Blackjack Wayward

Chapter Thirteen

I headed down a ravine, letting myself inch down the sharp incline little by little. I came back up the other side, almost a hundred yards across, and lost sight of the settlement’s illumination. I had come from a higher plateau and was now lower than the light source, on a plane that went ahead for a few miles before ascending to a straight ridgeline ahead of me. It didn’t matter, I thought, guiding myself by feel. The creatures of the desert had become accustomed to me and had returned to their nocturnal hunting, to their natural chirping, wailing, and hooting sounds.

Stumbling through the brush, it suddenly dawned on me how cold I was, in contrast to how hot it had been earlier. The sun must have overheated my skin to the point where it became oversensitive to the cold night. I was just wearing the shredded remains of boxer shorts and there was nothing in sight that I could use to stay warm. Then I saw an abandoned car parked ahead, facing away from me. It was old and wrecked, with all the tires gone and painted on the window was the word, “free.” A wooden sign in front of the rusted front fender read, “take it.” The windows were long gone, and looking inside rewarded me with a pungent smell that made me think twice about checking it for anything warm.

Only then did I notice the road, a dozen feet away from the car, which stood almost perpendicular to my path. It was little more than a dirt indentation, wide enough for two cars to pass side by side, but it looked worn and well used. Across the road from the car was a sign, and I absentmindedly strolled to it, wanting to get a look.

“Warning Remote Areas Ahead,” it said in the top header, and below it went through a list of precautions, none of which I was respecting.

“Nice warning,” I mumbled, the sound of my rasping voice surprising and painful at the same time.

Another sign was off to my left, farther down the road. It was a yellow square with a Kangaroo drawn on it, with another square below listing “10 km” as a warning to drivers.

I had a choice to make on this road: head right into the nothingness or left through the Kangaroo crossing, and it wasn’t a difficult one to make. Heading one way would find me at a light source, probably a settlement and help. Going the wrong way would mean more desert, and probably death by dehydration. In the end, I went the kangaroo way. I figured if one crossed my path, I could catch it and eat it.

I started making plans in my head for how to catch one. As I stumbled down the road, I noticed dried brambles on the sandy ground that I could use to start a fire to cook the thing. Then again, I was so hungry I could probably eat it raw. I started gathering sticks as I travelled down the road. It soon took a sharp turn to the left around a copse of bushes. Clearing the foliage, I came upon a small stream that rolled over the road.

I rushed the water, stumbled, and fell. I crawled to the edge and threw my upper body into the rippling waves. It was a shallow creek, no deeper than my waist at its deepest, and the water was freezing cold. I opened my mouth and let the silted water rush in, swallowing as much sand as anything else, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. Another bolt locked into place, another piece of evidence that this was the firmament of reality. Nothing I’d partaken of in the dream world had tasted as sweet as this cloudy, bitter water. Once I had sated myself, I sat on my knees and inched forward, soaking my midsection and legs, splashing water all over my aching body.

Then I stopped.

Something about the creek wasn’t right. Maybe it was the creatures of the night, now deadly silent, but I felt ill at ease, and I knew something was watching me. The water in front of me was still, but I got a glimpse of a dark, shadowy creature moving through the shallow water toward me.

It was a crocodile. The biggest animal I had seen in my life, with a head roughly the size of my upper torso and a long tail that extended more than twenty feet behind it. The beast knew I had spotted it and it was still, worried that it might have ruined the ambush.

We sat there in the darkness, facing off. I could see more shapes rippling in the water, kept at bay by the bulk of the beast who had claimed me but waiting their turn should he fail to make me a meal. But the big bastard didn’t attack. Maybe it was confused. I made no move to run as prey did. I should have tried to stand and escape before it killed me, but that’s what it was waiting for.

Instead, it just studied me, its only movement a swift shake of its tail when another competitor got too close.

I stood, coming to my full height. It tensed, eager to strike, but instead of moving away, I stepped toward it.

I walked right at the croc.

“You want a piece of me?” I snarled. “You’re going to have to earn it.”

I had little strength left to fight a crocodile, much less a flock of them, but I wasn’t going to cower. I wasn’t going to back down.

Another step took me into the beast’s personal space, and my next step brought my bare foot down on its head. The croc panicked, splashed water all over the bank, and rushed away from me. The whole creek exploded with activity as the other crocs recoiled. A frantic moment later the creek was silent again. The only thing disturbing the peaceful night was the slow rippling of the water on the edge of the bank.

Rising up from the embankment that the creek had cut through the land, I finally caught a glimpse of the small settlement in the distance, lit by a few bare bulbs that hung on what you would call the “Main Street.” The little village was a few buildings and mobile homes spread on either side of the dirt road. One main structure bore the sign “Rabbit Flat,” but that meant little to me. Beside the buildings were several massive gasoline tanks, held up in the air by metal pilings. A pair of red taillights bounced in the distance, slowly becoming smaller and more obscured by the dust the car was lifting off the road.

I slid down the embankment and headed toward the settlement, walking up the brick steps and opening the blue painted door. The place was dim, with a few empty tables and a long bar, behind which sat an old woman aiming a shotgun at my chest.

“Hi there,” I managed, but her aged face was stern. She racked the shotgun and shook her head.

“Whatever you’re selling,” the lady said, “we’ll have none of it.”

“I got lost in the desert,” I started, but she fired the shotgun into the wall beside me, smashing a post board that was covered with paper advertisements.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I said, but she just smiled, chambering another round.

“I’ve got the shotgun, Seppo,” she said, but the woman caught a good look at me and winced in disgust. “Oh my, what happened to your face?”

I touched my cheek and felt something embedded there, jutting out of my face.

“Oh, that’s a bullet,” I said.

“A bullet?”

“Yeah. Last guy tried to shoot me too.”

“You should be dead.”

I laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“You with that crazy bitch?”

I turned serious. “She here?”

The old woman shifted her aim, leveling the shotgun’s barrel with my eyes. “You two mates?”

“No, I want to kill her,” I blurted, not realizing how angry I was at Claire.

She watched me for a moment, the gun never wavering.

“What’d she do to you?” I asked.

“She hurt my husband. They’ve run off to get him to hospital in Alice.”

I nodded and inched closer to the bar.

“You got any Jack Daniels back there?” I asked, eyeing the lines of dusty bottles.

“Who are you, then?”

She still had me in her sights, but I could see the gun held slightly lower, as if she guessed I wasn’t much of a threat.

“Is that woman still here?”

The old lady nodded. “She took our ‘stead. I asked you a question there,” she pressed.

“You have a way to get out of here? A car or something?”

“I suppose you want to take it?”

I smiled, “No, ma’am. I mean for you to get away.”

“You gonna go barney with that witch? She’ll kill you, yanno? Just up and kill you. You look like you’re about to Cark it.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Drop dead. Blow in. You’re all in the jackeroo,” she waved the gun at my body. “Nothing to fight with. You’d best grab your dungaroo and nick off.”

I laughed, not following her at all.

“You should get out of here,” I told her, coming around the bar. “I’m going to have a drink of whatever you have that’s strong, then I’m going to go have a word with the witch lady. You won’t want to be here for that.”

“Oh sure, get off your face and she’ll polish you off. She’s got strange magic that one.”

“I know,” I said, grabbing a bottle of local vodka. “CooranBong, this any good?”

“You got a Razoo to pay for that?”

I opened the bottle and said, “I’ll have to owe you, lady.” I poured the liquid down my throat. It burned so good, warming my bones, chilling my heart for what I was going to do.

“Rack off, you ratbag,” she spat, coming around the bar and jabbing her gun into my midsection. She swiped the bottle from my hand and returned it to its slot before herding me out of the bar. For a little woman, she had gumption.

She stopped and got a closer look at my face.

“Struth, you’ve got a bullet stuck to your mug.”

I grinned, letting her move me back.

“You’re either a dimwit or fast to get your donger cocked off. Is that it? You a bit of a dill? If you’re smart, you’ll shoot through.”

“You want to know who I am?” I said, putting my hands on my knees to bring my face to her height level. “I’m Blackjack. Know who that is?”

She nodded, her expression changing, her bravado fading as she lowered the gun.

“I can handle this girl,” I continued, “but I’m worried about you and whoever else might be here.”

“Just me,” she said.

“And you have a vehicle?”

The woman nodded again.

“Then get going,” I said. “And don’t come back for at least a week.”

“The tart’s over there,” she said pointing to a small building out the window. “But don’t be fooled ‘cause she’s a sheila.”

The woman walked to the front door, still carrying the shotgun.

“Oh, and don’t tell anyone about us here,” I added. “Local cops aren’t going to be able to handle this if I can’t.”

She walked to door, saying “This old boozer’s gone cactus. It’s the dog’s breakfast,” as she strolled out.

I walked back behind the bar and got the same vodka bottle, helping myself to a long drain from it. There was no food visible, but this would do for now. Once I was done with the vodka, I found a bottle of local whiskey and a glass. I was about to pour a shot when I heard the sound of a small engine, maybe a motorcycle, roaring to life. The woman warmed up the bike, then roared off down the road by the time I was on my third shot.

“A little liquid courage?” Claire said, standing just inside the door.

“I don’t need it for what I’m going to do to you, woman.”

“What’s that?”

I smiled, “I’m going to kill you.”

She was worried.

Injured as I was, I still posed a threat and she knew it.

Her confident smile was forced as she strolled forward, closer to the bar.

“Before you kill me, a drink?” Claire asked, easing out a chair and sitting beside me.

I glared at her, ready to break the bottle across her pretty face. To her credit, she just looked back at me, not even trying to hide her shame. She grabbed a glass and placed it between us.

“One drink?” she said.

I shrugged and poured her a double of the strong Australian whiskey, keeping my hand on the bottle. Claire lifted the glass in a toast. “Sante, to your health,” she said as she drank the amber liquid. She coughed only once and forced it down with a smile.

“Can I say something?”

“I thought we said one drink, then you die,” I growled.

She paused, eyeing me with concern. I guess my expression was harder than she had expected, but Claire did little to hide her fear.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped.

“You left me out there,” I exploded, feeling the anger building up.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, but it was almost a whisper as I trampled over her speech with what slowly built to a scream.

“I saved your ass, woman. I helped you not once, but twice, and if not for me, you’d still be back there, getting passed around like a joint at a frat house!”

Her gaze was averted, eyes welling with tears.

“What kind of a f*cking monster are you that you can’t even return a kindness done to you? I don’t know who the f*ck you think you are, lady, but you’re a piece of shit. A f*cking crack whore, and half of me wishes I had left you back there to get ass raped by Zundergrub and his boys!”

“Can I say something?” she whimpered, but her frailty just fed my anger.

“I know you’re some kind of badass villain, but what kind of deranged, crazy bitch do you have to be to leave someone behind who was trying to help you, huh? I got put in Utopia cause of some bad shit I did, and hell, I deserved it. I should still be back there. I belong there. But I didn’t f*cking lose my humanity, no matter what their little crazy experiments were!”

“Blackjack, I’m sorry!” she insisted.

“F*ck sorry! You’re a sorry excuse for a human being. I’ve seen the worst in man, Claire. I saw Zundergrub try to destroy the world. I saw his little machinations make a decent man, Dr. Retcon, lose his mind. I’ve seen evil, and I thought I understood it, until I met you.”

This cut her to the core, she wept, not bothering to wipe her tears, not daring to look at me in the face.

“You’re the coldest creature on the planet. A wicked bitch who’d hurt anything that stood in your way. Even a f*cking dog, ‘cause of what? What’d that dog do to you?”

I paused but I didn’t let her answer.

“Nothing! And these people? These people have nothing. This place is a shithole, and they would have given you the clothes on their backs to help you, their last scrap of bread to feed you. And you come in here, guns blazing, and start hurting people left and right. What the f*ck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t–” she started, but I jumped in.

“WHAT THE F*ck IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

And with that, I stopped, exhausted. She sobbed, her face buried in her hands, and I felt my anger wane. My desire to crush the life out of her faded, replaced with overwhelming pity and shame. As pathetic as she was, the same question could have been asked of me after what I became in the mind-prison.

I poured myself a drink, shaking my head, and then served her another.

She looked up, still crying, and noticed the full glass of whiskey. She picked it up with shaking hands, taking a small sip.

“I’m sorry,” she said and coughed twice, her throat blanching at the hard liquor.

I reached over for the bartender’s chair, sitting across from her.

She looked at the contents of her glass, swirling the whiskey as if she could glean an answer from the small whirlpool. Then again, she was a witch. We sat there in silence for a few moments, her sipping from the glass, while I downed shots in rapid-fire fashion.

“I hate this,” she said, but whether she was talking about the hard whiskey or something else, I couldn’t tell.

I poured her another.

“It’s all we got.”

Claire looked at her glass with distaste and brought it to her lips again, laboring around a mouthful of the hard liquor.

“Then it’s all we have,” she said, forcing a little smile.