At the Edge

by Lee Murray

  He felt his mother’s hands, breathed in her smell, heard his father’s voice, gruff and angry which he knew was fear as much as anything else and his brother coming out to see what was going on and saying they should go now and front up to the bastard who’d done this and taken Justin and his mum saying they had to call Justin’s parents and what happened to Justin, dear?

  That stink! Green glowed from the darkness, the dim pallid glow of another toad. He hadn’t known they were white.

  A figure detached from the gloom. It moved towards him. Colin tripped and fell on his butt, slamming his spine. Pain flared too bright for the dark.

  Colin wanted to go to bed. His mum would treat him like a little kid. His dad would wait till he was okay to give him hell and that was okay, too.

  ‘Colin.’

  That wasn’t his mum.

  The figure above him bent and took his hand, pulled him to his feet. A hand slimy and cold, the same size as his, pulling him back towards the Dome, which was looming black and oddly shapeless against the sky.

  A figure the size and shape of Justin.

  Colin screamed. He grappled, hit, scratched at Justin, fought crazy and screaming, kicking. Justin’s grip was unbreakable. He dragged him to the dark and gaping entrance.

  ‘Justin?’ Colin whispered, almost crying.

  Justin’s grip tightened.

  He was going to take him back in, down the tiers of shattered seats, across the stage, into the corridors, down the stairs and into that green, redshot noxious torrent. And then he would come out, with a toad, and they would go up the stairs, through the corridors, across the stage, up the seating, through the tangle of rubble, back across the Causeway and into VicPark. They would part and go to their own homes and the poison would spread. Burswood poison.

  Colin fought as the figure dragged him relentlessly back into the Dome. He struggled as he was pulled over lumps of concrete and twisted rusted braids of supporting steel that took great gouges out of his legs.

  He didn’t want to hear his mother scream. Didn’t want to see his father turned to a monstrous figure with empty eyes. That’s what they said people became after going to Burswood.

  It was like fighting a shadow.

  He fought as they went over the rubble in the doorway and Colin was abruptly surrounded by echoes of his own hoarse sobs and screams.

  Suddenly furious, hating and wanting and crying for his friend, Colin swung a huge kick at him. His kick went wild. He lost his balance and fell, screaming terror and despair, clutching Justin hard, his bestest friend, all he had, as he fell screaming down the Mayan pyramid of broken tiers. An avalanche of shadows and groaning lumps of concrete followed to stone him, breaking bones and hope and finally, consciousness.

  The shattered roof trembled as his screams shivered whatever mortar was left.

  With a peculiar sighing sound, something shifted and the remaining roof gave way, floated a moment in the darkening air before crashing against the concrete tiers, against the stage and empty spaces, blocking doors and shadows so only whispers flew out into the night on the rising clouds of dust.

  The toad loped slowly towards the darkness of the misshapen trees that concealed the fence lining the Causeway.

  Little Thunder

  Jan Goldie

  Whaitiri stepped from one high-heeled boot to the other, shaking out the pins and needles in her legs. She rolled her neck to ease the ache of driving and peeled off her gloves, slapping them across the booster’s saddle. With hot palms laid bare, she reached into the cotton messenger bag for one last check, then hefted its weight over her shoulder.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ she said.

  The viewing platforms looked empty. She had imagined the queue snaking around the deserted railings, but nobody was keen to take in the sights at this time of year. Even now, with the sun low in the sky, the place was as oppressive as a coffin in a swamp. She didn’t need to get closer to know the canyon was deep; she could smell the empty.

  Turning her back, she headed out of the vehicle park, towards the bar. Squatting alone in a sea of black sand, the place looked like it had spawned fully formed from some ancient Western movie. One single-storey building with a dinky porch out front. Windows closed against the ever clogging dust, curtains drawn. Shadows crossed the slits of light, music played and laughter trickled through the cracks in the wall with sitcom regularity. On its corrugated metal roof, a neon sign broadcast a name intermittently, occasionally missing off a letter, as if it couldn’t decide if it was worth it. The Edge. The Ed. The Edg.

  Beyond, the dark sands stretched, a flat and lonely desert pimpled with random boulders, a haphazard acne. Did they roll there? Did they spew out of the ground?

  She eased towards the building, clicked up the steps and threw a look over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the shimmer of heat and black diamonds that separated her from the gaping crevasse.

  Shifting the strap of the bag so it made a diagonal stripe across her cleavage, its contents bouncing on her butt, she pulled the sleeve of her red leather jacket down over her hand and opened the door. Should have kept her gloves on.

  ‘Welcome to The Edge Bar and Restaurant. Please place all weapons in the bin provided. Enjoy your visit.’

  Whaitiri ignored the recorded invitation and stepped inside. The bar smelled strongly of onions and slow roasted beetleberries, an unusual combination. The door locked behind her with an audible clunk. Sweat itched its way down her lower back and she resisted the urge to reach back and have a good scratch. Instead, she unzipped her jacket.

  ‘Welcome to the Crack. How can we satiate your corporeal desires this evening?’

  The Multi grabbed her hand and pumped it before Whaitiri could draw away. Whaitiri stiffened, released the immediate tension in her jaw and, as casually as possible, withdrew her hand from the creature’s sweaty grip. Hand sanitiser. Where did she put it?

  ‘I’ll sit at the bar,’ she said.

  The Multi gestured to an empty stool. Whaitiri used the short walk to scan the room. Low lights, hard to see. Two men seated at a table, one couple on a couch, a tall barkeep and the Multi. No sign of Ellingham. As soon as she pulled back the bar stool, she realised her mistake. Her back was to the room.

  To compensate, she climbed up and angled her body, leather pants sticking to the hot vinyl, squelching as she wiggled into place. The Multi watched, mono-brow raised.

  ‘First time in the Crack?’

  ‘I thought it was called The Edge.’

  ‘A little crevice humour,’ it said.

  The Multi gestured at Whaitiri’s trousers. ‘Rarchend leather in maroon? Interesting choice for the weather we’re having.’

  ‘It’s red,’ said Whaitiri, smoothing them. She tried not to stare at the Multi’s six teats.

  ‘If you say so, sweetcheeks,’ it said, beckoning the barkeep over. ‘You here for the party? You’re early, doesn’t start till later tonight.’

  The question worried Whaitiri. What party?

  ‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to speak to someone before it starts.’

  ‘What’ll you have?’ interrupted the barkeep.

  Whaitiri craned her neck to meet his eyes. Ustartion males grew one of two ways, either up or out. This one’s head skimmed the ceiling.

  ‘I’ll take a vodka lime,’ she said.

  She swung her bag around her body so its load rested in her lap, and suspiciously eyed the rag the Ustartian was using to ‘clean’ the glasses. Hopefully, the pure alcohol would sanitise the vessel.

  ‘No ice!’ she remembered at the last moment. She could do without liquid recycled through the bodies of a population of no-hopers at the edge of nowhere.

  Her gaze lingered on the men at the table by the window, playing Charts. They sipped on red drinks, with long straws that stayed in their mouths as they played
.

  ‘Twenty darushas to enter the game,’ said the Multi, pointing at them.

  Whaitiri shook her head and turned back to the bar as the barkeep snapped down a round coaster and placed the Gimlet in the centre of it and then, with a flourish, threw in a pink straw.

  ‘Ten darushas,’ he said, picking his enormous nostril.

  Whaitiri fished in her bag, surreptitiously checking the package and coming across the hand sanitiser. She tucked it down the front of her top for safekeeping and hauled out her card, swiping it across the counter. The Ustartian grunted and wandered off, examining the results of his mining.

  ‘You can talk to me about the party,’ said the Multi, hovering. It took the bar stool beside her, its generous helping of body fat hanging in rolls over the edge of the circular seat.

  Whaitiri kept her face straight, slamming down doors on her prejudice. This wasn’t the time to piss off a Multi, outcast or not.

  ‘I want to make an exchange,’ she said, quickly. ‘For the human.’

  The Multi grinned. ‘What human?’

  Whaitiri forced herself to take a breath.

  ‘You know, the human you’re keeping out back,’ she bluffed.

  The Multi arched its back.

  ‘Oh, that human. Why do you want him?’

  Whaitiri thought about the last time she’d seen Ellingham. His face frozen in shock as she’d hauled him in to pay for his crimes. The guilt had gradually, with ever-tightening strips of self-blame, strapped itself around her middle and now she wore it like a go-to belt. It went with everything. This time was no different. He’d bailed on her again. She was here to take in the garbage and sweep up the mess.

  ‘I’ve been asked to collect him for his family,’ she said.

  The Multi adjusted its weight on the stool, fat dripping to the other side. Whaitiri touched a finger to the blade concealed in her sleeve.

  ‘The human is a crucial component of our set-up here. He has … certain skills. What do you have to exchange that would make it worth my while?’

  Whaitiri crossed long legs and yawned, trying to ignore the obvious danger in the creature’s voice. ‘I have a treasure. Something old. Something precious.’

  ‘Something pre-occupation Earth?’

  Whaitiri raised her eyebrows in a quick yes.

  ‘Well, show me!’ it demanded, agitation wobbling its teats and disconcertingly swelling the mound of flesh in its tight, gold g-string.

  ‘I’ll show you once I’ve seen that Ellingham is alive and well.’

  The Multi curled a tendril of coarse hair around the third finger on its right hand, a surprisingly coquettish gesture. It gazed at the ceiling as if trying hard to decide.

  ‘Ellingham,’ it purred. ‘I’ve heard that name somewhere before…’

  ‘One too many buttons, “sweetcheeks”.’ Whaitiri lurched off the bar stool, ignoring her repulsion, to grab a handful of the Multi’s meaty flesh. It slipped in her grip but she got enough to hang on to.

  The men at the table by the window were startled at her sudden move, hands flying instinctively to empty weapon pouches. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shorter of the two leap to his feet, sucking gulps of air through the two thin slits in his cheeks, ready for a fight.

  Pleebards. Dammit, easy mistake to make in a dark room, but now she thought about it, she could smell them. The slight whiff of week-old fish with a side of milk left in the sun. What were cold-dwellers doing here, when they could be enjoying the spoils of occupation on her home planet?

  Infuriatingly, the Multi laughed and waved the short outlander away. ‘I can handle Miss Maroon Leather.’

  The creature sat down, carefully puckering his mouth over his straw. Batting purely feminine eyelashes at Whaitiri, the Multi pouted.

  Whaitiri narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip, ignoring the slick flesh and hot, sweaty texture. The longing to wash her hands was a storm, crackling at the back of her mind.

  ‘Look, I’m not here to muck around,’ she hissed, pushing the Multi back against the bar.

  ‘Ooh baby, I love me some rough foreplay.’ It gave her a suggestive smile.

  Whaitiri rolled her eyes.

  ‘This is how it’s going to work. I have something you’ll want, something important to my people. Taonga, treasure. I’m willing to give this to you if you hand over Ellingham in one piece. Now where is he?’

  The Multi moved before she could take another breath. It slithered out of her grip and made a grab for the messenger bag, missing. Whaitiri grasped a handful of hair, but fell off balance and landed in an ugly heap on the floor, carrying the Multi with her, arms flailing. The full body slam was more than she could bear. She pulled the Multi’s head towards her and, using the bag strap to encircle its neck, she squeezed till the creature rolled off her to the floor. But just as she released the pressure and unwound the strap, the Multi brought its head up against Whaitiri’s nose. She let out a yelp, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Last bloody straw!’ she yelled and withdrew the heavy green weapon from her bag. Using all her strength, she slugged the Multi across the side of its head and watched it hit the floor, out cold.

  ‘Get to your feet. Slowly.’

  The gun pointed at Whaitiri’s head was small and deadly. Outdated police issue Ustartian. The barkeep’s huge hand almost engulfed the powerful weapon.

  ‘Place the weapon on the floor,’ he said.

  Whaitiri obeyed, her eyes on the gun.

  ‘Now, put your hands above your head and walk to the front door.’

  She walked, carefully avoiding the Multi’s sprawled body. On some distant level she registered the music playing, the Charts coins flipping, the occupants of the bar looking away.

  ‘Place your hands against the door and spread your legs.’ The Ustartian frisked her efficiently, sliding large hands down her arms, legs and checking under the long hair that fell down her back. Lastly, he ran a portable scanner over her entire body and started pulling off knives.

  ‘Dammit,’ she whispered.

  ‘Okay, we’re going to take a walk. Tesslah, please look after the bar,’ said the Ustartian, speaking to the couple hidden in the shadows by the couch. ‘Gentlemen, please accept a drink on the house for this disruption. I hope you’ll stay for the party.’

  The Pleebards looked pleased. The ‘couple’ took its place behind the bar and began mixing drinks.

  The Ustartian pushed Whaitiri through the door and out into the airless evening, shoving her down the steps and propelling her forward with a hefty kick to the back.

  ‘Hey, use your words, big boy!’

  ‘Shut your cake hole!’

  ‘You didn’t learn that one on Ustart.’

  ‘I had the displeasure of serving on Earth before it was … renovated.’

  Whaitiri grimaced. Any reference to what happened on Earth felt personal, leaving a painful physical sensation that started at the top of her head and ended somewhere low, clenched around her perineum. Not cool. She tried to turn, but the Ustart’s gun formed a cool circle on the back of her neck. She bit back her retort.

  The bike sat where she’d left it. No way to make a run for it. The big guy manoeuvred her towards the Edge.

  They skirted the railings and approached a gap in the tourist trappings. As they drew closer she could feel the change in atmosphere. As if this enormous canyon had its own weather system. For all she knew, it did. Older than any natural feature back home, the Edge was a void, an impenetrable fissure that stretched the length of this continent. A drop off that millions of years ago might have been covered in water but was now a sightseer’s paradise. Approaching its brink, she could see why. The vista spread out in waves of earthy brown and tangerine, the sun now sinking in the sky and bathing the scene in gold. Winged reptiles circled far overhead, on an endless hunt for
small prey. Sweat stung her eyes. She took it all in. The Ustartian’s gun remained glued to the back of her neck, the metal warming with her body. She had to stall him.

  ‘Where’s Ellingham? Give me back my patu.’

  He pushed her closer to the Edge.

  ‘My guess is that’s not your weapon. My guess is you’re here out of some ridiculous sense of duty or love or family. Humans. What’s the damn point anymore?’

  Her toes stopped at the edge of the canyon. She refused to look down.

  ‘Duty is for arseholes,’ she replied, turning to look at him despite the gun. ‘Love is for teenagers. I’m neither.’

  The Ustartian brought the gun close to her temple.

  ‘Family then.’

  ‘I have no family.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I may be Ustartian but I’m not stupid. Either way, you’re not having him because we can get more darushas in an evening with this guy than you’ve seen in a lifetime, and you’re getting in the way of my retirement fund. Accidents happen all the time around here and no one’s got the fuel reserves to go pick up the pieces.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘Really, well that’s original.’

  ‘Where’s Ellingham?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘He’s mine.’

  ‘Does he owe you money? I’ve heard he owes many.’ The Ustartian laughed and the sound bounced off harsh angles and hard rock. ‘Debt is universal. Can’t live without it, can’t pay it off.’

  ‘Well said. But I owe her nothing.’

  The Ustartian whirled and she took the chance, grabbing his long cloak with two hands, dragging him to the edge and pushing him over. It seemed to take an age for the giant to fall. As if time wanted one more slow-motion scene in the movie of his life. Jowls quivered, robes billowed, his arms propelled, but in the end he slipped silently into the crack.

  ‘No need to thank me.’

  Ellingham’s stubble had grey in it now. His sweep of hair receded a little further up the slope of his forehead, like a cave eroded by the sea. Whaitiri’s gaze flicked to the wide nose and high cheekbones he shared with her mother and rested on the swagger in his dark, gleaming eyes.