Orpheus Nine

by Chris Flynn

Genres: Literary Fiction; Conspiracy Thrillers

Synopsis

An unputdownable supernatural thriller about a mysterious global event, set in an Australian rural town.

It began in every town and city at the same time, in every dark and twisted corner of our world. One third of the earth's citizens were asleep at the time. Their awakening was marked by horror and confusion. Just about everyone else had their routine interrupted as they witnessed the event with eyes wide open. They prayed it was a dream.

In the small, sleepy town of Gattan, population 7448, it happened at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning. At the local soccer field, only one boy, aged ten years and one week, remained standing as the brothers, sisters and parents of his teammates realised the horror they were witnessing. Their screams split the sky.

One hundred and thirty million died that first day.

Every day since, on the morning of a child's ninth birthday, it happens again. No one knows why. The ongoing horror becomes known as Orpheus Nine and bereft parents cruelly labelled Orpheans. Global leaders have no answers as chaos takes hold. Conspiracy theories and violence spread as scientists wrestle with the ongoing toll and anxious citizens and militant Orpheans try to take matters into their own hands.

In Gattan, the chasm between life before and after grows wider for three old friends, now parents. They struggle with waves of grief at the loss of one child, guilt at one child's survival and anger as another child edges closer to their birthday. No matter the cost, each of the friends attempt to fight the unfathomable in their own way. But the reality is, the clock keeps ticking, the world order is crumbling and the gods are watching ...

From the bestselling author of Mammoth comes a propulsive and spine-chilling thriller that prompts the question: is this the end of days or the start of something new?

'mysterious, comedic, terrifying and unexpectedly moving' ELIZABETH GILBERT

'Chris Flynn is the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. He'll decimate us with his words and we'll thank him for it.' SIANG LU

Release date: March 26, 2025

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 288

Sample

JESSICA WAS SURPRISED WHEN LUCY TEXTED TO BOOK AN in-home hairdressing appointment. Lucy usually attended the salon in town, Headlines, formerly Lunatic Fringe, formerly A Breath of FresHair. The stylists employed at Headlines were fine, but they could not provide the level of personal service Jess offered in the comfort of a client’s own home. Business had boomed of late, an uptick Jess attributed to people feeling sorry for the grieving mother and wanting to funnel some cash her way. Jess was no idiot. She could see the sorrow in their eyes, and she was hardly in a position to turn down the business. Her husband had been on semi-permanent leave from his job at Gattan Power Equipment since Tyler died. Jess was concerned he might lose the job altogether.

Steve’s boss was a rule-abiding do-gooder who believed workplaces should be run like the military. Darren had established a clear chain of command, appointing himself as the no-nonsense Sergeant Major. Under Darren’s rule, anyone who felt sick or depressed should suck it up and come to work anyway, rather than let the team down. He exhibited a startling lack of empathy for any parent who suffered a loss during the ongoing crisis, and he did not understand why Steve was struggling to get over the death of his son. Darren was one of those people who, having been personally unaffected by the tragedy, yearned for a return to the way things were before; he wanted everyone to move on because it was inconvenient for him. Jess found this attitude incredibly frustrating, almost as grating as those who were overly sympathetic.

Whatever the reason for the summons from Lucy, Jess didn’t care. She liked to imagine Dirk had cajoled his wife into sending the text. Despite his many faults, Dirk had at least expressed genuine sorrow at Tyler’s funeral. Perhaps even shed a tear, if only in Jess’s imagination. Meanwhile, Steve had stood by the grave stony-faced and swaying, four Jack and Cokes deep, seconds away from falling in the hole himself.

Jess would gladly drive over to the Van der Saar mansion and run her fingers through Lucy’s hair if only to see how the other half lived. When Lucy wasn’t looking, she could steal an expensive trinket, or ‘accidentally’ smash something valuable. The Van der Saars could afford to replace crystal decanters and antique lamps. Dirk’s family had owned VDS Jewellery and Watches for over a hundred years. Gattan was an early outpost for Dutch settlers, and the Van der Saars lived on Jongebloed Lane, in the big house at the top of the hill. The Paris end of town. Jess and Steve lived on the south side, next to the tip.

Jess parked her clapped-out LandCruiser behind Hairhouse Warehouse and ran in to grab a bottle of mousse. As she scanned the aisles, all eyes fell upon her. She could practically hear the whispers.

She’s one of those. An Orphean. She lost her boy. Poor thing.

Jess located the mousse as quickly as she could, but she was not getting out of Hairhouse Warehouse that easily. Mrs Rayner made a beeline for her, unsteady on those elderly pins. Her mobility scooter was parked outside. The shopping plaza needed a separate parking area for such vehicles.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your son,’ Mrs Rayner said, cornering Jess in the hairspray section. ‘It must be devastating to lose a child so young.’

‘I didn’t lose him,’ Jess replied. ‘He was taken away from me.’

‘Oh, I know, it’s so traumatic for everyone.’ Mrs Rayner touched Jess’s forearm, sending a jolt of electricity through her shoulder. ‘I remember when I lost my little dog. He was such a good companion. I cried for weeks after.’

Jess was tired of the trauma vampires. They weren’t sorry for her, not really. They just wanted to be involved somehow – it was almost as if they wished O9 had happened to them. So they talked about their own grief, as if it could compare. But Mrs Rayner had picked the wrong Orphean to embrace.

‘You have no idea what it’s like,’ she said, grabbing Mrs Rayner by the hand and leaning close. ‘I don’t want to hear about the tragedy of little Cocoa Puff the Pomeranian and his futile yet brave battle with encephalitis. Don’t you get it? My son is gone. It’s not about you.’

The flustered Mrs Rayner tugged her hand away and withdrew.

‘Only trying to offer my condolences,’ she said.

‘No, you’re not,’ Jess told her. ‘You’re just like all the others – the doctors, the scientists, the politicians. You don’t have the slightest clue. All you can offer are platitudes. I don’t need them, Mrs Rayner. Just piss off.’

The other customers remained silent until Jess paid for the mousse and exited the store. She knew they were shaking their heads behind her back, alternating between disgust and pity. Jess clambered into the LandCruiser and rested her forehead on the steering wheel, catching her breath.

One hundred and thirty million dead that first day. Three hundred and fifty thousand more every day since, each struck down at midnight GMT, the moment of their ninth birthday. For months now. And still no solutions. It wasn’t a virus, it wasn’t a fungal infection, it wasn’t a biological terrorist attack, it wasn’t an M. Night Shyamalan movie, and there was still no way to prevent kids from filling up with sodium and dying horribly in front of their distraught parents. Every eight-year-old was now a ticking time bomb. This was Orpheus Nine.

Eighty-two children had died in Gattan, including Tyler. And still no help was forthcoming. Another kid burst every couple of days.

Jess couldn’t afford to keep thinking about it, and yet that day dominated her thoughts. She shook her head, took a deep breath and started the engine. Roaring out of the car park, she headed for the north side of town. She parked the LandCruiser in the driveway behind Lucy’s Tesla. Of course they had an EV. Jess kicked a tyre as she walked past. Should have done their research, she thought. Jess had read an article that said lithium mining was more environmentally damaging than drilling for oil and natural gas. EVs were a con, as far as Jess was concerned, but greenies like Lucy van der Saar were so sanctimonious they couldn’t face the truth, or admit when they might be wrong about anything.

‘Come in, come in,’ Lucy said, meeting Jess barefoot at the door. She was wearing an earth-mother kaftan made from recycled bamboo. Jess could see right through it.

‘Love what you’re wearing, babe,’ she said to Lucy, who was oblivious to sarcasm.

Lucy raised her arms and twirled.

‘Isn’t it gorge?’ she said. ‘They’re made from eco-friendly sustainable materials in an Indigenous women’s commune on the north coast.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Jess said, patting the rear of her pants. ‘I bought these on special four years ago from Just Jeans. Three pairs for seventy-five bucks. Still going strong.’

Lucy’s face contorted in a patronising grimace. ‘They’re probably made by exploited children in India,’ she said.

‘At least they have children,’ Jess shot back.

Lucy’s expression turned grim. She gulped, unsure what to say. Jess decided to let her off the hook. Lucy was paying her, after all, and Jess was charging her more than any of her other regulars. She might even be able to buy herself a fresh pair of jeans with her new-found riches.

‘Shoes off?’ she asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Lucy said, visibly grossed out by Jess’s Kmart sneakers, which had a distinctive odour only her pitbull Baz Luhrmann seemed to enjoy. The dog was forever rolling around on Jess’s sneakers, and since catching Baz trying to hump one of them, she’d resorted to keeping them in a high cupboard, safely out of reach.

‘Sky and Alex at school?’ Jess asked as she padded through to the lounge room.

Lucy nodded. ‘You want a coffee?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ Jess said, trying not to gawp at the lavishly decorated home. The lounge boasted high ceilings and a sunken living area. The furniture was mid-century, and the walls were adorned with contemporary art. It looked like a maniac had been let loose with a box of crayons.

‘We only have French press,’ Lucy said, busying herself in the vast kitchen. ‘We had pods, but I got rid of them.’

‘We drink instant,’ Jess muttered, examining a piece of African sculpture that was begging to be called out for cultural appropriation. But Lucy had probably purchased it directly from the artist and overpaid to such an extent that his kids were now able to attend university.

‘Almond milk all right?’ Lucy asked.

Gotcha, Jess thought.

‘Oh, I don’t drink that,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible for the environment.’

Lucy’s manicured brows dipped. Oh my Lord, she doesn’t know, Jess thought. This is the greatest moment of my life.

‘Producing a single cup of almond milk requires almost eight litres of water,’ Jess parroted the article she had read, ‘and releases nearly two kilograms of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. You can’t drink that, Luce.’

Lucy’s jaw dropped. She stared at the carton of almond milk like it was radioactive waste.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I had no idea!’

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lucy poured the milk down the plughole and threw the empty carton in the recycling bin.

Black coffee it is, then, Jess thought. Oh well.

They sat on a couch that looked fabulous but was extremely uncomfortable. Lucy folded her legs up underneath her, treating Jess to an unflattering glimpse of undercarriage that she would rather not have witnessed. Jess sipped her coffee, which she was sure had been ground from organic, free trade, ethically sourced beans that had passed through the digestive tract of a palm civet but still somehow didn’t taste as nice as Moccona.

Lucy’s tone turned grave, sincere. ‘So, how are you?’

Full to the brim with grief, thanks for asking. Fucked up beyond imagining. Jess couldn’t even find the energy to crawl out of bed some mornings. A dark hole had practically opened in the ground, swallowed her son and proceeded to consume everything else in his life, including her. She felt like one of those witches in medieval Europe, as if the townspeople had tied her down and placed stones on her chest, adding more and more each day until finally she was crushed under the weight of them. Steve was drinking too much and would likely get fired soon, and they were the brokest, saddest characters in that shithole trap of a town. Plus, Jess’s back was sore and she had toenail rot and Lucy was wearing a piece of diaphanous material that cost more than the LandCruiser and the coffee was fucking disgusting and she was going to pour it into one of the pot plants the minute Lucy’s back was turned …

‘Fine,’ Jess said. ‘Coping. What can you do? When you’re going through hell …’

‘Keep going,’ Lucy said, bringing her palms together in a prayer gesture. ‘That’s inspiring, Jess. I’m going to include that in my affirmations.’

Great idea, Jess thought. That’s what everyone said about her, of course. You seen that Jessica Ward in her dowdy jeans and Target hoodie? What an inspirational figure.

A tiny voice, so deep inside she could barely hear it, said something as Lucy clasped Jess’s hands in hers.

Kill her, it said. Just fucking kill her. Stab her in the toned Pilates belly with one of her three-hundred-dollar Japanese knives. You can blame it on an intruder, a drifter, a DHL delivery guy driven wild with lust when she answered the door in that transparent shift.

‘Shall we get started?’ Lucy said. The formalities of grief acknowledgment and performative caring were over. It was time to get down to business – for Jess to ditch the dark fantasy and embrace her role as the hired help, come to untangle the locks of the lady of the manor. Yes ma’am, no ma’am, three bags full ma’am.

Lucy had set up a chair on the deck, next to a lap pool that belonged on the set of The House of Gucci. It was one of only a few pools in Gattan outside of the aquatic centre. She had also put down newspapers to protect the polished boards.

‘You can wash my hair out here,’ Lucy said. A bucket awaited. Metal, not plastic. Jess filled the bucket with warm water from the tap while Lucy took her place on the chair, head tipped back as if posing for an erotic photograph. Jess glanced at the sheets from The Sentinel spread beneath the chair. The headline chilled her. A tally of the previous day’s dead, splashed across the page in bold font. The number was unimaginable. How could Lucy be so insensitive, so oblivious? Jess averted her eyes, only to spot an ad for low sodium products in one of the free supermarket supplements. They couldn’t wait to get in on the act and profit from everyone’s misery.

Jess focused on washing Lucy’s hair with care and precision, nimble fingers massaging the woman’s head as she shampooed her mane. Sometimes she wished she was a concreter instead. That way she wouldn’t have to pretend to be interested in everyone. The worst part of the procedure lay in the obligation to ask how Alex was doing.

‘It’s hard for him,’ Lucy said. ‘He lost so many friends. It’s been very isolating, but he’s talking to someone.’

He fucking survived, what does he have to complain about? Jess thought. He should be whooping and punching the air, not wallowing in misery. Now he had an excuse to get out of everything. I can’t play soccer today, sir, I’ve got a dose of the feels. Sad face emoji. That’s all right, Alex, take your time. There’ll be a place for you in the team once you’re emotionally ready to rejoin the group. It was hard for Jess not to resent Lucy’s son. He had lived, while hers had not, for reasons no one had been able to explain.

Desperate to change the subject, Jess inquired about Sky. She didn’t know much about Lucy’s seventeen-year-old daughter, but she had spotted her, late one night, tagging the abandoned service station in the company of some reprobates Lucy would definitely not approve of. That reminded her of the girl she used to be.

‘She’s graduating this year,’ Lucy said. ‘You must come to the party. It’ll be good for the community to have something positive to celebrate.’

‘Sure,’ Jess said, but she was numb from neck to toe. She didn’t care about high school graduations. Tyler would never know how that felt. In truth, Jess didn’t want anything to do with children anymore. Her boy was dead, all that was finished for her now. No more Wiggles or Marvel. No whining for chocolate at the supermarket check-out. No nappies or stumbling around like a zombie, delirious with lack of sleep. No more drop-offs and pick-ups. No screaming matches because she’d bought the wrong flavour of two-minute noodles. No more Tyler. She was free. Her days were her own. And she was absolutely fucking heartbroken.

Lucy didn’t notice Jess’s tears because she was too rapt in the fingers deftly working shampoo through her hair. Jess had learnt how to deal with their sudden onset by now. Tears came when they wanted. She didn’t fight them. She didn’t blubber or wail or embarrass herself. She simply let them flow. She didn’t even bother wiping her face, but let them dry and stain her cheeks. She wanted everyone to know she had been crying. Most people noticed then looked sharply away.

Oh, right. She’s one of those. An Orphean. Best to say nothing. Leave her be. No reasoning with those poor women anyway. They are shells, riddled with fracture lines. Touch them and they crumble.

And then, as Jessica gazed down at Lucy van der Saar’s exposed, slender neck, she heard the voice again. It wanted her to balance the cosmic scale.

Stab her in the neck with your scissors and watch her bleed out on the deck. That way she will know your pain.

Jess hefted the gleaming metal scissors, so shiny and seductive against Lucy’s pale skin. For a moment, she was tempted.

* * *

A SPECIAL SECTION OF GATTAN CEMETERY HAD BEEN SET ASIDE for the children claimed by Orpheus Nine. This was echoed in cemeteries around the world. In major population centres, the sheer volume of dead posed unprecedented logistical issues that proved virtually insurmountable. New areas of land were allocated for burying children, but talk of communal graves by insensitive policymakers was quickly dismissed. Besides, the crisis was ongoing. More perished every day. Despite the mass outpouring of grief, practicality won through. These hastily cr. . .