by P. A. Fenton
‘We’re going to the airport?’ he said.
‘We’ll fly to Brisbane, connect with Miss Lucas from there.’
‘Commercial?’
‘Charter. I have special equipment, most commercial flights get nervous about checking it in.’
A cold breeze introduced itself to Dave’s spine, shaking it in greeting. They were springing for a charter flight? For him? People only went to that kind of trouble and expense when they wanted something, and although the US Army wasn’t a private enterprise, Dave couldn’t imagine a scenario where they’d be happy to sponsor a Holden family reunion.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ he said.
‘Naturally. As there are things which I haven’t been told. I know what I need to know, you know what you need to know. It’s the way of things.’
They came out of the darkness of the tunnel for mere seconds before dipping down again into the long dark tube. A sensor stuck to the windscreen near the rear-vision mirror blipped as they passed the invisible toll collector.
‘You have a tag,’ he said.
‘The car’s local,’ she said. ‘We don’t bring our own to this place. Aussie government makes us buy from a local supply.’
‘Yeah, that sounds about right. What did you say before? It’s the way of things.’
They cleared the last of the tunnels at Moore Park and emerged into a slow crawl of traffic, the final run to the airport clogged like a public drain. Dave could see Papetti was trying to maintain a gap between the Humvee and the car in front, but whenever the gap stretched beyond a car length, some lane-hopping muppet would slide in and fill the gap in an attempt to maintain the illusion of forward movement.
‘Drivers in this country,’ she muttered. ‘I swear.’
‘I’m surprised you’re so courteous,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d be all, I’m army, get out of my way.’
‘Yeah, well, you get used to leaving a decent length of stopping space when you see the vehicles ahead of you explode from time to time.’
An electric blue Nissan with vanity plates which read S1CKH1T cut in front of them, suspension jacked up at the rear like a bitch on heat presenting for any dog which cared to take a turn. Papetti smashed the edge of her fist into the horn. Dave smiled when the saw S1CKH1T’s head jerk in shock at the volume of the blast. He wobbled in his lane. Papetti aimed a finger gun at the car’s rear-view mirror, cocked her thumb and pulled the middle-finger trigger.
The five minute drive turned into half an hour. Dave felt a phantom twitching in his legs, an urge deep within himself to move, move, move. He wanted to scream at the traffic as if it were some obstructive livestock he could scare away with loud noises. Jenny was stuck in the middle of looting and God knows what else, and he was stuck in traffic. He’d been trying to call her every five minutes or so, but it went straight through to voicemail each time. Same result when he called her sister, Kirsty.
He hoped they weren’t deliberately blocking his calls. Although if that’s what was happening, at least it would mean she was OK. Probably.
The airport finally came into view ahead of them, and instead of turning right at the t-intersection with the rest of the traffic, the direction of the terminals, they peeled off to the left.
They were heading for the small private terminals. Dave had taken charter flights a few times in his career, usually when he had to travel to small exhibition games in towns without a major airport, but his career-long sponsorship deal with Qantas usually kept him on the flying kangaroo. Less so these days — when the airline sold its frequent flyer programme, just before it gave up completely, Dave still had use of all his accrued points, but his platinum status didn’t mean a thing to the new owners of the scheme.
They turned into the gravel parking lot adjacent to the BlueStar terminal, though terminal might have more to do with its health than its function. The parking lot was empty but for a white Toyota LandCruiser which looked like it was over a decade beyond the manufacturing line, and no-one stirred around the white aluminium demountable office.
‘Come on,’ Papetti said, frowning as she shut off the Humvee’s rumble and stepped out onto the gravel.
Dave followed her up the steps of the demountable. She flipped the handle of the door without slowing and strode into an interior which surprised Dave a little. He’d always gone straight from car to plane, never lingering long enough to investigate what passed for a departure lounge. The interior of BlueStar looked like the waiting room of an expensive specialist surgeon, someone who only treated the rich and privileged.
No passengers sat in the Eames recliners. The coffee bar was fully-stocked but apparently unused, a plate of shortbread cookies still stacked in perfect pyramid formation. The wide-screen TV monitors, which Dave guessed should have been displaying flight departure times, were instead screening a reality cooking show. A large chef with thinning curly hair pulled back into a tight ponytail wept as a stern headmistress-type woman took cupcakes from a pile on a plate and threw them, one by one, to the floor.
A guy in a high-visibility yellow vest over a workman-blue short-sleeve shirt sat behind one of the reception/check-in desks. His feet were propped up on the polished wooden surface. Dave could see muddy smears on the glossy surface where his black safety boots had dragged a mix of dirt and Avgas. His fleshy pale cheeks carried about three days of dark stubble, and the grey pallor of his face was suggestive of a diet lacking in several key vitamin letters: A, B, C, maybe even some as yet unclaimed letters, like H or R.
‘Flight’s cancelled,’ he said without looking away from the television. He took a swallow of coke from a bottle and burped. ‘Scuse me.’
‘How do you know my flight’s cancelled?’ Papetti said.
‘All flights are cancelled.’
‘All BlueStar flights?’
‘All flights. You should have been sent a text message.’
‘All flights? The fuck?’ Papetti pulled a seemingly bomb-proof black phone from her pocket. ‘I don’t have any texts,’ she said, flipping through the display.
‘Yeah, networks are a bit down at the moment. On account of the riots.’
‘Riots?’ Dave said. ‘I haven’t heard of any rioting.’
‘Yeah, nah, police have shut down a lot of the mobile data? To stop the rioters from, like organising?’
‘But, what riots?’ Dave said.
‘The ones they’re worried about? They want to prevent them?’
‘Who are they worried about rioting?’ Dave said.
‘Probably airline passengers,’ Papetti said. ‘Why are the flights cancelled?’
The guy performed a kind of irritated shrugging jig, clearly pissed off that Dave and Papetti didn’t just understand what he was saying to them, that he had to divert his attention from the crap on television to actually think and speak to them.
‘The strikes, OK?’ he said. ‘Security, baggage handlers, but it’s air traffic control who are really stuffing things up. No flights are going anywhere in the country right now.’
‘Fucking air traffic control can’t fucking strike,’ Papetti said, and looked to Dave. ‘Can they?’
Dave shrugged, sighed. ‘I guess they can. Fuck! How are we going to get to Jenny?’
‘Hey,’ the guy said, finally focusing his attention on his visitors. Dave noticed the ads running on the TV. ‘Aren’t you Dave Holden?’
Dave nodded, tried to smile but found his face was stuck in neutral.
‘Hey, do you think you could sign something for me? My mum’s a big fan. She —’
Before Dave could even think of a response, Papetti was hustling him out the door. ‘We gotta go,’ she said. ‘Now.’ They were outside before Dave could even mutter a sorry. She kept a tight grip on his elbow as she marched him back to the Humvee.
‘I can manage this walking thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t need the help.
She let him go and peeled around to the driver’s side. ‘Try not to talk to anyone, OK?
’
He waited until they were both in their seats before he said, ‘What?’
‘Don’t talk to anyone.’
‘But everyone talks to me.’
‘So ignore them. How hard is that?’
He didn’t bother replying, she’d never understand. He was Dave Holden. If someone wanted to talk to him, they’d talk to him. And if he didn’t talk back? How could he not talk back? He’d been conditioned for what felt like his entire life to answer the questions, shake the hands, smile and nod and laugh at the right time. It was like telling someone with allergies not to sneeze.
Papetti pulled a fairly unmodern-looking phone from a dock just below the dash. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I need to make a call.’
She was gone less than a minute. He watched her standing with her back to the car about five meters away, nodding every few seconds. When she returned to her seat, she let out a long breath.
‘We’re driving,’ she said.
‘Driving? Do you have any idea how far it is from here to Noosa?’
‘About six hundred and seventy miles,’ Papetti said. She started the engine.
‘If all flights are cancelled, the roads are going to be choked. We’ll be lucky to get there before tomorrow morning.’
‘You want to find your fiancée, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, but I…’
‘But?’
Dave tried to swallow down his frustration. He wanted to teleport to Jenny, he didn’t want to fucking drive to her. It was strange that before the day had properly begun he hadn’t entertained a single thought of going to Jenny, but now it was all he could think of.
Maybe if he hadn’t been such a dick, she’d still be with him in Sydney. Or he’d be with her, somewhere else.
‘We better get moving then,’ he said.
Dave couldn’t figure out where everyone was going. The traffic heading into the airport was still a solid stream of stubborn, while the road back into the city was as lightly populated as a pre-dawn city street. He checked his phone for the millionth time for any missed calls, and opened his Twitter app. He searched on Sydney airport and the results filled the screen.
Good Morning Today! @GMTOz
Tensions rise at SYD airport in national strike drama. Travel plans in ruins. Follow the full story here.
Sydney Airport @SydneyAirport
All outbound flights cancelled due to industrial action. Go here for updates.
smh.com.au @SMH
Travellers continue to fill Sydney Airport despite nationwide strike. Riot police are being deployed to deter hostilities. Full story: ow.ly/z66R4ss
Sure, Dave thought. That’s one way to deter hostilities: send in the riot police. That always calms people down. So it was stubbornness which was keeping the road out clear. Dave wasn’t complaining, it meant they reached the turnoff to the bridge in about ten minutes.
‘You should take the tunnel,’ Dave said when he saw Papetti indicating to turn off for the bridge.
‘Don’t like tunnels,’ Papetti said as she took the turn.
Tough shit, Dave thought as they entered a short tight tunnel and began a winding ascent through the sandstone-cut channel up to bridge level. Papetti didn’t appear to believe in slowing down, and Dave lurched hard to the right, his insides wanting to go that little bit further. He was oddly grateful for having thrown up earlier. The high whine of a motorcycle built up behind them, and the shiny black of bike and rider began to pass slowly on the outside. If Papetti swerved the Humvee just slightly to the right, on such a tight curve, the motorcyclist would be a smear of flesh and steel and leather on the high rock wall.
‘Idiot,’ Dave said.
Papetti didn’t swerve, but her left hand moved to the butt of the pistol and she flicked off the restraining strap with her thumb. Dave held his breath, waiting to see what she’d do. The motorcycle stayed level with them, probably because he was in the outside lane and couldn’t accelerate much more and still stay in control of the turn. Papetti settled her hand around the gun, and pulled it an inch from the holster. Dave was about to say something, anything, like wait or stop or why, but then the road straightened and the motorcyclist shot ahead of them with a pocket-sized roar.
She nudged the gun back into place and snapped the catch over the butt. He stared at her, waiting for her to say something, but she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead and her mouth shut. They thundered across the bridge with a thorough disregard for things like speed limits and lane markings. Speed cameras flashed and popped, but Dave doubted they’d reap a payment from any one of those violations.
Chapter 12
Damn this heat.
Jenny walked behind Tait, her eyes mostly on the ground and the sticks and the branches, which just might be snakes if she happened to step on any of them. The high cover of trees sheltered them from the worst of the sun’s hot edge, but still … this heat. The sun held her clothing in disdain as it barged past the weak cotton and steadily poached her in her own sweat. Compounding her discomfort was the troop of flies escorting her through the Tewantin State Forest, attracted not just by her hot sweaty funk but also, no doubt, by the fine residue of vomit on her shirt, and maybe even in her hair.
Their walking pace started out normal, careful. After only a few minutes of cautious progress, their stride began to lift by an unspoken mutual assent, and pretty soon they were practically running. She didn’t know what Tait was thinking, but her internal monologue was a freaked-out Tinkerbell screeching, fire fire fire FIRE FIRE!
‘Tait … are you sure you know … where we’re going?’
‘I know where we’re not going. We’re not going back … the way we came.’
‘Good enough for me … I suppose.’
‘Look … see there. Through the trees. You see that?’
‘More trees?’
‘What else?’
‘Um … lots of trees? Is it a different kind of tree?’
‘Look. What are the trees … growing out of?’
‘If you don’t make your point real soon … I’m going to hire two bouncers … and a tree surgeon … and I’m going to have the bouncers hold you down … while the tree surgeon … implants a gum tree sapling … in your rectum. Then I’ll circle back to your question … so I can answer … out of your arse. Oh Jesus Christ … I really need to stop running.’ She planted her hands on her knees and sucked in several lungfuls of hot, gumtree-scented air. And possibly a couple of flies.
‘OK, OK. Look what the ground is doing … up ahead. You see what it’s doing? It’s rising … and it’s doing that … because it’s leading up to a mountain.’
‘That’s the mountain you were … talking about?’
‘Well, yeah, but you can’t really … see it yet.’
‘Huh. I was expecting … something bigger.’
‘So at the bottom of the mountain … is what?’
‘Er … Beer Can Drive?’
Tait laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Tinbeerwah Road. And Tinbeerwah Road leads to Cooroy, and somewhere along that road … we’ll be able to catch a ride. Cooroy will hook us into the highway, and from there it’s a leisurely panicked drive to Brisbane.’ He gestured towards Brisbane with a clumsy flourish.
They took a few more minutes to get their heart rates back to a sensible level before moving on at a speed less likely to kill them. The ground did indeed start to rise, and after about ten minutes, Jenny thought she could hear the sound of cars.
‘Sounds like Beer Can Drive,’ she said.
‘Tinbeerwah.’
‘I like mine better. Let’s just hope someone stops.’
‘Why wouldn’t they, for such a pretty hitch-hiker … and his movie-star companion?’
‘Ha bloody ha. But I saw what my sister’s car looked like on her way out … chock-full. Otherwise I’d probably have gone with her. People might not have room for more passengers, pretty or otherwise.’
‘Yeah, but I’m sure that more than
a few left in a hurry. Between the looting and the fire.’
‘Too much of a hurry to stop, maybe?’
‘Not for such a pretty hitch-hiker and his —’
A huge metallic thump covered Tait’s words, a destructive crunch with accents of breaking glass. Before Jenny could ask the obvious what was that question, Tait was off running through the bush in the direction of the noise, and she was close behind him. She picked up some scratches from low branches on young trees and the occasional close scrape with a larger trunk, but adrenaline forced her to ignore these niggles. They pelted as fast as they were able towards the source of the huge thump.
The first sight they had of the car crash was the unmistakable bright orange flickering through the lacework gaps between tree, after tree, after tree. As they drew closer, Jenny could see flashes of black through the dense foliage, which just had to be Beer Can Drive.
A huge eucalyptus, thick enough to hollow out and turn into a lighthouse, was decorated with a silver Mercedes. It was hard to tell, looking at it, where the initial impact had been. When you step on the side of an aluminium can and the rim and base curl up to grab at your shoe? Like that. Black smoke poured from the wreckage in a thick stream, straight up in the still forest.
They stopped when they felt the heat from the building flames. The car was on its side, roof to tree, and she could see some of the driver through the splintered and bloodied windscreen. He looked Asian, perhaps Vietnamese, but it was hard to say for sure because he appeared to be missing a large part of his face.
This time it wasn’t morning sickness which bent her over and flicked the vomit switch. Hands on knees she painted the dry ground-cover in an orange wash.
‘Fuck me,’ Tait said between laboured breaths.
Movement near the car caught her eye. She wiped her forearm across her mouth and looked up to see something long and dark whipping around beneath the car. It was a snake.