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The darkness beyond was made deeper by its proximity to the flames, and the trunks of nearby trees twitched in the flickering light. He tried to calculate how many days since his arrival back in Australia. Four? Five? Beneath him was the dense meat of the turning earth, going on and on for thousands of miles. He imagined fires down there, the screech of metal, those goblins and devils with their peculiar industry.
    Something shouldered through the nearby undergrowth. He sat up brandishing his revolver and waited for the snuffle of a wombat or the hoarse cry of a possum, but nothing was forthcoming. Then, dimly, moored in the fog of his partial deafness, the snap of a twig. He raised his weapon and waited for several minutes. Surely that idiot Fitch would not have followed him? Had he told someone of their meeting? He tilted his head to favour each ear in turn but heard nothing more. Probably a kangaroo.
    After half an hour he relaxed and went to sleep. But in the middle of the night, when the fire was embers and the world was otherwise silent, he heard the distant lull of artillery, almost a heartbeat, as he knew he would. Then the sound of the gong from deep within his dreams.
    He woke immediately and scrambled for his cotton satchel, usually right beside him but not tonight for some reason. Damn. Damn. He was getting lazy, and lazy soldiers die. It was hard to see in the meagre moonlight. The night was unusually warm. He tried to stay calm, remain low to the ground, to keep movement and breathing to a minimum, the way he had learned. He glimpsed the satchel, partially hidden beneath his coat. Gas, gas, gas, gas, gas. If you taste it, it’s too late. His fluttering fingers pale as moths. The fabric strap snagged on something. Christ. He tugged, to no avail. A rock dug into his knee. He tore his way into the satchel and fitted the mask over his face—straps across the back of his head, clamp tight on his nostrils, then the rubber mouthpiece. Breathe through your mouth only. Always worried the mask wasn’t the correct size, or that he had in his haste picked up the wrong one, that he would wind up dead and swollen like that poor bloke from Melbourne, face down in the mud. The goggles rendered the world glaucous and vague. Move it, move it, move it. The interior of the mask reeked of rubbery sweat, of his fraying lungs. God help me, he thought. God help me.
    On his haunches, keeping as low as possible to the ground, he ran his trembling hands around the edges of the mask. He pressed it down into the collar of his tunic, against the tender skin at his throat, his head now a vessel atop his thin frame, sealed off from the world, soundless, in a climate of its very own. Only then did he realise. Bloody hell.

    3

    T he next day, Quinn left the cool shade of the pines. He scrambled through bracken and along dry gullies, beating his way with a stick, gathering about the exposed parts of his body scratches and cuts from passing branches. It was familiar countryside and yet it felt strange, as if he were travelling across a landscape from a much-read book.
    Careful to stay hidden, he squatted in the scrub beyond the perimeter of his father’s property. He knew he would be camouflaged perfectly well if he remained stationary. It was hotter down here out of any cooling breezes. Unseen insects bit his ankles and forearms. The house appeared unchanged, built from stone and wood, the very materials of the land on which it sat. A veranda edged by bushes and flowers ran around three sides. Torch lilies and lavender. A limp, yellow flag hung from a makeshift pole jammed into a porch railing. Quarantine. Edward Fitch was right. Someone in the house was infected.
    After about twenty minutes, a man appeared from the stable and pulled open its wide doors. He was familiar, but just barely. He moved with awkward-legged steps, as if his feet were made of glass or clay. It was his father, Nathaniel Walker, older, lank hair gone grey,