Surviving the Evacuation Read online

  “Don’t be a hero!” Corrie called out. “Run, Matilda.”

  Matilda bounded forward, rearing up, balancing on tail and toes so she towered menacingly above the zombies. She punched her arms out, straight at the nearest zombie’s head. Perhaps the zombie’s skull had already been fractured in the plane crash, perhaps the kangaroo was just that strong, but the zombie crumpled to the ground. But that first of the living dead that Matilda had disembowelled was, somehow, impossibly, still moving, crawling across the dirt towards her.

  “Run!” Pete yelled, and this time, Matilda heeded his warning. She bounded back a dozen metres. The zombies followed. Matilda retreated again.

  “Hey, no!” Corrie called. “Leave my kangaroo alone!”

  Pete looked back at the gate, and then to Matilda, but the animal had vanished.

  “She ran,” he said.

  “Time we did the same,” Corrie said. “I’ll get the bolt cutters.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Listen.”

  “What?”

  “Do you hear that? What is it?” He turned south, towards the sound.

  “It’s a helicopter!” Corrie said. “That’s why she ran!”

  Three single-rotor black helicopters buzzed towards them. They stayed low to the ground, and as they neared, the undead stopped beating at the gate, twisting towards the newcomers. The helicopters didn’t slow until they were almost overhead.

  “Blackhawks!” Corrie said, waving up at the machines. “Army!” She said something else, but he couldn’t catch it above the din.

  Two of the helicopters peeled off, heading towards the crashed plane. The third hovered above them. A pair of ropes dropped from the already open door, and two soldiers belayed down. Two more perched in the doorway, weapons trained as much on Pete and Corrie as on the undead outside the compound. As soon as the boots of the first pair of soldiers hit solid ground beneath the rotor-swirled dust, the next two began their descent.

  Pete backed away as one of the soldiers, rifle raised, approached him. The other soldier immediately headed for the gate.

  “Talk to me!” the soldier yelled; a man, his face almost completely covered in a tactical helmet.

  “We’re alive,” Corrie said. “Only two of us. There were no survivors from the crash! The zombies followed us back here.”

  The soldier turned to Pete, weapon still raised. “Talk to me!”

  “I’m alive!” Pete said. “Really. I am.”

  The soldier twisted his covered head in what might have been a nod or a shake. “Go!” He waved them towards the ropes. One of the second pair of soldiers held them steady. The other had gone to the gate. As Pete reached the fourth soldier, holding the ropes and harnesses, he saw the man who’d questioned him jog over to the other two soldiers. On his command, they raised their weapons and began the methodical execution of the undead outside.

  Before Pete properly realised, he had a harness around his chest and shoulders. With a gut-wrenching, gravity-defying lurch, the ground disappeared, and he was hauled up to the hovering chopper. While he was still debating whether he was more likely to throw up or pass out, a soldier reached out and hauled him aboard. She pushed him into a seat and buckled him into it before pulling Corrie aboard.

  They were safe. He was alive. He closed his eyes, letting that sink in. When the helicopter tilted, and began flying quickly away, he opened them. The first thing he saw was the barrel of a rifle pointing right between his eyes. The soldier behind came more slowly into focus. She was younger than him, sunburned and sweating. Then again, so was he.

  “I’m alive,” Pete said.

  The soldier shrugged. Keeping one hand close to the trigger, she removed her left hand from the barrel, and tapped the side of her helmet, then pointed at his head. Reflexively he reached up and found the bandage.

  “It’s a cut from a car crash,” he said. But over the sound of the rotors, he wasn’t sure she heard him. It didn’t matter. He was safe. He was alive. Alive. The full enormity of everything that had just happened swept over him. He leaned forward and threw up.

  Chapter 11 - Where the Quarantine Begins

  Broken Hill

  “What’s rule five?” Doctor Dodson asked. “This is going to sting,” he added, pulling the bandage from Pete’s forehead. “Good. Just a cut. A neat, clean slice. Not a bite,” he added to the soldier who’d escorted them from the helicopter to the small examining room attached to the airport. “And not too deep. I’ll give you a few stitches, and you’ll be right. Is this the worst of it?”

  “I think so,” Corrie said.

  “Then you can spend the quarantine here rather than bother anyone at the hospital. New restrictions mean I can’t give you any anaesthetic so this is going to sting. Lean forward, into the light. Thank you.”

  “What quarantine?” Corrie asked.

  “What restrictions?” Pete asked.

  “No talking now, unless you want a scar,” Doctor Dodson said. “Quarantine is for twenty-four hours and is for anyone who has proximate contact with the virus without proper protective gear. The restrictions are on everything, at least as far as Broken Hill is concerned. We’re not a high priority when it comes to resupply. There, done. And it wasn’t so bad, was it? I’ll get you a bandage. Mr Guinn, you didn’t answer my question. What’s rule five?”

  It took Pete a moment to remember. “Don’t leave the car,” he said.

  “My car,” Dodson said.

  “And we didn’t, not exactly,” Corrie said. “We didn’t have a chance to get into it. ”

  “My implied point is that you’re here and my car’s not,” Dodson said.

  “There’s not a scratch on it,” Corrie said. “It’s still there, at the cabin.”

  “Hmm,” the old man said. “And he’s really your brother? You’ve different names.”

  “Same mom, different dads,” Corrie said quickly. “But yeah, he’s my little bro. Cornelia Cooper,” she added, speaking to the soldier. “But everyone calls me Corrie. Thanks for saving us.”

  “Josie Bramley,” the soldier said. “And you’re welcome. You’re American?”

  “Known her for four years,” Doctor Dodson said. “She’s one of us. And this one arrived a couple of days ago on that blue and gold jet out on the runway. Neither had anything to do with the crashed plane.”

  “The plane did come from America, then?” Pete asked. “We saw some U.S. dollars among the wreckage, but we weren’t sure.”

  “From Los Angeles,” Dodson said. “They said the planes were waiting to depart when news of Manhattan came in. I take it you’re up to speed on that? The planes left together after the airport was overrun. Took off without permission, flew in convoy all the way here, hoping that there would be too many for us to shoot down.”

  “You’re shooting down planes?” Pete asked.

  “Not me,” Dodson said. “Not us. Not as far as I know. Not yet. But other places have been, if you can believe the rumours. But there are so many rumours, how do you distinguish truth from a tall tale? The pilot of that crashed plane radioed ahead. Said what happened. Someone on board was infected. Infected another. Before they could stop it, everyone was infected, dead, or dying. The co-pilot was bitten. The pilot killed her, but he’d been bitten himself. He said he saw a blinking light, thought it was a runway’s beacon. Said he was putting down in the outback where the authorities would more easily be able to isolate the plane.”

  “That must have been the light from the radio mast,” Corrie said.

  “He got his position wrong,” Private Bramley said. “That’s why it took us so long to find you. There’s something mucking up satellite navigation.”

  “What happened to the other planes?” Pete asked.

  “They landed outside Adelaide,” Dodson said. “They’re under quarantine now. Last we heard, no cases of infection have been reported. There, all done. Any other wounds I should know about?”

  “We’ve got to check,” Private Bramley said. “We
can’t just ask. Orders are—”

  “I know what the orders are, Private,” Dodson said. “But now’s not the time to forget our humanity. Why don’t you get yourself some grub? Get some for these two as well.”

  “But if they’re infected—” Bramley began, but again, Dodson cut her off.

  “I’ll cope,” he said. He pulled a small pistol from his pocket. “Pete, why don’t you go first? Behind the screen, clothes off and into that bucket. I’ll get you some scrubs. And you, Corrie, can explain why you never told me you had a brother.”

  “You’ve been calling yourself Cornelia Cooper?” Pete said when they were alone in a small windowless room with two pairs of adult-sized bunk beds. Each had a mattress still wrapped in plastic, and a sheet and pillow that still smelled of the factory.

  “I was in hiding,” she said.

  “I never liked the Coopers,” he said.

  “Best foster parents we had.”

  “That’s not saying much,” he said. “And Cornelia? Her I remember. She was always so mean. A complete brat.”

  “Says you,” Corrie said. “She was nice to me when I really needed it. One of the few people I wish I’d been able to stay in contact with. I left the sat-phone back at the compound.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The plane is still here, so I assume the pilots are, too. I wish Rampton and Jackson had flown away, or at least left town. Then there would be absolutely no way for me to contact Kempton, or for her to contact me.”

  “Do you want to? Do you think she wants to?”

  “I don’t, and I hope she doesn’t,” Corrie said. “Why would she? But they’re a complication we could do without. I left the book behind, too.”

  “Which book? Oh,” he added, remembering the paperback in which she’d hidden a memory card. “Does it matter?”

  “Now? No. I guess nothing much does, not when they’re already implementing quarantines and restrictions. It’s beginning.”

  “What is?”

  “Whatever comes next,” she said. “The old world is ending. Whatever emerges from this chaos will be very different from anything that went before.” She sat on one of the narrow cots. “At least it’s cool in here. Cool and quiet.”

  “You don’t think I was infected, do you?” he asked.

  “No. It’s well over twelve hours since we went to the wreck. You’d have turned by now if you were going to.”

  “I’m going to believe you,” he said, and sat on the bed opposite. He lay down. The bed was too short, but he didn’t care. The scrubs were tight on his waist, but he didn’t care about that, either. They were clean, and so was the room. “And it’s air conditioned. I like that.”

  “There’s barely room for the two of us in here,” Corrie said. “I wonder what they’d have done if there’d been survivors from the crash.”

  “The doctor said something about going to the hospital. They must have planned to take them there.”

  “Probably,” she said.

  Pete closed his eyes, and instantly saw the charred faces of the undead. He opened them again. “Tell me about Cornelia. Why’d you like her?”

  “What? Does it matter?”

  “I’d rather talk about that than what just happened. She was always telling me to go away.”

  “Because we were teenagers and you were a little kid,” Corrie said. “She stole me my first computer.”

  “Stole it?”

  “Of course. How were we going to buy one? It happened like this…”

  As she talked, he gained a different perspective on their childhood. While that didn’t diminish the pain and anguish of his early years, it helped him ignore, if only for a few hours, the absolute horror they’d more recently survived.

  Chapter 12 - Countess Qwong

  The Airport, Broken Hill

  22nd February

  Eventually, Pete dozed, though fitfully. It was surreal to be somewhere so calm, so quiet, after the horror that had followed the plane crash. His stinging forehead, aching legs, and bruised shoulders were a constant reminder that the nightmare wasn’t a dream, making him reluctant to sleep for long. And so he was awake when the door opened. On the other side wasn’t Doctor Dodson, or Private Bramley, but a woman in civilian clothes. On the wise side of forty, with the athletic physique of someone on the brash side of thirty, a badge hung around her neck, while her hand hovered over a holstered sidearm.

  “Are you still human?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” Pete said. His eyes fell to the sidearm. “I mean, yes. We’re not infected.”

  “You?” the woman asked of Corrie.

  “Alive, hoping I was dreaming, but I wasn’t.”

  “Nope,” the woman said. “Inspector Tess Qwong. Pete and Corrie, right? G’day.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Corrie said. “But where’s Doctor Dodson?”

  “He’s playing taxi-driver,” Qwong said. “Took a plane up to ferry the workers from Arkaroola down to Port Augusta, and hopefully coming back with some news.” She finally let go of her holstered weapon, and took a small notepad from her pocket. “I’ve a few questions about yesterday, and we’re a bit short-staffed.”

  “Are we in trouble?” Pete asked.

  “I hope not,” Qwong said. “I’ve got most of the story from your mates from the plane.”

  “There were survivors from the wreck?” Pete asked.

  “I mean the pilots from the plane you flew in on, Jackson and Rampton,” Qwong said. “Once we’re done, I’ll take you to a chalet on Eyre Street. They’ve a few empty cabins, and you can stay there until things calm down, or until you leave.”

  “We can leave?” Pete asked. “You mean go back to America?”

  “Yes and no,” Qwong said. “Yes, you can leave. No, you can’t go back to America. There are no international flights, and unlikely to be any for a good while. There are no internal flights, either, except on official business. Your mates are in the same hotel they’ve been staying in since they’ve arrived. They want to go to Melbourne. Any ideas why?”

  “Me? None,” Pete said.

  “They say there are company offices there. It’s Lisa Kempton’s company, Lisa Kempton’s plane, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “Are they going to fly to Melbourne?”

  “No,” Qwong said. “That plane is going to remain on-stand for the foreseeable, though it’s anyone’s guess how long that’ll be. They say they’re going to drive to Melbourne, that they want to buy a car. If they can find someone to sell them one, then they’re free to leave. Anyone is, and we’ll give you enough fuel to reach the coast. For now. Today. Tomorrow might be different, which is why a good portion of the town have already left. We’ve shut the bars and pubs. Stores can open, but most haven’t. Prices have been fixed at last week’s value, and profiteering has been outlawed under the Emergency Powers Act. Not that it matters since credit cards don’t work and the banks are shut. If you want to buy anything, you’ll have to use cash.”

  “I don’t have any money on me,” Corrie said. She tugged at the scrubs she was wearing. “I don’t have anything. It’s all up at the fence.”

  “My wallet’s on the plane,” Pete said. “So is my phone. Though I don’t have any Australian cash, and not much American.”

  “I doubt greenbacks are worth much,” Qwong said. “And mobile phones have been restricted. The satellite network’s playing up, and the internet’s loading slower than a cicada crawling up a window. That’s not a metaphor, that’s a description of what I was watching while trying to get online this morning. How well do you know those pilots?”

  “Um… not well at all,” Pete said. He wondered what to say. He wondered how much to say. Remembering the advice Rampton had given when they’d landed, he opted for the truth. “I only met them on the plane when we flew out.”

  “You can see them if you want,” Qwong said. “We’ve a curfew at night, but everyone’s free to do what they
like during the day. Not that there’s much going on. The museum’s opened, and there’s an orchestra from Perth that’s putting together a concert. They’re staying in the same chalets I’m going to stick you two in, so I hope you like music. Why did Lisa Kempton send her plane here?”

  “I don’t know,” Pete said. “Not exactly. It was something to do with a mining executive, or buying a mine. I was basically catching a ride.”

  “What’s been going on?” Corrie asked. “In America, I mean.”

  “It’s bad, I’m afraid,” Qwong said.

  “And here?” Corrie asked.

  “More planes have arrived, and more arrive every hour,” Qwong said. “Some carry the infected, but everything is under control, or so I’m told. You two are siblings?”

  “Yes,” Corrie said. “I came here to escape my old life. But I wasn’t running away from him. We just fell out of touch.”

  “You’ve different surnames.”

  “Same mom, different dads,” Corrie said. “We grew up in foster care, but how is that relevant to the plane crash?”

  “It’s not,” Qwong said. “And this isn’t an interrogation. It’s a job interview. Because of the runway, because of the railway line, because of the solar power-plant, Broken Hill is to become a transit hub. Miners and tourists are being gathered here, from where they’ll be sent south. Same with most of the locals. Don’t ask me what they’ll do down there, but there’s no point people staying if their reason for being here was to run a store and they’ve no new stock arriving. Don’t ask me what or who will be transited through Broken Hill, because no one’s told me that, either. They did say that all federal and state employees have been recalled to government service. Conscripted, if you like. Not into the military, but to aid the civil power. A good portion of the town left yesterday, heading to relatives or friends, or just heading out. That includes a good number of my officers and support staff. I need auxiliaries. Not for policing, but for driving, maintenance, and other ancillary work. Doctor Dodson vouches for you. Captain Hawker does, too. Says you held your cabin against superior numbers until help could arrive.”