Pocket Apocalypse
Page 15
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
I sighed deeply. “That doesn’t make it any better. I’ve met my family.”
The sound of the engines roaring drowned out Shelby’s laughter. We were in our final descent, and one way or another, I was going to Australia.
Four
“I have never seen any place on Earth as beautiful, improbable, and beautifully ridiculous as Australia. Whatever god or devil first conceived of the place deserves some sort of award, and possibly a smack in the head.”
—Thomas Price
Brisbane Airport in Queensland, Australia, international arrivals terminal
SHELBY AND I WERE walking along the concourse toward customs—she looking tediously awake and alert, like she hadn’t just spent far too many hours in midair, me looking like a houseplant that hadn’t been watered in far too long and was thus on the verge of terminal wilt—when a short, tan, pleasantly plump woman with a riotous mop of red-and-brown curls darted out of a door marked “staff only” and cut us cleanly from the rest of the crowd.
“Hello hello hello,” she said brightly, her cheerful Australian voice cutting through the hubbub like a knife. Our fellow travelers picked up their step, getting away from what sounded like the start of something they didn’t want any part of. “What are you traveling for, then? Business or pleasure?”
“Bringing the bloke to meet the folks,” said Shelby airily. I gave her a sidelong look. “Bloke” might be the most common Australianism in American popular culture, but it wasn’t a word I heard Shelby use very often—or really ever, except when I dragged her to Outback and she returned from the bathrooms with a scathing critique of using “Blokes” and “Sheilas” to distinguish the genders. “There a problem, officer?”
“Could be, could be,” said the woman. “If you two would just come with me, I’m sure we can have it all cleared up in a jiffy. So if there’s nothing the two of you need before we see to the all-important business of keeping this grand nation safe from all threats foreign and national . . . ?”
It was like being confronted with a human border collie. I blinked, too disoriented from the flight and too well trained about making a fuss in airports to know what to do.
Fortunately, Shelby wasn’t so confused. “Lead the way: anything for Australia.”
“Anything?” asked the woman pointedly.
“Life, limb, and love.”
“Very good. Follow me.” She turned on her heel and stalked back to the staff door, clearly expecting that Shelby and I would follow her. Shelby did, and so I did the same, dragging my roller bag and praying the mice wouldn’t start cheering without getting permission from me first.
The door slammed shut behind us. Welcome to Australia.
The woman with the riotous hair led us down an empty hallway that could have been lifted out of any airport in the world—or any soundstage designed to look like an airport, for that matter. There’s something remarkably artificial about a certain type of bureaucratic sterility, like even it can’t make up its mind whether or not it actually exists. Her boots thudded against the tile floor like she was personally affronted by its reality, and punishing it one slammed-down heel at a time.
“We’ll be heading for one of the main screening rooms, where you and your belongings will be thoroughly reviewed,” she said, without looking back at me or Shelby. Her attention seemed to be reserved for the empty hall ahead, and while her voice remained too cheerful to be natural, it didn’t match her posture, which was tight, controlled, and bordering on hostile. “I do hope my men won’t find anything illicit. We’ve been cracking down on smugglers recently. You could find yourself banned from our country for the rest of your natural life, and wouldn’t that put a crimp in your honeymoon?”
“We’re not married, and I’d have at least called home if we were,” said Shelby mildly. She sounded almost amused by the situation. Well, that made one of us. “Come off it, all right? We’re in private now.”
“There is no privacy in an airport,” replied the border collie woman, a hint of a snarl creeping into her formerly jovial tone. She picked up the pace, forcing me and Shelby to do the same if we wanted to keep up with her. Between the jet lag, the general exhaustion engendered by spending over a dozen hours on a plane, and my growing fear that the mice were going to put in an appearance, my nerves were more than a little frayed.
Shelby rolled her eyes before shooting me what was probably meant to be a reassuring look. I frowned at her. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, and it was clear that whoever this woman was, Shelby knew and trusted her enough to let her cut us out of the main crowd. Without an introduction, I was flying blind. I didn’t like the feeling. It was really starting to sink in how isolated I was, and how isolated I was going to remain for as long as I was in Australia. Even if I needed them, my family couldn’t possibly get to me fast enough to provide backup. Not even Aunt Mary. She was dead, which usually meant she could travel great distances in the time it took to call her name, but most ghosts can’t cross saltwater, and I had the entire Pacific between me and the place where she died. I was on my own.
I struggled to keep my face neutral as we walked. If Shelby had felt like this during her stay in the United States, it was amazing that she’d remained as steady as she had. I hadn’t been on the ground an hour, and I was already fighting panic.
The border collie woman stopped at an unmarked door. Producing an old-fashioned key ring from her pocket, she unlocked it and waved us into a small, featureless room. Shelby went first. I followed close behind her, and the unnamed woman brought up the rear, closing the door behind herself with an ominous “click.”
“Now,” she said. “We should have a five-minute window before anyone realizes the camera feed from this room has failed. We’ve got Gabby and one of her American schoolmates clearing customs with dummy bags—they have valid passports that match the names you flew under, so we’ll have a clear record of your entering the country, and we have someone in the department ready to stamp your real passport when you fly back out again, assuming that you do. They’ll be catching a cab outside the airport, Gabby’s friend will be returning to Sydney via a flight later today, and Gabby should be home by this afternoon. Cooper’s driving her. Mum and Dad are going to have your hide for bringing your boyfriend with you and making us do all of this extra work. Are there any questions?”
The sound of the engines roaring drowned out Shelby’s laughter. We were in our final descent, and one way or another, I was going to Australia.
Four
“I have never seen any place on Earth as beautiful, improbable, and beautifully ridiculous as Australia. Whatever god or devil first conceived of the place deserves some sort of award, and possibly a smack in the head.”
—Thomas Price
Brisbane Airport in Queensland, Australia, international arrivals terminal
SHELBY AND I WERE walking along the concourse toward customs—she looking tediously awake and alert, like she hadn’t just spent far too many hours in midair, me looking like a houseplant that hadn’t been watered in far too long and was thus on the verge of terminal wilt—when a short, tan, pleasantly plump woman with a riotous mop of red-and-brown curls darted out of a door marked “staff only” and cut us cleanly from the rest of the crowd.
“Hello hello hello,” she said brightly, her cheerful Australian voice cutting through the hubbub like a knife. Our fellow travelers picked up their step, getting away from what sounded like the start of something they didn’t want any part of. “What are you traveling for, then? Business or pleasure?”
“Bringing the bloke to meet the folks,” said Shelby airily. I gave her a sidelong look. “Bloke” might be the most common Australianism in American popular culture, but it wasn’t a word I heard Shelby use very often—or really ever, except when I dragged her to Outback and she returned from the bathrooms with a scathing critique of using “Blokes” and “Sheilas” to distinguish the genders. “There a problem, officer?”
“Could be, could be,” said the woman. “If you two would just come with me, I’m sure we can have it all cleared up in a jiffy. So if there’s nothing the two of you need before we see to the all-important business of keeping this grand nation safe from all threats foreign and national . . . ?”
It was like being confronted with a human border collie. I blinked, too disoriented from the flight and too well trained about making a fuss in airports to know what to do.
Fortunately, Shelby wasn’t so confused. “Lead the way: anything for Australia.”
“Anything?” asked the woman pointedly.
“Life, limb, and love.”
“Very good. Follow me.” She turned on her heel and stalked back to the staff door, clearly expecting that Shelby and I would follow her. Shelby did, and so I did the same, dragging my roller bag and praying the mice wouldn’t start cheering without getting permission from me first.
The door slammed shut behind us. Welcome to Australia.
The woman with the riotous hair led us down an empty hallway that could have been lifted out of any airport in the world—or any soundstage designed to look like an airport, for that matter. There’s something remarkably artificial about a certain type of bureaucratic sterility, like even it can’t make up its mind whether or not it actually exists. Her boots thudded against the tile floor like she was personally affronted by its reality, and punishing it one slammed-down heel at a time.
“We’ll be heading for one of the main screening rooms, where you and your belongings will be thoroughly reviewed,” she said, without looking back at me or Shelby. Her attention seemed to be reserved for the empty hall ahead, and while her voice remained too cheerful to be natural, it didn’t match her posture, which was tight, controlled, and bordering on hostile. “I do hope my men won’t find anything illicit. We’ve been cracking down on smugglers recently. You could find yourself banned from our country for the rest of your natural life, and wouldn’t that put a crimp in your honeymoon?”
“We’re not married, and I’d have at least called home if we were,” said Shelby mildly. She sounded almost amused by the situation. Well, that made one of us. “Come off it, all right? We’re in private now.”
“There is no privacy in an airport,” replied the border collie woman, a hint of a snarl creeping into her formerly jovial tone. She picked up the pace, forcing me and Shelby to do the same if we wanted to keep up with her. Between the jet lag, the general exhaustion engendered by spending over a dozen hours on a plane, and my growing fear that the mice were going to put in an appearance, my nerves were more than a little frayed.
Shelby rolled her eyes before shooting me what was probably meant to be a reassuring look. I frowned at her. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, and it was clear that whoever this woman was, Shelby knew and trusted her enough to let her cut us out of the main crowd. Without an introduction, I was flying blind. I didn’t like the feeling. It was really starting to sink in how isolated I was, and how isolated I was going to remain for as long as I was in Australia. Even if I needed them, my family couldn’t possibly get to me fast enough to provide backup. Not even Aunt Mary. She was dead, which usually meant she could travel great distances in the time it took to call her name, but most ghosts can’t cross saltwater, and I had the entire Pacific between me and the place where she died. I was on my own.
I struggled to keep my face neutral as we walked. If Shelby had felt like this during her stay in the United States, it was amazing that she’d remained as steady as she had. I hadn’t been on the ground an hour, and I was already fighting panic.
The border collie woman stopped at an unmarked door. Producing an old-fashioned key ring from her pocket, she unlocked it and waved us into a small, featureless room. Shelby went first. I followed close behind her, and the unnamed woman brought up the rear, closing the door behind herself with an ominous “click.”
“Now,” she said. “We should have a five-minute window before anyone realizes the camera feed from this room has failed. We’ve got Gabby and one of her American schoolmates clearing customs with dummy bags—they have valid passports that match the names you flew under, so we’ll have a clear record of your entering the country, and we have someone in the department ready to stamp your real passport when you fly back out again, assuming that you do. They’ll be catching a cab outside the airport, Gabby’s friend will be returning to Sydney via a flight later today, and Gabby should be home by this afternoon. Cooper’s driving her. Mum and Dad are going to have your hide for bringing your boyfriend with you and making us do all of this extra work. Are there any questions?”
