8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  It didn’t do him much good.

  He saw the woman, Amy, sitting slumped in the middle of the stairs. She was a wreck.

  Then he saw the lawyer coming up the stairs towards her. He glanced up, saw Cornstalk, and stopped. Must have been a frightening vision.

  That was when Cornstalk saw Christo’s dead body, curled over a massive blood pool.

  Cornstalk descended, trying to bite down the pain. He passed Amy, ignoring her, and came face-to-face with the lawyer. He produced the gun from his belt with his bloodied hand, and put it right on the bridge of Tim’s nose.

  The lawyer didn’t move. He didn’t do anything.

  Tim stared at the gun, and then past it at Cornstalk, looking him dead in the eye. He didn’t blink, or resist; he had neither the strength, nor the will, remaining. Not long for this world, he thought. If this is how it goes down, then let it come.

  Cornstalk drew back the hammer. That alone seemed to take a great deal out of him. It was a heavy gun. Then—he pulled the trigger.

  The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

  Cornstalk stared at Tim with disbelief.

  ‘Get out of my fucking road,’ he said, and went on down the stairs, dropping the gun, stepping clumsily past Christo’s body, and Jimmy’s.

  Outside, he barely even noticed the burnt body of Stav.

  ‘And you get out of my fucking house!’ Tim screamed, as Cornstalk stumbled into the night.

  With his good hand clamped to his neck, and the other arm wrapped around his stomach, Cornstalk staggered in a zigzag fashion towards his BMW. It seemed a long way.

  He climbed into the car with great difficulty, groaning with the pain, but finally got behind the wheel. He reached for the ignition.

  No keys.

  He couldn’t believe it. He was certain he’d left the keys in the ignition.

  A scan of the cabin failed to find them. They were gone. He tried to calm himself, to think it through. That bastard who shot me must’ve taken them.

  He looked through the rear window. He could just make out the front of another car, some distance back.

  He almost fell out of the BMW. Leaving the door open, he stumbled down the track. With this car in the way, he wouldn’t have been able to back out anyway.

  He got inside. The keys were in the ignition, thank Christ. He started the car, twisted his head around, grimacing with pain, and began to reverse.

  It wasn’t easy, negotiating a narrow, winding dirt track backwards, one-handed and in darkness, especially when your insides were shot up. Cornstalk veered off the track several times, into the scrub, and had to drive forwards to correct the car before continuing.

  But eventually he made it to the road. It felt a lot further coming out than going in.

  He headed off in the direction of civilisation. Surely they had a hospital in Eden. As the car knifed through the dark, fast as he could go, Cornstalk tried to calculate how long it would take him. An hour, maybe? Could he last that long?

  He put his foot down. Now he was doing one-forty on a gravel road, with bends in it that he couldn’t anticipate well, even with the lights on high beam—they were on him in a flash. Next thing there were giant trees looming up. Then he’d have to hit the brakes and hope he didn’t roll.

  His vision was deteriorating. He could feel the uncomfortable squelching of blood in his pants from the stomach wound. And the hand he kept hard against his neck did little to stop the flow of blood from soaking his shirt through.

  *

  Tim sat down on the stairs next to Amy. Her head was still between her knees. He put his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Think it’s over now,’ he said.

  ‘Is it?’

  Tim didn’t respond. But something dead in her tone made him wonder if they were talking about the same thing.

  ‘Amy, listen. That’s Jimmy Raines down there. He’s in a bad way, very bad, but he’s still alive. We have to do something for him.’

  She lifted her face. It was raw. ‘Jimmy? That was him?’

  ‘Yeah. He saved us.’

  With Amy’s help, he hauled Jimmy through to the lounge room, and set him down gently on the carpet. It wasn’t easy carrying a dead weight, and Jimmy was a hefty guy, at least ninety-five kilograms. It was generally considered unwise to move a seriously injured person, but Tim decided to risk it. Lying where he was, on the hard, uncomfortable surface of the upended table, right near the smashed-in doorway, Jimmy was exposed to the cold and rain.

  Tim got some chicken shears from the kitchen and cut Jimmy’s clothes clear of his wounds. It was a slow, laborious process, but eventually the jacket, sweater, shirt and undershirt had been removed, piece by piece, and discarded. Tim could now discern three bullet holes in his chest.

  He felt again for a pulse. It was still there, faint and intermittent, like a distant radio signal.

  He cut a sheet into strips, and together he and Amy dressed Jimmy’s wounds as best they could, wrapping the strips tightly around his torso and using sticking plaster from the first aid kit to hold them firmly in place. Then they put two wool blankets on him, and a pillow under his head.

  When they had done all they could do for Jimmy, Tim went outside and switched the generator back on.

  Bright light flooded the house.

  He came inside, past the smouldering body of Stav, and saw the briefcase containing the cash he had tried to bribe them with.

  That move had probably saved their lives.

  He picked it up. It was an old-fashioned tan leather briefcase, given to him as a gift by his first wife when he’d begun law school. She’d even had his initials, T.R.F., stamped in gold lettering on the flap.

  When he looked up, Amy was standing in the kitchen, among the wreckage, watching him.

  ‘We have to get help,’ he said. ‘Somehow.’ He put the briefcase on the kitchen counter.

  Amy nodded. But it seemed the trauma she’d been through had all but robbed her of the power of speech.

  He went out again and checked the Kluger. It was definitely rat shit beyond recall. Then he spotted Cornstalk’s BMW. Why was it still there?

  He walked over to it. The door was wide open. Looking inside, he could see fresh bloodstains on the seat and steering wheel and other places. That ponytailed bastard had been in there, but abandoned it. Why?

  Tim saw there were no keys in the ignition.

  He realised that Jimmy would’ve had a vehicle too. It would be parked behind the BMW somewhere.

  Tim went for a walk down the dirt track, but there was no sign of another vehicle. The ponytailed bastard must’ve taken Jimmy’s car, either because he couldn’t start his own or because he wouldn’t have been able to reverse past another car anyway.

  It began to rain: fine curtains of misty rain, typical of the area. It could go on all night once it started.

  Tim pondered their situation. He had to get help, but how, with no means of transport, no phone? He could start walking, but where to? The nearest neighbour was a long, long way from here, deep in the bush. That was one of the reasons he bought the old farm in the first place, along with the lack of telephone connection.

  A grim irony indeed.

  In any case, he couldn’t possibly leave Amy alone, surrounded by the dead and dying.

  No solution came to mind. He turned and walked back to the house. His clothes were already wet through.

  When he got inside, Amy was kneeling next to Jimmy.

  ‘His lips just moved,’ she said. ‘I think he was trying to say something.’

  Tim knelt alongside her. He thought he saw one of Jimmy’s eyelids twitch.

  ‘I wish we could do something more for him,’ he said. ‘But … we can’t go anywhere. We have no transport.’

  A thought occurred to him. He went through all of Jimmy’s pockets, in his pants and jacket, looking for the BMW keys. No such luck.

  ‘So we’re stuck,’ she said.

  ‘We’re stuck.’

&nb
sp; 39

  Vicki Raines was debating whether or not to open another bottle of wine. She’d had the best part of one bottle, so maybe she’d better not. She wasn’t taking into account the drinks she’d had with Jimmy earlier.

  But what the hell—it was Friday night, after all. She went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Villa Maria sauvignon blanc, poured herself a glass and returned to the lounge room.

  Vicki was watching a film, High Society, on TCM. It was one of her all-time favourites. At present Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby were doing ‘Well, Did You Evah!’ Not much of a party going on in her house, let alone a swell one. Vicki had other things on her mind right now.

  Mainly, her ex, Jimmy.

  He’d given her instructions to ring Pat O’Dwyer, an old mate of his who was part of some big-time police task force, if she didn’t hear from him by midnight. Midnight.

  He’d told her he was going to Tim and Amy’s country retreat, absolutely miles away in the Pericoe Valley.

  Vicki was worried about Jimmy—seriously worried.

  Strangely, she cared more about him now than when they were married. She’d heard from others that this was not an uncommon phenomenon. Relationships evolved in strange ways. Nowadays she looked forward to their regular Friday drinks; she knew Jimmy did, too. He was her best friend now. Well, her best male friend.

  Once or twice they’d even jumped into bed together afterwards, no strings attached. That was apparently not too unusual either, with divorced couples. At least you knew what you were getting. And it was better than nothing.

  When she’d married Jimmy all those years ago at the age of twenty-one, Vicki was certain nothing could ever spoil their life together, even though Jimmy was a cop. For the first few years it was sweet, everything she’d dreamed of, but then Jimmy began spending more time on the job and with his brothers in the force than he did at home. She accepted it for a time, but then it got out of hand, until it reached the point where he was out late more often than not, leaving her to look after their two young kids pretty much by herself.

  It wasn’t all work, either, that kept him away from home. The brotherhood bond was strong, but so was the temptation to stray.

  The day Vicki discovered Jimmy was having an affair, she was shattered beyond description. She confronted him, denials flew about, she stormed out of the house—everything went to shit very fast indeed.

  Thirteen years down the gurgler.

  Jimmy became contrite, apologised, tried to get her back, but the damage was done.

  The marriage had gone the way of so many others in the brotherhood. It was like having a third party involved, 24/7. Something—someone—had to give.

  *

  But years go by and with the passing of time one becomes mellow, Vicki had found. Now, at forty-nine, she was more or less happy with her life. Her career had blossomed. She’d worked in hotels most of her life and had now risen through the system to the point where she was the catering manager for one of the large, five-star chains. Her brief was to organise events such was wedding receptions, business conventions, conferences—and everything else that came along. It was a demanding job, and Vicki was good at it. And she would not have it if she’d still been married to Jimmy.

  But now she was worried sick.

  Jimmy had said, call Pat if I don’t make contact by midnight. For the umpteenth time that night, Vicki checked her watch.

  Ten sixteen.

  She sipped some wine. Midnight was a long way off.

  Vicki knew Jimmy better than anyone. He would not take off for the boondocks on a Friday night after a session at the hotel without very good reason. He’d said he was worried about Tim and Amy, some threat to their wellbeing he must’ve got wind of. And he wouldn’t call her with a contingency plan unless he, too, was deeply concerned.

  She had a bad, bad feeling growing inside her. She paced back and forth. Grace Kelly was on the screen, doing her pouting act, but Vicki didn’t notice.

  I have to ring Pat O’Dwyer now, not later.

  She scrolled through her phone, found the number Jimmy had sent her.

  Her finger hovering over the dial button, she wondered if she was overreacting. Pat was a serious cop, an inspector. She knew him well back in the day, when he and Jimmy were green young cops, but their paths crossed infrequently now. What would he think of her?

  She looked at her watch: ten twenty.

  This was ridiculous.

  What did she care what Pat thought of her?

  She punched the dial button.

  Pat answered immediately, as though he’d been waiting for the call.

  40

  The rain was steady rather than heavy as Cornstalk pushed the Subaru as hard as it would go on the gravel road. Through the swish of the wiper blades visibility was poor, getting worse by the minute. Cornstalk focused on controlling the car. He just had to make it to Eden. But he could feel the strength slipping from his body. He kept the pedal to the metal. As time passed he began to feel groggy; now his eyelids had a tendency to droop. He went to sleep for a nanosecond, his chin hitting his chest, before jerking awake.

  ‘Concentrate!’ he shouted.

  He squirmed and squelched as blood continued to fill his pants and soak the seat. He grasped the wheel even more tightly as desperation and fear began to take hold.

  ‘No fucking way!’ he screamed, as thoughts of his imminent death crept into his mind.

  On a slight left-handed bend he drifted to the wrong side of the track, lost it on the muddy verge and careered down a steep embankment. Travelling at high speed, the Subaru rolled twice, sliced through undergrowth and dense shrubbery, ploughing on into the bush and finally smacking into a pine tree. All the glass in the car shattered; the driver’s door sprang open and Cornstalk was thrown out. Fortunately for him he did not hit a tree, which would’ve been the end of him.

  Cornstalk lay face-down on the wet ground. There were dirt and pine needles in his mouth. He opened his eyes, realising he’d been unconscious, but for how long he had no idea.

  He tried to get up. Every part of him hurt. ‘Shit!’

  He couldn’t see a damn thing. First he thought he’d gone blind, but it was just the dark, dense and impenetrable bush. He crawled along on all fours, groaning and cursing from the effort and discomfort. He could smell petrol from the wrecked car. Rain continued to float down on him, soft as snowflakes.

  He couldn’t tell which way the road was. In a short time, crawling along the forest floor, he was completely lost.

  He had to find the road.

  He rose to his feet with difficulty and pushed on, feeling his way ahead like a blind man. Now and then he was hit in the face by a wet branch. No sign of the road. He was starting to panic. Was he going deeper into the bush?

  He figured maybe he should go back to the car, but then realised he didn’t know where it was any more. He’d been on the move for ten, fifteen minutes, but in which direction he didn’t know.

  He was completely bushed.

  ‘Fuck!’ he screamed. Then he dropped to his knees.

  The main thing was not to freak out in this situation, but it was hard not to. His clock was running down. He could feel it in the tick, tick, tick of his accelerated heartbeat.

  Cornstalk decided to rest for a minute while he got his act together. He leaned forward, his forehead touching the ground. The soft rain on his head and shoulders was strangely reassuring. He figured he would be all right, if only he could find the road again.

  Then he jerked his head up. He was aware of another presence, close by. There was the sound of something moving through the shrubbery behind him.

  Then he could smell it—a foul, rancid stink. He turned his head. Must be a wombat or something. All he could discern were two small, red eyes, glowing in the dark. The animal was right there, right behind him.

  Then he heard it grunt.

  Shit. The sound came from a large animal, too big for a wombat. And wombats don’t grunt. Pi
gs grunt.

  The animal began to nuzzle his legs, grunting and snuffling. Then it prodded his backside with something sharp and hard.

  Tusks.

  Cornstalk realised with a terrible fear and foreboding that the pig had been attracted by the scent of his blood. It had come to make a meal of him.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he shouted.

  The pig began to chew through his jeans. Cornstalk felt its teeth penetrate the soft flesh of his thigh.

  He thrashed his arms about and wriggled ahead, out of its range. But the pig followed, having enjoyed its first taste of human meat. It grunted and pushed its snout into Cornstalk, clamping its teeth onto his pants and tearing the fabric from his leg.

  Cornstalk scrambled for his life.

  The pig butted his arse, and bowled him over.

  Christ, it was a monster.

  With his face in the dirt, Cornstalk felt the brute brushing against him, digging its tusks into him, engulfing him in its rotten breath and the overpowering stink of its filthy hide.

  He felt its tongue lick his exposed leg.

  ‘Aargh!’

  Cornstalk grabbed a fallen branch. Twisting around, ignoring his pain, he smashed the branch over the animal’s snout as it nudged and prodded him. The blow had little or no effect. He hit it again, and again, with all his depleted strength.

  The pig squealed, releasing its hold on his leg.

  Cornstalk scrambled ahead, scuttling on all fours, the animal’s hot breath never far behind.

  Then Cornstalk reached an embankment. He tried to climb up it, but slid down in the mud. His hand found an exposed tree root as the pig lunged at him, grabbing his calf between its monstrous teeth.

  Cornstalk felt his flesh tear from the bone.

  Screaming, he dragged himself up the embankment with the help of the tree root. If it broke, if he slid down again, he was history. The pig would have him.

  The root held.

  But the pig would not let go.

  ‘Get off me! Get off me!’

  The pig continued to gnaw at his calf, grunting and gnashing its teeth as Cornstalk desperately dragged himself up the incline, towards safety. The pig would not be able to climb after him. Strangely, he felt little pain as the animal tore through his flesh.