Coojong Sun (BoyxBoy)

1

BEAU

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'Oh for god's sa-'

I drop my head back and yell up at the sky. The unfamiliar, gaping, gargantuan maw of too wide and too clear blue that is nothing like the silhouetted skyscrapers and smoke-grey smog from back home.

Ahead of me is an endless stretch of bone yellow grass and sloping paddocks, an eerie whooshing sound filling the too-quiet air each time a breeze wafts through. Beside me is a rusted metal boundary fence with a steel plate inscribed with the words 'Old River Ranch'.

A gravel drive cuts through the paddocks, disappearing off into the too-blue horizon like some neverending nightmare. The driveway, if you could even call it a driveway, has to be at least fifteen kilometres long; it's practically a road.

Back home, I could just walk to the nearest tram stop (which is never more than five minutes away) and catch a free tram through the city greenzone to wherever I needed to go. Or, and this was much less common, I could use my phone to call an Uber, Taxi... The Parentals.

Out here, in the middle of absolute nowhere, there is no public transport - except for maybe a decrepit bus that I saw parked outside of the V-Line station - and, just to rub it in, there is no phone service. None, nada, nil.

So, in short, my life literally could not get any worse.

I draw in a long breath, fully aware that there is not a single recourse available to me to vacate whatever part of Hell I've just been vanquished to, and take a step forward-

My suitcase hooks in some metal grated thing, effectively throwing me face first into the red-dusted gravel and sending me sprawling on the viciously hot and painful rocks. 'Ow-w-w,' I whine, gripping my throbbing elbow with my grazed palms.

Right, so things apparently can get worse.

Glancing down, I know I've immediately done a number on myself. The knees of my brand new loose-fit chinos have been stained with the cajun red dirt of the driveway, the skin underneath burning ominously. I close my eyes and draw in a shaky breath, deciding to avoid finding out just how bad the state of my knees is.

My hands are a completely different story, mainly because I can't hide the damage. Small bits of gravel and dirt are lodged in the torn skin, the dry dust mixing with blood to make a sticky rust-red mess. I gingerly pick out a stone, scrunching my eyes shut and pulling my hand up into my chest when a wave of hot pain washes over me.

'Aw shit.' I whimper a little when I feel something hot, wet and sticky underneath the fingers I have wrapped around my right forearm.

Glancing down, I see that the front of my white Dickies' t-shirt has been smeared with red dirt and blood from my absolutely shredded elbow. I try to cup the wound with my less grazed palm, but only get so far as brushing the skin before my eyes are watering from pain.

I look ahead, taking in the endless driveway.

I look back down, no more than a metre in.

Bugger.

Damn, if I actually liked smoking, I'd kill for a cigarette right about now. But even if I did smoke, I'd be practically committing arson if I pulled a light out here.

I scuff my low-top Reynolds Skate Vans on the drive, hissing when it twinges my knees. Dreading that I'm going to have to walk at least fifteen kilometres with bung knees and a twenty kilogram suitcase...

With the heat of the Australian sun beating down on top of my head, I force myself to stand up and yank my suitcase out of the metal grate that marks the entrance to Old River Ranch. I start walking, covered in sweat, blood and dirt, fully aware I have no way of calling anyone to get me, and that even if I did call them, given the circumstances it would be unlikely that anyone would come to get me.