The Tasmania Trilogy (Book 1): Breakdown Page 16

  There were two entrance gates for vehicles on the site, and half a dozen walkthroughs. Jim remembered checking all the others, except the one in the back corner that opened out onto Tilba Street. Once he got that closed, the school premises would be totally secure. As he put a hand on the door, his phone rang. It was the last thing he had expected. Steph’s name appeared on the display. Jim snatched it to his ear, smiling.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad? Oh thank God you answered. We thought something horrible might have happened to you.”

  The sound of her voice and the knowledge that she was all right overcame Jim. He took a moment to respond, choking back his emotions. “I’m okay, darlin’. What about you and your sister?”

  “We’re safe for now. We’re still at the caravan park with Mom and Jeff. Everybody’s in the community center hall where we usually play table tennis and billiards and watch movies.”

  “Is anybody sick, Steph?”

  “Yes.”

  “You or your sister?”

  “No.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s okay. But … Jeff is coughing and sneezing a lot and is getting bad headaches.”

  Jim should have been cheering. Several run-ins with his ex-wife’s new boyfriend had not endeared him to Jim. They were competing on a number of levels and in moments of honesty, Jim admitted he resented the man. But in this case, he couldn’t find any joy in the fact that Jeff might have the virus, not only for Jeff’s sake, but because it put his daughters at risk, too.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Steph. Where is he?”

  “Here, at the park. Mom and a couple of nurses that are camping here are looking after him. He’s not the only one though, Dad. There’s a lot of sick people.”

  “Stay away from them, Steph. Don’t let your sister go near them, either. “

  “I won’t. You wanna speak to Mom?”

  Surely, they wouldn’t get into an argument. “Yeah, okay. Wait, what about your sister?”

  “She’s asleep. She’s fine. Not sick. We just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “All right. Give her my love. Put your mother on.”

  Alesia cleared her throat before putting the phone to her ear. “Hello, Jim.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Jeff. How is he?”

  She hesitated. “Not good. He’s got a fever that won’t go down and a chest full of mucus he can’t clear. But he’s not the only one, as I’m sure you’ve seen.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Strong for the girls.”

  “Thank you.”

  She hurried on. “What’s it like down there?”

  “Bad. There are a lot of sick people on the streets. It’s gotten worse in the last twenty-four hours.” The infected man by the library window started to move. “What about up there?”

  “They wander into the park. A few have been killed. One of the people that was sick here …”

  There was a long pause. “What, Alesia?”

  “They turned into one of those things. He attacked someone and bit them.”

  Jim shuddered. “Just keep the girls away from anyone that’s sick. I’m sorry to—”

  “I’m doing that. We have the sick ones quarantined. I can handle it.”

  “Okay. Okay. Look after yourself.”

  “You too.”

  “I’ll call Steph tomorrow.”

  They hung up. The infected man had left the library doors. Get out there. You’re just wasting time. It was time to face his fears and shut the gate. He felt he might kill one if his life was on the line. That’s settled. But it still took him a few minutes to go find a flashlight.

  He eventually found one in the supplies cupboard and by then, the shadows had fallen over the school like a blanket. He collected his shotgun off the main table in the staff room, checked the front doors to make sure they were secure, then went along the hallway to the courtyard doors. With the gun in his right hand and the torch in his left, Jim turned the door handle and pushed it carefully open. It squeaked and he cursed Mr. Beadle, the maintenance man, for not oiling it.

  The rain had stopped, but the air retained a heavy warmth. Jim closed the door and strolled across the courtyard, making out the silhouettes of wooden benches and steel seats that were usually filled with laughing children. He struck a puddle and splashed water up his leg. The light shone his way alongside the library, the yellow beam darting about into every corner and crevice, Jim expecting at any moment to face the infected man. He was edgy and nervous and he had a strange sense that something bad was going to happen, though he thought that was likely his mind taking over.

  As he rounded the corner of the library, the shadows on Jim’s right moved. He shrieked and jerked away, raising the shotgun as if to shoot. It was the infected man that had been standing at the library door, of course. Jim backed away, holding his finger tight against the trigger, poking the flashlight into its face.

  It hugged the brick wall, tottering on unsteady legs, as though hiding. Jim widened the gap between them, waiting for it to turn on him. It made a low gurgling sound, and when it moved away from the wall, Jim moved back with it. Keep your distance. One palsied hand reached up and scratched at the lesions on its face. Blood covered its fingers. What a horrible existence. He felt sorry for it; felt sorry for all of them who had succumbed to the virus and ended up like this. He knew he should kill it, but doing the deed proved more difficult. He worried shooting it might draw others, especially if the gate was open.

  He edged past it towards the stairs. The infected didn’t move. Jim thought this was strange. After observing the others along the fence and near his house, he wouldn’t have expected it to resist him.

  He walked backwards the last few steps, watching it for movement. As he reached the stairs, something grabbed him by the shoulders from behind. He cried out and spun, poking the end of the shotgun out. The beam of yellow swept across the face of a woman with matted dark hair and peeling skin. Jim dropped the flashlight and it clattered to the ground, casting its beam against the library building and creating an atmospheric circle of light. Jim backed away and drew the shotgun into sight. The bulky silhouette moved forward, slurping and salivating. From the opposite direction, the infected man moved in, giving him nowhere to go.

  Jim lifted the shotgun, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  There was a deafening crack. It struck the woman in the chest with a thwack and she tumbled backwards to the concrete. The infected man clawed for Jim, who turned and struck him in the face with the barrel. The man staggered backwards two steps and caught his balance, but it didn’t deter him, and he shambled forward again. Jim tried to step away and give himself time to put another shell into the gun, but he fumbled in his pocket and couldn’t get it out. Stiff fingers curled around Jim’s arm. He slammed the barrel into the side of its head and the man went down onto both knees. Jim went after it, turning the shotgun around and raising it above his head. He drove the heavy wooden butt into the thing’s skull with a dense crack. The man hit the concrete with a slap and crawled away towards the light, making a faint slurring noise. Jim took the shell out of his pocket and snapped the shotgun open. He jammed it into the chamber with trembling hands, locked it up, and raised the weapon into sight. The thing had rolled onto its side as if trying to stand. Jim stepped forward and placed the barrel against its head, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  He tensed as he pulled the trigger. The shot exploded, ripping out the back of the thing’s head. Blood and brains spread over the concrete with a splat.

  Something struck him from behind. He lost balance and fell forward onto one knee, the pain excruciating. The gun fell to the ground. The woman—or the thing that had once been a woman—clawed at his head and neck, reaching for him with cold, desperate hands. Jim tried to shrug her off, even swung his elbows backwards, but she wrapped her fingers around his neck and dug them into his Adam’s apple. The world began to spin. The air
rushed out of his lungs until he was gasping. He scrambled to get onto one knee, but the force of her grip held him down. He swung his arms around, trying to break her hold. Bright spots formed in his eyes. The shotgun. He scratched around for it until the sleek steel barrel fell under his palm. He thought distantly that he needed to put a shell into it, so brought the butt of the gun around and smashed it into her skull. Her hands fell away, releasing him from her death throttle, and he fell forward onto his palms, chest heaving, hungry for air. Move. MOVE! He climbed to his feet, dull rage washing over him. The infected woman tried to stand but couldn’t get off one knee. Even in the shadows he saw the inky trail of mush and blood leaking from its skull and down its face. Jim staggered towards her, and holding the barrel, raised the gun over his head. The thing moaned. He brought the gun down the way he had the axe splitting redwood logs on his grandfather’s farm.

  The sound was like hitting wet cement. He felt its skull cave. The woman collapsed and began to squirm, reaching out for his ankles. Jim raised the gun and struck once, twice, three times until it no longer moved.

  Panting, he staggered back and laid the weapon on the concrete, then stood doubled over, hands on knees. He felt tears in his eyes and bit down on his lip to stop them. He had just killed two people and that was not something he ever thought he’d have to do. It went against all his fundamental values, his heartfelt belief that every decent human life meant the same. He stood straight and walked in a circle, hands clasped on top of his head, gathering his breath for the second time. Bloody hell, he thought, I haven’t even made it to the gate.

  After another minute, Jim collected the gun and jogged through the walkway to the stairs that led up the embankment. On jelly legs, he made it to the top, then ducked down, despite the cover of darkness, and surveyed the back perimeter of the school.

  One of the streetlights on the other curb lit half the road, revealing a throng of the infected—dozens, wandering aimlessly, picking through the garden beds, huddling in secret cliques. Jim saw several kneeling on the ground, feeding on a body. He felt certain these infected people were from the local community, those he had passed every day at the supermarket or pumping fuel at the service station; they were the parents of children who went to his school, or who he had taught in the past. He probably knew them, and faced with killing more to save his own life, might have to look them in their blank, lifeless eyes as he pulled the trigger of the shotgun.

  The sound of a car drifted to him from the distance. Jim turned and peered into the blackness, trying to locate its position. He estimated it was moving along the main road on the other side of the school. He caught a flash of headlights through the trees on Yan Yean Road. Then the engine slowed and made a right turn into Ironbark Road. The sound drew closer, loud in the almost silent night. He watched as the car made another turn and the headlights flashed directly into Tilba Street. It was coming his way.

  It sped forth, then slowed about a hundred yards from Jim, stopping in the middle of the road. Dozens of infected blocked its path.

  Jim started towards the gate. From his position, he couldn’t distinguish any of the infected close to the fence, but beyond, on the road, shadows moved. He reached the fence and followed it about three yards back, careful not to alert them to his presence. As he approached, he saw that he had left the gate open and cursed himself for being so careless. At least that was the definitive explanation for the presence of infected in the school. He crept closer, laying the shotgun on the ground, and took the gate, drawing it closed with a squeal. Several dark shapes on the road moved; two infected started towards the sound. He pulled it shut and slid the bolt into the posthole, then took his keys and undid the padlock linked through the wire. The infected had almost reached the fence. He looped the lock through the chain and stuffed it into the hole. It snapped shut with a metallic click, and Jim stepped away just as one of them grabbed hold of the wire.

  It grunted its slobbery discontent. Jim saw its dark, jerky silhouette. He was about to turn away when something made him take the torch out and shine it on the thing. The yellow beam identified the person. Jim sighed. It was John Butterworth, a man he had known for some years. John was popular at the local football club. His kids had long since left, but John continued to work with the development of the children and had poured in a huge amount of time and effort. This was the saddest part, Jim thought. Decent, ordinary folk who were as good as dead.

  The car’s engine revved and it began to move. It took off sharply and struck several infected with a clunk as its tail spun left and then right. For a long moment, it seemed to be heading towards more infected, but then it suddenly cut sideways and skidded before slamming into the gutter near the streetlight. The engine whirred for a moment, and then the dead things swarmed on the car, pounding against the windows and climbing over the hood. Oh, Jesus, Jim thought.

  A door sprung open and a large man leapt out, knocking the infected aside as he fought his way clear. Then the other door opened, knocking one of the attackers backwards. This person was smaller—petite—and had a ponytail.

  A shriek sounded from further down the street. The man and woman fought their way to the front of the vehicle, where they met, and then ran down the road, away from their vehicle under the faint light of the street lamp.

  But they were running towards the infected.

  Jim considered what he might do to help. There was nowhere for them to go. The infected were everywhere, surrounding them in all directions, except one: the school. He could open the gate and let them in, but he’d need to be careful. If he alerted the infected, they’d attack the gate in numbers and potentially get inside the perimeter.

  Bent low, Jim scurried towards the fence, gauging how much time and space he had to act. It appeared the infected were more interested in the newcomers now and had left the fence line, freeing up the area on the other side of the gate.

  The man had run across the street towards one of the houses, while the woman had crossed to Jim’s side of the road. He might have a chance to get the girl inside the school, if not the man.

  Jim pulled out his keys and opened the padlock, then removed it, slid the chain out, and unhinged the bolt. With the infected close behind, the girl appeared to be in trouble. They were gaining, coming at her from multiple angles. Jim resisted the urge to call out.

  Sensing her danger, the man raced back across the road, pushing and shoving bodies aside. Just as one of the infected reached the girl, she stumbled. Despite his ample size, the man caught her arm, preventing her fall, and she managed to catch her feet. The infected were waiting though, closing in on them, grabbing and groping at their arms and bodies. The man shoved them away, trying to create space for an escape. The woman shot forward through a small space and Jim sensed it was his moment.

  He stepped back and swung the gate open. “In here!”

  The woman turned towards him and then changed her course directly for the gate. “This way, Dan!”

  The man was right behind her. She sidestepped one infected, then another, and a third stepped into her way. She shoved it aside and kept running.

  And then they were at the gate, a dozen infected close behind, calling for them in their slimy voices as the couple ran through the opening. Jim swung the gate around to meet the post.

  “Help me!”

  The first infected fell against it, hands and fists poking through the wire in their attempts to get at their prizes. Jim lowered his shoulder, pressing the top muscle on the gate. It was like pushing against a tree. He strained, groaning, but his feet began to slide backwards. He just needed to line up the hole and the bolt.

  “Push with me so I can get the bolt in!”

  Hands banged against the fence. Fingers poked through the wire gaps, grabbing at his face. Jim thought about abandoning it and running. They could hole up in the main office and keep them out, but they would lose so much possibility.

  The gap opened up further. The bigger man next to Jim pushed his
shoulder lower and began to grunt. Jim did the same, and when the girl did too, the gap closed.

  “Keep going!”

  Jim lowered his head, dug his feet in, and pushed with every ounce of strength. It moved closer. The other man gave a final, powerful shove and the gate touched the post.

  “Hold it there!”

  Trying to maintain pressure, Jim fumbled with the bolt and managed to slide it sideways. At first, it didn’t meet up with the opening, but he released pressure and slotted it in. He hooked the padlock through the hole and snapped it shut, then fell away from the gate, taking lungfuls of air. The others did the same, their breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

  The infected pressed against the fence, clawing through the small holes in the wire. Several at the rear of the group moved away. Beyond, Jim noticed one of them standing alone on the road.

  “You see that?” the man asked. “He’s not like the others. Faster. Smarter.” Its shadow at the edge of the streetlight appeared strong and menacing.

  The girl sounded wheezy. She removed an inhaler from her pocket and took four long gulps. “Scary.”

  Jim turned away from the fence. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

  18

  Darkness settled over the Devonport east suburbs along with a light drizzle. Mac stood at the front window, watching the infected at the front of the house. He had hoped that after a time, they would wander off and find interest in something or someone else. Instead, they’d come in waves, as if communicating to each other that there were two humans in the house with the red car in the driveway, waiting to be devoured.

  For now, Mac and Smitty were stuck there, waiting. They had no weapons of any merit and hadn’t been able to come up with a decent plan to escape. Whilst Juliet’s little Suzuki was done for, Dave-O’s black Holden SS Commodore sat in the garage, ready to aid in their escape when the time was right. It was a powerful car, pushing over four hundred and fifty horsepower with a 5.7-liter V8 engine. Mac recalled Dave-O’s love of the vehicle. He had been saving since he was a kid, squirrelling away loose change and birthday gifts for years. Granted, there were still too many infected in the driveway to risk an escape. Even with its big V8, Mac didn’t envisage them getting far.