by Owen Baillie
There was a chorus of laughter as they clinked beer bottles again and threw back the ale, starting the process of forgetting about the world’s problems as they eased into the wake. For now, they were in their own little world.
Dave-O had a nice setup in his garage, including a billiard table and two arcade machines featuring 1980s classics, Double Dragon and Donkey Kong. There was a projector with a 102” screen on which they would normally watch whatever sporting events were on around the world, though now none of the channels were broadcasting. They had a fridge full of beer and a cupboard full of food, and comfortable couches that would double as beds later on when they decided they’d had enough.
By the second beer, Mac had moved thoughts of Jess aside and tried to concentrate on celebrating Robbo’s memory. Dutch beat Mac three times at billiards, Mac beat Dave-O at Double Dragon and Donkey Kong. The beer flowed and they snacked on nibbles Dave-O’s wife, Leigh Ann, passed through the doorway. A couple of hours in, they put the pool cues down and gathered around a rustic wooden bar Dave-O had set up in the corner as he removed a bottle of Robbo’s favorite drink—Johnny Walker Blue Label scotch—and held it out to them. Mac knew what time it was. They’d had a little fun, and now they would reminisce about their time in the field, specifically Robbo’s efforts.
“He was as hard as fuck,” Dutch said. “Loved the thrill of it, didn’t he—the pace and the pressure. Especially when rounds were flying.” They chuckled. “How many times did he set up a post away from the main party and start taking heavy fire?”
Smitty perked up. “We could never find the bastard. The Bravo was always pissed at him.”
“Robbo was forever doing crazy shit,” Mac said. “But it seemed to keep him safe.”
“Not quite as crazy as you though, Mac.” Dutch took a swallow of beer.
Mac shifted in his seat. “Robbo was the calm one under pressure though. This one time we got fixed beside a building and there was nowhere for us to go. I thought we were fucked. There was seriously no way out. Robbo kept his calm. He crawls out into the open area and draws fire—scrambles to a small bit of cover and starts laying down cover fire. Allowed me to flank the bastards then by moving around the other side of the building. Saved our lives, I reckon. And it wasn’t the first time. Robbo was a switched-on operator and a great mate. No question about that.” Silence filled them, each staring down at their drinks in thought. “Gimme a refill, Dave-O,” Mac said, sliding off his seat. “And I want another rematch at pool, Dutch, you cheating prick.”
Dutch cracked a grin. “You want me to spot you a couple of balls, princess?”
They kept playing, laughing, shouting, back-slapping. The memories returned—this was the time and place to let them in, amongst their brothers—where they didn’t have to be careful of what they said. They spoke of how Afghanistan was falling back into Taliban hands, the challenges on returning, and mostly about how much they missed it all. They spoke of the times they had almost lost their lives, which they could count on all their hands combined.
It was Dave-O who spotted the change in looping news coverage on the television. The screen showed images of events unfolding in Sydney and Melbourne that prompted them to stop. He was preparing to take another shot when his attention diverted and he stood, staring.
“Hey boys, check this shit out.” He left the cue on the table and wandered over towards the television with his stubby.
There was rioting of some kind near a hospital in Hobart. Intermittent police were amongst the people, massively overwhelmed. Even the protestors were fighting each other. Many of the people looked sick, their eyes red and puffy, their skin pale, as though they’d just come out of a long winter hibernation. They scrapped on the ground, rolled into the gutters, and clawed at each other’s eyes. But it was the last image on screen, where the news bulletin paused, that sent a chill up Mac’s spine. It showed a man clad in what appeared to be a hospital gown trying to bite the neck of a protestor. The victim’s mouth was open, her silent screams unheard amongst the mayhem. They couldn’t hear what the presenter was saying, but they could guess, and were likely thinking the same.
“What the fuck is going on there?” Mac asked.
Dutch said, “It’s happening all over the world. They reckon the virus is making people crazy. Like animals.”
Smitty cleared his throat. “You boys ever hear about the tests they were doing down in the Uruzgan province?” Nobody had. “I heard from a bloke in Alpha Company that they kept prisoners in a cage and gave them some kind of injection that made them crazy. Apparently, they were gonna release them onto the allied troops.”
“Some reporter was saying the flu virus is actually a biological attack on the western world.”
Dutch chuckled. “The fuck?”
“Like a terrorist attack. Some sort of biological weapon turning people mad and killing themselves.”
Mac guzzled a fresh beer, feeling the coldness against his throat. He wondered again how Jess was feeling, and whether he shouldn’t just pack up and head home. He’d be over the blood alcohol limit, but it was a risk he was willing to take.
“I went into the city this morning,” Dave-O said. “There streets were empty and I spoke to a guy at the petrol station who said he hadn’t had a customer all day.”
There came a distant boom, like heavy thunder, and it shook the ground enough for Dave-O to reach out for the edge of the bar.
“What the fuck was that?” Smitty’s face pinched with concern.
Mac led them to the door of the garage and pushed it up, unease stirring in his gut. The heat rushed in again, the end of the day bringing little respite. The sound had come from a distance, probably miles away, though he didn’t expect they’d be able to see much from there. Still, it had shaken the ground like an earthquake.
It was almost fully dark now. The street lights were still working. They stood on the white lines in the middle of the road outside Dave-O’s house. Nobody else appeared from any of the other houses. Leigh Ann joined them and curled around Dave-O’s arm. In the distance, sirens blared.
“Sounded like an explosion,” Smitty said.
Mac couldn’t see a thing, and aside from the sirens, there were no other noises. He read the worry on the faces of his brothers, men who had witnessed more trouble than most. Dutch stood with his arms folded, his brow furrowed. Smitty paced, hands in the deep pockets of his board shorts. Dave-O stood with Leigh Ann, peering off into the distant darkness. This was his home turf, and he knew it better than anyone.
“What do you reckon, Dave-O?” Mac asked.
The lines on his forehead told Mac he was weighing it up. “Fucked if I know, mate. Whatever went up was big though.”
They stood in a circle for a time, nobody speaking, each of them staring at the dark sky in the distance. Mac kept waiting for people to appear from the other houses.
“Where’s your neighbors, Dave?”
Dave-O pointed at the house next door. “Neville’s the one who I said was really crook. And on the other side, Karen is too. We saw her a few days ago.”
Leigh Ann coughed. “George Edney hasn’t been well, either. He usually walks his dogs every morning. Haven’t seen him this week.”
“They’re either sick or at the hospital,” Dutch said.
“I drove past a 24-hour medical center on the way here,” Smitty said. “There were massive lines of people waiting to get in. Place was shut up tight though.”
Authorities had been telling the sick to seek medical treatment, when in truth, Mac didn’t know how much that would help. And it was clear already from the old newsfeeds and visuals that the hospital system simply couldn’t handle the numbers.
“I heard there had been explosions in Melbourne and Sydney,” Dave-O said. Leigh Ann whispered something into his ear then turned and walked back to the house.
Before she reached the front door, semi-automatic gunfire sounded in the distance. She stopped, turned, and started back.
&n
bsp; “M4,” Dutch said, and took three gulps of beer to finish the stubby.
In that moment, they were all taken back to a place and time far removed from the outer suburbs of Devonport. They might have been standing at a coalition base in Afghanistan, listening to the distant gunfire as one platoon or another was in contact with the Taliban. The idea that they might be reminded of that place here, on the tiny island of Tasmania, was a crazy thought.
Mac shook his head as if to clear it. The image of Jess swallowing the tablets surfaced. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Smitty put up a hand and slipped his phone out of his pocket. “Let me call Morgan.” Company Sergeant Major Morgan had been their platoon leader in the 2nd Commando Regiment. Smitty swiped the phone open and tapped the screen. He put it to his ear and walked away.
“Is that smoke?” Leigh Ann asked, her voice catching on the last word.
Mac strained his eyes and peered above the trees and cityscape in the distance. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but he thought he detected a sooty plume leading up from the horizon. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Where is it?”
“Looks about near the river,” Dave-O said.
Mac downed the last of his beer. His head was buzzing a little. How many stubbies had he drunk? Maybe five or six. Dave-O produced a fresh one and handed it to Mac with a cautious smile. Mac laid the empty on the side of the road.
“I’m going inside to see if there’s anything on the news,” Leigh Ann said. They watched her walk up the pathway and disappear through the front door.
Mac took a swig from his bottle and laid it on the curb as Smitty walked back over. “Anything?”
Smitty shook his head. “Didn’t answer.”
“You leave a message?”
“Yeah. Told him to give me a buzz back if he knew what the fuck was going on.”
The sporadic gunfire had stopped. They stood in a circle in the center of the road and looked down the street into the distance, where flickering lights from the ground touched the sky.
A shrill scream pierced the night. They all turned towards the house. Leigh Ann. Mac responded first and ran. The others followed. He thought momentarily about letting Dave-O go first, but the sound of Leigh Ann’s scream told him moments might make all the difference.
2
Mac leapt through the doorway first with Dave-O blaring from behind.
“Left! Go left! She’s in the kitchen!”
Mac skidded around a sharp turn, almost overbalancing. The alcohol had finally kicked in, stealing his sensitivity to precise movement, and running in bare feet didn’t help. He hit the wall where several family portraits hung, bounced off and gathered speed. A moment later, the hallway reached the kitchen, which opened out into the meals and living room area.
At first, Mac was unable to locate Leigh Ann. Then another scream sounded and he raced around the other side of the kitchen bench. Leigh Ann was on the floor kicking and slapping at a man crouched over her. A low, guttural sound reminded Mac of an animal. The man was bald, except for a dark ring of hair around the back of his skull. His black T-shirt was ripped and shredded, and he appeared to be trying to bite her neck.
Mac pounced, reaching out a hand, and yanked him backwards. The man was strong, his hips and legs bunching as he drove forward again. Mac grabbed the other shoulder and pulled. The man tottered, swinging a futile back fist, and fell on the floor.
“Get off her, Neville!” Dave-O screamed.
Neville turned and growled, as if he was trying to speak. Bloody saliva dribbled from his mouth. Mac noticed a dark patch on Leigh-Ann’s shoulder. He grabbed hold of Neville’s arms, put his knee in the middle of his back, and dropped forward.
Neville thrashed his head about like a wild animal. Mac pushed his knee deeper into Neville’s spine, pinning him to the floor. The news reports flashed across Mac’s mind and he wondered if it was a good idea even being near the guy.
Dave-O had raced to Leigh Ann and rolled her onto her side, inspecting the wound. Momentarily, he leapt to his feet and struck Neville with a fist on the chin. Neville flinched.
Dave-O started screaming. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Neville stared back with flat, lifeless eyes. He wasn’t really seeing Dave-O. His mouth opened and closed as though he was hungry. He began to buck and twist again, Mac surprised at the intensity in him. Mac was big and strong and could handle most men, but there was a power in Neville he hadn’t felt before. Mac had to put all his weight on Neville just to keep him down.
“I’ve got him,” Mac said, nodding his head towards Leigh Ann.
With spittle at the corner of his mouth, Dave-O returned to Leigh Ann, who remained on the floor, sobbing.
“Jesus Christ,” Smitty said, running a hand through his hair.
“Find me some rope, will you, Dutch?” Mac said.
“Laundry. Through that door,” Dave-O said, pointing the way.
Dutch returned with the rope. With Smitty’s help, Mac pulled Neville’s hands behind his back and tied them with a knot of the rope. The man grunted and twitched, not taking his eyes off Leigh Ann.
Dave-O lay beside her, smoothing her hair. She was still sobbing. Smitty pulled out his phone and dialed the emergency number.
“What do you think?” Dutch asked, following Mac away from the scene.
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Mac said.
“He bit her, didn’t he?”
“Looks like it. On the shoulder.”
“Tried to bite her throat.”
For Mac, there was no plausible explanation. Neville was infected with a terrible rage, and it was eerily similar to what the news reports had described. Mac had known hard men in the army and on the streets of war-torn countries. He’d watched boys and men suffer the effects of methamphetamine—or ice, as it was colloquially known—but this was different. Neville appeared to have an insatiable appetite for her.
Smitty’s mouth was a grim line. “Nothing but a fucking recorded message.”
Mac said, “No surprise. I bet they’ve got a thousand of these calls.”
“Have a look.” Dutch tipped his head in Neville’s direction. The man was lying flat on his stomach, head lifted off the floor in attempt to keep a visual on Leigh Ann. A pool of spittle lay on the floor beneath his bloody mouth.
Dutch squatted beside him. Neville hissed. “His eyes are bloodshot. The pupils are heavily dilated.”
“Is he high?” Smitty asked. “Ice, maybe?”
Mac wasn’t so sure. Ice could turn a passive person crazy, inject super-human strength, but he’d never heard of anybody biting for flesh. That sort of thing was out of a horror movie.
“Might be,” Dutch said. “I’ve seen a few on it in the emergency wards and they’re strong.”
“No word from Bravo?” Mac asked. Smitty shook his head. “Maybe—”
Dave-O stood and made a dash for Neville, kicking at his ribcage. “You motherfucker!” He managed to get two digs of his size-eleven shoe into Neville’s side before Dutch and Mac pulled him away. He was trembling, his hands shaking as he covered them over his face. Dutch held Dave-O near the wall. Mac left them and got down beside Leigh Ann.
“Hey, sweetie. How you doing?”
Her eyes were full of tears. She turned away, exposing the wound on her shoulder. It was savage, a gaping red chunk where the teeth had gouged out the flesh. Mac worked to keep a straight face. “You’re gonna be fine, Leigh. We’ll get you to a hospital and give you a shot in the arm and they’ll have you up and running in no time.”
She gave a pained smile. Truth was he didn’t even know if the hospital was capable of taking her. Last thing Mac had heard, the hospitals were full.
A sharp crunch sounded from behind them. Mac stood and turned to find Neville on his feet, hands still bound behind his back. He was frothing at the mouth, his eyes glassy, cheeks and forehead riddled with dark lines of blood vessels.
Mac put his a
rms up and stepped in front of Leigh Ann. “Calm the fuck down, Neville. Nobody needs to get hurt.”
But Neville didn’t register. His eyes darted from Mac to Smitty to Dutch and Dave-O.
Dutch kicked a chair out of the way and moved to one side, Smitty the other. The thing that was once Neville growled. Mac couldn’t process what he was witnessing, but he knew they couldn’t let this thing get out of the kitchen.
Neville went for Smitty, growling and spitting, jaws snapping, and Smitty leapt back, out of reach. Dave-O moved in fast and jabbed a long-bladed kitchen knife at the man. It sliced his arm, causing a bloody cut, but Neville—whatever he was now—kept coming, his demonic eyes focused on Smitty’s neck as they had been with Leigh Ann.
There was yelling and screaming, threats and promises. Dutch grabbed Smitty by the shoulders and shoved him out of the way. Now Dave-O was in the firing line.
Mac saw it all unfold in his mind’s eye. Dave-O was too close. He jabbed the knife, but Neville was lightning fast and balked the attack. But Dave-O’s reflexes had always been exceptional. He swung the knife around from the side and stuck it deep into the Neville’s neck. Blood spurted out around the knife. Neville howled, the sound chilling Mac’s skin, and then his legs buckled. Mac thought Neville was going down, but at the last moment, he launched at Dave-O and sank his teeth into Dave-O’s arm. Dave-O yanked the knife out and stuck it through Neville’s throat. The infected man collapsed to the blood-stained tiles, convulsing.
Dave-O stumbled backwards as Smitty caught him. “I got you, mate.”
Neville continued twitching. Nobody spoke. What the fuck had just happened? Leigh Ann was bitten. Dave-O was bitten. And now their neighbor was lying on the floor, dead.
“Self-defense,” Dave-O spat. “He’s not right.” Dave-O’s complexion had gone a pasty color and there was fear in his voice Mac had never heard, even stuck in Helmand for three days without food or water and with the Taliban closing in around them. “There was something … wrong with him.” He turned to Leigh Ann. She had passed out.
