Prologue / the first chapter / some light reading
A segment from a book idea I came up with in 2015(????). Posting for posterity and to cyberbully myself to continue.
A quick word / disclaimer / pls be nice to me from the author
So I wrote the words below more than a decade ago. I was working at a small town newspaper, riding my little green bike to work from my folks’ place and, eventually, driving into town from a very spooky, very shitty, very expensive rental in Blackburn. I was about three years into my career as a journalist and really loving it, despite the pay and the aforementioned rental.
I’ve been working on new chapters for this, and brainstorming how my ideas could play out now it’s been a bit of time - I even took February this year off work to jot down about 20,000(ish) words to keep it going. I’ve hit snags along the way in the text (going back to the drawing board with the late-story concepts) and in life (I’m doing a million things that I love and spending so little time looking at a screen, and I hope you can read between the lines and see the word procrastination in there).
But the important thing to note is that, a different version of me wrote this. I can remember writing it, and sharing it with friends, but essentially the text below is exactly as it was a decade ago.
It’ll be clunky, there’s self inserts, I think there’s somehow continuity issues in there, and I was reading exclusively Stephen King books so I’m sure there’s a stolen turn of phrase in there somewhere.
I read a while ago that the twitter-ification of the internet is that people will make disclaimers before saying anything, protecting against the most bad faith reading into what follows after - anticipating insanity, basically. I’m now realising this is that.
It’s not my best work, but it’s something a bit special from my past and I’m working on it. I’d like to keep working on it, and rather than be scared of negative response, I’m posting it all below because I think there’s a gem in here - maybe buried under a bit of dirt, with rough edges to cut down. It’s not time for the re-write yet, but I think it’s time to share it.
Enjoy,
or don’t.
Tell me if you do.
Don’t tell me if you don’t.
Prologue
THE trunk of the grey tree next to Peter Jamieson’s head exploded into a thousand splinters with a deafening crack. His ears rang as he ducked, too late, and his scalp flashed hot as splinters cascaded across his skin, and warmth ran down towards his neck. He ran a hand quickly through his matted brown and grey hair, drenching his hands with the slick blood that ran forth, and flicked it out towards a tree on his right. A fine, but noticeable, spray of red spattered along the silvery trunk. The dull throb across the top of his scalp flared white hot as he ran his hand through once more, this time flicking more blood onto another tree, a few steps away, the dark red blood clearly visible through the dense fog.
A diversion.
As the second bloody handful let fly, the ringing silence of the forest was broken by a shrill hunting whistle (we didn’t get him). Several other whistles answered the call, and Peter heard the undergrowth snap in the distance as the group drew closer.
He ran left, away from the blood-stained trees, before cutting down a slope, zig-zagging past grey and black and silvery white trunks, many still crumbling or dead from the fires that scorched them years ago. His boots made light thuds as he ran, but he could not slow down to stop the noise; behind him lay certain death, before him lay a thin hope of freedom. The temperature was sitting somewhere just above zero – not yet snow season, but close – and Peter’s breath came in hot through worn-out lungs. He must have been running for hours, now - the light of the afternoon was quickly making way for night. A swirling white fog meant everything out of arm’s reach was fading out of vision, but he figured this was his advantage; as long as he could move faster than the hunters, he could stay shrouded.
In the years he lived on the mountain, he had heard stories, some told only in hushed whispers with trusted friends in the back of dark rooms, about the fog and those who had journeyed into it before. Almost everyone who had walked from the mountain town of Moora, through the green ferns into the burnt, fog-riddled lower forest unaccompanied became lost, unable to recall where they came from. No markers to point the way. Some were found in a matter of hours, once the alarm had been raised. The lucky ones – or the smarter ones – wandered into the forest in the summer months, when the fog recedes to a thin swilling haze. But by the winter months the fog became impenetrable. Sound didn’t seem to carry as far, and there were stories, passed from mischievous parent to scared child, that the trees never seemed to stay in one place, roots always reaching for an idle ankle.
Years ago, a search for a small boy, who walked away from a family hike in the middle of winter had taken a week. Each day’s line search became more desperate, more fragile, with new townsfolk gathering in the morning only to be left disappointed by nightfall. He was found curled up in a knot of roots at the base of a thick tree. A shelter, only a few hundred metres away from the path. It looked like he was sleeping, but he was long gone. The gap in the roots almost perfectly sized to cradle him.
Even though he was running away from a known terror up the hill, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he would run into something worse in the depths of the fog. Maybe a bullet is a mercy when it gets too dark in the forest.
He ran a few more metres downhill, his lungs burning and his leg muscles straining from the sprint, before crouching behind a tree, putting a barrier between himself and the guns. It was only when he had stopped that he realised his clothes clung to his skin, drenched in sweat quickly turning cold in the wind.
How long have I been here for? He turned left and right, eyes scanning for a silhouette, ears prickling for another whistle. All he heard was distant voices and the crackling of sticks, and the sound was growing fainter. He felt his heartbeat relax and felt the hot tears streaming down his face, prickling his eyes. He let out a shuddering sigh, bending into himself as he tried to compose his thoughts. His sense of time had been shattered by the adrenaline rushing through his system. Now that he had stopped, he noticed that his feet were throbbing and sore inside of his boots, and he was certain he’d worn away the skin on his ankle on the tough material.
He massaged his temples with both hands, taking deep, shuddering breaths, and tried to think back.
They had come for him in the first light of the morning – that much, he could remember clearly. He was standing in his kitchen, coffee mug raised to his lips, with the radio bringing him news of the outside world. The kitchen, like his house, was old. There was no other word for it. The house was built sometime after the end of World War II, and very little had been updated since. The oven would fight and splutter to get over 150 degrees, its dancing flames spewing dizzying gases through the houses. The heating came from a wall-mounted Vulcan with a pilot light in the living room, which did little when winter took hold of the town and the water pipes froze. The walls behind the yellowing wallpaper were made from thick and deadly asbestos sheeting. But it was home well enough, and he had lived there for the twenty years he had been in Moora.
With paranoia about a nuclear war, some around the town decided to have bunkers built in their backyards, which Peter supposed came in handy during the fire season. His house had no such protections, but he figured the first owner had their own unique paranoia, as nearly every room had a doorway to outside. For a journalist, and a paranoid man, himself, it was a good house to live in. The light from the morning came through the dusty window of the house, as Peter looked out his front yard and a long, gravel driveway dotted with trees, which went down to a gate, separating the property from the main road. He was dressed for work – black pants, black boots and a neat blue denim shirt over a white tee. His brown and grey hair was pulled back and his bushy, short beard hung off of a gaunt, skinny face. He was fit for his age – it would be his fifty-fifth birthday next month - though he slept very little. He ran his free hand through his hair, feeling the waxy pomade between his fingers, blew on his coffee to cool it, and had just opened his mouth when the phone rang.
He froze.
The ceramic of the mug rested on his bottom lip, scalding hot but unnoticed. His eyes were fixed on the receiver. He looked at the clock above where the phone sat on the far wall of the room. It was 6.58am.
Nobody called him this early. Moora was a small town, even by small-town standards, and he had lost contact with people outside of the mountain. His phone traffic was mainly to do with his work at the newspaper, and the number had somehow remained a secret to most of the town. A select few knew the number by heart, and he made sure to enforce secrecy - when you report on the town you live in, privacy is rare and has to be defended.
With the exception of bushfires, fatalities or emergencies, the phone largely gathered dust on the bench-top, so much that its ringing shook something within Peter. A call on that phone at any hour meant bad news. It meant death at the best of times. But a call before the rest of the world woke up meant something was particularly wrong - a truck roll-over, a grisly crime scene or a fire. He became aware of the burning hot mug resting on his lips and slammed it down on the bench in front of him. Absent-mindedly rubbing his aching mouth, he rushed over and picked up the phone.
“Yes?” he said. Nobody who could call him minded his lack of formality.
“Peter,” a soft voice answered. “This is a friend calling. Please, pay attention to what I say next.”
Peter stood in confusing silence, trying to make sense of the situation and waiting for instruction. Frustration swirled. He did not beat around the bush, and he expected others not to, as well. He turned back to his mug, its brown contents splashed on the white linoleum surface, when something in the distance above it caught his eye.
His gate was open.
His eyes dragged, feet-through-mud-slowly across the kitchen back towards the clock. He was pulling the phone cord absent-mindedly.
It was 7am.
“They are coming,” the voice on the phone said, “Do you hear me? They are coming for you right now. Take what you can and run.”
There was a crackle of static, like a cough too close to the receiver, then the line went dead. Peter still held the phone loosely against his ear as he looked back down the driveway.
Where the gate once sat, closed and padlocked, there was now a white four-wheel drive. He couldn’t see much of the car, or whoever was inside, but it was turned sideways, blocking the entire driveway.
His only way out by car.
The phone slipped in Peter’s grasp as he realised his hand was slick with sweat. He was suddenly aware of his shirt sticking to his back and the hairs rigid on the back of his neck. The off-white plastic handset slipped a centimetre as he tightened his grip. Worry filled his stomach. Not the twisting and knotted kind, but like someone had pulled a bathtub plug inside of him. Now, the rock-solid confidence that he built his persona upon had been liquefied and spilled down onto the linoleum, a feeling dark and cold in the pit of his stomach. With numbness filling his gut, Peter turned and put the phone back on the hook.
He felt a warmth spreading on the back of his head - a feeling of being watched - and turned again to face the window. Beside the car, looking directly down the driveway towards the house were three men, all in black, all the same height, their faces covered by balaclavas. The man in the middle held a long hunting rifle across his chest, pointing at the gravel, while those who flanked him held small objects in their hands, a metallic glint flashing as they turned the objects in their hands. Knives, Peter thought. They were long; the kind you would use for gutting a deer. The kind that run through sinew and muscle like scissors through paper. He was certain the men could not see him from so far away – the morning light was strong, and they were looking into it, at least two hundred metres away. Nevertheless, he edged backwards slowly, eyes trained on the men, who remained perfectly still. They knew he’d be heading to work, and they had no reason to hide from him. Once he felt his back tap against the hard wall, Peter swivelled on the balls of his feet and took the door to his right, into his room.
His bedroom, unlike the rest of his well-kept house, was a shambles. Clothing spilled from the semi-open drawers of a wood-grain tallboy to his left as he burst in, a king sized bed that could barely remember having more than one occupant lay before him. On the other side of the room, next to the door to his ensuite, lay a small desk with a closed laptop with two small silver portable hard drives plugged into it. On the floor were loose papers covered in scribbled notes, magazines, old newspapers and clothing he had discarded the night before when he stumbled from his study to bed. A window above the bed, on which he kept the curtains open out of habit, filled the room with a dazzling light. Not a cloud in the sky. It was cold now, but in the sunlight it would be a warm afternoon. Peter dashed across the room, yanked one hard drive from the computer, and pushed it underneath the tallboy, far enough to keep it out of sight. If someone got on all fours, the glint of the silver would give it all away, but this was simply an insurance policy; the hard drives were mirrored, both containing all of his stories, notes and photographs from his working life. In there lay every interview transcript, every confidential letter, every encrypted document or surreptitious photograph, many of which had not been seen by another pair of eyes. He took the other hard drive, and put it into a small leather messenger bag that sat underneath the table. Inside it was a reasonably large pocket knife, folded into a polished wooden handle, a large metal torch, a notepad, his passport, wallet and five hundred dollars in cash; a getaway bag, planned for emergencies more mundane than this. He tucked the hard drive in between the passport and the wallet, cushioning it. As he straightened his back up, thoughts trickled through his mind, each like droplets of cold water quickening to form a thin stream.
Who are these men? Are they people I’ve met, shared spaces and conversation with?
Who tipped me off?
What have I done?
His property was fenced around the entrance, but was surrounded on the other three sides by acres of overgrown paddocks, backing onto the State Forest, a dense and quiet place where he often walked as the afternoon light dwindled. He walked there at night sometimes, but the tranquillity took on a more sinister note when the fog rolled in, and visibility was reduced to only seeing the next tree in front of him. More than once, his heartbeat had quickened at the snap of a twig, or the sound of footfalls too close for comfort. Torches did little good in the woods after dark, except illuminate the fog around you (or give your position away, he thought, darkly). Though his driveway was easily accessible from the main roads, it was still possible to get to the back of his property by walking from some of the nearby properties, or from anywhere in the forest. The only fences in the forest were much deeper in, where the fires had turned every tree into a hazard and, even in the daytime, the skeletal limbs dared walkers to try their luck venturing further.
What if the car in the driveway was just one, blocking one exit? he thought, feeling his stomach tighten.
He ran into his ensuite, yanked the hot water tap around as far as it would go, and pulled the shower curtain closed. The noise reverberated off of the wall, amplifying the water to the sound of a small waterfall. This should give me a few seconds, he thought. He stepped back into his room, walked lightly over to the door next to the tallboy, leading to the corridor, and pushed it gingerly open.
The corridor ran from end-to-end of his house, and with the door blocking the view to the rear of the house, he was able to look through the opaque glass beside his front door, to see the group of men walking, slowly, silhouetted, towards the house. Peter then peered around towards the back door, and saw a shadow standing in front of the frosted glass. It paused, then slinked down, like the person was crouching, and disappeared from sight. His heart thrummed in his chest and he could feel every beat in his temples, and he slowly edged back into the room, leaving the bedroom door ajar.
Turning around, Peter looked out the window. It sat just above the head of his bed, so he could look directly out if he kneeled in the morning. It offered enough privacy, in case someone came walking by, but was still large enough to light the room each day without electricity. It was stiff from years of use, and would make a horrible screeching sound. Peter once told a friend that it was his form of a security system, but now it felt like a trap. He climbed onto the bed, unlatched the window, and took a deep breath. He started to push the panel upwards, and was met with the screeching of metal and wood on the old worn frame. But, after a second, the sound was drowned out by something that made his skin break out in goosebumps – a long, high whistle that came from his driveway, only metres from his front door. The sound was familiar, but out of place here. The sound continued for another few precious seconds, and Peter pushed desperately on the window panel, hoping its screech was audible to him alone. Every second, he prayed for the whistle to continue into the next, as the hole grew and grew, his muscles straining against the resistance. The whistle ceased, and the window gave one last squeal as the panel gave way and sat open enough for Peter to crawl through. Silence filled the gaps in the air as he climbed out of the window backwards, letting his legs dangle as he tried to move silently onto the dewy grass below. The cold outside air blew through the thin fabric of his pants, which had been pulled up well past his ankles by the climb. He shivered, and in the moments before he dropped out of the window, heard the tell-tale crack and the tinkling of glass in the hallway hitting floorboard. They were inside.
The drop from the window to the grass was only about two metres, but Peter let out a dull grunt as he hit the ground. If the people coming after him were young enough, he could be undone by his age alone – escaping from houses at high speed may have been one of his skills when he was in his 20s and full of restless energy, but the slow tide of the years had brought with it fights, car accidents and the inevitable decline of age. He breathed out heavily, then started edging his way around to the back of the house. Pressing himself against the wall, like he’d seen in old detective movies, crouching down to avoid passing in front of a window. The group he had seen seemed to move slowly and confidently, so he hoped they would be searching the house meticulously. He hoped more than anything that they hadn’t seen him in the kitchen, and assumed he was having a shower. The open window could have just been him letting out the steamy air; why would he be doing anything else but getting ready for work?
He came to the back corner of the house, and looked left. Between the back of the house and the forest was a small garden, a clothesline and a disused bench that was being reclaimed by the plants around it; a wily rose bush had grown up its back, with stems starting to push through the slats in the wood. Beyond that was a small fence that held back severely overgrown grass, about chest-height, which led to dense bush and trees in the distance. Sitting atop the steps at Peter’s back door, was a boy, his head resting against the door.
Sleeping.
Peter sighed, and stepped gingerly towards the boy. It was still early in the morning, and he guessed the boy wasn’t the most enthusiastic about the morning raid. He looked the part, though; the boy was dressed in a black jumper and black pants, with scuffed heavy leather boots and deerskin gloves. A balaclava lay on the steps, next to him. He had long brown hair, and an average face with stubble growing around his mouth. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. For someone who was surely here for a horrible purpose, he looked peaceful, even kind, like this, Peter thought. He got within arm’s reach of the boy, still crouching, and saw the same glint of steel from earlier. Sitting in the sleeping teenager’s lap was a large knife with a serrated back. It looked comically huge, like a Bowie knife in a cartoon, but each of the teeth gleamed terrifyingly in the morning light, giving a very real warning of agonising pain and tearing flesh. He reached into his messenger bag and gripped the handle of his pocket knife. Then, he hesitated. To kill the boy in a fight would have been awful, barely thinkable, but understandable – in the heat of the moment, his only concern would be to keep himself alive. But the boy, despite the weapon in his hand, held no threat now. Peter’s hand in the bag shifted, its fingers lacing around the long handle of the metal torch. It was long, the kind of equipment that police officers carry, and it was seriously heavy. Whether it was made for the intention of being a weapon, Peter wasn’t sure (I’ve definitely seen it used as one, he thought), but he pulled it out of the bag and, quickly, brought it down on the side of the boy’s head. Metal met skin and underlying bone with a soft crack that shifted the contents Peter’s stomach. The boy’s eyes flickered open briefly in surprise, then closed as he slumped down sideways and hit the ground. The knife skittered out of his lap and down the steps with a clang.
I hope that’s just a bad concussion, Peter thought, reaching down to collect the knife. The boy was definitely still breathing, but the rises and falls in his chest were laboured, as his body tried to remedy the blow it had just received. His hair was already wet with blood.
Head wounds always bleed a lot. He remembered being hit in the face with a bottle in his younger years – a superficial cut, but it had lacerated his forehead, bringing down a curtain of blood that clouded his vision. He’ll be fine.
Holding the huge knife aloft, he turned on his heels and ran towards a low garden fence to the paddocks. He put his feet through the gaps in the metal and pulled himself over, turning around to look back at the house. His eyes scanned over the clothesline, the bench, obscured completely from sight, the boy resting against the back door, bloodied, and felt his stomach churn again as he looked through his living room window, on the right-hand side of the house, and locked eyes with a balaclava-clad man. The man stiffened, his eyes widening, and Peter saw his mouth pull open and shut as he shouted to the rest of the group – found him.
He jumped back from the fence and was swallowed by shoulder-high vegetation, every inch of his body roaring into motion, trying to put as much distance between him and the house as possible. The grass was difficult to navigate, but he quickly found his well-worn walking path. Leaves, grasses, stems whipped at his clothing as he ran, and Peter made it to the treeline in time to hear another long, high whistle cut into the air.
This time, he realised why the whistle was familiar. Its call was answered by the violent and unmistakable braying of dogs.
A signal.
The hunt was beginning.
After Peter had passed enough trees to escape from view, he turned and darted to the right, leaving the walking path that led to the heart of the forest and headed into thick scrub that scratched and tugged at his clothing. He slipped the oversized knife into his bag and ran diagonally, hopping onto tree roots and jumping over small patches of thin plants that would be crushed under his boots, hoping he would minimise his tracks. Hide his scent, a little.
This must look ridiculous.
His boots were sturdy, but he felt his sweaty feet rubbing hard against the woollen socks, and them against the leather. He pictured the skin, red and raw, burning away as he kept his quick pace through the trees. Ferns whipped at his face, barely knocked away by his arms as he ran, leaving a burning sting behind. All of this was no trouble to him, compared to the hunting dogs on his trail, and the cruelty of the men that held their leashes.
They had brought knives and dogs. They expected me to run. Once they see that boy knocked out, his head half bashed in. If they catch me, they won’t make this quick.
He pressed on, ignoring the pain shooting up from his leg and cascading across his chest in a stitch, begging him to slow down, warning him to give up now. He changed directions every few hundred metres, heading straight downhill into the forest, ducking out to the right, then straight again. Everyone who lived in Moora knew the forest to some degree; if these men were hunters, they would know it better than most. But if he could keep them confused, he might be able to buy enough time to get off the mountain.
In the distance, a whistle shrieked and was met by two others – not here. Birds took flight from their trees, and distant voices shouted indiscernibly.
Peter had two options – to go ahead and into the lower forest, where the fog could mask him, and he could get off the mountain, or double back towards town. The latter was immediately out of the question. Moora was a town of barely 150 people, and he had a feeling the group at his heels were locals.
Even if I made it back to town, I’d be noticed, he thought. From there, it’s one call to the right person and I’m gone. They’ll either do it in public, or wait until I’m in a police cell or an office or back home and come for me in the night. My car’s probably sabotaged.
The thought of going deeper filled Peter with cold dread, despite his hot breath, pounding pulse and burning legs. He remembered the boy. He was part of the search party that found him, and he remembered the face that looked peaceful and quiet, but drained of colour.
That place isn’t right. I can’t stay here too long.
The treeline slipped away behind him as he came across one of the wider walking paths, this one connecting to the town’s main street. He crouched lower and darted across, back into the scrub, but he felt tingling as someone’s glance dragged over him. He was already metres into the bush and running when he heard three frantic whistle blows. Here.
Peter turned left and barrelled down the hill, his chest threatening to split in two from his stitch, his legs travelling more from his downhill velocity than his own effort, but still protesting every step. Behind him, the bush sounded like it was being torn apart, and he heard a violent growl, like a dog that had seen a rabbit sprint by.
He reached the bottom of the hill, jumping down a small embankment onto a long, wide track, running from left to right as far as he could see. The fresh and lively eucalypts, grey gums and mountain ash trees, white and red and grey and tall, ended at the embankment, and a fence separated the track from the forest below, littered with blackened, skeletal trees and ashen earth. No scrub to hide, and plenty of places for footprints to mark. There were two signs sitting in front of the fence near him, nailed onto a thick wooden pole. The first was yellow and pictured a hand with a lightning bolt hitting it, the fingers splayed out in pain, with the words, “ELECTRIFIED FENCE. DANGER. DO NOT TOUCH.” The second caught Peter’s eye and he felt the plug in his stomach pull once more. It was a white, metal sign with a black border. The original message had been painted over - now, in its place, crudely painted words read:
DOES ANYONE KNOW YOU’RE HERE?
He didn’t get to read the sign for long, though, because the world lurched forward and his closed eyelids projected red explosions of pain as a teeth clamped around his leg and something huge pulled him to the ground.
He landed on his right shoulder, which responded with its own flash of pain, and kicked his legs out, rolling to see his attacker. A huge black staffordshire terrier had grabbed his leg and was pulling with all of its might, trying to separate meat from bone. Biting into his lip to contain his screams, Peter shoved his hand into the bag and grabbed onto the knife handle. He immediately felt his hand become wet with blood, the smooth edge of the blade dancing across his palm as the bag rocked about. He grabbed again and caught the handle.
The dog released his leg and jumped onto his chest, weight pressing down as it opened its mouth and lunged for his neck. Peter looked into its beady black eyes, and felt his head swimming as he saw in great detail its bloody snout, dripping saliva off of cracked teeth. He swung the large knife, hard, and buried it into fur and flesh. The animal’s mouth snapped shut, centimetres from his face, then opened wide, filling the world and Peter’s ear with splitting noise. Nearby, out of sight, hunters turned their heads and began marching towards the noise. Whistles blared, but Peter could barely hear.
He rolled onto his right side, pushing the weight off him, and kicked himself back towards the embankment. His left leg felt like it was on fire, but it moved him well enough for now. He felt his back press against the cold dirt and looked at the dog, which was staggered but staring intently at him. Only the hilt of the blade was visible. Peter could see a tiny version of himself reflected in the dog’s pupils, which seemed to fill its whole eyes with darkness.
He pushed back off the dirt, sprinting in pain past the animal and jumping sideways over the fence. His injured leg tapped the wire of the fence and he felt the muscles tighten involuntarily as thousands of volts ran up his leg. He landed on his right shoulder and rolled into a tree. His wristwatch cracked and shattered as his arm made contact with the ground. Peter staggered to his feet, awash with pain and blood, and stumbled down the embankment, feeling the temperature drop with every step. Behind him, he heard the pained, undefeated of a dog waiting at the fence and blaring whistles getting closer. The ground beneath him was blackened with ash, the trees stood lifeless around him and a dense white fog stretched into the sky and quickly enveloped him.
He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed since then, but the warmth of the day had long since disappeared and the golden light was fading to blue as night crept closer. He felt like he was further down the mountain, but there was no way of knowing how far he’d come; after the electrified fence ends and the lower forest begins, all landmarks disappear quickly amongst the ash, skeletal trees and barren ground, knotted with roots. The sound of footsteps had faded, though he could hear shouting in the far distance. No whistles. He pulled up the leg of his pants and saw torn skin, hair matted with blood, his leg muscles torn and convulsing and spewing his life out in a trickling stream into his boots. There were welts, like red lightning bolts, criss-crossing the skin around the bite, but he couldn’t see bone. That, at least, was good. He could go on, but he needed help soon. He tore at the bottom of his t-shirt, taking a crude strip away, pulled it around his leg, just below the knee and tied the ends together tightly, just enough to reduce blood flow.
Peter looked ahead into the fog, breathing deeply. The voices were growing distant, and it was harder to see the silhouettes of trees beyond the mist. He was sure that the hunters would soon give up – or at least make camp for the night - as darkness closed in and their eyesight and torches became useless. In the wake of the fading voices, the sounds of the forest and the evening rose to a deafening pitch. Insects chirped and crackled, calling through the haze to one another, communicating and copulating and living intricate lives, out of the sights and minds of the humans that crashed through their habitat. Far off, Peter thought he heard an owl, but the terror of the day had shaken him so badly, he wasn’t sure if the noises were human or not – the only comfort was that the noise was in the distance, and he was, at last, alone. What did I do to deserve this? he thought, as his mind slowed from racing to its regular pace. Moora was a small town, so Peter had no doubt whoever was pursuing him was someone he knew. The more worrying thought was that no-one immediately came to mind as a suspect. He had written articles in the paper that had raised the ire of some residents, that he knew, but every incident seemed to be taken in everyone’s stride – the mill workers cut down trees, the butchers cut up meat and the journalists, occasionally, had to cut others down in order to bring a story to light.
The problem with being a reporter in a small town, as Peter knew, was that the people you share your life with and see in the market are the same people you write about. When a big story lands, it sends ripples through the community and disrupts people. For better, and for worse.. Peter had many a day over his career when walking the isles of the market became harder to do, with barely-concealed glares running over him like spotlights. Often, this blew over quickly and was dismissed as part of the day-to-day life in the town, but there had been people who had lost their jobs or even left the small mountain town after being exposed by the paper, disgraced.
Years ago, Peter and the team at the Moora Weekly Mail had broken one of the biggest stories in the paper’s history, that the mayor of the town had used his remote property to manufacture methamphetamine in a makeshift lab, and his friends and associates had distributed the drug – often into the hands of teenagers through a local business. The story ran at the climax of a year-long crime spree, with violence and theft rocking the small town each week. Children had left their homes and stole from friends, family, anyone, to continue their drug habit. Most were picked up by police, but others remained elusive and fears of a well-coordinated gang became more and more real with business owners intimidated and held up at gunpoint.
Visiting the mayor’s home for an interview, Peter pulled up on a sunny afternoon and wandered towards the house, but a glint of sunlight off glass caught his eye. He spied a man in a gas mask, barely visible in the shadow of the shed, who was gone as quickly as he had been seen. Long nights and hundreds of phone calls were spent in the offices of the paper over the following month, before the paper hit the stands:
MAYOR EXPOSED: CRIME ‘CARTEL’ RUN FROM RURAL PROPERTY
CRIME Investigation Unit detectives have raided the property of Moora Mayor Dick Heales after being fingered as the head of a gang wreaking havoc across town.
Heales, 46, was arrested on Tuesday, 26 May, after a month-long investigation by the Moora Mail and local police into the recent crime wave, and faces a slew of drugs, weapons and assault charges.
The Mail exposed Heales as head of the gang after speaking to former members of the gang, arrested for violent assault and possession of the drug ice.
It is believed that Heales and his associates manufactured the drug using pharmaceutical medicine at his rural property in the forest outside of town and coordinated an effort to intimidate those with knowledge of his crimes into silence.
One former member said Heales himself provided weapons to the gang members and told members to “kill if necessary”, to protect the self-styled “cartel”.
Two Moora men, sentenced last year to lengthy jail terms for the murders of the Jones family, have been directly linked to the gang.
A town shopkeeper, who the Mail has chosen not to name, said Heales offered preferential treatment from the council, in exchange for money.
When confronted with the allegations, Heales denied all involvement with the group, and threatened Mail reporters with legal action and, later, violence.
CIU Detective Sergeant, Mark Symons, told reporters at the raid that police had amassed a “colossal” brief of evidence against Heales, which was completed with the help of the Mail’s investigation and recorded interviews.
Officers were seen carrying automatic weapons, drugs and lab equipment from the property, with several men led away in handcuffs.
The Municipal Association of Victoria (MAV) said all councillors had been stood down, with an Interim Governing Committee to be installed until the council elections in November.
The fallout was huge. The issue dominated the front page for weeks, with further allegations coming out against the mayor. People wrote letters of their experiences, who previously had been too scared to speak up. Others, scared away by the crime, returned to town. The topic was the only one on people’s mouths at the market and on the streets; the letters pages of the paper overflowed with derision for the politician.
There were threats, too: Heales, despite his crimes, was extremely popular around town, and had implemented cost-cutting across the board to bring rates down. He was also extremely likeable, which only added to the shock of his being exposed as a gangster. He was well-known, well-liked, and the first to pitch in when there was a cause or community event that needed an extra set of hands. Peter and the journalists at the paper received death threats, anonymously in letters or muffled phone calls, but these never amounted to anything. After the first article was printed and the community was rocked by the allegations, Peter found an envelope pushed under his front door. Inside, on a torn piece of notepad paper, were the words “Watch your back”. Heales was sentenced to ten years in jail, and the town, eventually, slowly, as small towns do, got back into its rhythm.
Still, Peter could not conjure up a name of someone who now might want him dead, let alone a group of people. The boy knocked unconscious wasn’t familiar, and the mystery impenetrable in his head.
The fog itself seemed to make a faint noise as it rolled forward, a whistle carried through the trees by a slow but strong wind. The breeze had a chill to it that ran icy fingers along Peter’s exposed skin, including his newly-made midriff. There was no chance for sleep tonight – he would have to keep moving, or risk freezing to death in his sleep.
Words seeped into Peter’s mind and, though he could not place where he’d heard the saying before, the thought carried the cold from the air and ran its fingers through his head:
Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
He rose to his feet, pulling himself up using the trunk of the tree, and took uneasy steps forward into the night.
Hours and kilometres slipped past slowly, but the hands on Peter’s wristwatch stayed frozen about 10.10. He had read somewhere that watch companies purposely put the hands at 10.10 for advertisements, because it looked like the watch face was smiling. Though the chase was over – for now – cold fear ran through Peter with every step, and the smiling face of his watch leered up at him in the moonlight. The trees nearby were identical, and the only indicator Peter had that he was heading in the right direction was the continual downward slope; the promise that, eventually, he would reach the foot of the mountain. His injured leg was stiff, and he found himself groaning in pain whenever his weight came to rest on it. But the movement had kept him warm, despite the cold wind, and he thought every step through the darkness was a step closer to freedom. The sky was barely visible as the fog encircled him, but Peter’s steps slowed and the slow-coursing fear receded from his mind as two faint lights became visible, glowing in the distance.
A car. A road.
Safety.
Picking up his pace, Peter stumbled towards the twin beams, which pointed to his left in long, cone-shaped beams, completely still. He paid no attention to the stabbing pain from his leg that jolted through his body with every footfall; every thought, every fibre of his being was focused on putting as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers.
They might have cars, he thought. But they’d be mad to have a shootout once I’m off the mountain, if I can get a lift. A body in the forest is one thing, but two bodies and a car close to the city is a lot harder to get rid of.
He broke into a limping run, willing himself closer to the lights; closer to salvation. The beams burned brighter with every step. An ominous feeling washed over Peter, but his legs kept on pumping forwards as his mind focused on freedom. He thought of warm baths, warm meals and a warm bed, away from guns and dogs and noise and the forest. For the first time in a long time, he thought of his wife. He pictured her standing in the fog, unchanged by the years and returned from her death, waiting for him with a lantern.
Peter glowed with hope and his pain disappeared, right as he figured out the source of the worry which still rumbled inside him like thunder on the horizon.
The lights were moving. They were at different heights.
Peter slowed and skidded - loudly. Legs snapping through twigs and dead wood, he jumped to the side to shelter behind a thin, grey trunk.
Then, all hell broke loose.
The searchlights swung towards the noise and the screech of whistles sounded the alarm. Before Peter could take another breath, the air was filled with noise and debris as unseen guns fired at the spot he was just standing. Splinters kicked up in every direction and Peter felt bullets cut through the air around him for seconds that felt like an hour. He held his breath and closed his eyes, too scared to move, until the night was suddenly silent once more.
Peter peeled his eyes open and saw new lights- more than he could count – light up in the distance. There was no more chance of safety in hiding; the fog was still thick, but there were at least a dozen people now, and they would surely find him. He grabbed a stick from the ground and threw it hard behind him, then broke out in a run. The thud of the stick in the distance was met in quick succession by whistles and gunshots, until his footfalls attracted the hunters’ attention. A chorus of calls joined to create a deafening squeal, sending out the message for anyone to hear - we found him.
Air and timber ripped apart behind Peter’s head as bullets roared past, each making a dull whup-ing sound as they passed. He lowered his head and adrenaline coursed through his muscles as he rushed forward, side-stepping around trees where he could. He heard the gunshots and he felt the lights on him, but he didn’t notice that the shots weren’t so close anymore.
Not one keen for hunting, Peter was not aware of the hunting method, where noise and movement and scare tactics are used to push an animal towards a trap. A gun is an effective weapon against most prey, but its noise will put the fear of God into just about any living thing. Tree trunks whipped past him and the only thought in his mind was escape. He saw the clearing ahead, but he didn’t notice the thin wire - barely visible on a clear day, taught and menacing at ankle and neck-height. He saw except for a slight glint as moonlight shimmered down, but it was far too late to stop.
Peter felt the first wire as it caught him in the neck, tearing through skin and muscle and stopping his momentum.
He didn’t quite feel his ankles hitting the other wire at the same time, or hear the tension of wire pulling trigger, but he heard the blast as two shotguns, tied to the tree, let loose at his knees. The pain in the neck died back as sensations exploded up his leg and along his nerves, as skin and muscle and bone separated out into the night and the world turned over as he fell back to the ground, already losing feeling to shock.
Then he heard his own voice, screaming.
In seconds, amber searchlights filled the sky, amongst grey and black and white tree trunks stretching into a starless, moon-filled sky. Then even this obscured as balaclava-clad faces slid into his vision. Peter heard his voice crackle as he looked into the cruel eyes above him and pleaded for his life.
“Please, please, please, please, please, help me,” he said, blood curling out the corners of his mouth and from places he couldn’t think about.
There was no reply. His arms jerked in their sockets as he was pulled into a clearing. Roots pushed at his back and seemed to give way as his body was returned to the earth. Peter’s bag was pulled from his shoulder and its contents were emptied on top of him. His hard drives and books thudded on his chest, which rose and fall rapidly with each pained and panicked breath.
One of the people took off their balaclava, revealing blond hair matted with blood and cold, staring blue eyes.
The boy from the door.
“No, no, no,” he croaked out.
The boy looked at Peter for a long time, a frown etched across his forehead. His eyes were a light blue, like a husky. They were cold and hard and the thoughts behind them were inscrutable. Peter tried to think, but his thoughts were hemmed in on all sides by pain and the lack of sensation below his waist.
The boy leaned down and unscrewed the cap from a bottle, before up-ending it on Peter’s chest. Cold liquid soaked through Peter’s clothes and burnt the wounds in his neck and his legs. It splashed onto his mouth and trickled down his throat. Cold, but still burning. And very, very pungent. Through the metallic smell of his blood, it cut through.
Petrol.
His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but only a gurgle came out. Air pushing the liquid, in vain, up before it travelled back down.
“You should have watched your fucking back,” he said.
Peter didn’t hear the match strike, or the long whoosh as the liquid all over his body ignited.
But he saw it.
Then he felt it.