by Unknown
Having placed his purchases on the back seat of the car, an idea occurred to Peter. He went back to the supermarket and made for the electrical goods section. When he returned to the Range Rover, he was carrying a boxed DVD player and sixty-three DVDs—every title that had caught his eye.
Next Peter visited an out-of-town shopping outlet that sold five-gallon plastic fuel containers. He was fortunate that the man who served him was red-eyed and coughing since otherwise Peter would have been unable to persuade him to sell him more than four of the containers; something to do with Health and Safety, according to the man. As it was, the salesman’s defences were severely depleted and Peter, with the aid of a mental shove, talked the man into selling him ten.
“It’s okay,” Peter assured him. “I’m not a terrorist.”
He paid cash.
It took Peter five trips between the shop and the Range Rover, but he was soon on his way home, the containers booming and echoing in the vehicle’s substantial boot. He stopped at the garage nearest home and filled each container with diesel. At the same time, he topped up the Range Rover’s tank. He was pleased to note that the engine coped with the additional weight without complaint.
The cottage had no garage, but a rough hardstanding at the side of the building was large enough for Peter to pull the vehicle off the road. He reversed it in and carried the supermarket purchases into the cottage. The fresh food went into the kitchenette; the water and cans he trudged upstairs with and stored them in the corner of his bedroom; the DVD player and films he placed on the floor next to the television stand.
In the pocket handkerchief back garden of the cottage stood a sturdy, brick-built outhouse. It contained a stack of rough-sawn logs, a full sack of coal that Peter had been saving for when he needed it most, like now, a large sheet of tarpaulin and years of accumulated dirt.
With a grunt, he hefted the sack and staggered into the cottage. He dumped the sack in a corner of the kitchenette, leaving just enough room to open the door to the fridge. Then he made several journeys, bringing the logs inside and stacking them on the hearth.
Peter lifted the tarpaulin, raising a cloud of dust and spider skeletons. He carried it outside and shook the worst of the dust out of it, stepping smartly back to avoid being enveloped. He threw it to one side—the breeze was strong enough to make the edges flap, but there was no danger of it being blown away—while he emptied the car’s boot. Now that they were full of diesel, Peter could only manage one sloshing container at a time. He placed them in two rows on the dirt-covered concrete floor of the outhouse. It was dry and free of vermin, its door old and solid, despite the contrary appearance of its coating of flaking green paint. Peter secured the door with a sturdy padlock that he had purchased on Saturday during his shopping expedition to the city. He attached the padlock key to the keyring holding the car keys.
Finally, with the last of the day’s grey light leaking from the sky, he spread the tarpaulin over the Range Rover. It didn’t cover it entirely, but would serve to keep out the worst of the elements and might act as a deterrent for any would-be looters. He secured the corners of the tarpaulin around the tyres using lengths of coarse string cut from a ball he kept in a drawer in the kitchenette.
Satisfied that the vehicle and supply of diesel were as secure as he could make them, Peter went indoors. It was only when he was inside that he realised that he hadn’t heard the usual excited sounds of children returning from school.
He made sure that the front and back doors to the cottage were securely locked and all windows tightly fastened. He drew closed the curtains over the windows in the living room and kitchenette and banked the fire.
He switched on the television in time for the main evening news on the BBC. There had been another terrorist outrage somewhere in the Middle East; it was reported almost perfunctorily, with a certain degree of detachment, as though such events were now de rigueur in the run-up to Christmas. Or maybe the news team was keen to get to the second story in that evening’s schedule.
They were already calling it the Millennium Bug. Deaths had been reported in London and Birmingham, though the British medical authorities were remaining tight-lipped about the cause. The death toll in Los Angeles had jumped to sixty-five; that they were all the result of the same illness had now been confirmed. Reports of similar deaths in American cities such as New York, San Francisco and Dallas were trickling in. The earlier reports from Sydney had now been confirmed and more deaths had since been recorded. Rumours of a fatal disease spreading like wildfire throughout Asia and Africa were being received from foreign news agencies. . . .
Peter changed channels, deciding that from here on in he would avoid the news. He would watch sport and comedies and films and documentaries until broadcasts ceased. Then, for so long as the electricity supply lasted, he would watch DVDs.
He was as prepared as he could be to ride out the storm.
* * * * *
Lisa had not replied to Tom’s text message by the evening. He rang her, but the call went immediately to Lisa’s voicemail.
“Hi. You’ve reached Lisa’s phone. Leave a message and . . . oh, you know how it works.”
“Lisa, it’s Tom. I hope you’re okay. Call me, please.”
Tom disconnected the call. After a moment’s thought, he called his mother. He didn’t expect her to answer. Tuesday night was bingo night. She and Betty would be sipping port and lemon, gossiping like two old fishwives as they marked their bingo cards.
The call wasn’t answered and Tom disconnected.
Since watching the evening news, he had been feeling increasingly uneasy. Some sort of superflu was sweeping the country. Hell, it seemed to be sweeping the world. The Millennium Bug. People were dying in the hundreds.
He wondered if this same bug was responsible for the absences in school. He had put it down to another winter virus—how could the same virus affect the whole world at the same time?—but now wasn’t so sure. Lisa might have it.
He hadn’t spoken to his mother since Saturday. She might. . . .
Tom shook himself, trying to get rid of the sense of foreboding. He wondered briefly if he ought to jump into his car and take a drive to Swansea; make sure she was okay. On the other hand, he was tired and she would not thank him if she arrived home from bingo to find him sitting yawning in her living room. She would be suspicious and he would get cranky and they would end up arguing. He’d drive home in a mood and have trouble sleeping. They had played out that scene too many times.
No. He would ring her tomorrow.
Tom would regret that decision for the remainder of his days.
* * * * *
The roads into Melbourne were quieter than normal. The same could not be said for the roads out of the city. Bishop passed cars and trailers and vans, piled high with people and possessions, fleeing the city.
He laughed at them and sprinkled Moondust into his slipstream. Some of it may find its way in through open windows and air ducts, he reasoned. Even if it was a futile gesture on his part, it was evident that the Millennium Bug had beaten him to the city by a couple of days, perhaps transported there by air from New Zealand or Fiji or further afield. It was all they were talking about on the radio; they were already hesitantly calling it a pandemic. People were dying throughout the world.
Bishop listened and laughed until he grew bored and found a station that was still playing rock music.
“Fools!” he shouted at the streams of vehicles heading in the opposite direction. “Where are you going? Nowhere is safe.” He whooped joyously and sprinkled a little more Moondust above his head for good measure.
He pondered that for a while. Maybe those not yet infected might find safe areas, but they would have to seek out the uninhabited regions. They tended to be the most inhospitable areas, places like the deep Outback. He guessed that groups of people who headed into the wilderness might survive if they had plenty of provisions and means to provide shelter from the desert heat and hostile environ
ment. But if only one of their number—just one—was unwittingly carrying the Millennium Bug with them, then their goose was cooked.
“Hell, yes!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Not just cooked. Burnt to a crisp. Incinerated! Whoo-hoo!” If any of the passing motorists or passengers noticed him, they glanced quickly away, a shadow passing over their hearts.
The gunmetal grey Mazda drove through the suburbs of Melbourne in early evening sunshine. Bishop slowed occasionally and sprinkled more Moondust into his slipstream. He didn’t have much left; maybe around half an inch remained in the canister when he had last stopped and he hadn’t been able to reach it with his fingers. He had transferred the remaining powder to the plastic bag and it was into this that he now dipped his fingers to spread his version of seasonal greetings to the world.
Four or five times on his drive into the city, at children’s playgrounds and public parks, he stopped the car to perform the routine of pretending to stretch his legs while smearing Moondust on benches and swings and picnic tables. In truth, he no longer believed it necessary to spread any more Moondust, but he was nothing if not a thorough man and would rather spread it unnecessarily than allow some to survive through lack of diligence on his part.
The steady stream of traffic heading away from the city slowed as Bishop neared the city centre. He had started to fear that the city would be snarled with people fleeing, but it seemed that those who had decided to get out had gone and in an orderly, civilised fashion. Visions of thoroughfares choked with cars full of dying people, the stench of corruption on the evening breeze, did not materialise. If he had been forced to abandon the Mazda and walk into the city centre, the exertion wouldn’t have bothered Bishop. But he would have been vulnerable, even with the pistol.
Another concern proved to be unfounded. He had wondered whether the city would be rife with civil unrest; rioters and looters roaming the streets; random acts of violence born of fear and frustration. Although he actually enjoyed watching mindless violence—had himself indulged in it frequently—he would make a prime target for the crazies in the open-top Mazda. The gun lay within easy reach in the open holdall on the seat next to him, safety catch off.
Bishop never paused to consider that violence had once played no part in his make-up and was abhorred in his culture. That the worse excesses of humanity had rubbed off on him did not occur to him, except perhaps in some remote part of his consciousness that he kept firmly subdued. He was not a man readily given to introspection.
If there was any unrest in the city, he managed to avoid it, though by luck not judgment. Once or twice he heard sirens, but far away and he never encountered their source.
He suspected that these things may still occur; that trying to leave Melbourne by road over the coming days would grow increasingly difficult and that venturing into the streets would become unwise. Once he reached his destination, he had no intention of doing either.
As it was, the city seemed calm. People were still going about their business, though in fewer numbers; the al fresco restaurants that he passed were doing business, though there were many empty tables in evidence.
Bishop was close now to his favourite haunt. He had spent a lot of time in Melbourne over the years, had seen it expand and thrive, and even kept a small apartment here. But he wanted to spend the last days of humanity in luxury; watch mankind’s death throes from the comfort of a five-star hotel.
As he neared the business district, he reached to the holdall with his left hand and withdrew the bag containing the last of the Moondust. Briefly gunning the Mazda down a straight stretch of road, he lifted the bag above the windscreen and let the slipstream whip the remaining powder away. Giving the bag a last shake, he released it and saw it sail to the street in the rearview mirror.
He turned into the Park Plaza Hotel and pulled up in front of the entrance. He switched off the engine and closed the zip on the holdall, hiding the handgun from view. A concierge appeared.
“May I help you, sir?”
Bishop held out the car keys. “Two cases in the trunk,” he said. He motioned to the holdall. “I’ll take that. Park it up for me, please, and close the hood.”
Bishop stepped out of the car, holdall in hand.
“Oh,” he said. “Please will you fill up the tank and then park her up? This should more than cover it.”
He held out two hundred-dollar bills.
The concierge took them and made them disappear into his grey suit.
“Certainly, sir,” he said. “And which grade of parking would you prefer? Standard or executive? Executive is in a more secure area and includes a complete valeting service. It, ahem, costs a little more, of course. . . .”
“Executive, naturally,” said Bishop.
“I shall see to it, sir. Enjoy your stay at the Park Plaza.”
“Oh, I will,” said Bishop. “Please arrange for the keys to be delivered to my room.”
He stepped into the air-conditioned, marbled opulence of the hotel lobby and approached the desk. The clerk, a pretty woman of Asian origin, looked up and smiled.
“I’d like to check in,” said Bishop. “I’ll be paying cash up front.”
“Certainly, sir,” said the woman. “How long will you be staying with us?”
“Oh, a week initially. With perhaps an option to extend.” He didn’t add, if there’s anyone left alive to take more money from me.
“And what grade of room would you be interested in? I can offer a special rate on our standard twin?”
“No, thanks. I want your most expensive available room.”
The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, then you’ll want our Ambassador Suite,” she said. “Fortunately, sir, we have such a room available due to a late cancellation. Illness.” She coughed and, for a fleeting moment, her mask of professional efficiency slipped. Bishop caught a glimpse of haunted eyes and sensed the fear coming from her like a rotten smell.
“Yes,” he said. “I hear there’s a lot of it about.”
He handed over a small fortune in cash and refused the woman’s offer to summon a concierge to show him to his room.
The Ambassador Suite was larger than Bishop’s Melbourne flat. It offered stunning views of the city skyline, now lit up as night-time took hold. He dropped his holdall onto a thickly padded armchair and hunted for the room service menu. He rang down and ordered a lavish meal.
He then placed a call to the airport. It took a while to be put through to the person he wanted to speak to—apparently there were a lot of staff off on the sick—but he was connected eventually.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Troy Bishop. Reference ACJ319/4708 . . . Yes, I’d like the aircraft safety-checked, fuelled and ready to go, please . . . Yes, fully fuelled, including the extra tanks . . . Europe . . . Stocked for forty passengers . . . No . . . Not sure precisely when. But within the next few days . . . Yes, please . . . Usual account. Be sure to do a thorough job.”
He replaced the handset, a satisfied grin on his face. Then he kicked back and settled down to wait.
Chapter Eight
Out of almost two hundred pupils, only eight turned up for school in Penmawr on Wednesday morning. Out of more than twenty members of staff, only four showed up: Tom, one other teacher, one teaching assistant and the headmaster.
Tom trod the echoing corridor towards his classroom, feeling a sense of disassociation. The corridors were normally alive at this hour with running feet and laughter and chit-chat and the bellows of teachers ordering pupils to walk, not run, but this morning he walked down it alone.
He turned into his classroom, expecting to find it empty. Sitting at one of the tables, head cast down at his hands that fidgeted on the table, was a boy.
Tom dumped his briefcase and crossed to the boy in three long strides. He crouched down at his side.
“James?”
The boy turned his head to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and weepy; a thin line of snot ran from
his nose and collected in a puddle on his top lip. Judging from the damp stain on the boy’s sleeve, his jumper made a useful handkerchief.
“James, how did you get to school? Did your mum bring you?”
The boy shook his head. He coughed and winced as though it hurt.
“Did you walk? On your own?”
The boy nodded. The action made the snot run over his lip and into his mouth. He wiped at it with his sleeve, smearing it across his cheek.
Tom thought for a moment. He knew that this lad had no brothers and sisters, and no father; at least not one that the boy knew.
“Where’s your mum, James? Has she gone to work?”
“No, sir.” It was barely audible, not even a whisper. “She’s . . . not very well.”
A sob hitched in the boy’s thin chest and his eyes filled up.
Tom reached out and gathered the boy to him, hugging him close to his overcoat. This was against all protocol that forbade teachers from having any physical contact with their pupils, but right at that moment Tom couldn’t give a stuff for protocol.
He waited until the boy’s shaking had subsided somewhat, then stood and grabbed him by the hand.
“Come on, James. We need to get you home. I don’t think there’s going to be any school today. Where’s your coat—in the cloakroom?”
The boy nodded. He coughed again and swiped at his nose with his free arm.
Tom walked with him back down the corridor, retrieving the boy’s coat on the way. They stopped at the headmaster’s office.
The door was open and a deep, bellowing coughing came from within. There was not much point in knocking. Tom walked in, still clutching the boy’s hand.
Mr Ross sat behind his desk, almost doubled over with the coughing fit. He half straightened and Tom involuntarily gasped. The man’s face, usually quite florid, was now the colour of a ripe plum. Tears streamed from puffy eyes and the cheeks had sunk in on themselves like subsiding ground.