to its mate oor Kornies
to its mate
Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies
dh'y bar
Geskatte vertalings
Vertoon algoritmies gegenereerde vertalings
voorbeelde
Advanced filtering
Voorbeelde moet herlaai word.
to its mate
Nyns eus drog penn dhymm.langbot langbot
I turned back to the observation hole. “Don’t make it too long, Mate,” I said to David. The zombies milled about – maybe thirty or so of them. David’s corpse was apparently of no interest to them. He was not fresh meat. He was not a ‘kill’. I’d had some time to observe the zombies. I recognised a few of them from around the campus – just regular guys, nothing special. They did a bit of moaning but never spoke – just like in the movies. But they weren’t stiff-legged and rotting. Well, not yet anyway. Perhaps in another week or so that would come. For the moment, at least, they still moved about fairly nimbly when they wanted to – but, for the most part, they just wandered around with no obvious aim – except, perhaps, waiting for us to emerge. And their eyes, yes, they were very different from living folks’ eyes. Living folks’ eyes constantly scan back and forth to take in as much as they can – I think it’s called a ‘saccade’ (or something similar). Zombies’ eyes don’t. They stare fixedly a lot of the time and only move in jerky- type movements every now and then. I had discussed this also with the medical students. They said this was because ‘the autonomic functions of the brain were down’. They said zombie vision must be relatively poor. Could be – but I didn’t see any of the medical students putting that theory to the test. I stood staring through the observation hole, I guess, for half an hour or more, just watching the zombies, before David gave his first twitch. Eureka! I’d seen that before – with the other guys who’d been bitten. It was only a matter of a few minutes now before David would start to reanimate. I needed to work fast. Nimbly, I climbed the barricade and slid down into the cramped space between barricade and the glass sliding doors. This was a fairly noisy manoeuvre and some of the smaller parts of the barricade clattered to the floor. “Hey, Pete! What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I’d been heard but there was no way I was backing out now.
Ny vynnav vy gul tra vydh.langbot langbot
I’m not sure if it were the jazz, as such, or the fact that the zombies had sated their blood-lust, but those few that remained on the upper floors of the building seemed to sink into an afternoon torpor. (Do tired zombies need a ‘nanna nap’? Dunno.) In any event, this provided me with an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the undead brother who had shamelessly abandoned me to pursue his obscene carnal pleasures. “David!” I yelled as I emerged from the Gallery. “Get up, you vile monster. We’ve got stuff to do.” He remained torpid – staring at me with his dead eyes which seemed to say: “Fuck off, dickhead! I’m sleeping.” So, I kicked him into activity. He was unhappy, roared loudly and, for the first time, shaped to attack me. There were limits even to brotherly love, it seemed. I would have to remember that. I quickly softened my attitude to him: “Come on, Mate. Help me find a decent radio. There’s got to be one here.”
Hweg yw an aval ma.langbot langbot
I turned to her, shook my head and yelled: “Close the fuckin’ door. You’re letting the flies in!” Unseen hands swiftly closed the doors. I had intended to explain about Paul and Charles – bitten but recovered, apparently – but there was simply no time. They would have to make their own explanations. Well, at least everyone in the Baillieu would now eat for the first time in many days. That thought gave me some pleasure. However, David had other thoughts. Mission accomplished, he was heading back to the charnel house, the basement of the Union building. He had already left the scene of our humanitarian triumph and was trudging Northwards to his now favourite place. I had no choice but to follow – unless I wished to stay and be devoured by his mates whilst unaccompanied. Union House it was, then!
Nyns yw da genev skol.langbot langbot
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.
Ni a vynn hwath gweres.langbot langbot
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.
Gwag os, dell dybav.langbot langbot
In this, he behaved like a small child who didn’t want to take a bath – but, in his case, I was unable to bribe him with a rubber ducky or toy boats to play with. Eventually, he relented and allowed me to strip and re-clothe him. He became “Lance-Corporal Kimson” but, as he didn’t have a speaking part in our next little drama, I did not need to bring this to his attention. After so much effort and time wasted, we stood together: a trim, fresh-faced sergeant and a grey-faced lance-corporal – both sans socks. “Time to help me with the coffin now, Dave,” I said. He had not previously understood this part of my plan, I’m sure, but, with a bit of play-acting and hand-gestures, he came to realize that I wanted him to take one end of the ornate coffin and lift it with me. After opening the steel crypt door wide, I returned and started to lift ‘my end’ of the box – and David, haltingly, copied what I was doing at his own end. “Shit! This thing is bloody heavy,” I said to myself. I thought perhaps I ought to abandon the plan as I was not at all sure I could sustain the weight for long enough to get it to one of the vehicles (about 75 – 100 metres from the crypt.) Before we even got through the door of the crypt, I was quivering from a load that was at the very limit of my physical ability. (I was a pretty skinny kid at the time.) The coffin, with its heavy timber construction and ornate metal handles, weighed, maybe, twice as much as a standard coffin. The problem was that we had only one coffin to choose from and, frankly, we were lucky to have that. David held his end of the thing aloft and was showing no signs of strain. (I thought zombies were supposed to be weak – but, noooo!) “Okay, Mate,” I groaned. “Put it down – gently.” He did so without fuss and I stood panting and sweating as I considered our options. Maybe, I thought, we could salvage a ‘used’ coffin from one of the niches in the crypt – one that was of a standard weight.
Hi a gews seyth yeth.langbot langbot
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.
Ro dhyn diw gollel ha peder forgh, mar pleg.langbot langbot
After I composed myself, I realised that we had the rest of the day to fill in. I’m sure David would happily have gone back to the Hell-hole at Union House – so that he could lounge around with his zombie mates. But I was not going to cross swords again with that bitch-face “Gween” if I could possibly help it. “Hey, Dave! I’ve got a treat for you,” I exclaimed suddenly. “I’m going to take you to the movies.” I gave him no choice and firmly herded him out of Genevieve’s and into the Bug House. I had no idea if he still remembered what a movie was but I didn’t care. David was going to the movies whether he liked it or not. The shabby foyer of the Bug House was relatively untouched. There must have been no-one in it when the Apocalypse passed through. Did it happen at mid-day or thereabouts? No ‘session time’ then, I suppose – not during the week at a small single-screen suburban theatre. (Can you remember what one of those was?) I walked up the narrow staircase to the projection room. Now, you may think I would have no chance of getting the projector operating so that we would view a movie. But that’s where you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. This was in the days before video recorders, well before DVD’s, Blue-Ray and so on. So, schoolteachers needed to know how to operate simple movie projectors to show educational films to their classes. I was no teacher – but my dad was! Dad had done a proper Bell and Howell course and come out with a proper projectionist certificate – very pretty, very impressive. I asked him to bring the school projector home and show me how it worked. He obliged my demands and thus I knew the rudiments of the projectionist’s craft. That said, the projectors (there were 2) that confronted me in the projectionist room of the Carlton Movie House were very different to the one that Dad had brought home from school. A lot bigger. A lot more buttons and levers. I got one of them working in under half an hour (but I think I might have, sort of, broken the other one – sorry, Mr Projectionist).
Mya wayt y fynnydh ow gweres.langbot langbot
Unperturbed, David shook it off, sidestepped and deftly struck out with the hockey stick. The beast was gone. One blow from David was all it had taken. Now the auditorium was cleared of them. Only their corpses remained, sprawled here and there – and none of them looked like they would be moving about again any time soon. Quickly, he and I summoned one or two of the students who had lingered timorously at the exits – and there really were only one or two. The rest of the students were still running, we supposed. Together, we gathered five of the victims who seemed still to be living and carried their bloodied bodies to the Baillieu Library. It had not been a deep wound, David’s wound. It did not even require a stitch. But it had been enough to pass on the infection. And so, here he lay, a hero whose actions had saved the lives of some of those who now wished to cast him outside before he, too, ‘changed’. Fear trumps gratitude every time. “Not long now, Mate,” I whispered and mopped his brow again. Where had it come from, this infection? Short answer: I don’t know. This is not part of the story that I can tell – but I can tell you what I know and let you puzzle over it yourself. As we sheltered in the dubious protection of the Baillieu Library, we accessed a fairly beaten-up black and white TV that we found in the Head Librarian’s office. (Obviously, the library’s budget didn’t yet run to purchasing one of those expensive, new-fangled colour TV’s.) When we first tuned in, nothing of note. Everything was normal as far as the TV broadcasters were concerned – all the usual programmes: cooking, old movies, chat shows, cartoons – completely uninterrupted. There was no newsflash until over an hour after the creatures had burst in upon us in the French lecture. Then the first newsflash: sketchy and delivered in a jocular fashion by a disbelieving newsreader who concluded: “...Hey! Is this April Fools’ or what?!”
Piw ki yw hemma?langbot langbot
Melbourne General Cemetery All good things come to an end and I decided to leave the cinema when David was showing signs of boredom. After all, there’s only so much colour and movement that a dead-eyed zombie can take, isn’t there? I’m not sure how much of the movies David actually saw – most of the time he seemed quite inert but, then again, I was concentrating on the screen. They say the movie industry booms in depression times. Well, the movies were a big hit with me that day – they took my mind right off the horrors I’d seen in the preceding days. David had had enough and, it seemed, wanted to move along. Presumably, he wanted to go back to that lovely, cosy basement with all his zombie mates. No thanks, Dave. Uh, uh! So, I needed to distract him – again. We took a stroll along the main shopping strip in Lygon Street – lots of Italian cafes and restaurants in those days and alternative/crafty-type places where I bought my hippy-style clothing and odd toys. (Yes, I dressed like a hippy in those days – and I had such a lovely, big afro hairdo – though there was not a lot of afro blood in my veins). We strolled past ‘The Poppyshop’, purveyor of fine hand-made wombats (a perfect gift for the one you love – if you were a hippy). They sold pretty good paper flowers as well in those days – also an essential item for the latter-day flower child. We entered ‘Tamani’s’ – good, cheap, Italian tucker (the prices were always quoted in lire) – but it was the usual scene of devastation and mayhem, with numerous customers apparently massacred in mid-lasagna or mid lungo-nero, as the case may be. I decided not to raid their food cupboards – the stench of the place made me a little squeamish.
Yma seghes dhis.langbot langbot
There was, however, another figure in that (formerly) leading jeep. He started waving his arms about and pointing at the driver in a distinctly unfriendly way. Naturally, both of these people were too far away for me to hear what was being said – or even to make out their uniforms – but the body language was pretty clear. The gesticulating one was probably an unhappy officer and the driver was probably just a ‘grunt’. In any event, contrary to common sense, (i.e. to just wait until the engine cooled down and refill the radiator) I saw the ‘grunt’ driver start trudging back along the road towards the base, leaving the ‘officer’ behind (the rest of the convoy having long since passed by.) “What an unreasonable moron that officer must be,” I thought – but gave it no more consideration than that. As I’ve said, the daylight was waning and I had, maybe, 15 minutes to get back to David’s and my little hidey-hole. So, I started climbing, very carefully, back down the derelict and rickety watch-tower. (But I must say that going down was definitely less strenuous than climbing up.) When I neared the bottom, I leapt down the last few feet. I shouldn’t have done that because I fell heavily and, predictably, my legs buckled beneath me once again. But there was no real harm done. I picked myself up and called for David. No response. “Come on, Mate,” I called. “We’ve gotta get back to the tunnel. The soldiers are out looking for us ....” Still no response. “... and it’s getting dark,” I added, hopefully. David was gone. Just gone. Shit! Optimistically, I thought that, maybe, he’d gotten bored and gone back to the tunnel under his own steam. After all, he knew where it was because he’d located it in the first place, while I had been asleep. So, I hastened back to the tunnel and squeezed myself through the entrance. Still no sign of David.
Helen, homm yw ow heniterow.langbot langbot
A tentative answer was not too hard to guess at. The corpses that remained lying about were, almost uniformly, quite incomplete. Indeed, some of the ‘corpses’ were actually just ‘bits’. So, it seemed there needed to be enough of the victim still hanging together before reanimation was possible. (Poor Meryl was definitely not going to make a re-appearance – but she was a girl anyway and, as you will recall, girls don’t become zombies.) So, how much was enough? Yes, I’ll admit it was a macabre question to ponder – but a question that seemed not out of place as we approached the Swanston Street exit of the Uni campus. I stood on the footpath, still holding David’s clammy hand. “Which way shall we go, Mate?” I asked. “Into the city or shall we go into Carlton?” He grunted. Maybe he understood the question but his grunted answer was unhelpful. (Hey, he was still male – I think.) So, we headed off towards Lygon Street, Carlton. Nowadays, there’s a lovely big supermarket in the main street – but not in the early 1970’s. As we walked down Faraday Street, I saw the familiar sight of the Carlton Movie-house – the ‘Bug House’ as it was then called. But this was not the establishment I needed – that was next door: “Genevieve’s”. (Café? Restaurant? Can’t recall what it called itself. It was always just “Genevieve’s” – named after an old cinematic car, as I recall.) “Fancy a cappuccino, Dave?” I asked. “I’m dying for a caffeine fix.” David seemed uninterested. Do zombies like a strong coffee? They look like they need it. No matter. In any event, I couldn’t get the cappuccino machine up and running and had to make do with ‘instant’ – yuck!
Da yw gansogoslowes orth an radyo.langbot langbot
I banged three times on the inside of the truck walls – this had been my pre- arranged signal to Paul and Charles, who were still (relatively) safe inside the cab. I turned to the now-breathless Jude. “Time to shut up shop now, Jude. Dave can’t keep them at bay for much longer,” I said, breathless myself. “You can come back later – I’m leaving the truck. And, by the way, you’ve got guests.” Jude looked at me in amazement: “Guests?” Paul and Charles answered her question at that moment by tumbling from the truck’s roof – their fall broken by the human chains still working beneath them. Even “Royalty” decided to dispense with formal introductions and clambered over the members of the now-disintegrating chains, passing hurriedly through the library doors to comparative safety. At that moment, the zombie press broke through and snapping jaws appeared beneath the sills of the truck’s still-open rear doors. The human chain sounded the retreat and I pushed Jude roughly out of the cargo section of the truck. Her fall, too, was cushioned by the backs of the others. I jumped to the ground and slammed the refrigerated truck’s rear door firmly shut. (No sense in letting the warm air in, was there?) The diesel engine was still running – and so was the refrigeration unit – but for how long? I was abruptly seized by two of the closest zombies and, briefly wondered if my luck had run out. It hadn’t. The figure of David burst through (actually, over) the press and was swiftly at my side, beating at those who had seized me. He roared with renewed vigour – and, once again, the Earth seemed to shake. David had saved my life – again. Thanks, mate. Jude was the last of the Baillieu survivors to get back inside. She lingered at the open glass doors. “Pete!” she yelled. “Come back in.” This wasn’t going to happen – not without David.
Nadelik Lowen!langbot langbot
14 sinne gevind in 3 ms. Hulle kom uit baie bronne en word nie nagegaan nie.