Arcadium (8 page)

I mean, even as
older siblings, there are some things we just can’t do. We’re not
perfect, but I’m pretty sure we’ll die trying to be. I’m not coming
around to this teamwork thing at all. No Way. I’m just saying I can
see the merit in people with different skills helping each other
out. And now I’m just confused because that’s the same thing, isn’t
it?

The road slopes
upward and we wind our way through the abandoned cars, onto the
Westgate Bridge. The city centre seems to rise up out of the rain
mist and everyone looks out the left side windows.

The tall black
suicide fencing is still in place and unbroken. The bridge used to
be some kind of pilgrimage for people trying to kill themselves in
normal times. So many people jumped from its ledges but it wasn’t
until a little girl was thrown over the side that they finally put
up railings to stop anything like that happening again.

Skyscrapers
prick into the gloom like needles. Some of them are just skeletons
of blown out glass. One building has fallen over onto another and
is smoking from somewhere deep in its torn belly. The white frame
of the half dismantled Melbourne Eye ferris wheel is still there,
never to be completed, I guess. But it’s far in the distance by the
Bolte Bridge, almost non-existent.

The river below
is green and swirling slowly. Out the other side, Port Phillip Bay
stretches all the way to the horizon. Shipping containers are
littered across the yard and a ship is half sunk in the moving
sea.

There’s a tiny
racetrack with a sign that says no speed limit. It’s kind of true
now. There are no rules anymore, and limits are just ghosts of the
old world. If infected killers can wander the streets and tear the
world apart then where does the term impossible apply? Isn’t
anything possible now?

Trouble lifts
his hands off the wheel and then grabs on again. He looks at me and
the car shudders. “Ah?” He tips his head and stares at the dash.
“Trouble,” he says.

It’s my turn to
look confused.

Kean leans
over. “Are we out of petrol?”

The car gives a
final cough and goes quiet but we keep sailing along on a wave of
momentum.

“Yep. We’re
out,” Kean says. “We can keep rolling as far as we can.”

“Uh, no, we
can’t,” I say, gripping the dashboard. In front of us, dotted
through a mess of cars are a whole lot of infected people.

“Oh, crap,”
Henry says. “We’ll be sitting ducks.”

We’re touring
down the other side of the bridge and my brain clicks into gear.
Somehow I have to communicate what I need to Trouble.

I look at
him.

He looks at
me.

I reach into my
bag and pull out the siphon. “Which side’s the fuel cap?”

Everyone twists
around, peering out the windows. “My side,” Kean says.

I tap the
speedo dial at twenty km/h. “Slow,” I say.

Trouble is
smart. He may not speak English but he picks things up so quickly.
It’s like we’re forming our own kind of language. He pulls the
brakes gently and we slow to a crawl, sneaking quietly into crowded
territory.

“Ok. We need
petrol so…” I hold up my hands in fists and look at Trouble. There
are two cars up ahead and I want him to slot our car in between
them. I point to the cars and he looks over. Then I manoeuvre my
hand into the gap between. And finally I just point eagerly out the
window and hold up the siphon.

Trouble looks
down the side of his seat and I hear a click. He’s opened the
petrol cap so I assume he gets what I’m trying to do, we’ll soon
see. The road is leveling out and we’re almost off the bridge.

Liss grabs my
shoulder and whisper shouts, “Florence, you can’t go out there.”
She grapples at me, trying to get a grip but I just keep my eyes on
the car I want. “Flo, don’t. You can’t. Don’t.”

Everyone else
is silent. We’re barely rolling at a walking pace now. I tighten my
grip on the siphon and hover my other hand over the door handle. I
can’t tell if I’m shaking because I’m scared or because Liss is
clawing at me. My heart is pumping like an automatic weapon. No
time to think. No time for words.

Just before
Trouble slides our car in between the other two, I slip out and
great plopping raindrops smack into my face. I tap my door so it
closes with a muffled humf sound and the car rolls away, slotting
perfectly between a silver Ford and a dark blue… something else.
I’m not really worried about that one. I’m aiming for the Ford.

The rain covers
the eerie silence as I hunch down and scuttle to the Ford, my
fingers slipping over the shiny silver body. The fuel door thingy
is already open but the cap is in place.

Once, a very
long time ago, my dad took us to this circus. We were just about to
leave but the car wouldn’t start. Out of petrol, he said. Anyway,
he had some tube in the back of the car. He went to the next car
over, popped open the petrol hatch thing and unscrewed the cap.
With the stealth of a ninja he did the same to ours and plunged the
tube into the strange car. I remember watching him with my nose
pressed up against the glass; mum was huffing in the front seat and
silently screaming at him to stop. Dad actually put his mouth over
the tube and then petrol started coming up and out. He spat out the
liquid and then jammed the other end of the tube into our car. And
hey presto, we had fuel again.

I unscrew the
silver Ford’s petrol cap. The words
please be full, please be
full
run through my head like I’ve forgotten every other word
that exists. Rain presses down against my hair and splatters on the
bitumen. I want to look around but I can’t. I have to focus.

This siphon has
a jiggler on the end so I don’t have to get a mouthful of petrol
like dad did. I jam the metal end into the Ford, slip the other end
into our car and start to jiggle it. I can hear petrol sloshing
about in the tank and the metal bit clanks against the sides but
nothing comes out. I could kill this siphon if it wasn’t an
inanimate object.

I shake it
harder and I can just see the yellowy petrol rising but it’s not
enough. I can’t get the flow going. And then a creepy moan sounds
and my heart stops. An infected lady is just coming round the
backside of the Ford.

I hit the
floor, grabbing the siphon as an after thought, and slither on my
stomach backwards underneath our car. The lady stops right where I
was, gross decaying bare feet point in my direction and I hope
everyone in the car is down and out of sight. I close my eyes for a
few seconds, rivers of rain break around me on the cold road.

I see her
ankles tour around the other side of our car and I look down at the
siphon. That damned metal part has to come out so I can use it as a
tube. I check back on the infected lady’s progress and see more
ankles, more feet, coming my way. Oh God.

I grab the
metal bit in my teeth and try to pull it out. I chew on the clear
plastic tube hoping to bite off the end. The patter of bare flash
on the road creeps toward me.

Why is it that
whenever you do anything under extreme pressure it’s like the
faster you try to go the more mistakes you make? My fingers are
wet, shaking and slipping like I’ve no control. The metal bit is
coming loose in my teeth, but not fast enough. I look back again.
Oh crap.

I don’t care if
my teeth are ripped out in the process this stupid jiggler thing is
coming off. I grip and yank.

The tube flies
out, smacking against the road. I freeze. Just for a second, then
spit out the metal part.

The area behind
the cars is clear but those infected are still wandering in my
direction, so this has to be quick. I slither out from underneath
and rise to my knees. I jam the tube into the Ford and pretend it’s
a straw. It happens quicker than I thought and petrol spurts
everywhere. I jam the other end into our car, watching the yellow
liquid flow through. I spit the fuel from my mouth and it feels
like I’m breathing fire.

The moans are
so close I don’t even bother to look up; I dive straight under the
Ford, and wiggle all the way under. The Ford is lower and the metal
work presses up against my back. I keep shuffling so I can watch
the siphon. White, peeling feet slap against the concrete
everywhere. Left, right, front and back. There’s no clear ground
anywhere.

I can’t get
back in the car from here; it’s wedged too tightly between the Ford
and the blue one. I can’t signal the other guys either. It looks
like there’s only one option.

The liquid in
the siphon tube starts to bubble and finally it turns to whitewash
and the tube clears. Hopefully that’s enough petrol to get us out
of this mess. I want the siphon back but I can’t quite reach it. I
slide around to get enough space to move my shoulder, trying to be
quiet but my jacket is making tiny scraping sounds.

Around me the
feet keep on marching. When they pause, I pause too. And when they
move again so do I.

At last I can
reach the siphon. When I pull it out petrol dribbles down the sides
and I replace our fuel cap. I don’t know if it has to be on but I’m
taking no chances. Well, no
more
chances.

My hands are
covered in petrol and it’s weird, icy cold and slimy to the touch.
I can’t click the cover back in place; I’m not brave enough. I just
know that noise will be the sound that signals to the infected
people. So I just drop down and commando crawl to the front of the
car.

I don’t know
what’s going on with the other guys in our car. I’m kind of
surprised Liss isn’t screaming. Should I be proud that she’s being
brave or hurt she’s not terrified for me? For some reason I imagine
them all sitting safely in the car, playing cards, while the
infected roam around and I lie stuck under this car.

I can see the
full bodies of infected people now, wandering in a scattered
formation, moving around cars and heading on. A few in front are
wandering in small circles and that’s not good for me. I’m poised,
waiting for a break and mapping out a getaway path, but everything
keeps changing. They move and shift and gather in small groups.

My hands are
vibrating against the road; the car feels like it’s lowering
against me, crushing everything. Or maybe that’s because I’m trying
to get more air in my lungs.

A gap opens up.
Infected people move to the left and right, creating a straight
path dead ahead if I clamber up onto the yellow car and go right
over.

That’s it.

I wiggle out;
jump to my feet and bolt with everything I’ve got.

The moans and
groans follow me, rising with excitement. The infected people have
seen me. Each stride feels like an earthquake and everything shifts
into slow motion. The rain falls over me as I sprint. Legs and arms
pumping, I leap up onto the car bonnet in front. I lose my footing
on the slippery paintwork and use my hands to propel myself up onto
the roof. Decaying fingers brush against my boots and I have about
a second to map out the next part.

I slam across
the boot and then back down to the road and swerve left. I cut
between two cars and shift right, narrowly missing a side mirror
with my hip.

Behind me I
hear an engine start and I duck under the belly of a sideways
truck. Now I have to push even harder. The road ahead is clear of
vehicles and I can hear the car speeding up to me but infected
people are swarming towards me like moths to a light.

It’s become a
life and death game of Bull Rush, but instead of tagging me and
sending me to the sideline the infected will just eat me. Game
over. At least school did prepare me for something.

I duck left,
almost catching a clawing arm to the face. The infected spins and
topples over as I flash past. I cross into the next lane and surge
on. God, they’re everywhere. I reel back as one comes flying across
me, and then I launch myself over his fallen body. Where’s that
car?

It flashes past
on my right and the back door flings open. The pace is too quick
for me; I’m tired and falling back and loosing hope. The car slices
across the road sending up a rooster tail of rain spray and I see
Kean leaning out, holding the door open. He’s beckoning to me like
I’ve got some magic ability to run as fast as a car.

The brake
lights flash and suddenly I’m at the car so quick I almost run
straight into the door. At the last second I propel myself sideways
and Kean grabs me.

Trouble floors
it and the engine roars. There are hands everywhere, pulling me in,
legs poking in every direction and my face is pressed against the
other door. I kick my legs in and the door slams shut, muting the
rain and the moans.

Someone’s
talking. It sounds like chanting. For a moment it’s unfamiliar and
then I realise it’s actually me, just repeating
oh crap, oh
crap, oh crap
. My hand is still clutching the siphon. I’m lying
over Henry, and Kean is hunched over me in the mess of the
backseat. I’m soaked.

Liss is up
front with Trouble; she’s gripping the seat staring back at me. My
mouth is all gross and slidey like it’s full of spicy dishwashing
liquid. But I’m alive. We’re alive. And the rain is still
applauding for all of us.

Chapter 8

“That was
intense,” Henry says, shuffling over.

I twist around
so I’m sitting upright and hold myself up on the front seat
headrests. Trouble reaches over and pats my hand as he drives. Liss
still hasn’t formed any words.

Trouble swerves
right and I fall against Kean. “Sorry,” I say.

“Wow, you
really don’t have to say sorry. That was… incredible. You just
saved all our lives.”

I shrug. “You
can get it next time.”

Kean cracks a
half smile and looks at me strangely. I look down at my hands,
inspecting them for scrapes and cuts but they seem good.