by M. J. Kelly
Scratches in the visor blurred his vision, and the thick crack ran diagonally across his line of sight—but he could see enough to keep himself orientated. He traced his fingers along the joints of the helmet, searching for exposed sections of skin around his neck, until he convinced himself that he was as ready as he could be.
He crouched and searched amongst the rails. Eventually he found what he was looking for—a small green lighter wedged beside a battered railway sleeper, the same lighter that Jules had dropped minutes earlier. He stood at the tunnel entrance, breathing shallowly and already sweating profusely inside the clothing—then flicked the lighter to life and brought it to the top of the stick.
The closest of the dried palm fronds flickered into flame, and it spread quickly across the top of the stick, creating a burning, crackling fire that billowed smoke in a plume above his head.
The rank breeze upped another notch and blew into his face, howling from somewhere deep within the hill. Embers flew from his makeshift torch and lodged into his clothing. Dig flicked them away, then tucked both hands into the arms of his overalls and walked into the darkness.
As the walls closed in around him the torch glowed orange with a new intensity, fuelled by the headwind, throwing flames and smoke back towards him. He held the torch out in front, trying to direct the glowing cinders away from his head.
Shadows danced across the walls and his eyes darted left and right, trying to make sense of the shapes through the tint of the scratched visor. But he kept walking forward, down the centre of the tracks, into the heart of the mountain.
As he turned the first bend, the unsettling hum increased, and a shiver tracked down between his shoulder blades. The first hornets appeared in the air, orbiting frantic circles around the torch. One landed in the centre of his visor, and he flinched. From this angle he could see its gruesome body up close—a writhing hairy mass of gold and black stripes with stinger prodding into the lens.
Dig breathed shallowly and his heart raced. His breath spread semicircles of moisture across his visor, blocking his vision. He waved his makeshift torch at his face and the hornet disappeared into the smoke, only to be replaced by three more crawling across the lens.
More insects crawled near his ears, their tiny feet dancing across the helmet and buzzing so loudly it seemed they were burrowing into his canal.
But he kept walking, step by step, holding the torch ahead of him, trying to maintain sight of the tracks, leaning into the whining, stinking headwind that seemed to grow stronger with each step.
The tunnel straightened, and through the storm of insects he spotted a circle of light on the base of his vision. He recognised the old timber signal box hanging on the ceiling, housing the swarming blackness of the nest.
His heart raced and blood pounded in his ears; stars danced across his vision. He realised he was breathing too fast, and he forced himself to slow his intake until his vision returned to some type of normality.
The buzzing whine of the hive increased to a fevered intensity. A dark cyclone of insects swirled in the air above it. Then, as he moved within spitting distance, they came at him.
In an instant he was enveloped—his vision blanked out by a threefold layer of hornets squirming across the visor. He felt them digging at the fabric around his neck, squeezing into the gaps between his toes, and covering his body in a writhing heavy weight that felt like a thick, warm layer of screaming fury.
Dig moaned through gritted teeth, but the noise was drowned away by the insects swarming around his ears—a sound that had moved beyond a buzz or a whine; it was the sound of a screaming engine redlining into overdrive.
Dig lifted the torch to his face and his vision momentarily cleared. He spotted a glimpse of rail at his feet and pushed on, one step at a time, until he was again aware of the circle of light ahead of him, down to his right, on the side of tracks. He waved his torch toward it, and through the cloud of insects he saw a glint of bent steel tubing and rubber tyre. It was the motorbike, lying upside down with the wheel rims buckled.
He pushed past the bike to stand at the base of the weathered timber cabinet. Nestled in the top of the cabinet was the cylindrical mass of the overflowing, fibrous hive. A dark hole punctuated its base, and a ferocious sea of hornets poured out.
Dig lowered his torch and stepped forward again, and the light passed a patch of pale skin on the ground. He returned his torch to it, and took a sharp intake of breath.
Jules’ pink face stared up, blotched and swollen, with vacant eyes and a thick purple tongue. Parallel tracks of rutted, dried blood ran from cheekbone to chin, with a limp hand lying beside; the fingernails were matted in red and choked with clumps of skin.
She lay on her back with her legs sprawled. Her shirt was hitched up, exposing a swollen midriff covered in raised purple welts and small black puncture marks of dried blood. One foot was twisted sideways at the ankle—likely broken. Bile rose in Dig’s throat, and he gagged.
When he regained his composure, he glanced back at her. Through the clouded lens of his helmet he saw some form of shadow moving on her face, but he couldn’t pinpoint its nature.
He wanted to run, but instead he moved the torch in closer to get a better look—and through the mass of flying insects he realised it was more than a shadow—there was a lump moving behind her cheek.
The lump tracked slowly to the corner of her mouth, then Jules’ upper lip curled away to reveal two murky brown eyes set against an oversized bright orange head. Sharp mandibles hung from the maw of the creature, and they opened and closed like a pair of jagged scissors.
An icy chill ran down his spine as the insect studied him, and Dig sensed what it was. It was a hornet, but this one was bigger and meaner than the rest of the swarm. It was the queen.
He again felt the urge to run—to leave the tunnel and never come back. But he couldn’t. His grip tightened on the torch until his knuckles ached, and he bunched his shoulders over Jules’ body. A hot flush of rage rose through the back of his neck, blinding him of any logical thought.
Memories flashed across his mind. Memories of sitting at the waterhole while his father choked the wasp from his mouth to the rock platform, changing his life forever. Memories of pain and fear as he was stung on the elbow while he sat on the roof of the house. Memories of terror as he steered the motorbike through the wall of writhing hornets a few days before.
He leaned forward and waved the torch toward the queen. “Get out of there!” he shouted, his voice muffled inside the helmet. Insects churned around him, flying kamikaze into his head, bouncing off his visor.
The queen watched him, her mandibles opening and shutting, then slowly extracted herself from Jules’ mouth. The long black wings emerged first, and a bulbous orange and black striped abdomen followed. She climbed to the bridge of Jules’ nose, stood on her hind legs, and extended her wings wide, seemingly taunting him.
Dig pulled the torch back, then thrust it forward like a fencing sword; it struck the queen and knocked her from her perch. The insect dropped away in a blur of wings and turned an upward arc toward his head, then ricocheted solidly off the centre of the plastic visor.
Dig cried out and waved his torch in front of his face. The queen vanished amongst the swarm before thumping into his visor a second time. Dig gritted his teeth and swiped at the air again—and felt the impact of a glancing blow. She landed heavily on the base of the hive, stretched one shaky wing, then crawled back into the depths of the nest.
The timber cabinet framing the nest was splintered and pocked with termite holes. Dig panted, arms heavy from the layers of insects writhing across them, and pushed the torch up to the base of the frame. The flames flickered and then caught, and rose up the rectangular box toward the hive.
A flurry of hornets flew around him in a thick wave of panic, their wings beating manically like an aircraft jet firing up for takeoff. Insects lifted from his body and flew directly into the flames, catching alight and dropping to the
floor in writhing balls of fire.
Dig took a few ragged breaths, then waved the torch down to his feet and found the tracks again, re-orientating himself. He started to walk.
He took a few steps before he remembered Jules’ body, lying alone beside the burning cabinet. He winced, then stepped back to crouch beside her. Heat from the fire radiated through his clothes. From the hive, a high pitched whine increased in intensity, like a kettle coming to the boil.
Dig placed his torch on the ground, then grabbed Jules beneath her armpits, hoisting her to a sitting position. A black lump of fabric lay behind her—his pack. He blinked rapidly as an idea formed in his mind, then he pulled the bag open and fished out his water bottle. He tipped out the contents and swiped the open bottle through the cloud of insects, closed it tightly, and replaced it in the bag.
After swinging the pack over his back he hoisted Jules’ body over one shoulder, pushed up to his feet, and stepped away from the burning hive.
Dig struggled to balance her weight. His chest wheezed and sweat tracked down his ribs beneath the layers of clothing.
Behind him, the hive emitted an ear piercing wail, and something crackled and popped, then fell to the tunnel floor with a crash. Dig trudged onward with the muscles in his back cramping and the inside of the helmet visor near clouded over with moisture. Finally, the semi-circle of the tunnel exit appeared ahead of him. He lumbered towards it.
When he reached the opening, the sunlight bit at his eyes and he threw the torch to the floor. He stopped and lowered Jules’ body to the ground, just inside the shade of the opening, seating her against the tunnel wall.
He ripped the helmet from his head. His hair was matted in sweat and his face flushed. He dropped his hands to his knees, panting, trying to recover his breath.
After a while, he straightened and stared into the depths of the tunnel. The wind was gone, the air still. Smoke drifted out of the crown of the tunnel and floated into the sky.
Dig wiped at his face with the back of his arm, then unzipped the overalls and peeled them off his body. He turned to Jules, still propped up against the wall of the tunnel, her head tilted sideways and staring at the sky—and his brow furrowed.
He walked over to stand beside her. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“I’m going to leave you here for a bit,” he said. “But...someone will back for you later on.” The echo of water trickled down a wall within the tunnel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. But I’ll go and find Chook now. I promise you that.”
He scratched at the back of his neck, then turned, picked up his pack, and stepped out of the tunnel opening into the sunlight. The breeze cooled the sweat across his temples.
Ahead of him, the rail line followed the ridge as it eased down toward the river. A flock of white birds tracked across a hazy sky, and thunder rumbled behind the clouds. On the river’s edge, nestled amongst the trees, stood the boxy shape of the brewery and the small rectangular house. To his left, the rail embankment dropped steeply down to the wide expanse of hop fields across the meadow.
He retrieved his water bottle from his bag. It vibrated in his grasp—the trapped hornets fighting to get out, before he pushed it carefully into the pocket of his shorts. He then fished the two Epipens out of his pack—the same ones his mother had given him as he left Australia—and slotted them into the opposite pocket.
He dropped to his rear and slid down through the loose rocks of the ballast shoulder until he came to a stop at the first rows of leafy green hops.
The vines climbed high above his head, supported by stretches of regularly spaced cable that spanned out across the field. Heart shaped leaves with finely toothed edges spread evenly up the vines. Deep green hops sprouted from the base of the leaves, filling the air with a sweet, musky, bitter fragrance.
He stepped into the field of plants, and with leaves tugging at his shoulders he walked deep into the centre of the crop—heading for the house.
18
THE GROUND BELOW THE VINES was loose and loamy, and sunk under his feet as he moved between the plants. The vines blocked out the sky, but he kept his bearings by walking parallel to the rectangular grid of crops. The bitter aroma of the hops enveloped him, triggering memories of the refrigerated storage area back home. He stopped often to regain his breath and maintain his composure. Was it possible the smell of the hops alone was making him lightheaded?
Eventually, the cables supporting the vines dropped to the ground in a long straight row at the edge of the meadow. Dig approached the boundary carefully, hopping amongst the shadows from vine to vine until he could make out the rectangular shape of the house, not far past the edge of the crop. The building was nestled amongst the line of banyan trees that grew on the bank of the river. From behind the house, he could hear the trickle of flowing water.
A group of motorbikes were lined up at the house, and three men sat at a table near the front door—talking, drinking and playing cards. Dig recognised the silhouette of Shiv sitting against the house, facing him. The bulky frames of the thugs sat before him.
Dig crept back into the depths of the crop, then flanked the edge of the house, out of sight of the men.
From there he skipped across the dirt and jumped into the cool shadows of the banyan trees by the river. Hidden frogs croaked in a steady rhythm beneath his feet.
He checked for activity at the house before creeping along the water’s edge behind the trees, his feet leaving liquid filled footprints in the wet sand.
The curtains on the rear glass doors were pulled back, exposing the pale cement walls and timber ceiling beams of the living room and kitchen.
Raj sat at the stone kitchen counter with his back to Dig, writing on a pad of paper, talking. His father, Girish, stood on the opposite side of the bench. Glass tumblers were lined up on the table. Girish’s nose wrinkled as he crouched and poured measured amounts into the cups from an unlabelled bottle in his hand.
A rasping female voice echoed through the house, and Raj and Girish turned to the hallway as Maxine sauntered into view. Dig’s stomach clenched as he spotted her.
She stood with a tight jaw and her arms folded. Her lank hair was pulled back behind her head, but tracts had broken free and hung loosely down the side of a greasy face.
Girish scampered over to her, placed a hand behind the small of her back, and led her to the kitchen bench. She scowled and tried to turn back, but Girish gestured again toward the glasses on the table.
Maxine rolled her eyes and dropped into a chair, then lifted a glass to her lips.
Girish and Raj watched with bright eyes as she emptied the glass and returned it to the counter. She nodded, and stood.
Girish returned his hand to her back and tried to coax her back into the seat, but she flapped a hand in dismissal and barked at him. Girish cowered, and she headed back into the hall and out of sight.
Girish watched her leave, then glanced at Raj. Raj gave a half-hearted shrug.
Dig watched the exchange and felt a pang of regret. If he was right with his assumptions, the boy was his half-brother. Was he prepared to destroy the relationship between Girish and Raj for the sake of his own family unit back home? If he needed to, then yes, he certainly would. But if he could get Maxine alone, then maybe it could be avoided.
He needed to talk to her. Could he sneak into the house, track her down before he was detected, and convince her to speak to him without raising an alarm? It seemed a near impossible task.
Girish picked up the empty glass from the counter and moved it to the sink. Raj returned to writing in his notepad. Dig made his move.
He pushed through the overhanging roots of the banyan tree and hoisted himself onto the back deck. Glass clattered against the sink as he dropped his shoes to the ground.
Dig peeked around the door jamb, then dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through the doorway.
The bare concrete floor was cool, and the
twang of a sitar echoed from speakers on the ceiling. To his left, a set of couches and a heavy timber coffee table flanked the corner of the room. As he glanced to the right, he took a sharp intake of breath.
A doorway led into the small bathroom of rendered cement where he had showered on his previous visit to the house. Chook sat slumped in the corner of the room, his head tilted to his shoulder. His face was smeared with dirt and blood. One arm was tied to a solid metal towel rack above his head. Red stains covered his torn shirt. After thinking for a moment, Dig crawled into the room.
Chook looked up, startled. He tried to straighten and winced, then slumped back down. His tied arm was fixed awkwardly above his head, and the other lay across his chest, protecting the red and swollen stub on his hand. An odour of rotting meat hung in the air.
Dig put a finger to his lips, then examined Chook’s restricted arm. It was fixed tight to the metal bar by a thick cable tie. The plastic had sliced a red ring into his skin and tinged his hand a shade of purple.
He turned his attention to the towel rack. It was held in place by four screws, and Dig picked at them with his fingernail. He blinked before fishing a handful of change out of his pocket. One of the silver coins was thin, and marked as one Indian rupee.
He glanced through the doorway, then held the coin up to the first screw and twisted. Initially the screw hung tight, but then it gave up its resistance and twisted out of the wall. Dig copied this action with the remaining screws, and the solid towel rack fell into Dig’s hand. He lowered the bar to the floor and unhooked the cable tie from Chook’s wrist. Chook grimaced and rubbed his trembling arm against his shirt.
Wait here okay? Dig mouthed. Chook nodded weakly and closed his eyes.
Dig crept back to the doorway and peered around the opening. Raj remained seated with his back to him, and Girish was rummaging through the fridge. The hallway opening stood about ten steps away.