A tin shed.
Pat jumped out of the car and pulled down a roller door. Luckman opened the back door and stepped out. It felt like a sauna. It was a relatively modern structure, but the interior was crammed with decades worth of old car parts. Used tyres and rims were stacked along the walls. In front of them was a maze of dented panels, used oil containers, rusting tools and empty beer bottles. The space was large enough to park three cars side by side. A couple of metres away from where Pat had parked, the chassis of an old sedan lay abandoned, its wheels removed. The car body lay flat on the shed’s concrete floor. It had no doors or bonnet. Bare metal and a briar patch of internal wiring was all that remained of the dashboard.
“What are we doing in here? We’ll cook.”
“I just realised we got a flat tyre,” Pat announced, rather too loudly. “We better change it.”
Luckman circled the car – all four tyres were intact. Pat put a finger to his lips and walked over to the old car body. He grabbed a lever on the side of the driver’s seat and pushed the seat back to reveal a small square manhole in the shed floor then climbed down into the hole, waving at Luckman to join him.
A vertical shaft disappeared into the ground directly below the old car. He saw a metal ladder bolted to the wall. The top rung was all that was visible just below the manhole. The rest of the ladder vanished into pitch black. It was impossible to say how far the shaft descended until he heard Pat’s feet hit the bottom a good 10 to 15 metres below.
Taking his time, making sure he had a good footing on the ladder, Luckman set off to follow. As his eyes drew level with the shed’s concrete floor and the bottom of the chassis he spotted a tiny concrete plug tucked up underneath the driver’s seat – a makeshift manhole cover that must lower into place when the seat was returned to its normal position. It was elegant, sophisticated and knowingly disguised inside the mythology of blackfella bush mechanics.
By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder Luckman couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Pat grabbed his wrist and placed his other open hand firmly on Luckman’s back, urging him to stand still. Above them he heard a gentle whir and a dusty thud of masonry as the manhole cover lowered back into place. This seemed to trigger the lights in their chamber, a concrete bunker about 20 by 20 metres across and a good three metres high. The air was stale but not stifling, meaning the place had to be ventilated.
“No-one can hear us down here,” Pat informed him.
Luckman was still wearing Pat’s sweat shirt. It had worked – he was soaked with perspiration. He pulled it off, enjoying the sensation of the cool air on his damp skin.
“A good place to hide from a nuclear attack,” Luckman noted.
“I reckon that was on the cards when Father Clarence built this place.”
“Maybe it still is,” Luckman replied.
“He owns all the houses up top – a dozen or so. That’s a secret, by the way,” said Pat.
“You mean as opposed to all of this down here?”
There was a laboratory at one end of the bunker. Scattered about the place were a variety of objects large and small, many covered with tarpaulins. One corner of the bunker had been set aside as a living space. The furniture was old and dilapidated. Pat parked himself on a couch and urged Luckman to take a seat.
“You must be good at keeping secrets,” Luckman decided.
Pat stared back at him impassively. “Blackfellas are perfect people to trust. No-one takes us seriously. Well, almost no-one.”
“I can’t speak for the Americans, but I’m fairly certain the Australian Government knows nothing about the Verus Foundation.”
“No-one knows about us. That’s why we still exist.”
“How much do you know about me?” Luckman asked him.
“I been following you since you left Brisbane. In the chair.
“Then you know I’m not with Greenpeace anymore.”
Pat smiled knowingly. “Uniform’s a bit of a giveaway.”
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Pat nodded. “I used the chair to backtrack your progress. You can blow the shit outa Pine Gap as far as I’m concerned.”
Shearer’s operation was starting to look like the worst kept secret in military history.
“It’s easier said than done but,” Pat told him.
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to spill the beans about the Verus Foundation?”
“Time this cat was let out of the bag.”
“After more than half a century of secrecy you’re suddenly ready to reveal all.”
“Not me. Father Clarence. The man who turned up dead right after you arrived.”
A coincidence clearly not lost on either of them.
“So what exactly have you been getting up to down here?”
Pat tipped his head back in the direction of the lab bench. “Inventions, experiments. This place runs off its own zero-point energy system.”
“Is it big enough to power the town?” asked Luckman.
Pat laughed. “If we were doing that the whole world would already know, eh? The town’s on the normal power supply.”
For a moment Luckman thought Pat was trying to be funny. “Pat, there IS no town power. There’s been no electricity generation since the cataclysm – anywhere.”
Pat’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.
“Why didn’t Father Clarence tell you that?”
“He wasn’t himself when he came back. He was talkin’ about the ocean rising. But we’re a long way from the coast.”
“Came back from where?”
“From them. They helped ‘im.”
“I thought you said they killed him.”
“Yeah.”
“Which is it?”
“Both.”
“How does that work?”
“He lost all his memories. Not amnesia… something worse. Like he was a child or something. He couldn’t even talk. Didn’t recognise me or anyone else.”
“He went Blank.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“When did you say this was?”
“Few days ago.”
“Can you be more precise?”
“Not really. Three, four days maybe.”
“Since he came back?”
“No, since it happened.”
Luckman realised Pat was in the same trance as the rest of the town.
Thirty-Four
“Did anyone else go Blank like Father Clarence?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
Luckman sighed. “There’s been a bit of it going around.”
“I never seen anything like it. Didn’t know what to do. Knew the hospital would just lock ‘im in a loony bin.”
“So you took him to the Others.” Pat said nothing. “You trusted them. You had no way of knowing they’d kill him. What have you been doing since then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, the Verus Foundation was working in partnership with the Others. Whatever’s happening in this town is down to them.”
“We haven’t had time.”
Luckman was getting frustrated. “Unless you’ve been in a coma you’ve had plenty of time. The Sunburst occurred two months ago.”
Pat stared at him with the expression of a man trying hard to remember something he knew he’d forgotten.
“OK, let’s change tack,” said Luckman. “What do you know about the fate of the rest of the world?”
Pat shrugged again. “I know it’s bad. I know planes have stopped flying. Everyone else in town is ignoring it. Like I say there’s been no time to…” He stopped himself from reciting the line automatically. “I always end up finding more important things to worry about. Like you.”