by West, Mark
Factory buildings surround Victoria, tall and graffitied. A fence encloses the compound. The truck is coming down the entrance drive, moving fast, dust and rocks flying out from under the tyres. They will be on her within moments.
She takes a chance and runs towards one of the familiar buildings, heading for the stairs she knows are just off to the left. The truck’s horn honks in protest, but she doesn’t stop, not this time. They’ll be sure to kill her when they discover their friend. Panting hard, Victoria takes the last step up the stairs and bursts through the set of steel doors, her mind in a spin.
‘Well, hello, young lady.’
A man steps from the shadows, tall and thin, with a long goatee that trails down to his chest. He is holding a timber batten he’s slapping casually against his other hand. Victoria turns to run back out, but another man comes bustling up the stairs. He is large, overweight and balding, and gold chains hang around his neck. She freezes, spotting the revolver stuffed in his belt.
‘We’ve been looking for you,’ the thin man says.
Before Victoria has time to lift her gun, the man strikes the batten across the side of her head, knocking her to the floor.
She is instantly back in Canberra in the kitchen of her beautiful home in Ngunnawal, standing by the kitchen counter, looking out into the garden. Leaves are falling slowly from the maple tree onto the spotted gum deck; Jackson is planting pittosporums by the fence. He catches her staring and smiles, dropping his gloves onto the soil. He walks over to the deck but trips and stumbles, catching his arm on the maple tree and ripping his shirt.
Victoria runs to the doors. ‘Are you okay?’ she calls out.
Jackson looks panicked and checks his arm. Blood is seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He rolls back the sleeve, exposing grazed and bloody flesh and allowing Victoria to spot something else – something that isn’t right.
She opens the door and steps out onto the deck for a closer look, taking hold of his injured arm.
‘Your blood?’ she says. ‘It’s …’
Jackson’s eyes lock on hers. They are full of pain and anguish.
‘I’m Infected.’
Chapter 31
Knives
I bite my lip, circling the front deck for what must be the millionth time. My bottom lip is throbbing from biting down on it. I recheck the time. It’s now 3.15 pm, hours after Victoria said she would be back. I pull her crumpled note from my pocket.
Out for an adventure, but more to see the world through my eyes – not yours. I won’t be long, and I won’t go far – promise. Keep Isabelle safe and I will be back before noon. Victoria. xoxo
I scrunch the paper into a ball and toss it onto the ground. Frustration boils inside.
‘Dammit Victoria.’
I pace the deck a few more times before stopping by the note and picking it up, ironing out the creases before re-reading it for the hundredth time, looking for a clue I may have missed. I read it twice more but find nothing
‘Where are you?’
Baby Isabelle is inside playing on a mat. She has no idea what’s going on, in fact, she has no idea about the world she has entered and how hard we have fought to survive this long. She wiggles her arms around in the air when she spots me through the door. I bet she is hungry. She is always hungry – just like her dad.
I storm inside and pick her up, agitated.
‘Mummy will be home soon sweetie.’
I jiggle her in an attempt to relieve my stress. I can smell the sweet scent of baby powder on her skin and it drives my senses wild. I pull away.
‘Want some food?’
We head downstairs and I set the jug going, placing Isabelle on one of six baby mats located about the place and switch on the light. The blinds are closed and the lights set on low, creating an eerie glow about the place. It’s strange how used to the dark one can get. If it was just me, I’d stay in total darkness, something I have strangely come to like. But Victoria hates it and uses every opportunity possible to open the blinds.
I give Isabelle a bottle and slump onto the couch, bored. I understand Victoria’s anguish. I go out every day. She goes out once and I’m about to lose my marbles. I stare at the ceiling while eating a tin of cold beans. A projector is mounted in the middle of the room, pointing towards a large screen. I let out a sigh.
‘What I’d do to watch a damn movie,’ I say to Isabelle, getting no response. ‘Or someone to talk to.’
I leave the room and return with my hunting knives, placing all three on the coffee table along with a sharpening stone I found from my last trip. I begin running my first knife along the edge, dripping oil from the pantry on the rock to reduce the friction.
‘I found this knife a month after escaping the Block.’ I show the hunting knife to Isabelle. She reaches for it thinking Daddy is giving her a toy. ‘I found it under someone’s pillow,’ I continue, keeping the knife out of her reach.
I think back to when we were running every day for weeks. How we had gone from one house to the next, killing Infected with anything we could get our hands on. How scared we were. Little has changed.
I run the blade back and forth methodically, honing the metal then wiping it with a rag. The silver edge glistens when I hold it into the light. Isabelle seems amused.
‘That’s right, Isabelle, this knife saved my life many times. It’s my favourite.’
I place it down and pick up the next. It too has a black rubber handle, but it’s shorter, almost half the length, and down the centre of the blade is engraved the name ‘Michael’.
‘I remember the owner of this one very well.’
‘We were just out of Sydney, perhaps thirty kilometres north of Hornsby, and making our way up the M1 on foot. We had come across an old drive-in motel – Eco Stays, I think it was called. Anyway, it was a big square building with two levels and dozens of doors all boxed in next to each other. I think it had thirty rooms in total and your mum wanted to stop for the night. I said no, and we argued about it, but in the end your mum won.’
Isabelle blows spit bubbles from her mouth that makes me chuckle. ‘Yeah, you know your mum well. She gets her way most of the time and I love her for it.’
‘So, we’re tired and hungry after walking for days. Driving is impossible at this point. I approach the front of the motel and check the area. It’s all clear – not an Infected in sight.’
‘I tell your mum I’m going to find us a key and head towards the reception area. Get this, I go inside and find the manager is an Infected. He’s sitting at his desk pretending to type. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever seen. He jumped up as if I had caught him doing something wrong. I was on him quickly and jabbed this knife into his head.’
I hold up my favourite knife, the one I have just sharpened, for Isabelle to see. She seems to like the sound of my voice. I know she doesn’t understand much, and I know if Victoria were here, she would disapprove. But what the hell, I’m bored and it’s nice to tell someone about our trip.
‘Anyways, I go to grab the key from the cupboard behind the desk when I slip over in the blood gushing from the man’s body. I land face-first, covering myself from head to toe. Disgusting!’
I shake my head and screw up my face to show how horrible it was. Isabelle smiles and kicks her legs.
‘I slip again when I try to stand and knock over a bin full of shredded paper.’
I begin to chuckle. ‘Paper sticks to me like glue.’ I pat my body. Isabelle is enjoying my mime. ‘I’m like a bird.’
I flap my arms then slap my knee and begin laughing at my morbid humour. Isabelle jumps at the sound of the slap and glares at me.
‘Sorry, Isabelle. It’s just too damn funny.’
I try to settle down. ‘Sometimes we need to turn a horrible situation into something funny, sweetie. That’s how we deal with stress. That’s how we get out of bed every day.’
I roll Michael’s knife in my hand.
‘We didn’t bother to check the
other rooms before settling in for the night. There were too many, and honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. We knew we would be safe as long as we kept quiet.
‘We took the room furthest from the others and closest to the main road. The door was locked, so we went inside assuming it was empty. I stripped off my clothes and headed to the bathroom while your mum closed the blinds and locked the door. That’s when Michael jumped me.
‘I didn’t even get that strange tingle it happened so fast. His jaw clamped onto my neck and a dread passed through me, like ice tingling every single nerve. I had been bitten and I thought it was over for me.
I shoved him back, yelling in anger and frustration. I didn’t know I was immune; all I knew was that I was different. He tumbled into the bath, arms flapping like a pigeon. My hand went to my shoulder – I felt no blood.’
I turned back to the guy in the bath. His face was like an image in a distorted mirror. He must have been trapped in there for months. Anyways, he was snarling, his eyes full of hunger. That’s when I noticed his gums.’ I give Isabelle a reassuring smile. ‘It was a toothless snarl, Isabelle. He had no teeth. He couldn’t infect me if he tried!’
I wipe the end of Michael’s knife with the oiled rag. It’s pristine and sharp. I show it to Isabelle.
‘This was his knife. Well, I assume it was, because I found it in his room. I call it Fang; it’s the only tooth he had.’
I place Fang down next to my favourite.
‘I ended up killing him with it. Kind of poetic, don’t you think? Shame. He wouldn’t have been more than fifteen.’
My trembling hand reaches for the third knife.
‘This last knife is somewhat special to me.’
I pick it up and stare at the black metal. The blade is about ten centimetres long and curved, the handle orange and black.
‘Gerber Bear Grylls Ultimate.’
I turn it in my hand.
‘Belonged to an old friend. One of the only things I salvaged from the Block. We used to play around with it in his backyard – hacking and slashing at stupid things.’
I chuckle at the memories.
‘He brought it when he arrived and somehow it made it into my pack when we escaped.’
I feel my eyes sting and wipe them furiously.
‘God damn you Lincoln,’ I whisper. ‘Why the hell did you get bitten? Why the hell was that bitch in the tunnel?’
My voice raises and I find myself yelling.
‘And why the hell didn’t you let me save you!’
I throw the knife across the room and it sticks into the wall. Isabelle starts screaming; I’ve terrified her.
‘Fuck!’
Chapter 32
One step at a time
The Master and his dog run up the highway, only stopping to search for clues before running on at the same steady pace. Their direction – north. It has been the same for months now, ever since she commanded them: find the man – find Jackson.
The dog barks: the signal for a break. The Master slows to a steady walk. Foam froths from the animal’s wet mouth. It sniffs the air and scans the streets, searching until it finds a pool of water, then laps up the refreshing drink with its enormous tongue.
The Master stops and waits for the animal, looking around with his cold eyes. Something about the place seems familiar.
The dog’s head jerks upright. A man is crouched behind a tree, jiggling a rope.
‘That’s it, boy. Come here.’
The man shakes the rope again, encouraging the animal to approach. The dog growls, exposing its fangs, and barks twice. The Master turns towards the tree, spotting the man.
The man begins to back away, realising he has made a huge mistake.
‘Shit.’ He holds his palms out in supplication as the dog lowers its head and starts to creep towards him, teeth bared. ‘Calm down, boy, it’s okay.’
The rope shakes, not for the dog’s attention anymore, but for the fact he is frightened and trembling like a leaf.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it, mate. Just wanted a friend, that’s all.’
The Master stops, his face as expressionless as a corpse, and watches his dog stalk its prey like a lion – one step at a time – closer and closer.
The man abruptly drops the rope and runs. The dog leaps into action, following the stocky man who runs with the awkward gait of an overweight child. He slams into a fence and jumps, scrabbling at the timber palings in an attempt to climb up and over. But he is not very tall, and his stumpy arms prevent him from reaching the top and gaining a purchase. He groans with exhaustion.
The Rottweiler, quick and agile, catches the man and sinks its opal teeth into the man’s calf without remorse. The man howls in pain as he is dragged back onto the grass like a doll. He kicks out in terror at the dog gnawing his leg, but it does nothing to deter the dog’s ferocity. He kicks and kicks and tries to crawl away. His hands pull at the grass. But the animal is too powerful, moving further and further up the man’s leg until it bites into his crotch. The man’s eyes roll back into his head, his mouth open in a silent shriek of pain, and his body goes limp.
Infected emerge from nearby houses and stand around like curious bystanders. The Master appears and the Infected part, allowing him to pass between them. The black dog stops temporarily, glancing up before continuing to feed. The blood is exciting the Infected, who move about restlessly but keep their distance.
The Master looks down at the man, taking in his solid black work boots. He considers his own boots, with their worn soles and cracked and split leather uppers, and leans forward and pulls at the man’s boots. When both boots are pulled free and cradled in his hands like a football, the Master takes one last look at the man’s grass-stained face, wet with bloody tears. He mumbles something and the Infected dive in.
Chapter 33
Angry children
Amy peers back towards the beach from her hiding place amongst the shrubs. Dozens of Infected are ambling away, trailing along the coast, some even venturing into the water.
‘Thank Christ,’ she pants, rolling onto her back. ‘Didn’t think I would ever lose them.’
She eventually sits up and opens her pack, removing a tin of corn. She shovels in a few mouthfuls and pulls out a dented can of Solo, which she proceeds to roll in her hand. She’d prefer a Pepsi, but she drank the last one weeks ago. The Solo fizzes disappointingly.
Amy takes a sip and sticks out her tongue. Flat. But it would have to do. She finishes the corn and washes it down with the rest of the Solo.
Christ, this twinge.
Running a hand along the base of her back, she can feel a swelling in the muscle. The spot feels tender. It’s probably a small tear. She looks through the scrub towards the city, knowing she is well hidden from all directions except for the towering hotels. She needs a pharmacy.
Most pharmacies have been raided dry. She is yet to find one that doesn’t have its doors kicked in. It seems that medical supplies were the first things to be taken during the outbreak. Bad for those in need of paracetamol, shittier still if you rely on medication to stay alive.
Amy finishes her food and stands cautiously, wary of her back, warier still of Infected. Time to do a little shopping.
She turns her back on the beach and heads down the steep bank. At the bottom is a large map of the area, with big blue lettering and yellow lines to indicate roads and paths. Her finger traces invisible lines in the air as she searches for the star locating where she is.
‘Hmmm … the Mantra Hotel. That could be nice.’
She scans the map some more, stopping at a scattered pattern of squares indicating shops that are no more than a few blocks away.
‘Bingo! A pharmacy.’
After hoisting her bag onto her shoulders, Amy yanks tight the straps and continues north, this time along the path that leads to the cluster of stores. When she arrives at the pharmacy, she is surprised to find the door unopened and the windows still intact. She edges towards the wind
ow, listening for the sound of shuffling feet, before peering through the glass.
The store is small and seems empty, but there are lots of posters blocking the sunlight and it’s too dark to be sure. She checks the door, but finds it is locked, so she removes a miniature jemmy bar from her bag and jams the bent end between the doorframe and the sliding door. She pulls back on the jemmy with a grunt, snapping the catch. The jemmy goes back in the bag and Amy slides the door across and enters the store.
There is a wind-up torch on the wall by the door. Amy removes it and shines a beam of light about the shop. Most of the shelves are half-full. Some are completely bare. It’s clear whoever owned the place either didn’t bother to stock up or sold out of a lot of items, including feminine hygiene products, unfortunately.
Amy moves silently towards the back of the shop, snatching up a few loose items and stuffing them in her bag. She stops at the back counter where a sign hangs saying ‘Prescriptions’. There are bags of jellybeans hanging from a rack beside the counter. She picks up a couple and places them in her pocket for later.
She then hovers the light over the shelves behind the counter, barely believing her luck. Dozens of small boxes line the shelves, uniform and untouched. Amy lifts the flap and moves into space behind the counter. She picks up one of the boxes and reads the label – ‘paracetamol’. She shakes her head.
‘No way.’
She places the box back on the shelf and scans the rest – all of them familiar brands and similar products.
I have hit the damn jackpot.