The Last Girl (10 page)
As soon as Kieran thought it, so did a dozen other people.
Number-three-Empty!-Place-where-guy-killed-family-Then-
himself!-Stereo-headphones-Booze-Go-go-go!
Mouths went dry and muscles twitched but the first person to make a break after Kieran was a bruiser named Boris.
House-is-mine!-Kill-anyone-who-tries-to-get-in!
Boris was a taxi driver who’d been dropping a blonde at Goldrise when suddenly she’d known he was picturing her naked.
Christmas-present-for-you-honey!-How-about-you-pay-the-
fare-in-trade?
She felt the repulsive wave of lust and fled from the taxi. Since she’d gotten away Boris had drained his whiskey flask and been greatly amused by the misery around him. Gay sons, cheating wives, gambling husbands, sick daddies, suicidal husbands, vigilante cops, murderous crowds: it was like reality television beamed right into his head. That towelhead flying his plane into the bridge had been even better—like a movie but heaps gorier with better special effects—and that’s when screaming idiots had started deserting their families and fancy houses. Anyone who got too close to Boris felt his fist or boot. Same went for anyone who thought shit about him. He loved that he could feel their fear and the pain he inflicted. But as awesome as this berserking was he needed a breather. All the stuff pouring into his brain was exhausting and he needed to blot it out.
Number-three-is-empty!
From the Captain’s Nest, I saw Boris sprint along the waterfront, shoulder charging people out of his way.
Kieran felt him coming.
Oh-shit-oh-shit-that-guy’s-
an-animal.
My adrenaline surged. I was in both minds—predator and prey—as Boris brought Kieran down with a flying tackle on our lawn.
‘I
am
an animal!’ the bully roared. ‘I’m the dog of war!’
Boris’s first punch broke Kieran’s nose.
I was flooded with fight or flight chemicals. Kieran would’ve left our house if I’d so much as shouted at him. But if Boris got in here I’d be better off dead.
Fight: it’s all I could do. I sped down from the Captain’s Nest, feet barely skimming the stairs. When I reached the lounge room, I snatched up the .45 and trained it on the front door with shaking hands.
Boris sized up our house, recognised where he was.
The-gutless-shit’s-place!-Pull-the-trigger-Ha-ha.
Him! He was the troll who’d been in Dad’s head, urging him to kill himself out of nothing but pure malice. My fear turned to hate.
Boris stomped up our path, radiating fury to keep others away, feeding on their fear of him. Whatever had happened to the world was just fine in his book—if he could just shut up some of these pricks in his head. But I was the one prick whose thoughts were
not
in his head. Boris had no idea he was walking into an ambush. I saw how it’d play. When he bashed down the door, I’d pull the .45’s trigger. Shots would ring out. He’d stumble back. Fall down dead on the lawn. Anyone else thinking about taking the house would get the message.
Someone-in-there-Can’t-hear-them-Shot-him-down-Cold-
blood-No-way-I’m-going-in-Number-three
.
But I was full of shit. I wasn’t a killer. I was a scared kid. I didn’t need to take a stand. I needed to run like hell back up the stairs and hide with Evan in the cupboard. Problem was, even as it dawned on me that I’d left the door unlocked after letting the cat out, even as Boris’s big bruised fist closed around the handle, even as my every nerve-ending prickled with electricity, I still couldn’t move.
Boris yanked open the door. Stood there hulking and snorting. Backlit by hellfire on the horizon. I was right there on the other side of the lounge room. In seconds his eyes would adjust and my painful departure from this life would commence. Boris slammed the door, as if that could shut out the world, and stalked into our house.
‘There you are,’ he sniggered. ‘What a loser.’
I saw what he saw: my dead father and dead stepmother.
I saw what he didn’t see: me.
I was in plain view, not a dozen feet away, playing freeze tag for my life. All I could think was that Boris was like some fierce predator with bad eyesight that tracks prey by scent or vibrations. Because he didn’t detect my thoughts he didn’t perceive me.
I flashed to an experiment we’d done in a psychology module at school. Our science teacher Ms Carlson told us we were going to watch a short video and our job was to count how many times basketball players passed a ball back and forwards. The clip ran for about a minute as team members ducked and weaved and threw the ball this way and that. When it was done, Ms Carlson asked for our answers, which ranged from eight to sixteen.
‘Anyone see anything peculiar?’ she asked.
‘The guy dressed as the gorilla,’ class geek Cybele offered timidly.
Everyone guffawed until Ms Carlson rewound the video. There he was: a man in a monkey suit, strolling through the scene, stopping to beat his chest with his glove-paws. All but one of us had been concentrating so hard on what we’d been told was there that we hadn’t seen what we didn’t expect. But as soon as we knew the gorilla was there, we couldn’t help see it. Surely my invisibility had similar limits. If Boris suspected my presence, he’d perceive me. If he decided to go upstairs, he’d walk right into me.
Boris stabbed at the TV remote angrily until he found a music channel to blast the house. Even the Fred Myers Experience yelling, ‘Hell Is Other Peeps’ wasn’t enough to banish people completely from his head—and some of them wanted to take the house from him. Boris tried to respond with bellicose threats:
Come-in-here-Peeps-yo-tear-you-to-pieces-Peeps-yo-I’ll-
Hell-is . . .
What I tuned from Boris and the shared mind was—
Hell-is-other-peeps-yo-gotta-get-something-to-drink-Gotta-
get-the-boat-out-to-sea-Player-one-game-over-Can’t-stop-the-
bleeding-Starts-New-Year’s-Day-In-cinemas-and-VOD-Get-
into-Number-three-Take-Boris-out-All-natural-sugar-free-
Mum-always-used-to-say-That-chopper’s-going-down-Only-
Global-Finance-offers-interest-free-Can-out-run-the-fire . . .
—a desperate kaleidoscope of emotions and thoughts and memories and plans spinning with commercials and jingles and choruses and scenes. Mass distraction was amplifying the mental confusion.
Boris clutched his head—
Shut-up!—
and shouted so loud his lungs hurt. ‘Shut up!’
I couldn’t help but startle. Boris sniffed the air like a dog. I stood as stiff as an obelisk. After a moment he went back to threatening—
Stay-out-you-Hell-is-pricks-or-I-swear-
I’ll-peeps-yo—
the invaders out there who wanted in, wanted his TV, wanted him.
Gotta-be-booze-here
. Boris spun up unsteadily and lurched towards me.
I didn’t breathe and tried to will my heart into not beating as he passed a few feet from me and disappeared into the kitchen. When I turned to creep up the stairs, Boris registered my movement like a drop in air pressure. He froze by the open fridge.
Someone-in-here-Hell-is-Wow-vodka-brilliant-No-they’re-
still-outside-gutless-peeps-yo-Kill-you-all-yo
.
Stupid and thick-skinned Boris still felt pangs of inevitability. Out there—on the waterfront, across the suburbs and the city— were a million pricks who knew what he was about and hated him for it. Even he knew he couldn’t fight them all.
Die-trying-Tastiest-fried-chicken-Better-to-die-on-your-
feet-Limited-time-special-Than-live-on-your-knees.
Boris saw Kieran recovering on the lawn. Idiot hadn’t learned his lesson. Still wanted to get in.
Ready-when-you-are-Queeran.
Boris chugged the vodka. The fire in his belly took the edge off everything and he stomped past me back to the couch. Gulped booze. Tried to find Fox News. They’d make sense of things. Except they weren’t broadcasting. Hardly anyone was. He scanned cable channels. Wasn’t sure what was on screen and what was in his mind from people outside. Dazzling toothpaste smiles. Black and white geeks in a cemetery. Number three looming like a haunted house. Princess Hellbanga strutting a stage. Blood spraying from a wrist. Fat juicy burger with fries.
You’ve-got-to-sleep-sometime-Boris-Micro-whitening-
technology-They’re-coming-to-get-you-Barbara-I-could-go-
around-the-other-side-surprise-Boris-with-Papa-La-Nal-baby!-
Suicide-might-be-a-sin-Two-for-the-price-of-one-Conditions-
apply . . .
‘Shut up!’ Boris raged. ‘Shut up!’
The world got louder and brighter.
What-do?-He’s-taken-the-car?-Fresh-daily-guaranteed-
Trapped-Got-to-be-another-way-Give-me-those-headphones-
you-Burn-in-hell-for-what-you-Make-it-stop-Ha-ha-Boris-is-
circling-the-drain-Hurts-so-much-So-loud-Make-it-stop . . .
‘So loud,’ Boris muttered, the empty vodka bottle falling to the floorboards.
He was going, going, about to be gone. This was my chance. If I didn’t do something then Kieran or someone worse would be in here next.
I stepped towards Boris, raising the .45 at his fat face. There was just enough of him left to see me materialise out of thin air and to be seized by panic. That was good. I needed everyone outside to see me through his prism of fear.
I held the gun with two hands. Not shaking now. I knew the safety was off. Dad hadn’t been able to put it back on. I blamed this bully for that. I remembered you weren’t supposed to pull the trigger. You were supposed to squeeze. Where had I heard that? Some TV show probably. It was good advice.
The gun roared three times, kicking in my hands, making my ears ring. But I couldn’t miss at such close range and with such large targets. Boris blanked out as my first bullet hole punched the framed Ken Done original above his head. My second shot killed the plasma with a satisfying pop. The final round went through the French doors and buzzed like an angry wasp past a guy in a tinfoil hat coming through our gate.
My theatre had the desired effect. The people outside saw me appear briefly like a gun-toting ghost girl before Boris’s mind disappeared in a volley of shots. No one could be sure if he’d crashed out or if I’d blown his head clean off.
Gun-crazy-bitch!-Like-a-demon!-He-didn’t-see-her!-I-
can’t-see-her-now!-Killed-him?-Totally-cold-blood!-Gotta-get-
outta-here!
The news burned bright, getting hotter as it radiated outwards, an instant urban myth. Bitch had two guns. Bitch killed her whole family. Bitch got killed by her dad but came back to life. Bitch fed on the souls of those who crashed out. Bitch had been controlling minds for weeks. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that people were fleeing our property. Kieran was crawling across the grass, praying I didn’t end him with a bullet in the back.
It was like I’d put a force field around Number three. I knew it wouldn’t last. At best I’d bought Evan and me some time. I looked at catatonic Boris. How long would he be out? A glance across the suburb told me that Jacinta was still offline. As far as I could tell—out on the promenade, in the other houses—no one else had yet come back from their blackouts.
But I’d resurfaced in seconds so I couldn’t take any chances with Boris. In a lassoing motion, I unravelled the Christmas lights from the tree. Some had been broken in Dad and Stephanie’s fight but about half still twinkled merrily. I wound the entire length around Boris, binding his wrists and ankles, wrapping him in black wire and blinking orange, red and green bulbs until he looked like a yuletide mummy.
I set the gun on the dresser in Dad and Stephanie’s bedroom and rummaged through her handbag. Holding the BMW keys sent doubt spiralling up inside me. I forced it down. I had to be brave. But I also had to be realistic. I was pretty likely to crash the car. If we survived that, we’d have to go on foot with supplies that I could carry.
Leaving home had been my dream since Stephanie moved in. Striking out into the world, head held high, offering dignified goodbyes, taking a few treasured keepsakes, knowing I’d never look back: that’s how I’d pictured it. This was a long way from that. I stood in the doorway of my bedroom with no idea what to take.
First thing I needed to take was a deep breath. I did that. Tried to keep calm.
My flannel pyjamas. Not the best outfit for a survival situation. I changed into jeans, a chunky woollen jumper, thick socks and leather boots. It might feel like I was melting in these clothes but at least they wouldn’t melt to my skin if I had to face flames. I tied my hair into a ponytail and tucked it under a baseball cap. Pulling my backpack from the cupboard, I looked around for what else I needed.
My big bed was an expanse of stuffed animal friends carried over from childhood. More recent imaginary friends—Mary Shelley, Dorothy Parker, Ellen Ripley, Lisa Simpson, Elissa Steamer—gazed down from my corkboard collage. My beanbag was buried under a midden of clothes and my desk was strewn with magazines. My dressing table was a landscape of polishes, lipsticks and moisturisers and the wall shelves were stacked with books, games, gadgets and trinkets. I hadn’t thought I was a materialistic girly-girl but now it hit me how much of my stuff was meaningless. Surely there had to be something I possessed that was useful for survival.
‘Sneakers!’ I said to myself, and packed them.
Spare jeans. A jacket. Sunglasses might be good. Ditto a notebook. I grabbed a clutch of pens. I ripped my cash roll out of its jar and stuffed it in my pocket. I didn’t know if we were beyond money, but no sense being caught short. It pained me to leave Mum’s painting, but lugging a canvas was hardly practical. She could do another one for me in Shadow Valley. My eyes fell on the Lucidiphil packet. Surely I didn’t need the medication now that the world had given me a second opinion about my condition. I spun around: there was nothing else.
Downstairs I made sure Boris was still blacked out in blinking lights before I ransacked the pantry for packet noodles, tins of tuna, boxes of crackers, some fruit and a few bottles of water. I grabbed a lighter, torch, spare batteries, can-opener, cutlery. In the bathroom, I added a first-aid kit, sunblock, painkillers, tampons, soap and toilet paper. In all, I filled the backpack and two shopping bags.
