A sick feeling crept through me as I shifted position, trying to make out the interior of the cells. The first few were unoccupied, but at the far end I could see a figure sitting on one of the benches, their knees drawn up to their face as if they were crying. Or afraid. I searched for the source of the cry and spotted a pair of gurneys, a few metres apart, on which a woman was being held down by two Quarantine officers.
I couldn’t see her face, but I could see the markings of the Change on her arms, the patterns of colour and light, and I could see her desperation as she fought to escape. On the far side of her the doctor who had attended me stepped into view, a hypodermic in one hand, and as the officer stepped aside she inserted it into the woman’s arm.
Whatever it was it worked fast, the woman’s struggles subsiding almost immediately. Perhaps as a precaution the two officers waited until she was still, then, at a glance from the doctor, one of them unlocked the gurney and moved it out of sight.
Horrified, I stepped back, but not before I saw the other officer begin to move toward the figure in the cage. I felt sick. Part of me wanted to beat on the door, distract them, try to save whoever it was in the cage; another part wanted to push through the door and attack them, not because I didn’t care they might catch me, force me down, but because I wanted them to, because I wanted the release of the anger, its capacity to wipe me away. And yet another part again knew I could do neither, that the only thing I could do was turn and try to get as far away from here as possible.
Although it seemed to last forever, I suppose I only stood outside that door for a few seconds, struggling to convince myself I had no choice but to run. From inside I could hear sobbing again, a boy’s voice this time, perhaps no older than me. I clenched my fist, and then, willing myself not to listen, moved away, slowly at first and then at a run.
Beyond the door at the corridor’s far end was a security area of some sort, a small room with an observation area behind a window on one side and a walk-through scanner, yet like the corridors in the clinic it was dark, the observation room unattended. Stepping through the scanner I saw its red light play over me, followed by a click and then a beep, and looking behind me I saw a panel flashing red. At first I was confused, but then I realised it must be some sort of ID check. I grabbed the card and touched it to the panel. For a second or two nothing happened, then the beeping stopped and a green light came on at eye level and I hurried through.
On the far side was a door, the window in it looking out onto the night sky. I bolted toward it, pushing it open and staggering out into the open air.
Outside it was warm, the air filled with the scent of the forest and a whiff of smoke. I was standing on a small platform of some sort; beside me a shallow ramp ran down to the ground. In front of me stretched a floodlit open space covered with grass. On the far side a tall wire fence was visible and beyond that, the dark shapes of trees.
I hesitated. I knew the obvious thing to do was to make for the fence, but for the time it took to cross the grass I would be in full view of anybody who came after me. Turning, I looked to my right. In the darkness another structure was visible, the space between it and the building I had emerged from in deep shadow, so I vaulted the rail of the ramp and took off in that direction, hoping I might be able to find a less obvious route to the fence.
As I rounded the corner into the space between the two buildings I looked back to see the door I had exited through swing open; ignoring the stones that cut into my bare feet I raced on, and a moment later emerged into some sort of car park, half-a-dozen Quarantine vehicles standing gleaming in the moonlight. On the far side of the car park stood the fence; bending down I weaved between the vehicles toward it. Somewhere not far away people were shouting, and as I sprinted across the final few metres of the car park I half-expected to hear a shout or a shot from behind me, but neither came, and a few seconds later I was standing in front of a high fence topped with rolls of razor wire.
Knowing I had no time to waste I wound my fingers into the wire and began climbing, doing my best to ignore the pain as it pressed into my bare toes and feet. At the top I stopped, clinging to the fence while I probed the razor wire with one hand, trying to find a way to take hold of it without it tearing my flesh, dismayed by the way it twisted and flexed. As carefully as I could I reached up with my free arm and, lying it on top of the wire, I pressed down gingerly, then climbing higher I swung one leg over, hoping to somehow vault across, but once I was straddled across the wire with it pressing into my legs I realised I was caught, and if I tried to jump free the wire would slice into me.
I only had a few seconds to decide what to do. From the car park behind me came voices, and the beam of a torchlight cut across the fence. Closing my eyes I took a deep breath and swung my leg up and over, trying not to cry out as the wire sliced into my arm and ankle and thigh, or as I landed, heavy and hard, on the fence’s far side.
Half-stunned I lurched to my feet. Dimly aware of somebody shouting behind me, I didn’t look back, just turned and stumbled away into the darkness.
18
I don’t know if they came after me, all I know is that I kept on running, and when I couldn’t run any more I walked, and when I couldn’t walk any more I stumbled. All I cared about was putting as much distance between me and that place and what I had seen there.
Eventually I emerged from the trees onto some kind of old fire track or logging trail, its rutted surface stretching off into the distance, pale in the moonlight; seeing no sign of cars I limped along it until, quite suddenly, I felt my gorge rise and, turning aside, threw up, once and then again and then again, until finally I was done, and I slumped to the ground and wept.
Eventually the sky began to lighten. Numbly I sat up, and began to inspect the places the wire had torn my skin. The sudden, searing pain I had felt when the metal cut into me had passed, replaced by a deep, dull throb. Although it was difficult to see much in the half-light, I could feel the extent of the damage. The cuts on my arm and ankle were deep and painful, but it was the one on my thigh that was the worst: where the wire had sliced into my leg my pants hung loose in a great flap, the material soaked with blood, while underneath my fingers could make out the line of the wound, the skin peeling back along its width. There was something irresistible about it, the fact of it drawing my fingers back in fascination, as if my mind needed to feel it to believe my body had been damaged like this.
Just before the sun appeared I stood up and began to walk again, willing myself to keep going despite the pain in my leg. With no map I didn’t know where I was or where I was heading, although I knew from the lightening sky ahead of me that the track led roughly eastward.
After an hour or so the track joined a road. It was still early, and around me the trees were filled with the shriek and call of the birds. With nothing to tell me which way to go, I turned northward.
Another hour passed, then another, and then, in the distance, I heard an engine. Quickly I stepped off the road and concealed myself behind a tree, peering back up the road. I didn’t know whether Quarantine would be looking for me but I couldn’t take the chance.
When the vehicle finally appeared it turned out to be an old truck, its back piled high with what looked like bananas. Still wary after my experience with Travis, I hung back for as long as I could, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver through the smeared and insect-speckled windscreen, but at the last instant I gave in and stepped out onto the verge, waving and shouting.
At first I thought I’d left it too late, because the truck didn’t stop, but then, ten or fifteen metres past me, I heard the brakes engage and it shuddered to a halt. Trying not to limp too much, I hurried after it.
The driver was small and dark, with a square Indonesian face. He looked down at me as I approached the cabin. I can’t imagine how I must have looked: barefoot, filthy, covered in blood.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
He leaned out to glance back the way I’d come, presumably concerned I wasn’t alone. Apparently satisfied he opened the door and helped me up into the cabin.
The seats were hard, worn things designed to be cheap rather than comfortable, and as I sat back on them I could smell dust. But the rest of the cabin was clean and bare, the air scented with some kind of air freshener.
‘Where have you come from?’ the driver asked.
I forced a smile. ‘It’s a long story,’ I said. I saw his expression change, concern overtaken by wariness. For a long moment he didn’t speak, then he nodded.
‘I can take you into town. There is a doctor there.’
I hesitated. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not a doctor.’
He looked at my leg, the blood. ‘Your leg is bad, I think.’
I tried to smile. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be all right.’
He didn’t answer at once, then at last he nodded. ‘Perhaps you come with me. My wife, she can help.’
I didn’t know what to say. Finally I just said, ‘Thank you’.
As he started the engine I looked away, gazing at the forest outside. I was exhausted, and the pain in my leg was like a low throbbing that clouded my mind.
‘What is your name?’ the driver asked as he pushed the truck up through its gears. Briefly I considered lying, but for some reason it seemed wrong.
‘Callie,’ I said.
‘I am Agus,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
To my surprise I laughed. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you as well.’
‘Are you from around here?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
Once again he seemed wary, but this time he looked gentler.
‘Neither am I,’ he said.
As we drove he told me something of his story. He had grown up in Java, where he had been a schoolteacher, but after the Change he and his wife fled south, managing to board one of the last boats before they sealed the borders. I knew enough of what had gone on – the naval blockade, the machine-gunning of boats on the beaches to keep the infected away – to guess at something of what he had been through, yet if he bore any anger he did not show it, save perhaps for a brief hesitation as he described reaching the shore. Like many refugees they had been resettled in the north, where he had taken work as a fruit picker.
As he spoke he kept his eyes on the road, and I had time to look at him. He was small, but had a compact strength in his arms and legs, and a kindness about his face it was difficult not to respond to.
After a while he fell silent, and I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back wall of the cabin. The truck was noisy, the engine vibrating heavily as it negotiated the hills and turns, and I could feel it rumbling against my scalp, the feeling not unpleasant. For a while I was happy just leaning back like that, and then, at some point, I slept.
When I awoke we were outside an old weatherboard cottage, the front shrouded in bougainvillea. On the verandah carved shutters and a carved door sat incongruously against the utilitarian structure. Agus was looking at me.
‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come in?’
I opened my door and climbed down.
‘How long have I been asleep?’
Agus shrugged. ‘Not long.’ As he spoke the door to the house opened and a woman emerged. She was slightly younger than Agus, but had some of the same kindness about her face. Seeing me she stopped and then looked at Agus.
‘This is Callie,’ he said, then something in Indonesian I didn’t understand. She looked at me and replied, also in Indonesian.
‘This is Amalia,’ Agus said.
Amalia clasped her hands together and nodded at me. Awkwardly aware of my appearance I did the same. When I finished I caught Agus looking at me.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’
Like the truck the inside of the house was bare but clean and carefully maintained. In the main room there was a screen and a sofa, as well as a low table; on the walls a few pictures hung in frames.
‘Are you hungry?’ Agus asked.
I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said, although in truth I wasn’t, or not really: instead I felt battered and exhausted and like I might dissolve into tears without warning. Amalia smiled and indicated I should step through into the kitchen.
‘You eat now,’ she said. ‘Maybe after you can wash.’ As she spoke I caught her staring at Agus.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
They gave me rice from a rice cooker by the stove, along with cucumber and sambal and a chicken curry of some sort. I had almost forgotten what real food tasted like, and once I began it was difficult to stop.
While I ate, Amalia and Agus spoke across me in rapid bursts of Indonesian, Amalia’s voice tense, almost angry, Agus’s reassuring, in between which Agus would look at me and smile in an oddly placatory manner, while telling me Amalia was curious about how I liked the food, even though I knew she wasn’t.
When I was finished I laid down my fork.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
By the sink Amalia inclined her head. ‘Would you like to wash?’ she asked. ‘When you are clean I can look at your leg.’
I thanked her again, and she led me to a small bathroom at the house’s rear. Handing me a towel she showed me how the water worked, then backed out, closing the door behind her.
I sat down on the side of the bath. Despite their kindness I knew I couldn’t stay here, but for now I was happy to have somewhere to wash and some food in my belly.
I cleaned myself as best I could, scrubbing at my hands and feet. My fingernails were filthy and in addition to the stitches in my knee there didn’t seem to be a square centimetre of me that wasn’t scratched or bruised or grazed. But it was the cut on my thigh I kept returning to. Now it was light I could see it was smaller than I had thought – perhaps only twenty centimetres long – but it was deep, and as I tried to wash the blood caked over it away I yelped at the pain and it began to bleed again.
When I emerged Amalia was waiting, a pair of khaki cotton pants and a worn white T-shirt folded in her hands. On top was a pair of sneakers and a foil pack of painkillers.
‘For your leg,’ Amalia said. I smiled and thanked her, then paused, looking at the clothes, which were clearly not Amalia’s. Looking up I saw Amalia watching me.
‘They were our daughter’s,’ she said.
‘She won’t mind?’ I said.
Amalia fell still. ‘No,’ she said. All at once I understood.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but Amalia just nodded.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘I will look at your leg.’
She made me sit on a towel in the kitchen, and while Agus sat opposite me and watched, she began to clean the remaining dried blood away with a bowl of water and a cloth.
‘Amalia was a nurse,’ Agus said, smiling. ‘Back in Indonesia.’
I winced and tried to smile back.
‘I have no anaesthetic,’ she said as she finished.
‘It’s okay,’ I said.
Amalia was careful, but it still hurt horribly. Aware of Agus watching me I forced myself not to whimper, instead clenching my hand and trying to focus on that until it was over.
When she was done Amalia stood up and went to wash her hands at the sink. Agus was still watching me so I turned to look at him.
‘Amalia is worried you are in trouble, and that if we help you we will bring trouble on ourselves,’ he said.
I shifted my leg, wincing at the pain. Although Amalia did not turn around I was aware she was paying close attention to what I said.
‘She’s right,’ I said at last. ‘I am in trouble.’ At the sink Amalia turned the tap off but didn’t turn around.
‘I haven’t done anything bad, or not
bad like that. But it’s probably better if I go.’
There was a long silence. Then Amalia turned and looked at Agus, and something seemed to pass between them.
‘No,’ Agus said. ‘You should stay, at least tonight. Tomorrow I will take you wherever you need to go.’
All morning I had been fighting images of Gracie in a room like the one back at Quarantine, and although part of me knew I needed to stay here, to rest while I could, another part wanted to be out there looking for her as soon as I could.
‘Thank you,’ I said at last.
The day passed slowly. After lunch Agus went out again, the truck grinding back out onto the road and away. With Agus gone Amalia seemed content to leave me to rest in the living room, appearing occasionally to offer me food or water but otherwise keeping herself busy on other tasks. In the late afternoon I went through to the kitchen and found her seated at the table preparing food; I asked if I could help her.
When she didn’t reply I seated myself opposite her. She placed a knife and a pair of cucumbers on the table and pushed them in my direction. I took them and began to chop, aware of her watching me.
‘How is your leg?’ she asked at last.
‘Sore,’ I said. ‘But better, I think. You did a good job.’
She didn’t answer, and after a while I continued. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘In this house? Eight years.’
I nodded. ‘Before, when you told me about your daughter, I wanted to say how sorry I am.’
‘Thank you,’ she said at last.
‘My father, he Changed as well.’
‘Is that why you are here?’ she asked, not looking up.
The Silent Invasion Page 16