That night she wandered through her grandmother's house, wishing she could transport it to Queensland with her. She had never understood the wishes outlined in her Nana's will — why the house was left to her. The logical person to bequeath it to would have been Meg's father — her grandmother's son.
Did her grandmother see what Meg didn't, that her marriage was doomed to fail and that she'd need a home of her own? Or was it just that Nana saw that Meg loved the house. Or maybe she simply wanted to give her only grandchild something of value.
It was a warm and welcoming home, solidly built in the worker's-cottage style. Meg, as a child, had always slept soundly while visiting her grandmother in the school holidays. As an adult, she found the magic sleeping qualities still existed in the home. It was hard to leave.
In the fresh morning air, however, Meg was able to lock the door and walk purposefully to the four-wheel-drive without too much regret. She placed Emily's floppy-eared bunny in the passenger seat before starting the engine and driving away.
Her original plan was to drive north through Tullamarine and join onto the Hume Highway. This would eventually put her on the Newell Highway which was the quickest way to reach Queensland. It was inland driving all the way.
One thought made her change these plans — her parents. Logic dictated that they had died with everybody else, but she couldn't be certain. What if the gene or whatever that saved her from dying was given to her by her mother or father? They too could have survived.
The fact that they hadn't been answering their telephone wasn't a good sign. They were never far from home and always easy to contact. The messages she had left on their answering machine had gone unanswered.
There were a few 'what-ifs' though. Her mother was listed as next-of-kin on the hospital admittance form. She would have been notified of Meg's condition. They may have been on their way to see her? What if her father was driving and crashed the car when he died but her mother survived. What if...?
There was only one thing to do — drive to her parent's house, taking the route she knew they'd take, but in reverse. She could look out for their car, and then check their house. She needed to do this before moving on.
It was an easy drive along the Princes Highway down to South-East Gippsland, made even easier by the absence of any other vehicles. There were some obstacles — large trucks that had come to grief when the drivers had died — and in some cases this caused her to divert, but the built in GPS always found a way for her.
She found her parents' green sedan in the carport attached to the house. She let herself in to their home through a side door that she had a key to. The stench that assaulted her made her back out quickly, but not before she'd seen their packed cases by the door. Clearly they had planned to be with her in the hospital, but were waiting for daylight to make the journey. They just never saw morning.
Her father's shed was an Aladdin's cave of things she needed. There was a .22 rifle hidden in a metal chest under the workbench. There were bolt-cutters and crowbars and mallets, all necessary for breaking into shops and other places. She found spare rounds for the rifle and a first aid kit.
She placed the rifle next to the driver's seat and kept the rounds in her pockets. Could she actually shoot dogs? She used to go rabbit hunting with her father and took her turn at shooting them. Would a dog be that much different, especially if it viewed you as its dinner? She thought not.
Before resuming the journey, she sat on the patch of buffalo grass at the front of her parent's house and closed her eyes for a moment. She pictured her mother the last time she saw her — that crease of worry hovering between her mother's eyebrows. During every conversation since Meg's marriage failure, her mother had questioned Meg relentlessly until satisfied that she wasn't in danger of a breakdown or self-harm.
Then she thought of her father, a hardworking man — generous and gregarious. Meg had many fond memories of him, and these ran through her mind: fishing trips, rabbit shooting, watching him shave, keeping him company in his tool shed when her mother was in a bad mood and wanted them both out from 'beneath her feet'. In her mother's eyes, she and her father always seemed to be partners in crime, a sentiment made stronger by their physical likenesses — both of them short and stocky. Her father would get a twinkle in his eye and say, "Let's face it, darling girl— we're both built like brick dunnies!" He would then fall about laughing.
A sense that something wasn't right made Meg open her eyes. Lined up along her parent's wire fence was a pack of dogs. Ten pairs of eyes watched her every move. Some had saliva dripping from their jaws. As she stood, one growled and flung itself against the wire. Others began doing the same and the air filled with barking and snarling.
That wasn't where her unease came from, however. It was from the air. People raised in the Australian bush learn to pay attention to what the atmosphere tells them. Meg could feel the wind gaining force. It was coming from the west in gusts and it felt like a hairdryer was being waved in her direction. This was unusual for autumn.
A flock of crows descended into the eucalyptus tree next to her and began cawing. At such close range the sound was terrible. She decided to begin driving again.
Reversing out, Meg twisted around and raised herself from the seat to view where the dogs were in relation to the wire gate. To open it would mean leaving the safety of the car, so, after a moment's consideration, she accelerated and ran the whole structure down. Some of the fence fell with it — the dogs having to move quickly to avoid being trapped underneath. She drove straight toward the pack, and they scattered. She could have run them down without compunction, such was her mood.
The loss of her parents, under normal circumstances, would have had a devastating effect on Meg, but coming as it did, after Nicholas, Emily, the stillborn child, Angela, and Sandy, the grief was numbed down. It felt like a safety switch had been flicked on in her brain to dull the emotions. She was still able to function.
Within a few minutes of leaving her parent's house she was back on the Princes Highway. Now she was certain there was nothing to keep her in the state of Victoria. Queensland it was, then.
CHAPTER TWO
Meg was a capable driver, but not a confident one. Richard had always been scathing of her ability, using his sarcasm at every turn until she refused to drive when he was a passenger.
By the time their marriage broke down, her confidence had been eroded to the point where she was nervous if she had to drive anywhere that was new to her. To now drive over two thousand kilometres alone was a major undertaking. Her mood was one of excited nervousness.
North of Traralgon, she began to see a smudge on the horizon and was unsure of its source— smoke or clouds. Small fires had been a feature of her journey to that point so she guessed the former. As she approached the township of Sale, she could see that smoke was indeed the cause, and it was heavy. The closer she came to Sale, the darker the skies became.
Then she could smell smoke. She closed the sunroof and windows and pressed the switch for the air-conditioning. The town of Sale came and went and she drove on, noticing that the sun had turned a blood-red. Bushfire? Surely not. Not at the end of May. Too late in the year.
She came to a bend in the Princes Highway and, as the road veered right, she saw a gully to the left. It was full of dark smoke and as she drew even, she saw a fireball the size of a car shooting out of the trees. When it hit the paddock of dry grass it exploded into flames. Meg swerved in shock and slowed her speed.
Then she could see the fire front — could see the flames leaping high into the sky. More fireballs came sailing her way, some flew over the car. Wherever they landed, a new fire would start.
Having grown up in South Gippsland, she knew about bushfires and had seen the devastation left behind. What she'd never done was drive so close to one. She knew it was very dangerous and that many had perished in her situation. What she also knew was that it was useless changing course or trying to outrun a large fire, as they chang
ed direction suddenly, and would travel at speeds that a person could never imagine possible.
Her only chance was to stay calm and keep driving at a reasonable speed — not too slow, not too fast. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, and her knuckles shone white.
There was no sky. The world was thick and black. Sometimes she could see the flames, and other times not. She would pass through areas already burned, and others that hadn't been touched.
She was only five years old when the "Ash Wednesday" fires had struck, but still remembered the photographs in the newspapers. One in particular remained firmly in her memory — three burned out cars on a road, no survivors.
More recent were the Black Saturday fires in 2009 which resulted in 173 deaths, many of the victims having expired in their vehicles. Meg's mouth was a thin line across a pale face as fires danced and trees exploded around her.
Kilometre after kilometre she travelled with the knowledge that her life was in peril, but as she approached Bairnsdale the sky lightened. She stomped on the accelerator and sped through the town, and didn't relax until thirty-five kilometres later when she arrived at Lakes Entrance. Here, surrounded by lakes on one side and Bass Strait on the other, she felt safe.
The strongest emotion Meg experienced after driving through the firestorm, was the need to tell somebody about it, or turn to a companion and say, "Gee, that was close!" and watch them roll their eyes in relief, or hear them suggest a beer to wash the smoke away.
Her only companion was Emily's floppy bunny and he wasn't saying much.
The need to communicate was almost overwhelming, and after giving the problem some thought, she broke into a stationer's and searched the shelves for writing tools. Eventually she emerged with a fountain pen, two boxes of cartridges and a journal bound in leather.
After stowing her gear at a Motor-Inn opposite the waterfront, Meg walked across the road and sat at a small marina and filled her lungs with the fresh air. For a few minutes she watched the bobbing of small boats and listened to the cries of gulls. Then she opened the fresh journal.
"This is day nine of being on my own and I guess this is a diary or a journal or something. I've never really had a journal. I don't think I'm much of a writer but I think it would be good for me to put my thoughts on paper, because I haven't got anyone to talk to.
On May 13th 2013 I woke up but it seems that no one else did. Now I'm an orphan and a mother who has lost three children, one during childbirth and two through whatever killed everyone.
And what was that? What could possibly kill every human being in the world at the same time? Well, not every human being. There's still me but I get scared when I think about that. I don't think about it often.
I'm used to being able to get on the internet and find the answer to anything. But there was no one alive to report what killed everyone! How stupid is that? So I don't know.
I'm on my way to Montville or Maleny to find somewhere to live. Somewhere to survive.
Today I drove through a bushfire. It seemed — well — like it was trying to get at me. Sinister, if that's the right word. With all that hell around me I felt like I was caught in the middle of a fight between good and evil. Somehow the good side won and I survived.
I wanted to talk about it — when I was safe, but now I find I'm too tried and emotional.
That's enough now. More later."
Refuelling the four-wheel-drive didn't end up being a problem for Meg. Some towns had lost electricity, but others hadn't and it was in these places that she would refill the tanks and jerry cans.
She always opted for the larger 24-hour stations that hadn't switched off the pumps on the night everyone died. Otherwise she'd have to break into the shop and find the power switch.
In the towns that still had electricity, the traffic lights would still be working. If there was a clear view of the intersecting street, she would ignore the lights. If not, she would stop at a red light, her logic being that there might be one other survivor, and they might be driving in the opposite direction and how sad would it be if both of them were wiped out in a traffic accident?
It took her several hours to realise she didn't really need her seatbelt anymore. It took another day after that to lose the habit of automatically clicking the buckle into place. She loved driving on toll roads, knowing she'd never have to pay the charges. She began speeding, opening the sunroof and enjoying the fresh air. In one town she found some old blues CD's and played them loudly as the coastline sped past.
"I feel free. I could spend all day naked if I wished (I don't) and I don't have to worry about make-up or hair. Just now everything is good because I can just get food from shops and eat when I'm hungry. I usually stock up in towns where there is still electricity so I don't have to put up with the smell of rotting food. My diet isn't the best right now — I've been eating mostly convenience food — but I'll fix that when I'm settled on the Sunshine Coast.
Yesterday I saw a pretty beach and drove there on impulse. The water was cold, but I stripped off and dived in. It took my breath away but it was fantastic."
She was constantly watching for signs to lookouts. It became her habit to drive to these, often up steep winding roads until she had a view of the world around her. She would scan the panorama, looking intently at each feature, searching for signs of human life. Eventually she would walk slowly back to the vehicle, her shoulders drooping, and drive to the next one.
As she passed through Batemans Bay, on the coast of New South Wales, Meg felt a pang of nostalgia. Her parents had brought her here on a holiday once when she was a pre-teen and although she didn't remember much about the trip, just the name of the town made her stomach clench in grief.
She circled the outskirts for a few minutes and then sat in a park overlooking the broad Clyde River while eating some potato snacks. Seagulls came to snatch crumbs, and as she finished the packet, she scattered the remains across the grass.
A growling from behind made her realise she'd acted stupidly. The rifle was in the four-wheel-drive which was parked twenty metres or so away. She stood slowly and walked away, not turning to meet the gaze of the dogs. Time slowed, each second seeming to last for minutes until she was safely behind the steering wheel, which she clutched tightly. There were around fifteen dogs, their ribs standing out like fingers on a clenched hand. Should she shoot them? No, the aggression she had felt towards dogs while at her parent's house had lessened and she didn't have the stomach for it.
Instead, she turned the key in the ignition and let the GPS guide her back on to the main road.
As she crossed the Brisbane River, an impulse made her drive through the western suburbs and up on to Mount Coot-tha. From there she had a broad view to the islands in Moreton Bay as well as the city of Brisbane which was rising out of the misty morning.
The river was like a fat brown snake, twisting and turning on its journey to the bay. It looked peaceful, but this could be deceptive. Just like a snake it could turn suddenly and cause chaos and heartbreak as in the floods of 2011.
Meg closed her eyes and listened, the same as she did at the top of every lookout she'd ascended. Dogs, birds, wind, leaves rustling, a piece of paper being blown across concrete — no man-made sounds.
As she stretched and rotated her spine, she saw smoke spiralling into the air from one of the islands and was reminded of the bushfire. She then thought about the chaos she'd seen on the webcams in the Northern Hemisphere and compared that to the view before her. That led to a thought about nuclear reactors used in power stations and she considered the problem of no one monitoring them. At least there were none in Australia as far as she knew.
The GPS told her she'd be in Montville in around one and a half hours. All of a sudden she was impatient to get there.
CHAPTER THREE
As Meg sped up the mountain to Maleny, she recalled the last time she'd travelled up to the top of the range. Richard had been driving, and was swearing under his breath at trucks that were l
abouring up the steep inclines. He'd take risks to get past one, only to find himself behind another. He always seemed to take such things personally. Richard didn't like anything in his way.
The four-wheel-drive didn't falter while ascending the steep incline; it just dropped some gears and kept up the momentum. It was she who decided to slow, and that was because of the vista that had just opened before her. Meg remembered the region as being beautiful, but the reality far exceeded the memory.
The view to the right, which took in the Sunshine Coast, was magnificent in its scale. Meg could see the entire stretch of coastline, the view made soft and blue by what she guessed was salt-spray. To the left were the rolling hills, and they were dotted with trees — many of them rounded at the top. There were no harsh angles to be seen — everything was curved and soft. The colours were extraordinary.
This was why she was driving at almost walking speed when she saw the tourist sign which indicated a resort down a side road. A travel magazine had featured the place, which was built along Obi-Obi Creek, and she had marvelled at the well-appointed cabins that were spread over a grassed area. She remembered how, in the accompanying images, the cabins resembled dice scattered over a gambling table.
And there it was. She parked and opened the door, allowing her legs a few seconds to stretch before dropping to the ground. She could see the reception area and a path alongside. Remembering to take the rifle, she went to explore.
Cabin six seemed to have the best situation, but when she peered inside, she could see that it had been occupied on the night of May 13. Cabin five was empty, but when she tried the door-handle it resisted. Rather than force her way in, she went back to reception and broke into the office. A quick search found the keys in an unlocked drawer. Before she left the office she crossed her fingers and flicked a switch. The resulting glow of the light bulb put a smile on her face.
In Strange Worlds Page 3
