Blue Read online

  Another remarkable and perplexing characteristic of these so-called ‘Undead’ is the ability to remain functioning despite severe and massive physical trauma. Missing limbs, penetrating abdominal wounds and other critical injuries are not uncommon in many subjects. Yet they continue to function almost to the same degree as their unscathed counterparts.

  Is it some kind of physiological shunting that isolates these injuries and builds a ‘fire door’ of sorts, driving the remaining bodily resources back into circulation? Perhaps it is a combination of vascular spasm and compartmentalisation from an inflammatory response that blocks the injuries from the rest of the body, preventing them from further deterioration and complications, such as systemic sepsis and vascular shock. I question what degree of injury is sufficient to adequately kill these individuals? I will begin a systematic investigation on this when I obtain my next research specimen.

  LUKAS, late summer, 61 A. Z.

  LUKAS DIDN’T KNOW where he was going, but he sensed that the desert might be the best direction. The path that led down from the mountain wasn’t easy: soggy ground, broken trees blocking the path, and overgrown bush. He walked as if in a dream, or a nightmare, barely holding himself together, trying not to look at his mutilated arm. He’d been cast out, yet he wasn’t like the other Deads. He was pretty much the same as before: thinking, talking and conscious. What did that woman mean by him being a Blue? He had always thought those were myths, made-up stories to scare children. Yet, here he was, dusky-skinned, dark-lipped, with barely a heartbeat.

  The anger washed over him, making him choke and scream out into the silent forest. His entire life, not just part of his body, had been stolen! He had not asked for this! Everything he’d thought was a constant in his life had dissolved. True friends — they were all living safely in tree houses. Real friends would not have left him to wander alone, damaged and without comfort. All that he had learned about growing and maintaining fruit trees — what did that matter now? His three orchards of apples and plums — who would harvest them and make cider?

  Bitterness welled up in his mouth and he spat. Lukas waved his fist at the heavens and screamed. He felt like going back to the orchards and cutting down the trees to spite them all. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t turn his back on the orchard the way the people had turned their backs on him. He was adrift, completely alone in the world.

  The mountain path Lukas followed seemed to be the emptiest, most lifeless road in the world. It was as if all the birds and insects in the forest had disappeared along with the life he had once known. He saw the occasional Dead, but none seemed to take any notice of him. He even walked right beside some of them to see if they would come after him and finish off what they had started. But they simply looked at him with their mushy eyes and continued their aimless, lurching walk. He studied one of them: its dead face, skin missing around one eye socket, exposing a bit of its skull. Its body was mottled and stinking, and its hair had matted into a single dreadlock congealed with putrefaction. He, Lukas, was nothing like this creature. So what was he? Where did he belong?

  VIRGIL, late autumn, 61 A. Z.

  VIRGIL WATCHED THE riders approach, their mounts sweating under the late afternoon sun. He was pleased they’d made it to the tower outpost well before sunset, especially because they had the girl with them.

  Virgil had trained the horse she was riding. He could see her small frame on the large Appaloosa, and from all her bouncing and rolled shoulders she looked exhausted. Well, that would make sense. To get from Tree Sanctuary to this outpost took good riders at least six hours on good horses, and that was with no hold-ups or encounters with Corpses.

  Virgil couldn’t help but feel that bringing a girl into this place, this lifestyle, was a bad idea. These were hard people, there was little niceness left in any of them, and this business was a dangerous one. Virgil’s own childhood had been spent in a Gunslinger outpost much like this one, but his parents had loved him, he’d had his brother to play with and he’d never known any other kind of life. This girl had known only safety, tucked away in the beautiful trees, cared for by a foster family. Her life now would be filled with dust, grime and the reality of ‘kill or be killed’.

  The heavy gates rolled open to let the riders in and were hastily pushed shut as the last pony entered. Virgil would go down and give the tired horses a clean-up and a feed. He was only eighteen, but he had already discovered that he mostly preferred the company of animals to that of humans.

  But first he watched as Ray slid off his horse and went directly to the tower. Never mind tending to his sweat-covered horse, or helping his wife and daughter who were still trying to get off their mounts.

  Virgil knew Ray Leighton to be a bully who enjoyed making those around him nervous. He did this by keeping everyone on their toes — one moment he was a friendly, attentive leader and the next an explosive punisher. On the rare occasions when he was joking and calm, everyone in the group was relaxed too. But, without warning, his good mood could end. His eyes would narrow and he would pick a fight. Fortunately, most of the Gunslingers knew not to argue back. Ray was a big man and could throw a heavy punch, which was bad. But even worse, he also knew how to fight verbally. The last time Virgil had had a disagreement with him, Ray had belittled Virgil in front of the others, bringing up some history Virgil would rather have left unsaid. Now he made an effort to ensure he was busy with the horses when Ray was around.

  Virgil climbed down the ladder towards the new arrivals. He nodded his head in greeting at Maria. She dipped her head in acknowledgement and then motioned towards the girl, her thoughts well hidden in her dark eyes and passive expression. ‘This is Jessy,’ she said.

  Virgil regarded the girl: skinny, lanky and dark-haired like her mother, but with her father’s black eyes. She seemed too fragile to be out here in the desert. They should have left her in Tree Sanctuary to grow up a bit, to fill out.

  Jessy stared back at him and said, ‘Are you the one to help with the horses? This is my horse, Bob. He—’

  ‘I know him, Jessy. I helped birth him, broke him in, and rode him as my own for three years.’

  Jessy’s eyes widened a bit, and she blinked and looked away.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll take him and give him a groom.’ Virgil tried to give her a welcoming smile. ‘You go inside and get some food. Tomorrow we’ll talk horses.’

  Jessy seemed to relax a little. She handed him the reins and began to climb the ladder up into the tower.

  XAVIER, winter, 61 A. Z.

  Dear Jessy,

  I’m writing this letter even though I’m not sure if you’ll get it. Next time a Gunslinger comes through Tree Sanctuary, I’ll give it to them and hope they’ll pass it on to you somehow. Everything here is pretty much the same as when you left. My brothers and I go to school or we help Dad, and that’s pretty much it. Old Mr Ding is getting crazier, if you can believe it. He talks to himself sometimes! And other times, mid-lecture, he stops talking and runs back to his desk to write something down. A sign of his age, I think.

  It’s not as fun here since you left. I wish my parents were Gunslingers like yours and I was out there learning to shoot and ride horses. Where do you stay? Are you scared being on the ground all the time, with the Corpses walking around? Have you killed one yet? I know we learned archery at school, but it must be different when the target is moving!

  You have really cool parents. They don’t treat you like a baby. They’re like, ‘Here’s your knife and here’s your horse. Get on and let’s go.’ My mum won’t even let me go by myself at night to the cooking platform — and we’re up in the trees!

  Does your mother really know how to read fortunes? When I asked my mum about it, she said, ‘Mrs Leighton is really intuitive about people and tells them what they need to hear, and she’s not psychic at all.’ But I’d like to think she really can see into the future. Maybe next time you guys come here, you can ask her to read my fortune?

  So are you still go
ing to school? I guess not if you’re always out killing Corpses and riding your horse. Anyway, I hope you’re all good. I miss you.

  Xavier

  ROSE, winter, 61 A. Z.

  Dear Diary,

  We’ve done it! Against all odds, suffocating nannies and irritating older sisters, my friend Oscar and I have created a place all of our own! Getting there is a bit tricky and requires some climbing skill, and we’ve had to clean out sixty years’ worth of rat poo and rubbish, but finally it’s a clean, legitimate hang-out.

  It is three floors below the living level and three from the ground. We enter through a window on the outside of the building, using an old rope ladder that’s meant to be an emergency fire escape. The hang-out was once an apartment that people lived in before the Plague. We’ve made it safe by pushing a large shelf up against the front door. We think that the door must lead into a hallway that connects with the other apartments. Someday we’ll have to go exploring further into the building. Right now we’re really happy just to have somewhere to do whatever we want without being disturbed, which isn’t really that much. Mostly we just talk and hang out.

  This is strictly Oscar’s and my secret. Nobody can know, not even my girlfriends. Oscar is going to move his art supplies in and make a little studio for us. Now we can paint whatever we want without everyone’s opinion. We should have done this a long time ago.

  MEMOIRS OF J. DING, 45 A. Z.

  THE ZOMBIE DISEASE transforms those that are infected, altering many of those qualities that have been considered to be the constants in human homeostasis. All parameters and values the medical community have known to sustain life in normal individuals are invalid in those infected with the Plague; they continue to thrive despite having massively deranged values.

  Certain characteristics defined ‘life’ prior to the Zombie disease: being formed from carbon and cells, having some degree of organisation or structure, requiring the use of energy, the need to create homeostasis within themselves, the ability to respond and adapt, the capacity for reproduction, a period of growth and, finally, the ability to die.

  How has this disease defied the very laws that have always governed our bodies? The meaning of ‘living’ must be redefined, along with the mechanisms known to support homeostasis in the human body. Inaccurately, the scientific community wrote laws of science, assuming that they had isolated the constants of our world. Well, the common denominators have been thrown out and the only constant that I have been able to find in my life is called Change.

  LUKAS, autumn, 61 A. Z.

  LUKAS HAD WALKED for weeks, slowly picking his way out of the mountains, through dense brush and muddy terrain. He came to an old sinking road built before the Plague, and headed west on it. It was hard going and made worse by a dark storm held against the mountains. He dragged his feet through the water running along the cracked tarseal and continued forward through the rain and wind. The water constantly running down his face and his clinging, heavy clothes just added to his misery. The dark sky and surrounding shadowy woods mirrored his mood. He felt numb mostly, but then his physical pain would drag him back to the horror of his predicament. He couldn’t help but feel betrayed. He’d always done everything anyone had told him to do. He’d helped, contributed, made himself useful to the community, and now he’d been cast out. It was as if all that he’d done, all the friendships he’d made, meant nothing.

  At night, sleep was impossible. The wound on his stump throbbed constantly but was made worse by how he usually had to sleep: lying beneath a rotted-out log with pine boughs dragged over him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a position that didn’t put pressure on his wound. Still, it appeared to be healing. The once-angry surgical edges were now paler and knitted together, and skin had even begun to grow over the stitches. He thought, If I’m dead, then why am I healing?

  JESSY, winter, 61 A. Z.

  Hi Xavier,

  Things are great — really different, but I’m okay. I love my horse, Bob. He’s a big grey and black Appaloosa, super-strong and beautiful. He can be a bit grumpy sometimes, but so can I. A perfect match! I love everything about having him — the way he smells like desert grass and dust, wetting him down after a ride and, believe it or not, I even like cleaning up his poo!

  Living with my parents isn’t exactly how I expected. They’re okay parents, and I’ve always dreamt about the day I would be old enough to ride with them and start my training. I felt Tree Sanctuary was holding me back from who I actually was. But now that I’m here, I miss all my friends. I miss Mrs Williamson and my room and all my things. I never realised how much she did for me! Now I have to wash my own clothes, make most of my own meals and do everything for myself. Still, it’s nice now that I can decide when I go to bed and when I wake up, because my parents don’t take notice of my every movement like Mrs Williamson did. My mum and dad treat me like an adult. Sometimes it’s hard to remember to act like one!

  I’m not complaining. This is where I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to become. But the change is hard. I feel like I’ve gone from kid to adult overnight. Mum and Dad even want me to call them by their first names, Ray and Maria.

  Also, I’ve seen some stuff — horrible things. It gives me nightmares. I’m not sure when I’ll ‘harden up’ like Ray says I will.

  We were out on this job, trying to get this group of people out of a barn they had sheltered in when they were attempting to make a crossing from the valley to the coast. Only it wasn’t that secure. All their horses got eaten, one of the people got bitten and ‘turned’, and the rest of them managed to hide in the rafters of the barn.

  When we got there, my dad and his men killed a group of Corpses that were encircling the barn like a pack of wolves. Some of them were the really fast kind of Corpse — Variants. They ran along the ground on all fours, like spiders. First the men used their bows from a distance to put arrows through the heads of the ones they could get, and then they moved in closer and used spikes and machetes.

  One of the Deads was a little kid and pretty slow. ‘Jessy, that one is yours,’ my dad — Ray — said to me. So I went in and hit him on the head, but not hard enough. He kept coming, and I hit him again but only got his neck. He was right in my face. I pushed him off and hit again, but still I couldn’t crack his skull. He fell backwards, though, so I tried again. It took a while to do it properly. I heard all the bones give way under my hammer and I destroyed his face with the last hit.

  I secretly cried afterwards. My first kill was tiny and just a little kid, and I still did a bad job of it. Ray said that I’d get better at it. I hope so. That or I’ll get killed.

  I miss hot meals and vegetables. Who would ever have a craving for green beans? Me! We mostly eat dried meat and things we find along the way. Sometimes, if we’re in a dangerous zone, we sleep during the day instead of the night and take turns guarding while the others rest. I guess it’s kind of hard, but it’s also kind of good, because every day is different.

  You asked about my mum’s fortune-telling in your letter, and if it’s real or not. Well, I don’t know, but she thinks she’s telling the future. Maria (that’s Mum, remember!) doesn’t talk that much — to me or to anyone. She’s not like your mum, and she doesn’t do motherly things. Sometimes I actually think she’s a little scared of me. Whenever I force her to talk to me, I can’t help asking her like a hundred questions, and she goes totally silent.

  But I did manage to ask her about the fortune-telling. She said that it’s called Santaria and she learned it from her mother who learned it from her mother and so on. I was kind of waiting for her to say she would teach me, but she clammed up and stopped talking. Who knows? Maybe she’ll relax when she gets to know me.

  I miss you, Xavier. Say hi to everyone for me.

  Jessy

  KATIE, winter, 61 A. Z.

  ‘ARE YOU GOING to kill me?’ he had asked, scrambling backwards.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘You’re far too skinn
y.’

  The red-head’s pupils were dilated and his lip quivered. I guessed this was not the time to joke with him.

  ‘Hey, honestly, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Still, he inched away from me, sliding his back against the sharp rocks, watching me. I could see that every muscle in his body was ready to bolt.

  ‘I just saved you, didn’t I? Relax.’

  His eyes scanned over me and behind me, probably looking for an escape route. I could see he was terrified — though I wasn’t sure how I was going to convince him I was his best option right now.

  ‘If you want to go, just go. But good luck. There are a lot more Corpses down here and I’m not going to wait around all day trying to convince you that I’m okay.’

  He licked his lips and looked at me appraisingly.

  ‘What are you?’

  I hated that question — I’ve asked it myself a million times.

  ‘I’m a Blue, which means I’m infected, but I’m not like the Corpses. I’m not going to eat you.’

  He unclenched his hands, but sweat still streamed down his face.

  ‘So … so …’ he stammered, ‘now what?’

  ‘We get you back to the colony. What’s your name?’

  ‘Elliot Grosvenor.’

  ‘I’m Katie. I think we should start walking so we’re out of this canyon before it gets dark. I won’t hurt you, and I’ll do my best to keep you safe. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.’

  The only way out of the deep cavern was to continue on through it, looking for an exit. Its vertical sides and narrow passageway kept us in shadow and forced us to walk single-file most of the way. Despite my assurances, he stayed well away from me, walking at least two metres behind. I tried not to feel insulted — his fear was kind of understandable — but still it was hard not to be slightly irritated. Finally I turned and confronted him.