Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I Read online

  Stop it. Don’t think about this until you have to.

  Kristy forced herself to concentrate ahead, where in the distance, thin white clouds had gathered in the west. It had only rained twice in the last month. Most days had seen vivid blue skies and only the occasional clouds. One of those times, she and Dylan had stayed behind to clean the camp whilst the others had gone skiing. They had ended up having a fight with the dirty dishwater until relentless laughter had hurt their bellies.

  Dylan had made her time at the lake more enjoyable. Whilst they hadn’t been intimate, she felt a connection, and was certain he had too. They had known each other since high school and had always been good friends. Why had the romantic spark failed to turn into a flame earlier? She thought that was probably her fault. The list of failed relationships was impressive, angry, brooding, aggressive types, much like her father, she supposed, all the opposite of Dylan. His quiet, passive nature, his ability to listen and give sensible responses to her comments provided a pleasant change. He was cute too, and she found herself sneaking more glimpses of those sharp green eyes and waves of dark hair as the trip lengthened. Her favourite moments had been their quiet, late night talks by the orange embers of the campfire, smoke chasing them in a circle as they sat together, discussing the world in general. The romance of it all made her tingle. How she had wanted to snuggle up in his arms and fall asleep. He wasn’t big and manly like Callan or Greg, but he possessed an intelligence that she thought made him stronger than any man she had known before.

  Kristy saw him talking to Sherry in the rear view mirror and her stomach flipped. Admittedly, she hadn’t been forthright the way Sherry would if she liked a man. Sherry was blunt, to the point. Perhaps Kristy should seek her advice. She promised that once the virus business was resolved, she would make a move.

  “Kristy! Watch out!”

  An old man in a tattered grey suit staggered along the side of the road.

  The tyres screeched and the steering wheel shuddered as Kristy jammed the brakes and tightened her dreamy grip, fighting to keep the car straight. She managed it, but thought they would have whiplash and bruising from the seatbelts.

  “I didn’t see him,” she said in a high voice, her chest heaving. “Is everyone alright?”

  Callan said, “Yeah, but I don’t know about this guy. He stepped out of nowhere.”

  Ahead, on the right shoulder, a man in raggedy clothes stood looking at them. They had stopped on a gentle downward slope, and the road onward crossed a short wooden bridge, then began another long, slow incline. Loose, rusty wire strung through rotted posts served as fences on either side, beyond, tussock grass rolled into a hill dotted with the occasional tree. The breeze tickled their noses and on it came the scent of cow dung and farm animals.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Kristy said. Her heart raced and her hands shook. Callan jumped over the side and landed on the bitumen. “Be careful, Cal.”

  “Wait!” Dylan said.

  Callan stopped. “What?”

  “Put a mask on.”

  Callan considered this, and then walked to the back of the Jeep where he took a mask from the box and slipped it on. “Just to be extra safe.”

  That’s what makes Dylan different, Kristy thought. He was always thinking two steps ahead, and cognizant of everyone’s safety, not just his own. Callan would never have thought of such a thing. There were so many parts to him she didn’t yet know.

  Callan approached the man with a cautious hand out. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

  The man looked up with dark rings around bloodshot eyes. His red nose and pasty complexion suggested a condition Kristy had seen before. He wore a faded, oversized green suit jacket. His pants were torn and his boot seams had split. He began to cough. “No.”

  “Maybe you should leave it, Callan,” Sherry said. “It’s not our problem.”

  “He’s got the flu,” Kristy said. “At the very least.”

  “What about the virus?” Callan said.

  “The flu is a virus.”

  Callan stopped six feet away. “What’s wrong mate?”

  The man blinked twice and rubbed his eyes, then shook his head, as if to clear it. “I’ve caught it,” he said. “It must have been that bastard who tried to grab me back at the farm.”

  “Caught what?”

  The man sneezed again and snot exploded over his face. He coughed, choking on phlegm, and for a long moment, Kristy didn’t think he would stop. Finally, red faced and spewing spittle in a long string, he ceased. From the Jeep she could hear his wheezy chest.

  “He’s coughed up blood,” Callan said.

  Kristy opened the driver’s door and got out.

  “Don’t be stupid, Kristy,” Sherry said.

  She went to the rear of the Jeep and rummaged until she found a towel and a breathing mask. You can do this. Whilst she had stitched a wound and fixed minor problems for Callan and the others on the trip, this was the first outsider she had treated in six weeks. He’s not going to die on you. She faced the question with every patient. If they died under her care, did it make her less of a doctor? She thought so. The attending who had consulted for her on the pneumonia patient told her the guilt of loss would pass, that she would realise she couldn’t save them all. He had told her to focus on the ones that lived, and that her business was to do her best to keep them alive.

  “Kristy,” Dylan said from the back seat. “Don’t get too close. We don’t know if this guy has the virus or not.”

  The man sat on the road as though he had just finished a marathon. “I don’t feel too good,” he said, cupping a hand over his mouth.

  Kristy squatted beside him and offered the towel. “How long have you been sick, sir?”

  He took the cloth and wiped his face. “Thank you.” He coughed again, short and sharp. “Since yesterday. Comes on fast. I’ll be dead by nightfall.”

  A chill touched her. You’re treating him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Seen it already. The missus died yesterday. Bastards got her the day before, and they came back for me. Do us a favour and kill me right now, would you?” He looked to Callan. “You got guns?”

  Kristy felt cold dread pervade her. The red skin around the end of his nose had begun to chap, and when he inhaled through it, the mucus sounded thick and congested.

  “It’s… the virus,” Callan whispered.

  It might well be the virus. What could she do for him? She had her medical bag with everything required in an emergency. She had even used a surgical needle and thread to close a cut on Callan’s foot. There was pain relief and sedatives that might ease his suffering, but it appeared he did have a virus, and they would offer little assistance against that. Respiratory problems were common with influenza. Did he have a fever? She reached out with the back of her hand.

  “No,” Callan said, and she jerked it back. He stood in front of the Jeep with the Remington pump action.

  “What are you doing, Cal? He’s sick, not trying to kill us.

  “You have got guns,” the man said.

  “Just being careful, mister. Don’t be alarmed. No touching, Kristy. He’s got something and I don’t want you getting it.”

  “What’s your name, sir? Where do you live?”

  “I need to take a look at that gun.” Another deep, hoarse cough gave him convulsions.

  Kristy felt compelled to do something. She decided to get her medical kit from the car and administer pain relief to improve his comfort.

  The man pushed onto one leg, then made a face and sneezed three times, his head snapping forward. Kristy shuffled back, despite the facemask.

  “Let’s just go,” Sherry said. “We can’t help him. We’ll call an ambulance and send them out here, or something.”

  “Let me get some paracetemol,” Kristy said.

  The man was on his feet, dragging his tattered boots towards her. In a sudden, swift movement, he snapped at her the way a dog might try to catch a fly buzzing too close to
its mouth.

  “Kristy!” Callan screamed. “Get back!” He stepped forward with the gun aimed at the old man and pumped a cartridge into the chamber. “Back mister, get back.”

  “Don’t shoot him, Callan. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “He makes one more move towards you and I won’t hesitate.” The gun wavered. “I’m sorry, but I won’t risk my sister’s life for anyone. You come any closer to her and I will shoot you.”

  The Jeep’s engine kicked into life. Dylan sat in the driver’s seat. “Just in case,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Callan adjusted his aim. “No objections from me.”

  “Alright,” Kristy said. “Maybe it’s time for us to go.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but another coughing fit seized him, saliva and blood spraying over the blacktop.

  “What’s he saying?” Kristy said.

  “Who gives a fuck? He’s walking death. Get back.” Callan directed the gun within a foot of the man’s head. “If you don’t want me to shoot him Kristy, get in the car now.”

  She was missing something. He was trying to communicate and she needed another moment.

  “Kristy!” Callan screamed. Veins bulged in his neck.

  With astonishing speed, the old man snatched the nose, turning it away. The pump action exploded with a heavy, metallic bang, echoing across the paddocks.

  Kristy screamed, and fell backwards onto her bottom.

  The man pulled on the barrel, twisting left to right, tossing Callan off balance. The pump clicked and the gun thundered again, part of the man’s right arm exploded like a grapefruit, scattering the bitumen and dirt with red, lumpy muck.

  Sherry screamed. Kristy ran to the car, smelling the familiarity of ER trauma. Greg stood at the rear, reaching underneath their luggage.

  The old man finally twisted the gun free with his remaining hand.

  Greg sprinted to Callan’s side holding the Stevens 350 shotgun and aimed the nose at the old man’s head. “Put it down.”

  The old man turned the Remington around until he was staring into it. He staggered, found his balance, and engaged the pump action. When he placed his thumb on the trigger, Callan and Greg stepped away.

  Kristy stood at the driver’s door. She knew what was going to happen. She had seen the look of hopelessness in patients before, begging for death to take them.

  “Thank you,” the man said.

  He put the barrel into his mouth.

  Callan and Greg shuffled back. Kristy turned away.

  The gun boomed, followed by a wet, squishy sound. The weapon clattered on the road. Kristy turned back to see the old man’s body slumped on the ground, his arms splayed.

  Nobody moved.

  Kristy felt her eyes fill, and she pressed them shut, spilling tears down her face. Who was this man? Where was his family? What a lonely death. Her heart ached for him.

  “That is the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Sherry said, holding her belly. “I’m gonna throw up.” She walked away, bent over, gagging.

  Callan made a wide circle around the body to where the shotgun lay. He squatted, reached out to pick it up, and then pulled it back as though it might bite. After a moment, he kicked it towards the Jeep.

  “Take a fucking minute, Callan! A person just died,” Kristy said. Callan froze with a guilty look. “He might have had the virus and been sick but he was still a person. Have you lost your fucking humanity that quickly?”

  “Take it easy. I was just retrieving the gun.”

  Her body trembled, and she wrapped her arms across herself.

  Greg said. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “No.” Greg curled a hand around her and she hugged him, sobbing. This was it. She couldn’t be a doctor anymore. Death ravaged her conscience every time. One of the senior residents had told her she would know if it was for her or not. Not. “Thanks,” she said, pulling away to rub her eyes.

  Callan wiped the gun with an old t-shirt and stuffed it in the back. “Sorry for screaming at you before,”’ he said to Kristy. “I didn’t know what he was going to do.”

  “Forget it.”

  Sherry returned, wiping her mouth. Greg said to her, “You wanted to know what would make me take life seriously? This. I’m taking this very fucking seriously.”

  Sherry said, “I’m glad, although I wish we hadn’t found him. It scares the shit out of me. What do we do with the body?”

  “Nothing. We don’t touch him,” Callan said.

  Kristy said, “We can’t leave him there. He needs a proper burial.”

  “Do you wanna risk infection? We don’t know how this thing is contracted.”

  “Look at his boots,” Dylan said. A worn patch of sock showed through the sole. “He’s walked miles in those things.”

  “He could have come from any farmhouse in the area,” Callan said. “There’s a ton of them.”

  “Get me out of here before I completely lose it,” Kristy said. “I don’t want to drive anymore.”

  “Greg, you sit up front with me,” Callan said, passing the pump action over. “I want you at my side.”

  They piled in, and Callan stuck the Jeep into first gear, then let the clutch out, easing them around the body and back onto the highway.

  Greg said, “We ain’t got much ammo left. Maybe a handful of shells. We shouldn’t have pissed it all away shooting at beer cans.”

  “Yeah, it was a laugh at the time, but doesn’t seem so funny now.”

  Whatever optimism Kristy felt leaving the lake had disappeared. All the familiar feelings of doubt had returned and her stomach twisted into knots of apprehension. The man had almost certainly been infected by a virus, and likely the one in which the paper had reported. He killed himself so he wouldn’t become too sick. What had he seen? Along with the abandoned gas station and the dead couple, a foreboding sense of uncertainty crept over her. She wished they could turn around and head back up to the lake.

  She shuddered, pushing in closer to Dylan.

  “You okay?” He said. She shook her head and he placed a hand over hers. Any other time it would have been thrilling, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of despair.

  Nobody spoke as the car sped down the highway, edging closer to home passing more rolling paddocks and long patches of wild scrub. The air through the gap in Greg’s window turned colder, and a mass of imminent grey clouds gathered in the west. In an effort to get home quicker, Callan decided on an alternative route, leaving the main highway.

  They hit the brown gravel and the Jeep began a mild vibration, soothing Kristy, and her eyelids grew heavy. Eventually, she dozed. When she woke, the others were climbing out.

  “Toilet stop,” Dylan said.

  The dirt area contained a small brick structure, several galvanised metal rubbish bins, and a couple of wooden slabbed tables and chairs. Beyond the clearing though, dense scrub spread for miles in every direction. Above, a grey sheet of cloud had drifted over. Kristy stretched as the boys disappeared into the toilets. The place had an unusual silence, lacking the pretty bird melodies to which she had grown accustomed over the past month.

  Sherry hung back. “That was the most disgusting thing I have ever seen. I wish that guy had killed himself wherever it was he came from.”

  Kristy stared. Classic Sherry insensitivity, she thought. You might be better off without her, Cal.

  “Do you think it’s bad at home?”

  Kristy said, “I don’t know. Trying no2t to think about it yet.”

  “What’s going on with you and Dylan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has anything happened? Are you ever going to do anything?”

  “No. Not yet. I mean, we’ve chatted a lot but nothing else has happened.”

  “Really? Not even by the fire after we’d all gone to bed? I don’t believe that.”

  Kristy bunched her nose. Maybe this was her chance to ask Sherry for advice. “I don’t want to scare him off.”
r />   “You’ll scare him off if you don’t make a move.”

  “I suppose.” Greg walked out of the toilets in their direction. “I like him so much. I don’t want to screw it up.”

  “You won’t,” Sherry said. “Take a chance.”

  “What about Greg though? I think he might like me too.”

  Sherry’s eyes widened. “So?”

  “Well I don’t want to hurt him. He’s like my brother.”

  “Fuck him. Figuratively.” Kristy’s mouth fell open. “He’s a big boy. He’ll get over you. Besides, he’s had the hots for you forever and if he hasn’t done anything by now, he never will.”

  Kristy stared. She knew Sherry could be cruel, but this was unprecedented. The discussion made her more depressed. She had to change the subject, and recalled her conversation with Callan. “Remind me not to get on your wrong side. What about you and Callan? You two have been distant this whole trip, is everything okay?”

  Sherry considered this. “I know you’re his brother and all, but…” Kristy raised her eyebrows. “I just feel like we’ve drifted apart. We want different things now.”

  Damn it, Kristy thought. Callan had suspected right. “Have you told him?”

  “No. Not yet. I was going to talk to him when we got home.”

  “What’s changed? And when? I always thought you guys were rock solid.”

  “He’s just… different now. So am I.”

  “I think you should talk to him, tell him how you feel. You owe him that. Surely you can sort it out.”

  “I will. I don’t know.”

  Greg approached. “Who’s hungry?”

  In a low voice, Sherry said, “Don’t you tell him. Let me do it.”

  It struck her then that Callan was right to be worried. He adored Sherry, but Kristy felt a pang of concern at how he would react to her feelings. “I won’t. But don’t wait too long.” Sherry walked away.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes,” Kristy said, pushing her lips into a smile as Greg arrived. “Starving.”

  She tried to shake off the conversation. Insensitivity was part of Sherry’s personality and they all accepted it, but this went deeper. She seemed genuinely unhappy. The idea of them breaking up was shocking. She would give her a day or two to speak to Callan before talking to him.