a Dhavydh! oor Engels

a Dhavydh!

Vertalings in die woordeboek Kornies - Engels

David!

hey David!

voorbeelde

David! / Davydh / / / a Dhavydh!
David

Pupprys yma mall dhe Dhavydh a gavanskeusa. /
David is always eager to make excuses. / Kavanskeusa is basically ‘to evade’.

Pupprys yma mall dhe Dhavydh a gavanskeusa.
David is always eager to make excuses.

Ty a leveris gow dhe Dhavydh.
You lied to Davydh.

A dhonsya ny dheur dhe Dhavydh. /
Dancing is of no interest to David. / An idiom, with dhe for the person and a for the thing of no interest.

A dhonsya ny dheur dhe Dhavydh.
Dancing is of no interest to David.

My a vynn y ri dhe Dhavydh.
I'll give it to Davydh.

My a vynn hy ri dhe Dhavydh.
I'll give it to Davydh.

Nyns esa gorthyp a-gynnik re gales bos dismygys. Yth esens poran andhien, an korfow a remaynya a’ga gorwedh oll a-dro – ogas hag oll anedha. Yn hwir, nyns o nebes a’n ‘korfow’ a-der ‘temmyn’. Ytho, yth heveli bos edhomm a remenant lowr an vyktymow hwath ow klena warbarth kyns o possybyl dasvywya. (Ytho, nyns o possybyl Meryl anfeusik dhe wul omdhiskwedhyans arta – mes hi o myrgh yn neb kas ha, dell berthowgh kov, ny dheu ha bos an myrghes zombis.) Ytho, py remenant yw lowr? Ya, kwestyon skruthus lowr o mayth ombrederi, dell amyttyav, mes nyns o kwestyon anwiw ha ni neshes porth an kampus dhe Stret Swanston. Yth esen a’m sav war an gerdhva, hwath ow talghenna leuv oerlyp Davydh: “Py fordh a vynnyn mos, ‘Vata?” a wovynnis vy. “Yn sita, po a vynnyn mos yn Karlton?” Ev a roghas. Martesen, ev a gonvedhas an kwestyon mes y worthyp roghys o heb gweres ragov vy. (Ev o hwath gorow, yn apert.) Ytho, ni a dhallathas kerdhes troha Stret Lygon, Karlton. Y’n dydhyow ma, yma gorvarghas deg yn kres an stret na – mes nyns o an kas y’n blydhynyow 1970. Ha ni kerdhys a-hys Stret Faraday, my a welas gwel aswonnys yn ta: Chi Fylmow Karlton – an “Jideurek” dell o les-henwys, y’n tor’na. Mes nyns o an drehevyans mayth esa edhomm dhymm – henn o an nessa daras: “Chi Gwynnuwer”. (Koffiji? Boesti? Ny allav perthi kov an hanow gwir. Nyns o travyth a-der “Chi Gwynnuwer” herwydh usadow – a-barth karr-tan koth sinematek, dell grysav.) “A vynnta kappouchinow, a Dhavydh?” a wovynnis. “Yma edhomm meur dhymm a dhosenn kaffin.” Yth heveli nag esa henna didheurek dhe Dhavydh. A gar an zombis koffi krev? Yth esa edhomm anodho dhedha, dhe’m breus vy. Ny vern. Yn neb kas, ny yllyn gul an jynn-gappouchino gweytha – hag ytho res o dhymm eva ‘instant’ – thukk! 49
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!

Byttegyns, yth esa figur arall y’n jip (kyns) ow ledya. Ev a dhallathas gwevya y dhiwvregh oll a-dro ha poyntya orth an lywyer yn fordh o poran anhweg. Yth esa an dhew figur re bell a-dhiworthiv, heb mar, rag ow klywes pyth a veu leverys – po rag ow gweles yn kler aga uniforms hogen – mes yeth aga horfow o pur gler. An huni ow kwevya o yn hwirhaval soedhek ha nyns o an lywyer yn hwirhaval saw gwas byghan. Yn neb kas, erbynn skians kemmyn (henn yw leverel, gortos bys pan yeynhasa an jynn hag ena daslenwel an dhewynnell), my a welas an gwas byghan dhe dalleth travalya war fordh troha’n selva, ow kasa an soedhek a-dhelergh dhodho (remenant an rew kertys re’n tremensa nans o termyn hir). “Ass yw boba anresnadow, an soedhek na,” a brederis – mes ny wrugavy ri dhodho konsydrans vyth es henna. Kepar dell leveris, yth esa an howlsplann ow fyllel hag yth esa dhymm, martesen, pymthek mynysenn rag drehedhes kovva Davydh ha my. Ytho, my a dhallathas diyskynna, meur ow rach, an tour deantell ha gesys dhe goll. (Byttegyns, res o dhymm amyttya an diyskynnans dhe vos essa ages an yskynnans.) Pan neshis an ben, my a lammas dhe’n leur. Nyns o henna gwrys da drefenn my dhe goedha yn poes ha, dell waytyes, ow diwarr a omhwelas yn-dannov unnweyth arta. Byttegyns, nyns esa drog sevur ow tos dhiworto. My a sevis yn- bann ha gelwel dhe Dhavydh. Gorthyp vyth. “Deun yn-rag, ‘Vata,” a elwis. “Res yw dehweles dhe’n gowfordh. Yma’n soudoryon orth agan hwilas ...” Hwath gorthyp vyth. “... hag yma an nos ow tos,” yn-medhav, meur ow govenek. Gyllys o Davydh. Gyllys yn tien. Kawgh! Leun o gwaytyans, my a grysis, martesen, y vos skwithys hag ytho ev re dhehwelsa y honan dhe’n gowfordh. Wosa oll, ev a wodhya le mayth esa drefenn ev dh’y gavoes y’n kynsa le, ha my koskys. Ytho my a fistenas rag dehweles dhe’n gowfordh hag omstroetha dre hy forth. Hwath sin vyth a Dhavydh.
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.

“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.”
“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?”

Yn apert, lywyer an nessa jip re gonvedhsa pyth re styrsa an Serjont pan lavarsa ‘y’th welvydhav diwettha’ (ass o den konnyk, konnykka agesov vy, dhe’n lyha). Ev re barksa y garr ryb daras an drehevyans re via kyns gorrys mes a us. (An jip may tothya ynno re drigsa a-dherag an drehevyans, hwath arhwithrys gans an dhew withyas. Y trigsens dyswar yn tien a’n diank.) An nessa lywyer a dhiyskynnas dhiworth y jip pan a wrug agan gweles dos dhiworth daras a-dhelergh dhe’n drehevyans ha salusya an Serjont. An Serjont a gemmeras y le a-dryv ros an karr. Davydh ha my a’n sywyas. Byttegyns, res o dhe Dhavydh bos esedhys y’n delergh an prys ma - re gales ha byghan o ragov vy. My re glywsa pub boemm dres agan vyaj berr dhe’n prison hag ytho ny vynnen bos a’m esedh ena dres neb hirra vyaj. Hag, yn neb kas, da lowr o Davydh – wosa oll, nyns o ev saw zombi! (Ya, yma finwethow dhe gerensa broderel hogen.) Yth esa Ingrid a’y sav ryb an nessa lywyer, an dhew dhe unn du an jip. Martesen, hi a wevyas ha ni gyllys yn uskis gans an Serjont Amerikanek – mes ny’s welis nevra arta. Byttegyns, my a wrug ombrederi yn hy hever. Pyth re hwarsa dhedhi drefenn hy hesoberyans y’gan diank, diank a Dhavydh ha my. Esa lys breselek rygdhi drefenn hy gweres dhe eskerens yn termyn-bresel? Nag esa, dhe’m breus vy. Y krysav an kommond ughel dhe asa koedha an negys dien – po, martesen, ev a’n gorhersa – pan dhyskas a-dro dhe’n taklow euthyk gwrys gans an Kapten, yn-dann y gommond y honan, dhe yonker dynasek ha heb drog apert. (Henn yw leverel, dhymmo vy.) Moldrans, meur y dowlans, ny via es dh’y sevel orth konsydra. Ha, gans henna, ny fyllsa an towl ma rag moldrans saw dre vellyans Ingrid yn prys da. Hag yth esa kovadh medhegel rag afydhya hwedhel Ingrid yn y gever – ha, dres henna, yth esa keffrys lies dustunier y’n vedhegva rag veryfia pyth re hwarsa dhymmo vy. Hag a-dro dhe vershyon an Kapten y honan, wel ... Ytho, wortiwedh, da lowr a via Ingrid, dell grysav. “Dhe bleth eson ow mos, souder?” a wovynnas an Serjont. (Da o genev hwath bos gelwys ‘souder’. Yth esa reowta y’n ger ma.) “A aswonnydh tiryow a-dro dhe Vre an Krann, ogas dhe’n selva?” a wovynnis. “Yn sertan,” a worthybis. “My ha’m polatys, nyns esen ow trenya ena saw y’n seythun yw passyes.”
The driver of the second jeep had apparently understood what the Sergeant had meant by ‘see you later’ (what a clever guy, cleverer than me, at least). He parked his vehicle outside the disused exit of the building. (The jeep I had come in remained at the front of the building, still under the surveillance of two guards. They remained quite unaware of the escape.) The second driver got out of his jeep upon seeing us emerge from the rear of the building and saluted the Sergeant. The Sergeant climbed behind the wheel of the vehicle and David and I followed. I made David ride in the back this time – that tray was hard and cramped. I’d felt every bump on our short ride to the prison and I did not want to be in the tray for any extended journey. But David was okay – after all, he was just a zombie! (Yes, even brotherly love has its limits.) Ingrid stood beside the second driver, to one side of the vehicle. I fancy that she waved as we sped off with the Sergeant – but I never saw her again. I did wonder what became of her later – in view of her obvious involvement in my and David’s escape. Would she have faced a court martial for assisting the enemy on time of war? No, I don’t think so. I have a feeling that the Army hierarchy would have let the whole thing drop or simply have covered it up – once they realised the monstrous things that they had allowed the Captain to perpetrate on an innocent civilian. (Me.) It’s just not easy to laugh off a meticulously planned murder – which had only failed though the timely intervention of Ingrid. And there were plenty of clinical records to back up Ingrid’s story – as well as multiple witnesses at the Infirmary to verify what had occurred to me. And, as for the Captain himself, well ... So, I think, in the long run, Ingrid would have been okay. “Where to, soldier?” asked the Sergeant. (I still liked being called ‘soldier’. It made me feel respected.) “Do you know the Scrub Hill area of this base?” I asked. “I sure do,” he replied. “I had my guys training there only last week.”

A-der an areth hanter-ankevys ma a-dro dhe vresel yn gwylgoes, y teuth ow skians tanow a daktegow breselek dhiworth redya (yn Latin) a-dro dhe’n breselyow gans Karthaj. Heb mar, my a grysi hwath Honibal dhe vos pennhembrenkyas awenek mes, drefenn na yllyn kavoes olifansow-batel vyth y’n tor’na, my a brederis na via pur euver an dyskansow talvosek a dhysksen vy. Henn yw leverel, pur stroethys a via ow devnydh anedha rag dyghtya droglamm an zombis – po, gans henna, rag dos erbynn neb gorthomsettyans a allsa bos dallethys ena. Wosa gwari y’m brys vy gans temmyn areth an reg a borthsen kov, my a dreylyas dhe Dhavydh neb re woslowsa orth an radyo genev. (Nebes byghan y les, y gonvedhes o ...? Mann po ogas.) “Da lowr, a Dhavydh, ni a yll ankevi Honibal,” a dhallathis. (Davydh re via studhyer Latinek genev.) “Gwren prederi a-dro dh’agan termyn warbarth avel prentys-soudoryon. Mar mynna tus an lu furvya kylghvusur omwithek a-dro dhe diryow an porthow, fatell wrussens i henna? Dhe by pellder dhiworth an porthow a worrsens i aga honan? Bys Melbourne kresel? Bys omma, an bennskol?” Ny dheuth dhiworto gorthyp vyth – heb mar. Yn hwir, yth esov orth y wul kepar hag astell-senyans. Byttegyns, yth heveli y dhewlagas ev dhe vires orthymm yn unn wovynn – mar kylli dewlagas marow gul henna. Yth eson ni owth esedha hwath y’n Soedhva Bywderyow, pub huni ahanan dhe unn du an desk le mayth esa ow sevel an radyo-transystor, agan portal unnik dhe’n ledanna bys y’n tor’ na. Y remaynsyn owth esedha pols, ow lagatta orth an eyl dh’y gila. Yth esa ow brys vy ow resek toethmen. Y vrys ev ...? Wel, ny wodhyen pyth a hwarva ynno – martesen moy a draow es dell yllyn godhvos. An pols ma a ombrederans hebask a veu goderrys heb gwarnyans: ‘Gwin’, kath veurgerys an zombis, re wandersa a-ogas hag ervira dhe omjunya gans an fest. (Yn apert, hi a ylli mos der an drehevyans dien ha ny berthi own vyth a’n drigoryon erell.) Hi a lammas yn skav war an desk hag omrutya erbynn ow bregh anwithys - ha’y vratha tynn. A-dhistowgh, hi a gerdhas yn lent dhe Dhavydh kepar ha pan hwarsa mann - an kasadow! Heb mar, Davydh a gemmeras an goedhvil blewek yn y dhiwvregh ha dalleth hy handla heb kreft. Yn attal, an enyval ma, du y vlew y’n vrassa rann, a viowlas hy gras dhodho, yn fordh meur y tekter apert, ha dalleth purrya yn ughel. Wosa hy mires yn unn wordhya y’n dhewlagas dres termyn hir, Gwin a dreylyas hy fas dhymmo vy ha sia, kler hy forpos. 137
Apart from this half-forgotten lecture in jungle warfare, my only knowledge of military tactics came from reading (in Latin) about Rome’s wars with Carthage. Naturally, I still thought of Hannibal as a ‘gun’ General but, given that I didn’t have ready access to any battle elephants, I thought the valuable lessons I had learned from this reading were likely to be of limited use in dealing with the zombie apocalypse – or, for that matter, with any counter-offensive that might then be under weigh. After playing in my mind with the remembered fragments of the lecture from the reg, I turned to David – who had just listened to the radio with me. (Mildly interested – comprehension? I guess next to zero.) “Okay, David, we can forget about Hannibal,” I commenced (David had studied Latin as well). “Let’s think about our time together in the cadets. If the Army was going to form a defensive perimeter around the docklands area, how would they go about it? How far from the docks would they place the perimeter? As far as Central Melbourne? As far as here, at the university?” Naturally, he didn’t answer me. I was just using him as a sounding board. His eyes, however, did seem to look at me quizzically – if dead eyes could ever do that. We still sat in the Activities Office, each of us on one side of the desk upon which sat the transistor radio, currently our portal to the outside world. We sat for a while staring at one another – my mind was racing. His mind ....? Well, I didn’t know what was going on in there - maybe more than I realised. This moment of quiet reflection was abruptly interrupted: ‘Gween’, the zombies’ pet cat, had apparently wandered by and decided to join the party. (She obviously had the run of the building and feared none of its current residents.) She leapt nimbly onto the desk, rubbed against my unprotected arm, bit it sharply and then sauntered over to David as if nothing had happened. The wretch! David, of course, took the furry beast into his arms and clumsily started petting it. In return, the mainly black animal miaowed its appreciation at him, in a decidedly cutesy fashion, and started to purr loudly. After looking adoringly into my brother’s dead eyes for a time, Gween turned her face to me and hissed with apparent conviction.

Y koedhas Davydh, meur y frethter, war an fardel – kepar ha fleghik – mes, kepar ha fleghik ynwedh, ny ylli dismygi dell yllys y igeri. Ev a wrug nebes skwardyow dhe’n baper-pyg – oll anedha heb towl apert. Ev a sevis y dhewlagas marow wor’tu ha my, kepar pan hwilir gweres. “A vynnta dorn, ‘Dhavik?” a wovynnis. Ev a sevis yn-bann, unn gamm a-ves, mes ev a besya mires orth an fardel. My a blattyas rag gul lows an kolmans – mes ny yllis assaya igeri an dra. My a asas an oberenn dhe Dhavydh. Unnweyth arta, ev a goedhas dihwans warnodho ha’y skwardya igor. Ev a tennas an synsas yn-mes ha’y hwithra. Ena, ev a’n tewlis dhe-ves, meur y dhivlas apert. Yn kontari part, nyns esa divlas vyth dhymm. Yn hwir, meur o’m delit gans pyth a welis: uniformys dien an lu ostralek, tri anedha – gwalghys ha levnys gans horn. Hmm. Ha, dres henna, my a wodhya le may hyllen kavoes nebes botasennow rag mos warbarth gans an uniformys ma: veranda chi an porther. Yth esa ow furvya y’m brys towl embrionek. Mes, pyth a leveris an lyther?
David fell upon the parcel eagerly – exactly like a small child – but, also exactly like a child, he was unable to figure out how to open it (other than to make random and inconsequential tears in the paper). He raised his dead eyes to me, as if pleading for help. “Want a hand, Davie?” I asked. He stood back from the parcel but did not take his eyes off it. I stooped and loosened the binding but did not actually open the item. That task I left to David. Once again, he fell on it eagerly and ripped it open. He pulled out the contents, examined it – and then, just as quickly, discarded it in apparent disgust. On the other hand, I was not disgusted at all. On the contrary, I was delighted by what I saw: three complete army uniforms, all washed and pressed. Hmm. And I knew where I could easily get some boots to match as well: the veranda of the gatekeeper’s house. An embryonic plan was forming in my head. But what of the letter?

Gorthugher, nyns en moy avonsyes y’m assayans dhe berswadya Davydh bos fur ow thowlow. War verr lavarow, ny ylli aga honvedhes dres an moyha sempel linennans. Wel, y tesedhav bos henna kekemmys a yllyn gwaytya dhiworth py den marow pynag. Fowt konvedhes Dhavydh, ny wrussa henna ow lettya rag effeythi an towl. Y talvien bos nebes warra, dell amyttyav, mes heb towl a neb eghenn, ‘gwaytyans a vernans’ Dhavydh o yn hwir pur verr. (Yth heveli oll an zombis erell – dhe’n lyha, an re esa y’n bennskol – dhe vos ‘dinerthys’, dell leveris vy.) Yn ‘ouryow byghan’ an nos, my a greupyas yn-mes unnweyth arta – owth assaya kales, an prys ma, ma na dhistemppren vy eskelli-kroghen an froeth esa y’m ogas. Yth o sempel ow hynsa oberenn: hwithra florennow-enowans an kerri-lu rag determya mar pe dialhwedhyow ynna – ha, dres henna, kuntelles dew goplow botas ha dew hatt dhiworth veranda chi an porther. Ny vynnav agas trobla gans manylyon an kynsa kaskyrgh ma. Lowr yw leverel bos dialhwedhys oll an kerri-lu - hag yth esa dialhwedhyow y’ga florennow- enowans. (Wosa oll, piw a allsa aga ladra? A-der my, heb mar.) Ha’n dillas a veu kuntellys dhiworth an veranda heb droglamm. Dres henna, yth esa hwath gwithyas ogas dhe yet an ynkleudhva – souder dihaval an prys ma – hag ev renkys yn y gador arta! “Hmm. Yth eth henna yn ta,” a brederis vy. Meur ow gormola, my a dhehwelis dhe’n gleudhgell gans an dillas. Ny heveli Davydh dhe vos kemmerys gans ow sewenyans. Byttegyns, nebes anes o ev arta. My a omdhiwiskas (ow dillas o hwath plos kyn fia golghys a-gynsow) rag omwiska yn uniform an serjont re ladersen dhiworth chi an porther. Herwydh usadow y’n dydhyow ma, y fia gwriys tokyn-hanow war an krys, a-ugh poket a- gledh. Y fien alemma rag ‘Serjont S. Angove’ – hanow nag yw kales dhe berthi kov anodho, dell grysav. My a slynkyas an botasennow war ow dewdroes noeth – nyns esa na hwath lodrigow dhymm mes, marnas my a esedhas ny ylli hemma bos merkyes. An botasennow o, yn naturel, kepar dell vydhons gwrys gans an lu, herwydh y usadow: bughkenn du ha tew rag gorheri an dhewufern, lasys kales ha lovanek hag yth esa lies gwiskas a vughkenn ynwedh, gans kentrow eskys, dhe’n godhnow anedha. (Perfeyth rag donsya dhe’n Trocadero!)
By nightfall, I was no further advanced in convincing David of the wisdom of my plans. In short, he couldn’t understand them beyond the most basic outline. Well, I suppose that was as much as I could ask of any dead person. David’s lack of understanding would not prevent me from putting the plan into effect. I should have been a little more cautious, I guess, but, without a plan of some sort, David’s ‘death expectancy’ was likely to be very short indeed. (All of his fellow zombies – at least the ones on campus – seemed, as I’ve said, to have been ‘neutralised’.) In the ‘wee small hours’ of the night, I crept out once more – trying hard this time not to upset the nearby fruit bats. My initial mission was simple: to check the ignition locks of the army vehicles for keys and collect two pairs of boots and two slouch hats from the veranda of the gate-keeper’s house. I will not trouble you with the details of this initial foray. Suffice it to say that all of the army vehicles were open and had keys in their ignition locks (after all, who was going to steal them?) And the boots and hats were duly collected without mishap. Oh, and the guard at the cemetery gate – a different member of the squad this time – was slumped in the chair and again snoring! “Hmm. That went well,” I thought. I returned in triumph to the crypt with the clothing. David seemed unimpressed by my feat – but was, once again, a little edgy. I stripped off my recently washed – but still filthy – rags to dress myself in the Sergeant’s uniform that I had stolen from the gate-keeper’s house. As was the custom in those days, my name-tag was sewn into the shirt, above the left chest pocket. Henceforth, I was ‘Sergeant S. Smith’ – which was, as I’m sure you will agree, conveniently easy to remember. I slipped the boots onto my bare feet – still no socks to be had but, unless I sat down, this was not noticeable. The boots were, naturally, of standard army issue: thick black cowhide covering the ankles, tough, ropey bootlaces and multiple layers of hobnailed leather on the sole. (Perfect for dancing at the Trocadero!)

AN HELGHOR HA’N HUNI HELGHYES Karetys yn kanna ha bewin sellys – henn o’m kynsa boes wosa agan diank dhiworth Pukkapunyal. Hag, yn hwir, y hwodhva meur ras anodho. Dres lyklod, an Serjont re dhalgennsa pyth a ylli sesya yn mysk an taklow ow korwedha war vynkow y’n voesva ha’ga thewlel y’n sagh keyn. Avel melyssand, yth esa fardellik leun a desennow-kales, kales dres eghenn, leshenwys ‘tesennow-kales rag an keun’. Leun a vegyans, sur ov, ha gans meur a fiber – mes yth esens dhedha blas a gawgh fornyes. (Gwra tybi dha vos y’n kaskleudhyow an Voward a’n Howlsedhes, a’th sav down yn leys – hag ena res o dhis dybri an tesennow-kales na rag keun. Thukk!) My a ros tamm bewin sellys dhe Dhavydh. Yn targanadow, ev a viras orto, meur y skorn (mar kyll dewlagas marow diskwedhedhes skorn). Yn apert, kas o dhodho yn y gever. Ev a wrug son kepar ha bramm ha’y dewlel dhe-ves a- dhistowgh. Homm o neppyth may fia edhomm dhymm oberi. My a wodhya na yllyn menowgh kavoes proviansow a gig denel kro, heb meur a galetter. Ytho, res a via dhe Dhavydh kavoes neppyth arall dhe dhybri, neppyth o gwiw dh’y stevnik-zombi. (Ha nyns o bewin sellys an ‘neppyth’ na, yn apert.) Hanter-dohajydh, my a erviras gul neb hwithrans. War benn an nessa bre, bre ughella ages an huni le mayth esen ni, bre an gowfordh, y sevi tour-goelyador forsakyes. Henn yw leverel, onan a’n touryow, gwann ha prennek, may hwre esedha tangasoryon rag hwilas sinys a vog orth an gorwel – po y’n gwylvos nes dhedha. Yn sertan, ny via an huni ma devnydhyes dres lies blydhen. Yth esa ow leytha (ha felsys) y lithyow framweythel – gwrys gans prennyer dhiworth an gwylvos ma, heb dhout. Dres henna, yth esa poesans apert dhe’n drehevyans dien hag y halsa nans o termyn pur hir an skovva a esedhsa war y benn. (Yth esa temmyn anedhi skoellyes oll a-dro y ven, ow teudhi yn lent y’n dor.) Byttele, nyns o an tour hwath ow fyllel yn tien hag ytho y hyllyn, gans neb kaletter, y grambla. Kepar dell gryssen, penn an tour a ros dhymm gwel an lasneth oll a-dro, a-dreus milvilyow anedhi – hag, y’n pellder, my a ylli gweles selva Pukkapunyal. Ha, dres henna, y hyllyn gweles a-hys oll an fordh (po ogas) a ledya dhiworth an gwylvos a-dro dhe Vre an Krann dhe’n selva.
THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED Tinned carrots and corned beef – that was my first meal after escaping from Puckapunyal. And I was truly grateful for it. Presumably, the Sergeant had grabbed what he could from what was lying about in the mess and had thrown it into the kitbag. For ‘dessert’, there was a packet of rock-hard ‘dog biscuits’. Very nutritious, I’m sure, and lots of fibre – but they tasted like baked excrement. (Imagine being up to your thighs in mud, in the trenches of the Western Front, and then having to eat those dog biscuits. Yuck!) I gave some corned beef to David. Predictably, he looked at it scornfully (inasmuch as dead eyes can express scorn), made a very disapproving noise (which sounded like flatulence) and promptly discarded it. This was something I would need to work on. I knew I couldn’t readily obtain a regular supply of freshly killed human flesh. So, David would just have to find something else that suited his zombie palate. (And corned beef was obviously not that ‘something’.) By mid-afternoon, we decided to do a little exploring. On an adjacent hill-top, a hill which was much higher than the one into which the tunnel had been driven, there stood an abandoned watch-tower. You know, one of those spindly wooden towers that fire-fighters sit in to watch for any signs of smoke on the horizon or, close by, in the bush. This one had definitely not been in service for many years. Its structural members, made of local timber, were rotting and cracked. The whole thing had developed a discernible lean and the original cover for the platform that sat atop the structure had been blown away a long, long time ago. (Bits of it lay about the base, slowly melting into the humus.) Nevertheless, the tower was not entirely on the point of collapse and I was able, with some difficulty, to climb it. Just as I had suspected, this vantage point afforded me with a view not only of the surrounding bushland for miles around but, in the distance, of the main base at Puckapunyal. Far more importantly, I could see (more or less) right along the road that led to the base from the Scrub Hill area.

Chi Gwynnuwer o le pur boesek ena: fow studhyek gans moesow gwrys a gromium ha lamineks, mayni lowenek ha rol-voes gans meur a voes sawrek mes anyagh. Yth o an le mayth es mar mynnes mos dhe’n fylmow an nessa daras po skapya yn sempel an klassow. Y hallsa an yonkers dhiworth SUA y gammgemmeres avel ‘diner’ po shoppa apotekary an blydhynnyow 1950 – mes, yn hwir, nyns o po an eyl po y gila. “Chi Gwynnuwer” o hepken. Ha my entrys, my a verkyas bos dibobel Chi Gwynnuwer mes yth esa an sinys, herwydh usadow, re dremensa gordhroglamm an zombis an fordh ma: moesow disevys, lestri-pri brywys ha goes kowlys war an leur – mes nyns esa korfow vyth. Chanj plesont o henna. An golowys o hwath yn fyw ha, dre happ, yth esa an yeynellow hwath owth oberi. An gwel a viras an den ow famya ma, hag ev igerys daras an chyf yeynell, o leun a lowender ragdho: lenwys o gans stokk, stokk a draow hweg a venestras Chi Gwynnuwer herwydh usadow dh’y vush yowynk. “Kevyn krampoeth ha dyenn rew!” yn-medhav. My a doemmhes leswedh war an forn ha gul bollas kemmysk krampoeth. Tamm oyl y’n leswedh, unn vynysenn po diw kres-flamm, treyl pub krampoethenn pan yw ogas dhe worfennys ha voila! Krampoeth. Argh an ‘stack’ (bern) a syw gans sugen gwinwel ha lies loyas a dhyenn rew hag ottenna! Selwyans dhe dhen ow famya. My a offras tamm dhe Dhavydh, a’y esedh dhe voes a-ogas, mes yth heveli y vos divlasys yn feur gans an tybyans a dhybri boes an dus vyw. Ytho, my a’n dybris oll anodho hag ev ow mirys orthymm gans y dhewlagas marow. Ny dalvien vy dybri kemmys boes na voes mar lenwys gans sugra drefenn, dhe wir, y fien vy ow famya, yn klynykal. Ny dhyb’sen boes gwir a-dhia an kynsa omsettyans – a-der nebes fardelligow a demmyn dhiworth an jynnow-wertha y’n lyverva. Ytho, ya, my a hwyjyas – nyns eus edhomm dhywgh a’n manylyon mes y tybis Davydh dhe brederi: “My a dherivas dhis yndella!”
Genevieve’s was an institution then: a typical student dive with chromium and Laminex tables, cheerful staff and a menu with a whole bunch of fairly tasty but unhealthy food. It was the place to go whether you were going to the movies next door or simply skipping classes. Kids in the U.S. might reasonably have mistaken it for a diner or a 1950’s drugstore – but it wasn’t actually either. It was just “Genevieve’s”. As I entered, I noted that Genevieve’s was deserted but there were the usual signs that the Zombie Apocalypse had called by. Upturned tables, shattered crockery and coagulated blood on the floor – but no actual corpses. That was a pleasant change. The lights were still on and, as it turned out, the fridges were still operating. The sight that this particular starving man beheld upon opening the main fridge door was blissful. It was fully stocked with all the treats that Genevieve’s customarily served to its youthful crowd. “Pancakes and ice-cream it is!” I said. I heated a skillet on the stove and made a bowl of pancake mix. A bit of oil in the pan, a minute or two on medium flame, flip each pancake near the end and voila! Pancakes. Load the resulting ‘stack’ with maple syrup and several scoops of ice-cream and you have a starving man’s salvation. I offered some to David – seated at a nearby table – but he seemed repelled at the very idea of eating living folks’ food. So, I ate it all myself while he watched me with his dead eyes. I shouldn’t have eaten so much food nor food so rich in sugar because, truth be told, I really had been starving, clinically so. I hadn’t eaten a solid meal since the initial onslaught – just a few packs of snack-food from the vending machines in the library. So, yes, I threw up – you don’t need the details but I imagined David was thinking “I told you so!”

My a dreylyas dhe Dhavydh, meur hwath y dros dybrians: “Dewis euthyk yw, ‘Dhav. Eus dhis gwella tybyansow?” Ev a levas an geryow “gronff” ha “nunff” (lenwys y anow) mes ny grysav an geryow ma dhe vos dre fordh a worthyp. Ogas dhe vora o. Y lenthas an tren hag ev ow neshe dhe’n orsav Kastlemayne. My a draylyas Davydh dhiworth an Ughkapten – po, dhe’n lyha y remenant, ha hwettya y fas, gorherys gans goes ha kig denel. Nyns o henna rag y dhiskwedhes ow fowt kommendyans, heb mar. Res o dhymm yn sempel gwaynya y attendyans. My a’n traylyas bys porth an koch-fardellow. Ev a vedhyglas y grodhvol hag assaya dehweles dhe’n dra mayth esa an moyha bern dhodho. My a’n dastennas ha, ow fas erbynn y huni, dasri y vedhyglans: “Mar trigyn omma, y fydhyn marow!” Meur y yeunes, ev a viras orth pyth esa ow korwedha war an leur – mes, dhe’n lyha, ev a’m konvedhas. Yth esa y lust-woes owth omdenna ha, lemmyn, ev a ylli ow klywes yn mysk konnar y ‘brederow’ y honan (pypynag ens i). Ev a goelas orthiv, dell heveli, hag ytho ervira dhe’m sywya – yn despit dh’y dhebron meur dhe driga rag kowlwul y omgemmeryans grysel. Y fesya an tren dhe fronna ha lenthe. Pan o an toeth kepar dell gerdh den, ni a lammsa dre borth an koch – kyns an tren dhe dhrehedhes an kay ha keffrys, dell esa govenek dhymm, kyns an govynnow tykkli orth agan gortos ena. My a slynkyas daras an koch-fardellow poran pellder lowr rag gasa ni dhe dremena dredho. Yth esa an tren a-berth y’n diwettha 50m dhiworth an kay kyns my dhe grysi bos salow rag agan lamm. Seulabrys, yth esen ow synsi paw loubek dhe Dhavydh. Ni a lammas warbarth ha tirhe yndellma: unn hanter war an laster meyn-loes ha’n hanter arall war an pri kales rybdho. Meur ow fayn, heb gwyns en. Yth esen ow korwedha ena dres nebes eylennow presyous, owth omwovynn mars esa neppyth terrys dhymm. Yn kettermyn, yth esa Davydh a’y sav hag, yn apert, yn poynt da – mar nyns eus skians vyth dhodho, nyns eus klywans na byth moy, dell heveli dhymm y’n tor’ na. Kynth esa hwath payn yn lies rann ow horf, nyns o possybyl dhe darya ha my gwelys an tren ow hedhi orth an orsav. Hwath igor o daras an koch-fardellow. Diskudhans o rybon ni. My a omdraylyas a’m sav ha kemmeres paw Davydh unnweyth arta.
I turned to the noisily-feasting David: “It’s a crap option, Dave. Any better ideas?” He uttered the words “gronff” and “nunff” (with a full mouth) but I don’t think it was by way of reply. It was nearing dawn. The train slowed on its approach to Castlemaine station. I dragged David away from the Major – or what was left of him – and slapped David’s bloody, gory face. This was not to express my disapproval, of course. This was merely to get his attention. I dragged him to the doorway of the baggage car. He roared in complaint and tried to return to the current object of his interest. I pulled him back and, placing my face very close to his, roared back: “We stay, and we die!” He looked longingly at what lay on the floor – but, at least, he understood. The immediate blood-lust was ebbing away and now he could hear me above the frenzy of his own ‘thoughts’ (whatever they were). He trusted me, it seemed, and would follow my directions despite his pressing urge to stay and finish his grisly undertaking. The train continued to brake and slow. When it got to a walking pace, we would make a leap for it – hopefully, before we reached the platform and the awkward questions that might await us there. I slid back the door of the baggage car just enough to allow us through. The train got to within a mere 50m of the platform before I judged it safe to jump. I was already grasping David’s slimy paw. We jumped together and landed hard, half on the bluestone ballast and half on the packed clay beside it. I was winded and in pain. I lay there for a few precious seconds, wondering if I had broken anything. David, meantime, was up and about – no sense, no feeling, I suppose. Though I was still in pain in several parts of my body, I could not afford to linger as I saw the train come to a halt in the station. The door of the baggage car was still open. Discovery was at hand. I crawled to my feet and again took David’s hand.

PENNLAVAR Kyn na yllyn dagrewi rag El an Mernans Pukkapunyal, ny allsa omdhegyans Davydh pesya. Res o dhodho chanjya y vegyans – ha skonna galla. Wosa nebes dydhyow, ni re assa tiryow Bre an Krann (ni re worrsa korf Mengele yn salow a-berth y’n gowfordhow). Ni re dhasomgavsa dhe sugnekka rann an gwylvos a Vudhykka, moy delledhys dh’agan edhommow. (My re garas pup-prys ‘An Pow Ughel’ – kosel ha meur y bellder dhiworth an sita.) Ny vynnav agas veksya gans govisyon hag anken a dheuth dhyn ni dres an vyaj dhiworth Bre an Krann. Lowr yw leverel, ni a sewenas – hag nyns esa nebonan arall a veu dybrys a-hys an fordh na. My a gemmeras termyn lowr rag dasdhyki dell vydh gwrys guwow. My re gavsa kyns an skians ma pan o flogh, ow helghya preydh byghan war lannow Heylynn Darebin. (Hag, ya, yma dhymm lies roas kudhys.) Wosa nebes seythunyow – mes kyns ow famyans – my eth ha bos skentel yn kachyans an eghennow pals a am a allsa bos kevys y’gan tre nowydh.) Ny yllyn gul Davydh didheurys y’n boes a dheuth dhiworth an avonyow ena – pysk, meskel, gryllas-avon (myamm-myamm!) – byttegyns, wosa termyn lowr ha lies assayans, y teuth dewis arall, nebes blesys da dhe Dhavydh: wollabi tew ha yowynk. A brederis Davydh a-dhistowgh blas kig wollabi dhe vos da, kig rudh ha kough? Na brederis. Res o dhymm termyn ha perthyans, meur a dermyn ha meur a berthyans. Ev a skonyas an dewis ma dres termyn hir – ha res o dhymm godhevel lies kedrynn ha steryks-zombi. (Dhe wir, my re erviras bos meur a daklow yn kemmyn yntra zombis ha fleghes mayth esa dew vloedh.) Wor’tiwedh, byttegyns, ev a wrussa sywya a-dhelergh dhymmo vy ha my ow helghya, ha pan frappsen wollabi gans guw, ev a ressa yn uskis der an gwylvos ha koedha yn kraf warnodho – kepar dell wrussa dhe Gapten Doktour Mengele. Ass o lowen an dydhyow na! Unn jydh, ha ni a’gan esedh, ow densel orth agan diwettha kevywi a wollabi (goesek), my a dreylyas dhe Dhavydh ha leverel: “Fatell via genes Papoua Gyni Nowydh? My a gonvedh bos ena kangourous a drig y’n gwydh. Yth ons teg mes pur lent.” Davydh a roghas yn ughel – martesen, da a via ganso an tybyans ma.
EPILOGUE Though I shed no tears for Puckapunyal’s very own Angel of Death, David’s conduct simply could not go on. He needed a change of diet – and soon. Within a matter of days, we had moved from the Scrub Hill area (having safely stowed Dr Mengele’s remains deep within the tunnel complex) and relocated ourselves to a lusher part of the Victorian forest, more suited to our needs. (I’ve always like ‘The High Country’ – very remote, very undisturbed.) I’ll not trouble you with the trials and tribulations of that relocation. Suffice it to say, we made it there – and no-one else got eaten along the way. I took time out to re-learn the spear-making skills I had learned while hunting small prey along the Darebin Creek as a child. (And, yes, I do have many hidden talents). Within weeks, and before I starved, I became adept at catching the plentiful game that existed in our new home.) I could not interest David in food from the local waterways – fish, mussels and yabbies (yum!) – but, with time and practice, another, more palatable option eventually came onto the menu: chubby, young wallaby. Did David take easily to the lean, red meat of the wallaby? No, it took time and patience on my part, a lot of time and patience. He refused this option for a great deal of time – and I had to put up with many zombie tantrums. (I really have decided that zombies have much in common with two-year-olds). Eventually, however, he would trail along behind me as I hunted and, once I had speared a wallaby, he would sprint off through the bush and hungrily fall upon it – just as he had done with Captain Doctor Mengele. Oh, happy days! One day, as we sat contentedly munching upon our latest (bloody) wallaby feast, I turned to David and said: “How do you feel about Papua New Guinea? I hear they’ve got some lovely, but very slow, tree-kangaroos there.” David grunted loudly – I thought he might yet warm to the idea.

“My a garsa kavoes nebes boes ragdha – rag aga skoedhya bys pan dheu difresyans. Mar teu ev. Eus tybyansow dhiso jy?” My re waytsa Powl dhe grysi bos hemma oberenn peryllus - ma na ve anpossybyl yn tien bos gwrys. Byttegyns, nyns o hemma y gryjyans mann. Y worthyp ev o uskis ha heb trynn: “Yma kert kevelsys parkyes a-gledhbarth an ynkleudhva yn Stret Lygon, kert- yeynell kepar dell yw usyes rag doen proviansow dhe’n gorvarghasow. My a’n welas dohajydh an nessa dydh, kyns dhe dhos an duder oll dhe’m brys. Yth esa hwath owth oberi yn lent an jynn disel y’n tor’ na. Nyns esa sin vyth a’y lywyer. Possybyl yw an kert dhe vos ena hwath.” Ass o hemma marthek. “Ha lenwys gans boes?” a wovynnis vy. “Gwirhaval yw. Ny omdroblis vy rag mires a-bervedh. My ha Charles re omsettsa seulabrys war ji porther. Nyns esa edhomm a voes moy y’n termyn na – ha ny dela an peryll dhe omdhiskwedhes yn apert. Byttegyns, dell yllydh gweles, my a notyas y’m brys presens a’n kert ma rag gul devnydh possybyl anodho y’n termyn a dho. “A vynnydh dos genev ha Davydh rag mires orto?” “Ke dhe-ves!” yn-medh Powl. “Nyns eus edhomm vyth dhywgh ahanan ha, mars esa edhomm yn hwir, ny vien hwath nownek lowr rag henna.” Nyns esa travyth moy bos leverys. My a elwis dhe Dhavydh. Ny dheuth ev. Res o dhymm entras a-bervedh rag y waya dhiworth marder y dhohajydh. (Ya, my a wrug y botya ha, ya, ev a wrug krodhvolas yn ughel.) “Deun yn-rag, ‘Dhav. Yma res dhyn a wul oberenn.”
“I’d like to get some food to them – to keep them going till relief comes. If it comes. Any ideas?” I expected that Paul would think this a dangerous, if not impossible, task to achieve. But, no. His response was as quick as it was matter-of-fact: “There’s a truck parked just to the North of the cemetery in Lygon Street, a refrigerated truck like they use to make deliveries to supermarkets. I saw it on the afternoon of day two, just before everything went black for me. The diesel engine was still idling at the time and the refrigeration unit was still running. No sign of any driver. The truck might still be there.” Amazing. “And full of food?” I asked. “Probably. I didn’t bother to check inside. Charles and I had already raided the gate-keeper’s house. We didn’t need more food at that time – and it wasn’t worth the risk of exposing ourselves by going out in the open. However, as you can see, I made a mental note of the vehicle for future reference.” “Will you come with me and David to check it out?” “Fuck off!” said Paul. “You don’t need me and, even if you did, I’m not yet that hungry.” There was nothing more to be said. I called out to David. He didn’t come. I needed to go inside to arouse him from his afternoon torpor. (Yes, I did kick him and, yes, he did complain loudly.) “Come on, Dave. We’ve got work to do.”

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.
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.

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.
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.)

Ny wrug Davydh dos yn kosel – mes ev a wrug dos, wosa oll. Pok-jatel yw toul effeythys marthusek rag perswadya – rag perswadya zombi hogen. Unweyth arta, kudhys o agan dewlagas. An acheson? Ny yllyn leverel. Martesen, ny vynnens agan aswonn fas an pow. Martesen y fynnens koselhe Davydh – kyn hwrussa an pok-jatel oberenn pur splann rag y amovya. Marthys yw dell wra 10,000 volt dhe gig marow hogen. Skon lowr, Davydh ha my omgavas war warila yn hel-guntellyans vras. An areth re dhallathsa seulabrys yn apert ha ni a ylli klywes lev an Kapten a sadronenni heb lett. Da o gans Kapten y lev, dell heveli, mes ny yllyn bos mar sur a-dro dhe’n woslowysi. Nebonan a gemmeras dhe-ves pyth re gorhersa agan dewlagas ha y feu drehevys kroghlenn rag diskwedhes oll. Davydh a vedhyglas, kepar ha pan eus lostlavar, hag y tyenas kansow souder Yanki warbarth. Hwarvos gwaridi pur. My a viras troha’n Kapten, a’y sav orth an mikrogowser, meur y dransyek. Lowen lowr en vy bos dhodho y vannblesour – an huni na, yn neb kas. Wosa oll, hwath byw en vy hag yth esa ev ow synsi hwath galloes a-dro dhe’m bywnans po mernans. (Ha galloes a-dro dhe dhistruyans Dhavydh keffrys.) An woslowysi a dhasdhallathas anella. Yth esa an areth ow pesya. Molleth Dyw! An gour o annius! Heb hedhi, ev a dhasleveri an keth notyansow ledan a-dro dhe semlans an zombis: kroghen, loes hy liw, dewlagas dysliw, dillas ankempenn, diwweus vras, ... Traow a via apert yn hwir dhe oll an woslowysi, traow a yllens merkya aga honan wosa nebes eylennow. A nag esa travyth y’n skians arbennik an gour ma? Skians a ylli offra dhe’n woslowysi? Yth heveli nag o hemma an kas. Byttele, nyns o hemma marthys vyth. Dres py termyn re spensa yn hwir y’n observyans an zombis ha pygemmys anedha re observsa? Gorthybow: nyns o termyn hir ha, martesen, mann saw onan. Ytho, pyth esa dhodho dhe grysi y vos gwiw rag ri areth dhe’n soudoryon a-dro dhe’n zombis?
David didn’t “come quietly” – but he did come. The cattle-prod is a remarkably effective tool of persuasion, even on a zombie. Once again, we were blindfolded. Why I cannot say. Perhaps they didn’t want us getting familiar with the layout of the place. Perhaps they wanted to calm David down – though the cattle-prod had done a terrific job of revving him up. It’s amazing what 10,000 volts will do to even dead flesh. Soon enough, David and I found ourselves on stage in a large meeting hall. A lecture had apparently already commenced and we could hear the Captain’s voice droning on and on. He obviously enjoyed the sound of his own voice but I could not be so sure of the audience. Our blindfolds were removed and a curtain was raised to reveal all. David roared as if on cue and the hundreds of fresh-faced Yankee soldiers gasped as one. Pure theatre. I looked towards the Captain, standing at the microphone. He was in Seventh Heaven. I didn’t begrudge him his petty pleasure (not that one, anyway). After all, I was still alive and he held power of life and death over me and David. The audience resumed breathing. The lecture continued. Damn this man was boring! Over and over again he repeated the same broad observations concerning the appearance of zombies: grey skin colour, dull eyes, unkempt appearance, enlarged lips, ... Really basic stuff that any member of the audience could observe for himself within a matter of seconds. Did this man not have any insights of his own to offer? Evidently not. Still, this was hardly surprising. How long had he actually spent observing zombies and how many had he observed? Answers: not very long and probably only one. So, what made him think he was qualified to give a lecture to the troops on zombies?

“Y HALLSA AN TOWL SEWENI, ‘DHAV. POSSYBYL YW.” Ogh! Yn hwir, pur dhe les o an lyther ma. Yth esa y’n lyther kommand dhe’n para. Res o dhodho omworra dhe gen tyller, drefenn godros an zombis dhe vos dinerthys a-dro dhe Borth Melbourne. Ha, dhe ble re via kommandys hembrenkyas an para (serjont) mos rag kemmeres y soudoryon? Gas vy dhe redya dhiworth an lyther: “Kommandys osta dhe wul oll an dyghtyansow yw res rag gwaya dha wersellva an jydh hedhyw, Penn-Ynkleudhva Melbourne, kyns 08.00 eur an nessa dy’Meurth, ha mos dre dren dhe’n souderjiow rag tro re via drehevys lemmyn, godrevi an Sita Brenn an Alargh, dhe’n Soth-West. Kemmeres dhe gen tyller dha bara jy yw res rag gweres yn gorlinyans an tardhans nowydh re hwarva a-gynsow y’n tyller ma. Devedhys, ty a wra dha omgommendya dhe gommondant an gaslys (hanow suppressyes) dre bellgowser hag ev a wra gorra yn le oll an dyghtyansow yw res rag treusporth dhe’n gaslys ...” Kler lowr. Lyther pur dhe les - mar mynnen mos, gans tren ha heb lett, dhe Brenn an Alargh. A vynnen mos ena? Yma gwettha leow, a brederis. Hmm. Pyth a wodhyen a-dro dhe Brenn an Alargh? Pennhyns an linenn a’n gledhbarth dhiworth Melbourne, sita yw kevys war lannow an ‘Avon Murray Nerthek’. Porth-avon rag gorholyon- tan. Tre an barvus-gowr Murray. Ha? Na. Henn o oll a wodhyen vy a-dro dhe Vrenn an Alargh. Ytho, my a erviras a-dhistowgh y talvien, Davydh ha my, mos ena skonna gallen. My a dhiskudhas ow thowl dhe Dhavydh. Rann unnik an towl a gonvedhi, dell grysyn, o’m mynnas ev dhe entra a-ji dhe’n eler wag, meur hy afinans, a via gesys y’n gleudhgell – parys bos devnydhyes genen ni – ha, wosa henna, ow mynnas keffrys ev dhe besya kosel ynni dres termyn pur hir. Yth heveli Davydh bos leun a dhout. Ny vern. My a allsa prederi a-dro dhe’n manylyon y’m kosk – hag ena y hallsen aga deklarya dhe Dhavydh ternos vyttin – mar mynna goslowes orthymmo vy po mar na vynna.
“IT MIGHT JUST WORK, DAVE. YOU NEVER KNOW.” Oho! This letter did indeed make interesting reading. It was a letter ordering the squad to re-deploy, now that the zombie threat had been ‘neutralised’ in the area of Melbourne Port. And to where was the squad commander, a sergeant, ordered to re-deploy his men? Allow me to quote: “You are ordered to make all necessary arrangements to disassemble and vacate your current encampments at Melbourne General Cemetery by 08.00 hours, Tuesday next, and proceed by train to the temporary barracks now established on the South West outskirts of the City of Swan Hill. Your squad’s redeployment is required to assist in quelling an outbreak of the infection that has recently occurred in that locale. Upon arrival, you are to make yourself known to the camp commandant (name suppressed) by phone and all necessary transport arrangements to the camp will be put in place ...” Clear enough. A useful document - if I wished to go, unimpeded and by train, to Swan Hill. Did I? A boy could do worse, I thought. Hmm. What did I know about Swan Hill? It was the terminus of the northerly train line out of Melbourne and on the banks of the ‘Mighty Murray River’. A river-port for paddle steamers. Home to the giant Murray cod. And? Nope, that’s about all I knew about Swan Hill. So, naturally, I decided David and I should go there as soon as possible. I outlined my plan to David. The only aspect of the plan that he understood, I think, was that I wanted him to get inside the otherwise unoccupied (but extra- fancy) coffin which had been conveniently left in the crypt – and then to stay quiet for a very long time. David seemed dubious, very dubious. No matter, I would sleep on the details of my plan and elaborate on them to David in the morning – whether he wanted to listen to them or not.

DIFRESYANS AN BAILLIEU. Yth o kepar dell dheskrifsa Powl: kert-yeynell meur, ‘parkyes’ a-dherag dhe wolowys daromres yn Stret Lygon, daras an kab ledan apert ha mes a-wel y lywyer. Yth esa an jynn disel hwath owth oberi yn lent. (Bestes tanow, an jynnow disel ma.) Ken andochyes o an kert – py par devnydh o ev dhe zombis? Ytho, yth omneshas Davydh ha my dhodho hag igeri an darasow a-dhelergh heb kaletter. Yn apert, ny dhallathsa an lywyer saw a-dhiwedhes doen proviansow dh’y werthjiow – lenwys yn tien o an kertgell yeynellys gans boes rewys a bub sort. Kig bewin ha kig yar – gwrys ha rewys. Froeth ha losow-kegin. Gweliasow-karg anedha. Tonnas anedha, yn hwir. Yth esa moy a voes es dell o res rag maga an fowesigyon y’n Lyverva Baillieu dres seythunyow a dho. “Hay, ‘Dhavydh! Ass yw Powl awenek pur! Possybyl a via tremena seythunyow rag kavoes neppyth kepar ha hemma.” Ny leveris Davydh travyth - ny dheuth dhiworto rogh hogen. Nyns o poesek an materow ma dhodho lemmyn ha, dell wodhyen, ev a vynna yn feur bos yn ken le (yn sellder Chi an Kesunyans). “Ny’m deur, ‘Dhav,” yn-medhav. “Ny vynnav dehweles alena.” (Marnas esa edhomm ter dhymm a wul yndella.) Namnag erviris vy lamma y’n kab ha lywya an kert a-dhistowgh dhe’n Baillieu mes y teuth dhymm tybyans arall. Y’n kynsa le, my a allsa y lywya dhe’n gleudhgell po, y’n lyha, maga nes dell yllyn dri an kert meur ma dhodho. “Lamm a-bervedh, ‘Dhav,” yn-medhav. “Yth eson ni ow kemmeres vyaj byghan.” Akordyes o Davydh – nebes a’y anvodh – mes nyns esa dhodho deverow erell esa ow herdhya warnodho. Heb mar, y hyllys skonya a grysi an hwarvos ma drefenn na heveli bos gwirhaval – hag, yn hwir, nyns o gwirhaval mann dhe gavoes kert kepar dell gavsen. Byttegyns, gwirhaval yn tien o’m galloes lywya an kert na. Yn sertan, nyns esa dhymm kummyas-lywya rag an kertow – ha ny assaysen nevra kavoes onan anedha. Gwir o keffrys, mar fia edhomm dhymm lywya an kert ma moy es a-dro dhe’n mildir o res dhymm dhe lywya, an kert a via deghesys erbynn oll an taklow a-hes an fordh - po my a wrussa kisyans dhodho dres y ewnheans.
THE RELIEF OF THE BAILLIEU It was just as Paul had described: a large refrigerated truck, ‘parked’ at a set of traffic lights in Lygon Street, the door of the cab wide open and no driver in sight – and the diesel engine was still idling. (Frugal beasts, those diesel engines.) The vehicle was otherwise untouched – what good was it to zombies? So, David and I approached, and opened the rear doors without difficulty. The driver had obviously only just started his delivery run – the refrigerated compartment was absolutely full of frozen foodstuffs of all kinds. Meat and poultry – frozen and processed. Fruit and vegetables. Pallet loads of it. Literally, tonnes of it. More than enough to feed the fugitives in the Baillieu for weeks. “Hey, Dave! Paul is a complete genius! We could have spent weeks looking for something like this.” David said nothing – not even a grunt came from him. This stuff was now unimportant to him and, I guessed, he wanted to be elsewhere (the basement of Union House) more than ever. “Too bad, Dave,” I said. “I’m not going back there.” (Not unless I absolutely had to.) I was minded to jump into the cab and drive straight to the Baillieu but I had another idea. I would drive it back to the crypt in the cemetery or, at least, as near as I could get this lumbering great vehicle to it. “Jump in, Dave,” I said. “We’re going for a little ride.” David reluctantly complied – he had no other pressing engagements. Of course, you might object that this all sounds highly improbable – and, indeed it was, the finding of the truck, at least. But there was no improbability about my being able to drive that truck. True it is that I did not possess an articulated vehicle licence and had never tried to get one. True also is that, if called upon to drive this vehicle further than the mile or so that I now needed to drive, I would probably have crashed the truck or damaged it irreparably.