Aftermath (Invasion of the Dead) - Part I (4 page)

“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. 

“I
t’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.

T
he 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. 

T
he 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.”

T
he 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 scr
eamed, 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 fuc
king 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 trembl
ed, 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 w
ith 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 th
e 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.