Into the Mist

by Lee Murray

  Enormous, it loomed over him, encrusted with bony scales and talons like scimitars. The sentries didn’t see it. In spite of its size, it was uncannily quiet. It paused.

  Jason froze, played rabbit. Thankfully, the creature was fixed on the campsite, its head turned away from him. Something there had caught its attention.

  Better them than me.

  Jason flattened himself to the ground, making himself small as the lizard continued its approach. His hair stood on end. The animal was a few metres away, perhaps nearer. His eyes closed, Jason drew a shallow breath, willed his pulse to slow, and prayed the creature passed him by.

  The ground trembled…

  Jason didn’t move.

  The stink eased when it was gone. Jason crawled backwards, away from the campsite.

  Danny was waiting for him just twenty metres back down the track.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  Jason didn’t answer. He ran. Danny scurried along in his wake.

  Chapter 20

  Hidden in the Urewera Forest

  Hawera wiped a smear of sausage fat from his chin. He’d fallen on his feet here, although he wouldn’t mind a shag. The last time he’d got any was three months ago, a few days before his old lady had filed the complaint and he’d ended up on the assault charge. She’d had it coming; always banging on about not having enough money for the kids, when she was the one with the job. Going on and on with that whiny-shit voice of hers calling him useless and bringing him down. He’d broken her jaw, only not well enough, because the tart had run, lips flapping, to the pigs. But a friend gave him a heads-up and Hawera had shot through before they’d come to pick him up.

  He chuckled. Not so useless now, was he? Safely hidden in the backwoods of the Ureweras, and raking in the cash, none of which would be wasted on stupid school shit. When things had quietened down, he was going to take his money and hide in a big smoke somewhere. Maybe go to Aussie if he could pull some strings, get his tattoo removed and rustle up a passport.

  His back against a tree, Hawera watched the head guy, Grant, come out of the drying shed and cross the clearing to the accommodation lodge. Grant paid no attention to him, sitting in the shadows. It wasn’t just Hawera who was hiding; the whole plantation was invisible, tucked in here for close to a decade, hectares of weed concealed by the distance, the forest, and the mist. Grant’d been running the gig for the last five years. It was so fucking bold, hauling dope out of the Ureweras right under the noses of the authorities, and the Tūhoe. Since that separatist-terrorist shit, the police were too scared to step over the Aukati border. So easy. For all Hawera knew, there could be fifty or a hundred set-ups like this operating out of the forest.

  As the boss-man slipped inside the lodge, Hawera slapped at an insect on his neck. Maybe he should grab another sausage off the BBQ. Later. He picked up the mug of home brew at his feet and took a long draught. Might as well enjoy the downtime while he could. Soon, when the weather got warmer, they’d start planting out the new seedlings. This time of the day, the last couple of hours before sunset, was the best time for planting. He’d learned heaps since he got here. Before he learned how to sex them, Hawera thought a plant was just a plant. Turned out the female plants were bigger, coped better with the cold, and their leaves had more THC – the stuff that gave you the buzz – than the male plants. Hawera took another sip of his beer. Maybe one day he’d think about going back to school. All the shit he’d learned, he would make a pretty good scientist. Yeah. He snorted. Like that was ever going to happen.

  Wearing his ZZ Top t-shirt, Alex came around the corner of the lodge, puffing on a joint – perk of the trade. The man reminded Hawera of a toilet brush, stiff and lean at one end and his beard a mass of bristles at the other. Not for the first time, Hawera wondered what brought Alex here. Not that he’d asked. Didn’t plan to either. Alex caught sight of Hawera under the trees and acknowledged him with a flick of his head. He loped over and sat down, bony elbows on gangly knees.

  “Freeze your arse off out here, eh?” Hawera said. “Any sausages left?”

  “Nah. Slasher just ate the last one.” Alex nodded at Hawera’s coffee mug. “Beer’s gone too. Swap you my joint for the rest of your mug.” Everything was a negotiation with Alex. He’d sell his dick if he thought he could make good on the deal. At least you knew where you stood with him. Some of the others here, you didn’t want to fuck with.

  “That joint? But you’ve already smoked half of it.”

  “You’ve drunk half the beer.”

  Hawera sighed. “Pass it here then.”

  The transaction complete, Alex took another joint from his back pocket, smoothed it flat over his knee, then lit it.

  “Aw shit, you didn’t say you had a whole one.”

  Alex grinned. “You didn’t ask.”

  “You’re an arsehole, you know that?”

  “Yeah, so they tell me.”

  Polishing off the last of the beer, Alex tipped the mug upside down and shook the remaining drops on the leaf litter. Then he sloped off, leaving Hawera to smoke his half joint in peace.

  * * *

  Rotorua township

  Outside, the morepork hooted, calling Temera to wake into the spirit world. Temera understood that he should follow, but he was heavy with dread. He contemplated staying here, outside the dream, cosseted in the warm cocoon of his blankets, listening to the up-and-down drone of Wayne’s television – left on to cover the sound of intercourse from the room next door. If he tugged the sheets up over his head, if he could just allow himself to drift off, maybe he could slip into some other dream, perhaps even dream-visit Hera, his old lover…

  It called again, insistent. The morepork never dragged him from his bed without good reason. Temera forced his creaky body from the bed, and stepped into the spirit world, into the Urewera forest, not far from home.

  From high up in the boughs of an ancient beech, his friend the morepork repeated his greeting.

  “Hello old friend,” Temera said, scanning the branches for a glimpse of the little owl. “Are you calling for me?”

  The owl hooted again. This time the sound was sorrowful, the notes as thick and gloomy as the night that carried them. Temera caught a glint of golden eye overhead.

  There you are.

  But the owl flew off – the tree limb lightly catapulting it somewhere deeper into the bush, and Temera understood that he should follow.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the Urewera Forest

  A shout, a pure note, echoed back from across the valley. The four men in the lodge were instantly awake.

  “What the fuck?” Alex cursed, and tumbled from his bunk.

  “It’s one of the sentries,” said Slasher. “Maybe a wētā crawled up his daks.”

  “Shh!” Grant hissed. “It could be a raid. Get dressed.” Against the tiny window, Hawera could see Grant’s silhouette, pulling his jeans on. He scrambled for his own clothes. About him, the other men did the same.

  When he straightened, Grant threw Hawera a gun: a rifle.

  “Know how to use it?”

  “No.”

  “You see a cop, you point it and pull the trigger. If he doesn’t fall down, you do it again. Got it?” He leaned across, and with one hand clicked something on the gun. “There, it’s on auto.”

  Hawera looked down at the weapon in his hands, frowning. It was made of plastic, like a toy. He held it away from his body, and shook his head. “Uh-uh. I didn’t sign up to shoot anyone.”

  Grant rounded on him then, his night breath fetid in Hawera’s face. “Look, the police don’t give a rat’s arse who we are. Drug dealers, pig hunters, gang members, they’re gonna say we’re a bunch of separatists and shoot us on the spot. Who do you think’s going to come and check? No such thing as due process up here.”

  “Come on, stop blathering for fuck’s sake. We gotta get out of here.” Slasher’s voice was tinged with panic.

  “I’ll take the gun,” Alex sa
id, grabbing it from Hawera. He opened the door a crack and peeked out, sniffing the air. Pushing the door to without closing it, he looked back over his shoulder. “Can’t see anything.”

  “Dogs?”

  Alex shook his head. “Dunno. If they’re out there, they’re quiet.”

  Alex was about to slip through the door when Grant pulled him back, yanking on his ZZ Top shirt. “Don’t all of you head for the road,” he warned. “The police’ll be watching it. Spread out. We might get through. And if you get nabbed, keep your fucking mouths shut.”

  Twisting out of Grant’s grasp, Alex disappeared into the night.

  “What about Dave and Brew?” Hawera said.

  Grant shrugged. “Not my problem.”

  A few minutes later Hawera was the only one left in the hut.

  Suddenly, there was the crack of a rifle. A long screech pierced the night air. A sound to freeze your blood. A man – could have been Slasher – screamed for help.

  Bastards.

  Grant was right when he’d said there’d be no due process. The cowards must have shot Slasher and left him lying wounded. They’d be hiding behind the trees with their Kevlar vests and their badges, ready to pick off the rest of them. Well, Hawera didn’t plan to end up in a tin of dog food. Not tonight. Steeling himself against the screams, he opened the door and stepped into the parting mist.

  * * *

  Hawera sprinted into the drying shed, slammed the double doors and threw the lock. He wedged a spade handle across the door. Then he crouched low, slinking to the back of the shed where he hid amongst the racks of weed, its scent sharp in his nostrils. His blood coursed, his lungs heaving. He focused on making his breathing shallow and quiet, squeezing himself into the smallest space possible. Don’t touch the weed. It’ll rustle. And it had that sweet smell. Who knew what that thing could smell? What it could hear?

  Outside, the moans of dying men punctuated the air. Agonised shrieks. Hawera put his hands over his ears. It didn’t stop the image of Alex crowding his mind, the dark contents of his stomach spilled on the ground while he’d tried to scoop it back into the hole with blackened fingers. It was a waste of time. Alex’s intestines had ruptured. You didn’t have to be a fucking medical expert to work that out. The smell was enough. Their eyes had locked, Alex’s full of horror, knowing he was as good as dead. No point negotiating with a dead man. Hawera had grabbed the gun and run straight on. Hunkered in the shed, he wiped the sweat from his eyes, clamped his mouth shut and concentrated on getting his breathing under control.

  * * *

  Outside, the night was quiet, the death screams of the others long gone. Hawera’s muscles were cramped and cold. He had no idea how long he’d been crouched in the shed. Minutes? Hours? He’d never felt so alone. He strained to hear, but even the morepork and the possums had stopped their scratching. Everything was silent. Maybe the creature had gone? The timbers of the hut creaked, making Hawera jump. A tiny rustle came from the weed to his left.

  Shit a brick!

  He had to stay calm. It’d be a rat that’d built a nest in the leaves. Yeah. Just a rat. But the noise came again, soft and ominous.

  “Who’s there?” Brew’s voice. Shaky, like a kid on the first day of school.

  “Hawera.” Hawera kept it to a whisper, barely louder than the thumping of his heart. He scanned the shed with eyes accustomed to the dark, but still he couldn’t see Brew.

  “When I heard you come in, I nearly died,” Brew rasped. “I thought everyone was dead.” He paused. “Or dying.”

  “Yeah.” A mound of leaves shifted. Hawera caught the movement. Brew had been hiding under the pile of drying leaves.

  “It killed Dave,” Brew said.

  “Alex, too. His guts were all over the place.”

  Brew threw off the last of the plants, and stole over to join Hawera at the back of the shed. He mustn’t have had time to get dressed—he was wearing a pair of long-johns. “It’s just us then, isn’t it?”

  “I reckon.”

  “What the hell was that thing?”

  Hawera didn’t reply. What was it? He didn’t have an answer.

  “You think it’s gone?” Brew said.

  “Dunno.”

  They were quiet for a while, contemplating the alternatives.

  “I reckon it’s out there,” Brew whispered eventually.

  “I can’t hear anything.”

  “Maybe it’s eating them.”

  Hawera’s stomach clenched. The evening’s sausages rose in his gorge. He fought them back down. “Poor bastards,” he whispered.

  “I gotta tell you, Hawera, I reckon I’d be happy to see a policeman right now.” In the gloom of the shed, Hawera nodded. “What’ll we do?” Brew said.

  “Wait. Stay hidden.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it’ll go away.” The way Brew said it, it was like a special Christmas wish. Hawera thought of his kids. For a second he wished he’d been a better dad, the kind that didn’t gamble away money meant for new shoes. Behind the door, the night was still.

  Not a creature was stirring… not even a mouse…

  “Hawera, that thing, did you see the size of it? If it finds us, if it can sniff us out in here amongst the weed, how long do you think that spade will hold? All it would have to do is lean on the doors…” Brew whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  The ground outside quivered.

  Hawera’s heart lurched. The creature was near – just outside. Had it been there all along? Sitting faithfully by the doors, like an old dog, just waiting for them to reappear?

  Desperate, Hawera looked around for an escape. Maybe if they lifted a board from the back of the shed? Emerging from his hiding place, he moved to the back wall, running his palm along it, searching for a flaw, a gap, anything that he could prise his fingers into.

  “Help me!” he whispered to Brew. “We’ve gotta find a way out. Look for a loose board.”

  Finally, they found one, the tiniest slit between two boards buckled and warped by years of water and sun. Hawera slid his fingers into the space and pulled. Some of the board came away rotten, but the hole was barely big enough for a rabbit.

  Again, the ground vibrated. The animal pacing in front of the shed? Searching for a way to get in? Hawera hoped the fucking thing wasn’t too evolved. Maybe it’d be too dense to work out how to get them. Now who was being dense? Even his uncle’s Labrador could work out how to get into a bag of chips.

  Something scraped the door.

  Hawera imagined the creature’s sharpened talon slipping between the gap, and ripping the doors open. His adrenalin spiked. Sooner or later, it was going to get in. Frantic, he scratched at the dirt floor with his nails to expose the base of the board. Brew did the same, both of them scrabbling feverishly at the packed earth. At last, Hawera was able to slip his fingers underneath the timber. He tugged at the board with raw fingers, pulling and straining. At first, it seemed the board might give, but after a few minutes his body sagged.

  “It’s no good. It won’t move.”

  “It has to!” Brew hissed, shouldering Hawera out of the way. He bent his knees, grasped the board and heaved, ropey tendons standing out on his thickened neck.

  No chance.

  But Hawera hadn’t given up yet. He searched the shed for something to use as a crowbar. His eyes stopped on something, but Brew stayed his hand.

  “No, not the gun. You’ll mangle it, and it’ll be useless.”

  “But…”

  “I said, no.” Eyes flashing, Brew snatched up the gun, cradling it close to his chest.

  Hawera was about to argue, when he remembered the spade. He turned to look at it, wedged snug against the door. With the spade, they could lever up the board and slip out the back of the building. It was a risk. What if that thing could sense him? What if Hawera removed the spade and the thing tested the doors? Would he have time to get to the back of the shed, pull the board off, and get away? Hawera didn’t know. He looked again at Brew, who
tightened his grip on the gun. It had to be the spade.

  Softly softly, like a mother checking on a sleeping baby, he edged towards the end of the shed. Gently, he removed the spade wedged across the doors.

  He stopped, spade in hand, listening, but there was no sound outside. No vibrations. He crept back the length of the shed. With Brew watching, he prised off the partially-rotten board. A crack of timber resonated in the quiet of the night.

  Both men froze.

  The beast pushed down the doors. They fell with a whump, their rusty hinges broken right off. The doorway was filled with rows of sharpened teeth. The shed, with the stench of blood and bile.

  “Shoot it, Brew,” Hawera said, his eyes not leaving the monster. But Brew was edging away, making for the hole. “Shoot it, goddamn you,” he insisted. “Shoot!”

  At last, Brew fired, the blast deafening in the confines of the shed.

  Hawera crumpled to the ground.

  What?!

  Puzzled, he looked down. Half his lower leg was missing – blood pumping, pooling on the floor. Hawera knew it should hurt, but strangely he felt nothing.

  “Sorry, man. Need to buy myself some time,” Brew said. He turned and threw himself through the gap in the boards. Hawera stared in horror as the creature squeezed itself through the door frame.

  Chapter 21

  Rotorua township

  As always, Temera was nine again – the age he was when he first ventured into the world of spirits, when he first understood his gift. Joyous, he ran his fingers through his own black hair, revelling in its youthful softness. His lungs, free of decades of smoke and tar, threw open every tiny cavity to let in the damp night air.

  The morepork called from up ahead. Urgent now.

  He recognised the curve of this hill, the gentle sway of the trees and the damp odour of decaying leaf-litter. He set off, following his friend into the dark beech along the tracks of his boyhood. Jumping a trailing root. Scrambling down a bank. Up a rise. Weaving through a stand of tōtara. He ran for what seemed a long while, tireless on his nine-year-old legs, chasing the hoots of the owl, his fears already forgotten in the intrepid freedom of youth.