Invasion of the Dead (Book 5): Resolve

by Baillie, Owen

  “Where to next, Shell?” Mac asked after a long swallow of warm Cascade lager.

  “I don’t know, Mac. You?”

  “Smitty… said one of the ladies in the first tent at Mole Creek had mentioned a group had gone south to Port Arthur.”

  “Port Arthur?” Shelli considered this. “Not a bad idea when you think about it.”

  Mac was about to take a swig of beer. He placed his bottle down onto the table. “I’m not sure. I don’t know how much longer we can keep traipsing all over the place. We keep losing good people. And what if Jess has headed home?”

  “Maybe she joined that group that went to Port Arthur.”

  “You really want to go all the way down there?”

  “Honestly, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “There’s a military facility on the way to Port Arthur. Small place called Blackwood Creek. We could stop there and see if anyone has any intel to share, then head south if there’s nothing.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Tomorrow then.” Shelli nodded and Mac said, “How are you? Hanging in there?”

  “You know… I’m numb most of the time.” She sipped her beer and continued in her slow Australian accent. “And I won’t tell you I haven’t thought about letting those things get me once or twice.” She cleared her throat. “But then I think of Ken, and he just would have said to give it a go, you know? Keep on keeping on like we always did, and I can’t let him down. If I don’t keep on keeping on, he’d be frowning at me, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Sounds like Ken,” Mac said. “And I think that’s a perfect way to look at it. Exactly what I need to do.” He nodded at her. “Thanks, Shell.”

  She smiled, but the sadness in it only reminded Mac of everything they had lost.

  29

  January 12, 2014

  6:15 am

  Outside Tea Tree, Tasmania

  Jim woke to the first cracks of light from the east and a tint of blue daybreak. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had unbroken sleep. Dan wasn’t in the passenger seat. Jim sat up and snapped his head around, feeling a moment of panic. Then he spotted Dan standing in the bushes with his back facing the car. Jim relaxed. He had grown fond of Dan. The kid was reliable and they shared the experience of loss. And Jim hated being alone, as he had been prior to the others arriving at the school. Having companions around was a far better position to be in.

  The horrors of the previous day returned. Jim fell back against the lowered seat. His ex-wife was probably dead now and his two daughters were somewhere ahead of them and, hopefully, by now had reached the safety of whichever place they had gone. All Jim could do was push on to find them. He felt guilty about not keeping on going the previous night, but he had been so tired, and he knew the risks of fatigue. He was keen to get moving now though.

  They found their way around the roadblock and drove from the C321 to the C350, the Sorell Highway, southeast through Orielton, down past Penna and through Sorell and over the Iron Creek inlet, a wide neck of estuary water that eventually led out into the bay. They went southwest again on the A9, the Arthur Highway, in a fairly long line east until they hit Copping, where it turned southward towards Port Arthur. This was the most logical path they might have taken going southeast from Hamilton.

  All the while, Jim felt a growing eagerness to find his girls. Knowing they had left their mother in good health, he wasn’t in panic mode yet, but he had to stop his mind drifting to a worst-case scenario. Dan remained silent, occasionally offering a word of directional support. They passed Boomer Bay, until eventually they reached a small town called Dunalley, on the edge of the mainland where the bottom of Tasmania broke into a series of smaller pieces of land.

  Originally named East Bay Neck, Dunalley was renamed after Henry Prittie, 3rd Baron Dunalley, who came out from Kilboy, Ireland, in the nineteenth century. Dunalley was a small fishing village located on the narrow isthmus separating the Forestier and Tasman Peninsulas from the rest of Tasmania. Jim recalled it had suffered terribly from the bushfires in January 2013, losing the police station and school amongst other structures.

  As they entered the township of Dunalley, they passed a Shell fuel station with three empty bowsers, which Jim took as a good sign. The yellow awning was flat, the small shop behind looked in good condition. Maybe the world hadn’t gone so crazy this far south. Jim pulled up to one of the bowsers.

  “Fingers crossed there’s fuel here. We’re not low, but you never know when and where we might get it.”

  It didn’t look like there was any fuel left though. Jim tried three bowsers and couldn’t get a drop, before moving the Territory a third time, where he struck gold.

  “See if you can find a plastic jerry can in there, will you?”

  Dan found two five-litre round tins and Jim filled them. It would barely get them sixty miles, but if they needed it in a pinch, they had it.

  They left the fuel station on a course towards East Bay, then turned into a long main street, where a general store with a big white-and-red sign that read Australia Post and Bait and Tackle beckoned. Jim counted six infected hanging around outside the flat white structure, peering in the windows as though something inside was worth their time. Generally, the infected wandered about and did not show such interest unless it was food. Behind them, a car had been parked up on the curb near the entrance to the store, as if hastily left. A voice in Jim’s head told him to stop, that there was something wrong here. It was the first time they’d seen anything out of the ordinary—in the context of the world’s current situation—on their journey south, and Jim was acutely aware that things out of the ordinary might be related to his girls. He pulled the Territory in behind the other car.

  “What’s up?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Two of the infected turned, their grubby hands banging on the window panes of the store. The rest had their faces pressed against the glass, making that soft, salivating sound Jim had come to hate. Although the blinds were down and there was no view into the store, Jim felt certain somebody was inside, attracting the infected. Was it the girls? Jim didn’t know if it was his intuition telling him so, or if he was desperate for it to be.

  “I’m going to check it out. Wait in the car if you want.”

  Dan grunted. “Nah mate, I’ve got your back, remember?”

  “Yeah, you bet.” He recalled selling Dan’s help to find the girls as a way to help the young man leave the school.

  Jim parked the car fifty yards from the building and clear of any infected. He reloaded the shotgun and placed a small number of shells in his pockets. Dan was already making practice swings with the golf club.

  “Let’s clear the front and check out the inside. They seem particularly interested in something.”

  “With pleasure.”

  The first infected left the window when Dan called out to them. It took a golf club in the face and dropped to its knees. Dan thumped the back of its head several times until a pool of black blood formed underneath the thing. The second came at them and Dan did the same, his hair flopping around his reddening face. Let it out, Jim thought. The kid had grief to expunge after the girl’s and his grandmother’s death.

  A voice called out from inside the general store. It sounded female. Jim decided he couldn’t wait. As Dan started on the third infected, Jim went for the door, dispatching a shortish man wearing blue overalls in the side of the skull with the butt of the shotgun. The other two came at him quicker than those before. He went for the first one as he had done moments before but realised he wasn’t able to handle them both at once. He shoved them away and stepped back, taking aim with the shotgun. With a sharp thunderclap, Jim blew a male into the wall with a heavy thud. He turned on the second and took aim. It hadn’t yet taken on the hard, chiselled look of one feeding on flesh for days, but its dirty, matted hair, yellow eyes and black mouth were still gruesome. Jim squeezed the trigger and the gun jerked
. The infected toppled back and joined the other.

  The door was locked. Jim thought about blowing the handle lock barrel off, but chose to rap on the glass.

  “Open up, we’re here to help.”

  A voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?”

  “Open up,” Jim said. “We’ve killed all the infected. We’re not sick.” A long silence. Finally, Jim added, “I’m looking for my daughters. I need to know if they’re here.”

  A young man with a narrow face, lank brown hair, and a thin moustache appeared at the window. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Jim motioned for him to open the door. The man stared a moment and then disappeared. Jim’s heart pounded. Somehow, he felt this was it; they were inside the store.

  There was a click and clunk of metal as the latch turned, then the door opened with a creak. The young man appeared, stepping out of the doorway and underneath the awning. He looked at the six dead, then beyond to the empty street, and whistled.

  “Thank you. We’ve been stuck in there all night.”

  Jim pushed past him and strode into the darkness. The smell was mould and must and not as bad as some he’d confronted of late. He stood in the middle of the room with shelves lining the walls and racks of food and supplies in the centre around two long deep freezers. A curved counter sat in another corner, topped with a register and a waist-high glass cabinet that ran the length of the counter full of old baked goods now covered in mould. A set of dark refrigerators on the right looked bare, except for a container of spilt milk and several disregarded bottles of unusual soda.

  Jim was almost too afraid to speak; too afraid that he had made up the sound of the female voice, and when it came down to it, the place would be empty. Then, a person stood up from behind the counter. It was Lana, his youngest daughter.

  “Dad?”

  A surge of relief washed over Jim unlike any he had felt before. He laid the shotgun on the floor and raced towards her as she came around the other side of the counter. She leapt into his arms and Jim wrapped himself around her as if he would never let her go. She squeezed him hard enough for it to hurt, but he didn’t mind. Jim kissed her cheek and head.

  “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Lana cried into his arm. He rubbed her back. “Shhh. It’s all right now.” Her sobs rocked him, and he felt wetness on his bicep. When she let go and looked at him with tears in her eyes, Jim asked, “Where’s your sister?”

  Lana shook her head. “I don’t know. We got separated when we pulled up outside. Glen and I ran in here and she ran down the street with Craig. I thought she was following.”

  Jim pulled her back into a hug. “It’s all right. We’ll find her.” But that knot of worry settled in his stomach again.

  They made the introductions with Glen and Dan as they filled up on non-perishable supplies from the general store—tins of Campbell’s tomato soup, baked beans, and spaghetti. Glen was able to offer some more information on where he thought the others had gone.

  “There’s a double-storey place just down the road. It’s like an old post office or something they converted into a bed & breakfast. I saw Cindy running for that. I called out to her,” he insisted.

  Jim put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, good.” He loaded two more shells into the shotgun. He had six left after that. “I want you two to follow Dan to the car and wait with him.” He turned to Dan. “Keep it idling. Be ready to swing by this B&B place and collect us.”

  Dan nodded.

  Jim turned to Lana. “I’ll get your sister and the other fella, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  30

  January 12, 2014

  7:32 am

  Latrobe, Tasmania

  The stretcher Bill had assembled in the hunting and camping store for Leroy to sleep on had done the job nicely. Leroy could not recall waking at all during the night, but he’d had terrible nightmares causing him to sweat. In them, Bill wasn’t there to help. Leroy was alone, and his wife and some of his old teammates were the infected. They screamed insults at him for being selfish and irresponsible. He couldn’t hold them off. The nightmares reinforced the conversation he had with Bill the previous night about the fact that he had been wrong all these years and couldn’t go at it alone and reminded him that he needed others around him to lean on.

  Once the sun had finally set, they had drunk a few more beers in the darkness, deciding that even a small camping light might attract the infected, or more men of the kind they had both encountered that day. Eventually, Leroy had found himself dozing, and politely suggested they get some shut-eye. He was, after the day he’d had, grateful to be in such a position. And for the first time in a long time, enjoying someone’s company.

  They cooked more sausages for breakfast and even found a couple of slices of bacon. Leroy realised a few weeks ago he’d taken such simple pleasures for granted. The fresh milk had curdled, but they found some of the long-life stuff from the IGA and opened a packet of coffee bags that were better than the instant stuff.

  Bill’s ankle was a little better—still tender, but he could walk on it with limited pressure. Leroy’s body ached all over. The beers had supressed the pain for a while, but he suspected he’d be feeling it for a few days yet. The thought reminded him of what lay ahead for the day.

  “Did you ever think about not going back to help them?” Leroy asked while they were packing up the beds and sleeping bags and filling a black rubbish bag with the paper plates and cutlery.

  Bill shook his head. “Never. Not once. I gave them my word and that was that.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting I would have, if I was you. I just wondered if you had any doubts.”

  “I’d never break my word. My credibility is based on what I say, and that’s everything to me. It’s served me well all my life.” He thought about something, and then asked, “You ever break your word?”

  Leroy said nothing. The answer to that was not something he had ever admitted to anyone. Or said aloud to himself. “Yeah. Heaps. And probably more than I remember.”

  “You wanna change that?”

  “Sure.” He sat forward. “Badly.”

  Bill nodded as he stacked the ammo and several knives into a backpack. “I believe you.”

  That gave Leroy hope. If someone else believed in him, maybe he had a chance. “I wish I’d known you when I played professional cricket, Bill.”

  “Don’t look back. You can’t change it now.”

  Leroy thought back to the moment he was sitting behind the steering wheel of his Rav4, contemplating helping the guy hobbling around on his ankle getting attacked by zombies. Why had he hesitated? He knew why. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I feel like since I met you—even though it’s only been less than twenty-four hours—I’ve got purpose. I want to do something positive now, make up for all the shit decisions and bad things I’ve done in the past.”

  “Now’s your first chance to test yourself. You’ve given your word. You’ve said it. Don’t break that.” Leroy nodded. “By the way, my mates call me Skoota.”

  Skoota loaded the weapons, and Leroy felt comfortable holding one of the Stevens shotguns. The store also had a map of the area, and using it, Skoota was able to pinpoint the field he had hobbled across, which backed onto the junkyard where the women were being held. He folded it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans for later.

  “Sling this bag over your back so we can ride tandem,” Skoota said.

  “Where to first?” Leroy asked.

  “Our president’s house.”

  “Are there a lot of people in your club?”

  “It ain’t a big club. But we’re close.”

  They left through the rear door of the hunting and camping store. Skoota had parked his motorbike inside the small fenced area. They strapped on the packs containing the little gear they had and climbed onto the bike. The moment they turned from the rear of the store, a group of twenty or so infected were there, congregating at the corner a
s though waiting for a bus. Skoota guided them past, the bike providing the flexibility to avoid any that showed interest. Most stood motionless, their faces registering only morbid curiosity.

  The president’s house was on the southern side of Latrobe, past Relbey Street, where it backed onto clear fields and beyond, bushland. They rode at speed through the streets, avoiding the scattering of infected, and Leroy was surprised there weren’t more. But that changed when Skoota steered the motorbike into the street on which the house was located. Leroy flinched at the sight. The infected milled along both sides of the road, hovering in the driveways and houses as though waiting for their owners. Skoota maneuvered the motorbike at low speed between the crowds. They weren’t fast, or particularly interested, despite the noise of the Harley.

  Near the end of the street, Skoota slowed the bike and pulled into a driveway. A wide property greeted them with a five-foot-high black metal fence protecting the yard from the sidewalk. A set of metal gates covered the driveway, which continued down the length of the property for fifty metres to a tall double garage. Beyond the fence, a wide, single-storey brick house peered back. Nothing special or out of context. In the yard, an Australian flag hung from a pole.

  Two infected—a man and a woman—stood at the base of the stairs leading to the front door. Skoota sat with the bike idling and watched them. They did not look around. Something appeared to be holding their attention inside the house.