After the Lights Go Out

by Lili Wilkinson

  ‘Can it wait?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Clarita makes a frustrated noise and crosses the room. ‘His stomach is really sensitive,’ I tell her, playing dumb. ‘Like, really sensitive.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Spud says. ‘Really, I feel fine. Probably indigestion.’

  Clarita places both hands on his belly and presses, hard. He howls in pain.

  ‘Qué hostia,’ Clarita mutters. ‘He’s bleeding internally.’

  She whips the pillow out from under his head and sticks it under his feet, along with a second pillow she liberates from another patient. Then she uses her stethoscope to listen to Spud’s heart. His body convulses and a massive spray of bloody vomit gushes from his mouth, spraying Clarita with red foam. Spud’s eyes bulge out and a wet, gurgling sound emerges from his throat.

  ‘No no no no no no.’ Clarita puts her shoulder under him and turns him onto his side.

  Spud’s lips turn blue and his eyes roll back in his head.

  ‘He’s in hypovolaemic shock,’ Clarita says.

  ‘Tell us what to do.’ Mateo is beside me.

  Clarita presses her hands to Spud’s abdomen again. ‘No sé. I don’t know where the bleeding is coming from. He needs surgery, transfusions, cardiac monitoring – I don’t even know what blood type he is!’

  She gives him an injection of something to make his heart stronger, and continues to probe his belly, trying to locate the source of the bleeding. The other miners in the room are totally silent, watching as Spud’s skin turns grey and waxy.

  Eventually Clarita steps back from the bed. Her hands are shaking as she reaches for a towel to wipe the bloody, foamy vomit from her face and clothes.

  Spud is motionless, his eyes blank and empty.

  ‘You can’t save them all,’ Clarita says grimly, and I can see that she thinks she should have been able to.

  After we’ve moved Spud to the Black room and Clarita has changed her clothes, we gather in the canteen for a meeting of sorts – me, Mateo, Clarita, Keith, and the Green-tagged patients. Mateo and I go through the canteen and make sandwiches – the bread is only a bit stale, and there are plenty of spreads and fillings that haven’t gone bad yet. Second step in the BEWARE protocol – eat perishables.

  Keith tells everyone about the radio broadcast he heard, and Mateo explains what an EMP is. I tell them about what’s happening in Jubilee – as much as I know, anyway, and we discuss our next moves.

  ‘We’re stronger together,’ I say. ‘Jubilee has more resources – more food and supplies, plus running water and a septic system that’s still operational. We have to figure out a way to transfer everyone back to town, but the Holden has run out of petrol.’

  ‘The fuelling station here has a hand-operated pump for emergencies,’ says David Bratton.

  We start to formulate a plan. Two of the more able-bodied miners will set off in the morning down the road to where we left the Holden, pushing a wheeled dolly loaded with supplies and a large plastic drum of fuel. They’ll then drive the Holden to Hansbach, where we can load it up and return to Jubilee.

  ‘Some of my guys need a day or two before they’ll be stable enough to transport,’ says Clarita.

  ‘We’ll have to take several trips anyway,’ I reply. ‘The first load should be the ones who can fend for themselves or be looked after by family until you arrive and can set up a more permanent hospital.’

  ‘The fuel is unleaded, though,’ says Paul Hayes. ‘Will it work in George’s old Holden?’

  It will. In the short term, at least.

  David Bratton shrugs. ‘I guess we’re about to find out.’

  We make a list of which patients will get transported when, as well as a list of the vital supplies that we’ll take back to Jubilee. Keith and the Green miners work out a roster of who will do the driving.

  ‘You kids should go back in the first trip,’ says David Bratton.

  ‘But we can help here,’ says Mateo, and I nod.

  ‘You’re children.’ David’s voice is firm. ‘You need to go back to town.’

  Mateo bristles at the word children and opens his mouth to argue, but Clarita shoots him a stern look.

  ‘So we’re agreed?’ she asks.

  I nod and try to look like I think it’s a good plan.

  It is a good plan. It’s a sensible plan. It’s exactly the right plan.

  But it means we’re essentially giving up hope that there will be any more survivors.

  Clarita can sense my hesitation. ‘I’m leaving behind some of the emergency medical supplies,’ she says. ‘And some food. Just in case.’

  I nod. If Dad were here he’d say that Clarita was being sentimental. He’d take all the supplies.

  Only the living survive, he’d say.

  Dad was never sentimental. Last year we found out his brother had died. He didn’t go to the funeral, or even call his sister-in-law.

  What’s the point? Dad said. He’s already dead.

  Is that what he’d want me to do now? Should I forget him and move on?

  I head into the canteen to help Clarita and Keith pack up. We probably won’t be able to come back here once everyone’s cleared out, so it makes sense to take as much food back to Jubilee as we can manage. The kitchen is pretty well-stocked – lots of bulk tubs and tins. There’s a freezer full of slowly defrosting meat, vegetables and ice-cream, but there isn’t much point in taking any of that – it’ll spoil on the long hot drive back to town, and even if it didn’t there’s nowhere to store it when we get there.

  I stack giant tubs of peanut butter and Vegemite in a box. Keith holds up a big jar of Nutella.

  ‘Roxie loves this stuff,’ he says. ‘Can’t get enough of it. I can’t quite believe that I’ll never get to see her again.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I say.

  Keith smiles a sad sort of smile, and I wonder if he knows something I don’t.

  Clarita is rummaging through drawers, looking for pantry staples she can use in the clinic when we get back to Jubilee.

  ‘Goddamnit,’ she says, frowning at a drawer. She looks up and around, like she’s expecting to see someone. ‘Someone’s been in here,’ she explains. ‘Things are going missing.’

  My heart leaps into my throat. ‘What kind of things?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.

  ‘Really weird stuff,’ she says. ‘If it was potato chips and beer I’d put it down to one of the guys, but I swear there was a big box of bicarb soda here. And more vinegar. And dental floss – I mean, seriously, who is concerned about oral hygiene at a time like this?’

  It’s him. It has to be. Bicarb, vinegar and dental floss are classic prepper staples – you can use the bicarb as an antacid, as an additive to aid rehydration, to treat fungal infections, or to soothe bites, sunburn or aching feet. The vinegar is a disinfectant, deodoriser and all-purpose cleaner. And the dental floss can be used for fishing, starting fires, making snares and nooses, rigging shelters, affixing things to other things, as a knife for cutting food, and for occluding blood flow in the case of injury.

  He’s staying hidden because that’s what Dad does. And he doesn’t know I’m here. But I can let him know.

  I heft my box of breakfast supplies and carry it out to our makeshift loading bay, ready for the ute. Then I slip behind the site office, out the front gate and up a hill.

  One of the first things Dad taught us when we moved out here was how to leave each other secret messages.

  Find high ground, he said. Somewhere that can be easily seen, but discreetly accessed.

  I scramble up the hill, bending to pick up a few large, flat stones. At the top, I look out over the ragged remains of the mine, searching the ground for any sign of movement. Dark clouds hang heavy and threatening overhead, making everything look gloomy and dangerous.

  I find an open patch between two scraggly bushes. I squat down in the dusty earth and build a cairn out of my rocks, balancing one on top of th
e next. I pile seven rocks high – high enough that it will be seen from the bottom of the hill in either direction. Then I snap off a branch from the bush and lay it down at the foot of my cairn, the thin end pointing towards Hansbach and the site office. I weigh down the branch with another rock so it won’t blow away.

  If Dad’s out there, he’ll see it and make contact with me.

  It’s nearly forty-eight hours before the refuelled Holden rumbles back down the hill into the Hansbach complex. Mateo and I run out to greet it like it’s bearing the Queen. We’ve boxed up all the remaining medical supplies and food, as well as anything else we think might be useful in the coming days, and it’s ready to be loaded into the Holden. Clarita has worked more of her magic on the injured miners, and there are only two Reds left.

  I scramble up the hill to my cairn one last time to see if Dad has left me a message. It’s a struggle getting up there – I’ve been running myself ragged because it’s easier to work than it is to think. When Mateo and I collapse into the bed we share each night, we talk for a few moments about dumb stuff – which Star Wars film is the best, what our Patronus would be – before falling asleep. He knows I’m not ready to talk about Dad yet.

  My cairn is undisturbed.

  Maybe he hasn’t seen it. Maybe I didn’t build it high enough. Maybe I got his instructions wrong.

  Or maybe he isn’t out there. Maybe he’s underneath my feet, cold and crushed under tonnes of rubble.

  I choke down my feelings. This is no time to be emotional. I have to be strong. I have to get back to the twins. I’m all they have now.

  Mateo wants to stay with Clarita, but she insists he and I are on the first trip back to Jubilee.

  ‘I need you to help look after the first load of guys,’ she says. ‘And I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe.’

  ‘You’re not going to sleep,’ says Mateo. ‘You haven’t slept for four days.’

  ‘Well, maybe I will once I know you’re safe.’

  They squabble for a bit longer, but eventually Mateo gives in, and he and I squeeze into the tray of the Holden with Paul Hayes, Laurie McCall, Greg Van Hasselt and Kim Ng. We’re surrounded by boxes and bags of supplies. David Bratton drives.

  ‘See you back in Jubilee,’ says Clarita, as she waves us goodbye. Mateo nods and smiles, but I can tell he’s trying not to cry. David crunches the Holden from first into second gear, and we creep up the hill and onto the road to Jubilee.

  It’s loud in the tray, with the roar of tyres on road and the wind rushing past our ears. The fast-moving air whips away some of the humidity, and I feel cool for the first time in days.

  It’s too loud to talk. I grab Mateo’s hand, and even though it’s about a million degrees, I’m grateful for the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. I’m glad he didn’t stay behind with Clarita. Whatever’s ahead is going to be scary, and it’s a tiny bit less scary to know that I’m not alone.

  The journey is uneventful. We stop twice to top up the fuel tank and pass around bottled water and snacks. But by mid-afternoon we’re rumbling into Jubilee. Paddy Nowak and Emma Zubek come pelting along the road after us, followed by the Liddel kids. They laugh and cheer as they run alongside the Holden. They think we’ve come to save them. They think it’s over. They’re too young to know any better.

  Adults come out to greet us too. We tumble out of the ute tray, sore and weary. When David Bratton clambers down from the cab, I hear a sob and Simmone comes rushing forward to embrace him.

  Jill Hayes comes forward to claim Paul, and Dermot wraps Laurie McCall in a bear-hug, tears in his eyes. Kim Ng’s wife, Sarah, comes forward too, their two-year-old daughter balanced on her hip. An anxious crowd has gathered around the Holden, waiting for news of loved ones.

  I look to David Bratton, but he’s still hugging Simmone, his face buried in her shoulder. Mateo glances at me, and I swallow. This isn’t the kind of news that I ever wanted to have to deliver.

  In a shaking voice, I tell the crowd about the accident at the mine. I have a list of the injured miners still at Hansbach, which I read, and Peter Wu offers to post it in the Heart.

  ‘I-I’m sorry,’ I say once I’m finished. I don’t know what else to tell them.

  The crowd is totally silent. I see Georgie Nowak put a hand to her pregnant belly. Eleven-year-old Paddy leans in to comfort her.

  ‘Obviously there’s much to be done,’ Peter Wu says, his clipped British vowels seeming more out of place than ever. ‘I’ll be heading straight to the Heart to start organising supplies, and anyone who wishes to join me is welcome. But perhaps before anything else happens, we should observe a moment of silence for the friends and family we lost at Hansbach.’

  He bows his head, and everyone else around me follows suit. There are maybe twenty people, mostly women. Simmone Bratton is clinging to David like she’s never going to let him go. I can see Kerri Mappin, Nerida Long and Sandra Gill clustered close together, and feel a tug of sorrow as I imagine how they will explain to their toddlers that their fathers won’t be coming home, and then a shuddering jolt of fear as I remember I’m going to have to explain the same thing to my sisters.

  Everyone looks frightened and overwhelmed. But they don’t know. They think this is the worst of it.

  They have no idea what’s to come.

  I think about Jubilee’s central water tank. It holds seventy-five thousand litres of water, pumped up from Lake Lincoln. The pump won’t be working now. If people are conservative with their water use, then maybe it’ll last two months. Of course the rain should start any day now, and nearly every house has its own water tank. But what if this year there is no wet season?

  It could take years for the power to come back on. It’s not going to be a minor glitch, where we all tough it out for a week and then it’s business as usual. If it really is an EMP, and it’s as widespread as I suspect, things will never go back to the way they were.

  Most of these people aren’t going to survive.

  This is what Dad has drilled into us, over and over. Not everyone will make it. There’s no room for softness and pity when you’re in survival mode. You have to prioritise.

  And family always comes first.

  Peter Wu raises his head. ‘My door is always open. Always. At any time of the day or night.’

  People start to disperse, heading back to their homes, or to the Heart with Peter. Mateo takes my elbow and leads me gently away.

  ‘That felt awful,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’m the one who killed their families.’

  ‘It had to be done,’ says Mateo. ‘You were brave.’

  I take a deep breath and look around for my bike. ‘I have to go home.’

  ‘I guess I’ll go…back to the hotel?’ Mateo is looking at me when he says it, his tone uncertain. I know he’s waiting for me to offer our place. To tell him he and Clarita can stay with me and the twins. I know that’s what any normal person would do in this situation.

  But nothing about this situation is normal.

  Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone, Dad’s voice says in my head. Family always comes first.

  Be a good girl.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I tell him. ‘The hotel will make an excellent base.’

  I see the tiniest wrinkle of a frown appear on Mateo’s brow, but he nods and his voice is calm. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Great.’

  8

  The twins aren’t in the house when I get home. No Panda, wagging her tail and barking her head off. I feel a surge of panic, but then I spot the can of flyspray on the dining table, and my heart stops threatening to burst out of my chest.

  Dad taught us all sorts of secret codes and messages. This is one of the simplest – a can of bug spray means that Grace and Blythe have bugged out. They’re at the Paddock.

  Fair enough. There’ll be power at the Paddock – hot showers and communications.

  Like that ham radio.

  I grab some clothes and toiletries – there’s plenty of stuff a
lready at the Paddock, but if I have to go hide in a bunker, I’d rather do it in my favourite pyjamas.

  I don’t want to do the next part, but I know it’s what Dad would want. I go into his room and open his wardrobe. The gun safe is behind his shoe rack. I kneel down and spin the dials, following the sequence he taught me. The lock springs open and I open the safe door.

  The Colt is in its usual spot, but the Glock is missing. I wonder if Dad took it to Hansbach with him. The thought makes me uneasy, but I push it aside and pick up the Colt. It feels heavy with the threat of destruction. I shove it down the bottom of my bag. As soon as I get to the Paddock, I’ll lock it up in Dad’s weapons trunk, where it will stay forever.

  I don’t bother with the secret path along the creek. There’s nobody here to see me traipse over the top ridge.

  As I pass the beehives, the absence of movement makes me stop. I take a cautious step forward. I’m not allergic to bee stings, but I still don’t want one.

  Dad’s bees are pretty feral, so we generally don’t go near them without a full beekeeping suit on. Usually there’s a steady stream of them going in and out of the hives, returning from flower-finding expeditions with fat pollen pants. But today there is nothing. No bees crawling around the outside of the hive. I get closer, but no squadron of drones emerge to defend their territory.

  I reach forward, ease the lid off the hive and peer in.

  There are maybe a dozen bees clinging to the honeycomb frames.

  There should be thousands.

  I remember my compass needle swinging wildly around. Could the solar storm be affecting the bees’ ability to navigate? Dad believed the hives would be our greatest survival asset – honey is high in calories and incredibly nutritious, and pretty much the only non-perishable natural foodstuff. It’s also antibacterial and can be used as a preservative. The wax can be made into candles and the bees produce propolis and royal jelly, both of which are highly effective natural medicines.

  Dad loved the idea of bees, because they were self-defending – he could have the hives out in the open without worrying about looters.