The Turning

15

15

Brett kept checking the windows to see if Davis was out there waiting. He tried to pack and then his thoughts would carry him in circles where he’d end up back before the front door again, peering out the side windows and scanning the street the way a frightened child scans a darkened bedroom for movement.

What he did see was Davis drive his ute across the road to Mrs Morrison's place, a blue tarp flapping loosely in the morning breeze.

Something's happened to her, he thought. That’s why she wasn’t out for her jog with the dog, something bad happened and Davis knows all about it.

Motionless for a moment, he began to pace the foyer and fidget. Eventually, his fingers found their way to his mouth and he began to chew his nails. His hangover had seemingly dissipated, and he was now sick with fear and paranoia. He thought about going out to the shed, grabbing his tent and some poles, his swag, his billie, and loading them into his ute. He would survive fine out in the bush for the night with the bare essentials. His panic told him to go now, to drop everything and flee the village before whatever was happening could advance further. But in the midst of this, the image of the boy sprang to mind. How bad would he feel for leaving him here with them?

But he knows, he thought. He knows what I told him and if he doesn't believe me then that's his problem. What am I s'pose to do anyway? Kidnap him?

Again he heard the droning murmur of Davis’s ute and stopped, returning to the window. He saw it slide between a set of Kurrajongs that ran along the back of his shop. There he hesitated, his shadowy figure hunched over as though searching for something. Brett eyed the blue trap and saw it move. It was quick, a flicker of something shuffling underneath. He watched the tarp intently until Davis was backing out and heading towards the other side of the shop and out of sight. Perhaps he had glanced at Brett’s house and had seen him spying there.

I know things too, Davis.

He pulled himself away from the window and shuffled into the kitchen. He went from the empty coffee cup to the fridge and pulled open the door. There was a single bottle of beer in there and the temptation to snatch it, twist the cap off and down the contents in a torrent, was so unbearably strong that he had to shove the door closed, jars and bottles chiming within, magnets raining onto the floor. He had to have enough sense to know that this was no time to get drunk. Doing so would make Davis’s task easy, whatever that involved exactly. Probably they’d try and change him. How many people in Wilton were like Davis? How many regular folk were left, and was there any way at all of identifying who had turned and who hadn’t?

It was best to pack some things fast and hit the road. Get that camping gear and dart off into the scrub like a man who has received his conscription notice for the great war. He’d live on rabbits and survive just fine, or until this blew over at least. If it ever did. Perhaps he’d swing past the pub and grab a few cartons of beer on the way, just to pass the time better.

Or I could not, he thought darkly. I could not drink and stay alert.

There was a knock on the front door and instantly the thought of Davis’s grinning face sprang to his mind.

You stupid old fool, he thought angrily. You didn’t lock it!

He waited for another knock, hoping that it wouldn’t come, that the world would simply leave him alone in peace. Then it came again, light but rapid this time, eager.

He darted to the curtain and drew it back but saw no one waiting on his stoop. He crossed to the other side of the door and drew that one. The street was bare and so terribly quiet.

He’s playing games with me, he thought, and there was another knock. He pulled back the curtain at the window again and at the far bottom left of his vision saw a tuft of curly brown hair. It was the boy.

While he was tempted to ignore him, the guilt returned. He sighed and turned the knob, pulling it open fast. Kyle glanced up.

“Hey, I just wanted to pick up my bi-“

A hand snarled him from the darkness, wrinkled fingers curling in a savage grip around his shirt lapels. The boy tottered forward, staggering into the shadows and the door thundered closed.