by Shane Carrow
The driver cut across him. “Chris! Chris! Just do what he says! Jesus!” He’d already lowered his gun, and tossed it down onto the pavement. After a moment the other did the same, breathing heavily and trembling with fury, holding his bare hands in the air.
“Okay,” I said, my mind scrambling to keep up with things. “Okay.”
I shot both of them in the chest, planted a foot on Kane’s back to shove him forward, and as he stumbled to keep his balance and tried to turn around to face me, I shot him too. It took about three seconds.
I collected their guns – three silenced Glocks and another Browning – and the few spare clips they had. Kane was still breathing, ragged bloody heaves, pawing at my leg as I took his gun. I shot him once more in the head. Then I climbed into the driver’s seat of the Land Cruiser. The keys were in the ignition and the engine was still running. I closed the door, put it into drive, and slowly rumbled out of the carpark and down the street.
It had been brutal. I can’t deny that. But I hadn’t trusted them. Didn’t like the way they’d handled things at the motel, didn’t like the way Kane had tried to take my gun off me, and didn’t want to fall back in with Zhou and the Patriots anyway. Breaking away from them that early might have hurt my chances of escaping from Armidale, but breaking away from them later might hurt my chances of escaping from them. The raid on the power station had changed the dynamic, but if that hadn’t happened – if we’d spent a week sitting and waiting – I’d already doubted Zhou would have ever helped me take the codebook south.
And something else hadn’t sat right. The whole thing had felt wrong. Why would they try to take my gun? I trust my gut, and my gut had told me not to get in that car.
Well. Not with the rest of them, anyway. I was sitting in it now, alone, winding through the hilly outer suburbs of Armidale, though already I’d decided it was a bad idea. A Land Cruiser is big and loud and obvious, at a time when I needed to lie low. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of Armidale, over the wall, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be in that thing.
I pulled over in the empty carpark of a strip mall, grabbed things I thought might be useful (a backpack, road maps, a water bottle) and legged it out of there. I picked the direction I thought was closest to the walls and headed that way, walking not running, keeping my head down, trying to look as though I was heading off towards some early work shift. The streets were mostly deserted, but occasionally somebody else passed me on foot or on a bicycle. I didn’t meet their eye.
By 5:30 the stars had vanished and the sky above was light and grey. I could hear police sirens, screaming up and down the streets in the direction I’d come from. I moved faster. There were other cars on the street, unmarked sedans – early risers lucky or important enough to have vehicles, maybe, or maybe it was police or Army. I kept moving, staying off the main roads.
The entire time I was desperately trying to formulate a plan. As I’d seen from my one and only trip to the university command centre, Armidale was surrounded by a double brick wall, lined with guard towers, and a further chain-link fence behind that. All gateways were closely guarded. I’d have an easier time trying to go over the wall and the fence than trying to get through a gate – but not in daylight. Which meant I was looking at more than twelve hours of hunkering down inside Armidale. But at the same time, right now was the best opportunity I’d have to get out of the city; twenty minutes after the incident itself had happened, before they could realise what was going on and put all the guards on high alert.
I thought about carjacking somebody; stepping out into the street with a gun, hoping they’d stop, hunkering down in the backseat and forcing them to drive me out one of the gates. Incredibly risky, since I had no idea what the procedure was for leaving the city. I doubt people were allowed to just go out for a Sunday drive. But what else was there?
My answer came in the sudden hooting of a train horn, and the clacking of rails. I was only a few blocks away from the city train station – and there was an operating rail link to Tamworth.
A few minutes later I was lying in my stomach in the grass of an overgrown vacant lot next to the freight depot. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side was the alluring shelter of a cargo yard full of shipping containers stacked five high, with glimpses of railway and train carriages beyond that.
The barbed wire didn’t bother me. The sentry did. He was patrolling up and down the other side of the fence, a length of about two hundred metres, looking thoroughly bored and unaware of the manhunt unfolding throughout the rest of Armidale. That gave me hope. They weren’t on all-out high alert yet.
I waited until he was just a little past my position, so I was behind his field of view. Then I stood up and moved across the street as quietly as I could, across a little service road along a bunch of warehouses, still glancing up and down to make sure there was nobody else in sight. When I reached the other side I stalked silently down the footpath until I was about five metres behind the soldier, still on the other side of the fence. He had no idea I was there.
I raised one of the silenced Glocks I’d taken and shot him through the fence. I’d been aiming for his head, a clean takedown, but I clipped him in the neck instead and he gave off a choked barking noise, staggering into the edge of a rail car, his hand reaching up to stem the blood flow. I shot him quickly three more times in the back, and then again in the head as he lay motionless on the ground, just to be sure. Then I quickly climbed the fence, feeling unbearably exposed, throwing my jacket over the barbed wire and awkwardly mounting it, still managing to cut my arms and legs. I dropped down on the gravel on the other side. I was in.
I dragged the dead soldier underneath the rail cars. It left a trail of blood, but that was better than a corpse lying out in the open. I took his Steyr Aug, slung it across my own back, and headed deeper into the depot with the silenced Glock in hand.
Sergeant Blake, in one of his theoretical candlelight sessions to while away the long winter nights in Jagungal, told us killing a guard is best avoided. It gives you a time limit, because sooner or later somebody is going to notice he’s missing, and then everybody goes into high alert. But I was already on a time limit. Even now, General Draeger had probably been roused from bed – if he was even asleep, and not just popping pills and obsessing over something – and would be rousing his army to comb the city for me.
I moved past rail sidings and parked locomotives, through a stack of shipping containers, trying to stay low and quiet. I crawled beneath motionless carriages, hiding in the darkness beneath their greasy axles, scoping out everything I could, torn between haste and caution. I’d heard a train horn, I knew the rail line was up and running – but how many trains a day? How much stuff could they possibly be shifting? What if I had to wait for hours – and when was that dead guard supposed to be relieved of his shift?
Soon I could see the train station itself. A long groove of rails running between concrete platforms, bridges leading across them – and a long train of dirty-yellow carriages lined up on the main railway, with a diesel locomotive up front, ready to go. The Freedom Express.
But there were people here. Workers in blue jumpsuits, soldiers in olive fatigues, drivers in grey overalls. I could count at least fifteen from where I was standing, and there wasn’t a chance I could make it to the train without being spotted. Waiting was not an option either. It was a miracle they hadn’t shut the station down already; as the day wound on, and the authorities still couldn’t find me, Draeger would probably lock the whole city down. Even if he didn’t, escaping on a train wouldn’t be any easier. If it was this busy at sunrise, what would it be like later in the day? Not to mention the dead soldier.
No. I was going to have to make a break for it. That was the only way. I took the Steyr off my back and left it sitting on the ground, stowed the Glock away in the backpack, and kept the Browning tucked into the back of my jeans with two fresh clips in both pockets. I hated to abando
n a good rifle like that, but if I looked like some rag-tag teenager trying to jump a train, they probably wouldn’t use lethal force. If, on the other hand, I emerged from cover gripping an automatic rifle and blazing away at every soldier in sight, they’d probably be less forgiving.
Now all I had to do was wait until the train started moving. It took half an hour.
It was a long thirty minutes, let me tell you. The fears and doubts that ran through my brain: what if it isn’t going anywhere, what if someone finds me, what if someone finds the corpse, what if someone shoots me, what if there are guards aboard the train…
A little past six o’clock, with the gradually rising sun casting long shadows across the depot, the train fired a few quick blasts from its horn. Then the engine started up – and slowly, slowly, it began to drag the dozen carriages behind it down the tracks, gathering up speed, the wheels clicking and rolling...
I burst from cover and ran.
I’m surprised I got as far as I did before anyone noticed. Thirty steps without any outcry. I was headed for one of the overpasses, a steel bridge running from one platform to the next, from which I could jump and land on the train. I was nearly halfway there, having already clambered up onto platform level, before an engineer noticed me. He yelled out “Oi! Oi!” and made to stop me as I sprinted past, but didn’t run after me.
One of the soldiers did, yelling out “Oi, kid, whaddya think you’re doin?” and dashing after me when I didn’t reply. The train was still rumbling forward, past signal lights and warehouses, and more than half of it had cleared the bridge. I’d underestimated how quickly it would pick up speed, and now I suddenly realised it was going to be a very close thing.
There was another soldier on the footbridge, standing halfway up the stairs, rifle still on his back and wide arms spread open to try and catch me. So far, so good. They thought I was some scruffy teenager trying to hitch a ride on the train.
When I was about ten metres away from the soldier on the steps I pulled the Browning from the back of my jeans, saw the brief look of disbelief on his face, and fired a round into his torso. He fell backwards against the railing, clutching at his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers, and looked at me in disbelief as I bolted up the stairs past him.
Now the stakes had changed. A few shots rang out as I sprinted up the stairs, cracking through the air above me, while somebody else bellowed “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
When I reached the top I met another soldier coming up the overpass from the other side, unshouldering his Steyr and looking uncertain, like he didn’t know whether to listen to shoot or not. I levelled the Browning at him, fired a few quick shots – one of them clipping him in the arm, the others going wide – then placed one hand on the railing and vaulted over the edge, dropping down a carriage as it rolled past underneath.
It was a coal train, open-topped. I landed on a layer of black rocks, stumbling onto all fours, keeping my head down as a few more scattered gunshots rang out. There was about half a metre of clearance between the coal and the top of the carriage. I crouched down in one corner, trying to stay out of sight, as the train rattled and wobbled and picked up speed. The ceiling of the depot shed had vanished, nothing but early morning sky above. We were clear of the trainyard, at least.
Now was the million dollar question: would the train stop again when it reached the city walls, and wait for them to open the gate? Or did the train gateway know when one was expected, and open it ahead of time?
And how long until somebody contacted the driver and told him to stop?
Just get me out of Armidale, I prayed. Please, just get me clear of the walls, I can do the rest.
My prayers were answered. I kept my head down while the rooftops and power lines of Armidale whizzed past, until eventually two high guard towers shot past on either side – and then I saw nothing but treetops and open air. I was in the clear.
I poked my head up. The train had picked up a lot of speed – it was going maybe seventy or eighty kilometres now – heading in a south-westerly direction, away from the rising sun. We were cutting through long swathes of wheat fields, over ditches and roads, sometimes passing columns of labourers heading out into the fields to begin their day’s work. I felt exhilarated, and let out a cry of laughter, in sheer disbelief that I’d made it.
Then somebody tackled me from behind.
I realised later on that one of the soldiers from the train depot must have jumped from the bridge after me, landing in a carriage further down. At the time it scared the shit out of me. I was at the very back of my carriage, standing up and holding onto the side, looking towards the front of the train where I could make out a pair of passenger carriages right behind the locomotive. A few seconds later I was sprawled forwards in the coal, somebody pinning me down from behind, scrabbling for the Browning that I was gripping in my right hand, pushing my face down into the black rocks. He’d taken me by surprise, and easily wrenched the gun from my grasp. Before he did, I managed to slide my thumb over the clip release, and it tumbled out into the coal.
The weight on my back disappeared, and I scrambled forward, grabbing the fallen clip as I did. I turned around, still sitting on my ass. The soldier was standing there with the Browning pointed right at my face, leaning against the side of the carriage for balance while the train rocked back and forth. He was young, maybe younger than me, a blonde teenager with a fuzz of hair on his upper lip and a desperate look in his eyes, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. He must have lost his rifle when he jumped, or maybe he was one of those junior privates who wasn’t issued one to begin with.
“Turn around!” he shouted over the noise of the wind. “Hands on your head!”
I stood up slowly, gripping the side of the carriage, and we stared each other down as the train barrelled across the landscape. We were going through bushland now, with tall gum trees reaching up on either side of us, leaves whipping past at a hundred kilometres an hour.
“Do you know who I am?” I shouted. “I’m one of General Draeger’s most important prisoners. If you kill me, you’ll be in a world of shit!”
“I don’t need to kill you,” he yelled. “I just need to cripple you!”
“Good luck,” I yelled back, and I turned and ran towards the front of the train.
To his credit, he did shoot, with the one bullet remaining in the chamber of the Browning. Maybe he was a lousy shot or maybe it was the movement of the train. The bullet must have gone very wide, because I heard nothing but the gunshot, not even a crack or whistle as it went past my head.
I reached the gap between carriages, about a metre wide. Down below, past the thick iron links and electrical wires connecting the carriages, railway sleepers were whooshing past in a blur. One little slip-up and my body would tumble down and be churned up, crippled and mangled. I’d make a pretty sorry zombie.
I jumped across the gap and landed in the next carriage with a stumble and a roll. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the soldier chasing after me. I kept running forward. Jumped another gap, and another. All around me the forest was rippling past at high speed, with low mountains to the west and a glimpse of the highway between the trees just to my right.
Eventually, hoping I’d put enough distance between us, I stopped in the middle of a carriage. I opened the backpack and dug around frantically, trying to find one of the Glocks I’d taken amongst all the other junk from the Land Cruiser. I glanced up and saw the soldier approaching, jumping over the last gap into my carriage. I’d never had much of a head start on him, and now he was only metres away. I pulled out one of the Glocks and squeezed the trigger.
There was no round in the chamber. I’d yanked it out, aimed and pulled the trigger without even thinking, desperate to kill him. Sergeant Blake would have been furious at me for something so dumb, and now I was paying the cost. The teenage soldier closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, knocked my arm away, swung a fist into my jaw, tore the backpack away from me
and flung it aside. I lashed a leg out and knocked him in the knee, making him stumble, and then grabbed his wrist and dragged him down into the coal with me. We rolled around, struggling over the Glock, kicking and swearing and lashing out at each other. My free hand curled around a piece of coal and I struck him across the face with it, sending him reeling. I hit him again and again, knocking him over the head until his fingers released the Glock as he scrambled backwards, holding his hands out to protect himself, blinded by the blood running down his face. I pulled the slide back and shot him twice in the head.
For a moment I knelt there over his body, panting and sweating and covered in coal dust, feeling the rattle of the train, watching the trees rush past on both sides.
Why hadn’t they stopped the train yet? It must have been five or ten minutes since we’d left Armidale. Surely they could radio the train. Surely they would have, by now.
Only a matter of time. I needed to get to the locomotive.
I gave myself a moment to search through the backpack and check the remaining guns: two more silenced Glocks and a Browning. I unscrewed their silencers and stowed them away. The Browning went into the back of my jeans, one Glock went into a holster that I’d taken from the backpack and strapped to my thigh, and the other two stayed in the backpack. All received fresh clips, and I shoved a few extra into my pockets. The dead soldier had dropped the other Browning after his failed shot several carriages back, and I didn’t have time to retrieve it. I stood up, and headed towards the front of the train.
I went across six more coal carriages before arriving at the passenger section, two ugly grey carriages of steel. There was a low balcony at the back of the carriage, and I climbed carefully down to it. The door was unlocked.
Inside was a typical passenger car – rows of seats, a narrow aisle, the roar of the wind and the rails muffled. It was quiet and empty. Maybe the passenger service wasn’t really taking off; most people probably wouldn’t have a reason to go between Armidale and Tamworth. But they were traversing dangerous territory. Shouldn’t there at least be guards?