Verlie didn’t suggest that perhaps Ross had made a mistake in his calculations. She didn’t have to suggest it. She just had to allow the silence between them to lengthen until he got the message anyway.
With an exclamation of disgust, he tugged at the steering wheel and their car swerved, bumping off the bitumen into the dust. It wasn’t too dramatic a halt because the caravan demanded careful treatment. But it was enough to startle Verlie.
‘Ross!’ she exclaimed.
‘Give me the bloody map!’ he barked. Rather than try to help him, Verlie opened her door and got out. She grimaced as her stiffened muscles were forced to work again. She had a crick in one knee from sitting down for so long.
She unlocked the boot and pulled an apple from the picnic basket.
The silence was impressive – almost eerie – once the car engine was switched off. The land around them seemed empty, though Broken Hill was presumably just over the horizon. Peeling her apple, Verlie did a slow 360-degree turn, and nearly jumped when she saw a crow sitting on a white post not five metres away.
A gentle breeze ruffled its coal-black feathers. It gazed at her without blinking.
Carrion bird, she thought. Ugh. Something must be dead around here.
Inside the car there was a convulsive rattle of paper; Ross was still wrestling with the map. It was spilling into Verlie’s seat, but she got back in anyway because she suddenly felt rather exposed standing out there beneath the arching sky. She offered her husband a piece of apple.
‘No thanks,’ he muttered.
‘Could we turn the radio on, do you think?’
‘In a minute.’
Verlie glanced at the fuel gauge, but of course it wasn’t working – the engine was turned off. She wondered if Ross had checked it lately, but knew better than to ask him. Asking him would only elevate his stress levels.
‘Hmm,’ he said at last, and she waited. He began to fold the map, which of course wouldn’t cooperate; he had to unfold it, and refold it, and unfold it again, and finally dump it in her lap with an explosive request that she ‘take care of the bloody thing’ while he drove the car. Obediently, Verlie shook out the enormous sheet of paper, which, because it was brand new, didn’t have any well-worn creases in it.
Folding it was like folding a blanket.
‘Well,’ said Ross, ‘I don’t know. According to the map, we should be there.’
‘Really?’
‘I know we’re going the right way. I know my watch is right, because the clock on the dash says exactly the same thing.’ He turned his key in the ignition, and guided their car carefully back onto the road. ‘So all I can suggest is that the map’s wrong. They’ve misprinted the numbers or something.’
Verlie leaned a little to the right, so that she could see the fuel gauge. The tank was less than a quarter full.
‘But are we going to make it?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Make it? Of course we’re going to make it.’
‘I mean, our petrol won’t run out? Before we get there?’
She knew that Ross wouldn’t take kindly to this question, but she put it to him regardless. He shot her an irritable look from under his silver-grey thatch.
‘I just told you we’re going to make it,’ he retorted.
‘And you don’t think the truck we passed – the abandoned truck – you don’t think the driver of that truck was using the same map?’
Ross said nothing.
‘Ross?’ Verlie pressed, and he frowned.
‘How the hell should I know? He probably broke down, or something.’
‘Suppose he ran out of petrol? Like that family did?’
‘Verlie.’ Ross gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Just tell me what you’re worrying about.’
‘I’m worrying that we’ll run out of petrol.’
‘Well don’t. We won’t run out of petrol because we’re nearly there.’
He sounded absolutely convinced, but Verlie knew that he wasn’t. How could he be? She stared ahead, noting the distant shapes of two familiar rock formations. They had a name, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
‘Ross,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Do we have enough petrol to get back to Wentworth?’
‘No.’ His tone was flat. Forbidding.
‘What about Coombah?’
‘No.’
So that was that. They had no choice but to go on. Those little peaks, however, were a comforting sight. Verlie seemed to recall that those peaks were quite close to Broken Hill.
‘Ross?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Can you turn on the radio, please?’
He obliged her, leaning forward to punch buttons and spin dials. A noisy electronic crackle filled the car. Ranging up and down both the FM and AM bands, Ross made a fruitless attempt to isolate some kind of station – to locate a stream of chatter or a flood of music.
After a while, he gave up.
‘Bad reception,’ he mumbled. ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
It surprised Verlie. She wondered why, if they were so close to Broken Hill, they weren’t picking up one of the local radio stations. But she didn’t say anything.
They drove on in silence, towards the ever-receding outline of the Pinnacles.
Chris kept his word. At half past four, the Pinnacles were no closer than they had been at three thirty, so he stopped the car and addressed its other two occupants.
‘Okay,’ he said, turning a little in his seat. ‘What now?’
Alec gave a shuddering sigh. He had been watching the clock and wondering what Chris would do; would he, or would he not, concede that something was very, very wrong? Alec wasn’t an intellectual, but he was smart enough to trust his instincts. Chris was a vet – he’d mentioned that – but for all his education he acted like a guy who wouldn’t believe what was under his nose unless it could be scientifically proven to exist.
Alec had progressed beyond science. He already understood that they had somehow strayed into the Twilight Zone, and he was scared. Tucked away at the back of his mind was the thought that they had hit a kink in the fabric of Time, like the people in Star Trek, or that movie Groundhog Day. (He had seen that movie twice because he loved Andie MacDowell.) Of course he knew it was crazy, but what other explanation could there be? Unless he had gone schizo. Unless this was all one big hallucination. That was possible.
Or was it a genuine case for The X-Files? Were aliens involved, somehow? Was there a secret army base out here, attracting interstellar attention?
‘We should have been there by now,’ Graham declared, studying his map.
‘I know,’ Chris replied. ‘So what do we do? Suggestions, please.’
‘Could the map be wrong?’ his brother frowned.
‘I don’t know. Could the map be wrong, Alec?’
Alec shook his head. He wished that the two of them would progress beyond the doubting stage to the panic stage. He was in the panic stage himself – his heart was beating more quickly than it normally did. But the McKenzies didn’t look like panicky types. Their voices were quiet and their movements measured. They both had the same sort of wide-set, expressionless blue eyes wedged deep into long, thoughtful faces. Graham’s hair was more gingery than Chris’s, and Graham wore a goatee – unlike Chris, who was clean shaven. Even so, they could almost have been twins.
‘So you want to go back to the Coombah roadhouse?’ Chris asked Alec. ‘Is that what you want to do?’
Alec nodded. ‘They have a land line,’ he explained. ‘I could make a call.’
Chris pondered for a moment. Graham said: ‘There must be somewhere closer than Coombah. All the stations along here would have land lines, wouldn’t they?’
Alec had considered that. He didn’t want to say that he felt illogically unnerved at the prospect of leaving the main road. So he said nothing.
‘This is so stupid,’ Chris suddenly remarked, shaking his head ruefully. ‘I can’t believe this. It doesn’t make sense.
’
‘Well, sometimes things don’t.’ Graham smoothed out his map. ‘Where’s the nearest station? They’re marked on here, look.’
‘Do you know anyone living out this way?’ Chris asked Alec, who shook his head once again. He had a friend whose parents owned a quandong farm, but that was to the west of Broken Hill.
‘There’s no guarantee anyone’ll be home,’ he mumbled. ‘They’re big spreads out here.’
‘They’re still closer than Coombah,’ said Chris. ‘We’ll take a chance – if that’s what everyone wants to do? Turn back, I mean?’ He looked at Graham, who looked at Alec. There was a long pause. Chris sat with his hand on the gearstick, waiting.
At that moment, a steel-blue sedan rumbled past them, attached to a large white caravan. They watched it recede down the road, heading north. Alec’s stomach lurched because he could sense what the others were thinking.
‘They won’t get anywhere,’ he said sharply. ‘They’ll end up stranded.’
No comment from the front seat. Chris and Graham were staring at the bulky white rump of the caravan, which dwindled in size as it pulled farther ahead. Alec couldn’t see their faces.
‘You gotta trust your gut!’ he implored. ‘I know this road, guys. I know this road. Please – just go back. Please. I’ll pay ya. I will. I’ve got twenty bucks on me, and I’ll pay ya more when I get it. Fifty.’
Chris shifted, and fixed him with a pale, blank regard.
‘Look, I – I know what you think,’ Alec stammered. ‘You think I’m a nut. Well okay, that’s fine. Just take me back, and I’ll pay ya. Take me back to the roadhouse.’
Graham turned his head too. For a moment the brothers both studied Alec, before exchanging a long, pensive glance that excluded their passenger utterly. It was like being in the car with a pair of telepaths, and Alec’s heart skipped a beat.
Were they in on it too? Were they aliens in disguise?
No, no. He shook off this suspicion with a little gasp of horror. Get a grip, he told himself. Get a fucking grip.
Then the engine turned over, and Chris began to pull the wheel around. Graham said: ‘Back to Coombah?’
A negative gesture from Chris, who observed: ‘I saw a mailbox back there. A white mailbox. Will that do you, Alec?’
They want to get rid of me, Alec decided. He was pretty much resigned to the fact. They didn’t know the road. They didn’t know the country. They thought he was off his chump.
‘It’ll be a fair distance from the highway,’ he said. ‘Could be a long drive.’
‘That’s okay,’ Chris replied.
Alec gave up. He wasn’t in a position to do anything else. He had a feeling that Graham was watching him, surreptitiously, in case he tried to choke Chris, grab the wheel and hijack the car. Well, you couldn’t blame him. The McKenzies were an organised pair of blokes; it was obvious enough from their equipment that they had a problem-solving attitude to life. Alec didn’t. His attitude was more fatalistic. So when confronted by something spooky he was less likely to want to analyse it, identify the problem, break it down into manageable chunks and tackle it one step at a time. He was more likely to accept the unacceptable and try to get the hell out.
Not a word was said for about ten minutes. Alec felt better, now that they were retracing their route, but he was still on edge. So were the McKenzies, he suspected. Chris kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. He probably didn’t want to acknowledge that things were getting weird, and had decided to blame his creeping sense of unease on Alec. People were always blaming Alec. He was used to it.
‘Hey.’ Graham sounded startled. ‘Hey, isn’t that . . . is that your truck, Alec?’
Alec leaned forward. Ahead, through the band of liquid-looking air that hung just above the road on the horizon, a remote white shape rippled and danced.
‘It can’t be,’ gasped Chris.
‘It bloody is, you know,’ Graham insisted.
‘But we left that truck ages ago! It must be something else. Another truck. It has to be.’
Alec said nothing. As they closed the gap between themselves and the white shape, he saw sun glint off chrome. He recognised the configuration. He knew that he was looking at Diesel Dog.
‘No,’ said Chris. The Land Rover slowed, and finally rolled to a stop when they reached the motionless road train. ‘No, this isn’t right. This can’t be the same truck – Alec, this can’t be your truck.’
Alec noted with some satisfaction that Chris’s face had lost a little of its ruddy colour.
‘It is my truck,’ he replied.
‘But it can’t be.’
‘Mate, it’s Diesel Dog. I know me own truck. Look, see? The name’s painted on the side.’
‘But how . . . what . . .?’ Chris stammered, before subsiding. He didn’t speak again for a while, apparently shocked into muteness – or perhaps preoccupied by some inner search for a logical explanation. Graham took a different tack. He twisted right around, pulling against his seat belt, and challenged Alec bluntly.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what the hell is going on here?’
‘I dunno.’
‘But this is impossible. I mean, it’s actually impossible. Physically impossible.’
Alec watched him carefully – warily. They eyed each other. At last Graham said: ‘You’ve got no explanation, is that right? None.’
‘I reckon –’ Alec began, then realised that he was hoarse, and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I reckon we’re not meant to reach Broken Hill,’ he offered.
‘Why not?’
‘I dunno.’
Graham appeared to think for a moment. He looked at Chris, who was staring straight ahead, over the top of the steering wheel. Alec remarked: ‘I dunno what to believe. I just want to get out.’
‘Fair enough,’ Graham muttered. ‘Eh, Chris? Let’s get off this road for a start. Let’s find that mailbox.’
Chris gave a slow, distracted nod, and the Land Rover began to move again. Alec’s stomach felt as if it had tied itself into a tight little knot. He wiped his mouth, glanced out the window, licked his lips, rubbed his palms on his thighs. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t leave the road,’ he suggested.
‘Eh?’ Graham cocked a questioning eye at him.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t leave the road,’ Alec repeated.
‘Why not?’
‘I dunno. It might be the wrong thing. It might be dangerous.’ ‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Things are weird.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Chris. ‘Look at that!’
It was the mailbox. They could see it already: a white-painted metal drum mounted on a white post. ‘Thorndale’ was written in black over a slot that had been cut in the bottom of the drum – a clumsy piece of signage that only became visible as the four-wheel drive pulled up next to it.
Alec was shaking his head in disbelief.
‘I left this behind,’ he protested weakly. ‘Way behind. It wasn’t within walkin distance. If it had been, I wouldna waved you guys down.’
‘ Thorndale.’ Graham read the word aloud. ‘Would that be the family name or the station name?’
‘Did you hear me? Guys? I said I passed this place way before I ran outta fuel.’
‘We believe you, Alec,’ said Graham. He surveyed the mailbox, the dirt road that joined the highway, and the three-barred gate that stretched across the dirt road, just a metre or so from the mailbox. ‘Let’s do it,’ he declared, nudging his brother. ‘Come on.’
Alec sighed. He was reluctant to reveal what was on his mind – memories of at least a dozen movies (including The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) in which the gormless heroes or heroines had stupidly broken down or got lost in the middle of nowhere and, even more stupidly, had sought help from an isolated cabin, farm house, motel or disintegrating Victorian mansion.
He reminded himself that this was Australia (not America), that it was broad daylight, and that he didn’t have to get out of the car if he didn’t want to. Stayin
g in the car, he reasoned, would be the safest option.
That was why he let Graham open the gate – and close it again – while he himself remained stubbornly perched on the back seat.
‘Right,’ said Graham, after he had returned to his own seat and shut the door. ‘Let’s get moving.’
‘Don’t suppose you know this place,’ Chris remarked, and added, after a pause: ‘Alec?’
‘Eh?’ Alec had been peering out at the unforgiving terrain. Camel country. How many hectares per sheep on a property like this one? His dad might have told him. ‘What’s that?’
‘I said, do you know this place?’
‘Nuh.’
‘It’s marked on the map,’ Graham supplied. ‘Oh no – hang on. That’s a tank. Ow!’
‘Road’s a bit ordinary,’ Chris grumbled.
It was little more than a track, ribbed and fissured under a layer of red dust. Here and there, along the edges, old tyre marks could be seen baked into a surface that had been thick, churned mud during the last rain. Otherwise, there was no evidence of habitation – not even a fence along the road. Alec could see no scraps of discarded metal or plastic. No careless piles of cleared underbrush. No fluttering, faded rags caught on branches. And no stock. Definitely no stock.
Whether the land had been recently grazed or not was a question beyond the range of Alec’s expertise. He was no pastoralist. And his only contact with the wildlife around Broken Hill was when it ended up dead on the road, so he didn’t know what to look for in terms of scats or nests or wallows. As a teenager he’d spent a year or so shooting goats on weekends, trekking out into the Barrier Ranges with Mike and Mike’s best friend Rory, but any tracking skills he might have picked up all those years ago had long since gone the same way as his patchy knowledge of algebra, chemistry and the Franco-Prussian War.
The one thing that Alec could determine from his examination of the surrounding countryside was that it didn’t lend itself to concealment. Low tufts of yellow grass and widely scattered saltbush could have provided cover for nothing more dangerous than a fox or snake. But the further east they drove, the thicker the vegetation became. Mulga began to sprout. The saltbush grew higher, thicker, denser. Even so, Alec took heart, because he noticed – almost subconsciously – the subtle change in the landscape. The landscape was changing. Which meant that they were getting somewhere. They weren’t just going round and round on some paranormal loop. On some temporal treadmill.