Slipping between the covers, I’m immediately restless. I try not to picture Jack out there, working through the night to save humanity, energised by benevolent generators like my sleeping brother and however many others. It’s heroic—and creepy. I don’t want to think about him—in any sense. I don’t want to think about anything. But I can’t turn my mind off. It’s never been my strong suit. The rumble of the earthmovers across the park doesn’t help.
Reading might lull me. I look at his letter on the bedside table. That certainly won’t ease my mind and besides I know it by heart. I climb out of bed and check the bookcase. It looks recently ransacked. What’s left is a mixture of boy-hero leftovers and old-man stuff. Harry Potter leans against 1001 Golfing Jokes, Percy Jackson has toppled onto The Compleat Angler and The Lord of the Rings shares shelf space with For the Love of the Lathe.
I slide What’s in a Name? from the shelf. The dusty hardback opens where it’s bookmarked with a handmade card. ‘Happy Fathers Day Dad!’ it announces in rainbow letters. Inside it reads ‘Love your son Jack’. I feel a pang. The lack of punctuation makes it seem like a heartfelt plea from an eager-to-please kid. Underneath there’s a drawing of what appears to be a cat crossed with a chicken. I lift the card from where it’s been preserved and see this is the ‘G’ page that contains the entry for ‘Griffin’. There colour plate of the coat of arms was clearly the inspiration for young Jack’s artwork. And it’s a dead ringer for the gnarly carving on the front door. Below the illustration is a primary-school-friendly explanation of Jack’s surname.
‘The first people called Griffin lived in Ireland in 1172 but they’ve since spread out all over the world. The name means “the descendants of the Griffin-like”. The Griffin is a fierce mythological beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. The creature was revered by ancient Greeks, Egyptians and Persians because they believed it was the king of both the sky and the land. Later, Christians adopted the Griffin as a symbol for Jesus as it symbolised the meeting of heaven and earth. The Griffin represents power and leadership.’
Whoa.
I wonder whether Jack grew up thinking he was destined to be some sort of chosen boy-hero-Griffin. Gazing at his drawing, I wonder whether that innocent child still lives at the core of his being. I want to believe he’s a man who can feel love rather than a monster I have to slay.
Before I know why, I sniff the card, scrutinise the curly letters and blocky drawing, hold the paper up to the lamplight. I realise I’m looking for evidence that Jack didn’t draw this as a boy. That he did it recently. Planted it so I’d find it. So I’d feel just how I’m feeling. But the card smells musty and looks old.
I return the book to the shelf, turn off the lamp and laugh in the darkness at my churning paranoia and passion.
Crazy girl: that’s what I might be.
TEN
Clanging hammers, wailing chainsaws, beeping trucks and grumbling diggers invade my sleep. I blink into the hazy light filtering through the curtains. It’s morning. One week since I awoke to human silence. I’m glad for the mechanical chorus all around Clearview. It sounds like the old world with all its wonderful annoyances.
I’ve had a long dreamless sleep. My body and mind feel recharged.
I swing my legs out of bed, stand up and stretch. I pull open the middle dresser drawer and take a closer look at the neatly folded supply of T-shirts. All these fake-distressed threads replicate album covers from Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Monster Shouter, Barbarism of Reflection and other ear-shatterers. The next drawer has a selection of jeans—all black. In the cupboard, there are no dresses hanging up—just a row of sneakers on a shelf.
Is Jack trying to make me into his ideal rock chick, just right for the back of his bike and bad boy image? Or did he simply absent-mindedly send a fashion-stylist Minion to raid the Retro Rock Warehouse? I don’t know whether it’s funny or freaky.
I pull on a pair of jeans and they fit snugly. From the rock ’n’ roll T-shirts I opt for Hole’s demented beauty queen. One of Mum’s favourites. I like the look of the sneakers but I can’t give up my boots just yet. I tuck my jeans into the big boots and lace them tight. Standing up, I check myself in the mirror. A dash of raccoon mascara and I could be that guitarist babe from Princess Hellbanga’s backing band. I tuck Jack’s letter into my back pocket.
Evan and Michelle are still asleep on the couch. Through the bay window, there’s a figure on the balcony in a rocking chair, staring out at the garden. Giddiness bubbles up. Jack’s here. Waiting for me to wake up.
When I yank open the front door, another guy swivels in his seat and looks up from his book. He’s square shouldered, very handsome and for a second I wonder if he’s related to Jack.
‘Hi, Danby,’ he says, smiling easily. ‘Jack sent me here this morning. I’m Damon.’ He sticks his hand out.
I leave him hanging.
Special or Minion: I have no idea. I cross my arms across my chest. ‘And?’ It comes out rude and defensive.
Damon puts his book face down across his lap. He’s been reading The Asymmetric Battlespace.
‘Jack’s asked me to help you with whatever you need,’ he says.
‘Jack asked?’ I say too pointedly.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘You know what I—he—mean.’
Okay: Minion. I’m talking to Jack here. I’m glad he’s playing straight with me. It spooks me out to think he could have this Damon claim to be a Special and I might only be able to disprove it by listening to his heart.
‘Did you sleep well?’ he asks.
Is this Jack’s way of being with me when he needs to be away? Is he showing he cares? Or watching my every move?
‘I did,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Danby,’ comes a little voice.
Evan in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, golden hair standing up like Lachie’s. I turn from Damon and scoop my little brother up. He hugs me for a second and then struggles. I put him down. Him not being a little snuggle machine is true to the real Evan’s restless affections.
‘Breffast,’ he says. ‘Hungry hungry.’
So is that appetite.
Both give me hope that my little brother’s shining through. Would I even know the difference if Jack just claimed Evan was himself again? I think I’d feel it but I can’t be sure.
‘I’ll get him breakfast,’ I say to Damon.
He nods. ‘If you need anything, just yell.’
In the lounge room, Michelle’s still asleep. I glance through the windows. Damon—my bodyguard or personal assistant or whatever he is—has his nose back in the book.
‘Okay,’ I say to Evan, ‘let’s see what we’ve got in the kitchen?’
My little brother’s back on the couch, television remote in hand, flicking through programs on the hard drive.
The kitchen cupboard is stocked with sensible breakfast materials. I don’t know if Jack’s been making the kids eat porridge. The real Evan hates that healthy stuff.
I walk back into the lounge room. Evan channel surfs. Michelle is yawning awake.
‘Evan?’
He glances up at me.
‘You want some Chocopops?’
My little brother’s eyes light up and he claps his hands.
I don’t know whose reaction this is. How much is Evan. How much is Jack. Right at that moment I’m not sure I care. Maybe Chocopops can reach my little brother—the way his desire for them on Christmas Day cut across the abyss to find me.
‘Michelle, you want some too?’
She nods sleepily.
‘I won’t be long,’ I say.
Damon glances up from his book as I step onto the porch.
‘I need something from the supermarket.’
How ridiculously normal that sounds.
‘I’ll go,’ he says, starting to get up. ‘What do you want?’
I wave him back down. ‘No, it’s fine—it’d be good to have a walk and—’
Clear my head? I could walk f
or the rest of my life and not manage that.
‘—have a look around.’
Damon nods. I expect him to insist on chaperoning, like some military attaché guiding a guest through the least-sensitive parts of a base. But he dips his head back into his text.
‘Good book?’ I ask.
Damon tilts his head. ‘Movie was better.’
I laugh even though I’m not sure who made the joke.
When I step through the Griffin House gate, I’m greeted with a wild Raaaaaaark from above.
A cockatoo sits high in an old gum tree. The bird peers at me.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Allo,’ comes a soft reply.
‘Nice day? Hi-ho?’
The bird bobs. ‘Allo.’
The cockatoo is white, with black eyes and a yellow crest. They all are. Any number of them could be capable of a basic ‘allo’. Great: I can’t even be sure if Lachie’s really Lachie.
‘Hi-ho!’ he says.
‘Yes!’ I call back. ‘Hi-ho!’
I hold out my arm. He doesn’t shift. Hangs tough on his branch.
‘Suit yourself,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to the supermarket. If you want muesli bars, you might want to be—’
Bird noises. I didn’t hear them last night up on the hill over Clearview. No raucous salutes to the dusk from mynahs or starlings or kookaburras. And I haven’t heard any cries or songs this morning. Maybe their sounds have just been drowned out by the insistent clank and rumble of machinery. But when I look from Lachie to other trees and across the brown sky I don’t see a single bird perched or in flight. My skin crawls a little. I’m guessing birds don’t want to be around Minion central any more than dogs do. Or perhaps I’ve got it all wrong and animals are just freaking out because the Snap’s messed with their heads too.
I look back at Lachie. My strange little sentinel is staring off to the east.
‘You’re one tough bird,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
Lachie responds with a plop and I step out of the way of his falling poo.
He shrieks and flaps off.
Maybe he was trying to poo on me for luck and I’ve offended him by ducking the offering.
At the end of the block there are people everywhere.
Fences between properties have been torn down and lawns and gardens ripped up. Men, women and kids plant seedlings that I assume are vegetables where roses recently took pride of place. I cross the road, pass Minions attending to Humvees, and walk into the park, past a chugging row of generators. In a clearing, an athletic woman holds a small airplane, takes a short run and throws it into the air. The aircraft’s propeller buzzes it skyward and it climbs over the trees and disappears west. Farther on, a team under a canopy work joysticks to control the drones at a bank of monitors that show what their cameras see of the landscape all around us. I walk in a daze past more canvas shelters where men and women sort groceries, medicines, clothes.
Under the big tent, dozens of people sit at plastic tables. Women cradle small children. Hands rest on shoulders in gestures of comfort. Soft murmurs reach me. But mostly they’re quiet, with their heads bowed. It’s a relief to see they aren’t joined in cult prayer. Instead, they’re engrossed in books while they eat their breakfast.
I think this has to be a reaction to a world without screens. Jack might be at the controls, but their need for entertainment and distraction has proved as fundamental as their need for air, water and food. Then I get close enough to make out some of the book covers. No one’s reading about medieval warriors or tough detectives or space adventurers. A fat teenage boy has his nose buried in High-Yield Backyard Farming while the tween girl at his elbow is engrossed in The Solar Array at Work. Across from them a middle-aged bloke peers through thick glasses at Principles of Disease Prevention while a blue-haired woman is apparently fascinated to learn the habits of The Desert Fox. A lot of the volumes are protected by plastic and have white stickers on their spines. They’re library books. At the back of the tent are crates and crates more.
As bizarre as this is, I feel a little proud that it’s kinda my doing. I told Jack that everyone could be useful in some way. He’s just taken that way beyond my idea that people could plant seeds and wash dishes. People are doing those things—but he’s also using their downtime to boost the collective brainpower. It makes perfect sense: learn as much as possible as fast as possible. I’ve got to admire that he’s not wasting a moment. And he wasn’t kidding when he said his power made him less like God and more like Google.
I watch the people. Their soft little interactions are what you’d expect from survivors of a major disaster. Huddling in a refugee tent they look traumatised but thankful to be alive and among friends and family and neighbours. Maybe I’m seeing their real selves close to the surface because as Jack raises more people he dilutes his control without even realising it’s happening. Perhaps I don’t need to do anything—and neither does he. Jack will just spread himself thinner and thinner until everyone simply slips back to themselves.
What no one in the crowd is doing is arguing about who should be the boss and what everyone should do next. Jack’s power over people—however it came about—could really be a short-term blessing because without it there would probably be chaos and confusion.
At the head of the tent, behind a big gas barbecue, a statuesque woman whirls hot pans while beside her a fireplug of a man flips patties on the sizzling hot plate. Behind them a weedy guy in swimming goggles chops onions into a white pile. Farther down the line a familiar-looking girl my age serves up breakfast from a bain-marie to people lining up with plates.
‘Danby?’
I jump at my name. The tall cook is out from behind the grill, wiping her hands on her apron and making a beeline for me. Is this one of the Specials Jack mentioned?
‘Zoe, take over the eggs, would you?’ she calls back over her shoulder before flashing me a big smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I recognised you,’ she says, clasping my shoulder. ‘I’m Angela.’
‘Uh, hi,’ I say, avoiding her friendly gaze, unsure of who she really is.
‘He said you’d be back today,’ she goes on. ‘He’s told me a lot about you.’
‘Who?’
‘Jack, of course,’ she says.
I look Angela in the eyes. What’s eerie is that she looks no different to what I saw in Evan and Damon or John and Lana. I guess I have to take her on face value as a Special.
‘You want some breakfast?’ Angela says warmly, jerking a thumb back at her camp kitchen. ‘Won’t win any Michelin stars but it’s tasty and all the major food groups are represented. Take a seat and I’ll bring you a plate and we can chat.’
‘I’m okay,’ I say. My stomach’s so twisted up I couldn’t eat a thing. ‘I’m getting some Chocopops from the supermarket.’
Angela frowns and then laughs. ‘Really? We’ve got fresh milk, muesli, fruit, toast, scrambled eggs, baked beans, vegetables and juice—and you’re getting Chocopops?’
I grin. ‘For my brother.’
‘Ah, Evan!’ Angela says it like an aunt who’d never deny her favourite nephew any treat his heart desired. ‘You’re so lucky to have—’
Her voice catches. Her eyes shine and spill. She dabs at them with her apron. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. Jack fessed up to being Damon so it makes no sense for him to pretend to be this woman. I take her hand. I don’t know what the protocol will be in this new world where everyone has lost everyone. But it seems heartless not to sympathise with individual heartbreak. ‘Did you lose—?’
Angela nods. ‘My mum and dad, sisters, their kids—best I can tell they were in a house that got hit by a train carriage. Or, you know, in the area afterwards.’
I bite my lip at the memory of that carnage. It looked like those suburban blocks had been firebombed.
‘Some of Jack’s guys found my wife,’ Angela says. ‘Where I saw her last. But she was too far gone.’
; Angela lets go of my hand and rotates a wedding ring on her finger.
‘She’s still alive,’ she says, touching above her left breast.
‘In here.’
Now’s probably not the time to ask if a doctor’s ever detected any heartbeat irregularity.
‘But we who’re left behind,’ Angela continues, ‘we’ve gotta keep calm and carry on. It’s more than a motto on a tea towel now, isn’t it?’
I smile.
‘I’ve got to be grateful,’ she continues. ‘If it wasn’t for Jack I’d be dead too.’
Maybe I got her wrong. ‘He—uh—woke you up?’
Angela shakes her head. ‘I was working in the kitchen when it happened. Hid in the cool room. It was like I lost myself for a while, you know?’
I nod. ‘Every second of the Snap burns in my memory too. It’s a wound that’ll be ripped open and made raw every time I think of it. And I will think of it every day for the rest of my life. I want to talk it through. Ask her how we will ever be able to deal with everything. But Angela’s still telling her story.
‘. . . and I came back to myself,’ she says. ‘I could hear my wife calling for me. She couldn’t hear my mind. But I couldn’t get out of the cool room. The door was blocked. Then I couldn’t hear her anymore. She . . . went, y’know? After a while the power went off. Total darkness. That was lucky, actually, or I’d have frozen to death. I kept screaming but no one heard me. Then it’s like the whole world was screaming with me—and then nada, zip, all quiet. I didn’t know what the hell was going on out there. If they’d all bounced back like me. All I knew was that if I didn’t get out, I’d eventually run out of air or be poisoned by gas from all the rotting food.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Penrith Hospital.’
‘Shit.’
Angela nods. ‘Then I saw you and that guy wake up that awful girl. Saw people waking up in Parramatta. It was so frustrating. Being able to see but not being seen. But I saw through their eyes what was left of the world. And if that wasn’t bad enough then those awful men started killing people.’
The Last Shot Page 9