The corridors of power

Parliament House was in complete disarray. Wombats were running hither and yon, all rational thought completely out the window. The chamber bells were ringing frantically, the green lights of the House and red lights of the Senate on the clocks flashing non-stop, calling absent members of Parliament to their seats. Of course they were absent - humans had vacated Canberra decades ago. The only occupants were wombats, hundreds of them. Wombats who were just now losing their minds.

So much had happened all at once. The rain had stopped. The rain, which had been falling steadily for as long as anyone could remember, had been a reassuring constant along the entire east coast. Then the clouds had parted and sun had actually appeared, rendering sensitive eyes temporarily blind and scaring the bejeezus out of all and sundry. The temperature rose. Steam filled the air. Solar panels on the hills around the House finally gathered enough juice to fill the batteries and lights blazed in the dank and filthy corridors. And then, if that wasn't enough, the earth shook.

The diprotodon blinked in the comparatively blazing light and searched for darkness, darkness that would accomodate its massive body. A body the size of a people mover covered with fur, and with a brain vastly disproportionately under-load for the mass that had to be shifted. Currently the imperative was shade, then food. Water was easily found; it was literally everywhere. He could smell others a bit like him, but not the same. He was confused. Was there anyone like him? He went towards the smell.

The wombats were freaking out. Not only had they smelled the diprotodon, they could see his form silhouetted beyond the doors, the War Memorial in the distance just visible behind it.

“What the hell is THAT!!”

The wombats scattered as the doors were caved in. The diprotodon lumbered into the foyer, paused in front of the timber doors, then caved them in too. Further and further he plowed until finally, darkness, his massive back having destroyed the newly lit light fittings. He turned around three times, scratched at the mouldy carpet and settled down with a huff.

This was getting ridiculous. First there had been rumours of a family of thylacines in Fyshwick, now a creature that had been extinct for seven thousand years had turned up. Outrageous! How was a reasonable wombat supposed to cope?

“We run this town!”

“What are we going to do now?”

“Tell it to leave.”

“YOU tell it to leave.”

Silence. The snores of the megafauna resonated through the corridors of power. The power were not impressed.

“There might be more.”

There weren’t any more, at least, not yet.

Occasionally there was a wombat with above average brains. Such a wombat was present now, a wombat named, he was sure ironically, Barnaby. Barnaby pondered the problem. He waddled, quietly, so as not to disturb the leviathan in the next room, around the halls. He sniffed at the walls, tracing the new scent of “electricity” until he found where it was strongest: a plant room towards the back of the building.

Barnaby formed a plan.

The wombats were known for their murderous nature, in fact they were quite and justifiably proud of their fiercesome reputation. Murder, or at least deterrent, was on their minds. Well, Barnaby’s mind. The others were still running around like headless chooks, unable to formulate a coherent thought, much less a plan of any quality.

Barnaby found a lesser-chewed gavel from one of the chambers and banged tentatively with it in his mouth. Nothing. He banged a little harder, but still the wombats panicked. Annoyed now, he dropped the gavel and yelled “Oy!”

Finally they stopped moving. They settled down, enough for Barnaby to explain his plan.

Food was gathered and laid in a path down the widest corridor, the one designed to accomodate a ravenous pack of journalists and press, and more than wide enough for a furry Tarago on legs. At the end it was piled up behind the door to the plant room, which Barnaby had skilfully kicked in with little outward damage. Most of the tastiest morsels were tucked in behind servers and electrical…stuff, all humming and blinking lights. Barnaby shut the doors and backed away.

“And now we play the waiting game”.

The waited. And waited. Snoozed a bit. Waited some more. Went out onto the soggy lawn and kicked the footy around for a bit. Waited.

The beast stirred.

The beast rose.

Barnaby felt a bit guilty. This thing had just come back from extinction and now he was probably sending it back there again. Never mind. They needed their burrow back.

The beast emerged from his darkened den, his nose swinging, following the scent of food. He snuffled down the hall, not looking up, eating the small piles of grass and shoots and moving on, deeper and deeper into the building. The wombats watched his receding back, not wanting to get too close to whatever Barnaby had in mind - he was noticably vague with the details.

They waited some more, satisfied nom-nom grunts echoing down the halls. Finally, a bang, and silence. The wombats held their breath. There was a rumbling sound, and a black and smoking shape was rapidly reversing down the hall, not enough room to turn around. The wombats parted, making space. The diprotodon emerged into the entry hall, belowed "bugger you all!", then turned and lumbered out into the dusk.

The wombats watched him go, waited a good half hour for him to get away, then resumed their nightly patrols of Canberra.

Can't be letting the riff-raff in.