Life Goes On | Book 3 | While The Lights Are On [Surviving The Evacuation]

by Tayell, Frank

  Inside the first-class lounge, the squad had made themselves at home. The soundproof phone and data booths had become their bedchambers; they were too small to be called bedrooms. But kitted out with pillows and blankets, they were quieter and more comfortable than elsewhere in the airport. More blankets curtained the broad windows. In daylight, they had a spectacular view of the encircling mountains, which utterly failed to distract from the depressing vista of bedraggled refugees trudging to quarantine.

  “Time to move out,” Tess called, her gaze going from person to person, judging their reluctance, assessing whether any should be given a night off. “But I bring cake.”

  “I’m stuffed tighter than a bride in her dress,” Elaina said. “That Ms Nguyen is a good cook.”

  “No she ain’t,” Zach said. “I couldn’t hardly taste the beef.”

  Bianca laughed so loudly everyone turned to look.

  “What?” Zach said. “What’s funny?”

  “It was a vegetarian dinner,” Bianca said, carefully selecting a matching bracelet, necklace, and earrings from a jewellery case that took up a quarter of her pack.

  “You mean there was no meat at all?” Zach said, looking in horror at his empty bowl. “None? Gross. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

  “The beef’s gone,” Tess said.

  “I heard they’re turning it into stock for Vegemite,” Bianca said.

  “Or meat-emite,” Elaina said.

  “That stuff smells like koala sick,” Zach said. “Tastes like it, too.”

  “How do you know?” Elaina asked.

  “I’ve been to the zoo,” Zach said defensively.

  “They’re shipping as much beef as they can to the coast, cooked,” Tess said. “Until this immediate crisis is over, live herds will be sent directly to the refugee camps. From all I’ve heard, if you’ve got beef on your plate, you’re in a bad way.”

  “There, a reason to be grateful it was absent from yours, Zach,” Teegan Toppley said. “What entertainment do we have planned for tonight, Commissioner?”

  “We’re continuing the hunt for Erin Vaughn,” Tess said. “It’ll be just like this morning when we went to Vaughn’s and Lignatiev’s houses, but we’re looking at a few more places unconnected to them. With most empty properties having been allocated as housing or factory, there aren’t many buildings in which someone with a recognisable face can hide. Yes, if she panicked and fled, she could be absolutely anywhere, but if she had time to prepare, I’ve got three, last, possible locations that she, as a cabinet minister, would know of. Same rules as earlier today. We want a positive I.D., not a fire-fight. Remember, this isn’t a movie.”

  “Because the soundtrack is more… eclectic?” Bianca asked, throwing a glance towards the phone-and-speakers by Zach’s bed.

  “Because you can really die,” Clyde said.

  “Something like that,” Tess said. “Eyes open for parked military vehicles, or those black four-by-fours, or any other indication someone’s recently been there. I’ll enter with Teegan and Clyde. Everyone else will secure the perimeter. We don’t want a gunfight. We don’t need one. Just a positive I.D. Vaughn can’t escape the city, and wherever she is, this is her last bolthole. If we can get her on the run, she’ll be a lot easier to find tomorrow when Captain Hawker returns with soldiers we know we can trust. If we don’t find her, tomorrow, they’ll take over the search.”

  “What happens to us?” Elaina asked. “Do we get a day off?”

  “Bad news there, too,” Tess said with a smile. “I’m deputising you.”

  “We’re cops?” Zach asked.

  “It’ll mostly be admin and jailing,” Tess said. “Until you finish training.”

  “Like in martial arts?” Zach asked, his tone rising with sudden enthusiasm.

  “Like in psychology, forensics, and data analysis,” Tess said. “So I hope you like reading.”

  While Zach looked disappointed, the other, older, members of the team looked relieved.

  “And our kids?” Clyde asked.

  “We’ll set up a crèche and a school,” Tess said. “For your kids, and the rest of the department. Your son is in Hobart, right? The priority is returning the politicians from Tassy, but they should be aboard a plane tomorrow. Once they’re here, and once the airlift is over, I promise we’ll look into bringing your kids back, or sending you down there, whichever is safer. Grab your gear. And then grab some cake, and we’ll see if we can be done by dawn.”

  “Cake?” Zach asked. “Cool.”

  “I thought you said you were never going to eat again,” Elaina said.

  “There’s always room for cake,” Zach said.

  Chapter 29 - Honesty Test

  Simpsons Hill, Canberra

  Following mathematical rules of her own devising, this week Tess had crossed the line of having spent more of her life as a police officer than not. She counted weekends, but not her initial training; the time in hospital, but not the period of extended leave where she’d searched her soul, and the job ads, for an alternative life. During those years, she’d driven more police cars than civilian models. The Holden Commodores parked outside weren’t her first choice in pursuit vehicles. The nearest car’s new plain white door interrupted the line of bullet holes which had stitched a fatal tattoo in the vehicle’s sides. But the engines were sound, the tanks were full, and the tyres were pumped. More importantly, no other vehicles were available, having been dispatched into the never-never by Ian Lignatiev along with the officers and soldiers who might have stopped the coup.

  Lignatiev was dead. The police, and some soldiers and politicians, would soon return. Airlifts were underway. There was pain and suffering, yes, and who knew how many unseen crimes among the crowded refugee camps, but order was returning. Peace would follow. Abnormality was settling in, and she was, once again, doing what she did best: running an investigation.

  “We all here?” she asked, inspecting her team. Everyone wore body armour over airport overalls. Helmets, gloves, and knee and elbow pads completed the painting of professionalism, though it was inexpertly shaded by the civilian mix of trainers and hiking boots. And the tools. Everyone was armed with either a shotgun or a submachine gun taken from the dead amateurs at the radio tower. But each also carried a hand-axe, hammer, machete, or, in Elaina’s case, a half-metre metal pole with a taped-cloth handle.

  “First stop is the leisure centre on the western shore of Lake Tuggeranong,” Tess said. “Currently, it’s empty, designated as an overflow hospital. We’ll drive in convoy straight into the car park. It’s too big a site to secure every exit, so we won’t even try. We’ll drive up, lights on. When we get there, use the spotlights to blind any watchers, and let them run. Clyde, Teegan, and I will take the lead car. Bianca, Elaina, Zach, you’re in the second.”

  Keeping her reservations to herself, she climbed in. They were civilians, with the possible exception of Clyde and Toppley. But along with the first planes to arrive from the coast had come news of localised outbreaks. With the chaos, the panic, the loss of shelter, order, and weapons, little would prevent the number of infected from rising. Canberra’s quarantine was being applied rigidly, to civilian and soldier alike. Watching them were the aircrews. With no one else to call on for that essential duty, there certainly were no others for Tess to recruit for what she increasingly believed was a fool’s errand.

  Half an hour later, that feeling seemed to be confirmed. The leisure centre was empty. There had been people there, and recently, though the collection of empty stubbies and roach-singed roll-ups in the bottom of the now-drained pool suggested people far younger than Vaughn.

  The second property, an office block, was full of workers operating lathes, presses, and drills with enough proficiency to prove they’d been there for days.

  The third place on the list was Bronwyn Wilson’s old home. An unassuming house on Enid Lorimer Court, at the base of Simpsons Hill, it had been removed from Anna’s re-housing list out of respe
ct for its owner.

  “The prime minister lived around here?” Clyde asked. “I thought we paid for the PM to live in a mansion.”

  “I don’t think she had time to move into The Lodge,” Tess said. “Remember, she wasn’t prime minister for very long.”

  “But will the next one beat her record?” Toppley asked.

  “Oswald Owen?” Tess asked. “Depends what happens when the politicians from Hobart return. But I can’t see many people wanting to take the top job when the last two were murdered and the current incumbent is likely to shoulder the blame for every mistake made in the next few months. If someone does fancy a try, they’d have to contend with Anna, and since she blew up the last pretender to the throne, they’ll think twice.”

  “As I recall, it was the scientist set the bomb,” Toppley said.

  “But it’ll make for a more rousing yarn if we say it was Anna,” Tess said. “I think this is the road.” She parked in front of the barricade.

  The road was blocked with a simple pillar-and-bar barrier, and a note warning that the entire street was closed, and the properties were reserved for official use. Tess paused at that sign, shining her torch on it to read it again. According to Anna, only Wilson’s house had been reserved. The sentry post was currently unguarded, but someone had occupied it long enough to add a chair, a small fan, a larger fridge, and an insulated cable running to the nearest of the supposedly secured houses.

  Above, a quarter of the streetlights still cast their dim glow on the dry roadway. Another twenty temporary lights were dotted across the grassy slope of Simpsons Hill immediately opposite the row of homes. Distantly spaced, the lights cast a shadowy glow over stacks of timber, and sealed shipping containers.

  “Are they building dormitories there?” Toppley asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Tess said. “But this road isn’t as secluded as I thought. Not if people are working here during daylight.” As if to emphasise that, a porch-light came on behind them, a door opened, and a face appeared long enough to see the guns in the hands of the civilian-clad deputies. The door was hurriedly shut.

  “Maybe that was her,” Zach said.

  “She’s grown a beard since yesterday?” Elaina asked.

  “You know what I mean,” Zach said.

  “There’s a pillowcase pinned to the door,” Tess said. “Whoever lives there claims to have done so since before the outbreak, and has been sheltering inside ever since.”

  “Or they only go out at night,” Toppley said. “That’s what I would do. Wait until dark, and raid nearby houses until I had enough to stay even longer.”

  “Perhaps, but he’ll be getting houseguests next week anyway,” Tess said. “Anyway, Vaughn could be anywhere, but we came to check Wilson’s house.”

  She walked along the footpath at the base of the hill, scanning the properties, unsure which they were looking for until she saw a light flashing around the interior of a house. Too powerful to be a match, too steady to be a fire, gone too quickly for it to belong to a legal resident hurrying to their bathroom.

  Tess raised a hand, and the squad came to a loud halt.

  “Trouble?” Toppley whispered.

  “People,” Tess said. “A light inside. No car outside. No streetlights working on that side of the street. No sentries on guard. This is starting to look viable.”

  “They’ll have heard our engines,” Clyde said.

  “So we’ll move quickly. Clyde, Toppley, make your way around to the back. I’ll go in the front. Elaina, Zach, watch the road here. Remember, if you see someone running, it might be me. Bianca, you’re with me. I’ll go to the front door. You’ll go to the bay window. When I signal, shine your torch inside. I’ll enter through the front. Don’t follow. Keep low. Remember it might be me who comes running outside.”

  It was her own fault, she thought as she unslung the shotgun. After the first two properties had been so empty, she’d concluded Vaughn had run, and so had been going through the motions with this last property. Driving too close. Talking too loud. Walking too near.

  Inside, from a window to the right of the door, another light briefly shone. The same torch? Or a different flashlight held by a different hand? Were the missing mercenaries still protecting Vaughn?

  Wishing Hawker had returned with his soldiers, she jogged across the road, straight to the front door. According to the number, this was Wilson’s home. Inside, she heard a cupboard open, a drawer close, shoes squeak, metal clink on metal. Opting for sound and fury, she levelled the shotgun at the upper hinge, stepped back, and fired. The shotgun’s roar shattered the silence of the suburb. The slug smashed through the hinge. The door spun inwards, pivoting then thudding to the floor as the one remaining hinge failed under the weight.

  “Police!” she yelled as Bianca shone her light through the nearest window.

  A stronger glow came from inside, beyond an alcove-doorway.

  Aiming low, Tess fired a slug into the floor, quickly switching her aim ahead as she yelled, “Police. Surrender! You’re surrounded.”

  “We do!” came a yell in return. “We surrender.”

  Tess stopped, puzzled. The voice was male and unfamiliar, and the words were unexpected.

  “Throw out your guns,” Tess said. “Then kneel on the floor, hands behind your heads.”

  “We’re unarmed!” the man called.

  “Teegan!” Tess called.

  “We’re here,” Clyde replied, far closer, and already inside.

  “By the kitchen door,” Toppley added. “We have them covered.”

  Tess stepped forward, and through the alcove, into the kitchen where three people now knelt on the floor: a man nearing thirty, a woman about the same age, and a younger man. Early twenties, he was shorter, though more muscled, than the older man, but had the same elongated chin, razor-sharp cheeks, and terrified brown eyes. All wore dark clothing, their heads covered in dark ski-hats, though the woman’s was maroon rather than black, and the younger man’s shoes had white soles unevenly shaded with a marker-pen. In the middle of the kitchen were four large black holdalls. Three were stuffed and zipped, but the partially full bag was open, and full of packets.

  Tess lowered her shotgun, and tapped the badge around her neck. “I’m Commissioner Tess Qwong. Explain yourselves. Quickly.”

  “We were just looking for food,” the woman said. “That’s all. We weren’t going to take anything else.”

  “You’re wearing ski hats,” Tess said. “And you coloured the white part of your shoes. Try again.”

  “It was my idea,” the older man said. “We live down the street, and we knew who lived here. And we knew Ms Wilson. Used to do her gardening. We knew she was dead. She didn’t need the food here, so we came to take it.”

  “Just the three of you?” Tess asked, placing the shotgun on the kitchen counter. She plucked three pens from the jar by the cordless phone.

  “Just the three of us, yes ma’am,” the oldest said.

  “Are you armed?” Tess asked, taking three pieces of paper from the pad by the phone.

  “No, ma’am,” the older man said.

  “You should be,” Tess said. “Nowhere is safe from the undead these days, not even inside the city wall.” She dropped the pens and pieces of paper in front of the prisoners. “This is a field honesty-test. You said you’d heard the prime minister was dead. I assume on the radio. We came here looking for her killer. Staying on your knees, shuffle around so your backs are to one another. Good. I’ll ask you some questions. If your answers match, I’ll believe you’re just looters. If not…” She picked up the shotgun. “First, write down your name. Surname, too.” She waited as they scrawled. “Now write the names of the other two.” She waited. “Where are you living now?” She waited. “Where did you last eat a meal together that wasn’t where you now live?” She had to wait a little longer as the younger man, brow furrowed, lips moving, decoded the question. “Teegan?”

  Toppley collected the pieces of paper. �
�Close enough a match for government work,” she said. “Though this gentleman needs a lesson in how many u’s are in restaurant.”

  “Take them outside, Teegan. Have them sit on the kerb. Clyde, wait here while I search the rest of the property.”

  Wilson’s was a small house belonging to an ageing woman with fading dreams. The living room could have been a set for a furniture catalogue, right down to the picture frames. The photographs inside, though, were Wilson’s. One showed her standing next to the prince on a royal visit ten years ago. In another, she was sandwiched between two of the more recent prime ministers at the launch of a Hobart-class destroyer. In a frame larger than the others, she wore a headscarf while standing outside a mosque with a robed sheikh. Pride of place seemed to go to an older picture, slightly faded, where she stood on a red carpet with a film star whom Tess almost recognised. No friends. No family. Just an implied political importance belied by the mundane suburban setting.

  There was no television or sofa, just six armchairs arranged symmetrically around a coffee table, overlooked by the photographs. In the corner, a drinks cabinet contained one bottle of nearly everything, and each, except for the scotch, was nearly full.

  Technically it might be a living room, but Wilson hadn’t lived in it. She’d arranged the furniture for meetings, but the hint of dust on chairs and bottles suggested she’d not had many of those recently, either. The spare bedroom was set up as an office, and did contain a small TV set pushed into the corner, almost forgotten. The microphone plugged into the desk phone was far more expensive. On the walls, instead of pictures, she’d hung install-yourself soundproof panels. Bronwyn Wilson had a reputation as always being good for a sound bite, and it was in here that she’d crumbled her punditry-morsels onto the airwaves. From the extra cushions in the chair, the jars of mints, and the book of crossword puzzles, Tess got the impression the politician spent most of her life waiting in this room for the press to call.