A Single Girl's Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse (10 page)

The campsite was a sorry sight indeed. Rabbit had built a fire as instructed. That done, he had collapsed to the ground and ceased all mental activity. Three others had joined him around the circle—the Scarlet Terror, Sheath and Angela. Angela was the only one who looked like she was coping with the situation. She was asleep.

Don't run. Frightens the troops.

Q slowed to a walk as she approached. Dave followed her lead, barely puffing from their sprint. He sure was fit for a fat man.

She scanned the surrounds. The fire blazed at the center of a circle of logs. Its light reached the nearest two cabins but showed nothing beyond. A seedpod cracked in the flames like a shot.

Dave grunted, as if to ask Q if this small mob was it.

“Looks like it,” Q said.

He grunted again, as if to say that hippies had no business in the bush during an outbreak when what he needed were trained anti-zombie survivalist troops.

“If you're gonna be a pessimist,” Q said, “you should keep it to yourself and make your grunts less eloquent.”

“Uh?”

“Never mind.”

Rabbit's empty gaze fell on Q. Relief broke over his face like a sunrise. “You're okay!” He jumped up and gave her a hug. It was almost worth the end of the world.

Reluctant to end the physical contact, Q mumbled through the folds of his shirt. Tragically, he let go and stood back to listen. “What was that?”

“I said, ‘Rabbit, meet Dave. Dave, Rabbit'.”

Dave's face hardened. “Rabbit?” he said, as if he didn't think this was an appropriate name for a man.

“You should hear what she calls the rest of us,” Sheath of Power said.

Q nudged Angela awake and then introduced Dave to the hippies. “You'll like Dave,” she said to Sheath, giving him a gentle tension-breaking elbow in the ribs. “He's a persecuted minority.”

Sheath rubbed his ribcage. “Indigenous?” he said, looking Dave up, down and around.

“Smoker,” Q said.

Angela switched her attention from the hulking newcomer to Q, and yawned. “I had the strangest dream.”

No wonder she was so calm; the poor woman was in denial. “Sorry, Angela,” Q said. “That wasn't a dream.”

Angela sat up. “You mean I sat a Latin test in the nude in front of my in-laws?”

“Oh,” Q said. “That was a dream. But the thing with Princess Starla—”

“—Melissa—” said Rabbit.

“—was real.”

“I remember,” said Angela.

“Where's Kate?” Q said. “Did she go home in the van?”

Rabbit shook his head. “Tinkabella left alone.” He frowned. “She's not a good driver.”

Typical Rabbit. The woman had stolen their transport and left them stranded in hostile territory, and he was worried about her. He was such a beautiful idiot.

“Kate's in her room,” Rabbit said. “She said she needed to be alone to think about things.” He frowned again.

Q was worried too, but for different reasons. Pious Kate's behavior was becoming increasingly bizarre. Normal people did not want to be alone at a time like this. Even hermits, like Dave, did not want to be alone at a time like this. And Kate had already confessed that she'd been bitten. Q reached for her little black book to log her concerns, then stopped. What was the point? The thing she'd been preparing for all those years had happened, and she'd missed the signs.

“What's going on, Q?” Rabbit asked.

Could they handle the truth? Would she be able to control them if she was frank, or would they panic and get themselves killed? She decided to stall.

“Outbreak of roo rabies,” she said. “It is September.” She turned to Dave. “Are they buying it?” she said softly.

Dave grunted in the negative.

“Come on, Q,” said Angela. “Stop this silliness. I know you know more than you're telling.”

It was a voice ripe with maternal authority and it bypassed Q's conscious mind and connected straight to her hindbrain. She straightened her shoulders and almost spilled the lot, but managed to choke it back in time.

Angela waited until Q finished spluttering, then continued in the same tone. “Melissa's been eaten, you're all chummy with creepy old caretaker guy—”

Dave grunted.

“Seriously, man, you should hear what she calls the rest of us,” said Sheath of Power.

“—and you don't find any of this surprising,” Angela continued. “It's as if you were expecting it to happen.”

Q counted stars. Dave counted his feet.

“Well?” said Angela, as single-minded as Q wasn't. “I'm waiting.”

“Mmmbees,” Dave said. He broke first, as he only had two feet to count.

“What was that?” Angela said. “Now stop playing silly buggers and speak up!”

Q made like the French and surrendered. “A zombie ate Princess Starla. Ooh, good name for a film, I should write that down.” Such was Q's inexperience in discussing zombies with people who didn't think about them hourly, the group's reaction took her by surprise.

Sheath was furious. Rabbit's mouth dropped open and stayed that way. He still looked sexy, though. Angela and the Scarlet Terror laughed. It was not nice laughter. It was to a giggle what a closed fist was to an open hand. “Come on, Q. Be sensible,” said Angela.

“Is this one of your games?” Rabbit asked, as if he didn't find it funny but was prepared to forget the whole thing if Q came clean.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard, even from a right-wing close-minded industrialist capitalist ego-centric conformist like you,” said Sheath. He paused to collect more furious “ists”.

Q cut in. “Princess Starla—”

“—Melissa—” Rabbit said

“—is dead, suspected eaten,” Q continued. “Dave shot a creature that would have been human but for all the bits that kept falling off. Tinkabella got so spooked she stole the van and fled, even though she can't drive. Back me up here, Dave. It's not paranoia if you end up right.”

“Ridiculous!” said Sheath of Power.

“How do you explain it?” said Q.

“Easy,” said Sheath. “Mass hysteria and infection caused by a new human/animal virus fostered by the unnatural diet and confinement of modern farm animals and our merciless subjugation, slaughter and consumption of those animals. It's an outbreak. Like swine flu, or mad cow disease.”

“Fine,” said Q. “We have a fatal outbreak of zombie flu. Symptoms are death, reanimation and an insatiable craving for human flesh. I hope you've all had your shots. I'm gonna go check on Kate.” Q stormed off.

Angela completely undermined her dramatic exit by joining her.

“I'm having an angry alone moment,” Q said. “We can't be angry alone together.”

“I know,” the woman said. “But my sweater's in my room and it's cold and I'm too chicken to go by myself.”

“Fine,” said Q. “Then you have to explain to me why you were so mean when I was trying to explain.”

“You took us by surprise,” Angela said. “We're not used to hearing monster stories presented as fact. Maybe it's a regular homicidal lunatic trying to kill us? I've seen that movie. Several times.”

“Be that way,” Q said, substituting sulk for anger. “It's not my fault that me and Dave are the only ones who psychologically prepared for this day.”

“Q, there's ‘prepared' and then there's ‘crazy'.”

Q considered. “Is that like the difference between always carrying a sharp pencil, and regularly burning off your fingertips so that no one can forensically frame you for a crime you didn't commit?”

“Wow,” Angela said. “The fact that you had that example handy was a double demonstration of the principle. But I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I thought that book of yours was a joke. A quirky joke, not a very funny joke, but a joke.”

“
Apocalypse Z
is like gonorrhea, Angela. There is nothing funny about it.”

They had reached the cabin. It was impossible to see inside; the windows were impassive black shapes. She nudged at the door and it creaked open.

“Q,” Angela said softly.

“Yah?”

“You don't regularly burn off your fingerprints, do you?”

“Of course not.”

Angela sighed. “Good.”

“It hurts way more than you'd think.”

Q stepped inside. For the second time that day, she had to strain her eyes in the darkness to detect a possible enemy before that enemy could detect her. The possibility of attack in this enclosed space made her gut clench. She held her breath and searched.

Pious Kate wasn't there.

Q relaxed and walked into the cabin. She flicked on her head torch and screeched.

Pious Kate stood behind the door, back pressed against the wall. Her eyes were wide, the whites too prominent. Her breath was fast.

“Kate?” Q said. “Are you okay?”

Pious Kate did not answer. Q took a step back and tensed, waiting for outstretched hands, a moan and a charge. None came.

The woman focused on Q. Her breathing slowed and she shook her head. “It's you.” Pious Kate's tone made the sub-text shrivel.

“Yup. Me!” said Q, artificially bright. “How ya feeling there, Kate? You're not coming down with the… flu, or anything, are you?”

“Don't be stupid,” said Pious Kate. “I never get sick. My system is too pure. I've been vegan since birth.”

Q chuckled, thinking of jerky, which was something she often did even before she met Pious Kate.

Angela decided the cabin was safe and sidled in. She rifled through her bag for a sweater, keeping a watch on the two women.

“You've been spending a lot of time up here on your own,” Q said.

“Yes,” said Pious Kate. “It's a retreat. That's what you do on a retreat.” She pushed past Q and walked out into the night.

“Do you want your coat?” Angela called after her.

“I don't feel the cold,” Pious Kate said.

“No, you wouldn't, not through the chill of your soul,” Q said.

Angela straightened up. She was wearing four different sweaters, one over the top of the other, and she swelled beneath them like an overfilled patchwork balloon. She also wore a hand-knitted pink woolen beanie with a bobble on it.

“What?” said Angela. “I need to stay warm. I've had a shock.”

“So have I, now. So have we all—” Q stopped. She'd forgotten about Hannah. Was she okay? What was happening in Sydney?

“What's wrong?” Angela said.

“Nothing. I need some stuff. Go ahead without me.”

“Okay.” Angela hurried back to the campsite, leaving Q alone in the hut.

Q rifled under her pillow and pulled out the satellite hotphone. It was out of charge. She swore, clicked on the wind-up charger and cranked as fast as she could, then dialed, mouth dry. She ran her hand over the sleeping bag on her bed. Its cold folds felt like a shroud.

The phone rang out. Q swore.

She crouched on the hard floor and pressed her fingers into her belly, trying to stop it lurching. Maybe Hannah was busy and couldn't reach it. She would be alert for the next call. Q had to give her a chance to stop whatever she was doing. She'd count thirty breaths, then try again.

She got to twenty-five and realized she'd been taking quick, flat breaths to make the count go faster. She made herself start over. When she got to thirty, she sat on the bed and dialed.

On the fifth ring, the phone connected.

“Hannah! Are you okay?” There was no reply, just yelling in the background. Q had a dreadful premonition of a small, dead girl with perfect pigtails, holding a phone and not knowing what to do with it. “Hannah! Can you hear me! Are you safe? Can you talk?”

“You should have been here, Q.” Hannah's voice broke. The girl was having trouble breathing and talking, but she was still able to do both. She was still alive.

Q said a silent prayer and gave her friend a moment to catch her breath.

Then Hannah told her about the monsters. It had started with Mrs Mason, who had arrived at class that afternoon despite the fact that a substitute teacher had been called in to cover for Q. At first it had been funny. Mrs Mason had walked into the closed glass doors of the Kindy Koala classroom with a
thump!
, like a bird that lost its way. Then she walked through the glass doors, grabbed Charmaine and bit the girl's pinkie off.

That was less funny.

Q listened to the sounds beyond Hannah as the girl spoke. There were voices in the background, which was good. Two of them sounded adult, which was great. There was also a steady, low sobbing.

“When did it happen?” Q said.

“Two forty-five. Most of the kids were asleep but they woke up fast.”

Q fist-pumped the air. She knew there had been a point to all that naptime training. “What happened next?”

“Charmaine ate Marie's foot.”

“Those two never got along.” That meant Charmaine had turned in less than a minute. Q logged another piece of information to her tally.

“I ran into the corridor,” Hannah said. “There were kids everywhere. Some of them weren't acting like kids.” Q understood. She always knew it would happen one day. The little monsters had become little monsters. “Did you try the fire exit?” Q said. It was a standard escape drill for the Lethal Littlies.

“It was blocked.”

“By what?”

“Mrs Dunkett, the counselor. She was—” The girl stopped talking. There was silence. No breathing, no muttering in the background, nothing.

“Hannah!”

The girl came back on the line. She must have covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Mrs Dunkett was—”

Hannah wasn't able to say what Natolia was, but Q could guess. “Do you remember my finger food cooking class that she walked in on?”

Hannah giggled. “I told you it was meant to be food to eat with your fingers, not food that tasted like fingers. How did you know what fingers tasted like, anyway?”