9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (14 page)

“Shhhh,” murmured Diane and probed. She could sense a swirling, livid vortex of feral
need to feed, underlain by sheer terror. The cat’s mind had come unhinged during its
confinement in the trunk of the car.

“Hmm . . . you’re one hungry, angry kitty, ain’t you?” she said.

The cat continued to hiss and swipe at the wires, trying to reach her.

“Will you survive, I wonder, if I let you go. . . .” She glanced past the shuttered
service station, to the fields that stretched away beyond. “There’ll probably be mice
and rats out there. Snakes, too . . . Maybe
they
will get
you
.” She shrugged. “
Que sera sera
.”

Diane reached for the door catch, but drew her hand back in a hurry as the cat yowled
and made a leap at her, thudding into the wire mesh.

“Oh, my. You’re gonna come for me, ain’t you, kitty?” she said. “It won’t matter that
I’m more than twenty times bigger than you. Let’s just put you straight on that score,
shall we?”

Diane stared intently at the cat. It laid its ears flat against its skull, but stopped
hissing and mewling. It stared back at Diane, its eyes large and black. As she implanted
the image of her bashing the cat’s head into a bloody pulp with a rock, the creature
backed into the furthest corner of the basket, lowering its body so that it cowered
in its own filth.

“There,” said Diane. “That should discourage you.” She reached out again and unfastened
the clasp. She pulled the door open. The cat did not move.

“Off you go then, kitty.” Diane shuffled back a couple of paces on her knees.

The cat looked at her. It took one tentative step towards the door. When Diane made
no movement, it slunk forward, belly fur brushing through excrement and urine. With
one last terrified glance at Diane, the cat gained the forecourt and looked desperately
around, not knowing where to run.

“Over there’s your best bet, kitty,” said Diane, pointing towards the fields and starting
to rise to her feet.

The cat took off, streaking across the forecourt. It skidded to an ungainly halt at
the edge of the brush that marked the start of the field and looked back, its tail
whipping back and forth like a live cable.

Diane took one step in the cat’s direction. It turned tail and fled into the fields.

She smiled, but it quickly faded as she remembered that she was almost out of gas.
She glanced at the roll of tubing in her hand.

Of course, Diane had heard of syphoning and had seen it done in the movies. She needed
to poke one end of the tube into gasoline and suck hard to start a flow of liquid.
So long as the open end of the tube was below the level of the covered end, the flow
would continue.

Diane stepped back to the station wagon and opened the driver’s door. The key was
still in the ignition and she turned it to accessories. Trying to ignore the stench
that came off the driver in thick waves, and supporting her weight by grabbing the
central pillar so as to avoid touching him, she leaned across him until she could
see the fuel gauge. Almost half a tank. It clearly wasn’t the need for gasoline that
had caused the father to park up on this forecourt.

Judging from the stench rising from the bodies, the car had been parked here like
this for days. Assuming that there had still been some other people around a few days
ago, strange that no-one had tried to help the family. Diane did not waste time pondering
the question—she had witnessed so many instances of man’s brutality to man that apparent
indifference towards a dying family did not really surprise her.

She walked completely around the station wagon, trying to find the gas tank cover,
before thinking to open the trunk. There it was, tucked into the sill that ran around
the trunk.

Diane went back to her car, started it and drove it to the back of the station wagon,
lining up her gas tank cover near the station wagon’s. She parked and turned off her
engine.

She uncoiled the tubing and fed one end into the wagon’s gas tank. She had no idea
how far down it went so gave an experimental suck on the end still in her hand. She
gasped as the fumes burned her throat and took deep breaths before she fed the tube
in further and tried again. This time, she could not suck. She let out a deep breath
and sucked again, harder. Nothing except more stinging fumes. Another deep exhalation
and another huge suck . . . and she was gagging on the most disgusting liquid she
had ever tasted.

Coughing and spluttering, she whipped the tube from her mouth and clamped her thumb
over the end. She doubled over, spitting and retching, desperate to expel the burning,
foul taste.

When at last she could straighten, she used her free hand to unscrew the cap to her
gas tank and then held the tube over the opening. She could see the liquid inside
the tube, like pale urine. Moving her thumb away from the end of the tube, she quickly
fed the tube into her tank. Now she could feel the liquid flowing down the tube.

She held it in place until the flow stopped. Only then did she grab a bottle of water
and rinse her mouth.

Once back behind the wheel, the tube stashed safely in her trunk where she would not
notice the fumes it gave off, she started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge
crept up to a quarter and continued, hovering just below half. The station wagon probably
had a larger tank, but she had succeeded in syphoning most of its contents into her
own car.

Diane did something very much out of character: she threw back her head and uttered
an almighty
WHOOP
!

Chapter Eleven

I
t had been a few days since Peter had heard any sign of life outside; two days since
the man.

Electricity still coursed through the cables, water still ran clear from the taps,
but he didn’t think either would for much longer. He had watched all the DVDs with
varying degrees of interest and enjoyment. He had exhausted his supplies of fresh
food. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and wind-driven rain spattered the
cottage windows. A few degrees’ drop in temperature and that rain would turn to snow.
He still had enough logs and coal to keep the cottage warm, but that was insufficient
reason to stay. In truth, he was bored.

There were also, of course, other considerations. Soon the others would be on the
move, heading this way. He didn’t think they would set out just yet. They would need
to make sure that the virus had finished its work. But neither would they want to
delay for too long.

Some would be coming by air and the longer they waited, the more chance of something
going wrong with the ground and satellite guidance and communications systems upon
which modern aircraft so heavily relied. Like the electricity and water supplies,
these systems would continue to operate for a period without being maintained, but
not indefinitely. Indeed, some would fail when the electricity failed and he was already
anticipating that occurring.

Nevertheless, it would be a few weeks yet until they began to arrive in any numbers.
They were coming from all around the world and it might take up to a month for everyone
to get here. Peter intended to be far away by then.

For now, he felt it was time to get out and about. See if there were any survivors
in the vicinity. It was a risk, but one that he wanted to take. Falling in love with
Megan had taught him the pleasure—and pain—of loving another. Living with her for
sixty years had taught him to care for others, for humans. If he could find some survivors,
there was a chance that he could save them.

Provided he could get them to believe him . . . That was a problem he would have to
try to overcome as and when it arose. It wasn’t something that he could plan for so
it was pointless trying to.

Peter went into the kitchenette to make a cup of tea. Might as well, he thought, while
he still could. Tea would be one thing he would miss when the electricity failed.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped,
for now.
He
was still there.

The man hadn’t been the first to try opening Peter’s front door, but the first to
bang upon it when finding it securely locked. Peter had ignored the rattling of the
door knob, but had paused the DVD he had been watching when the banging started. He
sat there quietly, waiting for it to stop. When it had, Peter stood and crept upstairs
to the tiny window in the bathroom at the front of the cottage. He peered through,
but the street seemed to be deserted. He moved to the window in his bedroom, at the
back of the cottage.

Peter could see from here the back end of the tarpaulined Range Rover. As he looked
down, a man came into view, moving around the vehicle, pulling at the tarpaulin. Peter
stepped back a little into shadow so he would be hidden if the man happened to glance
up.

The man was in his forties; tall, balding, rough-shaven. He paused now and again to
lean forward and cough, resting his hands on his knees and expelling large wads of
phlegm as each fit of coughing tailed off. The man straightened and began tugging
at the tarpaulin again, but it didn’t move. Peter knew that the man would have even
less success in untying the knots in the string which he had used to secure the tarp—he
had learned many things in his years in the merchant navy; tying knots that could
not easily be undone was one of them. Of course, his knots would not defeat a keen
blade, but the man did not seem to possess a knife for he gave up tugging at the tarpaulin
and walked unsteadily to the outhouse.

He grasped the padlock and tugged it. Peter stayed still, watching from the shadows.
He was not in the least concerned that the man would be able to break the padlock
open with his hands alone. The man let go of the padlock, turned to one side and vomited.
He looked down at the small puddle for a few moments as if fascinated by what he saw
there.

Then he stepped to the side, like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. For a few
paces, he stumbled sideways onto the small lawned area until his legs became entangled
with each other and he fell. The man stayed where he was, flat on his back, arms spread
wide in the shape of a crucifix.

As Peter now looked from the window of the kitchenette, the man still lay there, face
turned skywards. But he hadn’t moved since he’d fallen two days ago. There had, however,
been some small changes. The man’s left hand was now missing three fingers. One of
his cheeks had been torn away, leaving a flap of skin that fluttered in gusts of wind.
Foxes, probably. Maybe dogs or cats, already going feral.

The kettle boiled and Peter made a mug of tea. As he sipped it, he came to a decision.
Tomorrow, he would venture out. He wouldn’t go far, only a two- or three-mile radius
for now, taking in the neighbouring villages. Depending on what he found there, he
could increase the range, but he would only explore the surrounding areas for the
next two weeks.

Then, he was leaving.

* * * * *

After the girl in the nightdress, Bishop did not find any more survivors in the hotel.
He had explored every inch of the Park Plaza and spent his last night there sitting
on the roof terrace, enjoying the balmy summer air.

With nightfall, many areas of the city remained in darkness as the Grid started to
fail. Within a night or two, the only lights would come from places, like hospitals,
that had their own emergency generators. They, too, would fail soon enough with no-one
to refuel them.

Even as Bishop watched, lights in parts of the city winked out. He knew it was coming;
sure enough, the floor-level subdued floodlights that gently lit the terrace flickered
and faded.

Bishop went inside and made his way down the staircase to the Ambassador Suite, the
darkness relieved only by the soft glow of the hotel’s battery-powered emergency lighting.
The keycard no longer worked, but that was all right since the room doors defaulted
to unlocked in the event of total power failure.

His suitcases remained packed. New clothes, food, drinks . . . he had been well provided
by the hotel and hadn’t needed to open the cases except to add the jewellery and other
precious items he had scavenged, though he preferred to think of it as salvaging.
He had taken the automatic pistol from the holdall and spent a morning thoroughly
cleaning and oiling it using the small kit he kept in a side pocket of the holdall.

After a moment’s consideration, he clicked off the pistol’s safety and placed it back
inside the holdall, but at the top. He would once more keep the holdall unzipped and
within easy reach on the passenger seat next to him.

Hoisting the holdall over his shoulder by its strap, a suitcase in each hand, Bishop
made his way to the hotel basement and car park, stepping carefully in the dim light.
His footsteps echoed in the cave-like space.

The Mazda had not been tampered with. It was parked alongside some other expensive
vehicles in a caged area of the car park. The electro-magnetic lock that secured the
steel-mesh gate to the small compound had unlocked in the power failure. Bishop swung
it open with a gentle kick.

He unlocked the car and squeezed the cases into the boot space. The concierge had
been true to his word and had raised the polyvinyl hood. Bishop decided to leave it
in place. His only real concern about driving to the airport was encountering some
crazy survivor who had managed to arm himself with a firearm. Leaving the hood up
would make him a more difficult target.

As he settled behind the wheel and gunned the accelerator, nodding to himself that
the period of inaction did not sound as though it had done the engine any harm, he
glanced at the holdall on the seat beside him and had second thoughts. He reached
in and extracted the pistol. He placed it in the door well next to his right thigh.
From there, he would be able to draw and level the weapon with his right hand quickly
and, if needs be, unobtrusively.

Bishop set off for Melbourne Airport.

He was familiar with the layout of the city and found alternative back-street routes
with ease in the few places where abandoned vehicles blocked his path.

During one of his detours, not far from the banks of the Yarra River, he approached
a snarl of cars and vans that were blackened as though they had been torched. The
wreckage partially blocked the road ahead, but the Mazda was small enough to squeeze
past. He slowed down to do so and as the car eased past the last of the burnt-out
vehicles, Bishop could see a pile of bodies lying in the road beyond the wreckage.
There must have been twenty or thirty men and maybe half as many women thrown higgledy-piggledy
on top of each other. At the same time that he noticed the bodies, the stench of putrefaction
swept through the open window and he hurriedly closed it.

Bishop had good reason to be glad that he had closed the window and had kept the hood
on the Mazda when the passage of the car past the bodies disturbed the multitudes
of flies that had settled on them and they rose buzzing into the air like a plague
of locusts.

He waited until he was well clear before winding down the window again.

Not long after that he encountered a man. He emerged on the run from a side street
and stopped in the road ahead of him. Bishop considered for a moment simply mowing
him down, but curiosity got the better of him and he slowed down.

The man looked to be in his late thirties, unshaven and straggle-haired. He watched
Bishop approach, unmoving but poised to spring away like a startled hare.

Bishop pulled to one side of the man and brought the Mazda to a halt alongside him,
a few feet away. He dropped his right hand from the steering wheel and allowed it
to rest on the grip of the pistol. He probed, too briefly and gently to be noticed,
but sensed no danger, only bewilderment and fear.

“G’day,” Bishop said.

The man’s face immediately broke into an expression of relief and he almost bounded
to the car. He bent forward, hands on thighs, to look in at Bishop.

“Man, oh, man, oh man, am I glad to see you!” he said.

Bishop regarded the man curiously. His skin was sallow, dark troughs below the eyes,
but the eyes themselves, though a little wide and staring, were clear and dry. He
did not cough or sniff.

“You survived, then,” Bishop murmured.

“Yeah, man. I fell ill but. . . .” He shrugged as though he hadn’t considered this
until now. “I got better.”

“It appears so,” said Bishop.

The man’s face creased and it took Bishop a moment to realise that he was fighting
back tears. “Everyone I know is dead, man. Can I . . . can I come with you?”

Bishop’s fingers tightened around the butt of the pistol, then relaxed as he had an
idea. Maybe this man, fatigued as he was and close to tears, would be more open to
suggestion. Maybe Bishop could persuade him to jump into the Yarra or step off a rooftop.

He looked intently at the man and . . .
pushed
.

The man’s eyes opened wider. “What the fuck. . . . ?” He took a step back, then another.
“What are you doing?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “What are you?”

Bishop frowned. He had hoped that the man’s mental resistance would be so eroded as
to be easily overcome. However, it seemed that they could still keep him out, at least
one-on-one. No matter; they would not be able to resist the combined force of his
people. And after the Great Coming. . . .

“What am I?” said Bishop. He laughed. “I am the thing under your bed. The monster
in your closet. The bogeyman. . . .” He raised both hands, fingers waggling, and made
a
whooo
sound. “I am your creator and your doom.”

The man stumbled back another couple of paces. Bishop grinned at him. With a cry of
fear, the man turned and disappeared down the alleyway from which he’d emerged.

Bishop was still chuckling to himself when he arrived at the airport twenty minutes
later.

* * * * *

Tom stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked wan, washed-out, he
could do with a shave, and the skin covering his cheeks and brow looked as thin as
tracing paper.

His stomach rumbled. He made his way downstairs slowly, legs shaky and unsteady, one
hand clutching the banister, the other holding his duvet around his shoulders like
a king’s robe. At the bottom, he sat back on the second stair to catch his breath.

Only vague recollections of the last few days played across his mind. Shadowy images
of sweats and shivers, tottering expeditions to the bathroom to relieve himself and
splash water on his fevered brow, nightmarish encounters with Dracula and Freddy Kruger
and Lisa . . . For a moment, he tried to imagine that burying his mother wrapped in
her duvet in her garden was also the product of delirium, but he knew better. The
callus on the palm of his right hand attested to the blister the handle of the stolen
shovel had made as he dug deep into the wet soil.

Tom blinked and swallowed quickly as the water he’d greedily drunk threatened to come
back up. He swayed a little, thankful that he was sitting down.

He glanced at his front door; at the mat below it. He had no idea what day it was
or for how long he had been ill, but the mat should be covered in mail, even if most
of it was junk. But there was nothing at all there.

The feeling of nausea passed and he rose unsteadily. Hand leaning against the wall
for support, he stagger-walked to the kitchen. The digital clock on the cooker showed
the time as 14:51, but the room was cast in gloom. Rain fell heavily from rolling,
black clouds and dashed against the windows like gravel. Although the blinds were
open, it was more like evening than early afternoon and he flicked the overhead light
switch. It was only when the room was bathed in the warm glow of the ceiling spotlights
that he realised the full import of the clock and overhead lights working: the electricity
was still on.