by Greg McLean
Bruce didn’t understand these people. It wasn’t like they went on a week-long tour blind. They knew what they had signed up for. Eight days and seven nights travelling through Western Australia’s most rugged and spectacular scenery: from the harshness of the mid-west deserts, through to the croc-infested waters of the pristine canyons and gorges up north.
The brochure told them in plain English: get back to nature, camp under the stars, catch your own food and crap in the desert. Well, it didn’t say that last item, per se, but if people couldn’t read between the lines, then that was their problem.
Still, Bruce knew he should cut these types some slack. Most had never set foot in the outback before. And Sam did seem to have a lot to contend with, aside from the dust: namely, a surly teenage son who clearly didn’t want to be on this trip, and especially not with his old man.
Bruce should be thankful there was only one complainer on board. So far the rest had kept quiet and did everything they were told.
But it was early days yet. This was only the first day of the tour. (The second technically, but the trip from Perth to Wiluna didn’t really count: travelling on major highways was merely a formality, as was the stay overnight in Wiluna, a necessity to get to the real beginning of the tour, which began today.) They had yet to experience the true wildness of the outback – then they’d know what it meant to be in the middle of nowhere, living by your wits, off the land.
Maybe that was taking things a bit far. Bruce and Duncan did have canned goods and other assorted snacks and drinks in the back of the Kombi, and there were some places along the way they could stop for some proper, freshly cooked meals. Their clients were novices, after all; mostly middle-class folk who wanted to experience the rugged outback while still retaining some sense of civilisation. You couldn’t expect to toss them out into the wilderness with a smile and a handshake and leave them to their own devices. That’s not what Sand Surfer’s Overland Wilderness Tours was about.
Hell, not by a long shot.
The Rudall River Highway stretched out straight as a ruler before the ’64 Kombi Microbus. Red clouds of dust spewed around them like swarms of blood-infested locusts, muddying the clear blue morning sky. The nine-seater van, which currently held ten people, shook and bounced like a fun-park ride. But Ursula (named after the bikini-wearing goddess) was tough – the dove-blue-and-white baby with the grey vinyl seats had made the trip many times, and she had so far been good to them. Unlike the bookish father with the aversion to dust, Ursula never complained or made a fuss, she just did her job dutifully and always arrived at the destination intact – filthy, yes, but alive and well.
‘This highway runs roughly parallel to the famous Canning Stock Route,’ Bruce called back to his group of passengers. ‘The route was used by the beef cattlemen in the first half of the century as a way of traversing the harsh desert region of Western Australia. It runs for over twelve hundred miles and is virtually impossible to cross in a vehicle. We come very close to it in some spots. We’ll stop and you can see it for yourselves.’
This got a mostly lukewarm reception from the passengers.
In Bruce’s experience, the majority of people who came on this tour didn’t care much about history. They came for the scenery, or perhaps get back to nature; the historical portion of the tour came a distant third.
When ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ started playing on the radio, Amber gave a squeal of delight. ‘Oooh, I love this song.’ She started tapping on the dashboard.
The honey-blonde beauty was sitting on the other side of Duncan on the front passenger seat. Her long hair was held in place by a wide straw hat, but it still swayed as she moved to the song and sang along in a not unpleasant voice.
‘Yeah, me too,’ Duncan said, drawing on his cigarette and smiling. His left arm was slung along the back of the seat, his hand dangerously close to touching Amber’s neck.
Actually, Duncan hated Dylan – loathed his voice and what he called ‘crummy protest music’. He liked his music harder and sexier: the Stones, the Who and that new cat, Jimi Hendrix.
Still, when it came to the fairer sex, Duncan would do and say just about anything if it meant getting inside their panties. Including lying about liking Bob Dylan.
Bruce glanced again into the small oval mirror. Aside from Sam and Amber, the other passengers were keeping quiet. Clients were often close-lipped the first day or two. It wasn’t until the second night, sleeping under the stars in the vast Rudall River National Park, that everyone started relaxing and opening up.
This group was no different. They were all very much strangers as they’d bunked down in the motel in Wiluna last night, and hadn’t progressed much beyond that so far this morning.
Or perhaps it was the immersion in the dry, dusty heat – it was known to affect people.
The Japanese couple squashed in the back bench with Sam and his son were content to look out the windows at the wide open land – what could be seen of it through the dust. The man, Akira, a professional photographer back in Kyoto, had his camera looped around his neck and seemed to be waiting for the dust to settle so he could take some snaps.
They had told him there would be no point taking photos while in the van. Too much dust. Maybe he hadn’t understood them. He and his fiancée, Chiyo, spoke English, but not fluently, so perhaps he thought they meant to be sure to keep his camera ready in the van. Didn’t matter. He’d learn soon enough. Just like he’d learn that suit pants and a crisp white shirt were inappropriate attire here in the outback. The sweat dripping down Akira’s flushed face made Bruce uncomfortable. He squirmed in his seat at the thought of the man cooped up in pants, long-sleeved shirt, socks and shoes.
The American couple sitting on the middle bench seemed at odds with each other. The man, Steve Bishop, a big Californian with a nice tan and good physique, had hardly cracked a smile since leaving Perth yesterday morning. Hadn’t spoken much, either, which surprised Bruce. In his experience, Americans were always the biggest talkers. There was something troubled about Steve. Bruce didn’t know what. Maybe he’d find out by the time the trip was over. He thought he had an instinct for reading what was going on with people, and he liked to guess early and then later see how much he’d nailed.
Steve’s girlfriend, Cindy, was friendlier, although she carried a permanent look of concern on her plain and slightly pudgy face. She seemed bright and astute, but there was a heavy burden about her, like she was fighting a losing battle, but hadn’t quite given up hope.
The last passenger was Amber’s friend, Jewel. She was sitting next to Cindy, eyes closed. Though the two friends were both savagely pretty – although Jewel was more pixieish, sporting short reddish-blonde hair and a thinner frame; she reminded Bruce of Twiggy – they couldn’t be more different personality-wise. From the short time Bruce had spent with them, he had found Amber to be fun and open, a little cheeky and even flirtatious (more so with Duncan, much to Bruce’s disappointment). Jewel, despite her name, had been sombre, mostly keeping to herself.
Bruce got the feeling that this trip wasn’t her idea, that she had been dragged along by Amber. He also got the feeling that she was running away from something.
Or maybe someone.
So that was their group for this tour. All seemed nice enough, no real troublemakers and no one came across as unbearably annoying – although Sam was getting close.
When the sign for Lake Terminal flashed by, Bruce slowed the Kombi and pulled off the road onto a large section of gravel, free from scrub and anthills. There were the usual baffled mutterings from behind, as this stop wasn’t on the itinerary.
‘Why are we stopping here? Is something wrong with the van?’ Cindy said, concern colouring her voice.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Duncan said in his cool, easy-going way. ‘We’re just taking a short break.’ He turned around and faced the passengers. ‘We’re a little chilled on this tour. The itinerary is merely a guide – it ain’t gospel. We’ll probably make a few
spur-of-the-moment stops along the way. Keeps things interesting. Cool?’
Bruce pulled the Kombi to a stop, put her in park and turned the key. Bob Dylan stopped rolling as the engine sputtered to a stop – maybe Ursula was also having problems with the dust. Bruce hopped out, the backs of his sweaty legs peeling away from the hot vinyl with a sucking noise.
Outside, under the blazing morning sun, he stretched his stiff muscles – they had been on the road for almost three hours – and shook the dust from his long brown hair.
The side doors swung open and the passengers began piling out, slowly, like molasses down a staircase.
The moment Akira was out, he began taking photos. His fiancée remained close by, gazing around the desert like they had just landed on Mars. Wearing a long grey skirt and a frilly, lemon-coloured short-sleeved shirt, the young Japanese girl with short bobbed hair – a film costume designer – looked a lot cooler and relaxed than her soon-to-be husband. She seemed to take everything in her stride.
Sam was the last one out. The moment he stepped onto the hard-packed ground, he pulled out a bottle of water from his backpack and gulped its contents.
‘Hey, man, I’d ease up on the water,’ Duncan said. His curly blond locks were tinged with red, as was his pale peach Hawaiian shirt. ‘We don’t plan on stopping off at a waterhole until this evening.’
Sam took the bottle from his lips. ‘Don’t you have extra supplies? I’m sure I saw large containers in the back of the van.’
‘Yeah, man, course we got extra supplies. But that’s for emergencies. In case we get stuck out in the middle of the desert, or if the Sand Surfer overheats.’
‘Yeah, Dad, don’t hog it all. I don’t wanna die of thirst out here. Wherever the hell here is.’
‘Yeah, where are we exactly?’ Steve said, stepping up to Bruce and Duncan. ‘Why have we stopped? There doesn’t seem to be anything here.’
The American looked hot and cranky.
‘We’re about two hundred and fifty miles north of Wiluna, near Terminal Lake.’ Bruce looked at Sam and grinned. ‘That’s about two hundred and fifty miles.’
‘Wonderful,’ Sam huffed.
All around them lay the southwestern corner of the Little Sandy Desert. Mostly flat, scrubby red land with the occasional pimple rising from the scorched earth. There wasn’t much to see here – there wasn’t much around, period, which was precisely why they had stopped the tour bus in this area.
‘Lake?’ Cindy said, fanning her face with her Sand Surfer’s brochure. ‘You mean we can have a swim?’
Bruce shook his head. ‘’Fraid not. Most of the lakes around here are ephemeral.’
Cindy frowned.
‘It means “short-lived”. There’s only water in the lakes for brief periods, when there’s been heavy rain. And, well, it hasn’t rained much of late. Sorry.’
Cindy’s face dropped, and she wandered away, continuing to fan herself.
‘Pity,’ Amber said. ‘I kinda felt like a dip.’ She was leaning against the Kombi. Her pretty mouth was curled, and even though she was wearing Wayfarers, Bruce could imagine the sly twinkle in her deep blue eyes.
Bruce noticed that Jewel had climbed back into the van and was lounging on the middle bench, her back against the side, her feet resting on the grey vinyl upholstery. She was smoking a cigarette and staring up at the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint everyone,’ Bruce said. ‘We haven’t stopped for a swim – we’ve stopped for another reason. We’re going to do some survival practice.’
‘Huh?’ Sam said, still coughing and spitting. ‘What does that mean?’
Bruce smiled. ‘Duncan, go get ’em.’
Duncan walked around to the back of the Kombi and came back carrying a duffel bag and a large rubbish bag. He dropped the duffel bag on the ground and lowered the other one more carefully. Bottles inside it clanged as they rested on the red gravel earth.
Bruce strode over as Duncan opened the duffel bag and began pulling out the rifles.
Bruce took them and then placed each one on the ground: a .22 bolt-action, a 6.5mm Carcano, a Remington 760 Gamemaster, a Remington Model 700 and an M1 Carbine.
Bruce and Duncan also had handguns, but they were kept inside a smaller bag, stashed behind the front seats. They weren’t for public use or knowledge: they kept them for emergency purposes. You never knew who would sign up for the tour, and a week was a long time to spend out in the middle of nowhere. It made life less scary knowing there was a nice stash of guns that only they knew about.
‘You’re going to practise shooting,’ Bruce said. ‘Part of this tour is catching and killing your own food. Dingo, kangaroo, birds, that kind of thing. We’ve found that it’s best to get in some practice before we get to Rudall River. After all, you don’t want to be learning how to shoot while we’re there – you’ll scare away all the food.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Amber said, her sunglasses off and her azure eyes scanning the assortment of weapons. ‘I thought that was just BS. You know, a bit of piss-take on the whole macho thing. You mean we really have to catch our own food?’
‘Not all of it – just the meat,’ Duncan said. ‘We have plenty of canned meat, but if you want the fresh stuff, then yeah, it’s up to you to catch it.’
Amber let out a long sigh. ‘I’ve never shot a gun in my life.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s what I’m here for,’ Duncan said, smiling.
‘Is this legal?’ Sam said.
Trust Sam to ask that question, Bruce mused. ‘Yes, it’s perfectly legal,’ Bruce lied. ‘We have permits.’
‘To shoot wildlife?’
‘Dad, don’t be such a square,’ Matt said. He was staring down at the guns with wide eyes. It was the most excited Bruce had seen him.
‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Cindy said. ‘After all, you can’t be too careful. I mean, out here in the wilderness, you never know what you might run into. Do you have bears Down Under?’
‘Well, koalas can be mighty fierce,’ Duncan said, and the Aussies in the group smiled.
Akira and Chiyo also looked amused – perhaps they had seen some koalas during their time in Australia and understood the joke. Bruce noticed that, unsurprisingly, Steve wasn’t smiling. He had a look of utter disdain on his sweaty face.
‘It makes sense for us to practise shooting, doesn’t it, Steve?’ Cindy said, looking over at her boyfriend. Her smile faltered. ‘Honey?’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ he muttered, then turned and headed back into the van.
Cindy looked at Bruce and Duncan and shrugged. ‘Sorry. He’s . . . well, a bit touchy when it comes to guns.’
‘He a peace-loving hippy?’ Bruce said. ‘’Cause he sure doesn’t look like one.’
Cindy looked back, presumably to make sure Steve wasn’t in earshot, then she turned and whispered, ‘He was an infantryman in the army.’
‘’Nam?’ Bruce said.
Cindy nodded.
‘Bitchin’,’ Duncan said. ‘A real-life soldier on our tour.’
This didn’t sit too well with Bruce. Sure, Steve seemed like an okay bloke – a bit morose, but basically cool. But a vet? Bruce had heard stories about those guys coming back from the war unstable, even crazy. He wasn’t wrapped with the idea of a guy like that on board his bus: proficient with a weapon and dangerous. Still, the last thing he wanted was for Steve to be upset. He wanted all his clients to be in good moods while on the tour, and Steve was no different. Hell, it applied especially for a man like Steve.
‘You take over,’ Bruce said to Duncan.
‘Okay. Come gather ’round people and choose your weapons. For those of you who have never fired a gun before, I’ll show you how to load it, the safety, and how to shoot. It’ll be fun, I promise.’
Bruce left them and wandered over to the van.
Steve was sitting in the back, chatting to Jewel.
They stopped talking when Bruce appeared. ‘Hey, Steve, hope you weren�
��t offended or anything. I didn’t know you had something against guns.’
‘I don’t. I’m just sick of the sight of ’em, that’s all. My father was a hunter, you see,’ he added quickly. ‘Made me go huntin’ with him all the time.’
Bruce nodded, pretending to swallow his lie. ‘Fair enough. Just want you to have a good time on the trip. No hard feelings?’
The big American looked at Bruce with steely eyes. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. It’s all good.’
Bruce nodded, then turned his gaze to Jewel. ‘How ’bout you, fancy a bit of shooting? Blast a couple of beer bottles off some anthills?’
Jewel flicked her spent cigarette out the window behind her and blew out the last of the smoke. ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ she said in a soft, harmonious voice.
‘Oh.’ Bruce smiled awkwardly. ‘Sorry, didn’t know.’
As Bruce turned to leave, Steve said, ‘Say, one of your panels is loose back here.’
Bruce drew in a quick breath. His cheeks flushed with fire. Shit!
‘This one,’ Steve said, knocking on the back right-hand side panel. The vinyl-covered fibreboard quivered. A couple of the clips had either come loose from all the jostling, or hadn’t been tightened properly in the first place.
Damn Duncan, Bruce thought. If he didn’t double-check all the panels . . .
‘Oh, yeah, we always seem to have a problem with that,’ Bruce said, giving Steve a quick smile. ‘We’ve had this van for a few years, and she’s not as tight as she used to be.’ He jumped into the Kombi and searched the floor for the small clips. When he found them nestled in the grooves of the rubber matt, he pressed them into their respective holes to seal the panel.
‘There, that should do it,’ Bruce said, and then he jumped down and left Jewel and Steve to continue chatting.
That was close. Bruce could only imagine what would happen if other clips had popped out and the panel had continued to loosen.
As he headed back to the group to start setting up the targets, he almost smiled as he pictured the faces of the passengers as a large bag of WA’s finest weed spilled out.
