by TJ Park
“What? No way! Dad would kill me if I shot his best bull.”
“But there’s something wrong with it. Like there was with the dogs. The familiar’s got some kind of hold over it.”
“Nah.” Scott had no doubt. “He’s just mean. He’s always chasing people. That’s why we keep him away from everything.”
Doug heard wickedly sharp horn tips rasp at wood below.
“It must have followed the knocked-down fences here.”
“He can knock down his own fences if he thinks something’s having a go at him. That’s why he’s here. He knows something’s in his territory. He’s looking for a fight.”
A screech of gouged timber made Doug start.
“We shouldn’t keep talking. That’s riling him, too.”
“Is there another way out?” Doug asked.
“Yeah. Up.”
Scott started climbing up to the next tier of rafters, agile and casual in his movements as a spider monkey. Doug, less sure-footed, followed after.
“Have you seen your dad?” he asked hesitantly.
Again, that offhand confidence. “No, but he’s alright.”
“How do you know?’
Scott couldn’t be fazed. “Well, if I’m alright, then he is. He’s better at things than me. He’s better at things than anyone I know.”
The boy’s artless admiration for his father made Doug feel envious and sad, and also a little afraid for the boy.
They had no more breath to talk. Doug and Scott concentrated on climbing. There was a large gap to bridge between crossbeams. Scott went first before Doug could begin to think of how to attack it. The boy made the jump easily, but upon landing overbalanced, arms pumping hard in a butterfly stroke, surely destined to fall. Somehow he recovered, whistling with a child’s indifference to how close he’d come to getting killed. He walked the tightrope of the beam with light glancing steps before slapping his hands onto the far upright.
Doug made more of a hash of it. He turned the leap into an awkward lunge and caught the far crossbeam under his arms, taking some of the skin off them. His torch racketed away down the intersecting supports and beams. Great. Just great.
Scott was already halfway up the upright, his voice conspicuous in the new quiet. “You dead?”
Doug hooked a leg over the beam before he could enjoy the luxury of wheezing.
“Keep going. I’m right behind you.”
Below them, King Solomon dealt loudly with the torch. The timbers rumbled and another curtain of dust softly drifted down. Scott caught some in both eyes. Crying out in annoyance, he nonetheless kept climbing to the next level, doing it almost blind. He was feeling around for another handhold, when he heard something shift on the upright above him.
A hand was suddenly thrust out from an overhanging beam, ready to grab him. Scott cowered from the reaching hand, until his tearing eyes made out the face above it.
“Dad!”
Scott took his father’s hand.
From further away, but with eyes clear, Doug saw what Scott could not.
Rob was caught at the junction where the beams met the upright. At first Doug thought there was another man on top of him, their limbs splayed. Then he realised the grazier’s body had been folded over on itself.
His chest appeared tucked up into his body, as if the bones had been pulverised inside an intact bag of skin. But that was not the worst: Rob’s face was nearly black from congested blood, with a mouth open for a scream that never came. Of course not. Any scream produced from that mouth would have been heard far away.
Despite his blurred vision, Scott knew something was wrong as soon as he grasped his father’s hand, but on instinct pulled harder and Rob began sliding from his place in the supports.
“Scott!” Doug cried out, with no time for anything else.
The boy and his father were directly above Doug. He dropped flat and clung tightly to the crossbeam he straddled. The next thing he knew, both crashed down on top of him. Though he was braced for it, Doug was still nearly knocked loose. The weight on his back shifted and he reached out blindly.
A body fell away through the beams below with ugly raps and knocks. Doug somehow managed a tenuous grip on something, his arm nearly yanked from its socket. He bit into the ancient fusty beam, his teeth sinking into the wood. He stayed that way until the pain in his teeth was greater than that travelling from hand to shoulder.
Scott dangled in space. By some miracle, Doug had snagged three of his fingers into Scott’s belt loops. Then he had a brief time-out, his hot forehead resting against the cooler beam. “My lucky day,” he mumbled to himself.
Scott did not move. Which was good, because Doug’s arm hurt savagely. He guessed that if Scott wasn’t concussed he would be suffering profound shock. At this thought, Scott began to come to life, twitching. The short sharp movements grew swiftly into a mindless kicking and bucking.
Doug grimaced. “Don’t move, Scott.”
Scott kept it up. He began doing what looked like a swimming stroke in midair, twisting on the pivot of Doug’s grip. His badly aching arm flared into torment. His breath, smothered against the beam, was forced back into his mouth.
“Dammit, Scott! Don’t move or I’ll drop you.”
The demand only led to a fiercer effort. Doug was surprised into a scream of pain. He wished he’d done it sooner. Scott went still at the shocking sound.
“Just stay still,” Doug was finally able to whisper. “I’ll pull you up.”
He carefully shifted his other arm that was wrapped around the beam, gripping his legs around it tighter to compensate. He couldn’t bend the arm holding Scott at all. He had to depend on a one-armed push up from the beam so he could rise into a sitting position, lifting Scott up with him at the same time.
At least, that was the plan.
He managed to rise to a cross-eyed view of the beam he was straddling, before smacking down on top of it again. That was as far as he could rise. Probably not as far as that again if he tried it a second time. Scott disobeyed the order not to move, putting his hands over his face as he swung to-and-thro on the end of Doug’s arm. He didn’t seem overly concerned about being saved.
Doug could hear the soft thudding and bangs of something being tossed about far below. Of course … the King was dealing with the latest intrusion into its space.
“Scott? Look up here at me, alright? Don’t look down.”
Hands still over his face, Scott didn’t seem enticed by either prospect. Without warning, he bunched up into a foetal position in midair.
Doug ground his teeth. What was worse than the pain in his arm was the growing insensibility in his fingers. Soon he wouldn’t know if Scott was slipping from his grip or not. The numbness began to climb up his arm.
“Scott? Scott? I’m going to swing you over to the next beam. When I do, I want you to reach out and grab it.”
Scott curled up more if it was possible, a cocoon dangling on a leaf. Doug nearly shouted at him, but concentrated instead on swinging him back and forth. He hadn’t the strength for both. It was slow going to start with, but he began building up momentum. His fingers were still senseless, but his arm was no longer so numb. It was agony at the apex of each swing.
When he knew he was only moments away from giving out, he put as much as he could into the next back-swing, exaggerating so Scott could sense the effort. Driving all his rapidly fading strength into the forward swing, he shouted, “Scott!”
Scott reached out without looking, and his hands found and clutched at the cross-strut. He held on.
Doug’s whole arm was on fire. It was still caught on Scott, then his hand let go on its own, the fingers falling away nervelessly.
Scott grasped the strut in a bear hug, legs cycling to catch purchase.
“I’ll help you up,” Doug told him.
But his arm was a piece of hanging meat, pins and needles flooding savagely into it. He sat up and edged forward on the beam. Trying to ignore his lifeless, buzzing arm, he sn
atched with the other toward one of Scott’s flailing legs and hauled it up over the cross-strut. Scott finished climbing, straddling the timber, then laid his head down and began to weep.
Doug reached out with his good hand, but it hovered in the air above Scott’s head. He did not know how to proceed.
“I killed my dad. I made him fall,” Scott cried into the wood.
Doug attempted to pull him up by the shoulder, couldn’t. He needed two arms to persuade the boy, and one still laid dumb in his lap like a freshly brained animal.
“Scott, you didn’t do anything. Your father was already dead.”
But Scott wasn’t having any of it.
“It’s my fault. I didn’t help him when I should have.”
Doug needed the boy to look him in the eye. “Scott.” He tried to take hold of the boy’s chin, but Scott pulled away, averting his face.
Doug pinched his ear, twisting it savagely. The boy whined as Doug pulled him upright by it. “Scott! We have to get back to the house! If we don’t get back soon, your mother and sister will come outside looking for you and they’ll walk right into that monster down there!” He tried to be gentler with his next words. “Now … you said there was another way out?”
Scott tore from his grasp, jumping up and ascending the upright before Doug could react, all the boy’s anguish and outrage redirected into climbing. By the time sense came back to Doug’s tingling arm and he was able to follow, Scott was directly under the roof, pushing out one of the ancient pieces of corrugated iron.
“Scott! Wait!”
The boy did not heed him, disappearing through a hole.
***
Mick had always been told he was good with machines, whether it was fixing them, or operating them. Now those high opinions were to be substantially tested.
Most people need practice before they were comfortable with handling unfamiliar equipment. Mick was one of those quirky few who get the gist of something just by watching it done, so it was fortunate the farmer had taken him for that little jaunt the day before. Despite his nervousness at going up in the air again, he had diligently observed Rob’s preparations for take-off. Even then some part of him had known there would be a need.
He rehearsed the procedure a few times, making phantom motions above the controls. His hands were rock steady, despite how the rest of him shook. He wasn’t afraid for his life. He was only desperate to have it end in a way of his own choosing. He always imagined it would result from a crash in a fast car. He didn’t want it to be from the familiar catching him first. He hadn’t forgotten the look Cutter gave him back at the house, the one that saw no difference between him and the woman.
He finished his rehearsal. It was near-perfect. Well, that just meant he could probably start a helicopter … not that he could fly it.
He didn’t give himself time to become nervous; he did the procedure for real, doing it no differently to what he had rehearsed. The engine stirred and strengthened. The rotors began to lazily incise the dark air above the bubble.
A part-moon had risen. He would have that and the whirlybird’s spotlight to guide him. Once he’d cleared the station buildings, he would have plenty of room to correct any slip-ups. There’d be no fear of blundering into power lines out there, only the occasional tree. And the familiar had no wings. He could actually get away.
But in his heart he knew it was all bluff. He would probably bury the whirlybird before he got a mile. However, any sick tremors and doubts stopped the moment he grasped the whirlybird’s control stick. He felt as sure as he had years ago when getting behind the wheel of his first stolen car. He knew he could do this.
If that was so, he’d better take off before the monster discovered him. He couldn’t have broadcast his whereabouts any clearer. The rotors were a thudding scream above him. He gently pulled back on the stick.
The whirlybird didn’t struggle against gravity as he expected, more drove it away with its racket. The front of the skids lifted away from the ground, the back of them slewing in the dirt as the whirlybird reared up sloppily. Mick didn’t falter. He pulled back on the stick more lightly, refusing to give in to the panic that clamoured at the edges of his concentration. The whirlybird finally parted company with the ground, doing a wobble from side to side. Mick did not compensate too quickly, for fear of only exacerbating it. He kept a steady hand on the stick and the problem ironed itself out.
The rising whirlybird drifted out into the yard and Mick couldn’t believe how easy he found it to operate. He should have taken this up years ago. It would be the attempted landing that would probably kill him, but as long as it happened a long, long way from here he couldn’t be happier about it. He made the whirlybird go higher, not minding the slight drift. There were no buildings in his immediate way.
The whirlybird bucked; the view out front hitched. Again, he resolved not to overreact. And again, the whirlybird seemed to settle on its own without much prompting, easing into a smoother lift.
He kept half an eye on what the spotlight showed him, the other half on the gauge telling him he was keeping the whirlybird level. There was no doubt he was heading upward, the spotlight’s influence thinning as it spread out over a wider area.
The whirlybird began to turn as if on a pivot, starting to point back the way he faced. Mick let it. He could correct that later. He was not concerned over which way it was pointed, only on clearing the buildings. The next thing he knew, he was looking down on tin roofs. He let fly a thin hoot of triumph. He wished Doug could see him.
Then the spotlight caught a partial and startling sight of something long and low skating along the ground far below, chasing after the whirlybird as if being dragged.
Mick couldn’t think of what it could possibly be, except for maybe a rope.
Or a chain.
***
Doug tentatively raised his head through the roof of the shearing shed, fully expecting to have it taken off by either Scott or the familiar. Instead, he saw the boy slumped some distance away on a slightly canted sheet. The lean of the corrugated roof was disconcerting.
His eyes kept trying to adjust, but he wasn’t able to set the world right. Beyond the roof there was no other landmark to be seen. From his position neck-deep in the roof he only saw black night.
Scott was motionless, his head down to his chest, sitting with his limbs asprawl, like an awkwardly-propped doll. It worried Doug, got him moving again.
He wearily climbed onto the roof, not fully trusting the popping tin sheets beneath him to support his weight like they did the boy’s. It was only when he emerged fully into the open, standing there in a slight crouch, that Doug realised what he thought was the sound of a rising wind was actually a helicopter’s approaching din.
He turned to see its jigging spotlight approach. Confused by its unexpected appearance, he didn’t know whether to wave wildly, or to duck out of sight.
Then Scott moved past him toward the oncoming helicopter, a look of wretched hope on his face.
Beyond the spotlight’s glare Doug could make out a rescue line hanging down. It was taut, secured to something out of sight, perhaps a trailing hammock or sling. The spotlight was too bright to see who sat in the bubble, but the pilot wasn’t who Scott so desperately wanted it to be.
The whirlybird did not come on straight, but was thrown crooked. And it was coming in much too low, too fast. It rose to avoid the roof and almost made it before swooping again as if it had been yanked down. For a moment, it looked like it was attempting to land like a plane along a runway. It might have succeeded, too, except the skids clipped the edge of the roof and the whirlybird tipped over, landing on its face. The whirling rotors became briefly visible before they smashed to splinters. The shattered nubs tore out the roof’s tin sheets as if tossing up tissue paper.
Doug meant to lunge forward and gather up Scott but the boy was faster, turning on his heel and sprinting past him. At a loss, Doug could only watch transfixed as the whirlybird began a dead
ly tumble toward him. It almost plunged down into the roof, but then jumped again, pulling into the rough shape of a ball. As the whirlybird’s spotlight disintegrated, Doug glimpsed someone bouncing around inside the collapsed bubble. It was impossible to tell who, even before the bubble imploded.
Seeing the pilot turned to pulp before his eyes prompted Doug to turn and run. Whether the roof could support his weight or not was the last thing on his mind. His flying feet barely touched it. He saw Scott at the far end of the roof kicking something over the edge before following it down, dropping out of sight. He went for the same spot, expecting to be cut down from behind any moment.
Praying it wasn’t a snap decision of Scott’s to join his father in the afterlife, Doug left the roof. He did not leap like the adrenaline pumping through him urged; if he had, that would have been the end. Instead he stepped off and spun round to catch the edge under his elbows, just in case he discovered nothing under his feet.
He was right. There was no ledge or lower level. It was a straight drop to the ground. His forearms and upper chest slammed hard against the gable.
He was already slipping, his legs pedalling for a foothold against the tin wall. He had a clear view of the tumbling fiery wreckage coming for him. If there was time, he would have whimpered. Then his scrabbling feet struck something and he looked down to see he was kicking at a rope ladder. It was tied to an exposed strut under the roof edge; with short, knobbly branches for crossties knotted at regular intervals. The rope yawed and twisted as Scott steadily descended below.
Doug grabbed a clumsy hold of the ladder and ducked below the roofline, not daring a last look. A large and heavy mass passed over him. He never saw it, but felt the wind and heat of its passage. He tried to flatten himself against the gable, but the twisting, jerking rope he clung to made that impossible.
He scrunched up tight, afraid he’d be clipped. But the whirlybird cleared the shed, plunging in a descending arc, trailing chain like a kite string.
When what remained of the machine hit the ground, a bright spark flew up. The near-unidentifiable ball that was once the whirlybird renewed its mad tumble along the ground when, without warning, it blossomed into a ball of flame. It came to a stop at the edge of the groomed front yard, collapsing on itself to become a bonfire. The taut chain suddenly fell away, let loose by whatever held the other end.