The Settlement

THE SETTLEMENT

By

Maria Rigoni

Marmolada

Other books by Maria Rigoni

Ekewane - The Sorceress

Rihani - The Darkness

Copyright © Maria Rigoni 2018

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

A C.I.P. record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

Cover design by Sandra Nooke.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any mean, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Published 2018 by Marmolada Pty Ltd

ISBN: 978-0-9873544-5-7 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-9873544-6-4 (eBook)

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to my family.

I would like to thank the following people for making this book possible.

Sandra for the wonderful cover.

Adam for editing the manuscript.

Don who endlessly discussed the characters and made valued suggestions.

Donato for reading my first manuscript and suggesting I go into more details in some of the chapters.

My siblings and their families John, Miriam, Johnny, Giulia, Anthony, Sharon for always being there for me.

My wonderful sons and their wives Adrian, Penny, Denis, TuQuan, for their constant support and love and for giving me my beautiful grandchildren, Kiara, Aiden, Raquel, Dante, Poppy.

Especial thanks to TuQuan who first edited and made valued recommendations to the original manuscript.

Adrian without his help I would not have been able to publish this book.

My husband Mario for his encouragement to write my stories.

Thank you

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Perspiration trickled down Frank’s face. He could feel the knots in his stomach tightening as he looked at the small circle of people staring at the table.

The table was covered with maps, photos and notes. It was the nucleus of their attention—it represented the culprit; the invisible enemy they were fighting against. It stirred strong emotions for all of them in that room.

Tomorrow, years of preparations in anticipation of this day, had finally arrived. Simultaneous raids would be carried out with stealth and clinical precision.

This meeting would be their last briefing. The assaults would no longer be delayed; three of the men standing around the table were ex-military, and they would head the strikes. Two incursions were planned.

Reconnaissance trips had been going on for months. They had scoped the layout, security systems and estimated the necessary timing for various escape routes.

It had all seemed like a bizarre dream. Six years had passed since that first confrontational argument around a similar table. They did not believe it then, but now there were no doubts, they would plummet into a science-fiction reality—an unknown future. Tomorrow, the table would be cleared for the last time. Tomorrow, it would be an end and a new beginning.

The German FinSpy program had finally breached the firewall of the government’s computer security system. A transcript of the Prime Minister’s speech had glared at them from the screen. The impending event was clear amongst the waffle of useless words: explanations for why the public was not told earlier, no one to blame, security had to be maintained, panic was the worse peril, etc. Platitude on platitude, excuse upon excuse, the speech gave. No matter what happened, those in power would always justify their behaviour—bureaucratic until the end. The group had read the speech with trepidation, knowing what it would read yet hoping they had been mistaken. It all confirmed what they had long suspected. Armageddon was about to say I’m here!

All national media programs would be interrupted at 7:00 pm that evening. The Prime Minister was to make a significant announcement that, unknown to the general public, had previously been recorded in the ABC studios in Canberra. The government ministers, their families and other privileged individuals would already be safe in an underground bunker while the rest of the nation had to face the consequences alone.

Two Scania long-haulage trucks had been fitted with appropriate cages and tanks, tranquilliser guns, tarps and ropes. Everything had been checked and re-checked, there would be no room for error.

Since the media broadcasted the Prime Minister’s impending address to the nation, several cars laden with personal belongings had been arriving at the secret bunker. Everyone involved in the scheme had either arrived or were hastily making their way there.

When the long-haulage trucks returned from their final mission of transporting the privileged to their hideaway, the heavy cast-iron gate protecting the base would be closed indefinitely. The barrier between two realities would then be distinctly drawn.

On a side road, a long-haulage truck had pulled over. Two men and a woman were stationed inside. Each were immersed in their thoughts, comforted by knowing that their families, at least, were safe and waiting for their return.

From their stationary position, they could see the visitors’ gates closed and locked for the night. Exiting tourists from the carpark area outside the gates barely glanced at the stationary truck. They dared not look at the faces of the tourists driving past for fear that it would make them doubt the possible futility of their mission. They had to succeed.

The leaves on the tall gum trees began to take on a pink hue. Soon, a final splash of glorious colours would light up the evening sky. Every now and again, the night call of an owl leaving its roost, searching for its prey, could be heard echoing through the trees; the sound mingling with a chorus of other indistinct night cries. Dusk was almost upon them, and the time to move was quickly approaching. Security in tourist sites, such as this, was lax; just a few cheap surveillance cameras were installed throughout the area, and only one Security Officer was on patrol at night.

At precisely 7:00 pm, as announced, all media programs were interrupted. Now, all hell would break loose throughout Australia, and undoubtedly, the rest of the world. The people in the truck, like millions of others, watched their device’s screen intently as the Prime Minister made the announcement.

This was it.

Moments later, a panic-stricken Security Officer hastily opened the locked entry gates to the wildlife park. Trembling, he then fled in his car as instructed, oblivious to his surroundings and the animals now left behind. Only the faint murmur of his motor breached the silent night but faded away, along with the red light from his rear taillights, as he hurtled down the highway.

The nocturnal animals in the park continued their nightly ritual unperturbed by events outside their habitats.

The sudden roar of the truck’s motor shattered the lulled silence, bringing the occupants of the truck back to the moment—back to their purpose. Orders were precise: sedate and capture only the animals marked on their map. By now, if all went according to plan, the second team should also be executing their operation.

Native animals had been collected over the past two years, often only a pair of each kind—now they needed to collect particular missing species. As they went from enclosure to enclosure, they opened gates and freed the animals that remained. They knew that the animals were primarily herbivorous—so their future would be dammed—but at least they would die in their natural habitat—a final act of kindness.

When the mission was complete, they headed the truck back to base. As they exited onto the road, they sadly stared at a roadside sign for the last time: Healesville Sanctuary Zoo. Their return journey would take them through a number of towns—towns that had undoubtedly now become volatile.

The second mission was to be undertaken in Melbourne’s Central Business District; Melbourne’s busiest area. It was expected that mass hysteria would erupt once the Prime Minister’s televised announcement were broadcast. The roads would become chaotic and fraught with danger. Reckless drivers, blinded by fear and anger, would drive madly through intersections smashing and destroying anything in their paths. Pedestrians would adopt mob-mentality. Anarchy was inevitable.

The Melbourne Aquarium was located on the banks of the Yarra River. A man and a woman were seated in an adjacent park, while a second man in a stationary truck was nervously waiting, switching the radio to different stations and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The truck was parked in a loading bay a few kilometres away, and the man would leave the bay an hour before the announcement was to be broadcast. The driver had taken out his mobile and waited for the signal.

The woman sitting in the park gazed sadly at the excited, happy children leaving the Aquarium and those playing in the adjacent park; their peals of laughter and screams rising above the noise of the local traffic. Tears filled her eyes for she knew what was to become of them. She could do nothing to help.

The woman had spent her first two years after graduating, saving children in Bangladesh. Since then, she worked at The Royal Melbourne Children Hospital—her life’s goal had been to help children. Now, she could do nothing but stand by, helpless, while thousands upon thousands would die. In a short while, humankind would be catapulted into a world of horror, only a fortunate few would survive. She knew that the first to die would be the most vulnerable—the elderly, infirmed, and of course, the children—especially the children.

The streets of Melbourne that day had an unusual military and police presence. People going about their affairs seemed oblivious to, or ignored, them.

At 6:00 pm, the Aquarium’s doors closed, letting out the last visitors. They watched many of the staff leave a few moments later. This was their cue.

The woman dialled up the truck driver on her mobile and told him to move forward. On cue, the truck’s engine started with a diesel clatter and then slowly made its way through ‘truck prohibited’ signed roads toward the Aquarium. Vexed motorists, irritated by the breach of road signs, tooted, swore and waved their hands pointing to the ‘no truck’ signs. The driver ignored the fracas and kept driving.

At 7:10 pm, the doors of the Aquarium flew open and a Security Officer burst out of the entrance, leaving the doors unlocked in his rush.

The truck accelerated through the park and halted at the Aquarium entrance. The man and woman hurried inside, followed by the truck driver.

In the semidarkness of the underground enclosure, the blue lights from the large aquariums created a strange twilight ambience. The silence was only broken by the bubbling water in the tanks.

Nobody spoke; each person knew what they had to do. The thick walls muffled the noise and chaos that had erupted above ground. Slowly lowering the nets, each particular species were carefully lifted out. The group of three worked quickly.

The smaller fish were the easiest to capture, and they hastily and carefully lowered them into the portable containers and taken to the larger tanks in the truck. The Giant Murray Cod, about thirty kilograms, was difficult to catch, and nearly fell to the floor, saved only by becoming entangled in the net. The larger fish swam fervently as though aware of what was to come; they splashed the water making capture difficult.

They were now in the Mermaid Garden. The Grey Nurse sharks were too big. Their long sleek bodies twisted through the water with superb ease. The group stopped for a moment and watched them. An octopus and a Smooth Stingray caught their eye, and they quickly hauled them out. In The Ocean Rangers Exhibit, they found the Fairy Penguins and turtles and captured what they hoped were pairs, or at least, specimens of different gender. In the Bay Of Rays, the spectacular markings of the graceful Fiddler Rays and Western Shovelnose Rays were impressive. They threw in the last of their bait hoping the Rays would come closer to their net. They had to leave quickly or they would miss their schedule.

The younger man quickly jogged back to the saltwater crocodiles, they could not take them, but he wanted to admire them for the last time. These were the remnants of prehistoric times; they had survived when other species had died out. Maybe they could survive once more, he hoped. Large tanks were waiting for the rescued fish at their final destination, but for those that were left behind, their extinction would be certain.

The truck’s engine roared into life, and they slowly drove back to the road beyond the entrance. They felt anxious for the next leg of their mission. It would be the most dangerous, and their precious cargo could be lost forever.

The truck cautiously made its way to the Westgate Bridge—the streets had already become lawless. The following ten kilometres would be their most critical. Once on the main road, the truck kept to the slower lane as the fast-moving traffic recklessly flashed past, like colourful flags streaking endlessly against the sunset. It would only take one accident for the stream of colour to stop permanently.

From the bridge, the surrounding scene below was a battlefield. Through the chaos around them, they could hear gunshots and tooting cars. They could see fires and hear explosions as cars were set alight and shops were loitered and destroyed.

Nauseating smoke wafted into the truck—it was the smell of destruction. Flashes of exploding vehicles lit up the already sooty sky overhead. Many of the military and police officers had abandoned their directives and fled away, presumably home to their families, while others, in a state of shock, disbelieving and confused, tried futilely to keep some semblance of order.

The sky above the bridge soon reflected the chaos below. Helicopters and small planes littered the skyline. A sudden explosion rocked the truck, the bright light illuminating the cabin. Beyond the bridge, they saw a massive ball of fire as two helicopters exploded. People were panicking, desperate to get out of the city; and they had become beasts!

Why do people act this way? the woman asked, almost rhetorically. Her glittering emerald eyes filled with tears.

The older man, with similar emerald eyes as the woman, replied hoarsely, They’re frightened and angry. They’re angry with governments, religions and science. They feel helpless, let down. They haven’t anyone to protect them now, they will feel vulnerable and abandoned. Those who can are escaping from the city. But for many, the only way to come to grips is to lash out. The very rich are probably already in a safe place.

The woman subconsciously moved closer to him as he reassuringly put his arm around her. The noises outside the truck began to escalate as she thought of what they had just accomplished.

Do … Do you think governments have saved other species? she whispered.

Maybe … who knows? But I bet that they’re too busy saving themselves and other valuable masterpieces. I’m afraid animals wouldn’t be a priority, the man replied matter-of-factly.

We should have gone to the Art Gallery. A few Streeton’s and Drysdale’s would have looked nice in my room, the younger man chuckled.

"Come in Scania-two. Are you there, Dad? Is everything ok?" An apprehensive voice broke the static.

Yes. We’re crossing the Westgate Bridge now. Everything ok at your end? replied the older man.

Yeah, were on our way back.

The dark murky waters of the Yarra, in amidst the noisy chaos, quietly swirled, gurgled and lapped the colossal reinforced concrete pylons of the towering bridge, the dazzling fireworks above reflecting in its primordial turbid mirror. Oblivious, the full-fed sinuous river happily flowed toward the sea as it had done for millennia. The rhythmic, gentle clapping as it washed against its banks was drowned out by the crisis above. The drama of human nihilism had begun.

Chapter One

Farmlands, Central Victoria.

I can’t breathe. The air is thick with a searing fine grey powder. It’s clogging my lungs and blinding me. I keep rubbing my eyes to clear my vision, trying to bring the blurry images that surround me into focus. Tentacles formed by thick dust swirl around me, clinging, holding me down. I feel disorientated.

Exhausted.

Lost.

I want to stop, but one thought gives me the strength to keep going—I have to find them. I have to find them one last time.

Shadowy shapes lay side by side over a field that reaches as far as my eyes can see. Thousands upon thousands of cold bodies, set in rigor mortis. Dead, vacant faces staring up at the tumultuous sky. Eerie shadows in the grey dust play hide and seek amongst the corpses of those whom have already lost their plight.

I feel desperate, about to collapse.

Time is running out.

Keep moving. Keep moving.

Spasms of pain shoot through my body.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

A strange cold is seeping through my body, and I start trembling uncontrollably. My limbs are growing heavier. I have to hurry. In desperation, I continue to claw my way forward, searching.

Always searching.

Frank woke up startled, still fighting to breathe. It took him a few moments to orientate himself. He looked around his bedroom while his heart slowed down from its frantic pace. He tried rubbing his eyes to see if he could stimulate moisture in them; they felt scorched and encrusted with the same thick grey dust of his nightmares—nightly horrors he could not easily wake from. Frank knew he had to do something; anything or he would go crazy.

The constant painful pressure was still crushing his chest, preventing him from filling his lungs with deep soothing air. He wanted to cry, needing to cry, to somehow soothe the ache inside.

Am I awake or still dreaming? He felt confused, disorientated, the pressure within him kept escalating; soon there would only be one desperate way out.

I’m so tired! he moaned.

For months, the same recurring nightmare had plagued his sleep. Night after night, he tried to stay awake, terrified of those traumatic, haunting dreams, but exhaustion eventually gave way to sleep. And once again he was thrown into his hell.

The evocative dreams were kaleidoscopic images of faces and scenes, but the endings were always the same: darkness, searching, terrifying, suffocating fear and helplessness. How many times had he wished his wife were still there with him? Someone to talk over and make sense of these nightmares. But Joan had been dead for over ten years. Now, he was alone. No one who would understand and help him without thinking that he was crazy. His animals were all that remained; the only tenuous link to some sort of normality. They still needed him, depended on him.

Frank was devastated when Joan died, but he was younger and stronger, and his children looked to him for security and courage. His old house had too many memories, so he left Melbourne to start anew in the country; wanting to find the peace and tranquillity of his youth.

His parents had migrated to Australia from Italy and brought with them their traditions and deep-rooted knowledge and love for the land. He wanted to pass on these attributes to his children—knowing that their world was different from his old world.

Supermarkets now offered aisle upon aisle of choices without the hard work that went into producing a single product. Frank believed the satisfaction that came from hands-on experiences could not be bought.

His three eldest children, Adam, Russell and Sarah, had already left home and were pursuing their careers when Joan died. Daniel, his youngest son, was only ten, and so the two of them had lived together.

During the first few years after Joan’s passing, his older children came to the farm regularly. They helped make salami and wine, and they bottled tomatoes. He had been adamant that they all return home for these special events. At the time, they did not have families