The Worm King (3 page)

‘Tried mine while you were in the truck,’ replied
Astrid. ‘No signal either.’

Winston’s mobile felt like a hunk of lead in
his back pocket but he knew it had to come out eventually. The last thing he
needed was for sole communication to rest on his scungy phone. Three weeks ago
it’d sat in a puddle of beer at the pub long enough to ensure the ‘five’ in the
middle of the keyboard now seldom worked. Hopefully Astrid and Dick didn’t want
to speak to anyone with fives in their number.

He drew it out, scrolled down to the number
for his flat then pushed dial. Nothing. Not a sound. Dead as doornail. Phew! Winston
tried to put on a perplexed frown but it didn’t feel convincing.

‘You mind if I go for a minute?’ begged Malisovich.

Astrid nodded. ‘I think we’re all finished up
here. Thanks for your help Mr Malisovich, hope it wasn’t too painful.’ He
immediately began toddling off in the direction of the visitor centre. ‘You
have a lovely night,’ she called after him.

Dick took one of the torches from the
cameraman, opened the rear door and stormed inside.

‘Hey, Mr Malisovich?’ Astrid shouted because
he was already well out of sight. Only then it occurred to Winston that the old
bloke must be hobbling his way to the visitor centre by feel.

A faint reply came back.

‘Can we try your phone?’ she shouted.

Winston didn’t hear an answer but she took
the second torch from the cameraman and scurried off in the direction of the
visitor centre anyway.

Rain drummed relentlessly on the roof of the
truck. The umbrella was barely adequate to hold the downpour at bay and his
pants were soaked. The two channel six men packed up the camera. There didn’t
seem any point walking back to the train station because if the power was out, the
trains would be as well. He still needed to get that form signed too.

Now it felt like the sort of place Tarzan
would avoid like the plague.

One of the cameramen told the three girl
guides to wait in the front cab but said nothing to Winston. The girls must be scoring
a lift back in the truck, not that they deserved it. Getting chauffeured all
this way just to open their gobs and stare at the camera! He hoped he’d be able
to bludge a lift back to Sydney too.

Astrid was taking a while?

They eventually got the camera stowed although
the men clearly weren’t keen on waiting in the truck with Dick. The spotlight was
moved nearer the truck’s rear door. A cable ran from the light to a yellow
plastic box that Winston presumed was a battery. The box sat on the asphalt
next to an open compartment on the side of the truck, with the compartments folded-up
lid giving the battery shelter from the worst of the rain.

‘That’s the lot.’

‘Shall we pack this too?’ The second
cameraman pointed at the yellow box.

‘No. Let’s wait till . . . hang
on, is that her now?’

In the direction of the visitor centre a
light appeared. It bobbed around for a minute then a car door slammed and the
light disappeared. Winston’s arm was getting tired so he changed umbrella
hands. The light reappeared, the car door slammed again and the light made its
way towards them.

‘No luck with the phone,’ said Astrid. ‘And
his car won’t start.’ She shone her torch momentarily on Mr Malisovich, who no
longer jiggled but a worried frown creased his wrinkled features. ‘Paul, did
you try the truck?’

‘Yes. No. Just a minute . . . ’
The cameraman vanished around the side of the vehicle. Winston heard the
driver’s door open then a few seconds later the faint, ugly repeated click of a
key being turned on a lifeless engine.

Astrid checked her car, a crème, late-model
Toyota parked twenty meters from the truck. It wouldn’t start either.

‘Must be that power grid thing,’ growled
Dick. The cameramen both turned in surprise. ‘You should’ve realized that when the
lights inside wouldn’t work,’ he told them accusingly.

‘How about we all wait in the visitor centre
until it comes back on? Astrid suggested. ‘Would that be alright with you Mr Malisovich?
Probably something to do with the rain and hopefully won’t be too long.’ Dick
looked doubtful.

Mr Malisovich seemed almost chuffed that his
shop was designated as the new headquarters. Paul turned off the spotlight, packed
it up then stacked it, and the battery, in the side-hatch compartment.

By torchlight they trudged up the hill towards
the visitor centre.

Chapter Five

Wobbles

W
inston had already been in the double storey, Mediterranean-style brick
building twice before.

The first time was eighteen months ago with some
girl . . . Bridget? Anyway, to buy an overpriced ice cream
on a one day excursion out of Sydney. Orange chocolate chip. She’d worn a rusty
polka dot dress and it soon became apparent the flavor was selected to go with her
outfit as opposed to any taste considerations.

‘This ice cream tastes like cough medicine.’

‘Want to go back and get another?’

‘No, I like this one,’ she’d replied with
the cone seductively all but jammed down the front of her low cut top (which he
was thankfully just tall enough to see into) while reddish-brown hair spilt stylishly
over her tanned shoulders. She carried it around, more or less uneaten, until
it’d dripped all over her hand.

The second time had been when he went back
in to get a tissue. The fat European women with the bushy moustache who’d sold
them the ice cream looked down at him and pointed to the super-large packs of
pre-moistened, biodegradable, organic towelletes on the shelf. They cost nearly
triple the ice cream.

At tourist spots like this, they really knew
how to take you apart.

‘Your wife work with you here too, Mr Malisovich?’
Winston asked the old bloke who was sitting on a plastic chair beside the door.
Maybe he thought everyone was going to try and bolt without paying for the
snacks they’re nibbling on. Which Winston fully intended to do. It wouldn’t be
a bolt, more a saunter. Revenge served ice cream cold.

‘My wife passed away last year,’ he said quietly.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Astrid who was cross-legged
on the floor next to him.

Winston felt about as tall as he looked.

Dick Snow and the three girl guides were sitting
in the middle of the shop floor around a battery operated lantern. One of the
twins was playing with a box of little penlight torches Malisovich had given her
to hand out to everyone. She’d passed them round but there were still five or
six left and she was trying to stand them end on end.

Paul and the second cameraman (aptly named
Peter) reclined in the corner opposite the door. Both were tall, pale men wearing
similar poloneck jerseys and new sneakers of an obviously expensive variety. Their
Channel Six raincoats were laid neatly on the floor alongside.

‘Those fūlla’s homos?’ the Māori asked
Dick.

His deep chuckle cuts across the drumming of
the rain. ‘On television, we say “homo-sexual.”’ He’d cleaved the word neatly in
two, leaning into the girl’s circle and lowering his voice as though sharing some
conspiracy. ‘Our lawyers don’t like us using those other words. It really pisses
the homo’s off.’

‘Dick!’ exclaimed Astrid. ‘That’s their
business dear. Anyway, I think Paul’s got a girlfriend, don’t you Paul?’ Paul rested
against the wall with his eyes closed, doing his best to ignore the
conversation.

‘Yeah, Dick’s mum. Goes like a train,’ he replied
without opening an eye.

‘Paul! Jesus. These kids don’t want to hear
that.’

‘I do,’ insisted the Māori. The twins
nodded agreement. ‘My granddad lives in Ngaruawahia and he once cut a homo’s doodle
off.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t do that,’ said Astrid looking
as unsure as anyone could be. ‘Shall we play a game? Who knows
I Spy
?’

The Māori wasted no time: ‘I spy, with
my little eye, something beginning with . . .  “C”.’ She smirked
at Winston and he didn’t like the way this was unfolding.

‘Visitor centre,’ called one of the twins.

Astrid appeared relieved. ‘Well, that’s got
a “C” in part of it . . . ’

‘Cameraman,’ said Paul, unable to resist.

‘Cannibal,’ suggested Winston.

‘What’s that?’ Astrid asked.

One of the twins said, ‘Isn’t it a person
who likes—’

‘No, I mean what’s that . . . ’

But they could all feel it now. The floor
was shaking. Seconds later, the whole bloody building began collapsing around
them.

The ground sprung violently back and forth
as though some massive fist below the crust grasped the earth, jerking it first
one way, then another. Lights jumped and spun as torches fell, skidding over
the floor. Winston’s backside bounced on the lino so he stretched his arms out for
stability. He looked up and it seemed much darker than before then something
fluttered past his face. Grit falling from somewhere forced him to shut his
eyes. A larger object whisked past, nicking the side of his cheek and he immediately
pulled his arms back in. An intense rumbling from deep below jumbled with the
sound of steel girders wrenching themselves apart, timber beams cracking and
popping and glass shattering then a dull bang alarmingly like an explosion.

Someone began screaming. Not a girl’s scream,
Winston knew it was definitely a man. A girl might’ve been easy; you’d almost expect
some
degree of crying. You’d just give them a big hug and ten minutes of
consoling words which would’ve done . . . well, probably
nothing, but a man only screams like that when something’s been torn off or squashed
real bad. The dreadful sound thankfully stopped as suddenly as it started.

The building shook again, grinding, as the
pile settled.

His upper body lay underneath a heavy weight.
He couldn’t tell what it was but it didn’t feel painful, more a squeezing
sensation. His legs tingled.

Thumpity-thump! Thumpity-thump! Thumpity-thump!
It can’t be normal for a heart to pound like that? A cold flush swept
through him and he opened his eyes only to have them refill with dust. The
tingling moved higher. Another shake jostled the pile and the weight on his
chest intensified. Rain pattered against his forehead. Rain? That can’t be
right . . . ? Unless—

He passed out.

A light pierced the edge of Winston’s vision
but he was too busy swimming so ignored it. In his mind he was doing a
comfortable, lazy freestyle down the middle of a tepid, blue pool. The black
lines marking the lanes were jumping back and forth, which was odd, because usually
they tracked along with gentle predictability. He rolled onto his back so he couldn’t
see the pesky lines but backstroke always made him take in water and he began
choking. Each time he coughed he took in more water which made him cough more.

‘Winston! You all right?’ Astrid’s voice forced
its way in through the fog. His mouth felt full of a gluggy mix of dust and
water. For some odd reason it occurred to him that people who eat a lot of
wallpaper paste must feel like this all the time. ‘You hurt anywhere?’

‘I . . . where did that . . . no,
think I’m all here.’

‘Grab the end of that board, will you,’ she panted
to the Māori who held the lantern directly above his face. They dragged a
wide, thin plank off his chest, then a couple of bricks and a strip of wall gibb.
Another smaller tremor shook the heap.

‘We better get out of here,’ said Dick from
the darkness beyond the lantern.

One of the twins began crying. Astrid turned
to them. ‘See if you can get outside darling. Take your sister too.’

Winston was fairly certain they were outside
already so he wondered what she was talking about. He felt slightly unlucky to
have been flattened like this when everyone else appeared to have come through
without a scratch, then he remembered the screaming. Astrid must’ve had the same
thought. ‘Peter, Paul?’ she called. A moan rose from nearby and the Māori lifted
her lantern. Most of the roof on the far side had completely collapsed but a massive
girder remained upright on this side. The light disappeared as the girl
scrambled away.

‘They’re over here,’ she called.

Winston sat up. He felt surprisingly good
and could just make out Astrid’s outline with Dick standing behind. Two smaller
humps that must be the twins were on either side of Dick. ‘They don’t look so
good,’ said the Māori, her voice noticeably more high-pitched. ‘What
should I do?’

‘Wait there, we’re coming over,’ called
Astrid. Winston struggled to his feet and followed.

A heavy wooden desk from the floor above had
dropped on Peter’s head. The edge of it had torn a gaping hole in his forehead
and a mushy lump of brains was exposed. His eyes and mouth were wide open and his
head tilted back at a disturbing angle. Winston had never seen brains before but
felt pretty sure what sat in that hole was not usually meant to be showing.

Paul didn’t look much better, but at least
was alive. He lay on the other side of the smashed desk, moaning, eyes closed
and propped against a piece of masonry. A coil of grey, eel-like guts poked out
a jagged tear across his stomach. He cradled it, trying to nudge it back in. A
small amount of blood seeped from either side of the wound but less than
Winston might’ve expected.

The Māori was right, they didn’t look
so good.

‘What’s your name sweetheart?’

‘Āmiria.’

‘Hold that light a bit closer Āmiria.’ Paul’s
torso jumped into sharp focus. ‘Spot on. Right. Should be OK. Riiiihhht. You can
move that back now.’

Winston felt like dry heaving. He’d never
seen anything that awful.

The ground jolted again and the brickwork
Paul leant on shifted. His eyes snapped open and his mouth stretched into a
scream which turned into a gurgle then the lids fluttered back down. They had
to get him outside.

‘Hey Astrid, can you take Āmiria and
the twins out? Dick and I’ll bring Paul. Where’s the old bloke?’

‘Got some glass cuts and went out. Think
he’s alright. He said he’d wait by the truck.’

Winston sat with Paul for a few minutes,
brushing his hair back from his face and telling him they had to lift him; really,
really had to, and it shouldn’t hurt much, and wouldn’t take long. But when
they picked him up he screamed, and each of them held penlights in their mouths
and it was hard to see, and raining, so Dick stumbled and dropped him hard. They
picked him up again and moved on. When they eventually laid him down by the
satellite truck he was dead.