And then he saw it, just after the road’s next rise. The wheels found the air, cleared the tarmac and returned to earth with a hefty, suspensionless thud. The chassis dropped, threatened to bottom out. The veins in Manolis’s forearms thickened into tight cords as he struggled to retain control. Slamming his foot on the brake, he felt ligaments strain. He winced, sucking in hot air. The car pivoted, skid. When it finally came to a standstill, it was at a ninety-degree angle to its original trajectory. He looked across his shoulder, out the driver’s side window, at the road ahead.

It was roos, dozens of roos, perhaps even hundreds – far too many to count, even estimating was hard. They blurred into each other, overflowed the road, spilled across the land. The asynchronous cud chewing throughout the mob made them look like disinterested teenagers, rebellious, up to no good. They were assorted shapes and sizes but all had the same look in their glassy black eyes. It was a look that reflected the depravity of their existence, the conditions they’d been subjected to, and the treatment they’d received. Backed into a corner, abused, starved, they turned on each other, kicking and slashing and brawling for dominance within a hierarchy. And when they’d finished cannibalising each other, they turned their wrath on the nearest humans.

Re-engaging the accelerator, wheeling the car back onto its course, Manolis eased his way through the mob cautiously, almost deferentially. They were on his road, but his road was on their land. This level of respect heightened when he saw the likely reason behind their gathering: a trail of furry bodies, tails and paws and decapitated heads. The survivors sniffed at the bloodied chunks; a few lapped at the pools of blood before skipping away in revulsion.

Following the road, the carcasses, Manolis felt his mouth drain of all saliva and his stomach turn oily. He nudged the car forward gently, waiting for the living to move, lightly beeping his horn. A few of the more brazen, more combative specimens approached the car, reared back onto their tails and boxed with their hind legs. The side panels were left with deep indentations, as if clubbed with a heavy implement. The lack of windscreen made Manolis momentarily fear for his safety, should one of the more belligerent boomers be bold enough to leap onto the car’s bonnet; he would be powerless to defend against a forceful kick. Reluctantly, he reached for his gun.

Finally, on the road ahead, he saw the thick tyre marks, and the darkening skid disappearing off into the surrounding scrub.

Chapter 39

Chapter 39