Blood & Dust. Jason Nahrung
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rocks his mother had planted to welcome the occasional tourists, and explored a roofed timber picnic table and a fake well his father had never quite finished. One of the locals had painted a crescent-shaped yellowbelly on the side of the service station, its faded scales flaking and crusted with dust. It leaped through the station's name, King River Road House; though roadhouse was a bit of a grand title for the old timber servo and the tin-walled garage tacked to its side.
He couldn't blame Meg's folks for wanting to go to the big smoke. Half the shops in Barlow's Siding were closed, half the farms sold off and sitting fallow and unstocked, half of everyone gone down to Charleville or east to Brissie or the coast. The town would end up like that old Ford truck out back: abandoned, slowly falling apart under the sun, while the world drove past without a second glance.
It was just that he - everyone - had always assumed that he and Meg would be together. This was their future, out here. Someone had to keep the place alive. The Siding was his home; damned if he'd let it die without a fight.
He unlocked the servo door and flung it open so hard it banged against the wall. Bill yelped, then looked at him accusingly, head cocked. Kevin grabbed a chocolate bar from the fridge as he went through the routine of opening up - cash register, pumps, his nemesis the coffee machine - then headed through the side door to the garage where a four-wheel-drive waited.
The voice on the radio droned on about the chance of rain tomorrow and Kevin snorted; the clouds came and the clouds went, but it'd been a long time since they'd dropped anything heavier than a galah's piss on Barlow's Siding. Should've put a CD on, made the most of it before his father arrived and tuned into ABC Country for the rest of the day.
Kevin scrambled into the pit, the Land Cruiser making a metal ceiling over his head. If he got cracking, maybe he'd be able to shoot through early and catch up with Meg. She'd seemed nervous last night, unsure; they had a lot to talk about.
The screech of braking tyres in the driveway announced a vehicle pulling up in an awful hurry. The bell dinged and the dogs rose from the shade by the garage door and yapped. Kevin looked out through the gap between the garage floor and the four-wheel-drive in time to see someone enter. Trousers and a pair of polished black shoes, dulled with red dust. City slicker.
A man's urgent voice: 'Anyone here? Hey, you under the truck - I need your help.'
Kevin climbed out slow and made a show of wiping his hands on his overalls.
The man stood at the door, a dark shape against the daylight. The dogs whined. 'C'mon, kid, I don't have all day!'
If it hadn't been for the anxiety in the bloke's voice, Kevin would've told him to bugger off. He was no kid. Hands in his overalls pockets, he strolled over to see what the problem was, ready to point out the pumps were self-service.
The sight of the stranger pulled him up. Thirtyish, solid, short back and sides framing a slab of face. Fresh scars on his cheek and forehead; hands stained with scarlet; trench coat hanging open, tie dangling loose against a blood-spattered white collar. And was that a bulletproof vest? A pistol nestled under his left armpit? A city copper? Out here?
'C'mon, kid - move!' The man's eyes flashed red, like in a bad snapshot.
Kevin blinked, stunned by the apparition. Then he was staring at space as the cop ran outside. Kevin followed, pulled in the man's wake.
Bill and Ben stood with legs wide apart, giving occasional barks as though sniping from out of kicking distance.
A heavily tinted four-wheel-drive sat in the driveway, steam hissing from under the bonnet. Rough silver haloes patterned the black bonnet like stars; a constellation stretched down the side of the vehicle. The side windows looked as if bricks had been thrown through them. BMW. Custom job, riding heavy on the shocks. Someone had messed it up good. Jesus.
The cop reefed the passenger door open and beckoned Kevin over. 'Give me a hand, here!'
Kevin moved in a daze. Blood all over the seat and the dash, big smears of it like a kid had gone nuts with paint. Slumped in the middle of it a man, his hair plastered to his face in blood so thick it might have been sump oil.
'Let's get him inside.' The cop heaved on the wounded man. Another cop, Kevin guessed: same haircut, same vest. Kevin moved in to take an arm, feeling moist stickiness against his face as the dead weight bore down on him.
'You got a couch or something?' the cop asked.
'Up at the house.'
'On the floor, then. C'mon, we're running out of time.'
They manoeuvred the injured man through the internal door into the servo and eased him down on the lino between the racks of fan belts and fuel additives. The man made the quietest of groans.
His mate leaned over him, shouting into his face. 'Dave? Can you hear me? Dave, you still with me, mate?' He swore when he got no response from the lolling face, Dave's mouth open and slack, his eyes showing white through the slit lids.
'What happened?' Kevin asked.
'Is there a hospital? Shit, there isn't, is there.'
'Charleville's the nearest.'
The cop shook his head. 'C'mon, then.'
Kevin followed him to the rear of the four-wheel-drive.
The cop paused to take a long, hard look at the road, the paddocks, then fumbled with a padlock as big as his hand before working a steel bar to open the door. A body lay there, dark in the gloom.
The dogs went mental; the cop shouted at Kevin to shut them up and Kevin shouted at them to shut up and eventually they retreated, growling their concern.
The guy in the back was dark-skinned, dressed in jeans and T-shirt and leather jacket. Matted hair curled about his shoulders.
'He ain't gonna cart himself in,' the cop said, and grabbed the body under the armpits, leaving Kevin with the feet. Biker boots, cracked and dusty. He took the man by the knees, as though he was driving a wheelbarrow. The biker's jacket fell open, hanging down from his shoulders like limp wings. Something glinted on his chest, but Kevin couldn't get a good look as they jostled him inside and plonked him down beside the wounded copper.
The cop felt his mate's neck. 'Hang in there, Dave.' He looked up at Kevin, his sweaty brow tinted pink with blood and dirt. 'You got something we can tie this bastard down with?'
'We got some chain,' Kevin said. 'Some fencing wire.'
'Bring it here, quick.'
Kevin went into the garage, aware of the curious scrutiny of Bill and Ben, wishing they could do more than just stare and whine - like go fetch his dad; that'd be bloody handy right about now. He grabbed a length of chain, a coil of wire and a pair of pliers.
The cop considered the chain, then said, 'Cut me some of that wire. A good couple of feet's worth. Then cut the same for yourself and wrap it tight around his ankles. Real tight. I don't want the bastard to be able to so much as scratch, you got it?'
'You wanna tell me what's going on?'
'Just get a move on.'
Kevin did what he was told, making sure the biker wouldn't be able to move. Not that that seemed like a problem - the guy hadn't so much as twitched since they'd dragged him in. Kevin wasn't sure he was even alive.
When he was finished, he handed the pliers and a length of wire to the cop, who used the pliers to pull the wires around the biker's wrists as tight as he could. Kevin's respect for the cop went up a notch - he wouldn't have expected many city slickers to know a Cobb & Co. twitch.
The cop added a pair of handcuffs that looked solid enough to bind a gorilla.
'Jesus,' Kevin muttered.
'Yeah, he's a bad one, this one. All right, stand back.'
Kevin watched as the cop checked the wire around the biker's ankles and gave a satisfied nod, then hefted the pliers. They were a big pair with a bull nose. He stood over the biker's chest and Kevin