And if Clarita goes, then Mateo goes too.
‘You won’t make it,’ I tell her, and I can hear how cruel it sounds. You’ll never find enough fuel, enough water. Once you get through the desert, into more populated areas, you’ll have to fight to keep your supplies. And Melbourne? Even if you can get into the city, what will you do? It’ll either be strictly controlled under martial law, or it’ll be anarchy. Either way, is that the kind of danger you want to put your son in?’
I see Clarita’s resolve waver, but then her eyes take on a steely look. She’s a fighter. I can’t scare her out of going. But maybe I can guilt her into staying.
‘Did you know that Georgie has family nearby?’ I ask. ‘In Silver Creek. It’s only five or six hours’ drive away. She could have her baby there.’
‘Why doesn’t she go?’
‘Because she’s the only one who can fix the cars. She knows that without her, none of us will be able to leave. She’s staying for us.’
Clarita’s shoulders fall, and I know I’ve succeeded. I drive the message home.
‘We won’t make it without you.’
‘Pru?’ It’s Blythe, standing at my bedroom door. ‘Do you have any tampons?’
I rummage in my undies drawer and hand her a box. There are only a couple of tampons left. I duck into the Paddock’s bathroom, but the shelf where we keep them is empty.
‘I’ll have a look in the storeroom later,’ I say.
Blythe turns to go, but I stop her.
‘I wanted to have a chat. About you and Keller.’
Blythe raises her eyebrows. ‘What about me and Keller?’
This is not a conversation I want to be having with my little sister. ‘Um. I just want to make sure you’re aware of any potential consequences of anything you might be doing.’
Blythe looks at me blankly.
‘I mean physically. You. And Keller. The things you are doing physically. Together. We have to be prepared for…’ This isn’t going well. ‘Even if you’re being careful, accidents can still happen. There’s no hundred per cent foolproof way to prevent—’
‘Pru, I’m not sleeping with Keller.’
‘You…’ I shake my head. ‘You’re not?’
‘I’m not stupid. We make out sometimes, that’s it. I know how dangerous pregnancy would be right now. And I’m fifteen. Jesus.’
I don’t know how to respond. I saw her. I remember how easily she lied to Mateo at the lake. What else is she lying about?
‘Anyway,’ she continues, making a face, ‘I don’t know if you remember me asking you for tampons a couple of seconds ago, but that might have been a pretty big clue that I’m not sleeping with anyone, because right now it feels like someone has inserted a fish hook into my uterus, and then hung a bunch of weights from that fish hook, and all my internal lady parts are being slowly, painfully pulled out of me.’
I wince. ‘Thank you for that description. Take some ibuprofen.’
Blythe leans over and gives me a hug. ‘Thanks for looking out for me,’ she says. ‘But I promise I’m being careful.’
She heads off to her room, and I embark on a tampon hunt.
Dad kept a detailed manifest of everything in the Paddock, including the date it was bought. Certain plastics and tinned foods degrade over time, so Dad’s plan was to replace everything every five years. It seemed so wasteful when he first mentioned it. I search the manifest for pads, tampons, sanitary items, feminine hygiene products and every other term I can think of. Nothing.
Dad forgot.
He was so busy thinking about chemtrails and Faraday cages and how the Large Hadron Collider is really a device intended to wake an ancient Egyptian god, he forgot to include the one thing that his daughters would definitely need in the event of an emergency.
Dad should have thought of this. The Paddock was his thing. He didn’t ask us what we wanted in there. We weren’t involved. He should have prepared us. We should have been using those menstrual cup things, or reusable pads, or something.
Bloody men.
I stomp into Dad’s room and am pleased to see no further evidence of hanky-panky. I open his little locker of a wardrobe and select two of his favourite flannel shirts.
I make templates out of paper and cut pad-shapes from the shirts – some external ones with wings, and then some oval shapes for the internal padding. I rip the buttons off the shirts and affix one to each pad on the wing, and sew a buttonhole on the opposite side. It takes a few hours, but in the end I have a little stack of twelve washable pads. We’ll probably need more, but it’s a good start.
I show the twins, and Blythe makes a face.
‘Pads?’ she says. ‘No tampons?’
I shrug. ‘I’m sure it’s possible, but there are hygiene risks. Pads are easier, and safer.’
Grace runs her fingers over the dark green and brown tartan fabric. ‘He loved this shirt,’ she murmurs.
‘I can’t wait to bleed all over it,’ says Blythe with a savage grin.
I dream I’m searching for Emma Zubek, going from car to car looking for her. But all I find are the limp corpses of dead birds.
I wake up gasping, the weight of earth pressing on my chest.
Something feels different. It’s hard to know what time it is in the Paddock – it looks the same regardless of whether there’s daylight outside or not. I switch on my lamp and look at the analogue clock on the bedside table.
Two a.m.
I sigh and turn the light off again.
But I can’t sleep.
I climb out of bed, slipping silently down the corridor past the room where the twins are sleeping. I peek into Dad’s room, but thankfully there’s nobody in there. I head to the door. The steel steps up to ground level are cold on my bare feet. I lift the hatch and it squeals a little – I make a mental note to oil it tomorrow.
I clamber out into the night. It’s warm and still and dark. As my eyes gradually adjust, I can see the odd pinprick of star through the branches of the thicket, and a thin, high sliver of moon. The night is still, and dark, and unremarkable.
I breathe deeply, listening to the night sounds – the chirping of crickets, the scratching and scurrying of nocturnal creatures, the distant trumpeting of a brolga. The panicked knot in my gut eases. I wonder if Laurine Zubek is sleeping right now.
We’ve already lost so many people. There will be more. The town seemed united this morning, searching for Emma, but it won’t be long until they are too weak to help others. It won’t be long before things get truly ugly.
I sigh and turn back to the metal steps, retreating into the safety of our burrow.
It isn’t until I’m back in bed that I realise what’s different.
The aurora has gone.
It was an ordinary, dark night. That means the solar storm has stopped.
This should be good news. It means there won’t be any more damage. That work can begin to restore and rebuild. We’re nearly at the end of the disaster movie – a few more scenes and we’ll get to the happy ending.
But it doesn’t feel like good news. I think about Emma Zubek, and Mr Kausler, and all those miners buried in their underground tomb. I think of Dad.
And I think maybe it’s too late for a happy ending.
11
A voice is saying my name, and I struggle into consciousness.
‘Pru?’ It’s Blythe, standing in the doorway to my room, wearing a sparkly unicorn T-shirt and rainbow boxer shorts. She looks smaller than usual, her eyes frightened.
I sit up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Grace.’
I follow her into their bedroom. Grace is on the bottom bunk. Her hair is damp with sweat, and her face is pale and greenish. I put my hand to her forehead.
‘You have a fever,’ I say. ‘Have you been taking the antibiotics?’
She nods miserably. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Just a cold.’
It isn’t a cold.
I unwrap the bandage around her
hand and recoil as a vile smell hits me, like rotting meat. It’s swollen beyond all recognition, the skin stretched shiny and tight. The graze has grown to a black gash across her hand, carved so deep into her flesh I’m surprised I can’t see bone. It weeps yellow pus and fluid. Spidery purple veins snake down her arm to her elbow. It doesn’t look real. Grace looks down at her hand like it’s not her own.
I run to the medicine cabinet and grab the second antibiotic and a syringe, ripping off the sterile packaging with my teeth. I’m cool with the epipen, but I don’t like administering needles. I know Grace hates them. I puncture the little vial with the tip of the needle and draw the fluid up into the syringe. I flick the side of it with my fingernail to dislodge any air bubbles, and squirt a little out to be sure. Then I tell Blythe to hold Grace still, and I insert the syringe into her hand.
Grace whimpers, but doesn’t move as I empty the syringe and withdraw it.
I find some strong painkillers in the cupboard and help Grace to swallow them with a little water. Blythe strokes her forehead and murmurs reassuring things into her ear. Grace stares up at her, holding eye contact with quite a frightening intensity.
‘We need to take you to Clarita,’ I tell her.
Grace shakes her head. ‘No. Too many questions. Why didn’t we come to her before? What have we already tried? And there’s nothing she can do that we can’t do ourselves. These antibiotics will work.’
‘We can make up a cover story,’ I tell her. ‘Dad would want you to be careful. You know how bad an infection can get out here.’
But Grace’s face has a stubborn cast to it that I know too well. ‘I’m not going to let you risk everything we’ve worked for over a stupid scratch,’ she says. ‘Promise me you won’t tell her.’
‘Grace—’
‘Promise me.’
Blythe looks up at me and shakes her head slightly.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
‘Is she going to be okay?’ asks Blythe, as she follows me out into the galley.
‘Yep,’ I tell her, trying to hide the fear in my voice. ‘She’s going to be fine.’
Grace sleeps on and off for the next twenty-four hours. We wake her up and try to coax her to eat and drink, and to give her more antibiotics. She doesn’t show any signs of improvement.
It’s been thirteen days since the power went out. The memorial is this morning. Blythe stays home to look after Grace, and I cycle into Jubilee.
I can’t shake the chill in my bones. I glance over at Jan Marshall’s shop. I haven’t seen her for days. I don’t think anyone has.
People must be growing desperate. It won’t be too much longer before the threat of her shotgun loses its potency.
I wonder how much longer I can keep coming into town. How long until they guess we’re keeping supplies from them.
I have to keep the twins safe. Family always comes first.
It still hasn’t rained.
Peter Wu has done a good job of setting up the Heart. There are chairs laid out before the little stage, and he’s made a space on the wall where people have pinned photos and written messages on post-it notes.
The opposite wall is what Peter is calling the Wall of Hope. It’s like the memorial wall, but for people whose fate we don’t know – the kids at boarding school, other family and friends. A table in front of the wall holds candles and items that people have brought in to remember their loved ones. I see a deck of Magic: The Gathering cards which belonged to Barri’s son Zaiden, Maddie Bratton’s football trophy, a stuffed toy monkey with one glass eye missing.
There is no buffet table. As people file in they look around, and their faces fall as they see there is nothing on offer here, not so much as a chocolate biscuit or cup of tea.
It’s the first time I’ve seen the whole town at once, and I’m shocked by how few people there are. I see Simmone and David Bratton, Clarita and Mateo, Keith. Barri Taylor is talking to Violet and Georgie, while Paddy lingers near the Wall of Hope. Jan Marshall is up the back closest to the exit, a little separate from everyone. Laurine Zubek is there too, her face the colour of ashes. Keller is sitting near her, as blank and creepy as always.
I can feel the exhaustion in the room. The gnawing ache of hunger. The fear.
I had toast and scrambled eggs for breakfast, with a cup of black coffee. I feel like throwing it all up now. I could help them. I could take that ache away.
But for how long?
Even if I did give up my secret, how long would Dad’s supplies last? For me and the twins, we can make them last for a long time, especially supplemented by chooks and fish and homegrown fruit and veggies. We could last out here for as long as it took. But spread between everyone in this room?
We wouldn’t last more than a few months.
Would that be enough to get us through this, whatever this might be?
Peter Wu says a few comforting things, and talks about the parable of the good Samaritan, and how important it is that we support each other in this time of need.
‘Who else would like to say something?’ Peter asks.
There’s an awkward silence, then Paddy Nowak stands up and shuffles to the front of the room. He’s all skinny arms and legs under loose green shorts and a black T-shirt. He looks down at his once-white sneakers as he talks, his voice quiet and nervous but determined.
‘I’m gonna talk about my stepdad,’ he says. ‘He was a real good dad. He taught me how to swim and how to fish. One time up Silver Creek he caught a croc with his hands, like this?’ Paddy makes a shape with his hands like he’s holding a hamburger. ‘He let it go, cos he didn’t like hurtin’ animals. He said fish were okay cos we were gonna eat ’em.’ He pauses. The room is totally silent. ‘He really loved that show Downton Abbey, but he told me not to tell anyone cos it’s embarrassin’ for a bloke to be into a show like that. He said all them rich people on that show were so mad cos they wanted too much stuff, and the trick to bein’ happy is to only take what you need and be happy with that. He’d go crook if he knew I told you he liked Downton Abbey, but I’m not sorry cos he was my dad and he was a real good dad.’
The last few words all run into each other, and Paddy gratefully steps down from the stage and returns to his seat. Georgie squeezes him tight in a hug, her cheeks wet with tears.
Peter Wu looks over at Laurine. ‘Do you want to say a few words?’ he asks gently.
Laurine shakes her head. ‘What’s the point?’ Her voice is as bitter as a midwinter wind. ‘We’ll all be dead soon.’
‘We don’t know that,’ says Peter. ‘There is always hope.’
Laurine stares at him, her expression vacant. ‘Speak for yourself,’ she says at last.
Barri stands up and reads a poem that she’s written about her husband, Brendan, who died at Hansbach, and their three kids, who are off at boarding school. It’s pretty dreadful, but we all cry anyway.
Nobody else wants to talk, so Peter thanks us all for coming, and urges us to stay for a while and mingle.
‘Today is for remembering,’ he says. ‘But tomorrow the real work begins. Tomorrow we’re going to start getting organised. Plan how to best use the supplies we have. We need to work together in order to survive.’
I look around and see people nodding, and I’m confused. The hard faces and hollow eyes I saw the other day have gone. People are standing up and embracing each other, listening to each other with respect and care. Jan Marshall catches my eye and jerks her head. I make my way up to the back of the room.
‘I could use your help,’ she says. ‘I want to give it all away. The food in the shop.’
Her voice is low, like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Her eyes are watery.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘All of it?’
She nods. ‘Come by later.’
People drift away, back to their homes. Mateo asks if I want to hang out, but I tell him what Jan said and he nods.
‘I knew she’d come round,’ he says. ‘Most people do
, eventually.’ But they’re not supposed to. That’s not what Dad told us would happen.
I spend the rest of the day helping Jan Marshall sort through the remaining stock in the store. She boxes up food and toilet paper and shampoo and I make trip after trip over the road to the Heart, dropping off each box to Peter Wu, who sorts through all of them with an almost holy level of patience.
I think about what Paddy Nowak said at the memorial. About being happy with what you’ve got. About how misery comes from wanting more than you need.
But what do you do when you don’t know how much you’ll need for the hard times ahead? What do you do when there’s not enough to go around?
Dad has been right about everything so far. The EMP, the immediate aftermath. But what if he was wrong about this part? What if we don’t disintegrate into anarchy? What if a small group of people working together can build something new? Something made of kindness and generosity and hope?
Guilt gnaws away at me, scraping away at my bones. I work harder, stripping shelf after shelf in Jan’s shop, packing boxes and lugging them over to the Heart. I don’t break for lunch. I work myself into exhaustion, because only then does my brain stop ricocheting back and forth.
Finally Jan tells me to stop.
‘It’s getting late,’ she says. ‘You should head home, love.’
‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘I could fit in a few more trips before I go.’
‘Here.’ Jan pushes a box into my arms, full of tinned beans and tomatoes and chocolate biscuits and rice. ‘It’s for you,’ she says. ‘You and your sisters.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling a hot flush run down the back of my neck. ‘No. We’re fine, really.’
I try to give the box back, but Jan lifts her hands up. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she says. ‘You girls are so brave. Every single day I’ve seen you here, helping in every way you can. You never stop, even though you must be exhausted and hungry. It’s people like you who’ve shown me…’ Jan’s voice chokes up and she shakes her head. ‘I’m so glad you girls moved here. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
After the Lights Go Out Page 16