Here on Astounding, you’re going start seeing what I’ll call “layups.” I got a lotta stories in me and a lot of plans. Some of them, like “The Venator’s Apprentice,” are going into short story collections. Others are trial-runs, like this. Taking ideas and aesthetic and playing them out in our sandbox here. This one is for a forthcoming tale, “Watch the Prey Run,” and is demoing a little taste of my idea of rustic life down under. Part of this is the Mad Max influence from 365 Infantry, and the other the more pointed influence of the 1986 thriller Fair Game, which is the more direct backbone of “Watch the Prey Run.”
But who knows, maybe these’ll start popping up in collections too!
For Lance and Keria Andrews, the damn thing was the best horse they never had. Farm life for the brown-skinned, dark-haired couple, deep in their neck of nowhere, was about everything one could expect in the Outback. Keeping their beasts fed and watered, keeping the land fertile, fending off the idle predators, both man and animal alike, contending with the elements. All the same worries, joys, tight community of good neighbors, and the farmhands who made their pilgrimage up the hill to work. And give or take a few thousand dollars, it ultimately paid well for a small operation.
Their slice of heaven was atop a long rolling hill, peppered with foliage among the red dirt, with a lone, five-mile stretch of half-paved road their only way out to the main highway, and to the towns nearby. While the trucks of the farmhands aided in moving meat, milk, and produce, the Andrews’ daily-drivers were quite the odd couple. Lance’s was only a few years old, a slender ‘72 Chrysler Valiant that ran well and did the trick every time.
Then came the Bug. Or rather, then came the Andrews.
Keria would be the ultimate adopter of the rusted-to-hell-and-back Volkswagen Beetle, allegedly dated 1957. It had come with the farm, but there was no special mention of it made when the couple had finalized the deal. And much like the sellers, the Andrews didn’t concern themselves with it at first.
One day between chores, Keria walked past the car. Though its crusting metal and flaking paint looked as ancient as the hills themselves, closer inspection revealed that its key was still in the ignition. Soon, curiosity got the better of her, and with a few kicks to the throttle, the farmgirl managed to get the machine turned over. While it coughed and spluttered like mad, and there was only enough gas to prove itself, the Andrews farm now had itself a proper beater.
Everyone looked at the bubble-shaped thing like it had 80 eyes and walked on legs. Keria herself found the old Bug peculiar, but like any of its kind, the smiling bumper and its dinner-plate headlights soon worked their charms. He was a loud, friendly sort of chap, and the rush of running him flat-out endeared the machine to his newfound gal. It was on a particularly sweltering day of stump removal when the Bug finally made himself a staple of the team.
Two of the workers, Davies and Hodgson, were shoveling a monster of a stump by hand when Keria pulled up. “Ain’t you boys got any utes left?” she asked. “Sun burns ya any badder, you’ll have to join a tribe.”
“Lance and the lads are at market.” the 20-something Davies sighed, mopping his brow. “And Brett still has to get the tractor sorted.”
“Well, don’t work yourselves into hospital.” she sighed. “Let’s see if the Bug can do it.”
Hodgson scoffed. “Heat’s getting you too, Kerry?”
The brown farmgirl grinned. “Worse could happen is he finally croaks,” she chuckled, patting the Bug’s wheel. With odds like those, and everyone beat to hell and back, the workers figured it’d be a good laugh to watch the half-pint machine burn itself silly.
The chain was rigged up to the rear bumper, and his driver patted the throttle with her worn-out work boot. When everyone stood clear and the Bug’s hammer dropped, the damn stump leapt out of its grave! They repeated the experiment to make sure the boys hadn’t loosened the proverbial pickle jar lid, but sure enough, the Bug managed another without its engine bottoming out. And another. And another, until the whole job was done.
For weeks thereafter, whenever a certain kind of problem arose, in rode Keria with her Bug. “Worse he could do is die” was the in-joke of the land, and upon its mere utterance, the ratty little Volkswagen would have the problem solved on-site. Everything from stump pulling to jump-starts to towing tractors to the odd bout of chasing wild boars off the land. The latter task was always performed by the long-haired, brawny Lance, who couldn’t get enough of their pantomime pairing. His stocky build in that small a car, chasing down these feral beasts. It sounded utterly mad, and yet, here he was doing just that. The mufflerless roar of Bug as its all-terrain tires pounded the red dirt made for quite the deterrent, and a cracking sight for the ranch-hands following its lead.
For the Andrews clan, the Bug proved himself to have that same farm-bred stubbornness anyone working the plot needed. The loving couple just starting out, the workers who drove an army of pickups over the hill, and here, a twenty-year old, bubble-shaped ripper, thriving on gas, oil, and spite.
To the workers’ ever-lasting titters, the Bug was christened “Captain Scarlet,” in honor of his indestructible nature (and its alleged red paint), saluted by a “rat-tat. tat. ta-ta-ta-tat,” drummed out on anything within reach. Lance, ever the stoic, simply called him Bug, though in the heat of a hog chase, he graduated to “Ripper” when his boot hit the throttle.
Keria, on the other hand, sought something more.
He had come with the land, and while not a beast of nature, there did seem to be an animating quality about him on the farm. The animals seemed to greet him as he passed, and even with the busted muffler, there was a warmth to the way his engine purred when on property. He belonged here, and deserved a proper name.
There were about a dozen Aboriginal tribes in her family tree, and a half-dozen more via Lance, and when looking for that special name, she whittled it down to three: Omeo, Tjanda, or Miro. While he was truly as steady as the mountains, and she chuckled when Lance realized “Miro” would mean two men in her life named “spear,” the couple ultimately settled on her diminutive form for Tjandamurra.
“I swear, if there’s any Banuba in either of us,” Lance ribbed, tousling his wife’s long black hair, “I’ll start wearing bloody war-paint on them hunts.”
It was upon one fateful night that name of a warrior would soon prove most apt.
The Andrews had been trying for a kid for ages now, and tonight was another night to give it a shot. Lance, for all his ruggedness, was a lamb about loving his dear wife, for he knew how much it meant to her. Even with the excitement, and an hour or two’s rest, the Missus found herself stirring.
“Gonna hoon in the Valiant for a bit,” she groggily smiled, kissing her lover’s forehead. His answer was an equally tired, “have fun, don’ ‘urt ya’self, I’ll clean the Manchester in the morning.” The two broke out laughing like hyenas while Keria looked for her clothes. She got as far as a slightly oversized T-shirt and her leather-and-suede sandals before moving onto the key hooks. Sure enough, she wound up with the keys to her own Bug instead of the Chrysler.
“Fate knows how to pick you.” the farmgirl chuckled. With that, she walked out the one-story home without a care in the world, and without her pants on. She took her seat, (found it a rather soft touch) and dug the key in.
The engine’s roar shocked her awake, the poor girl yelping before breaking into another fit of manic laughter. When she pulled herself together, she playfully hushed Tjanda and put him in gear, pulling away as quietly as she could.
They took the dirt trail that ran the perimeter of the farm. A good, easy ride, with all the clear night air whipping through the rolled-down window. Even with her ride's wake-up call, it felt like driving in a lucid dream. The touch of the suede on her tan lead foot, the rumble of the engine all around her, the sweet smell of the aired-out cab, even with the hint of dust still lingering. “Never knew you’d even hang on this long,” she teased, gently pressing the gas down. “To think you’d…the hell’s that?”
She slammed the brakes, and squinted. Down the bottom of a hill, a large truck was pulling up the fence. They’d be nearest to the cow barn, though it was a few clicks off. Furthermore, none of the Andrews’ lads would ever roll up in the middle of the night like this, not without so much as a call or a mention during the day.
“Damn poachers again.” Keria growled through her teeth. A whole new woman took over at the very thought. She didn’t care what she did to them, why they were here, or even that she was half-naked amid it all. Everything was second to protecting her land.
Without a second to lose, she ripped the Bug into gear and rammed the throttle down, sandal straps digging in as the rust-bucket beater tore away down the hill towards the trio unloading from the truck. She made no grand declarations or screams or noises of any sort; she let her Tjanda do all the talking as the Bug sent the men scurrying. She shifted to keep her momentum up and a handbrake turn caught one of the crooks on the Beetle’s hood and sent him flying off. He wasn’t killed, but the hit-and-run made it clear that whatever their plans were, they were not to take place. They all scrambled over the fence as quick as they could, but even with Tjanda’s headlights, she couldn’t get the number of the ute’s plates. And damn she want that number.
She sent the Bug blasting thru one of their breakaway gates (as this was not the first time they had chased men off the premises), and the scrappy machine roared away down the road, screaming like mad, and surely waking the whole neighborhood.
“C’mon” she growled, burying the pedal in the footwell. “Just a little closer.”
Try as the jacked-up pickup might, the Bug managed to get its lights on the plate long enough for his driver to commit it to memory. When Keria had her number, she swung the Bug around and headed back up the hill. It wasn’t worth getting killed for, and she knew thugs like these were never above killing the people that got in their way.
The commotion had awakened Lance, himself only in shorts and flip-flops, and halfway to the Valiant when his crazy little woman and her crazy little car screamed to a halt. “Chrissakes, the hell that all about!?” he asked feverishly.
“UXP 175, South Australia, Black ‘70 Ford F150, trespassing on Andrews Hills. And tell ‘em if I ever catch ‘em on our land, they’ll have to bring body bags!”
Lance bolted for the phone inside and made the call then and there. Sure enough, the plate was wanted for crimes elsewhere. “They oughta be toast here shortly,” the farmer sighed. “Whatever they were after. Good news though, if you’re this clucky about our beef, you’ll be a peach keeping an ankle-biter safe.”
They held each other tight for a good long while, the adrenaline’s shiver soothed by her man’s touch, and the evening’s breeze gently wicking away the sweat. Once calmed, Lance and Keria hopped back into the Bug, and bolted for the breakaway gate to rebuild it. Once they had, Lance looked to the rest of the dirt trail from behind the Bug’s wheel. “Still wanna hit it?” he asked, revving the car up. His woman put her head on his bare chest and sighed.
“If my little warrior’s up to it.” she smiled.
The roundtrip made for as good an unwinding as they could hope for. By the morning, they’d have to make a formal report. In nine months time, they’d see the birth of a newborn, and then another the year after. And all along the growth of the Andrews and their farm, the Beetle Tjanda stood watch over all, a service rewarded with refurbishment after refurbishment, bringing new life to that same old stubborn car, who through all the odds and elements, stood guard over the farm.
And among the many other names the little rusty steed had accrued over the years, it was on that manic night when Lance finally found a pet name of his own for the car.
“The Watch Bug.”
Nice. What's this one about? I don't quite recognize the characters... I Think?