Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,18

strays to the gun stuck in my belt. “Where?” he asks eventually.

“Somewhere near Adelaide.”

He puts the hat on, adjusts it to his liking, and smiles at me again. “I might know how to get to somewhere near Kangaroo Island,” he says.

It is my turn to laugh. It's a small island off the Australian coast, at the mouth of the Gulf of St. Vincent. The Aboriginals call it the island of the dead. “That'll work,” I say.

“And?” he asks.

“And you can keep the boat, and as far as I am concerned, there is no cargo below deck.

“Nothing but empty boxes,” he says, touching the brim of the cap.

Several of the crew are now standing on the deck of the boat, their AK-47s hanging loosely in their hands. Not in a threatening way. They're just letting me see them.

I doubt any of them could actually hit me at this range, but I don't need to make them try. “I hope the crew is as lazy as they look and not prone to sudden spurts of curiosity,” I say.

“The previous captain's quarters are very small, and they smell bad,” Winston says. “But the door locks.”

“Finally,” I sigh, “something on that rust bucket that works.”

Winston smiles as he turns his head and shouts at the crew in Maori. The guns disappear and the crew starts to make preparations for departure.

“Welcome aboard the Black Starling,” Winston says, indicating the boat. “We'll be departing shortly.”

BOOK TWO

APORIA

EIGHT

Kangaroo Island was the site of one of the first European settlements in Southern Australia; it's still an island and the lure of millions of hectares of unclaimed land just a short boat ride away won out. Now, the island is split between national parks and wineries, which keeps the population density down and the natural vegetation up.

The Black Starling comes within sight of Kangaroo Island during the endless dusk, and for a parting gift, Captain Winston gives me a rubber raft and a pair of plastic oars. I don't complain as the weather is pleasant and the mild current pushes me toward shore. I float/row for about an hour, and in that time, the Black Starling slips around the curve of the island. I doubt I'll see Captain Winston and his crew again, which, I'm sure, suits them fine.

I never did find out what kiri mate means.

My destination is a thin stretch of rugged beach, more rocky spurs than smooth sand. I run the raft aground, and splash through the last few meters of tidewater. As soon as I feel firm ground beneath my feet, I start to run.

I used to be able to run from sunset to sunrise without stop, and now I barely get five kilometers before I'm winded. Another kilometer and my legs begin to cramp.

Fortunately, I'm deep in uncontrolled woodlands now, where the ground is soft underneath broad-limbed trees. Even though all I want to do is lie down and breathe all the rich oxygen the trees are exhaling, I drop to my knees and dig. The ground accepts me, but it doesn't want to hold me tight. It doesn't remember me like it should. Mother is too far away, and I've been gone too long.

I'm tainted.

* * *

I rest for a few days, and when the itching in my legs becomes too distracting, I claw my way out of the ground. Low in the northern sky, a pale half-closed eye of a moon winks at me, and the forest is quiet but for the scattered calls of silvereyes and grey warblers. I lean against the trunk of a black cypress and listen to the birds singing to each other. My fingers trace the patterns of the tree's bark, reading its history. It stands tall and straight, and there is very little warp in its bark. The birds sing openly, without concern of who might be listening to them.

It would be so easy to sit here all night. And the night after that. And the one after that. But I can't, because I don't have that kind of time anymore. My body is decaying.

My bullet wounds—a good half-dozen of them scattered across my chest and two more on my upper right arm—are still there, sullen and weeping holes in my flesh. They're infected, slick with a sickly yellow pus. My legs are trembling beneath the tattered remnants of my pants, and the skin is a tangled map of knotted flesh—half-melted, half-healed. The chemicals are in my bloodstream too and until I can flush it out, my