After the Lights Go Out Page 4
‘That seems insane. Why would you choose to move to the middle of nowhere?’
I spread my hands as if I am equally baffled.
Dad chose Jubilee and Hansbach after months of research. He had a list of requirements – year-round access to drinking water, small population, far enough away from large towns and cities that no refugees would make it here when a disaster came. Jubilee is an old cattle station town, so it’s off the main highway. There were only a handful of people living here before Hansbach opened a decade ago. Now it’s basically a company town. Dad also liked the fact that it’s not under any flight paths – he thinks that the white trails left in the sky by planes are actually a toxic chemical used to make people sick so drug companies will make more money.
Mateo gazes out the window at the dusty main street of Jubilee. There’s no one around. There never is. Nothing ever happens here.
‘My friends are going skiing this week,’ he says with a sigh. ‘In New England. They invited me to go, but I had to come here instead. Can you imagine? Soft powdery snow. Roaring fires. Air so cold you can see it.’
I try to imagine it, but I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is red dirt and scrubby grey bush. I’ve never seen the snow. Mum always said she’d take us, but then she and Dad would fight about it. Dad doesn’t like holidays. He doesn’t feel safe in a hotel.
‘This is disgusting, by the way,’ Mateo says, pointing to the sandwich. ‘Australians always go on about Vegemite. I think it’s a hoax. You don’t really eat this stuff. It’s probably furniture polish or something.’
I raise my eyebrows and eat the whole thing in front of him. He looks appalled.
‘I once read an Asimov book about a planet completely covered in dense city,’ he says. ‘They have nowhere to grow food, so they have these underground yeast vats. The yeast gets flavoured and coloured into something that resembles food.’ He shakes his head at me. ‘The folks at Vegemite have a long way to go.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘Unacceptable.’
‘You think a lot of things are unacceptable.’
He gives me a flat look. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Go on, then.’
Mateo stretches his arms out in front of him and laces his fingers, cracking his knuckles. ‘People who have strong opinions about Oxford commas, or the whole gif/jif thing,’ he says. ‘Chewing gum, dill pickles, low-fat milk and Bob Dylan. Vegan food that’s pretending to be meat. White privilege. Woody Allen. People who believe that their ability to eat ghost peppers somehow makes them brave or tough. Golf. Brioche hamburger buns. Raccoons. People who claim not to be feminists. Instant mac and cheese. Adults on skateboards or scooters. The term “spirit animal”. Star signs. And hybrid Hogwarts houses – you cannot be a Gryffinpuff!’
He runs out of breath, and I burst out laughing.
Then the lights go out, and the drinks fridge stops humming.
‘Blackout,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, it happens all the time.’
He nods. ‘It happens a lot in Puerto Rico, too. Last year my abuela went over a hundred days with no power.’
He looks down at his phone and frowns. The screen is blank.
‘I was on forty per cent,’ he says. ‘Bloody Apple.’
I feel a prickle of unease and pull out my own phone. It’s dead too.
‘I’d better get home,’ I tell him.
The twins meet me at the front door.
‘The power’s out,’ says Blythe. ‘We’ve checked the inverter and the generator.’
The feeling of unease grows. Our place is off the grid – powered by solar panels with battery storage and a backup generator. The power shouldn’t be out.
‘Are your phones working?’
They shake their heads.
‘Is it a drill?’ asks Grace hopefully.
I hesitate before answering. ‘The power is out in Jubilee too.’
The twins go silent, eyes wide.
‘Is it The Big One?’ asks Grace, a tremble in her voice.
The Big One is what Dad has been waiting for. The reason for the bunker and the supplies, and our constant emergency drills. He’s got dozens of different scenarios planned out and prepared for. Nuclear warfare. Biological weapons. Pandemic. Electromagnetic pulse. Economic collapse leading to martial law, food shortages, riots. He can’t wait to hide smugly in the Paddock while in Jubilee everyone starves or dies of nuclear fallout or whatever.
‘Definitely not,’ says Blythe firmly, with a glance at me.
I remember the morning news. ‘It’s probably that solar flare. I’m sure it’s only a temporary glitch.’
‘So what do we do?’ asks Grace. ‘Do we bug in or out?’
We can’t check the landline, because we don’t have one.
‘There’s no immediate danger,’ I say. ‘So we bug in. We’ll try rebooting the system in the morning.’
We make sandwiches for dinner. It’s summer, so it doesn’t get dark until seven-thirty or so. We light candles and play a few halfhearted rounds of cards. Then we head to bed.
I flick the light switch in my room on so that if the power does come back on, I’ll know.
But it doesn’t.
3
‘Where are you going?’
It’s Grace, her eyes dark-rimmed with sleeplessness and worry.
It’s just after dawn. I’m dressed and ready to go, my hand on the front doorknob. ‘To town,’ I say. ‘See what I can learn.’
‘No.’ Grace’s hands are balled into fists to stop them trembling. ‘Dad said we have to stick together. Family always comes first.’
Blythe appears behind Grace, rumpled with sleep. ‘The power had better be back on by lunchtime,’ she says, yawning and stretching. ‘I don’t want to miss the Dance Senator finale.’
Grace shakes her head. ‘I don’t know how you could sleep last night.’
‘The usual way.’ Blythe shrugs. ‘Lie down. Shut my eyes.’
‘Why am I the only one taking this seriously?’ Grace says through clenched teeth. ‘It could be anything. It could be an EMP.’
She bursts into tears.
‘It’s not an EMP,’ says Blythe, nudging Grace with her shoulder. ‘Unless by EMP you mean Enormous Mutant Pimple.’ She points at a spot on her forehead. ‘Seriously, look at this. It’s a nuclear whitehead ready to detonate.’
Grace hiccups and manages a weak smile.
An EMP – electromagnetic pulse – is the number one thing on Dad’s paranoia hotlist. Basically the worst-case scenario is that it fries every single electronic circuit in a given area – shutting down the power grid. No computers, no internet, no phones, no cars, no functioning hospitals or supermarkets, no banking records, no credit cards. Dad says we’ve become so dependent on electronics, it would totally cripple civilisation as we know it. We’d go back to the Dark Ages in a millisecond. About once a week he sits us down and makes us watch one of his shows or movies where an EMP happens. Sometimes I look over at him when we’re watching one of these things and see him on the edge of his seat, his eyes shining.
‘Do you want to do BEWARE?’ Blythe asks Grace. ‘Would that make you feel better?’
I’m about to argue that this is paranoid and pointless, but Blythe shoots me a look and I realise that this is the easiest way for me to head into town without sending Grace into full meltdown mode.
‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Grace, can you run us through the BEWARE protocol?’
Grace nods and recites the mnemonic that Dad made us memorise.
Bug in or out.
Eat perishables.
Water security.
Amenities and hygiene.
Recon.
Exchange worthless currency for supplies.
It’s the last one that’s going to get me out of here, but I play along with the rest.
‘So we’re bugging in,’ I say. ‘No point in heading to the Paddock until we have some more information. So what’s next?’
She drags Grace into the kitchen, wiggling her bum and waving her free hand over her head.
There’s a tub of vanilla, and a smaller tub of the expensive rum and raisin that Dad likes. We eat both, sitting at the kitchen bench, although I avoid the rum and raisin because there’s always the possibility of a stray nut. The fact that Grace doesn’t insist we save Dad’s for him is an indication of exactly how concerned she is.
Blythe flagrantly breaks the only-eat-perishable-food rule by covering her ice-cream with gummy bears, instant coffee granules and Milo. I shake my head.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘I’m a genius.’
When we’re finished, Grace gets up and empties the ice-cube trays into a plastic container. Dad told her to do this. Ice cubes are potable water and, out here, running out of water is one of our biggest threats. There’s a thirty thousand–litre water tank by the house, and another two buried next to the Paddock, and we also have the creek nearby, and the northern end of Lake Lincoln is part of our property. But water should never be taken for granted, as Dad is constantly reminding us. The wet season still hasn’t arrived, and our tank isn’t even close to full. We have to be careful.
We don’t have to do much to secure the amenities – our septic tank is still functioning, so we don’t have to worry much there. Our gas is LPG which Dad buys in tanks, so there’s plenty of that for now. The solar hot water is down, but cold showers won’t kill us.
‘Recon,’ says Grace, and looks at me.
Dad keeps a radio in a metal rubbish bin in the shed – a makeshift Faraday cage. It should still be working. We head out. Panda scatters chooks as she frolics around us. She thinks we’re going for a walk.
The rubbish bin is empty. I dimly recall Dad saying he’d ordered a newer model of radio – one with a long-range receiver. He must’ve already ditched the old one. Sloppy.
I shrug. ‘The best recon I can do is go into town.’
Grace squirms uneasily.
‘And what about the last item of the protocol?’ I remind her. ‘Exchange worthless currency for supplies.’
We head back into the house, and we empty our wallets. I also grab the roll of notes that Dad keeps in his bedside drawer. After all, it’s his rule, and if I have to use it to buy a giant mountain of chocolate, then who am I to argue?
‘Maybe we should skip this part,’ says Grace, hovering anxiously in the hallway.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Skip the last part of the BEWARE protocol? What would Dad say?’
‘But it contradicts the first part! We’re supposed to be bugging in. Recon and supplies is supposed to be Dad’s job, not ours.’
‘Dad’s not here.’
‘He might be back any minute.’
‘He might not.’
Grace twists her hands. ‘We have plenty of supplies,’ she says. ‘You don’t need to get more in town. I think we should stay here and wait for Dad.’
Blythe and I exchange a look. ‘Look at it this way,’ Blythe says to Grace, her voice soothing. ‘If you’re right, and the shit has hit the fan, then our currency is worthless, so we may as well get rid of it in exchange for something we can use. On the other hand, if we’re right, and it’s a temporary glitch, there’s no danger. Either way, Pru should head into town and get more intel.’
Grace doesn’t like it, but she can’t argue.
‘Be careful,’ she says. ‘Don’t buy too much. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Have a cover story. And take your bug-out bag.’
It’s nearly eleven by the time I leave, and the ride is hot and unpleasant. The sting of the sun penetrates the cotton fabric of my shirt, and I’m quickly soaked with sweat and caked in orange dust.
I don’t see anyone else on the road – no cars or trucks – but that isn’t unusual. Jubilee is deserted too. It’s eerie. There’s no sandwich board out the front of Simmone’s Café. The door to the Heart is closed. There’s nobody in Barri’s beauty salon.
The door to the general store is locked, so I peer in through the window. The lights are off, even the ones inside the drinks fridges that should be on all the time. I head around to the back of the shop, where Jan Marshall lives, and notice that the compressor for the aircon isn’t running.
I bang on the back door. Jan opens it and I feel a surge of relief at seeing another human being.
‘Hi, Pru, love.’ She looks tired.
‘Power still out?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘I’ve got a whole lot of food that’s gonna spoil if it doesn’t come back on soon.’
‘Is your mobile working?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. ‘Must’ve run out of juice. What a pain in the arse, hey?’
‘Yeah.’
I head back out onto the main street. There’s still nobody in sight.
‘Pru.’
Nobody, that is, except Keller. Great. He looks as neat and odious as he usually does. I cross the road to the door of the post office, where he’s standing.
‘Are the twins okay?’
‘They’re fine,’ I say, irritated that he asked.
‘But it’s the same out your way? No power?’
I nod, and turn to walk away. I don’t have time for Keller.
‘The cars aren’t working,’ Keller says, and I stop and turn back to him.
‘What?’
‘Not since yesterday afternoon. No cars, no phones. Landlines are down. This is no ordinary blackout.’
I feel like he’s physically hit me.
‘You don’t know anything?’ Keller asks, his eyes slightly narrowed.
My mouth forms the words without me even thinking. ‘Why would I know anything?’
‘You haven’t heard from your dad?’
The question throws me off-guard. What is Keller really asking? Why does he think Dad would know anything about what’s going on?
‘No,’ I say. ‘Why? Have you heard anything from Hansbach? From your dad?’
Keller’s dad is a process technician at Hansbach. He’s the opposite of his son – where Keller is smarmy and ingratiating, Jonas Reid is cold and distant. He doesn’t socialise with anyone in Jubilee, just keeps to himself. Like my dad, I guess.
‘Nothing,’ says Keller, but he’s giving me a look that makes me think he does know something.
I shake my head and walk away before he can ask any more questions.
The cars aren’t working.
The cars aren’t working.
I have to go back to the general store and see if Jan will let me in. I have to spend all the money in my bag. I have to get back to the twins. I have to find Dad.
Grace was right.
The shit has hit the fan.
4
I thump on the door to the general store, but Jan doesn’t answer this time, even when I go around the back.
I don’t know what to do. If Grace was scared before, she’s going to be terrified now. She’ll want to go to the Paddock, and I won’t have a good reason to refuse.
The idea of holing up in the bunker fills me with claustrophobic dread. Dad’s made us stay there overnight before, but if we go there now it could be days before Dad comes for us. I can’t do it. I’ll go mad.
I hear a crash behind me and turn to see Mateo extracting himself from a collapsed bicycle. He’s still wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but he’s managed to find a hat – a fashionable straw fedora-type thing.
‘Se fue la luz,’ he mutters. ‘Se fue la luz. Se fue la luz.’
I go over and give him a hand up. He brushes dust off his jeans and glares at the bicycle.
‘Are you okay?’
He turns the glare on me. ‘Am I okay? There is no electricity. My phone won’t work. My computer won’t work. All the cars in town have stopped working. This town is literally the worst place on earth, and I’m totally alone. No. I am not okay. This is unacceptable and I want my moms.’
He swings his
leg over the bicycle again and rides off, wobbling dangerously.
I walk alongside him – he’s not going very fast.
‘Where are you going?’
The bicycle hits a rock and Mateo overcorrects with the handlebars, nearly stacking it into the wall of Barri’s salon. ‘I’m going to your stupid mine and I’m going to find my mom, and then we are going to go somewhere else. Anywhere.’
He lifts his feet back on the pedals and the bike lurches forward. Hansbach is four hundred kilometres away. Mateo has no bag. No water. No bike repair kit. No food. He won’t get far.
‘Hey,’ I say to Mateo. ‘You should probably just stay here.’
He continues his ponderous wobbly path. Has he ever ridden a bike before?
‘If I’d wanted to overheat during a power blackout, I could have gone to Puerto Rico,’ he yells over his shoulder. ‘At least there is a beach.’
I hesitate. I can only imagine how he must feel, so far away from home. Alone. No one is here to look after him. Nobody has any answers.
I want answers too. I know I’m not going to find them at home, or in the Paddock, or here in Jubilee.
I bite my lip.
I know what Dad would say.
Head to the Paddock. Bug out. Look after your sisters.
Be a good girl.
I stop following Mateo, and am turning to head back to my own bike when I hear shouting. It’s just one voice, warbly and cracking.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
I look around, but I can’t see anyone. I follow the voice and turn the corner into Waratah Way. There’s a row of cottages here, ugly fibro things with square windows and ragged screen doors. The door to number seven is open, and Mrs Kausler is standing on the front step, her face etched with worry. I quicken my pace.
She peers at me as I approach. ‘You’re one of the Palmer girls, aren’t you?’
Mr and Mrs Kausler run Jubilee’s bakery. Mr Kausler is a comedian, always ready with a quick joke or a terrible pun. Mrs Kausler plays the role of the long-suffering sidekick, and she loves every minute of it.
Except for now. ‘Something’s happened to Stefan,’ she says. ‘And the phone won’t work.’
I run the last few steps and she ushers me into her house. It’s musty and stifling, and smells of instant coffee and flyspray. Sprawled on the couch is Mr Kausler. He’s a big man, in his sixties. His face is white and his eyes are half-closed, his expression vacant. He’s sweating profusely, his white stringy hair plastered to his head, and his shirt is soaked through. An unnatural wheezing noise is coming from his throat, and his chest is heaving up and down as if he’s struggling to breathe.