Access to the main building, although not controlled, was under constant supervision, with two guards present at the main doors.
‘Hey Erin. You tell Rachael that I want to see her tonight, I’ve got something that I know she’ll love,’ said one of the guards with a lewd expression on his face. Erin suppressed a shudder as she kept walking, ignoring him. The guard was from the navy, as were all the men sent to run the camp. His name was Jeremy, a cretin in his twenties that made her skin crawl.
‘Hey girl, I was talking to you,’ Jeremy said, reaching out and grabbing her arm. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore people when they’re talking to you?’
Erin tried to pull free. ‘But you’re not just talking, Jeremy, you’re being a creep. Can you let me go, I’m due to start in a few minutes.’
Jeremy’s eyes narrowed in anger at her reply, his grip tightening painfully on her upper arm.
‘Let her go. Now!’ said a deep voice from behind. Jeremy paused, but still maintained his hold. ‘If you don’t release that girl, I’ll have you on the first boat back to the fucking mainland, soldier. Maybe you can do some real fighting there instead of harassing underage girls.’
Erin looked to see who was talking and found an older officer lounging in a chair against the wall. Jeremy’s face went scarlet and his hand shook with poorly concealed anger at the threat as he let go.
‘Right. Why don’t you go and take a ten-minute break? When you get back, I expect to see that expression gone from your face, or I’ll wipe it off for you,’ drawled the officer.
Jeremy nodded curtly and stalked away with jaw clenched. Erin stayed where she was for the moment, unsure what to do next. The officer changed his attention to her now that he’d gotten rid of the offending man. He was middle-aged, with short black hair and a weather-lined face.
‘You ok?’ he asked quietly.
Erin nodded. ‘Thanks.’
The officer frowned. ‘That’s not required, it’s a base requirement to keep my soldier’s behaviour respectable. And as a man, I’ll be damned if I stay silent and allow that sort of stuff to happen. My name’s Lieutenant Bourke. If he hassles you again, let me know and I’ll sort it out.’
Erin shuffled backwards, wanting to be on her way. She was glad to see someone in authority willing to come down on the small group of guards that were starting to harass some of the women, however, she didn’t want a target drawn on her own back. All she wanted was to keep her head down and get through the few short weeks of quarantine before moving to Tasmania. The officer must have noted her discomfort, his features softening as he regarded her.
‘Go on then, you better hurry if you’re going to make your shift. I’d steer clear of the main common room on your way there. People are gathering for a news broadcast from the Tasmanian Premier, and from the whispers I’ve heard – they’re not going to be happy with what he has to say. It might turn a little ugly.’
Erin mumbled another thanks and took off at a brisk pace. The shift could wait; she wasn’t really needed until people had finished eating and created dishes for her to clean. Large posters were mounted on either wall of the hallway she walked along, Australian soldiers standing in heroic poses as they overwhelmed plague Carriers. The propaganda worked on some, but the manipulation just annoyed Erin. As far as she was concerned, it was a job that was dangerous and likely to get you killed – but one that still needed to be done. When she became old enough to enlist, she’d sign up, but she didn’t need to be lied to by a propaganda campaign, like fighting the undead masses would be some sort of adventure. If it was as easy as they made out, she wouldn’t be stuck in the middle of Bass Strait while the Australian mainland crawled with disease.
She could hear the group of people at a distance. Rounding a corner, the hall opened into a large rectangular room. What had previously been a conference room, had been converted into a communal space to allow the camp inhabitants to escape the outside weather. The room was packed. Erin quietly remonstrated herself at not being aware of the coming announcement. She’d deliberately kept her distance from others in the camp, discouraging friendships that would likely end in a short time. However, it meant she’d missed this piece of information that had sped through the adults rapidly.
A large flat screen TV was mounted on the wall to the right while the couches had been pushed to the back of the room to allow in more people. Most stood in small groups, nervously discussing what they thought would be announced. Erin eased her way through the different groups until she had a clear view of the TV. The screen was displaying a still shot of the Tasmanian parliament building. Abruptly it changed, switching to a live feed from the press gallery. The camera focused on a lectern, a limp Australian flag on the wall behind.
The room fell silent without prompting, as a press secretary stepped into view. He stared impassively at the camera, waiting for something. Abruptly he nodded at someone off screen.
‘Please let me introduce the new Premier for Tasmania and leader of the Conservative Party, Justin Stephens,’ he said, stepping aside to allow the State’s leader behind the lectern.
Erin didn’t recognise the man. Although she couldn’t name the state’s previous premier, she was sure he’d been a short guy with brown hair. Standing in his place was a gaunt man, towering over the lectern. He reached out and adjusted the angle of the microphone upwards, then looked down the barrel of the camera. Erin felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as she looked at him. His eyes were expressionless and cold, reminding her of a crow’s heartless gaze as it picked the eyes from a dead spring lamb.
‘It has been an eventful week in Tasmanian politics, most of which has happened behind closed doors. Now comes the time to notify our people what’s been achieved to ensure their ongoing safety,’ he said, pausing to take a sip of water from a glass tumbler.
‘In light of the tragedy that has befallen the mainland states, Tasmania has a foremost duty to protect its own citizens from the Lysan Plague. A private vote within our party has recognised the inability of the previous leader to guarantee the state’s safety. The responsibility to lead our government through the exceptional challenges of the future has been delivered onto my shoulders, a weight that I do not hesitate to take on.’ He spoke without hurry, his tone clearly conveying utter confidence in his right to usurp the Premier’s office.
‘Since being sworn in yesterday, there have been key changes to government policy. From this moment onwards, no person exposed to the virus will be allowed onto Tasmanian soil. There will be absolutely no movement of plague refugees from the mainland for resettlement in our state. The current facility on King Island will be enlarged temporarily, until such time as they can be moved to a secure location on the Victorian coast.’
The room about Erin was engulfed in a wall of noise as the import of the Premier’s words drove home. Members of the crowd reacted in different ways. Some stood quietly, struck dumb by the news, but most were furious at their own countrymen’s abandonment. Erin watched the screen where the premier had started to field questions from the press. She edged closer to hear above the angry crowd.
‘Premier, you stated that no-one who’s been potentially exposed to the virus will be allowed in Tasmania. Surely this has implications for any Tasmanian soldier enlisted to fight on the mainland?’ asked a reporter out of camera shot.
‘That is true, at present they will be required to stay with their army units until we learn more about the virus and can guarantee against the possibility of air transmission. It may seem harsh, but we are now the last bastion of the Australian way of life. We have no choice,’ answered the premier, a mildly condescending tone entering his voice.
‘There’s always choice, Mr. Stephens,’ said the reporter. ‘Don’t we owe it to our fellow Australians to help them during this critical time of need?’
‘And we will help them. There will be no law preventing Tasmanians from enlisting. If they choose to place their own lives at risk, they have the right
to do so.’
‘But you’re making that choice all the harder to execute, if you refuse to allow them back in the state after their service comes to an end,’ said the reporter.
‘Look, I think I’ve made myself abundantly clear on this matter,’ said the Premier, eyes narrowing in annoyance. ‘We are doing everything possible to help the mainland states, whilst ensuring our own state remains plague free,’ he shifted his gaze to another reporter, cancelling any further attempt to pursue the topic.
Erin sat back on her heels, ignoring the next line of questioning. The Premier’s idea of ‘doing everything possible to help the mainland’ sounded more like he had just abandoned the rest of the country to sort out their own fate. ‘Selfish bastard,’ she thought. With no way of knowing how long it would take to create a safe camp in Victoria, her stay on the island had just become indefinite.
Looking at her watch, Erin realised she was fifteen minutes late for her shift. Now more than ever, she couldn’t afford to lose her job, especially with an extended stay on the books. Erin quickly edged between the adults, out of the room and broke into a run for the kitchens.
A boot shot out from behind, tripping her foot to send her flying. Her right shoulder dug painfully into the carpet, followed by the side of her head. Feeling dazed, she sat up and looked behind to see what had made her fall. Jeremy sauntered up to where she sat, a smirk of enjoyment on his face.
‘Here’s me thinking you were due at your shift twenty minutes ago, and yet I find you skiving here in the common room, you lazy little shit,’ Jeremy said, standing over her. When Erin went to stand up, he placed a foot on her thigh to keep her in place. ‘You can go when I say, and not before. I wanted to touch base about our little run-in earlier in front of my boss. Let me be perfectly clear on this,’ he said, his voice becoming hard as he leant down into her face. ‘If you say anything to that dickhead officer, your life here is over. You have no idea the sort of pain I will cause you.’ He lifted his foot away, letting her scoot backwards and stand. Erin looked at him with wide eyes, glassy as she tried not to cry.
‘But if you play nice, maybe we can be friends after all. You better get going – I’d hate for you to lose your job and end up working the latrines for the next few months,’ Jeremy said, chuckling to himself as he turned away.
Erin’s fear turned to anger as he left. She took one last look behind her to make sure he’d gone, then bolted for the kitchens, ignoring the burning pain at the tip of her shoulder.
She sent the door swinging in her hurry to enter, narrowly missing one of the other workers carrying a stack of plates.
‘Hey, take it easy, Erin,’ said one of the cooks, a nineteen-year-old called Rachael. ‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’
‘It was Jeremy. The bastard was hassling me about you again,’ muttered Erin as she tied on an apron.
Rachael walked over, eyes tightening in anger at the mention of the man’s name. She was one of the few friends Erin had made during her time in the camp. Rachael had deep chocolate hair pulled up in a bun, fair skin and brown eyes. Due to her looks and nothing more, the nineteen-year-old had become the target of unwanted attention from some of the Navy guards.
‘I’ve lodged complaints with three separate officers about him feeling me up, and each one’s told me that he was just doing a security pat down. It’s bullshit.’
‘A new Lieutenant stopped him outside the building, but Jeremy was by himself when he tripped me in the hall.’
‘Forget the chain of command. They’re only going to look after their own and cover his tracks.’ Rachael paused, taking a brief look around to make sure she was out of earshot before continuing. ‘I say it’s up to us to ensure our own protection. Go into the back room and help yourself to something on the back wall. If anyone asks, I told you to take it home to sharpen for the next day’s cooking.’
Erin didn’t need to be told twice. She gave her a brief smile of thanks, then darted into the storeroom. Two long thin magnets were attached to the rear wall, holding around forty different knives of various uses in food preparation. Erin picked out a blade accompanied by a narrow sheath, a four-inch fruit knife with a wickedly sharp point.
She slipped the implement into the back pocket of her jeans and covered it with her jumper, taking some comfort at the weapon’s presence. There was no way she’d let that bastard hurt her.
Chapter Seven
Mark yawned, causing his ears to pop as he strapped himself into the chopper seat.
‘Didn’t you get enough beauty sleep last night?’ asked Nate from the bench opposite, cracking a smile. Mark forced one in return.
‘Could have done with more, but I got a few hours. I’ll be right once we get there.’
It was strange how the body dealt with stress. No matter how well a soldier hid their nervousness or anxiety of impending battle, it invariably found a way to escape. For Mark, it was yawning. The more stressed he got, the higher frequency of yawns. Not his counterpart though, Nate just became more of a smartarse than usual.
‘What’s with the pig-sticker? I wouldn’t have thought they’d allow you to carry something like that,’ said Nate, pointing at the odd bit of kit strapped to Mark’s waist.
Mark looked down, and realised he was asking about his short sword, a modern replica of a Roman Gladius that he’d stolen from a museum exhibit while holed up at the University of Sydney. He’d grown so used to wearing it since then that he forgot how strange it must look to the average person.
‘I didn’t ask. Why give them the chance to say no, eh?’
‘Fair enough. Still doesn’t answer my first question,’ Nate said, holding out his hand to inspect the weapon.
Mark shrugged. ‘Just a little insurance for if we run out of bullets before the job’s done.’
He drew the sword out of its scabbard and passed it across to his teammate. The weapon was 65 centimetres from tip to the base of the grip. The double-edged steel blade tapered to a fine point. Nate tested the sharpness against the ball of his thumb, flinching as he drew blood by accident.
‘It’s seen some action already?’ he asked, pointing out a few nicks gouged into the metal along the length of the blade as he passed it back.
‘Yeah, it’s come in handy a few times,’ said Mark, threading the blade back into its sheath.
‘Well, the next time you come across an ‘insurance policy’ like that again, send it my way. I wouldn’t mind having one myself,’ said Nate.
Above the cabin, the chopper’s blades began to spin, building to an ear-splitting whine as it lifted from the Navy Frigate’s deck. Mark felt his stomach lurch as the Seahawk dropped sharply to skim bare metres above the bay. Ships and aircraft; he bloody hated them both. Give him dry land under his boots any day of the week. He’d get his wish soon enough. Mark looked ahead through the front windscreen of the helicopter. Shortland’s Bluff was approaching rapidly, a headland occupied by one of the few military forts built in Australia before Federation.
He and Nate were part of a four-man team to be dropped on the roof of the Queenscliff Fort. The military post had guarded the entrance of Port Phillip Bay between 1883-1946, when its artillery structures became obsolete in the face of air attack and long-range surface to air missiles. Repurposed as an army training facility, the fort still retained high brick walls to all land approaches – vital for repelling any attack by the Infected.
The helicopter decreased speed as it left behind the bay and sped up over the sand dunes. Old artillery redoubts still aimed menacingly out over the bay’s entrance in silent guardianship. Mark glanced backwards to the Frigate. Two RIBs were speeding over the waves in their wake, making for the beach with twenty marines in total. His team of four would be landed onto the roof of the Fort Keep, a three-storey castle like structure at the north-west corner of the fort’s curtain wall. From there, they would need to snipe as many Carriers from the internal grounds as possible to thin the numbers that the Marines would have to overco
me once they left the beach.
They would be facing a hard time of it until the RIBs could return with further Marines in support. Mark looked down as the Seahawk completed a circuit of the fort’s grounds. For one of the army’s smaller training sites, there were higher numbers of the Infected than he’d expected. Most were clothed in the remnants of military uniform, although there were many in civilian attire, probably the Carriers responsible for introducing the plague into the fort itself. They tracked the helicopter above them, faces contorted with anger as they stumbled in its wake.
Mark leant forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. ‘Take her down, we’ve seen enough.’ The chopper pilot nodded and veered over to the Fort Keep. Two Carriers were on its roof with arms raised, reaching vainly for the craft above. Mark unslung his rifle. After ensuring his safety clip was in place, he leaned out of the open door and took brief aim, then dropped his rifle down again.
‘Bring me in closer, just above their heads,’ he yelled to the pilot. The chopper dropped lower. Mark could now hear their screams above the rotor’s whine. From point blank range, he drilled a single bullet through each Carrier’s upturned face, dropping them where they stood.
The chopper landed heavily, jolting the marines against each other. They unclipped their safety harnesses and jumped onto the roof of the building. No sooner had the Marines’ feet left the cabin, and the chopper was rising into the air once more, returning at speed to the Frigate for the next load of soldiers. The roof’s edge was lined by a waist height brick wall. Mark dove in behind this, then popped his head to look over the edge. The area was rapidly filling, as Carriers from all over the military site converged to their location.
‘What are you hiding for?’ asked Nate with a strained smile on his face as he stood next to him, looking down. ‘It’s not like the bastards can shoot at us.’
Plague War: Pandemic Page 5