped your scalp. It’s nothing the stitches and time won’t heal. You were very lucky. I’m sorry about your friend.’

  Nathan was dead. It was my fault. If I’d thought the scenario through I would’ve known we couldn’t hide in the taxi. If he hadn’t saved me in the first place he might still be alive.

  ‘Where is— Where’s Evan? He needs IV, fluids, he was in the taxi, he—’

  My throat was closing.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  The guy touched my wrist and his face lit up with a smile. Then with theatrical loudness he bellowed, ‘Okay!’

  The door flew open and Evan bounded across the room to my bedside.

  I pulled my little brother tight to me. I was fully awake and alert, the opiate cobwebs and cotton wool blown away. That was good, that was great, because I wanted to feel all of this.

  ‘Danby!’ Evan giggled. ‘Squashing!’

  I relaxed my grip, held him by his shoulders. He smiled at me, eyes bright and clear, looking no worse for wear, dressed in new clothes that smelled lik
e a department store.

  ‘I was so worried,’ I said, tears flowing freely, feeling for his mind, wanting that connection I’d felt back in Beautopia Point. I couldn’t tune into him now but what mattered was that he was alive, safe and conscious. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right.’

  I looked at the guy over Evan’s shoulder. Sitting in a plush armchair, expertly rolling a cigarette and dressed in black threads: he looked like an indie rocker. I wondered whether I should know who he was and whether we were in the eccentric castle he’d bought with his music millions.

  ‘Did you wake Evan up?’

  He smiled up at me and nodded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure myself,’ he grinned, tucking the finished smoke behind his ear. ‘But I’ll be happy to show you when you’re up to it.’

  ‘Did you do this?’ I asked, pointing at the bandage. ‘Sew me up, I mean.’

  He nodded. ‘I had some help.’

  My little brother wriggled out of my grasp to push a toy truck along the windowsill.

  ‘I don’t know what—thank you so, so much.’ My words were infinitesimal, too tiny to even be called inadequate. ‘Who are—’

  ‘Jack,’ he said, reaching over to shake my hand.

  ‘Danby.’ I didn’t know if I should offer my surname. They probably no longer mattered. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Just since this morning,’ he said.

  Relief swept through me. I hadn’t lost that much time. Mum should still be okay. And now that Evan was conscious it would be easier to get to Shadow Valley.

  ‘Is this your place?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Jack laughed. ‘Well, actually, it belongs to all of us. You’re in Old Government House in Parramatta Park.’

  I’d been here before on a primary school excursion. It was the colonial mansion where Australia’s early European rulers had lived and worked, and it had been turned into a museum for their documents, maps, furniture, clothes and artwork. My most vivid memories related to the poor children who’d had to grow up here. I remember thinking I would’ve hated sleeping on a hard little bed with only raggedy dolls, wooden animals and tin soldiers to play with. Their single schoolroom had been just as dull—a blackboard of religious instruction, uncomfortable chairs and musty old books. No computers, no projection screen.