Since the meeting with Anna at the cemetery, Jen had known she was fated to die. Oddly, she did not fear death, but she did fear the manner of her own passing and understood why her own stomach now churned and roiled, and why her own eyes were moist with unshed tears.
She leant heavily on the post box and closed her eyes, trying to settle her heaving stomach. The cleaning and organising back at home had allowed her for a time to push, what was now confronting her, to the back of her mind. Now that it was time to confront it, she had to act.
This was the only way. She knew that now. It was necessary in order to save the town, and for the children to be returned. When she had driven from her house to Cromhart, she had seen that the mist had grown. Once spared areas, had now been consumed. Even the Delany property was now engulfed by the mist, along with everything malignant that came with it. Jen innately understood that once the earth power pooled here, then it would grow and consume the region. Who knew where it would end? With the metallic taste of vomit sour in the back of her mouth, Jen straightened with effort, and went back to the car. She had no idea what to do, but it had to be done, now.
Back in the car, Jen gripped the steering wheel with palms clammy with cold sweat. Her heart was beating an unsteady rhythm against her ribs, and she fervently hoped that she had the strength to complete this deed.
She leant back against the seat and closed her eyes, and then with an effort of will, turned the key in the ignition. The car purred to life. She glanced at the dashboard – damn, she was almost out of fuel. She wanted to get this over, yet even now, there were disruptions, inconveniences, and distractions.
Jen angled the car out of the post office carpark and into the light stream of late afternoon traffic. She remembered there was a petrol station just outside of Cromhart - it would have to do.
*
Jen turned into the petrol station and drove up to the nearest free bowser. She released the catch on the petrol cap of the car and got out to fill her vehicle. As she stood there at the bowser, the petrol hose in her hand, a large petrol tanker drove in. It was one of the regular vehicles used by the petrol companies to refill the massive underground tanks at the station. She watched it draw up into the parking space and saw the older driver get out and head into the office.
‘It is time,’ a voice whispered into her ear.
She looked around and saw nothing, but the voice was familiar. Jen nodded, understanding what she had to do. She lifted the petrol hose away from her car and replaced the nozzle back into the bowser. With a click of her key, she locked the car and turned instead to the tanker.
It was dusk and with this area being free of the mist, the late afternoon sun streamed low over the horizon, its glare obscuring the vision of the two men in the office. With some difficulty, Jen clambered into the driver’s seat of the tanker and shut the door. She had no idea how to drive such a massive vehicle with its complicated gear system. With her hands sweating on the steering wheel, she called out a name. Immediately, he was beside her, his smile sad.
“I can’t do this alone,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
“I will help you,” he whispered, his hand closing over hers. Despite the absence of the key, Jen felt the engine of the truck shudder into life. Without knowing how, her feet reached the pedals, and she instinctively knew which gear to choose. Slowly, she pulled the massive tanker out of the petrol station. She dimly heard raised voices behind her, and in the rear vision mirror, saw the two men running out of the office, yelling and gesticulating angrily, shouting at her to stop. One tried to run in front of the tanker, waving her down. She spun the wheel and clipped a metal sign, sparks flew and he dodged out of the way.
Out on the road, she methodically worked her way through the gears until the tanker was barrelling along at sixty. She glanced across at Fionn, who sat next to her, his face enigmatic, his cool hand covering hers, lending her his power to do this thing. Far away in the distance, she could hear sirens gathering behind her.
Finally, she reached the intersection, slowed and braked, and then read the sign, Hinterland Electricity Sub-Station, and then below it, Authorised Personnel Only. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
Fionn nodded, and gently pressed her hand, “This is the place, my Jenny, I will be with you to the end.”
Jen shuddered, her skin clammy, her eyes brimming with tears and not trusting her voice, nodded. She turned the tanker off the man road and increased its speed as the winding side road lead down a bit of a hill and to the small valley below.
Jen felt the accelerator depress under her foot and the tanker turned a corner at speed, rocking on its suspension. Jen struggled to control the vehicle and Fionn’s grip upon her hand grew stronger, holding the wheel where she could not. The tanker’s wheels squealed in protest, but the vehicle stayed, swaying on the road. Ahead was a steel barrier, a simple boom gate preventing casual entry - the tanker ploughed through the impediment as if it did not exist, trailing wire, steel and sparks in its wake.
Ahead, in a blaze of light was the sub-station itself. Jen had read enough on the ‘net’ in the last few hours to know where damage would be most effective, so she angled the tanker away from the unoccupied building and to the great array of wires, transformers and other devices beyond. She floored the accelerator and barrelled, first through the wire security fence, which when impacted, buckled and tore around the tanker. Then, the vehicle crashed through sundry metal poles that scratched and scraped at the steel skin of the tanker, to stop suddenly and with intimidating force into the massive transformers at the heart of the complex. Jen was flung forward against the steering wheel, losing her glasses and even the airbags that thrust open, did not prevent the tearing and breaking of her ribs. In a cacophony of pain, Jen lay dazed against the steering wheel, coughing up frothy blood, and watching dully as sparks erupted all around her. Then, all at once, there was a deafening clap of sound, almost like a thunderclap, and she felt the tanker suddenly lift up and thrusted into the air as the fuel leaking from damaged fuel lines and the torn skin of the tanker, met the sparks from the damaged sub-station. Everything suddenly went searing white, then scarlet red. Instantly air was sucked from her damaged lungs and violent heat seared her face and charred her skin. She screamed in heartrending pain, until the heat robbed her of even her voice.
The very last thing Jenn felt before falling into blissful darkness was Fionn’s arms encompassing her, holding her close.
*
Chapter 23
The great, mushroom shaped fireball that erupted from the Hinterlands sub-station could be seen for many kilometres around, bathing the entire area in a sickly red light, before it too finally dissipated into roiling black smoke. The automatic sprinkler system installed at the sub-station partly subdued the immediate fire. The ground rocked and trembled from the force of the explosion, and residents far away, were suddenly and explicably, plunged into complete darkness. They thought for a moment that there had been another earthquake.
Those who remained in Emerald Hills saw nothing except a far brilliant light arcing up into the dusk sky, and then they heard and felt nothing, but a faint rumbling and a juddering of the ground. Then the instant and immediate darkening of their town as every light, every appliance and every electrical item stilled into darkness and silence.
*
Jen stood on the wooded ridge with Fionn and watched the conflagration of the sub-station below. She turned to him with one question on her lips.
“Am I dead?”
Fionn smiled and held her to him, kissing her. “Yes, and no, my Jenny,” he replied. “Your mortal shell did not survive the great fire, but your spirit-essence remains safe and in my care.”
She looked down at herself, “So how is it that I have a body still?”
“You instinctively created yourself one, with the same power that I create mine. Have you not guessed what you have become?” he asked smiling at her.
She shook her head.
; “You have been granted a great gift, my Jenny,” he said, brushing his fingers to her face. “You have become one of us, as you would say...of the Sidhe, of the Fae, as thanks for services rendered.” He smiled brilliantly at her, “The great Courts do not forget when humanity aids them by self-sacrifice.”
Jen lifted her hands and her fingers spun cobwebs of light. She looked around and her vision seemed oddly enhanced – seeing colours brilliant and vibrant even during the encroaching night. She began to perceive the presence of creatures beyond human imagination and ken, and overall, the presence of the natural power that infused every rock, every tree, every life form, and even eventually permeating human-created things. Her breath caught at the world’s beauty, fragility, strength and wonder.
Reluctantly, drawing herself back to her present situation, she turned to Fionn.
“So what now?” she questioned, “Is the town safe, and are the children to be returned?”
“The town is safe,” he assured her, “Although greatly damaged, and the stolen children are already returned to their beds.”
“And the rebel Fae?”
“We are tracking them down,” he replied. “Some have already answered for their crimes. There will be more retribution in the future.”
“What of the humans that aided them?”
Fionn’s face grew grave, “Just as we reward, so also do we punish. One already has been punished by the elementals he sought to tame.”
Jen nodded; already, she was feeling distant and removed from the troubles of men.
“Where to now?” she asked finally.
He took her hand, “We travel with the Courts. Now that the way is clear, they already begin to process through this place.”
Jen smiled and squeezed his hand. Together they wove a brilliant and luminescent path before them. Together they faded from mortal sight.
*
Bill Anders, who with his crew was covering the official ceremony of the turning on of the underground power to Emerald Hills, turned in surprise at the distant rumble and flare of light, and then the immediate darkening of the town about them.
“What was that?” he demanded.
Trent shrugged, perplexed, “Sounded like an explosion somewhere. It has knocked out the power. I wonder if there are there any generators in town.”
“Look at the mist,” yelled Deven, turning his camera away from the podium and the array of microphones. “It’s rising! I can see stars!”
All the townsfolk and visitors who had gathered at the ceremony turned too, staring as the heavy, insistent fog of the last few weeks started to break and rise, revealing for the first time to all, a town shattered and torn, with buildings cracked, listing and falling into ruin.
“How...” someone muttered nearby. “What on earth has happened?”
Others were shaking their heads, trying to clear the mist from their minds, as if trying to wake after a long dream.
Bill stared in amazement, not only at the waking residents, but also at the devastation in town. “I don’t believe it,” he kept muttering, “I knew it was bad, but this bad...”
“Check out the street,” cried Trent, pointing up to the nearby main road.
Everyone who heard him, turned as one, following his pointing finger with his or her eyes. In the deepening darkness could be seen a long, silent, floating procession of lights, orbs, and shadows, and then distantly, as if in dream, a very faint suggestion of music and song.
Deven was the first to react, grabbing his full spectrum camera from the ground at his feet and filming the strange paranormal event occurring on the road beyond.
Bill stared in wonderment, he suspected what it was he saw, but until he could see Deven’s footage, he could only guess. Then he heard low voices behind him, voices speaking in a guttural language. Bill had knowledge of many languages, but this one defied him, it sounded Eastern European, perhaps Romanian. The speakers moved out of the darkness and Bill saw a group of elegantly dressed men and women. They sounded to him awed and frustrated, angry even, as if their plans had gone awry. Nervously, Bill stepped back away from their thunderous faces and watched them as they walked away, getting into expensive European cars parked nearby. He did not know who they were, but on a notepad, he quickly jotted down car registration numbers. Perhaps, one day he would follow up on this new development.
Bill stared at the darkened, ruined town. He stared at the rapidly dissipating mist. He looked at the stars, now visible for the first time in weeks. He watched the orbs and lights continue to process along the main road, until eventually, the last few lights vanished into the far distance. He wondered about all that, and just what EHGAG had to do with it, and why the mist had vanished at the same time power was taken from the town. He wondered why here and why now. He wondered at the paranormal aspect of it all.
He shook his head, all of this would make a hell of an exposé, and their story might even win awards. Would anyone believe them, or would their story simply be mocked as pure fantasy and their footage dismissed simply as the art of CGI.
Bill had no answers to his questions. As a journalist, he had chased down many important stories over the years, many that embarrassed individuals, governments, countries even, so what was so different about this one?
‘Ah, Hell!’ he muttered to himself. He’d never soul-searched so much about a story before, bugger the consequences, they’d go for it.
Bill looked up and gestured Trent and Deven over.
“Guys, we need to talk!”
*
Epilogue – Three months later
The Federal Government department in Canberra possessed a title that was immediately recognisable. However, the branch that Mark Davies worked in had no name. At least, no name that the public was aware of, or familiar with, for that matter.
This branch had been created decades before. Their main directive was to clean up unsightly messes and mistakes. Sometimes Government, sometimes individuals or organisations, and sometimes media, had made those messes. It involved a certain whitewashing of events, even a modicum of creative re-writing of the truth, so that ordinary people could be lulled, even at the worst of times, into a sense of security. The last thing this branch needed was the truth to leak out. The truth oftentimes meant the fall of Governments or the fall of nations. The truth meant a scared population, and an unnerved population meant serious times for the economy, and for the share market. So, it was considered expedient of the branch to keep life on an even keel, and to quietly, unobtrusively, and efficiently, clean up the messes that arose from time to time.
Mark Davies looked at the pile of police reports and other documentation from the Emerald Hills Incident and he shook his head. The branch had already put out preliminary findings to a compliant media. Their findings were that experts within Government had surmised that an unusual and extreme weather event had developed on the Sunshine Coast Hinterland, which had caused the rapid and exponential growth of moulds and fungus across crops, gardens and even buildings. It was well known that certain plant moulds could cause hallucinations, so the actions of townsfolk, and the general malaise of Emerald Hills itself was written off as a mass hallucinatory event.
Everything that had gone wrong with the town and the region was linked back to it. The branch had been able to link temporary insanity to the deaths and disappearances, and even to the terrorist-like act of blowing up the local sub-station. The town had for a short time been possessed of lunacy, with even the most stable citizens becoming terribly afflicted. His branch hadn’t quite worked out how to thread the returned children into the hallucination tapestry. However, given the general and overwhelming sense of relief when the five missing children had been found alive and well – perhaps, it was best not to start disturbing an issue that seemed to be naturally and conveniently dying down.
Sometimes the manufactured lie fit like a glove, other times it did not, and had to be forced, kicking and screaming into line. He and his compatriots hadn’t quite wor
ked out where the murders of the EHGAG group fit into the general narrative, other than to ascribe the four deaths to either misadventure or unknown causes.
He sifted through the paperwork and picked out one file in particular. The police report on the death of local activist Rayleen (aka Carma) Bright. He opened the file and shook out the report, plus the photos that the feds stationed there had taken. Mark Davies had a strong stomach; he had to possess one in his job. However even he blanched when he saw what had happened to the woman. Feeling nauseous, he turned away, his hand covering his mouth. He turned back, only when his stomach had ceased its churning.
A local media team had discovered her two days after the explosion at the sub-station. They had arrived at her place to interview her, and finding the front door open, investigated further. What they found was beyond description. Her body, if it could be so described, had been literally torn apart, and what remained of her torso eviscerated. Whoever, whatever had done it, had been entirely thorough, because no fingerprints and no DNA evidence had been left behind for analysis. It was almost as if the perpetuators had stepped out of thin air, and then returned to thin air when their grisly deed had been done. The only positive to emerge was that the woman had died while she slept in her bed.
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