by Owen Baillie
Deidre and Tara appeared and they all embraced. “You think it’s safe?” Tara asked, looking back over her shoulder.
Juliet nodded. “I think so.”
Most of the people had filed past them and into the corridors and the empty consultation rooms beyond. Juliet followed them to make sure they found their way. When she returned to the main waiting room, most of the patients were gone. Only a handful of people remained, including Frank Pinelli and the second doctor on duty, Seth Logie. One of the men who had killed the attacker stood next to Larry—the security guard. Both looked dazed as they took in the scene around them.
Betty, the administration lady, was off to one side with a mop and a bucket and had begun cleaning blood from the floor.
“What are you doing?” Juliet asked. Betty pressed her lightly shaded lips shut and let the tears fall over her wrinkled cheeks. Her hands were shaking and she couldn’t get the mop back into the bucket. “You don’t have to do that.”
Betty nodded. Juliet took the mop from her and slid it into bucket. She guided Betty towards Deidre. “Can you look after her, D?”
The others left in the waiting room had gathered at the windows. Juliet walked across the bloody floor, careful not to slip and fall. There were seven bodies—four of which had been killed by attackers, and three attackers themselves.
“It’s getting nasty out there, too,” Frank said.
Juliet glanced out the window. The people who had fled from the hospital had begun to dissipate, but there were a number of them lying on the ground who appeared to be injured.
“I think they’re sick,” Seth Logie said. “This virus is making people crazy.”
“They’ll end up in here,” Larry said. “We’d better be careful.”
Juliet wanted to tell Larry to shut up. Where had he been when all the shit was going down? Instead, she pointed at the body of the man she had covered in the examination room, now lying on the floor with his head smashed in. “That man was dead. You called it, didn’t you, Frank? He was covered and ticketed.”
Frank said nothing, while Seth Logie checked out his shoes.
“You know what that means, don’t you?” When Frank nodded, Juliet pressed on. “Can you explain it?”
“No.” He glanced at the other doctor. “Seth’s right. It’s the flu.”
“The flu?”
“The virus has mutated. It’s making people aggressive. Hungry for … blood.”
“But how are they coming back to life?”
Frank shook his head.
A noise sounded from outside the entrance. “We’d better lock those doors,” Larry said.
Sick people were wandering outside the doors. Oh, God, Juliet thought. Is this the end of things? A Nissan Patrol SUV pulled in the car park and turned quickly into the last empty space.
“Lock the doors,” she said to Larry. The security guard didn’t need to be told twice. Larry stepped to the door and turned the heavy-duty locking mechanism. There was a click and a clunk. He pulled on it and this time it didn’t slide open.
9
Jim dropped the boys off outside Jan’s house and waited until they disappeared inside. Thunderclouds were almost on them from the south, which meant rain before long. It would be a welcome relief. Jim drove away from the gravel roadside and pulled back onto the main road thinking about the events of the day as described by the news on the radio. They seemed to be unfolding into something more sinister. He thought about the girls, wherever they were, and hoped they were safe.
The road rose and fell in gradual grade, the dying grass of open properties on either side. At the bottom of the second rise, he turned right into Jeffrey Drive and let the vehicle take him around the sweeping bend, glancing into unkempt front yards and down the sides of his neighbors’ properties. There were people out now, wandering alongside houses and in front yards. He passed Frank Azzopardi’s white double story, slowing the car to get a good look at three of them standing near the front door, acting the way the boys had described. Jim slowed the car.
There were three women wandering back and forth along the side of the house, as though waiting for something. There was no doubt in Jim’s mind they were sick. Each had the feverish, washed-out appearance of the flu, though only one had the black swelling visible around her neck.
Jim took off and found more people outside other houses. Where had they come from? Earlier, he’d witnessed a couple of people in their front yards, but none wandering together in groups. He drove the last thirty yards and pulled into his driveway. He’d have to be quick and expected this to be the last trip if he packed the boxes well. He shut the car off and hurried inside, glancing around to make sure there was nobody nearby.
From a high cupboard in the master bedroom, Jim took his old Stevens 12-gauge shotgun and a box of shells. He hadn’t used it since a brief stint rabbit hunting with a mate who had a property near Deloraine. He had considered selling it and not renewing his license several times but was now glad he had kept the thing.
He returned to the front window and stood for a time, grinding his teeth as he watched the empty street. The boys had been scared, as though the people were really going to hurt them. He wondered whether he had the courage to shoot one of them. If they attacked and threatened his life, sure, but he’d try to avoid it. If they came down to his house, he’d just get in the car and leave.
When they hadn’t appeared after a time, he started carrying the boxes from the house to the car again, stacking supplies into every conceivable location to avoid a final return trip. He worked up a heavy sweat, his shirt sticking to the lower part of his back, but managed to fit all of them.
From inside the doorway, Jim took the shotgun, locked up the house, and hurried to the car, catching movement from the road as he reached the driver’s side door. Staggering along the street were several men and a woman. He opened the door and stopped to watch them. Their faces were red and blotchy, their eyes dark and sunken. They were looking his way, and he thought he recognized one of them as a school parent but couldn’t be sure.
He slipped in behind the wheel and placed the shotgun on the front passenger seat then buckled himself up. He reversed into the middle of the street as the infected people closed in on his house, shoved the stick into drive, and took off with a chirp, watching their blank faces grow smaller in the mirror. As they reached Jim‘s driveway, they cut in towards the front of his house and he wondered in what state he would find it the next time he returned.
He took the main road directly to the school. As he crested the second last hill, he saw from a distance a gathering of people standing at the school fence on the corner of Ironbark and Yan Yean Road. Their clothes were grubby and torn. Several had their fingers hooked through the fence, staring into the school grounds. A few wandered back and forth along the bumpy roadside path as if waiting for someone, while others stood like statues with their arms hanging by their sides, staring at some unseen thing or another. As Jim drew closer, he saw their pale faces, red eyes, and in several cases, their dark, bruised necks. It told him everything he needed to know.
He drove a hundred yards past the walkers, and as he pulled into the school driveway, which led to the parking lot, Jim spotted a figure wandering along the road just past the entrance gates. He thought it might be Dustin Marsh, a kid who’d gone through the school about five or six years ago and would be in his last year of high school now.
Dustin didn’t look so good. His was staggering, leaning to the left, his arm on that side hanging loose at his hip. His head was bent forward slightly, his back almost hunched. Maybe he had the sickness, Jim thought. Dustin had been a good, solid kid. He wasn’t a standout, but he’d made his way through primary school getting decent grades, doing well at sports, and he hung with other good kids. Jim had liked him, though since high school, he hadn’t been around much.
Jim turned off the car, climbed out, and jogged after the kid, his shoes crunching on the dry gravel pathway. “Dustin?” he ca
lled, trying not to startle him.
The kid stopped and turned as if in slow motion. It was Dustin. As Jim slowed, he recoiled in shock. His eyes were sunken, and the pale flesh on his face was covered in red blotches. His mouth hung open, lips dry and cracked. A voice in his head told Jim to run, but he stopped about ten feet from the boy. “It’s me, Dustin, Principal Bennets.”
The kid licked his dry lips, and Jim saw his tongue was white and swollen. Even standing on the spot, he swayed. Jim didn’t think Dustin was going to respond. Not now, maybe not ever. He was almost as sick as the things standing up on the corner.
Dustin leant forward and vomited onto the gravel sidewalk. Jim sucked in a sharp breath. Dustin stood back upright. The wind gusted and he swayed as though he might fall over. Go, Jim.
But Dustin had been one of his kids. Jim recalled the time Dustin had given him a thank you card in his early years of junior school. Dear Mista Bennets, thank you for beeing a grate princupul. He thought he might still have it at home, tucked away in one of a dozen shoeboxes, where he kept all the gifts from the children he had taught.
Jim began to move away. Dustin turned and started along the road again. Spew and spittle dangled from his mouth. It broke Jim’s heart to see a kid, let alone one of his old students, in such a state. There was nothing Jim could do for him. There were likely a lot of others out there in Dustin’s shoes.
Jim jogged back towards the car. The first drops of rain hit him as he reached the driveway. A hot, light breeze gusted through the trees, blowing leaves and dust off the ground. As he opened the gates, thicker drops began to fall, his mind lost in the sadness of Dustin and all the others he imagined out there in the same situation. He thought of his girls and the chances of one of them getting sick.
He opened the car door and slid in as the rain struck the windscreen. Jim turned the engine on and the wipers to full speed then accelerated up the small slope and through the open gates towards the office. He reached the small car park and turned off the engine. The wiper blades stopped and the windscreen filled with rain. He knew how quickly the weather turned in the south, but still it surprised him.
He swung the door open and climbed out, the rain pelting him immediately. He slammed the door shut behind him and took off for the office. The noise on the tin roof of the outdoor area was deafening as Jim sprinted up the stairs and hurried across the slick wooden floor, careful with his footing. This was where they cooked a barbecue at the working bee for the parent and student helpers. Now it was awash with rain drops as the wind blew in from all directions.
Jim reached the entrance and pulled the keys from his pocket. After unlocking the door, he slipped inside and closed the glass behind him, the sounds of the rain suppressed. He flicked a hand through his hair and sprayed water over the floor. Gathering himself, he turned back and peered out across the decking at the dark clouds and sheets of rain. Water ran down the windows of his car in a thousand rivulets. Beyond, the potholed driveway had a couple of small rivers flowing down its length. Most of it rushed out through the open gate and into the gutters.
The entrance gates were still open. “Oh, bugger.”
In his haste to get inside and distracted by thoughts of Dustin, Jim had forgotten to stop and close them. Normally, it wouldn’t matter, but as he followed the road to the intersection at the top of the hill, he spotted the group of sick people wandering along the fence line. There was every chance they were heading towards the open gates. He couldn’t have that. It would ruin the security the fence and gates offered.
He slid the door open and stepped out underneath the tin cover. The rain was still a drum on the roof. The gutters overflowed, sending mini-waterfalls over their edges into the fernery beside the deck. He crossed to the stairs and took the top step too fast and almost skidded off onto his head. He caught his balance at the last minute and leapt down onto the gravelly path, stumbling to regain his feet.
He squinted against the drops, holding a hand over his eyes, and ran. Sheets of rain swept in from across the football field and lightning forked high up in the murky clouds. His hair and clothes were saturated in moments. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, but the rain kept coming. Large puddles had formed across the uneven parking lot. Jim dodged them, trying to move at a reasonable speed, and leapt across a sizeable one as he left the asphalt carpark section and moved onto the muddy gravel slope that rolled all the way to the gate. Thunder cracked, like two giant rocks banging together, and he cowered under the torrent. The things were ambling towards the gate, as if they sensed his intent to close it.
The shotgun. A voice in his head told him he needed it. He stopped and sprinted back to the car, unlocking the doors with the remote ahead of his arrival. He snatched the shotgun off the front seat, slammed the door shut, and started for the gate.
There were more of them now, perhaps six or seven walking down the road like a string of runners in an elderly person’s race. Jim sprinted the last few yards and skidded to a halt where the right side of the gate lay open, blinking against the rain. A noise sounded from far away along the road to the south. Jim laid the shotgun at his feet, lifted the stopper and pulled the gate, shuffling backwards as he dragged it closed. It scratched and scraped along the rough gravel and in a few seconds, he had it resting in the center of the entrance. He did the same on the other side then tossed the chain through the two central holes, opened the padlock, linked the chain, and snapped it shut, giving it a shake to make sure the thing was tight.
He stood with a hand on the gate, breathing hard, watching the things as they approached. His heart was beating fast. The noise from the south along the roadway was louder now. Something big was moving in his direction. The infected drew closer. They didn’t appear to be as sick as Dustin but had a vacant expression, their skin pasty and blistering. Their lips were cracked, and their facial features had begun to take on a gaunt appearance. The flesh under their necks was purple and swollen. Several wandered across the road from the deep, dense front yard of the childcare center on the other side.
The noise was almost on them, and then it appeared from around one of the bends in the road on Jim’s left: a giant fuel truck with the big red and yellow SHELL logo on the side, zooming along the road towards them. High up in the cabin Jim saw a man’s face, dark bug-like glasses, a beard, and short, wiry black hair. He didn’t register Jim, and didn’t slow. Jim stepped away from the fence, watching as though it was some kind of magic trick, this huge vehicle appearing almost out of nowhere. It rumbled along, sending faint vibrations through the earth and sloshing water out from its massive wheels. It must have been doing sixty miles an hour on a road where forty-five was the limit. In an instant, it had reached Jim and was rushing past, striking the last two infected as they crossed the road, the noise like tossing wet paper onto concrete.
Jim stood watching as the truck disappeared over the hill with a growl, then collected the shotgun and turned to leave before the faces of the infected pressed against the wire. But as he peered up through the rain towards the office building, he spied one of the infected limping alongside the wall of the second-grade building, dragging a heavy foot, clothes plastered to its body, hair limp and lifeless.
“What the fuck?”
Jim staggered forward, stomach twisted into a knot, and broke into a run. He didn’t want to have to face that thing.
How had it gotten inside? He must have forgotten to close the back gate up past the kindergarten area. He couldn’t recall doing it in the last few days, but his memories of late were like seeing the road through a morning fog.
The slight grade up to the office had him beaten after twenty yards. Puffing, he regretted never taking up the gym option his daughters had gotten him last Christmas. But he was going to make it. He pushed his thighs and calves until they burned and then he leapt up onto the third step, then onto the wooden decking, choking for air. He opened the door and stepped into the staffroom, frustrated his defenses had slipped. His next pr
iority was getting the back gate closed before any more of them got inside the perimeter. He just hoped it hadn’t ruined his vision of the place.
10
With his left hand on the passenger’s seat, Mac took the four-wheel drive backwards down the center of the street and away from the accident. He felt guilty for not getting out to help the woman, but Jessica was his priority. He braked, stuck the transmission in drive, and took off hard the way they had come.
Through the windscreen, he found billowing clouds headed in their direction and knew the rain they had craved for so long would soon arrive. His immediate objective was getting back onto the main road and finding a way into the hospital. Jess had closed her eyes again. He felt the heat baking off her. He should have taken her to the hospital the day before, he thought, cursing himself for the umpteenth time. He turned left at the first street and was pleased to find it clear ahead.
The phone rang and Smitty’s name flashed up. Mac answered, but the line was patchy, and he struggled to understand Smitty’s words. He slowed the car and pulled over to the curb, making sure the street was still clear.
“I can’t hear you, mate.” There was a long pause. Mac was about to hang up and call him back.
“Dave-O … starting to cough up … Leigh Ann’s gone …”
Mac rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Leigh Ann was dead and Dave-O was sick. He understood that much. “Jesus man, I’m sorry. What about the cops? What did they say?”
“... been yet.”
They hadn’t been yet. “What about you and Dutch?”
“Dutch has gone home to try and find out what’s happening in Launceston.”
That was understandable. Smitty had remained partly because he had no immediate family. That had made the ‘Ghan rotations easier for him. When the others were missing their loved ones back home, Smitty didn’t really have much to miss.
