Matt Eaton - Blank

“One thing though,” Luckman added, “there’s no point just driving up to the front gate.”

“So what are we s’posed to do?”

“There’s a dirt track heading north from the base perimeter.”

“I know that road,” said Warigal. “Through the hills.”

“We’d need reinforcements,” said Pollock.

“The more the merrier,” agreed Luckman.

Pollock insisted Warigal’s hands remained cuffed as they made their way to the rear of the police station.

Four uniforms were waiting in the car park.

“I asked for six men,” Pollock growled at them, ignoring the fact one of the four people standing in front of him was, in fact, a woman. Constable Rachael Athol was also the highest ranking of the quartet.

“Sergeant Willis says we’re all he can spare sir,” replied Athol.

“This is going to be a shit fight Rachael, you sure you…”

“I’m ready for whatever shit you can dish up Sarge,” she informed him dryly.

Pollock didn’t bother to answer. He opened the passenger door of a police four-wheel-drive, pulled out a map from the glove compartment and spread it out on the bonnet.

“We need to work out the best way to approach the base from another direction.”

“It’s easiest from the north,” said Warigal. “Off Larapinta Drive.”

Pollock ran his finger along the curving line that represented Larapinta Drive as it wound westward and away from town. “What about the ranges? There are no roads and a whole lot of hills. Doesn’t look like such a good route to me.”

“If you take these bloody cuffs off I can show you,” said Warigal.

Pollock hesitated.

“Come on sarge, you can always shoot me if I try to run,” taunted Wozza.

Pollock pulled a set of keys from his pocket and removed the restraints. Warigal rubbed his wrists. “You run and I’m aiming for your balls,” Pollock told him.

Warigal jumped about in mock pain. “Pollock’s got mah bollocks.”

The uniforms tried not to laugh as Warigal stepped up to the bonnet of the car and pointed to the map. Luckman peered over his shoulder. He already knew the route, having seen it from the air earlier in the day.

Warigal pointed to an area about 12 kilometres west of Alice. “There, that’s the best way in,” he assured them.

“I been there. A dirt track runs all the way to the edge of the base – about seven or eight clicks.”

There were two lines of ranges to the north of Pine Gap that converged into one further west. The trail cut through both of them.

“That’s a long, dusty trip,” Pollock complained.

“Maybe you should sit this one out, detective,” Constable Athol suggested facetiously.

“No-one’ll see us coming,” Warigal added.

Luckman was fairly certain that surprise was not on their side, but he said nothing.

“Maybe we should just forget the whole idea,” Pollock suggested.

“Suits me,” Constable Athol admitted, and her colleagues nodded in assent.

Luckman knew it was time to speak up. “Detective, have you noticed how everyone is reluctant to leave town?”

“Why would anyone want to go driving around in the desert? Unless you’re a blackfella, I mean.” He glanced at Warigal. “No offence.”

“Bite me,” Warigal returned.

Luckman stepped closer so only Pollock would hear him. “They’ve gotten inside your head,” he whispered. “They don’t want you going out there.”

“Save the conspiracy theories for the pub, will ya?” Pollock ridiculed, laughing in a failed attempt to mask his own discomfort.

“What are we after?” inquired Athol.

“We’ll know when we see it,” Pollock replied.

Athol turned to the other uniforms. “Looks like we’re going for a drive in the country.”

“Shall we go then?” Luckman suggested.

“Right you lot,” Pollock ordered the constables, “grab a four-by-four and follow us. Captain Luckman, you sit in the back with Warigal and keep an eye on him.”

Luckman waited until they were underway to make one more request. “There are a few more people I’d like to take with us.”

Pollock acquiesced without objection. He pulled up outside the police station, where Pat, Mel and Bell were waiting. Mel had her camera bag slung over her shoulder.

Pat beamed as he hopped into the back of the 4WD. “Wozza – which way brudda.”

“Which way, Patty. You know these jokers?”

“Yeah brudda – we closin’ the Gap.”

The blackfellas chuckled to themselves.

“You a sight for sad eyes, brudda,” Warigal admitted.

“Don’t you mean sore eyes?” Pollock corrected.

“Ah know what ah bloody mean, sarge,” Wozza snapped.

“Watch your mouth, son. You’re still in police custody.”

“Ah, stop squeezin’ mah bollocks. Ya know ah didn’t do it.”

Larapinta Drive cut long and sweeping lines through a countryside that was greener than Luckman would have expected. To their left, the land rose toward a line of ranges from which the road maintained a safe distance. On either side of the road, small clumps of trees followed the lines of minor water courses that wound their way through the landscape from the higher terrain.

They passed the turn off to Simpsons Gap, where the ranges were cleft neatly in two by the persistent waters of Roe Creek. It seemed incredible that water had any power at all over this country, considering there was so little of it.

No-one said a word, but tension began to rise fast inside the cabin.

“My guts are killing me, I’ve gotta pull over,” said Pollock.

“We’re almost at the turn-off,” said Warigal.

“Keep going,” Luckman demanded. “It’s only going to get worse. You want me to drive, Curtis?”

“It’s a police car, you’re not driving.”

“This is the place isn’t it Pat?” Warigal inquired.

“Yeah. Turn here,” Pat confirmed.

The dirt road came off the highway at an angle then turned sharply and pointed like an arrow toward a group of five houses, maybe half a kilometre away.

“Someone live here?” asked Pollock.

“A bunch of old bushies,” said Pat. “Friends of ours. Three or four families. They keep to themselves.”

The track dipped as it crossed a creek bed about 100 metres away from the buildings. As they traversed the creek, a dark black cloud descended on the windscreen of the LandCruiser.

“Windows up,” Pat yelled.

But they weren’t quick enough. A swarm of blowflies filled the cabin, forcing Pollock to halt the car as everyone flung doors open to escape the onslaught. The other 4WD pulled up behind them and the uniforms found themselves in a similar predicament. They leapt from the car like their lives depended on it, waving their heads about madly.

“Never seen ’em this bad,” Pat admitted.

“Where have they all come from?” Luckman wondered.

“Must be something dead up there,” said Pollock, pointing at the houses.

There was a terrible pall of decay in the air. The flies were relatively easy to kill, but the slaughter itself was distinctly unpleasant. It took them several minutes to chase the swarm out of the cars and away from themselves. About 50 metres up the track they came across the source of the stench. The decomposing bodies of six adults were scattered around the compound – four men and two women, each crawling with maggots and flies. They had been picked apart by other desert scavengers.

Constable Athol gagged and turned away.

Bell stared at the carnage, shaking his head in dismay. “What the hell happened here?”

“It’s like Jonestown,” said Pollock.

Luckman examined one of the corpses, which was only barely recognisable as a man. “His fingers are broken.”