WALKABOUT 2 -The Back of Beyond (Part 1)

Walkabout –

The Back of Beyond

Austin Jett

Walkabout – The Back of Beyond is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2017 by Wayne A. Baker, a.k.a. Austin Jett. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, downloaded or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the express written permission of the publisher and copyright owner. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher and author is illegal and punishable by law.

Walkabout –

The Back of Beyond

1

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I remember falling, and sudden impact. No idea how long I lay there, contorted in a semi-inverted fetal position before I regained consciousness. Blood flowed from the top of my forehead down into my right eye, a ringing in my head, and severe pain in my right shoulder. And I remember thinking after all the abuse my body endured in the past few weeks, maybe it would be a blessing if this were truly the end.

In the meantime, I was still alive, and would be for a while at least, so I struggled to maneuver into a sitting position, on a pile of rocks, nearly passing out as the pain increased with each movement. The body of Billy Thorn lay twisted and broken a couple of feet away.

“I had plans for you, Mulligan,” the voice of Archer came from above. I couldn’t have been unconscious for long, if he was still around.

“I was looking forward to killing you myself,” he said. “But nothing more fitting than leaving you here to die slowly, I reckon.” A stream of hot piss rained down upon me. No getting away from it. The best I could do was turn my head and use my left arm to shield my face. “In case you’re thirsty,” Archer laughed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find your partner and shag her before I snap her neck.”

I heard Simone say something to him, and then, a moment later, Archer came plummeting down. Lucky for him, I couldn’t get out of the way in time, and broke his fall. Not so lucky for me.

So, there I was, at the bottom of an abandoned opal mine shaft in the Australian Outback with a dead body and a lunatic biker who wanted nothing more than to kill me, near a town called Coober Pedy. A week ago, I’d never heard of it.

2

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

A few weeks ago, when I was still Ty Hamilton, I was sitting alone in my fishing boat on a river in Indiana, feeling sorry for myself. I’d been in a state of discontent ever since taking an early retirement from my flying career. I was stuck in a dead-end marriage and was recently fired from a minimum wage security job I hated. Next thing I knew, a contract killer named Jared Mulligan tried to end my miserable life, and I somehow managed to turn the tables. Killed him. Then, on a spur-of-the-moment decision, I assumed his identity.

I accessed his bank accounts—more money than I’d ever imagined having—spread around in various financial institutions throughout the world. I left my family, my troubles—everything connected to my old life—behind, took a slow boat to Australia, and now, I’m gone walkabout. My plan was to go wherever I want and do whatever I want. Be with whomever I want and stay as long as I want. All the time. A hell of a deal, eh?

I was living on Mulligan’s money, and there was plenty of it, so the first thing I did after arriving in Sydney was find a nice hotel. I spent a couple of days scouting around, getting to know the city. I walked around the Royal Botanical Gardens and the Sydney Opera House, took a boat tour of Sydney Harbour. On a whim, I joined up with a group of people who were taking a guided tour to climb the bridge that spans the harbour. Jared Mulligan’s ID may show I’m only in my mid-forties, but Tyler Hamilton’s body is in its sixties, and I thought I was going to die before I got to the top. But I made it. I always do, somehow.

After two days in Sydney, I had seen and done about all I was interested in. I was restless, ready to move on, but didn’t know where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do when I got there. I was bored, antsy. It felt as if the walls of my hotel room were closing in on me. Not unlike it was back when I was a professional pilot, at the end of a block of scheduled days off, I was “in the go mode.” I needed to go out.

I gathered up some brochures I’d taken from a display in the hotel lobby and put them in my computer bag. I shoved my room key card into my pants pocket, slung the computer bag over my shoulder, and left the mind-numbing solitude of my hotel room in search of interaction with other humans.

3

Seaside Haven Memorial Park, Sydney

In the distance, Jasmine Figueroa could hear the rumbling of motorcycles as they entered the cemetery, followed by a hearse, a limousine, and several cars.

She sat in the yoga lotus position across the street, hidden behind a row of iceberg roses, with her backpack on the ground next to her. She could see the tent where, in a few moments, the mourners would gather to hear the minister’s words of comfort and the prayer before the casket would be lowered into the ground.

It was a beautiful day for a burial, with only a few scattered clouds, and a light breeze coming in off the Tasman Sea. A good day for flying, too, she thought. She was confident in her ability.

She was initially drawn to drones when she’d noticed one hovering a couple hundred feet over her one Saturday while sunning herself in her backyard in Atlanta. Most women would have been mortified, would have covered themselves and run inside to call the police. But, not Jasmine. It didn’t bother her. It intrigued her. She threw on a cover, hopped on her motorcycle, and followed the drone back to the RC park where it landed.

“Did you get some good pics?” she asked the pilot. When he tried to act like he didn’t know what she was talking about, she said, “Look, you got a few shots of me laying out with no top. I couldn’t care less.” She stepped up close to him, let him feel her breath, inhale her perfume. “I just want to know . . . Will you teach me how to fly it?” He agreed. Men always agreed to Jasmine’s suggestions. Especially when she stood so close to them.

Jasmine initially began drone flying as a hobby. Something to do for fun. She went out with her new drone pilot friend a few times, just enough to get some flying time. She became hooked on flying, but not on him. Plus, she soon figured out, he was a novice at best, hardly qualified to teach. She was considering the possibility of pursuing drone flying as a second career once she retired from her present situation. Which, by her calculations, would be possible in maybe another year on the outside, once her liquid assets totaled in excess of her target of a million dollars. So, time being of the essence, she sought out the best of the best for her training.

Guy Lovellette was the man, she determined through extensive research. He ran a school, and he had the best reputation in the business. Twenty hours of online home study, followed by twelve hours in a simulator hooked up to her computer at home, and finally, another twenty hours over a period of four days of actual drone flying under his personal supervision. The course was expensive. Four grand. But good training isn’t cheap, and cheap training isn’t good. You get what you pay for. She was prepared as one could be.

Reaching into her backpack, Jasmine removed the remote control, powered it on. The quadcopter sitting on the ground a few feet away responded to her commands, lifting to an altitude of about fifty feet and flying to a mausoleum near the center of the northeast section of the cemetery. She descended the drone in a hover, landed atop the mausoleum, then powered down. No one would notice it there.

4 

Jared Mulligan

“Excuse me,” I said to the doorman. As he turned to face me, I glanced at his nametag. “Robert, I’m looking for a nice, quiet bar. Someplace I can relax, hear myself think.”

“Then you’ll be looking for Chauncey’s Basement.”

“Chauncey’s Basement,” I repeated, “What can you tell me about it?”

“One of Sydney’s best,” Robert said. “More whiskeys than you could shake a stick at to choose from. Lots of folks go there, but never what you’d call crowded. Good menu from the grill, if you’re looking for a meal.”

“Sounds like just what I’m looking for. You know the address, for the taxi driver?”

“No need for that, sir. It’s only a short walk from here.” Robert pointed past me. “Take a right at the corner there,” he said, “and it’s the second door on your right. You can’t miss it.”

I handed Robert a five-dollar note featuring the image of Queen Elizabeth. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.” Robert tipped his cap. “Enjoy Chauncey’s. And tell them Robert sent you.”

So I hoofed it down the street, wondering if Chauncey’s Basement was going to be all that good, or if, considering he asked me to tell them he sent me, Robert was referring me there solely for personal gain. Might he be getting a free drink for every customer he sent them? I supposed I’d know soon enough.

At the corner, I looked to my left, saw no oncoming traffic, and stepped onto the street. Before my foot hit the pavement, I was yanked backward by my shirt collar, causing me to fall to the ground just as a bus went by.

In a split second I went from a mellow tourist looking for a watering hole, to angry and ready to fight whoever had grabbed me from behind, to grateful for my life.

I looked up into the face of my guardian angel, a man in his mid-thirties, short hair, well dressed, with no tie. He flashed a crooked grin and said, “First time in Australia, mate?”

“Yeah,” I said as I accepted his hand and, with his help, got back on my feet. “I guess I forgot where I was there for a moment. Thank you for saving my life.”

“No worries.” He pointed to the ground, at the pavement of the street. There were arrows painted on the sidewalk indicating the directional flow of the street traffic. “When in doubt, have a look down.”

5

 Seaside Haven Memorial Park, Sydney

“Daniel Seton and I were mates a long time back, when we were teenage schoolies,” Dexter Flynn, president of the Death Adders Motorcycle Club said to the small group of mourners assembled in the graveside tent.

“His mum, Kathleen, took me in when no one else would.” Flynn paused, scanned his small audience, nodding for emphasis. “Daniel was a good bloke. He and his sister, Emily, they were more than friends.” Flynn’s voice cracked, and he wiped a tear from his cheek. “They were my family.”

Flynn paused, took a breath, and thought I suppose I should have warned Daniel a contract killer was looking to do him in. Maybe things would have turned out better. Choosing instead to send Peter and Archer to protect him was a mistake. Now and forever Daniel is gone.    

Flynn walked over to Kathleen and Emily. How long had it been? A year . . . maybe two, since he’d last taken time to see them? He knelt before them on one knee and whispered, “I swear to Christ I will avenge Daniel’s death.” He stood, kissed their cheeks, and stepped out of the tent. Four of his most trusted Death Adders filed in, forming a protective diamond-shaped shield around him. Together they walked toward their Harleys. As he swung a leg over the seat, Flynn said “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” He watched Jocko and a few others leaving the cemetery. “What the bloody hell—” the shotgun blast cut him off.