The Sixth Plague: Episode Three – Heavy Rain
Charlie Maxwell, Narrator:
When we last checked in on our gang of plucky plague survivors, they had recently become aware of a strange portal, which seemingly connected the bathroom of our intrepid hero Rocci Reggiano’s flat in Fiddlers Rest, a seaside town in Southern Victoria, to a rocky nook on Makers Mooring, a small island off the coast of Far North Queensland, where DIY experts, off-grid aficionados and lifelong friends, Chris and Vic live. Of course, if we wanted to be pedantic, we’d use the word reside, rather than live, because Vic, you no doubt remember, recently died and rose again as a zombie, and thus cannot be said to live, strictly speaking, anywhere at all.
At the end of our last installment, you may also remember, Chris's dog, Isaac, whilst on the run from the newly zombified Vic, disappeared right in front of his owner’s eyes, only to appear rather unexpectedly in Rocci Reggiano’s bathroom, closely followed by Vic’s seemingly disembodied arm.
Rocci, whilst confused and frightened by this bizarre turn of events, was quick to utilise it nonetheless, disposing of two months worth of smelly household waste through the newly discovered portal, while Isaac slept off his misadventure on the laundry floor.
If you find that you don’t recall these events, you may wish to familiarise yourself with the previous episodes before continuing any further.
There’s not much happening on Makers Mooring right now, as Chris is currently asleep, Isaac is missing and Vic is no-where to be seen, so we’ll begin today’s part of the story in Fiddlers Rest, where a bleary eyed Rocci Reggiano is writing in the very journal that will one day help us to compile this strange, but I assure you, entirely true accounting of events, which occurred in Australia, during the Sixth Plague of the twenty-first century.
Rocci Reggiano
I’ve had a long night, disposing of rubbish and decluttering my flat. Keeping this little dog quiet has been very difficult, and every time I open the bathroom door, I half expect to find the garbage has been blasted back into the room, or, perhaps, an infringement notice has been pinned to the floor, demanding I pay a fine for illegally dumping rubbish. Nothing would surprise me now.
I’m torn between self preservation and responsibility. I could send the noisy little dog back through the portal, or whatever it is, to keep Quincy and I safe. If his barking draws a hungry cooker here, there’s no hope for any of us. He’s so bloody loud!
If only I knew what lies on the other side. What if it’s some crazy land full of disembodied arms? I couldn’t bear to send the little guy to his death. Still, he seems anxious to get into the bathroom this morning, so presumably he wants to go home. He’s well fed too – portly even – so someone must have been caring for him.
If only I could put my phone through the portal to record what’s on the other side. Some of the cookers around here have power; I see lights at night and I can hear generators running. Vehicles too. If I had power, not only could I charge my phone and use it for reconnaissance, I could also run one of those aquariums in the flat downstairs, and maybe keep Eric alive. He’s not doing so well today. He’s very quiet and he isn't eating. It’s making me sad. I can’t bring myself to push him through the portal and into the unknown like a piece of garbage. I haven’t slept, and my thinking power is running low. I’m going to try to have a nap. Please, universe, keep that little dog quiet for a little while? I’m so tired.
Well, Quincy took it upon herself to solve the problem. I was woken from my nap by first a cat and then a dog landing on my stomach, as they tore around the flat at top speed, knocking things over and making a dangerously loud racket.
I stumbled bleary eyed into the bathroom to relieve myself and check on Eric, when Quincy, who had clearly planned the entire escapade, dashed between my legs into the bathroom, with the little dog in hot pursuit. At the last minute, Quincy leapt up onto the vanity and her assailant slid through the portal, tail wagging furiously. I knew Quincy was smart, but that manouver was downright diabolical.
Now all is silent once more, aside from Quincy’s exultant purring. My heart is sick with worry for our new canine friend and Eric is sick and probably dying. I am the worst pet owner in the world.
I am starting to feel quite despondent, hiding in this flat, waiting to be eaten. My hearing is returning though, and I think it’s time to recover my wits and my nerves. I have decided to try to save Eric.
My old high school is only a few blocks from here, and being a seaside school, we had Marine Studies as an elective in years nine and ten. I recall a pretty good collection of books in the library – specifically an encyclopedic series about the preservation of exotic species in managed environments. The schools have been scantly used since the plagues began, so I reckon the books are probably still there.
Anyway, that’s just one of the reasons I want to try venturing outside today. I cooked my last pumpkin almost six weeks ago and since then I've had nothing but crackers and tinned food. If I don’t eat some fresh produce soon, I'm going to die of scurvy. My high school had a kitchen-garden program and an expansive vegetable patch back in the day, so maybe there is still something edible growing. If not, I'll raid some back yards on the way home until I find something. I'm sick of being afraid, and I'm hungry. I've made up my mind. I’m going on a mission.
Charlie Maxwell, Narrator:
We’ll leave Rocci to plan this bold excursion to the local high school, and turn our attention to Maker’s Mooring, where Isaac has now squeezed back through the coal shute and upstairs to pounce joyfully on his sleeping owner. Chris is overjoyed to see Isaac, and then, moments later, horrified by the smell of the little dog, who has, as a dog is wont to do, rolled around gleefully in Rocci Reggiano’s garbage pile on his way home.
Chris:
Isaac smells horrifying, and he has what looks like mouldy pumpkin stuck all over him, as well as more of that rancid green goo that Vic’s arm was covered in yesterday. Wherever my dog has been though, he’s in good spirits. His breath smells like cat food too. I don’t know what to make of it.
There’s a storm brewing outside and I haven’t heard Vic since I woke up. I wonder if the undead sleep? I need to make a quick trip outside, but I’m going to give Isaac a bath first, before he stinks up the place any worse. I’m so relieved to have my little man back.
Isaac is clean again, and safely locked in the observatory, drying in the breeze. It's only mid-day, but the sky is black with impending rain now. I better dash outside before the storm begins, because I think it's going to be a doozy.
I can’t see any sign of Vic on the surveillance cameras and I can’t hear anything but howling wind, so I'm going to take a chance. I’ve finished the leftover stew, and all of our preserved food is in the bunker, under the workshop where Vic has been camped out. I’m going to pick some carrots and beets, and maybe some spinach and an onion or two. A roast vegetable salad should keep me going for a while. The storm might go on for days, so if I don't go now, I might end up really hungry.
So much for a quick dash outside! The wind was really wild out there, and Vic was nowhere to be seen. I should have just grabbed the veggies and come back inside, but curiosity got the best of me, so I had a stickybeak around. I always have to push my luck, don’t I?
Vic has finished building our BBQ. It was smoking steadily when I checked on it, and too hot to touch. That made me uneasy, because I was pretty sure I knew what Vic was planning to cook on it first. But what really struck me was the completed fire pit screen, just as I designed it, a collection of painstakingly drawn symbols that represent our long and enduring friendship. Vic has done a hell of a job with that home-made laser-cutter and I’m quite moved by the care and attention to detail. Even in death, and consumed by cannibalism, Vic has taken the time to make me feel important.
Rain started coming in sideways while I was out there, making the bbq sizzle. Stupidly, instead of hot-footing it back to the house, I went to check that little rocky nook where Isaac seemed to disappear yesterday. I can't believe what I found. Foul waste has spilled out of those rocks, wrappers and tins and plastic bags are blowing down the beach, and in the nook itself, there are bags and bags of stinking household garbage, at least twelve of them, as well as a clock radio, one of those stupid plastic gadgets that purports to cut zucchinis into noodles but instead grinds them to pulp, several pairs of dirty old runners, a broken pair of steel-capped boots, and, on closer inspection, I unearthed a printer, a box of broken crockery, and a dust-buster that looks to have been manufactured before the turn of the century. Vic would be especially furious to see that cheap, nasty laser printer. We've been using our trusty old dot matrix number for as long as I can remember. Where the hell did all of that crap come from?
The rain was falling hard by then and I was beginning to worry I might actually blow away, so I started to make my way back to the house. There, by the BBQ, was Vic, covered in mashed pumpkin and green slime. Even with the wind blowing in the other direction, I could smell it. Vic needs a bath even more than Isaac.
I held up my hands and backed away, understandably scared, I reckon, but Vic didn’t make a move towards me this time, and just grunted and groaned. Something has changed – I'm pretty sure Vic was trying to talk to me!
I pulled a bottle of silver from my satchel (I didn't go out completely unprepared) and unscrewed the cap, ready to try it again. Surely, if Vic’s condition has improved, I reasoned, the silver must be the cure!
I stepped tentatively forward.
‘Open wide, mate,’ I said encouragingly.
‘We’ll have you fixed up in no time!’
Vic snatched the bottle of silver out of my hands and gave me a withering look, one which I know all too well. As usual, I’ve missed the boat.
‘I don’t understand, Vic,’ I said. ‘You know I’m thick as a brick mate. Could you write it down for me, if talking is still a bit hard?’
Just then, there was a lull in the storm, and the wind and rain stopped abruptly, like they do right before the weather decides to get serious. Confusion clouded my dear friend's eyes and the cheerful, conversational grunting turned once more into to predatory growling.
Looking alarmed, Vic hugged me quickly, coating me in foul stinking goo, and then raced away, down the beach and along the dock. Leaping into our boat, the Sea Sovereign, or the Sov, for short, Vic drove her out perhaps half a kilometer from shore and dropped anchor.
Unsure what else to do, I hastily gathered some veggies and returned to the safety of the house. From our kitchen, I could see Vic out on the water, waving. I flashed the kitchen lights twice in response, the way we always do when one of us is out in the Sov, and by the time I had my beets and carrots in the oven, the storm was in full swing again. It’s too dark to see anything out there now, and for some reason Vic hasn't switched the Sov's lights on, which makes me a little uneasy.
I’m back upstairs with Isaac, with the windows closed and the little wood stove ablaze, because my little dog is shivering. I think he might have caught a chill after his bath – the temperature has dropped quite low for this time of year. I’m worried about poor Vic out there too, being tossed about in the storm. Still, if anyone can handle themselves on the water, it’s my oldest and dearest friend.
I can't believe Vic's showing signs of recovery! I think, just maybe, there’s hope for us yet.
Charlie Maxwell, Narrator:
We’ll leave Chris, Isaac and Vic there for now. Makers Mooring is being lashed by a vicious storm, but there is hope in Chris’s heart tonight, and a shivering but contented dog snuggled up close, safe and sound, albeit still smelling, unfortunately, like compost.
Back in Fiddler’s Rest, Rocci Reggiano has stepped tentatively out into the street, just for a moment, to get the lay of the land. There is no-one about, and, perhaps overcome by the same reckless spirit that seized Chris earlier, Rocci ventures onto the main drag. It’s nice to feel fresh air after two months inside – even the cold winter rain feels wonderful.
A nearby sound makes Rocci jump. It’s a cooker, wheeling a green bin out to the nature strip. Rocci begins to shrink back into the shadows, but it's too late. The cooker waves and groans out what almost sounds like a neighbourly greeting, rubs his hands together in the pouring rain to clean them, and goes back inside his house.
Stunned, Rocci ventures a little further and encounters another cooker, who nods and grunts a friendly greeting. Confused but delighted, our brave adventurer strolls to the school in the downpour, and finds radishes and kale growing in the unkempt vegetable garden. Deciding that eating kale and raddishes is marginally better than a slow death from malnutrition, Rocci produces a shopping bag and fills it with produce.
The library is unlocked, and the desired books, though dusty, are there. The rain on the tin roof of the library eases and then ceases entirely.
Back out in the street, Rocci spies a double rainbow in the sky, and, taking it to be a good omen, waves joyously to a passer-by.
The woman’s eyes fix murderously on Rocci and she begins to growl and snarl, before dashing forward.
Realising that a terrible error has been made, our hapless hero legs it back to the library, locking the door and hiding behind the borrowing desk. The enraged undead pedestrian shakes the door and then begins to furiously slap the windows.
Desperate, but ever resourceful, Rocci recalls that the library once contained a small collection of vintage cook-books, proudly displayed in a glass case. Shoving most of them into a second shopping bag, Rocci approaches the window, brandishing an extremely valuable Women's Weekly Cookbook from 1940.
The enraged woman pounds ineffectively on the glass. Fortunately for Rocci Reggiano, the library is housed within two adjoined portable classrooms, with polycarbonate glazed, impact resistant windows.
'I hear you knocking,' our hero mutters defiantly, 'But you can't come in'.
Rocci holds the cook-book up to the window so the assailant can see the title, and then begins to read loudly from its yellowed pages.
‘Liver Pate! Kidneys in Red Wine!'
'Oooh, what about Pressed Tongue?'
'Oh my goodness, madam, there’s a recipe in here for Brain Fritters!'
'Boy oh boy. Stuffed Shoulder! Wowee! You’ll never find a recipe like that in a modern cookbook! This is an absolute treasure! With this rare book, my undead friend, you’ll be the most popular cooker in town!’
Her carnivorous rage forgotten, the woman is now groaning in a disturbingly sensual manner. Rocci pulls out a lighter and flicks it beneath the book, drawing a mournful howl.
‘Back!’ Rocci shouts, and points to the netball court.
‘All the way to the far goal circle, if you want to own this magnificent prize!’
Starry-eyed, the woman runs to the designated position and stands ready. Rocci makes a run for it, frisbeeing the old book across the sodden schoolyard to be caught in what must be acknowleged as an excellent save by the delighted cannibal, who lets out an victorious shriek.
There are more undead pedestrians on the street now that the rain has stopped, and Rocci’s heart sinks. The odds of making it home to Quincy and Eric are shrinking steadily.
Perhaps our intrepid hero's luck hasn’t run out quite yet though, because just then, a rubbish truck appears, blasting its horn and drawing the attention of everyone on the street. Four undead workers are crammed into the cabin, and two more are riding on the roof, hooting and yelling with delight.
Each time the truck stops, the helpers pile out to help fit the bin into the truck’s mechanical arm. The driver, presumably, has not had sufficient training or practice to do this unassisted yet, but many hands make light work, as they say. As each bin is successfully emptied, they shout triumphantly and pump their fists, loudly supported by the local residents, who have emerged from their houses to cheer, as if watching a parade, or a bicycle race, rather than a routine public service.
Grateful for the distraction, our hapless hero slips into the back yard of an empty looking house, into a cob-web filled garden shed, and sits, shivering and afraid, on the dusty concrete floor.
We’ll find out how Rocci Reggiano navigates this dreadful turn of events when we return with the next episode of the Sixth Plague. In the meantime, support your local libraries, consider planting a vegetable garden, and if you don’t have space to plant one at home, consider petitioning your council for more community gardens! You never know when the next apocalypse might strike, leaving fresh produce in short supply.
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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