Surviving the Evacuation: Outback Outbreak: Life Goes On, #1

Prologue - A Nameless Terror

Braybrook, Melbourne

18th February, Two Days Before the Outbreak

A bitter tang lay heavy over the derelict warehouse, a ghost of the spices packaged there before one loan too many had sent the owners into bankruptcy, but the fragrant scent couldn’t hide the smell of blood.

Sergeant Michael Grobotnik pulled a rolled pair of latex gloves from his pocket, carefully donning them as he examined the building. The windows were sealed, the electricity long since disconnected. Nothing left behind was worth vandalising, let alone stealing. According to court documents, and the local press, the warehouse had been scheduled for demolition until a group of law students had petitioned for an injunction, arguing the new development would sap the soul from the local community. From the creeping damp and creaking joists, the current owners were hoping the building would collapse before the case was heard. In short, it was the perfect place to dump a corpse.

Not the most salubrious of surroundings, is it? Sergeant Grobotnik said. I’ll have to send my suit to the drycleaners when we’re done. Which, I’ll admit, is a small inconvenience compared to your problems.

Careful not to let his gloved hands touch the bloodstain, he picked up the damp wallet.

The driver’s licence says you’re Wang Min Soo, Grobotnik said. Wang is usually a surname, isn’t it? It’s listed here as your first name. You’re from Taiwan?

There was no reply from the blood-covered man in the chair.

Growing up, my parents called me Mikko, Grobotnik said. It’s not the name on my birth certificate, but my parents wanted me to have a name from the old country. Did your parents do the same? I ask because this is an Australian licence. Are you naturalised? Or is the licence a fake? He held it up to the flickering light. "No, look. It is a fake, but it’s a good one. So does that mean Wang Min Soo isn’t your real name?"

There was no reply, but it would have been a miracle if there had been.

What else do we have in here? Grobotnik asked himself. Some cash. Non-sequential bills, so that’s not indicative of anything. Speak to me, mate. Tell me something useful.

But there were no answers in the wallet. He carefully placed it next to the small collection of items taken from Wang Min Soo’s person.

I think I know who you really are, Grobotnik said. And I think I know why you came here, but I—

He was interrupted by a beep from his pocket. He reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and stared at the screen. It was an incoming voice-call over a secure-messaging app, and he knew full well who would be on the other end. He froze, filled with fear.

Grobotnik was ex-military. He’d seen combat. He’d seen even more during the two years he’d spent as a euphemistically named contractor before he’d become a civilian and then a police officer. He’d seen action. He’d seen violence. He’d seen the worst people could be and the worst the best could become. Nothing he’d experienced, and no one he’d met, terrified him more than the soft-spoken woman he knew was on the other end of the call. And he knew he had no choice but to answer.

G’day, boss, he said.

Where are you? the woman asked. She spoke English, but with a trace of a South American accent. Colombian, Grobotnik thought, but he’d never dared ask.

At work, he said. In case that wasn’t enough, he added Melbourne. A suburb called Braybrook. In an abandoned warehouse.

Are you alone?

He glanced at the broken figure in the chair. Yes.

"Good. You have a new assignment. She is sending her plane to Australia. She wishes to make contact with an old asset. One who disappeared some years ago. You are to meet the plane. Do you have a team?"

A team? Do I need one? he asked. He didn’t need to ask who she was. It could only be Lisa Kempton, the elusive billionaire.

Failure is not an option, the woman said.

I know some officers who can be trusted, he said. Where am I going?

A place called Broken Hill.

Oh.

Is that a problem? the woman asked.

No, no worries. Of course not. I know who to call, he said, desperately trying to think who might be available. How long do I have?

You will leave immediately. More information will be given to you when you arrive.

No worries, Grobotnik said. I’ll get it done.

I never worry, she said, and hung up.

Grobotnik sat on the battered edge of a rusted steel drip-tray. Do you have a boss like that? The woman terrifies me.

He knew what he’d be expected to do; he was a specialist, after all. Upon whom could he rely to assist? Broken Hill was a small town eight hundred and fifty kilometres north of Melbourne, in the outback, and in a different state. Flashing his badge would open more dialogue than it would doors. There were four police officers he trusted, and another two he’d been cultivating who he could lean on in a pinch. But so many asking for immediate leave would be answered with questions that would only raise suspicions. No, better to take professionals. There was Rogers, of course, not that that was the man’s real name. They’d met when both had been mercenaries, and worked together on assignments a few times since. Grobotnik opened the secure phone-app, and dialled.

Rogers, it’s Mikko. Had a call. Got a job in the outback. No, don’t ask questions. We’ll need a small team, ready to leave in an hour. He glanced at the blood-soaked figure tied to the chair. Make it two hours, I’ve got some paperwork to finish.

He hung up.

Well, Mr Wang, I am sorry about this, Grobotnik said. I really am. I was contracted to do a job, and now I’ll have to renege on that. So it goes. He opened his coat, and drew a long, thin knife from a sheath hidden in the lining. A paper-knife, we call it, because it can shave a layer of skin paper-thin. Got it from my boss. She taught me how to use it. Believe me, that’s not a lesson I want to remember. I was going to take your toes first, then your feet, then the fingers from your right hand. But I’d leave the left while I began on your skin. You leave a man a hand, he still has hope, you see? I can make this last days. Four is my record, but I’ve booked an entire week’s leave. Thought I might see if we could top my best. But duty calls, and I’ve got to leave. Good news for you, I suppose. He pulled the gag from the bloody man’s mouth.

Wang spat, then glared, but he didn’t scream or shout for help.

Who supplied you with that cocaine? Grobotnik asked. Were those twenty kilos the entire shipment? How did it get into Oz?

Wang’s face was emotionless.

Do you even speak English? You don’t, do you? Oh, that’s a neat trick. Well, there we go, I’m off the hook. They should have told me that when they hired me. Not your fault, of course, but I’d say that’s grounds for me to call the contract void.

He re-sheathed the blade. There was a fractional relaxation in Wang’s shoulders. They tightened again as Grobotnik withdrew a small pistol from his pocket onto which he attached a suppressor. He raised the gun, aimed between Wang’s eyes, and fired. He detached the suppressor and pocketed the weapon. He’d have to get rid of the gun, of course. Plant it on someone who could be found dead and plausibly be blamed for the murder. Rogers? Why not? After all, Sergeant Grobotnik prided himself on his ability to close a case.

Chapter 1 - A Billionaire’s Gamble

Wall-to-Wall Carpets, South Bend, Indiana, USA

18th February; Thirty-Six Hours Before the Outbreak

Pete Guinn’s eyes followed the clock’s second hand as it ticked towards twelve. One minute to go, he said. He weighed the worn keys in his hand, and turned away from the equally aged set of doors towards the ancient registers lurking in the shadows cast by stacks of unsold carpets. Only the signs proclaiming the Closing Down Sale were new. For the pitiful custom they’d generated, they’d been a waste of money.

Lock up so we can leave, Olivia Preston said. Neither of us is being paid right now.

Hang on, not yet, Pete said. Of average height and average looks, he carried above average weight on a frame that bore an echo of the high school football receiver he’d been a decade before. A high school not ten miles from the Indiana store in which he now worked. The store doesn’t finally close until seven o’clock. We’ve got another thirty seconds.

You really want to do this by the book, don’t you? Olivia said. A year younger than him, at least according to her social media profile. Single, too, according to that same profile which Pete checked at least once a day. A foot shorter, and a good deal more athletic since she’d taken up jogging on New Year’s Day in a resolution she’d failed to persuade Pete to join her in.

With everything finally looking up, I don’t want to jinx it, he said.

Ten seconds, she said. "And perhaps you’re right. We should mark the occasion. She raised her phone. As she tapped the screen, a fanfare erupted from the small speakers. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, she announced in a stentorian bark. Before you stands a lowly retail clerk, beaten down by the vicissitudes of our century. On the cusp of abandoning all hope—"

I wasn’t, Pete cut in.

"Shush. On the cusp of abandoning all hope for a better future, but fate had other plans. Until now he has only been accustomed to the gloomy depths of our stockroom, but he is beginning his quest to the headiest heights of corporate America—"

Regional management, Pete cut in.

He leaves here a sales assistant, but will return as a junior executive of the Claverton Group, our regional manager, and my boss. Raise your voices. Her voice grew louder as she increased the volume on her phone. Acclaim and cheer the one we shall all soon call our Granter-of-Overtime, Defender-of-the-Sick-Day, and Awarder-of-the-Bonus, Mister Pete Guinn. She tapped her phone, and the music was replaced by the sound of a cheering crowd.

You worked on that all afternoon, didn’t you? he said.

All week, she said. What else was there to do? Like Mrs Mathers says, no one buys carpet in February.

The cheering finished as a guitar began a stadium-rock version of the national anthem. Pete reached for the lock.

No, wait, Olivia said. It’s the national anthem, you have to wait until it’s finished.

Right. Sorry. He stood, waiting. "It’s a long version. This guitar solo seems to be going on forever. And like you said, we’re not being paid."

Good point. She tapped the screen. Land of the free, home of the brave, she added quickly. Now, close the store.

And so, finally, and for the final time, Pete turned the ancient lock, before swinging the equally ancient sign from open to closed.

And now it’s done, Olivia said. Wall-to-Wall Carpets is no more, and you are no longer a sales clerk. Do you feel any different?

Not yet, Pete said. Give me time. No, give me a paycheck, then I’ll feel different.

I can’t give you any more time, she said. Us not being paid bothers me a lot more than it does you. I can’t believe your new salary. From minimum wage plus commission, which usually meant just minimum wage, all the way up to a six-figure salary? Wow.

Yeah, I don’t get why a billionaire would want to buy this store, he said.

For the real estate, Olivia said, voicing her favourite of the theories they’d developed since Mrs Mathers had announced she’d sold the store to Lisa Kempton just before Christmas. Someone’s about to begin a massive redevelopment of the entire block, and this plot is key to the plan. Lisa Kempton will flip it for twice what she paid.

Maybe, Pete said. But that doesn’t explain why she’s refitting and re-opening the store in two weeks, or why I got promoted to regional management.

"Yep, why anyone would want to promote you is a mystery," Olivia said, grinning.

Hey! Pete said, with mock outrage.

Together, they headed toward the rear of the store, the stockroom, and the back door. You should have called them and asked, Olivia said.

I did, Pete said.

No way, she said.

At lunchtime, he said.

And?

I spoke to a woman in HR, Sorcha Locke, Pete said.

The Irishwoman who interviewed you? Why didn’t you tell me? What did she say?

That Lisa Kempton already owns a furniture store in Wisconsin, a plumbers and contractors in Iowa, and a prefab-housing manufactory in Michigan. This completes the set.

Surely she didn’t say that?

She did, Pete said. Those were her exact words.

She was obviously joking, Olivia said. She must have been. Not even a billionaire buys a carpet store like it was a collectible figurine. Right?

Why not? he said. But, yeah, probably not. Probably it’s because of the real estate or something.

What did Sorcha Locke say about why you were being promoted?

She said that when bees are making honey, you don’t poke the hive.

Meaning you should shut up and stop asking questions. Yep, something weird is going on. But it’s better than Mrs Mathers just shutting down the store.

Did you know she was going to? Pete asked.

"I knew she was thinking about it. I didn’t think she ever would. You remember when I helped her clear out that old cabin after her husband died? She said she’d lost interest in the business, but didn’t think anyone would ever want to buy it. Turns out she was wrong. Now, on your journey to the corporate ivory tower, don’t forget us little people. Actually, no, I don’t care about anyone else. Don’t forget about me. I expect preferential treatment. If you’re climbing the greasy pole, I’ll be clinging to your coat-tails the whole way."

If it’s covered in grease, it’ll be hard enough to climb as it is.

That’s why you’ll have to work twice as hard. With you as my boss, I’m going to start some serious slacking. She grinned and laid a hand on his arm. Seriously, though, congrats. You deserve this, Pete.

I don’t know that I do.

Nah, you’re right. You don’t. Her grin grew wider. Come on. Let’s get out of this dump. The remodel can’t come soon enough. Oh, for two paid weeks leave! That you’ll be spending them in Hawaii kind of takes the thrill out of my plans to watch TV in my PJs. You’re… um… you’re flying out Monday?

No, tomorrow, he said. When I spoke to Ms Locke, I asked if you could come, too.

You did not, she said, all humour gone. You’re not being serious? You can’t ask your new boss something like that.

I didn’t say it like that, he said. Not exactly. Ms Locke said it wasn’t a holiday. Despite it being Hawaii, it would be sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. But she said that there’s an annual conference in New York every July, a weekend thing that’s more of a party, and I get to bring a plus-one.

New York? It’s not Hawaii, but it could be fun. But seriously, Pete, you can’t mess this up. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.

I know. I was just… um… It was his turn to stumble to a halt. Like you said, we’re not being paid. Time to leave.

They got their coats, turned off the lights, and exited via the back door, this time without ceremony.

Hey, it’s snowing, Olivia said. A thin dusting of flakes danced in the orange glow of a sodium light older than the asphalt onto which the snow settled.

Pete locked the door, and handed Olivia the keys. You’ll let in the work crew next week?

Bright and early, she said. But I’ll be wearing my PJs and soon as it’s done, I’m heading back to bed.

I always liked snow in February, Pete said. You can enjoy it more when you know that spring’s just around the corner.

And when you’re heading off to a tropical island, Olivia said. Does Hawaii count as tropical?

I guess I’ll find out.

Um… she said.

So… he said.

You know what? she said with sudden decisiveness. It’s not late, and neither of us have to get up first thing tomorrow. Let’s go and have a drink. We’ll celebrate your promotion properly.

Okay, yeah, that’d be… that’d be good. But the drinks are on me.

Oh, you bet they are.

In the dark corner of the parking lot, furthest from the exit, two beams of light pierced the night, then dipped. An engine came on. Gravel crunched as the vehicle drove into the yellow glow of the security light above the door.

That’s a limo, Pete said.

And finally we know why they promoted you, Olivia said. It’s clearly for your keen observation skills.

The limo stopped ten feet away. The driver-side door opened. A tall woman, approaching middle-age, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform complete with cap, stepped out.

Mr Guinn, she said, no hint of a question in her tone. I’m to take you to the airport.

I thought the flight was tomorrow, Pete said.

There’s a weather front moving in over the Pacific, the driver said. The pilot wants to depart before flights are grounded.

Oh. Right. Sure, Pete said. But my clothes, my passport, they’re at home.

It’s a private jet on an internal flight, the chauffeur said. We’ll give you a corporate credit card when we land. You can buy yourself whatever you need.

"You do need new clothes, Olivia said. Give me your car keys. I’ll get Nicole to bring me here tomorrow, and we’ll pick up your car."

Are you sure? he asked.

Quick now, Olivia said. "The snow was fun for a bit, but now I’m just getting cold. Keys. Thanks. Now you have to come see me when you get back. Have fun. And bring me back something other than a tan. She stepped back. Go on."

The driver stepped to the side, and opened the door. Mr Guinn. Thank you.

Pete climbed in, taking the rear-facing seat that backed onto the driver’s partition while keeping his eyes fixed on Olivia. The driver closed the door behind him. Outside, Olivia stood beneath the sodium light, her arm fixed in a wave, her smile oddly wistful. Pete raised a hand to wave back.

Do you think she can see you through tinted glass? a woman asked. Pete spun around. He’d been in such a whirl, he’d not realised the car had another occupant. It was a woman dressed in a navy-blue suit trimmed with gold. Pete had never met her before, but he recognised her instantly from the covers of magazines, from interviews, from profiles, from the information packet that had come with news of his unexpected promotion. It was his new employer, the billionaire, Lisa Kempton.

Sorry. I mean, um… ma’am. Pete Guinn. Pleased to meet you. He thrust out a hand.

A bemused smile flashed across Kempton’s thin lips. You don’t think I know who you are?

Oh, right, no, of course you do.

The limo pulled out. Pete glanced out the window, but he could no longer see Olivia.

Is she a romantic attachment of yours? Kempton asked.

No. I’m not sure. Maybe. I mean— wait, sorry, is that a problem? I guess she’s working for me now.

It really isn’t a problem, not in the slightest, Kempton said. She leaned back in her seat.

Pete relaxed into his. Never been in a limo before, he said. We thought of hiring one, back in high school, for the prom, but in the end, I never went. He stopped, realising what he was saying. And then he realised where he was and in whose company. Sorry, do you usually give a ride to people you promote?

He didn’t ask, the driver said, her voice coming clearly through the intercom. That’s five bucks you owe me.

Tamika and I had a wager on what your first question would be, Kempton said. I thought you’d ask where we were going.

But you didn’t, Tamika said. So I win, and you’ve just made a friend for life.

Do you make a habit of getting into cars with strangers? Kempton asked.

No, of course— I mean. He stumbled to a halt, confused, but Lisa Kempton smiled, while from the front of the vehicle, Tamika Keynes chuckled.

So… um… where are we going? Pete asked.

Where do you think we’re going? Lisa Kempton asked.

The airport? Pete guessed.

And then? Kempton asked.

Hawaii.

Just tell him, Lisa, Tamika Keynes called from the front. We’ll be at the airfield in thirty minutes, and they’re waiting to take off.

Tammy rather does like to spoil my fun, Kempton said. But she has a point. Time has run short, which is why we are collecting you ourselves. If the first question I expected from you was where are we going, the second was why I purchased the company in which you were employed.

I did wonder, Pete said. Olivia thought it was for the real estate. Is that it?

She sounds like someone to watch, Tamika said. Twenty-eight minutes, Lisa.

"Thank you, Tamika, but allow me some theatrics? But, yes, time is pressing. I bought the carpet firm because you worked there, Mr Parsley Guinn. But why did I buy it?"

I changed my name to Pete, he said. Like, the moment I was legally allowed.

"Pete Guinn, she said. Why did I buy the firm?"

I… And then he realised. His face fell. His heart skipped. All enjoyment and excitement at the promotion, at Olivia’s possible response to a question he’d not asked, at the idea his life might, finally, be turning a corner, fled. It’s my sister, isn’t it? Wait, Corrie’s not dead, is she?

Why would you think she was dead? Kempton asked.

She’s not, Tamika said. Your sister is alive. There’s no traffic, Lisa. We’re making good time. I’d say you have twenty minutes.

Corrie works for you? Pete asked.

She did. A long time ago, Kempton said. But you have seen her more recently than I.

I haven’t seen her for six years, he said.

We don’t have time for this, Tamika said. Your sister used to work for us. We need her to look at some code she wrote, and make some changes. Over the years, we’ve approached her, but every time we got close, she disappeared. We almost lost track of her completely and can’t afford to do so again. We’re sending you in to talk to her. If she won’t listen to you, she won’t listen to anyone.

Oh. Pete slumped in the seat. Why buy the carpet store? Why not just ask me?

No one can know about this, Lisa Kempton said. While there are many plausible routes to the same goal, for me, for someone with my wealth, would anyone think it suspicious? You will fly to Honolulu. As far as everyone is concerned, you will be at our villa, undertaking an induction into our corporate structure. No one will question it.

Olivia will, Pete said.

And you will find a way to lie to her until the time comes when she can be told the truth, Kempton said.

Oh. And my sister is in Honolulu? Pete asked.

No. The plane will take you to her, Kempton said. On the plane, you will be given a phone. Give that phone to your sister. Ask her to call me. Then both of you, or you alone, will return to the plane, and to Honolulu, where you can enjoy the rest of your holiday. In two weeks, you will begin your new life, your new job, with a salary sufficient to impress your friend. It isn’t a complicated task. It requires little of you other than handing a phone to your sister.

Yeah, I don’t know Corrie will want to see me, Pete said. If she worked for you, why did she quit? Why did she run away? Why did she disappear when you tried to talk to her?

Good questions, Kempton said. Ones you should ask her.

And if she doesn’t want to talk to me? Pete asked.

You will have tried, Kempton said. That is all any of us can do. Try our hardest, and then try harder. But how hard will it be to hand her the phone?

And if I fail, if she doesn’t call, your company will go bust, right? Pete said. That’s what you mean. That’s what’s going on here.

Something like that, Tamika said.

She is not my only asset, Kempton said. Who can say what the world will be like next week, when we don’t know if it will end tomorrow?

Which was an odd thing to say, but before Pete could ask any more questions, the limo came to halt.

We’re here, Tamika said. All being well, we’ll see you in Hawaii next week.

You’re not coming? Pete asked.

Do you think I have so much free time I could enjoy a few days in the sun? Kempton said.

Right, no, I guess not, Pete said, and climbed out of the limo.

He wasn’t at South Bend’s airport, but at a small airfield with a long runway. The limo had driven onto the runway and stopped a few dozen yards from a blue and gold jet. The runway was illuminated, as was a small control tower about five hundred yards to the north; otherwise, the plane and airfield were in darkness. As for the jet, there was only one engine on this wing. His limited knowledge of aviation told him there’d