LEFT. a Thriller, a Novel, in parts. Part 1
Michael Gray Griffith
This Novel has NOTHING to do with COVID, expect it was written in the first LOCKDOWN.
I’ll post it in parts for entertainment only, though it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea.
It’s a thriller set in the outback.
LEFT
Black, the raven, opens its wings to rise into the furnace. The view owns no buildings, no roads—just anorexic wirewoods and mallee besieged by the dry-born spinifex, their piked hummocks heading off to conquer one melting horizon after another. The flatness is broken only by an isolated hill, its pared peak the last red-baked and broken bones of a forgotten mountain. Higher still, a wedge-tailed eagle surfs the thermal currents, searching for anything smaller to kill than the red roos lying outstretched beneath the bloodwoods, who, like refugees, wait along the banks of the dry creek bed—its slow, curving scar, the land’s last dirt-cracked memory of water. Lazily, the raven circles over the view’s only vehicle, a white Land Rover, and watches Sonya frantically packing up the last pieces of a bush camp. Dropping, it lands on top of one of the vehicle's open rear doors. Sonya jumps, screams, then glares at it before trying to shoo it away. It doesn’t move. She bends and picks up a rock, but when she turns to throw it, the raven has already taken off. Slowly, it flies in a wide circle above her as, rock in hand, she watches it leave. Intrigued, the raven flies through the socially isolated trees, perching in one to wait and watch the men. With a few quiet flaps of its wings, it lands on the dirt between two shallow, fresh perpendicular grooves. Head up, black eyes bright, it goosesteps after Jarrod as, backward and sweating, Jarrod drags the body of Steve. Jarrod has something wrong with his right leg; it only partially bends. Steve has a foldable camp shovel unfolded and resting on his chest. The lower portion of its blade is shoved into his pants, where his belt and plump belly hold it in place. Jarrod gently lowers Steve’s body to the ground, then steals a moment to catch his breath. His hands tremble. He presses them against his thighs to stop them, but they won’t be stilled. Breath caught, Jarrod picks up the shovel. After a few nervous moments, he lifts it above his head and tries to bludgeon Steve. Three times he attempts to bring the shovel down. Three times he fails. The raven caws. Jarrod jumps, swears, then, shovel raised like a club, studies the bird as it tilts its head one way, then the other, before cawing again. Jarrod lets it be and studies the surrounding ground. Eyes flicking from the raven to the baked, ant-covered earth, he finds a place for a shallow grave and starts to dig. But the shovel only dents the earth; the sun has cooked the dirt to concrete. He tries again, but the shovel barely chips the world’s skin. Shit. He tries once more, putting everything into it, but instead of the ground, it’s the shovel's blade that cracks. Jarrod lifts it and studies it. The blade is not cracked all the way across—just a half-finger-length sliver through which light escapes. The raven caws. Without warning, Jarrod swings the blade at the bird, then stops. The bird doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Jarrod limps a step toward it, raising the shovel like a club again. The bird doesn’t move. Maybe it’s never seen a human? The raven caws. “Fuck you!” says Jarrod, limping toward it, preparing to bring the shovel down. Steve groans.
**Sonya slams the rear doors closed. In the window, her vague reflection—her hair is messed. Then she notices one false fingernail is missing. Her little finger on her left hand. Fuck. She can’t leave it. Nothing can be left. If they found it, all could be undone. She searches the dried earth. It’s there, at her feet. Luck is on her side. Smiling, she picks it up and slides it into her jeans pocket. Then she hears running. Shovel in hand, Jarrod is limp-running toward her. “Let’s go. Let’s go!” “You did it already?” “I said, let’s go!” “But I don’t understand. How could you have done it and buried him that fast?” Behind Jarrod, Steve stumbles toward them. Clearly unsteady, he slams into a tree, pauses, then wavers back to his feet and pushes forward. “Finish him,” says Sonya. Jarrod looks away, his eyes scouring the ground for answers he knows aren’t there. Steve tries to run. His steps are a drunk’s. He trips and falls, grunting into a rise of dust. Sonya grabs Jarrod’s T-shirt. “Do it.” Jarrod won’t look back from where his eyes are trying to hide. Steve pushes himself up and storms toward them. Growling under her breath, Sonya strides to the driver’s side of the truck. Jarrod leaps into the passenger side and tosses the shovel into the back seat. Steve stops. Despite his senses swimming, he takes it all in instantly. Adrenaline overrides his shock and sends him tearing into their packed-up camp just as the truck takes off. But despite all the speed his desperate will to live can fuel, he quickly becomes an apprentice ghost, haunting their dusty wake. Jarrod looks over the back seat, but the view of Steve is blocked by all their camping gear. Ignoring the furious Sonya, Jarrod adjusts his side mirror, trying to find within their growing dust the running form of Steve. Sonya slams on the brakes, throwing Jarrod against the dash. Because the truck stops, Steve stops. The truck is about 250 meters ahead of him. In one turn, Sonya spins the truck around. Jarrod tries to grab the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” Sonya slaps his hand away. Together, they watch Steve rematerialize within the lessening dust cloud. Steve doesn’t move. Sonya floors it. Jarrod grabs the dash. Steve turns and runs. “The damage!” says Jarrod. “How will you explain the damage?” In moments, Sonya will run Steve over. “The DNA!” yells Jarrod. “The DNA!” Sonya slams on the brakes. Steve slowly stops and turns. He is panting, his face and shirt covered in sweat and dust. “The land will do it,” says Jarrod. “The land will do it.” Steve, red-faced and panting, starts running toward the truck again. Sonya turns back to Steve, who is almost within reach of the bull bar. She throws the truck into reverse and floors it. Steve follows, running as though he believes he will catch them, though it’s clear he never will. When safe, Sonya turns the truck side-on and stops. So does Steve. He’s only a few car lengths away. Panting, he glares at her as she lowers her window and, with a smile, says, “Consider this a divorce.”
The dirt track has been reduced to two fading tire tracks, its center spasmodically overgrown with knee-high prickly moss. The only scars are those left by their truck when they drove in here. Now the same plants scrape underneath the vehicle before flicking back up to fan their dust. “You should slow down.” Sonya speeds up. “You’ll wreck the truck.” The truck bounces over a rock that was ancient before this land was the floor of an inland sea. “Break the truck, and we’re dead too.” Sonya slams on the brakes. For a moment, they are silent, each peripherally watching the other and the dust catching up like a thirsty mist. In its mouth, everything blends into a cordial of red. In silence, Sonya starts the truck again and drives, slowly at first, to escape the dust.
Steve evaluates their abandoned camp. A tent peg. An upside-down enamel cup. A water bottle lying on the dirt. He runs to it. Falls on it. It’s empty. His brain feels like it is full of wet concrete, and flies are drinking his sweat as though they were the ones left behind. As though Steve is their only hope. Their last oasis. A bloodwood offers some shade from the sun that he knows is already killing him. The shade is an oven set to roast. He is more than thirsty. As he sits against the trunk, his thoughts return to breakfast and the orange juice that Sonya brought him. She’d kissed him first, as though she were hungry. Then, in his memory, as he re-drinks it, she watches him. Here, his hands become fists. She’d drugged him. She must have. Something cuts his palm. In the dirt, dug up by his left hand, a broken shell faded to an antique bone is a portal that gives birth to a moment where the sky becomes water and great fish swim through it under bored waves searching for a shore that lies who knows where. A raven caws. The bird is perched on the limb of a neighboring bloodwood, and it couldn’t be blacker if the abyss had cut with a scalpel a window through to his last and approaching night. The bird is watching him. Waiting. In his head, he can see himself ripping off its head. “Fuck you. You hear me?” He flips it the bird. “Fuck you.” From out of the distance, a second raven lackadaisically approaches, its heavy, short wings thumping the air before it lands on a neighboring limb in the same tree. This new raven also looks at him, but then it starts to caw, its voice a weary mourn. As the first raven glares at him, other ravens start to appear. Finally, it is Steve who looks away to watch the truck’s shrinking cloud of dust. His eyes, as blue as the sky that is burying him, are focused and on fire.
In the soothing shadows drawn long by the late afternoon sun, red roos stretching into their rousing lines pause to watch the speeding truck approach and then barrel past. Jarrod, lost in thoughts longer than the shadows, only returns when Sonya pulls the truck over and turns the engine off. “And will the land bury him?” she asks. Jarrod opens his door and gets out of the truck. His hand still on the door, he looks back at her, her hands still clutching the wheel. He waits. Finally, she removes the key. Closing the door, he walks around to the back of the truck, his eyes always on her. Opening one of the rear doors, he swears as their piled camping gear tumbles out. Reaching in, he grabs a bagged dome tent, then limps to a clear area and pulls it out of its bag. After figuring out which side is up, he flings it to the ground. The bag’s instructions clearly state self-assembling, but before him, the tent lays on the ground, deflated and deformed.
The darkness, with its river of galaxies so far away they look like stars, is fading into a smoldering fire where three camp chairs encircle the ash. Two tents are pitched on either side. A camp table with three chairs. A plastic tub holds three dirty plates and three sets of cutlery buried beneath three mugs—all of it covered by frantic flies. Jarrod, sporting a three-day growth, stands between two detectives. The three of them are surveying the camp. “So they slept in that tent?” asks the woman. “Yes.” “And you slept in the other one?” asks the man. “Uh-huh.” “Then Steven just woke up one morning and wandered off,” says the man. “He didn’t wander off. I told you that. He took his metal detector. He was prospecting.” “Looking for Lasseter’s Reef,” says the woman. “The mythical reef of gold.” “He had a premonition that he’d find it. That’s why we were out here. He was obsessed. Ask anyone.” “So,” asks the man, “in which direction did he go prospecting?” “I told you, we don’t know.” “Why don’t you know?” asks the woman. “Because I was asleep.” “Where? In that tent?” asks the man. “No,” says Jarrod. “I told you—they slept in there. I slept in that one.” “Did you dream?” asks the woman. “What?” “Did you dream?” “No.” “Why not?” asks the woman. “There’s a lot of space out here for dreams.” “And nightmares,” says the man. “I don’t know why,” says Jarrod. “I just didn’t.” “Okay,” says the woman, “so, basically, all that you know is that Steve went for a walk and never came back.”
**A large square tent with "Police" printed along its side stands alone in the desolate view, like a nylon satellite. Inside, Sonya is sitting on one side of a wide, white trestle table. Tears glisten in her bloodshot eyes, cutting channels through the dust on her face. Her bobbed hair is parched and limp. The two detectives sit on the other side. The man opens a laptop as the woman leans back in her plastic chair, studying Sonya while sipping an energy drink. The man takes his time. On the table, a microphone and a recorder sit ready. Between the detectives, a Manfrotto tripod supports a digital video camera aimed at Sonya. Its red light blinks. The man plugs the microphone into the recorder. Sonya and the woman remain silent. Sonya watches every move the man makes, while the woman studies her with quiet intensity. “Testing, testing.” The man sits back and replays the file. “Testing, testing.” “Ready?” asks the woman. “Ready,” says the man. “I’m Senior Detective Dena Proudfoot,” the woman begins. “It sounds like the name of an American Indian, but it’s actually English. My colleague here is Detective Boris Pasternak.” “My name sounds Russian.” “That’s because it is,” says Dena. “So, what happened?” “What happened!” Sonya’s voice rises. “I’ve told you what happened. I’ve told everyone who’s asked. So why aren’t you out there looking for him? It’s only been two days! How far could he have walked in two days?” “I don’t know,” says Dena. “That’s why, in cases like these, we enlist the help of indigenous trackers.” “Specialists,” says Boris. “The way a twig is broken or a pebble is dislodged, they can ascertain which way you were heading, how much you weighed, and when you last had sex—and with whom.” “What does that mean?” asks Sonya, her voice sharp. “It means,” says Dena, “that they’ve encountered a problem. They found Steven’s tracks leaving your camp, but then they claim his trail suddenly stops, as if he just vanished.” “Pfft,” says Boris, shaking his head. “They also told us,” Dena continues, “that his tracks don’t make sense. They aren’t heavy enough. Can you make sense of that?”
Steve is walking through the scrub, but it’s not Steve. It’s Sonya, walking in Steve's shoes. With each step, she presses down with all her weight, but she’s one-third smaller than him. She stops, pulls her feet out of his shoes, and steps onto a rock. Then, picking up his shoes, she walks back to their new camp, sweeping away her trail with a leafy branch. In the camp, Jarrod is watching her. “Here,” Sonya says, tossing him the shoes. “See if you can bury these.”
“Maybe your trackers aren’t as brilliant as you think,” says Jarrod from his seat behind the trestle table. Dena smiles condescendingly, then takes her time before asking, “Do you know if Steven took any water with him?” “Of course he did. He’s not an idiot. Out here, without water, you can die in six hours.” Boris leans into the microphone and says, “Out here, without water, you can die in six hours.” “Why is he repeating everything I say?” asks Sonya. “He likes to dot the i’s,” says Dena. “I’m anal,” says Boris. “So,” says Dena, “once you realized Steven was missing, you didn’t call the authorities for help? … Why not?”
As Jarrod looks on, Sonya, sitting in the truck, pours water into the rear of the CB radio. Then she looks back at Jarrod, who lowers his head as the radio crackles and dies.
“How could we? The radio was broken.” Boris leans into the microphone and says, “The radio was broken.” “Can you stop doing that?” says Jarrod. “This is serious.” “We had a choice,” says Sonya. “We could look for him ourselves, or we could go for help. We chose to look. Plus, our mobile phones had no coverage.” “Ours don’t either,” says Dena. “Boris, in the industry, what do we call that?” “Conveniently inconvenient.” “Tell me,” says Dena, “when he went on this ‘walk,’ did Steven take his mobile phone as well?”
Sonya and Jarrod stop in a dry creek bed. The ground in the bends is softer, covered in clumps of stones smoothed by forgotten water. Jarrod holds the cracked shovel, and before him in the hole are Steven’s metal detector and headphones. The detector’s coil is folded up. On top of this, Sonya tosses a packet of Rohypnol, Steve’s satellite phone, and his mobile phone. Then she picks up a rock and uses it to break both phones. When she starts on Steve’s mobile, the video switches on. For an instant, Jarrod can see himself and the shovel in its screen.
“Yes,” says Jarrod. “Steve took both his phones.”
“Why do you have a prenup?” asks Dena. “That was my idea,” says Sonya. “You didn’t trust him?” asks Boris. “Prenups aren’t about trust. They’re about the reality of love.” “Which is?” asks Dena. “Love keeps you young; age makes you prudent. I was protecting my assets.” “You had assets?” asks Dena. “I had everything I needed … bar love.” Boris grins, then leans into the microphone and says, “I had everything I needed … bar love.” “But now, thanks to your prenup’s death clause, you’ll have everything else,” says Dena. “Everything is nothing without Steve.” “Is that how you felt about Martin Wheeler?” asks Boris. “What does Martin have to do with this?” “Martin Wheeler,” Dena reads off her notes, “fifty-five. A rich dairy farmer with a passionate love of sailing.” “Whose dream,” says Boris, reading off his notes, “was to find a woman to sail around the country with. And according to his daughter, he thought that woman was you.” “I thought it was me too,” says Sonya. “So you thought you were his dream lover?” says Dena. “That’s why I agreed to marry him.” “You were what?” asks Dena. “A thirty-five-year-old real estate agent?” “So?” “So,” says Boris, “he was twenty years older. What was the attraction?” “I answered all these questions years ago. Everything is on record. Why are you wasting precious time asking me them again?” “You told the investigating officers that Martin was an overachiever,” says Dena, “and that you found that very attractive in a man.” “Not just a man,” says Sonya, “a person.” “Are you an overachiever?” asks Boris. “My husband is missing. We need to find him. Can you please tell me what the relevance of my CV is?” “Would you like a coffee?” asks Dena. “No.” “A soft drink?” asks Boris. “We have some in the esky. How about a Coke? I hear it adds life.” “No, thank you. I’m fine.” “You told the coroner,” says Dena, “that you never heard Martin fall overboard.” “I didn’t,” says Sonya. “How could I? It was night, and I was asleep.” “And when you sleep,” says Boris, “it appears you sleep like the dead.” “I take pills,” says Sonya. “I’m an insomniac.” “The gentle rocking of the waves didn’t help?” asks Dena. “Are you making fun of what happened?” “How could I?” says Dena. “I don’t know what happened.” “Yes, you do. It’s all documented.” “Just you and Martin out on the ocean,” says Boris. “It says here in the report that you were sailing to Fiji.” “He loved it out there.” “Unfortunately,” says Dena, “the death clause in his prenup was rock solid.” “It appears,” says Boris, “that you didn’t receive anything.” “I didn’t want anything,” says Sonya. “I just wanted love. Is that so hard to believe?” Boris leans into the microphone, eyes on Sonya, and repeats, “I just wanted love. Is that so hard to believe?”
**“What happened to your leg?” asks Boris. “You know what happened,” says Jarrod. “You were twenty-one, young and handsome, on your way back from a game in the country,” says Dena. “Boort. A game that, thanks to two late goals from you, your team won.” “We’ve been informed,” says Boris, “that you were on track to turn professional. They told us you were in talks with three major clubs. Is that true?” “What’s it matter?” says Jarrod. “But then,” says Dena, “you fell asleep in the back of a car—a 1979 Torana—and bang. You wake up a cripple, and now you’re a gardener for Steven’s real estate development company.” “Not just his company. I have my own round as well,” says Jarrod. “His company is just a client.” “But whereas you own what? A lawnmower?” says Boris. “Steven, who was in the same accident, managed to move on with his life and has done very well.” “Has,” says Jarrod. “Not had.” “A self-made multi-millionaire,” says Boris. “Everyone we talked to,” says Dena, “told us Steven had the golden touch.” “Will you stop saying had,” says Jarrod. “Others, though, told us the reason he was so successful,” says Boris, “was because he was ruthless. A man driven to destroy his rivals.” “But what about you?” asks Dena. “What do you think? Was Steven lucky or cruel?” “Steven is my brother.” “Your brother who was driving the car,” says Boris. “No skid marks,” says Dena. “No witnesses.” “Just a claim,” says Boris, “that on this lonely country road, like you, he fell asleep.” “It had been a long day,” says Jarrod. “We were both tired after the game.” “What about the girl?” asks Dena. “What was her name?” “You know her name. It’s in that file.” “Margaret Thompson,” says Boris. “Thomas,” says Jarrod. “Margaret Thomas.” “Your girlfriend?” says Boris. “My fiancée.” “How awful,” says Dena. “Just tragic.” “The coroner’s report said you were thrown out of the back seat of the car by the force of the impact,” says Boris, “but that she, in the back seat too, was trapped inside.” “And then,” says Dena, “she was burned alive as you lay on the grass unconscious.” “But where was Steven?” Boris asks. “It states here,” says Dena, “that Steven survived the accident and managed to crawl out of the car. But due to the fire’s intensity, he was unable to return and pull Margaret free. Were you close, you and Margaret?” “I just told you—she was my fiancée.” “Yes,” says Boris, “but not everyone marries for love.” “She was the love of my life,” says Jarrod. “I think of her every day.” “Every day?” asks Dena. “Even today?” “Every day.” “So it broke you?” says Dena. “Rather than nodding,” says Boris, “we need you to vocalize your answers.” “Yes, it’s been difficult.” “I see,” says Dena. “Like I said before, it’s awful. But what I don’t understand is why, instead of moving on, you became your brother's gardener.” “Part-time gardener,” says Jarrod. “Crippled gardener,” says Boris. “Why didn’t you meet anyone else?” asks Dena. “It just didn’t happen.” “You never wanted to get married?” asks Boris. “You never wanted to have children?” asks Dena. “Like Steven? I’ve seen his children. They’re beautiful.” “Is there some point to this?” “I don’t know,” says Boris. “Is there?” “We’re just curious as to why someone who had so much promise is now a broken man living in a small flat by himself,” says Dena. “A rental.” “A lot of people we spoke to called you, what was the word,” says Boris. “Oh yes—a loser.” “Luckily for you,” says Dena, “you had your brother to look after you.” “He doesn’t look after me.” “Not anymore,” says Boris. “Not ever.” “Really?” asks Boris. “Yes, really. I work for him. I am not his ward.” “No,” says Boris, “just his brother.” “So,” asks Dena, “if your brother Steven had the golden touch—” “Has,” says Jarrod. “Has.” “What touch do you have?” “Fuck!” says Jarrod. “No, fuck isn’t the answer,” says Sonya, and in her frustration, the detectives vanish. With them, the table and the interview tent are gone. Jarrod and Sonya are now in one of the tents in the second camp.
“Have you ever been in love?” asks Sonya. Dena and Boris don’t answer. Sonya is covered in blood. On the table lies Jarrod’s pocketknife. “And I’m not talking about some fleeting romance,” she continues. “I mean a crazed, inescapable love. An obsession where, no matter how logical you are, you keep plunging deeper. They’re in here”—she lays a blood-splattered hand on her chest—“when you sleep, and they’re your first thought when you wake. But you can’t be with them, and so, eventually, you have no choice. You have to kill them. And then yourself, hoping that in death you can finally be together. Forever.” “So you killed Jarrod with that knife because you loved him?” asks Dena. “No, no, no! Those aren’t my words. That’s what Jarrod said to me. He was obsessed. That’s why he was about to kill me. But you know all this. I’ve shown you the texts he sent me.” “Why didn’t you block him?” asks Dena. “I was frightened he’d lose it, and then Steve would find out. If that happened, everything would go to hell. Steve has a terrible temper. Plus…” She pauses. “I don’t know. I guess I was stupid. I thought I could eventually talk him around.” “Why didn’t you tell Steve?” asks Boris. “Maybe I should have, in hindsight. But there’s bad blood between them. They never showed it, but it was there. Jarrod hated him. You’ve seen it in the texts.” “Well, if you knew that, why did you let Jarrod come on this trip?” “Me? What could I have done? Steve wanted him to come, and Steve does what he wants. Honestly, I think Steve knew Jarrod wanted me—and liked it. I think he enjoyed tormenting him. Who knows, maybe that’s why Jarrod lost it. There’s a cruelness to Steve. Ask anyone who’s crossed him.” “If he was so cruel, why were you with him?” asks Dena. “I’m with him because he has another side.” “And he was rich,” says Boris. “Is rich,” says Sonya. “So,” says Dena, “what you’re implying is that, even though they’re both deceased—” “Steve is not dead. He’s missing.” “In all this,” Dena continues, “you’re the victim.” “No, I am the survivor.” “Okay,” says Boris. “Well then, after you killed Jarrod, why didn’t you drive back to rescue Steven?” “Drive where? This country is huge. It was a miracle I found my way back to civilization. But we have to find him. We must.” “We have,” says Dena. “That’s why we’re here. We’re not from search and rescue. We’re from homicide.”
Steven lies on his back. His tongue has been ripped out, his eyes pecked free. His skin moves, breathing with the pulse of maggots and ants. Dena and Boris stand on either side of Sonya. All three look down at Steven’s corpse. “Unfortunately,” says Boris, “he didn’t make it.” “But before he died,” says Dena, “he managed to leave one small piece of evidence that contradicts your story.” “Near the end,” says Boris, “he used a rock to inscribe a note onto another rock.” Back in the imaginary police tent, Dena places a smooth, palm-sized rock on the table in front of Sonya. On its surface, one word has been scratched: Murder.
Sonya bursts from the tent. Jarrod is behind her. There are no police, no tent, no detectives. There is only their second, staged bush camp with its empty tent, a smoldering fire, the quiet truck, and hidden insects crying for love beneath an indifferent sea of stars. “This is why you were supposed to kill him!” “He woke up! You said he wouldn’t. You promised!” “Of course he woke up. You took too long. And now, they’ll find him—or his note—and that will be it!” “Find him how? He’s over two hundred kilometers from here. They can’t search everywhere. It’s impossible.” “No. They’ll find him. And even if they don’t, a note carved onto a rock will last forever. Because of your weakness, we’re going to spend every hour of every day waiting for that knock on the door.” “No, it’s okay. Look around. You could lose a library out here forever. The chance of anyone finding a note scrawled on a rock is so remote, it’s…” “Inevitable,” says Sonya. A howl brings them closer together. “What the fuck is that?” she asks. “I… I think it’s a dingo. It’s okay. It won’t do anything. It’s probably just wondering if we have any food.” They wait, ears straining in the silence. But in the darkness, they are deaf. “That’s who will find him,” says Jarrod. “The dingoes and the ants and the flies. By then, the dust will have covered any note written on anything, anywhere. You don’t go missing out here. You vanish.” Another howl. They spin, scouring the darkness behind them. “Fuck,” she says. “Get out of here!” Jarrod yells at the void. “Go on! Get!” A third howl, this time from their right. “They’re all around us,” says Sonya. “No, they don’t live in packs. Two at most. They’re just circling. I told you—they’re after food. There are probably others eating him now. The poor bastard.” “The poor bastard?” “I told you,” he says. “The land will do it.” He tries to hug her, but she folds her arms, turning to study the surrounding dark as the LED light flutters behind the slow-flapping door of their nylon satellite.
At first, it is distant. A shape darker than the blackness, running fast past the bloodwoods. Jarrod, still awake, blinks and turns his burning eyes from the LED light to listen. It leaps over the spinifex, startling kangaroos into flight and sending frogmouths wailing, their cries like human babies begging the night for a mother who will never come. It doesn’t stop. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t rest. So fast, it becomes a blur, plunging deep into the tent in silence. Jarrod bursts awake, gasping, to find the LED’s galaxy of moths swirling above him. It takes him a moment to locate himself. He can’t remember falling asleep. It’s still dark outside, still cold, still silent. He pulls aside the tent flap and looks out, but the darkness swallows everything. Letting the flap fall, he turns to Sonya—and stops. Her sleeping bag has been peeled back. Her exposed skin is covered in dark writing, the same word over and over: Murder. Crouched over her is a sunburnt Steve, writing with a blood-soaked finger.
It is still dark, and Jarrod is frantically packing up the new camp. “Stop!” Jarrod doesn't. “I said stop!” Jarrod stops. “What?” “We talked about this. Things could go wrong, and if they did, we would have to adapt.” “What do you think I'm doing?” “This is not adapting. This is reacting. Overreacting. What we need is a plan. A new one.” “Okay, plan B. We go back and make sure that he hasn't left a note.” “And if he's not dead?” asks Sonya. “If he is not dead?”
The track back to their first camp is lit by the dawn’s milk. Jarrod is driving. The dust is following. They drive in silence, eyes flicking to any movement, but the only movement is the roos. “Speed up.” “No.” “We need to get this done.” “And we also need to get out. If we break the truck, we’ll die too.” After three long hours, Jarrod slows the vehicle. “Okay, this is it. We're almost there. Climb in the back and grab the rifle.” A moment later, the truck skids to a brutal stop. “Out,” Jarrod says, limping away, only to be swallowed by their own red dust. “You left the rifle with him!” “I had to. It would look too suspicious if we had it. It was his rifle.” “Suspicious! SUSPICIOUS!!! Are you fucking kidding? I'd rather look suspicious than dead.” Sonya studies the insects crushed or torn open on the truck’s grill without seeing them, as Jarrod glares through the dust at the view waiting before them. “How many bullets does he have?” she asks. “Six.” She nods and looks to where they must go. “He's been out there now for twenty-four hours. The heat of yesterday, the cold of last night, and this heat. Even if he is still alive—which would take a miracle—he will be severely dehydrated, which means he will be disoriented, probably hallucinating, which I'm guessing will make it very difficult for him to aim. Correct? Jarrod, is that correct?” “Yeah.” “So, even if he has survived, he probably couldn't hit the truck, let alone us.” “But what if he does hit the truck? How will we explain that?” “Oh, I don't know what happened, Detective. He came back from his walk, and he just started firing.” “I don’t get it,” says Jarrod. “Why were you and Steven in the truck?” “We weren’t. At the time, I was the only one in the vehicle. Jarrod jumped in to escape the bullets, and we left. Why? What would you have done? Stayed and got shot?” “But I don’t understand,” says Jarrod. “Why was Steven shooting at you in the first place?” “I told you. We don't know. Perhaps the sun got to him.” “Or perhaps he found out that we are lovers?” “But we're not.” “Then what are we?” “Soulmates,” says Sonya. “Dark ones. . . Now let's go do what we have to do.” Initially, Jarrod doesn’t follow her back to the truck. Sweaty hands running through his hair, he turns back to evaluate their destination. A raven caws. He turns to it. It is perched on the stripped branch of a bloodwood. “What do you want?” Jarrod picks up a stone and throws it at the bird. The stone just misses, but the bird doesn’t move. “Come on,” says Sonya. “Move it.” Jarrod limps back to the truck but is stopped by another caw. The bird is looking at him, black wings wrapped tight around its back. He takes off with his eyes first on the bird and then returning to the awaiting and approaching distance. As they leave, neither notices the broken post or its sign lying on the ground. The sign is full of shotgun pellet holes, each hole rusting its way through the sun-faded font: Beware Open Mineshafts.
**Jarrod is driving. Neither of them is speaking. Sonya, binoculars in hand, lifts them to scan for any movement. Nothing human moves. Jarrod is driving slow. The sun has already switched its laser to high. He looks at the "R" on the shifter. He visualizes Steve firing at the truck, throwing it into reverse, then flooring it. He looks back at the view. There is no Steve. The truck stops. Sonya glasses the place where they had first camped. “What if he tried to walk out the way we drove in?” “No, we would have seen him.” “Why? If he saw us coming, he would have just hidden.” “If he hides, he dies. We’re his only chance. He'd know that. No, he would have shown himself. Risked it. He's over there, somewhere.” A distant eagle glides through the cloudless sky. “Could that bird be circling his body?” “It's an eagle, so yeah, maybe.” “Okay, well, we’ll go there next, but for now, drive around. Wide.” “No,” says Jarrod. “We should wait here and watch.” “We don't have the time. Drive.” The truck circles their abandoned first camp like a shark slowly circling a sinking boat, altering its course to avoid the bloodwoods and spinifex. Two faces scan every inch of scrub. Dead undergrowth cracks beneath the tires. To hear better, Sonya switches off the air-conditioner, but both keep their windows up. Quickly, the car becomes an oven. Around they go, weaving and pausing, but there is no Steve. Finally, they approach the point where they started. “There.” “Where?” asks Sonya. Jarrod points to a location near a fallen tree. Sonya raises the binoculars. “Yes, you’re right,” she says. “That’s him.” Head down, he asks, “Are you sure?” “Well, it’s a body, and he’s wearing Steve’s clothes, so who else would it be?” She hands Jarrod the binoculars. He doesn’t want them. She brings them back to her own eyes. Steve is lying face down. She can see his shirt and his cap. He is not moving. “Can you see the rifle?” asks Jarrod. “No. Maybe he never found it.” “Oh, he found it . . . He found it.” They watch some more. A breeze, heated by the furnace, swells its way through the bloodwoods, but Steve doesn't move. “Go check,” says Sonya. “What? Why me?” “Go check.” Both are covered in sweat. His eyes are blue like Steve’s; her eyes are dark. “And what will you do?” “Go check.” “You know, without a GPS, it won’t be easy. One wrong turn and you’ll be lost.” “I won’t drive off. Now go check.” “And what if the truck breaks down? What will you do then?” “I’ll get you to fix it. Now go check.” In the open, everything is loud, and he is small. The creak of the door. His boots on the dirt. The oven’s breeze baking his face. From here, Steve's body could be mistaken for some illegally dumped rubbish. It quietens him. Eyes glued to his brother’s body, he heads toward it when Sonya starts the truck. Jarrod swings back to find Sonya urging him on. He returns to the truck, but the doors are locked. “Go check.” “Open the door.” “I said GO CHECK!” The doors remain locked, the truck idling. Jarrod thuds his forehead against the glass, then finally turns back to look at his brother. He can hear his mother calling them in for dinner. They bounce up and throw jacaranda seeds at each other. “Go.” Nodding, Jarrod does.
“Of course I didn’t want to run him down,” says Sonya. “But he'd murdered Steve, and if I didn't, he would have killed me next.” Dena studies her as if she were a dark pit. Sonya holds her gaze and tries to force something softer to climb out when a clink disrupts her thoughts. Blinking back to the real world, Sonya looks at the windscreen. There is a small crazed hole. A moment later, she looks at her shoulder. There is blood. As though she wasn’t bleeding, as though it were someone else’s shoulder, she returns to the view. Naked, Steve is standing to the left of Jarrod. He is turning the rifle from the truck to his brother. Jarrod is standing like a kangaroo transfixed by headlights. He raises a hand to use it as a shield.