by Greg McLean
‘Amber, what happened?’
‘B-Bruce?’ she mumbled, gazing up at him with unfocused eyes.
‘Yes, Amber, it’s me. Where are the others? Where’s Jewel?’
Amber swallowed, winced. Her chin began trembling and tears welled in her eyes. ‘Dead. All dead,’ she breathed.
Bruce closed his eyes. He felt hollow.
‘All clear,’ Ellis said.
Bruce opened his eyes and turned to see the officer stepping out of the small back room.
‘Is she okay?’ Ellis asked.
When Bruce spoke, his voice was high and quivering. ‘Banged up pretty good, but yeah, seems okay. She says that they’re . . . all dead.’
Ellis swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. Does that include Mick?’
Bruce looked down at Amber.
She shook her head.
‘Okay. I’m gonna go and look for that murdering prick,’ Ellis said. ‘You stay here with her and —’
Bruce noticed the figure pop up out of the ground at the same time as Ellis did.
It was like a sewer rat, only much bigger.
Neither man had time to react to the sudden intrusion.
Two blasts boomed through the tin shed.
Ellis was knocked backwards to the floor. His shotgun flew from his hands and a red halo bloomed from his stomach.
‘Drop the gun, Brucey.’
Bruce turned to see Mick’s head poking out from a hole in the floor, with a bolt-action rifle aimed at him.
‘If you can call that thing a gun,’ Mick added, then laughed, low and dirty.
Bruce tossed the pistol away.
Ellis groaned on the floor. He held both hands to the large wound in his gut.
Mick climbed the rest of the way out of the manhole. He was covered with blood; his hands were painted with the red stuff.
‘You’re about the last bloke I expected to see, Bruce. Shit, I about wet meself when I heard ya voice from down below. Thought I was hearin’ things again.’
He stepped over to the tiny pistol and picked it up, rifle always trained on Bruce.
‘Did that cop give you this?’ He looked over at Ellis. ‘Shit, Bruce, ya may as well have had ya cock in your hand for all the good it would have done ya.’
Mick stepped over to Ellis. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. Do I know you, partner?’
‘Murdering . . . bastard,’ Ellis choked out. ‘I know . . . you killed . . . Alex . . . and Roberts . . . and the others.’
Mick frowned. ‘You knew Cuntstable Kravic?’
‘My bother-in-law. My friend.’
Mick laughed. ‘That piece of shit? Christ, sorry to hear that.’ Mick squatted by Ellis’s head, one eye on Bruce. ‘So, what did your brother-in-law tell ya?’
‘Everything,’ Ellis wheezed.
‘Yeah, well, you got me there, tiger. But I was just doin’ a job. That’s all I did here. Following orders. Just like in ’Nam. But ya know, speaking of those cops, maybe I’ll reunite you with that fat fuck Roberts. How’d ya like that, hey? See ya pig buddy?’
Ellis glared up at Mick with hate burning in his eyes.
‘Yeah, he’s down there,’ Mick continued. ‘Sittin’ on his fat arse, as usual. I think you’ll like it down there too. But, ah, let me ask you – how many other pigs know ya came out here tonight?’
Ellis spat in Mick’s face.
Mick wiped away the spittle, smudging blood across his face. ‘I reckon none. Am I right?’
When Ellis didn’t answer, Mick grinned. He nodded. ‘Yeah, I think I am. You wouldn’t come here with me mate Bruce if other coppers knew what was happening. But how did Brucey call ya? No phones in the desert.’ Mick smiled. ‘The roadhouse? Is that it?’
Ellis coughed and winced.
‘Has to be.’ Mick ground the rifle stock into one of Ellis’s bullet wounds.
Ellis cried and bucked.
‘Was it the roadhouse?’ he barked.
‘Yes,’ Bruce said, hoping Mick would stop torturing Ellis. ‘Yes, I got to the roadhouse and the owner called the cops.’
Mick withdrew the rifle and straightened up, turning to Bruce. Ellis stopped screaming.
‘Right, then. Terrance called the cops? That was considerate of him. Who else was there?’
Bruce swallowed.
‘I’ll make it quick for you if ya tell me the truth. Honest injun.’
‘The Aborigine,’ Bruce said, voice breaking. ‘I forget his name.’
‘Clapper . . . Anyone else?’
Bruce shook his head.
‘Typical. That dump is as dead as Kravic,’ Mick huffed. ‘Christ, how the hell did you survive? I pegged you as dingo food.’
‘Got lucky, I guess.’
‘Well, there’s no sand here for you to throw in me face, ya sneaky cunt.’
Mick raised the rifle.
Bruce sucked in breath. He squeezed his eyes shut. Please let it be quick.
‘This time, I’m gonna do it right. No fucken around.’
Mick fired and Bruce felt his face cave in. Then the boom, the blinding light and pain gave way to blackness.
The rain had stopped completely now and the clouds had thinned to nothing. The black sky sparkled with a million tiny specks of light, and the moon shone like a perfectly round white balloon.
Mick stood by the door of the shed and surveyed the area.
Blood and bodies lay all over the place. Mud caked everything. All that was needed was the thrum of helicopters and the scene would be complete.
There was a lot of clean up to be done. A lot of evidence to be destroyed. Somewhere down the way there was a cop car he had to make disappear.
But these things could wait.
It had been one hell of a night. He’d had fun – more fun than he’d had in months. But the real party was still to come.
He was eager to get started.
Mick walked back into the shed. The blonde dangled by a rope that had been looped around a ceiling support beam, her feet just brushing the floor.
An array of tools lay on the workbench.
‘Alone at last,’ Mick said.
The girl shivered. It was cool inside the shed, but Mick knew it wasn’t just the chill on her naked skin that was causing her to shake. He let his eyes wander over her smooth, milky skin, her voluptuous breasts and the pale bush between her legs. He licked his lips.
‘I’m gonna have me some fun with you, my love.’
The girl sobbed, and tears and snot dribbled down her face in equal measures.
In the pit below, the cop continued to moan.
Mick knew the pain the cop must be going through. Getting shot in the gut was fucking painful – at least, that’s what he had seen in the war. Men lying on the jungle floor, gaping holes in their bellies, globs of innards spilling out. They didn’t die straight away. They simply screamed and moaned and begged to be put out of their misery. And that was after they had been given morphine. The young cop down there was without any painkillers: his would be a slow, agonising death.
In time, he would become a rotten, bloated corpse, like his brother-in-law and Roberts.
A trio of cop corpses. Not a bad catch.
Jewel he had placed at the foot of the altar, ready for the ritual skinning.
But first . . .
Mick picked up the pliers and gazed at its two jagged teeth.
‘Nah,’ he said, and placed it back down. ‘Not yet.’
He had a better idea. He picked up the hunting knife from off the table and faced the blonde.
‘Did I ever tell you I was in ’Nam? Well, I was. Over there, I was taught a certain procedure by my skipper. It’s called head-on-a-stick.’
Mick strolled around to stand behind the girl. She screamed. Started jerking her body.
‘Here’s how it works . . .’
25
By the time Mick got everything in place, it was late morning and already hot.
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it to the gr
ound. The camera he’d found in the nogs’ trailer slapped against his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he could develop the film, but it was a nice camera all the same.
His muscles were sore, his body caked with sweat and grime. Collecting ten bodies and hauling them into the two vehicles was damn hard work. He’d need a good sleep after all this. He’d probably sleep for a week.
Still, as tired as he was, he was feeling good. The headaches, the fever, the fog he’d been in for the past few days; it was all gone. His head felt clear for the first time in months.
He stepped over to the police car. Slumped across the back seat were Steve, Chiyo and Sam.
He lit a match and tossed it into the petrol-drenched interior.
The car and the bodies caught fire quickly. Soon thick black smoke was curling into the bleached-white morning sky, carrying the pungent stench of burning flesh and rubber.
He stood and watched the flames licking the police cruiser for a few minutes before moving across to the Kombi. The rest of the bodies had been dumped inside – all except the young cop.
Although the cop had died sometime during the night, Mick decided to keep his body down in the pit. It seemed appropriate: police always stuck together.
Besides, Mick was thinking about leaving this place anyway. It had served its purpose.
He was mostly certain the cop hadn’t told anyone where he was heading out to last night, but he couldn’t be completely sure. And Bruce had somehow managed to survive the desert and make it to Emu Flat – who knew what stories he had told?
No, it was best to pack up and leave Bardoch Mining Co.
But Mick reckoned there were plenty more like it in the vast Australian outback. As long as he didn’t leave a trail, he would be fine.
He would never be caught.
But he would have to take extra care with certain elements from now on. Like disengaging the engine where possible. It wasn’t enough to simply blow out tyres and make up some bullshit reason why the car had to be towed, and why it couldn’t be driven until he’d fixed it. If it wasn’t for the Kombi getting bogged, the girls might have gotten away last night. It was only the grace of the land and the downpour that stopped that from happening.
Also, he needed to show some restraint with his victims.
Last night had been wonderful, but it had been over far too quickly. Although the blonde had lasted a couple of hours, that still wasn’t long enough for him. He needed to take things slower, savour the time spent with his lovely victims.
He looked through the open side doors. The blonde was lying on top of Duncan. Mick looked over her cut, burnt and dismembered body and wished she was still alive. At least he had the memories. He would always remember her screams. She had different kinds: short, restrained sobs when he fucked her; high-pitched wails when he twisted the pliers or burnt her.
Yes, he’d had a great night, but next time he would try to keep the girl around for longer. Days, weeks even.
Time was his only enemy now.
Mick struck another match and tossed it into the Kombi. He stood back and watched it catch fire.
Within a short time the van was a fiery inferno twice the size of the cop car’s. It wasn’t just because there were more bodies inside – the weed also helped to fuel the flames.
Mick had discovered the bags of dope early this morning while dumping the first of the bodies inside the van. The bullets had wrecked a lot of the panelling and had blown open some of the bags. It had come as a surprise to Mick. He hadn’t pegged Bruce and Duncan for a couple of drug runners. Shit, he’d almost been impressed. He’d never taken to the Mary Jane, even though it was popular among the Yanks in ’Nam. He had nothing against it, personally. He’d tried it a few times, but it hadn’t agreed with him.
So while he admired Bruce and Duncan’s ingenuity, he had no use for the cargo. He did, however, have use for the cash he’d found packed behind one of the panels. Almost ten grand in fifty-dollar bills.
Thank you, Sand Surfers, he’d thought. It never hurt to have money. And this was more than he had ever possessed in his life. Yes, he could live off the proceeds for a long time.
When the fuel tanks exploded, the sound was like two cannons going off.
With the heat getting too much to bear, Mick headed into the shed.
He had one last act to do before leaving this place: one last skinning. And afterwards, he had to pay a visit to Emu Flat Roadhouse.
He closed the door and the flames that raged outside looked like red waves against the rippled metal shed.
26
The place was unusually busy for a Tuesday. Which for Emu Flat meant four bodies – not exactly happy hour at the Nildon Hotel, but it was enough to keep Terrance from closing the doors permanently.
‘’Nother beer, Clapper?’ Terrance said.
Clapper, sitting at the counter, downed the last drop remaining in his glass and then nodded. Terrance took the foam-streaked mug and poured another glass of Foster’s.
‘It doesn’t seem the same without Mick,’ Clapper said, through a mouthful of potato and gravy. ‘Wonder what happened last night?’
Terrance sighed.
He glanced over at the table Mick liked to sit at. It was empty – there was no plate of steak and chips, no glass of VB. It looked like Terrance had lost one of his best customers.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Clapper said, his dark brow deep with wrinkles. He took a long drink of the freshly poured beer. ‘All that stuff that guy said about Mick. You reckon he’d got it wrong?’
‘Maybe,’ Terrance said.
‘Have you heard anything? Any talk of Mick being arrested?’
‘No, noth—’
The door burst open. A figure stepped inside.
Clapper dropped his knife and fork, and they clanged to the plate. He gave an audible ‘Ugh.’
Terrance froze.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
‘Afternoon,’ Mick said, grinning widely.
Terrance heard the squeal of chairs as the other three men turned and looked at the strange beast that had entered Emu Flat. The smell was pungent: the tang of blood and a smell akin to old grease; fatty, a little bit fishy, and a lot putrid.
There were gasps and cries from the other customers.
‘Jesus! What the hell?’ Clapper whined.
Terrance didn’t want to believe that Mick was wearing a human skin, but he knew it couldn’t be anything else. A female, he reckoned. The hide was caked with dry blood. The face sat atop Mick’s head like a coonskin hat. Whoever she was, she’d had short reddish-blonde hair and small features.
‘Where’s me steak and chips?’ Mick said, still smiling. ‘I’m starvin’! Derrick, fire up the grill.’
Mick stepped deeper into the roadhouse. When he brought up his rifle, the stunned awe that simmered through the roadhouse turned into shrieks of panic.
‘I’m glad to see you here, Clapper,’ Mick said. ‘But then, it’s lunchtime, so where else would ya be?’
Emu Flat erupted with gunfire.
Mick sat in his truck and sucked on a Marlboro. He drew heavily and then held his breath.
When the roadhouse door shattered and flames curled and prodded the afternoon air, he exhaled. Cloudy tobacco smoke swirled around his head.
He turned on the truck’s engine.
Soon the building’s windows blew out, sending tentacles of fire towards the cloudless blue sky.
Mick’s work here was done.
He pulled away from the roadhouse, tyres kicking up dust and stones.
Mick cruised along the road that led to Nildon, and just before he took the bend, he glanced up into his rear-view mirror. He saw Emu Flat ablaze, clouds of black smoke curling upwards.
He rounded the curve and the inferno vanished from sight.
By the time the firemen arrived, he would be long gone, coasting along the Great Northern. Destination: anywhere. Emu Flat would be reduced to blackened rubble and th
ere would be nothing linking him to the fire or the deaths of six men.
Clapper and Terrance wouldn’t be doing any yapping, so there was no one left to connect him with any of the crimes. The other three customers, as well as Derrick, were collateral. Fuel for the fire. As was Jewel’s hide, which had made an effective kindling. Tossed onto the open flames of the kitchen grill, the skin hadn’t taken long to catch.
As he gained speed, travelling along the dusty road, with the windows down and the smell of burning fat and skin thick in his head, Mick revelled in the fact that he was free. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was truly and utterly free.
Free to travel where he wanted. Free to do what he wanted.
He looked ahead at the scrubby desert – at the wide, open land – and let out a war cry that turned into gravelly laughter.
This land was his. He had the power now.
The power of the dead and the thirst of the living.
Mick Taylor was well and truly alive. And he had blood on his mind.
ALSO FROM PENGUIN BOOKS
Nature vs nurture turns out to be a bloodbath
The wide open outback offers plenty of space for someone to hide. Or to hide a body.
When wiry youngster Mick Taylor starts as a jackaroo at a remote Western Australian sheep station, he tries to keep his head down among the rough company of the farmhands. But he can’t keep the devils inside him hidden for long.
It turns out he’s not the only one with the killer impulse – and the other psychopaths don’t appreciate competition. Is Cutter, the station’s surly shooter, on to him? And what are the cops really up to as they follow the trail of the dead?
In the first of a blood soaked series of prequel novels, the cult film’s writer/director Greg Mclean and horror writer Aaron Sterns take us back to the beginning, when Mick was a scrawny boy, the only witness to the grisly death of his little sister. What made Mick Taylor Australian horror’s most terrifying psycho killer?
PENGUIN BOOKS