The Worm King Read online

  The Brigadier looked so pleased you’d think he must’ve just cracked a fat, then the realness of the situation caught up with him, and he frowned at the roof, damning the comet for putting the kibosh on his TV career before it’d even started.

  Snow continued. ‘There is one question you might be able to help us with—’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘We need an idea of the geographical cross-densities and location of your personnel in the event of modifications or updates to the hydrography.’

  The Brigadier turned blankly to Forsyth, out of depth with the question, let alone the answer. Snow should’ve simply said, “Where are your men?” and the old dill might’ve got half-way towards understanding it. Snow tried from another angle. ‘Cabinet will need a breakdown on NSW troop locations, in the first instance I believe.’ He took a swallow of brandy and watched eagle-eyed over the top of his glass, awaiting a reply.

  ‘Come on Forsyth! Quick update then, by the numbers there, you heard Mr Snow.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ The reply snuck out as near enough to a shout to earn a look of sour distaste from Hensley, and a smirk from Snow. The brandy was making him cocky, and he made a mental note to rein it in. ‘From the top then, Sir. Prior to this event we had 45,000 personnel, of whom 28,000 were regular and 17,000 reserves. This is split into two divisions: the 1st, who’re mainly regulars; and 2nd, the reserves. We’re focusing mainly on the 1st at this juncture because the reserves are more fragmented, and their limited field experience to a degree. We think they’ll be better equipped to lend assistance locally, given the way the crisis is unfolding.’

  ‘What about around Sydney?’

  ‘In Sydney most of the bases sustained significant damage, or were lost completely. The Holsworthy barracks was hit by waves that went up the Georges River and through Liverpool. The Randwick barracks and Victoria barracks also turned out to be too close to the sea. Victoria Barracks had the HQ for Land Command in Australia. In the rest of New South Wales there were pockets inland that came through almost unscathed, like Lone Pine barracks at Singleton in from Newcastle, but they’ve been non-stop helping dig men out of collapsed coal mines. Still a lot trapped. At Bullecourt Barracks in Newcastle, the 2nd Division suffered major damage, and we lost the entire 113th Field Battery there too.’

  Snow took it all in and didn’t seem overly perturbed by the magnitude of the catastrophe. ‘What about here, around Canberra?’

  The Brigadier winked conspiratorially and touched his nose. ‘Fortunately, we managed to move some chaps out of Holsworthy and inland beforehand. The word came down.’ Forsyth knew for a fact the Brigadier never received a scrap of prior warning because he’d listened to the Brigadier’s wife berate him about it. She had a face like a bag full of dropped pies and tended to berate him a lot.

  ‘And they’re all at Duntroon?’

  ‘They are,’ Hensley confirmed. ‘We’ve got 200 men out of the 3rd battalion, who’re mostly from two companies of parachute light-infantry, minus the ’chutes of course, with the ’planes still non-op.’ He mustered a wan smile. ‘The 2nd Commando regiment’s there, which Forsyth here was with, before he joined my staff.’ Snow’s lips tightened in surprise but the Brigadier didn’t appear to notice and pressed on. ‘And a med support battalion which was originally based at Holsworthy. Oh, and 127 cadets who were already at Duntroon on officer training. We don’t want to bring any more into the place at present and the rest of the men who’re scattered about NSW are assisting where they can with recovery operations and whatnot more locally. No point bringing ’em all together when there’s nobody to actually fight, so to speak. The word is to hunker down and await further orders.’

  So for the next two minutes, the three men sat hunkering down, drinking brandy, and no one uttered a word.

  ‘So you’re a Commando then?’ said Snow eventually.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Golly. Is that one of those Special Forces units?’

  Golly?

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re not at liberty to dis—’

  ‘Go on man, it’s all right in this instance,’ insisted the Brigadier.

  ‘I’m with the 2nd. It’s just one of three Special Forces units that are kept combat ready at all times, so naturally those who were able, have gravitated here.’ Snow opened his mouth on the verge of asking more, so Forsyth elaborated to head him off. ‘Most of the time we sit around the mess, playing ping pong.’ This shut him up and he smiled, but not for long.

  ‘Any trouble getting here?’

  ‘I was already at Duntroon.’ He saw no point in mentioning it was to face a military court of inquiry.

  ‘Where are the other special forces units now?’ There he was, probing again.

  ‘Townsville. Darwin. We’re communicating.’

  He watched Snow’s expression change, and kicked himself because he’d been picked up on the fib. “Communicating” had at least a 70% lie content and anything over 49% starts show up in your facial expression, or so some psych boffin had said at an interrogation training course one time.

  ‘Communicating?’ Snow cocked his head, frowning. ‘I would’ve thought that’s taken for . . . well, taken for granted?’

  Snow was a driller. Drillers dig down to that one thing that’s important: the weakest link you’ve got, and zero dead in on it. Give it the full nine yards.

  You don’t want drillers.

  The Brigadier had been explaining how Forsyth’s transfer from the 2nd was only meant to be temporary assignment, and Forsyth sure didn’t have a lot to contribute to that conversation. He looked at his watch again. ‘The last chap I had, we lost in the fires.’ Hensley shook his head, remembering the unfortunate Reynolds. ‘Quite a few chaps were, I’m afraid.’ Thankfully he didn’t mention Brenda, not that he would.

  ‘Listen Forsyth, I’m going to get you to wait here at the hotel, speak with someone from cabinet when you can.’

  Snow raised his eyebrows and anyone with half a mind might’ve been offended. However it didn’t surprise Forsyth in the least: it gave the Brigadier a chance to get him out of his hair, as well as appearing to make a more proactive effort at getting his report across, without actually having to do anything himself. Brilliant from a strategic point of view. He was given half a dozen points of protocol in dealing with the Prime Minister, should the situation arise, where he managed to switch off almost completely for the first time in a week.

  ‘ . . . and I’ll take the car back,’ Hensley concluded. Snow offered to send another vehicle along as escort.

  The Brigadier was a Hunkerer. Complete with bushy moustache and the whole package. He apparently even had a speech impediment which forced him to use the word “chap” at least once every three minutes, or else his head would pop like a cluster. Lately, “hunker” had been his favorite word-of-the-day. Or word-of-the-night, you’d probably say, and because the night had been a long one, it got used plenty. After all, the Commandant of Duntroon Military Camp didn’t get to be Commandant of Duntroon Military Camp by being a risky chap. No Sir-ee. A few weeks ago, a disgruntled major in the officers mess told Forsyth that he’d been reliably informed, that if it were just Hensley and a plate of scrambled eggs locked in a bare room for an hour, the Hen would still squeeze in “chaps” at least eight times. Straight up.

  But Forsyth was also coming to appreciate a hidden side to the Hen, after having worked so closely with him these last weeks. He’d discovered that the echelons on high thought of Hensley as a man happy to make the hard decisions when needed, especially with strategics and logistics and manpower and all that what-have-you, which is why they kept promoting him. The Colonel Blimp persona was a bit of a cover, the result of a tour in Bosnia attached to a Grenadiers unit during his formative years in the mid-90s. He just came back talking like that.

  Snow checked his watch. Lunch shouldn’t be far off, and Forsyth’s mouth watered at the prospect. ‘What’s moral like?’

  ‘Excellent,’ replie
d the Brigadier, nodding vigorously.

  Forsyth shrugged unenthusiastically.

  ‘Is there anything we can help you with from here, Captain?’ Snow tapped his pen on the desk, staring like a cat looking into a fishbowl.

  ‘There is one thing. The Brigadier’s legs were getting a mite chilly in the car on the way here. You don’t have a spare blanket do you?’

  Snow laughed. ‘I’m sure we can dredge up something.’

  Brigadier Reginald Albert Hensley ACM, AO, OBE looked as angry as forty-bastards. ‘Why don’t you help track that down, and unload your kit from the car,’ he said coldly. ‘While Mr Snow and I have lunch.’

  So he wasn’t just a Hunkerer. He was a cunt too; bloody scrambled eggs and all.

  Me?

  I’m the fool.

  * * *

  Dick waved merrily as the Brigadier drove off. The three guards on the gate already had it open and the car swerved unsteadily through. The escort vehicle tracked close behind, an old Chrysler previously owned for a short period by the Australian Minister of Telecommunications but now contained two armed men who answered solely to Dick. It’d be a miracle if the old shit even made it back to Duntroon in one piece, after the amount of brandy he’d swilled. The headlights were visible for another twenty seconds, then gone. Dick felt a warm, satisfied glow despite the damp, sulphurous air. Today had unfolded extraordinarily well. He’d purchased the Australian army for the price of a meal and a blanket. It hadn’t been hard to find the PM’s signature in her room, and simply forge it. He found that if you sat down for couple of hours with a few memos signed by hers truly, and a bunch of pens, you could get it pretty darn close. Sheng helped, and the Hyatt had no shortage of pens. This was a big step-up for Hensley anyway, and as soon as he heard he’d be in overall control of all the police and “what-have-you” he was in like Flynn.

  A weak light flared in the tin shack on the front lawn, then two seconds later disappeared. This reminded him of a job undone: he needed to speak with those Kiwi yokels.

  Dick was thrilled. This little enclave could be all that’s left! Outstanding! He strode confidently away from the Kiwi’s shack, back towards the hotel. A light burnt on the veranda so no need for a torch, and besides, he wanted it to appear as though he were storming out of the night at the three men waiting around the front door. Keep them on their toes. All told, there were more than fifty now, who he could count on: mostly men, and a few determined women, scattered in various rooms around the Hyatt. Team Dick. From here it was only a matter of attracting the key elements: those of a certain . . . character, and disposition, then start from scratch. It wouldn’t include those kiwi hillbillies either.

  He quietly opened the door to room 235. Bob stood on a chair with his ear pressed to the wall, one good eye watching the door as Dick entered. The pale, creepy man dismounted without a word, and they went to the side door which joined this room to 233. Normally the hotel kept the side-doors locked, creating separate suites, unless some rich fuck decided he wanted space from the rug rats and paid-up to shovel them in the adjoining room. These days Mr Bob ran the Hyatt’s side-door policy, and he decreed this one be left unlocked. They entered Bob’s room.

  Bob! You really have let things go. A soiled sleeping bag lay on the bed. In the distant past, the bag would’ve been patterned in cheerful, purple-on-white circles and squares, but now displayed only a mosaic of grays and rusty-colored, suspicious smears. No pillow or sheets or blankets. Next to the bed stood an upended wooden crate, and sitting on this, where one might normally have an alarm clock, he’d placed a butchers cleaver and rectangular grit-stone. In the corner nearest the window lay Stefan Milosevic, managing partner of prominent Canberra legal firm Mellon, Milosevic and Enright. He was trussed up on the carpet like a Christmas turkey. Except for the tape that is: you won’t usually find packing tape wrapped around your turkey’s mouth, or beak, as the case may be. However the eyes were spot on: Stefan Milosevic’s eyes bulged exactly like a Chrissy turkey.

  Bob closed the joining door. No friendly greeting or banter or idle chitchat. ‘Da Dago and the girl’th are th’till playing cardth. Haven’t thaid nuffin. Was gabbling away wid dat udder fag waiter yethterday, but today, nuffin.’

  The girls and the Griffith councilor had been playing cards since the lights came on, before his meeting with the Brigadier and the Captain. ‘You know where they put that army fellow who’s staying here?’ He had a feeling Hensley might be struggling to keep his head above water just like everybody else, so keeping tabs on the army was imperative.

  ‘Told dem down da end of thith corrwidor thumwhere, but don’t know exthactly width one day put dim in.’ Bob sat on the bed within easy reach of the crate. The puffiness on the side of his face seemed to be tightening, which may explain why his lisp sounded worse than usual, although directly around the stabbed eye itself appeared less infected, and no longer suppurated. He picked up the cleaver. ‘Can I burn dat wubbish pile out da back? I tink da dwarth might be hiding thumwhere wound it.’

  Dick leant against the wall, looking down at Milosevic. ‘Why can’t you shoot him?’

  ‘I twied. Mithed. He’th a cunning widdle thit.’

  It occurred to Dick that a fire risked setting the hotel alight. ‘You be careful you don’t burn the whole place down.’ Sometimes Bob could be a terribly naughty boy.

  The hog-tied Stefan Milosevic groaned. On the carpet next to Milosevic a bloodstain took up at least 20% of the rooms total floor space. About the size of a kiddies paddling pool. Stefan himself was unhurt, more or less. He could undoubtedly claim some mental anguish, but right at the moment his main concern would be what Bob up to.

  Zzzzzssssshhhht! Zzzzzssssshhhht! Zzzzzssssshhhht! Bob pushed the blade across the stone; down, then back; down, then back; down, then back; down then back.

  Bob only had one hobby. When he wasn’t out hurting people, he’d sharpen his knives and get ready to go out and . . . go, run gory dog, run!

  The paddling-pool puddle had that thick, oily sheen arterial blood gets when it’s had a few hours to congeal, and the carpet had soaked up as much as it could take, so a dense, tangy, coppery odor hung in the air.

  If the dwarf remained out there, maybe he should move the twins again?

  Zzzzzssssshhhht! ‘Don’t wowee, I’ll wait till da windth b’wowing wight. Da pile damp dough, tho I’ll need thum petwool to get it th’tarted.’

  Dick couldn’t stand the dwarf, however was reluctant to part with any of his precious fuel supply simply to set the idiot alight. That’s what made him a truly great leader: always willing to put strategic necessities before entertainment. He paused, on the verge of suggesting Bob try starting it with torn-up books from the hotel, when an idea gushed forth. ‘Get the petrol from that truck parked out front of the gates.’

  ‘Twuck?’

  ‘Yes, you know, that old blue pickup? Bring it in first. It belongs to the bitch from the station. I’ve been meaning to do that for a while.’

  Another job done; he was on a roll. Dick looked at Stefan Milosevic’s taped up face once more, then walked across to the lawyer and bent down, getting quite close so he could stare right into his eyes. Tiny puffs of cold air shot from Milosevic’s nose at a quicker and quicker rate. Only a true connoisseur tapes up a live bird’s mouth like that, before sending it ovenside. Dick reached out and pressed his index finger against one nostril, so the puffs coming out the other nostril doubled in pace, and then some. Despite the cold air, sweat poured down the lawyer’s forehead.

  Most think the tape is to stop the incessant gobbling, but that’s not the reason at all.

  Zzzzzssssshhhht!

  It’s so every bit of expression comes out through those eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Hand Crank

  Āmiria was scared of what her father might say about a trade she’d just made. Now it didn’t seem such a good deal after all, although when she saw what the Hat returned with, her spirits lifted. Surely m
ine can’t be as useless as his!?

  They’d all been sent on a thirty-minute, emergency supply-gathering mission around the gymnasium. The air stank, and according to Lord Brown, one hundred and thirty-nine people were crammed in. Every time they opened the door, those nearest got too cold and started whinging so they had to close it again.

  The Hat returned with two pornographic magazines and a tennis racket so she decided to press ahead and tentatively opened the rucksack. Her father peered inside.

  ‘I swapped all our food for three hand grenades.’ She shook the bag slightly and it emitted a soft, metallic clunk which made her father jump back a step. ‘It’s okay. They work, but you have to pull that ring bit on the top first. The fūlla showed me how to use them, promise.’

  The instruction to gather supplies had gone out after a rumor was officially confirmed: at one minute past midnight tomorrow, the Masons were going to hang a man for looting. Just string him up, from a power pole at the main intersection in the middle of Tamworth. Lord Brown thought this an excellent sign.

  Sgt Kevin told them about the hanging when he arrived to collect Tim. The sun didn’t even vaguely appear today, and it felt colder. Some of the older people were saying what they thought was the sun two days ago had just been the reflection of distant fires, but Āmiria knew this wasn’t the case; it had been the sun, she was sure of it.

  The sergeant pulled his coat tighter and stamped his feet briskly on the wooden floor, trying to warm up. He’d spoken with the Mason on the way in but weaved his way over alone, the Mason remaining on the tower, reading. Her father waved a hand over his bedroll indicating they sit. Hemi picked up the lantern for this particular corner of the gym from its designated spot five meters away, which he wasn’t supposed to do, and moved it to the narrow walkway running alongside Āmiria’s bedroll. Sgt Kevin, her father, Lord Brown and the Hat sat. Āmiria squeezed in close behind her father, with Tim on one side, and Tamati, Hemi and Geoff on the other.