tight-lipped
about the cause. The death toll in Los Angeles had jumped to sixty-five; that they
were all the result of the same illness had now been confirmed. Reports of similar
deaths in American cities such as New York, San Francisco and Dallas were trickling
in. The earlier reports from Sydney had now been confirmed and more deaths had since
been recorded. Rumours of a fatal disease spreading like wildfire throughout Asia
and Africa were being received from foreign news agencies. . . .
Peter changed channels, deciding that from here on in he would avoid the news. He
would watch sport and comedies and films and documentaries until broadcasts ceased.
Then, for so long as the electricity supply lasted, he would watch DVDs.
He was as prepared as he could be to ride out the storm.
* * * * *
Lisa had not replied to Tom’s text message by the evening. He rang her, but the call
went immediately to Lisa’s voicemail.
“Hi. You’ve reached Lisa’s phone. Leave a message and . . . oh, you know how it works.”
“Lisa, it’s Tom. I hope you’re okay. Call me, please.”
Tom disconnected the call. After a moment’s thought, he called his mother. He didn’t
expect her to answer. Tuesday night was bingo night. She and Betty would be sipping
port and lemon, gossiping like two old fishwives as they marked their bingo cards.
The call wasn’t answered and Tom disconnected.
Since watching the evening news, he had been feeling increasingly uneasy. Some sort
of superflu was sweeping the country. Hell, it seemed to be sweeping the world. The
Millennium Bug. People were dying in the hundreds.
He wondered if this same bug was responsible for the absences in school. He had put
it down to another winter virus—how could the same virus affect the whole world at
the same time?—but now wasn’t so sure. Lisa might have it.
He hadn’t spoken to his mother since Saturday. She might. . . .
Tom shook himself, trying to get rid of the sense of foreboding. He wondered briefly
if he ought to jump into his car and take a drive to Swansea; make sure she was okay.
On the other hand, he was tired and she would not thank him if she arrived home from
bingo to find him sitting yawning in her living room. She would be suspicious and
he would get cranky and they would end up arguing. He’d drive home in a mood and have
trouble sleeping. They had played out that scene too many times.
No. He would ring her tomorrow.
Tom would regret that decision for the remainder of his days.
* * * * *
The roads into Melbourne were quieter than normal. The same could not be said for
the roads out of the city. Bishop passed cars and trailers and vans, piled high with
people and possessions, fleeing the city.
He laughed at them and sprinkled Moondust into his slipstream. Some of it may find
its way in through open windows and air ducts, he reasoned. Even if it was a futile
gesture on his part, it was evident that the Millennium Bug had beaten him to the
city by a couple of days, perhaps transported there by air from New Zealand or Fiji
or further afield. It was all they were talking about on the radio; they were already
hesitantly calling it a pandemic. People were dying throughout the world.
Bishop listened and laughed until he grew bored and found a station that was still
playing rock music.
“Fools!” he shouted at the streams of vehicles heading in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going? Nowhere is safe.” He whooped joyously and sprinkled a little
more Moondust above his head for good measure.
He pondered that for a while. Maybe those not yet infected might find safe areas,
but they would have to seek out the uninhabited regions. They tended to be the most inhospitable areas, places like the deep Outback. He guessed
that groups of people who headed into the wilderness might survive if they had plenty
of provisions and means to provide shelter from the desert heat
about the cause. The death toll in Los Angeles had jumped to sixty-five; that they
were all the result of the same illness had now been confirmed. Reports of similar
deaths in American cities such as New York, San Francisco and Dallas were trickling
in. The earlier reports from Sydney had now been confirmed and more deaths had since
been recorded. Rumours of a fatal disease spreading like wildfire throughout Asia
and Africa were being received from foreign news agencies. . . .
Peter changed channels, deciding that from here on in he would avoid the news. He
would watch sport and comedies and films and documentaries until broadcasts ceased.
Then, for so long as the electricity supply lasted, he would watch DVDs.
He was as prepared as he could be to ride out the storm.
* * * * *
Lisa had not replied to Tom’s text message by the evening. He rang her, but the call
went immediately to Lisa’s voicemail.
“Hi. You’ve reached Lisa’s phone. Leave a message and . . . oh, you know how it works.”
“Lisa, it’s Tom. I hope you’re okay. Call me, please.”
Tom disconnected the call. After a moment’s thought, he called his mother. He didn’t
expect her to answer. Tuesday night was bingo night. She and Betty would be sipping
port and lemon, gossiping like two old fishwives as they marked their bingo cards.
The call wasn’t answered and Tom disconnected.
Since watching the evening news, he had been feeling increasingly uneasy. Some sort
of superflu was sweeping the country. Hell, it seemed to be sweeping the world. The
Millennium Bug. People were dying in the hundreds.
He wondered if this same bug was responsible for the absences in school. He had put
it down to another winter virus—how could the same virus affect the whole world at
the same time?—but now wasn’t so sure. Lisa might have it.
He hadn’t spoken to his mother since Saturday. She might. . . .
Tom shook himself, trying to get rid of the sense of foreboding. He wondered briefly
if he ought to jump into his car and take a drive to Swansea; make sure she was okay.
On the other hand, he was tired and she would not thank him if she arrived home from
bingo to find him sitting yawning in her living room. She would be suspicious and
he would get cranky and they would end up arguing. He’d drive home in a mood and have
trouble sleeping. They had played out that scene too many times.
No. He would ring her tomorrow.
Tom would regret that decision for the remainder of his days.
* * * * *
The roads into Melbourne were quieter than normal. The same could not be said for
the roads out of the city. Bishop passed cars and trailers and vans, piled high with
people and possessions, fleeing the city.
He laughed at them and sprinkled Moondust into his slipstream. Some of it may find
its way in through open windows and air ducts, he reasoned. Even if it was a futile
gesture on his part, it was evident that the Millennium Bug had beaten him to the
city by a couple of days, perhaps transported there by air from New Zealand or Fiji
or further afield. It was all they were talking about on the radio; they were already
hesitantly calling it a pandemic. People were dying throughout the world.
Bishop listened and laughed until he grew bored and found a station that was still
playing rock music.
“Fools!” he shouted at the streams of vehicles heading in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going? Nowhere is safe.” He whooped joyously and sprinkled a little
more Moondust above his head for good measure.
He pondered that for a while. Maybe those not yet infected might find safe areas,
but they would have to seek out the uninhabited regions. They tended to be the most inhospitable areas, places like the deep Outback. He guessed
that groups of people who headed into the wilderness might survive if they had plenty
of provisions and means to provide shelter from the desert heat
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