2042: The Great Cataclysm

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The Bunyip crunched to the seabed with a thud and recoiled, bouncing up and down like a yo-yo on a string before tipping at a forty-five degree angle. Nick’s solid frame crashed hard against the curved sides in the cramped interior of the submersible.

‘Christ Beau, what happened?’ He bellowed straightening quickly. He wiped aside the trickle of blood from a cut to his head after hitting one of the sharp instruments lining the walls.

The small man at the helm hunched his bony shoulders, the knuckles on one hand white from grappling the guidance lever, the other snapping switches as he fought to tame the sub. ‘I don’t know!’

A blip, blip, blip sound filled the air followed by a ping and a whir.

Nick crawled over to one of the six small viewing windows located in the thick titanium hull and angled his head sideways, pressing his eye obliquely against the thick round fisheye. The view outside wavered, distorted by the eight-inch thickness of the glass. It was like trying to see through pea soup so he turned to the remote camera display where a larger milky picture beamed onto the green screen mounted above Beau’s console. Surrounding this screen dozens of black needles whirred around inside glass circles, some dancing back and forth, others pointing to coloured-graded sections on dials. A bank of switches arced around the control panel in front of the helm, and it was on these that Beau concentrated his efforts to stabilise the bucking sub.

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