Jam Read online

  “You mean slackers,” said Don.

  “Not all . . .”

  “But mostly. Christ, it probably was deliberate, wasn’t it? It’s a really smart strategy. Don’t kill every single person, just all the useful ones. Leave all the awkward spods to wipe themselves out.” He stared into the middle distance. “The geek shall inherit the earth.”

  “Agh! Damn!” Angela aimed her lens at him and twiddled with the settings. “Could you do another take of that? I wasn’t in focus.”

  DAY 3.2

  —

  Don’s statement proved prescient, since it soon became clear that none of us knew the slightest thing about sailing. I could just about hazard that the sail should ideally be at right angles to the wind, but that was as far as my expertise went. Fortunately the sail was already unfurled and I found some poles with hooks on the end, so we used them to push away from the corner of Ann and Brunswick and shove the sail around until it caught a bit of breeze.

  This meant there constantly had to be one of us keeping the sail in line and one of us holding the rudder, or whatever it was called. These roles went to me and Tim respectively for the first shift while Don and Angela explored below deck.

  The wind was light and progress was slow. Once we passed the barren jam lake where the park on Centenary Place used to be and moved further along Ann into the city center, the buildings grew taller and taller and the mood grew bleaker and bleaker as we navigated between the silent, looming walls of concrete and black glass. We hadn’t seen any other human beings since leaving X and Y behind. The rooftops were high out of sight, and if there were survivors inside they weren’t rushing to say hello.

  Tim had been sitting in silence with his hand on the whatever-it’s-called, foot tapping nervously. I’d been feeling rather depressed after being admonished by Don, but after an hour or two of silence I felt moved to start some kind of conversation. “Wonder where everyone is.”

  “This is where people used to work, not live,” he theorized aloud, staring at the buildings. “Not many people come to work before rush hour. Except weirdoes.” He looked at me uneasily. “How’s the spider?”

  Mary’s box was sitting on my thigh. I patted it reassuringly. “She’s doing all right.”

  Tim nodded, then frowned to himself. “It’s funny that you instantly assumed it was female. I think that says a lot about you.”

  The deck hatch thudded open and Don climbed into the daylight, gave us one glance of acknowledgement each, and took up position at the frontmost part of the deck, inspecting the encroaching city. A few seconds later Angela emerged.

  “Wow, it’s really nice down there,” she said, probably more to her camera than anyone else. “There’s three beds and a kitchen and everything. And a shower. And a freezer like you wouldn’t believe. Might even work if we could find the generator.”

  “Have we passed Creek Street?” said Don suddenly, spinning around with the force of an important realization slamming into his forebrain.

  “It’ll be coming up soon,” I said.

  “We have to take a quick detour,” he said. “I need to stop in my office on Creek Street.”

  He immediately turned around and folded his arms before anyone could ask the obvious question, which Tim voiced, undeterred. “Why?”

  Don hung his head and hissed a sigh through his teeth. He turned around and looked him square in the eye, prepared to wade into another argument. “I’m going to pick up the build for my current project.”

  Tim went straight for it. “Are you still holding out hope for the rest of the world?”

  “Yes, I’m prepared to assume that the few square miles of jam we’ve seen do not imply an extinction-level event. You’re the one holding out hope. You just can’t bear the thought of this not being a proper apocalypse because you’d have to go back to being pointless.”

  “We can’t waste any time,” said Tim calmly, determined to be the better man. “Our supplies are low and there might still be people waiting for rescue.”

  “Some of us are thinking about the future!” barked Don, building up a decent rant speed. “You can’t just dig your way out of the cell block and hope everything will turn out for the best! You’re going to end up wandering around the nearest town in a stripy prison uniform!”

  “What are you on about, Don?” said Angela.

  “That build is my entire career!” screeched Don. “You can’t do this to me! I’ll sue you!”

  “How about a vote?” said Tim, looking to me and Angela. “Who thinks we should follow Don’s stupid plan to get his thing no one cares about? Show of hands?”

  “Don’t word it like that!” yelled Don as our arms failed to extend upwards. “You’re loading the question!”

  “Don, just let it go,” said Angela, bored.

  Don grunted with frustration and slammed his fist against the handrail. Then he sat in the corner and hugged his knees to sulk and rub his injured knuckles.

  “Any luck with the phone signals?” asked Angela.

  “Nothing,” I said, checking my phone for the umpteenth time.

  “Hmm,” said Angela with mock thoughtfulness, apparently unsurprised. “That seems strange, doesn’t it? No signals even in the city? It’s almost as if something’s deliberately trying to prevent—”

  “Well, I’ve got nothing because the battery ran out,” I admitted, shaking the device. “I was playing Joogie Bounce. Sorry. Tim, did you ever get through to your mum?”

  “Haven’t tried,” he said, quickly and with no emotion. “How are we for supplies?”

  “Aren’t you worried about her?” asked Angela, echoing my own concern. I liked Tim’s mum. I was fairly certain I was her favorite friend of Tim’s and she could always be relied upon for an ice pop whenever I came around.

  “Of course I am,” he said. “You worried about your folks?”

  “They’re all in Toowoomba,” said Angela. “So far we only know Brisbane’s gone. I’m keeping the worrying sensible.”

  “Supplies?” said Tim, very deliberately moving on.

  “Oh yeah!” said Angela, suddenly pleased. “Check this out.” She ducked under the deck hatch for a second and returned with armfuls of sealed cans of food. “There’s a chest freezer in the kitchen full of ’em.”

  “Great,” said Tim, with questionable sincerity. “Did you find any fruit? Vegetables? Anything with seeds?”

  “Nope, just loads of cans,” said Angela, enthusiasm fading. “They’re full. And sealed. It’s all edible.”

  “Yeah, it’ll keep us going for now,” said Tim. “But we really need to think about what we’re going to cultivate once we get to the settlement.” I heard Don make a little scoffing noise.

  “What’s in them?” I asked.

  Angela met my gaze hotly and I felt myself flinch. “I don’t know,” she said, with even temper. “None of them have labels. It’s like a lucky dip. It’ll be fun.”

  “Hey,” I said, having trouble keeping up as thought after thought trundled through my head. “If survivors were stockpiling food in this boat, why would they abandon it?”

  “Maybe they forgot to tie it up and it drifted off!” snapped Angela. “Could you please stop asking stupid questions?”

  “I’ve got one more,” I said.

  She sighed tolerantly. “Well?”

  “How are we going to open them?”

  Angela looked at me, then at the cans in her arms, then at Tim and Don, both of whom were deliberately taking a marked interest in something other than her. Then she dropped the cans and stormed back down the hatch as they clonked about the deck.

  “Is there a can opener or a knife or something down there?” I called. The hatch slammed shut.

  “Guess not,” said Tim. “Hm.” His eyes rolled this way and that as he put his mind to the issue. “Maybe they’d open if we whacked them with a shoe a whole bunch of times.”

  I didn’t answer. Not verbally, anyway.

  “Well, I don’t know,
do I?” he said. “I’m not big on technical details. I’m more of a big-picture guy.”

  “I know where to get a can opener,” said Don levelly, suddenly lifting his chin from its resting place on his knees.

  “Where?” said Tim.

  “There’s one in the kitchen at my office.”

  Tim considered his next statement like a chess player who had just noticed an incoming checkmate. “There are quite a few places where we could potentially find a can opener,” he said, finally.

  “Yes, but not all of them are just around the corner. And familiar territory.” He patted his dressing-gown pocket as if laying down his winning move. “And buildings which I have the keys for.”

  “Er, why do you have your keys?” I asked. “You’re not wearing your own trousers.”

  He scowled at me, getting to his feet. “Look, I know I’m not the only person who keeps their spare keys in their dressing gown. It’s in case I get locked out when I’m collecting the mail. It’s perfectly rational. It doesn’t make me neurotic.”

  “I didn’t say it made you neuro—”

  “I know! I’m just saying it doesn’t!”

  DAY 3.3

  —

  We took a rather inexpert and bumpy hard right at Creek Street and eventually managed to park diagonally in front of Don’s work building. Well, not so much “park” as “allow the boat to slowly drift into a wall.”

  Creek Street was in Spring Hill, the area in the central business district where all the technology companies based themselves. Don’s workplace was in the tall brown office building that dominated the corner of Creek and Ann, but he’d made us turn into Creek Street to park at the rear entrance. The door was wide open and the small antechamber within was flooded with jam. But Don’s interest seemed to be on the rather pleasant little second-floor terrace just above, which seemed to be clear.

  With the Everlong right up against the building, Don was able to jump straight up from the prow and grab the guardrail, but then his upper-body strength failed him, so I helped push his legs upwards until he could climb in.

  “Travis, maybe you should go with him,” said Tim. He gave me a look that was apparently supposed to mean something to me.

  “Whatever,” said Don, looking down on us grandly like a dictator speaking to the masses. “There might be some supplies he can carry.”

  Accepting that I had been volunteered, I was on the prow and crouched and ready to jump when Tim put an urgent hand on my shoulder.

  “Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly.

  “What for?”

  “The more he clings to hope that someone’s going to rescue us, the more tetchy he gets.”

  “Really?” I rubbed the lump on the back of my head. “I think he’s been pretty consistent as far as tetchiness goes . . .”

  “Just be aware that he could crack at any moment. Try to bring him down if he starts, you know, shouting, stabbing things, stuff like that.”

  “Will you look after Mary?”

  He glanced at the tupperware box on the deck of the boat for a second and took what sounded like a deep breath before replying. “Yes. See, it’s right over there.”

  Somewhat satisfied, I pushed myself up into the air as hard as I could and grabbed the ledge, whereupon Tim pushed my feet up a little too enthusiastically. My chin and the palms of my hands hit the balcony floor a little too fast, scattering paper cups and cigarette ends. I rose to my knees and saw Don fiddling with the lock on a glass entry door.

  “Hung urn,” he said, his cheek flattened against the glass. “It lurcks from insurd but thurr’s a wuy you curn—”

  “We could just smash it in,” I pointed out.

  He turned to glare at me over his shoulder. “You do not know what the caretaker of this place is like. He gobbed on a potted plant once and I swear I heard it fizzle. Ah, there we go.” The door opened outwards, and he patiently held it open as I passed through. “You’re welcome.” He swiftly overtook me and led the way. “Our studio’s just around the corner. Try not to scuff the walls; they stain.”

  “Er, Don,” I said, remembering Tim’s words. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” he said automatically, before pausing in midstride for a moment. “Actually, no, I’m not fine. I’m homeless, everyone I know is dead, the Internet isn’t working, and I will be eaten if I ever touch the ground. But under the circumstances I think I’m holding up pretty well. Do I even want to know why you ask?”

  “It’s just . . . Tim said—”

  “I wouldn’t pay much attention to what Tim says,” he interrupted archly. “I don’t think Tim is entirely on speaking terms with Mr. Reality right now.”

  “How do you mean?”

  A tinted glass wall with a set of double doors divided the hallway from the reception area of Don’s studio. The glass was etched with a rather disquieting close-up of a fantasy barbarian’s groin and the words Loincloth Studio Australia. Don started fumbling through his keys for the right one. “There is a certain kind of failure, Travis,” he said, “who thinks they’re looking forward to the apocalypse. They lead empty, sad little lives but refuse to take responsibility. They tell themselves they were just born in the wrong time. So they think a complete breakdown of society will solve all their problems.” He jammed a key savagely into the lock. “And once Tim realizes he hasn’t gotten any less useless, I wouldn’t be surprised if he crack—”

  As he tried to turn the handle and the key at the same time, the entire locking mechanism tumbled away in his hands, along with a few shards of glass. The door fell open inwards with an eerie creak.

  “Someone’s broken in,” he muttered.

  “Looters?”

  Don didn’t reply. He turned around and walked purposefully back down the hall and around the corner. While I was wondering if he was expecting me to follow or not, I heard another tinkling of broken glass, and he returned carrying a two-handed fire ax.

  I stood out of his way as he stalked quietly into reception, then followed behind him without a word. It occurred to me that he had known exactly where to find the ax, as if he’d spent a lot of time thinking about scenarios that involved him storming into his office wielding a large-bladed weapon.

  The reception area didn’t show any signs of looting. The desk was undisturbed, even to the tupperware lunchbox full of rotting lasagna. The leather sofas were still in place. A snack machine and an arcade cabinet stood like unbroken monoliths. And no sound could be heard coming from the two narrow hallways either side of the desk that led to the rest of the studio.

  Don needlessly put up one hand for silence, twisting the ax head nervously in his other. “Stay here,” he hissed from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take a look around.”

  “Righto,” I whispered back. He disappeared into the offices.

  I passed ten minutes sitting on one of the leather sofas, fidgeting with my thumbs. After recrossing my legs for the fifteenth time I thought about going to find him, but I didn’t want to be in the way, and he had an ax. Then I thought about going back to Tim and Angela to ask for advice, but I hated to give the impression I couldn’t make decisions on my own. Frank had accused me of that a few months ago, right after he told me to stop calling him at work every time the doorbell rang.

  Idly I stood up and stepped over to the snack machine, taking a closer look at the contents. It was one of those automat-style machines, with each item in a separate compartment, and I noticed that one of the compartments contained an apple. Five days in an unrefrigerated lobby had taken its toll, but it was fruit, the very thing Tim had said we needed most.

  Yes, I realized. This was me being decisive. The other snacks could be added to our short-term food supplies, but the apple could be the foundation of the new society’s barter economy. We’d have an orchard on the roof of Hibatsu and maybe he’d name it after me.

  All I had to do was get inside the machine. I tapped a few of the buttons, but without power all they produced was a
tinny rattling. Then I kneeled, pushed open the output flap and tried to get my arm up into the machine, but that was even less successful, and after suddenly recalling a gory health and safety video I was once shown while doing temp work at a manufacturing plant, I withdrew as fast as I could.

  I looked around for a solution, and found myself staring at the full-sized plastic warrior that stood in frozen battle pose in the corner of the waiting area. Specifically his sword, which appeared to be real—or at least genuine metal, since I doubted any real sword would ever have a foot-wide curvy blade carved with skulls.

  I removed it from his unresisting hands and immediately confirmed my theory by the way my knees started trembling every time I tried to lift it off the floor. I dragged it across the room, doing irreparable damage to the carpet, and hesitated when I reached the machine. I wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea to go and find Don, after all, and ask if this was all right. But then I remembered something else Frank had said: “Better to seek forgiveness than permission.” Those had been his exact words before he slammed the phone down.

  I stood to the side of the machine, shifted my grip, and took a few deep breaths. Momentum would probably do most of the work on this one. I took one more deep breath, then spun on my heel and yanked the sword through the air.

  For an instant the room blurred past in a horizontal smear, then the impact shook the pommel out of my hands and I continued spinning for half a turn before getting hurled into the floor. A massive, splintering crack rang out and echoed through the halls. The sword bounced off and skidded into the room. Various pieces of broken plexiglass trickled from the front of the machine.

  Once I was back on my feet and the room had stopped swaying I stepped back over and peered into the hole, impressed with myself. I reached in, mindful of shards, and carefully worried the apple out.

  “What was that?” came a voice. A voice that didn’t belong to Don.

  I dashed across the room, apple in one hand and pulling the sword along with the other, and hid behind the first piece of cover I came to, which turned out to be the overlarge thighs of the plastic barbarian.