The towering shadow staggers closer. A flash of lightning illuminates its face, and I drop my arms to my sides.
‘M?’
I almost fail to recognise him at first. His face has been torn and clawed, and there are countless small chunks bitten out of his body.
‘Hey,’ he grunts. The rain streaks down his face and pools in his wounds. ‘Let’s . . . get out of . . . rain.’ He walks past my leaky trees and climbs down the slope to the freeway below. I follow him to the dry space under the overpass. We huddle there in the dirt, surrounded by old beer cans and syringes.
‘What . . . doing . . . he . . . out . . . out here?’ I ask him, fighting for the words. I’ve been silent less than a day and I’m already rusty.
‘Take . . . guess,’ M says, pointing at his wounds. ‘Boneys. Drove me out.’
‘Sorry.’
M grunts. ‘Fuck . . . it.’ He kicks a sun-faded beer can. ‘But guess . . . what?’ Something like a smile illuminates his mangled face. ‘Some . . . came with me.’
He points down the freeway, and I see about nine other figures moving slowly towards us.
I look at M, confused. ‘Came . . . with? Why?’
He shrugs. ‘Things . . . crazy . . . back home. Routines . . . shook.’ He jabs a finger at me. ‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘You and . . . her. Something . . . in air. Movement.’
The nine zombies stop under the overpass and stand there, looking at us blankly.
‘Hi,’ I say.
They sway and groan a little. One of them nods.
‘Where’s . . . girl?’ M asks me.
‘Her name is Julie.’ This comes off my tongue fluidly, like a swish of warm camomile.
‘Ju . . . lie,’ M repeats with some effort. ‘Okay. Where’s . . . she?’
‘Left. Went home.’
M studies my face. He drops a hand onto my shoulder. ‘You . . . okay?’
I close my eyes and take a slow breath. ‘No.’ I look out at the freeway, towards the city, and something blooms in my head. First a feeling, then a thought, then a choice. ‘I’m going after her.’
Six syllables. I have broken my record again.
‘To . . . Stadium?’
I nod.
‘Why?’
‘To . . . save her.’
‘From . . . what?’
‘Ev . . . rything.’
M just looks at me for a long time. Among the Dead, a piercing look can last several minutes. I wonder if he can possibly have any idea what I’m talking about, when I’m not even sure I do. Just a gut feeling. The soft pink zygote of a plan.
He gazes up at the sky, and a faraway look comes into his eyes. ‘Had . . . dream . . . last night. Real dream. Memories.’
I stare at him.
‘Remembered . . . when young. Summer. Cocoa . . . Puffs. A girl.’ His eyes refocus on me. ‘What . . . is it like?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve . . . felt. Do you know . . . what it is?’
‘What are . . . talking about?’
‘My dream,’ he says, his face full of wonder like a child’s at a telescope. ‘Those things . . . love?’
A tingle runs up my spine. What is happening? To what distant reaches of space is our planet hurtling? M is dreaming, reclaiming memories, asking astonishing questions. I am breaking my syllable records every day. Nine unknown Dead are with us under this overpass, miles from the airport and the hissing commands of the skeletons, standing here awaiting . . . something.
A fresh canvas is unfurling in front of us. What do we paint on it? What’s the first hue to splash on this blank field of grey?
‘I’ll . . . go with,’ M says. ‘Help you . . . get in. Save her.’ He turns to the waiting Dead. ‘Help us?’ he asks, not raising his voice above its easy rumble. ‘Help save . . . girl? Save . . .’ He closes his eyes and concentrates. ‘Ju . . . lie?’
The Dead quicken at the sound of the name, fingers twitching and eyes darting. M looks pleased. ‘Help find . . . something lost?’ he asks in a voice more solid than I’ve ever heard from his tattered throat. ‘Help . . . exhume?’
The zombies look at M. They look at me. They look at each other. One of them shrugs. Another nods. ‘Help,’ one of them groans, and they all wheeze in agreement.
I find a grin spreading across my face. I don’t know what I’m doing, how I’m doing it, or what will happen when it’s done, but at the very bottom of this rising siege-ladder, I at least know I’m going to see Julie again. I know I’m not going to say goodbye. And if these staggering refugees want to help, if they think they see something bigger here than a boy chasing a girl, then they can help, and we’ll see what happens when we say Yes while this rigor mortis world screams No.
We start lumbering north on the southbound freeway, and the thunder drifts away towards the mountains as if it’s scared of us.
Here we are on the road. We must be going somewhere.
step two
taking
I am young. I am a teenage boy aflame with health, strong and virile and pounding with energy. But I get older. Every second ages me. My cells spread themselves thinner, stiffening, cooling, darkening. I am fifteen, but each death around me adds a decade. Each atrocity, each tragedy, each small moment of sadness. Soon I will be ancient.
Here I am, Perry Kelvin in the Stadium. I hear birds in the walls. The bovine moans of pigeons, the musical chirps of starlings. I look up and breathe deep. The air is so much cleaner lately, even here. I wonder if this is what the world smelled like when it was new, centuries before smokestacks. It frustrates and fascinates me that we’ll never know for sure, that despite the best efforts of historians and scientists and poets, there are some things we’ll just never know. What the first song sounded like. How it felt to see the first photograph. Who kissed the first kiss, and if it was any good.