Dark Dreams, Pale Horses Page 11

  Sally felt the anger move inside her, filled with muscle, shaped like her husband’s shoulders. “They already came for us,” she said. “But you didn’t want to leave. And now here we are…in the middle of the Great Forgotten.”

  His lips moved, but his heart could make no sound. He turned around and threw his emotion into his work. The cracked desert floor rumbled every time the axe’s blade thudded home.

  “No one is coming for us,” Sally said. Her voice was dry but her eyes were wet. She could feel the vibration of her son’s heart through her palm. “Alice is gone, and we’re twelve hundred kilometres from the nearest big town. We’re twelve hundred kilometres from anyone who cares.”

  She walked away from him—couldn’t bear to look at him. Caleb made small sounds of contentment, because he didn’t know any better. Sally covered him with her shawl to protect him from the sun. The contours of his tiny face showing through the thin material made her want to cry. He moved against her, the way he had moved when he had been inside her: with fractional adjustments that seemed both powerful and precious.

  She walked past the piles of debris spelling SOS. A broken mirror signalled to her, kept intact by its frame. She shuffled towards it and saw her ghost. She was as thin as a petal. Her hair, usually long and honey-blond, was dirty-brown and twisted. Her eyes were lost in the hollows of her face. Her mouth was a broken line. She had been beautiful once, she remembered. Sun-faced, with an endless heart. But beauty was a relic, just like the houses with their air conditioning and plasma TVs. Just like the mobile phones and laptop computers that she often stumbled across, half-buried in the dirt. Beauty, like luxury, had been fossilized.

  The world had flipped; they were Neanderthal again.

  Sally looked from the great empty desert to the great empty sky. Her tears were as bright as the broken mirror. They rolled down her face in fragments.

  Music drifted from the streets—someone playing a didgeridoo. It sounded like a giant, confused fly banging against a window. To the south, Uluru wavered in a heat haze, but it was solid.

  We are the Rock.

  Sally kissed the shape of her son’s face through the shawl.

  They came across the desert in incredible numbers: a single tribe, united by purpose. The slowest (the aged, the injured) fell behind and were discarded; there was no tolerance for weakness. Even so, the army swelled as it progressed from the impact zone. The yellows and oranges of earth pigment were livid on their skin, and the Mantra of revolution was voiced in innumerable tribal tongues: a mosaic of confused sound, but which all meant the same thing:

  The land becomes ours.

  They moved to the horizon: a storm of bodies. They made thunder. And in the distance, a bruised speck in the saffron light…Uluru.

  Impact occurred at 11.47 A.M., September 18, 2010. Asteroid 2010 FN slammed into the heart of Australia at a striking velocity of sixteen kilometres per second. It caused devastation the equivalent of a fourteen megaton blast. Everything within a twenty kilometre radius was vaporized, including the town of Alice Springs.

  There had been a massive evacuation effort. Ninety-eight percent of the town’s population was flown to Canberra or Perth. The remaining two percent (six hundred and twelve people) elected to stay, trusting to a theory that 2010 FN would break apart upon entering the earth’s atmosphere. Sixty percent of the mass did vaporize, but the remainder was large enough to leave a crater almost two kilometres wide.

  Damage extended for many hundreds of kilometres beyond ground zero. Burning winds incinerated life and started bush fires as far north as Engawala. Toxic dust choked the air and painted the landscape black. The shockwave was felt throughout the continent, with aftershocks weakening structures in many major cities.

  With Alice gone, the vast heartland of Australia had become a scorched emptiness—nothing for thousands of kilometres save a few tiny, terrified towns. Carrion scattered the ground like powder burns around a bullet hole. There were human corpses, too—mostly the Arrernte people, not invited to evacuate, not quick enough to move. Raptors squabbled over poisoned remains, shaking dust from their wings.

  The long-term effects on the environment were unknown. 2010 FN had not been large enough to adjust the earth’s orbit. The sun had not been blacked out by an impenetrable cloud, inducing a “nuclear winter” as many of the scaremongers had believed. There were no earthquakes or mega-tsunamis. The ecosystem of Central Australia had been altered, but it would take many years to gauge any detriment to the planet.

  Alice was gone, and now there was nothing. The semi-desert had cracked like an infected tooth. The impact crater was God’s unblinking eye, weeping ruin.

  Broad chasms stretched to the horizon, like blood from a wound.

  Dinah Merton killed herself. She cut her wrists with a Stanley knife. Twenty-three years old.

  Population: thirty-two.

  Owen Tully said there’d be more food for everyone else—a comment that froze Sally to her soul. She gathered her son to her breast, walked into the desert, and watched the sun strike the Rock with tears in her eyes.

  The townspeople gathered at the community oval. Their consternation was growing, and the fear that no one was coming for them was as bright as the fireball that had caused all this misery.

  “We don’t know what’s happening in the rest of the country. The cities might be in ruins, for all we know. We’re probably at the bottom of a very long list.”

  “The power station is shut down. There’s no mobile phone signal. Everything is dead.”

  “What happens when we run out of food?”

  “God has turned His back on us. We’re all alone.”

  Jack Lamb was a big man with an angular face and thin arms, like he’d been made from different parts. He had been a tour guide before the asteroid. He knew the land, and knew it well.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said, stepping forward. Sweat glistened in the pale creases of his neck. “Luke…is your HiLux still running?”

  Luke raised his eyebrows. “The asteroid could have landed on that bloody truck and it’d still be running.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “But you’re not going anywhere,” Luke continued. “She’s low on diesel, and the roads are carved up.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of taking the roads,” Jack said. “She’s four-wheel drive; I was thinking cross-country. As for diesel, I can syphon it from my bus and throw a couple of jerries in the box. I’ll head south, away from the impact zone, towards Port Augusta. I can cut through the outback and maybe pick up the road—”

  “No,” Luke said. He had an authority to his voice, even with one simple word, that was hard to argue with. Sally knew this when she married him, but had it affirmed when she suggested they evacuate with the other townspeople.

  “No?” Jack said. His lips were trembling.

  “It’s suicide,” Luke added. “It’s a truck, not a helicopter. You’ll end up walking, and you’ll die in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’ll take provisions.” Jack’s unusual face was cut with determination, but his lips were still wavering. “And there’s always bush tucker.”

  Luke shook his head. “We’re twelve hundred kilometres from Port Augusta. It’ll take you a month to walk it.”

  “I’ll drive as far as I can—maybe all the way.” He stepped closer to Luke. The late afternoon sun shimmered in his eyes. “The roads will be better further south. I can be in Port Augusta in two days, and if no one’s there, I’ll move on to Adelaide. I’ll find people. I’ll send help.”

  The townspeople were gathered in a loose shape around Jack and Luke. Some voiced their support for Jack’s brave plan. Others were silent, but their wounded faces were touched with hope.

  Luke regarded them all. He could see his wife in every pained expression. “They’ll come for us,” he said, just as he had to Sally—a thousand times it seemed. He looked away; hated their heartbroken faces. “They’ll need to assess the damage. The
sky will be filled with planes and choppers. They’ll see the fire. They’ll see the sign.”

  Jack’s voice was as fragile as the ground they all stood on: “I’m not trying to be a hero. I’m just looking for hope. We lost Dinah. I don’t want to lose anybody else.”

  Luke nodded. “Three days,” he said, and clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Give me three days, mate, and if no one has come for us by then, we’ll have this talk again.”

  But that was the last time they talked. It was the last time they gathered. They didn’t have three days.

  They barely had three hours.

  Kurkara Crescent, or what was Kurkara Crescent. Now it was like a cracked jawbone, teeth askew. The trees had broken away. The houses were intact. Mostly intact; they sagged like wet cardboard boxes. The empty windows screamed at her.

  Sally looked at the house she had shared with Luke. It was like looking at an old friend with some terrible disease. She hardly recognized it—found it impossible to correlate the limp walls with so many perfect memories.

  There had been love: orchestras in togetherness, holding hands and counting sunsets. Their laughter had flowed like rainwater off the Rock. They had pressed their bodies close, caught breathless, and had wished upon the stars of the Southern Cross.

  I think we should leave, she had said to him, sitting in the cool front room with her new baby in her arms.

  We’re not going anywhere, Luke had replied. His lips were turned down and his eyes were dull. It was his don’t-argue-with-me expression. The whole bloody country has turned into a madhouse, and we’re not going to be a part of it. We’re staying home. Everything will be fine.

  I hope you’re right. She had thrown all her hope at him. All that remained was the shell of a woman—a silence, cradled by his cool grey confidence.

  Do you trust me?

  Caleb shifted in her arms. Sally lifted the shawl and looked into his eyes. They seemed impossibly bright. The edges of his mouth glimmered in what may have been a smile and her heart surged against her chest. She lowered the shawl. Tears tracked through the dust on her face. Caleb pressed closer, responding to the sound of her heart, like a call to prayer.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Sally jumped, startled, and turned around. Luke was standing behind her, his axe pitched on one shoulder. He was holding a paper plate in his other hand. It sagged under the weight of the food: barbecued cuts of ‘roo steak; dried fruit and peanuts; a packet of Cheezels.

  “I got you some tucker.” He smiled—a dry, sad effort—and indicated the tiny shape beneath the shawl. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  Sally looked at the food and her empty stomach flexed.

  “Hold on a sec.” Luke stepped into their driveway and tossed the axe into the back of his pickup. The blade clanged off the steel bed loud enough to make Caleb twitch in her arms. Luke returned and held out his free arm. “Here, give me the little man while you eat.”

  Sally held him closer. Luke didn’t press; he just waited.

  “That’s a lot of food,” Sally said. Her empty stomach snarled. “Looks like your share, too.”

  Luke shrugged. “I ate earlier.”

  He was lying. She didn’t care. She held out her hand, took the food, and let Luke take his son. The small white bundle seemed unlikely in his heavy arms.

  “There’s my boy,” he said. “There’s my beautiful boy.”

  A giant, rendered childlike by something so helpless. The paradox was as bright as a constellation: eternity in the midst of nothing. Every aspect of her womanhood ached with love for him. Still.

  Sally finished the food and threw the trash in the street. She held out her arms, wanting Caleb. Luke nodded and gently handed him over. Sally could see the tears in his eyes.

  “We’ll rebuild this,” he said, and Sally wondered if he was talking about their crippled home, or their crippled marriage. He gave her another dry smile and wiped away his tears. “Everything will be just like it used to be.”

  She looked at the home they had shared. Ghosts flickered in the windows, wearing unreal smiles, as bright as summer clothes.

  “What do you want from me?” she said.

  “I want you to hold me,” he said, and he was a child again. Despite the breadth of his shoulders and the grey flecks in his beard, he was as small and helpless as the planet.

  He knuckled the tears from his eyes. Sally went to him, and she held him.

  Warm winds rippled through what used to be Kurkara Crescent, and the sun—slanting to the west—started to paint heart-colours on the Rock.

  Jack Lamb came gasping into the Crescent a short time later. His face was burning and his eyes were peeled with fear.

  Luke broke away from Sally. “Jesus, Jack, what’s wrong?”

  Jack fell to his knees and pointed towards the town. His mouth opened and closed. Whooping breaths were pushed from his lungs.

  “Jack?”

  Sally stepped away. She held Caleb tighter.

  Sounds from the town: chants and screams.

  “What is that?” Luke said. A brown wing of dust had opened over the crumbling buildings. The screams were getting louder.

  Jack shook his head. His glowing face was contorted with terror. He was going to say, The natives are getting restless, but this seemed wildly inappropriate—comical, even—and did not come close to conveying the sick horror that was boiling in his soul.

  “Speak to me, Jack.”

  Jack nodded. He passed a trembling hand over his face and looked at Luke from his place on the pavement.

  “They’re taking back the land,” he said. “They’re going to kill us all.”

  They were an army—too many to count—and Yulara didn’t stand a chance. Already frail, it collapsed, like so many sandcastles at high tide. The townspeople scattered but were overwhelmed and cut down. Blood was splashed across the streets in livid patterns. It painted the attackers’ dark bodies. It dripped from their hair.

  The war cry grew louder with every wall that toppled, with every drop of blood that was spilled. The sound shimmered in the air, almost metallic, like the clanging of some awful gong.

  Corpses on Winmati Street and Perentie Road. Corpses on Yulara Drive. Empty bodies, once filled with soul…now discarded, like old clothing. Corpses on the community oval, where they used to play cricket and rugby, and watch the fireworks light the darkness on Australia Day. Corpses in the desert, where the SOS sign looked hopefully at an empty sky.

  The land becomes ours.

  The air trembled at the power of their cries. Bloody footprints tracked towards Kurkara Crescent.

  Luke saw the wave break into the Crescent: a legion of red-smeared bodies. Great sounds powered from their lungs.

  “Get in the truck, Sally,” he said. His eyes were grey stones. “This time we’re leaving.”

  Sally pressed her baby close and staggered into their driveway. Luke turned to Jack, who appeared to have lost hope; he was huddled on the pavement with his face in his hands. Luke called to him, but there was no response. There was no time to grab him. No time to be a hero.

  Sally was already in the passenger seat and locking her door. Luke jumped in next to her, gunned the ignition, and backed out of the driveway. The tyres coughed up burned dust and the engine roared. He yanked the wheel and the front end bounced around, facing away from the attack. Sally wiped her eyes, looked through the rear window, and saw something terrible: the army was upon Jack Lamb—violent sound and motion—bludgeoning him with dull weapons. His head had been opened and lay in pieces. His face was tatters. His skull was a broken jar.

  Caleb started to cry. Sally held him closer and kissed his head.

  “Get us out of here,” she breathed. Her words were small and lost.

  Luke shifted from reverse to first gear. In the time it took for the transmission to engage and the truck to move forward, one of the attackers had broken from the pack and was climbing into the box. Luke saw him in the mir
ror—saw him reach down and grab the axe. He had time to jerk the wheel, hoping to spill the attacker into the road, and then everything was lost in the sound of exploding glass. A thousand diamonds leapt into the cab with them as the rear window shattered. Sally screamed. She pressed herself against the door and shielded her baby. The truck swayed and cried as it bounced over the uneven road. Sally shook glass from her hair and turned in time to see the attacker raising the axe for another swing. She called out—another sound that was lost—and then the blade came down, flashing sunlight, and buried itself in the left side of her husband’s throat.

  Blood everywhere. It hosed her, warm and sick-smelling. It sprayed the inside of the windscreen, the dashboard, and the steering wheel. It dripped off the radio and the sun visors.

  The blade was removed with some effort. Luke’s head toppled sideways, hanging by a thick strip of flesh and partially severed windpipe. It rolled off his shoulder and bounced off his broad chest like a grotesque locket. He slumped over the wheel and the truck surged, out of control.

  The attacker lifted the dripping axe for the final blow. Sally screamed, wrapped around her baby. There was a jarring thud as the truck bounced over the curb and crashed through a cluster of bushes. The attacker was thrown from the box. He flailed and scuffed off the desert floor in a rich corona of dust. The truck continued on, bumping over the beaten ground with the engine growling, steered only by the weight of the mostly headless corpse slumped over the wheel. Sally had no idea what was going on. She barely knew where she was. It was just a shock of movement and a deep feeling of grief. Her mind moved in glaring white bursts.

  Seconds later (or perhaps minutes—a bleeding, screaming stretch of time, in any case), the truck crunched into a fallen Mulga tree. Sally was thrown against the dashboard, instinctively protecting the tiny bundle in her arms. She rocked back in the passenger seat, and then turned and looked out the shattered rear window.