Plague War: Outbreak Page 7

  Mark paused to see if they were taking him seriously. He’d worked under many different leadership styles before, and knew he’d taken a risk in being direct with an unsought opinion. If the sergeant felt insecure in his ability to command, then he might ignore Mark, fearful that he represented a challenge to his authority. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to spare. His primary responsibility was to keep Georgie safe until they could leave, and that meant he had to ensure the whole complex was as secure as possible in the meantime. Mark waited as the sergeant considered his words.

  ‘OK, that sounds reasonable. Penny, can you notify the others to withdraw their groups to the Great Hall once the entrances are secure, and get volunteers for the sentry duty,’ Novak said.

  Penny nodded, and moved off to convey the new orders.

  ‘Thanks for sticking your hand up, Mark. If you see anything else, let me know,’ he said before moving off to his next task.

  Mark breathed a small sigh of relief at his unexpected success. Maybe they’d have a chance.

  Chapter Eleven

  Harry rubbed at his neck, massaging aching muscles as he drove into the outskirts of Milton-Ulladulla and his new home. He’d pulled over the night before in a truck stop, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Planning for a short nap before continuing, his body had demanded otherwise, and he’d gained a fitful night’s sleep in the reclined driver’s seat, waking to every sound.

  Somewhat revived, he’d started off again at dawn under a pale blue sky. The road had been busy, traffic all heading south at speed, with many people paying scant regard to the speed limit in their haste to achieve greater distance between themselves and Sydney.

  Harry geared down and pulled off onto a long dirt driveway leading to his farmhouse. A large gravelled area, fenced with high cyclone wire, enclosed various types of earth moving equipment his landlord had for hire. The rear section of the yard housed a multitude of long shipping containers. Some were stacked on top of each other, awaiting hire and transport off site; others stood in carefully spaced rows for onsite storage.

  Harry drove past the business, throwing a cloud of dust up behind. The farmhouse lay about two hundred metres back from the highway ‒ an old weatherboard, roofed with corrugated iron. The agent had told him the house was over a hundred years old, however, it had been well maintained. The corrugated iron roof had been replaced five years earlier after hail damage, and a recent coat of light grey paint to the outside of the property made it look a fraction of its real age. There was no garage next to the house, the driveway terminating at the side.

  Harry cut the engine, climbed out of the car and stretched his back, before fishing the key for the front door from his jeans pocket. The entire house perched six feet off the ground on high footings. A wide, covered verandah circled the entire building, and a set of ten steps led Harry from the driveway up to the entrance. A light, musty smell pervaded the house as he opened the front door. He opened blinds and windows to air the place out and let some light in. The interior of the property was clean but old, with many of the fittings original or at least from an era when a ‘life-time guarantee’ meant what it said. The kitchen still had the original wood fire oven in one corner, although a cheap gas stove had also been installed. The living room had a wide fireplace at one end that was in good working order. There wasn’t any other source of heating so Harry envisioned both the kitchen wood stove and the living room fire getting a good work out during the winter to keep the place warm.

  Harry fetched his remaining bag from the car, and unpacked the food and stores he’d bought. The cans and non-perishable food barely made a dent in the cupboards mounted around the perimeter of the kitchen. Food unpacked, Harry took his new tools to the large shed off the rear of the house.

  He hadn’t seen inside, and was unsure what lay within. A thick padlock held the door closed; after trying four keys unsuccessfully, the fifth caused the lock to spring open with a satisfying click. The door hinge screamed its lack of oil as it swung outwards, exposing a veritable treasure trove of miscellaneous items from half a century’s worth of farm maintenance. Fencing material consumed a third of the shed, rolls of barbed wire hung from one wall, star pickets leaned in the back corner. Various tools were arranged above a long wooden workbench on the left. He needn’t have bothered with the hardware store, as the farm was well stocked. A quick glance took in wood splitters, axe, hatchet, next to rakes, spades and a pick. A few key power tools were even stacked under the bench. Harry unhinged the first box, finding a huge angle grinder complete with a series of cutting and grinding discs. The second case held a Makita hammer drill. Harry stacked the tools on the bench then headed back into the sunshine to keep exploring. A large, circular rainwater tank collected run-off from the roof of the house to water the gardens. Near to this was a pump to bring drinking water to the surface from a deep-sunk bore.

  Harry glanced at his watch, it was already 11am and his stomach was growling. The amount of traffic leaving Sydney had increased his concern this morning. After seeing how much room he still had to spare in the kitchen, he figured he should do another shopping trip while the supermarkets were still open.

  In less than fifteen minutes, Harry was driving into the small coastal town of Ulladulla. On the left of the road lay an enclosed harbour, protected by a long rock wall jutting from north and south sides, leaving a narrow passage in the middle for boats to pass. The marina lay on the right side of the harbour, housing numerous small yachts, their masts slowly rolling in the minor swell. The area was a hive of activity as numerous boat owners loaded key possessions and food aboard in preparation to abandon land for the relative safety of open water.

  Harry found many of the stores on the main street were already closed, some with hand written signs indicating contact details or apologies to their patrons, others simply had their security screens drawn at the front, quiet darkness behind the windows telling people all they needed to know. Harry pulled into a car park in front of the main supermarket and walked inside. He quickly filled a trolley to brimming with non-perishable items, and then topped it off with fresh food. He didn’t bother buying any more water containers; the bore water had set his mind at ease.

  His shopping finished, Harry paid the anxious looking clerk at the register, and returned to his car. Now that the necessities were completed, he was keen to get his TV hooked up at the house to access news updates from Sydney. The radio had ceased being any help by the time he had woken this morning. Each of the stations he flipped to on the FM band only played randomized song lists without any DJ interaction or news broadcast. He rummaged through one of the shopping bags, pulled out a packet of muesli bars, tore one free and began to eat while driving back one-handed to the farm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Steph was sitting on the lower bunk bed with her back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. She was the only one left in the twelve-bed backpacker dormitory in Mascot; all the others had bolted earlier this morning, heading south. She’d stayed, despite the offer of a ride in one group’s minivan, planning on meeting up with her cousin, Harry. That plan had fallen through. Harry wasn’t answering his home phone number, an automatic voice message reporting disconnection.

  Steph had flown herself to a destination that was rapidly becoming more dangerous than what she’d left in Cairns. Although the news recommended people stay at home and wait for the security forces to intervene, she wasn’t keen to place her faith in everyday cops to deal with Infected murderers. Not when the number of police on the streets was finite, whereas their opponents recruited every person they injured or killed to their own numbers. It was a war that risked hitting a turning point where it would avalanche out of control, and in a crowded city of millions like Sydney, that could happen in a matter of days.

  Steph screwed her eyes shut, trying to block out fear to concentrate on finding a plan of escape. The infection was likely to spread throughout Australia’s cities; plane, rail and car transport would see
to that. She had to escape before other countries recognized the danger presented by the virus, and formally closed their borders. Air travel would be the best bet, hopefully the easiest to access.

  With a plan of action, Steph breathed a little easier, she found any type of movement better than doing nothing at all. She double-checked her passport and cash, then heaved her pack onto a shoulder and set off.

  Steph walked a city block to Mascot station, and jumped on the next available train to the airport. The carriage she stepped into was standing room only; it appeared she hadn’t been the only one to think of escape from Sydney via the air. People of all ages were stuffed in, pressed up against each other to fit. Luckily it was only a few stops to the International Airport. People flooded through the doors as they opened at the terminal, pushing past each other to climb the escalator towards the ticketing area. The scene in Departures made Steph’s heart drop as she reached the top of the escalator. The hall was crammed full, the crowd agitated, and anxiety palpable like static in the air. Kids clung wide-eyed to their parents, too frightened to cry at what they didn’t understand.

  Steph scanned the departure lists on the TV screens hanging from the ceiling, and her stomach clenched. All flights from Sydney International were listed as delayed without an estimated departure time. Long lines stretched back from each of the airline ticketing desks, most of which were unattended. In the queue next to her, a heavy-set man in his twenties with tracksuit pants and a black mullet cut into the front of the line, much to the anger of those around. A middle-aged, short guy with greying hair pushed him back out of the way.

  ‘Go to the back the line and wait your turn,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, are you going to make me, bro?’ the younger man replied with a vicious smile as he stepped back to his previous position, looking down at him.

  The older man grimaced but didn’t say a word as he slid his glasses off, passing them to his wife behind his back. Without further warning, he launched a savage underhand punch into the younger man’s groin, bending him double, his mouth silently open and eyes wide in agony. An economical knee thrust spread the younger man’s nose sideways, knocking him to the ground. His head hit the tiles with a hollow thud. He didn’t get up.

  Nobody said a word, however the occasional half smile indicated the crowd thought he’d got what he deserved. The only security guard within sight looked the other way, pretending he hadn’t witnessed the whole thing. The older man put his glasses back on, then calmly picked up one of the queue jumpers feet, and dragged him to the side of the room before re-joining the line once more.

  The next line across was formed at the counter of Qantas Airlines. A harried-looking young lady in impeccable uniform was trying to keep her cool in the presence of a verbally aggressive father.

  ‘As I have tried to explain, sir, there aren’t any seats on today’s flights at this stage. We can’t sell any tickets as we have no confirmation when or if the plane will be able to leave.’

  ‘What do you mean, “might not leave”? We have to get out of here – don’t you know what happening in the city?’ He pointed at his toddler in his wife’s arms, ‘You think I’m going to let one of those bloody cannibals get my little girl?’

  The Qantas stewardess bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Her eyes became glassy with unshed tears at the stress of the situation. ‘Please sir, if you could just be patient for a—’

  ‘I want to speak to your manager,’ the father cut her off, his voice now raised to yelling.

  ‘I would…. but they’ve all gone,’ she said, backing away frightened, before slipping through the one-way mirrored door and out of sight.

  The father let out a cry of pure frustration, picked up the metal bin next to him, and threw it over the counter into the reinforced glass door, causing it to crack and deform inwards. His daughter’s wail of terror redoubled at seeing her dad lose control.

  As the counter staff disappeared one by one without answers, the agitation in the crowd doubled. People hammered on the desks, calling for attention. In the midst of the clamour, a woman’s shrill voice cut through.

  ‘She’s bitten! I saw it; she’s trying to cover it up! Somebody get security! There’s an infected person!’

  The crowd surrounding pulled away like a tide from the woman identified. She looked scared; skin pale, pulling at her sleeve to cover a bandage on her forearm. A young boy, no more than six years of age clung to her waist. The accuser continued to scream for attention.

  For the first time Steph had seen, security took notice. A team of people issued from behind a one-way glass door, pushing a trolley. One security guard forcibly pulled up the sleeve, exposing the bite wound. The woman was torn away from her son and lifted onto the trolley, wrist and ankles shackled to the bed frame. She screamed for her son, raising her head off the bed to try and see him. The boy stood quietly in the same spot he’d been wrenched from his mother, silent tears streaming down his face. The team kicked off the trolley brakes and pushed her back through the same side door, letting it slam behind them, cutting off the woman’s distressed cry.

  The address system blared into life, the warning chime to indicate an upcoming announcement. The volume of the crowd immediately dipped, as heads turned upwards, a look of hope or weak desperation printed upon many faces.

  A voice boomed out, strained in an effort to sound controlled and calm. ‘Sydney Airport regrets to inform patrons that all departing flights have been cancelled due to newly enforced international quarantine restrictions upon Australia. I repeat all departing flights from Sydney are cancelled for the foreseeable future.’ A ragged indrawn breath was heard over the speaker as the announcer paused.

  ‘You are encouraged to leave and return to your homes. If the airport precinct comes under attack, the police have advised us that we may not be supported due to pre-existing emergencies in the city. I repeat: please leave and return to your homes for your own safety.’

  The announcement went dead. No further information was volunteered.

  For a moment there was silence, then pandemonium. As a mass, the crowd rushed the doors to the street, or fled down the escalator to the train station below. Steph looked for the abandoned boy, but he’d already disappeared in the press. God I hope he wasn’t trampled underfoot. She moved as well, there was no point remaining if the planes were stuck on the ground, but where to go? She couldn’t return to the hostel; she might not be even able to get back in if the landlord had locked up and fled. She didn’t have a car, so her last option to leave Sydney was via train.

  Steph waded against the flow of people, angling for the escalator to the underground airport station. She’d head south, the other confirmed outbreaks were to Sydney’s north, and as the airport lay in Sydney’s south, it was also the quickest direction out of the city.

  She only had to wait ten minutes for the next train, and managed to wedge herself on board amongst the crowd that had reached the same conclusion as her. Interestingly, the carriages rapidly emptied at the first few stops – maybe people were taking the police advice to remain at home, or using cars to continue their exodus. Either way, soon she was able to claim a seat for herself as she watched Sydney, now her least favourite Australian city, slide into chaos.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mark was relieved of sentry duty by one of the police officers. It was mid-afternoon, and he’d been sitting next to the entrance below the clock tower for the past two hours, listening to the ongoing noise of the Infected on the other side of the barricade. None had made a concerted effort to get through the gate, and from the fluctuating noise intensity, he thought it was likely they wandered aimlessly without a target for their hunger.

  He rose to standing, stretched the stiffness from his arms and walked to the Great Hall. Someone had rigged a television at one end, and the ABC News channel was airing an update to the outbreak. Mark noted Peter standing at the back of the crowd and headed over. ‘What’s new?’ he asked quietly, looking past Peter
at the TV.

  ‘Nothing good, that’s for sure,’ he replied. ‘Quarantine’s updated their advice regarding the infection.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’re saying the infected are, by all normal means of assessment – dead. No heartbeat, they don’t need oxygen, they’re not even breathing.’ He paused, then pointed at the screen. ‘Might as well hear it from them, the reports been running on a loop, it’s just starting off again’.

  ‘Cheers,’ Mark said, already easing his way through the crowd to hear better.

  Testing at the Federal Quarantine facility had failed to identify a cure, or evidence of recovery in any test subjects – and the reason for this was in effect quite simple, they were already dead. Humans infected with the virus, now simply referred to by the authorities as “Carriers”, did not fulfil criteria for life. There was no heartbeat, circulating blood or self-generated heat, with their body tissue matching ambient room temperature. Most peculiarly, they did not breathe if alone; only in proximity of non-infected animals was air forced past their vocal cords to create a moan or characteristic snarl.

  Once the government reclassified Carriers as dead, all rights normally accorded to Australian citizens were withdrawn. The Prime Minister personally confirmed on camera that Australians would be immune to charges for causing physical trauma to a Carrier.

  Testing had commenced to determine the quickest method for returning infected civilians to an inert condition, or as the reporter put it, to “kill them properly”. Through systematic trial of various traumatic wounds, security forces had found brain destruction was necessary. Other injuries only served to incapacitate depending on the site of trauma, but left function above the site of injury intact. Infected subjects that had been decapitated were found to have functioning jaws, eye movements, and disturbingly – an ongoing desire to bite.