Thirty-year-old Pyran Zumstein sat on a large, stringy-bark log and stared into the campfire. Rich orange flames reflected in his green, red-rimmed eyes. His long red hair framed his pale, gaunt face. It was lank and greasy – he hadn’t had a shower for two days.
He smiled absently at the drunken laughter, filthy language and stoned humour that droned around him.
The stars twinkled above on yet another warm, late spring night near the Gold Coast of South-east Queensland. The sun had set only a few moments ago, and so there was still a bright glimmer of light in the west. Not a breeze stirred the surrounding gum trees of the bush.
The site of the camp was a favourite haunt of Pyran’s group. It was a sheltered little clearing beside railway tracks a mere ten-minute drive out of town. Many
