by Owen Baillie
Mac eyed her expression. She was a beautiful woman. Long blonde hair, curls tucked behind her ears, and her wide, straight smile, full of friendliness and generosity. He wasn’t getting one now though.
“Don’t try and do the right thing by me, Mac, not this time.”
Mac sat on the edge of the table. He reached out and put his hand over hers. It was warm. “What if it’s the virus, Jess? What if I leave you and you get worse and I can’t be here to take you to the doctors?” She started to cough and tried to suppress it. Mac turned his head to the side, as if to say, you’re not as well as you think.
“But I’m not that sick.” She coughed again as if to show how clear her chest was. Mac knew that wasn’t the issue. And she was partially right. She’d complained of aches and pains when she woke that morning and more recently the rumblings of a headache. It might be influenza. The word cut through his mind like a razor. Any other time he wouldn’t be so worried, but things were different now. The world was balanced on a precarious edge. Two of their neighbors had been taken to the hospital over the last week—admittedly, they were elderly, but the reports in the papers and on the news sites of late were getting progressively worse. People were dying everywhere.
“You know if you don’t go today, you might not get another chance to pay your respects to Robbo. You’ll miss the chance to swap stories about him with just you and the boys.” Mac looked down at the floor in silence. “For all the ones that don’t come back, you only get this chance. After today, you won’t have it. I feel it, Mac.” She was nodding now, all knowing. “And next time it’ll be someone else and you’ll speak about him, not Robbo. You go, Mac. Forget about what’s going on in the world. Enjoy the night. Get drunk. Sleep it off. I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Mac gave a thin smile “You’re a good sort, Jess. Have I told you that before?”
“Not enough.” She smiled.
He took her hand in his. “Are you sure? I don’t like leaving you with all these curfews and phone lines not working every five minutes. All the crap on the news about people …” He almost let the word dying slip out. “Getting really sick.”
“Firstly, this is not the flu. Secondly, if I’m not better by tomorrow, I’ll go see the doctor. You said it yourself—we never rush off to the docs until we give ourselves a chance to kick it.”
Mac nodded. “Righto. You win.”
He knew she would keep at him until he yielded. It was her way. Sometimes it was annoying. Sometimes, he was so bloody thankful.
He checked the kids were occupied, packed a few small items into a bag so he could clean up in the morning after a heavy night on the booze, then got into the shower.
Shane and Jessica McNamara lived in a town called Frankford, in the North East region of Tasmania, with their two children, Tyler and Ashleigh. The two-acre property was about halfway between Devonport and Launceston—close enough to both cities, but still considered rural, which suited Mac because he’d grown up on the Australian mainland, in a sizeable country town called Albury, on the border of New South Wales and Victoria. With its gently rising hills and abundance of eucalypts and acacias, Frankford provided the perfect environment for them to raise their children.
Mac served two tours in Afghanistan with the 2nd Commando Regiment out of the Holsworthy Barracks in Sydney, part of the Australian Special Forces Task Group (SFTG). Mac was one of the first civilians to gain entry into the unit through the Special Forces Direct Recruitment Scheme. He began with a plan to try the Army Reserve, but his initial testing earned him a tap on the shoulder from higher command. “Are you up for the challenge, son?”
During the interview process, one of the commanding officers had asked him to switch from the reserves to the regular army. Anybody who knew Mac understood he loved a challenge. At first, it had been easy. He had lungs the size of footballs and legs that could run all day. He cruised through the first stages, but then, trouble struck, threatening to derail his plans. On a night out in Sydney, he was cornered by five scruffy-looking men set on making him pay after Mac had cleaned them up in snooker at a nearby hotel. Historically, Mac had never come out on top in these encounters, but he was highly trained and confident in his ability to handle anything, including a pack of loose-mouthed cowards. He warned them. Twice. Mac had knocked down a few beers, but these guys were stumbling on their feet. They wouldn’t listen. Two of them ended up in the hospital. The other three ran off. Mac wound up in court, facing grievous bodily harm charges and no amount of excuses would save him. The army supported him, but ultimately it was a criminal matter outside their jurisdiction. He was severely reprimanded by the military and warned that if his results didn’t exceed expectations in the next phase of commando training, he’d be removed. Mac had spent many lonely hours in the subsequent days wondering if he was made for it. Finally, he had staked everything on one final, nerve-racking test, and won.
After dressing, Mac returned to the living room with the pack. Jess was lying back on the couch reading a book. “See? I’m taking it easy.”
Mac crouched beside the sofa. A nagging voice told him to stay with her, but he knew she wouldn’t let up until he went. The bond between soldiers was unique and Jess was right; if he didn’t go now, he would regret his decision and lose the chance to farewell his brother, Robbo.
Mac kissed Jess on the forehead and took a long, sweet mental picture of her smiling face. He felt a little strange, as though he should remember what she looked like, as though … he pushed away the feeling. The sensation had come over him far too often during his rotations to Afghanistan, and mostly he had been wrong. He had learnt not to dwell on them. Part of the reason he had smashed the selection for commando training was his mental toughness, his ability to switch off when he was away and not let the emotions of his absence affect his job.
“Love you,” he said.
She winked. “Love you more.”
Smiling, he swung past the kids’ room, where Tyler was fighting monsters on his PlayStation4 and Ashleigh was fiddling with Barbie dolls on the wide floral rug beside him. He sat cross-legged in front of them and waited until they broke concentration enough to recognize the seriousness on his face.
“Daddy has to go out for a little while, okay?”
Ashleigh flung herself against him, her tiny arms sliding around his neck. “No, Daddy. Don’t go. I want you to stay.”
He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I know, baby, but I won’t be long. I need you both to look after mommy while I’m gone.” Tyler returned to his game. “Ty? You hear me?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“She’s not feeling the best. She says she’s okay, but I think she’s putting on a face. No fighting. Only ask her for something if you really need it.” They both nodded. He kissed Ashleigh on the forehead again and ruffled Tyler’s hair. “I’ll be back in the morning. Just as you’re waking up.”
In the doorway, Mac took a final look at them, both having returned to their gameplay as if he was already gone. Kids had a way of doing that, he thought. He turned and hurried down the hallway, collected his bag from the entrance foyer, and slipped out the door quietly.
Mac stepped out from underneath the aging wooden veranda and started across the parched brown lawn. They needed some rain. Dry heat pressed against his skin. It was hotter than he remembered in early January—certainly since he’d been out of the military. Still, the mainland would be hotter, and he thought Tasmania got the balance of temperature just about right, except for the winter months when it was a little too cold.
He paused under the shade of a towering gumtree and peered around the property, counting the chores he still needed to finish: a sprawling pile of wood that needed moving, the shed full of kids’ toys and old exercise equipment Jess had bought and never used, and he promised her to repaint the veranda. He had planned to tidy the place up during his break in anticipation of a party to celebrate Jessica’s birthday in the middle of January. So far, he’d managed litt
le. Tomorrow, he’d get a start. The curfew and goings on in the main cities didn’t affect them so much where they lived. It was all very startling watching the news, but they were able to stay fairly distant. Today though, Mac was heading closer to the city, despite the warnings.
He guided the family’s dusty silver Nissan Patrol from a four-car garage. Stones and dirt crunched and popped as he rolled down the long driveway towards the front gates. Normally they stayed open, but of late, he’d kept them closed, and as he passed over the cattle grate, he had a premonition to keep them that way. He edged the Patrol into the wispy, long grass creeping against the shoulder of the road and jogged back to close it, squinting against the glare of the sun.
Mac loved the Tasmanian countryside. He’d been to dozens of places around the world, grew up on the mainland of Australia, but he’d always live in Tassie. Low hills dotted with patches of trees surrounded the property. Heavy ground scrub filled the foreground, lining a lazy creek, and further back, dense bushland filled with towering ancient gumtrees stretched for miles. A long strip of blacktop split the wide expanse of greenery, with miles of wire fences and telephone poles that kept them all connected. The smells were endlessly varied; the lush scent of green bush or the sweet aroma of tree leaves on the hot wind. He’d prefer to stay out of the cities, but for his old mate, Robbo, it was impossible to say no.
He took Frankford Road all the way to the Bass Highway, skirting the edges of Devonport, although there were no other vehicles and stores were eerily quiet. By the time he crossed over the Mersey River, he still hadn’t seen another car.
Most businesses were closed, with only those proprietors willing to risk the sickness remaining open, and they were generally only for a handful of hours each morning. Many supermarkets had sold out of stores a week ago, fuel was getting more difficult to find, and most pharmacies were shut. People were locked in their homes, too sick to move or looking after those who couldn’t. The hospitals were full, turning people away due to capacity issues. Even the police presence was limited. A week ago, Mac heard the army reserves were being mobilized. He and the boys were half expecting a call, but they hadn’t seen any signs of the military in Tasmania. Perhaps they had been placed on the mainland first. The newspapers and websites had slowed down with their content, but the headlines stayed on the front pages, telling of the virus that had swept through the east coast of Australia, from Sydney and down into Melbourne, killing tens of thousands, probably more. It was an unprecedented event in his lifetime. The government had been remarkably quiet, providing standard responses and generic advice. Apparently, they hadn’t yet confirmed whether the thing was even viral or bacterial, but some doctors were pumping people full of antibiotics in an attempt to slow its progress. It had killed the very young, the elderly, and everyone in between. Beyond the Australian shores, it was even worse. America, the UK, and Europe were collapsing.
Mac thought of Jessica and wondered whether her headache was in any way similar to the virus. They hadn’t visited anybody since driving over to her parents’ house in Deloraine on Christmas day. None of them had been sick. Summer colds were common. He hoped that was the extent of it.
He grew more unnerved as he drove through the southern end of Devonport. He eventually came across the first vehicle, a red off-road four-wheel-drive similar to his own, with an elderly man hunched over the wheel, staring intently ahead. Mac raised his hand in acknowledgement—something all the native Tasmanians did—but the man didn’t return the gesture. Must be from the mainland, Mac thought.
He made all the traffic lights, and as he closed in on his destination, a feeling of unease gathered in the pit of his gut. He knew the streets would be deserted, but he hadn’t expected it to feel so eerie.
The wake—or send off, as the boys liked to call it—was held at Corporal Dave Treloar’s place on the outskirts of Devonport. There were four men with whom Mac had fought alongside in Charlie Company who now lived in northern Tasmania. Two were natives, while the other two had moved down from the mainland to escape the madness of the major cities in Sydney and Melbourne. They were gathering to remember their fallen brother, Scott “Robbo” Robertson, who had died of the flu the previous day at home in Sydney. His sister called Dave-O and told him the news right before the phone networks began their intermittent failure. The fact Robbo had died from the flu concerned Mac, though his friend had been travelling significantly of late, so may have been more exposed than most.
Until recently, Robbo had been working in Europe, undertaking security work for a rich family. It always amazed Mac where some of his former regiment members ended up around the world after their door kicking days were done. He and the other boys were the few who had returned home and settled down with a wife and family, but their skills were highly sought after. He’d knocked back countless offers from around the world, including similar roles providing security for wealthy families in the US, to working for some of the elite tactical agencies in the world. It was big money, but living out of a suitcase and travelling the globe wasn’t his thing. All he wanted now was a fishing rod and the company of his wife and kids and he had his dream life. He still had a day job, but the peace and tranquility of life in rural Tasmania as opposed to the harsh environment of Afghan was ideal.
It was a custom that they met immediately after one of them had passed. If circumstances had been different, there would have been a funeral and a wake, but with all the people dying, there would be a backlog of funerals for weeks. This was their special time to reflect on and remember their mate. Mac knew it was risky leaving the house, but Robbo was one of them. He’d done the one tour and had fought alongside Mac, earning his entitlement as a soldier of the highest caliber. Jess was right; if Mac had missed this opportunity to raise a glass in Robbo’s honor, he’d have carried that guilt forever.
Dave-O’s street was quiet. Most houses had their curtains closed and only a handful of cars were parked against the curb. There were a few people wandering around the outside of the properties, but they seemed distracted, and Mac didn’t take much notice. He pulled into Dave-O’s driveway, beside two other cars.
Mac grabbed his pack, climbed out, and strolled to the house, glad to be there. He knocked on the wooden door and in a few moments, Dave-O’s face appeared.
“Good to see you, buddy,” Mac said with a firm handshake. Dave-O smiled, peered out into the street, and then ushered Mac inside.
“There’s been a bit of noise out there overnight,” Dave-O said, leading Mac down the short hallway. “And I’ve seen people wandering around looking stoned. There’s some weird shit happening.”
“Just have to watch the news, mate.” Mac followed his friend down to the kitchen, eyeing off Dave-O’s increased girth. “Jesus, mate, you’ve been in a good paddock.”
Dave-O stopped, smiled, and cupped the base of his round gut. “That’s beer, my friend. Been drinking plenty of it, and I plan on drinking a shitload more tonight.” Dave-O was tall, around six-foot-two, and had always been lean, but now Mac saw he had lost the hard, chiseled edge from his commando days.
In the kitchen, a second man greeted him. Oliver Smith was shorter and leaner, the comedian of the group, full of wisecracks and jokes that were a front for the demons he battled on a daily basis. Mac had fought alongside him on both tours and knew he was prone to terrible nightmares that he had tried to suppress with pills and alcohol at different times. Smitty suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD) and he was a loyal, reliable man for whom Mac would do anything.
“Mac, you still look like you just walked out of the gym.” Their handshake was firm. Smitty clamped his other hand over Mac’s.
“Too busy running up and down ladders, brother. What about you, Smit? How you doing?”
Smitty tipped his hand side to side. “So-so, mate. You know.”
“Well, let’s see if we can turn that so-so into something better, at least for the evening. What do you reckon?” Smitty smiled.
; Mac turned to Paul “Dutch” Vanderbilt, who put an arm around Mac’s shoulders. Dutch was a similar height to Mac, with arms resembling legs of lamb. He still hit the gym six days a week, addicted to the rush of high-intensity exercise. Mac had watched him crush more than cans out on the battlefield. He was an operator you were glad to have at your side in war.
They embraced; their bond was greater than the others, born from moments in time where each had saved the other from death. Robbo’s death would hurt Dutch the most.
“Looking good, Dutch.”
“You too, Mac.”
“Thanks for coming, boys,” Mac said, glancing around at the others. “I would have understood if you couldn’t make it. I’m sure Robbo would have, too.”
“What’s the latest on the news?” Smitty asked.
“Devonport’s a bit of a mess, mate.”
“So is the rest of Australia,” Smitty said. He took a long mouthful of beer.
“This flu thing is fucked up, hey.”
Dave-O walked to an LED television on the wall and pressed a button. The screen brightened. “All my bloody neighbors are sick too. Especially the bloke on this side.” He waved a hand towards the house next door. “Saw him the other day and he looked shithouse.”
Mac thought of Jess and tried to push the worry away. Dutch handed Mac a stubby and screwed the top off. He did the same for Dave-O.
“My brothers,” Dave-O said, holding his beer high. They all did the same and clinked the glass. “We are here to commemorate our brother, friend, and highly capable colleague, Mr. Scott Robertson.” There was sadness in Dave-O’s voice. They held their heads down as they listened. “A finer soldier and friend you will not find.” The others agreed. “We thank him for his honor and loyalty, his bravery and leadership, and we hope wherever he is that silver tongue of his is fulfilled.”