Catherine Jinks TheRoad (39 page)

The gun was aimed straight at Chris.

He had the presence of mind to reverse at top speed. But he wasn’t fast enough. The windscreen erupted onto his face, his shoulders – he had to close his eyes. Safety glass, and not much of it, but it still hurt. The jagged hole in front of him lay slightly to the left of his head, because the bullet had missed. It had missed! He registered this important fact at the precise moment that he backed into a screeching tangle of rusted oil drums and clawing steel springs. The Land Rover lurched and roared; Chris banged his head on the roof; the man strode towards him, reloading again.

Without giving the matter a single conscious thought, Chris changed gears. He put his foot down and the Land Rover sprang forward – slowed – sprang forward. Something was caught underneath it, some rusty impediment. Chris had no notion that he was pleading aloud for help. Beyond the advancing gunman he could see his brother, all bloody, struggling desperately to raise himself. The rifle was aimed for the third time.

Then the power of the straining engine was unleashed. The coiled wire or stabbing shard or knotted cord – whatever it was – suddenly broke. Ducking, Chris drove his vehicle straight towards the gunman, who leapt aside at the last second, his gun discharging harmlessly into the air. Chris glimpsed his brother straight ahead of him, an irregular shape broken up by the crazed and frosted windscreen. He spun the wheel and stamped on the brake, but there was too much momentum. Though he missed his brother, he hit the peppercorn tree.

Whump!

The air bag was deployed with a strange, tearing sound, almost suffocating him. Because he was wearing his seatbelt, he didn’t tumble out onto the crumpled bonnet. But he was winded and bruised by the seatbelt’s wrenching pressure; the pain in his neck made him retch, and temporarily blinded him. He struggled feebly, groping for the catch on his belt, pushing away the billows of inflated plastic . . .

Then he heard a ‘click’ from somewhere near his right shoulder.

Alec was listening hard for peculiar noises. It was so quiet that the crunch-crunch-crunch of his feet on dust and pebbles seemed as loud as a ‘Coo-ee!’. Trudging doggedly up the road, squinting into the sun, he strained to hear anything that might suggest an approaching vehicle or pedestrian. But the only sounds were the rasp of his breathing, the shuffle of his boots, the slop of mineral water inside his plastic bottle. Sometimes, far away, a crow would give voice to a mournful, dying wail. Sometimes the breeze would pick up and sigh past his ears. After nearly half an hour of walking, however, he had heard nothing to suggest that anyone was creeping after him, either on foot or in a car.

It crossed his mind that he might be walking into an ambush. Though unlikely, an ambush was certainly possible – and he had kept a wary eye cocked while he crossed the creek, which was so well supplied with screens of mulga and river gum. Fortunately, though, he was now drawing away from that bushy stretch. He was heading towards the salt pan stretch, which was almost barren, and where a lurking sniper would be unlikely to find brush enough to conceal himself from a sharp-eyed target. Alec, too, would be exposed in such a landscape, but at least he would be able to spot any danger that might be heading his way.

He tried to remember details about his dad’s old .303, and how accurate it had been over long distances. His dad always used to say that it was accurate within four hundred yards, but he didn’t really know how far away a person would have to be if they wanted to hit him with a bullet. It would depend on the gun, he supposed.

His speculations on the subject were brief, however, because musing about guns only made him nervous. So did dwelling on the dead people he had left behind. Occasionally he found himself wondering who had killed them, and why, but after a few moments his thoughts would veer away. He couldn’t concentrate on anything for long. He was too twitchy.

Then all at once he heard the shot.

It was very faint but quite clear; his heart seemed to turn a somersault in his chest. When the next shot rang out, and the next, he began to run, desperately, without stopping to think. He only knew that he had to get away, that the shooter was somewhere behind him, that Graham and Chris were the probable targets. There
had
been an ambush. The McKenzies had walked right into it. Alec stumbled, and his bottle of water hit the ground, rolling. He snatched it back up. His heart was pounding in his ears, his soles slithered, he was puffing and blowing like a steam train. The echo of a fourth shot pushed him along like a powerful wind, and the fifth made him whimper. But he was opening the gap. He was putting some distance between himself and the gun. He charged ahead; though aware that he couldn’t possibly maintain such a speed all the way to his truck. He seemed unable to pace himself. Fear drove him on. Another few minutes and he was gasping, sobbing, almost tripping over his own feet. He stumbled again, this time fending off the ground with one hand,which he grazed badly.The pain barely registered. He was already up and running before he felt even a twinge, his mind busy with the realisation that it had been some time since the last shot. The gunfire appeared to have subsided. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

His chest heaving, he began to slow. His legs were all right, but his lungs weren’t up to it. Too many bongs. Too many pizzas and too many beers. He stopped at last and stood with his hands on his knees, back bent, ribcage labouring. He was dizzy, and pouring sweat. The flies were attacking him from all directions.

He thought: If you don’t fucking calm down, Dozy, you’re going to pass out. Get a bloody
grip
, you nong.

Fortunately, it was late. The sun was low and the temperature was falling; at least he wouldn’t be felled by heatstroke. As his heart rate dropped he began to move once more, not running but walking briskly, looking back over his shoulder every so often. The minutes passed – five minutes, ten minutes. It was quiet again. Small birds chirruped in the widely scattered clumps of vegetation, preparing to retire for the night. A rustle in the grass to his right marked the passage of some small reptile – a shingle-back, maybe – but there was no other sound except the thud, thud of Alec’s footsteps.

And something else.

Alec stopped when his ear caught the soft purr. It was very low, but it was...yes, it was an engine. From the highway,

perhaps? No. He couldn’t even see the highway.

No, it was coming from the other direction.

Strangely enough, he didn’t panic. He knew that he didn’t have time to panic. Instead he was suddenly very calm; his head cleared; the blood in his veins seemed to chill and grow sluggish. He gazed around, noting the nearest large outcrop of saltbush. It was about twenty metres away. A mulga tree had sprung up near it, but the tree, like most mulgas, was shaped like an inverted triangle, with all its foliage springing from a narrow base that would offer no concealment. No – it was the saltbush or nothing. Hurrying towards it, Alec offered up a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t yet reached the salt pans. The saltbush out there – what there was of it – ran to nothing higher than mid-calf. This saltbush, in contrast, was bulky. About the size of a cow at rest.

Just big enough to hide a man, if he curled up like a foetus.

Alec was quite sure, now, that the approaching vehicle was heading up the dirt road. Its muted purr had become a high-pitched whine, with a rumbling undertone that suggested something more powerful than your average biscuit tin on bicycle wheels. The Land Rover, perhaps? Had the gunman stolen the Land Rover? Or had Graham and Chris escaped with their lives

– were they making for the highway at top speed, with the gunman in hot pursuit? Either way, Alec wasn’t about to break cover and look. He knew that if he raised his head and peeked over the top of his sheltering saltbush, he ran very little risk of being seen. But as the engine’s roar drew ever closer, Alec found that he couldn’t move a muscle. He cowered in the dirt, holding his breath, his chin on his knees and his hands clasped around his shins, praying to God that the car wouldn’t stop. He didn’t care if Graham and Chris
were
in it, as long as it kept going, taking with it whatever evil bastard might be trailing along behind. The noise was almost on top of him. He closed his eyes and winced. It was coming . . . it was coming . . .

It was going.

It was fading.

Alec opened his eyes again. He listened to the vehicle disappearing into the distance. He was still afraid to move in case its driver happened to glance into his rear-view mirror, and catch a surreptitious movement or a flash of blue. (If only he had worn his black jeans!) He was also alert for the sound of another motor, a motor in pursuit. If Graham and Chris had just passed him, then they might very well be fleeing another car with a gun on board. Alec didn’t want to stand up just as this other car was passing, and get his head blown off in consequence.

Gradually, however, he began to relax. The minutes ticked by and nothing else came down the road. At last he lifted his head, just slightly, and scanned the surrounding landscape. It lay passive in the golden light of a setting sun, each rock and root and blade clearly defined by the shadow it was casting. It looked utterly harmless. Detached.

Glancing at his watch, Alec saw how late it was and realised that he didn’t have much time. Unless he reached the highway before nightfall, he was well and truly stuffed. He’d end up staggering around in circles like a blind man.

He had to get to his truck. Now.
Now.
He had to get up and walk, though it would be – no contest – the hardest thing he’d ever done in his entire life.

Del lived in a shack near Silverton, with her dog, a sheep, a kangaroo and four chickens. She liked the peace, she said, though it

was becoming more and more busy out there, what with the tourists and the film companies. She’d seen the film companies come and go, all the way back to
Mad Max
.

‘We saw photos at the pub,’ Peter volunteered. ‘From when they shot
Dirty Deeds
and
A Town Called Alice.
’

‘Oh, ya can’t move for cameras,’ Del squawked. ‘Every time I wander on down for a beer, there’s some bottle blonde bullin around, lookin for extras. I
been
an extra, once or twice. German beer ad. Japanese beer ad. They pay good money for a day on the booze, I’ll say that for ’em. They wanted to use me
car
, once, but that fell through.’

‘It must be good for the economy,’ Noel remarked, and Del snorted.

‘Haven’t bloody
got
one, out there,’ she said.

‘But all the artists . . .’

‘Oh, them. They’re from Broken Hill,’ Del scoffed, as if Broken Hill was some far-flung metropolis. She began to talk about her father, who had worked on the Broken Hill to Silver-ton tramway (when it still existed) and her mother, who had come from Cockburn. Peter tuned out. He was keeping a careful eye on the passing countryside, which was slowly dissolving into the dusk. There was still an orange blaze on the western horizon, but a blue-grey shadow was creeping in from the east. It was lapping at the highway already. Rose had just wished on the first star.

Even the changing light, however, couldn’t transform the look of the landscape. As everything took on the same, monotonous tint – as the colours were dulled, and the sky darkened – Peter found himself unable to judge whether the scenery was different or not. He didn’t think so. There was the same dirt, the same low scrub, the same endless stretch of fence . . .

‘There’s the mailbox!’ he suddenly cried, jolted from his trance. ‘The white mailbox!’

‘What?’ said Linda. ‘Where?’

‘Back there!’

‘I told you,’ Louise muttered. Linda addressed her husband.

‘Noel? What do you think?’

‘Eh?’

‘Are we going to stop, or . . .?’

‘Oh.’ Noel realised what she was talking about, and turned to Del. ‘We didn’t know if maybe we should phone the NRMA from that house back there,’ he explained. ‘It was our original destination when we realised that we were in trouble.’

‘Well, you’re not in trouble any more,’ Del pointed out.

‘Yes, I realise that, of course –’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon. No point gettin stuck in a creek bed after dark.’

Louise’s stomach rumbled. Rose had dropped off to sleep, her head bobbing gently against her mother’s chest. Occasionally she would snuffle and stir. Once she had opened her eyes a crack and asked a groggy question: were they home yet? Linda kept checking her watch. Noel had taken upon himself the task of making polite conversation with the driver, who had at one time – briefly

– been married to a minister of the Uniting Church.

‘Presbyterian, it was then, and a bloody good thing too,’ Del revealed. ‘Yeah, there’s too much of the tree-huggin, these days, they’ve lost the plot. I don’t hold with drugs and that – no one’s shovin it down their throats, or up their arms – so what’s the excuse? Phil spent all his time with no-hopers, and I got sick of it. Pearls before swine, I told ’im, but he was a stubborn old bugger – hang on. What’s this?’

They were already slowing when Peter, stretching to peer over Mongrel’s velvet ears, caught sight of the stranded truck. Like a beached white whale it was out of its natural element, looking curiously powerless in the dust at the edge of the road. Del’s headlights illuminated its vast hindquarters, which were branded by a NSW number plate. Something was written on its flanks, too, but Peter didn’t notice what the words said. As they crawled past the truck’s great bulk, his attention was caught by the sight of its driver’s door flapping open. Someone was leaning out of the cabin, waving furiously.

‘Bloody hell,’ Del exclaimed.

A man’s silhouette jumped down onto the road, his arm lifted against the beam of Del’s headlights. Linda leaned over and tapped her son’s knee.

‘Roll up the window,’ she murmured. ‘Lock the door.’

Startled, Peter did so. He spotted his father doing the same, leaving only a centimetre of space above the glass. Del, however, seemed quite unconcerned, thrusting her head out of the car to address the approaching motorist.