keys.
And here we are, heading towards the arse-end of nowhere because Barry says so. Because he says there’s a place he can find help, a place where life begins again.
The road is more dirt than black stuff now and it’s starting to rise, just a little. Around each bend, the incline gets steeper and the car protests more loudly. Soon, I should imagine, it will make its wishes known with the mechanical equivalent of a big fuck you.
“So, tell me how this is going to go again, Boss.”
Dawn is starting to gray the sky and Barry’s gotten lethargic as you might expect. He’s quietened down and I should probably put the lid back on his box—the last of the ice I’d dumped in the esky turned to warmish water hours ago, but I don’t guess he’ll drown. Looks like he’s immortal, if not invulnerable.
“It’ll all be sweet, Terry. I’ll be good as new,” his voice is low and sleepy.
“Fine and dandy, Barry, but what are the details? What about me?”
“What about you? This isn’t about you, you dopey bitch.” More awake now.
“Never said it was, Barry, but: point of order. We’re walking into this place. What’s out there? More of your brethren? You’re not really in a position to protect me, are you? I’m a canapé on legs. So, what’s out there?”
“Nah, Terry,” he says but he doesn’t sound very sure. “It’ll be okay, nothing there, no one. Nothing to worry about.”
And for the first time in my life I don’t believe Barry. I don’t trust him to look after me and it gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course, that could be hunger—that last apple was three hours ago and I’m down to a packet of muesli bars and a tube of Pringles. “Sure, Barry. Sure.”
No one, my arse. I know enough about bumps in the night and deserted dead hearts to know nothing’s ever really empty. If Barry knows about this place, so does someone else. You’re not king of the vampires here, Bazza, you’re just a talking head. I pull over to the shoulder of the road, reach back and put the lid on Barry and his polystyrene swimming pool. I get out of the car and look around, stretching my long body as my back protests and my worn-too-long cargos and tee stick to my skin. I can smell my own sweat and the determined stink of the cigarettes that ran out not far out of Sydney. I stare into the bush. It’s changing as we head up the mountains, getting greener, darker, denser, wetter. More like a rainforest. Not sure what I expect to see … nothing there, no movement, not even the twitch of a leaf in the breeze. I feel weird though; I feel watched. Imagination, I tell myself. Bullshit, I tell myself.
I slide back into the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition.
The only answer I get is the exhausted metallic grinding of a thing that’s gone as far as it can go. I lean forward and rest my head against the steering wheel, smelling the stale-sour scent of hands gripped too long about the leather cover. My spidey senses tell me this road trip will not end well.
I’ve got Barry’s box in one hand and in the other is the long Japanese sword that parted him from his body. It seemed like a good idea to bring it along—just made sure Barry didn’t see it, sore point and all that. The water bottle hanging at my waist is making sad little wishy-washy sounds. Not much more than a mouthful left and I’m thirsty. The need for nicotine is dancing under my skin.
The air is cool and damp, the clouds are sitting on the road and it’s hard to see too much in front of me. The condensation is plastering the fringe to my forehead. It’s mid-afternoon and I don’t know where I’m going, I’m just following the road. Can’t open the box to ask Barry; he’s been in deep sleep for hours now. I just keep walking, although my boots have rubbed blisters onto my soles and the outer edges of my little toes.
Up ahead I can hear a sound, sweet and clear. Running water.
I pick up my pace and stumble off the road, down a slight slope to find a clearing, a little creek running through it. There’s a fire pit that looks like it hasn’t been used in a long, long