Chapter 6
Millfield
Matt's head was a complete mess. He couldn’t rationalise the experience of finding the Thompsons’ comatose bodies under the bed. His mind ran through one scenario after another, but they made no sense. He considered, and then ruled out suicide, illness, assault, robbery, and even mental health issues, but none of those explanations held enough water for him to really believe in them. He had a nauseating feeling in his stomach that this was something radically new and, worst of all, somehow connected to his missing parents. If Matt had found Mr and Mrs Thompson lying on their lounge room floor, instead of under their bed, he may have assumed something like a failed suicide pact, but the fact that they were hidden (hiding themselves?) under the bed, made Matt’s skin crawl.
He slowed down as he approached the outskirts of town, where he could see that his worst fears were being realised. There was not a single person on the streets and there was no traffic. He shivered despite the warmth of the afternoon. He parked in the centre of town and climbed out as his eyes scanned the street. Nobody. The shops and pubs, which would usually be busy at lunchtime on a Saturday, were deserted. In a small town like Millfield, the pub was the social hub of the town, and even in an emergency like a flood or a bushfire people still came to find out the latest news. The Criterion Hotel was an imposing, two-storey timber building with wide shady awnings over the footpath, and a veranda upstairs. When Matt was younger, he had spent quite a few afternoons in the beer garden out the back, while his parents drank with friends. Now the pub looked silent and menacing. He instructed Elvis to stay in the car as he headed into the front bar.
The similarities to the Thompsons’ house were remarkable - there was absolutely no sign of human activity, other than the detritus of the previous evening’s partying. Half-empty glasses and bottles littered the bar, which suggested to Matt that something bizarre had happened not long before the pub closed (3 am on a Saturday). What really terrified Matt now, though, was the likelihood that his parents might be laying somewhere in town, in the same vulnerable state as the Thompsons. He didn’t want to wait to find out. He guessed that if the pub’s customers from the previous night had developed some weird disorder that was forcing them to hide away before falling unconscious, the most obvious place would be down in the keg cellar. Thinking about what he might find down there, Matt decided to check the other areas of the pub first. As he wandered through the dank and musty interior of the hotel, he tried to remain upbeat, despite his fear. He reasoned that even if everyone in town has been struck down by whatever had caused the Thompsons to go into a state of unconsciousness, it was quite likely temporary, and in time everyone would recover. The alternatives were just too disturbing to consider.
He found no surprise on the ground floor. The bistro was empty (meals half eaten on tables), the lounge bar was empty, and the office, where he found a heavy-duty flashlight, was also empty. On the first floor there were six rooms available for accommodation. Every door was unlocked and the rooms empty. He considered the possibility that the tenants might be unconscious under the beds, like his neighbours, but after checking under a couple and finding them unoccupied, Matt decided to head back downstairs.
He descended the stairs into the beer cellar, the flashlight illuminated each step, and when he reached the bottom he swung the beam back and forth around the pitch-black space. The light bounced off stacks of aluminium beer kegs and shelves that were loaded with crates full of supplies for the bar and restaurant. For a moment he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he needed to check the recess at the back of the cellar, behind the kegs. As he moved slowly towards the space, his heart began to beat faster and his breathing became shallow. He paused and listened. Matt wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or not but he felt that there was an almost imperceptible sound back there somewhere, something felt rather than heard. Or maybe it was his frightened mind inventing something that wasn’t there. Matt knew that he just needed to take a couple of steps forward, and peer behind the kegs to find out, but he struggled to find the strength to move forward. He stood in the silence and listened to the creaking of the old building as the afternoon air began to cool. Something about the thought of the shadows lengthening outside and the onset of night made Matt’s mind up for him, and he felt himself moving toward the darkest recess of the cellar, his legs working almost independently from his brain. He shone his flashlight into the gloom, and there, on the concrete floor, huddled together like corpses in a morgue, laid the bodies of the pub’s customers. Matt stared, unable to move. He tried to count them, but had to start over a couple of times because his brain didn’t want to work rationally. There were at least fourteen bodies, but he wasn’t sure because they were packed in so tightly, and some of the smaller ones (children, he realised with horror) were actually on top of the others. As Matt played the beam of light across faces he recognised most of them - John Smith, the butcher; Mrs Emerson who worked at the supermarket; a young couple whose names he didn’t know, but recognised from around town; Manfred, the publican; Billy the bartender; and others.
Matt’s mind reeled, and his legs felt too weak to stand on. This was far worse than finding the Thompsons’ under their double bed, because this gruesome discovery made him realise that he was probably all alone in Millfield. But why? What could have caused this to happen? Why had everyone congregated in dark places? Would they ever wake up? Then, in contrast to the macabre serenity of the scene before him, Matt noticed an almost imperceptible movement from the corner of his eye. He jerked the flashlight towards it, and illuminated a large, brown cockroach, crawling slowly over the neck of Billy the cook. Matt was initially mesmerised, as he watched the insect gently exploring the man’s motionless form, before crawling onto his face. Matt couldn’t move. There was something primal and disturbing about the vision that kept him entranced, until Billy’s hand moved rapidly to brush the cockroach away. Matt jumped. “Billy!” he blurted. But the chef’s arm had already gone back to its original position, and he was motionless once more.
Suddenly it became too much for Matt and he could feel the bile rising from his stomach. He turned and ran from the horrors before him, up the stairs and into the afternoon sunshine, before vomiting into the gutter. He knew he was suffering from shock, which would probably get worse later, but for the time being he needed to keep himself together. It was impossible. He felt the world around him fade to black, and he thought that it would probably be best if he sat down for a minute. But it was too late. His brain had already made the decision, and he slumped onto the ground unconscious.