9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (8 page)

In the pocket handkerchief back garden of the cottage stood a sturdy, brick-built
outhouse. It contained a stack of rough-sawn logs, a full sack of coal that Peter
had been saving for when he needed it most, like now, a large sheet of tarpaulin and
years of accumulated dirt.

With a grunt, he hefted the sack and staggered into the cottage. He dumped the sack
in a corner of the kitchenette, leaving just enough room to open the door to the fridge.
Then he made several journeys, bringing the logs inside and stacking them on the hearth.

Peter lifted the tarpaulin, raising a cloud of dust and spider skeletons. He carried
it outside and shook the worst of the dust out of it, stepping smartly back to avoid
being enveloped. He threw it to one side—the breeze was strong enough to make the
edges flap, but there was no danger of it being blown away—while he emptied the car’s
boot. Now that they were full of diesel, Peter could only manage one sloshing container
at a time. He placed them in two rows on the dirt-covered concrete floor of the outhouse.
It was dry and free of vermin, its door old and solid, despite the contrary appearance
of its coating of flaking green paint. Peter secured the door with a sturdy padlock
that he had purchased on Saturday during his shopping expedition to the city. He attached
the padlock key to the keyring holding the car keys.

Finally, with the last of the day’s grey light leaking from the sky, he spread the
tarpaulin over the Range Rover. It didn’t cover it entirely, but would serve to keep
out the worst of the elements and might act as a deterrent for any would-be looters.
He secured the corners of the tarpaulin around the tyres using lengths of coarse string
cut from a ball he kept in a drawer in the kitchenette.

Satisfied that the vehicle and supply of diesel were as secure as he could make them,
Peter went indoors. It was only when he was inside that he realised that he hadn’t
heard the usual excited sounds of children returning from school.

He made sure that the front and back doors to the cottage were securely locked and
all windows tightly fastened. He drew closed the curtains over the windows in the
living room and kitchenette and banked the fire.

He switched on the television in time for the main evening news on the BBC. There
had been another terrorist outrage somewhere in the Middle East; it was reported almost
perfunctorily, with a certain degree of detachment, as though such events were now
de rigueur
in the run-up to Christmas. Or maybe the news team was keen to get to the second
story in that evening’s schedule.

They were already calling it the Millennium Bug. Deaths had been reported in London
and Birmingham, though the British medical authorities were remaining tight-lipped
about the cause. The death toll in Los Angeles had jumped to sixty-five; that they
were all the result of the same illness had now been confirmed. Reports of similar
deaths in American cities such as New York, San Francisco and Dallas were trickling
in. The earlier reports from Sydney had now been confirmed and more deaths had since
been recorded. Rumours of a fatal disease spreading like wildfire throughout Asia
and Africa were being received from foreign news agencies. . . .

Peter changed channels, deciding that from here on in he would avoid the news. He
would watch sport and comedies and films and documentaries until broadcasts ceased.
Then, for so long as the electricity supply lasted, he would watch DVDs.

He was as prepared as he could be to ride out the storm.

* * * * *

Lisa had not replied to Tom’s text message by the evening. He rang her, but the call
went immediately to Lisa’s voicemail.

“Hi. You’ve reached Lisa’s phone. Leave a message and . . . oh, you know how it works.”

“Lisa, it’s Tom. I hope you’re okay. Call me, please.”

Tom disconnected the call. After a moment’s thought, he called his mother. He didn’t
expect her to answer. Tuesday night was bingo night. She and Betty would be sipping
port and lemon, gossiping like two old fishwives as they marked their bingo cards.

The call wasn’t answered and Tom disconnected.

Since watching the evening news, he had been feeling increasingly uneasy. Some sort
of superflu was sweeping the country. Hell, it seemed to be sweeping the world. The
Millennium Bug. People were dying in the hundreds.

He wondered if this same bug was responsible for the absences in school. He had put
it down to another winter virus—how could the same virus affect the whole world at
the same time?—but now wasn’t so sure. Lisa might have it.

He hadn’t spoken to his mother since Saturday. She might. . . .

Tom shook himself, trying to get rid of the sense of foreboding. He wondered briefly
if he ought to jump into his car and take a drive to Swansea; make sure she was okay.
On the other hand, he was tired and she would not thank him if she arrived home from
bingo to find him sitting yawning in her living room. She would be suspicious and
he would get cranky and they would end up arguing. He’d drive home in a mood and have
trouble sleeping. They had played out that scene too many times.

No. He would ring her tomorrow.

Tom would regret that decision for the remainder of his days.

* * * * *

The roads into Melbourne were quieter than normal. The same could not be said for
the roads out of the city. Bishop passed cars and trailers and vans, piled high with
people and possessions, fleeing the city.

He laughed at them and sprinkled Moondust into his slipstream. Some of it may find
its way in through open windows and air ducts, he reasoned. Even if it was a futile
gesture on his part, it was evident that the Millennium Bug had beaten him to the
city by a couple of days, perhaps transported there by air from New Zealand or Fiji
or further afield. It was all they were talking about on the radio; they were already
hesitantly calling it a pandemic. People were dying throughout the world.

Bishop listened and laughed until he grew bored and found a station that was still
playing rock music.

“Fools!” he shouted at the streams of vehicles heading in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going? Nowhere is safe.” He whooped joyously and sprinkled a little
more Moondust above his head for good measure.

He pondered that for a while. Maybe those not yet infected might find safe areas,
but they would have to seek out the uninhabited regions.
They
tended to be the most inhospitable areas, places like the deep Outback. He guessed
that groups of people who headed into the wilderness might survive if they had plenty
of provisions and means to provide shelter from the desert heat and hostile environment.
But if only one of their number—just one—was unwittingly carrying the Millennium Bug
with them, then their goose was cooked.

“Hell, yes!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Not
just cooked. Burnt to a crisp. Incinerated! Whoo-hoo!” If any of the passing motorists
or passengers noticed him, they glanced quickly away, a shadow passing over their
hearts.

The gunmetal grey Mazda drove through the suburbs of Melbourne in early evening sunshine.
Bishop slowed occasionally and sprinkled more Moondust into his slipstream. He didn’t
have much left; maybe around half an inch remained in the canister when he had last
stopped and he hadn’t been able to reach it with his fingers. He had transferred the
remaining powder to the plastic bag and it was into this that he now dipped his fingers
to spread his version of seasonal greetings to the world.

Four or five times on his drive into the city, at children’s playgrounds and public
parks, he stopped the car to perform the routine of pretending to stretch his legs
while smearing Moondust on benches and swings and picnic tables. In truth, he no longer
believed it necessary to spread any more Moondust, but he was nothing if not a thorough
man and would rather spread it unnecessarily than allow some to survive through lack
of diligence on his part.

The steady stream of traffic heading away from the city slowed as Bishop neared the
city centre. He had started to fear that the city would be snarled with people fleeing,
but it seemed that those who had decided to get out had gone and in an orderly, civilised
fashion. Visions of thoroughfares choked with cars full of dying people, the stench
of corruption on the evening breeze, did not materialise. If he had been forced to
abandon the Mazda and walk into the city centre, the exertion wouldn’t have bothered
Bishop. But he would have been vulnerable, even with the pistol.

Another concern proved to be unfounded. He had wondered whether the city would be
rife with civil unrest; rioters and looters roaming the streets; random acts of violence
born of fear and frustration. Although he actually enjoyed watching mindless violence—had
himself indulged in it frequently—he would make a prime target for the crazies in
the open-top Mazda. The gun lay within easy reach in the open holdall on the seat
next to him, safety catch off.

Bishop never paused to consider that violence had once played no part in his make-up
and was abhorred in his culture. That the worse excesses of humanity had rubbed off
on him did not occur to him, except perhaps in some remote part of his consciousness
that he kept firmly subdued. He was not a man readily given to introspection.

If there
was
any unrest in the city, he managed to avoid it, though by luck not judgment. Once
or twice he heard sirens, but far away and he never encountered their source.

He suspected that these things may still occur; that trying to leave Melbourne by
road over the coming days would grow increasingly difficult and that venturing into
the streets would become unwise. Once he reached his destination, he had no intention
of doing either.

As it was, the city seemed calm. People were still going about their business, though
in fewer numbers; the al fresco restaurants that he passed were doing business, though
there were many empty tables in evidence.

Bishop was close now to his favourite haunt. He had spent a lot of time in Melbourne
over the years, had seen it expand and thrive, and even kept a small apartment here.
But he wanted to spend the last days of humanity in luxury; watch mankind’s death
throes from the comfort of a five-star hotel.

As he neared the business district, he reached to the holdall with his left hand and
withdrew the bag containing the last of the Moondust. Briefly gunning the Mazda down
a straight stretch of road, he lifted the bag above the windscreen and let the slipstream
whip the remaining powder away. Giving the bag a last shake, he released it and saw
it sail to the street in the rearview mirror.

He turned into the Park Plaza Hotel and pulled up in front of the entrance. He switched
off the engine and closed the zip on the holdall, hiding the handgun from view. A
concierge appeared.

“May I help you, sir?”

Bishop held out the car keys. “Two cases in the trunk,” he said. He motioned to the
holdall. “I’ll take that. Park it up for me, please, and close the hood.”

Bishop stepped out of the car, holdall in hand.

“Oh,” he said. “Please will you fill up the tank and
then
park her up? This should more than cover it.”

He held out two hundred-dollar bills.

The concierge took them and made them disappear into his grey suit.

“Certainly, sir,” he said. “And which grade of parking would you prefer? Standard
or executive? Executive is in a more secure area and includes a complete valeting
service. It, ahem, costs a little more, of course. . . .”

“Executive, naturally,” said Bishop.

“I shall see to it, sir. Enjoy your stay at the Park Plaza.”

“Oh, I will,” said Bishop. “Please arrange for the keys to be delivered to my room.”

He stepped into the air-conditioned, marbled opulence of the hotel lobby and approached
the desk. The clerk, a pretty woman of Asian origin, looked up and smiled.

“I’d like to check in,” said Bishop. “I’ll be paying cash up front.”

“Certainly, sir,” said the woman. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Oh, a week initially. With perhaps an option to extend.” He didn’t add,
if there’s anyone left alive to take more money from me
.

“And what grade of room would you be interested in? I can offer a special rate on
our standard twin?”

“No, thanks. I want your most expensive available room.”

The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, then you’ll want our Ambassador Suite,” she said.
“Fortunately, sir, we have such a room available due to a late cancellation. Illness.”
She coughed and, for a fleeting moment, her mask of professional efficiency slipped.
Bishop caught a glimpse of haunted eyes and sensed the fear coming from her like a
rotten smell.

“Yes,” he said. “I hear there’s a lot of it about.”

He handed over a small fortune in cash and refused the woman’s offer to summon a concierge
to show him to his room.

The Ambassador Suite was larger than Bishop’s Melbourne flat. It offered stunning
views of the city skyline, now lit up as night-time took hold. He dropped his holdall
onto a thickly padded armchair and hunted for the room service menu. He rang down
and ordered a lavish meal.

He then placed a call to the airport. It took a while to be put through to the person
he wanted to speak to—apparently there were a lot of staff off on the sick—but he
was connected eventually.

“Hello,” he said. “This is Troy Bishop. Reference ACJ319/4708 . . . Yes, I’d like
the aircraft safety-checked, fuelled and ready to go, please . . . Yes, fully fuelled,
including the extra tanks . . . Europe . . . Stocked for forty passengers . . . No
. . . Not sure precisely when. But within the next few days . . . Yes, please . .
. Usual account. Be sure to do a thorough job.”

He replaced the handset, a satisfied grin on his face. Then he kicked back and settled
down to wait.