and hostile environment.
But if only one of their number—just one—was unwittingly carrying the Millennium Bug
with them, then their goose was cooked.
“Hell, yes!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Not
just cooked. Burnt to a crisp. Incinerated! Whoo-hoo!” If any of the passing motorists
or passengers noticed him, they glanced quickly away, a shadow passing over their
hearts.
The gunmetal grey Mazda drove through the suburbs of Melbourne in early evening sunshine.
Bishop slowed occasionally and sprinkled more Moondust into his slipstream. He didn’t
have much left; maybe around half an inch remained in the canister when he had last
stopped and he hadn’t been able to reach it with his fingers. He had transferred the
remaining powder to the plastic bag and it was into this that he now dipped his fingers
to spread his version of seasonal greetings to the world.
Four or five times on his drive into the city, at children’s playgrounds and public
parks, he stopped the car to perform the routine of pretending to stretch his legs
while smearing Moondust on benches and swings and picnic tables. In truth, he no longer
believed it necessary to spread any more Moondust, but he was nothing if not a thorough
man and would rather spread it unnecessarily than allow some to survive through lack
of diligence on his part.
The steady stream of traffic heading away from the city slowed as Bishop neared the
city centre. He had started to fear that the city would be snarled with people fleeing,
but it seemed that those who had decided to get out had gone and in an orderly, civilised
fashion. Visions of thoroughfares choked with cars full of dying people, the stench
of corruption on the evening breeze, did not materialise. If he had been forced to
abandon the Mazda and walk into the city centre, the exertion wouldn’t have bothered
Bishop. But he would have been vulnerable, even with the pistol.
Another concern proved to be unfounded. He had wondered whether the city would be
rife with civil unrest; rioters and looters roaming the streets; random acts of violence
born of fear and frustration. Although he actually enjoyed watching mindless violence—had
himself indulged in it frequently—he would make a prime target for the crazies in
the open-top Mazda. The gun lay within easy reach in the open holdall on the seat
next to him, safety catch off.
Bishop never paused to consider that violence had once played no part in his make-up
and was abhorred in his culture. That the worse excesses of humanity had rubbed off
on him did not occur to him, except perhaps in some remote part of his consciousness
that he kept firmly subdued. He was not a man readily given to introspection.
If there was any unrest in the city, he managed to avoid it, though by luck not judgment. Once
or twice he heard sirens, but far away and he never encountered their source.
He suspected that these things may still occur; that trying to leave Melbourne by
road over the coming days would grow increasingly difficult and that venturing into
the streets would become unwise. Once he reached his destination, he had no intention
of doing either.
As it was, the city seemed calm. People were still going about their business, though
in fewer numbers; the al fresco restaurants that he passed were doing business, though
there were many empty tables in evidence.
Bishop was close now to his favourite haunt. He had spent a lot of time in Melbourne
over the years, had seen it expand and thrive, and even kept a small apartment here.
But he wanted to spend the last days of humanity in luxury; watch mankind’s death
throes from the comfort of a five-star hotel.
As he neared the business district, he reached to the holdall with his left hand and
withdrew the bag containing the last of the Moondust. Briefly gunning the Mazda down
a straight stretch of road, he
But if only one of their number—just one—was unwittingly carrying the Millennium Bug
with them, then their goose was cooked.
“Hell, yes!” he shouted, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Not
just cooked. Burnt to a crisp. Incinerated! Whoo-hoo!” If any of the passing motorists
or passengers noticed him, they glanced quickly away, a shadow passing over their
hearts.
The gunmetal grey Mazda drove through the suburbs of Melbourne in early evening sunshine.
Bishop slowed occasionally and sprinkled more Moondust into his slipstream. He didn’t
have much left; maybe around half an inch remained in the canister when he had last
stopped and he hadn’t been able to reach it with his fingers. He had transferred the
remaining powder to the plastic bag and it was into this that he now dipped his fingers
to spread his version of seasonal greetings to the world.
Four or five times on his drive into the city, at children’s playgrounds and public
parks, he stopped the car to perform the routine of pretending to stretch his legs
while smearing Moondust on benches and swings and picnic tables. In truth, he no longer
believed it necessary to spread any more Moondust, but he was nothing if not a thorough
man and would rather spread it unnecessarily than allow some to survive through lack
of diligence on his part.
The steady stream of traffic heading away from the city slowed as Bishop neared the
city centre. He had started to fear that the city would be snarled with people fleeing,
but it seemed that those who had decided to get out had gone and in an orderly, civilised
fashion. Visions of thoroughfares choked with cars full of dying people, the stench
of corruption on the evening breeze, did not materialise. If he had been forced to
abandon the Mazda and walk into the city centre, the exertion wouldn’t have bothered
Bishop. But he would have been vulnerable, even with the pistol.
Another concern proved to be unfounded. He had wondered whether the city would be
rife with civil unrest; rioters and looters roaming the streets; random acts of violence
born of fear and frustration. Although he actually enjoyed watching mindless violence—had
himself indulged in it frequently—he would make a prime target for the crazies in
the open-top Mazda. The gun lay within easy reach in the open holdall on the seat
next to him, safety catch off.
Bishop never paused to consider that violence had once played no part in his make-up
and was abhorred in his culture. That the worse excesses of humanity had rubbed off
on him did not occur to him, except perhaps in some remote part of his consciousness
that he kept firmly subdued. He was not a man readily given to introspection.
If there was any unrest in the city, he managed to avoid it, though by luck not judgment. Once
or twice he heard sirens, but far away and he never encountered their source.
He suspected that these things may still occur; that trying to leave Melbourne by
road over the coming days would grow increasingly difficult and that venturing into
the streets would become unwise. Once he reached his destination, he had no intention
of doing either.
As it was, the city seemed calm. People were still going about their business, though
in fewer numbers; the al fresco restaurants that he passed were doing business, though
there were many empty tables in evidence.
Bishop was close now to his favourite haunt. He had spent a lot of time in Melbourne
over the years, had seen it expand and thrive, and even kept a small apartment here.
But he wanted to spend the last days of humanity in luxury; watch mankind’s death
throes from the comfort of a five-star hotel.
As he neared the business district, he reached to the holdall with his left hand and
withdrew the bag containing the last of the Moondust. Briefly gunning the Mazda down
a straight stretch of road, he
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