Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I by Owen Baillie

lurched at the dog, but he was quick, zipping between their legs in figure eight patterns. 
    “ Don’t get caught doggie,” Kristy said.
    One undead staggered after it, clawing repeatedly at fresh air, unwilling to quit.  It shoved aside the undead, biting into the neck of one in another failed attempt.  The dog scuttled to the edge of the mayhem, turned, and barked.  You can’t catch me, it said.
    “ Go buddy, go,” Dylan said, pumping a fist.  
    The zombie screamed .  The dog turned and ran off into the night. 
    “That’s one of the crazy ones,” Callan said.  “They’re different.”
    The Jeep gave a violent shake, and Greg reached up for the handle above the passenger door.
    “Shit ,” Dylan said.  Several zombies banged on the back window of the Jeep.  “Just drive.  We can’t help the Sirelli’s.”     
    He turned to see if there was another of the crazy ones, but their impassive expressions confirmed they were the normal type.  Fuck, I’m classifying them now, Callan thought.  He flicked the switch down to parking lights, accelerated the twenty yards, and turned right into Gillam Street.  Stragglers from the mob were still thirty yards away.   
    “They’re gone, “Dylan said.
    A soft orange glow spilled onto the road in front of them, offering poor visibility, but it would ensure their stealth through the streets.
    In the darkness, Kristy took Dylan’s hand again.  Her skin was soft, warm, and he closed his eyes, knowing that his feelings for her had grown beyond a curious liking.  Perhaps it was the situation embellishing the sensation, he didn’t know, but the feeling existed in his belly, sweet and enjoyable, fighting against the constant nervousness and fear of the circumstances. 
    She sniffed, fighting tears, and Dylan put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.  What could he say?  There were no words.  They all knew the Sirelli family.  The impact was greater than the old man or the soldier.  If it had been the beginning of a bad dream before, now they were in a nightmare.   
    It took a little more than ten minutes to reach Silvan road.  Dirt greeted them and the car slowed.  They had left the city borough, where thick brush lined the roads and cows and horses roamed extensive paddocks.
    Callan twisted the indicator to full headlights.
    Dylan said, “Should we do that?  They might see us.”
    “ You know what it’s like out here.  The roads are narrow and there are potholes everywhere.  We might end up off the side.”
    The road thinned to one lane in places where feeder creeks cut their way through snarling trees and lush vegetation to join the mighty Murray River further out of town.  Dylan’s parents had talked about forming a paying coalition to have the road paved, but it hadn’t happened, and probably never would, he realised.
    They reache d Dylan’s property where a wide, steel gate loomed, odd against a backdrop of paddocks and trees.  Years ago, an unhappy employee broke in through the garage and confronted Dylan’s mother, so his father had hired a security company to outfit the estate.  Wire fences ran along the boundary, the upper section barbed.  Under normal circumstances, they would be electrified, but he suspected the electricity was out.  They might be able to get the generator running though.  
    Callan turned the Jeep into the small section of space in front of the gate and let the car idle.  The lights painted the entrance and the stony driveway beyond.  The house sat huge and shadowy in the distance.  Three enormous gumtrees towered over the dwelling in different locations, as if protecting it. Dylan had expected darkness.  If his parents were inside, they wouldn’t be advertising it.
    “You don’t have a remote for the gate, do you?”  Callan said.
    Dylan chortled.  A coil of nerves tightened around his belly.  “I wish.”  Kristy squeezed his hand.  “There’s a lever that changes the gate from