The Worm King (25 page)

After a short doubled-over dash he
discovered the mound was indeed a disused rock garden, although the structure wasn’t
a tent at all. It’d been constructed of corrugated iron. A women inside spoke in
a hushed, barely audible voice.
Bang!
She stopped. The men at the gate laughed
but the shack now blocked Winston’s view so he couldn’t see what was going on. The
shot sounded significantly louder than from around the back of the hotel. Winston
pressed himself down into the muck and slithered from the edge of rock garden,
getting as near as he dared to the wall of the shack.

‘Come on, keep going, she’ll be right,’ said
a man inside with a strong Kiwi accent.

The woman spoke again, also a Kiwi. ‘So
Little Red Riding Hood finished the plate of fush and chips, and went into the
bears bedroom to take a—’

‘No! The bears might get her mummy!’ The
girl sounded scared, even Winston with his limited knowledge of kid-rearing could
tell that.

‘It’s okay, they don’t. Red Riding Hood is
taking a nap and—’

The male voice broke back in, then a second
male replied. The two conversations jumbled together and it became difficult to
tell what was what. It didn’t matter anyway, he’d heard enough. These people weren’t
part of the guards, he was fairly confident of that. At a pinch, if he really
needed help, they might be his best bet.

He began to work his way back to the Fort.

Time to rustle up dinner. Yesterdays food
poisoning had passed and he was ravenous. A fat, juicy sirloin with a mountain
of shoestring fries and big dollops of tomato sauce, that’s what he’ll have. Whenever
Winston got crook from a hangover, as he came right he always had this craving
for steak. It must be some complicated thing to do with the protein, and the
body being leached out by liters of lager, but then why the chips and tomato
sauce? Metabolism is a strange thing. He lay in the bunker entrance wrapped in a
square of shredded canvas and wearing the filthy smock stuffed with newspaper
over jeans, his torn polo-neck sweatshirt, two cotton T-shirts, two pairs of polyester
socks and a pair of cheap running shoes. It seemed unlikely he’d stumble across
a plate of steak and fries around here, but it never hurt to let the fantasy
run a little longer. In a way, dreaming about food is quenching in itself but
as soon as you stop, and reality settles in, you realize you’re even hungrier
than before and it all becomes self-defeating. Reality slaps you back every
time.

One more job to do before dinner. No sense
bringing food in, if it attracts that rat again, so find a weapon, then dinner.
He reluctantly peeled off the canvas, shivering as the cold air cut through the
cotton and newspaper, scouring his warm skin. A weak light shone from a small window
beside the back door of the hotel, providing enough illumination to almost
read, if you had a book, and the inclination, of which he had neither. Winston
scurried around in the rubbish. It didn’t take long to ascertain there wasn’t
anything weapon-like on the hotel side, although the search proved useful because
he found a quarter-loaf of extremely stale bread jutting from a ripped bag. The
rats had obviously had a crack, but he wasn’t feeling too fussy. He stuffed the
bread under his smock amongst the newspaper then worked his way around the
other side of the pile, the darker side.
What’s this?
His fingers ran along
a rough strip of wood; he tugged, freeing it from the rubbish. A partially
broken packing crate. That might do. He crawled a few paces back to where the
light was better, dragging it along. Then he put both feet inside to push,
while pulling the broken plank on the opposite side. He thought it would snap,
but instead it gave a loud squeak and the plank simply bent around. He levered
it back and forth several times until it wrenched free. Holding it up to the
light, two large spikes stuck out at one end. Brilliant, the nails had stayed
in. He touched the ends lightly and they didn’t budge, rusted firmly in place.

Without warning the back door of the hotel
opened and an explosion of light flooded out. Winston threw himself into a
crack between the bags, and froze.

‘How much you got left?’ a man said

‘Only enough for a couple,’ replied another.

Winston hoped they’d stay close to the door,
but they didn’t, walking a dozen paces and stopping barely four meters from
him. He lay only a meter from where the bolt-hole emerged, but making for that
was bound to attract their attention.

A lighter sparked up. One man was older,
with a handlebar moustache, while the other younger, perhaps early twenties. Both
wore kitchen aprons. The lighter went out, leaving only the orange glow of a
cigarette and moustache sucking greedily at the other end.

‘Christ, that’s good.’ The orange glow
darted down and across, then up to the second man’s face. As the younger man sucked
at the fag, he looked back over his shoulder at the open door.

‘Want me to close that?’

‘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

C
aptain 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 notif
n

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.’

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.