Fading light
Based on true happenings. Names have been changed.
“I’m scared of bunyips.”
“Seriously?”
Jules was amazed. Vera wasn’t scared of much.
“Not pink, cartoon bunyips” Vera clarified. “Real bunyips.”
“As in evil spirits of the bush?” Jenn, ever culturally literate, inquired.
“Yes,” said Vera. “Always creeped me out. I hate the bush in the dark.”
Dusk was settling and they’d not yet found the track. Striding through streamers of grass, backpacks hoisted, they fell silent, hoping they’d reach the track soon.
“The track!”
“Huzzah,” said Vera.
“Which one?” pessimised Jules. “The map says the trail should run more north-south. This must be a new unmarked fire trail. Ehh. And I have no idea which way to head.”
They went north, crunching gravel, and hoped they found the pale blue Nissan Skyline before dark.
They heard the ute stone-rolling from the south before they saw it.
“Need a lift, ladies?”
“Thanks,” Vera spilled, maybe without thinking. Jules gave her ‘the look’. Vera gave her ‘the don’t be a wuss’ return look. Jenn just smiled. They all got in the ute, stacking packs and coils of canyoning rope in the back, noting no other ropes or suspect luggage as they did. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. How many murdered souls had made a similar assessment?
Vera sat in front. Jenn and Jules went in the back. Jule’s hands gripped the chair behind Vera’s head, out of sight of the blokey bloke, and desperately clawed her shoulder. Looking for contact, looking for Vera to get them—she was always the leader—out of the car, expressing her fear. All three?
The terror rolled through Jules. And the ute rolled through the descending night.
“Want to see my camp?”
Jules’ fingers clawed desperately.
“No, thanks,” answered Vera. Always the straight talker.
“Come on, it’s only a slight detour. I’ll show you my set-up.”
More clawing. A whimper. Jules is convinced this will be their last moment alive, that they are living the nightmare of hitchhikers before them.
“Well, ok, thanks.” An answering “it’ll be fine” finger squeeze.
Canvas flaps next to a rocky trickle of creek. A worn chair, slightly crooked, sits next to a little table and a few homey bits. A book. A guitar. A blanket. It looks like a little cubby living room made in memory of a real one long gone.
Vera stepped down out of the ute. Out of the ute! Jules waited for the gunshot. Waited for a knife. Waited for the blokey bloke smile to turn glinting leer.
Vera was back in the ute. The engine was on, the ute was crunch-rolling gravel towards north once more.
The Skyline!
“Bye ladies. Thanks for visiting.”
Backpack shoved. Shaking. Clutch in. Key, ignition turn. And go! Heater and lights full ball. A glowing womb of light weaving south through the night. Headlights surrounded by the night ever pressing in.
Sighs of dark slide past the car. They won’t leach into these girls tonight.
Two hundred kilometres away a drifter knots a rope while a prisoner whimpers.
Why me?