Skyquakers (4 page)

He carried on eastwards with the setting sun behind him,
crossing the last of the wetlands. A storm appeared. It hovered west, directly
over the ranger’s cabin, and swirled in the sky menacingly above it. The cabin
was then beamed, and little glittery specks, once the ranger and the little
girl, went up into the sky to join the others.

He built a fire by a small creek, a few kilometres from the
ranger’s cabin. He huddled close to the flames, keeping warm, and jimmied open
a can of beans, corn, and tuna. The resulting mixture had the consistency of
dog food but it contained all the goodness he needed, and when washed down with
another half of a Mars bar, it was not that bad a meal. He sat on the rough
dirt and ate with the sound of Lonely Lily in his ears and with a vigilant eye
on the sky. The storm was moving on, still yet to spot him. It made thunder
noises, as usual.

Suits
, he thought again. The only thing he could even
remotely relate to the ranger’s rants was that human he saw walking about with
the
Skyquakers
in Wyndham, dressed in a fancy suit
and tie. Was that who he was afraid of? Was that little person, assisting the
Quakers in their work, some sort of slave to them? Or a helper? A spy? Ned,
therefore, was not the first human the ranger and his daughter had come across
since the storm, and whatever encounter he had had with this
‘
Suit
’
thereon left him untrusting of anyone who crossed his path, humanoid or
otherwise. Or maybe Ned simply attracted bad luck, and anyone who met him was
ultimately doomed.

It was during that meal, and Lonely Lily
’
s
playing of
‘
Yesterday
’
by the Beatles, that Ned heard footsteps up ahead, crunching sticks along the
ground. He leapt up. He seized his knife and his torch. He saw a shadow coming
towards him through the bushes and his heart began to race. He switched off the
radio and heard it clearly now: one pair of feet, stomping along steadily,
following the goat track across the wetlands which led directly towards him.
When at last the shadow stepped into Ned
’
s light, it
halted. It was an Aboriginal man, late forties, dressed in a shabby blue
flannelette shirt, stained white singlet, half untucked, and old jeans. His
dark hair was messy and his bristled chin was unkempt. He had no pack with him,
just a walking stick and a belt of items. His boots were covered in red dust.

Ned did not know what to say. For a while, neither did the
man.

‘Hey,
’
he said.

‘Hey,
’
Ned said.

The man, curious, waddled towards him. Ned stood his ground,
held his knife in a fighting stance, eyes locked. The man walked casually,
lazily, leaping down to the bank of the creek to admire his campsite. He
observed Ned for a while, looked him up and down,
checked
out his little setup by the fire. Ned began to shake.

The man said,
‘
Mai, you look silly like that.
Stop it.
’

Ned was hesitant. The man chuckled. It made Ned lower his
arm a little.

‘What
’
s your name?
’

‘Ned.’ He swallowed. ‘My name is Ned.
’

The man nodded. He looked down at the campsite again,
particularly at the food cans scattered around.

‘You got a feed,
mai
?
’

Ned, reluctantly, gave the man a can of tuna and let him sit
with him by the fire. They sat opposite each other, enjoying the warmth of the
flames, slapping at mosquitos on their arms. The mysterious stranger ate like a
pig, scoffed down the food as fast as he could and sucked the can dry of every
last salty drop. Ned could not help but to stare at him, not because anything
about his appearance was unusual, but because he had not sat and had dinner
with another person in almost a month.

Once he was done, the stranger introduced himself as
Jackrabbit. He asked where Ned was going.

‘The
Kununurra
. I
’
m
heading across to Ivanhoe.
’

Jackrabbit looked at him and laughed through his yellow
teeth.
‘
You,
mai
? You as scrawny
as
nothin
’
. You
wanna
dun get ’cross the ’
Nunurra
? The sand? The salt?
’

‘I need to get to Ivanhoe.
’

‘
Ain
’
t
nothing in Ivanhoe,
’
said Jackrabbit.

Ned sat forward.
‘
Is that where you came from?
’

‘I came from the Never Never
…’
he said,
still chewing,
‘
passed by
Willeroo
,
Timber Creek, over the border and through the ’
Nunurra
.
’

In other words, he had trekked half the country and the
reason why was obvious: to find people, any people. During the storm,
Jackrabbit had been sleeping under a tree, somewhat unconscious, when everyone
was beamed up. He woke to find himself alone, so he packed up and left, without
a second thought. He wasn
’
t looking for anyone or
anything in particular; he was quite a secluded soul, even before the storm, so
being alone in the rough was not new to him. He passed towns here and there,
stole rum from the abandoned bars, slept in a good bed once in a while, but
then he moved on to the next, lacking any sentimental feelings towards any
place, or any object, which passed him by.

Ned asked cautiously,
‘
And Ivanhoe?
’

‘A dusty load of shit.
’

He collapsed into his hands.
‘
No, no, no
…
there has to be someone. There has to be a place, a town, or some
emergency bunker, where people
—’

‘
Ain
’
t
no
people no more,
’
said Jackrabbit.
‘
Just
them
Walkers.
’

Ned lifted his head. ‘You
’
ve seen
them too?
’

‘Making their houses, yeah.
’

Ned asked him more questions, as many as he could think of,
but the
Skyquakers
were quite elusive. They operated
only in pairs or threes, usually overlooking the construction of their big
warehouses or occasionally examining a nearby town which they had formally
cleared. With their faces and bodies obscured by those astronaut suits,
Jackrabbit had as much to tell of them as Ned did, but Jackrabbit had far more
assumptions about their arrival and their purpose here.

‘Land, of course.
’

‘They want land?
’

‘They didn
’
t blow up the place, did they?
They
dun
’
t
drop bombs or torch
us all. Nah, they needed everything nice and neat. They
dun
’
t
beam down them warehouses near cities, neither: they do it in paddocks, near
rivers, in the middle of
nowheres
. They
’
re
already setting up farms.
’

‘Farms?
’

‘Yeah, crops and stuff. I
’
ve seen
some of what they
growin
’
. Looks a
lot like corn and wheat. Them animals though, they
’
re
something new,
ey
?
’

Each had an experience to share: for Ned, it was the Loch
Ness crocodile in Parry
’
s Lagoon; for Jackrabbit, it
was a sheep-cross-cow mammal he had seen grazing in a fenced off paddock, which
the Quakers had set up in the Never
Never
. A thousand
of the bastards, he swore there were, grazing on the grass as usual, with
fluffy white or grey coats, some with horns, some spotted,
each
with added
‘
alien
’
body parts which he could not
quite explain. He had hunted a few at night, stolen one for a slab of meat.
Tasted just like lamb; nothing different.

‘They took the sheep,
’
he said,
‘
and
now they
’
re
bringin
’
them back.
’

Ned somewhat understood what Jackrabbit was getting at.
‘
You
think they have all the animals up there, up in the sky? And they
’
re
altering
them, then sending them back down? What for?
’

‘I
’
unno
,
mai
! To integrate with us, or something like that,
maybe? Like half-
halfs
.
’

‘Hybrid alien animals?
’

‘Yeah,
’
unno
.
’

An immediate thought followed:
‘
What do you
think they
’
re doing to all the people, then?
’

Jackrabbit didn’t comment. He then said,
‘
You
ain
’
t
going across the
Kununurra
.
’

‘Yes, I am. And if there
’
s no one
there, I
’
m going to Darwin.
’

‘What? Why?
’

Ned revealed his pocket radio, which he protected like a
gem.
‘
There
’
s a girl there. She
’
s
on the radio. I listen to her every night.
’

‘How she got power to do that?
’

‘I don
’
t know.
’

‘
Ain
’
t
seen no one for nearly a month, no power neither, and so you think there
’
s
really a girlie up there, sending out SOS signals, waiting for you to come and
rescue her?
’

Ned withdrew his radio and hugged it insecurely. He did not
like reality smearing all over his dreams.

‘What
’
s your point?
’

‘You
gotta
be careful,
mai
. Sheep
ain
’
t
sheep no more, crocs
ain
’
t
crocs. Girls
ain
’
t
girls neither.
’

‘But she
’
s a survivor like you and me!
She
’
s waiting to be found!
’

But Jackrabbit was not convinced.
‘
Nah,
mai
.
Ain
’
t
nothing. There are tricksters ’round here now. You
gotta
be careful who you meet.
’

‘Tricksters?
’
He thought back to the
ranger’s cabin.
‘
Suits.
’

Jackrabbit nodded.
‘
I
’
unno
if they
’
ve been around your part yet,
but they sure as hell been around mine.
’

‘What are Suits?
’

He shook his head.
‘
Nah,
’
nuff
of that. I
’
m
gonna
take a piss.
’
And he got up and stumbled through the dark to
some far-off bushes.

He didn
’
t listen to Lonely Lily that
night, not in front of Jackrabbit; he felt silly now, thinking a voice on a
radio could be his friend, but he couldn
’
t
understand Jackrabbit
’
s scepticism. Why would he
think Lily was tricking him? What else could she possibly be, other than a
stranded girl in a cubicle, attempting to reach out to the vacant world with
musical smoke signals? Perhaps she was the sweet scent of a poisonous flower,
and at the other end of these radio waves was a trap, drawing any last humans
which the beams may have missed towards some sort of simulation of a damsel in
distress. It would be an incredibly smart ploy, but Ned refused to believe
someone who sounded so beautiful and had given him so many weeks of comfort
could be anything less than the girl of his dreams, whose face he simply
imagined out of thin air, like some sort of fractured image of all his former
crushes and lovers moulded together.

He slept by the fire, hugging Lonely Lily. Beside him,
Jackrabbit snored with his head against the trunk of a tree, a wide-brimmed hat
pulled over his face. He was fast asleep, without a care in the world.
Meanwhile, Ned was awake nearly all night.

A boot kicked him and said,
‘
Oi,
mai
!
’

Ned rolled over and squinted from the orange glow of the
newly rising sun seeping through the trees. Jackrabbit stood over him,
grinning.
‘
Got something to show
ya
.
’

Ned left his campsite and followed the man through the dense
shrub. The creek went by them softly, lapping over rocks and weaving through
the shrubbery. They came across a flock of birds which, to Ned, sort of looked
like ibises. They had very long, curved beaks, black coloured feathers with a
little bit of white on their underbellies. They were standing in the shallows
of the gentle creek, drinking and cleaning themselves. When they spread their
wings, flapped them or rustled them, Ned and Jackrabbit saw the added features:
bat-like wings were mounted onto their bodies, made of rubbery, membrane-like
skin which joined each bone, and sharp hooks curled at the ends. They looked
like feathered pterodactyls, miniature versions.

‘What are they?
’

‘
Dunno
.
’

On the way back to the campsite, Jackrabbit collected
berries for Ned and gave him advice on what to eat and what to avoid when it
came to Top End bush tucker. The berries were very bitter to taste, but they
were the freshest fruit he had eaten in months. Jackrabbit had eaten nearly
everything which grew, flew, slithered, swam and hopped around these parts. He
struggled now to find as much, since most of the birds, reptiles and marsupials
were gone and were gradually being
‘
replaced
’
,
for lack of a better word. Not everything had been beamed, Ned was told: all
the fish were still about, all the insects, all the plants and fungi and moss,
and a few of the smaller lizards and frogs. As for the
‘
returning
’
species, they were arriving in drips and drabs, so Jackrabbit was not
sure about all the new critters out there.