The zombie apocalypse, in the end, turned out to be a rather mundane affair.
Maybe because it started somewhere far away from one of the major cities.
Maybe because it started in Nowhere Downs.
No one knows how it all really began. Someday, somebody somewhere got bitten by something – no one really knows where or when or by what – and in a world where there were no zombies before, suddenly, there were zombies.
That on its own is a decently alarming fact. One that would have been a great deal more so if not for one minor detail – zombies, it turns out, are incredibly, incredibly slow.
Case in point – when Roger E Braithwaite of 2 Cockatoo Dr. realised his neighbour of some thirty-eight years had turned into a zombie, he was already partway through his morning conversation.
“Good morning, Brian,” he called while reaching for the morning newspaper.
Brian said nothing, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. Brian communicated more in hand gestures and nods these days than with actual words. And wasn’t he getting kind of hard of hearing these days, anyway? Something about spending too much time sanding without earmuffs on, some people said.
Maybe that’s the reason Roger didn’t realise something was off until now-zombie Brian was upon him. As Roger stood there reading out the footy results from the previous night, a shadow loomed off to one side.
He looked up in surprise as Brian’s figure reached out, hands raised, and then –
Roger stepped to the side, easily out of reach.
Now-zombie Brian shuffled past.
“You all right there, mate?” said Roger.
But Brian didn’t respond.
Roger watched him stumble about for a few moments and came around to get a better look at things.
Upon realising Brian’s new… predicament, Roger went indoors, closed the shutters, and calmly called the police.
And then, while Brian shuffled about in the yard, caught on a nearby tree and not really sure where Roger had gone anyway on account of him not really having – you know – mental faculties anymore, the police arrived.
And stood about for a moment.
Roger came out the side door and invited them in for a cup of tea and a plate of Scotch Fingers1. Then, after a few minutes’ observation, the three of them collected Brian in sensible, thick-padded clothes, bundled him into a police car, and went to the station.
The chief of police called the local doctor, Angela, who arrived another thirty minutes later.
As she placed a stethoscope against no-longer-quite-a-person-anymore Brian’s chest, Angela’s expression of curiosity turned into one of surprise, followed by something closer to shock, then finally settled into an altogether new emotion somewhere between grief and surprise.
Not one that had much time to settle, though.
As she was about to offer a confused prognosis, the phone rang, and the police were off again on the heels of another suspected sighting.
Over the next few hours, calls similar to the one Roger made started coming in from all over the town. And, each time, the police ventured forth as an ever-incredulous Angela looked like she was having simultaneously the worst and most confusing day of her career.
In the early days, when there were still enough to hold them, the police housed the recently un-deceased one to a cell. After all, this seemed the humane thing to do. No one was sure if any of the occupants might turn on one another, and even if they didn’t, the police hadn’t quite processed the fact that these new residents might not mind being in the same space as others in the same way as when they were alive. After all, everyone knew old Arthur wasn’t speaking with George since the latter failed to return his leaf blower in 2016, and the thought of them sharing the same space seemed an offence all on its own, even if its occupants no longer seemed to mind.
More importantly, that would mean acknowledging that these people were now, in fact, no longer entirely human, and no one wanted to be the first person to use the ‘Z’ word out loud.
Besides, there was another, more practical concern.
As they continued their search for the recently un-deceased, the police soon discovered it wasn’t immediately obvious whether they were dealing with a zombie or one of the more lively kind. Mr Franklin, whom the police had a long-standing tradition of fishing off the edges of Wallaby2 Gorge on a Saturday morning, turned out one day to have become a zombie rather than nursing a stronger-than-usual hangover. Then there was the embarrassing debacle with the town green, where the police arrived in full zombie-catching gear on the hunt for a group of suspected zombies only for the culprits to get up and run away at top speed, leaving an array of exotic herbal equipment in their wake.
Indeed, the main difference between a state of undeath and a truly spectacular night out seemed to be less a question of state, and more one of duration.
But soon, the problem was moot.
As the cells dried up and the number of the recently un-deceased continued to grow, so did pressure to house the occupants together. Barn spaces, some suggested, maybe even rooms of their now-deserted homes (where better, but who would ensure they stayed there?). While the townspeople were debating, however, the clock was ticking until only one option remained.
The police started doubling up, two occupants to a cell. Then three, then four. Soon enough, the entire prison was full of zombies with not much room to move in, and it was in these sad conditions the story went national.
No one knows how it really started. Someday, somebody somewhere snapped a picture of the cells and posted it online. Somebody shared it, and shortly after, there wasn’t a town in the nation that hadn’t heard of Nowhere Downs.
Once a quiet country town, a sudden tide of strangers flooded the streets on the hunt for potential zombies and a good story, filling up the local hotels and camping spots.
The ADF3 turned up, along with the State Coroner and a contingent of medical staff, establishing a temporary camp on the outskirts of town. Reporters from every known newspaper – and some no one had heard of until that day – booked out every remaining hotel in town and filled up the streets in cars and cameras, and waited.
And waited.
Until, after more than a week bereft of sightings, someone got wind that young Marsden’s mum had broken free.
Son of a single mother, young Marsden (now 21) noticed her turning about the same time as the others. Unlike the others, he hadn’t quite known what to do, and locked her in her room one night until he could decide. But ‘I’ll deal with it later’ soon turned into ‘I don’t know what to do’ and his mother made the choice for him instead. Days of unrelenting (but gentle) assault later, the hinges on the old door gave way, and on the morning of Tuesday, young Marsden woke up in a house alone.
The first the press got wind of it, the police were tracking Mrs Marsden down in the streets near the centre of town. Young Marsden came after and, as the scent of a story wafted in the air, the town converged.
Whooping sirens called as the police competed with the ADF to keep the people away and the cameras out of their faces. Young Marsden’s cries as the ADF captured his then undeceased mother and took her away from the now-full cells were caught in every microphone in the square, his face full of emotion splashing in every paper in the country long after night fell and some semblance of uneasy silence returned.
Maybe it was the ongoing scrutiny.
Maybe it was the unspoken feeling that a town full of strangers was somehow more difficult to bear than one full of recently deceased but familiar faces.
The one thing we don’t know is how it started – just that it was held.
The first (and only) town hall for citizens of Nowhere Downs on the decision of what to do with the others.
* * *
The harsh rapping sound of a gavel cut through the hubbub of voices as the residents of Nowhere Downs gathered in the town community hall in the early hours of a Thursday evening. Loud enough to sound out above the voices and the scratch of plastic chairs moving into place, it did little to dull the energy of the voices it contained.
“When are those media people going away?” shouted a voice.
“When can I see my son?” called another.
“Easy now,” called the mayor, finally winning some sense of growing ease over the assembled people. “We’ll get to everything in good time.”
The voices continued, growing quieter by degrees under ongoing encouragement from the mayor until finally, his voice rose above the din.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “Settle down now, people. There’s not much time, and we’ve got a decision to make.”
Before he could continue, however, an ominous banging noise sounded on the doors.
As one, the townspeople turned to see a shadowy figure hovering at the door, face pressed against the glass.
Silence fell.
“Jim?” said the mayor.
A man dressed in a police uniform approached the door carefully, one hand on the clip to his service weapon as he peered at the form in the glass.
He leaned in close, then turned back towards the crowds, suddenly relieved.
“It’s alright,” he called. “It’s just Darren.”
Two of the people near the doors stood up and opened them wide enough for the newcomer to pass through.
The form of an old man shuffled into the hall.
“Anyone got a seat for Darren?” said the mayor.
A young man near the middle stood up and offered his seat.
Darren shuffled into place, accepting the open space with a nod, and attention shifted back to the mayor.
“As I was saying,” he said, “we’re here to make a decision. Because if we don’t make one soon, the federal government’s going to make one for us.”
“What about the media?” called a voice.
“When are they gonna leave?”
“Hold on,” said the mayor as a fresh round of murmurs started. “I know you’re worried about ‘em, so let’s get a few things straight. The government’s not gonna step in and do anything unless we show ‘em we can’t handle this ourselves. Funding’s up for grabs, but ‘what for?’ is the question. If you want a say on the what and where, tonight’s the place to have it.”
A hushed silence fell over the crowd.
“Now, I reckon we’ve got about sixty minutes before the media circus finds out we’re here,” said the mayor. “So if we’re gonna do this, it’s gotta be fast. So… who wants to go first?”
Silence fell over the crowd as those assembled searched for signs of movement throughout the hall.
The residents bristled as a lone hand went up.
“Stan,” said the mayor.
The man called Stan stood up and faced the crowd.
“As you know -” he began.
A woman holding a microphone interrupted him.
A brief round of static passed through the speakers at the front, followed by the sound of Stan clearing his throat as he accepted the offered device.
“As you know,” he began again, his voice echoing clearly this time. “Out at the plant, we run three, maybe four thousand head of cattle a year and… we could stop things for a day and -”
A number of shouts came from the crowd.
“- make sure everything’s been cleaned down, right, and we could -”
The shouting sounds grew to a roar.
The woman came to receive the microphone again as the shouts grew and the mayor raised his voice again, the noise continuing until the man called Stan sat down again.
“Thank you, Stan, for your consideration,” said the mayor when order was restored. “We know where your heart’s at, but folks aren’t quite ready to make those accommodations just yet. We’re still looking for a softer solution, if one’s to be found.”
The hall fell silent.
“Any ideas?” said the mayor.
“Are we sure they’re even dead?” came a voice.
The mayor straightened his glasses.
“We are,” he said. “Angela’s had her say, and the State Coroner agrees with her. It defies all medical understanding, but all signs say these are no longer the same people we once knew. At the same time, they aren’t showing any signs of stopping anytime soon,” said the mayor. “Signs are the same as when we first brought them in, so things could keep going the way they are until something else stops them.”
A fresh round of murmurs started.
“Which means -” said the mayor, “- unless we do something ourselves, this is the way it’s going to be.”
“Can we move them?” came a voice.
“Where to?” said the mayor.
“The footy field?” called another.
“Now, you know the club’s up for renewal at the moment. Besides, we’ve got the CWA4 exhibition on this Saturday, and the government’s not gonna wait that far.”
“The old sawmill?”
“Too big,” said the mayor. “Besides, the place’s in need of repair, and several of you shared some concerns on account of it being so far away.”
“The caravan park?”
“Di’d never have it,” said the mayor. “Besides, the fences are good, but there’s nothing to keep ‘em out of the elements.”
“The prison?” said someone.
The mayor drew a deep breath.
“The prison’s the problem,” he said. “We all agreed the prison would be a temporary stopgap until we can find a place for them, but… unless we come up with someplace, we have no choice but to accept what the government says.”
The hall fell silent.
“What are they saying?” came a voice from the front.
The mayor shuffled in place.
“They want to take them,” he said.
A shout rose from somewhere near the rear of the hall.
“After all, there’s a great number of people who’re interested in finding out the cause and – as far as we know – we’re the only town to encounter this… situation so far. If they stay with us, there’s no way we can build a place for them without government funding, but -”
The voices rose to a fever pitch.
“- the moment they’re in the door, we have to do what they say.”
“I’m not handing over my son to some laboratory!” shouted a voice.
“Tell ‘em to get fucked,” came another.
“Now, easy, easy,” called the mayor, but the voices grew to a roar.
The sound of the gavel cut through the room once more, but this time, there was nothing to stop the growing sway of emotion. Several of those near the centre of the hall stood up and shouted now, their words inaudible above the rising din.
“Easy!” called the mayor.
A surge as the crowds pushed forward, their voices a blur of anger and emotion until –
“Why don’t we let ‘em go?” came a voice.
As suddenly as it had begun, silence fell as a recognisable voice echoed from the speakers at the front.
The crowd stared as young Marsden turned about the faces assembled.
“Why don’t we let ‘em go?” he said again.
Several more moments of silence followed until, at last, it was the mayor who responded.
“Son… I know where your heart’s at, but we can’t just let them out again,” he said.
“Why not?” said young Marsden.
“You see, son, it ain’t exactly safe,” said the mayor.
“For who?” said young Marsden. “For them, or for us?”
The mayor had no words for that.
Seconds passed again as the young man surveyed the faces in the crowd.
“Are you afraid of Bill?” he said, turning to one of the audience. “Bill’d come down the shops for a double serve of chips every Friday at seven, sharp. Always asked for regular salt and chicken salt. Said it made them extra tasty.”
He turned back to the mayor.
“And what about Frank?” he said. “Sure, he gets out of hand from time to time, but has he ever hurt anyone?”
He looked about the faces in the room.
“Stacey taught me how to read,” he said. “She crocheted me a jumper when I lost my own one winter. Peter was my maths teacher. He never got angry at me, no matter how many times I stuffed things up.”
He drew a deep breath.
“After everything they done for us, why’s the only thing we’re talking about where to put them instead of how to help them?” he said. “What kind of town is this if our homes are as empty as our hearts!”
Silence, long and heavy, fell across the hall. A pause so deep it rested for the next few minutes unchallenged by even a single voice. But somehow, that silence said more than everything that came before it.
* * *
Now… no one knows who really made the first one.
But, the night after the town hall, somebody somewhere stitched up a suit, then someone came along and started making it better. Word got around, the whole town got involved, and soon enough, the world saw its very first humane suit for zombie and human cooperation.
It wasn’t about to win any awards on a runway, but it did the job well enough. A padded helmet to prevent the most determined of bites and the hardest of falls. Padded lining and reinforced fibre about the fingertips to prevent damage from wear and tear and protect the wearer from unnecessary harm. GPS tracking from stock trackers to keep a tab on the wearer’s location at all times while high-vis strips kept them visible under all but the foggiest of conditions.
When Brian appeared on stage alongside the town’s decision made, the media wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. But, needing less than a hundredth of the budget originally planned (in an election year, at that) and after reviewing the designs for ‘efficiency’, the federal support soon left the town with a small collection of carefully collected samples and the vague promise of monitoring the situation.
They never returned.
And so, life returned to normal.
Well, kind of.
Residents drive a little more slowly when they find Peter or Stacey on the road, and the police still go to collect Mr Franklin from the gorge every so often. It turns out, some things never change, whether you’re alive or not. Wilful acts of intimidating a zombie are treated as seriously as any human crime, and anyone who discovers one of their former residents in trouble stops to lend a hand.
And now, almost three years after the outbreak, no one talks about zombies anymore. First-time visitors to the ‘zombie town of the outback’ sometimes comment on the newly undead passing through the streets, but their stares and hushed comments are quickly quelled by the harsh glares of its human inhabitants.
So in time, even that faded.
For, as suddenly as had come, the initial outrage at the incident, so vibrant at the time, had softened into something else entirely.
Acceptance.
After all, they may now be undead, but that didn’t mean that, in some small way, they weren’t still – ours.
Author’s note:
It’s funny how some stories start out with a clear direction from the very beginning, while others… need a little time to grow.
“Ours” is one of the latter.
One morning in June (while editing Breaking news, no less) the opening sentence popped into my mind, followed by the scene with Brian, then the ending, but with nothing else to fill it in.
Over the next few days, I continued adding details and sub stories as new ideas came to mind until, all of a sudden, the idea for the secondary title found its way onto the page, Nowhere Downs was born, and the shape of the story I’d been circling since the beginning finally became clear.
What started out as a satirical take on a world where the zombie apocalypse is real (but not really a problem) took on a more poignant angle as time went on, and I’m glad it did. One thing that’s always struck me about zombie stories is that they rarely seem to touch on the more human side of the people trapped inside these forms, and I suppose I’ve always wanted to explore that angle a little.
Anyway, that’s enough philosophy for now.
Reporting from Wallaby Gorge, ajdahms.
- These glorious creations. ↩︎
- Picture a kangaroo, except somehow smaller and even cuter. ↩︎
- The Australian Defence Force. ↩︎
- The Country Women’s Association. ↩︎
A.J.Dahms 