by JE Gurley
“Your bedside manner sucks,” he said. “You hurt me worse than the damn bird.”
“Shut up and get some rest. I’ll take the first watch.” She walked off with the kit and came back with a rifle.
He didn’t feel like arguing with her. He was exhausted and his arm ached. It was too hot and too cramped to sleep in the van. He grabbed his bedroll and spread it out in the shade of the van. The ground was hard as a rock, but exhaustion won out. As his eyes grew heavy, and his mind began to shut down, he realized the two pills she had given him had been sedatives.
* * * *
“Time to go.” Alex opened his eyes, looked up, and saw Nicole leaning over him. “Feel better?” she asked, grinning.
“You tricked me.”
“You needed rest and I knew you wouldn’t. I’ll sleep while you drive. How’s your arm?”
He moved it experimentally, “It’s stiff but it doesn’t hurt as bad.”
“I guess you’ll live.”
He nodded at the rifle in her hands. “Were you worried that I might wake up a zombie?”
She looked away. “I, I thought about it.”
“Glad you waited. Let’s get a bite to eat and get started.” The smell of burning wood drifted on the breeze, followed by the aroma of coffee and bacon. “You’re good,” he said.
After bacon, biscuits, and coffee, he felt like a new man. He hadn’t realized how close to the edge of collapse he had been. While Nicole cleaned up, he pulled out the short wave radio, set up an aerial and hooked up the spare battery.
He took a deep breath and began to broadcast. “KRT 615 to anyone. KRT 615 to anyone. Is there anyone out there?”
Nicole stood a short distance away watching him. She leaned forward as if eager to hear a reply over the tiny speaker. Alex thought he should warn her against unrealistic expectations.
“This is a small aerial,” he explained. “It might not have much range.”
“There might not be anyone out there to reply, you mean.”
“You have to –”
“MCP 229 to KRT 615. MCP 229 to KRT 615. Please respond.”
Alex squeezed the mic key so hard his knuckles turned white. “This is KRT 615. What’s your QTH?” The radio whistled and sputtered. “I knew I needed a band pass filter,” he growled. He slapped the radio and the whistling stopped. “Say again MCP 229. What’s your QTH?”
Nicole stared at him. “Their location,” he mouthed.
“KRT 615. Sorry, I don’t know what QTH is. This is a secure facility at Camp Rapier, an ADF facility at Woomera. Your signal is strong. Good to hear from you.”
21
Sept. 5, 2013 Somewhere over the Southern Ocean
Marino snapped awake and realized he had fallen asleep. He looked over at Anson who appeared just as alert as he had been on takeoff. He checked his watch and saw that four hours had passed.
“Jesus, I guess I was tired,” he said.
Anson smiled. “That’s all right. Your snoring kept me awake.”
“I don’t snore,” Marino protested.
“Like hell. I thought one of the engines was falling off.”
Marino grinned at Anson’s dig and looked out the window. He saw no land, just lots of water. “Where are we?”
“About two hours from Tasmania. I’m veering a little out of our way to check it out.”
The thought of missing Tasmania and winding up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean sent cold chills down Marino’s spine. “Without the GPS?”
Anson shook his head slowly and tapped the compass, “This still works.”
It still seemed like a waste of time to Marino, anxious to reach dry land. “Why? We aren’t going to land there are we?”
“No. I want to check out the naval base at Hobart to see if there are any ships in port. Some ships at sea might have escaped the plague”
Marino now understood Anson’s reasoning for the detour, but had his own suggestion. “We can contact them by radio. Why not just broadcast blindly and see if anyone responds?”
“Remember what Gilford said? We might be at war. They won’t answer. Besides,” he added with a frown, “I tried already.”
Marino frowned. “Then what are you excited about?”
“I’m hoping the Navy, after the Vendetta episode two years back, might have been better prepared for the outbreak. If so, they might have set up safe areas near the coast. They might have some answers.”
“I see.” Marino eyes brightened, “Hey, maybe a U.S. ship has joined them. I might have a ride home.”
“It’s possible. The Yanks have a naval base at Noumea in New Caledonia.”
The idea of a comfortable ride home on a Navy ship brightened Marino’s day. Although he dreaded what he might find there, he was anxious to return to Tucson. He had been away from home only three months, but it felt more like three years. Were there still students at Arizona State University, or had the last professor leaving campus switched off the lights, and locked the doors. Would the cute redhead at the corner bar, Connie something or other, remember him? Had she even survived?
Thinking about friends that he had left behind jostled Marino’s memory.
“What about your sister and brother in Adelaide?”
Anson winced and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Muscles bunched in his forearms and shoulders until Marino feared the brawny Australian might crack the wheel. “Eric is pretty smart, a teacher. He would have left the city as soon as he could. Maybe he took Adele with him.”
“Where would they go?”
“I’m not sure.” His brow furrowed in concentration. “North out of the city, I guess, maybe to the Flinders Range north of Adelaide, near Lake Eyre. He has a cabin near there.” He smiled. “Yeah, it’s desolate country, all right. He might hole up there for a while.”
“We have a destination then, Lake Eyre. A cabin on a lake sounds good.”
Anson chuckled. “Not a sporting lake, mate. Lake Eyre is a saltpan; maybe a few birds after the rains, but no beach or Jet-Skis.”
“Oh,” Marino replied, nodding in understanding. “Sounds like a lovely spot to hide out.”
“Yeah, you’ll love it. No snow.”
“Then I’m in.”
They sat in silence for most of an hour, Anson piloting the Hercules and Marino trying to remember the last time he had shaved. His bushy mustache and three weeks growth of beard itched so badly that he wondered if he had picked up a family of fleas back in Casey. Anson, tidy to the point of ridiculous, had religiously melted snow and boiled water in order to shave every other day while they had been away from Casey. Even on the journey back to Casey and since, he had continued his shaving ritual. Marino had scoffed at his friend’s fastidiousness. Now he envied him.
One of the first things that he wanted to do once they reached Adelaide was to take a long hot bath and shave, provided they could locate hot water or even running water. The second thing was a tossup between a hot meal and a frozen Margarita. He doubted he would find either and would likely end up bathing in a pan of cold water. Engaged in pondering his immediate plans for the future, he almost missed the ship. He looked twice before alerting Anson.
“Elliot, a ship,” he called out as he pointed. “Just ahead of us to our right.”
Anson spotted it as well. “Looks like cargo ship, about 8-9,000 tons. I’ll take us lower.”
Marino peered through the side window as Anson banked the Hercules. They approached the ship head on at less than two hundred feet. Marino could see the Australian flag hanging from the mast. He also noticed there was no wake trailing the vessel. It was not under power. Rather than the anxious crew, he hoped to see lining the rails staring up at them, numerous bodies lay crumpled on the deck. A large blood smear stained the forward cargo hatch. Barrels rolled across the deck as the vessel lurched in the waves, and several smashed wooden crates had strewn their contents. Marino saw that one of the lifeboats was missing.
“Adrift,” Anson growled when he n
oticed the lack of power aboard the vessel. “Empty.”
“Someone got away in a lifeboat,” Marino pointed out.
“Maybe, or maybe it washed overboard during the same storm that forced us back. It looks as though she’s been through rough seas. She’s riding high in the water, so she’s empty.” He shook his head. “It would have been a rough ride aboard her during a blow.” He looked over at Marino and saw the disappointment in his eyes. “They might have made it to Hobart in the lifeboat, though.”
Marino nodded. He understood what his friend was trying to do. He glanced back at the ship, now dwindling behind them. “Shouldn’t we try to call them or signal them some way?”
“Their aerial was smashed. If anyone were alive, they would have heard us fly over. Besides, what could we do? To whom would we report it? If there are survivors, they’re on their own.”
“Like us,” Marino replied grimly.
“Hell, we’re in great shape,” Anson said, wearing a broad grin on his grizzled face. “We’ve got water, food, and great big airplane. What more could we want?”
Marino rubbed his beard. “A barber?”
Anson slapped his thigh and brayed in laughter, the first sound of mirth the Australian had uttered in over a week. Marino smiled at him. It was good to hear his friend laugh.
“A shave and a haircut, first thing, and then a cold beer.”
“And a steak dinner,” Marino added, “With a baked potato and lots of butter.”
Marino cast one last look at the cargo ship in dismay. What Gilford had said about the P-51 virus being airborne sent chills running through his spine. Had it spanned the globe already, killing everyone? Were he and Anson now the only two people left alive? Surely, if they were somehow immune to the virus, other people were as well, or even places the virus had not spread. He knew something about air currents. After all, his chosen field of study was global desertification and dust drift. There were areas of Central Africa and Eastern Europe where localized air currents might have reduced the spread of infection. Even Southern Arizona could have escaped the worst of it if the summer monsoons had lasted late into August when warm moist air from the Pacific moves up the Sea of Cortez. Heavy rains might have washed the air clean of the nanites before reaching land.
As he looked out over the Indian Ocean, Tucson seemed a long way off.
The monotonous drone of the turboprops lulled him to sleep slowly. He dreamed of cold margaritas at the Chicago Bar and a rack of barbecued ribs at Famous Dave’s. He was wiping sauce off his chin when Anson yelled at him. He could almost still taste the sauce in his mouth as he fought sleep’s pull to awaken.
“Hobart’s to our right.”
Marino looked out the window surprised that night had fallen. “Where?” All he could see was a dark smudge. There were no lights.
“We’ll be over the bay in a couple of minutes. Looks like the power is out.”
A lump formed in Marino’s throat. No lights meant Hobart had not escaped the plague. As they drew nearer, he began to make out the Tasmanian coast in more detail. What he saw did nothing to encourage him. Ships anchored in the bay or moored at the docks showed no lights of any kind. He could just make out the darkened outlines of the tallest buildings of the city. No vehicles moved on the unlit streets. Even farther inland, he could detect no lights.
“It’s dead,” he said, disappointment coloring his voice.
“Looks like it. The Navy base is dark. If anyone had power, it would be them.”
“Maybe if we fly over a few times . . .” Marino started.
Anson shook his head. “We don’t have enough fuel. It will be difficult enough to land in the dark with no altimeter. We may have to buzz the airport in Adelaide to make sure there are no planes on the runway.”
Marino had not considered the possibility that they might crash into another plane on the runway. “Can you do it?” he asked.
Anson grinned. “If I can’t, you can kick my ass.”
Marino forced a smile to his face to match Anson’s toothy grin. The big Aussie had managed to land them one time already. What was one more landing? After all, gravity was on their side, wasn’t it? “Deal.”
The lack of life at Hobart had put Marino in a dismal mood. He had desperately clung to the hope that some contingent of the Australian Navy had survived and might provide a way home for him. He didn’t hold out much hope for Adelaide being any different.
He wasn’t disappointed. They changed course and headed west over Bass Strait and sighted the darkened southern coast of Australia to their north. Cape Jaffa and other cities along the coast showed no more signs of life than had Hobart. Even from this distance, he should have been able to see the glow of the lights of Adelaide across the Gulf of St. Vincent, but the only lights he saw were the flickering of large fires.
Anson saw the despair in Marino’s eyes. “I’m going to head out to sea and come in over Kangaroo Island. The airport is near the coast. All flat land around it.”
The island swept below them, a dark speck in the ocean. Then Marino saw the city. In the ghostly light of the gibbous moon, large swaths showed signs of total destruction.
“They’ve bombed Adelaide,” he said.
Anson brought the Hercules lower to examine the city more closely. Marino eyed the tall buildings just outside the window with growing alarm. He hoped Anson didn’t crash into a tower in his zeal to survey his hometown. Automobiles clogged the streets and freeways. Trains sat at stations. Evacuation would have been impossible by land. The plague had descended on the city with terrible swiftness. Few would have had time to flee. Adelaide was not like Marino’s native Tucson, Arizona. Here, most people did not own guns, and would have been weaponless against the horde of rampaging zombies. Adelaide, a city of 1.2 millions souls, was a graveyard.
Anson circled the city one more time, face grim. “We’re getting low on fuel. I had better try to get us down.”
The airport was in blackness. Anything from a Cessna to a Jumbo Jet could have been sitting on the runways. “I’ll have to take her to treetop level to see anything,” Anson informed him. “Keep your eyes open for a landing spot.”
Marino held his breath as the big Hercules dropped from beneath him. It was like falling into a well at night. He could make out the vague outlines of hangars and the terminal building, but very little else. Anson yanked back on the yoke as the enormous tail section of a jet shot up out of the darkness at the edge of the runway, the blackened remains of an A-320 Airbus. The Hercules felt like it was standing on its tail as it fought to gain altitude, and barely cleared the jet.
“Whew! That was damn close,” Anson said. “Some poor blighter didn’t make it in.”
Marino said nothing. The sight of the crashed Airbus made him wonder about their chances. As they made a second approach, a line of lights sprang into life along the edge of another runway.
“Someone down there is looking out for us,” Anson commented. “Here we go.”
Anson banked and circled the field for a more direct approach to the illuminated runway. He cut power and the roar of the engines fell away.
“It’s a short runway. I hope there’s enough of it.”
The lights drew nearer. Just as Marino was certain Anson was going to overshoot the runway, the tires touched tarmac with a loud shriek.
“Help me with the brakes,” Anson shouted over the squeal.
Marino pushed down on the pedals on his side as Anson wrestled with the wheel. Gradually, the Hercules lost speed and rolled to a stop. Anson sat back and cut the engines. He looked at Marino.
“If you want to get out and kiss the tarmac, I won’t say anything.”
Before Marino could reply, the runway lights went out, followed closely by the roar of a jeep headed their direction. Marino went back to open the door. The driver of the jeep yelled up at him.
“Get in here fast before the lights and the sound of your landing draws a crowd.”
He was surprised to see a
woman. He turned just as Anson shoved his AK-47 into his hands.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said.
They lowered the ladder and closed the door behind them. They had barely taken a seat in the jeep before the driver took off. She aimed the jeep for a small hangar with an open door. Once inside, she slammed on the brakes, leaped out, slid the door closed and switched on a light. Marino took a long look at their savior, a slightly pudgy woman with close-cropped black hair. She stood facing them with her hands on her ample hips, surveying him as well.
“Who are you?” Marino asked. He could not help wondering why anyone would hide out in a hangar and wait for airplanes.
“The name’s Tabitha Jewels. I’m the director of operations. When the Demise hit, I remained at my post. I thought that maybe someone would come to help us out. No one did. When the power failed, I rigged some lights on batteries, just in case.”
“What’s the Demise?” Marino asked.
Tabitha waved her arms in the air. “All this. When the world ended.”
“Thanks for saving our asses,” Anson said, interrupting Marino.
She smiled, “I hoped maybe one of you had some cigarettes. I ran out last week.”
“Sorry, don’t smoke,” Anson replied.
“Oh, well,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I guess I should quit anyway. Bad for my health.”
“Have you seen anyone?” Marino asked.
“Not lately. But I heard some shots yesterday. Someone’s alive, or was.” She began to wring her hands. “Well, this ain’t no Hilton, but I’m sleeping in one of the private jets over there. You two can share or find a place to sack out. You both look done in.”
“Thank you,” Anson replied. “We are.”
Marino was too keyed up for sleep, but he caught Anson’s wink and nodded. They watched Tabitha as she climbed into a small Lear jet at the rear of the hangar. The hangar also held a second Lear.