Wheatley, Roger - The Train by Wheatley Roger

Author:Wheatley, Roger [Wheatley, Roger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-09-20T22:00:00+00:00

16

He rested through the worst of the heat under a clump of mulga trees. He rolled onto his stomach, his arms around his head to keep the flies away from his face. Sleep had come easily. He woke in the late afternoon, an hour, maybe two of light left in the day. He climbed to his feet and kept walking. He felt comfortable. He realised that with rest and a steady supply of water and food he was actually building into the effort. He’d lost weight, quite a bit. But he felt strong and ready.

He saw the buildings in the distance just as the twilight was fading into darkness. There were no lights just the straight incongruous lines set against the pink sky. As he closed he could make out several caravans parked in a desolate gravel camping area, still hooked to the vehicles that towed them. He thought they would have been ready for an early departure, the stop, just an overnighter. Nothing to see or do in this wind-swept place. Maybe a shower and a beer. And then bed and an early start.

He headed towards the buildings, walking past the first of the fuel pumps, the diesel pumps not covered by the forecourt roof, the ones used by the big rigs. He was almost at the inner line of pumps under the roofline when the voice rang out.

—STOP. The voice startled him. A man’s voice, angry.

He’d done as bid more out of shock at the sound than any obedience he might have felt.

—Hello? He couldn’t see anyone. The shopfront was dark, he couldn’t even tell if the door was open.

—Keep going. You’re not welcome here. I have a gun. It was made in three statements, like they were being read from a list of talking points.

—I don’t understand. It was the best the man could do. He didn’t understand. He didn’t want anything, just wanted to engage, explain where he’d come from, and maybe find out what was going on.

—I said keep going, I won’t tell you again. It was quiet for a moment, interrupted by a metallic noise that the man recognised as the bolt of a rifle being worked.

The man stepped back slowly, managing to get one of the fuel pumps between him and where he thought the voice was coming from. He kept moving backwards to the highway to where he knew he could no longer be seen in the moonless night. He sat down on the centre line. He had to think.

He didn’t stay there long. He climbed to his feet with the aid of the walking stick and headed back the way he’d come, then turned and cut across through the bush to the edge of the camping area.

He squatted in the low scrub to watch for a while. The only thing that separated it from just being a flat cleared area in the scrub were the handful of short power poles where caravaners could connect to a power supply. There were three rigs in the park, all double axle and pulled by late model SUVs.

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