Blue is a zombie story with plenty to sink your teeth into – romance, fear and a good dose of blood and gore.
The Blue is a half-zombie, half-human – somewhere between normal and walking corpse. Mostly immortal, the Blue is desperately alone.
Set in a post-apocalyptic world, where humans live in colonies high above the ground and have forgotten what pre-zombie life was like, Blue is a fast-paced story describing what happens when you push a Blue too close to the edge …
FOR MY PARENTS, KATHY AND MARK
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
KATIE, Year 1 A. Z.
I LAY DOWN. So tired, confused, a black flag flying in my soul.
I thought I would just rest a little, watch the clouds, feel the earth on my back. It was nice being motionless, not running for the first time in a long while. There was no reason to get up, so I lay there and did nothing. Hours passed and still I didn’t feel compelled to move. The sun moved across the sky.
My exhaustion was complete. A fly landed on my face and I let it stay, too tired to swat it away, too drained to care about what it might be up to. The cool desert air didn’t make me cold, nor did the grey shadows and dark shuffling forms in the distance. I let the night surround me and wasn’t afraid. The moon moved across the sky.
The ground beneath me, with its little rocks and imperfections didn’t bother me either. Rather, I imagined myself extending down towards them, merging, the edges of my body reaching out to embrace the dirt and gravel.
A day turned into a week, but I didn’t care. There was no reason to worry about things like that anymore. I was starting to lose my sense of time anyway, and of place. My black hair was the earth, my pale skin was the sky, my eyes were the stones.
The moon’s fuller form glowed upon me, highlighting the desert’s severity and contours. I understood the timelessness of where I was. Everything around me was ancient, connected, made of the same dust. The division between yesterday and tomorrow had no meaning to me. Really, they are just the same.
My fatigue had begun well before the Infection spread and the Dead ruled. Before all that I was in my final year of university, and was overwhelmed and tired. It had all been adding up: a job, attending lectures, paying bills on time, dealing with flatmates, buying food, trying to exercise, trying to be a good friend, doing laundry, meeting deadlines on homework, a car battery that didn’t always work, not having enough money, and on and on. No time for sitting and thinking. There was only time for planning, organising, and completing assignments. Then the world was changed forever, overpowered by our Dead, and I was running on adrenaline, hiding, scavenging and surviving.
Getting turned almost came as a relief. No more Katie Elgin.
The turn of the seasons was subtle as I lay on the desert floor, refusing to move. I felt and marvelled in each small change. The angle of my head, still in the same position as when I first lay down months before, allowed me to see almost the full expanse of the sky, from where the sun marched over the eastern mountains far in the distance to about two or three o’clock in the afternoon above me and to the west. Then the sun was gone from me until the next day.
I could see the desert floor’s delicate changes — like the slight lengthening of the scaly leaves of a star thistle and the beginning of the buds that would yield its flowers. I noticed the quickening of the ants as they gained energy from the longer days and increasing warmth. I saw the deepening of colours in all the hardy shrubs and grasses, and saw more small finches playing in them, pecking and dancing around, looking for nest-building materials.
Having not flexed my fingers for so long, I had lost the ability to know where they were. My body didn’t seem a part of me. My slow heartbeat and loss of the need to breathe only added to this dissociation. Without the noise of my body, I could hear other sounds: vague insect hums, the soft shifting of dust over the ground, even the slight noise from the movement of air. I gasped at the sound when hot air bumped with cold wind as a storm moved in. It was so noisy!
One night I thought I detected a new rhythm, although I knew it had been there all along. It was a deep, slow movement from the ground beneath me. I would wait for it patiently and then, just on the periphery of my senses, would detect it — a low growl deep in the earth. A fanciful part of my mind acknowledged it as proof of the planet being alive. Something miles below me, probably a tectonic plate, was moving. Unlike me, who was motionless. Dead.
But really I wasn’t dead. I was just acting as if I were. Death had not come, except for what I was doing to myself. But how to live? How did I peel myself off the ground and begin again? No family left, no friends, no goals. What was the point?
A storm came and attacked the desert with fast rain that beat down, slapping the landscape, whips of wind ripping at it. The movement of the clouds, the flooding on the desert floor, the fury of the event were massive. Lightning bolts screamed from the heavens, burning through the dark clouds, leaving ozone and stains on my retinas. The wind ripped the weaker plants from the soil, sending them spiralling through the air. Even small rocks were sent rolling across the ground until they became stuck in the mud or in flooded pools.
When the storm passed, leaving the beaten and tender earth behind, I looked out at what remained: ugly twisted shrubs, large lumpy rocks, low crawling trees, spiny thin weeds. After the storm, only the strong were left to continue on.
And perhaps, after all, that included me.
For some reason I continued to exist. Despite the end of the world, despite being Infected, and everything else. That had to be worth something, right?
I tried to sit up, but found myself pinned to the ground by the woody desert vines that had grown over me. I wriggled my hands free, then picked at the fibrous tendrils that had woven my hair to the earth. At last, after some effort, I was able to sit up. I stared out at the bleak desert, hoping to feel the pull of some sort of plan or direction.
I waited, but nothing revealed itself.
This irritated and disappointed me. Fine then, I would ‘fake’ living and begin to go through the motions. Maybe that was the point of living — just doing the routine: dressing, eating, sleeping, watering plants. The storm had bumped me from my paralysis. I didn’t feel ‘fixed’ and I didn’t have a plan, but I decided I would get up and pretend to start living. I would do that for a while and see if it stuck. If it didn’t, I could always just lie down again.
… And I’m glad I decided to try. Things got interesting again, even for a Zombie.
JESSY, autumn, 60 A. Z.
THE RAIN CAME in sheets carried on blasts of wind, making it even harder to see what was happening on the forest floor below us. Xavier and I were safe up on the high rope bridges, but the Harvesters below us weren’t. I could see the lights of their torches as they ran, and hear their frantic shouts. I wished I could help them, but I was only twelve, and nobody had trained me.
‘Oh no, oh no,’ Xavier whispered next to me, his brown eyes wide with horror. Xavier, my best friend, was like me — we’d both been told we were too young to try to help in situations like this, and it frustrated us. We had to just stand there, useless spectators watching the guards running along the platforms and bridges, trying to get the emergency ladders in place. We too could have been helping to rescue the Harvesters as they fled in from the fields. ‘
How is this happening again?’ Xavier asked.
A man streaked in mud, his face distorted with fear, ran by below. ‘Here! Over here!’ yelled someone from a nearby platform, trying to direct him to a ladder. But the darkness of the forest made it impossible to locate. Xavier and I gasped with fear when we saw what was behind him.
‘Oh, oh. Come on,’ Xavier cried. It was too late. The thing came way too fast. Running sideways in a half-crouch, like an animal, the Corpse grabbed the man, like a spider pulling a fly into its mouth. The Harvester screamed and gagged as the Corpse’s teeth ripped into his chest. He beat at it with his fists at first, but then, luckily, unconsciousness came over him. The Corpse hunched over its meal, tearing out large hunks of flesh, then struggling to swallow them without chewing.
I shivered, and wanted to look away, but couldn’t. I’d seen Corpses before, but never a Variant like this one, and I’d never seen anyone eaten. The brutality shocked me and made my breath catch in my throat. Beside me, Xavier stared with his jaw half open and his hands gripping the railing.
More shouts came from the darkness, a scream and then, for a moment, nothing. I was wet to my core but didn’t feel cold. The rain seemed to get worse, coming down in the largest drops I’d ever seen. The wind, too, had been strong, but now it gathered the rain into blasts of water that slapped down and stunned me with their force. With the air moving under the rope bridge and the heavy clouds blacking out the sky and stars, I felt disoriented, as if I were part of the storm. I held the railing tightly and tried to see into the night. Then I heard a noise that made every hair on my body stand up.
A Variant stood directly below the ladder and looked up. What little light there was reflected off its oily skin smeared with gore and filth. Its teeth showed clearly in the black hole of its mouth and the bones of one side of its jaw were exposed. It stared at me with milky eyes and made a deep groan: ‘Uhhhhnn.’
I shuddered and said to Xavier, ‘That is one scary Corpse.’
‘Glad we’re up here,’ he answered, readjusting his grip on the railing, ‘and not down there. We’d last about one minute.’
The men on the platforms had helped some of the Harvesters up to safety. We could see them, wrapped in blankets, being herded towards Xavier’s house. His mother, Helen, was the Tree Sanctuary’s healer. The rest of the guards were still watching the forest floor to see if any men were left alive. It was unlikely, unless they had found a hiding spot up high. There is practically no escape from the Variant kind of Corpse. They’re just too fast and almost smart, working in a pack. The typical kind of Dead is a bit slower and pretty stupid.
‘I guess I should get back,’ Xavier said. ‘My mum might need some help.’
‘Yeah, okay.’ I watched him stand and start to walk home, but I stayed where I was. I knew I should get back to the platform I lived on before my foster mother started to worry about me or before the adrenaline wore off and I began to feel how truly cold the night was, but I stayed where I was, crouched on the bridge. What I had seen had horrified me, but the worst part had been how useless I had felt as I watched that Harvester die.
That would change, though. Soon my parents would come to get me and I would start my training. I’m a Gunslinger, or at least I would be one soon. We’re the ones who kill those Corpses. I would never have to sit by and watch helplessly again. I couldn’t wait.
MEMOIRS OF J. DING, 15 A. Z.
MY FRUSTRATIONS AT not having access to a proper laboratory, database and peers must be noted. In saying that, I will begin my humble analysis and theories on the origin of the Plague that has afflicted mankind, changing it irreversibly and potentially leading to its demise.
The disease has the capability of infecting only primates and humans at this point. It may be viral in origin or even related to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the so-called ‘Mad Cow’ disease, or Kuru. From gross inspection of brain matter taken from autopsies on those infected with the general manifestation of the disease, the pattern of pathology resembles a clever and destructive prion disease. Plaques and areas of necrosis surround the cortical regions of the brain, and the frontal cortex has extensive spongiform changes.
These pathologic changes might explain the motor ataxia or staggering gait and uncoordinated motor movements that subjects display, as well as the instinctual and uninhibited aggression that has made them the dangerous creatures they are.
The origin of the disease was presumed to be in Northern Australia, amongst a group of English tourists. What is remarkable here is that these people had recently returned from Papua New Guinea, where Kuru is known to bother remote villages rumoured to still practise human cannibalism. Perhaps one of these poor English travellers harboured a trace of the Mad Cow disease within their body. Then, as Chance or Fate might have it, they ingested meat contaminated with Kuru disease, and a mutation occurred to make a super-disease: the most horrific and extensive plague in Earth’s history.
The onset of the Plague was heralded as the beginning of the Rapture, the end of the world, or something metaphysical in nature. Even in my atheistic consciousness I saw the walking Dead as supernatural, a manifestation of impossibility that defied all logic and science. But, true to my training as a pathologist, I began examining the inflicted individuals, taking tissue samples and studying them with the humble equipment left from my once extensive and modern lab.
My findings have not been revolutionary, but at least they are a start. I will continue my work quietly and strive to find an explanation for this disease, documenting my journey. Perhaps it will serve a purpose someday, either as the observations of one of humanity’s last formally trained pathologists, or as a springboard of ideas for future scientists developing a cure. I truly hope it is the latter.
JESSY, winter, 60 A. Z.
‘JUST LET ME read it,’ I begged, trying to grab the grubby piece of paper from Xavier’s hands, nearly slipping from the ice on the wooden decking.
‘No! It’s no good and it’s stupid anyway.’ Xavier tried to twist away from me. ‘My mum is being so weird about making me write to this girl in the City. I don’t get it.’
I pretended to move right, but jumped to the left instead and grabbed the letter from his hand. Xavier made a feeble attempt to chase me then shook his head and sighed. ‘Fine! Read it then. I don’t care.’
I unrumpled the dirty paper and read Xavier’s terrible handwriting.
Dear Rose,
My name is Xavier Santos. I’m twelve years old and my mum told me to write this letter. She said you will be my best friend when I grow up. I don’t know why she thinks so because I’ve never met you.
I have two brothers, Joaquin, who is seventeen and Jamie, who is nine. All of us look just about the same — brown hair and brown eyes. We live in Tree Sanctuary on Middle Mountain. My mum is a healer and my dad is a vegetable grower. We have four messenger pigeons and one of them will be delivering this letter to you in the City. I don’t really understand how he will find the place you live, but dad said that they are a lot smarter than we think.
My best friends are my brothers and Jessy. They like to make stuff, shoot at the Deads down on the ground and climb like me. Dad takes us to the gardens where he grows everyone’s food, and lets us climb to the highest baskets to check the plants and pick out caterpillars. When Dad harvests a crop, we help him carry it to the food deck where the cooks preserve it or add it to the evening meal.
It’s winter now, so we’re not really growing anything outside, but Dad will soon start all the seedlings inside so they’re ready to be planted in the spring. Helping Dad with his work is pretty fun. It’s a lot better than school most of the time. I do like science though.
Sincerely, Xavier Santos
I smiled at Xavier and handed him back the letter. ‘Hey, it’s not too bad, but I don’t know if she’ll be able to read it. Did you use your foot instead of your hand to hold the pencil?’
Xavier pushed back the mop of brown hair hanging in his eyes, shoved
the letter in his pocket and muttered something unintelligible under his breath. I laughed and hooted at him as he walked back along the rope bridge, grumbling to himself.
ROSE, winter, 60 A. Z.
Dear Xavier,
I’ve never had a letter delivered by pigeon before. It’s so exciting to get a letter from a person I’ve never met. My sister, Jenny, was really jealous. She’s two years older than me and always grumpy. She’s never had a letter from anyone other than our family.
My nanny, Beth, read the letter first. She thinks I’m a child. I know she loves me, but she can be so over-protective and she worries all the time.
Do you really live in a tree? Beth said Tree Sanctuary is high up in big pine trees and you all live in tree houses. In the City, we live in normal houses on top of buildings built before the Plague. The buildings we live on are at least six storeys high. The rooftops that the growers use to raise our food on are at least three storeys high. The goats and chickens live at least four storeys up.
All of the buildings are boarded up below the top two floors. We’re not allowed to go inside the buildings below those floors, ever. But I was told by Beth that people used to live in them, and they are filled with really old clothes and dirty furniture. Some of the older kids from school snuck inside a building once. They said it was really dusty and smelled like mould. But they saw a skeleton, which is pretty great. Someday I’m going to sneak in and have a look myself.
Okay, some things about me: I really like writing (so I’m glad we’re going to send letters to each other) and drawing. I have blonde hair and brown eyes. I’m taller than most of the other kids in my class, which is kind of good and kind of annoying at the same time.
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