DinGoWriMo

[Placid Dingo]

My NaNoWriMo is getting shared here. Because you fuckers deserve it.


BREAK

Part one: James Ellington 'Rangoo' Smithers and 'Captain' Howard 'Marsupial' Jones.

1.
The red dust stained the windows of the servo, and spluttered into the room every time someone came through the door, settling over the handful of patrons and their food.

Near the door sat a young man, maybe in his twenties, absent mindedly tapping his fingers on an iPod and smoking a Japanese cigarette. He rubbed his blue stubble; obviously a paintkid, though the color was wearing out. It was usually too expensive to get new colour shots this far from the city.

A man opened the door and walked to the CD stand and started flipping through. He wore an old stained shirt and a pair of raggy workers pants, with a tool belt strapped around his waist.

The attendant looked up for a half a moment, then back down to the counter screen, tapping at it absent mindedly.

The paintkid looked around cautiously before pressing the button of the iPod and pushing his thumb against it to unlock it. He flinched as there was a movement to his side; the raggen man had walked up silently behind him, and shot a hand towards him, grabbing the iPod.

"Nice tech," he said glancing at it. He them in a single movement put his hand into the tool pouch, pulled out a gun and shot the paintkid through the head.

The shot rang out, loud and jarring, and the people in the room screamed and took cover. The paintkid's head jerked back. It looked like it kind of hit the table and flattened a bit. Blood and bits sprayed thick over the table and the floor.

The ragged man leant forward and gently picked up a salt shaker and placed in on the table, beside the twitching corpse, before indifferently flipping the iPod and slamming it down on the shaker, shattering the screen. He dropped the broken device on the bloody floor, dropped a card on the floor, and left, the open door letting dust billow in.

♦♦♦♦
We picked up Kid Tom somewhere around Blackwater, when we dropped off Not-Gay-Phillip.
We were stopped at an off-grid motel, trying to negotiate free accommodation. A lot of OGs will put you up if you offer to wash or clean, or if you have anything of value to barter. We'd bartered the last of whatever worthwhile we had, and they were desperate for customers but more desperate for money, and not sure really how they could best make use of us, as they had a freebi in already. This was Kid Tom as it turned out.
"You sure you got no money?"
"Real sure. We're using solar for the car. Have to stop every few hours. We're only eating protein bars, and there's only enough cases to get us another week. We're washing in horse troughs and mending our own clothes. Things are at a pretty desperate place."
"There's nothing you can barter?"
"Only the bars. And food beats shelter. Blame Maslow."
It was every bit as desperate at it sounded. We'd swapped all our alcohol away, our excess clothes, any jewelry. The next to go would be the Crackphone, the gun, then the car. Then the food. Then you hit the BorG, which is a Breaker term meaning Blow or Go; start whoring yourself out (literally) and hope for a ladder up, or just give up and reintegrate yourself into society. There's officers whose whole role is to re-integrate Breakers back into the stream. We had about a month before we hit BorG, providing our luck held up, and if there's one thing you don't want to rely on, it's your luck holding up.
"How long's your Freebi been here?" I asked. It seemed the best line of questioning.
"Week or so."
"How long's he staying?"
"Not sure."
"Will he be leaving?"
"Guess so. Eventually?"
"Would you swap?"
"For you?"
"We have a passenger. He came with us from Happy Rock. If your Freebi's gonna leave eventually you might as well take a swap now rather than just hoping for the best. You got an agreement about when he leaves?"
"Not so much."
"Well this guy will offer you one. Give him somewhere to sleep, enough food to survive and he'll jump when you clap. Won't leave till you've got a replacement. You could have an infinite Freebi."
I could see her consider it.
"Let me talk to the Freeb."
The manager left.

Not-Gay still owed us one. We got in contact with him over the Crackphone, using numbers from the book. The book was our form of entertainment; after years of constant overstimulation, you don't just loose the need for shiny things overnight. The book came with us to every public toilet we hit, and came out with a new array of numbers each time. There was a lot of 'fuck off' and a lot of 'fuck me' but in between there were some gold moments. Not-Gay was a gold moment.
I rang while Captain Marsupial was driving. We were on maybe 140; our car was jailbroke so speeding was fairly unwise, but we were in the shade of trees, and down to 20% energy. To not find some sun to park in soon would fuck us completely.
I dialed the number. The note said 'Phil G – I swollow'. He picked up, sounding agitated.
"I'm not gay."
"Excellent. Not after Gay, after Phil, is he around?"
"I'm Phillip. Where'd you get this number?"
"Toilet door, but wait, don't hang up! I'm not after sex. Well, not with you. No offence. We're Breakers see, we're just looking for people to chat to. How's the weather? Seen any good films?"
Captain Marsupial, driving the car yelled out, "Read any good books lately?"
There was a pause.
"Breakers, huh?" said Not-Gay Philip.
"You bet your heterosexual ass we are. Living the dream. And broke. And bored. Really, it's a great life. God dammit, how many fucking trees can there be on one road..."
"You near Cooper?"
I stopped for a moment, and looked at Captain Marsupial.
"Are we?" I asked.
"Can't you read a Nav?" asked Not-Gay.
"Car's Jailbroke, we're using a paper Nav. Look we're between Chase Point and Bullion. If that's near Cooper, we're near Cooper."
"Have you passed the Lobster station?"
"Not that I've seen."
"If you pass the lobster station and turn left you'll hit Cooper. Pick me up, I'll get you some food."
I looked at the Captain. He shrugged, then gave a little nod.
"Done."

When the manager of the OG Motel came back, she looked satisfied.
"We trial him for the night. You two stay free, have a meal on the house. If he's worthwhile, we take him, you take the old one. If he's no good, you take him back, and pay for the meal and stay with a box of bars."
Risky. But we didn't have much reason to suspect a better option was going to present itself to us.
"Deal," I said. We shook, and I walked back to the car.
Not-Gay Phillip and Captain Marsupial were sitting in the shade. They played a game of Naughts and Crosses in the red dirt, but looked up when I arrived.
"Trial run," I said. Marsupial looked a little bothered but grinned anyway. He placed a hand on Phillip's shoulder.
"You're about to be out of the debt ol' buddy."

Not-Gay owed us because half a packet of chips doesn't qualify as 'food'. A sandwich is food. Multivitamins, well, they're not substantial, but we'd have accepted. Hell, kangaroo roadkill is food if it's cooked right and the stomach hasn't been cut open. But half a packet of grease and crap isn't going to offer us anything worthwhile.
We were parked in the sun, but we sat in the shade with Not-Gay. He was youngish, clean shaven but kind of nervous looking. His shirt was expensive, but stained. He looked desperate enough to be of use.
"I'm sorry guys," he said, voice a little unsteady. "I was just desperate for a lift you know. I've been sleeping out in the open. I need to get out of here.
"We'll give you a lift," said Captain Marsupial. "But on a condition. You get out when we damn well tell you to. And you still own us one."
He nodded.

2.
I remember back in the later half of last year, coming into Pirrini. In the distance we could see a hint of wreckage, and terrible streaks of black that turned into singed road and bushland as we approached. We were sitting on the speed limit, but as we began to pass wreckage, twisted black chunks of metal, half melted tires, mangled car doors, we slowed down, and down, until we were barely above walking pace. Then the road begain to get bumpy, at first just with little potholes, but then with huge jagged chunks torn out of it, lumps of metal buried deep inside it. We stopped the car.

[Placid Dingo]

I remember back in the later half of last year, coming into Pirrini. In the distance we could see a hint of wreckage, and terrible streaks of black that turned into singed road and bushland as we approached. We were sitting on the speed limit, but as we began to pass wreckage, twisted black chunks of metal, half melted tires, mangled car doors, we slowed down, and down, until we were barely above walking pace. Then the road began to get bumpy, at first just with little potholes, but then with huge jagged chunks torn out of it, lumps of metal buried deep inside it. We stopped the car.
As we opened the door, the slight vibration we could hear grew loud and powerful, a pervasive buzzing sound. There were bugs around. One landed on the car, and I leaned to look at it.
"Bees," I said. "Christ"
Hot. Savage. The tar stuck to our shoes as we approached what looked like a small town. Glass cracked under our feet as we approached. We paused and looked to the side as we moved. The charred and mangled skeleton of a gigantic mining truck lay tormented in a ditch.
We entered a small stall. It was full of knick knacks, honey and potatoes. Maybe there were a handful of other fruit and veg, but that was seriously the most of it. Maybe up to five or six each of pineapples, capsicum etc, and then a box of root vegetables, then boxes upon boxes of potatoes, and honey. All through the store, all over the town, that terrible hum. The bees.
The woman at the counter looked up at us. Her face had been slapped hard by trouble, and melted by age.
"Can I help you gentlemen?"
"Why are there so many bees?" I asked. She seemed not to hear me.
"Your town looks like it's seen hard times," said Captain Marsupial. She nodded.
"Yep."
"You've had some accidents out on the way in?"
"Been trouble. Din' you hear?"
"Why are there so many bees?" I repeated.
"We're Breakers," said the Captain.
"We don't get much of your sort here," the woman said, cautiously.
"We're looking for accommodation, food. Can you help us?"
"Bees!" I screamed. That horrible fucking buzzing. I felt like it was choking me. The Captain and the old woman looked at me.
"Yep," she said. "Bees."
I couldn't bear any more. I began to walk, pacing up and down the store. Honey, potatoes, honey, potatoes. Bees. Honey, bees, potatoes, bees, honey, bees, potatoes, bees. And a pumpkin.
"Rangoo!"
I turned. "Cap?"
Marsupial walked towards me. "We've got work. Accommodation. Let's go."

There are bees at the Off-Grid. There seem to be bees everywhere now. Sometimes I wonder if there's always been that many bees in the world, and I only notice them now.
The Captain and I sit at the table. We have our best clothes on, which isn't saying much. We've had access to warm water. I've shaved, and he's trimmed and combed his moustache. We have a third chair beside us, empty, waiting for Kid Tom.
It's a shock when you get back to a mirror bigger than the one you get on a car door. I look thin, pale, nearly ill. My hair is thinner than it used to be. Somewhere on this infinite road, I got old.
"Remember Pirrini?"
Marsupial grimaces. "Bees," he says.
"We had a job there. We could try to hunt it down again. Potato farming. We'd get fed if nothing else."
"I thought if we kept on present trajectory we might aim to hit one of the gem towns. There's a few illegal camps that might let us mine for food. To eat and also store."
I shrug.
They bring out three plates of food. One for Kid Tom, who still hasn't arrived. The food is basic; fakemeat, potatoes and broccoli, but to us it's a feast. We eat greedily, not waiting for our absent guest. After we finish, there's an awkward silence, as though we were two secret lovers unable to wait til the right time to consummate our passion. We wait another half hour, eying off Kid Tom's meal. Eventually he arrives.
"Gentlemen," he says, "Please excuse tardiness. I was indisposed." He shakes hands with us both. The Captain replies.
"Captain Marsupial. And my comrade, Rangoo."
Tom is polite. Everything about him is polite, his Sunday school combed brown hair, his sharp dressing with vest, sea-green tie and longs, his mannerisms, his conversational tone.
"I'm glad you were able to start without me. I'd have felt bad if your dinner had cooled before you had a chance to eat. I hear you've travelled a good way. Where are you coming from?"
"Nowhere," I say.
He nods. "Where are you going to?"
"Nowhere," I say. He nods again and eats for a while.
"I'm told I can get a lift with you? If management are happy with the Freebi you rode with?"
"Sure thing."
"Where are you going?" asked Captain Marsupial.
"Wherever God sends me," said Kid Tom.
"You're a religious man?"
"I thought the tie gave it away?"
"Should it?"
There was a silence in which Kid Tom started to look awkward.
"Do..." he began, "Do you gentlemen prefer to block the Religious Streams?"
Marsupial choked on his glass of water. I laughed out loud. Poor Tom looked confused, and I tried to focus long enough to reassure him.
"No, no, no, no, no... we're Breakers mate. Not about religion. We block all the streams."
"Oh!" he said, looking surprised, but also relieved. "Oh. I was hoping there'd be no animosity."
"Not a scrap," said Marsupial.
Kid Tom went back to eating. I know we tried not to stare, but I doubt we managed. Hunger does terrible things to a man.
"No offense, Tom..." began Marsupial.
"Kid Tom"
"No offence Kid Tom, but what the fuck kind of religion involves the wearing of ties?"
Kid Tom grinned. "None, so far as I'm aware. But the religious organization I am a part of identifies itself through the wearing of ties. I'm a Narmy; New Religious Movement. Our presence hit the streams pretty hard across the last couple on months."