Savage: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel (33 page)

Steph stood by and watched in horror as Hell
surrounded her.  Then it was her turn to face the demons.

The woman who said she had diabetes was now on her
feet and snarling like a hungry wolf.  She leapt through the air and came
down on top of Steph like a falling piano.  For a second, all Steph could
see was stars.  Then her vision filled with the snarling, monstrous face
of the woman on top of her. 
I’m going to die.  I’m never going to
do the things I dreamed about.  I‘ll never open my own business. 
I’ll never see Harry again.

The regrets flooding through Steph’s head were enough
to spur her into action.  She shoved both her hands up and grabbed the
sick woman by the ears.  She wrenched and twisted, managed to pull the
chomping teeth away from her face.  The woman was strong, though, and
Steph was already beginning to weaken. 
What got into these
bitches? 
Steph looked left and right for something to save herself
with.  Bryan was nearby, but he was battling with his own attacker. 
Mike was dead and so were dozens of other people. 
Is this really
happening?

To her side was the bride-to-be’s dildo hat.  It
must have fallen from her head when she killed Mike.  Steph moved her
hands away from her attacker’s ears and grabbed the woman under her chin. 
She dared pull one hand away and reached for the bright red dildo on the floor
beside her.  She grasped the veiny shaft and yanked it towards her. 
Been
a while since I’ve done that,
thought Steph as she shoved the rubber
phallus into her attacker’s snapping jaws.  She shoved the dildo into the
woman’s throat as deeply as you could, until nothing but the base could be
seen.  The woman still fought with Steph, though, ignorant of the fact she
no longer had the ability to breathe.  Her screeching became a choked
mumble as the dildo lodged in her throat.  Her face went bright red and
then deep purple.

The woman collapsed on top of Steph and stopped
moving.  Steph rolled the body away and sat up.  She looked down at
the woman she’d just killed and sighed. 
I feel for you,
hun
.  I could never
deepthroat
either.

Before she had time to take a breath, Bryan dragged
Steph to her feet.  “We need to get the hell out of here,” he said. 
“It’s gone
Hellraiser
3
in here
.
”

Steph took in the bar and was unable to blink. 
Blood and saliva filled the air like mist, while twitching arms and legs
knotted together so that she could no longer make out individual people. 
She saw Cassie, lying torn open on the bar.  She was gurgling blood and
begging for help, but nobody could help her.

Steph grabbed Bryan’s arm.  “Come on.  We
have to make it through to the back.”  They ran towards the back of the
bar, cutting a wide berth around the chaos of the dance floor.  The door
to the back was thick, wooden, with a magnetic lock.  Steph skidded to a
halt in front of the keypad and began entering the code.

A spotty teenager in a paisley shirt flew at Bryan and
the two of them knocked Steph aside before she managed to unlock the
door.  She caught her balance and immediately grabbed at the younger
man.  Bryan managed to free his arms and throw a punch.  The teenager
rocked backwards, but thrashed his head and let out a screech. 

He dove at Bryan with his hands out like claws. 
Bryan ducked out of the way but tripped and fell to the floor.

Steph cursed and prodded at the keypad again. 
She had to get away from the bar.  Everyone had gone insane. 
It
was the hen party that was sick, so why is that teenager attacking Bryan? 
Is he sick too?

Beep
beep
beep
beeeep
!

The staff door
clunked
and the magnetic lock
disengaged, but Bryan was still on the floor, battling with the teenager. 

Goddamnit
. 
Steph crouched down and took off her heels.  The
six-inch maroon stilettos were her favourites –
but when needs must
…. 
She swung one of her shoes round and aimed it at the teenager’s temple. 
It hit the soft section of his skull with a sickening
crack
and the boy
fell away from Bryan. 

Bryan clambered to his feet as quickly as he could.

Steph opened the staff door and bundled him through,
just as a crazy hen threw herself against the other side with a
thud
. 

Bryan bent over, panting.  “W…what the hell?”

“Hell is the right word.  Those people were like
demons.”

“Or zombies,” Bryan added.

Steph nodded.  ‘
Zombies’ is as good a word as
any
. 
Except they’re not dead.
 
They’re more like…infected.

Bryan straightened up and looked around.  “What
is this place?”

“The staff corridor.  The cellar is downstairs
and there’re two employee flats above us.  Straight ahead is the
staffroom.  Do you still have your mobile?”

Bryan shook his head.  “I dropped it.  Is
there a landline in this place?”

Steph shook her head.  “No.  The phone is in
the office, but that’s at the other side of the bar.  We’d have to go
outside again.”

“Fuck that.”

“Double fuck it.”

“Can we try the flats upstairs?  Maybe they have
a phone?”

“Maybe.”  It was a good idea, so Steph led Bryan
up the stairs to the two doors, each of which led to a separate flat. 

Bryan tried the handles, but muttered.  “Locked.”

Steph shrugged.  “You’re a man, aren’t you? 
Act like one.”

Bryan smirked.  He got the hint and took a step
back.  He unleashed a kick at the door on the left.  It busted open
in a single try.

Steph pursed her lips and nodded.  “Impressive.”

“Well, I did do a course on door kicking at college.”

“Cute and smart.  Lucky me.”

Bryan grinned.  “After you,
m’lady
.”

Steph stepped through into the flat.  It belonged
to Cassie, but the girl was dying or dead.  Her privacy didn’t much matter
anymore.  Steph still felt bad, though, as she snuck into the barmaid’s
living space.

The small lounge was a mess.  Clothes lay
everywhere and a cracked glass coffee table played host to both a bong and a
powder-stained compact mirror.

“Looks like your colleague liked to party,” said
Bryan, prodding the bong with his finger.  The glass pot wobbled but
stayed upright.

“Doesn’t look like she has a landline,” said
Steph.  “And she always has her mobile on her.  She spends most of
her shifts texting.”

The sounds of chaos downstairs died down slightly, but
the sound of screeching was still prevalent.  “What happened, do you
think?” Bryan asked.

Steph shook her head.  “There was a hen
party.  The women were sick…
real
sick.”

“You think they brought some fucked-up disease in here
with them?”

“How should I know?  That teenager who attacked
you had it, too.  He was like a wild animal.”

Bryan folded his arms.  “You think he caught it?”

“I don’t know anything.  I guess we will just
have to stay here until help arrives.  The police are going to have a
field day when they get here.  I swear there must be over a hundred dead
on that dance floor.”  She felt like crying.

Bryan nodded and approached her.  “It’s
okay.  We’re safe.  You did
good
out
there.  You got us out.”

Steph nodded.  She smiled at Bryan and was glad
he was there.  If she was alone she might have freaked out a lot
worse. 
Thank God he was there when the shit hit the fan.

Bryan placed a finger beneath her chin and looked into
her eyes.  Unlike the drunken guy who had come on to her, Bryan’s eyes
were dark and brown.  She felt herself falling into them.

He kissed her.  It was nice.

But she pulled away.  Right now, the last thing
on her mind was making out.  She had just witnessed a slaughter. 
Also, she somehow felt like she was betraying Harry.  It was weird to
think of him at that moment, but perhaps it meant she wasn’t over him
yet. 
Bryan is cute, but I really don’t want to get into anything right
now.

Bryan looked at her, seeming somewhat hurt by her
rejection.  “I’m sorry,” said Steph.  “It’s not you.”

Bryan frowned irritably.  “Then what is it?”

Steph frowned back at him.  “It might have
something to do with all of the dead people downstairs.  Maybe I’m weird,
but that doesn’t quite do it for me.”

She’d been harsher than she’d intended and the wound
inflicted was clear on Bryan’s face.  “Hey,” he said.  “We’re stuck
in here for God knows how long.  I just thought we could pass the time.”

“Oh, lovely,” said Steph.  “Nice to know I’m
useful for passing time.”

Bryan touched her under the chin again.  “You
know what I mean.”  He leant in to kiss her again.

She shoved him backwards.  “Hey, take the
hint.  Now is not the time.”

Bryan advanced on her again.  His face had become
unkind.  “Now is the perfect time.  We might be dead later if those
lunatics get inside.”

Steph backed away.  “It’s not happening. 
Deal with it.”

Bryan snarled.  “I saved your life, you fucking
bitch.  I’ve been sticking up for you all night, ever since that drunken
twat came at you.”

Steph was getting angry.  She clenched her fists
and stood her ground.  “That gives you the right to do what you want, does
it?  You men are all the same.” 
Except for Harry.

“You’re damn right it gives me the right.”  Bryan
grabbed a hold of her and started kissing her neck.  She fought to escape his
grasp, but he was too strong.

“Let go of me,” she demanded.  She hated the
frightened twinge that had found its way into her voice.

“Only if you stop struggling.”

“Never.”  She managed to bring her knee up
between his legs.

Bryan lurched backwards and moaned, cupping his
testicles.  But it didn’t take him long to recover.  He grabbed Steph
by her hair and dragged her towards him.  Then he backhanded her across
the face and sent her to the floor.  Blood trickled from her nose and dripped
down into her mouth.  She spat it out onto Cassie’s carpet.  Bryan
stared down at her balefully.  Lust had taken over him as quickly as rage
had taken over the hens.  He began to unbuckle his belt.

Then he descended on her.  “Struggle and you’ll
end up ugly.”

Steph closed her eyes as he fiddled with the buttons
on her jeans.  She winced as his hot breath and tongue filled her
mouth. 
I can’t believe this is happening to me.  What did I do to
deserve this?  He can’t do this.  I don’t want him to.  I’m
Harry’s girl.

Steph’s eyes snapped open and she grabbed a hold of
Bryan and brought him close to her.  “That’s it,” he said.  “Get with
the program, luv.”

“Get with
this
!”  She snarled and bit down
on his neck as hard as she could.  For a moment she wondered if she had
the caught the same illness the hen party had, but as Bryan pulled away, she
did not wish to eat any more of his flesh. 

Bryan was growling.  The lust in his eyes had
turned to murderous rage.

Steph rolled onto her side, reached up over the coffee
table and snatched at the heavy glass bong.

Bryan descended on her again, his fists raised, his
face a mask of fury.

Steph smashed the bong against his head.  She
didn’t know if the cracking sound came from the glass or his skull.  He
fell down dead on top of her, either way, with his pants around his ankles.

I’m done with dating,
she
thought to herself as she squirmed from underneath the dead man. 
You
just can’t trust a man not to try and kill you. 

She sat down on the room’s sofa and waited for the
police to arrive.  She needed to report the murder and hoped they would
believe her story.  If anything, they would be more interested in the
chaos on the dance floor than an attempted rape upstairs in the flat.

But, almost six hours later, it was not the police who
arrived but the Army, and they weren’t at all interested in Bryan.  They
were only looking for survivors.  What happened on the dance floor was not
an isolated incident.  The sickness was everywhere.  The infected
were everywhere.

Steph went with an Army Sergeant named Harrison and
joined two-dozen other survivors inside a requisitioned city bus.  She sat
at the back and wondered if she’d ever see Harry again.  She thought
probably not.

T
he watering hole would be dry by the
time Pat left, at least that was his hope.  It had been days since he’d
been in the company of anything without a tail and even longer since he’d had a
beer.  He sipped the amber nectar and let out a satisfied sigh. 
Christ,
that’s good.  I’ve been away from your teat too long, mistress.

Pat spent most of his days in the bush, collecting the
skins of whatever he could trap.  Snakes and crocs were his bread and
butter, but possum and dingo pelts fetched a few dollars back in Adelaide and
he could sell the meat to the
Abbos
.  The skinner’s
life was a solitary one, but the only one he knew.  The dirt and stone of
the outback were his home – but the local watering holes were his
vacation spots.

“Another beer, Pat?”
Ralphie, the
barman, asked.

“Does a Koala shit up a tree?”

“You’d know better than me, mate?  Another beer
coming up, though.”

Pat nodded his thanks and sipped the last of his
current lager.  He always felt sad at the end of every pint, but satisfied
and happy at the start of every new one.  It was like a metaphor for
life. 
One pint
ends and another
begins. 
The eternal piss-up in life’s lonely saloon.
 
God pours the beer and we drink it.

Ralphie slid a new pint towards him and headed off to
serve the
bar’s
only other customer –
tarfinger
Marge.  The old dear drank more than even
Pat did and seemed to turn up in dive bars all over the outback.  She
always had a fag between her yellow fingers and a face like a yard of tripe.

The sun was dying and the purple haze of twilight was
descending.  Pat decided to take his beer outside.  He always liked
to watch day give way to night.  One bunch of critters went to bed while
another bunch came out of their hidey-holes.  It was like
nature’s
changing of the guard.

He shoved open the rickety door of the bar and stepped
out onto the sandy floor of the bush.  The sun was almost gone, but the
heat still danced on the horizon and brought beads of sweat to his
forehead.  A pair of rats skittered away from behind the building’s bin
store as he approached, but he walked past them and headed towards his
banged-up truck.  When he reached it, he pulled open the rickety driver’s
door and climbed inside.  Sitting on the tatty leather of his seat was
enough to make him sigh with pleasure.  The contours of his backside had
truly made the seat his own.  It was almost part of him after so many
years bouncing around the bush together. 
Heaven is a well-worn seat.

Pat took a long swig of his larger and peered out the
windscreen at the dying sun.  Oranges, purples, greys, and blacks mingled
like a painter’s canvass.  It was beautiful, and he never got tired of
seeing it. 
If God walked the earth, he would choose to live in the
bush, I have no doubt.  If ever there was proof of God’s work it’s here.

A couple of flies fluttered through the open space
where the truck once had a side window.  Glass didn’t last long on the
bumpy, rock-strewn terrain of the outback.  Pat swatted them onto the
dashboard and wiped their guts on his jeans. 
Bloody midges. 
Then
he eased himself back into his seat and closed his eyes.  The beer had
settled him, like it always did, and now he fancied a nap.  He took the
time to reflect, and when a person reflected, only the bad things came to mind.

His only real regret in life was his son, Sally -
Salvatore.  Pat had never been close to his mother.  They had met at
an Italian bar in the city and carelessly made a baby.  Pat had tried to
step up and be a father, but Sally had been a puzzle he could not solve. 
The boy was cheeky and manic, always getting into scrapes.  At first Pat
found it endearing, seeing much of himself in the boy, but once Sally hit his
teens, his childish antics didn’t mature with him – in fact they had
grown darker in intent.

Sally had been a womaniser, screwing women left and
right, but he would do so via false promises.  The young girls would
arrive on Pat’s doorstep, crying, pleading, and swearing that Sally loved
them.  Sally would just laugh in their faces and move onto the next. 
It made Pat feel a little sick, to be honest.  Women should be respected,
if not revered.  Pat had not always been the most honourable of men, but
he had never made a woman cry.  Sally seemed to do so regularly and with a
certain degree of pleasure. 
I swear that kid enjoys causing pain.

Pat had been a mechanic back then, tinkering with engines
and machines, making a few bucks here and there to buy beers and bacon. 
Sally and his mother lived close by.  The neighbourhood was poor, but
friendly.  The only person to dislike was Pat’s son.

Eventually the fathers and brothers of all of the spurned
young girls started arriving to meet with Sally.  Eventually there had
even been shouted accusations of rape and beatings.  That was when Sally
took off – seven years ago.  Where he went, Pat had no clue. 
The thing that hurt the most was that he didn’t really care.  His son was
a selfish, impulsive man, with no friends and many enemies.  As much as
Pat had tried to motivate Sally into being a better man, he had failed
utterly.  The last thing Sally did before disappearing was steal Pat’s
life savings from the safe in the bedroom.  $18,000, a lifetime of odd
jobs and repair work.  If Pat had kept it, he would be driving a truck
much nicer than the one he did now.  But somehow that might have been
worse.

After Sally disappeared, Pat decided to move out of
his rented house and live in his truck.  Now, the old Toyota pick-up had
been his home for nearly a decade.  He wouldn’t be the same without
it.  Living away from society, out in the bush, was a life he could never
give up.  Despite the disappointment and the heartbreak, Sally leaving had
been a blessing. 
Is that dreadful to think?  He’s my son.

Pat was pulled away from his thoughts by another
handful of buzzing flies.  He sat forward and swatted at them, pinning
some to the dashboard, but missing others. 
What in tarnation?

Pat opened the door and hopped out of his truck. 
His boots hit the gravel and even more flies hit his face.  He spat and
spluttered, cursed.

Then he smelt it.

“What the hell has died around here?” he said out
loud.  It smelt like the possum carcasses he sometimes found – dingo
leftovers – but it was much stronger, completely foul.  The buzzing
of the flies filled the air and sounded like electricity.

Then Pat heard moaning, off in the trees.

He frowned, swatted a few more flies, before hopping
back up into his truck.  He sat still for a few moments, feeling
lost.  The bush had a thousand ways to kill a man.  Almost every
thing with legs, and many things without, were either poisonous, venomous, or
at the very least, onerous.  Tiger snakes, Red Back spiders, crocs, and
dingos; living in the outback was like living life on the
HARD
setting.  Pat was used to it all, though, and very rarely felt the unease
he was feeling right now.  Without knowing why, he switched on the
Toyota’s headlights.

What he saw knocked his socks off.

“
Strewth
.” 
So surprised was Pat, that when he leaned forward to get a better look
through the windscreen, he accidently put his elbows on the horn.

Blaaaargh
!

Immediately the group of
Abbos
up ahead turned and faced Pat’s truck.  Each of the six men was bloodied
and limping.  One of them even had most of one arm missing.  Pat knew
that some Australian’s saw the
Abbos
as lazy booze
hounds, hanging around the bars and selling their wares wherever the could, but
Pat knew a different breed: those who still lived beneath the sky and slept
upon the ground.  Those men were brave, hard, and wise.  But plodding
around with an arm missing took a toughness that surprised even Pat.

Slowly, he stepped out from his truck.  He kept his
eyes on the approaching tribesmen, noting that they were wearing red and white
face paint and had bones through their noses.  The red skirts around their
waists were dusty and torn.  Pat’s assumption was that they had been
conducting one of their ceremonies nearby. 
But what the hell happened
to them?

The six tribesmen ambled towards Pat.  Each of
them moaned and reached out their hands.  Pat just stood there, watching
them, wandering if it was danger approaching him or fellow human beings in
need. 
They need help.

The door to the watering hole flung open and Ralphie,
the barman, appeared. 
Tarfinger
Marge was stood
right behind him.

Pat waved a hand at them.  “Over ‘ere.”

Ralphie and Marge trotted over to Pat and joined
him.  The three of them stood and watched the group of tribesmen for a
while with curious interest.

“They look as rotten as a chop,” Ralphie eventually
said.

“Looks like they had some bad tucker,” said Marge.

As the six tribesmen stumbled closer, Pat saw that one
of them had a chunk missing from his throat.  The windpipe was severed and
hanging loosely.

“They’re dead,” Pat muttered.  “Blow me down, but
they’re dead as doornails.”

Ralphie nodded thoughtfully.  “Well…they looked a
bit
narked
, I’ll give you that.”

Pat shook his head.  “No, look.  They’re
dead.”

The three of them stood in silence while the six
tribesman continued to close the distance between them.  They were out of
the treeline now, stumbling between rocks and cactus and nearing on the
watering hole’s front yard.

“We should probably nick off, then,” said Ralphie.

“And go where?” asked Pat.  “The beer is here.”

The tribesman with a missing arm moaned loudly, like a
lost lover stumbling though the fog.  He reached forward with his
remaining hand and licked at the air with his tongue.

Ralphie folded his arms and smirked.  “I think
that one’s
perving
at you,
Margey
. 
I’ve got a bottle of plonk you can share in the back, if it’ll do yer.”

“Don’t poke
mullock
at me,
you
wally
.  We’re up shit creek here.”

Pat nodded.  “So what do you want to do?  Do
we leg it like a bunch of panic merchants, or do we stay and fight like the
Aussie battlers we are.”

“I just started a new bottle,” said Marge.  “I
ain’t leaving it.”

“My bar my rules,” said Ralphie.  “These
party-crashers are barred.”

“Should we at least warn them, first?” asked Pat, but
then he started laughing.  “You think they’ll listen?”

“As much chance as pushing shit up a hill,” said
Marge.  She stubbed her cigarette out on her tongue and threw the butt to
the ground.  Then she reached into her hammock-like bra and pulled out a
long machete.

“Shit, Margery,” Ralphie chuckled. 

Pat pulled out his own machete from the sheath on his
hip.  Ralphie didn’t have a knife, so Pat handed him the spare he kept on
his other hip.

“You fellas ready?” Marge asked.

“Ready as a possum at a bear party,” said Ralphie.

“Let’s do this,” said Pat.

“I’ve got the one-armed
perve
,”
said Marge.  She raced forward like a pomme chasing a tea wagon, machete
slashing through the air and a screech coming from her lungs like a campsite
kettle.  She took the one-armed tribesman’s head clean off.  Her
blade was almost as sharp as Pat’s. 

Almost. 
Pat
leapt forward and then sidestepped, the exact same way he would approach a
snapping croc.  The nearest dead
abbo
reached
for him and missed.  As the bloody man stumbled forward, Pat slashed at
the back of his knees, cutting the tendons and sending him to the floor,
facedown in the dirt.  He placed a foot on the squirming tribesman’s back
and sighed.  “See you on the other side of the great divide,” he
said.  “Safe travels, chief.”  He swung the machete like a cricket
bat and sliced open the man’s neck, separating the head.

Nearby, Ralphie launched into a
flying kick, which hit home but also sent him flopping onto his back.
  Pat shook his head and grunted.  “This
ain’t
no bloody kung-
fu
movie. 
Get up off your
arse and stop playing the
bludger
.”

Marge shouted out as one of the tribesmen grabbed her
from behind.  Pat was about to race to her rescue, but then the old woman
smashed her head backwards and broke the tribesman’s face.  Then she
twisted and flung the man over her shoulder and onto his back.  She
finished it off by thrusting her machete down into his face.  “No fucking
worries,” she said, slightly out of breath.

The next danger to present itself was the tribesman
with the severed windpipe.  He fell on top of Ralphie, who was still
grounded from his botched Bruce Lee attempt.  The barman fought and
struggled to hold the man off, but was losing the battle.  Pat leapt over
a knee-high boulder and came down beside the two of them.  He span around
and slashed his blade across the side of the dead man’s skull.  It struck
the target dead, but buried itself in bone.  Pat pulled at it for a few
moments but had to give up.  “That was my best bleedin’ knife,” he
muttered before crouching down and picking up the knee-high boulder.  It
weighed heaps, but he managed to heave it over his head.