On The Farm

The re-dyed military fatigues swim on his gangly body. He looks like a tall stalk of sorghum that the harvester missed, standing in a row with other bright green stalks on the other side of the tall mesh fence. Behind him a narrow, freshly laid bitumen road carries a vehicle every few minutes. The cars pull up to a checkpoint where the vehicle’s passengers, contents and underside are carefully checked by Sorghum Stalk and his colleagues. After a while, and if all is as it should be, the vehicle drives forward and then disappears by descending a long ramp underground. It’s all very regimented. The very rich pay other people so they can be regimented and safe.

No one ever leaves the air conditioned, luxury SUV’s to step out and take into their lungs the dry, hot air that continually lords it over the desiccated earth under a sky mostly cloudless and the colour of cold porridge.

 I wish I had some sunglasses. Sorghum Stalk and his fellow guards look at us through their sunglasses. Us is me and Mitch. We have driven the old white Ute over the powdery dead soil of what had once been the top paddock, and then reversed it round and parked on the other side of the fence beside the checkpoint to watch the proceedings. The lads in the fatigues aren’t happy about it but the land on this side of the fence is still ours, and in this new age of libertarianism they won’t tell even we lowly returners to move on if we are on our own property. Anyway, the guards only have batons and Tasers so if they feel the need to move us on they are going to have to jump the fence. We aren’t worth the effort.

Plus we were here first. Years before this shitfuckery arrived. Don’t get me started. We survive, even prosper though the rain has stopped and all the soil has blown away. But we didn’t blow away; we stayed and found a way to survive, even without sunglasses. And anyway we are not looking for a fight, just interaction with some exotic strangers.

That, and some shitstirring of course.

Mitch has brought an old polystyrene cooler and we are sitting on the Ute’s dropped tailgate drinking home brews pulled from the cooler and pretending the bottles are frosty cold but of course they aren’t. There is no ice in the cooler, it takes too much power to make ice.

The silence is broken as a helicopter rhythmically thumps overhead. No doubt it is dropping some late rich preppers at the strip. They need to hurry, time is running out. I look towards the west horizon and it is there already, a thin dark cloud stretching like a band across the horizon right at the end of sight, the leading edge of the next dust storm coming this way. The storm is running early but there is still time to have some fun.

“Where you from mate?” Mitch yells out, shattering the returning silence. Of the six guards within earshot four of them jump and look away, one just looks angry and Sorghum Stalk answers, “Brisbane.”

Makes sense, it is the closest big city. I have seen photos of it. A broad river, tall towers of shining, reflective glass. Bet you it is not like that now. River is probably a ditch, the towers would be non-reflective now, all that glass blasted to an abraded matt finish by the wind and dust.

“You know it’s 50/50 that you’ll get back there,” Matt says.

His tone is bland but his voice is loud.

“In another hour all these pricks will be underground with the doors shut. And the storm will be here and you blokes will be left outside.”

His words hang like the dust in the air. Someone over the fence mumbles and Sorghum Stalk turns red from the rebuke. He keeps quiet but he looks up and gives us a look of anger and a little bit of fear. Angry Face, who may have done the mumbling looks at us too.

“Seriously, stop looking at me and my sis and look over your shoulders. Go on, have a look at the black event line on the horizon. Can you see it? I have been sitting here drinking beer and feeling sorry for you blokes all this time. You know why? Because when we pulled up that event line wasn’t there. Was it Sis?”

I know my part. I take a long pull of the home made beer and almost splutter on the warm malty taste but I keep control. I wipe my mouth and just nod then after a pause I speak.

“My brother’s right, it wasn’t there.”

Actually Mitch is short sighted and the only reason he knows about the storm’s leading edge being in sight is because I told him. I want to tell him that I think it has grown again in the last five minutes and suddenly, despite the sun, I feel a shiver down my spine.

Mitch continues, “And they will not be letting you blokes in. I don’t give a fuck what they said. They will leave you out here and you will have a night of storm to get through before it blows over. How do you reckon you will go in those shipping containers or in the back of the truck? Have fun with that! And if it’s a bad one and we are due a bad one, you know what? If anyone finds you ever again which is very fucking unlikely you will look like an oversize prune.”

The storms come with the new moon. I don’t know why. They last for ten hours more or less. If you are on the edge you can be caught out in them and live as long as you are fully covered to protect you from the blowing dust. But in the heart of one, when the wind is really howling you won’t be able to keep your feet. You will be blown away and buried or filled with sand like a hessian sack or both. I have seen it happen to cars but never to people. But that’s only because we have never found the body of anyone who went out and got caught in a big one. 

No doubt Mitch has got their attention, but another SUV is approaching.

I look over at the cluster of shipping containers and a couple of old mining dongas and the truck. Not every storm is bad enough but if we get a good one the noise of the wind and the dust beating and racing against the steel of the shipping containers would drive you crazy.

A few of the detail are doing a security check of the SUV. The windows are tinted so I can’t see in but suddenly with a whirring the back window winds down and a dog, black with a shaggy curly coat, stares at me and I swear he smiles. His lips go up over his gums for a few seconds and he cocks his doggy head and the fucker smiles. I start to lift my hand to wave but I stop myself and then, as if he didn’t like what he was seeing and smelling the window goes up again. The car drives off and slowly disappears from view down the ramp.

The guards return to their spots and Mitch asks the question,

“What are they paying you? How much is it worth to have a good chance of dying out here?”

Sorghum can’t help himself, “What do you care? Why don’t you fuck off to the holes you came out of?”

Mitch pounces, “Mate we will real soon, the sun is just going to get hotter and we are going to run out of beer soon anyway. We’re going back to a nice dinner of kangaroo pie and some hydroponic greens.  Much better than those instant rations you are going to be eating for the next day or so, if you live that long.”

My brother does get a real joy from this. We are second-generation returners. Our mother left the crowded city in the first wave of returners and pleaded with the indigenies to let us stay and learn. They let her. They have always let people on to the reserves if they understood and wanted to stay and learn. Mum married and Mitch and me and my brother Harley are the result.

“Besides mate,” Matt continues, “I do care. Just because the scientists told you for decades and you wouldn’t listen and the indigenous people of this country told you too. But fuck it, why would you listen to them? They were trying to tell people stuff for 300 years and you never listened and then finally when you were all running around and mumbling ‘Fuck what have we done’ it was too late. But even with all that, that doesn’t mean that us returners want to see you dumb bastards die here in the dust like the trees, the crops and the animals.” Mitch takes a breath for effect, “Well not much, anyway.”

He is in full flight now.

“It’s all right for those pricks in the shiny cars, they will be right mate, they’re always right mate. They are assholes anyway. I’m talking to you blokes standing there.”

I move my foot over and tap Mitch’s boot. He looks at me, his soft, brown eyes suddenly surrounded by a frown. I’ve interrupted his dramatic monologue. I nod towards the horizon.

The black event horizon is growing faster than I have ever seen it. The, black rushing clouds have filled a fifth of the sky and its growth is visible to the naked eye. Mitch tenses and I can tell even he can see it and is surprised and maybe a little scared too.

“Hey Boys, you really need to have a look behind you. The good news is that the afternoon heat will not be too bad today, the bad news is that’s because we are going to have a fucker of a storm.”

Maybe it’s his tone or maybe it’s because these guys are really new to the job. In the past the guards have just ignored us or given us some fuck you gestures. A few visits ago Mitch had to explain to me what it meant when one of the guards looked at me while running his tongue up and down the inside of one cheek and making a fist and moving it towards and away from his mouth. I laughed when he told me. The next time a guard did it, he did it to Mitch and I laughed so hard that Mitch yelled at me to get back into the car and we sped off. The whole day was ruined and Mitch would not talk to me all the way home.

This time all of them including Sorghum Stalk turn around.

One of them swears and I can hear the sharp intake of breath and see their shock.

Another one gets on his two way radio. The road leading up to the ramp is empty as far as I can see and there is no sign of the SUV that should have the last helicopter’s passengers. The guards are jumpy. There is some whispering and they clump in a circle.

After a minute or so a big man, a boss man comes up the ramp. He wears the same fatigues but has a pistol on his hip. He barely looks at us and is at first concerned with getting the work detail calm. I can’t hear much but he is good at keeping order, as the group seems to regain coolness and composure. Once he has them back under control he turns to us.

“You know there is really is just the two of you and all this dirt and with that coming,” he points over his shoulder at the western sky,” no one might really know what ever really happened to you,” he yells. “You know how it goes, caught out in the storm, separated from your vehicle and buried in dust. Gone for fucking good. No real loss I reckon but someone probably loves you.” He pauses then finishes, “So why don’t you just piss off and leave these blokes to do their jobs?” Just to make his point he rests his hand on the butt of the holstered pistol.

I wonder if he has rehearsed the speech. Mitch always mumbles his lines to himself as we drive out here.

Out of the corner of my eye I can now see the dust cloud thrown up by the last SUV. It is speeding down the access road trailing a cloud of fine silt that lingers behind like the trails that jets used to leave on winter’s days, when the air was cold and there were still seasons. They have seen the storm front approaching and have put the pedal to the metal, as my little brother Harley loves to say.  The sky is now a third covered by a dark swirling mass of platinum and black clouds, riven through by sheet lightning. A faint breeze picks up; the storm is starting to suck the air in from the land in front of it.

I turn to Mitch again and make a “let’s go” face. We’ve had our fun and it is time to pull out. There is an outpost if we are caught out in a storm but this looks like a really big one and I am not sure how safe we will be.

Then suddenly everything changes. The SUV is only fifty yards away when Sorghum Stalk suddenly takes out his Taser, primes it and fires at Boss Man. Boss Man doesn’t see it coming, nobody does, and he falls to the ground flopping like a fish in an evaporating puddle. Sorghum Stork and Angry Face go for his gun while the rest of us are stunned into statues.

The SUV comes in fast and the driver is obviously confused by the body flailing on the road in front of him and in his indecision he leaves braking to the last second. He locks up the wheels and the passenger side tyres roll and drag over Boss Man. The front guard hits both Sorghum Stalk and Angry Face with a glancing blow as they wrestle for the pistol. They are thrown clear and I can see both of them lying stunned on the ground. Sorghum Stalk recovers first and grabs the gun. He flips the safety and calmly shoots Angry Face right in the forehead as he tries to get up. Angry Face no longer, more No Face now.

I can hear screams from inside the SUV and the driver hits the accelerator. The bumper slams into Sorghum Stalk for the second time in twenty seconds. This time I can hear something snap above the whistle of the wind.  The gun goes flying, the SUV roars down the ramp, rolling off the boss man’s body with a jiggle of the suspension. After a few seconds the other four men of the detail run, following the SUV down the ramp. I can hear the hum of the electric motor and the rattle and clang of steel as the massive roller door starts to seal off the underground bunker.

It has all happened so quickly that I realise I still have a warm can of beer halfway to my lips. Mitch is quicker though. He is off up the embankment. I look up to where the storm is almost covering half the sky with boiling dark fury.

“What are you fucking doin’? We have to go,” I yell at my brother but he is climbing like a goanna up and over the fence. The wind is picking up and I feel it whipping up the first grains of dirt and freezing the sweat on the back of my neck.

“Get in the Ute, get it started and wait,” Mitch yells from the top of the fence his voice wavering against the gusts of wind. Then he jumps down and runs up the dirt bank and on to the black bitumen.  He spies the gun lying beside Sorghum Stalk who is on his back yelling in pain loud enough to be heard over the biggest storm.

The wind is really blowing now and I open up the driver’s side door and lean in and start the engine. Thankfully the old battery turns and the bio diesel burns and the engine rattles into life. I stand at the door, one foot in and the rest of me outside and scream at him to hurry, although I know we have already left it too late to get all the way to home.

Mitch runs to the gun but Sorghum Stalk is a survivor. He must hear or sense Mitch coming or maybe it’s all been an act. Either way he beats my brother to the pistol.

The bastard fires from point blank range but he must be in some pain because the bullet only clips Mitch’s left ear.  I can see him wince and his mouth open in a scream. Blood begins to flow. By now I am screaming too while rummaging under the driver’s seat for the only working gun we have, an old single shot 22 rifle. Mitch falls upon Sorghum Stalk and size and fitness win out with Mitch getting the gun. But he doesn’t shoot good old Sorghum Stalk. Mitch just smashes the gun into Sorghum’s face a few times until he lies still and then he grabs the baton and Taser from his belt. Then Mitch runs into the portable office donga. He is in there for a minute or two while I stand at the Ute, rifle in shaking hands, screaming his name and cursing him. I wonder if they are watching this underground, on the monitors feeding from the cameras mounted on the donga and if they are going to come out and kill us all.

Mitch emerges from the donga with a backpack over his shoulder and the pistol in his hand.  Sorghum Stalk is lying on his back shaking with shock and moaning loudly with pain. The dust is starting to whip my legs and I lower my goggles to protect my eyes from the grit. Mitch stops to talk to Sorghum Stalk. The sky is now well over halfway dark. He grabs him by the shoulders and drags him into the donga, comes out and slams the door just as the landscape goes from bright light and sharply cut shadows to twilight grey.

Mitch runs to the fence, throws the backpack over and starts climbing. Even in the twilight I can see his shirt darkening with blood down his left side. He jumps from half way down, grabs the backpack and we are off and rolling before he shuts his door. After a few seconds I look across at him. He is holding an old rag against his head and crying.

Landmarks like the scattered dead trees and the frames of old windmills are disappearing as the darkness grows and before too long our inward tracks are almost invisible in the swirling grey fog. The wind begins to buffet the Ute and Mitch gets out the compass and map and just points east. For a while I cannot see more than a yard or two but the land is so flat and featureless that the storm is the greater danger. Then I begin to pull ahead of the storm and I can drop our speed and even see a bit better. Our destination is a dried riverbed where, on a bend, an escarpment has been carved out of the sandstone. Here there are caves with ancient paintings and enough shelter for us if not for the car. There are emergency stores of water and some food. We can wait it out.

I hit a bump and something bangs under the car. Maybe it is some long fallen tree petrified and half buried in the earth. I drive on but whatever I hit has made a difference. The Ute starts to steer funny and pull to the left but I am in front of the storm enough to see the escarpment as a darker shadow a mile or so ahead.

Mitch wearily signals to stop and mouths something I only half hear about having a look at the steering. Fuck knows what he thinks he is going to see but I obey. He covers himself, flings open the door and disappears into the semi darkness.

Mitch comes back after some anxious seconds. He looks baffled but the wind is getting stronger and I can’t hear what he says. Then he turns and faces the front to point out something and goes to sit back in the car and then the storm proper catches up to us again, in an instant the wind triples in strength and swings and eddies and the open door is slammed back into Mitch’s face. The whole car rocks on its wheels and for an instant I feel it lift and become weightless. Mitch collapses from view beside the car. I scream and reach across the seat for him, yelling his name and choking on the talcum like cloud of dust in the car. I see him struggling to get up, reaching across the seat I grab a handful of hair and in an insane instant of strength pull him up and into the car. He falls though the opening, his head landing in my lap and I am embarrassed that my brother is nose down in my sweaty crotch but I hit the accelerator and drive off with Mitch’s legs still hanging out the door with the dust swirling in before I stop again and pull my brother fully into the car. He is dazed, bleeding from the nose and has a massive lump on his forehead.

I look for the compass and the map but can find neither and I realise the map is now being blown to shreds on the wind. The storm’s leading edge has almost caught us again so I drive crazily towards the barely visible escarpment.

I park as close as I can to the top of the escarpment but there is no shelter from the swirling dust. I rouse Mitch and help him put on his goggles again, I grab water, cover up and open the car door. It is flung out of my hand as the wind catches it and throws the door back against its hinges. It is not too bad. If it was I would simply be blown away but even with my goggles and full skin protection I yell and curse at the impact of billions of grains of blown soil. Through the open door the car is filling with dirt and I try to drag it shut and it takes all my strength to close it against the gusts. I struggle to the passenger side and open the door. The sudden lack of movement has roused Mitch but he is still only half conscious. My jeans and groin are sticky with his blood and I can feel the windblown dirt caking on the wet denim as I hold him up. Then I realise Mitch has no jacket on. There is nothing that can be done about it now other than to shield him as best as I can. The wind and stinging dust rouse him and we stagger towards the escarpment wall. A couple of times during the walk I could feel my feet beginning to lift off the ground as the wind drives me forward.

I know the way though and in twenty seconds we are in the lee of the escarpment and safely under the ledge at the entrance to the cave. We slump against the cave wall and I gaze out at an endlessly billowing enveloping sheet of grey and realise how badly I need to piss.

Later in the dark the storm reaches the peak of its fury. We are safe enough but I fear for the Ute. Mitch is asleep, probably concussed but he has stopped oozing blood and I have washed away the dried blood and dirt so his face is a pale oval in the lantern’s dim light. Occasionally the wind eddies and I can hear a smattering of dirt as it is blown through the cave’s entrance and lands on the tarp that we have wrapped ourselves in after eating some of the kangaroo jerky from the cache and drinking sips of stale bore water.

Eventually I fall asleep but keep waking, disturbed by the storm’s roars and shrieks and the sudden eddies of cold air from further back in the cave behind me.

Some time before dawn the storm moves on. There is a deep silence and walking to the cave entrance I can see the stars winking in a clear sky. I look to the east and it looks like there is a lightening on the horizon as the relentless sun rushes to come and bake us again.

I check Mitch and he is sleeping soundly. I venture out further and stand in soft dirt that reaches my ankles. I wonder if the car will be buried or even still there. I wonder if the other returners are worried about us, or if our brother Harley, always hot headed, is angry that a search party has not been sent out to look for us.

The air is wonderfully mild and clean. It smells faintly of eucalypt although how I cannot imagine. I go back inside and light a fire to boil the billy.

When Mitch wakes you would think nothing had happened, it is like has gotten out of his own bed after ten hours of blissful rest. I feel flayed and I think I have an eye infection but he is chatty and lucid, his face full of bruises and smiles.

We go to find the car and dig it out before it gets too hot. I am happy because it is still there. The protection from the escarpment wall stopped it getting blown over or away and it is only the back half of the car that is covered in dirt. We dig for a while and then Mitch gets behind the wheel, turns the ignition and the engine starts. He puts the Ute in four-wheel drive and easy as, the car pulls itself from the sand drift and I breathe again.

We head back slowly, the drive will take thirty minutes longer than usual as there is still something wrong with the steering but in the end despite Mitch’s cuts, bruises, sandblasted arms and developing black eyes we have survived. I start to think what will happen when we get back.

“Shit Mitch, we are going to be in so much trouble. Got caught out in the storm, we’ve damaged the Ute, lost the map, you might have a broken nose and for what?”

“Well it was fun, we needed the experience and besides you’ve forgotten a few things.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“This” and Mitch reaches under the passenger seat and with a flourish pulls out the backpack from the donga. He is right. I had completely forgotten the backpack.

“Shit,” I exclaim, “What’s in it?”

“Well the pistol of course, the Taser and the baton and…”

He reaches into the pack and pulls out two pairs of sunglasses.

Worth it!