The Turning

16

16

Almost an hour had passed before it occurred to her that she should make a move, get walking and search for a mobile signal so she could call the authorities. On the edge of Tormon, it wouldn’t take too long, but anyone who lives in the sticks knows that mobile black spots and bad reception are as frequent as blowflies. She had thought a passerby would arrive and stop to help but there had been no one. The car was warming like an oven as the hour edged towards midday, slow-cooking her and her brother's corpse, and while she combed his sweaty hair with her fingers and occasionally burst into tears. Zivana felt compelled to stay by him as though afraid that someone might snatch him, even though death had already done this. All energy had seemingly evaded her and she couldn’t quite grasp the reality or the concept of what needed to be done now. It made her want to draw up into a tight ball and lay there forever.

Every inch of her was lathered with sweat and her clothes clung uncomfortably to her back and shoulders. Threads of hair clung to her damp cheeks, lifting gently in the arid breeze from the open window. It never crossed her mind that she might catch what he had had as she cradled him. Such thoughts were unable to pass her judgment in her grief-stricken state, but through the murky haze of this, she realised that she had to do something. She couldn't just sit and wait for help to come to her.

She managed to finally pull herself out of the car and walk an uneven five feet along the road, her flats scuffing along the gravel like a pair of slippers, phone clenched in one sweaty hand, but stopped when she thought she heard the sound of a car door slamming.

Someone's pulled over and gotten out to see if I'm all right, she immediately thought, and took a deep, shuddering breath before turning to greet who had stopped.

Matthew was standing there, eyes wide and glazed over, fixed on her. His jaw was slack, his skin a waxy wane. Hundreds of flies buzzed around his head, landing and crawling over his face and through his wiry hair. Zivana stumbled backward, almost falling. Her vision swooned but she managed to hold herself up. She blinked a few times and when he shuffled forward she screamed.

He WAS dead, her mind cried, over and over. Suddenly it seemed that there was not enough air in the world and she began to hyperventilate. Matt took a spasmodic step towards her, his balance imperfect as though he had forgotten the rhythm of walking. She cried out, a hand flying to her mouth.

“Matt? What? What…”

Then all at once, he was coming for her, a surreal contortion of movement, his body jerking like a puppet on wires, arms flailing outwards, a leering grin stretching his cheeks.

She broke into a run, adrenalin dumping into her system, darting across the road and then up towards the bend. Matt came for her, mouth hanging ajar and flies darting inwards. They landed on his eyes, merrily buzzing, and for the first time she understood perfectly well that he actually was dead. Moving somehow, like the zombies in that TV show he had used to watch on so many high evenings. Except this was different. In death, he had developed a walking impediment. A part of him had been lost, left forgotten back in that great unknown plane of whatever came after death. To have returned to life as a dead thing had made him crooked and slow, and according to the look in his eye, hungry too, as though he could smell the life force on her and now craved.

She screamed for him to stay back but a brick wall would have made more sense of her words. Each time she tried to zag to one side like a rugby player, he’d mimic her move, closing in. Her chest was heaving and she felt as though she was breathing through a straw. Her entire body shook violently and she screamed again as he lunged at her, one clawed hand missing her shoulder by inches. He slipped on the loose gravel, coming at her again and she bolted. She glanced over her shoulder to see how far up towards the curve he had gotten and saw that he was having trouble getting up. She slowed and then stopped, palms pressed at her knees as she struggled to breathe and sob at the same time. She watched him, thrashing on the ground and trying to gain traction, and just as she thought she was beginning to catch some air, the whir of an approaching car engine brought a tired, half-crazed grin to her lips.

It wasn’t just a passerby, but a cop-car, and she recognised the vehicle and the shadowy outline of the man behind the wheel. It was Constable Craig Morris.

He was just heading home after a half-day shift spent booking people on the Burley Griffin Way, about forty minutes from home. He was glad to have finally knocked off and was eager to get home, have a shower and prepare for the arrival of his wife and son, Chris, who would arrive at Griffith Airport in two hours from Queensland where he was attending Uni.

He saw Zivana standing on the side of the road, shouting back at something around the corner with wide, tear-streaked eyes, hands cupped to her face and he gripped the wheel and thought oh f**k me, a crash, it’s a crash and she’s survived. Thanks for that lord, thanks a lot. He slowed from eighty to forty and was both surprised and relieved to see no car wreck- this particular bend had claimed many lives over the years and he didn't know how many times he had been called out here at three in the morning to help clean up.

What he did see once his eyes had adjusted to the heat mirage, was a parked four-wheel drive with the passenger door ajar and a man having some sort of fit on the ground. Or at least that was how it looked.

Craig drew the car up beside Zivana and wound down his window. He thought about calling an ambulance over the UHF and if he had he might well have lived to see another bright, summer's day. But eying the man on the ground he began to think that he wasn’t actually having an attack at all but just seemed to be having a very bad time getting on his feet.

He's drunk as hell, Craig thought.

"What's going on here? You all right?" he said. He knew who Zivana was and, after another cursory glance, knew that the man on the ground was Matt Wilcox, the Wilton tip's caretaker. The Maui girl seemed to be having great difficulty breathing.

“Are you an asthmatic?” he asked. “Do you need medication?”

She tried to talk but it all came out in a jumbling wreck.

“Is it him? Has he done some-“

“He’s my brother, he chased me!” she managed to spit. Craig didn’t know whether to take that as a sign that her brother had been endangering her or whether there was more going on here than met the eye. He knew Matt was into drugs and that he consequently knew a few shady figures here and there. He was now standing, trying to maintain his balance as his legs continued to slide out from under him. He managed to hold himself straight and peered over at them for a moment. Then he smiled and lurched forward.

“Oi, hold it, Matthew!” Craig shouted. He ripped off his belt and got out of the car. Craig’s eyes fell on Matt’s legs and he saw that his knee had popped out on one side. Frowning, he watched Matt edge nearer and thought, something’s not right with him. He’s on drugs, ice maybe.

Zivana ran up behind him and tugged at his sleeve.

“He’s dead,” she cried though he barely heard it. He was fixated on Matt and the way his body moved like some badly broken wind up toy. He was now just meters away and Craig was trying to see if he had a concealed weapon. His training had taught him that shooting anyone was the very last resort if the danger was imminent and the assailant armed, so he pointed the pistol but told himself he would thump Matt with the butt of the gun if need be. No bullets would be fired that day. Matt was sick; this much was more than evident, and whatever was wrong with him was screwing with his mind.

Must be ice, Craig thought. He’s walking on that bad leg like it’s nothing after all.

“Settle down there Matt. What’s the…”
And then the cop saw his eyes, jaundiced and sickly, the eyes of a dead carp left on a river bank to rot and for the first time, fear gripped him and the realisation that something else was going on here, something he couldn't comprehend. Something was terribly off about this whole situation and had everything to do with the man before him. There were flies landing in his eyes and yet he never blinked.

What did she say before, about him being dead? What did she mean by that?

“Run,” he told her. Zivana lingered, grabbing at his shirt and suddenly Craig spun around and barked at her.

“Just run, get outta here!”

With a fresh sob, Zivana crossed to the other side of the road where the car stood. She served her brother a wide berth but Matt was no longer interested. His was angling his way wilfully towards Craig. When she slipped in behind the wheel and had closed the door, she started the engine but hesitated, watching.

“I will shoot you if you don’t stop, Matt. I will. I have to if you don’t. Do you understand me?”

Matt’s hands fell on the policeman’s shoulders and now Craig could smell him, something that was just beginning to turn and which, in this heat, would worsen with only a matter of hours. The tip of the gun was now pressed firmly against Matt’s chest.

“Just take it easy there Matt,” the cop said in a low, dry whisper. “Don’t make me have to do something I’ll regret. Be reasonable. Tell me what’s going on. Jesus, say something!”

Matt opened his mouth, seeming about to speak, but instead of words, something else shot out, a black pair of somethings, sharp and quick. Craig had enough time to register a sharp flare of pain before his skull cracked. She screamed, watching as the policeman dropped the gun, fell on one knee and then face planted into the road. He was dead before he hit the ground. Matt turned towards her and in the car, Zivana began to gag. Something black and bristly was hanging out of his mouth. Whatever it was, it was moving.

She put the car in gear, unable to peel her eyes away from him as he started to make his way towards her. She jolted halfway across the road, intending on performing a U-turn and stalled. Just as she was trying to start the engine again, a horn blared. She turned her head and saw chrome bull-bars rising towards her. Something mammoth and large tore into her with a brutal crunch, unbearable pain consuming her for only a second before the world faded forever.

The truck smashed into the driver's side of the four-wheel drive, dragging it across the road several meters with the deft ease of a can being kicked down a hill. Its enormous wheels lost leverage on the road and began to tumble over the car, mincing the girl's body into a pulp within the wreckage, sparks dancing across the road.

Matt eyed the scene, indifferent.

The truck finally lost its balance, rolled over and exploded onto the tarmac. There was a ripping, twisting sound of metal as the trailer tore from the truck. Everything came to a standstill, bloody shards of glass littering the road and resting across the tar to glint beneath the sun. Shredded clothing and blood were mattered to the right front wheel which rotated slowly in the air. Matt watched it as though hypnotised, until it finally stopped and the land had fallen quiet. Then he turned and made his way up the road. Soon he drew away from the tar and started along the shoulder until a dirt track lead him through acres of orange orchards. It would do so for six kilometers before leading him into the outskirts of the unsuspecting town beyond.