Authors: Keith Yocum
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Dennis was driving down the side of a pebbly, dried stream bed. He slammed on the brakes. Snippy fell off Jimmy’s lap and slid awkwardly down onto his feet, yelping.
“Jimmy,” Dennis yelled, “after I get out, you drive another five minutes toward the track, then turn around and come back to get me. You got that?”
“Shouldn’t get out, mate,” he said. “Bad idea.”
“Jimmy, remember: five minutes out, then come back. If you can’t find me when you come back, take this damn car back to the hotel in Newton and tell a guest named Judy what happened. She’ll pay you money for your trouble. Guest named Judy. Remember: Judy is her name. Just let me get something out of the car.”
Dennis raced around back, opened the hatch, and pulled out a red backpack. It contained a pair of binoculars, a small digital camera, the silencer for the plastic pistol, a set of Judy’s handcuffs, and a Power Bar. Dennis also grabbed the curved tire iron. Jimmy slid over onto the driver’s side.
“Go!” Dennis yelled as he slammed the driver’s side door.
Jimmy sprayed him with rocks and pebbles as he took off down the gully and up out the other side.
Dennis raced back up to the lip of the ravine and dropped the backpack, but not before pocketing the handcuffs and silencer. Then he hid on the other side of a huge spinifex mound that was beside the backpack.
He did not have to wait long as the sound of the high-pitched ATV engines whined closer.
Dennis was scared, but his anger was stronger; the audacity and violence of their attack had shocked him. He tried to calm himself by staring into the bleached, sharp leaves of the spinifex grass strands.
“Come here, you little bastards,” he repeated to himself.
He heard the two bike-like vehicles roar up and then brake in a spray of pebbles, sand, and dust. They had found the backpack.
Dennis briefly considered shooting the drivers with his pistol, but his instinct told him that the aftermath of his adventure would be immeasurably less complicated if he hadn’t killed two contractors. Still, he was angry beyond control. He slid around the spinifex mound to his right with the tire iron in his hand.
The sound of the running engines camouflaged his steps. The two drivers were in single file, offset by ten yards. The leader had picked up the backpack and was rifling through its contents; the driver farther back, closest to Dennis, simply waited behind him. Both men wore desert khakis, red logo-less baseball caps turned backward, and swept-back sunglasses, just like the men in the Suburbans the day before. Sticking downward in long holsters on both vehicles were sighted rifles.
Dennis crept up quickly directly behind the closest driver and hit him on the side of his head with the tire iron. He used as much force as he could leverage and was lucky to have a running start. The man fell onto the red soil as if someone had removed the batteries from a toy, his hat rolling away and his sunglasses smashing from the impact of his face with the ground.
Dennis looked up, relieved to see the lead driver dutifully rifling through the backpack. The noise of the two idling ATVs whined while Dennis handcuffed the unconscious agent’s hands behind his back. He reached down, grabbed the rifle out of its holster, and flung it backward into the desert.
Dennis picked up a small walkie-talkie that had fallen out of the downed driver’s top pocket and put it in his pocket. He turned off the ATV and took the keys.
The lead driver had tossed the backpack items onto the ground, except for the camera, which he tried to turn on to review pictures. Dennis tiptoed at a run and was ten feet away when the lead agent turned and raised the camera over his head in a look-what-I-found gesture.
Startled to see Dennis behind him, he fell sideways onto the ground on the other side of the four-wheeler. Dennis was too far away to strike, so he dropped the tire iron and took his pistol out.
The agent stood quickly and reached for the rifle while he stared Dennis down. Dennis fired once, creating a puff of soil next to the agent’s right foot. The plastic pistol’s discharge sounded puny and inconsequential. The agent let the rifle fall back into its holster.
Even Dennis had to admit the scene was surreal: three men and two ATVs were clustered awkwardly in the midst of a moonscape. Something warned Dennis that they should not be here; none of them. This was not a place for high-powered rifles, worn-out investigators, slick state-of-the-art glossy red All-Terrain Vehicles, their loud internal combustion engines rudely interrupting the desert silence.
Dennis flicked the pistol barrel to his right, gesturing for the agent to step away from the ATV. The man took a single step sideways; Dennis flicked the pistol again, this time more fiercely. The man took three steps farther away.
Dennis glanced to his left to see if Jimmy was returning. Shit, it suddenly occurred to him, what if Jimmy had no intention of coming back? I wouldn’t blame him for just driving to Darwin and selling the goddamn car, he thought. Why should he give a shit that stupid white men are driving around the outback trying to kill other stupid white men?
Dennis inched over to the far side of the agent’s ATV, turned off the engine, removed the key, and put it in his pocket.
“Give me the radio,” he said.
The man pulled it out of his top pocket and tossed it to Dennis, who caught it with his left and quickly jammed it into his pocket.
Dennis moved the pistol to his left hand and yanked the rifle out of its holster. He turned it upside down and jammed the barrel several inches into the soft red soil. The rifle leaned against the body of the ATV with the shoulder stock facing upward.
The agent made a small step forward, and Dennis raised the pistol. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I’m really, really pissed off right now.”
Using his right knee, Dennis pressed the upended rifle against the ATV, reached down, and pulled back the bolt. A live round ejected to the ground. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folding knife that he thumbed open until it locked. In one quick motion he stabbed the knife down into the open end of the barrel that was exposed by the open bolt. The knife jammed into the barrel, and Dennis raised his right hand and pounded the butt of the knife with his open palm as hard as he could.
“Hey,” the agent yelled as he grasped what was happening.
With the blade jammed tightly into the open barrel, Dennis grabbed the knife handle and ripped it violently at a ninety-degree angle. The blade point snapped off inside the barrel.
“Fuck you,” the agent said.
Dennis kicked the disabled rifle onto the ground.
A quick glance showed the other agent was still lying face down with his hands handcuffed behind his back.
“Take off your boots,” Dennis said.
“What?” the agent said.
“Take off your goddamn boots,” Dennis said. “Sit down and take them off.”
The man sat down and proceeded to untie the laces of his combat boots. He sat back on his haunches, his boots in front of him, white cotton socks stained red underneath from the soil.
“Take off your socks,” Dennis said, brushing a fly away from his face.
The agent sighed and pulled off the socks, pushing them down into each boot.
“Stand up and start walking,” Dennis said.
“You’re kidding,” the man said.
“Not kidding. Get going.” Dennis stood on one side of the ATV while the agent stood up on the other side of the vehicle.
“I can’t walk in my bare feet,” the man said. “It’s too hot. I’ll burn my soles. I can barely stand right now.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” Dennis said. “You’re lucky the worst thing that’s going to happen is sore feet. I should shoot you and your pal here and leave you out here to rot.”
They stared at each other for a moment, and then the agent appeared resigned to his fate. He suddenly bent down to grab one of his boots, saying, “Can I just take one of these?”
It was the combination of the agent’s look of resignation and the absurdity about taking just one boot that confused Dennis.
In what seemed like the practiced throw of a professional baseball pitcher, the agent fired the boot in one fluid motion toward Dennis’s head. The boot heel bounced off his forehead as Dennis turned away, and he managed to get off one wild shot with his pistol.
The agent sprang clear across the top of the ATV, landing on top of Dennis and knocking the gun out of his hand. The two men rolled several times over each other down the shallow ravine. Dennis feared the agent had a knife and tried to keep hold of his wrists as they tumbled over the hot earth.
The agent fought to turn Dennis over in a clumsy maneuver, but Dennis resisted. At one point they came to rest, and the agent smashed his elbow so sharply on Dennis’s cheekbone that he saw bright yellow stars.
That was the moment the man was looking for; as Dennis regained his bearings, the agent flipped Dennis onto his stomach. He used his two bare feet to wrap around each of Dennis’s thighs from behind, and slid his right arm under Dennis’s neck so the boney area above his wrist was pressed hard against Dennis’s windpipe. The agent used his left hand to pull his right arm tight.
They wrestled this way for a minute or two until it became clear to Dennis that he could not stop the agent from strangling him.
He tried to stop moving to conserve his energy and keep oxygen going through his compressed windpipe, but the agent was well trained; the less Dennis struggled, the harder the agent compressed his neck.
Eerily, Dennis began to feel sad and wistful, almost as if he were watching a movie of someone else’s life.
What a strange place to die,
he thought as he drifted. He felt peaceful—not the least bit angry at his circumstance, face down in the red grainy soil of the outback. A young man was dutifully and skillfully strangling the life out of him.
Inexplicably, Dennis remembered a pet dog he had nurtured as a nine-year-old boy. Its image came to him in faint outline, the chubby black Labrador named Rascal.
That was a nice dog,
he thought.
Dog.
Nice
.
Dennis had trouble processing thoughts and wondered if this was how things ended. Random solo thoughts placed in sequence, one after the other, until they just stop:
Words. Dog. Fuzzy. Warm. Dog. Angry Dog. Warm, angry Dog.
Dennis wondered why the dog was angry and was startled to feel pain in his throat.
“Ow,” he said feebly. He heard the words reverberate in his ears.
Then he heard a dog barking furiously, and he winced, feeling like he was being devoured by a ravenous, slobbering creature.
He heard voices and more dog noises. He felt his eyes opening—he didn’t know they had been shut—and found he was staring at a patch of red soil.
“Ow,” he said again, feeling the guttural sound agitate his eardrums. “Ow.” His hand moved to his throat and found there was no wrist strangling him. “Denny!” he heard. “Denny, mate. You all right?”
He stared into the gauzy, indistinct face of Jimmy.
“Ow,” he repeated.
“Get up, mate,” Jimmy said, urgently pulling Dennis to a sitting position.
Dennis tried to focus on Jimmy’s face.
“What . . .” he said sloppily, unable to finish a word or thought. Turning his head, he saw the agent who had been strangling him about twenty feet away, holding his right hand out in front to fend off Snippy, snarling hysterically. The agent held his other hand to his neck, oozing bright-red blood from between clenched fingers. The front of his khaki shirt was wet with blood.
“Get him away from me,” the agent yelled. “Fucking dog’s rabid.”
“Denny, can you walk?” Jimmy said. “Come on, mate. Is this your gun?”
Dennis nodded.
Jimmy dragged him to the Cruiser, put him in the passenger seat, and threw the pistol onto his lap.
Jimmy got in the driver’s side and whistled a short, sharp note. Snippy turned and raced back to the Cruiser, jumping onto Jimmy’s lap.
“In the back,” Jimmy said, pushing Snippy into the back seat.
They took off into the desert in a scatter of pebbles, the heat blasting in the passenger compartment and the windows open to let the dust and warm air in. Dennis’s head bounced like a bobble-head doll.
They drove for a while without speaking, Jimmy occasionally glancing at Dennis.
“Drink some water, mate,” he said, pushing Dennis’s bottle of water at him.
Dennis guzzled half the container, and though the water was as warm as urine, it felt good. Each time his Adam’s apple bobbed, he winced in pain.
“Thanks for coming back,” Dennis said hoarsely.
“Nick of time, I reckon,” Jimmy said. “When I pulled up, I saw you fellers rolling there like two poofters.”
“What’s a poofter?”
“Don’t matter.”
They bounced across the landscape in silence for several more minutes until Dennis said, almost to himself, “They must have a kill order out on me.”
“What?” Jimmy asked.
“Nothing.” They continued to bounce along through the rough ground looking for the trail.
“I heard a dog barking,” Dennis said, “like I was in a dream.”
“That was Snippy,” Jimmy said, grinning. “Bit that feller on the neck and wouldn’t let go till he let you go. Good boy, Snippy.”
Dennis turned to look at Snippy in the back seat; he stared back at Dennis, blinked once, and then licked his lips.
“Who’re them fellers?” Jimmy asked. “Owe ’em money? Money’s the root of all evil, mate. So’s alcohol—and women.”
“I wish it was just about money,” Dennis said. “It’s the guys who work at that facility behind the fence. They don’t want me poking around.”
“Why you pokin’ round then?”
“Trying to figure out what they’re doing there,” Dennis said, slowly taking the two walkie-talkies out of his pockets and removing the batteries. “They don’t want anyone within a hundred miles of the place, and they’re willing to do anything to keep people out, though they seem to know who I am.”
“How come they knows it was you?”
“It’s a long story,” Dennis said.
“Whyja want to know what they’re doin’ back there?” Jimmy asked again.