The Tasmania Trilogy (Book 1): Breakdown

by Owen Baillie

  Smitty guided Dave-O to the sofa. “This is the guy that was sick, right? The fucker that had the flu?”

  Dave-O nodded, but his eyes were glassy. Shock was setting in. “I went over to see him the other day. He was lying on the couch. Had a … fever … and a headache.”

  Mac thought of Jess at home, and his gut twisted. He needed to get back to her. What if …

  “What is it, Mac?” Smitty asked.

  Mac felt a lick of sweat on his forehead and wiped it with the back of his hand. “It’s Jessica. When I left her today, she wasn’t feeling the best. She had a … headache.” Mac saw panic flash over Smitty’s face. “She reckoned it was nothing bad, but …” His phone.

  It was still in the garage. Mac found it and dialed Jess’s number. It went straight to the message service. Hi, you’ve called Jessica McNamara and I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back when I can. Have a great day.

  “Jess, call me when you get this. Straight away.” He considered saying more but wanted to get moving. “Love you guys.”

  Back in the kitchen, Smitty said, “How is she?”

  “No answer. I need to get home. Make sure she’s all right.”

  “Yeah, no dramas, mate. That’s probably a good idea.”

  “Try the cops again, Smitty,” Dutch said.

  The police. How many beers had Mac drunk? Five or six? He’d be over the limit, and would never normally drive in such a condition, but it was a risk he had to take.

  He said his goodbyes, apologized to Dave-O for leaving and asked him to pass on his best wishes to Leigh Ann for a speedy recovery. He pulled out of the drive just after twenty-two hundred hours and headed for home, the steel wire that had made him strong amid the most terrifying situations in the Middle East starting to unravel. Mac would face any situation himself, but put his family in jeopardy and it was tough to deal with.

  The roads were empty, the streetlights dead. He still hated driving in the darkness and found it increasingly difficult to do so. Between his first and second tours, Mac developed headaches that wouldn’t go away. After much persuading from Jess, he visited a doctor, who referred him to an ophthalmologist. Turned out the headaches were caused by a buildup of fluid pressure in his eyes. The angles—drainage tubes—at the back of his eyes had narrowed so the fluid couldn’t drain quickly enough.

  “What do I take?” Mac had asked, sitting in the chair of the doctor’s office, a number of strange contraptions with big lenses and bright lights before him.

  “Drops,” the doc had said, unscrewing the lid off a tiny bottle.

  He tilted Mac’s head back and put a drop in each eye. They stung, and his vision blurred. “How long?”

  The doctor, a youngish Asian man by the name of Larry Liu, had paused then, and Mac knew something was wrong. “Forever.”

  Mac had laughed. “No shit?” He imagined doing that every day. “What if I don’t?”

  “Good chance you’ll go blind.”

  Suddenly his throat had gone dry. Blindness was about last on a long list of shit he didn’t want ever happening to him. “But the drops will stop that?”

  Doctor Liu had given a sympathetic smile. “Hopefully.”

  Turned out it was a wait-and-see approach and taking drops every day was a cinch. The headaches had passed, but Mac found his eyesight continued to worsen after dark.

  Crossing the Mersey River on the Bass Highway, Mac peered over the bridge railing at the ominous, inky stretch of water. He had never seen it so dark. As he turned onto Frankford Road, and the edges of suburbia faded into wide paddocks and clusters of thick bushland, Mac wound down the window and took in the country smells: the rich soil and wispy grass, the dust and dung of cattle and sheep. It revived him, and he was fine for a time as he drove along the Frankford Road. But when he hit the Franklin Rivulet Forest Reserve, with its narrow, winding road and gravel edges, Mac tightened his hands around the wheel. He drove past the slender trunks of stringybark eucalypt, thinking about the beers and the turmoil at Dave-O’s house. He worried about Jess’s condition, and his concentration began to falter.

  He might have been okay if it hadn’t been for the animal stepping out in front of him as he went a little too fast down a steep grade. But he couldn’t get to the brakes in time, and when it hit the front of the car, he must have over-corrected the steering. The four-wheel-drive skidded off the road, and the last thing he remembered was the crunch of the front left wheel as it landed in the ditch, then pain in his head, and finally, complete darkness.

  3

  Kumiko couldn’t keep her mouth shut any longer. “Two days, Mom. Two bloody days I’ve been saying this. Why wouldn’t you listen? If you’d gone to the hospital when I suggested, you might be feeling different now.”

  Shiori said nothing. It was a strong sign she really was ill. Otherwise, she’d have been jabbering back in response. She was a petite woman with fine Japanese features and long, silky black hair showing the odd silver strand. Born in Japan more than fifty years ago, she was younger than Kumiko’s father. They had met and fallen in love whilst he was an exchange student in Tokyo during the late seventies. Shiori had agreed to return with him to Australia and had never been back. Her accent had never quite left in all the time since she arrived. Even now, after listening to her mother for twenty-seven years, Kumiko sometimes found it difficult to understand her.

  Kumiko and her father, John, helped Shiori out of bed, where she’d spent three days complaining of fever, aching limbs, and a head cold. “Go easy on her, Kumi.”

  “Easy? I’ve been too easy. That’s why we’re in this bloody mess, Dad. She’s stubborn and we’re stupid for believing her fever was going to break. I don’t know why she’s so against going to the hospital.”

  “She just is. Now, where are we going?” John was a smallish man, lightly built, with a sweep of black greying hair. He worked for an insurance company selling life policies and said November and part of December, as the influenza outbreak took hold, had never been busier. He put an arm behind his wife’s back, supporting her.

  “There’s a doctor just down the road I’ve been to before. We’ll try him first.” Kumiko had used the doctor to get a pill prescription before her ex-boyfriend had arrived. The place hadn’t been busy, though now, if it was open, it would be full.

  Her father nodded. “Maybe we should have listened to you earlier.” He thought for a moment as they helped her mother through the bedroom door and into the tiny lounge room. “What if that place is closed? What’s our back up?”

  Kumiko made a face. “Find another one.”

  “You don’t have to be so curt.”

  “Need I remind you, Dad?” She swallowed her frustration, knowing her mouth sometimes got the better of her. “I’m pretty sure Mersey Community is still taking people. At least that’s what Facebook was saying last time I checked.” The concern on his face remained. “Don’t worry, we’ll find somewhere that will take her.” They shuffled into the foyer and stopped so Kumiko could open the front door.

  “You have to understand we’re a little concerned about leaving the apartment, Kumi,” her father said. “With all the warnings, your mother didn’t want to risk it. I suppose I agreed with her. And I sort of hoped she’d get better.”

  “But you’re both the same, so bloody conservative. Now she’s a whole lot worse.”

  Kumiko swung the front door open and they guided her mother through. Head down, her father lapsed into silence. She felt for them. They were conservative people who often left confronting an issue until the very last moment. Whilst Kumiko understood that, sometimes you had to make hard choices. The funny thing was that Kumiko wasn’t like her parents. At times, she was almost reckless, jumping into things without concern for her wellbeing. It had been a running joke since she was a little girl and related, according to Shiori, to Kumiko’s grandmother.

  The irony was she had done the very thing for which she was criticizing her parent
s. Kumiko’s asthma had been getting progressively worse over the last few days. She’d run out of inhaler the day before yesterday and had meant to duck out to the pharmacy, but looking after her mother, she’d kept putting it off.

  She pulled the front door closed and paused to catch her breath. She’d get her mother sorted out and then find some inhaler.

  “You all right?” her father asked.

  Kumiko nodded, not wanting to get into a discussion about her health. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  As they reached the elevator doors, the guy from twenty-three, who had a thing for her, came out of his apartment and into the hallway. Normally, he’d rush up to Kumiko and start chatting and she’d politely push her way past. She had developed the skill from an early age, as the boys began to take an interest in her long, dark hair and beautiful mix of Asian and Caucasian features. She realized her jean shorts and lacey top weren’t going to help now. The man, whose name was Alfred, looked sick. He stood in the doorway for a moment, caught Kumiko’s eye, and then turned away, sneezing as he went.

  The trio left the apartment building foyer, feeling the grip of the day’s early heat the moment they stepped outside. Pausing only twice, they reached Kumiko’s car parked on the curb out front of the apartment block. The car was unreliable at the best of times and had been giving her numerous problems of late. Twice, after doing her shopping at the grocery store, it wouldn’t start, and intermittently, when she pressed the accelerator, the car almost stalled. It needed a mechanic, but again, she hadn’t gotten around to it.

  When Kumiko turned the key the first time, the engine whined, failing to start. She glanced at her father and their eyes met. “Don’t say it.”

  She tried again, and this time it turned a little more, but still wouldn’t turn over. She took a moment, reigning in her frustration, the thought that every second was costing them important time. The words formed in her throat again. If you had have listened to me—

  The third time, the engine kicked over and rumbled into life.

  They tried the Valley Road Medical Centre and the Devonport GP Superclinic, but both had their doors locked and queues of people desperate to get in. Kumiko had used the Mersey Community Hospital in Latrobe before. Not one to wait, she drove away from the Superclinic using the back streets towards the Bass Highway. If the Mersey was shut, the only other option was in Launceston, and Kumiko didn’t like the idea of heading into Tasmania’s second most populous city.

  She took River Road after crossing the bridge over the Mersey River and followed a long straight strip of blacktop past dark, silent homes. They turned right, away from the houses, and the road drew closer to the river, thinning out as long shoots of yellow grass wavered in the breeze at the roadside. On their right, the light-blue Mersey at its widest showed white caps. To their left, stunted trees cut into the side of a low clay bank.

  Eventually, they reached the main section of Latrobe, a quiet, friendly historical township comprised of less than four thousand people. Dating back to the 1820s, Latrobe was once the main port of the North West, coming into existence because it was the first convenient point where the Mersey River could be forded. For the latter part of the nineteenth century, it was Tasmania’s third largest town, with a hospital, three newspapers, and a large number of inns and hotels. Currently, Latrobe is well known for its seventy-five heritage-listed buildings and rich agricultural lands. Stringybark, blue gums, and swamp gums surround the hills around the central township. But it was growing; south of Gilbert Street, the spread of housing developments would soon reach all the way to the Warrawee Forest at the south end of the township.

  Kumiko approached along Moriarty Road with her mother curled up on the back seat, her father beside Shiori holding her hand. Whilst the roads in had been relatively quiet, Kumiko battled her way along the tree-lined street just to get closer. Barricades still upright from New Year’s Eve celebrations a week or so ago made driving more difficult. There was a surplus of cars parked along the curb and people milled out onto the road.

  “Get out of the way,” she said, her frustration again getting the better of her.

  The hospital on the left was enormous, made up of several wings, including a general admission section, hospice care, and the emergency room. Kumiko wanted the latter.

  “You won’t get a park at the hospital,” her father said. “Go right at the roundabout and park at Crowy’s Boats.”

  She did, edging her way through more traffic. “So much for the government’s advice to stay inside. Clearly people don’t listen to them.”

  “They’re in the same boat as us,” her father said softly.

  She glanced at the lines of people outside the hospital’s main entrance. She supposed he was right. Like she and her parents, these people were desperate, no longer willing to wait for their relative or friend to feel better. They had come for help and many would remain until they got it.

  Kumiko turned left into Percival Street and left again into the crowded lot, glancing at her mother’s face in the mirror. The steady heat of mid-summer had yellowed the grass outside, and inside, despite the air-conditioning, her mother’s forehead was damp. Her father touched it with a handkerchief.

  Kumiko circled the lot three times in her little Ford Laser, turning the wheel sharper and increasing her speed with each turn. Finally, she decided to try to squeeze into a place in the back corner near a dusty red farm vehicle that had to be part monster truck. Her mother groaned in the back seat as Kumiko guided the car in and out until she made it.

  “We’re here now,” John Smith said, wiping Shiori’s forehead again. “The doctors will make you all better.”

  Kumiko switched off the engine and opened the door. The heat gusted in, hitting her like a furnace. Damn, it was hot. Before moving to Tasmania, people told her it never really got hot—not like Melbourne did in January and February, anyway. There weren’t supposed to be 40 degree Celsius days or 30 degree nights. She’d been looking forward to some relief during the summer months with the study preparations beginning. How wrong they had been.

  She opened the back door and her father slid out. Unable to stand, Shiori fell into her husband’s arms, and he held her up. Kumiko swung the door shut and put an arm around her back. For a moment, she stared into her mother’s bloodshot eyes, and in them, she saw desperation and fear. Shiori let out a crackling cough that sounded like her chest was clogged with phlegm.

  “Lift her this way,” her father said. Kumiko obliged and they began helping her along the pathway towards the road.

  Kumiko wanted to believe the doctors could help her mother, but deep down, she wasn’t so sure. News reports had been generic over the last few days, but before that, it was clearly established that the virus sweeping across Tasmania—hell, Australia, and the world for that matter—was more than the authorities and hospitals had the ability to manage. And it didn’t look like there was anything available to stop it. Apparently, the Commonwealth Serum Laboratories in Melbourne were working on some kind of vaccine, but who knew. It might take months.

  They shuffled across the road and walked around the curve of the hospital perimeter. As they approached the entrance, John saw it first and grunted in frustration. They stopped.

  “Bloody shit,” Kumiko said.

  People milled around the entrance five wide, seven or eight deep. There were a couple of wheelchairs in the mix, several people on crutches, and enough white-haired folk to start a nursing home. If there was a queue, it snaked back thirty yards, with five ends to choose from. Off to the side, half a dozen people lay on the grass. For all Kumiko knew, they might be dead. The doors were shut, and she wondered whether they were letting anybody in. Sure, they could up and wait, but it might be hours, if ever at all.

  She should have known this would be the outcome. Every piece of evidence warned of it. Shiori’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed and there were tears coming from the corners. Kumiko ground her teeth and cursed under
her breath.

  “What about Launceston?” Kumiko suggested.

  “Maybe we should just go home,” her father said.

  “Go home?” Kumiko snapped. “Mum might not even make it home.” Her father grimaced. “She needs to see a doctor. And I’m going to find one. Stay here.” She helped her mother onto the grass at the edge of the pathway under the shade of a beech tree, and then started towards the side of the building.

  Brushing a strand of damp, dark hair from her eyes, Kumiko stepped over the garden and hugged the edge of the building as she followed it away from the entrance, looking for another way in. Hospitals always had side or back doors. There had to be something eventually.

  But as she followed the contour of the building and pushed further away from the entrance, her hopes began to fade. There were two doors, but both were shut. She reached the back left corner of the building where a fence blocked her pathway. There was nothing. She’d have to return to the entrance and line up like the others, or think of another solution.

  Kumiko trudged back along the outside of the building, fighting anger again. If only she could turn the clock back and force her mother to visit the hospital. Even a day ago might have helped. But whose fault was it really? She had made the move to Tasmania in early November, following her boyfriend’s transfer to the University of Tasmania for the following year. Kumiko had been able to get a transfer for her course, too. That was her first mistake. In the beginning, it had started well—a new state, new city, endless tourist attractions to visit. Tasmania was a site-seeing paradise. But it had slowly drifted into a downward spiral. She hadn’t recognized the signs until it was too late. A month ago, Brad had deferred university and returned to Melbourne. Kumiko was only there because of him, and her parents had rushed to her side after he fled. She had gotten them into this.

  As she turned a corner of the building, she glanced up and saw one of the side doors now open. A man in a hospital polo shirt and slacks stood there, emptying rubbish into a waste bin. As she started forward, he turned his back and stepped through the entrance, pulling the door behind him. Kumiko raced forward and stuck her foot in the closing gap.