Two more completed laps and a quick check to make sure Rebecca was still unharmed and he stood before the door, testing it for weak points. He decided the lock was old and flimsy. It buckled and banged under the pressure of his first kick, but did not open. He peered around, waiting for zombies from the shadows beyond the torchlight. The night remained stifling and silent. On the third try, the door crashed open under his heel, and again he waited, expecting for certain that this time they would be drawn to the noise. Nothing. He touched the door with the tip of the revolver and it swung open with a rusty creak. He winced, wondering if he could possibly make any more noise. He stepped inside, poking the torch beam through the darkness, digging it into the shadowy corners and behind the green-painted desk. A four-legged chair, open-mouth dustbin, and several dented filing cabinets sat silent. A plain blind had been pulled down over a wide window. There was enough floor space for the both of them. Hope beckoned.
In short work, they had their packs and remaining supplies inside the station building, the door bolted from the inside using a secondary lock. In darkness, Jacob pressed his face against the glass, searching the silence outside for movement.
They did their best to close the gap in the blind, and then lit a pink candle from the IGA supermarket and placed it on the desk. Rebecca ate uncooked two-minute noodles, while Jacob chewed half a pack of Savoy crackers for the thousandth time.
The silence grew, making him uncomfortable. This was his daughter, for God’s sake, his flesh and blood. Surely, they could find something to discuss? But he was afraid of saying the wrong thing again, of pushing the wrong button and sending her into further silence. He understood her reluctance to accept him, but after this long, and all they had battled, she should have been coming around. Perhaps it was his unwillingness to discuss the issues, to explain his motivations for leaving when she was a child. He wanted to; he wanted to tell her that he had thought about her every day since walking out with his three bags of clothes and bootload of junk that he’d never taken out again, except to toss into the rubbish bin. He wanted to tell her that he’d tried to build the business for her, to make a name for himself so that one day she might be proud of what he’d done, so that if she saw how hard he had worked she might understand the why. But it hadn’t eventuated. Everything he’d worked for had been destroyed along with the rest of the world. What did he have left? Nothing. Nothing but the wisdom of his failures and pain of things he couldn’t change. You have a daughter. He did, and his gratitude for that went beyond words, but he didn’t know how to handle her. To Jacob, she was akin to a bag of snakes.
Fatigue and exhaustion pulled at him. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to think of an opening line to start the conversation, but he had never been good with such around Rebecca. He drifted, sleep taking him with a sweet, lustful cloud.
He woke later and found her cross-legged, watching him with a sad expression. The candle burned on. It was still dark outside. “Why did you leave?”
“Wha?” He tried to sit up, but his aching, aging body wouldn’t allow it. Did he hear right? He knew he should wake up and talk to her, but his eyelids were heavy. They fell closed. He was so tired. So tired …
When he next woke, spears of light had broken through the edges of the blind. Morning. This time when he tried to move, it was easier. He rolled onto his side and pushed up with his elbow. On all fours, he saw Rebecca had fallen asleep against one of the packs. She looked so vulnerable lying there. Nothing like the difficulty she could be. He crawled aside and sat watching her sleep, the slow, gentle rhythm of her chest rising and falling. How many times had he missed watching the same when she was four, or seven, or twelve? It burned his gut like acid. It had all been for nothing, and he had missed everything. What could he do though, keep beating himself up? He had promised he would repay her, somehow. He couldn’t change the past, but he pledged again that he would make her future better.
He was outside when Rebecca woke. On his return to the station building, she had a can of tomato soup open and was drinking from it as though it was a soft drink.
“Careful you don’t cut yourself on the edge.”
She kept drinking. When she was done, she placed the can in the rubbish bin and collected up several more scraps from the carpet and did the same again. He noticed the candle, torches, matches, and spare batteries had been packed, stacked neatly in one corner. She was anal about that sort of thing. This pleased Jacob.
Still, she said nothing, but he caught her glaring at him as they backed out of the station building and headed towards the rail car. He wanted to ask, but if she was anything like her mother—and in this way, he suspected she was—she would eventually talk. He had learned over a long period before their separation to give Jennifer space and not force discussion about what was bothering her.
Clouds rested like a squadron of fighters in the west. Jacob smelt imminent rain and wondered whether they might get a soaking later in the day. He didn’t know where they were going, only that the tracks led all the way into Melbourne. Others he had spoken with in their travels suggested they would head there, and it was somewhere; at that point, he had no better ideas. How long would it take? A full day, maybe longer, he thought. They had traveled almost a quarter of the way the previous afternoon, but today would be the killer, if they could survive.
Jacob began the pumping motion, expecting his muscles to tighten with resistance. Surprisingly, they only gave a dull ache as his blood flow increased. The handlebar kept coming loose, but he tightened the bolts with his fingers, which helped. Rebecca faced forward, her back to him, the wind in her face, as they gathered speed. Her blonde, silky curls trailed behind, and he thought it was one of her nicest features.
They took turns at pumping as they passed through more stations—Kilmore East, Wandong, Heathcote Junction, Wallan, and Donnybrook—each with their small weatherboard buildings, discarded and disused; none of which were places Jacob wanted to stop. But they needed rest, and after Rebecca’s shift, Jacob felt the twinge of overworked muscles in his arms and shoulders. He let them drift to a stop in the middle of an open field with the widest view to anything that might attack. None did though, for there was nothing out there. After a silent drink, they pushed on.
Approaching Craigieburn Station, they had reached the outer limits of Melbourne. That meant more feeders. It was inevitable they would face them soon, although he held hopes that the train tracks would offer some protection. There were zombies at the station. Rebecca watched them as they passed the platform, wandering down the road on the town center side. Several were caught in the twisted carnage of a fence that had been smashed down by a rampant motor vehicle with all its glass broken.
At the lower end of the station, there was a choice of two tracks. One sign read BROADMEADOWS LINE, the other UPFIELD LINE. They sailed through, taking the pre-selected track, which was the Upfield line, Jacob unsure if it was right or wrong, but knowing they should both eventually lead them into Melbourne.
It was Rebecca’s shift when the rain first came, pounding the open car with large drops. Jacob urged her to stop, but she shrugged him off. He silently admired her resolve. Sooty grey clouds covered most of the city sky. He had known rain was on the way, but this was going to be more than they might weather. He wondered about the next station and decided they would stop there if it fell any heavier.
The first zombies appeared as the tracks, still running parallel to the Hume Highway, meandered their way along the backside of an industrial area—warehouses, large blocks of retail outlet shops, and the odd manufacturing site. On the right, scruffy paddocks eventually met houses and the suburb of Broadmeadows.
They were still about a hundred yards away when Jacob noticed something on the railway line. He knew it had to happen sooner or later; they had sailed all the way from Seymour without a problem. He motioned for Rebecca to slow down, and she did, noticing the concern on his face as he drew the revolver from his waistband. As they approached, he
spied feeders standing off to the side in the shadows of several buildings. These were not the stupid ones that had mostly attacked in Seymour, but neither were they the crazies that had chased them on the tracks. Somewhere in between.
As they approached, Jacob recognized the obstacles as large rocks, and that he would have to climb down and remove them. He scanned the long grass at their side as they rolled along, searching for a weapon, but it was empty. He had a single round left in the revolver, but beyond that, only his fists.
The feeders stirred from their hiding places. What fascinated him in a distant way was their ability to think beyond the necessity for blood and flesh. They had planned the maneuver, but how had they known to do so?
The rail car had almost stopped. Jacob pumped several times, urging them forward. The handlebar rattled again, the nuts working their way loose from the bolts. An idea struck him. He fiddled for the bolts underneath, and this time, instead of tightening them, he spun the nuts the other way. The bar fell out of its holder and rattled onto the floor of the car. Jacob picked it up and tightened his hands around the weapon.
THIRTY-ONE
“Do we just leave him there?” Kristy asked as Callan closed the back door of Ahmed’s house. The darkening sky grumbled overhead. Blue Boy trotted at their heels, now eager to leave the property.
“I don’t think anything will move him right now. He’s grieving.”
“But that’s horrible.”
“You can’t force him.”
They reached the timber fence surrounding the back yard. Callan peered over the top for the militia. Somewhere, gunfire popped and cracked.
Kristy stopped. “We can’t, Callan. We can’t leave him here.”
She didn’t understand. Lucky her. She hadn’t really had to face intimate death, not up close, like he had with Sherry. Callan understood what Ahmed was going through. He’d be numb now, except for the burning in his stomach. Unable to breathe. No focus. Nothing in the world would make sense. He’d wonder how he was going to make it to tomorrow, and the next day. Callan wished he could tell him that it did get better, if only a little at a time.
“Let him go.”
Voices reached them from the other side of the paling fence. They both ducked. Callan took Blue under his arm and the dog’s tail wagged. They waited in silence as the voices faded down the street.
“Please,” Kristy whispered. “He saved me. I don’t want to leave him behind.”
“You can’t make a person do what they don’t want to do. He can only deal with one thing at the moment, Kris. Let him go.”
Callan climbed up on the fence railing and swung a leg over. “Pass the dog up to me.” Kristy did, struggling to lift him up to the height Callan required. Eventually they managed it, and Callan dropped Blue from a safe level onto the pavement below. Kristy followed, and he helped her down. They jogged across the road to the opposite path, Callan perusing for more men. He slowed his pace to match Kristy’s struggle. “You okay?” She said she was, but Callan stayed beside her.
It didn’t take long for them to locate the blue Toyota four-wheel drive.
“You parked it in somebody’s driveway?” Kristy asked, as they stepped over loose trash from a bin pressed up against the garage door.
“Yeah. One of my more clever moves.”
There was a moment when Callan thought the car might not start, but eventually the old engine turned over, rumbling and groaning to life. How long before it gave out though? He thought they had done well for it to last this long. He just hoped it didn’t drop dead on them in a moment of crisis.
“Fuel is getting low. We’ll need to find some soon. All the extra stuff is with the campervan.”
Callan backed it out onto the road under a rough idle and accelerated down the street. Blue grinned at them and collapsed across the seat, tongue hanging out. Callan followed the street around the block and out onto Camp Road, taking the same back streets they had used to bypass the entrance earlier.
Rain fell as they reached the main road, well past the entrance to the facility. Callan paused, glancing towards the opening, then turned left and drove on, checking the rear-view mirror as the old Toyota shook its way to top speed.
The wind howled through the window as raindrops splattered Callan. The ancient wipers screeched over the window, smearing dirt and water and making visibility worse. Callan pressed the water spray and, surprisingly, it shot a jet out onto the glass. Atop a short rise, they saw bands of rain hanging from low, dark clouds over the city.
At the bottom of a long, gradual slope, they approached the railway crossing. Before the world had moved on, Callan was paranoid about them, and now he looked both ways out of habit. On the far left, about a hundred yards away, a vehicle sat in the middle of the tracks. He slowed the four-wheel drive and drew it to a stop about fifty yards before the gates. A rough dirt road speared off to the left.
“Are they… people?”
They were two of them, standing on top of something that looked like an old carriage or train platform, waving their weapons at a mob of zombies hovering around the edges, groping at their feet.
“They need help.”
Instinct took over. Callan steered the vehicle onto the loose rocks and took off fast. The wheels spun on the gravel, snaking the car from side to side. He gathered control before it ended up in the tall grass pushing in on both sides, and then slammed into a pothole. The vehicle shuddered, chassis and joints squeaking.
As they approached, the two people grew clearer. One was a middle-aged man brandishing a piece of pipe, the other a younger woman using a shorter weapon.
“Oh my God, that’s Jacob,” Kristy said.
Callan narrowed his gaze. The man was dishevelled, with a tall, sturdy frame and thick grey hair. “I think you’re right. And that must be Bec.” They were still twenty yards away. “Grab the pump action off the floor in the back. It’s already loaded.” Kristy reached around and came back with a trusty Remington .308. “You right for this?” She nodded.
He hurried the vehicle forward and rammed the front end into a spread of zombies crowded in close to the platform. The vehicle bounced off the railway tracks and the feeders went sprawling. The platform shook slightly; Jacob and Bec clung to the center column.
Callan swung the door open and leapt out. Kristy followed. “Leave Blue inside.” The dog leapt against the back window, barking.
Numerous zombies left the side of the rail car and came at them. Callan put the rifle barrel to the first pasty forehead and blew its head off. It fell back against the side, knocking another to the stony tracks. He shot that one too, spreading its brains over one of the big rail car wheels. Gunfire sounded from the other direction; he heard the pump of the barrel reloading and felt a swell of pride for his sister.
Others came for them, sensing the sweet scent of fresh food, but they left full of disappointment. The two newcomers were capable, their skills borne from situation after situation of fighting, often under more duress and against greater odds. They used their hands and feet with speed and dexterity, their weapons with an eerie competence. Shots cracked, more zombies fell, and they each did it with a precision and efficiency at which Callan would later marvel. Jacob and Bec continued to use their limited weapons and were able to finish the last of the feeders off until, finally, a pile of bloody, mutilated corpses lay around them. Callan eyed the scene, breathing hard. Kristy bent over, hands on knees.
“Better than any aerobics class at the gym?”
She nodded, grimacing.
Jacob stood atop the car with his hands on his hips, puffing. Bec slumped to the floor of the railcar and dropped her legs over the side. “Boy, are we glad to see you,” Jacob said.
Callan gave him the thumbs up sign. “Talk about luck. You guys must have it in bucket loads.”
“We’ve had our share of both,” Jacob said.
“Where are you headed?”
“The city.”
“So are we. Pile in.�
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Jacob suggested they stick to the railway lines. The route was slow and bumpy as Callan guided the four-wheel drive through weeds that tickled the bottoms of the doors and the underside of the carriage. Still, it was far better than the roads, and there were no more zombies yet. They passed rising smoke trails from the suburbs on both sides of the track, and once, they saw a car driving along a deserted road heading away from the railway line.
Jacob told their story of the decimation at Campbelltown, gazing out the window as he spoke. Only four of them had escaped from the service center that he was certain of, though he suspected some might have gone north. Bec was silent as she listened to the names of the dead and what they’d done for the group.
Sadness filled Callan. He had met a number of them, had shared food and drink with, back at Campbelltown. They had taken him and the others in, provided them shelter and other essentials during the storm. Now, most of them were dead. Monica, Jacob’s wife, was among them. Callan imagined what he would be feeling. It was a sad fact of their new life, and a stark reminder that at any moment, their lives might end. They drove for a way in silence, watching the dirty clouds split apart and regroup.
“What’s the plan now?” Jacob asked after they passed Fawkner Station.
“The others have gone into the city. Dylan had a sister living near the Queen Victoria market and he wants to check it out. We’re meeting at Station Pier after that. Tasmania is the end goal.”
“Tasmania. How?”
“Boat. We have an ex-Navy guy—was an admiral, and claims he can steer a ship across Bass Strait.”
“That’s a long way. The seas don’t come much rougher.”
“We don’t have another choice. Nobody can fly a plane. Otherwise we’re stuck on the mainland, and I can’t imagine too many places will be safe.”
“Melbourne is going to be terrible. We barely went into Sydney and it was bad enough. Tasmania makes a lot of sense, but getting there is going to be tough.”
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 19