Catherine Jinks TheRoad (83 page)

Maybe he was doing the wrong thing here.

Col glanced at the man beside him, who sat staring out the window as if he was too exhausted to speak. The silent type. John hadn’t uttered a word since they’d picked up the two young ones. Not a single, solitary word. Col didn’t really blame him, in some ways, because what was there to say? Except ‘help!’ The situation was becoming more and more bizarre. A whole raft of people, stranded on the Silver City Highway? What were the chances of that? How many people
could
run out of petrol, on a single stretch of road? No doubt one of those mathematical fellows could calculate the odds, but they had to be pretty steep. Unless you took into account what you were dealing with here. John was on the edge of a nervous breakdown, Del was frankly peculiar, and the others were from Sydney and Melbourne (all except for Georgie, who was from Mars). Big-city people, in other words. Big-city people had no idea. They were always getting stuck out in the desert. It was a well-known fact. They were always dying in the outback because they were never well enough supplied with water or petrol.

Col considered his options as he steered his ute around a pothole. He was eating Del’s dust now, because she had reached the track ahead of him. The sedan (minus the caravan) was bringing up the rear. Insects splattered against his windscreen, though he wasn’t going fast; you’d have sworn that they were hurling themselves at him, like attack dogs.

‘What do you reckon about this?’ Col asked his companion. ‘Do you reckon this is a good idea?’

John turned his head, slowly. His eyes were dazed and bewildered in deep, bruised sockets. He had been chewing his fingernails.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Do you reckon we should be going to Balaclava station? I’m starting to wonder. Maybe I should’ve – you know – kept driving alongside the highway. Couldn’t be much worse than this.’

John blinked, and then his gaze slipped away from Col’s.
Splat!
Something the size of a cicada hit the glass in front of him.

‘Jesus,’ said Col.

‘I dunno,’ John mumbled.

‘I mean, it can’t have gone on forever – all that road kill. And this is a bloody Holden WB. It’s not a tin-pot little Asian car.’ The wipers and spray didn’t seem to be doing much good; they were just smearing goo all over the windscreen. ‘Listen – John.

There’s a box of tissues in the glove-box. You want to lean out and give the glass a bit of a clean?’

John obeyed, silently. Col noticed, through the billows of dust ahead of him, that there was a dog in the back of Del’s station wagon. It was barking at him, though he couldn’t hear it.

Stupid bloody animal.

‘How are you going there?’

John grunted in reply.

‘It looks a bit better,’ said Col, troubled by thoughts of Elspeth. What if she was waiting for him? What if her crippled memory was actually functioning for once, and someone had told her to expect him, and he didn’t turn up? He wasn’t late – not yet

– but he soon would be. ‘I think maybe I’ll turn around,’ he began. Then he yelled, and slammed on the brake. He didn’t know what had happened, at first. It was all so

sudden, so quick: a great splash of gore across the windscreen. And the bang, which drove them off to the left, into a ditch – he thought for an instant that it had come
before
the blood. Had he hit something on the ground? Had it been forced up over the bonnet?

No.

‘Shit!’
gasped John.

‘Is it a bird?’ Col was dazed. His shoulder hurt. ‘It flew right into us . . .’

John scrambled out of the ute. Col followed his example, clumsily. He missed his footing on a loose gravel slope, and staggered, and grabbed at a door handle.

Fortunately, the ditch was just a shallow crease in the ground. His front wheels were sitting in it; they had churned two angry red furrows through the dust. His back wheels weren’t far from the track – no more than a couple of metres.

‘It’s a fuckin crow.’

Col looked up. ‘Eh?’ he said.

‘It’s a fuckin crow,’ John repeated, hoarsely. He was staring, white-faced, at the windshield, which was dripping with blood, plastered with offal and feathers. Black feathers. They were glued to the glass, some of them, while others were being whirled away in a light breeze.

‘I wasn’t going fast . . .’ Col faltered.

‘Col!’
It was Ross, hurrying towards them. The young truck driver was coming too. Ross’s sedan had stopped behind Col’s vehicle and had disgorged most of its passengers.

Col began to climb back into his own seat.

‘Col!’ said Ross. He had almost reached the ute, and was slowing. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. It was an accident.’

‘Oh shit.’ Alec, approaching from the passenger side, had caught sight of Col’s windscreen. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Crow,’ Col replied.

‘Crow?’

Col put his ute in reverse. He revved the engine, but got nowhere. Ross said to him, through the window: ‘You’ll need a push.’

‘Yeah. Right.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Fine.’

‘What happened?’

All at once, Col heard Del’s voice; he wondered how she had got to him so quickly. He noticed that she was carrying a bloody great rifle with a telescopic sight.

‘What the hell is
that
?’ she demanded.

‘Crow,’ Alec rejoined.

‘A
crow
? Hit his
windshield
?’

‘Are you gunna help us push, or what?’

They were all gathering in front of the ute, sliding into the ditch from every direction. Not Del, however – she wouldn’t relinquish her gun. She kept squinting around, her teeth bared, as Col gave the accelerator another tap.

‘Once more!’ yelled Alec.

Col could feel the pressure of the young bloke’s muscles. With a roar, his ute suddenly moved backwards, its front wheels bouncing over the edge of the ditch, its back wheels ploughing up dust. Col couldn’t see the men who followed him out – the windscreen was opaque with bodily fluids – but he heard them slap the bonnet, and call to him.

‘You’re done, here!’

‘You’re out, Col!’

‘Col, wait! Hang on!’

It didn’t register at first. He felt slightly numb in the head, as if only half his brain was functioning properly. So he turned in his seat, straining to see behind him while he spun the steering wheel.

Have to get back on the track, he thought.

‘Col! Wait!’ This time somebody banged at his door. It was the truck driver, who gave Col quite a scare. The silly bugger grabbed at his window glass.

‘Col! Stop!’

‘Why? What -?’

‘Your tyres, mate. Your front tyres.’ Alec’s eyes looked very green in his dusty brown face. ‘Didn’t you see?’

‘Eh?’

‘You’ve blown your front tyres.’