#

     Ernie, Pete and I had planned a trip to Andamooka to dig around our claims and to catch up with some friends.  Andamooka, like Coober Pedy, is a mining town in South Australia known for opals.  We'd planned on camping overnight at a caravan park in Glendambo, one of the few towns on the way to Andamooka.

     We set off one afternoon, my Land Cruiser packed with supplies.  Ernie and me were sharing the driving duties while Pete relaxed in the back seat.

     We were making good time and it looked like we'd get to the caravan park early.  Ernie--he's an Aboriginal bloke with a keen sense of humour--suggested we rough it in the bush and eat some real bush tucker; this was a laugh, considering Ernie had lived in the city most
of his life.  I made a joke about cooking a nice Witchetty grub stew.  We cackled like fools.  We both knew we'd starve if left in the bush to fend for ourselves.

     We reached Glendambo three hours later.  A sign on the town limits gives you some idea of the place--it says "Population:  22,500 sheep, approximately two million flies, and thirty humans."  The locals are real wags.

     Just before Ernie made the turn for the caravan park, Pete spoke up.

     "I like Ernie's idea," he said.  "Since we're making such good time, why don't we keep driving and camp out in the bush?  We'll be able to get to Andamooka a bit earlier and we'll save some dough, too."

     Ernie shrugged, and I considered the idea for a moment.  Money was tight.  I was also thinking we'd be able to knock back a few cold ones at the pub the next day if we got there earlier.  Still, I was surprised Pete suggested it--normally he'd turn his nose up at camping so far from a dunny and a hot shower.

     When Pete suggested a place eighty kays away, I nearly had a fit.

     "Pete, that's over halfway to Woomera!"

     "Come on, Baz.  We can camp out by Island Lagoon and check out the salt.  It'll be fun."

     I groaned.  I had visions of us getting bogged in the salt flats and spending the night trying to dig the bloody Land Cruiser out, assuming we didn't hit a kangaroo or run into a road-train first.

     "Sounds good to me," Ernie said.  "You know Barry, I reckon you're getting a bit soft in your old age.  I could make us a pretty good saltbush-leaf salad if you'd give me half a chance."

     "Righto.  Looks like I'm outnumbered."

     An hour later, Ernie pulled over onto the gravel verge.  It was pitch black.  He handed over the keys, and we got out and had a look around with our torches, keeping a lookout for wildlife.  As we approached the salt flat, Ernie whistled.

     "Shit, will you fellas take a look at this!"

     Pete and I hurried over.  Instead of seeing a crusted-over salt flat, the light from our torches reflected on water.  It stretched away into the distance on both sides of the road.  Couldn't have been too deep though, since it was spread over such a wide area. 

     "Looks like they've had some rain," Pete said, poking at the mud by the water with his shoe.

     I nodded.  Pete has a knack for pointing out the obvious.

     Normally Island Lagoon is bone dry near the highway, but it has been known to flood on occasion.  Since the highway is elevated and cuts right through the salt flats, any rain tends to run off the sides and turns the area into a swamp.

     There didn't seem to be anywhere we could camp, other than a small clearing about a hundred feet away among the saltbushes.  The mud had begun to harden there, so it must've been hotter than hades during the day.

     Pete and I made camp in the clearing while Ernie went to fetch kindling for the fire.  The whole time Pete had a sour expression on his face, like he'd sucked on a lemon.  We were all hungry and tired, but I reckon poor Pete wished he'd kept his big mouth shut and we'd
stayed in Glendambo instead.  Now that we were actually out in the bush, cold hard reality had set in.

     We'd just gotten the tent together when Ernie came running back.

     "Hey fellas, come look what I found!"

     Pete coughed.  "If you don't mind, I'm gonna stay right here to unpack our stuff.  Okay?"

     Ernie shrugged and kept walking.

     We trudged through the saltbushes until we came to a shallow depression with something poking out.  Ernie crouched down and aimed his torch at it.

     "Looks like bones, Barry."

     I bent down to take a closer look.  A long, greyish shape protruded from the ground . . . part of a rib cage?  Sure looked like it.

     I leaned in closer.  There were marks on the bones.  Teeth marks.  Behind us, something rustled in the bushes.

     I spun around.

     "Can't have you blokes running off on me now, can I?" Pete said.

     I shuffled over and pointed.  Pete squinted at the bones and grunted.  "Is that all?  They're just old bones," he said, kicking at them.

     Ernie flinched.  "Hey, mate--buried bones mean sacred soil in my book.  Have a little respect, willya?"

     Even though Ernie was a city slicker those days, he still took the stuff he learned from the tribal elders seriously.

     Pete rolled his eyes, and before we could stop him, he'd bent down and pulled the long bone from the ground, tossing it toward the lake.  Ernie's face hardened and a dangerous gleam came into his eyes.  He looked like he was in a mood to strangle somebody.

     He took a step toward Pete.

     Pete put up his fists.  "Come on, I'll haveya!"

     It was almost comical.  Pete was a short, wiry chap with a brown mullet hairdo that looked like a brushtail possum perched up top.  Ernie, with his tree-trunk biceps and barrel chest, could flatten Pete in short order if he felt so inclined.  If I were a bookie, I know who I'd place odds on to win that fight.

     Ernie only had to take another step before Pete backed off.  "Okay, okay!  Geez, Ernie.  Settle down."

     Pete snorted and stalked back to the camp.  I turned to see Ernie staring at the disturbed ground and shaking his head.

     "One of these days that bloke won't be so lucky, Barry."

     After Pete and I got the stove going, Ernie came trudging back, empty-handed.  He hadn't managed to find any kindling since everything was still soaked from the rain.  We ended up sitting around the gas camp stove, shivering while I brewed tea and heated a can of stew.  I'd brought along a loaf of damper and some beer, so we had ourselves a good feed, even though it was frickin' cold.

     "I reckon those remains might be human," Ernie said partway through dinner.

     "Yeah?" I said, not sure if he was just pulling my leg.

     "Yeah.  Didn't wanna disturb 'em, just in case."

     I nodded.  "Well, maybe we should let the cops in Woomera know.  Let them dig around and check it out."

     Pete didn't say anything, just sat there staring at the stove and sculling one stubbie of Coopers after another.  He sure liked his booze.

     After dinner, we got the sleeping bags out of the Land Cruiser and grabbed some extra blankets.  Even though I was freezing my arse off, it wasn't long before I drifted off to sleep.

     I woke up a few hours later.  Something was howling.  Apparently Pete had heard it too.

     "Bloody dingo out there, Baz."

     I rubbed my eyes.  "A dingo?"

     "Yeah.  Been howling a minute or so."

     "Oh," I said, frowning.  A dingo that far south was unusual.  The Dog Fence, which stretches across several states, is supposed to protect farms from the dingo population up north.  I wondered if there'd been a break in the fence.

     "Shit!  I've just about had enough of that," Pete moaned.  "Past two in the morning and I've got a bloody hangover."

     Pete turned on the battery-powered lantern, then pulled the zipper on the tent and poked his head out.  Ernie began to stir and then looked at me, bleary-eyed.

     "What's going on?" he yawned.

     "Pete reckons there's a dingo out there.  Sounds like it."

     "I'll fix the bugger," Pete said.  "Fix him real good."

     He grabbed a torch and left the tent, leaving the canvas door flapping in the breeze.

     Ernie looked confused.  "Doesn't sound like a dingo to me."

     "I'm sure Pete can handle it," I said, turning the lantern off.

     I pulled the sleeping bag back over my head and tried to ignore the infernal racket coming from the lake.

     Not a minute later, we heard a scream.

     Ernie pulled himself up, slipped on his shoes, and took the lantern.  I followed close behind.  Pete's torch was over by the water's edge, but there was no sign of Pete.  The howling had stopped, replaced by a low growl.

     "Pete!  You okay?" I yelled.  He was drunk, the banks were slippery, and the fool had probably just tripped and fallen in.  Not a big deal; it was shallow.

     There was no response.

     The water rippled by Pete's torch, far more than it should've on such a calm night.  Ernie and I walked cautiously toward the lake.

     There was something in the water.  And sounds.  Slopping, chewing sounds.

     Ernie raised the lantern toward the lake, but it was still hard to see.  All I could make out were vague shapes.  There was Pete, and . . . something else?

     The shape in the water thrashed weakly, while the other hunched over it.  What was Pete doing in there?  Surely he hadn't managed to get a hold of the dog, strangling it?

     "Oy!  Whaddaya doing?" I said, walking just that bit faster.

     The thing in the water growled.

     I froze.  I'd caught a glimpse of something; a face.  Bloodshot eyes and a jagged grin.  Before I could comprehend what I was seeing, it jerked away from the light.

     I glanced quickly at Ernie.  His eyes were fixed on the lake.

     "Didya see that?" I whispered.

     He nodded slowly.  I'd never seen him so scared.

     The thrashing stopped completely, and those chewing sounds started up again.  There was a revolting smell.  It brought back memories of my time working in a slaughterhouse, only this time I didn't have a mask to help with the stench.  I leaned over and threw up.

     I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and glanced over at Ernie.

     He was holding his dinner down with an effort, but that didn't stop him from walking toward the lake.  As he got closer, the light from the lantern played off the lake's surface, and I could see what was responsible for that tremendous stink.  Blood, and lots of it.

     Ernie stopped when he reached the edge of the lake, and reached for Pete's torch.  Just as he did, I saw the water rippling and something wading through it toward him.  That hunched shape was definitely not human.

     "Shit!" I yelled.  "Get outta there!"

     Ernie snatched up the torch and shone it at the water.  All we saw before the thing recoiled was a bony hand with sharp talons at the end of each finger.  That was enough.

     I ran past the tent, back to the Land Cruiser parked alongside.  Ernie was close behind.  I had the keys in my pocket, so I was able to start the truck as soon as I threw open the door.  Ernie leapt in, I put it in gear, and we burned rubber toward Woomera.

     It was a struggle keeping us on the road, my hands were shaking that bad.  When I managed to speak, my voice came out as a dry rasp.  "What the hell was that?"

     I looked over at Ernie, but his eyes were closed.  Tears coursed down his cheeks.  He couldn't have looked more different from the man who had intimidated Pete just a few hours earlier.

     He must've heard me because he shook his head.  Not now, Barry.   I turned my attention back to the road, watching for kangaroos.

     A few minutes later, Ernie opened his eyes.  "I reckon it was a Bunyip."

     "A Bunyip." I said flatly, not believing what I was hearing.

     Ernie was dead serious.  "Yeah.  Fits the tribal legend.  It's probably a bit different to what you white fellas think a Bunyip is."

     Absurd images of a bloke dressed in Bunyip drag in an old Aussie TV show ran through my head.

     "My grandpa said Bunyips are evil spirits.  They hang around swamps and billabongs--anywhere there's water.  Said you could hear 'em at night sometimes, a real eerie sound that could drive a man crazy.  He said to stay away if we ever heard that sound--nobody who
meets the Bunyip comes back."

     I let the words roll over me while he spoke.  Over and over, I kept picturing those shapes in the water; all that blood; the half-glimpsed face.  That bony claw.

     I sighed and wiped at the tears running down my cheeks.  Here I was, driving away from my mate.  I felt like a bloody coward, running from shadows.  I slammed my hands on the steering wheel.  "Shit!"

     "Look, mate.  Perhaps you'd better let me drive."

     I nearly swatted his hand away, then thought better of it.  I sighed and pulled over.  We swapped seats and Ernie drove the rest of the way to Woomera.  It took most of the trip for my heart to stop thumping so hard.

#

     "Didn't you have a gun?" Jack asks me, fiddling absently with the shotgun shells.

     "Nope--never have.  I dunno if it would've helped much, either."

     Dave looks at me curiously.  "What about those scars?"

     I sigh.  "I'll get to that shortly."

#

     We pulled in at the cop-shop in Woomera at three that morning.  We stuck to the story we'd invented during the drive, telling the officer on duty we'd camped out in the bush and were woken by howls near the lake.  Our mate Pete decided he'd had enough and went to  investigate.  The howling stopped and within minutes, Ernie and I had gone back to sleep.  I explained how I woke a few hours later and realized Pete still hadn't come back.  Thinking he'd either gotten lost or a dingo had taken him, we'd decided to report him missing.  We also told them about the remains we'd found, just on the off chance that Ernie was right about them being human.

     The officer noted down the details and sent the word out about Pete's disappearance.  Shortly afterward, the cops drove us back to our campsite and told us to stay put while they looked around.

     Ernie and I waited for howling and screams from the lake, but they never came.  After fifteen minutes the cops came back, seeming a little miffed.  They hadn't found a damn thing!  They took us back to town and told us they'd send some people out in the morning.
Meanwhile, we had to stay in Woomera in case they had any questions.  I took that to mean in case they decided to charge us with murder.  We checked into a motel in town and tried to get some sleep.

     Later that day they called us into the station.  A search party had scoured the area and they'd found the bones we told them about, but no sign of Pete.  They grilled us separately.  We were under suspicion, but they hadn't found a shred of evidence to connect us
with the bones or Pete's disappearance.  Just the same, they wanted us to stick around until tests on the bones were complete.

     Two days later they told us we were free to leave.  Apparently their forensics people had determined the bones were human-Aboriginal, in fact, but they dated from the 1800s, so they had to let us go.  They handed back what stuff wasn't needed for evidence--some of our camping gear, our wallets and so forth--and we were on our way.  Pete was officially listed as a missing person.

     We picked up some meat pies and iced coffee for lunch and had a gander through the local paper.  There was an article about the bones on the front page.  The police reckoned the bloke had been murdered and buried out in the bush around the 1850s.  It had taken years of erosion, along with heavy rain from the recent storms to bring them to the surface.  Leaders of the local Aboriginal community wanted the bones to be given a decent burial, up in their lands further north.  According to them, the spirit of the dead man would not rest until his bones were given a traditional burial.

     Before we left town, Ernie managed to find a souvenir shop.  He emerged with a grim smile, carrying a woomera in one hand and a spear in the other.  A woomera is one of those things the black fellas used to launch spears with more force.  They're made of wood, with a peg or barb on one end to attach a spear.  And yes, that's also the name of the town.  They used to do a lot of rocket tests there, you see.

     I knew Ernie didn't just buy the thing as a souvenir.  He wanted to be prepared in case we ran into trouble on the way back to Coober Pedy.  Neither of us wanted to continue on to Andamooka--our hearts just weren't in it.

     By the time we got going, it was late afternoon.  It had been overcast all day, but when the radio started crackling and we saw the distant flash of lightning, we knew for sure that a storm was brewing.  It didn't seem to faze Ernie, though.  He used to see a lot of tropical storms when he lived up north.

     We'd been driving for about half an hour through the wind and rain before we reached Island Lagoon.  While I glanced nervously out the window at the water pooling by the road, Ernie gave the Land Cruiser more juice.  I think both of us wanted to put the place behind
us as quickly as possible.

     Just as we were about to pass our former campsite, I saw something out in the lake, past the other side of the road.  A car?  I blinked a few times, sure I was seeing things.

     I nudged Ernie.  "Hey.  Pull over, willya?"

     He looked at me like I had a few screws loose, then he saw it too: a yellow Ford Escort, nose-down in the lake.  In the glow of our headlights we could just make out tyre-marks leading from the road to the edge.

     Ernie goosed the brakes and pulled over, coming to a stop about fifty metres down the road.

     "Whaddaya reckon happened there?" Ernie said.

     I took a torch from the glovebox and flung the door open.  "Lemme check it out.  Road's slick; they probably skidded out of control."

     Before I turned and headed out into the rain, Ernie grabbed my sleeve.  "Careful, Barry."

     He didn't have to say anymore; I could read it in his eyes.  Maybe they swerved to avoid something.

     While Ernie got on the 2-way to notify the Woomera police, I ran up the road to the car.  It was black as black out there, worse so because of the rain.  My torch barely cut through it.

     As I got closer, I noticed something floating in the water:  a body, face down.

     There was also an odd squealing sound coming from the car.  Sounded like a baby crying, but I couldn't be sure with the way the rain was bucketing down.

     Squinting through the gloom, I crossed the road and eased myself over the edge.  Naturally, I slid flat on my arse and got a nice coating of mud for my trouble.

     Once I regained my footing, I waded through the waist-deep water to the unfortunate soul floating there.  One look was enough to tell me the bloke was probably dead.  His neck was bent at an odd angle, his shirt spattered with blood.  I realized I'd have to get Ernie over
to help me move the body--the chap was short, but heavily built.  When I thought what we might see when we turned him over, I felt fit to spew.  I covered my mouth and waited for the feeling to pass.

     The noise coming from the car was louder now.  It definitely sounded like a baby screaming.

     I turned back to the car and peered through what was left of the driver's side window.  The driver, a young lad, was slumped toward the steering wheel, a nasty gash on the side of his head.  His chest appeared to be rising and falling, thank God.  There was something strange about that driver's side window though.  The centre had been shattered, but the edges were intact.  All the other windows were intact, which made me wonder where the dead bloke had come from.

     As I looked over at the back seat, the baby stopped crying.  Funny thing was, I couldn't see it in the car.

     I pressed my nose to the window.

     It definitely wasn't in the front seat.  I angled the torch along  the back seat, up by the rear window, and along the floor.  Nothing.

     A prickly sensation rippled along my back.  There's no way I could've just imagined a screaming kid.  Even with the wind and the rain, there was no mistaking that sound.

     I backed away from the car and glanced up at the road.  Ernie was just getting out of the Land Cruiser, having notified the cops of the accident.

     I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "Get over here, quick!"

     Ernie made a face.  He couldn't hear me, but he started jogging over anyway.

     I heard the water swish behind me.  Ernie's eyes bulged.

     I spun around, and the torch fell from my hand.

     The dead bloke stood before me, his face mangled but still recognizable.  My heart seized up.  It was Pete; or at least, it looked something like Pete.  His skin and hair hung loosely from his skull, as if they were part of a mask.  Bone and facial tissue peeked out from the cracks.  And the skull . . . the skull itself was horribly deformed, elongated.  Like a cow or horse skull you'd find out in the bush.

     The Pete-thing smiled.

     My heart shuddered sluggishly back to life.  Behind me, Ernie was yelling something, but his voice seemed distant.  I stared at the thing, powerless to avert my gaze.  As I watched, its two plump eyeballs eased through the paper-thin skin of its face and it inspected me.

     There was a glimmer of recognition in those horrible bloodshot eyes.  They flicked back and forth over me, seeming to drill into my skull.  Then it spoke.  I just stood there like a stunned mullet while the thing rasped in a long-dead language, its words filling me with terrible understanding.

     A second later its glance shifted from me to over my shoulder; it had spotted Ernie.  The Pete-thing's smile disappeared.

     Its hands burst from the water and tore first at its clothes and body, then at its face.  They were horrible gnarled things, with hooked talons at the end of each finger.  Tattered shreds of skin and muscle fell to the water, floating about it in a thick soup.

     Any resemblance to Pete was gone.  Now there was just a short, withered creature with a horribly twisted body covered in ugly brown hair.

     While all this was going on, I stayed rooted to the spot.  It wasn't until the thing's arms stretched toward me that I regained control of my body.  I turned to run.

     The creature was on me like a rabid pitbull.  Its bony claws grabbed my neck and forced my head under water while I struggled, trying to break free.  I beat at it with my fists, but it was too strong.  Muddy water ran through my mouth and into my nostrils.

     The creature's claws sank deeper into my throat.

     Just when I started to black out, it released me and howled with pain.

     It was Ernie.  He'd gone and got the spear and woomera, and had stuck the thing in the back like a wild pig.

     I gasped, coughing up water and bile.

     Through a haze of blood I saw the creature staring at me with its teeth bared.  All I could do was stand and stare right back at it.  Bloody thing gives me nightmares to this day.

     Ernie dropped the woomera and pulled me from the lake.  The creature tried to grab me again, and ended up scraping its claws along my chest.  The pain brought me to my senses.

     The creature shuffled forward, clutching the spear in its back.  It kept working at it, twisting and pulling.  Ernie helped me up and I waded back toward the Land Cruiser, following behind him.

     I heard a splash, followed by a howl of pain.  I glanced back and saw the creature had managed to remove the spear.

     The rain and wind intensified and pelted us from all angles.  Despite the rumble of thunder, the howling winds and driving rain, I heard the creature howl again.  I glanced over my shoulder, straining to see.  In my haste to look back, I stumbled and fell in the mud beside the road.  It took Ernie a second or two to realize I was no longer beside him.

     "Hang on, Barry!"

     I struggled to get to my feet.  When Ernie came to help me up, lightning flashed.  He gasped, and I turned to see the creature drifting above the lake, scant metres away.

     Before we had time to react, the thing launched itself at Ernie, pulling him into the lake.  I heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh, Ernie's screams and the creature's growls.  I lashed out, but it was useless--without a torch, I couldn't see a damn thing.

     I staggered toward them and tried to resist the urge to run.  My heart pounded and my swollen neck made it difficult to breathe.

     It was then that I heard the rumbling from the road.  A lonely pair of headlights cut through the darkness like a knife through Vegemite.  At the same time, that eerie howl pierced the night, and the sounds of feeding stopped.

     I found Ernie by tracking his shallow breathing.  I reached under his arms and dragged him toward the road, sure that at any moment I'd be pulled back into the mud by the creature.  Only the sound of that engine and Ernie's breathing kept me going.

     The creature howled again, more distant now.  Whatever was coming, it was loud enough that it'd scared the creature off.

     After I'd reached the road and safely positioned Ernie on the gravel verge, I walked out into the middle of the road and stood in the oncoming headlights of a Mack truck.

     The truckie slammed on his brakes and the semi fishtailed wildly, skidding to a halt a few metres away.  He had AC/DC's Highway to Hell playing at maximum volume.  The truckie unwound his window and stuck his head out.

     "Shit, man!  What're you guys doing out here in the middle of the night?  You got a death-wish?"

     His eyes widened when he saw the nasty gashes on my chest and neck and Ernie's blood-soaked body by the side of the road.  He turned the radio off and peered at me suspiciously.

     "You blokes okay?"

     I limped back to Ernie and pulled him toward the truck.  "He needs a doctor."

     "Haven't you got wheels?" the truckie said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the Land Cruiser.

     "You reckon we're in any shape to drive?" I rasped.

     The truckie gave us another quick look.  "Guess not.  No worries, get in."

     He climbed from the truck and helped me lift Ernie into the cab.  As we drove away, I took one last look back.  The creature was nowhere to be seen; it seemed to have just melted into the night.

     The truckie kept glancing nervously at Ernie and each time he pushed the truck a little harder.  His face was pale.

     "If you don't mind me asking," he said, breathing deeply and looking a little green around the gills, "What happened?"

     "Dingoes," I said absently, feeling quite ill myself.

     He looked alarmed.  "Bloody hell!  I'll have to report that-the farmers aren't gonna be happy."

     For the rest of the trip, the bloke kept his yap shut and focused on the job at hand.  Eventually we pulled up in front of the hospital in Woomera and carried Ernie inside.

     While Ernie was in the emergency room, I had stitches put in my chest and got bandaged up.  The truckie was returning to Adelaide via Port Augusta, so he wished me luck and went on his way.

     I spent the rest of the night and most of the following morning catching up on some sleep.  I checked on Ernie in the afternoon.  After finding out he'd been stabilized and flown to Adelaide for further treatment, I paid another visit to the cops to find out if they'd received Ernie's radio message.

     Apparently they'd found the car, and the driver was in a stable condition in the town hospital, just down the corridor from where Ernie had been.  They never did find a kid.

     The police constable informed me that the Land Cruiser had been towed back to Woomera.  Once they'd determined that it wasn't involved in the accident, I was able to get it back for a small fee.

     That same day I drove back to Coober Pedy in broad daylight.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't doing a tad over the speed limit when I went back through Island Lagoon . . . .

#