The Amber Trail

by M. J. Kelly

  The thin policeman waved them away. “You can go.”

  Jules herded her possessions into her pack, and they returned to the back seat of the taxi. The driver started the car and directed it through the barriers to the open road, moving up through the gears toward Hampi.

  Dig turned to Jules. “Everything alright?”

  Jules shot him a glassy stare. “Fine.” She turned to look back out the window. The tag from her shirt protruded against her neck.

  Dig watched her for a moment, then turned his gaze forward again. Buildings appeared on both sides of the road. They were nearly in town.

  17

  THE TAXI PULLED TO A STOP on the Hampi bazaar, and they stepped out to the road and paid the driver through the open window. The street was busy, and people milled around the stalls that lined the edge of the dirt road. A man roasted nuts over a bucket of charcoal, and the tangy smoke wafted into their faces. A large white cow with sagging jowls sat in the middle of the thoroughfare and licked at its rump.

  “Where to now?” Jules said.

  “Over here first.”

  Dig hitched his bag over his shoulder and threaded through the crowd to a familiar shopfront with Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information written in the front window. He pushed through the curtain of beads in the doorway. Hari was sitting in his usual position behind the desk, scratching at his sideburns, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. His nephew sat at one of the computers with headphones on. Call of Duty gunfire burst across the screen. As Dig walked in Hari frowned.

  “You,” he said. “You owe me one bicycle.”

  “Yes, I do. But the bad news is I can’t bring it back to you. It was lost.”

  Hari lifted a finger in the air. “You'll have to pay. Two thousand rupee.”

  “Fair enough.” Dig extracted his wallet and handed over the money.

  Hari took the cash, inspected it, and waggled his head with a smile. “Very good,” he said. “Now is there anything else I can do for you? Train ticket? Bus ticket?”

  “First, I’d like to make a phone call home.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’d like to hire a motorbike.”

  Hari’s smile dropped.

  They were on the road soon after, with Dig in control of the motorbike and Jules hooked in behind him, her arms tight around his waist. The bike threw up gravel as they weaved through the centre of the bazaar.

  Jules leaned into Dig’s ear and spoke loudly over the roar of the engine. Her hair blew behind her in the slipstream. “How far away is it?”

  “About half an hour,” Dig shouted, “But it’ll be a pretty bumpy ride.”

  Jules’ grip tightened around his waist. “Have we got this right?”

  Dig shrugged, and turned his attention to the road.

  They followed the trail to the old railway line, then Dig slowed the bike and turned left to rumble down the centre of the tracks. The air was dry and dusty, and thick bushes lined the tracks on both sides.

  As they travelled, a familiar fluttering grew in his stomach. He realised that everything was now on the line—not just his own life, but the lives of Jules, Chook, and his family. His whole world was hedged on his hunch regarding Raj.

  But was his hunch correct? And could he even prove it? And if it was true, what value did the secret hold to Maxine?

  He didn’t know. But he knew he had to try. Otherwise they would be back, in Dig’s own home, and dishing out retribution on Maxine’s own terms. Dig gritted his teeth and focused on the centre of the railway tracks. It was time to face it all head on.

  The track dipped down across the low wooden river bridge, and the motorbike wheel bounced through the sleepers. As he steered the bike up the opposite bank, Dig glanced toward the cluster of broken bushes where he had crashed Shiv’s motorbike on the way out.

  The track straightened and directed itself toward the bowels of the high, imposing hill that stood as the last line of defence between the brewery and the outside world. The rocky ridges rose up on both sides of the track and the dark crescent of the tunnel appeared ahead like a rotten sinkhole.

  Dig slowed the bike to a stop outside the tunnel mouth. A warm breeze howled into their faces, like the fetid breath of the mountain itself.

  “What’s happening?” Jules said.

  Dig took a deep breath. “The brewery’s on the other side of this tunnel.” He rummaged through his bag and unfolded his map. After studying it for a moment he pointed to a square on the plan ringed by closely spaced contours. “We’re surrounded by cliffs here. The tunnel’s the only way through.”

  “And they’re holding Chook on the other side?”

  “That’s what Shiv said.” He turned to her. “You ready?”

  Jules blinked rapidly. Her face was white. “Just a sec.” She stepped off the bike with hunched shoulders and brought her pack to her chest. She fumbled the zip open and lifted out a packet of cigarettes, then with trembling hands she extracted a thickly rolled cylinder and a lighter from the box. She placed the cigarette into her mouth and tried to fire it to life, but the wind extinguished the flame.

  She turned her back to Dig, shielded herself from the wind, and attempted to light it again. Soon the familiar, sweet musky smell filled the air.

  Dig opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and just shook his head minutely.

  Jules turned. “I don’t know Dig, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “It just feels like we’re walking into a big trap.”

  “You don’t have to come. You can wait here if you like.”

  Jules grimaced. “I’ve got to get Chook...” She swallowed. “Look, how about this. We go in, and I just hand back all the cash and gear I stole and we ask for a truce.”

  “I thought you said there was no more?”

  Jules’ eyes narrowed. She stood with one arm across her midriff and an elbow propped up holding the burning cigarette. She turned her back to him again; the protruding tag on the back of her shirt was still visible against her neckline.

  “How’d you get the stuff past that checkpoint?”

  Jules remained silent.

  Dig ran a hand through his hair, then his attention returned to Jules’ shirt tag. He kicked out the bike stand and stepped off the machine.

  “Did you say that you got that shirt made up in Badami?”

  Jules glanced at him, then tried to push the lighter back into the cigarette packet with a shaking hand. “Yeah that’s right.”

  “So why do you have a Made in China tag on the back of it?”

  The lighter fell clattering to the timbers between the tracks. The tendons in Jules’ neck tightened and she reached to the back of her neck to tuck the tag away.

  Dig frowned. “So what did you…” He took a quick intake of breath. “Your bag...you had him do something to your bag. To hide the opium you stole.”

  Jules scowled. “You should keep your head out of my business.” She glanced at the pack on Dig’s shoulders as she walked back toward the bike. “Let’s just go find my brother.”

  Dig followed her gaze to his pack. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach. “No,” he said. “You didn’t. Did you?”

  He whipped off his bag and dumped it on the ground between his legs, then ripped open the zip and pushed the contents about inside, pressing his hand against the inside walls. Jules’ eyes widened.

  Dig continued to search—and then he found it, a patch of rough, thick stitching around a piece of fabric that did not match the rest of the material. He pulled at it, and the material tore away, revealing a flat, hard block wrapped in plastic wrap.

  He glared at her. “When I went for my walk in Badami,” he seethed. “You sewed drugs into my bag? And left me to carry them through the checkpoint for you?” Heat flushed through his body and he stepped toward Jules with his fists clenched. She cowered away and took a couple of unbalanced steps down the track ballast.

  “How dare you!” Dig shoute
d, breathing rapidly with his feet wide apart. Blood pounded in his ears.

  Jules clambered across the toe of the ballast, heading toward the tunnel, then climbed it again and stood beside the bike. “Listen,” she said, holding her palms out in front of her. “It's our back up plan...if things go bad we can try to trade it for our lives. Get things back to how they were. I can make it up with Shiv if I want, I know it.”

  “And what happens to me in that scenario? You offer me up as a sacrifice?”

  “No.” Jules’ eyebrows drew together. “You can...join the business too.”

  “Are you crazy? Are you ever going to face reality? Your time is over out here. You need to ditch the drugs, find Chook, and go home.”

  Jules blinked rapidly and looked down to her feet—where Dig’s bag lay on the ground beside the bike. Her lips pursed.

  Dig stepped toward her. “Don’t you da—”

  But it was too late. Jules snatched up Dig’s pack, then turned to mount the motorbike. She started it up and threw the bike into gear.

  Dig ran at her, pumping his arms and legs and sprinting down the centre of the track. When he was within arm’s reach he grabbed for the back of the bike, but she pulled back the throttle and it shot away toward the tunnel, wavering back and forth between the rails.

  “Stop!” Dig shouted. “Just wait!” He chased her down the line. “There are hornets in there! Hornets!” But the bike zipped away into the gaping hole of the tunnel, and Dig jogged to a stop outside the opening.

  He watched the rear lights of the motorbike disappear into the depths of the hill until he was left only with the dissipating buzz of the engine as it echoed back toward him. Dig laced his hands on the top of his head and stared into the darkness.

  As he stood, the echo suddenly changed pitch, then hitched and caught, and for an awful second there was a zinging pause before an almighty crash of broken plastic and metal echoed down the passage.

  Then a puttering hiss.

  Then silence.

  Dig took two running steps into the tunnel opening before spotting a couple of roaming insects zipping through the shadows.

  He looked down at his bare arms and legs and stopped, frozen. All his spare clothes had been taken with the stolen pack. All his medicines had gone with it too. He could go no further.

  A familiar sound began to ramp up ahead of him—like the vibrant hum of an electrical substation, cranking up through the gears, emitting an unnerving pulsation that reverberated in his chest. Dig knew what it was; it was the sound of the hive coming to life, ready to attack. Ready to inflict pain.

  A primal, high-pitched scream echoed back from the tunnel, making the hairs on the back of Dig’s neck stand to attention.

  “Get them off me!” Jules’ voice echoed, whimpering.

  Dig’s breathing increased, and he paced back and forth at the tunnel mouth. “Run Jules!” he shouted into the tunnel. “Run!”

  “They’re everywhere,” she squealed. “Help me!”

  “I can’t! You need to get out!”

  There was a guttural moan, and a slapping, followed by a series of sobs.

  “Stop them!” she screamed. “Just…stop…!”

  He continued to pace. “Get out of there!” he screamed into the darkness.

  “I…can’t! Oh...please!...Help meee!”

  “Run to my voice!”

  But there was no answer. All he could hear was the humming ferocity of the hive, churning at full intensity somewhere around the corner in the darkness. His legs felt weak, and he dropped to a squatting position just outside the tunnel opening, eyes screwed shut and full of moisture. He shook his head.

  A final word screamed out of the tunnel mouth in an ear splitting shriek, echoing off the tunnel walls and drilling into his brain.

  “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

  Dig crammed his thumbs into his ear canals and squashed his palms hard against his temples until his head throbbed. His eyes screwed shut and nausea churned in his stomach.

  “...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...”

  He willed the sound to stop, but it continued on and on, for a near implausible length of time, piercing through his head and jamming his thoughts until finally it trailed away, and he was left with nothing but the humming echo of the hive.

  He dropped backwards to lie on his back, with the twin metal strips of the train line running past each shoulder. The timber sleepers were warm below his shoulder blades, and he stared blankly at the clouds floating past the arch of the tunnel opening. Tears tracked over his cheekbones and pooled at his earlobes.

  He felt spent, like all his willpower had been depleted.

  His mind was blank, and he didn’t have the energy to start it again.

  As he stared at the sky, his vision caught on a small, colourful shape moving through the air, turning circles in the breeze. It ducked and dived, then glided toward him and landed cleanly on the top of the tunnel arch above his head. It was a bird, and Dig felt no surprise when he recognised it as a Rainbow Bee Eater. It lifted its wing and preened its undercarriage, then looked sideways at him.

  Dig watched the bird with a trembling chin, then closed his eyes and pressed his lips thinly together.

  “Why?” he whispered, as another tear tracked down his cheek. “Why did you have to go and die Dad? And leave us this shitfight to deal with?”

  He sniffed. “Well I give up. I’m going home. The brewery can go to shit. And if they come after us, then so be it.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t get through that tunnel. I’ll be eaten alive.” He looked up at the bird. It remained on the top of the arch, unmoved.

  “So that’s it,” he said. “No more.”

  The bird cocked its head, then launched into the air and flew toward Hampi. Dig sat up and watched it leave, his eyebrows knitting together.

  He waited, listening to the howl of the wind in the tunnel. But the bird didn’t return.

  “Fine.” Dig pushed himself to his feet. He wiped at his cheeks and walked down the tracks, away from the tunnel, away from the brewery.

  He followed the tracks around the bend, stepping slowly from one sleeper to the next. His head throbbed. Out of habit, he reached for his water bottle, but of course it was gone too, sitting inside his pack that was now likely somewhere in the depths of hornet hill. He shuffled along the sleepers with his head down, sweat dripping from his eyebrows, his mouth dry and tasting of dirt. He considered how far he had left to walk, and he realised he would probably be close to dehydration by the time he got back to town.

  And what else was in the pack? His passport for one, his money and credit card. How would he get out of the country? He frowned and stopped.

  The track dipped down to the right, heading for the bridge over the river. Flanking the bend was the pocket of broken palms where he had lost control of the motorbike days before. The motorbike would still be in there somewhere, mangled and lifeless against the trunk of the palm.

  He narrowed his eyes, then glanced at the towering hill of rock behind him. Its base was steep and slippery, and would be impossible to climb. The breeze from the tunnel still whined in his face.

  After a moment, Dig stepped carefully down the ballast shoulder to the tree line. When he reached the palms, he found the broken branches that marked his crash entry point, and stuck his head through the gap into the shadows beyond.

  After his eyes adjusted, he saw it—the mangled wreck of metal that was the motorbike, already tangled in spider webs and surrounded by a dark ring of dirt that was likely motor oil from a fractured engine. Dig ducked his head, stepped through the branches, and pushed his way through the foliage toward the bike.

  He walked around to the rear of the bike and spotted what he was looking for—the open storage compartment under the bike seat—and the pair of worn overalls and scuffed helmet that had spilt out of it during the crash a couple of days earlier.

  He grabbed a cuff of the overalls and pulled them toward him, but they stuck fast, hooked so
mewhere underneath the main body of the bike. He crouched to the forest floor, levered his shoulder below the main frame, and pushed up. The bike protested with a squeal of metal-on-metal, but lifted, and Dig yanked the overalls free. He lowered the bike to the ground and held the garment up to the light. It was dirty and worn, but seemed intact.

  He picked up the helmet. The paint was chipped and the visor cracked, but it was still in one piece. He rubbed at the visor with his shirt, then tried it on for size. It pressed hard against his ears, but he managed to squeeze it on before removing it again.

  He stared at the two items for another long moment, then took a deep breath and pressed his lips together before he lifted his T-shirt over his head and dropped it in a pile beside him. He stepped into the overalls, inserted his arms, and drew the front zipper up tightly to the underside of his chin, then tucked the bottom of the overalls into his socks. The garment was a couple of sizes too small and pulled down at the top of his shoulders—but it covered him from his ankles to his wrists to his chin.

  From the ground, he lifted a solid branch that was the length of his arm, then collected a litter of dry palm fronds and began tying them to the stick. When he was finished, he had a thick wrapping of dried leaf tied around the top half.

  He lifted the helmet and shirt from the ground and pushed his way out of the foliage to climb back up the embankment. When he reached the railway line he put his head down and trudged toward the hill, stick in one hand, helmet and shirt in the other.

  The track turned a now familiar bend back into the hill, and the rocky outcroppings again rose up on both sides of the track. Dig gritted his teeth as the semicircle of darkness appeared around the bend.

  As he neared the tunnel entrance the breeze increased in intensity, blowing a hot, rotten blast that flapped his hair across his face and smelled of stagnant water and decomposition.

  He stopped and stared into the dark. A wave of goose bumps broke out across his arms and his stomach churned. He placed the stick carefully on the ground with a shaking hand, and lifted his T- shirt up to wrap it tightly around the base of his neck. He held the helmet out, swallowed, then squashed it down onto his head. The interior stank of sweat and motor oil.