The Tank

by Rick Chesler

  In the glades, the summer sun took the chill from the air. The forest came to life. Birds started to warble and chirp. Small mammals skittered through the undergrowth. A wallaby checked its course and bolted. The lizard ignored these distractions. Its slender forked tongue, gliding in and out, delivered scent molecules to the twin passages of its septum, allowing the lizard to pinpoint the prey’s location with the exactitude of radar.

  Near, very near.

  The lizard broke into a trot. The long body undulated from side to side. Much as a freestyle swimmer moves each arm, the lizard swung each leg in a wide arc, keeping its talons clear of the ground. Its tongue tasted the air every two to three seconds, homing in, the information allowing nonstop course adjustments.

  The eucalypts, wattles, native cherry trees and weeds suddenly ended at a fence. And on the other side of the wire, close enough to touch, stood the lizard’s next meal: an Angus heifer. The young cow was grazing on grasses that had escaped the national park and taken root in the paddock. The lizard halted, but not soon enough. Startled at the noise of movement beside her, the heifer flinched, lifted her head and stared into the forest.

  The lizard froze.

  It kept its body impossibly still, without breath, as still as a tree trunk. Skin and scales blended against the greens, greys and browns of the landscape. The heifer continued to watch the forest, her ears turning this way and that.

  Nothing stirred.

  Reassured, she kept eating.

  Cockatoos screeched through the wide hoop of sky. The farmhouse and barns lay on a faraway hilltop. In the distance, the rest of the herd fed on hay arranged at intervals across the uneven slopes and valleys of the paddock. Cabbage moths and bees zigzagged. The lizard dismissed it all; everything but the heifer.

  She was a type of prey it had eaten before, larger than a pig or deer, capable of satisfying hunger for a few days. The lizard calculated the attack.

  The heifer, standing almost parallel to the fence, would spot any charge with enough time to run. And a kicking hoof might cause injury. The best way to attack live prey was from the rear. Soundlessly, slowly, the lizard retreated. It circled back through the trees and edged again toward the wire fence.

  It lowered its belly to the ground. With gradual shuffles of its feet, the lizard approached the fence. The heifer ate, unaware. The lizard could hear her munching on weeds; hear the occasional swish of her tail against her rump as she swatted flies. She emanated a strong, hot scent of meat. The lizard’s mouth watered. It raised its head and lifted its body on both front legs. The heifer’s hide shivered, dislodging a raft of flies that immediately landed again.

  Lower lids rolled up to protect the lizard’s eyes. It opened its mouth, put its front legs on the uppermost wire, and leaned over the fence. Saliva drooled from its scissor-like teeth. A heavy slop of dribble hit the heifer’s back. Alarmed, she lifted her head. In the same instant, the lizard clamped down on her pelvis.

  The heifer bellowed. Various bones snapped. Blood gushed into the lizard’s gullet, exciting it, urging it to bite harder. The heifer weighed 200kg, but the lizard lifted her rear legs with ease and shook her while its jaws came together to pulverise skin, muscle, gristle and bone into paste.

  Then her spine broke.

  With a gasping snort, the heifer went limp. The lizard placed her on the ground but held on, waiting. Prey often faked the extent of injuries, hoping for a chance to get away. The heifer didn’t move. Instead, she panted and bawled.

  Frightened by her panicked noises, cattle ran toward the farmhouse and barns.

  A minute passed. The lizard did not let go. Blood pumped across the grass. The heifer stopped bawling. Now she could only pant with her mouth hanging open. When she finally dropped her head, the lizard relaxed its grip.

  Time to eat.

  The jaws bit between the heifer’s legs at the tender parts, and began to systematically tug, tug and tug at the hide until it sheared free. The lizard swallowed the chunk of hide and took another bite. Tug, tug, tug. Meat came away in a sheet. With a swipe of its foot, the lizard broke the meat from the body and gulped it down, snapping its jaws. Blood foamed at the heifer’s nostrils and mouth. The lizard worried its snout into her body and pulled out organs. The heifer let out soft, distressed grunts. The lizard kept ripping and swallowing.

  ***

  On the other side of the farm, old Noel Baines sat on his idling quad-bike, frowning at a broken wire on the fence, wondering if that dickhead of a son-in-law had remembered to buy the reel of barbed wire. The appearance of cattle galloping over the rise made Noel kick his quad-bike into gear. He spat into the dirt.

  Those damn feral dogs.

  Or was it pigs this time?

  The Baines’s family farm lay next to a national park full of feral animals. Attacks on his cattle were commonplace. Noel rode across the hilly terrain of the paddock as fast as he dared.

  And then he saw it.

  For a few moments, he looked at the monster but couldn’t believe his eyes. He actually blinked, hard. When he looked again, the monster was still there. He grappled for his .22. The rifle fell from the quad-bike. He ran over it. Fucking hell, why was he still on the throttle? He was closer to the monster than he’d ever want to get. Noel jammed the brakes. They squealed in protest.

  Reacting to the noise, the monster lifted its head from the heifer’s carcass and looked straight at him. Noel hadn’t gone to church since childhood, but he crossed himself—Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death—and executed a clumsy U-turn.

  He kept checking over his shoulder as he rode pell-mell toward the Robinson farm next door. Kept checking long after the monster was out of sight. Kept checking even when he was safe inside the Robinson kitchen, Megan pressing a glass of whisky into his trembling hand despite the early hour. Noel couldn’t tear his gaze away from the windows.

  The Robinsons believed him. That was all that mattered. They believed him. He’d seen the impossible and somebody believed him.

  “We ought to ring the coppers, the shooting club, any bastard with a gun,” Jamie said. He had started loading the rifles as soon as Noel, stammering, had finished describing the monster. Now, Jamie lined up the firearms on the kitchen table. “Everyone in town has to know about this monster,” he said. “What if it tries to eat people?”

  Megan wound her hair into a hasty ponytail. “Quit flapping your gums. Let’s just go kill that motherfucker.”

  “Okay,” Noel said. “Give me a second.”

  He closed his eyes and drained the whisky. Neat, it burned his throat. The glass clattered against his false teeth. He couldn’t stop shaking. Since that first sight of the monster, Noel’s flesh goose-bumped continuously, as if fingernails were raking down an endless blackboard, on and on and on.

  “Noel, are you right?” Megan said.

  He opened his eyes. “Yeah, I’m right.”

  “Then come on.”

  Megan pushed a Remington 700 across the table. Noel took hold of the stock. His palm felt sweaty. When he got to his feet, he had to steady himself against the chair. Black dots swam in his vision.

  1

  “Here he is now,” the pub owner said, and pointed.

  Dr. Erin Harris turned her head. Across the room, Noel Baines stood at the open double-doors of the pub, hands on his hips, squinting, looking about for her. Erin took a moment to observe. The scattering of lunch-time patrons had stopped to stare at him, too. A few whispered together. Some grinned; others sniggered. What Noel Baines had told Erin yesterday on the phone appeared to be true: since the local paper had published his story, most of the townsfolk thought him crazy, a doddering fool.

  On the contrary, the old farmer seemed robust and agile, much younger than his seventy-one years. He wore the uniform typical around here of most men and women: jeans, boots, long-sleeved button-down shirt, bush hat. Erin regretted her summer dress and sandals; she should have worn jeans. Standing up from
the bar stool, she took a few steps and waved. Noel Baines tightened his mouth into a line, removed his hat and nodded at her. When he sat at the nearest empty table, he put his back to the other patrons.

  Erin approached, touched the chair opposite him. “May I?”

  Like a gentleman, he half-rose as she sat down. She extended her hand. Noel Baines hesitated before gripping her fingertips for a brief second, and letting go.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Baines,” she said.

  “Call me Noel.”

  “Yes, of course. Noel, I appreciate your time.”

  Noel called to the pub owner, “Dave, a pot. And a glass of whatever the lady’s having.”

  “Mineral water, please,” Erin added.

  Noel fidgeted with the brim of his hat. Erin waited. Placing the hat over the cruet set, Noel said, “So you’re the doctor from the university.”

  “That’s right. Erin Harris.”

  “Hell’s bells, I remember your name, I’m not a complete idiot.”

  She had intended to tape this conversation, but for the moment decided to keep the digital recorder in her handbag. “As soon as I saw your interview in the local paper, I knew you were telling the truth.”

  “I figured no one outside of town bothered to read that rag.”

  Erin smiled. “I do Google searches every morning on my particular topics of interest. Your interview came up. That’s why I called you. As a scientist, I can investigate your story.”

  He shrugged. “So you know about lizards.”

  “Actually, I know a lot of things about reptiles in general.”

  “You’re some kind of zookeeper?”

  “No. I lecture in evolutionary biology, but herpetology is my chosen field; in reptiles, though, not amphibians. Frogs don’t appeal. I study reptile evolution.”

  Noel raised his eyes and waved a dismissive hand.

  Okay, Erin had a reasonable handle on him by now: proud, barely literate, probably a high-school dropout, suspicious of city people, white-collar professionals in particular.

  “I believe your story,” she said.

  “I’m starting to doubt it myself.”

  “You saw that lizard with your own eyes.”

  He shot her a wounded glance. “People talk around here. Some reckon I must’ve been blotto at the time.”

  “Of course you weren’t.”

  “No bloody way. You know how dangerous it is to ride a quad-bike, even sober?”

  She hesitated. “To ride a what?”

  “A quad-bike. You really don’t know what that is? Well, it’s kind of like a motorcycle but with four wheels. Bloody handy on a farm, but it’s got a high centre of gravity and a narrow wheelbase. That makes it unstable and prone to tipping if the ground isn’t dead level. If your quad-bike rolls over you, kiss your arse goodbye. Well, shit, all my paddocks have an incline. Why would I get on the grog before getting on my quad-bike?”

  “You wouldn’t.” She smiled. “Noel, you don’t have to convince me.”

  He sighed, gave a begrudging nod.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet up,” she continued. “I study evolution. I’m interested in how reptiles have changed over thousands and millions of years; why some species survived, why others died out.”

  Noel sniffed. “Excuse my saying so, but you look more like a lady for ballet and poetry and whatnot.”

  Erin had experienced this countless times before: the prejudice against her from academics and lay-people alike on account of her slight frame, glasses and pale skin. She knew plenty of field herpetologists—the roughest, drunkest and most outdoorsy scientists she’d ever met—who liked to rib her for being “precious”, but she considered herself a geneticist first and a lecturer second, one who had a reasonable amount of hands-on experience with reptiles, including tiger snakes, death adders and saltwater crocodiles.

  She said, “I’ve studied Australian reptiles for a long time.”

  “Uh-huh,” Noel said. “Only from books, I’ll bet.”

  God, if she only had a dollar....

  She regretted looking so young, almost teenaged, despite being thirty-four. The average person, like Noel Baines, typically assumed that safety in the presence of a deadly creature relied on brawn. Not so: it boiled down to knowing the inbuilt behaviours and activity patterns of an animal, the set and unvarying weaknesses and strengths determined by its DNA. From theoretical knowledge alone, Erin was certain she could overcome or outwit just about every known creature in the three orders of Australian reptiles—Testudines, Squamata and Crocodilia—however she preferred a simpler answer for her detractors.

  “Occasionally,” she said “the easiest way to verify an animal’s diet is to manually search through their faeces. I do that all the time.”

  “Aw, get out.” Noel frowned, smiled. “You put your hands in shit?”

  “It’s why I don’t bite my nails.”

  Her standard joke. They both laughed.

  The pub owner, Dave, came over with the pot of beer and glass of mineral water. “Anything else?” he said, placing the drinks on the table.

  Noel shook his head. Uh-oh, Erin thought, it’s past noon; he doesn’t intend to stay for lunch. Noel handed Dave a note, told him to keep the change. As soon as Dave left, Erin said, “Tell me what happened.”

  Noel became withdrawn, sullen. “I told you already on the phone.”

  “A brief account. I’d like to hear the full details.”

  He took a long drink of beer, wiped the froth off his lip with the back of a gnarled hand. “I’m willing to talk to you for one reason only.”

  “Okay. Name it.”

  “One hundred and twenty years ago, the Baines family helped build this town. My great-grandparents set up one of the first cattle farms in the area. I’ve been working cattle here on this same farm ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.” Noel stopped, swallowed the catch in his voice.

  “I understand,” Erin said.

  “No, you don’t. For the past thirty-six years, I’ve officiated at the Shire’s annual Boxing Day rodeo. The committee passed me over this time.” He took a quick drink. “You need to prove me right.”

  “And I will.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I promise. Just tell me what you saw, in as much detail as you can.”

  Noel huffed through closed teeth, briefly shut his eyes. Gripping both hands around his beer glass, he stared down at his drink and said, “It was last Friday morning, around seven-thirty. I was out checking the fences, like I do every week. My farm backs onto the national park. If you don’t know, the park’s got a big problem with feral animals—goat, deer, pig, horse, dog, fox—any pest you can name, this park is teeming with it. Some of these animals bust my fences to get at my grass and feed, or attack my stock. Happens on a regular basis.”

  “And you were checking your fences.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what did you see?”

  Noel frowned, began to fidget with his beer glass, turning it around and around on the tabletop. “I’ve complained to the Shire Council about the feral animals God knows how many times, but they don’t give a stuff. If the council won’t allow hunting in the park, then farmers like me, whose land backs onto it, should be entitled to a tax break.” Noel looked up at her. “You know how much money these ferals cost me every single month?”

  Hurry up with your goddamned story, Erin thought, eager to hear only about the lizard. Instead, she said, “Oh no, that must be so frustrating.”

  “Too right, mate. My youngest daughter still lives at the homestead, and she’s pregnant, so she’s not much chop around the place anymore and neither is her husband, my dickhead son-in-law. If I don’t fix the fences myself I’ve got to pay one of the hands and with beef prices as low as they are, I don’t have much leeway.”

  “Of course not.” Erin fidgeted in her chair. “So you were checking the fences.”

  He nodded. “And a bunc
h of my cattle came running over, all spooked. I figured it was dogs. So I drove to the back paddock to look. And when I came over the rise...” Noel licked his lips. “Like I told you before, my paddocks are pretty hilly.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I didn’t see anything until I came over the rise.”

  “So you came over the rise...and then what?”

  “Yep,” he said, and stared at her. “I saw it.”

  Erin leaned forward. “Saw what?”

  “By the fence.” Noel rubbed a hand across his stubbled chin, gazed out the window. “A bloody great big lizard attacking one of my heifers.”

  Erin’s heart thrummed against her ribs, the hairs rising on her arms. “Tell me what it looked like.”

  “A bloody huge bastard. I could see right away by the spacing of the fence posts that it was about eight metres long from nose to tail. From the height of the posts, it stood about a metre at the shoulder, even higher when it lifted its neck.” Noel shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “The monster was eating my heifer, but pecking, like how a chicken pecks at grains. Each time, it took out a chunk the size of a bloody watermelon.”

  “Had the lizard broken through the fence?”

  “No. It was big enough to climb the fence and lean over.”

  “Did the lizard see you?”

  “Not at first. I stopped the quad-bike. The brakes always squeal. That’s when the monster looked at me.” Noel rubbed at his forehead. “It had empty eyes, black as night. Dead eyes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Hah! I nearly shit my pants.”

  “But did the lizard do anything different after seeing you?”

  “No. It went back to eating. I got the bejesus out of there, and rode at full throttle to the Robinson farm next door.”

  “They’re the neighbours you told me about on the phone?”

  “Yeah, they run the horse stud. On the side, they hunt in the park and sell the deer and goat meat to interested parties, including myself. It’s illegal hunting—poaching, by the exact letter of the law—so I’d be grateful if you kept your trap shut about that. Anyway, the Robinsons have a lot of firepower on account of their particular hobby. I rustled them up. The three of us went to my back paddock on our quad-bikes with rifles and ammo. Too late, as it turned out. The lizard was gone.”