Surviving the Evacuation Page 20

  Menindee, New South Wales

  “That’s Menindee up ahead,” Qwong said. “That sign is for the diesel-stop at the northern edge of the town. The southern edge is bordered by the Darling River. The campsite is on the other side of the bridge.”

  “We’re stopping for gas?” Pete asked as Qwong slowed the van, bringing it to a halt outside the fuel station.

  “No,” Qwong said as she checked the mirrors. “Do you remember that bloke from the train station with all those suitcases, Terry? Now, do you see that car that’s been pushed to the kerb, the calico five-door with red stripes covering the rust? That’s Terry’s car.”

  “He can’t have beaten us here, can he?” Pete asked.

  “Not in that clunker. Not a week goes by, it doesn’t break down. The quickest way to get somewhere in that car is to leave it behind. Everyone in town knows it, and none of them would buy it, but some musicians might.” She reached for the shotgun. “Finger off the trigger,” she said to Corrie. “If we see people, they might actually be the living kind.”

  “Got it,” Corrie said. She checked the mirrors herself and climbed out. Pete followed, and trailed them over to the car, though he was more interested in the hint of a town he could see further along the road. It was clearly small, more a hamlet, a settlement, an outpost in the outback. There was more green, more trees, but no signs of life, not that he could see, but something made him think they weren’t alone. He couldn’t place what.

  “Doors are locked,” Qwong said, trying the driver-side.

  “Same here,” Corrie said from the other side. She leaned forward. “There are bags of rice in the back. Pasta, too. I’m not sure what else, but most of the backseat is full.”

  “The picture is coming into focus,” Qwong said. “Or considering who we’re looking for, I should say that the chorus has begun. After they were kicked out of the chalets, I put the musicians up in a string of houses opposite the supermarket. The store was closed, and we’d moved all the food into the stockroom, locking that tight since that was less labour than moving the food somewhere else. I put some volunteers on guard. Not cops or soldiers, but locals. Solid people. Reliable, I thought. Then the looting began. The guards had to be redeployed. The stockroom was looted. Emptied. And I figured it was the people I’d had guarding it, since they disappeared, too.”

  “And the musicians stole the food?” Pete asked.

  “That packaging matches the shop’s own-brand label,” Qwong said. “After they stole the food, carried it across the street, the musicians must have been worried they’d be discovered, charged, and prosecuted. That’s why they left Broken Hill. As to why they thought they could survive on their own, I think we can blame fear. And I think we can guess what Terry had in his suitcases. Rice must be worth more than its weight in gold. That’s how they bought his car.”

  “But there’s only one car here,” Pete said. “And the food is still in the back.”

  “That’s precisely it, isn’t it?” Corrie said. “They would have purchased other vehicles, more reliable vehicles. And they had space for the people from this car, but not for the food as well.”

  “It’s not far from here to the campsite,” Qwong said. “They probably decided they could come back for this food. Assuming that, when they got to the campsite, they didn’t keep going.”

  “If they did, how do we find them?” Pete asked.

  “We won’t,” Qwong said, heading back to the van. “We’ll leave the police van here and continue on foot. The engine-noise would cover the sound of voices, and lose us the element of surprise.” She reached inside the van and took out a pair of police windbreakers. “Put these on. Let’s look as official as we can. And Pete, you better take this.” She handed him her shotgun and then took the third from the box. “It’s not that I think you’ll need it, but I don’t want to leave the weapons unattended. If they stole all that food, we don’t need to worry about this turning into an amateur production of Lord of the Flies, but they might be taking their inspiration from Mad Max. Corrie, you show him how it works, I’ll radio in where we are.”

  “The shotgun’s heavier than I was expecting,” Pete said, as he and Corrie walked a few metres away from the van.

  “There’s the trigger. That’s the safety. That’s the pump,” Corrie said.

  “No, I’ve got it,” Pete said.

  “Keep the barrel pointed at the ground,” Corrie said. “And be ready for the recoil.”

  “And so things change again,” Pete said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I preferred it when I was shifting boxes on the airfield. I know everyone dreams of being an action hero, but the last few years, I really just wanted a quiet life. But even the definition of quiet has changed. You must feel the same.”

  “I’m not thinking about it,” she said. “I’m thinking about finding these musicians, driving back to Broken Hill, and having something to eat. Simple goals, easily attained, with no thought as to what’ll happen tomorrow. Trust me, that’s the best way.”

  “It’s what you did when you were on the run?” he asked.

  “No, when I got here,” Corrie said. “On the run, when it was a different city every day, a different country every week, my brain was on fire, always thinking, planning, plotting. It was exhausting, and counter-productive. Back then, I had no idea where the next plane was going to take me, so it was pointless worrying about the flight after that. Now, we didn’t expect to come to Menindee this morning, so who knows where we’ll be going tomorrow?”

  “Makes sense,” Pete said. “Doesn’t make me stop worrying.”

  “Me, neither. That windbreaker suits you.”

  “Police, yeah,” he said, looking down. “A new career, and I was just getting my head around carpets. What kind of tree is that?” he asked, not really interested, but just wanting to talk about anything that was even vaguely normal.

  “Eucalyptus,” Corrie said. “As in koala bears.”

  “Really?” he asked, brightening.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean you’ll see any. Not around here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Closer to the river, you should see some kangaroos, or monitor lizards, maybe some emus. Could be a few wombats.”

  “Bats? In daytime?”

  “No, wombats. They’re like a miniature furry hippo.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Good news and bad,” Qwong said, coming over to join them. “The first train’s only just left.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  “The bad,” Qwong said. “Things are still calm. Liu’s back on the ground, and she and Bobby have started a barbecue on the street. That’s keeping things more than calm. She flew her plane over the road-convoy. All looks well with them, and they’re now Adelaide’s problem. I said we’d call in two hours. If we don’t, they’ll send help.”

  “Is this a big town?” Pete asked as they walked south along Perry Street.

  “About five hundred people,” Qwong said.

  “A one-horse town, then?” Pete asked.

  “I’d say more like two horses, a couple of camels, and a mule-train.”

  “Camels? There are camels in Australia?” Pete asked.

  “They’re a big part of our history,” Qwong said. “You really don’t know much about Australia, do you?”

  “Boomerangs and kangaroos,” Pete said. “But I’m learning.” He sniffed. “That’s what it was. I knew there was something odd. I can smell burning.”

  “Cooking, I’d say,” Qwong said. “That’s why we’re on foot. When the orders came in to empty towns like this, I came here, told everyone they could take as much fuel as they could fit in their tanks and drive to Broken Hill, or drive south, but they couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t guarantee the power would stay on. About a quarter came up to Broken Hill and left this morning for Adelaide. I thought everyone else had gone, but I haven’t had the time to go door-to-door to check.”

  Following their
noses, they headed towards the scent of charred meat, pausing when they came to more cars, abandoned on the side of the road.

  “I recognise that battered Honda,” Qwong said.

  “There’s food in the back,” Corrie said. “They can’t be far away.”

  “I can’t see smoke,” Pete said. “I can’t really see the rooftops, not above the trees.”

  “A musician, a long way from home, heading for a campsite, came across an abandoned town,” Qwong said.

  “It sounds like the start of a song,” Corrie said.

  “Right, so what’s the next verse?” Qwong asked. “They’d stop here, sure. Take a look around. Someone decides to start cooking. It’s meat that’s burning, and since they’re cooking it here, perhaps they found it here, too. But where? Somewhere on Menindee Street or Yartle, I guess. I don’t think they’re armed, and we don’t want a gunfight. We’re not going to shoot anyone. We just want to remind them that there are some laws that haven’t changed, that won’t change, no matter what else has. Keep the barrel pointing down, and stay on my left, Corrie, the right.”

  Pete focused on the hard asphalt, the glaring sun catching on a distant window, the sweat trickling down his neck, but found his focus going back to the gun in his hands.

  When Qwong raised her hand, pointing at something in the road, he was grateful to have something else to occupy his attention. A metre-long case, thirty centimetres wide and ten deep, made of scuffed black plastic. Remembering who they were looking for, he guessed it contained a flute or oboe, or something in between. He didn’t need to see the tension in Qwong’s posture to know it was a bad sign. The car across the alleyway was another.

  The silver-grey SUV was so close to the corrugated fencing on either side that the vehicle had to have been shoved into that position. Qwong glanced through the car’s windows, then cautiously moved to the vehicle’s far side. Wordlessly, she motioned them onwards. Pete stole a glance at the vehicle’s interior and saw nothing inside except the discarded shreds of shrink-wrap packaging.

  Qwong whistled, pointing down the alley and to the left. The smell of burning was stronger, but there was only the thinnest wisp of smoke. With Qwong in the lead, they walked soft-footed along the alley, following the corrugated fence until it ended, revealing the bins at the back of a shop and, too close to be at all hygienic, a trio of un-matching barbecues. Meat had been left on the grill. Tongs lay on the ground among a stack of unused paper plates. Someone had started cooking lunch, but why outside? And where had they gone?

  Qwong seemed to guess the answer, pointing at the rear door to the building.

  Now he was listening for it, Pete heard something. Not voices, but a whisper of cloth, a creak of woodwork as weight was shifted from one foot to the other. That’s where the musicians had hurriedly gone. They’d run inside, to hide from the police whom, no doubt, they assumed were in pursuit following the theft from the supermarket.

  Qwong let go of the shotgun’s grip, letting it dangle one-handed by the barrel. “I know you’re in there,” she called out. “Believe it or not, you aren’t in trouble. I just need to make sure you’ve got enough fuel to reach Broken Hill if you need it.”

  The only reply from inside was a soft thump.

  “You can keep the food you took from Broken Hill,” Qwong said. “And you don’t need to go back there if you don’t want to. But if you’re staying here, I need to know how many you are. And I want to do it quickly and get back on the road.”

  There was a clatter inside, as of something being knocked over.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Qwong said. “I’m coming in.” She marched forward, reached for the door, turned the handle, and was knocked from her feet as two people tumbled out. A woman, grey haired, in jeans and torn shirt. The other, a young man, a teenager in shorts and a t-shirt. The one thing they had in common was that both were covered in blood.

  Qwong hit the ground hard, losing the grip on her shotgun as she rolled across the hard-packed dirt. The two people squirmed and thrashed, knocking into each other as they beat and kicked their way to their feet.

  “Shoot them!” Qwong yelled as she crabbed away from the clawing hands and snapping teeth.

  Zombies. Comprehension dawned all too slowly for Pete. But Corrie realised far sooner, as a third figure staggered into the doorway. She fired, pivoting the gun back to the two on the ground, moving the gun towards the two zombies near to Qwong.

  “They’re too close! I don’t have a clear shot!” Corrie yelled.

  Qwong said nothing. She’d drawn her sidearm. One shot, but it was a miss. A second, and that was a hit, slamming into the teenage zombie’s skull. Her third slammed into the older zombie’s hip, breaking the bone. The zombie collapsed. Qwong’s fourth shot blew the undead woman’s head apart.

  Another zombie staggered out into daylight, in loose-fitting cotton that was beige except where it was coated in dried blood, with a crude bandage around his neck. A shot came from Pete’s left as Qwong fired through the doorway.

  “Pete!” Corrie yelled.

  The bandaged zombie was only three paces away. Reflexively, Pete pulled the trigger. The barrel had dropped, the slug fired low, ripping off the young man’s foot. The zombie didn’t scream, didn’t seem to notice, but lurched forward, falling as it tried to put weight on its oozing stump. Its hands caught around the shotgun, not grasping it, but catching against it, knocking it from Pete’s grip. He reached down to grab the gun as the zombie’s arm swiped up. Its backhand slammed into Pete’s jaw, and he fell backward, dazed.

  Around and above him, gunfire roared as Corrie and Qwong shot into the shop, but neither shot at the zombie whose hands were now curled around Pete’s legs. He kicked himself free, scrabbling backwards, but the zombie crawled on, its sightless eyes fixed unblinking on Pete. The zombie’s mouth snapped open then closed. Its arms swung out. Its nails tore on the fractured concrete. Its other arm flew towards Pete, while its foot and stump kicked and pushed, and it dragged itself towards him. Pete looked for a weapon, but only saw a tumbled stack of bricks next to the bin. He grabbed one and threw it. The brick hit the zombie’s shoulder. His next hit its head. The zombie twitched but crawled on, pushing itself to its good knee, almost standing until it tried to put weight on its missing leg. It fell down and forward. Its hand again curled around Pete’s leg. He grabbed another brick, this time slamming it down on the zombie’s wrist. Bone broke, and the grip loosened.

  He pushed himself to his feet, raising the brick. The zombie went limp as Qwong shot it in the back of its head.

  “Stand back,” Qwong said, ejecting the magazine, loading a fresh. Pistol held two-handed, she moved cautiously towards the pile of corpses around the door. And there were so many. At least ten.

  “What…?” Pete began, but stopped, uncertain what to ask, since surely Corrie would have no better answer than he.

  “Hello!” Qwong called. “Anyone alive in there?”

  No response came.

  Qwong stepped back, eying the corpses. She kicked her shotgun free of the pile, and again until it was three metres from the nearest zombie. Only then did she pick it up. “I think they’re dead,” she said.

  As cautiously as the police officer, Pete retrieved his shotgun.

  “We need to call this in,” Qwong said. “Not all of them were from the orchestra. I recognise one of the other, older, people as locals, but not the rest. And however they got infected, it can’t be that plane wreck. We have to assume this is a new, major outbreak. We’ll go back to the—” But she stopped when a scream rent the air. High-pitched and loud, it came from behind and to the south.

  “People,” Qwong said, and she was already running into danger, Pete and Corrie close behind.

  They ran back down the alley, turning south onto a wide road. Qwong slowed to a jog, a walk, and then stopped completely. It was obvious where the scream had come from. The house had no fence, only a low wall that had proved no impediment to the five zombies. T
hey were by the front door, pushing and shoving, clawing at the woodwork, slamming hands and arms into it.

  Inside, at a window to the left of the door, a curtain moved.

  “There are people in there,” Corrie said.

  A zombie, in the shredded remains of a mostly black uniform, had seen the movement, too. The uniformed creature lurched leftwards, towards the window. Pete raised his shotgun.

  “No!” Corrie yelled. “No, don’t shoot. The slug will go through the walls. Over here,” she yelled, raising her voice. “Over here. Behind you.”

  “Pete,” Qwong said. “Can you get back to the van? Do you remember how the radio works? We need the army here. The frequency is set. Can you call this in? Up there, back to Candilla Street, then onto Perry, back to the diesel-stop. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Go.”

  Pete ran like he’d never run before, shotgun clutched tight in his hands, elbows pumping, eyes forward, sprinting down the road, skidding as he turned. He caught sight of movement, spun and skipped so he was still moving while he stole a glance, assessed the threat, and discounted it. With one arm missing below the shoulder, it had to be one of the undead, but it was moving at barely more than a shuffle. Pete kept running, through the empty streets of the ghost town that had just become something far worse.

  He reached Perry Street, and didn’t slow. Where was the van? Had he run the wrong way? No, there was the gas station. Beneath the sign was the van, but before it was a zombie.

  Pete slowed his run to a walk, checking behind and to left and right, but it was just him and the zombie, staggering closer. A man, at least thirty, thin, but not athletic. The remains of an untidy beard covered the left side of his face; it had been burned off on the right. The clothing was scorched and ragged, its grasping hands gnarled and broken. Its twisted legs shuddered with every dragging footstep. A whispered moan escaped from its broken-toothed mouth.

  Pete raised the shotgun, lined up his shot, then realised that if he missed, he’d hit the van. He took a step to the side, then another, until there was nothing but Australia behind the zombie. He waited, waited, waited, until the zombie was five metres away. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. Only then did he remember he’d not pumped a new round. He hastily ratcheted one into the chamber. Just as hastily, he fired. The slug flew wide, missing by a metre and that was as good as a mile. He pumped another round, and fired again. The round ripped the fingers from the zombie’s outstretched hand. Gore sprayed from its wrecked paw as it swiped the stump through the air, heedless of shock or pain. Pete stepped back, swallowed hard, held his breath, pumped in a new round, and fired from nearly point-blank range. This time he couldn’t miss. This time the zombie fell. This time. This zombie. But it hadn’t been alone.