‘What’s the matter with him?’ Louise sounded shaken, for Mongrel was now barking frantically, showing his yellow teeth and drooling gums. ‘He’s going mad.’
‘Too many people,’ Del replied shortly. ‘Too many people hangin round me car. Now. What’s all this about Ascot Vale station?’
While the rest of the adults discussed map references, Linda distributed cups of apple juice. Peter drank his quickly. The breeze had died, and the eucalyptus leaves hung straight and limp. Everything was very still. Across the road, where the ground began to rise, there were patches of dense shade; Peter strolled over to the closest, which was formed by a hollow weathered into the side of the ridge. A desperate-looking mulga clutched at sliding soil with its roots, tenaciously holding the slope together. Beside it, the earth had fallen away, leaving the hollow, which was lined with harder, less friable material – slabs of rock, clay subsoil. Peter reached out to touch this shaded surface, wondering if it might be cool. Then he recoiled suddenly.
‘Mum!’ he cried.
‘What?’
‘Come and look!’
‘What?’
‘Aborigines!’
One or two heads lifted. Linda said, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘There!’ Peter pointed, retreating from the shadowy hollow. ‘I mean – they’ve been here! Aborigines!’
Hand prints. They were dark red, shading into brown, and they were as clear as stars in the night sky.
Bloody hand prints, Peter had originally assumed. But then he’d remembered his art teacher, and her pictures of Aboriginal rock paintings: attenuated figures, uncoiling serpents, ochre hand prints. Lots and lots of hand prints.
‘Look!’ he exclaimed. ‘Rock paintings!’
‘Can’t be,’ said Del.
‘They are! Look!’
But Del didn’t respond – she was locked in an intense discussion about the map. John was standing stock still, as if frozen to the spot. Only Linda wandered over, and Ambrose, and Georgie.
And Rose, of course. Rose went straight up to the nearest hand print, placing her own hand on it.
‘Don’t!’ Peter exclaimed. The sight of his sister’s pale, plump starfish of a hand on that big, red stain unnerved him for some reason.
‘Don’t,’ said Linda. ‘Don’t, sweetie, you might hurt the painting.’
‘Do you remember these?’ Ambrose wanted to know, and Georgie shrugged, pressing against him.
‘Don’t remember any of it,’ she said.
‘But you’ve been down here, haven’t you?’
Another shrug. ‘If I have,’ Georgie muttered, ‘I must have been stoned at the time.’
‘Perhaps you put these here yourself,’ Ambrose suggested, with a half-smile.
‘Probably. They’re probably not real.’
‘How many are there, Rosie?’ Linda inquired, and Peter sensed that she was trying to distract her youngest daughter’s attention from all this talk of drugs and forgery. Rosie began to count the hand prints. Peter studied them from a greater distance, noting that while some were dark, and dry, and old, some were redder. Clearer. Almost . . .
Almost fresher.
He turned abruptly. His cup had to be rinsed and returned to the boot of Verlie’s car. On the way there, he saw to his surprise that John had climbed back inside again. The man in the funny trousers seemed even more frightened than Peter was. He had slid right down in his seat.
Peter heard Ross say, ‘But how long for? There’s hardly any petrol left in our tank.’
‘Whaddaya mean?’ Del frowned. ‘You got all Col’s, didn’t ya?’
‘I didn’t have much,’ Col admitted, and Ross said, ‘We’re not going to get far. That’s all I’m saying. So what happens if my car conks out? We have to make plans. Decisions.’
Peter sidled closer.
‘We can’t make any decisions unless we work out where we are,’ Noel remarked patiently. ‘Otherwise we won’t know which way to turn. Left or right? It depends whether we’re here or here.’ He stabbed at the map with his forefinger.
Then Alec muttered something. When asked to speak up, he folded his arms and said, ‘How do you know we’re anywhere?’
Six pairs of eyes swivelled in his direction.
‘What do you mean?’ Ross demanded, whereupon Alec glanced at Del.
‘You know what I mean,’ he insisted.
‘Eh?’
‘This is more of the same.’ Alec was beginning to sound breathless. His cheek was twitching. ‘If it’s the Oakdale turn-off, where was Ascot Vale? If it’s the Balaclava turn-off, why is this ridge here, smack where the road should be pushin through? It’s a four-way intersection on the bloody map!’
‘Yes, but that map,’ Ross interjected, ‘I mean, we all know what a problem that map has been.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Alec threw up his hands, and began to tug at his dusty brown curls. ‘Will you wake up? We’ve been driven off the fuckin road, can’t you see that? First they didn’t want us gettin to Broken Hill – now they don’t even want us on the fuckin highway! Didn’t you see all those guts? They were there for a reason! They were there to scare us! They were there to make us turn back!’
Peter’s heart skipped a beat. So Alec thought so too! It should have made him feel better to know that his opinion was shared by Alec.
It didn’t though. It only made him feel sick.
His father and Ross exchanged uneasy looks.
‘Um – I’m sorry, Alec – who are you talking about, exactly?’ Noel inquired. ‘Who might “they” be?’
‘Whoever! I dunno!’
‘He means God,’ Del supplied calmly. ‘Or the devil.’ She started to fold up her map. ‘He’s right, y’know. Alec is right. Something’s warped. This country’s gone wrong.’
‘Gone wrong?’ Col rasped. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Whaddaya think? Yiz saw that road kill. Was that natural ? It went as far as the bloody eye can see!’
‘Yes, but –’
‘We’ve all of us ended up with empty tanks, Col. All of us, bar none. Is that natural? I don’t think so.’
‘She’s right,’ Alec chimed in. ‘We’re in the Twilight Zone. It’s about time you blokes realised what’s goin on. I’ve been here the longest, and I’m tellin ya, we’re in the bloody Twilight Zone.’
‘The what?’ said Col, and Noel grimaced.
‘Look,’ he murmured, ‘I realise there have been some very peculiar things happening –’
‘You’re right there!’ Alec exclaimed.
‘But let’s not get hysterical and lose sight of what we’re trying to do. We’re trying to get to a telephone. So how are we going to do that? Are we going to turn left or right?’
The Voice of Reason, Peter thought. His father was always the same, in moments of distress and panic: calm, sensible, focused. On this occasion, though, he was wrong. Peter felt sure that he was wrong.
And Alec obviously shared his opinion.
‘You’re not lookin at the big picture!’ the truck driver protested. ‘You’re stuck on this one thing, and you’re ignorin everything else! We’re like castaways here, can’t you see that? How do you know there are any stations?’
‘Because it says so on the map,’ Ross replied.
‘That’s right! And it says this track here heads due west, which it doesn’t. So what good is the map to us?’
‘We’re probably on a different road,’ Noel argued patiently. ‘Alec, don’t lose your head, please. We can’t get lost, we’re not half an hour from the highway –’
‘But Dad!’ Peter couldn’t remain silent any longer. ‘Have you forgotten about the highway? It’s not working. It’s covered in dead animals. Can’t you see that something weird is going on?’
Noel stared at Peter, a strange expression slowly dawning in his eyes. It might have been fear, or bafflement, or anger – Peter couldn’t quite tell. He couldn’t even see it, after a few seconds, becau
se his own eyes filled with tears, which he tried to blink away.
‘All right,’ said Del, with decision. ‘This is what I think. Either we’re a bunch of drongos, and we’ve got stuck out here because we’ve made some thick bloody mistakes, or Alec is right, we’re on our own, and we’re smack in the middle of something dire. Either way, we’ve got to assume the worst, right?’ She looked around. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ said Alec.
Noel was staring at the ground, his hands on his hips. Col was scratching his head, looking unhappy. Ross cleared his throat.
‘You know,’ he observed, ‘there could be a link between the murders at Thorndale and this . . . this business on the road. I mean, a maniac with a gun – several maniacs with guns – could have shot up a herd of livestock and loaded it into a truck – dropped it on the highway . . .’ Seeing Alec gaze at him quizzically, Ross added, ‘Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? At least it’s not beyond belief.’
‘The murders. Yeah.’ Del’s tone was thoughtful. ‘How do they fit in? What do they mean – anything?’
‘Could it be aliens?’ Peter offered, in a small voice. He shrank before the combined force of the company’s sudden regard. ‘I mean, maybe it’s aliens doing this. Killing people. Killing animals. Mucking up the roads . . .’
Noel sighed. Del said, ‘It could be anything. Doesn’t matter much. Important thing is that we get out. We can worry about what’s goin on later.’ Then, from beside the red hand prints, Linda suddenly called, ‘Noel? Listen! Is that a car?’
They all pricked up their ears. Peter realised that, subconsciously, he had been taking note of a distant, throbbing hum, which may or may not have been the sound of an approaching engine. He strained to make sense of it – was it coming or going? – just as Del gave a startled cry.
‘Shit!’ She grabbed Peter. ‘Kids! Get in the car!’
‘Ow!’ Peter protested, and his mother exclaimed, ‘What? What is it?’
‘A swarm!’
‘What?’
‘A swarm!’
‘Fuck,’ Alec breathed, and dived for the sedan. Noel plucked Peter from Del’s grip, pushing him towards the station wagon and reaching for Louise.
‘Lin! Quick!’ he cried. ‘Into the car!’
‘A swarm?’ Linda wailed.
‘Bees! Wasps! I don’t know! Hurry!’
The hum was louder now, and increasing in volume. It was pitched low. Peter had never heard anything so frightening; he couldn’t understand how any living thing could sound so mechanical. Climbing onto Del’s back seat, he had the breath knocked out of him when Louise followed his example, throwing herself through the door. They both scrambled to one side, making room for their mother.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ Louise shrieked. ‘Wind up the window!’
‘It’s all right,’ Linda panted. ‘Rose! Shh! It’s okay!’
Rose was screaming, frightened more by the shouts and the running than by the buzz of insects. Doors slammed, one after the other. The threatening drone was muffled.
‘Where is it?’ Linda gasped. ‘Can anyone see it?’
‘It’s close,’ said Del. ‘It’s bloody loud.’
‘Shh, Mongrel! Shh!’
The dog was making a whining, whistling sound through his nose. Peter pressed his face against the window glass, scanning the sky. It showed patchily through the spindly, shaggy branches of nearby eucalypts; it was an intense blue, like something artificial. Peter’s heart pounded in his ears.
Rosie started to sob.
‘I can’t see it,’ Noel said anxiously.
‘Shit, where is it?’ Del exclaimed. ‘It must be right on top of us.’ Something twitched at the corner of Peter’s peripheral vision. He lowered his gaze – and screamed.
‘Peter! What?’ his mother cried.
‘Oh my God!’ yelled Noel. He was on the left side of the car. He could see exactly what Peter saw: the shimmering black thing. The seething mass that was crawling up the creek bank towards them. It was a swarm of flies – no, something covered in flies – no, something made of flies, a body made of flies, thousands of flies, which solidified for an instant in the shape of a large, four-legged animal (a dog, a deer?) before the shape dissolved and reformed, rearing up onto hind legs as it reached the road . . .
A man.
A man of flies.
Peter screamed and screamed. He didn’t know who else was screaming. The figure had no face; it moved quickly, swerving away to the left – to Peter’s left – and heading for the sedan. Something held Peter riveted to the spot. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t hide.
He saw the thing walking, actually walking, but not like a real person – each leg, composed of a million flies, broke up and was reconstituted as the flies flew forward, came together, flew forward, came together. Then they began to move more quickly. The shape was running – running at the sedan. It was losing coherence, but picking up speed. The buzz was deafening. Peter was screeching.
The thing dashed itself against the sedan . . . and disintegrated.
Everything happened so quickly. Alec had barely registered what the shape was – a teeming conglomeration of flies, imitating a body – before it had cast itself against the side of Ross’s car, and blown itself apart. Flies scattered everywhere, whirling, whizzing. A storm of flies. They shot past on all sides, while Ross fumbled with the ignition.
‘Go! Go!’ shouted Alec. Georgie was screaming in his ear; she had climbed into her boyfriend’s lap, and was clutching Ambrose around the neck. On the other side of Ambrose, John was swearing steadily.
‘Oh my God!’ Verlie quavered. ‘Oh my God!’
‘Ross, go!’ cried Alec.
‘I am! Christ!’ The engine turned over and roared to life. Up ahead, the station wagon was beginning to move forward; Mongrel’s wildly flapping jaws were clearly visible through the rear window. And the flies – the flies were everywhere. They hit the car with little thuds; they peppered the windscreen with their entrails.
‘This shouldn’t be happening!’ Ross squealed. His wife covered her face with her hands. Alec discovered that he was hyperventilating, and tried to slow his breathing down. Craning his neck, he saw that the speedometer was holding steady at thirty kilometres an hour.
‘Faster!’ Georgie cried, peering anxiously out the back window.
‘Can’t.’ Ross was hoarse. ‘Road’s too rough.’
‘We’re leavin ’em behind,’ Alec assured his fellow passengers. ‘There aren’t so many flies now, look.’
‘What the hell was that?’
It was typical, Alec thought, that stupid dickhead Ambrose should have given voice to a question that everyone else was studiously avoiding. Alec didn’t know why he felt unequal to discussing something that so clearly required identification; perhaps the shock of what they had seen was too fresh, and its implications were too horrific. Left to themselves, he was sure, he and Ross and Verlie – and perhaps even John – would have needed a bit of breathing space before trying to explain the inexplicable.
‘Let’s just get out of here,’ he said. But Ambrose didn’t take the hint.
‘That wasn’t a typical swarm, was it?’
‘No,’ John growled.
‘It looked like a figure. Like a person.’
Alec closed his eyes. God give me patience, he thought.
‘Am I right?’ Ambrose went on. ‘Did everyone else see that?’
‘Whaddaya think, we’re fuckin blind?’ John snapped, and Ross said sharply: ‘No profanity in this vehicle, thank you.’
Everyone fell silent. Alec’s heart hammered away like an ore-crusher; he was half expecting that Georgie would hear it. The throb filled his head, interfering with his ability to listen for pursuing flies.
He couldn’t see any – at least, no more than you would expect to see in the bush.
‘Where are we going?’ Georgie suddenly queried, in a high, frightened voice.
‘South,’ said Ross.
‘I
s that a good idea?’ asked Ambrose, and Alec wanted to punch his head in. The guy was so full of it!
‘You got a better one?’ he snapped.
‘Well, shouldn’t we be heading north to Broken Hill?’
‘We can’t get to Broken Hill,’ Ross said shortly, and Alec realised that Ross had finally opened his eyes to their situation. ‘That’s the whole point.’
‘But if we turn around,’ Ambrose began, ‘we’ll at least be heading north –’
‘Turn around? Are you crazy?’ Georgie’s screech cut the air like a blade. ‘With that thing back there?’
‘Georgie, sweetheart, it was just a swarm –’
‘Get real, Ambrose! It was a fucking nightmare!’
This time Ross turned his head, applying pressure to the brake. ‘I told you before,’ he barked. ‘No profanity in this vehicle, or you can get out!’
Despite his deeply troubled state, Alec was pleased to see Georgie shrink before Ross’s disapproval like a five-year-old. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘Ross,’ said Verlie. But her voice was so soft and tentative that only Alec seemed to hear her; Ross kept talking.
‘Whatever that thing might have been,’ he declared breathlessly, ‘it was probably dangerous. So we ought to avoid it if we can.’
‘Bloody oath,’ Alec mumbled. Ambrose, however, looked mulish.
‘And go where?’ he inquired.
‘Well – as far as I remember,’ said Ross, ‘it depends on which turn-off we took. If it was the Ascot Vale turn-off, then we’re now heading back towards Enmore and Oakdale stations –’
‘But we didn’t pass Ascot Vale!’ Georgie broke in.
‘– and if it was the Balaclava turn-off,’ Ross continued, relentlessly, ‘then we’ll be hitting the highway again pretty soon. Either way, we’re not going to get lost.’
Satisfied that he had made his point, Ross fixed his attention on the road in front of him, and the car picked up speed. Verlie said: ‘Ross?’
‘What?’
‘Look.’
She pointed at something, whereupon Ross said: ‘Bloody hell.’ Leaning forward, Alec realised why. The needle on the fuel gauge was hovering below ‘empty’.
The Road Page 29