The Worm King Read online

  The second, more pessimistic group, comprising around a hundred people, thought quite differently. In their view this was merely a plateau in the encircling horror of a global apocalypse; what’s more, many spoke of some evil presence outside they could physically feel. You’d think they’d been made infants again: taken back to that point when their nitelite is first removed and the child starts thinking about Boogiemen in the closet, or under the bed. Boogiemen only come out in the dark, and they never sleep, so you know they’ll get you eventually.

  In the last 24 hours, Zelda had progressively slipped from group one to group two. Of all the folk in this hideous enclosure, Āmiria and her father seemed least likely to drift into the second group. Both had spirit and determination in spades. Only once had he seen the girl show a flash of fear, but at the time Lord Brown had a notion this might’ve been related to some event in her past, rather than the current maelstrom.

  Apart from the constant coughing and wheezing it sounded quieter now in the gym than it’d been for several hours. Whenever Lord Brown slept or rested alone for any period, he would wrap a damp rag around his mouth to avoid breathing in the drifting sediment. They had no spare water to wet rags so he used urine. You got used to the taste after a while, although by putting the wet strip between two dry pieces, you hardly noticed it. He’d tried to convince others to do the same but few had taken it up, foolishly, he thought, because each time he moved the rag it left a dirty black circle where his mouth had been, so he knew it was working.

  Wiremu, the Hat, David and the others ort to be back in twenty minutes. They were down the road gutting the inside of a supermarket. The idea was to construct a larger, open indoor space akin to the gym where people could come if they’d completely run out of food or water. However dismantling the shelves and taking out all those fiddly stands and fittings supermarkets have had proved considerably more difficult than expected, given the lack of light and electrical cutting equipment. Just carrying each chunky section of steel shelving outside to dump in the car park was a mission in itself, and cold, numb fingers didn’t help.

  Apparently when they first started sending out workers three weeks ago, it’d been in more frequent, smaller groups of four or five, with a single lantern. Initially this worked well because you could have four carrying the heavy pieces and one holding the lantern. Then one lot broke their light and tried to wander back blind, getting completely lost and ending up on the outskirts of Tamworth jibbering senselessly before being found. The very next day, a group of four disappeared altogether. This group still hasn’t been found, and no one has any idea what happened. According to the Mason, they must’ve come upon a house with plenty of food and a decent water tank and just decided to sit it out. Lord Brown doubted this: the three days he’d spent “waiting it out” in Dubbo were enough to last a lifetime. He recalled how voyagers in days of old, when stranded on isolated islands, no matter how lush, invariably resorted to building a raft and attempting to flee. It was simply human nature to try and rejoin the clan, and he’d been told two of the lost four had family in the gym, so no way would they’ve sat it out for two weeks. Maybe they’re still wandering around out there, arms outstretched, groping their way to a slow death? After this, the workers went in groups of seven or eight and carried two lanterns, although the spare was supposed to be used only in life or death situations.

  The dynamic of the gym changed subtly for the better each time a work party returned safe and sound. You’d think the men had just done a night mission over Nazi Berlin, yet they’d merely been a short walk down the road doing semi-strenuous manual labor. In the normal course of events it’d be a walk in the park, almost literally, because a public reserve and one block of houses lay between the supermarket and gym. But if that lantern they carried happened to go out, and for some reason the spare wouldn’t work, they’d be marooned out there in the dark; up to their britches in Boogiemen . . .

  ‘Are you really a Lord?’ asked Zelda, interrupting his contemplation.

  ‘What’s that? Why yes, of course. Well, strictly speaking it’s Professor Lord Brown.’

  ‘Wow. Impressive. You mean with real students and everything?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And you’re a lord of . . . ’

  ‘After the education department began giving funds to schools teaching creationism, I started my own religion. I’m lord of that.’

  ‘Your own . . . religion?’

  ‘That’s correct. It was partly in protest at the absurdity of creationism, and partly as a class exercise. Seemed a nice way of killing two birds with the one stone, so to speak. We decided to call it the Church of the Brown because it’s an inoffensive, run-of-the-mill, semi-warm color: like most people. An obvious choice if one’s trying to grab the biggest slice of the market, which all religions aim to do, in reality.’

  ‘So is Brown your real name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it?

  ‘Krunkle. Norm Krunkle. It’s Austro-Hungarian in derivation, although my family’s been out here since the early 1800s. The problem was, we didn’t think “Lord Krunkle” had the same friendly overtones. It’s slightly on the . . . ominous side. Professor Norman Krunkle, that worked fine; but for a religion, no. And we would’ve been abbreviated to “Krunks”, when it really took off anyway.’

  ‘Did it?’ Zelda asked disbelievingly.

  ‘Oh yes. We had meetings: chapel we called them, even Brown Police to oversee things and keep some semblance of order. Our head priest is the Holy Nugget and our sacred food ended up being the prawn cutlet. The vast majority of funding we received went towards purchasing crumbed prawn cutlets and beer, and the university said that was one step too far. I said my religion didn’t recognize their steppage system, and it’s been at that stalemate ever since. The followers refer to this as the Great Steppey Schism of the Mid-Brown epoch.’

  ‘How come I’ve never heard about any of this?’

  ‘I believe the Chancellor’s exact words were, “If it gets out the university’s spent this much on fucking prawn cutlets, my arse is cactus”. So I’m effectively still on the payroll.’

  The work party for once returned spot on time. A bracing tongue of wind swirled in the open door with them and those nearest the entrance dug deeper into sleeping bags, or pulled blankets tighter around their emaciated bodies. The eight weary men filed in and the Mason dismounted to consult. One of the Mason’s cronies sauntered over to join the conversation, not with anything useful to contribute, more because he’d look like a big swinger in the eyes of the watching crowd. Laughter erupted from the group, and the atmosphere in the gym perked. A hundred and forty-two? Lord Brown cocked his head, listening carefully. ‘Nine to fourteen percent.’ He frowned.

  ‘What’s nine to fourteen percent?’ Āmiria asked.

  ‘The murmur ratio. It’s nine to fourteen.’ The girl looked blank. ‘There are a hundred and forty-two people in here, right?’

  She glanced around. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘If between thirteen and twenty of that hundred and forty-two look up at more or less the same time, and say something like, “oh, they’re back!” or “good, they made it!” then it creates a positive murmur, and others will hear it and they’ll look up too, adding to the signal and producing your classic rolling murmur, or CRM. Anything less than fifteen percent in the CRM ratio is generally considered dismal.’

  After several minutes discussion the eight returnees began filing down the side of the gym towards the “dining room”. Wiremu waved to his daughter and gave a thumbs-up, then joined the end of the food line, so all was obviously well. The girl waved back enthusiastically. The murmur cascaded away, grinding to a stagnant halt before resurrecting and reforming itself, just for a moment, into a low grumble. A rise in the grumble ratio is seldom good news. Still, only to be expected: very few people enjoy seeing others gutsing down food while they themselves remain famished, even if those currently eating have been busting their bac
ksides stripping a supermarket while the ones in here have done little more than stare at the roof. No, that wasn’t quite true; not everyone: the girl for instance, always seemed to keep herself busy one way or another.

  Lord Brown watched, trying to work out what she was up to. She’d folded a sheet of newspaper multiple times and now pressed the edges down firmly. Then with a kitchen knife she sliced out five squares, each with a side of approximately 7cm. After a quick glance around, took from her pocket a handful of dried grass and crushed twigs, which she divided into five little piles, and began rolling the concoction into each paper square. Fake cigarettes, clearly designed to take in some poor wretch in the midst of nicotine withdrawals, desperate to trade anything for one final, sweet puff. They looked of such poor quality he’d be surprised if anyone actually fell for it, and was inclined to suggest improvements, but at the last moment held his tongue. Let her find her own way. Learning through mistakes granted the most supreme of wisdoms; far more precious than any tit-bit he could pass on.

  In the dining area, Wiremu and his team spooned down their meager rations. All eating now had to be done in one corner of the gym that’d been cleared of bedrolls, where a double trestle-table was erected to serve up the nosh. They’d sectioned off this area with six elaborate, waist-high brass poles on stands, each joined to the next by a red velvet-wrapped chain. It gave the impression one were lining-up to enter the Academy Awards, rather than getting served slops in a bowl. Upon receiving the food, diners sat on the floor tightly bunched around, and sometimes under, the tables, and ate as quickly as possible.

  Yesterday the surly fellow ladling out the gluggy rice and single, mushy canned sardine, said harshly to Lord Brown, ‘Hurry up, damn you! Take it and eat it, pronto!’ Surly sported a luxurious carpet of dandruff across both shoulders, which the crème-tinted table lantern displayed beautifully. It could almost have been sand, sparkling on a moonlit beach. Lord Brown wondered whether much ended up in the rice: it’d be extremely hard to tell. Maybe that’s why he got the position in the first place? Perhaps that’s all Surly could do? It wasn’t hard to imagine: the foreman would’ve seen the applicants, and immediately shouted, ‘Whoa there, Sprinkles! You’re perfect. Hey, put this one on the rice line! Outta the way; Ricey coming through!’

  ‘Thanks Ricey,’ he said, when the dollop plopped into his bowl. Surly looked terribly dark, even for Surly. Chances are, he’d been called Ricey or Surly before. The entire gym had to eat in staggered intervals up at the trestle tables following several unsolved cutlery-throwing incidents.

  The diners were finishing up, the Hat and Geoff already making their way back along the wavy path between bedrolls. He thought the girl would be relieved, knowing her father had returned safely. ‘You’ll be pleas—’

  But she’d vanished. He hadn’t seen her leave, however looked around in time to see her head disappearing into the changing room at the other end of the gym. The dog was tied to the changing room doorhandle. Before Wiremu left, he’d told her to get that toilet sorted before he got back, or they’d never hear the end of it from the bloody Mason. She certainly knew how to cut it finely, leaving the distasteful job right till the last minute, but still doing as instructed. Wiremu wasn’t a man you ignored lightly.

  The Hat plonked himself down, then Geoff. Neither spoke, both coated from head to foot in filth and grime, although no one in this grubby enclosure could be called clean to any real degree, so the pair didn’t stick out especially. Wiremu dumped his bowl and spoon in the washing tub at the end of the trestle table and began making his way over too. Lord Brown turned to the other end of the gym, just as the girl reappeared then untied the dog, and leant against the wall beside the changing room, crouching down and putting her arms around the animal. It occurred to him a cleaning job done that quickly was unlikely to appease her father, or the Mason—

  BOOOMPfffh!! A discernable shudder ran through the floorboards and the dull crump of an explosion rattled the gym. People stared around: bug-eyed, cringing, and unsure what new calamity had overtaken them. The majority focused on the changing room end, where the sound appeared to emanate. The dog began barking and the girl grabbed it’s muzzle. Her left hand reached up and opened the changing room door. A thick waft of smoke poured forth and she immediately shut it.

  ‘What the hell was that!’ some frightened voice gasped nearby. Others scrambled to their feet, preparing to bolt in case the whole building came down. One fellow stood near the main door by the Mason’s tower, yelling frantically and pointing a tennis racquet in the direction of the changing room. Wiremu raced towards the source of the blast, ducking and weaving between the throng. For a brief, unsettling instant, there was so much upheaval, and it’d become such a tumultuous shambles, that Lord Brown couldn’t have told you within twenty heads exactly how many people were in that space. He stood on tiptoes and ran another tally. A hundred and forty-five? Who knew. In the seconds it took to recount, the girl and dog had disappeared and weren’t in the vicinity of the door, so must’ve reentered the changing room.

  Ken’s anxious face blocked his view. ‘What was it? What’ll we do?’ The Hat and Geoff had gone, already halfway to the changing room.

  Jerry appeared alongside, tugging Ken’s sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go see.’

  ‘No!’ ordered Lord Brown. ‘Wait. They’ll be alright for a minute, just wait here. We need to get back to first principles.’ Both men paused, puzzled. ‘We have to . . . yes, we have to find soap!’

  Confusion replaced Ken’s fear. ‘What? Find what?’

  ‘Soap. We urgently need soap.’

  Jerry reacted first. ‘I don’t have any. Used it all up. Why?’

  ‘Where can we get some then?’ No time for elaborations or explanations or any of the other complications. ‘Where? It’s critical!’

  Jerry pondered amidst the mayhem, pulling on his bushy moustache. ‘We might get some in there?’ He pointed at the changing room. ‘There’s showers in there.’ Wiremu, the Hat and a number of others had already entered, and the Mason was barely meters from the door.

  ‘Of course! Go! Go!’ Lord Brown needed one more item besides the soap. Supportive documentation. He went to the Hat’s vacant bedroll and lifted the edge. Yes! The original book of crazy first principles.

  Jerry and Ken stood watching the girl when Lord Brown walked in. She appeared to be coming out of shock, only just beginning to talk. The room felt cold; colder than the gym itself because the explosion had blown out the window above where the dunny used to be, and a damp wind now blustered through. The wooden walls of the cubicle were buckled outwards, pockmarked with holes and splattered in faeces. The door of the cubicle was completely off its hinges, flat on the floor near the shower stalls. Pieces of broken porcelain lay scattered about and a short, jagged section of pipe protruded from the floor at the back of the cubicle. The Mason held his lantern high, surveying the scene.

  The girl rubbed her eye with the heel of her palm, staring at the remains of the toilet, perplexed. ‘That pipe must’ve gone up! I thought I could smell gas. I was cleaning it, you know, like you wanted, and having a ciggie with the window open and there was this weird smell, so I left me smoke on that sill up there, and went out for a second. I didn’t want to put it out cos I only had one match. Must’ve been the gases, set it off.’

  The Mason gaped open-mouthed in disbelief at the cubicle walls, then turned to the girl’s father. ‘You let her smoke as well?’

  Wiremu gave his daughter a hard stare. ‘Sure. Why not.’

  She pulled a packet from her top pocket and nonchalantly flipped the lid with her thumb, then held it out to the Mason. ‘Sorry mate. You want one?’ He shook his head vehemently. Lord Brown was impressed. The cigarettes showed premeditation and cunning. Style too. He had no idea where she’d obtained the actual dynamite, or whatever it was she’d used to demolish the lavatory.

  The Mason held his lantern higher, studying the walls. ‘At least no one was hurt, I ’spose.�
�� He entered the cubicle.

  ‘Found a bit!’ shouted Ken from a shower stall on the other side of the room, but no one paid him any attention. An acrid, firecracker stink lingered which smelt nothing at all like methane gas. Rank, putrid water shimmered nearly ankle deep over parts of the concrete floor and soon everyone’s shoes were soaked.

  ‘Well, at least no one’s hurt,’ repeated the Mason lamely, his voice echoing and dull off the wet walls. They weren’t even using the room, so who really cared? He turned to leave the cubicle. Lord Brown fell to his knees in the doorway, clutching a book to his chest and blocking the Mason’s exit.

  ‘I think I be hurt, sir,’ he pleaded, eyes stretched wide and fearful at the Mason. ‘I think I be pox.’

  The Mason recognized the book, and the old man looked all too familiar. ‘What did you say?

  ‘I be pox!’ grimaced Lord Brown, louder, and holding out the book. ‘I be pox!’

  ‘I know you! You were going around yesterday asking everyone about “Boogiemen” weren’t you!? I had more than one complaint about that! And isn’t that my—’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Yellowy, pus-like foam bubbled freely from the corner of the old man’s mouth. He coughed, and bubbles shot from his nose straight at the Mason, who tried to backstep, tripped on a section of broken toilet and was forced to put his hand on the buckled wall to regain balance.