Life Goes On by Tayell, Frank (large ebook reader txt) 📗

glass doors. Unlike the first set, these weren’t broken, though they were dented, marred, scratched by heavy blows from the sledgehammer lying next to them. In the centre, scorched and burned, a handprint-lock dangled loose.

With his boot, Clyde pushed the door open.

“Found it,” he said, pointing with his rifle’s barrel into the first room on the other side.

“Found what?” she asked.

“The panic room,” he said.

It was a library of leather-bound tomes, shelved according to colour. Not a single spine was cracked, not a single cover was creased. In the room’s centre, far more worn than any of the books, was a snooker table. Against the far wall, one bank of shelves had been pulled out. Built on a hinge, it had concealed the vault-like door, at the base of which, along with an acetylene torch, were chisels, drills, and another sledgehammer. Despite the scars, char, dents, and abrasions, the vault-door remained firmly closed.

“Considering who owned this house, and how he got rich, I’m going to say jackpot,” Clyde said. “But we’ll need a professional to get into this. Is it Toppley’s area?”

“She was more into fencing what was inside a safe than cracking into it,” Tess said. “We’ll send Mick, Zach, and Elaina up to the refugee camp, and get them to come down here by road with an engineering team.”

“Worth checking whether there’s some diesel in the garage,” Clyde said. “Maybe bring down a few earth-movers to clear those bodies. This place was supposed to have its own well, wasn’t it? It’d make for a decent fortified farm after it’s had a bit of a clean-up.”

“Good plan,” Tess said. “First, we better check there’s no one else here. So we’ll clear downstairs, then—”

She was interrupted by an off-key buzz coming from the door itself.

“Who are ya?” a man asked. Through the small speaker, his voice was spidery, but it oozed a malicious superiority familiar to anyone who kept abreast of taunting courthouse-step press conferences.

“My name is Tess Qwong, Australian Federal Police, and you, Sir Malcolm Baker, are under arrest.”

“Press the button!” Baker said. “You’ve got to press the button to speak. Who are ya!”

Tess sighed.

“Kinda loses the effect when you’ve got to take a do-over,” Clyde said. He pressed the button.

“Police,” Tess said. “The coup’s over, Baker. You lost. You’re under arrest. Open up, or—” Before she could finish the threat, the door clicked, and a malignant miasma wafted out.

“Strewth,” Clyde said, stepping back.

The door opened further, the stench grew worse, and was followed by a sewer-scarecrow spotted with effluent.

“One more hour!” Sir Malcolm Baker said. “One more hour and I’d have given up. Didn’t plumb it in!”

“Who didn’t plumb what in?” Clyde asked.

“The dunny!” Baker said. “Half a mil, I paid for that panic room, and they didn’t plumb the bloody toilet in. It’s just a pipe in the wall!”

“Sir Malcolm Baker,” Tess began, “you’re under arrest for insurrection and treason, and for—”

“Yeah, I know all that,” he said. “I might have been locked in the syphilitic circle of Hell, but I know what’s going on. That’s why those bastards turned on me. What happened to Aaron?”

“He’s dead,” Tess said.

“Ah, pity,” Baker said, with just a hint of emotion in his voice, enough to show that, beneath seven decades of ruining other people’s lives, there was a memory of humanity. It was gone in a flash. “Well,” he snapped. “What are you waiting for? Aren’t you taking me in? Prisoners get clothes and a shower, right?”

“How many hostiles are here in the house?” Tess asked.

“Two. But you got ’em both,” Baker said. “Watched you plug them. Better than front row seats, that was. Still got my cameras. Every room. Every angle. They run on battery in case thieves cut the power. Smart, right?”

“Clyde, get the others,” Tess said. “Baker, sit on the floor.”

“I won’t,” he growled.

“You misunderstand your value,” Tess said, “and you overestimate my desire to bother with a trial.”

“I don’t,” Baker said. “On either count. I know everything, and you want to know it, too.”

“You mean about the coup?” Tess asked.

“Nah, that’s old news,” Baker said. “Aaron’s dead. Vaughn’s dead. Lignatiev’s dead. Is Kelly dead?”

“She is.”

“Good. Then the coup’s finished. I can give you bank accounts, but that’s not going to do you much good. Nah, it’s over except for the history books and no one ever made a profit out of them. O.O.’s not a bad sort, though, so it’s not worked out too badly.”

“What is it you think you know?” Tess said.

“I know who started the outbreak,” Baker said. “I know who created the zombies. I know where they did it, and where they are now.” His slime-coated face cracked into a grin. “I bet that’s worth a bit of deference, right?”

“At six tonight, parliament is meeting in a televised session,” Tess said. “There’ll be a lot of speeches, but I bet they could squeeze in a quick vote to reintroduce capital punishment. Particularly if they can also announce your capture and trial. A quick trial, and a quick death. That’s your future unless you start talking right now, and don’t leave anything out.”

Baker raised a finger to his mouth, picking at a molar before screwing his face and spitting. “At least give me some soap.”

Clyde returned, the rest of the team behind.

“This is the police, is it?” Baker said. “Talk about scraping beneath the barrel. If this is the best you’ve got left, I must have been close to winning.”

“Clyde, keep him covered, while I search him,” Tess said, then paused. “Actually, no. Baker, where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “But we could both do with a shower first.”

“Clyde, Teegan, find him some clothes, and some water for washing, and some bags in which we can stick the evidence. Air-tight