all of you guys oor Kornies

all of you guys

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

hwei oll

all of you

hwi oll

all of you

Soortgelyke frases

all of you guys hate
kas yw genowgh hwi oll · kas yw genowgh oll

all of you guys are
yth esowgh hwi oll · yth owgh hwi oll

voorbeelde

all of you guys are
yth owgh hwi oll

all of you guys hate (US English: you all hate)
kas yw genowgh oll

all of you guys are
/ yth owgh hwi oll / / /

all of you guys (all of you)
hwi oll

all of you guys hate (US English: you all hate)
kas yw genowgh hwi oll

all of you guys hate
US English: you all hate / kas yw genowgh hwi oll / / /

all of you guys are
/ yth esowgh hwi oll / / /

all of you guys
/ hwi oll / / /

all of you guys
all of you / hwi oll / / /

all of you guys (all of you)
hwei oll

all of you guys
all of you / hwei oll / / /

all of you guys are
yth esowgh hwi oll

all of you guys
/ hwei oll / / /

all of you guys hate
US English: you all hate / kas yw genowgh oll / / /

all you guys (all of you)
hwei oll

all you guys (all of you)
hwi oll

The Aussie ‘veterans’ chewed it over for a few seconds more. Some of them appeared genuinely troubled by what they were now being told – concerned at what they had been doing most recently in the ‘War’. “Nah, Mate,” said the first Australian. “I still think it’s all bull. I seen thousands of zombies over the last week or so and I haven’t seen any that looked, even remotely, like they might get better ...” “Did you look?” interrupted Swooper. “I mean, before you pulled the trigger or threw the grenade?” There was a pause – evidently, he had not. Suddenly, another Aussie – who might have had a bit more to drink than the others broke in: “Nah, nah, nah, Mate! It’s all b.s. Definitely b.s. This guy’s a spy, the one who told you all this. There’s spies in every war. We all know that. That’s why the Doctor Captain had to shut him up.” This new guy was of a rather piggish cast. His face, though still young, ran to jowls – and was definitely rosy-cheeked from all the alcohol he had consumed. As the police would say: “His eyes were glazed, he was unsteady on his feet and his breath smelt of intoxicating liquor.” He was, in short, pissed. Gately was having trouble restraining his growing anger. He turned to the interrupting Aussie: “A spy? Really? Do zombies have a spy network like the CIA or the KGB? How amazing. Perhaps, he’s a double agent – and turns into a zombie himself at night, like a werewolf. What do you think?” The drunken Aussie didn’t appreciate Gately’s sarcasm. He took it very personally. “You! You!” said the intoxicated and inarticulate Aussie. “What would you fucken’ know? You’re just a black cunt, just a fucken’, Yankee abo!” Racial abuse will never win you friends.
An hensoudoryon a ombrederis arta dres pols. Yth heveli nebes anedha dhe vos yn hwir troblys gans an derivadow ma – troblys gans aga gweythresow a- gynsow dres an ‘Vresel’. “Na, ‘Vata,” yn-medh an kynsa Ostralian. “My a grys hwath bos kawgh, oll anodho. My re welas milyow a zombis dres an diwettha seythunyow ha ny welis kemmys y’ga mysk a heveli bos owth omyaghhe – yn hwir, mann yntredha ...” “A wrussysta mires orta, gans rach?” a wodorras Stevyer. “Henn yw leverel, kyns ty dhe denna an denell, po kyns ty dhe dewlel an granada?” Yth esa powes – yn apert, ny wrussa yndella. A-dhistowgh, Ostralian arall a wodorras ynwedh– hag, dell heveli, yth esa moy a dhiwes ynno: “Na, na, na, ‘Vata! Kawgh-oll yw. Yn sertan, kawgh-oll. An polat ma yw aspier, an huni re leveris oll anodho. Yn pub bresel, yma pup-prys aspioryon. Oll an bys a woer henna. Henn yw an acheson o res dhe’n Kapten-Medhek y wul tawesek.” Yth esa dhe’n polat nowydh ma semlans hogh. Yth esa dh’y fas, kynth o hwath yowynk, dewjal hag ynwedh diwvogh gwynnrudh – drefenn oll an diwosow re evsa. Kepar dell lavar gwithyas-kres herwydh usadow: “Y dhewlagas o omwedrys, ev o deantell war y dewdroes ha dh’y anall yth esa fler a las medhowans.” War verr lavarow, medhow dall o. Yth esa kaletter dhe Borther lettya y sorr ow tevi. Ev a dreylyas dhe’n Ostralian ow koderri: “Aspier? Yn hwir? Eus dhe’n zombis roesweyth aspioryon kepar ha’n CIA po an KGB? Ass yw henna marthys. Martesen, mayner dewblek yw – ha, nosweyth, ev a dheu ha bos zombi. Martesen, ev yw kepar gourvleydh. Gourzombi! Pyth a brederydh?” Nyns o da kows asper Porther gans an Ostralian medhow. Arvedhys dres eghenn o. “Ty! Ty!” yn-medh an Ostralian medhow, nebes kelmys y daves. “Pyth a wodhvies? Nyns osta saw kons dhu euthyk, saw Yanki-Genesik euthyk!” Ny yllir nevra gwaynya felshyp dre dhespityans aghel.

The Aussie looked as if he’s just stepped off a cattle-station: tall (6’4” or so), rangy and raw-boned. Incongruously, he sported a closely cropped moustache (almost Hitlerian, but not quite). The stare in his eyes also suggested he was the sort of bloke who’d rather have a fight than a feed. “Well, that’s where you’d be wrong, brother,” replied Gately. Gately, on the other hand, looked as if he’d not be out of place as an extra on a Hollywood set. He was big, muscular – and very determined. (And, perhaps, he didn’t much like the talk of ‘lynching’.) The Aussie soldier put down his glass of beer – a serious move in any situation – and challenged Gately: “Oh, yeah? And how’s that?” “There’s a guy, a guy they captured with the zombies while you were away. He’s at the camp now – recovering in the infirmary.” “So?” replied the rangy Aussie, lifting his glass to his lips once more. “Don’t you get it?” replied Gately. “He was living with the zombies. He says he was with them for the entire first two weeks after the outbreak in Melbourne.” The Aussie took in the significance of this – and placed his glass down once again. “And they didn’t eat him?” “No, sir!” asserted Private First Class Gately. “And he’s not a zombie himself?” “Nope. We all saw him,” said Gately. “The guy was as alive as you or me. They had him in a cage, on-stage, at one of the Captain’s lectures – you know, that Doctor Captain.” “Bullshit!” replied the Aussie dismissively. “How can a guy live with the zombies for two weeks – and not get eaten or turn into a zombie himself? That’s just plain bullshit. How can that be?” (Bullshit was something, apparently, that the tall Aussie was fully conversant with.)
Yth heveli an Ostralian dhe dos a-dhiwedhes dhiworth ammethva-jatel: hir (ogas dhe 6’4”), eseliek ha nerthek y eskern. Yn koynt, yth esa dhodho minvlew berr (nebes haval dhe huni Hytler). Tremmynn settyes yn y dhewlagas a leveris y vos eghenn a was mayth o gwell ganso dhe vatalyas ages dhe dhybri. “Wel, henn yw le mayth ythys kamm, ‘Broder,” a worthybis Porther. Yn fordh arall, ny via Porther yn mes y le a-berth yn settyans Hollywood. Bras o, meur y geher, hag unnverrhes yn y borpos. (Ha, martesen, ny vynna meur keskows a-dro dhe ‘lynchyans’.) An souder Ostralek a worras y wedrenn korev war an voes – gwayans sevur yn studhyow oll – ha gul challenj dhe Borther: “Yn hwir? Fatla yw henna?” “Yma polat, polat re via kachyes gans an zombis pan esewgh a-ves. Yma ev y’n selva lemmyn, owth omyaghhe y’n vedhegva.” “Hag ytho?” a worthybis an Ostralian eseliek hag ev drehevys y wedrenn dh’y dhiwweus unnweyth arta. “A ny gonvedhydh?” a worthybis Porther. “Yth esa ow triga gans an zombis. Ev a lever y vos gansa dres oll an kynsa diw seythun wosa an tardhans yn Melbourne.” “Ha ny wrussons y dhybri?” “Na wrussons, a Syrr!” a dheklaryas Souder keth, Kynsa Gradh, Porther. “Ha ny eth ha bos zombi y honan?” “Na. Ni re’n gwelas, ahanan ni oll,” yn-medh Porther. “Byw yw an polat – kepar ha ty po my. Y feu gorrys war soler y’n wariva, yn kowell, dres unn arethow an Kapten – henn yw leverel an Kapten-vedhek.” “Ass yw honna kraghell kawgh!” a worthybis an Ostralian, meur y dhiskryjyans. “Fatell yll polat triga gans an zombis dres diw seythun heb y vos dybrys po heb y dhos ha bos zombi y honan? Honn yw yn sempel kraghell kawgh. Fatell yll henna bos gwir?” (Yn apert, kawgh o neppyth aswonnys yn ta dhe’n Ostralian hir.)

Gately had the answer: “His brother, his identical twin brother, is a zombie. We saw him, too. Really nasty lookin’ he was. Very noisy. Roared a lot. Wasn’t very happy bein’ in a steel cage with everyone gawkin’ at ‘im.” “Nor bein’ shocked with a cattle prod neither!” added Private First Class Swooper, belatedly joining in the discussion and sitting beside his friend and comrade, Gately. The Aussie chewed this over: “So, you’re sayin’ that the zombie brother must have protected the living one?” Gately and Swooper shrugged their shoulders in unison: “Seems so.” The Aussie finished his drink and motioned to the tired-looking barmaid to order another – the two yanks did likewise. (So far, so good.) That essential business done, the Aussie continued: “So, one guy survives among the zombies because he has an identical twin brother to protect him. How many of us have an identical twin zombie? I mean, it’s just so unusual that it makes no difference to what we’re doin’ out there. So, I still don’t see what you’re driving at. You say that I’m wrong. But, as I said, as far as I’m concerned, they’re all fuckin’ zombies. They’re just useless fuckin’ zombies – and we should just wipe ‘em all out ... And, if some of the guys decide to let off a bit of steam by decorating the place with their ‘bits’, it simply doesn’t matter. There’s no dignity in bein’ a zombie, is there?” Gately’s temper was rising but he kept it in check. “No, sir. I still say you’re wrong. There’s somethin’ else this guy told us, my friend – somethin’ only he would know.” “And that is?” said the raw-boned Aussie, pulling on his new beer, freshly served by the barmaid. “He said that, if you give them a chance, in a few days, some of the zombie guys – some, not all – get better and return to normal.” “Bullshit! What utter bullshit!” said the Aussie soldier, involuntarily spitting out some of his froth – and now attracting interested support from his comrades. “Complete bull!” echoed some of the others, also pulling on their beers.
Yth esa an gorthyp gans Porther: “Y vroder ev, y evell kehevelep, yw zombi. Ni a’n gwelas keffrys, meur y last ha meur y dros. Ev a vedhyglas heb lett. Nyns o pur dha ganso bos yn kowell a dhur hag oll an bys mirys orto. “Nyns o da ganso naneyl jag tredan an pok-jatel!” yn-medh Souder keth, kynsa gradh, Stevyer, owth omjunya a-dhiwedhes dhe’n keskows hag ev esedhys ryb y gothman ha’y vata, Porther. An Ostralian a ombrederis: “Ytho, yth eses ow leverel bos res dhe’n broder- zombi gwitha an broder a vyw hwath?” Y sevis aga diwskoedh yn kettermyn Porther ha Stevyer: “Yth hevel yndella.” An Ostralian a worfennas y dhiwes ha gul gwayans dhe’n vaghteth, meur hy skwithter, rag dri huni arall – yndellna a wrug keffrys an dew yanki. (Ytho, bys an poynt ma, kemmys re alsa da lowr.) Ha’n negys a res gwrys, an Ostralian a besyas: “Ytho, unn bolat re dreusvywas yn mysk an zombis drefenn bos dhodho gevell kehevelep rag y witha. Dhe bygemmys yntredhon eus gevell-zombi kehevelep? Yn hwir, mar anusadow yw ma na wra dyffrans vyth dh’agan ober y’n voward. Ytho, ny allav konvedhes hwath pyth esos ow leverel. Ty a lever ow bos kamm. Byttegyns, dell leveris, y’m breus vy, yth yns zombis mollothek oll. Nyns yns a- der zombis euver ha mollothek – ha ni a dalvia aga ladha, oll anedha. Hag, yn kas le mayth erviras nebes yn mysk agan soudoryon dhe omdhiskwitha der afinans oll a-dro gans temmyn an zombis, ny vern. Ny vern mann. Nyns eus dynita vyth dhe zombis, a nyns eus?” Yth ynkressya sorr Gately mes ev a ylli y lettya. “Na, syrr. My a lever hwath dha vos kamm. Yth esa neppyth arall leverys dhyn gans an polat ma, dha gothman jy – neppyth anaswonnys dhe bub huni saw ev.” “Ha pyth yw henna?” yn-medh an Ostralian, nerth y eskerens, hag ev dennys orth y gorev nowydh ha fresk, res dhymm a-gynsow gans an vaghteth. “Ev a leveris, wosa nebes dydhyow, mar fydh chons dhedha, nebes yntra’n bolatys-zombis a allsa omyaghhe – mes nebes hepken yntredha. An yonkers na a allsa bos arta y’n studh byw, normal yn tien.” “Kawgh! Kawgh dien!” yn-medh an souder Ostralek, ow trewa a’y anvodh ewyn dhiworth y gorev – hag a dennas skoedhyans yn mysk y vatys. “Kawgh dien!” a dhassonas kemmys yn mysk an re erell, gwedrennow y’ga diwla ynwedh.

“If you can get us there, we can just disappear,” I said. He looked at me in disbelief. “The Aussie guys here know that area, Scrub Hill, like the backs of their hands – they train there all the time. No-one can hide there for long,” said the Sergeant. I smiled: “I can promise you that they won’t find us – not even if they bring in a pack of bloodhounds. I know the area well, too – and there are some extremely good places to hide. Besides, David and I won’t be staying there for too long – we’ve got somewhere better to go now.” The Sergeant shrugged: “Okay, it’s your funeral,” said the Sergeant. “Scrub Hill it is. Just don’t tell me where you’re going after that. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head in continuing disbelief and chuckled at my confidence. We left the main base of Puckapunyal at great speed. We just flew through the main entrance. The barriers were in the raised position and there were no guards in the booths on that particular night. I still wonder if it had been arranged beforehand by the Sergeant or whether the guards had just left their posts to join the internecine fracas at the parade ground. In the end, none of that matters. What matters is that we left the base completely unimpeded. The Sergeant dropped us off precisely where I had asked, in the Scrub Hill Area of the Pucka complex, wished us well and left us with a kitbag full of essential supplies to carry me through the first few days on the run. (David’s own needs would be minimal but I quickly decided that, despite his protests, he could do the ‘heavy lifting’ of the kitbag.) I thanked that Sergeant of the United States Army Corps – he was a decent human being and I hope he had a long and happy life. (Perhaps, he’s still alive?) And, like Ingrid, I never saw him again either.
“Mar yllydh agan lywya ena, y hyllyn mos yn tien mes a wel,” yn-medhav. Ev a viras orthymm, meur y dhiskryjyans. “An soudoryon Ostralek a wra aswonn an tiryow na kepar ha kilyer aga diwla – i a wrug pup-prys aga threnyans ena. Nyns eus nebonan a yll omgudha ena dres termyn hir,” yn-medh an Serjont. My a vinhwarthas: “Y hallav ambosa orthis na yllons agan kavoes – gans bagas a woeskeun hogen. My a wra aswonn keffrys an tiryow na – hag yma nebes leow may hyllir omgudha euthyk yn ta. Ha, dres henna, ny vynnyn triga ena termyn hir – yma le arall, gwella tyller, may hyllyn mos lemmyn.” Y sevis an Serjont y dhiwskoedh. “Da lowr, dha ynkleudhyans yw,” yn-medh an Serjont. “Bre an Krann yw an le. Byttegyns, ny lavar dhymm le mayth ewgh wosa henna. Ny vynnav y wodhvos.” Ev a shakyas y fenn, meur hwath y dhiskryjyans, ha hwerthin y’n vryansenn drefenn ow hardhder. Meur agan toeth, y hesyn selva Pukkapunyal. Namna nijsyn dre an chyf porth. Drehevys o an lettys ha nyns esa withysi vyth, an nos arbennik na, y’n log. My a ombreder hwath mar fia henna ordenys kyns der an Serjont po mar mynnsa an withysi gasa aga leow rag omjunya gans an freudh kesbroderel ogas dhe’n Plen an Gerdhva. Wostiwedh, ny vern, an dra ma. Pyth o an dra boes? Agan fo dhiworth an selva o heb let vyth.. An Serjont a’n kemmeras dhe le ewn may hwovynnis mos, y’n tiryow a-dro dhe Vre an Krann, a-berth y’n liesplek Pukkapunyal. Ev a ros dhyn y wella bolonjedhow ha ri dhyn ynwedh sagh keyn leun a broviansow o res rag ow skoedhya dres an kynsa dydhyow avel foesik. (Y fia lyha dres eghenn, rekwiryansow Davydh. Byttegyns, my a erviras yn uskis, yn despit dh’y brotestyans, ev dhe alloes gul ‘lyftyans poes’ an sagh keyn – hwath gwann en.) Y hwodhvev meur ras dhe’n Serjont na, Serjont y’n Lu Statys Unys – gwas onest o ha govenek yw dhymm bos dhodho bywnans lowen ha hir. (Martesen ev a vyw hwath?) Ha, kepar ha Ingrid, ny wrugavy nevra y weles arta.

Nevertheless, I had to try. As I approached the pair, apparently locked in a deathly embrace, I yelled all sorts of threats and curses at my beloved brother. I can’t remember exactly what they were except that they were dire and foul. No response or acknowledgement was forthcoming from David, in any event. And, just as I expected that David would deliver the coup de grâce to the small man, an amazing thing occurred: David released his grip, stood up and walked away, making the same type of grunt he had made when I had, so recently, offered him an apple – utter disgust. The small man lay on the ground, passed out but physically unhurt. The door to the crypt opened a crack and a quavering voice croaked: “Are you okay, Charles?” “Charles”? Yes, of course, I knew this guy. His real name was Peter but he called himself ‘Charles’, as in Charles the first, beheaded king of England. He imagined himself as royalty – and even grew the royal goatee of the period. All his special friends bore the names of the royal court. Jude – you know, the one who, presumably, was still holed up in the Baillieu Library – was dubbed ‘Henrietta-Maria’ (Charles I’s wife) and, for what it was worth, Charles had dubbed me ‘Oliver Cromwell’. (I only realised much later that, coming from Charles I, this was a dire insult – since Cromwell had been responsible for Charles’ beheading. But, I’d not been at all fussed by this at the time of my ‘christening’). Charles, at that time, was the only openly gay friend that I had. He was very brave. At that time, male homosexual acts were still punishable in Victoria as felonies under the Crimes Act of 1958. (“The abominable crime of buggery”, as it was therein described – very strange, non-legal, language.). So, ‘to come out of the cupboard’ was not without serious risks in those days. The law was still routinely enforced against men such as Charles. So, who was ‘Paul’, still cowering in the crypt? That could wait. More to the point, why had David scorned a fresh meal of Charles? Were zombies homophobic? Surely not. Any meal of living flesh is a meal. Isn’t it? Who could be so picky? Besides, zombies seemed perfectly happy to devour either male or female flesh – but not, of course, the flesh of lawyers. So, why reject the flesh of a gay man?
Byttiwettha, res o dhymm dhe assaya. Ha my neshes an dhew, prennys warbarth yn byrlyans a vernans, my a usas eghennow-oll a vraslavarow hag a vollethi orth ow broder meurgerys. Ny allav perthi kov anedha yn ewn – mes yth ens i euthyk ha plos. Ny dheuth gorthyp vyth nag aswonnans dhiworth Davydh, yn neb kas. Ha, pan dheuth an termyn rag Davydh dhe ri an coup de grâce dhe’n den byghan ma, y hwarva tra varthys: Davydh a’n livras dhiworth y dhalghenn ha sevel yn-bann ha kerdhes dhe-ves, ow kul an kethsam rogh a wrussa pan brofysen aval dhodho a-gynsow – divlas dien. Yth esa an den byghan a’y worwedh war an dor – heb omwodhvos mes anbystigys. Yth igoras krakk yn daras an gleudhgell hag y tellos dhiworto lev ow krena: “Osta da lowr, Charles?” “Charles”? Ya, heb mar, my a wodhya an polat ma. Peder o y hanow gwir mes ev a wrug devnydh a “Charles” avel hanow – kepar ha Charlys Kynsa, an myghtern sowsnek re via dibennys. Ev a omdybi bos ryeleth – ha, gans henna, yth esa dhodho barv gaver kepar ha’n myghtern na. Yth esa ynwedh dh’y sos arbennik henwyn an lys ryel. Jude – an huni esa, dell grysyn, hwath owth omgudha y’n Lyverva Baillieu – o henwys ganso ‘Henrietta-Maria’ (gwreg Charlys Kynsa) ha, mars yw res godhvos, yth en vy gelwys ‘Oliver Cromwell’. (Ny gonvedhis bys termynyow diwettha an hanow ma, ow tos dhiworth ‘Charlys Kynsa’, dhe vos arvedhenn euthyk – drefenn Cromwell dhe omgemmeres y dhibennans. Byttegyns, ny vroghsen vy ganso pan vien ‘besydhyes’.) Y’n tor’ na, yth o Charles ow sos unnik bos kethreydhel yn igor. Pur hardh o ev. Y’n termynyow na, y kessydhyes hwath gweythresow kethreydhel yn Budhykka avel felonis herwydh reyth an senedh henwys “The Crimes Act (1958)”. (Y’n reyth na, an feloni a veu deskrifys avel “An gweythres kasadow a vuggrans” – geryow pur anlaghel, pur goynt.) Ytho, nyns o heb argoll sevur ‘dos yn-mes an amari’ y’n dydhyow na. Yth o an lagha ma gweythresys herwydh usadow erbynn an dus kepar ha Charles. Yn neb kas, piw o ‘Powl’, hwath owth omgudha y’n gleudhgell? An kwestyon na a allsa gortos. O zombis ownoryon-kethreydhogyon? Na, nyns o henna gwirhaval. Liv a gig yn fyw yw liv wosa oll, a nyns yw? Py par zombi yw mar dhewesik? Dres henna, yth heveli bos pur lowen an zombis dhe dhevorya po kig gorow po kig benow. Henn yw leverel, kig oll an dus (po ogas) – a-der an laghysi, heb mar. Ytho, prag y talvien skonya kig dhe dhen kethreydhel? 71

“Some of the guys who get bitten just get better within a few days ...” (I also omitted to mention that many of these guys were probably gay and that they never actually turned into zombies at all. Well, I mean, ...) “... and, as for the others, unless they have a meal of fresh human flesh to maintain them, they just run down like clocks. After a few days, they grind to a halt and fall over – as I say, that is unless you let them feed.” (This was, of course, another big, fat lie – but I had my reasons.) There was a muttering in the audience and another GI came forward to the microphone. “Private First Class Aaron Gately, Mr Zombie-brother. Are you saying that not all the infected guys stay zombies and, even if they do, they fade away if you don’t feed them?” “Exactly,” I replied. “And you didn’t even get infected at all – despite livin’ with them for over two weeks?” “That’s right,” I said. “ I slept with them side by side and watched them kill and feed for over two weeks. So far, I’m not a zombie like my brother. I guess I must be immune.” (Yet another big, fat lie.) “Well, sir, I’m confused,” said Private First Class Gately. “Do you mean we could be killin’ guys that might get better and jus’ stop bein’ zombies?” “Yep! And more than that, you GI’s will be putting your lives at risk fighting a bunch of creatures that would probably just fall over anyway.” The hubbub in the room increased very markedly after this observation. I glanced over at the Captain – he was urgently summoning the guards to come to take me and David away. I needed to make my ‘speech to the troops’ now or not at all.
“Nebes yntra’n bolatys re via brethys a omwellhas wosa nebes dydhyow ...” (Arta, ny gampoellis aga bos kethreydhel, yn hwirhaval – ha, dres henna, na wrugavy kampoella na zombihasons nevra, an re na. Yn hwir, prag y talvien vy gul an dra re gomplek?) “ ...ha’n re erell, marnas i a gemmer boes, boes a gig denel kro, rag aga omwitha aga honan orth an diwedh, i a wra mos ha bos gwann ha koedha dhe’n dor, spenys kepar ha klokk na veu stummys. Wosa nebes dydhyow, y hwrons hedhi – henn yw leverel, marnas hwi a as dhedha dhe dhybri.” (Gow bras ha tew o hemma, heb mar – mes yth esa resons dhymm ragdho.) Y teuth grommyans medhel dhiworth an woslowysi ha souder arall a gerdhas yn rag dhe’n mikrogowser. “Souder keth, Kynsa Gradh Aaron Porther, a vester Broder-zombi. Ty a lever na drig zombihes oll an polatys klevesys ha, dres henna, pan vydhons hwath zombihes, an re erell, i a wra gwedhra ha mos dhe-ves ... marnas hwi a’n deber?” “Poran ewn osta,” a worthybis vy. “Ha ty,” a besyas Souder keth Porther, “ny veu nevra klevesans vyth dhis - yn despit dhe driga gansa dres moy es dew seythun?” “Poran ewn arta,” yn-medhav. “My a goskas rybdha ha mires orta hag i ledhys hag i dybrys dres an seythunyow na. Bys lemmyn, ny dheuth vy ha bos zombi kepar ha’m broder. My a desevav ow bos yn sempel anklevesadow.” (Gow arall hwath, bras ha tew.) “Wel, Syrra, sowdhenys ov,” yn-medh Souder keth Porther. A leversysta bos possybyl ni dhe ladha polatys a allsa omwellhe – ha sessya bos zombis?” “Yn hwir! Ha, dres henna, bywnansow an soudoryon Amerikanek a allsa bos peryllyes drefenn batel orth bagas kreadoryon neb a via, yn hwirhaval, koedhys ha gyllys yn neb kas.” Y tevis yn feur an hubbadrylsi y’n stevell wosa an geryow ma. My a dewlis golok orth an Kapten – yth esa porres ow kelwel an gwithysi dhe dhos rag kemmeres my ha Davydh dhe-ves. Res o dhymm gul ow ‘areth dhe’n soudoryon’ – lemmyn po nevra.

“I was there on Day One, sister! I saw all those kids bitten by those first zombies – the ones who appeared from nowhere. I saw most of the guys who got bitten become zombies – or just be torn apart, destroyed. But, I also saw guys, very close friends of mine, get bitten, get sick and then recover! They ended up as well as you or I are now – or, at least, as well as you are now...” I saw her wince a little at this oblique reference to the injuries that I had suffered (at least, indirectly) at her hands. Good! I continued: “...I saw this happen with my own two eyes. Those guys recovered completely – though they’ve probably been burnt to a crisp by napalm now. All they had to remind them of their infection were the scars of the zombie bites.” I paused and sighed. Ingrid remained silent. So, I pressed the attack: “But you can believe whatever you want, doctor,” I said, “ because, actually, I don’t care anymore. I know that I’m going to die, too – and, unless I miss my guess, the “Angel of Death” will be arranging for my, very painful, passing very shortly – when he has no further experimental use for me or David. Maybe he can arrange for a ton of napalm to be dropped on me as well? What do you think?” This was a bit of theatrics on my part. I didn’t really believe that my death was so imminent – I considered that I was still far too ‘useful’ to the Captain’s research – whatever that really was (apart from sadism). I thought he might kill me but that, if that happened in the near future, it was more likely to be by experimental error or oversight. Furthermore, you will have noted that, in talking to Ingrid, I had glossed over one very salient fact: my friends had indeed survived zombie bites but they had never become zombies themselves. I knew of no case where a zombie had reverted to normalcy. As far as I knew, this was impossible. It was a definite one-way street – but Doctor Ingrid did not need to know that. “So, these guys, the ones who recovered, what do you think made them different from all the other guys – the ones who stayed being zombies?”
“Dydh Onan, yth esen vy ena, ow hwoer! My a welas oll an yonkers na bos brethys gans an kynsa zombis – an re a omdhiskwedhas dhiworth le vyth. My a welas an brassa rann anedha dhe dhos ha bos zombis – po dhe vos skwardyes yn temmyn, distruys oll. Byttegyns, my a welas keffrys nebes yonkers, sos meurgerys genev, dhe vos brethys, klavhes hag ena dhe vos omwellhes yn tien! Henn yw leverel, yth esens mar yagh avelos hag avelov lemmyn – po, dhe’n lyha, mar yagh avelos jy lemmyn ...” My a welas hy flynchya nebes drefenn an kampoellans konvedhys ma dhe’n meschyvyow re via vysytyes warnav der hy diwla (yn andidro, dhe’n lyha). Pur dha! My a besyas: “Y hwelis vy an hwarvosow ma gans ow dewlagas ow honan. An yonkers na re wellhasa yn tien – kynth yns lemmyn, yn hwirhaval, leskys oll kresik gans napalm. Rag kov aga klevesans, nyns esa travyth a-der kreythennow gwrys dre vrathow an zombis.” My a bowesas ha hanasa. Y thriga Ingrid tawesek. Ytho, my a herdhyas a-rag gans an omsettyans: “Byttegyns, ty a yll krysi pypynag a vynnydh, ‘Dhoktour,” yn-medhav, “drefenn, yn hwir, ny vern dhymm na fella. Y hwonn y teu ow mernans yn skon – ha, marnas ow bos kammgemmerys, y fydh “El Mernans” owth ordena yn skon ow thremenans, meur y bayn – pan vydh na fella dhodho devnydh arbrovel ahanan vy po a Dhavydh. Martesen, ev a allsa ordena tonnas napalm dhe vos gesys koedha warnav ynwedh. Pyth a bredeydh a’n tybyans na?” Nebes gwaridiel o hemma, dhe’m part vy. Yn hwir, ny grysyn bos mar dhegynsywyans ow mernans. Y krysyn my dhe vos hwath re ‘dhe les’ rag hwithrans an Kapten – pypynag o henna yn hwir (a-der sadystyeth). My a grysi ev dhe alloes ow ladha mes, mar hwarva henna y’n termyn a dho skon, moy gwirhaval o bos dre gammgemmeryans arbrovel. Dres henna, possybyl yw ty dhe notya, pan vien ow kewsel gans Ingrid, my re liwsa an gwiryonedh nebes: ow hothmans re dreusvywsa yn hwir brathow an zombis mes ny dhothyens nevra ha bos zombis. Ny wodhyen kas vyth may kildreylsa zombi dhe normalyta. Herwydh ow dyskans vy, nag o possybyl an dra – byttegyns, nyns esa edhomm dhe Dhoktour Ingrid a’y dyski. “Ytho, an bolatys ma, an re a omwellhas, pyth a grysydh dhe wul dhedha dihaval dhe oll an bolatys erell – an re a remaynya zombihes.”

“That’s a very good question. Private Swooper,” I answered. “I’ve lived amongst the zombies since Day One, since the very first outbreak in Melbourne. On that day, there were hundreds of zombies all at once – and there were none the day before. None at all. As far as I know, none of those first zombies had been bitten by anyone or anything. Don’t you think that’s curious, Private?” Private First Class Brendan Swooper nodded thoughtfully – and a lot of the other GI’s in the audience nodded along with him. I continued: “My brother became a zombie within the first few days ...” (I omitted to mention that he’d actually been bitten in that time.) “... but not me. I’ve seen a lot of guys and girls, all fellow university students, bitten by those zombies, the ones who appeared on Day One, the ones who had never been bitten. None of the girls became zombies. None of them. Not one. Now, Private Swooper, that’s also mighty strange, don’t you think?” Private First Class Swooper nodded even more thoughtfully – and even more GI’s nodded along with him. (At this point, the Captain started to feel uneasy about the fact that I had the undivided attention of the GI’s – who all seemed very interested in what I had to say. He stood abruptly, started to try and silence me once again. The GI’s hissed at him – and he reluctantly resumed his seat.) “The third thing, Private, that is mighty strange is that not all the guys who got bitten and became zombies stayed that way!” “That’s not true!” yelled the Captain – who was promptly hissed down again. I shrugged, fell silent in my cage. I knew what would happen. I had won the GI’s over. I was just like them – young and unworldly - but they knew I was talking from first-hand experience. They wanted to know what I knew – and for very good reason: their lives may have depended on it. Very soon, despite the fact that the Captain tried to shut the meeting down, I was recalled to speak. Now, I knew the Captain would be most reluctant to interrupt – at least until I had said more than he could tolerate. I continued:
“Govynn pur dha yw henna, a Souder keth Stevyer,” a worthybis vy. “My re drigas yn mysk an zombis a-dhia Dydh Onan, a-dhia an kynsa tardhans yn Melbourne. An jydh na, yth esa kansow a zombis – oll anedha re dhothya yn kettermyn. An jydh kyns, nyns esa zombis vyth. Mann. Kemmys hag a allav leverel, nyns esa nagonan yntra’n kynsa zombis na a via brethys – po gans zombi arall po gans denvyth. A ny grysydh bos henna pur goynt, a Souder keth?” Souder keth, kynsa gradh, Brendan Stevyer a benndroppyas, meur y brederyans, ha ganso lies souder yntra’n woslowysi. My a besyas: “Y teuth ha bos ow broder zombi nebes dydhyow wosa Dydh Onan ...” (Ny gampoellis vy y vos brethys y’n termyn na.) “...Byttegyns, ny dheuth vy ha bos onan anedha ow honan. My re welis meur a yonkers ha myrghes, kesstudhyoryon oll, brethys gans an zombis na, gans an re na via nevra brethys. Yntra’n myrghes, nyns esa zombis vyth. Arta, mann yntredha. Hag, ytho, a Souder keth Stevyer, henn yw euthyk koynt ynwedh, a ny grysydh?” Souder keth, kynsa gradh, Stevyer a bendroppyas gans moy a brederyans hogen – ha ganso moy yntra’n soudoryon Amerikanek. (Y’n termyn ma, y tallathas an Kapten bos nebes anes drefenn attendyans an soudoryon dhe vos warnav fast – hag oll anedha a heveli bos pur dhidheurys yn pyth esen ow leverel. A-dhistowgh, ev a sevis hag assaya gul dhymm tewel arta. Y sias orto ev an soudoryon Amerikanek – ha, meur y anvodh, ev a dhasesedhas.) “An tressa tra, a souder, hag yw koynt dres eghenn yw hemma: yntra’n oll an yonkers a veu brethys ha zombihes, yth esa nebes na wrug triga yndellna!” “Nyns yw henna gwir!” a armas an Kapten – ha’n woslowysi a-dhesempis a sias yn ughel orto arta. My a dhrehevis ow diwskoedh ha koedha tawesek y’m bagh. My a wodhya pyth esa ow tos. My re waynsa kolonnow ha brysyow an soudoryon Amerikanek. Yth en kepar dell ens – yowynk hag anfel. Byttegyns, y hwodhyens bos dhymm perthyansow gwir, henn yw leverel, ragdha, derivadow dhiworth an bennfenten. Y fynnens godhvos an pyth a wodhyen vy – ha drefenn reson pur dha; yn hwirhaval, aga bywnansow a allsa kregi warnedhi. Yn skon, yn despit dh’assayans an Kapten dhe worfenna an kuntellyans, y feuv daselwys rag kewsel. Lemmyn, my a wodhya bos anvodh an Kapten dhe’m goderri – bys may lavarsen moy es dell ylli godhevel, dhe’n lyha. My a besyas: