Surviving the Evacuation Read online

  Qwong stopped her van outside next to a dusty four-by-four outside the entrance to the main building, adjacent to a desolate car park. Liu pulled in behind her. After a moment’s hesitation, and remembering Menindee, Pete picked up his shotgun before getting out.

  “The car’s from Queensland,” Qwong said, pointing while looking in the other direction.

  “I think the water’s been shut off,” Liu said. “The water feature by the entrance is dry.”

  “G’day!” Qwong called out. She frowned, squinted, walked over to the doors leading into the clubhouse, and cupped her hands over a small light above the sign. “The light’s on, so the electricity hasn’t been switched off.”

  “There’s a small hut behind the sixth hole,” Liu said. “That’s where the main breaker is.”

  “Liu and I’ll tend to that,” Qwong said. “You three see if there’s anything left in the kitchens, but don’t be surprised when the lights go out.”

  “And if we find people?” Pete said.

  “Say hello,” Qwong said. “See you in about twenty minutes.”

  They trudged towards the parched golf course, as Pete walked over to the main doors.

  “They’re broken,” he said, pushing at the door.

  “Woah, not so eager,” Bramley said, taking his arm and pulling him back a step.

  “You think there are zombies?” Pete asked.

  “I was more worried about an IED,” Bramley said. “Captain Hawker gave us a briefing last night. Word came in about some idiot who’d set up a string of devices around Mundaring.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Pete asked.

  “To stop the zombies,” Corrie said. “This door looks okay.”

  “You think?” Bramley asked. “I should have asked the inspector to check. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Where is Mundaring?” Pete asked.

  “East of Perth,” Corrie said. “The lock’s broken, but that’s all. Someone forced their way in. I guess the occupants of that car. Maybe squatters, because if they were looters, we’d hear it.”

  “Ears open,” Bramley said, pushing the door inward. “And keep those gun barrels down. I don’t want to be shot in the back.”

  The entrance hallway was airy, spacious, and cool, humming with the faint sound of an air conditioning unit. Above their heads, long steel tubes hung from the high ceiling, each a different length, though the same few centimetres apart.

  “Are those wind chimes?” Pete asked.

  “It’s art, I think,” Bramley said.

  “It looks a bit like a garden display I saw out on the Silver City Highway,” Pete said. “At the house with the kite. And the zombies,” he added.

  “Look at the floor,” Corrie said. “Scuff marks. Recent. But I can’t see any blood.”

  Three doors led from the reception area. Two were wide and glass-doored. The third had no window and was painted the same colour as the wall. Of the other two, one was marked for the restaurant and bar, the other was marked with a free-standing sign that had been recently knocked over, the writing now hidden.

  Bramley crossed to the windowless staff door while Corrie went over to the reception desk. She reached down behind it, and picked up a beer bottle. “It’s still cold,” she said. “Someone was here very recently, and either they were here for a while or they weren’t alone because there’s a couple of empties, too.”

  “And zombies don’t drink beer,” Pete said.

  As Bramley reached for the handle to the windowless door, a squeaking creak came from behind them. All three spun around. A man stood on the other side of the unmarked glass doors.

  He raised a hand. “G’day,” he called, his voice muffled by the thick glass. He fumbled with a loop of rope tied around the door’s handles, tugged it free and opened the door. “G’day,” he said again. He raised his hands above his head. “I’m not armed. Not a zombie, either. The name’s Mikko.”

  Pete lowered his shotgun. A little more slowly, so did Corrie.

  Mikko lowered his arms.

  “Are you living here?” Bramley asked.

  “Seemed a bit quieter than town,” Mikko said. “Got my own bar, got a restaurant. The service is terrible, but I’m saving a lot on tips. No, fair dinkum, that joke sounded funnier in my head. There’s no running water, and that’s made washing more than a bother. Had to shave in sparkling water.” He rubbed a hand across his uneven stubble. “An interesting experience, but there’s been a lot of those.”

  “We’re shutting off the power,” Bramley said. “And we’re here to collect all the food that’s been left behind.”

  “Thought you might be when I saw the refrigerated vans,” Mikko said. He picked up the fallen sign and used it to prop open the door. “Thought you might make a go of staying in the town when I saw those barricades going up on the roads. Odd times, aren’t they? Zombies, who’d have thought it?”

  “If you can give us a hand loading the vans, we’ll find you somewhere to sleep down in town,” Corrie said. “Somewhere with a shower and a decent bed. We need more hands, more help.”

  “That’s kind of you to offer,” Mikko said. “I’ve a counter proposal for you, Ms Corrie Guinn.” His grin widened.

  “How do you know her name?” Pete asked.

  “There’s no short answer to that question,” Mikko said. “First, let me apologise for—”

  A burst of gunfire interrupted him, a three-shot burst. The first two bullets slammed into Bramley’s back, the third into her neck. Corrie raised her gun as she spun around, firing behind. Pete reflexively pulled the trigger. He’d not had time to aim. The slug went high, slamming into the ceiling. Mikko dived through the propped-open door.

  “Get Josie!” Corrie yelled, firing another shot high, towards the ceiling. Pete dropped the shotgun, and hauled the soldier behind the reception desk. It was only then that he realised the gunfire had stopped.

  “Pressure!” Corrie hissed, grabbing Pete’s hand and pressing it onto Bramley’s neck.

  “No more shooting!” Mikko called. “I want her alive.”

  But the blood had already stopped pulsing between Pete’s fingers. He kept his eyes fixed on the dying soldier’s until the last spark of life went out.

  “She’s dead,” Pete said. “She’s dead!”

  “I meant your sister,” Mikko called conversationally. “You hit, Ms Guinn?”

  Corrie raised the shotgun above the thin wood, and fired a slug in the direction of the propped-open door. Glass shattered, tinkling to the floor.

  “That wasn’t a nice thing to do,” Mikko said.

  Bullets sprayed splinters as they travelled straight through the wooden desk, stitching a line in the painted wall ten centimetres above their heads.

  “I said don’t shoot!” Mikko called. “I need her alive.”

  “Why?” Corrie called out. “Who are you?”

  “Like I said, there’s no short answer to that,” Mikko said.

  Corrie shook her head, then pointed at Pete’s pocket. He frowned, then realised. He’d dropped the shotgun when he’d grabbed the dying soldier, and Bramley had dropped her rifle when she’d been shot, but that didn’t mean he was unarmed. He pulled the small pistol from his pocket. Corrie pointed at the doors behind the reception desk, marked as leading to a restaurant and bar.

  “What do you want?” she called out.

  “I didn’t mean for your mate to be shot,” Mikko called. “Sorry about that. My orders are to bring you back with me.”

  “Back to where?” Corrie asked.

  “Ask no questions, you’ll be told no lies,” Mikko said.

  “Not good enough.”

  “We’re flying out of here,” Mikko said. “You, me, that plane of Kempton’s.”

  Corrie nodded as if it all made sense. It didn’t to Pete. He gripped the pistol in his blood-soaked hand as he moved into a sprinter’s crouch, ready to run.

  “I’m not going anywhere with anyone until
I know what this is about,” Corrie said.

  “We knew your brother was coming here,” Mikko said. “And we knew where he was going. We knew where you were, Coriander. If it hadn’t been for that plane crash, we’d have had this conversation a few days ago. That’s a lesson for you, Parsley, you should always fly commercial.”

  “My name’s Pete.”

  “Fine. Pete and Corrie. We can get to know one another on the flight. I’m sorry about Rogers, too. He shouldn’t have come after you. If you’d not killed him, I would have. I don’t want you dead, either of you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Corrie said.

  “That desk is cheap plyboard with a fancy veneer,” Mikko said. “My mate’s not the best shot in the world, but he doesn’t need to be because he’s got the elevation. If we wanted you dead, we could kill you right now. Hell, if I’d wanted you dead, I’ve had plenty of chances the last few days. What I’ve wanted is to talk, but all those soldiers on the airfield stopped me from coming to say hello. So, throw out your guns, then we’ll catch our flight, get ourselves to somewhere we can hide until this horror show is over.”

  “Like where?” Pete asked.

  “Hasn’t she told you?” Mikko said. “Your sister knows where Kempton’s bunkers are. Her mountain-top retreats, her underground storehouses. That’s what we’re after. What do you say?”

  “Hang on,” Corrie said. She pointed at the door behind them, raising three fingers, then two. “Who do you work for?”

  “I bet you can guess,” Mikko said.

  Corrie lowered her last finger, and pushed at Pete’s shoulder. He ran through the door. Corrie fired blindly as she followed Pete through and into a wide dining room filled with sofas, low tables and no real cover.

  “Down!” Corrie pushed Pete to the left as bullets followed them through the door.

  He sprawled on a sofa, rolling onto the floor.

  “The back! Outside,” Corrie said, pulling his arm. “Get outside, into the open.”

  The sound of gunfire grew louder as Pete pushed himself to his feet, and moved in a half-crouch to the wide wall of windows, pausing as he reached them.

  “The shooting’s stopped,” he said, and followed her lead when she crouched down, watching the doors.

  “Maybe they’re trying to get around the back,” she said.

  “So do we go out the front?” he asked.

  “Unless that’s what they want us to do.”

  “There’ll be a door behind the bar,” Pete said. “Over there, somewhere.”

  “Pete! Corrie! It’s Tess! You two in there?” Her voice came from the entrance lobby.

  “You alone, Tess?” Corrie called.

  “Alone and safe. What’s going on?”

  “Come on,” Corrie said. She pushed herself to her feet.

  Qwong stood by the body of Private Bramley. “How many looters?” she asked.

  “At least two,” Corrie said.

  “They’re not looters,” Pete said.

  “They’re cartel,” Corrie said. “Same as that guy in the restaurant.”

  “Tell me later,” Qwong said. “Get outside, to the cover of the vans. Move.”

  Bringing up the rear, she followed them outside and to where Liu was waiting by the refrigerated vans, the Glock-22 in an iron grip, aimed at the entrance.

  “Stay by the wheel arch. Get down, Liu,” Qwong said. “What the hell just happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Corrie said. “I really don’t. But it began like this…”

  Chapter 24 - Too Late for Reinforcements

  The Golf Club, Broken Hill

  Even as Corrie and Pete ran through their confrontation with Mikko, Qwong radioed for backup. Three minutes later, a Bushmaster PMV barrelled through the gates, a smaller Hawkei four-by-four just behind. Eight soldiers spilled out of the vehicles as another climbed up into the Bushmaster’s turret, taking up station behind the machine gun. Qwong led the soldiers inside, leaving Pete, Corrie, and Liu outside in the shelter of the refrigerated vans and the shadow of the armoured vehicle’s machine gun.

  Five minutes after that, a pair of soldiers came out. “Clear!” one called, then both jogged around the side of the building, disappearing into the golf course. Ten minutes after that, Qwong came outside.

  “You better come and see this,” she said.

  “Did you get them?” Corrie asked.

  “No,” Qwong said. “You don’t want to go inside, Liu,” she added.

  “Is it zombies?” Liu asked.

  “Worse,” Qwong said. “Trust me, Liu, you don’t want to know.”

  Pete and Corrie followed Qwong back inside. “I think there were three of them,” Qwong said. “That’s based on the plates and crockery that’s been used.”

  “Mikko, the one who did the talking, was over there, behind those doors,” Corrie said. “But he didn’t shoot Bramley.”

  “That was the bloke up there,” Qwong said. “Near the ceiling, there’s a small hatch that gives access to the lights. Behind the wall, there’s a crawlspace. In one direction, it leads to a set of narrow stairs, accessible through that door behind the desk. In the other, it leads outside. There’s a door hidden in the facade, a walkway that’s more a lip than a ledge, for use when they want to change the bulbs in the lights or clean the sign. That hatch up there is where he fired from. That installation hanging from the ceiling restricted the view. It’s one of Johno’s. Shooting stars, he called it. I think that’s all that saved you.”

  “He said he didn’t want to kill Corrie,” Pete said.

  “Never trust the word of a murderer,” Qwong said.

  “They saw us arrive,” Corrie said.

  “Saw us, and then got into position,” Qwong said. “The casings are 4.6 by 30mm. According to the sergeant, that’s likely to have come from a Heckler and Koch MP7. That’s a military-grade machine pistol. Serious firepower. Not the kind of thing your average farmer might have. Not even the kind of weapon our everyday criminal might buy.”

  “And I thought my luck had run out,” Pete said. Then he saw Bramley’s body, now covered with a groundsheet. “I don’t think the boss, Mikko, wanted to kill her. It was the other guy who shot her.”

  “You’re wrong,” Qwong said. “He came out talking, yes? You said his hands were raised? That was to get you three to stop moving and to focus on him. That meant you weren’t moving and weren’t looking while the other bloke got into position. They saw us arrive and didn’t have time to come up with a better plan. But I would guess that the reason they talked for so long was that they were waiting on the third bloke to get behind you. He didn’t, and so you’re still alive. You said they wanted to fly out of here?”

  “In Kempton’s jet, the plane on which Pete arrived,” Corrie said. “The other planes on the airfield could fly them anywhere in Australia, but that jet could cross oceans.”

  “One of his people must be a pilot,” Qwong said.

  “What makes you so sure?” Corrie asked.

  “Through here, I’ll show you,” Qwong said.

  She led them through the dining room and into a small chamber near the kitchens. A pair of low tables stood beneath heating lamps, close to the kitchen-doors, there for plated food to be kept warm before it was taken to hungry diners. On each of the tables was a body, and beneath each was a pool of coagulating blood.

  “That’s Rampton and Jackson,” Pete said.

  Nylon cord tied them to the table at hands, feet, forearms, thighs, and chest. From the scraps of cloth beneath the rope, it was after they were tied that their clothing had been cut away. Both had gags in their mouths, there to muffle the screaming, and there surely had been a lot. Their bodies were a mass of scars and abraded flesh. Kitchen knives were embedded in Rampton, equidistantly spaced along his arms and legs.

  “Sandpaper and plastic tubing,” Qwong said, pointing at the floor. “The tubing was to stop the bleeding as they stuck in those knives, made those cuts. The sandpaper came first,
but probably after they used that meat-hammer to break a few bones. The left forearm is broken, that shoulder is out of the socket. They were tortured. Methodically. Cruelly. This man had it worse. His death took hours.”

  “That’s Rampton,” Pete said, turning away.

  “None of those knives came close to an artery,” Qwong said. “I’d say he was tortured to encourage the other man to talk. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this, but they made do with the items they found here. I would say this has been going on for days. But death came quickly in the end. They both had their throats cut. Rampton died at least four hours ago. Jackson had his throat cut about half an hour ago. Probably when they saw us arrive. There’s two more people dead in that room over there. Both shot. A man and a woman. Can you take a look?” She walked over to the door, and opened it.

  “No, I don’t know them,” Pete said. He turned around, but he found he was once again looking at the pilots.

  “Corrie?” Qwong asked.

  “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “I think they’re looters. Maybe they owned that car out front,” Qwong said.

  “Can we talk somewhere else?” Pete asked.

  “Let’s go through there,” Qwong said. She led them back into the sofa-filled lounge. “Over the last two years, we’ve had eight cases like this. Five in Melbourne, two in Adelaide, one in Sydney. In each case, the victims were connected with the drugs trade, and so it was classed as gang-related rather than the work of a serial killer. Thought the killer had been caught. A detective down in Melbourne, Grobotnik, he arrived at the scene of the eighth victim about five minutes too late. The murderer died in the pursuit. Either this is a copycat, or the torturer was teaching his craft to others. The big question is how much of that matters now.”

  “Because of the zombies?” Pete asked.

  “Because of them,” Qwong said. “I don’t know how the pilots were brought here, whether it was at gunpoint or they were tricked. Afterwards, the man in the white suit, Rogers, was sent to deal with you, Pete. Again, I don’t know if you were meant to be killed, or brought here. Either way, you had a narrow escape. They searched the hotel room, and then the real torture began. Seeing as Rampton got the worst of it, I think it was Jackson they wanted answers from. But what were the questions? And why did they kill Jackson when they saw us drive up?”