I had been there oor Kornies

I had been there

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

my re bia ena

voorbeelde

I had been there
/ my re bia ena / / /

In the distance, I could hear dogs barking. This did not overly trouble me because these dogs would have been just the normal guard dogs at the base. There had not been time to get any bloodhounds up from Melbourne yet. So, unless David or I were stupid enough to make ourselves highly scent-visible, the guard dogs would not find our hide-out before we had moved on. Even so, I knew that I now needed to stay put. Wandering about in the bush at night was likely to attract the attention of any sort of dog. David would just have to fend for himself. I spent an anxious night lying awake on the cold, earthen floor, deep within the tunnel complex, waiting and wondering – just like parents do when their teenagers start going out at night without them. (Though David was hardly a typical teenager.) Morning came – still no David in sight. “Where have you gotten to, ya little flesh-eating bastard?” I said aloud. I waited till mid-day once again before I could no longer stand the anxiety and suspense. I crept towards the mouth of the tunnel and, after listening for a time, ventured a peek out of the entrance. Nothing. There was no sign that the searchers had passed by. That was a relief, of sorts. I waited a further time – an hour or two maybe – and listened. It was a very still, summer’s day. Not even the familiar sound of eucalypt leaves rustling in the breeze. In the bush, in those conditions, any loud sound will carry for miles. If there had been any trucks rumbling along the Scrub Hill road, I would have heard them. If there had been any dogs still searching, I would have heard their barking. There were none. So, what did this mean? Perhaps the search had moved on elsewhere. Perhaps it had been suspended until proper tracker dogs had arrived from Melbourne. Or, more likely, there were now troops stationed in bush ‘hides’, just watching and waiting until I emerged somewhere in the area. They probably had orders to shoot on sight because, after all, this was being treated as a wartime operation. I couldn’t take the risk of emerging just yet. That would have made no sense. I was comparatively safe where I was – for the moment. David would have to fend for himself (unless, as I worried, he had already been picked off by some sniper hiding in the bush – though I had heard no gunfire at all.)
A-dreus an pellder, y hyllyn klywes harthow keun. Nyns en re droblys drefenn nag esa an keun ma saw keun-gwith normal dhiworth an selva. Ny via termyn lowr hwath rag dri goes-keun dhiworth Melbourne. Ytho, marnas Davydh ha my a ve gokki lowr rag bos ‘gweladow’ der agan ethenn, ny gavsa an keun- gwith agan kovva kyns ni dhe asa. Byttele, y hwodhyen bos edhomm dhymm a driga ena. Yn hwirhaval, ow gwandrans oll a-dro dhe’n gwylvos dres an nos a allsa tenna attendyans a oll eghennow a gi. Res bia dhe Dhavydh omwitha. My a dremenas an nos ow kortos yn prederus ha my a’m gorwedh difun war an leur yeyn gwrys a bri, yn town a-berth y’n gowfordh. Yth esen ow kortos hag owth ombrederi – kepar dell wra kerens a dhus yowynk pan dhallethons mos yn-mes hebdha. (Kyn nag o Davydh den yowynk herwydh usadow.) Y teuth myttin – hwath yth esa Davydh mes a wel. “Dhe ble osta gyllys, ‘vastard kig-debror byghan?” yn-medhav yn ughel. Unnweyth arta, my a wrug gortos bys hanter-dydh – hag ena y teuth termyn ma na allsen godhevel an fienas ha preder. My a gramyas troha porth an gowfordh ha, wosa goslowes dres termyn hir lowr, assaya golok skav yn-mes anedhi. Travyth. Nyns esa sin vyth re dremensa an hwithoryon. Difresys en – nebes. My a wortas neb hirra – dres unn our po dew martesen – ha goslowes. An jydh ma yn hav o pur gosel. Nyns esa son del ewkalyptwith hogen, son aswonnys yn ta y’n awel glor. Y’n gwylvos, y’n studh ma, y hallsa bos klywys oll an sonyow ughel a-dreus lies mildir. Mar fia kertys ow rolya a-hys fordh dhe Vre an Krann, my a wrussa aga klywes. Mar fia keun ow hwithra hwath, my a allsa klywes aga harthow. Nyns esa mann anedha. Ytho, pyth a styras an taklow ma? Martesen, an hwithrans re alsa dhe neb-tu arall. Martesen, hedhys o bys pan dhothya goes-keun dhiworth Melbourne. Yn fordh arall, moy gwirhaval, yth esa lemmyn soudoryon ow kortos yn-dann gel, ow mires oll a-dro bys pan dhothyen yn-mes neb-tu y’n tiryow ma. Yn hwirhaval, yth esa dhedha arghadow dhe tenna a-dhistowgh orthiv pan veuv gwelys drefenn bos hemma, wosa oll, oberyans dres termyn a vresel. Ny yllyn na hwath bedha mos yn-mes. Nyns esa skians vyth yn henna. Salow lowr en yn le mayth esa – dres pols. Res bia dhe Dhavydh omwitha (marnas, dell en prederus, ev re via tennys seulabrys gans kelsethor owth omgudha y’n gwylvos – kyn na glywsen tennow-gonn vytholl.)

‘Wretched fool! In that land he would learn much, too much for his comfort. And sooner or later as he lurked and pried on the borders he would be caught, and taken - for examination. That was the way of it, I fear. When he was found he had already been there long, and was on his way back. On some errand of mischief. But that does not matter much now. His worst mischief was done.
Muskok! Y’n dir na y tysksa ev meur, re. Ha, dell wrug ev skolkya dhe’n emlow, ev a veu synsys, ha kemmerys rag govynnans. Henn o an dra, dell hevel dhymm. Pan veu ev kevys, ev re beu ena dre dermyn hir, hag yth esa ev ow tasweles. Ow kul neb oberenn dhregynnus. Mes nyns yw henna a-vern lemmyn. Y wettha dregynn a veu gwrys.’

‘Of course, my dear Frodo, it was dangerous for you; and that has troubled me deeply. But there was so much at stake that I had to take some risk - though even when I was far away there has never been a day when the Shire has not been guarded by watchful eyes. As long as you never used it, I did not think that the Ring would have any lasting effect on you, not for evil, not at any rate for a very long time. And you must remember that nine years ago, when I last saw you, I still knew little for certain.’
‘Yn hwir, Frodo ker, yth esa peryll dhis; ha henn a wrug prederi orthiv yn town. Mes an dra o pur boesek, ha res o dhymm gul argoll – mes, kyn fen a-bell, nevra nyns o jydh pan na vos an Shayr gwithys gans lagasow hewoel. Mar ny wruss’ta y dhevnydhya, my a dybis na wrussa ev gul effeyth duryadow dhis, nag yn tebel, na dre dermyn hir yn neb kas. Ha perth kov; nans yw naw blydhen, pan wrug vy metya genes y’n diwettha tro, my a wodhva boghes yn tiogel.’

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
Pan worfensen an lavuryow ma, peder eur o–hwath mar dewl avel hanter-nos. Dell sonas an klogh pedergweyth, y klewis nebonan ow knoukya orth daras an stret. My a dhiyskynnas rag y ygeri, skav ow holon–rag pyth esa lemmyn y tal dhymm doutya? Yth entras tri den, a omgomendyas, gans kortesi perfydh, avel sodhogyon a’n kreslu. Us re bia klewys gans kentrevek y’n nos; gogrys a dhrokoleth re bia sordyes; kedhlow re bia derivys orth an sodhva greslu, hag i aga honan re bia erghys dhe hwithra an drehevyans.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!
Ena my a dhrehevis teyr astel dhyworth leur an chambour, ha gorra puptra ynter an prennyer a-woles. Nessa, my a worras an estyl y’ga le arta, yn maner mar sley, mar gonnyk, ma na alsa lagas denel vyth–nag an huni dhodho hogen–merkya bos neppyth kamm. Ny veu tra vyth dhe gartha–na mosten a neb sort na namm goos. My re bia re war rag henna. Keryn re gachsa oll–ha! ha!

Anyway, this meant the first item on the agenda in the morning after the battle (was it a ‘battle’, really?) was to clean ourselves up – just as, it seemed, Paul and Charles had been doing whilst holed up here. There were a couple of buckets now parked near the tap – and a watering can. I guessed that the buckets had been placed there by the keepers of the crypt but the watering can? Maybe Paul and Charles had swiped it from somewhere else in the cemetery grounds. A small mystery – too small to worry about. I brandished the watering can in David’s general direction: “Shower, Mate?” Barely a grunt. “Come on, Mate,” I said. “You could be a world record holder: the first zombie to take a shower.” No grunt at all. It seemed that zombies were not keen on personal hygiene – and David stank very badly. His clothes, his hair and his face were all caked with coagulated human blood and gore. I advised him ‘the beautiful people’ were not wearing blood and gore this season but still he seemed unmoved. David had never actually been a fashionisto – and now he was, well, dead, such matters seemed to mean even less to him. How would I get this stinking bugger to wash? I decided to set an example and stripped off my own disreputable gear. For the first time, I had a chance to look at my own state. I, too, was covered in filth of various kinds. I suppose that, by living in close contact with not only David but other zombies, I had picked up a lot of filth that they were carrying – even though I was largely unaware of it at the time. I decided to go naked until I had washed and dried my clothes. To keep warm, I could wrap myself in the blankets that Paul and Charles had left behind. Where had they managed to get the blankets? From their raid upon the gate-keeper’s residence, I supposed. No matter. The blankets were welcome wherever they had come from.
Yn neb kas, an myttin wosa an vatel (o hi batel wir?), yth o an kynsa tra herwydh an rol negys: res o dhyn omglanhe - kepar dell wrussa Powl ha Charles hag i trigys ena. Yth esa ynwedh dew gelorn parkyes ogas dhe’n tapp – ha kafas dowr keffrys. My a dhesevos an kelern dhe worra ena gans gwithoryon an gleudhgell mes an kafas dowr? Martesen, Powl ha Charles re’n ladersa nep-tu arall y’n park ynkleudhva. Kevrin byghan – re vyghan bos preder dhymm. My a boyntyas an kafas dowr troha Davydh: “Kowas, ‘Vata?” Namna wrug ev rogh. “Deun yn rag, ‘Vata,” yn-medhav. “Y hallses jy dos ha bos kampyer rekord an bys: an kynsa zombi dhe gavoes kowas.” Rogh vyth. Yth heveli na vos an zombis yntanys a-dro dhe lanydhter personel – hag yth esa fler tynn dhe Dhavydh. Y dhillas, y vlew ha’y fas, oll anedha a via kalashes gans goes kowlys ha keher denel. My a leveris orto na wiska ‘an dus fethus’ yn goes ha keher an seson ma mes, hwath, yth heveli y vos anwayys. Yn hwir, ny via Davydh ‘fashionisto’ (den herwydh an gis) – ha, lemmyn y vos, wel, marow, yth heveli materow a’n par na dhe styrya le hogen dhodho. Ytho, fatell yllyn vy gul omwolghi an horsen flerys ma? My a erviras omdhiskwedhes avel ensampel hag omdhiwiska – drefenn bos ow dhillas ow honan poran drog-gerys. Hemm o an kynsa chons dhymm dhe vires orth ow studh ow honan. Gorherys yn lastedhes a lies eghenn en vy ynwedh. My a grys, dre vywnans ogas dhe Dhavydh ha’y sos, my a gevrennsa meur a’n lastedhes esens ow toen – kyn nag y arwodhyen, dre vras, y’n tor’ na. My a erviras triga noeth erna wolghsen ow dillas ha’y sygha. Rag omwitha toemm, my a ylli omvaylya y’n lennow re assa a-dhelergh Powl ha Charles. Dhiworth py le re dhothya an lennow ma? Dhiworth omsettyans a Bowl ha Charles war ji an porther, dell grysav. Ny vern. Pur wolkomm ens i dhiworth plepynag re dhothyens.

He read the document: “Where is the rest of your squad?” “In the front carriage of the train, Sir. Only I need to travel with the coffin.” I guessed that he would be simply too idle to check the front carriage for the rest of my squad. “But there’s no mention of any coffin in these orders, Sergeant. How is that?” “Well, Sir, you will recall that there were no military casualties in the engagement outside the university. So, ...” “And you were there?” “Yessir, I was,” I replied. “And were there? Were there casualties, Sergeant? Unofficially, of course,” pursued the Major. This put me in a dilemma: did I reveal what was obviously a military secret (i.e. the fact that there had actually been casualties) or did I refuse to answer the direct question of a superior officer? I took the same line as before: “I’m not at liberty to answer that question , Major.” I waited, still staring straight ahead, still standing at attention. David had been listening in. He was obviously unhappy. I could hear him making little grunts and groans of protest from within the coffin – and, so, I think, could the Major. “Can you hear something, Sergeant?” I put on a puzzled expression and responded: “Only the noise of the train, Sir.” David’s unhappy noises subsided for a moment but the Major was still not content. “Well, Sergeant,” he said. “I understand that you may not be able to answer my questions directly...” Okay. “... but you can satisfy my curiosity by opening the coffin, can’t you?”
Ev a redyas an skrifenn: “Ple’ma’n soudoryon erell y’th para?” “Y’n koch a-rag, an kynsa koch, Syrr. Nyns esa edhomm dhe dhenvyth a lavurya gans an eler a-der my.” Y fia ev re dhiek, dell grysyn, dhe hwilas y’n kynsa koch rag kavoes ow fara. “Nyns eus kampoell vyth y’th arghadow a-dro dhe’n eler ma, a Serjont. Fatell yw henna?” “Wel, Syrr, dell yllydh perthi kov anodho, nyns esa tus vreselek vryw y’n vatel ogas dhe’n bennskol. Ytho, ...” “Hag yth eses jy ena?” “Yassyrr, yth esen vy ena,” a worthybis. “Hag, esa lies den bryw, a Serjont? My a’th wovynn yn ansoedhek, heb mar,” a besyas an Ughkapten. Unnweyth arta, hemm o mater tykkli ragov: a dalvien vy diskudha kevrin breselek (henn yw leverel, an gwiryonedh a-dro dhe’n tus vryw) po a dalvien skonya a ri gorthyp dhe wovynn soedhek a ughella renk essov vy? My a gemmeras an keth linenn ha’n kynsa prys: “Nyns ov rydh dhe worthybi an govynn ma, ‘Ughkapten.” Yth esen hwath ow kortos, hwath ow lagatta a-dheragov, hwath ow sevel yn attendyans. Y fia Davydh ow koslowes orthyn. Y hyllyn y glywes, ow kul nebes roghow ha nebes hanasennow a-berth y’n eler – kepar dell wrer protestyans, dell grysav. My a grys an Ughkapten dhe alloes aga klywes keffrys. “A yllta klywes neppyth, a Serjont?” Meur ow ankombrynsi (po dell heveli), my a worthybis: “Travyth a-der tros an tren, Syrr.” Trosow anlowen Davydh a goselhas dres pols mes nyns o hwath lowen an Ughkapten. “Wel, a Serjont,” yn-medh ev. “My a gonvedh na yllydh ri dhymm gorthybow ewn dhe’m govynnadow ...” Da lowr. “... mes ty a yll satisfya ow hwans a wodhvos dre igeryans an eler, a ny yllydh?”

Once again, he roared his Earth-shaking roar. This time it was directed at me rather than at my attackers. “Back off, Brother. This is zombie-business,” said the roar. “You’ve no right to interfere.” This was the clear message, in any event. I did “back off”. I didn’t need to be told twice. I retired to a small wooden bench nearby and dry-retched into the garden bed next to it. (There was no food in my stomach – I had been starving, too.) I watched on helplessly as the body of Meryl was consumed. Meryl was a shy, country girl, a first year like me and David. (She hated college food – except for chockie pudding. That was always served on a Thursday evening and everyone came on that night.) I’d struck up an acquaintance with her in one of my French tutorials. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the group but she was slim, sweet and gentle. I’d asked her for a date once. She politely declined – I don’t think I was her type. No hard feelings – we stayed friendly. I couldn’t square my very recent memories of her with the grisly reality unfolding in front of me. Eventually – I’m not sure how much later – all the zombies, including David, had had their fill and left the meagre remains of Meryl where they lay. There were many other human remains strewn about but most had been there since the first day – or so I guessed from their advanced state of decay. But Meryl’s remains were different. They needed not to be ignored. For all the violence that had been visited upon them, I needed to do something. I needed to show some sign of respect. I walked inside Union House and immediately saw that it was a charnel house – with death and destruction everywhere.
Unnweyth arta, ev a vedhyglas krev may shakyas an dor. Mes, an prys ma, ev re vedhyg’sa orthymmo vy – nyns o orth ow omsettoryon, y’n tor’ ma. “Ke dhe-ves, a vroder. Hemm yw negys an zombis,” yn-medh an bedhyglans. “Nyns eus reyth dhis mellya orto.” Hemm o an messaj kler, dhe’n lyha. My a wrug kildenna. Nyns esa edhomm dhymm bos derivys diwweyth. My eth dhe vynk vyghan ha prennek esa a-ogas. My a hwyjas yn sygh y’n gyst-lowarth rybdhi. (Nyns esa boes vyth y’m glas – y fien ow famya ynwedh.) Dialloes yn tien, my a viras orth an hwarvos, dybrans korf Meryl. Y fia Meryl myrgh wohelus dhiworth sita bowel, y’n kynsa blydhen kepar ha Davydh ha my. (Hi a gasas boes an kollji may triga – a-der podin choklet a veu servyes dy’Yowweyth pan dho peub oll dhe’n prys.) My re dhothya er hy bynn yn onan a’m klassow frynkek. Nyns esa hi an tekka myrgh y’n bagas na mes moen, hweg ha jentyl o hi. Unnweyth, my re wovynnsa orti mos genev rag dydhvetyans. Hi re dheklinsa yn kortes – nyns en vy yonker gwiw rygdhi, dell heveli. Mes nyns en vy shyndyes – y trigen ni hwath hegar an eyl dh’y gila. Ny yllyn kesseni ow hovyow a-dhiwedhes yn hy hever gans an gwirvos grysel a dhisplegya a-dheragov vy. Wor’tiwedh – nyns ov vy sur pes termyn diwettha - oll an zombis, Davydh y’ga mysk, re dhyb’sa lowr ha gesyon tanow Meryl a drigas mayth esens. Yth esa meur a esyon denel erell a veu skoellyes a-les an bennskol mes rann vrassa anedha re via ena a-dhia an kynsa dydh – po yndella y krysis vy drefenn aga studh poder avonsyes. Byttegyns, gesyon Meryl o dihaval dhedha. Ny yllyn skonya aga aswonn. Yn despit dhe freudh kommytyes warnedhi, yth esa edhomm dhymm a wul neppyth a-dro dhedha. Res o dhymm diskwedhes sin reowta. My a gerdhas yn Chi an Kesunyans hag y hyllyn a-dhistowgh gweles y vos chi mernans – yth esa distruyans ha mernans oll a-dro.

“No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.” Why was this bastard so interested in me and the coffin? How long before the next scheduled stop when, presumably, he’d get out of the baggage car? He contemplated my words further. “You say he’s one of ours. Was he killed in the recent action?” I remembered that the official line was that there had been no casualties. “I’m not at liberty to say, Sir,” I replied, a slight quaver creeping into my voice. “...because,” he continued, “there were no casualties on our side, Sergeant. Isn’t that so?” “I understand that to be the official position, Sir,” I said, with a degree of uncertainty. Uncertainty – the enemy of convincing falsehood! “So, this soldier must have died of a head cold, Sergeant?” “That would have to be correct, Sir – since no-one was killed in the recent action.” The Major smiled benignly. My plainly duplicitous answer seemed to please him. Perhaps he would leave me alone now? How long to the next stop? “That’s an extremely fancy coffin for a soldier. How is that, Sergeant?” “I am led to believe it was the only coffin readily available at short notice, Sir,” I replied. A truthful answer! But not one that the Major liked. He held out his hand towards me: “Show me your orders, Sergeant!” I reached into my inside pocket and pulled out the envelope that I had stolen along with the uniforms. I handed it to the Major and kept my eyes to the front, still standing to attention.
“Na, Syrr. Heb mar, Syrr.” Prag y kevi an bastard bern a’n par ma ynnov vy ha’n eler? Pes termyn a dremensa kyns es dell hedhsa an tren arta? (Pan dhiyskynnsa ev dhiworth an koch-fardellow, dell waytyen.) Ev a ombrederis a-dro dhe’m geryow. “Ty re leveris ev dhe vos dhyn ni. A veu ledhys y’n vatel a-gynsow?” My a borthas kov an ‘linenn soedhek’: nyns esa denvyth shyndyes yn batel an ynkleudhva (po yn ‘batel an bennskol’, mars yw henna gwell dhiso jy). “Nyns ov rydh dhe leverel, Syrr,” a worthybis vy, kren byghan ow tos dhe’m lev. “... drefenn...,” a besyas ev, “nag esa tus vryw vyth dh’agan para, a Serjont. A nyns yw henna gwir?” “My a gonvedh henna dhe vos an studh soedhek, Syrr,” a leveris vy, gans nebes ansurneth. Ansurneth – eskar dhe woegneth perswadus! “Ytho, res o dhe’n souder ma bos marow drefenn anwoes pur dhrog, a Serjont?” “Henn a via ewn, Syrr – drefenn nag esa denvyth ledhys y’n vatel a-gynsow.” Y finhwarthas an Ughkapten heb atti. Ow gorthyp, meur y dhewblegeth, a heveli plegya dhodho. Martesen, ny vellsa ev na fella genev lemmyn? Py pellder dhe’n nessa gorsav? “Henn yw geler afinus dres eghenn rag souder. Fatell yw henna, a Serjont?” “Ledyes ov dhe grysi na vos geler arall kavadow y’n termyn na, Syrr,” a worthybis. Gorthyp gwir! Byttegyns, nyns yw gorthyp o da vytholl gans an Ughkapten. Y leuv ystynnys troha my, ev a harthas: “Diskwedh dhymm dha arghadow, a Serjont!” My a worras ow leuv a-berth y’m jerkynn ha tenna dhiworto an maylyer re ledhsen gans an uniformys. My a’n ro dhe’n Ughkapten, ow kwitha ow dewlagas a-dheragov hag my sevys hwath yn attendyans.

A DAY AT THE CARLTON BUGHOUSE Morning couldn’t come quick enough. “Come on, Dave, I’m hungry,” I said. “I need to find some food fit for living folk.” Dave seemed content to remain where he was. Apparently, he was not hungry. I wondered idly how often a major predator needed a feed. Once a week? Wasn’t that how often lions needed to kill? But lions aren’t dead. “How often,” I asked myself, “would a lion need to eat if it were dead?” With that, I started to wonder about the declining nature of my current thought processes. I needed to eat and eat now. So, I kicked David and he growled at me. (The ever-present cat chimed in with a supportive hiss.) I seized David’s hand and hauled him to his feet. He emitted an unhappy rumble but seemed willing enough to come with me. We emerged from Union House into the morning daylight. Didn’t I read somewhere that zombies were supposed to be unable to come out in the daylight? Well, that’s not true. There were numerous zombies milling about in the Eastern quadrangle (whose official name I forget) – in broad daylight just as there had been since the initial onslaught. Zombies are fine with daylight – but do they get a decent tan? As we walked through the quadrangle, David’s hand still somewhat unwillingly in mine, I cast my eye about the scattered corpses. Nothing fresh here. I guessed they all dated from Day One. Why did some victims reanimate – like David – and others not?
DYDH YN ‘CHI DEUREK’ KARLTON Ny allsa an myttin dos skon lowr ragov vy. “Deun yn-rag, ‘Dhav, yma nown dhymm,” yn-medhav. “Res yw dhymm kavoes boes yw gwiw dhe’n dus vyw.” Yth heveli bos da gans Davydh dhe remaynya mayth esa ev. Yn apert, nyns esa nown dhodho. My a omwovynnas yn unn dremena py lieskweyth y fia edhomm a voes dhe’n preydher meur. Unnweyth yn seythun? A nyns esa henna kemmys prysyow dell vedha edhomm dhe’n lewyon? Mes nyns yw an lewyon marow. “Py lieskweyth,” my a omwovynnas, “a via edhomm a dhybri dhe’n lewyon mar pens marow?” Ha, gans henna, my a dhallathas omwovynn a-dro dhe’n gnas ow kwetthe a’m brys. Yth esa dhymm edhomm a dhybri – ha, dres henna, a dhybri a-dhistowgh. Ytho, my a botyas Davydh hag ev a grommyas orthiv vy. (Yth esa ena si skoedhyansek dhiworth an gath.) My a dhalgennas paw Davydh ha’y halya dh’y sav. Ev a dhillas grommyans moredhek mes yth heveli bos lowen lowr rag dos genev. Ni a dheuth yn-mes Chi an Kesunyans hag entra yn golow dydh. A ny redsen vy nep-tu na ylli an zombis dos yn-mes hag yn golow dydh? Wel, nyns yw henna gwir. Yth esa meur a zombis ow kwandra a-dro dhe’n plen a’n howldrevel (an hanow soedhogel mayth ankevis) - y’n golow splann dydh kepar dell via an kas a-dhia an kynsa omsettyans. Golow dydh yw da gans an zombis – mes a yllons i kavoes kroghen vronsys yn ta? Ha ni kerdhys a-dreus an plen, leuv Davydh hwath yn ow huni – nebes a’y anvodh – my a viri orth an korfow skattrys oll a-dro. Nyns esa travyth gro ena. Y tothyens oll dhiworth “Dydh Onan”, dell grysyn vy. Prag y hylli nebes vyktyms dasvywya – kepar ha Davydh – ha, byttegyns, yth esa an re erell na ylli gul yndella? 47

When they all went away (they had been embarrassed) Christ said to her, "Where is he who wants to accuse you?" "There is no one," she said. Jesus spoke again: "Well then, I do not condemn you. Go and sin no more."
Pan ethons oll dhe wari, ankombrys i re bia, "Pyma", yn-medh krist dhedhi, "neb a vynn dha guhudha?" "Den vyth nyns eus" yn-medh hi. Yesus a gewsis arta, "My ny'th tampnyav yredi, ha na wra namoy pegha."

Shaking all over from the exertion, I managed to do this – not so gently. I had no strength at all in reserve and marvelled at the fact that the two of us had managed to carry this massive thing so far. I stopped and, trying to control my quivering, listened. No snoring was audible. It was still night and the guard’s snoring had been clearly audible from this distance on the night before. “Anyone there?” came a stern-sounding voice. Bugger – I had been heard by the guard. (What ever happened to the imprecation “friend or foe” that I had been taught in my time as a toy soldier?) Or, maybe, he had merely been awakened by the noise without really hearing it. (Or so I hoped.) I motioned to David to remain still. I heard the guard noisily lifting his rifle – the sound of the thick, woven strap casually slapping the butt was quite distinctive for me. The sound of heavy boots, equally familiar, started approaching us. Fight or flight? Neither – stay put! “Anyone there?” the voice repeated, with perceptible uncertainty. Uncertainty? Yes, that’s what we wanted. I decided we should stay put and, soon the footsteps retreated without the guard having seen us. I knew the plan had gone too far for us to abandon without raising suspicion – and, probably, initiating a detailed search of the cemetery which, as far as I knew, had not previously been done. (After all, who hides in a cemetery?) David and I stood, frozen to the spot for about twenty minutes before we heard the resumption of the guard’s snoring. Time to move. The main driveway to the cemetery was, unfortunately, relatively flat. So, for silent running, it needed both of us to push the khaki-coloured ute, me from the driver’s wheel and David from the rear. (It took some little time to indicate to him what it was that I required but I needed his strength. So, I persisted until he understood.)
Ow krena heb kontrol drefenn an stryvyans ma, my a sewenas yn y wul – mes nyns o hemma gwrys mar gosel ha Davydh. Nyns esa nerth mann gesys dhymm ha meur o’m marth drefenn ni dhe alloes, an dhew, doen an dra ma, meur hy thewder, mar bell. My a hedhis. Ha my assayys dhe gontrolya ow kren, yth esen ow goslowes. Ronk vyth bos klywys. Nos o hwath ha renkyans an gwithyas re via klywys dhiworth an pellder ma nyhewer. “Eus nebonan ena?” a dheuth lev asper. Buggra – y fien klywys gans an gwithyas. (Pyth re hwarvia dhe’n chalenj “Kothman po eskar?” re via dyskys pan vien souder-wariell?) Po, martesen, an tros re’n difunsa hepken heb y glywes yn hwir. (Po, yndellna o govenek dhymm.) My a wrug mosion dhe Dhavydh rag leverel dhodho dhe remaynya kosel. My a glywas an gwithyas dhe dhrehevel yn trosek y wonn hir – son an ledhrenn, tew ha gwiys, ow hwattya erbynn an karn, o aswonnys yn ta dhymm. Son an botasennow poesek, aswonnys yn ta keffrys, a dhallathas dos troha ni. Batalyas po fia? Nag an eyl po y gila – gortos! “Eus nebonan ena?” a dhasleveris an voys, meur y ansurneth. Ansurneth? Ya, henn o pyth a vynnen ni. My a erviras y talvien gortos. Ena, yn skon, yth esa kildennans a’n kammow heb agan bos gwelys gans an gwithyas. My a wodhya an towl dhe vos re avonsyes seulabrys. Ny yllyn y forsakya heb kawsya gogrys – ha, gwirhaval, heb dalleth hwithrans dien an ynkleudhva. Dell grysyn, ny via kyns hwithrans anedhi. (Wosa oll, piw omgudhsa yn ynkleudhva?) Y sevi Davydh ha my, heb gwayans vyth, dres ogas dhe ugens mynysenn kyns ni dhe glywes renkyans an gwithyas dasdhalleth. Termyn o dhe fia.

“Okay,” I replied. “Let’s suppose there is indeed a leading edge to the infection, carried forward by a small band of fleet-footed and unidirectional zombies. They would be travelling at not less than 20km per day – after making a proper allowance for lost time due to their undertaking only absolutely essential murder and mayhem.” “Agreed. A reasonable estimate,” said Paul. “20 km per day for nine days. So, the fastest group of zombies – and therefore the infection itself – is now nearly two hundred km away from central Melbourne.” “But that means the infection would have reached the three major regional cities in Victoria: Geelong, Ballarat and Bendigo,” I observed, stating the obvious. Paul shrugged: “I just hope none of the zombies can drive or fly!” This casual remark – made in jest – made me think of David. You never quite knew what he might be capable of – particularly if he could tap into my mind at will. But there was no time to worry about that possibility now. How many people were within a 200km radius of Melbourne if you included those major regional cities? I didn’t know. I wasn’t up on population statistics at the time. I guessed, maybe, two or three million. And let’s assume that none of the girls (nor gay men?) became zombies, how many potential zombies did that mean? Somewhere between one and one and a half million? Hmm. But, of course, many victims were so badly injured by zombie attack that they simply could not reanimate. Beyond that, perhaps a lot of folk, knowing what was on the way, had fled in front of the leading edge of the epidemic. That would reduce the numbers substantially. Then again, so far as I could see, there had been a total news blackout. So, how would people find out that they needed to flee before it was too late? And, once the numbers of zombies had grown from hundreds to thousands, wouldn’t the leading edge become like an irresistible tidal wave, sweeping all before it? Paul and I calmly debated all of this, debated the end of civilisation as we knew it (or so it seemed) but reached no firm conclusions. The information we had was paltry – we were simply working on guesswork.
“Da lowr,” a worthybis. “Gwren tybi bos yn hwir amal ow ledya dhe’n klevesans, degys war-rag gans bagas byghan zombis, meur aga toeth hag unnik aga fordh a lavuryans. I a allsa lavurya 20 km pub dydh dhe’n lyha – wosa ow kul alowans gwiw rag termyn kellys dre voldrans ha deray (a via hwath res dhe zombis uskis, heb mar.)” “Akordyes. Dismygriv resnadow,” yn-medh Powl. “20 km pub dydh, dres naw dydh. Ytho, uskissa bagas an zombis – hag ytho an klevesans y honan – yw ogas dhe 200 km alemma, Melbourne kresel.” “Henn a styr an klevesans dhe dhrehedhes oll teyr sita veur ranndiryel yn Budhykka: Geelong, Ballarat ha Bendigo,” a leveris vy, ow merkya neppyth hewel. Powl a drehevis y dhiwskoedh: “Govenek yw dhymm na yll nebes anedha lywya po nija!” An kampoell anformel ma – gwrys avel ges – a wrug dhymm prederi a-dro dhe Dhavydh. Ny wodhyen poran pyth a allsa ev gul – yn arbennik mar kylli gul devnydh a’m brys ow honan pan vynna ev. Byttegyns, nyns esa chons vyth rag prederi a-dro dhe henna y’n tor’ na. Pygemmys den esa a-berth yn gwradh a 200 km dhiworth Melbourne mars esa komprehendyes an sitys ranndiryel na? Ny wodhyen vy. Ny ens i, statyskygyon an poblans, aswonnys yn ta dhymm ena. My a dhismygas, martesen, dew po tri milvil dhen. Ha gwren desevos nag esa myrghes vyth (po tus kethreydhel?) neb alsa ha bos zombis. Pygemmys zombi esa y’n wradh na? Yntra onan ha dew vilvil? Hmm. Byttegyns, meur a vyktymys re via shyndyes mar dhrog ma na yllens dasvywya avel zombis. Dres henna, martesen, meur a dus, arvys gans skians an omsettyans a dho, re fiasa dhiworth amal ow ledya an pla. Mars o henna gwir, sommenn an vyktymys re via lehys yn feur. Y’n kontrari part, y fia difenn dien erbynn an nowodhow, dell grysyn. Ytho, fatell dhiskudhsa an dus bos res dhedha a fia kyns bos ragdha re dhiwedhes? Ha, moy es henna, pan devsa sommenn an zombis dhiworth kansow dhe vilyow anedha, an amal ow ledya a via ha bos kepar ha tonn lanow, ow skuba puptra oll a-dherygdhi. Powl ha my a glattras yn hebask a-dro dhe oll an taklow ma, y’ga mysk gorfenn aga hwarheans dell wodhyen ni (po dell heveli dhyn), mes ny yllyn drehedhes konkludyansow fast. Agan derivadow o boghosek – yn hwir, yth esen ni owth assaya gul devnydh a dhismygyans unnsel.

After overcoming my revulsion at David’s ghastly fashion statement – and before daylight failed completely – I noticed that David had acquired a further ‘garment’. I studied it carefully. It was an officer’s dress-jacket, completely drenched in blood, of course. The officer’s rank was plainly that of Captain – and there were little caduceus badges clipped to each epaulette. I couldn’t actually read the good doctor’s name badge – that had been somewhat obscured by sanguinous effluvia – but I was content with what I saw. Very content. Captain Doctor Mengele should not have made his ‘grunt’ driver walk back to the base, should he? I imagined the frenzied and bloody scene when, in the twilight, David had fallen upon the lone and unsuspecting medical officer. Ah, well, excrement occurs!
Pan fethis ow skruth drefenn ‘derivas-fashyon’ euthyk Davydh – ha kyns an howlspann dhe vos yn tien – my a verkyas Davydh dhe gavoes ‘dillasenn’ arall. My a’n studhyas gans rach. Jerkynn formel an soedhek o, gwlyghys yn tien yn goes, heb mar. Renk an soedhek o apert – Kapten o – hag yth esa arwoedhigow-kadusius fastyes dhe bub skoedh-darn. Ny yllyn yn hwir redya arwoedhik-hanow an medhek da – nebes gorherys o gans effluvia goesek – byttegyns, da o genev drefenn an golok ma. Yn hwir, pur lowen en vy. Ny dalvia Kapten Doktour Mengele erghi dh’y lywyer dasgerdhes dhe’n selva. Y hyllyn gweles y’m brys an wel, woesek ha konnaryek, pan goedhsa Davydh y’n mo war soedhek medhegel, y honan ha heb gogrys. A, wel, y hwer ekskretyans!

I thought I understood what was going on. So, I addressed my next question to Paul: “Has His Royal Majesty taken the recent Roundhead advances very badly?” Paul smiled with relief. I had indeed understood what was going on. “His Royal Majesty is much affronted by the advance of the Parliamentarian army into his sovereign territory. He prays they all depart immediately.” “My dear Oliver,” interrupted Charles. “Surely you can do something about this business. You are, after all, titular head of the Parliamentarian forces. Surely you can recall those accursed Roundheads. And, if not you, what about General David? Surely you could do that for your Sovereign Lord.” Charles, it seemed, was now living in the era of the English Civil War of the 1640’s. This had been his fantasy playground from the first day I had met him. Now he had retreated there completely – for reasons that were not hard to guess at, given his recent traumatic experiences. “Well, Your Majesty, I’ll see what I can do. Shall we discuss it during High Tea – I have some fine provisions we might share while we discuss the formal terms of the disengagement.” I raised my backpack – filled with tinned ham and Christmas puddings. Paul’s face filled with joy – evidently, he and Charles had also been starving. “A fine proposal, Good Sir,” responded Charles. “Paul, lay out our finest tableware.” “Certainly, my Liege,” simpered Paul. Charles had always, in my experience, spoken in an exaggerated upper-class English accent. Indeed, I had assumed he was English at first. In fact, he was 6th generation Australian and had been educated in a Catholic boys’ school where the Brothers had, apparently, not known how to cope with their first openly and flamboyantly gay pupil. Curiously, for this era at least, he was much beloved by his fellow students – to the point where he was made the mascot for the school’s senior football team. (Charles, being short of stature, was definitely no athlete and the ‘position’ of mascot had, reportedly, suited him just fine.)
My a gonvedhas, dell grysyn, pyth esa ow hwarvos. Ytho, ow nessa kwestyon a veu leverys dhe Bowl: “A dhegemmeras Y Veuredh Ryel nowodhow pur dhrog a-dro dhe’n avonsyansow a-dhiwedhes an Bennow-rond?” Meur y dhiskeudh, Powl a vinhwerthas. Yn hwir, my re gonvedhsa pyth esa ow hwarvos. “Y Veuredh Ryel re veu arvedhys yn feur gans avonsyans an lu Senedhek yn y dir sovran. Ev a’th pys rag aga dibarth a-dhistowgh.” “Ow Oliver ker,” a wodorras Charles. “Ty a ylli yn sur gul neppyth a-dro dhe’n negys ma. Yth osta, wosa oll, penn war-lergh titel an luyow Senedhek. Ty a yll yn sur daselwel an Bennow-rond euthyk ma. Ha, ma na yllydh y wul, martesen Pennhembrenkyas Davydh? Ty a yll gul henna rag dha Arloedh Sovran.” Yth heveli Charles dhe driga yn oes an Vresel Sivil Sowsnek a’n blydhynyow 1640. An oes ma re via y arth-gwari a-dhia an kynsa dydh a dhothyen er y bynn. Lemmyn, ev re gildennsa ynno yn tien – drefenn achesonyow nag o kales dhe dhismygi wosa y berthyansow a-dhiwedhes, meur aga goliow, dell grysav. “Wel, Agas Meuredh, my a welvydh pyth a allav gul yn y gever. A vynnowgh hwi dadhla yn y gever dres Te Ughel? Yma dhymm nebes proviansow teg a allav kevrenna ha ni ow dadhla ambosow formel an powes. My a dhrehevis ow sagh-keyn, lenwys gans mordhos-hogh ha podins Nadelik. Leun a lowender o fas Powl – yth heveli agan bos ow famya keffrys, ev ha Charles an dhew. “Profyans pur dheg, Syrra Da,” a worthybis Charles. “A Bowl, gwra devnydh a’gan tekka daffar lymm.” “Yn sertan, ow Lij,” a fug-vinhwarthas Powl. Y’m perthyans vy, y kowssa Charles pup-prys yn fordh a Sows an renkas ughel. Yn hwir, my a grysi y vos sowsnek y’n kynsa le. Byttegyns, Ostralek an hweghves henedh o. Ev re via dyskys yn skol rag mebyon Gatholik ma na wodhya an Vreder handla aga hynsa studhyer o kethreydhel yn igor – ha, dres henna, liwus heb preder yndellna. Rag an oes ma, dhe’n lyha, koynt o y vos meurgerys gans y gesstudhyoryon – yn hwir, y hwrussens y vos maskot dhe vagas pelldroes an kottha skol. (Kott y ughelder, nyns o Charles athlet vyth hag ytho, yth esa an le-vagas ma (avel maskot) ow telledh yn ta dhodho, dell vien leverys.)

CASTLEMAINE GARDENS There was simply no point in remonstrating with David – anymore than there would have been with a pack of hyenas or a pride of lions. David was a killer – that was now part of his nature. (Part of our nature?) However, I needed to get him away from his kill before we arrived at the next scheduled stop. I calculated, correctly, that the crime (if such it be) would be discovered almost as soon as we pulled into the station. The kill (though death had been quick) had been very messy and bloody. It was entirely instinctive and David had given no thought to concealing it. If we’d had the time and equipment, it would have taken hours to clean up and dispose of the remains. We had neither. David continued his feasting as I considered our options. David’s grisly noise did not help. There was really only one option: flee the train at the earliest opportunity and hide in whichever place best presented itself. Castlemaine was the next scheduled stop. It’s a medium-sized own of, maybe, 10,000 people. It was once much bigger – as were many such towns – during the Victorian Goldrush of the 1850’s and 1860’s. But now it relied on agriculture and tourism. I was familiar, in general terms, with its layout as I had visited elderly relatives there several times in my childhood. Where to flee? Where to hide? I guessed I had less than 10 minutes to weigh my options. There were many abandoned mine-shafts but they were way out of town – and very dangerous. Any mines closer to town had been blocked off or filled in decades ago. So, forget that idea. I remembered that, when I was a kid, I’d played in the botanical gardens. For such a modest town, these were fine gardens. When the town had been larger and more prosperous, the wealthy burghers had decided their town needed such a place for genteel recreation. One of those burghers had even named the ornamental lake after his wife, Lake Johanna. It was a largish lake with an island in the middle where ducks and waterfowl made their nests and raised their young. And, moreover, the gardens were within 100m of the train station, on the edge of town. With luck, a lot of luck, we could sprint there before the mess in the baggage car were discovered.
PARK MEUR KASTLEMAYNE Nyns o poynt vyth ow kul plentyans gans Davydh. A blentir gans pakk eusvilas po teylu lewyon? Ladher o Davydh – henn o lemmyn rann y gnas. (Rann agan gnas?) Byttegyns, res o dhymm y gemmeres dhiworth y ladh kyns ni dhe dhrehedhes an nessa gorsav. My a reknas, yn ewn, an drogober (mars o yndella yn hwir) dhe vos diskudhys kettell dhrehedhsen an orsav. Kyn re via uskis an ladh, ev o goesek ha strolyek. Travyth a-der anyen re’n gidsa. Ny via preder vyth dhodho a-dro dh’y gudha. Mar pe dhyn termyn ha daffar y fia edhomm a ouryow rag klanhe an leur ha gul ‘kellys’ an korf. Nyns esa nag an eyl nag y gila dhyn ni. Davydh a besyas an wledh ha my ombrederys. (Ny’m gweresa trosow grysel Davydh.) Pyth o agan dewisow? Nyns o saw unn dhewis yn hwir: fia an tren skonna galla hag omgudha plepynag a via an gwella le ena. An nessa gorsav o Kastlemayne. Tre vras lowr, yth esa dhedhi, martesen, 10,000 enev. Nans yw termyn hir, nebes brassa o – kepar dell o lies tre yn Budhykka – drefenn Fysk dh’Owr dres an blydhynnyow 1850 ha 1860. Y’n termyn ma, hi a worra hy fydh yn ammeth hag yn tornyaseth. My a wodhya da lowr aray stretow an dre ma drefenn my dhe vysytya yn fenowgh ow herens goth ena pan en vy fleghik. Dhe ble a dalvien fia? Po omgudha? My a galkyas bos dhymm le es 10 mynysenn rag konsydra ow dewisow. Yth esa lies shafta forsakyes mes yth esens nebes pellder dhiworth an dre – ha pur beryllus. Oll an shaftys hag o nessa dhe’n dre re via lettys po lenwys nans yw degblydhynnyow. Ytho, y hyllys ankevi an tybyans na. My a borthas kov my dhe wari, pan en vy fleghik, y’n park lowsoniethel. Rag tre vyghan lowr, hemm o park pur deg. Pan o brassa an dre, yn termynyow sewenus (drefenn an owr), an vurjysi rych re ervirsa bos edhomm dh’aga thre a le a’n par na rag aga gwari jentyl. Onan yntr’an vurjysi re henwis hogen lynn an park warlergh y wreg, Johanna hy hanow. Lynn vras lowr o, ynys y gres may hwrug an heyji ha’n ydhyn aga neythow ha may hallsens maga aga miles yowynk. Ha, dres henna, nyns esa an park saw ogas dhe 100m dhiworth an orsav, war ryb an dre. Gans chons da, meur a jons da, ni a allsa resek ena kyns o diskudhys strol y’n koch-fardell.

“Are you queer?” he shouted again before muttering: “Hate Jews and queers.” This was not a conversation I wanted. “The world has come to an end,” I said simply. “Where’s my bloody embuggerance? Where’s that useless secretary of mine?” he shouted. “Try looking in the toilets,” I whispered. I left, taking David, very much against his will. Now, you may ask what kind of loser would voluntarily lead a zombie into a cemetery with him? Hasn’t everyone seen ‘Night of the Living Dead’? Wasn’t that the protagonist’s first big mistake? (I.e. going to a cemetery full of zombies). Well, that may be. However, I knew that cemeteries are full of dead people, people who, being under the ground in recent times, could not possibly have been bitten by the recent crop of student zombies – and who, equally, were unlikely to have participated in any recent medical experimentation (if that had been the root cause of the plague). Furthermore, I’d seen no evidence at all that buried folk had been rising from the dead of late (spectacular though that might have been). On the contrary, every zombie that I had seen was young and male. So, by this logic, and, given that there were no living folk in cemeteries to attract the attention of any passing zombies, I figured that the cemetery was the safest place around in which to find refuge. Besides, David seemed amenable to the suggestion – in preference to the basement of Union House. Thus, it was ‘all good’. I thought one of the big family crypts would be good – very solid, very weather- proof. So, after entering via the Eastern gate, I headed with David in that direction. Sure enough, there were no signs of mayhem and destruction. No pools of coagulated blood, no dismembered, rotting corpses, nothing like that at all.
“Osta kethreydhel?” a armas arta kyns ev dhe stlevi: “ ‘gas an Yedhewon ha’n wer wow.” Nyns o hemma keskows a vynnen vy. “Gorfennys yw an bys,” yn-medhav yn sempel. “Ple’ma’m ynbuggrans euthyk? Ple’ma’n skrifennyades euver na?” ev a armas. “Assay hwithra an privedhyow,” a hwystris vy. My a asas. My a gemmeras Davydh, meur a’y anvodh. Wel, y hallsewgh govynn py par kollor a ledsa yn folonjedhek zombi yn ynkleudhva ganso ev. (A ny welas ev ‘Nos an Vyworyon Marow’? A nyns o henna kynsa kammgemmyans an chyf karakter? Henn yw leverel, mos dhe ynkleudhva leun a zombis). Martesen. Byttegyns, my a wodhya an ynkleuvaow dhe vos leun a dus marow, tus re via yn-dann an dor a-gynsow – hag, ytho, tus na allsa yn possybyl bos brethys gans trevas a-dhiwedhes an zombis-studhyer ha, dres henna, na yllens a- dhiwedhes kemmeres rann yn arbrovow medhegel (mar pia henna an achesonwreydh an pla). Kekeffrys, ny welsen vy dustuni vyth a bobel ynkleudhys esa ow trehevel dhiworth aga bedhow (kyn fia henna gwari-mir gwir). Dhe’n kontrari, oll an zombis a welis vy o yowynk ha gorow. Ytho, gans an reson ma, ha, drefenn na vos tus vyth yn fyw yn ynkleudhvaow rag tenna an zombis esa ow tremena, my a erviras an ynkleudhva dhe vos an sawwa le may hyllys kavoes harber. Dres henna, akordyes (lowr) o Davydh, dell heveli – yn prefferyans dhe selder Chi an Kesunyans. Ytho, ‘da-oll’ o. My a grysi bos da onan yntra’n kleudhegellow teyluyek – pur grev hy dhrehevyans, hi a allsa omsettya erbynn an gewer. Ytho, wosa my dhe entra der an yet a’n est, my a gerdhas gans Davydh y’n tu na. Yn hwir, nyns esa sinys vyth ow tiskwedhes po distruyans po deray. Pollow vyth a woes kowlys, korfow diskevelesys ha breyn vyth – travyth kepar ha henna. 67

David leaves – and comes back Jude came back to try and talk me around – about an hour later. David’s breathing had become extremely laboured. He was still fighting but, but like all the other guys bitten before him, was definitely losing the battle – just as we had all expected. Jude put her hand on my shoulder and said as gently as possible, in the circumstances: “It’s time, Pete. You can do no more. Leave him with us and we’ll attend to him.” Jude was OK, someone my Dad would have called ‘a good sort’ but, despite this, I turned to her and blind fury suddenly welled up in me: “I said he’s not going anywhere! Don’t you understand? My brother is not going to join the zombies outside.” She withdrew her hand slowly and flicked an almost imperceptible glance sideways. I felt my head explode briefly and then everything went black. This, apparently, was ‘Plan B’, the plan to use if I didn’t change my mind about casting David outside of the library and into the hands of the zombies. I awoke with a sickening pain in my head. Jude was beside me once again but I had been trussed up. I was lying on a cold, hard floor and couldn’t move. I looked at her. I’m not sure if she completely felt my hatred for her at what had happened. It’s just that she was the one who was there – she was thus the object of that hatred. She bowed her head and muttered: “It’s done, Pete. David died and we’ve put him outside. You can’t do anything more for him.” Bullshit! David and I were not just brothers. We were identical twins. His joy had always been my joy. His pain had always been my pain. And so it must always be.
Y has Davydh – ha dehweles. Jude a dhasdheuth rag ow ferswadya – wosa a-dro dh’unn our. Y fia ha bos anellans Davydh kales dres eghenn. Ev a wre hwath batel erbynn an kleves mes, kepar ha’n bolatys vrethys kyns, yth esa orth hy helli, yn sur, dell waytsen ni oll. Jude a worras hy leuv war ow skoedh ha leverel hwekka galla: “Termyn ywa, ‘Beder. Ny yllydh gul travyth moy. Gas e dhyn ni. Ni a yll attendya orto ev.” Hegar o Jude. Ow thas a allsa hy helwel “sort dha” mes, yn despit dhe henna, my a omdreylyas rag mires orti hag, a-dhistowgh, y tardhas dhiworthiv konnar dhall: “My re leveris seulabrys nag usi ev ow mos le vyth! A ny gonvedhyth? Ny omjun ow broder gans an zombis yn-mes.” Hi a dhasgemmeras hy leuv yn lent ha flykkya, anwelys yn ogas, gowolok a- denewen. Ena, yth heveli ow fenn dhe dardha – ha’n bys o du. Yn apert, ‘Towl B’ o hemma, an dowl bos devnydhyes mar ny dhaspredersen a- dro dhe dewlel Davydh yn-mes, yntra diwla an zombis. My a dhifunas gans dolor ow kwana dhe’m penn. Unnweyth arta, yth esa Jude a’y esedh rybov mes y fien kelmys gans kordenn. Yth esen a’m gorwedh war leur yeyn ha kales. Ny yllyn gwaya. My a viras orti. Nyns ov sur mars omglywo hi yn tien ow has rygdhi drefenn pyth re hwarsa. Yth o hyhi esa ena – ytho, yth o hyhi o amkan an kas na. Hi a dheklinyas hy fenn ha hanasa: “Gwrys yw, ‘Beder. Y ferwis Davydh ha ni re’n gorras yn-mes. Ny yllydh gul travyth moy ragdho ev.” Ass o bern kawgh! Nyns en breder hepken, Davydh ha my. Gevellyon gehevelep en ni. Y joy ev re via pup-prys ow joy vy. Y dholor ev re via pup- prys ow dolor vy. Hag yndellna a via res dhyn ni pup-prys. 19

I opened the heavy steel door just a crack at first. The distant streetlights provided some illumination – and I could see no movement or sign of life. So, I opened the door a little wider – and, no, the hinges had not been oiled for some time and they creaked loudly. Spooky – and annoying. There was a large Morton Bay fig-tree nearby and, at the sound of the creaking hinges, a flock of several large fruit bats took to flight, silhouetted against the night sky. (At that time, fruit bats were still very rare in Melbourne.) They had been feasting on the figs, of course, and I had interrupted their meal. Bugger! I had hoped to be a little less obtrusive in my first sally forth from the crypt. So, I waited, ready to retreat inside quickly if I had attracted any unwanted attention. Five minutes or so had passed. No-one came. No footsteps. No voices. Okay, I slipped through the door and carefully pushed it shut again. It made no noise when I closed it. Why was that? Don’t know – I was just grateful for small mercies. I stood for a time to allow my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Even so, it was still bloody dark. I cast my eye towards the gate-keeper’s house. If the soldiers had remained stationed at the cemetery gate – opposite the Northern gate of the university – that was the logical place for them to set up base. I expected that they would sleep there, too. The gate-keeper’s house was built solely as a residence some time in the 19th century. Though it was not exactly grand, it must have blended in well with the nearby sandstone buildings of the university. Of course, that harmony had long since been disrupted by the presence of more modern buildings nearby. Still, I had always thought it looked like a particularly elegant and comfortable place in which a gentleman could reside. (Nice garden, too – within a privet hedge.) There was a soft glow at one of its windows but no sound coming from the building. The gatekeeper’s house was, in current times, set up both as a residence and administrative centre. So, I would have expected the squad – or, rather, its replacement – would have found all mod-cons available in the building – as well as space to set up communications, store munitions and so on.
My a igoras an daras poes, gwrys a dhur – aswa pur vyghan hepken y’n kynsa le. Yth esa nebes golewder dhiworth an golowys-stret – ha nyns esa sin a vywnans na gwayans. Ytho, my a wrug ledanna an aswa – ha, na, ny via oyl vyth war an medynyow a-dhia termyn hir. I a wrug gwighyow ughel. Tarosvannus – hag annius. Yth esa figbrenn bras (“Pleg-mor Morton”) a-ogas ha, orth gwigh an medynyow, nebes eskelli-kroghen-frut bras eth dhe’n fo, aga hylghlinennow erbynn an ebron-nos. (Y’n dydhyow na, yth o an eskelli-kroghen ma poran tanow yn Melbourne.) Y fiens i ow kevywi war an figys, heb mar, hag y hwrussen vy aga ankresya. Buggra! Y fia govenek dhymm bos nebes kosella dres ow hynsa hwithrans yn- mes an gleudhgell. Ytho, my a wrug gortos, parys rag kildenna a-bervedh mar tennsen neb attendyans na vynnen. Y tremenas pymp mynysenn po ogas. Ny dheuth denvyth. Kammow vyth. Levow vyth. Da lowr, my a slynkyas der aswa y’n porth ha, meur ow rach, y herdhya degeys arta. Nyns esa tros vyth pan y’n degeis. Prag? Ny wonn. Synsys en vy yn sempel drefenn mersiow byghan. Yth esov a’m sav berrdermyn rag gasa ow dewlagas dos ha bos usyes dhe’n tewlder. Yn despit dhe hemma, yth heveli bos hwath tewl yn euthyk. My a viras wor’tu ha’n chi an porther. Mar trigsa an soudoryon ogas dhe borth an ynkleudhva, a-dal porth gledh an bennskol, henn o keffrys an le may hallsens herwydh reson gorra aga selyans. My a waytya aga hoska ena ynwedh. Ny via drehevys chi an porther saw avel trigva y’n 19ves kansblydhen. Kyn nag o pur vras, nebes haval o ev dhe’n drehevyansow teg a via gwrys a-ogas y’n bennskol gans krag (kepar ha’n chi an porther). Heb mar, y fia distruys an akord pensernethel ma nans o termyn hir dre dhreheveyansow arnowydh a-ogas. Yn neb kas, my re gryssa pup-prys chi an porther dhe vos trigva a-dhevis hag attes may allsa triga den jentyl. (Lowarth hweg ynwedh – a-berth yn skeuswydh.) Yth esa golow isel der onan a’n fenestri mes nyns esa son vyth ow tos dhiworth an drehevyans. Yth esa, y’n dydhyow na, chi an porther owth oberi avel trigva ha kresenn venystrek keffrys. Ytho, my re waytsa an para – po, moy gwirhaval, y gemmerer le – dhe gavoes oll an taklow a res dhe vos kavadow y’n drehevyans ma – ha, dres henna, y fia spas lowr rag gwitha dafar bresel ha’n traow a’n par na.

There seemed to have been more than one person there – too much improvised bedding for just one. Was this where poor Meryl had been hiding out as well? Were the zombies now feasting on her last companion? Thinking thus was all a bit miserable – though I could empathetically feel something of the exultant mental backwash from my twin brother, (a vicarious, visceral ‘joy’ that I did not welcome). I needed to keep occupied. One part of the Rowden White was devoted to music. There was then a listening room in the library – comfy chairs to recline in while a selection of music was piped to you through bulky headphones. There was an adjacent room with a number of turntables playing various vinyl records chosen by the students who came in. It was a popular place to spend a ‘lost’ afternoon. Popular listening choices included “Tales of Topographical Oceans” (by Yes) and Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s triple live album – now deeply unfashionable. At that time, they were thought to be music which was perfectly suited to get stoned by. (And who was I to argue?) Indeed, as you entered the listening room, you would be confronted by a haze of dope smoke so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of you. (Okay, that’s a minor exaggeration – but you understand my meaning.) Marijuana was, of course, still highly illegal in those days – no soft legal options were yet available for those caught offending. However, the local cops in Carlton had long since reached a tacit understanding with the University authorities over the matter. I’m not sure of the details but I think that, whenever some busybody complained about the students smoking dope in the Rowden White, the librarian would be advised that the constabulary were likely to pay a social call later that day – and all dope smoking abruptly ceased. A very sensible arrangement, if you ask me. However, David and I only ever went there for the music! (And we only ever bought ‘Playboy’ to read the articles, too.)
Yth heveli bos ena moy es unn dhen – yth esa re lienyow-gweli rydhwariys ma na via onan hepken. O hemma an le may fia Meryl anfeusik owth omgudha keffrys? Esa an zombis lemmyn ow kevywya war hy diwettha koweth? Prederi yndellna o galarek oll dhymm – kyn hyllyn vy omglywes yn keskodhevek nebes rann a aswolghas gormoledhek an brys ow broder-gevell, (‘joy’ kevrennys y’m kolonnyow na wrugavy dynnerghi). Yth esa edhomm ter dhymm bos bysi. Yth esa unn rann an Rowden White devnydhyes rag musyk hepken. Y’n termynyow na, yth esa sal-goslowes y’n lyverva na – kadoryow attes may hylles omdhiskwitha ha dewis musyk pibys dhywgh hwi dre skovarnigow mynsek. Y’n nessa sal, yth esa nebes trovordys ow kwari plasennow re via dewisys gans an studhyoryon re dhothya ena. Le meurgerys o rag passya dohajydh ‘kellys’. Yth esa yntra’n dewisyow meurgerys a vusyk “Hwedhlow a Geynvoryow Topografyethek” (gans Yes) ha’n plasenn tryflek a Emerson, Lake ha Palmer (rekordyes yn performyans byw) – nyns yw an dhew herwydh an gis vyth lemmyn. Y’n termynyow na, y krysyes aga bos musyk a dhelledhi yn perfeyth pan vynnys dos ha bos ughel gans droggys. (Ny yllyn argya gans henna, ay?) Yn hwir, ha ty entrys an sal-goslowes, ty a dheuth erbynn niwl a mog-gewargh mar dew ma na ylli den gweles y dhorn a-dherag dh’y fas. (Da lowr, hemma res eth re bell, martesen. Byttegyns, ty a yll konvedhes pyth esov ow leverel.) Kewargh o hwath, heb mar, anlaghel dres eghenn y’n dydhyow na – ha nyns esa na hwath dewisyow medhel yntra’n penaltiow laghel o kavadow ena rag an dus re via kachyes hag i offendyes. Byttegyns, an kreslu yn Karlton re gonkludysa nans o termyn hir akord, heb y leverel, gans an Bennskol a-dro dhe’n mater ma. Nyns ov sertan a-dro dhe’n manylyon mes byth pan grodhvolas neb mellyer a- dro dhe’n studhyoryon ow megi kewargh y’n Rowden White, an lyveryas a via kedhlys bos gwirhaval gwithysi-kres dhe vysytya ena an jydh na – hag oll an megyans a hedhis a-dhistowgh. Akord pur fur, dhe’m breus vy. Byttegyns, nyns ethen di, Davydh ha my, saw goslowes orth an musyk! (Ha, dres henna, ny brensyn nevra ‘Playboy’ saw redya an erthyglow keffrys.)

Darkness came and the cat’s eyes continued to glow in the dark. It was relatively quiet, the zombies largely torpid. Then came midnight. (The witching hour?) A number of new arrivals (all zombies, of course) came into the basement, young guys I’d never seen before. They were agitated, seemed to have been running. Then came some others – and, among them, older males, definitely non- students. They, too, were agitated. Where had they come from? I roused David – a bit more gently than had been my custom (no kicks this time round). I took his hand and pulled on it, suggesting we needed to go upstairs to see what was going on. This was one of my better moves, as it turned out. David sensed the agitation of the new arrivals – or so it seemed – and came willingly with me. Upstairs there were more new arrivals, many more – with still more pouring through the doors of Union House. The large foyer area was rapidly filling and soon it would be hard to get through the press in order to get outside. So, I made this a priority and my brother and I forced our way through, exiting via the Northern door. The sight that greeted us was astonishing – even for those times. There was a sea of zombies, thousands of them, filling North Court and extending beyond the Beaurepaire Centre (the pool and gymnasium). If fear and panic could be discerned in dead eyes, I could discern it there. David himself became panicky but I stuck with him and decided to lead him, by the hand, further away from the Union building – to see what was driving this crowd of zombies in our direction. Looking across the throng for the first time in the dim light, I could see they were of all ages and sizes (but, of course, there were no females at all). There were even a few children. I guessed they were mainly second and third-generation zombies, those that had been infected by the first wave which, as you may recall, was composed entirely of young men. Spawned away from the centre of the outbreak, something was driving them back to it.
Y teuth an tewlder ha dewlagas an gathes a besya splanna ynno. Kosel lowr o an stevell hag y teuth ha bos an zombis heb gwayans. Ena, y teuth hanternos. (An our rag gwraghes?) Y teuth y’n selder nebes nowydh-devedhysi, zombis-oll heb mar, yonkers na vien nevra gwelys kyns. Amovyes ens i. Y fiens ow resek, dell heveli. Ena, y teuth nebes re erell – hag, yntredha, kottha gwer nag esa kyns- studhyoryon. Amovyes ens i keffrys. Dhiworth by le re dhothyens? My a sordyas Davydh – nebes moy yn tov es dell via ow gis y’n tor’ na (potyow vyth an prys ma). My a gemmeras y dhorn ha’y denna, rag profya dhodho bos edhomm mos war-vann rag gweles pyth esa ow hwarvos. Dre happ, an huni ma o onan a’m gwella troyow. Davydh a glywas amovyans an nowydh-devedhysi – po dell heveli – ha dos genev yn folonjedhek. Yth esa varr-van moy anedha, moy dres eghenn – ha hwath moy ow tos dre dharasow drehevyans an Kesunyans. Yth esa an sal-dhynnargh veur ow lenwel uskis hag, yn skon, y fia kales dhe dremena gwask an zombis rag mos yn-mes. Ytho, hemm o an poesekka tra ragov ha Davydh dhe wul. Ni a wrug agan fordh gans nerth dre an bush, ow kasa der an daras a’n gledhbarth An vu a’gan dynnerghis o marthys. Yth esa mor zombis, milyow anedha, ow lenwel Garth North hag owth omystynna dres Kresenn Beaurepaire (mayth esa poll neuvya ha’n omassayva). Mar kallen gweles own hag amovyans yn dewlagas marow, yth esen orth aga gweles ynna y’n tor’ na. Y teuth ha bos Davydh y honan amovyes mes y trigis ganso hag ervira y ledya, gans y dhorn, dhe le pella dhiworth drehevyans an Kesunyans – rag kavoes pyth esa ow chasya bush an zombis troha nyni. Ha my ow mires dres an bush an kynsa gweyth y’n hanter-tewlder, y hyllyn gweles bos zombis a vloedh oll, a vrastyow oll. (Byttegyns, nyns esa zombis benow vytholl.) Yth esa nebes fleghes hogen. My a dhesevis aga bos dres oll kemmerys dhiworth an nessa po an tressa henedh a zombis, an re na re via klevesys gans an kynsa tonn – re via gorrys warbarth yn tien gans an yonkers, dell yllowgh perthi kov. Genys pellder alemma, kres an tardh, yth esa neppyth orth aga chasya troha aga ‘mammvro’.

Why was that? Just as many girls had been bitten – maybe more. Some had gone down with a fever but never real bad. No, not real bad. In a day or two, there was no more fever, no more symptoms at all. But the guys? Well, every one that had been bitten was now gone – except David. And finally, he, too, stood on the threshold of his next existence (if ‘existence’ was an apt word for what the others had become.) He moaned a little. I poured a little water on his lips. Mopped his brow. He relaxed and settled again. “Not long to go now, Mate,” I said, knowing he could not hear me. “But I’m still here. I won’t leave you.” I knew I would not leave him. Not ever. It was inconceivable. How had it come to this: a bunch of starving, scared kids holed up in a university library, surrounded by a mob of creatures that loitered noisily outside, wishing for nothing but to devour them? There had been no warning, no warning at all. This is how it was for us: David and I were sitting in a French lecture, ground floor, Redmond Barry Building, taking in lots about “Les philosophes”, when bang! In burst eight, ten, maybe a dozen of them, roaring and tearing, roaring and tearing. We thought it was a joke at first, some sort of student prank for ‘Prosh Week’. Only it wasn’t Prosh Week. And then one of the things seized the lecturer and tore her throat clean out, and when her arterial blood squirted some feet in the air, David and I knew it was no prank. The screaming started. Shrill, panicked screaming. The students were mainly female – David and I were very definitely in the minority. (We had liked it that way.) The creatures then hurled themselves at those in the auditorium – at those in the front rows, the most studious – and started tearing at them. More blood, much more blood, shredded clothing and flesh.
Praga? Y fia an mowesow brethys keniver ha polatys – moy martesen. Nebes anedha re wodhevsa terthenn mes nevra terthenn sevur. Na, terthenn sevur vyth. Wosa unn jydh po dew, nyns esa na fella terthenn ynna, an mowesow. Nyns esa sinys vyth. Mes an polatys? Wel, pubonan re via brethys o lemmyn gyllys – a-der Davydh. Ha, wor’tiwedh, y sevi ev war dreudhow an nessa bosva (mars o ‘bosva’ an ger gwiw rag studh a’n re erell na). Ev a gynas nebes. My a dhinewis tamm dowr war y dhiweus - ha sygha y dal. Ev a omdhiskwithas unnweyth arta. “Ny drig hirneth ragos lemmyn, ‘Vata,” yn-medhav vy, ow kodhvos na ylli ow klywes. “Mes yth esov vy hwath omma. Ny vynnav dha asa.” My a wodhya na yllyn y asa. Na nevra. Andhismygadow o hemma. Fatell hwarsa hemma? Bagas yonkers ownek, owth omgudha y’n lyverva pennskol, kyrghynnys gans rout kroaduryon a growdra yn trosek yn-mes, ow hwilas travyth saw aga devorya. Ny via gwarnyans vyth. Gwarnyans vyth. Hemm yw dell hwarva genen: Yth esa Davydh ha my a’gan esedh yn areth frynkek, leur a-woeles, Drehevyans Redmond Barry, ow klywes yn kever “An Philosophes”. Ena, frapp! Yth esa eth anedha, deg, dewdhek martesen, ow tardha y’n arethva, ow pedhygla hag ow skwardya, ow pedhygla hag ow skwardya ... Y’n kynsa le, ni a grysis y vos neb eghenn a ges-studyer a-barth an ‘Seythun Prosh’. Mes nyns o. Hag, ena, onan a’n draow na a settyas dalghenn war an arethores – ha skwardya yn-mes hy bryansenn. Hy goes arteriek a stifas nebes pellder y’n ayr – hag ytho Davydh ha my a wodhya nag esa hemma ges vyth. Y tallathas an skrijians. Skrijians gluw ha kruthys. Rann vrassa an studhyoryon o myrghes. Yth esa yn hwir Davydh ha my y’n rann vyghanna. (Ni re’n garsa yndella.) Ena, an groaduryon a omdhegesas orth an re esa y’n arethva – orth an re y’n esedhow a-rag, an moyha studhyus – ha dalleth skwardya orta. Yth esa moy goes, moy goes dres eghenn, dillas ha kig denel skethennek.

DOCTOR INGRID “Are you in need of pain relief?” The voice was that of Ingrid, through the peephole of our cell door. I was ready for her – I had given this meeting some thought. “Tell me, doctor,” I replied. “What’s it like working with Doctor Josef Mengele? What’s it like working in Auschwitz instead of Puckapunyal?” She gasped involuntarily – evidently, she knew of the evil reputation of the bestial Nazi doctor and how that reputation had been earned. I had struck a real nerve. I had intended to. So, I pushed hard on that nerve. “Tell me, doctor. If you can’t answer that question, what about this one: when did you decide to renounce your Hippocratic Oath? When did you decide it was okay to ‘do harm’?” The peephole was abruptly snapped shut. I heard the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps. Advantage: me. The peephole stayed shut for some hours until Ingrid (who had apparently now composed herself) returned once again. “Are you in need of pain relief?” she repeated without emotion. Of course, I was. My skin was still on fire from all the scorch marks inflicted upon my body – and my genitals were very bruised and achy. (There had been no need to put the cattle-prod in my groin to get the desired reaction from David – this had been pure malice, pure payback. Then again, as he’d been so thorough in applying the prod to David’s testes, he probably just thought he needed to be completely even-handed about the matter. Hmmmph!) I decided I could put my mind games to one side until I had gotten the relief I’d been craving for some hours. Even so, I tried to make light of my suffering: “Yes, as it happens, an Aspro or two would be most welcome,” I said, as sweetly as I could.
DOKTOUR INGRID “Eus dhis edhomm a dhifresyans-bayn?” An lev ma o dhe Ingrid, kewsys dre doll-wolok y’gan daras. Prest en vy rygdhi – y fia meur a gowses dhymm a-dro dhe’n metyans ma. “Deriv orthymm, ‘Dhoktour,” a worthybis vy. “Fatell yw bos owth oberi gans Doktour Yosef Mengele? Fatell yw bos owth oberi yn Auschwitz yn le Pukkapunyal?” Meur a’y anvodh, hi a dhyenas – yn apert, hi a aswonni bri debel gwaynyes gans an medhyk Natsi, meur y viluster, hag an fordh mayth o gwaynyes an vri na. My a frappsa nervenn wir. Hemma re via ow mynnas vy. Ytho, my a herdhyas kales war an nervenn na. “Deriv orthymm, ‘Dhoktour. Mar na yllydh gorthybi an kwestyon na, ottomma huni arall: p’eur ervirsysta hepkorr dha Li Hippokratek? P’eur ervirsysta bos da lowr ‘gul drokter’?” A-dhesempis, y feu an toll-wolok degeys gans krakk. My a glywas son kammow esa ow kildenna uskis. Omsav: dhymmo vy. Y triga an toll-wolok degeys dres nebes ourys bys pan Ingrid (re omgoselhasa lemmyn, dell heveli) a dhehwelis unnweyth arta. “Eus dhis edhomm a dhifresyans-bayn?” a dhasleveris heb emoesyon. Heb mar, yth esa edhomm anodho. Gans tan hwath o’m kroghen drefenn oll an verkyow goleskys dhe vos kompoesys war ow horf – ha war ow lysyow o hwath pur vrywys ha leun a bayn. (Ny via edhomm vyth a worra an pok-jatel war ow lysyow rag kavoes an gorthyp desiryes dhiworth Davydh. Hemma re via atti pur, drog-gras pur. Yn fordh arall, drefenn y vos mar gowal gans an pok-jatel war dhiwgell Davydh, ev a grysi martesen bos edhomm dhodho a vos heb faverans vyth a-dro dhe’n mater ma. Hmmmpf!) My a erviras my dhe alloes gorra a-denewen ow gwariow-brys bys pan dhegemmersen an difresyans a vynnsen dres nebes ourys. Yn despit dhe hemma, my a assayas trufelhe ow kodhevyans: “Eus, dell hwer. Aspro po dew a via dynnerghys,” yn-medhav, pur hweg ow thon.

Having attended to our ablutions, I felt the need to rest again and to block out the intermittent roar of the ongoing slaughter outside. I was just too stuffed from what had been happening over the last week and more – and, anyway, we had nowhere else to go just at the minute. More than that, if I were to continue on, I couldn’t afford to think about the horror of recent and ongoing events – it was simply too overwhelming and sleep was the place to retreat from all that. David lapsed into a torpor with which I was now becoming familiar. Was it sleep? Was it another form of death? I awoke again in the afternoon, I think. The shooting was now very sporadic and the cries of the zombies were no longer audible. Still, we’d need to be here for at least a few days before it was safe to venture out – or so I guessed – and I would need to keep myself occupied. What to do next? Then I hit upon it: there was a pack of playing cards that Charles and Paul had left behind in their rush to exit. Today, I would try to teach David how to play poker. It was a game he’d once been good at – and had enjoyed. So, why not? Why not indeed? But first, I would catch up on world events. Yes, miraculously, I had managed to hold onto the transistor radio whilst effecting our escape from the battle. True, it was now a little battered – and smelled a lot of gasoline soot – but it still worked. (I hoped that the batteries had been relatively new because I had no replacements at hand.) “This is the BBC World Service,” the announcer intoned. (I was warming to that voice.) News that I wasn’t interested in came first but the ‘Battle of Melbourne Port” was the third item of the broadcast. The item confirmed a couple of things. The first was that the herding of the zombies into the uni campus – and their subsequent destruction there – had been entirely planned and was claimed to have been largely successful in its aim. (There was no mention of the soldiers who had been taken by the zombies during the battle.)
Agan tronkys gwrys, my a omglywo bos edhomm dhymm a bowes arta – rag lettya dhiworthiv usans treweythus dhiworth an ladhva esa ow pesya yn-mes. Spenys en vy drefenn an hwarvosow re hwarsa dres moy es seythun – hag, yn neb kas, nyns esa le vyth arall may hyllyn mos y’n tor’ na. Ha, gans henna, mar mynnen mos yn-rag, ny dalvien prederi a-dro dhe’n euth a hwarvosow a-gynsow – oversettyes gansa en vy ha kosk o an le may yllyn kildenna dhiworta. Davydh a goedhas yn anwrythresekter, lemmyn aswonnys yn ta dhymm. O hemma kosk yn hwir? O hemma eghenn a vernans arall? Dohajydh, dell grysav, my a dhifunas arta. An tennans o lemmyn pur dreweythus ha ny yllys na fella klywes skrijansow an zombis. Byttele, res o dhyn triga omma nebes dydhyow kyns bos salow mos yn-mes – po dell grysyn – hag ytho yth esa edhomm a dhidhana ow honan. Pyth yw an nessa tra dhe wul? Ena, y teuth dhymm: yth esa kartennow-wari re via gesys gans Powl ha Charlys hag i resys dhe-ves dhiworth an gleudhgell. Hedhyw, my a vynna dyski Davydh dell wariir poeker. Kyns, y fia Davydh pur skentel ynno – ha da re via ganso ena. Ytho, prag na? Prag na yn hwir? Byttegyns, y’n kynsa le, yth esa edhomm dhymm kavoes nowodhow a hwarvosow an bys. Ya, dre verkyl, my re sewensa dhe dhalghenna an radyo- transystor ha ni dienkys an vatel. Gwir yw, nebes fustys o lemmyn – hag yth esa dhodho fler hudhygel-betrol – mes yth esa hwath owth oberi. (Govenek o dhymm bos poran nowydh an pilyow drefenn nag esa dhymm nammpyth yn le anedha.) “Hemm yw Servis SDP an Bys” a leveris an derivador. (My a omglywo lemmyn neb konfort drefenn son y lev.) Yth esa nowodhow nag o poesek dhymm a dheuth y’n kynsa le. Byttegyns, yth o “Batel Porth Melbourne” an tressa tra kampoellys y’n darlesans. An kynsa poynt gwrys gensi a gonfirmyas diw dra. An kynsa tra o bugelyans an zombis. I re via bugelyes yn kampus an bennskol – ha distruys ena – dre dowl kler. An towl ma re sewensa, dre vras, herwydh fentynyow an nowodhow. (Byttegyns, ny veu kampoellys an soudoryon re via kemmerys gans an zombis dres an vatel.)