Matt Eaton - Blank

He leapt over the large cavity of the penthouse balcony, noting the growing swell below him as he watched waves crash around the base of the building. As he touched down again he remained on the move, jumping once more into space as another balcony loomed. It was almost like flying. He repeated the process six more times and was almost disappointed to arrive at his destination. The fun part was always over too soon. He swung in and landed on his feet, narrowly missing a gas barbecue and a banana lounge.

As he stood up he heard a woman’s scream from somewhere inside the apartment. He unclipped himself from the rope, throwing his other equipment down on the balcony. She kept on screaming. He still couldn’t see her, but held up his hands in an effort to calm her down.

“It’s OK. I’m with the Army, I’m here to help.”

The woman showed herself – pale, bedraggled and clearly scared out of her wits. Her shorts and T-shirt were crumpled and filthy. She had a cricket bat and looked ready to knock his block off, but as she caught sight of him she relaxed.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Hello.”

“You took your time – if you don’t mind me saying.”

“We were told there was no-one alive in this building.”

“Yeah? Well guess what?” she said, hands raised like the minstrel of sarcasm.

Luckman pointed to his left shoulder, to indicate he was unclipping his walkie talkie.

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” she said.

He gazed at the device. Sheathed in its waterproof plastic film it looked just like a packet of cigarettes.

“Searcher 210. Do you copy, Ed?”

“Copy Stone, over.”

“I’m secure. Contact established. Any chance of a lift, over?”

“I need to refuel, over.”

“Can you give me an ETA, over?”

“About an hour, over.”

“Roger.”

OK, so far so good. Stage one, meet and greet. Now came the hard bit.

“I’m here to help,” he repeated, trying to sound calm – maybe even soothing.

“So you said,” she returned, laughing humourlessly. She took a step toward him and then stopped herself.

Humour, anger, awkward social interaction – all the classic hallmarks of trauma. But she had accepted his explanation. Maybe she wasn’t insane.

He heard a knock on the apartment’s front door, which was barricaded from the inside.

“Mel?” a voice inquired from outside the apartment. “You OK? What’s going on in there?”

She wheeled round in fright at the sound of the man’s voice then turned back to Luckman with a look hovering somewhere between fear, embarrassment and guilt. There was something weird going on here.

“How many of you are left in the building?” he asked her.

“Just me and him. But believe me, you don’t wanna go out there.”

He sighed. “Let’s try to stay calm.”

“Don’t s’pose you have a Taser?” she inquired.

“You’re Mel, I take it.”

She nodded. He waited for more information. “Mel Palace.”

“Pretty name,” he told her, stepping toward the front door. “Hello out there?”

“Who the fuck are you?” an angry male voice demanded.

“Captain Luckman, Australian Army. Are you, by any chance, Carter Pimford?”

Luckman heard the man swear again.

“How did you know that?” Mel wondered.

Luckman looked back at her, noting the confirmation. “I’m opening the door Carter,” he called back.

“That’s really not a good idea,” Mel insisted.

Slowly, Luckman pulled the bookcase, chair and washing machine away from the door. He unbolted the latch and opened the door, revealing a messy but otherwise empty hallway.

“I’m coming out, Carter.”

Luckman took one step into the corridor and caught movement in the corner of his eye. He threw himself to the ground in a commando roll, feeling a glancing blow to the back of his head. He willed himself to remain conscious because he sensed he was a dead man if he passed out. Fighting off dizzy nausea he leapt to his feet.

Pimford dropped the fire extinguisher and ran.

Luckman unzipped a pocket on his jump suit and pulled out a revolver, then followed Pimford down the hallway to see him run into another apartment and slam the door behind him. Luckman sized up the door to work out where best to give it a kick. Picking the wrong spot risked a broken leg or possibly getting stuck in a mess of plywood and cardboard. Both possibilities flickered across his mind as his boot hit the door. It swung open, slamming against the wall behind. He scanned the room before entering, steeling himself for another assault.

“I’m pissed off now Carter,” Luckman called out. “And I have a gun, by the way, so it’s probably not a good idea to piss me off any further.”

A head popped up from behind the couch in the lounge room. The same look; terror and guilt. Pimford retreated toward the balcony and pulled open the sliding door. Only one way out from there.

“All right. Slow down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Even though you deserve a good smack in the head, you stupid prick. Luckman lowered his gun.

“Relax, all right? Talk to me.”

But Pimford was way past talk. He started to cry in wailing sobs. He leapt over the balustrade. He was still holding on, but his intention was clear.

“NO! Listen mate, we can work this out. Just calm down…”

“I’m sorry.”

Pimford let go and pushed himself backwards off the edge of the balcony.

“Oh shit.” Luckman ran to the balcony and peered down. Pimford hit the water like a sack of cement. If the 60-metre fall hadn’t killed him instantly, he was most certainly unconscious and would drown in minutes.

Mel was waiting in the hallway. “What happened?” she wanted to know.

“He’s… gone,” Luckman informed her, as he put his gun back in his pocket.

“Did you kill him?”

“No!” Luckman roared, a little too loudly. “He jumped.”

“But he’s dead. That’s the main thing.” She burst into tears.

He tried to comfort her but she pushed him away. He left her to it and walked back inside her apartment to gather up his equipment.

The storm was visible now. Clouds of driving rain joined the wild surf’s assault on the broken line of buildings along the old beachfront. She entered the room behind him silently. He saw her reflection in the glass and turned to face her.

“Do you have a mobile phone?” she asked.

“Phones don’t work,” he told her.

“Since when?”

“Since the Sunburst shut down the electricity grid.”

She retreated into a bedroom and shut the door. He heard her sobbing. To relieve the nervous tension, he started to poke around her abode. It was messy, but not to the point of despair. Plenty of canned food in the kitchen, a few plastic bottles of water. There was an awful stench seeping from under the closed toilet door. He avoided looking in there and instead peered into the bathroom. The bathtub was maybe a quarter full, but it was starting to look pretty murky. He’d arrived just in time. Another day or two and she’d be getting sick.

She appeared at his side. He hadn’t heard the bedroom door open.

“So you found me,” she said.

“Yeah. It’s what I do.”

“Figured.”

The whistling chorus of the wind at the windows rose a few decibels. Mel ran to close the balcony door as the rain began sweeping into the lounge room.

“Looks like we’re not going anywhere for a while,” she said.

“I need to check the roof access.”

“It’s locked.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll get it open,” he assured her. “Why don’t you use some of that bath water to clean yourself up? But don’t drink any more of it.”