by S E Holmes
Circumstances did not improve on arrival at the site caravan, after an hour long grind through dense overgrown bush. Thorns punctured two tyres with several forays along the wrong track, as if the property actively hindered progress. Their home for the next five to seven days rested in a scant clearing, surrounded by tangled brambles endowed with the same spines that had so easily dispensed with four-wheel-drive treads.
“Charming,” Reagan grumbled.
Jace peered back over his shoulder, shaking the ridiculous feeling nature’s fortress sealed at their rear. Midday sunshine bleached to watery olive through the foliage. The dimness resembled early evening, foreshadowing inky nights. What really had him creeped out was the total absence of sound. No bird calls or insect buzz, no branches creaking in the forest. Reece’s huge red pick-up hunkered nearby, trailer carrying two ride-ons and other horticultural tackle.
“What the hell took you!” Reece’s bellow cleaved the silence.
The van door burst and he barrelled into view. His cheeks flamed in temper, cigarette dangling the corner of his mouth a permanent attachment. He had an annoying habit of flicking his inheritance open and shut. Jace often wondered what kind of father left his son an engraved silver lighter, so symbolic of a habit that helped put him in a coffin. Of all of them, Reece was most like the old man.
“If you’ve been smoking inside, so help me, Reece!” Reagan loathed the practice. Twins really weren’t as identical as people claimed.
The newcomers alighted and commenced unloading luggage and food. There was no cause for celebration on sighting the cramped interior of the van, seats torn and layered by grime. Mould hung heavy and Jace’s eyes stung. Stale nicotine was preferable.
“I’m in the tent.” The twins snored like rutting walruses anyway. And the flimsy structure didn’t seem sound, groaning and rocking under their collective weight.
“Where did you scrounge this heap? Something die in here?” Reagan wrinkled his nose. “Smells like it hasn’t been aired-out since God was a kid.”
“Least of our problems. The generator’s blown, so forget about light. Problem with the gas, too. Getting this thing up here was an utter nightmare. Angus threatened to quit. He’s off sulking somewhere.”
“Angus threatens to quit at the first sign of work. The guy’s a tool.”
“Whatever, Reagan. Shotgun me shopping next time. We’re relying on an esky to keep perishables cold.”
“How?” Jace asked.
“I asked you to shop back in town, didn’t I?” Reagan said. “Do you ever listen? Any positive news?”
“We should have hired a bulldozer. This’ll take months, not under a week.”
“Get stuffed! We just ruined a thousand bucks worth of Coopers. And on top of it the generator’s buggered?”
Jace pined for the silence of the crypt, or even a Jimmy Barnes screech, quibbling twins his least favourite soundtrack. “How?” he repeated.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I dunno. Nothing I can see. Just won’t turn over.”
“How!”
“How what?” the twins hollered.
“How did Angus quit? Trucks are both here. So’s the bike. Did he hike out? It just took over an hour to slog up here in a four-wheel drive.”
“Who gives a shit? Our profit margin’s shrinking by the second,” Reagan said. “Jace?” He cleared his throat, shiftier than usual. “What about you take a machete and have at it. Carve us a path to the house. You know, so we can drive the mowers up there.”
A path to the house. What a loaded phrase. He was torn between the gift of privacy and awful certainty. Reagan hankered to blab the potential for richer pickings. Reece leaned against the van, glancing from one to the other with a knowing look. It was his brothers’ gift: sniffing illicit booty. Even with a cunning smile he resembled the model from a sporting catalogue, wavy brown hair streaked by the sun, singlet showcasing powerful tanned arms. And where in this god-awful swamp had Angus disappeared to?
It just couldn’t run smoothly, could it? Jace snatched a blade from the bed of their ute, a razor-sharp axe, and rucksack containing water and various necessities, departing without another word. He guessed the onus was on him to search.
“Good on you, bro!” Reagan called at his back, anticipation cause for benevolence.
Jace snorted softly to himself. One lousy week to go! He should have known: hope around them was inevitably futile. He pulled out his compass, a map of the property memorised, and hacked prickly undergrowth in the direction of the mansion. Thicker saplings required the axe. Failure to change into long pants was soon rewarded, the flesh above his boots a bloody lattice.
“Crap, crap and more crap!”
Heaven help him if he trod on a snake, ticks also a concern. He had no idea how to thwart dumb and dumber. And the cloying humidity in this dense copse made him sweat buckets. How the hell had Angus gotten through?
After half an hour, Jace was forced to stop and catch a breath, taking a long swig of water, head splitting. His hair was matted by burs that refused to come out, the rest of him covered in clippings that itched like mad. He paced a slow circle in a vain attempt to orient himself, hindered by a wall of vegetation. Had he strayed onto a different track? The house wasn’t that far. He rummaged the depths of the rucksack for heavy-duty prescription pills and chugged down three, forging on.
The afternoon dragged without noticeable progress. It was difficult to focus in the swirling fog, as he tried to gauge how far he’d come. Fog? This migraine was a doozy. In retrospect, it was idiotic to drop tranquilisers in the middle of unfamiliar woods. Jace brought the compass to his face and jiggled it. The pointer spun lazily, settling on one route, only to turn for another. It made him dizzy.
“Excellent.”
Lost in a suburban jungle. How lame. The twins would never let him forget it. He blinked dazedly in the rolling white-out, pivoting back the way he came. But the mist was too solid, his compass useless. Confused, Jace broke into a trot, slashing as twigs and vines loomed to block his path.
“Hoy! Reagan.” Surely, the caravan was nearby? They’d have to hear him. “Reece!”
He crashed through shrubbery in the eerie twilight, cheeks whipped by branches, tee snagged and torn. It proved hard to keep balance. Suddenly, his boots found emptiness, shooting him headlong into the void. He yelled, arms flailing, somersaulting a rocky embankment of snarled nettles. Out-thrust hands crashed earth and he finally skidded to a halt in a steep-sided gully. He groggily shook his head and rolled onto his back. Hurt strafed Jace’s body.
The skin on his palms was raw and punctured by barbs. He prayed he hadn’t snapped his spinal cord and twisted experimentally, the result a shower of blinding sparks. Lucky he didn’t fall on the machete. Or the axe. Stifling heat made breathing a triumph, weights pressing down on his chest. Millimetre by agonising millimetre, Jace writhed from the pack to position it for a pillow. His lids drooped. He couldn’t fight the weariness and decided to rest until the worst of the pain faded.
***
Chapter Three
