WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 16)

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86

Overhead, I could hear something. Faint, off in the distance. Growing louder, closer. It sounded like a combination of a freight train and a squadron of jets making a low pass.

Archer pointed his revolver at me, cocked the hammer.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this. I’m gonna kill you for what you done to me, Mulligan.”

“Here, let me help you,” I said, reaching slowly for the gun barrel. Archer’s good eye widened in disbelief as I placed the muzzle against my forehead and leaned forward into it. “You fired your weapon five times, Archer. Four times at me in the desert and once more when you missed me again and killed your friend Peter. You’ve only one bullet left. I wouldn’t want you to miss.”

“You’re shit for brains, Mulligan.”

“Now what I want you to do, Archer, is inhale deeply through your nose. Then slowly exhale through your mouth. When you get to where your lungs are only half full, begin a gentle squeeze on the trigger, timing it so your trigger pull ends just as you run out of air,” I said. “That way you won’t jerk and graze me, or miss me altogether.”

“Bloody yobbo,” he said. “You really want me to do it? Or maybe you think I won’t? ‘Cause . . . I will!”

“Archer,” I said, “one way or another, we’re both going to die in this mineshaft. You’ll be doing me a favor. There’s only one bullet left in the gun. Check it yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh,” Archer said, with sudden insight. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you, Mulligan?”

Overhead, the roaring sound was getting louder, closer. Could Archer not hear it? I had no idea what it was, but for the moment, it seemed a good idea to continue distracting him. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I’m not Mulligan.”

“I get it,” he said. “I kill you, save you the misery of wasting away, dying of starvation or thirst.”

“Whichever of us is left down here will surely go mad long before we die,” I said, pointing to the dead body of Billy Thorn. The unknown source of the roar was nearly upon us. “I mean, let’s face it, Archer, you’d have two dead bodies down here. You could eat our flesh. Drink our blood. Before it clots up, I mean. You could probably last—”

Apparently, despite being a tough guy, a thug, an enforcer for a biker gang, Archer had a weak stomach when cannibalism was the topic of discussion. He vomited, his projectile covering my face and hair, my shirt, and much of my pants. I wasn’t prepared for that. Nor was I prepared for the sight and sound of him placing the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger right in front of me. Blood, bone fragments, and brains sprayed from the top of his head, splattering the wall of the mineshaft behind him. A steady stream of blood flowed from his nostrils as he limply slid down against the wall of the mineshaft. Now it was my turn to vomit.

After several seconds of what I suppose you would call shock, I reached for the revolver with trembling hands, opened the cylinder. Archer only fired three shots at me in the desert. Not four. Just as I thought, one more bullet remained now, with my name on it if I didn’t find a way out. I wiped the gun on my pant legs, tucked it into my waistband in the small of my back. Used my sleeves to wipe what vomit I could from my face. My ears ringing from the gunshot, I did not hear what was happening above, on the surface.

87

Water began filling the mineshaft at an unbelievable rate. Within seconds, I was standing on my tiptoes, trying to keep my mouth and nose above the surface. I began floating, lifted hydraulically by the rising waters of the flash flood. Twenty feet from the top, struggling to keep my mouth and nose out of water, reaching out with my hands to steady myself against the walls of the mineshaft. Halfway up, still climbing. I began to feel hope, like I might have a real chance of surviving.

Archer’s head popped up out of the rising water, barely an inch from my face, his mouth agape, his one eye bulging, his empty socket exposed by the absence of his eye patch. I pushed away, slid under the water’s surface and became entangled with Archer’s feet and the rising corpse of Billy Thorn. The harder I fought, the more entangled I became.

Contrary to what I would have imagined under the circumstances, my instinct not to breathe underwater was so strong it overcame the agony of running out of air. I remember being consumed by darkness, thinking how unfair it all was. A few seconds ago I could see the top of the mineshaft getting closer. I believed I was going to make it. And now, my lungs were screaming for oxygen, yet nothing I tried was getting me any closer to it. I remember thinking despite my life circumstances, I somehow had to survive. Shelby depended upon me. And Raquel. I remember feeling shame for having failed them. For having failed at life.

I’ve no idea how long it went on. Seemed like hours. Probably only a minute or so, until I could no longer stop myself. I took an involuntary breath. As unpleasant as having no air was, breathing in water was much worse.

I remember water filling my mouth and windpipe. And then, nothing.

88

I was not alone. A half-dozen or so aboriginal people stood around me, in a semicircle, illuminated by the glow of a campfire One of them, a young man, probably still in his teens, stepped forward. He wore a sleeveless shirt, tattered denim jeans, boots, and a straw hat that was tilted back. In his hand was the revolver Archer killed himself with. My eyes widened, and my breath became shallow.

The young man stopped, knelt on one knee, and handed the revolver to me.

Though surrounded by strangers, I could sense their concern, saw it in their eyes. A woman, older, maybe his mother, came forward and without a word offered me a plastic bottle of water and a banana.

I nodded, attempted a smile. “Thank you.” To the young man, I said. “What happened? How did I get here?”

The young man said, “A big rain came last night. Flash flood.” He studied my face, as if committing it to memory. “Thought you were a goner for sure, mate,” he said. “Reckon you’ll be alright now, mate.”

I confess I was surprised by his command of the English language, how articulately he communicated. A wave of embarrassment, mixed with guilt, consumed me. What did I expect? I never considered myself to be racist, but perhaps I might be guilty of being prejudiced, having preconceived notions of what the aboriginal people would be like? Without intent, of course.

“I’m Jared . . . I mean, Ty,” I said, offering my hand.

“Warrum,” the young man replied. He stood and pointed behind me, off in the distance. “Coober Pedy is half a day’s walk.” And then, he turned to go. The others fell in behind to follow him, leaving me alone by the fire. “Thank you,” I called out to them as they disappeared into the darkness. “Thank you.”

Where I was, and how I came to be there, and for how long were all mysteries to me. I vaguely remembered the floodwaters Warrum had mentioned. That was all.

I thought to check Archer’s cell phone, which had been left sitting on a rock a few feet from the fire. It was dead. Whether from a dead battery, or the water, I didn’t know. Remembering how I had some time back revived a moisture damaged cell phone with a hair dryer, I placed the phone as close to the fire as I dared.

The best I could do was wait by the fire until morning.

I leaned against the rock and closed my eyes.

Sometime during the night, I heard a rustling. The fire had died down, and its light only extended a few feet beyond me. I could sense that whoever or whatever was making the sound, they were close. Then, I caught a glimpse. Dingoes. From the sound of it, there were several, and they had me surrounded.

I tossed another couple of logs on the fire. Picked up another one, a small branch about the size of a baseball bat, held it above my head and shouted, “HEY! YOU GIT!!!”

I could hear the sounds of the dingoes scurrying away. Then, after a few seconds, coming back. By now, the fire was growing, and my circle of safety was expanded. I climbed up on the rock, club in hand, mindful there was still one good bullet left in the gun. I was saving it for myself.

89 

It was a long night. The dingoes eventually tired of their game, and went off in pursuit of their next meal. I kept the fire well-stoked with branches and scrub brush the aborigines had so kindly stacked for me. The intensity of the flame, and the light it produced were a great comfort, but I could not sleep. At the crack of dawn, I was on my way, walking in the direction Warrum had pointed, to Coober Pedy, the Back of Beyond.

After walking maybe an hour, I came upon a highway, and my spirits lifted. Someone would come along and give me a ride. If I told a good enough story, maybe they would even give me something to eat and drink.

Another hour later, during which time no vehicles came by, I decided to take a break. I found a spot beneath a large shrub that offered a bit of shade, and sat on the ground. My mouth was dry, and my tongue swollen. I longed for water, having finished off the last of what the aboriginal woman gave me.

I figured it was time to see if the cell phone was working. I desperately wanted to reach Sheriff Bridges back in Indiana. It would be late at night there, but I didn’t care. I needed to know if he’d found Shelby. I had my doubts regarding my chances of picking up a working signal, but it would be reassuring to at least know the phone had dried out.

I was reasonably confident. Back in Indiana, I’d brought another phone back to life by placing it in front of a hair dryer. This time there was no airflow to assist my effort, but the heat from the fire surely would have done the trick.

You would think.

But, you would be wrong.

Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Zip. Dead as a freakin’ doornail.

90

Warrum, young and strong as he appeared to be, might have made Coober Pedy in half a day. It took me until almost sunset to reach the hangar where the Death Adders had interrogated me. More accurately, it was the place where they beat the crap out of me and then took me away to die in the bottom of a mineshaft, the pricks.

My legs were chafed, my feet were blistered and my back was killing me. Not to mention all the boo-boo’s I had endured in the past few weeks. There was only one part of me that didn’t hurt, and I think that is enough information for you to go on. I wanted something to drink so bad, I could hardly stay focused on what I was about to do. That last statement is misleading. It implies I had a plan. Rest assured, I was making it up as I went along.

I could hear loud talk, loud music, and occasional laughter coming from the inside. I moved closer, stopping to get a better look from a position of concealment behind the rundown trailer and boat. I took a knee, watched, and listened.

Two bikers were positioned outside, leaning against a panel truck parked next to a row of bikes belonging to heavily-armed, tough as nails outlaw bikers in a converted hangar. For the next half hour, I listened as they bragged of their exploits with women, showed one another their new tattoos, discussed Australian Rules Football, and bitched about being left outside to guard the bloody truck. “I’m tellin’ you, Jocko got cold feet,” one of them said. “He learned we was comin’ for him, and cut out.”

“I don’t know, mate,” the other said.

“If he was gonna make a move to jack the shipment, he’d ‘ve done it between Darwin and Alice. Someone let him know Flynn was onto him and we were on the way to stop him. Someone inside that building. One of the blokes, maybe one of the bitches, but someone in there who’s enjoyin’ themselves right now as we speak.”

I withdrew about a hundred feet, staying far enough away not to be seen, moving quietly so as not to be heard as I moved around behind the hangar, taking position behind an old oil drum. Two hundred feet away, Dexter Flynn’s airplane stood ready to go. A thought ran through my mind, and it made me laugh—silently of course. What would Baron Wilder do?