The engine died, leaving only the sound of rain. Michael minimised the screen on his laptop and stood up. He walked through the lounge room, and onto the veranda to meet his father who trudged along the muddy driveway towards the house.
“Hey Mike,” he said as he crested the stairs and pushed back the hood of his oilskin coat to reveal his greying, hairy face.
“Hi dad,” said Michael. “Where’s mum?”
“Gone to pick up your brother.”
Michael noticed a strange, worried expression on his father’s face. An expression he hadn’t seen before.
Michael’s father kicked off his muddy boots and walked into the house. Michael followed him in, and saw his back rounding the corner to the far end of the house. Odd that his usually talkative father wouldn’t ask how his day had been.
Michael closed the heavy stained glass door, and the cold bluster ceased. He walked back into his room and brought back the homework assignment he’d been working on for his final year at high school. It was a research assignment on Hitler’s persecution of the Jews. So far he’d written the title and first heading, and stared blankly at the screen.
His father’s footsteps came back into the kitchen, where he paused for a moment, as if contemplating. Something definitely seemed amiss. Curious, Michael got back up and walked into the kitchen. His father saw him, and quickly busied himself filling up the kettle.
“Cold today,” he said, feigning indifference. Michael remembered going quiet like this when he had to do a speech at school once. It was as if he feared some impending doom.
Michael opened the freezer to get some bread. It was empty.
“Is mum doing shopping?” he asked.
“Dunno,” his father replied quickly, without changing his gaze.
Michael walked back into his room and sat down at the computer. He flicked on his heater, then clicked on iTunes, and waited for it to load. Another car came up the driveway; an old choking engine, barely able to keep itself turning over. His mother’s car.
“Mum’s home,” Michael called out. Silence. “Dad?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” came the reply.
An error message came up. “Stupid thing,” whispered Michael. It was an ancient computer, with an ancient operating system called Windows 7 from an ancient company called Microsoft. He clicked the ok button, and it crashed to desktop.
The engine stopped. Michael went back out onto the veranda. The early winter squall hurled raindrops in at his feet. His mother came up the steps, her soaking hair matted to her shoulders. “That bloody car,” she said. Michael saw steam rising up from under the car. It was an old red sedan from sometime in the 1980’s.
“Dad’s acting really strangely,” said Michael.
“What do you mean,” said his mother, handing him two bags of shopping, and taking another from her seven year old son who trailed closely behind her.
“See for yourself.”
Michael led his mother inside.
“Nigel,” she said.
Michael’s father was leaned against the stainless steel bench. He turned his head. “Oh, hi Anne. I just put the kettle on.”
“Is there something wrong?”
He paused, and then nodded his head ever so slightly. Michael’s mother walked over to him. He took her hand and led her around the corner into the art room.
“Stay there,” Michael whispered to his brother. He tiptoed through the kitchen and pressed himself up against the fridge near the corner.
“... are all dead,” said Nigel.
“Shit,” said Annabelle. “How?”
“Shh,” said Nigel. He whispered quietly. Michael picked up only a few words. “... Assassinated... Cult ... America.”
“Oh my god.”
“Shh.”
“Do you think...?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t tell the kids,” said Annabelle. “Not until we figure out what to do.”
There was silence, then the sound of movement. Michael scurried past the stove and opened the pantry just as Nigel emerged from around the corner. He quickly glanced away, and took out a packet of two minute noodles. Through the corner of his eye, he saw his father eyeing him suspiciously.
“What’s for dinner?” said Michael, trying to sound innocent.
“I don’t know,” said Annabelle, “I’ll throw something together.”
“What’s going on mummy,” said Michael’s brother, holding a bag of shopping.
“Don’t worry Gabby,” said Annabelle. “Michael, can you and Gabriel take the rubbish out.”
“Yeah,” sighed Michael, disdainful about being left out. He grabbed the full bin liner and tied the top. “Come on Gab.”
The two brothers walked out the back door. Michael kept his head forward, but watched out of the corner of his eye as his parents made their way towards their bedroom. Once they were out of sight, Michael turned to Gabriel.
“Stay here,” he said.
“But...”
“Stay,” said Michael, and he dashed back inside, leaving his brother standing in the middle of the lawn in the rain.
Michael ran light footed on his explorer socks through the kitchen and to the hallway door. He pushed it open slowly, and closed it behind him. He made his way through Gabriel’s bedroom, and pressed his ear up against his parents’ door.
“... don’t think they’ll come after us with the food crisis. They can’t afford to lose farmers.”
“What if they can?” said Annabelle. “If they’re killing those that oppose them, they must be pretty determined. It’s like Hitler.”
“Then night of long knives,” said Nigel. Michael recognised that phrase from his assignment research; the assassination of Hitler’s political rivals in 1934.
“Where could we go?” said Nigel.
“I don’t know,” said Annabelle. “Do you still have any contacts that could help us?”
“No,” said Nigel. “None still alive. I tried sending a reply but they didn’t get back to me. Perhaps they’re dead now too.”
“Mummy,” came a cry from the other end of the house.
Gabriel you idiot, Michael thought. He turned to run, but at that moment the door opened.
“Michael,” said Annabelle.
“Were you listening to us?” said Nigel.
Michael stumbled over his words for a moment. “I have a right to know,” He finally managed.
Nigel sighed. “I suppose I’d better tell you. Anne, go see what Gabriel wants. Michael, take a seat.”
