Origin

by Greg McLean

  CONTENTS

  About the Authors

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  About the Authors

  Greg Mclean’s 2005 debut feature film, Wolf Creek, delivered one of Australia’s most memorable and horrific characters, Mick Taylor (played by John Jarratt). Mclean also wrote, directed and produced the thriller Rogue (2007) and was executive producer of Red Hill (2012) and Crawlspace (2013). He is the author of the four-part comic book series Dark Axis: Secret Battles of WW2 and the graphic novel Sebastian Hawks: Creature Hunter. He wrote, directed and produced the long-awaited sequel to his first feature, Wolf Creek 2, for release in 2014.

  Aaron Sterns was the co-writer of Wolf Creek 2 and script editor of Rogue. A former lecturer in Gothic and Subversive Fiction, editor of The Journal of the Australian Horror Writers, and researcher in postmodern horror, Sterns is the author of stories both Aurealis Award–nominated and Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror–recommended. He lives in Melbourne with his partner of fifteen years and their newly brewed daughter, the third of the ‘Wolf Creek babies’.

  www.aaronsterns.com

  PROLOGUE

  The boy didn’t know it yet, but death stalked them. It would soon strike and there would be no one else to witness it.

  But for now the lake called. It was too hot to think of anything else.

  He squinted into the heat shimmer at the turn of the track ahead and saw that they weren’t far from the swimming hole. The walk made it sweeter once there; at least, that’s what his old man always said when he refused to drive them. Gotta earn it, fella. Hunched over his beer, not smiling. The boy knew better than to argue.

  His sister hugged the roadside under the shade of trees strung along its edge, so he had to stay in the full sun alongside her. The sun crisped his hair, back of his neck. He could feel the air baking him. Send a man crazy, his grandfather used to say. Sucks the breath out of ya, dries the sweat ’neath ya skin, boils ya brains. Hafta respect the land, boy. That was before his granddad got kicked in the chest by his horse while out surveying fences and lay for two days in the grass, ribs collapsed. They found him eventually, but he’d died the night previous and something had eaten part of his face. A dingo perhaps. Maybe that’s why the boy’s dad hunted them.

  What he’d taken out of it was, you live out here long enough and either you go crazy or the land kills you. That, and always tell someone where you’re going.

  He idly stamped bullants with his walking cane as he went. His legs were getting better now, stronger, and he didn’t really need the cane anymore. But it was mahogany and the only thing of his grandfather’s he’d been given, so he still took it everywhere. His sister trudged head down as always, the outsized straw hat making her look like one of them Chinamen peasants. Off to work in the morning. As she went she kicked at the dirt with her scuffed slip-ons: like most of their stuff, hand-me-downs from the McAllisters who’d taken over their farm when they’d lost it. Like his own shoes, in fact, already a size small. Didn’t earn that, did we, Dad? He was growing too fast, Mrs McAllister said, ruffling his hair. He’d be wearing her husband’s shoes before long, instead of Bobby’s. And he’d smiled politely as always and ignored her daughters smirking at him from the doorway. He knew what the rest of the town thought of his family. But he also knew you did what you had to to survive. ’Cause if you didn’t you got trampled and left in the dirt.

  They were only fifty feet from the bend now and he could feel the bright water on his skin, imagine it cooling the bone-deep heat. He’d keep his head under long as he could until his sister got worried and then he’d break the surface to her worried eyes.

  He glanced over, smiling at the thought, but she was looking behind them, that crease-line between her eyebrows already showing.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.

  He turned, shaded his eyes. A dust cloud in the distance swirled like a whirly wind. Something within it glinted in the sun. Then a sound like a growling demon came out of the desert as the big car lazily accelerated, having kept pace with them for who knew how long. Pulled closer through the haze.

  He frowned also and stepped off the road. The car had been following them. He could tell by the change in sound once he looked around. But why? Someone keeping an eye on them, making sure they made it safe to the dam? But it wasn’t his father’s car. And his old man wouldn’t do that anyway. Ya can’t get lost walking to the Pit, he’d say to the kids’ mother to shut her up. Threaten the back of his hand if she kept going on about it.

  And they had a rattling, near-broken-down ute anyway. This was low-slung and black, a big engine beneath the hood. The noise spooked a white mass of squawking cockatoos out of the trees.

  Not anyone the boy recognised, either. All he could see through the dark windshield as the car pulled closer was the silhouette of a hat. Rough hands on the wheel. A big man, spreading shoulders.

  The engine hurt his ears as the car pulled alongside.

  The man’s teeth cruel and yellow just like a dingo’s. He grinned at the boy, wider at his sister. ‘What the blimmin’ heck you two doin’ out here? Hotter than hell.’ Sweat matted the man’s hairy wrists. A smell of oil and body odour.

  The boy frowned. It was always hot here. How was today any different? He kept in front of his sister, watching the man. The man’s eyes as yellow as his teeth.

  ‘Thought it was a mirage, you two out ’ere. ’Ts why I slowed, make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Like a coupla angels. Your parents let you walk by yourselves?’ The boy didn’t say anything but his sister nodded and the man slinked those eyes to her. Drank her in: her frilly skirt, her bare legs. ‘Ya know, you die out here and no one’d ever find you. Young girls shouldn’t be walking alone.’

  ‘She’s not alone.’

  The man looked at him. Then laughed: a high nasally snort back in his throat. An ugly sound.

  The boy didn’t recognise the man with his unshaven face and dirty hat. Maybe he was just passing through town on to somewhere else. Or he was new. Either way he was an outsider and his father had always taught the boy not to trust outsiders. Not to trust anyone, in fact, but outsiders most of all. Until you know how someone thinks you don’t know what they’ll do, he’d say. Same with the dogs. You gotta get inside their heads. Predict ’em to catch ’em. Otherwise they’ll surprise you, maybe get the jump on you. Rip out your throat in the night. But maybe he just said that to scare the boy, because dingoes never attacked humans, far’s he knew.

  The boy wished his father was here now. Something about the man’s smile that wasn’t right. The way he looked at his sister. Like the boy wasn’t even there and if the man wanted he could just reach out with those sweaty hands.

  ‘Our home’s just around the corner,’ the boy said. ‘We’re late for lunch.’

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘I dinnit know there were any houses out this way.’

  His sister gripped his hand tighter at that, worried at the lie breaking down but the boy ignored it. ‘Why? Where you from?’

  The man smiled. ‘Oh . . . around. Just cuttin’ through, actually. Been in the city. Gotta get back to work.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Ask a lot of questions, boy.’

  His sister tugged on his hand. ‘Can we keep go—’

  �
��I know everyone ’round here,’ the boy said. ‘Never seen you before, is all.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I never seen you either. So we’re even.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Aren’t you hot, sweetheart? I could give you both a lift. Won’t be no trouble.’

  The boy gripped the heavy stick across his body, protective. The man didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘We’re used to walking. We’re fine.’

  The man blinked at him with blank eyes. Then a slow yellow smile. He took in the stick. Its gnarled end. He laughed. ‘Heat must be getting to you, boy. Ya got me all wrong. Just wanted to help.’

  The boy nodded. Didn’t move.

  ‘You’re a good brother. Alright, I won’t give you a lift. But here, take this before I go.’ He reached beside him and the boy tensed. But then the man held two chocolate bars out the window. ‘A bit melted but they’re still good.’

  The boy felt his sister move and pressed down on her hand. ‘We’re about to have lunch. But thank you anyway.’

  The man saw the look in his sister’s eyes. His grin grew wider. ‘You want one, don’t you, sweetheart? I like chocolate.’ He waggled it at her. Looked to the boy when he wouldn’t let her go. The smile faded. ‘C’mon, you want ’em, they’re yours. No skin off my nose. I got more.’

  The boy noticed now the man looked off to one side when he spoke like he had to think hard. He wasn’t right in the head.

  The man sat in his car. The boy waited for the door to spring open. But then the bars dropped to the ground. ‘Guess we’ll leave ’em for the birds, then.’ The man shrugged. Their wrapping shone in the light. ‘Change your minds, they’ll be here. They’re good.’ He smiled at his sister staring at them. ‘Have ’em after lunch though, sweetheart.’ He looked up at the boy and winked. ‘We wouldn’t want your mum findin’ out. She’d kill me.’ He tipped his hat then the car pulled away, engine opening out into a deep roar and spooking the cockatoos again. The boy shielded his eyes from the dust.

  And then the man was gone and they were left with the hot wrappers sitting in the middle of the road.

  ‘Can we —’

  ‘No,’ the boy said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we don’t need them. Let’s keep going.’

  His sister looked back once, frowning, then dragged in his wake.

  ‘The lake’ll be enough. You’ll see. The water will be so cold.’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Don’t pout. You’ll forget as soon as you put your head beneath the water.’

  ‘I’m not putting my head underneath.’

  ‘’Cause you’re a chicken,’ he joked, like he always did. ‘You have to one day.’

  ‘I’m not a chicken!’

  ‘Bwark!’

  She planted both feet. ‘Don’t call me a chicken.’

  He sighed. Why bother protecting her? Sisters could be such pains sometimes. ‘We’re nearly there. Hurry up.’

  She resisted the hand in her back to spite him and looked behind again. ‘But they’re just sitting there. Getting ruined.’

  He was becoming annoyed now. ‘Then the cockies’ll have something to eat,’ he said and shoved harder. She kicked dirt but at least kept moving. He squinted up the road but couldn’t see any sign of the car and steered them off the path towards the old quarry.

  They bush-bashed over rising ground for a bit then came over the embankment to the waterhole. The lake shimmered in the heat, spreading deep blue. It was too hot and too far for the other kids in town so no one else was here. On weekends there’d be others but for now they had it all to themselves, just the way he liked it.

  Sometimes he wished he didn’t have to bring his sister so he could take off his swimsuit too. Let the water caress his parts. But he couldn’t do that while she was here. There were rules. His father wouldn’t be happy if she told on him. But it was no matter, he thought licking his lips and imagining himself in the cool. This would do.

  Beside him on the edge of the hill his sister had stopped dead, arms crossed. ‘Want to go back,’ she said in a baby voice.

  ‘Geez, look at the water. Don’t you want to swim?’ He put a hand in her back again and she dug her heels in.

  ‘You’re mean. Want chocolate.’

  ‘Don’t be a baby.’

  ‘Don’t call me a baby!’ she yelled. ‘Why can’t I have chocolate?’ Her voice echoed across the dam and his patience left him. It was supposed to be a nice afternoon. Swimming in cold water, lying back and looking up at the sky. Not worrying about home. And then the bloke comes and ruins it all.

  A branch cracked to their left. He paused, hand still on his sister’s back, searched the bracken. It was hard to see through the haze, then he caught a shadow amongst the tall grass. He shielded his eyes against the glare. The shadow rose.

  Afterwards he would remember seeing that dark shape in the grass. Thinking too slow: the man, yet his feet staying stuck to the spot, unable to react even though he should do something. Now!

  He remembered the other details of those last moments: the heat of his sister’s back against his hand. The smell of the lake. The prickling sun. The weariness in his legs.

  Then all he remembered was blood.

  1

  Kilbarra Station,

  Western Australia, 1966

  The sun sets like it’s dying, bleeding out its last across the sky. Red fingers streak the underside of the clouds before the dark takes hold.

  The ute rattles to a stop and Mick slowly unkinks his long legs and hops off the tray, muscles burning as he grabs his knapsack and waves the farmer thanks. The bloke toots, and as he continues along the dirt road to Coralbyne, the man’s dog – safe and warm in the passenger seat, the little shit – stares out the back window. Mick waits for it to poke out its tongue or something.

  He stands in the stirred dust watching the truck disappear, its engine echoing over the flat landscape long after it’s disappeared from view. Then he turns to the gate. He takes a deep breath, hefts his bag over one bony shoulder and heads through into Kilbarra Station. And his new life.

  The walk in gives him a chance to look over the place. Endless paddocks stretch from the well-tended fence on his right to the horizon and beyond. The grey mushrooms of sheep mill in a thick clump in the distance, little shadows barely visible in the setting gloom. Merinos, their fine wool some of the best in the district, supposedly. Their bleating like the cries of children. To his left, towards the eastern border of the vast thirty-thousand acre property, spreads a sickly green carpet of young oats, planted as feed – though that’s about the extent of his farming knowledge. He does know there’s cattle on the land too – big Scottish Herefords that sell for a pretty penny in the nearby saleyards – but there’s only a thousand or so as speculation, nowhere near the numbers of sheep. So he’d better get used to the grey-white buggers. He comes up to another flock on his right, too close to the fence. They mew and flee and he grins.

  Like most of WA’s midwest, the land’s fairly flat, but at least this close to the wheat belt it’s farming sustainable. Further north in the Pilbara the temperatures are unbelievable and rain infrequent, and only iron and nickel mines dot the desert, the population huddled around in support towns. South is Kalgoorlie and its gold deposits and then the lusher southwest footing of Perth and Albany. But here along the vertical Goldfields Highway, dividing the coast from the inland desert, it’s a bit closer to outback Queensland: dry, spread out, liveable. Kinda reminds him of home. The heat’s familiar, almost comforting. But even with the great distances between Queensland towns this state takes some getting used to. WA’s vast – takes up almost a third of Australia. There’s a cattle station out here the size of Texas, crosses three states, he’d heard. As big as some European countries, run by maybe thirty people, like Kilbarra itself. That’d always scared him somehow, the idea of that much space to look after. And now he’s about to experience the same thing.

  He’s puffing by the time he sees t
he homestead on the rise before him and his shoulder aches from the heavy bag. He pauses for a moment and rubs his legs, hoping they won’t betray him.

  The homestead’s big and low slung, surrounded by a sweeping veranda like a moat. Scattered beyond is a chaos of buildings: an open shed nearly as big as the main house filled with work benches and engines and a small bobcat, a hulking tractor and a sleeker harvester squatting out in front; two smaller buildings with narrow windows and rusted corrugated iron roofs, his room probably in one of them; a couple of other buildings he can’t identify from here, though he can see hooks hanging in one so it’s probably the meat shed; a huge barn that could be the mess hall; and the stables set downwind along the slope to draw away the manure stink. Beyond that in the last of the sun he can see yet more land stretching away.

  A horse rests, tethered in the shade of a white Yapunyah gum, but aside from that there’s no sign of life. He walks to it, keeping to its front, and it snuffles at him, lowers its nose for a rub. He smoothes its great head, drawing in deep its comforting smell.

  ‘So where is everyone?’ he says into its ear and it snuffles again and butts into his hand.

  Not seeing any movement from the surrounding buildings he gives the horse a last pat and heads for the homestead, vaulting the low fence encircling its grassed garden. As he’s heading for the front steps, a figure rounds the home’s far corner. Stops then comes to him.

  ‘Where you thunk you’re goin’?’

  ‘G’day, mate. Here to see the manager, Blackall. Me name’s Taylor, Mick Tay—’

  ‘Ya thunk ya cun just walk right up?’ The man, tall, hat shading his eyes, only his grizzled jaw showing, stands still in the dark. But Mick can see the coiled steel of his arms, his feet naturally rocked forward on the toes, ready, and only then he notices the rifle on the man’s back.

  ‘Ah, I wasn’t sure where to go . . .’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, boy. Ya cun’t just walk un.’

  Mick nearly chuckles and the bloke frowns at him.