The End: Surviving the Apocalypse by Richard Palmer Page A

something heavy had been dragged through the scrub. Like a second body.
    There was no trace of gunman or ghoul. Maybe they were the same person, and there was a maniac on the loose. She had one lead candidate for that theory. Q considered following the flattened trail, but decided against it. She probably wouldn’t find anything that way. Worse – she might.
    Rabbit was back, pale and sweaty. He nodded, opened his mouth to ask a question, then turned away to vomit again.
    Angela kept her distance and breathed through her mouth. She was an unlikely ally in an emergency, pale, tubby and with absolutely no firearms training, but Angela sure kept her head in a crisis, and her breakfast. Her kids were lucky to have her.
    Hannah! Q better get back to camp and call her hotline to check that her friend was okay. Just in case this problem wasn’t local. “We gotta get back,” she said.
    “Shouldn’t we try first aid?” Rabbit said.
    Q and Angela exchanged looks. Q tried to exchange looks with the body, but was hampered by its lack of eyes. “You haven’t done a lot of first aid training, have you?” she asked Rabbit.
    He replied with a dry retch. They headed back.
    *
    It took them longer to return. Angela talked constantly to Rabbit about whether it was likely to rain, and how glad she was that there was no snow this late in the season, and how much her kids would love tearing up the bush. Rabbit’s face was the color of the gum leaves around them. The gray-green skin was the first thing Q had seen on him that didn’t look good. She’d thank Angela later.
    They were almost back when they heard quick, light footsteps. They stopped. “Is that it?” Angela said.
    Q shook her head. “Don’t think so. Too regular. Tinkabella said it limped.”
    A figure stepped onto the track ahead of them. It was the large-bellied caretaker. He pulled his rifle up into the firing position and sighted along the barrel toward them.
    Q leaped across Angela and Rabbit and knocked them to the ground. They landed in a tangle. She stared at the man from the dirt. He stood on the path, quite calm, as if he had resolved something. He lowered his weapon and turned to leave.
    “Hey!” said Q, scampering to her feet. “Did you see it?”
    The man paused. He glanced at the cooking pot clutched in her hand. He was quiet too long, as if preparing an answer rather than providing one. “I killed it,” he said at last.
    “Lucky you had your gun with you,” Q said, thinking it a bit too coincidental. “When the attack happened.”
    “I was out hunting.” The man turned to go.
    “What was it?” Q said.
    “Rabid roo,” he said. “Go home.”
    “Wait!” Q called. “We need to—”
    In the distance, an engine revved. In defiance of the ordinary spectrum, Rabbit turned a greener shade of gray. “That’s the Yowie bus,” he said. They ran.
    *
    It was gone.
    Angela sank to the dirt, bereft. She traced a hand in a tire divot. “They left,” she said.
    “They must have gone for help,” Rabbit said.
    “They left us!” Angela’s voice rose.
    Rabbit shook his head. Q leaned against a tree and pulled out a stashed candy bar from the pocket of her cargo pants. It was half-melted and, like a rebound romp on a summer’s night, full of warm, sticky reassurance. She tore off a piece and handed the rest around. Such was Rabbit’s level of shock, he ate it without even asking if it was fair trade.
    “Those bastards!” Angela said. “I hope their intestines are ripped out and eaten by diseased marsupials!”
    “Wow,” Q said. “That was weird and aggressive. Welcome aboard.” She pulled out her little black book and wrote a few lines, then flicked back through the pages while planning their next move. She wanted to check in with her crew and Hannah, but they would surely have warned her if there was an outbreak in Sydney. The hippies hadn’t gone for help, but she was sure they’d inadvertently send it anyway. She wondered if they’d