by Tim Curran
Her legs probed tentatively at the ground as he brought her out, but took no weight. He lay her down on the gravel near the tree as gently as his screaming muscles could manage. Her eyes were open again, but she was still not fully conscious. He remembered her sweatshirt and retrieved it to make a pillow for her. Kneeling over her, he took stock of her injuries. He knew about the swollen face, the smashed mouth, the crude slice out of her cheek. Elsewhere there was a deep cut on her upper arm, and that wrist was also swollen, her hand cocked oddly. Her shirt was torn across her upper abdomen and he cringed as he lifted it and looked there. To his relief it just looked skinned, though deeply bruised. Did that mean internal bleeding? Nothing he could do about that now. He smelled faint decay. Surely her cuts could not be septic already. She was trembling. Was she having a seizure, or was it a symptom of infection? No, of course, she was just cold, freezing probably, wearing only her BAD KITTY T-Shirt. He tensed to get up and find something to put over her, when her head moved and she said something.
“Mmmmmnnoo. Back. Back.”
“It's OK. You're OK,” he crooned, touching her. “We crashed but it's OK. Let me get-”
She was shaking her head weakly, lifting her good arm. “Own. Pack. In... there.” She curled her hand to her ear. “In my. Pack.”
“Don't try to talk,” he whispered gently. It obviously pained her. He was reaching for her hand to put it back – it was better that she didn't touch her injuries – when he understood. Phone. In my pack. Of course. Phone. Call for help. That was what they needed to do. He felt very stupid. He would give her his jacket – it was better that he was cold than she was – then he would get her phone and they would be saved. He stood and turned around, and there was the kangaroo.
He knew it was the same one. Even at that distance behind the car he could see its awkward stance, misshapen trunk, and the variegated textures of decay. It was emaciated beyond even the hard gauntness of wild animals – just bones and ripped hide, mounted and stuffed with handfuls of worms and rotting ordure. Ribs shone feebly like stripes. One of its ears was mangled and mostly gone. It stood motionless, its flayed toothy head facing them as though watching.
How was it still alive? It was rotting, too decayed even to stand properly. Barbs of pity and revulsion pulsed through him. He didn't want to look at it. Surely the vehicle and his presence should drive it away eventually. He forced himself to count to ten staring at the ground to give it time to make its escape unobserved. But when he steeled himself to look back, it was still there, rigid in the same attitude. It had followed him; it wanted something. Perhaps it had been attracted mothlike by the lights of the car. Or was it dangerous, driven crazy with pain by its condition? Would it attack in this mangled state?
The open passenger door beckoned. If he was quick, he could be safe there in seconds.
But then what? There was no-one else out here. Shane needed medical attention. He had to get to the back and find the phone, be brave for her. The kangaroo was just a sick animal. Very sick. It might have followed him because it wanted help. Once he had gotten help for Shane he could call someone for the kangaroo as well – the RSPCA perhaps.
He inched slowly, pressed to the car, keeping his eyes fixed on the kangaroo. Its smell washed over him like poison gas – the miasma of rancid tissue expelling its final secrets as it glazed and leathered. Staring at it he imagined he could discern the tiny movements of worms as they curled through its rotting craters and fissures. Finally it began to retreat before his approach. He expected a slow awkward kangaroo limp, but it moved in clumsy inefficient bursts like a spider, its hind legs almost spasmodic with the horrible asymmetric gait of something half paralysed.
Once it was out of sight he turned away as much as he dared and lifted the hatch. Shane's pack was out of reach and he had to half climb in after it. He had no idea where to look for the phone – the top of the pack was branded with seemingly dozens of zippers. The first two he tried were stuffed with underwear and socks. He paused between each, lifting his head like a gazelle drinking to search for the kangaroo. Nothing but stark roadway and gravel and hints of furtive bushes. The smell was still there, but fainter, perhaps just lingering in the air or his own nostrils. The third pocket looked more promising – money in loose notes, a camera, a small booklet, and a phone.
He jabbed at it and Shane's smiling face lit up. She was on the beach, one of a trio of laughing girls huddled for the camera. Above their heads was the time – 1:47 – and next to that some words.
NO SIGNAL
He continued staring at the screen. Shane's hair was different – reddish brown rather than dark, and a bit longer. That kangaroo wasn't alive, he thought randomly. The worms. The worms were the only thing alive in there.
Was it really 1:47? 1:48 now. How long had they been driving? How long since they had crashed? He watched the screen intently. These other girls must be Shane’s friends from England - he recalled her speaking about them. Which meant this must have been taken... where? He thought back, trying to picture her telling him. There were no obvious landmarks in the picture, just green ocean and blazing white sand. A sail. Probably in Australia. Had she mentioned her favourite beach?
The screen had dimmed while he... what had he been doing? He thumbed the button again. 2:02. Still NO SIGNAL. Perhaps if he took the phone outside, he might get a signal. Something in the car’s structure could be interfering somehow. He looked around as if he could spot whatever it was, and realised he could climb from here to the rest of the car, just like he could have climbed back here from the forward seats. He hadn’t had to confront the kangaroo after all. But that was OK, it was done now, and he was glad he had driven it off.
Even without the phone, someone would come along eventually. He just needed to look after Shane until then. He searched the pack for a while longer and found a nice big coat to put over her. Perhaps she had a first aid kit, or at least some antiseptic. He would search after he had covered her up. He climbed out and went around to the driver's side to turn on the hazard lights. His head ached harder as he bent, but the rhythmic, strong beating of the lights reassured him. He went around the car again, back to Shane, and the stink ambushed him, pestilential, thick as death, gagging. The kangaroo was there with her.
Hunched over Shane's prone body as though sniffing her, it hadn't reacted to his presence. What was it doing there? He hadn't seen it this well lit and the surprise and the putrid walking roadkill sight of it paralysed him. Everything was orange-grey-orange-grey. The kangaroo's head and upper body hitched and jerked. Chunks of dark offal dropped like faeces out of the face and open mouth with its jutting lower teeth. Squirming. Onto Shane.
God, how long had it been doing that? He could see worms on Shane's face and upper body. Surely this was not real. Where was he really? Nonetheless the sight sent him lurching forward, yelling inarticulately. The kangaroo swung around, crouched as though it was going to attack, and for a moment he went right out of himself. He realised that this must indeed be a different world. Not the real one, but one he could leave whenever he liked. These things were not happening to the real him.
The kangaroo hissed at him. The sound seemed to come from all through it in hundreds of bursting fetid exhalations, travelling through the chewed rotting labyrinth like a wave. The mutilated head was still as a dummy’s. If it attacked he knew he would not move or fight. But before his helplessness, it fled. One start. Two. Gravel spraying. Tail dragging like a broken, rotting snake. It was gone.
He went to Shane. She was conscious, struggling, pushing herself to a sitting position. Her head and neck were slick with putrescent grey syrup. Worms were everywhere – he could see them all over the vomitous ground around her, on her clothes, on her skin. Especially her face. They seemed to stick as she rose to her knees, clustering around the gash on her cheek. Crawling onto it, and, horribly, into it.
He had to get them off her. Should he go to her and rip them off, or should he get something from the car? If o
nly he'd found the first aid kit. Some tweezers, or antiseptic.
Incredibly, Shane got to her feet. She swayed, balancing, looking at him wide eyed through the curtain of filth. Her expression was puzzled, questioning. She tried to speak. “Wha... What... What?” One hand went to the side of her face and recoiled as if from a hot stove. The worms were very thick there now, clinging and throbbing. He watched another one find the cut and ooze into it, a little less of it visible after each pulse. That was okay. This wasn't real for either of them.
She was shaking her head, still watching him pleadingly as though for answers. “I... what's... I don't... aaah!” Her expression clenched in pain and her hand flew to her cheek, feeling herself there this time. She screamed and staggered.
He couldn't watch. He would go and get the first aid kit and help her. “It's OK,” he said. “I'll get something.” He sprinted around to the back of the car and ripped open the biggest zipper he could see in Shane's pack. Clothing. All clothing. What was at the bottom? Nothing. A box. He wrenched it out and upended it. Photographs and postcards scattered like dead leaves.
Shane squealed, piercing and agonised. He looked around and saw her stagger onto the road. One hand clutched at her suppurating face, as though trying to pull worms out of herself. Each attempt brought an agonised retch and her hand lifted, trembling. Occasionally her progress was checked as she grabbed at some other part of herself through her clothing and cried out. The smell of the kangaroo thickened as she approached. Abruptly she turned away and ran off into the bush, hyperventilating, her body racked by shuddering convulsions.
He opened his mouth to call out but hesitated, and once she was out of sight it felt too late. But he had to bring her back – she would die without help. Her injuries from the accident alone could be life threatening, and those worms... an image of the kangaroo flashed into his mind, how it had looked in the sullen orange illumination of the hazard lights. Shane could end up like that. He launched himself from the back of the car and went after her.
She hadn't seemed fast when she took off, but she had already disappeared into the black scrub. He stopped running and listened. A faint snapping and rustling was audible from somewhere in there. Leaving the road behind, he struck off through spiny urchins of arid grass and the scraping limbs of bushes. Visibility dropped quickly away from the car, and he was soon occupied with the ground at his feet, plotting a route that wouldn't trip him. Gnarled stumps lurked amongst the scrub like sea mines. Rabbit burrows gaped like the smooth throats of giant snakes.
A faint, blood curdling scream came from the bush ahead of him. Shane’s voice. So far away. So lost. He had to get to her, now. Heedless of his own safety, he sprinted. Tussocks whipped his ankles, and saw toothed sapling twigs slapped him. An iron talon clutched his head, flexing with each pounding stride. Light flashed and sparked at the edge of his vision. His foot kicked something hard and unyielding, stopping it with a burst of new pain, and he flew forward into the unknown. A large log with crumbly mold-bark rushed up towards his face.
He got a hand down just in time, breaking his fall. Still his temple seemed to burst with a crushing wave of disorienting pain, the worst yet. Just how bad was it? Visions of slapstick horror, bits of brain falling onto the dirt from his lowered head. The ground writhed with a boiling dimness that wanted to become everything, but he knew that he mustn’t faint. Not out here, no matter what. The kangaroo would find him.
He remained crouched on his haunches until the worst of the faintness receded into mere agony. Skewers of wild grass became bright points of irritation along his hand and forearm. He got to his feet slowly and looked around. For the kangaroo, for Shane, he wasn’t sure which. Distant light flickered, yellowish. Their car, he assumed, but why did it seem to move? It must be another vehicle, far away on the horizon.
A surge of elation made him want to run back to the road, but he forced himself to move carefully. He could flag down the vehicle and save Shane as long as he didn’t fall again. He picked his way along as quickly as he could, trying to pinpoint the source of the light. It was never quite where he was looking, fluctuating as though screened by vegetation. Then he smelled the kangaroo, its rotting blood and bone odour unmistakable over the earthy dropping smell of the ground. Still he suppressed the urge to run. It wouldn’t attack if he stayed on his feet. He was almost at the road now. Could this be over?
He stepped onto the shoulder and looked, ready to wave down any approaching vehicle. But the light remained insubstantial, now waxing and waning furtively, now sparking and flashing like a cloud of moths. All in silence. He was seeing things. The only real light came from the sky and from their car, which he could see a short distance down the road.
He still couldn’t see the kangaroo, but the strength of its putrid fog placed it very near. Where was Shane? She was lost to him, swallowed by the infinite night outback. What was she like now? He didn't want to think about that. He should get back to the car – he could make himself safe there.
The stench of the kangaroo seemed to follow him. When he reached the car, he looked around and saw it, about twenty metres behind. It had been stalking him, keeping its distance. Waiting for him to die, or faint. He wouldn't give it the satisfaction. He climbed into the back of the car and closed the hatch. Only the branch-pierced windscreen could betray him now, and he didn't think the kangaroo could get in through that. He curled up against Shane's pack and watched through the rear window. The kangaroo approached in a series of lopsided lurching bursts, then simply stopped moving. Its head stared uncomprehendingly at the car. Whatever that creature was, he didn’t think it could see. He didn't think anything out there was even a kangaroo. He wondered again if Shane was still Shane. He hoped so. She might have stumbled onto an isolated farmhouse with a telephone and gotten help. Perhaps she had come back to the road somewhere else and been picked up. Hopefully they would come for him soon. Once he'd been rescued, he'd find Shane and make sure she had recovered. Perhaps he would visit her in hospital and bring her some of her things. What would he bring her? Her phone, of course. Some of her CDs. They could listen to them together while he visited. He heard the thump of the bass, pictured her singing and nodding to the jagged guitars and raw lyrics. Thump went the bass again.
He came back to awareness and the roo’s head was over him. A blind skull thinly veiled in mangy corruption, loose worms swaying like ropes. It lunged at him, striking with a sloppy thump. He convulsed. Get it away. Thrashing, hands going to his face, brushing and tearing. Get them off. He banged his head but didn’t feel it. Pulled at his cheek, clawed through his hair. His exposed skin stung and writhed. Legs kicking, driving him back away from the kangaroo. Seats blocking his retreat. Kicking at the window. Fingers protecting his eyes.
Window. The window was there.
Nothing was on him.
A spray of viscous blurry fluid streaked with obscene twisting forms oozed down the glass. The car's blinkers lit a stark ochre nightmare - multiple overlapping stains, lingering worms coiling and sliding. Their heads bristled with complex hooked mouthparts wider than their bodies which flexed and closed continually. Could they chew their way in?
The kangaroo could sense him in here. He had to make it go away, scare it somehow. He banged on the window and yelled. “Get out! Go!” But his voice was weak. The roo stood unmoved like an obelisk against the uncaring sky. When you thought about it, the idea of him scaring it was ludicrous. So ludicrous that he actually laughed. But he wasn’t helpless yet. He wormed his way between the front seats as he had seen Shane do. Leaves dragged across his cracked china head like the fingers of a broken hand. Once in the front seat, he held down the horn. The strident electronic bray was shockingly loud after aeons of near silence. He withstood the pain in his head by imagining he was inflicting the same on the kangaroo. Eventually he released the horn, turning painfully to look. The 'roo had still not moved. At least it had stopped attacking the glass. He faced the front again and saw another figure outsid
e.
Shane was back. That was good. He hoped she was OK. Perhaps she’d even brought help. He was getting very tired and hungry, and his head needed attention. It was comfortable here, and safe, but he'd better go out and see her. He would be safe from the kangaroo with two of them there. He opened the door and pulled himself out again, not minding the fresh onslaught of pain and lights. This would be over soon.
Shane’s head was lowered but he recognised her dark pageboy hair. “Hello, you beautiful.”
She came closer, but her approach was the lopsided, stuttering hobble of a lame animal. She started to raise her head and he didn’t want to see, because he could smell her now too. She was like the kangaroo. What was left of her face confirmed it. Had the worms done that, or - he had an unwanted vision of Shane tearing at her face to get them out, trying not to scream but doing so anyway, digging deeper, more and more flesh coming away each time, peeling herself, teeth and bulging eye exposed skull-like... All in vain, though. He could see them on and in her. Her whole body must be infested.
Like the kangaroo, she stopped once she was within a few metres of him and just switched off. Did they know he was going to die? Perhaps they could see or sense how bad his head was. The cold and pain mingled and clutched at his stomach, but determination shot through him. He'd show them otherwise.
He slid slowly back into the car like an injured grub. Shane was dead. There was nothing left of her in what was out there. He had to survive for her and be rescued, so he could tell her family what had happened. Otherwise she would never be found and they would never know. How would he find them? He had her pack, her phone. Surely their numbers were stored on there. He had postcards too. Probably her passport. It would all be taken by the authorities when he was rescued, but he could write down some contact details first. In fact he should do that now - who knew how soon they might come. Was there a pen in the glovebox?