Surviving the Evacuation (Book 16): Outback Outbreak

by FTayell, Frank

  “Oh. Okay.” Then he saw that redbacks were on the poster, too. “The spiders don’t bother you?” he asked. “They used to. Growing up, you were terrified of them.”

  “Then I finished growing up,” she said. “What’s the point of being afraid of them? They’re not afraid of us. They’re not aware of us. Besides, I’ve got a fridge full of anti-venom. Just remember rule one.” She pointed to the carved wooden board above the door. “Always check your boots before you put them on. And remember rule two, always remember rule one when you’re in the bathroom. Check the toilet-bowl, the sink, the shower.”

  “Seriously? I wish you’d told me that yesterday,” he said looking at his feet. “Who came up with the rules, you?”

  “Doctor Dodson. He has a string of them he tells the archaeologists when he brings them up here. He adds more each time.”

  “You mean he makes them up?” Pete asked.

  “I’d say it was more that he adapts them for his audience, but rules one and two never change. They’re not really about the spiders, but more about making people remember this isn’t the city, and it’s not the coast. The outback can be a dangerous place for the complacent.”

  “Does Doctor Dodson come here a lot?”

  “More since he was meant to retire. He trained as a pilot first, then as a nurse. Doctor is just an honorific, a courtesy, a sign of respect. A couple of years ago, they made him doctor-emeritus of the entire flying-doctor service in the hope he’d get the hint and retire. But then his daughter got elected to parliament. They don’t mind him sticking around now, not while they’re applying for more funding. We’ve got instructions, though. Over the radio.”

  “The zombies have reached Australia?”

  “No, I don’t even think they’ve reached the Pacific,” she said. “They want all tourists in from the outback. They’re shutting down some mines, too, and they’ve issued instructions to the cattle and sheep stations, but they’re not our problem. The tourists are.”

  “Do we have to go look for them?”

  “Not yet. The flying doctor, the flying padre, the mail-planes, they’re being sent up to make sure that the remote hamlets all know what’s going on, and find out who’s travelled through there over the last few days. A message is going out over the radio as well, on all frequencies. We’re a refuelling stop, and we’ve just got to make sure anyone who passes through has enough diesel to reach Tibooburra. If they need petrol, they’re out of luck, and they’re to wait here. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, we’ll have to join the search for anyone who hasn’t come in. But today, we’ve just got to sit and wait.”

  “I think I’ve got the training for that. What happens to them after Tibooburra?”

  “They go to Port Augusta if they’ve the fuel. That’s on the coast, about eight hundred kilometres due west. If they don’t have the fuel, they’ll go to Broken Hill where transport will be provided.”

  “And what will happen to them after Broken Hill?” Pete asked.

  “Locals will go home. Guests and visitors will be found accommodation until they can be safely repatriated. Those were the exact words they used. Somehow, I doubt they’ll be staying in a spa. I found you some more clothes. They’re not very clean, I’m afraid. Blame the archaeologists. I had to get rid of the washing machine. Dirt-dusters always want to wash their clothes. There’s a well, but it’s been dry since November. Water has to be bussed in. Getting rid of the machine was the easiest way of stopping the mud-brushers from using a week’s water in an hour. But I think there’s another one of those… um… uniforms in your bag.”

  “I think I’ll stick with jeans,” he said.

  “Shower is in there,” she said. “Remember rule two. I’ll fix us some breakfast. Eggs okay?”

  “You don’t have cereal?”

  “You mean something that’s fifty-percent sugar, and half the rest is chocolate? You still eat that?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Not always.”

  “Eggs and oatmeal, that’s all I have,” she said. “But there’s a shop down the road if you want to buy something different. It’s only a two-day walk.”

  “Eggs would be great.”

  The shower wasn’t. The water cut out while he was still covered in soap. No matter which way he turned the handle, no more flowed. He stood, naked, dripping soap and suds, enjoying the cooling feeling of the water evaporating. Then he remembered the spiders, hurriedly wiped off the soap, and dressed in the borrowed jeans and not-clean shirt.

  “The water stopped,” he said.

  “Oh, sorry,” Corrie said. “I should have said. Again, blame the archaeologists. I had to install a timer. Two minutes is all you get. It resets after five if you wanted to jump back in.”

  “No, I’m cleaner than the clothes and that’s clean enough.”

  She turned off the small stove, and put the eggs on the plate. He took his and followed her over to the table.

  “No more news?” he asked, pointing his fork at the open laptop.

  “No new news, no,” she said, closing the computer’s lid.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Despite everything.”

  “I know. It’s good to see you, too. I wanted to see you before. To say goodbye.”

  “Why didn’t you? Why not a postcard or something?” he asked.

  “Before I disappeared, I went to a journalist,” she said. “Before that, I dug. Each day, I went online. Each night, I travelled. Planes, trains, buses, to different states, different countries, different continents. I wanted to go to the authorities, but whom could I trust? The cabal controls too many people in too many senior positions in law enforcement. So does the cartel. Kempton has her own people, and though they’re not as violent, they’re just as bad. Tom Clemens is… he’s just like me, really.”

  “You’ve mentioned him before. He’s the guy who got you out of trouble when we were kids.”

  “He’s a man with his own agenda,” Corrie said. “And yeah, he wants to stop all of this, too, but he’s just one man. To bring down these people, you’d need an army. I didn’t realise that. When I decided I couldn’t trust the police, I went to a journalist. I arranged a meeting in a parking lot in Portland. She didn’t know who she was meeting. I was just an anonymous tip. I’d fed her a little information, enough so she knew I was for real. I’d picked the spot because of the cameras. All wirelessly linked to a control centre out of state. I was lurking on the roof of a convenience store opposite, waiting, watching. I saw the journalist arrive. A few minutes later, a second car arrived, but it stayed outside the parking lot, just out of sight of anyone inside. I thought it might contain a photographer. Our deal was that she should arrive alone, so I texted her to say the meeting was cancelled. She got back in her car. As she drove towards the exit, the people in the second car opened fire. One hundred and seventeen rounds hit her vehicle. Nineteen bullets hit her. She died almost instantly. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, her editor and his family were burned alive in their home. The sub-editor, an assistant, and the owner of the paper, they were all killed. All on the same night.”

  “Wait, I remember that. They said it was a local drug gang out for revenge after an investigation into their activities had been published. Didn’t someone even confess? Turn witness or something?”

  “Sure. They were told to. It was the best way to throw everyone off the scent. That witness got murdered before the trial, but they had the video testimony to secure a conviction. Eighty-nine people were rolled up in that investigation, all part of one gang or another, but none of them, other than that witness, had anything to do with the cartel. And it was the cartel who killed the journalist. That’s who was in the car. That’s how they work. And that’s why I didn’t get in touch.” She shrugged. “Let’s eat.”

  He did. But he wasn’t hungry, and his eyes kept going to the laptop. “This outbreak, it’s connected to Lisa Kempton, isn’t it?”

  She laid her fork down. “Connected, yes.”


  “But she can’t have been behind creating these… the zombies.”

  “I don’t think so,” Corrie said. “They kidnapped sick people to use as test patients, then took them to a lab in England for the trials. I won’t say I’m certain of anything, but I’m reasonably sure she thinks the vaccine was real.”

  “Then who is behind this?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” she said. “Not now.”

  “Even so, we should tell someone,” he said.

  “Whom could we tell?” she asked.

  “Anna Dodson,” he said. “You wanted me to tell her everything about Kempton, so if you trust her with that, we can trust her with this. She could tell the prime minister, and he could get word to the Australian ambassador in Washington, and so to the White House.”

  “What word?” Corrie asked. “What precisely do we tell Anna? That there was a conspiracy? Yesterday, Kempton’s wealth became worthless. The international drugs trade is dead. There are still the politicians, I guess, but who cares what senators and ministers say? To stop the outbreak requires roadblocks and checkpoints. That’s a job for local police, state troopers, national guard commanders, and citizens with an ounce of sense. That’s who’s going to stop this, not some order from the White House.”

  “Even so—” he began. She raised a hand, cutting him off.

  “Even so, if I thought it would help, yes, I’d say we should speak to Anna Dodson. But there’s nothing the Australian ambassador can do in Washington. Anything we say will only confuse things. It’ll inflame tensions. People always want someone to blame, but what they need is to act. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “Mostly because I still don’t really understand what’s happening. What about Lisa Kempton, did you call her?”

  “I tried, but I only got through to Sorcha Locke. She told me to wait for further instructions. Instructions to do what? I’m a hacker, not a virologist. No, I was a hacker, long ago. Now I fix fences, and only the literal kind. And not that, anymore. Who cares about dingoes when we’ve got zombies tearing up a continent?”

  “So that leaves us here, waiting for stray tourists.”

  “Waiting for instructions,” she said. “Waiting for real news. But yes, waiting.” She reached for her laptop and opened the screen.

  Pete nodded, and took the plates to the kitchen. He busied himself with what few chores he could think of, but found himself drawn back to the television. Despite its increasingly professional coverage, it had nothing new to tell him. There was only one thing he wanted to know, that the outbreak had been contained. But as the minutes became hours, it became increasingly clear that wasn’t going to happen soon.

  Chapter 7 - Grey Nomads

  The Outback

  After four hours of the same horrific scenes repeated on every channel, Pete’s nerves were beyond frayed. When Corrie jumped up, he did the same.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We’ve got visitors,” she said.

  An RV had stopped on the dirt track outside the compound. The vehicle was white-sided, trimmed with green, and covered in dust, as was the dirt bike slung at the rear.

  Corrie and Pete walked down the cabin’s wooden steps and were halfway across the packed-soil yard when the RV’s door opened, and a woman stepped out. Approaching the end of her middle years, with a green scarf tied loosely around her greying hair, she wore patched dungarees and a long-sleeved cotton shirt with puffed sleeves. She smiled and waved. A man followed her outside. He was about the same age, retired or approaching it, wearing a green baseball cap, with small-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He gave a brisker wave and curt nod and headed around to the vehicle’s engine.

  “I won’t say we’re lost,” the woman said. “I won’t,” she added, glancing at the man. “But we think our map might be wrong.”

  “We’re on the road to Tibooburra,” the man called out, a hint of a question buried within the assertion.

  “You’re heading in the right direction,” Corrie said.

  “Told you,” the man said, with a heavy dose of self-satisfaction.

  Corrie frowned. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

  “Radio carked it a week ago,” a younger woman said, stepping into the doorway. A teenager, perhaps eighteen, but emaciated and pale, made to look more so by her jet-green hair. “Dad thought it would be smart not to bring any phones with us. No phones, no satnav. Just a map, which, apparently, is wrong.” She grinned, then coughed.

  “You need to get back inside, stay in the shade,” the older woman said.

  “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “What news?” the father asked, coming to stand by the door.

  “Where are you heading?” Corrie asked.

  “Adelaide,” the girl said. “We started in Cairns. We’re seeing Australia. It’s something I wished I’d done. When I didn’t die, we thought we should.”

  Her mother pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “She was crook,” she said. “The big one. But she’s fine, and we’re fine, just a little lost.”

  The father gave the side of the RV a ringing slap.

  “Sorry, not lost,” the mother added.

  “And if you’re heading to Tibooburra, then no, you’re not,” Corrie said.

  “Told you,” the father said. “Where are you from? Is that an American accent?”

  “A long time ago,” Corrie said. “I’ve been working here for four years. Do you have fuel, water?”

  “Enough we don’t need to stop,” the father said.

  “But we’re going to,” the daughter said. “What’s this news?”

  “There’s been a viral outbreak in Manhattan,” Corrie said. “A bad one. It’s spreading fast. Instructions from Canberra are that all tourists cut their holidays short and return to the towns and cities.”

  “What kind of outbreak?” the father asked.

  “No one knows. Something like rabies, I guess,” Corrie said. “Maybe we could go inside and talk there. I’ve got cake and iced tea.”

  “Cake sounds good,” the daughter said.

  “Canberra want people back home because of an outbreak in Manhattan?” the father asked.

  “All flights are grounded, all ships are being kept in harbour,” Corrie said. “We’ve got instructions to send tourists back to town. If home is Adelaide, you should head back there while you can.”

  “You’re looking at our home,” the father said. “Had to sell the house.”

  “My sisters are in Adelaide,” the mother said. “We’ve got enough diesel to get there.”

  “Buy some more in Tibooburra,” Corrie said. “Buy it while you can.”

  “What about you, would you like a ride?” the mother said.

  “Our instructions are to stay here,” Corrie said. “But hang on a moment, I’ll get you a radio. You can listen to the reports for yourself.” She headed inside.

  “Manhattan?” the mother said. “This sounds bad.”

  “It does,” Pete said.

  “You’re American, too?” the father asked.

  “I don’t work here,” Pete said. “She’s my sister. I was visiting.”

  “Looks like you got out just in time,” the father said.

  “Shush, Reggie,” the mother said. “I’m sorry. You must be worried about your family, your friends.”

  “I guess so.”

  He was uncertain what else to say, but was saved from any further awkward small talk when Corrie returned, a small radio-set in one hand, a silver-foil package in the other. “Radio and some cake,” she said. “Drive slow. Take care.”

  “You too,” the mother said.

  The girl gave them a wave, and retreated back inside.

  Corrie and Pete watched the RV drive off, then retreated back to the shelter of the overhanging roof.

  “I don’t get how you can cope with this heat,” Pete said. “Or how people can drive around in this weather.”

  “Says the man who drove out here yesterday w
hen it was hot enough to make a wombat paint herself black and white, and apply for asylum in China as a panda. It’s four degrees cooler today. Besides, a couple who had a late-in-life child, who barely made it through school before she got sick, and had a miraculous recovery; they wanted to spend every waking moment enjoying what they had. I can understand that.”

  “Me, too,” Pete said.

  Silence stretched, broken by a buzzing chirrup beneath the veranda’s sun-bleached deck.

  “Should we have told them more?” Corrie asked. “I wanted to, but didn’t know how to explain there are zombies in America, not so they’d believe me.”

  “They have the radio, they’ll hear for themselves. You’re calling them zombies now, too?”

  “Not just me. Online, everyone is, and there’s comfort in saying they’re monsters rather than people.”

  “It’s getting worse, then?” he asked.

  “With every minute. It’s spreading, and beyond the borders. Canada, Mexico, even France, though that might only be a rumour.”

  “France? How’d it get there?”

  “By plane, I hope. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. There were reports of people who were bitten but didn’t turn. A lot of them. People posted up to their feeds that they’d been attacked but they were okay. They said they must be immune. There are at least two concrete cases of people turning hours later.”

  “They let planes leave?” he asked.

  “Private jets, sure. Or maybe pilots took off without clearance. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe these new outbreaks were as deliberate as Manhattan. Or just as random. I don’t know which, and I can’t see how I can find out. The internet is breaking. No one is showing up for work, either in data centres or power stations. They don’t require much maintenance, but they do require monitoring, and no one is doing that. The dead-man’s switches are kicking in and places are powering down. It’s only a few sites right now, but it’ll cascade. I took a look at South Bend.”

  “You did? How is it?”

  “I found the cameras outside the courthouse. Things seem okay. Quiet. I guess people are staying at home.”

  “Could you find Olivia’s house? I know the address.”