The Sixth Plague: Episode Four – State of Decay
Charlie Maxwell, Narrator:
When we last checked in on out motley band of plague survivors, you might recall that it was raining heavily.
On Makers Mooring, an island just off far North Queensland, the rain appeared to herald the beginning of a tropical storm, and our intrepid and rather hungry hero Chris had just ventured outside to gather some vegetables, reasoning that if the inclement weather worsened, it might be some days before the opportunity presented itself again.
Whilst outside, I’m sure you recall, Chris took a moment to investigate a small rocky nook, the site of several recent odd occurrences, including the disappearance of Isaac, Chris’s beloved Jack Russel terrier, the similar disappearance of newly undead Vic’s arm, and the subsequent re-appearance of both the dog and Vic's arm, each covered in green, foul smelling goo.
Upon returning to the area, you surely recall, Chris discovered that a pile of rotting household waste had inexplicably appeared in the very same spot. Moments later, Chris came face to face with Vic, who was preparing the BBQ for a feast, intending to char-grill Chris as the daily special.
Curiously, as the rain intensified, Vic’s cannibalistic rage seemed to ebb away and in a miraculous moment of recovered awareness, Vic took to the water in the Sea Sovereign, dropping anchor some distance from shore, seemingly maintaining distance from Chris in an attempt to control the flesh-eating compulsion that was part and parcel of the zombie-like affliction that had killed Vic only a few days prior.
We left Chris – with both belly and refrigerator well stocked with a delicious roast vegetable salad – to sleep in the fourth story observatory that looks out over the waters of Far North Queensland, snuggled up with a sniffling but otherwise happy little white dog and feeling hopeful for the first time in some days, despite the tropical storm raging outside.
Meanwhile, around 2500km south of Maker’s Mooring, in the southern seaside town of Fiddler’s Rest, Rocci Reggiano, you surely remember, was also caught in the rain, though in this instance, the weather event was less a tropical storm and more of a dreary southern winter soaking.
A bold excursion to the library yielded unexpected results for Rocci, with the realisation that the local undead had lost their interest in consuming human flesh, and were instead behaving in what can be only be described as a downright amiable manner.
After visiting the abandoned library and obtaining a book about the care and feeding of tropical marine crustacea, Rocci began the walk home, only to discover that the rain had ended, and so too had ended the sunny disposition of the local undead, who were, you recall, colloquially known as cookers.
We reluctantly left Rocci cowering in a dusty shed, still a block and a half from home, cold, frightened, and terribly worried about the fate of two pets, the beloved Quince Paste the calico cat, and Eric the Banana Fiddler, a more recent but no less important inclusion to the Reggiano household.
If you don't remember any of these events, I suggest you return to the previous episodes to catch up, before venturing any further into this astonishing, yet entirely true accounting of events which transpired during the sixth plague of the twenty-first century.
We’ll begin this leg of the story by checking on Rocci Reggiano, who is currently wide awake, bitterly cold, and attempting to stave off fear and despair by mentally composing a song.
Rocci Reggiano:
I don't know how long I crouched in that shed exactly, but the sun went down, and the moon came up, like in that old classic song my grandma used to sing, from the good old days when songs were about car races, and people’s outfits, and adorable stuff like that. The turn of the century was such an innocent time.
I know I fell asleep for a little while, and had a nightmare about the mysterious realm on the other side of my bath-room portal. Disembodied arms chased little white dogs and defenseless crabs about the landscape, which was piled high with mountains of household waste as far as the eye could see. Crawler trucks filled with cookers in hi-viz vests roared past, and search-lights swept across the ground, threatening to expose my hiding place. In hindsight, I think the dream may have included scenes from an old movie I watched with my grandma when I was a kid, about a terminator that was sent from the future. I don't remember what it was called.
I miss my grandma. She was always chattering about stories and music, even when times started getting tough. Mum said she was impractical and that whimsy doesn't keep people alive, but at least I have a few memories that aren't doom and gloom. So maybe, indirectly, it does. The things you think of when you're cowering in a shed, hiding from flesh-crazed zombies!
Anyway, I woke with a jolt, not sure if I’d screamed aloud or not, and then I had a tense time waiting to see if I’d alerted any of the local flesh-enthusiasts to my whereabouts.
When no-one came to devour me, I started mentally composing a silly song, to try to keep myself calm.
Rocci Reggiano went a-walking in the rain
Ran into some cookers, but they weren’t hungry for brains
Out came the sunshine and it dried up all the rain
Now Rocci Reggiano is back on the menu again.
Hey, I didn’t say they are good songs, but they are keeping me focused on something other than how damn scared I am. All that matters is staying calm enough to think clearly right now, because I am in a metric fuck tonne of danger.
Rocci Reggiano finally crept out of the shed
Trying not to rouse a hungry army of the dead
Along came several cookers so then Rocci had to jump
Through an open window right into a smelly dump
That’s where I am now- inside a vile-smelling bedroom, where I found the mobile phone I am typing this on. It’s connected to a charger, in a house that seems to be connected to mains power. I’ve been looking through the phone while I wait for the cookers to clear out of the street, and what I have found is – well, it’d be funny if I wasn’t so damn scared.
The phone is full of videos, self-recorded by the owner, Ashley. Some are from before the plague broke out and some are as recent as two days ago, making it pretty compelling viewing. It’s given me a very surprising, and surprisingly sympathetic insight into the mindset of the undead.
The early videos, ranging as far back as two years ago, are mostly makeup tutorials, along with unboxings and try-ons. The phone’s owner, Ashley, was a self-styled influencer, that funny retro internet trend that resurfaced over the last few decades, when mainstream blockbuster entertainment became too expensive to produce and people reverted to making and sharing their own content.
It’s hard to tell if Ashley ever made it big as an internet star, but in the more recent- the post mortem, I suppose – videos, Ashley’s tutorials seem to focus on concealing the peculiarities of appearance that result from dying and coming back to life (sallow, greyish skin tone, sunken eyes, thin blue lips and oh boy, the dehydration.) Ashley zooms right in to show how dry and flakey that cooker skin is and it’s really dreadful. The bathroom contains just about every skin product on the market, but nothing seems to have helped.
I have to hand it to Ashley though, the expertly applied makeup does wonders. After a full face is applied, and with fake tan on the neck and exposed skin, and coloured contact lenses, and a good blow-wave, and possibly a few filters, Ashley looks positively life-like. It’s all quite sad. It hadn’t occurred to me that a cooker could experience such obvious grief and self-loathing over their changed appearance. Still, Ashley has also started to venture into creating cooking videos, and those are horrifying, so there are limits to my sympathy.
Rocci Reggiano is now very freaking scared
After watching the videos that Ash-a-ley has shared
I better get out of here anyway. Ashley will surely be back for this all-important phone, which I’m going to charge before I leave, and while I wait, I’ll quickly check the kitchen for tinned food and produce.
Back soon.
Ashley’s on the floor now with guts spread all over the place
The makeup was too lifelike and the cookers had a taste
I’m home now. Quincy is fine and Eric is still alive. I have thrown up a lot since I found Ashley, and I don’t ever want to think about it again.
I need to put that behind me now and use the phone before it goes flat. The battery seems to deplete pretty fast, and I need to see what’s on the other side of that portal and hopefully send Eric home before he expires.
Then I can focus on my next problem- getting out of Fiddler’s Rest. There are too many cookers here now, and at least one of them has seen my face. Plus I stole Ashley's phone. I'm living on borrowed time.
It’s time to blow this banana-stand, as my grandma used to say, or something like that.
Chris:
I want to start by saying that I just had the best sleep I've had for weeks. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s always good to appreciate the silver linings, isn’t it?
There’s still a storm raging outside – quite a howler – but the house didn’t spring any leaks while I was asleep, and I can see Vic out there in the Sov, doing a spot of surf fishing. I used the stainless steel lid of our home-made milk pasteuriser to flash out a signal, and Vic waved back, so I know everything is alright for now.
I wonder if we’ll ever use that pasteuriser again. Vic made it after I got sick from drinking raw milk. I have very weak guts, unfortunately. I don’t know how Vic tolerates me sometimes. I suggested we just buy pasteurised milk, back when there were still commercial dairy farms in operation, but Vic looked at me like I was completely insane and said “we just want to kill the germs, not mutate the fats and homogenise them with dangerous dna altering strains of yeast. I swear you’d be six feet under without me, Chris”.
Out there fishing, in a storm, mastering the Earth’s resources, even in death. I should have known that if anyone could beat this horrifying plague, it’d be Vic.
Isaac seems a little better, just a bit sniffly. Everything seems to be on the improve at last. The pendulum always swings exactly as far up as it does down, as Vic says. I think that's from the Corpus Hermetica, one of Vics favourite books. It's a nice saying, anyway.
I want to go back and check out that weird trash pile I found yesterday. I also want to grab some supplies from the bunker , just in case Vic has a relapse and I end up trapped inside again. Roast veggie salad is good, but I’d really like a beer, and I reckon the storm is a pretty good excuse to do some baking too.
The storm seems to be in a bit of a lull, its just wind and drizzle right now, so I'm going to rug up and head out for a little look-see.
I keep thinking things can't get any crazier, and then they do.
When I got to the rocks, the garbage had blown all over the place and I could see bits of it everywhere, stuck in trees and half buried in the sand. There was even some slimy cling-wrap melted on to the the beautiful laser-cut fire-pit screen Vic and I made together. That made me see red.
I knelt down to inspect the rocks where my Isaac, and Vic’s arm, vanished the other day. There was nothing unusual to see, but when I ran my hand over the area, it went inside the rock. I yelled in shock and pulled it away, and I’m relieved to say that my hand is intact, unchanged, and thankfully not covered in gross green goo like Vic’s was.
I didn’t want to touch those rocks again, I’ll be honest, because they scare me quite badly now, but I did shine my floodlight on them – a really good quality 18v handheld that Vic modified for me for Christmas – and I didn’t see anything unusual; they look just like ordinary rocks.
I tried the UV setting, and the infra-red, and then the resonance scrambler, and the strobe, and when none of them revealed anything unusual I checked the geiger counter (again, nothing) and finally, a bit frustrated I suppose, I deployed the flashbang, which completely drained the battery and still revealed absolutely nothing.
While I was still blinking and rubbing my eyes, something came through the rocks and hit me in the face. I yelled in shock, having just been poked rudely in the eye, and then I grabbed it and pulled hard.
You would not believe it – I found myself holding a broom. Just a regular, supermarket quality household broom, with a cheap plastic head and nylon bristles. And stickytaped to the end of it, a bloody mobile phone! In recording mode! You couldn't make this stuff up, I swear!
I guess it must have been the adrenaline, because something came over me then. I stopped being afraid and I got real angry. I disabled the video recording first of course, because Vic has warned me about how easy it is for them to clone you if they record you on a mobile phone, and then I angrily typed a message, which was quite hard to do on a phone that’s sticky-taped to a broom.
I think I managed to express my outrage, and when I was done, I shoved that broom right back where it came from. When it was about half-way in, it was wrenched from my hands, confirming that someone or something was on the other side.
I walked around to the other side of the rocks to confirm that there was no-one there, even though I knew there wasn't.
I wish Vic was back on dry land, because even three days after brain death, my best friend is still much smarter than I am. Vic would know if this thing is a wormhole or a demonic portal or just something simple like a Lorentzian manifold deformation.
Vic’s a real expert on quantum physics and all that stuff, and back in the day, we even had a very popular youtube channel called Sovereign Science Sessions. Vic did all of the talking of course – it was my job to hold the camcorder, because they can’t clone you using Hi-8 footage. Analogue all the way, baby. Boo-yah.
Anyway when I went back into the nook, the phone was back, still stuck to the end of the broom, waiting, and – well, here’s the conversation. I still don't know what to make of it.
DID YOU DUMP ALL THIS STINKING RUBBISH HERE? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY ARE YOU SPYING ON US? THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. I DEMAND THAT YOU CEASE AND DESIST RIGHT NOW.
Oh my God! Hello! Who is this? Are you alive? Is this your portal?! This is sooooo weird!!! Wait, have you seen a little white dog???!!!
MY DOG STINKS OF ROTTEN PUMPKIN AND GREEN HELL-SLIME FROM YOUR WORLD. IF YOU’RE A DEMON THEN I DEMAND YOU CLOSE THIS PORTAL RIGHT NOW AND LEAVE US ALONE. IF YOU’RE HUMAN THEN YOU CAN TAKE THIS RUBBISH BACK AND PAY FOR ME TO GET MY DOG SHAMPOOED BECAUSE HE BLOODY STINKS NO THANKS TO YOU.
I didn’t do anything to your dog :( I’m not spying on you, I just wanted to see if the ocean is close because I have a little Fiddler Crab here called Eric and he’s sick. I am not from hell. I am from Victoria!!! Where are you???
TYPICAL SOUTHERN IDIOT STEALING MARINE LIFE WHEN YOU DONT EVEN KNOW HOW TO CARE FOR IT. SEND THE CRAB AND I’LL PUT HIM BACK WITH HIS MATES IN THE SEA. THEN YOU CAN LEAVE ME ALONE THANKS UNLESS ITS TO COMPENSATE ME FOR MY SMELLY DOG AND YOUR ILLEGAL RUBBISH DUMPING. FUCK OFF!
Thank you, please be careful with Eric and give the dog a pat for me. Sorry about the rubbish. I thought everyone was dead. I didn’t mean to upset you. This phone is almost out of charge and I can't charge it again. Do you have electricity? You still didn’t say where you are???!!!
ARE YOU SERIOUSLY ASKING ME TO CHARGE YOUR PHONE? YOU HAVE A HIDE ON YOU. THE CRAB IS BACK WITH HIS MATES NOW AND HE LOOKED PRETTY HAPPY TO BE HOME. I TOOK A PICTURE OF HIM FOR YOU. ITS IN YOUR GALLERY. ITS VERY STORMY AND I HAVE TO GO BACK INSIDE NOW BUT WHEN THE WEATHER CLEARS I AM SENDING BACK YOUR GARBAGE AND CONCRETING UP THIS WEIRD PORTAL. GO AWAY AND STOP SPYING ON US.
PS YOU BETTER NOT TELL ANYONE WHERE WE ARE.
I don’t even know where you are. I am sorry. I’m alone here and I didn’t make the portal. It just appeared in my bathroom. Please keep talking to me. You’re the first person I have spoken to for months. Are you still alive? Or one of the dead??
I’m back inside now, with the phone, which I actually will charge, so I can investigate it thoroughly and figure out what kind of chicanery we’re dealing with here. Whatever hellish thing is on the other side of that portal, it's my job to hold down the fort until Vic is back to full health.
I checked on Vic through the binoculars, speaking of which, and there’s a good size Barramundi cooking on the Sov’s little BBQ. Fresh fish, cooked at sea – there’s nothing like it. I have to admit I’m a little jealous of Vic right now.
Charlie Maxwell, Narrator:
We’ll have to leave our crew of newly acquainted survivors there for now, right after we look in on Rocci Reggiano just one more time.
A few hours have passed since angry words were exchanged between Rocci and the mysterious stranger on the other side of the portal. Rocci is feeling sad after the confrontational exchange, and has returned to the bathroom to clean up Erics newly vacated habitat.
Rocci’s melancholy has quickly turned to joyful surprise though, upon discovering several unexpected gifts on the bathroom floor.
The first is the mobile phone, now fully charged, and now furnished with scanned copies of Chris's complete journal, explaining all that has transpired on Maker’s Mooring for the last few months, along with a thirty-seven minute long night-time video tour of the island, narrated in Chris's upbeat voice.
The video shows a happy, tail wagging Isaac, a very large and clearly hand-built mud-brick and reclaimed timber house, a lovely tropical island, a bizarre and elaborate bbq construction that is clearly the source of much pride for the videographer, a bizarre and scientifically inaccurate ten minute monologue about why char-grilling is good for your health and how advanced glycation end products are a myth designed to keep you sick and profit big pharma, and an apology for not showing a boat called the Sov, because someone called Vic doesn’t like being filmed without consent.
There are also several inexplicable close up pictures of a bit of plastic melted onto what appears to be a fire-pit screen.
Alongside the returned phone, there is a bottle of home made mango brandy, a casserole dish filled with a truly delicious roast vegetable salad, and, perhaps best of all, the business end of an orange and yellow weather-proof extension cord, leading back through the portal and, as a quick experiment with a bedside lamp demonstrates, verifiably connected to a power source.
We’ll leave Rocci to enjoy a delicious feast, and tearfully pour over Chris’s journals by the light of a phone screen, crosslegged on the floor of the windowless bathroom, with the door closed, to be absolutely certain no hint of light might be spotted from outside the flat which has, until now, remained in complete and inconspicuous darkness by night.
We’ll return for more of the Sixth Plague in a few weeks, but in the meantime folks, dispose of plastic waste responsibly, don't be too quick to jump to conclusions about strangers, and, in memory of poor Ashley, be wary of putting on too cheerful a mask when you’re not feeling so fine. You never know when you might need people to see the real you, especially if another apocalypse should strike.
Stay tuned for the next episode of the Sixth Plague!
More from Mel King
Mel King is a Geelong based writer of sci-fi, horror and comedy.
Mel can be found at:
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