Life Goes On | Book 3 | While The Lights Are On [Surviving The Evacuation]

by Tayell, Frank

  “Blaze, now!” Tess hissed.

  Blaze killed the lights. Toppley fired. So did Kyle. A three-shot burst, then another. Wood splintered, metal pinged, glass broke, but in the sudden dark, it was impossible to tell how close the shots had come.

  Tess had already opened the door to the corridor and ran along it in a crouch. With the doors on either side closed, there was little light. When the door swung shut behind her, there was none.

  The sound of gunfire and splintering wood was muffled, while, in the pitch-darkness, her breathing was amplified. Far sooner than she expected, the pick in her outstretched hand hit the closed door at the hall’s far end. She paused, listening until she heard Toppley fire. Was that the third, or fourth shot? She’d already lost count.

  Carefully, she pushed open the door, revealing a poorly lit landscape of decaying buildings beyond. Behind the cabin, there were fewer lights, since there were fewer reasons for the miners to come out here after dark. Three scaffolding poles, set in a line eight metres behind the cabin, offered the only illumination. But their bulbs were weak, and the lights were rigged low and directed straight down. It was bright enough to see the figure staggering towards her.

  Stevie? Kyle? No. The zombie lurched beneath the nearest of the lights, slamming into the metal pole and with enough force to sever the thin wire. The light went out. Tess blinked, trying to regain the target in the suddenly increased gloom. She swung the handpick upwards in an under-hand blow. The flattened chisel-blade slammed into the zombie’s jaw. Flesh tore and gore flew as skin ripped and bone fractured, but the zombie lurched on, oblivious to pain.

  Even as the pick arced upwards, Tess turned, ducking under the zombie’s swiping hand, reaching up to grip the pick with her left hand, and bringing it down with twice the force. Side-on to the zombie, its arms waving, its knees bucking as it lumbered around, the pick-point sped downwards, clipping the zombie’s ear before thudding into its shoulder. Tess tore the pick free, dragging the zombie towards her as the rusting metal ripped through flesh. In frustration, she let go, pulling the hammer from her belt as she nimbly sidestepped, and again, until she faced the zombie’s back.

  One arm still swiping, the other now hanging limp, the monster lurched around, and she swung. Once to crack the skull. Again, spraying gore and brain. The zombie crumpled, and she stepped back. Dropping the hammer, she unzipped her jacket, tugging it off, turning it inside out before wiping the gore from her face. An almost futile gesture, she knew, but better than nothing.

  Retrieving the pick, her own words of advice about shovels ringing in her ears, she jogged to the edge of the shack.

  She heard an unsuppressed gunshot. During the fight, she’d completely lost count of the number of bullets fired. A dull, metallic thud followed. A return shot from Kyle? Yes. And she could see him, or someone, on the roof of the dumper-truck she’d planned to take for her own, and which was almost the furthest vehicle from where she now stood.

  Pick in hand, she jogged through the shadows, across ground littered with low piles of broken timbers and long-discarded dirt, staying away from the lights until she heard something ahead, in the dark. Something loud. Feet crunching. Limbs dragging. She knew what caused that sound, but not how many.

  Cursing the judge, the engineer who’d modified Mick’s plane, Erin Vaughn for deciding warrants should be publicly served, and a dozen others, all the way back to the teacher who’d dissuaded her from pursuing a career as a poet, she sprinted across the wide-open space. Pushing through the tiredness in her legs, the ache in her hip, she ran into the shadows between two excavators, and nearly straight into the arms of the undead.

  She slammed the pick in front and pushed the zombie back. Not wasting time in a fight, she dodged around its clawing hands, and ran on, to the rear of the excavators.

  There was no time for subtlety. No time for caution. No time to think while hands tugged at her legs. Only time to run and jump and slip over the crawling undead, weaving and dancing through and over the writhing mass of clawing death. Keeping her mouth shut to hold in the scream of horror and pain. Keeping her balance because the alternative was death. Jinking, she dashed along the back of the excavators and towards the steel-shelled truck over which death hovered, awaiting his due.

  A metre away, as the ground shifted and shadows rose, she unclipped a tool from her belt, and jumped. The effort sent a jarring needle from her hip down her leg. The impact of her elbow against the side of the dumper-truck made her see stars, but her free hand found the ladder. Even as dead hands curled around her boots, she hauled herself up and beyond their reach, up the outside of the dumper. Inside the deep-sided hopper, she heard footsteps approaching. She jumped up and over and inside. Raising her hand, she switched on the flashlight, shining it directly into Kyle’s face.

  He was two metres away, the rifle’s barrel pointing towards the rear of the hopper, but slowly spinning towards her as she shone the torch in his eyes. Blinded, Kyle released the gun’s barrel, his hand automatically raised to his eyes even as his finger curled around the trigger. Tess lunged, jamming the flashlight into his neck, letting go even as her other hand pushed the barrel aside. The weapon jerked as he pulled the trigger. The bullet pinged off one of the hopper’s sides, ricocheted off another, and rattled against a third, before vanishing into the night.

  Her side flared with pain as Kyle’s free hand slammed into her waist. Ignoring the pain, she jabbed her hand at his neck, but hit his jaw. She reached out again, curling her hand around his throat, pushing while she tugged on the rifle, and he pulled the trigger again. The bullet ricocheted once as he lost his grip, but so did she. The rifle clattered to the pitch-dark hopper-bed as his now-free hand clawed at her throat. She slammed her knee up, hard, missing his groin and hitting his thigh, but he slumped an inch. It was all she needed. She twisted his arm up, while grabbing the back of his neck. Pivoting, twisting, adding her weight to his, she threw him sideways.

  He landed hard, on his knees, at the edge of the hopper, in the pool of illumination cast by the overhead lights, and next to the tools they’d stashed there a few hours before. Kyle grabbed a shovel, leaning on it as he stood. She dived, slamming her shoulder into his waist. The shovel flew sideways as they both flew towards the edge of the hopper. She landed hard, but he landed harder, on his back, neck, and arms over the edge of the truck.

  She flipped to her feet in a move she’d not managed in the gym for a decade. He scrambled for purchase. But his movement caused him to slip, overbalance. Even as he caught hold of the grab-bar at the side of the hopper, his leg slipped over the side. As one leg kicked for purchase on the slick metal, his other slipped on the hopper’s edge. He dangled, hands holding the grab-bar, legs kicking against the exterior of the hopper’s backwards-sloping lip.

  “Help!” he begged.

  But she didn’t. She stepped back as he slipped. He didn’t have far to fall, and it was a soft landing, among the squirming, writhing bodies of the undead. He yelled with fury. Screamed with pain. But even before she’d retrieved the flashlight and shone it over the side, he’d gone silent, torn apart by the undead executioners waiting below.

  Chapter 13 - The Questionable Inevitability of Death and Taxes

  Humeburn, Queensland

  But that was only a job half done.

  From the cabin, the handgun roared.

  “Clear!” Tess yelled. “Clear, Teegan! Molly! Blaze!”

  “We’re here!” Toppley called.

  “Kyle’s dead,” Tess called, as she shone the torch across the hopper-floor, looking for the rifle.

  “What place did this remind me of, eight years ago?” Toppley said.

  “Cambodia,” Tess called. “You okay?”

  “We’re fine. You?”

  “No worries,” Tess said. “A lot of crawlers out here. Stay put for a few minutes.”

  Tess relaxed. Properly. And for the first time since they’d arrived. The job was only half done, and their rescue wasn’t as
sured, but at least she knew exactly what dangers she faced. She ejected the assault rifle’s magazine, counting ten rounds inside, and only one spare mag in the bag. She walked to the rear of the hopper, shining the light down onto a writhing mass of crawling monsters. There were at least a butcher’s dozen, but with potentially more crawlers beneath the truck, and beneath the other vehicles. In the bad light and deep shadows, it would take more bullets than she had to clear them. She clambered back to the front of the hopper. The car park seemed far wider than it had from the cabin where, now, two green-clad zombies beat their bloody fists against the rickety wooden walls. A third, in jeans missing below the knees and with legs missing below the calves, was halfway from the gate, crawling towards the building. Two more zombies crawled towards the dumper, and three, lurching through the gate, had yet to decide in which direction to attack.

  “Get back from the door!” she called, unscrewing the suppressor. She took aim. Firing one silence-shattering shot. A second. But it took a third to kill both zombies by the door. A fourth dealt with the feet-less crawler, but not before it had begun dragging itself around to face the truck. The zombies closer to the gate were lurching towards her now, too. So far, so good.

  She swung herself down, opened the cab, and jumped quickly inside. Unlike the dozer, the truck’s door was far too close to the ground for her liking. Barely two metres of clearance, and that with a lip, a ledge, and a ladder. Maybe zombies couldn’t run, but could they climb?

  She unzipped her pocket, took out the key, and turned on the engine. It roared. She let it run, long enough to confirm the tank wasn’t empty and the battery wasn’t flat. Long enough for her to enjoy a moment where hopelessness and despair had been banished, replaced with the very real likelihood of life, rescue, and perhaps, even, sleeping in a proper bed. She put the massive truck into gear and rolled it slowly forward. The monster wheels turned, grinding bone and blood into the already red dirt as the vehicle shuddered forward to the cabin. A metre from the scaffolding, she slammed her foot on the brake.

  Before she could shout they should climb up the scaffolding and so, from there, onto the roof of the cab, the door opened. Blaze ran out, shovel raised, Molly and Shannon a step behind.

  Tess grabbed the rifle, hauling herself up onto the cab’s roof as Blaze stopped by the door, turning outwards to stand guard as Molly pushed Shannon into the cab, throwing in two bags before jumping in herself. Blaze followed, leaving Toppley last, but she climbed in before Tess had to fire.

  “That went well,” Toppley said, calling up from the cab. “Are you coming in to join us?”

  “Best I keep my distance,” Tess said. “And wipe down the steering wheel if you can. I was drenched in gore earlier. I’m probably fine, but better to be cautious now than full of regret later.”

  “Wise words,” Toppley called back. “How do you wish us to proceed?”

  “Wait until it’s time,” Tess said, “then reverse out into the middle of the lot. Wait again, then straighten to face the gate. If you use the mirrors, you’ll know when it’s time to move.”

  “Understood,” Toppley said.

  “I don’t,” Shannon said.

  “Shush then,” Molly said. “Was it Kyle?”

  “It was,” Tess said. “Just him. On his own.”

  She climbed into the hopper, it being a safer perch than the cab. It also possessed the other welcome feature of being out of sight of the undead. On the whole, after the longest day of her life, she decided to call that a positive.

  The engine roared. Bone and undead flesh wetly crunched beneath the tyres, and the truck slowly reversed back into the car park.

  General Yoon really was correct, Tess thought as the engine ticked over, and the truck idled. These were better than tanks. With a few thousand, they could conquer the undead. And after, they could turn the giant constructors around, and rebuild the world on their way home.

  Another minute of bone cracking, flesh grinding, organ pulping, crawler crushing back and forth, and the truck faced the gate.

  Tess gathered a couple of the shovels, setting them at a diagonal in the corner, making herself a seat as she turned her eyes star-ward. But before she could enjoy the view, a thunk and clump from the cab was followed by Toppley clambering into the hopper.

  “I came to keep you company,” Toppley said, holding up the handgun. She picked up a shovel and laid it across the corner opposite Tess.

  Tess leaned the rifle against the side, and leaned back against the nearly cool metal. “Six rounds in the mag, thirty in the spare,” she said.

  “And at dawn?” Toppley asked.

  “Listen on the CB for Mick,” Tess said. “We’ll probably hear the plane before we pick him up on the radio. Maybe not, but it’ll be close. We’ll have to take a chance on how clear the runway is, how numerous the undead around the gate are. Then we wait to see whether the plane lands or crashes.”

  “In other words, our future is fluid,” Toppley said. “Which is preferable to one which is set in stone. A world of possibilities is open before us.”

  “Just give me a proper bed, and a half-decent shower,” Tess said.

  “I’ve a personal question, if you don’t mind,” Toppley said.

  “Why not?”

  “Why did Stevie Morsten keep calling you princess?”

  “You want to ask that? I was expecting something… bigger,” Tess said.

  “It’s been bugging me all day. It’s petty, but not as insulting as I’d have expected from a man with such an obvious grievance.”

  “My name,” Tess said, “my full, first name, is Countess. My mum was a refugee from Korea. When I was born, she couldn’t really speak English. Couldn’t read it, either. But she saw a photograph in a glossy magazine all the way from Europe. One of those red-carpet affairs with ball gowns and tiaras. When it came to picking a name, she picked the person she thought the most glamorous, most successful, most happy, and pointed at the legend beneath the picture. Of course, the woman had a title, not a name. So I’m Countess Qwong.”

  “Ah. One more question. Forgive me, but you don’t appear old enough to be the child of a refugee from a war that old.”

  “My mum was from the other Korea,” Tess said.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No worries. She got out,” Tess said. She leaned against the cold hard metal of the hopper. “She got out and got to live a life that was more full of joy than sadness, and barely had any pain. Not until the end. My turn for a question. Why did you return to Australia?”

  “For cancer treatment.”

  “Sure, that’s what it said in the papers,” Tess said. “But you could have bought treatment at any number of private clinics. You can afford it.”

  “The diagnosis was a reminder of my mortality,” she said. “It was time to retire.”

  “You arranged a plea deal?” Tess asked.

  “Essentially. I donated seventy percent of my wealth to charity, and agreed to an eight-year sentence for tax fraud. Two of those years would be served in prison, the rest under house arrest. In return, the remainder of my assets were safe, and I would remain quiet about a number of covert operations in which I assisted. Everyone won.”

  “The donation was a hundred and fifty million dollars,” Tess said. “That’s what the papers reported.”

  “Yes, along with their rather vitriolic editorials on the ethics of the charities being allowed to keep it.”

  “I’m trying to work out how much the other thirty percent is,” Tess said.

  “A fortune six months ago, but now worth less than those opals,” Toppley said. “Sadly, I wasn’t as clever as the court. I had expected my two-year sentence to coincide with the treatment, thus I’d have spent it in a hospital wing, but someone decided to wait until I was cured.”

  “The kindness of justice,” Tess said. “They didn’t want you to miss out on the full prison experience. But I’d say you paid your dues in Durham, and here, too.”

  “So I
won’t be a prisoner in the refugee camp?” she asked.

  “Good question,” Tess said. “On the one hand, I could write up a pardon and hand it to you. Forge the prime minister’s signature, since I don’t think she’d remember not having signed it. On the other, everyone knows you were sentenced to eight years. If I’m trying to keep order in Australia, the old order, with the old laws, then the old sentences have to stand, or be expunged for everyone. You understand?”

  “I do. And thank you for being honest. Since I hold the gun, I was expecting you to say something different even if it was a lie.”

  “But it would have been a lie, and you’d have known it,” Tess said. “It makes no real difference in the end. Everyone will be working themselves to sleep for the next decade. How about I get you a job at the airfield in Canberra? That’s become Mick’s fiefdom. It’s the closest I can get to a discharge.”

  “I was about to suggest a different placement,” Toppley said. “You’ve sent troops to Malaysia?”

  “We’ll use the border wall with Thailand to create a defensive line,” Tess said. “Though this assumes Singapore can be secured. They control the harbour, and most streets, but not all the buildings, and very little of the subway. Last I heard, they’re short on supplies. If Singapore can be made safe, it gives us a base to expand operations in Malaysia and Thailand, while also reinforcing Indonesia. But Singapore is the priority. Don’t ask me why, but until then, we’re only reinforcing the Thai-Malaysian border. But you want to go there?”

  “Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, I have contacts there,” Toppley said. “Indonesia and the Philippines, too. Those contacts could be of use to you.”

  “These are people you know from your days as an arms dealer?”

  “A facilitator.”

  “A gun runner to terrorists.”

  “Freedom fighters.”

  “How much freedom did they win?” Tess asked.

  “Sometimes the battle is more important than the victory.”

  “Not if you lose the war,” Tess said. “Don’t you have any qualms about that?”