Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  Then there was a clank of boot on metal. Then another, somewhere else. Both of them were now on the machine. They had to be. And whatever this machine was, it was about to be driven off. There was no question about it. And by anonymous distraction number one, and anonymous distraction number two was coming along for the ride.

  Renton couldn't decide whether this was the start of another chapter of exceptionally good luck or the worst thing that could possibly happen. He did think that whichever it was, it would probably transform their acute discomfort into pure physical misery. After all, he and Madeleine were recent graduates from the school of canned travelling - and both knew the pain this involved.

  He was about to be proved right.

  Some turbine sounding machinery exploded into life, there was a metal crunching sound and their hiding place lurched forward and to the left. Renton cracked his head on the top of the long tank, rebounding immediately to jar his chin on one of Madeleine's knees - with predictably vocal results.

  'Aarrhh!' he announced.

  'Sssshush!' responded Madeleine.

  'What?'

  'Sshush. They'll hear us. We've got to keep quiet.'

  'Miss Maiden,' whispered Renton, injecting her name with as much exasperation as he could muster, 'from now on I will endeavour to emit involuntary cries of pain as quietly as I can. However, in view of that thunderous noise out there - I mean that deafening scream from whatever this thing's got for an engine - I am fairly confident that even should I fail, I will not be heard. In fact, I think I could play my favourite Blam Klismik tracks in here at full volume, and nobody out there would be any the wiser. You see, it may just have escaped your notice, but we are in a very, very noisy machine!'

  The trapdoor in the tank let in only a minuscule amount of light. Renton could see just a dim outline of Madeleine, and the expression on her face was hidden in the gloom. What he could not see he could, however, hear in her voice.

  Her 'Please yourself' was wrapped in a thick coating of 'Don't you ever speak to me like that again - and in that tone of voice'.

  Renton responded immediately, but not as he'd wanted. His 'I bloody well will if I have to' came out all wrong, and was quite clearly wrapped in an: 'Oh, what have I done? And I'm sorry as hell'.

  But before either had the chance to digest the real meaning of this exchange, the physical world intervened once again. The vehicle stopped. So suddenly that Renton lurched forward and Madeleine nearly toppled backwards.

  And now there was a sound, just audible above the noise of the vehicle's engine, which could be a pair of gates opening. Renton listened intently, and as their carriage moved off again there was a very distinct shout of: 'Mind the turds, Charlie. There ain't no one to dig you out of 'em today.' This was followed by various hoots of laughter and a collection of local profanities - and then a surge in the engine noise.

  Their vehicle, one of Red Inc's enormous milkers, was out of the compound and gathering speed. It was off on a milking expedition, complete on this occasion with a couple of stowaways. And very soon it was racing along and the stowaways were having to concentrate on avoiding sudden contact with the hard inner surfaces of their compartment. And one of them was also having to concentrate on staying outside his banana, beef and syllabub meal of the previous evening.

  'Life's little problems never seem to come in ones,' he thought.

  32.

  Unless you're a scunger pup, getting milk out of a lady scunger is no easy matter.

  Scungers graze continuously and they graze on the move. Their prodigious size requires equally prodigious amounts of Crabbsbab vegetation. They shunt forward throughout the whole of the day, their snouts scything their way through the endless carpet of prairie grass. And whilst they may occasionally tack to the left or occasionally to the right, they very rarely stop. Even when suckling their young, they continue this ponderous slow forward motion.

  Small scungers arrive in ones. They very quickly learn the trick of locking onto the single massive teat which hangs between their mum's front legs and then sliding along under the ever-moving maternal stomach, sucking as they go. This drag-and-feed process works well for the pups but it hardly lends itself to any normal commercial milking method, even one scaled up to match the scunger's enormous proportions.

  Enter the unique Crabbsbab milker, a large powerful vehicle, purpose-built to tap the scunger's milky metabolism. In the hands of an experienced crew, this ungainly looking monster can really do the business. And it does the business by first of all getting close to its quarry - by approaching the scunger cow from its bow end. And this achieved, the driver then shadows the chosen beast at its rear and to its side. And at the same time, his turntable companion carefully extends the vehicle's giant telescopic arm to deliver a huge milking-cup to the animal's great tit. Securing this is a delicate manoeuvre, but practice makes perfect, and in skilled hands this telescopic coupling is a routine success.

  Once in place, the cup's pumping mechanism switches in automatically and large quantities of warm, white liquid pass out of the scunger, back through the hose carried by the telescopic arm, and into the milker's tanks. The pump switches off after a set time and, the job done, the cup frees itself and the milker moves off to the next scunger. All pretty easy when you know how.

  But all rather confusing when you don't know how, and when you don't even know what a milker is - and that you're not only on a milker but that you're also in a milker.

  No matter. When you feel the vehicle accelerating and then decelerating, and when you then hear new machine noises, the confusion is quite soon dispelled…

  Renton had just felt this acceleration and deceleration, and had then heard the new machine noises - and was now hearing further noises. There was a rumble followed by a gurgle and then a whoosh. The taste hit him before the smell. Gobbets of warm sticky milk splashed into his face as a great gush of the stuff began to pour into their tank.

  'I don't believe it!' he screamed.

  'It's milk,' assisted Madeleine. 'Look, it's pouring in!'

  'I just don't believe it.' Renton wiped milk off his face but a new spray undid his work immediately. 'It's those bloody great animals I've seen wandering about. They must milk them. And we're sitting on a mobile milking machine… Well no, we're not sitting on it, we're sitting in it. We're sitting in one of its tanks, one of its friggin' milk tanks. Offhand, I can't think of anywhere I'd less like to be. This is awful.'

  'It's only milk.'

  'Only milk!' screamed Renton. 'I hate milk. A glass-full is bad enough. But to be in a tank of the stuff is disgusting. And it's warm. It's bloody tepid. Oh, this is really horrible.'

  Renton was in a rare, temporarily inconsolable state, but managed to snap himself out of it with a large dose of real alarm. 'Hey, I bet they fill these tanks! To the top! Shit, we could be in real trouble here.'

  'Oh, come on,' chided Madeleine. 'One animal can't have that much milk, surely?'

  Renton and Madeleine were sitting on the floor of the tank and the milk was now sloshing around their waists. And more milk was still pouring in.

  'I hope you're right. Trouble is, even if you are, there's bound to be more of them. And you know what that means, don't you? They'll be off to find another - when this one's dried up. If, of course, that ever happens.'

  It did happen. The milking cup released itself when the milk level was belly-buttonish for Renton. He reckoned the tank was about a third full.

  The milker lurched off and milk sloshed against Renton's chin and more of it found its way into his mouth and up his nose.

  'Jesus, this is awful. It really is.'

  Madeleine coughed as more milk located her own mouth. 'What do you think will happen now?' she asked.

  'Well, I hope I wake up from this horrible nightmare. But if we assume for the moment that I won't, I think our friends out there will soon find another little lady full of milk, and then they'll do a repeat job. But they'll use the other tank. Then they need, I re
ckon, just four more monster milk shakes and they'll have both tanks full to the brim. That means we needn't worry until milking number five. And if we're very lucky, we won't drown until milking number six - depending on how they alternate the tanks.'

  'Well, what should we do then?' challenged Madeleine, a hint of panic creeping into her voice.

  'Well, we can't drink our way out of this, so I suggest some quick thinking. Any ideas?'

  'We can't stay in here, can we?'

  'We can - probably for the next three milkings. After that, I agree, we have a real problem.'

  The milker slowed and some familiar noises started again.

  'Christ, they've got another one!' announced Madeleine.

  'Didn't take them very long, did it? Let's hope my theory's right and they use the other tank. I don't think I can take another load. Not just yet.'

  They both looked in the direction of the inlet and listened. There it was, a far off rumbling sound. They braced themselves but the rumble remained a rumble - no more gurgles, no more whooshes and no more milk.

  'It's in the other tank,' sighed Renton. 'Thank God for that. You'd better pray that it's half-day closing out there and that's the load for today.'

  Madeleine let out her own sigh - but failed to respond to Renton's observation. So he went on.

  'Or maybe we'll spring a leak.'

  This time, she did respond. With her own rather more withering observation.

  'Hey,' she said. 'You know you're better when you're quiet. So just shut it, will you? Just don't say a word.'

  And Renton didn't. Even when milking number three started.

  This went into the other tank. Milking number four was theirs. When they moved off for number five they had to crouch to keep their heads above the level of the milk. If they remained seated the milk was at nose level.

  But now, as the milker picked up speed in search of its next quarry, crouching became very difficult - as did deciding what to do next.

  'We'll have to give…' Madeleine's sentence disappeared amidst glugs as she fell back into the milk.

  Renton pulled her up and she coughed milk at him. 'You all right?'

  'Look,' she gulped, 'we'll have to give ourselves up. This is useless.'

  'Yes. It probably is,' thought Renton. 'But so is hoping that we'll end up in any better situation when we're back with Lysaars'. And this immediate thought, precipitated by Madeleine's suggestion that they capitulate, was just what he needed - to make him make his counter proposal. Which, apart from anything else, might just convince this woman that he really was trying to do something about extracting her from this mess - whoever's fault it was that they were in it in the first place.

  'No way,' he said firmly. 'I'll get them at the next milking.'

  'What!' cried Madeleine. 'Are you out of your bloody mind? There's two of them, you know. You wouldn't stand a chance. And that's even if you knew what you were doing…'

  'Well, I'm going to do it, anyway. I mean, I've got to give it a try, haven't I?'

  'Look, if anybody's going to be that stupid, it should be me. I'm the copper. The one with the training… And, incidentally, the one with the balance. From my days on the trampoline, remember? Not unimportant out there. And with all due respect, I don't think an accountant turned luvvie can really compete with those sorts of credentials…'

  'Luvvie! What do you mean, “luvvie”? How dare you? You… you strumpet! You ungrateful… person, you. And what's more, I'm getting very fed up of all that oppressive common sense of yours. It's just not what we need at the moment. No. What we need at the moment is some inspired recklessness, some hopeless gesture of ill-conceived bravado - and if possible by some stupid bloody luvvie - if we can find one. So, Miss Maiden, my mind is made up. And when we slow…'

  And then they did slow, and Renton's words became frozen in mid-air.

  'And we're slowing now,' rejoined Madeleine. 'And that's my cue. I'm going…'

  'No. Wait,' said Renton. 'See whether it's in the other tank.'

  And she did wait. They both waited in silence and they both listened. And they kept listening for what seemed like minutes. Then the rumble started. And within seconds the rumble turned to gurgling and then to the all too familiar whoosh accompanied by a ghastly gush of milk, more milk for the tank they were in.

  And before Madeleine could put her constabulary responsibilities into practice as she'd planned, Renton had reached for the little trapdoor in the roof of the tank, flipped it open and pulled himself through.

  Madeleine had tried to stop him, but he'd moved too quickly. And the milk hadn't helped either. All that was left to her was an appeal to his common sense. But as he'd just pointed out, there'd been a surfeit of that sort of stuff, and it was now time to try something else.

  He was lying along the top of the tank - still by the open trapdoor - evaluating the situation. And what first registered in this evaluation was that there were indeed just two of Lysaars' men here, one on his high turntable seat and the other in the machine's driving seat. Both had their eyes trained on the scunger they were milking. It rose like a cliff wall on the other side of the vehicle.

  He thought about taking their chance on simply jumping from the vehicle and running away. But there was just nowhere to go, no cover anywhere. He could not imagine that they'd get away with it. They'd be spotted and nabbed within minutes.

  He turned to face Madeleine.

  'Right. Stay there and keep watch. And if anything goes wrong, run for it. OK?'

  She looked both defeated and alarmed, and the defeat was more obvious than ever as she imparted some final advice to the idiot hero.

  'OK. But you take care of yourself. And I mean that.'

  'Don't worry, I will.' And with that he was away, and crawling towards the driver.

  This was one of those rare occasions where he had started something without a plan. He was working on some sort of instinct basis at the moment, avoiding the strong logic side of his brain. If he'd switched that on, he would have probably scared himself to death. But this instinctive way made it all a bit dream-like. After all, it wasn't really happening, was it? But it did allow him to function; he could at least move.

  He crawled closer to the driver. Instinct told him that the man on the turntable was simply out of reach. There was no point in bothering with him. He wanted the driver chappie, the one who had his hands on the vehicle's steering wheel, turning it gently one way and then the other.

  'He's steering with that thing,' thought Renton. 'Amazing! Of course. It's the steering wheel.'

  Establishing this blindingly obvious fact was, to Renton, like winning the first battle of the campaign. This instinct thing distorted rationality when it wanted to. All Renton had to do now was take control of the steering wheel himself and all would be well. He'd have won the next battle and the whole damn campaign. He reached the driver's seat and carefully drew himself into a crouching position. He was now directly behind the driver's back. It was almost at right angles to the vehicle's nose. The driver was still intent on the movement of the scunger.

  Then Renton rose to a standing position.

  He realised he had nothing to hit the driver with. He then realised that even if he had, he couldn't use it. He couldn't use his fists or his feet either. He had never hit anybody and, as far as he could remember, all his kicks had been aimed at footballs and stones, not at other people. Renton hadn't a smidgeon of violence in his make up. He felt useless and silly.

  He'd pushed other kids when he was at school. He remembered that. Yes, pushing was OK. It was pressure not violence. He turned and saw Madeleine's head poking through the trapdoor of the tank, an expression of acute desperation on her face. The vehicle swayed and Renton nearly lost his balance. He steadied himself and returned his attention to the driver.

  'Pushing's OK', he whispered to himself. And before he really knew what he was doing, he placed his hands on the driver's shoulders, closed his eyes, and with as much might as he could must
er, he pushed and he pushed - and then he pushed a bit more. When the resistance to this pushing evaporated - as the very surprised driver toppled over the side of the vehicle - Renton realised he still had his eyes closed. He opened them to see his victim rolling off through the prairie grass and to find himself about to follow; he was within a millimetre of the edge of the driving platform.

  Still running on instinct, he stepped back from the edge and away from the danger. And then reality returned. Immediately. It was the man on the turntable. He was shouting. He'd clearly seen his colleague rolling past the side of the milker - and must have known that this wasn't quite right.

  Renton had still not developed a plan and had no idea how he would deal with the remaining unwanted passenger on what was now his vehicle. Instead he stumbled back another pace as the driverless vehicle swayed to the left, and his foot descended onto a pedal at the base of the steering column. The vehicle's engine screamed, the vehicle lurched forward and Renton was thrown back into the driving seat. This was his first experience of an accelerator pedal.

  He grabbed the steering wheel and as he attempted to right himself, his foot slipped off the pedal. The burst of speed had lasted only a second or two and the milker was now back to its more sedate shadowing pace. All however was not as before.

  The milking cup's sticking power had withstood the wrench from the telescopic arm caused by the milker's short burst of speed. And the cup had succeeded in transferring that wrench to the scunger's great mammary. And it had hurt. It had hurt a lot.

  An awesome woofling sound had emerged from the snout of the pained scunger and the creature's front right leg had kicked back with a dexterity and flexibility amazing for its size. It had caught the telescopic arm square on, sending it in a low arc to its rear and to its right. The force of the kick was enormous. Not only had it overcome the cup's formidable stick-on powers, it had also detached the turntable tower from the milker. Yes, the telescopic arm was not alone in its flight through the air. It was accompanied by - and still connected to - the cup, the turntable tower - and the hapless turntable man.