Cicada Din
1/1
The hills reverberated with the droning of cicadas as we jolted along the dirt road, no fan, the air choked and our tyres caked with dust. The speedometer was needling at one hundred as our indestructible rust bucket hurtled off the road into the bush, where eucalypts melted like fragrant candles, their bark stripped down and peeling from their trunks like the exteriors of busted fire crackers. Out here, the mad din of other insects mingled with the frantic buzzing of the flies. As the sun dipped into evening, spilling amber all over the land, the carcass of the day lay rotting.
Flipped down, the visor did nothing to screen out the sun, determined to let out the last of its light before nightfall. Behind sunglasses, the woman wore a hired, grim expression. Tough hands gripped the steering wheel, supported by the ropey muscles that wound like snakes up around her heavily tanned arms. There was just a subtle sheen of sweat around the open front of her shirt.
‘Only a little bit further,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to run up against any government spies.’
I couldn’t help but look up into the sky, where the presence of any low hovering satellites would be disguised by distance and the glare. There were no drones up there, not today; there was nothing to reveal our invading occupiers and the administration they had set up even in remote Australia.
‘Surely we’ve come far enough,’ I said, using the waxy ghost gums for reference. The woman shook her head.
‘You want me to do this, we do it my way.’
The truck rumbled forward a little more, taking on rocks and fallen logs with ease. We passed termite mounds that loomed vigilant like solitary standing stones, crawling with pests, and stagnant pools that were the divorced segments of a once trickling creek. The drought had hit everyone as hard as the war. Then, on the crest of the highest hill, where boulders were the devil’s marbles and the heat made everything shimmer against the bleach bushland and faded blue sky, we rolled to a halt.
‘Here will do,’ she announced, jerking the truck out of gear and into park, and winding down the window manually to let the fresh breeze in. There wasn’t much of it. The air was uncannily, eerily still, like a drum for the cicadas to thrum against.
‘Let’s discuss the details,’ I said, conscious of the stench of petrol and human perspiration.
She shrugged. ‘What are details?’
‘Details make the perfect plan,’ I replied.
The assassin pursed her mouth into a thin line. It was a line not to be crossed. ‘Very true. But first–’
Reaching under her seat, she retrieved a battered canteen, unscrewed the lid of the canister and placed it to her lips. They came away wet, glistening with the nectar of a tinned oasis. She smacked them devilishly, and handed the canister to me.
Gratefully, I took a hefty swig, swallowing down the refreshing liquid. Almost immediately, I felt the swaying, staggering impact of the heat. ‘This is strong,’ I remarked. I had expected water, not whatever clean potion this was. Vodka, perhaps. Maybe even Sake.
‘Indeed.’
‘Let’s discuss the terms of the agreement.’
‘Agreement?’ The woman raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘We haven’t agreed on anything,’ she told me. ‘You must mean the terms of the offer.’
Annoyed, I conceded. ‘The offer, then,’ I said, impatiently. There was something about the setting that unnerved me. We were so isolated, too isolated. I felt for the knife at my belt, knowing that she would have to have one, too. Which of us would be faster, if it came down to that? I felt the alcohol slowing my reflexes down.
‘The offer, as you characterised it,’ she said, drawing out a thin, rolled paper stick and placing it between her pearly white teeth, ‘is fifty thousand dollars. A helpful amount, I will admit, even in the wartime economy. You’ve also promised me six cartons of cigarettes, although, as you see, I am already accustomed to the finest.’ She puffed, blowing smoke rings out the window of the vehicle. ‘In return, you–’
‘I’m just an agent,’ I couldn’t help but interrupt. I didn’t like being talked about as though I personally wanted to kill a man. I only wanted to survive, and this was survival in a world where a hostile administration controlled the flow of all resources.
‘Your boss, then,’ she rephrased, disgruntled, ‘wants me to kill Julius Clay. The Julius Clay.’
‘A difficult task,’ I began, ‘but–’
She cut me off, interjecting in the middle of my swelling headache. ‘Difficult?’ she laughed. ‘Nothing is too difficult for me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised, but the woman only shook her head.
‘Sorry?’ she said, ‘You shouldn’t be sorry. Someone else made me a better offer.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘I’m not working for you anymore. In fact, I never was.’ She drew longer on the cigarette, and I saw that it was a new one, one with the Clay insignia on it.
‘Then why–’ I began, but stopped in my tracks. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The woman smiled a knife-like smile, enough to cut through to me despite my growing dizziness. I felt more and more remote from the world, sinking and drowning in an atmosphere where only the clamouring of the cicadas registered with me, overruling all other sounds. Nothing more was said, not that I would have been able to read what those swimming lips betrayed.
Soon, I was limp, being hoisted in those wiry arms and dragged out of the passenger side. Soon, I was drifting in and out of consciousness as she stumbled over sticks, marching stoically up towards a mound of huge stones that seemed to conceal a kind of cave. This, I knew, would be my final resting place. The world was spinning around me just like it is now, hurtling down in a rain of cicada sound. Then, the buzzing of the flies rose up, frantic and fervent, and cancelled it out. There was only the insanity of insects, and then the smell of rotting meat. Something had been hacked up into lumps stowed in hessian bags, like the ones that had blanketed the truck’s back seats. I had imagined they were for storing stolen potatoes. How wrong I was!
‘You didn’t really think I’d drink that?’ the woman asked. ‘You made it too easy for me, and for that, you’ll suffer. She pushed the rocks with her shoulder, and a spill crashed down to conceal the body half-buried there. I had just enough time to see a hand sprawled out from under the avalanche– a hand with the boss’ ring. And then the din rose up and covered me, hot in my blood that beat in my temples and calling for the ritual of death. It’s visual now, taking over every part of my brain. It’s the last thing I’ll ever see.
Flipped down, the visor did nothing to screen out the sun, determined to let out the last of its light before nightfall. Behind sunglasses, the woman wore a hired, grim expression. Tough hands gripped the steering wheel, supported by the ropey muscles that wound like snakes up around her heavily tanned arms. There was just a subtle sheen of sweat around the open front of her shirt.
‘Only a little bit further,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to run up against any government spies.’
I couldn’t help but look up into the sky, where the presence of any low hovering satellites would be disguised by distance and the glare. There were no drones up there, not today; there was nothing to reveal our invading occupiers and the administration they had set up even in remote Australia.
‘Surely we’ve come far enough,’ I said, using the waxy ghost gums for reference. The woman shook her head.
‘You want me to do this, we do it my way.’
The truck rumbled forward a little more, taking on rocks and fallen logs with ease. We passed termite mounds that loomed vigilant like solitary standing stones, crawling with pests, and stagnant pools that were the divorced segments of a once trickling creek. The drought had hit everyone as hard as the war. Then, on the crest of the highest hill, where boulders were the devil’s marbles and the heat made everything shimmer against the bleach bushland and faded blue sky, we rolled to a halt.
‘Here will do,’ she announced, jerking the truck out of gear and into park, and winding down the window manually to let the fresh breeze in. There wasn’t much of it. The air was uncannily, eerily still, like a drum for the cicadas to thrum against.
‘Let’s discuss the details,’ I said, conscious of the stench of petrol and human perspiration.
She shrugged. ‘What are details?’
‘Details make the perfect plan,’ I replied.
The assassin pursed her mouth into a thin line. It was a line not to be crossed. ‘Very true. But first–’
Reaching under her seat, she retrieved a battered canteen, unscrewed the lid of the canister and placed it to her lips. They came away wet, glistening with the nectar of a tinned oasis. She smacked them devilishly, and handed the canister to me.
Gratefully, I took a hefty swig, swallowing down the refreshing liquid. Almost immediately, I felt the swaying, staggering impact of the heat. ‘This is strong,’ I remarked. I had expected water, not whatever clean potion this was. Vodka, perhaps. Maybe even Sake.
‘Indeed.’
‘Let’s discuss the terms of the agreement.’
‘Agreement?’ The woman raised a doubtful eyebrow. ‘We haven’t agreed on anything,’ she told me. ‘You must mean the terms of the offer.’
Annoyed, I conceded. ‘The offer, then,’ I said, impatiently. There was something about the setting that unnerved me. We were so isolated, too isolated. I felt for the knife at my belt, knowing that she would have to have one, too. Which of us would be faster, if it came down to that? I felt the alcohol slowing my reflexes down.
‘The offer, as you characterised it,’ she said, drawing out a thin, rolled paper stick and placing it between her pearly white teeth, ‘is fifty thousand dollars. A helpful amount, I will admit, even in the wartime economy. You’ve also promised me six cartons of cigarettes, although, as you see, I am already accustomed to the finest.’ She puffed, blowing smoke rings out the window of the vehicle. ‘In return, you–’
‘I’m just an agent,’ I couldn’t help but interrupt. I didn’t like being talked about as though I personally wanted to kill a man. I only wanted to survive, and this was survival in a world where a hostile administration controlled the flow of all resources.
‘Your boss, then,’ she rephrased, disgruntled, ‘wants me to kill Julius Clay. The Julius Clay.’
‘A difficult task,’ I began, ‘but–’
She cut me off, interjecting in the middle of my swelling headache. ‘Difficult?’ she laughed. ‘Nothing is too difficult for me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologised, but the woman only shook her head.
‘Sorry?’ she said, ‘You shouldn’t be sorry. Someone else made me a better offer.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me,’ she said. ‘I’m not working for you anymore. In fact, I never was.’ She drew longer on the cigarette, and I saw that it was a new one, one with the Clay insignia on it.
‘Then why–’ I began, but stopped in my tracks. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The woman smiled a knife-like smile, enough to cut through to me despite my growing dizziness. I felt more and more remote from the world, sinking and drowning in an atmosphere where only the clamouring of the cicadas registered with me, overruling all other sounds. Nothing more was said, not that I would have been able to read what those swimming lips betrayed.
Soon, I was limp, being hoisted in those wiry arms and dragged out of the passenger side. Soon, I was drifting in and out of consciousness as she stumbled over sticks, marching stoically up towards a mound of huge stones that seemed to conceal a kind of cave. This, I knew, would be my final resting place. The world was spinning around me just like it is now, hurtling down in a rain of cicada sound. Then, the buzzing of the flies rose up, frantic and fervent, and cancelled it out. There was only the insanity of insects, and then the smell of rotting meat. Something had been hacked up into lumps stowed in hessian bags, like the ones that had blanketed the truck’s back seats. I had imagined they were for storing stolen potatoes. How wrong I was!
‘You didn’t really think I’d drink that?’ the woman asked. ‘You made it too easy for me, and for that, you’ll suffer. She pushed the rocks with her shoulder, and a spill crashed down to conceal the body half-buried there. I had just enough time to see a hand sprawled out from under the avalanche– a hand with the boss’ ring. And then the din rose up and covered me, hot in my blood that beat in my temples and calling for the ritual of death. It’s visual now, taking over every part of my brain. It’s the last thing I’ll ever see.