The Worm King Page 21

‘Nah. We’ll be right.’

  A faint waft came to Winston and he realized it was a joint, not a cigarette. If they kept staring around, as stoned people are apt to do, they may eventually spot him. He needed a distraction, to get back down the bolt-hole. If he could chuck the plank up and over their heads, it should land on the other side and they’d look away, then he’d scarper.

  He waited until the joint was being passed, then swung his arm as hard as he could, hurling the plank up and over. As soon as it’d been released he knew it wouldn’t be enough, and a dull clonk confirmed it.

  ‘Owwww! Fuck was that?’ The joint dropped to the ground. ‘Something hit me!’ Winston dived for the bolt-hole, squirming inside and freezing when positively out of sight.

  ‘Look,’ the younger man said. ‘Think it was this.’ His voice came muffled but clearly audible. They’d found the plank.

  ‘Did you see something?’ said Handlebar. ‘Just then. Over there.’

  ‘A rat?’

  ‘Rat’s can’t throw bloody sticks. Fuck me, look at it! S’got a couple a nails in it! Jesus! Got that lighter?’

  ‘Hang on. Here.’

  Winston saw the light flicker just outside the bolt-hole entrance but felt certain they wouldn’t be able to see him so didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘A person couldn’t have got through there,’ swore Handlebar. ‘No way.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s going on with this fucken place?’

  ‘What the hell was it!?’

  ‘Come on, let’s get back inside.’

  A half hour later he ventured out, retrieved the plank, and even found the quarter-loaf of bread which he’d dropped in his panic to escape, although it was now significantly smaller after the rats had had another crack.

  Over dinner, Winston pondered whether he might be setting a Guinness World record for dwelling in rubbish. Probably not. He recalled seeing those documentaries about whole communities who live in rubbish tips in places like the Philippines. At the time, he’d thought, “Those poor bastards.” Now it’s him. Must be some kind of natural progression, and didn’t seem that bad, now he was actually at that point. You certainly wouldn’t call conditions great, but things could be worse. At least he was alive. If you work hard enough at it, you can get used to anything, can’t you? The sunburn felt a lot better although his ear was beginning to throb from the bite, and he wondered what the symptoms of rabies were. The end of his knob still stung and had raw patches from yesterdays wanking session too. It isn’t all beer and skittles you know, living in a tip.

  Had he been in the Fort just four days? Maybe given the lack of wristwatch and mind-bending darkness, all the above took only twenty busy minutes?

  A squeal sounded near the entrance, and the noise of not-so-tiny claws ripping at plastic. He had company for dinner.

  Winston picked up the plank.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Captain

  Captain Forsyth stared at Dick Snow incredulously. ‘How long do they want to call it that for?’

  ‘I don’t know, while it stays this overcast I suppose,’ replied Snow, waving his hand dismissively.

  The Order of Darkness!?

  Brigadier Hensley was gobsmacked. He fidgeted in his seat and took on that rigid expression which usually meant he was out of his depth and about to flick the problem, and guess who it’d end up with then.

  Snow had parked himself at an elaborately carved oak desk in an office clearly seconded from some senior Hyatt manager. The entire floor of the room was covered to within half a meter of the edge by a heavy rectangular rug patterned in a vivid Aboriginal motif. Forsyth had been trying to work out whether the plate-sized, swirly shape next to the desk was a wine stain, or part of the picture. The light wasn’t helping: the overheads were off and the only illumination came from a kerosene lantern on the left side of Snow’s desk, one of those decorative-type lanterns patterned in green and red stained glass which perhaps explained why one side of the Brigadiers face looked sick, and the other looked angry. The lower halves of the walls were tastefully cross-hatched in an unusual looking varnished timber that was probably just chipboard from China. The air conditioning wasn’t on, and the odor of cigar smoke, stale sweat and kerosene permeated thickly.

  ‘What do you think Forsyth?’

  Definitely a wine stain.

  Captain C.J Forsyth paused thoughtfully in reflection, to mull the principle issues at hand. You’d say mull, because he didn’t want to give the impression the answer was obvious straight off. He wanted to observe Snow’s reaction. Didn’t trust him, right from the word go. As soon as Snow said he thought “Order of Darkness” an appropriate name for a new piece of Government legislation, he could forget it as far as Captain Christopher Joseph Forsyth was concerned.

  Brigadier Hensley’s official assignment (BH-OA): Deliver weekly logistical update to office of Prime Minister.

  Location: Briefing designated @ Hyatt Hotel Canberra, until sub notifn

  Security Code: Classified. Zero general A-Z release.

  Logistics: Tea and light lunch provided.

  The job had been doled out two weeks ago, and at their first visit nine days ago, a suited lackey named “Stephen” from the defense department took the Brigadier’s 5-page written report without commenting. Yesterday, the Brigadier had been determined to speak to the PM, or at least someone from Cabinet, or failing that someone a tad more senior from Defense. ‘She’s a busy chap,’ he’d grumbled while they drove back to Duntroon after waiting two hours and seeing no one.

  ‘She was only back for a matter of hours this time too, I’m afraid,’ explained Snow. He held up the document, jiggling it. ‘Just long enough to tie this up, then they all had to shoot down to Victoria. Whole cabinet went with her.’

  ‘Well, Captain?’ the Brigadier frowned.

  ‘Can I offer you both a brandy?’ said Snow. He got to his feet, wincing and making hard work of the one and a half paces to the drinks trolley against the wall. ‘I think we’ve all deserved one, don’t you?’

  For what? Order of Darkness, my arse! It stunk to high heaven. However Dick Snow, the Chief Meteorological Advisor to the PM and cabinet, did appear to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  And then again, in a way it did make sense too. The days certainly were dark.

  Snow had shadowy rings under his eyes and lines on his face like he’d been crying. The man didn’t need a brandy, he needed a warm milk, his teddy and an early night. Already got the early night, so presumably he was hoping one out of three would take him over the line.

  The trouble was you could see the logic in it. The legislation’s name, that is. Perpetual darkness proved to be a weapon right out of the blue: no one picked it. A new mindset has had to evolve to cope in a world without sunlight. When you suddenly change a basic, this-has-worked-forever rule like the dark/light ratio, all the other variables in life seemed to go skew-whiff as well. Maybe the good/bad ratio in people had gone haywire too? It’ll be gravity and the whole up/down law next. Forsyth tried briefly to imagine the absurdity of a world where everything up was down, and down was up.

  ‘Forsyth!’ barked the Brigadier, shaking his head. Then to Snow, in a considerably more pleasant tone, ‘Yes, please.’

  Forsyth ignored the Brigadier. ‘Thank you, yes. And could we see a copy of it please?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ His reply came almost too quick. A glass clinked, and Snow turned from the trolley, went to his desk, picked up the document and handed it to the Brigadier. ‘There you go.’ Hensley took it and Snow wearily returned to the trolley. ‘Only one copy for you, I’m afraid,’ he explained over his shoulder. ‘Photocopier’s still on the blink and two PC’s are sort-of working. Our IT fellow replaced the blown electrics, then run out of parts for the . . . whatshamacallit? I can’t remember the exact name of the thingy now. Dragged out this old button typewriter in the end, which I can’t believe they had frankly, but it’s doing the trick at the moment.�
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  He shuffled around the desk and passed out two seven-tenths full neat glasses. No ice, no frills. Forsyth balanced the liquor on the attaché case on his lap. The Brigadier accepted his and immediately held it up. ‘Good health!’ He greedily gulped a mouthful without waiting, or even noticing, if anyone replied to the toast. A pair of gold-embossed Hyatt coasters sat at the front of the desk but the brandies weren’t likely to live long enough to get anywhere near them.

  ‘As I said, this is a draft.’ Snow touched the side of his nose. ‘But I thought I should give you a heads-up, on which way it’s likely to swing.’

  Brigadier Hensley scanned the cover page. Within seconds his rheumy eyes glazed over, and a vacant expression wormed its way across his features. He passed the document to Forsyth, who laid it on the attaché case next to his drink. The case was lumpy and far from ideal as a table. It contained a bundle of miscellaneous papers relating to Duntroon: mostly old, random procurement and requisitions orders, and they were only there because the Brigadier instructed he bring absolutely everything they might need, and he didn’t want to walk out the door carrying nothing. It also contained half a packet of gingernuts with the end twisted and knotted, and a glock19 with a full clip of fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. The idea being, you could reach into the case, grab the weapon and fire directly through the leather. The slim calfskin attaché with its oversized brass zip was the only useful tool he’d inherited from Captain Reynolds, the previous incumbent in the role of Brigadier’s dogsbody. There were no telltale patch-up holes, so you’d have to figure Reynolds never used it with a glock. Or if he did, ensured it was always well out of the case before blowing lead, which to be honest defeated the whole purpose of the glock-in-a-bag subterfuge.

  Snow’s document consisted of three stapled pages of A4, all in the same tiny font with no capitals and little punctuation, even in the heading at the top. The first line read:

  “meteorological security ordinance, order of darkness, legislative 17b(ii)”

  The rest consisted of one, long running paragraph of tightly packed legal jabber. He flicked over the page, all the same, and the next one. At the bottom of each page was the date, as at yesterday, and the Prime Minister’s name and signature. He went back to the first page and re-scanned the opening paragraph, trying to isolate exactly what it said, but found it virtually indecipherable. Not without some serious legal advice anyway. What the hell was the constitutional law amendment (1948) IIIb? This cropped up right near the beginning, and without knowing what it meant, the whole thing was double–Dutch. Scores of cross-references of a similar nature to different cases were scattered throughout the text in a hideously confusing tangle.

  ‘My understanding,’ explained Snow, slumped back in his seat, ‘is that it’s effectively martial law. Puts you blokes in the driver’s seat, more or less. That’s why I thought you should know. As I said, just a heads-up.’

  ‘About damn time too!’ spluttered the Brigadier, leaning forward to place his empty glass on the coaster. ‘Thought that’s what it meant.’ He reached over and snatched the document from Forsyth then bravely attempted to reread it.

  Snow clarified: ‘The vertical structure is such that the Cabinet have moved to a war footing, in order to best deal with the crisis, so the armed forces will of course still come under the broad jurisdiction of the Prime Minister and Cabinet.’

  The Brigadier was already fully re-glazed. ‘Sir?’ Forsyth held out his hand but Hensley didn’t seem to have the strength to pass the pages. Over recent weeks the imposition of martial law had been discussed around the barracks, although little consideration given to exactly how it might work. Everyone knew someone had to step in and take control, because civilian authorities had all but disappeared, however “vertical structure” wasn’t a word bandied around the base much.

  Snow smiled maliciously as the Brigadier squinted at page one again. Probably still on the first line. Forsyth shook his head: Hensley cut a fairly sad figure sometimes. He glanced at Snow, who now stared directly at him, licking his upper lip in a way Forsyth didn’t much like. Before he could consider this further, a soft tap-tap-tap sounded on the door behind.

  ‘Enter,’ called Snow confidently. The Brigadier broke from his reverie to check over his shoulder. A meek voice mumbled something from the doorway and Snow’s mouth curled, and his eyes narrowed. The Captain turned to see a lightly build European male waiter in a slightly grubby hotel uniform poking his head and one arm in the door, whilst keeping both feet firmly outside.

  ‘Hurrumph!’ grunted the Brigadier, justifiably offended he’d wasted so much valuable effort turning to view this puny visitor. Snow swept past at double the pace he’d gathered the brandies, and bustled the waiter out the door. They spoke quietly, the word “lunch” cropping up twice in the first ten seconds. The Brigadier passed back the document and Forsyth slid it into his attaché, in front of requisitions but behind the gingernuts. The brandy was excellent and he gave the glass a final swirl before swallowing the remainder. It occurred that brandy and gingernuts may be a lot like a brandy and dry, although he’d never seen anyone in the officers club dunking a G-nut in their brandy, so presumably it’s not the done thing.

  ‘Gentleman?’ Both turned obediently. ‘They’re serving lunch in thirty minutes, and you’d be most welcome to join us?’

  The Brigadier was all over that like nappy-rash. ‘Damn fine of you. Damn fine.’ He gave Snow a thumbs up and turned back, pleased as punch.

  Snow spoke softly with the waiter then the door closed. He ambled back to his seat.

  ‘Paddlecrab hotpot,’ blurted Hensley. ‘Famous for it. Had it in the restaurant here on many occasion, as a matter of fact. Always jolly good. Even Eloise, me good lady wife is keen on it, and she doesn’t eat much in the way of fish and all that what-have-you.’

  Snow shook his head consolingly and picked up his empty glass. ‘There’ve been some changes to the menu. As one would imagine. The kitchen seems to be doing its best though.’ He rotated the glass, staring into it as one might examine the dregs, but on the other hand he could well have been just checking his own reflection too.

  Forsyth’s growing distrust of Snow was to some extent balanced by the prospect of a decent feed. For once, he was in full and absolute agreement with Sir: lunch would be jolly bloody good. Duntroons renowned mess hall meals had dried up very early in the piece and the days of chops, eggs and chips for breakfast were long past. At this rate they could conservatively maintain the base for another four months, three weeks and five days, give or take. Water would be the first to go.

  Snow lifted his glass. ‘Another one?’ Both spinelessly nodded in unison. Snow put his own glass on the trolley then leant over the desk for the others. ‘How’s your water holding out?’

  ‘None for me, I’m fine like the last one,’ replied the Brigadier, shuffling in his seat.

  ‘No, I meant at Duntroon.’

  ‘Hurrumph!’ An embarrassment hurrumph, rather than your typical annoyance hurrumph like when the waiter turned up. In the last three weeks, Forsyth had come to realize the two hurrumphs had subtly different tones. The more pertinent issue was the speed with which Snow pounced on Duntroons weakest flank: water. Still, water’s scarce everywhere, so probably only natural to inquire.

  ‘Yeth, of course.’ This didn’t actually answer the question and the slurring meant the drink had already gone to Hensley’s head too.

  Snow raised his eyebrows. ‘From Googong?’ Only the second time since arrival he’d directed a question straight at Forsyth, apart from the routine pleased-to-meet-you and want-a-drink spiel.

  ‘That’s right!’ the Brigadier interjected. The Googong route was supposed to be on the hush-hush, although apparently many did know about it. A lengthy pause ensued.

  ‘Come on then Captain! Give us the numbers. Didn’t bring you here just for your smiley face, you know!’ The Brigadier and Snow laughed heartily.

  ‘Righto.’ He tried to
keep it as bare-bones as possible. ‘Canberras water supply is stored in four reservoirs. Corin dam, Bendora Dam, Cotter and Googong Dam. The Googong’s by far the biggest, as I assume you know, so that’s where we’ve been getting it. The Bendora and Cotter are both smaller, so the acid rain seems to have had a more pronounced effect. Corin’s a decent size too, but further away and the access is currently difficult so we’re leaving that ’til last resort.’

  ‘What’s your quality like?’ probed Snow.

  ‘We’ve got purifiers on the base so it’s okay at this point. Without those, you need to add a decent belt of baking soda to neutralize it, or it’ll give you the shits something awful. And we’ve lost twenty-five men in the last fortnight on the thirty kilometer run between Duntroon and Googong.’

  ‘Baking soda! What an excellent idea.’

  ‘The conveys and men completely disappeared. No trace at all; we never found them, or the trucks. Duntroon is effectively surrounded by civilian groups of varying sizes demanding assistance with food and water. Some are becoming aggressive, to say the least. Sir.’

  The Brigadier shook his head sadly, staring glumly at the floor. Snow still appeared to be thinking about the baking soda. Forsyth shifted in his chair and the padded leather seat emitted a rude farting sound which made the Brigadier turn, and give him a look. ‘You need to try and buck up a bit more there Forsyth,’ he admonished. ‘It’s not the end of the world yet. How much water we got in Corin, if we need it?’ An unpleasant gleam lurked in his eye.

  ‘A hundred and seventy three million, two hundred and sixty-five thousand liters. Sir.’

  ‘That’s right,’ voice dripping with disappointment and suspicion suggesting he’d no idea of Corins capacity in the first place. ‘And that’s only the reserve!’ he raved, waving his gloved right-hand enthusiastically.

  Snow nodded, clearly impressed. ‘You know . . . ’ He pointed his index finger briefly at the Brigadier, then back to touch his own lips. ‘You know, you’d go well on the screen. Very well indeed. I’ve always thought the army needed a better PR front person. If it hadn’t been for this comet, you could’ve . . . ’