Aftermath
(Invasion of the Dead)
Volume I
By Owen Baillie
Copyright 2013 Owen Baillie
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo
http://www.bookcoversale.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, Owen Baillie.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Acknowledgments: Thanks to Vinnie and Joel for their thoughts and ideas, Brent for his gun knowledge, my wife Donna for her encouragement and logic, my kids for putting up with my constant writing, and the other people whose influence and support helped bring this story to life.
WARNING: Adult only. This book contains high-level violence and coarse language.
1. The Gas Station
Callan would later think that coming off the mountain was the last time their lives had been normal. Until that moment, they still had football and cold beer, another Star Wars movie, celebrity magazines, and Chinese takeout. People were still walking around pissing and moaning about taxes and the failures of the government, about how so-and-so was driving a new BMW, or that the couple everyone thought would stay together forever had separated. That moment had been another time, lost forever, and he would always reminisce about it with a sad, aching soul.
Kristy had turned the dusty green Jeep off the dirt track onto the thin strip of scarred bitumen under a burning, mid-summer sun. It was the first real road they had seen in over a month, but Callan hadn’t missed it. The lake and its isolation had been perfect, satisfying and relaxing in its own charming way, although he and Sherry hadn’t been able to rediscover the magic that had drawn them together initially. He was desperate to find that.
Kristy had blossomed though, and Callan had to give her credit. The boat had jumped and jiggled, almost jack-knifing twice on two particularly sharp bends where rainwater had worn ruts into the track, but she had managed the heavy load. She had wanted to drive, and Callan didn’t think she would have done such a thing five weeks ago. He hoped the change was permanent.
“Not bad,” he said from the backseat. “Thought you were gonna lose it once or twice.”
Kristy adjusted her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses and stuck out her tongue. “I’m surprised you haven’t had some kind of fit, sitting back there.”
“There are finger marks in the door handle.”
She was a first year resident in the emergency room of the Monash Medical centre in Melbourne. For her, the trip had been an escape during three months personal leave. Kristy had never quite adjusted to the realities of ER life. The strain of long hours and relentless death had worn away her emotional resolve. It was no surprise to Callan though. Whilst her academic achievements had won a university scholarship, she had cried as a kid when they found dead animals on the farm, and he didn’t think she could cope seeing the lives of patients end, often so abruptly. The camping trip had been Callan’s idea, to isolate her from the routine and give her a clear head to decide if she still wanted to be an ER doctor.
“Gas station,” Greg said, from the front seat, where his tall, bulky frame had room to stretch. He rubbed at four weeks of ginger growth on his cheeks. “Let’s hope they’ve got cold beer.”
Kristy said. “Let’s hope they don’t. We’ll be stopping for you to use the little boys’ room every five minutes.”
It was a little before one and Callan felt sweat on his forehead. The weather had been perfect, low to high nineties every day, no need for a shirt until after dusk. So far, they had knocked off an hour of the four it would take to get the car and boat back to Albury, their hometown on the border of Victoria and New South Wales.
He had watched the resentment in their faces as they drove away from the clearing they had called home for most of the summer, when on any other day they would have been skiing or paddling in the shallows. Callan’s father had cleared the site years ago with a chainsaw and mattock, creating the perfect tent site amongst the gumtrees. It was their own private camping ground on a remote tip of Lake Eucumbene, a vast waterway known for its outstanding trout fishing, unsullied wilderness, and clear, sunny waters. Nobody bothered travelling that far up the lake, settling for the more popular areas near old Adaminaby or Frying Pan Creek road. Low, flat banks made swimming in the shallows pleasant, and the wider areas further out provided ample space for skiing. The bushland surrounding the lake disguised deer, wallaby, possums, wombats and the occasional wild pig.
The Jeep pulled into the gas station and rolled up to the pumps under the cool shadow of a crooked awning, its white paint flaking from rusty patches. Weeds sprouted around the roof posts and the concrete floor had cracked and broken loose in places. The garage was no more than a small dwelling in the middle of the bush where falling leaves regularly clogged the rain gutters. Customers could purchase items and pay for fuel from the shop, which was built in sections using a combination of wood and tin, now faded and peeling under the intense, seasonal weather of the region.
“I am thirsty though,” Greg said. “Drier than a mother-” He glanced at Kristy. “I could use a drink. You know I don’t take the sun as well as you guys do.” The girls had insisted on driving with the Jeep’s plastic top off, but sometimes it was nice to have a little respite from the heat.
“That’s better. See you can do it. It’s only taken five weeks.”
“Who knows what dizzying heights I might achieve with your help?”
Greg loved the banter with Kristy, but he had worked to curb his swearing, asking Callan for tips to impress her. “Start by cleaning up your potty mouth,” Callan had said, splitting redwood kindling for a growing ripple of flames and drinking a cold beer after returning from a day of skiing on the lake. It didn’t feel strange that his best mate liked his sister. In fact, it was perfect. He loved them both and knew Greg treated women properly. Aside from his mother, they were the two closest people in his life and if they ended up together, he considered it a win for all.
Greg swung out of the passenger seat and stretched. He sat up front most of the time because his legs were long and he always ended up touching somebody’s ass in the backseat feeling for the belt buckle. He worked part time in security at one of the pubs in Albury to supplement his job as an electrician on local building developments. In the lead up to the trip, he had worked long, demanding hours on a huge extension at the army base about seventy miles away in Wagga Wagga. The five weeks away had been reward for all the laborious work. They had been best friends since the third grade, and playing sport at every level, even making representative sides together. In later years though, Greg had swapped the bat and ball for a beer and the remote control. He loved a laugh and a joke and didn’t take life too seriously. “My shout then,” he said. “Who needs a drink?”
“Pepsi,” Kristy said, pulling the hand brake on.
“Make it two,” Sherry said.
She and Callan had been a couple for almost two years. Her rich red hair and sharp blue eyes had a magnetic charm on most men. She was opinionated, and could be a real bitch, but he loved her passion and she knew what she wanted. In the early days, they had laughed often, but of late, there were fewer fun times and Callan tried to ignore his concern. She seemed distant, withdrawn. He had tried everything from flowers and gifts, to dinner and romantic drives to reignite their spark. He’d begged her to come on the trip, promising it would change things, but she had comp
lained mostly, and nothing had improved.
As the girls walked from the Jeep, he noticed Dylan, the last of their group, watching Kristy with his flashy green eyes narrowed in thought. Callan frowned. Dylan’s interest in Kristy had grown as the trip progressed. Had something happened between them? Callan didn’t think so, but they had a connection that was starting to concern him.
“Get me a pie, or a sausage roll,” he called. “I’m starving.”
Their supply of most food items had run out going into the final week. Bread, potatoes, fish, and rabbit had become staples. The boys had spent dawn and dusk nearly every day hunting to ensure they ate fresh meat. Callan had done some basic outdoor survival training as a boy scout, and this had supplemented their diet with various natural berries and greens, but the limited range had become tasteless. They had a Stevens 350 shotgun for rabbits and a Remington .30-06 pump action for the big stuff. They had killed two pigs and spotted a deer, but scared it away. They were all comfortable with guns, having shot them in country paddocks under the supervision of their parents since adolescence.
Callan took the battered nozzle out of the bowser and unscrewed the gasoline cap. He caught his own reflection in the side mirror and laughed. His dark, cropped hair had grown spiky, while his bronze skin and lean, muscled body was a contrast to the pale, fleshy man that had guided the boat up the mountain five weeks ago. His physical conditioning had been poor, sabotaged by too many beers and zero exercise. But from day one, he had embraced the physical exertion required to set up a long term camping site. Hunting, fishing wood chopping, even the cooking and general cleaning had kept them active. Added to the swimming races, water skiing and their daily game of cricket, they had all lost weight, and Callan particularly, had carved away the fat and bulked his muscles under an incessant, golden sun.
Callan noticed Dylan hadn’t moved from the back seat. He wore an odd expression, as though listening for a distant sound. “What’s wrong?” Callan said.
He had thought the two of them wouldn’t survive a month together. When Kristy told him she had invited Dylan to replace Johnny who had pulled out at the last minute, Callan had torn into her. Johnny and Dylan had fought in high school and despised each other. Johnny would fume knowing Dylan had taken his place. “He can’t replace Johnny,” Callan had yelled. “His father sacked dad from his job.” Dylan’s father ran the most successful business in town and employed half the locals. Callan thought the man considered himself better than everyone else. Mr. Top Shit, Callan’s father Keith, had called him. The company dismissed Keith in controversy after a safety breach on an industrial packing machine. Management claimed he had neglected his occupational health and safety obligation, and a fellow worker had lost a finger.
“That’s between them, not us.”
Bullshit,” Callan had argued. “His father is a moron. He should never have sacked dad. It wasn’t even his fault.”
Kristy had laughed. “You know Dad’s a pisshead, Cal. He might have fed you a story about what happened, but I promise you there was more to it than that.”
“Dylan’s different. He doesn’t fit in and I don’t trust him.” Kristy had touched on the real reason for Callan’s deep resentment.
“You’re not still holding a grudge about Emma Sandhurst, are you?”
Fuck yeah. In the tenth grade, Callan’s girlfriend had left him because of her feelings for another boy. He didn’t learn who the other boy was until the eleventh grade.
Dylan turned, and stood up in the backseat. “There’s nobody here.”
“What do you mean?”
He nodded towards the window. “The paper headline is weeks old. It’s faded and crinkled, and there’s mail on the ground at the door.” Dylan leapt out of the car, landing on two feet, and walked towards the shop.
The door chime tinkled and Greg came out holding a six-pack. “Beer?” Dylan stopped at the package of mail. “I wouldn’t go in there,” Greg said. “It doesn’t smell too good.”
Callan said, “Shit man, maybe you better stay off that stuff until later?”
Greg’s endless consumption of alcohol worried Callan. They all knew he had a drinking problem. He tried to ignore his addiction by making a joke every time someone commented on it. As teenagers, Greg had been the first to start drinking. Now, at twenty-eight, he downed four or five beers a night and at least a case on the weekend. They must have brought a dozen cases of beer for the trip and Greg had drunk more than half. “It’s in my genes”, he told Callan. “Why fight it?” He was only a baby when his father had died. They didn’t know all the details, other than it being alcohol related. His mother had a nervous breakdown when Greg was ten, and he had lived with his grandparents until he moved out of home. He should have been emotionally ruined, but instead, he was the most reliable person Callan knew. On the football field, in a bar room brawl, or whenever Callan had gotten himself into trouble, Greg was the one to which he turned.
“Fuck you.” Greg opened the top and swallowed a mouthful. “Ahhh.” He burped. “Warm as piss.”
“You’d drink that too if it had alcohol in it.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You’ve tasted piss?” Dylan said, picking up the stack of mail. Greg spat a stream at Dylan’s feet and they both chuckled.
“Postmarked two weeks ago,” Dylan said.
Kristy appeared in the doorway holding a newspaper. She was about five and half feet tall, and although the activity and rations had dropped a few pounds, she still complained about her weight. Callan figured dissatisfaction with their weight was part of a female’s DNA. He didn’t think it was a problem, and neither did Greg or Dylan. She wore a yellow singlet that contrasted her blonde hair, golden tan, and sparkling blue eyes.
“The place is dead. I found this newspaper. Look at the headlines.”
VIRUS REIGNS OUT OF CONTROL. MILLIONS DEAD ALONG THE EAST COAST OF AUSTRALIA.
“What the fuck?” Callan said, jamming the gas trigger into the bowser with a rattle and clunk. A cold shiver touched his skin. He recalled hearing about a virus on the news before their trip, an influenza pandemic in Hong Kong. There had been a few cases in Sydney, one in Melbourne, but it was minor news. He walked towards Kristy as Sherry came out holding two bottles of Pepsi.
Dylan took the paper from her and read silently, his face twisted with disbelief. Overhead, a flock of cockatoos squawked loudly.
“What does it say?” Callan said. “Read it aloud, man.”
“It’s that virus. It’s killing people everywhere. They’ve shut the doors at the Royal Melbourne and Monash hospitals.” He read further along. “The Army’s been called in. They’re telling everyone to stay inside and limit contact.”
“What’s the date on the newspaper?” Sherry said.
Dylan turned it over. “The fourteenth.”
“Twelve days ago?” Kristy said. “If the Monash is over capacity there must be a lot of sick people.”
“It’s reached Adelaide. They’re saying,” he scanned the text, “that flu shots and antibiotics are not effective. It’s… viral. They don’t know what’s causing it, where it’s come from, or how to stop it.”
Greg said, “Maybe they’ve got it under control by now. I read that after the bird flu, the government put in all sorts of measures to cope with this sort of thing.”
“What’s the government saying?” Kristy said.
Dylan skimmed the pages. “Not fucking much.
Callan said, “Sounds bad though. The paper was three weeks ago?”
Dylan said, “Yeah. Let’s check out phones. Anyone got reception?”
Callan retrieved a slim device from his hip pocket. “Fucking phone networks. We’re still too far out.”
“No internet or e-mail either,” Greg said.
Kristy said, “There might be a landline.”
“Good thinking, Doc,” Callan said.
They followed her inside and the smell hit Callan immediately, screwing up his nose. Greg separate
d another can from the pack and popped the seal.
It was a typical country gas station store; dark and dingy, a fifty-foot square room with a dirty window out to the pumps that probably hadn’t been opened in twenty years. The counter consumed too much space and any more than four customers meant queuing out the door. Perforated hardboard lined the walls so the proprietors could hang every product a person might need for a camping expedition. Convenient food items like potato chips, lollies, chocolates, even a couple of bread loaves filled the remaining shelves. This was the last place to stop before the hour-long drive up the windy dirt road to the upper reaches of the lake.
Callan stood in the centre of the room as the others poked about. He didn’t like the look of the place or the intuitive feeling of concern in his gut. It might have been the newspaper article. The fridge was dark, and the light switch didn’t work, but the front door hadn’t been locked and the gas pumps still worked. Why would someone do that and then disappear? Mingled with a musty smell was the aged scent of rot.
“Shit, no power means we can’t buy ice,” he said. “The cubes I made in the car freezer might not last the rest of the trip. I don’t want that meat stinking up my boat.” They had shot a dozen rabbits the previous night and stored the meat in the big boat fridge with a little ice to last the trip home. In the heat though, it had probably melted, and would smell by the end of the day.
Dylan disappeared into the back room.
“This bread is mouldy,” Sherry said.
Kristy said, “There’s no cash in the register.” She reached the landline and lifted the phone to her ear, pressed the reset button a few times, then placed it back on the holder.
“Guys! Get in here,” Dylan yelled.
Callan felt his nerves jingle. He pushed past Greg and Sherry and stepped through a small doorway into a storeroom where inventory stood in leaning columns. Empty boxes lay strewn about, canisters of salt, pepper, tomato ketchup, cans of baked beans and sachets of powdered mashed potatoes. Another door along the back wall led to a second room. Callan strode over the supplies and went through.
Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I Page 1
