The Redlands [FEATURED]

Chapter 1

(c) Sam Castle 2015

All rights reserved.

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Author's Note: Please note that I follow Australian editorial guidelines.

Thanks for reading! If you like this chapter please vote and let me know what you think in the comments. If you like The Redlands check out some of my other stories, Releasing Sin, The Crow Hunter, The Resurrectionist or my horror anthology Roads To Hell.

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Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self-place; for where we are is hell,
And where hell is, there must we ever be.

Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus

John groaned and swallowed hard, trying to force his churning stomach into submission. Leaning against the window, his head was vibrated and jostled as the car sped along the dirt road towards his home town, Raglan. He shut his eyes, but his throbbing head still spun and the young man felt his stomach threaten to reacquaint him with two days worth of beer, pizza and marijuana. He clutched his soft belly in a white-knuckled grip, waiting - hoping, praying - for it to settle.

The driver, his friend Pete, eyed him nervously from the rear view mirror, "You right, mate?"

Dave and Matt both turned to see John's poor state for themselves, joking about his pale face and shaking hands. John mumbled incoherently and leant over his knees, the position an instinctive reaction to the flexing muscles at the base of his throat. Seeing his friend's position, Pete slammed on the brakes, dirt and stone flying from the tyres.

"Out! Now!" Dave leant over to open the door and push John out of the car.

The two passengers guffawed as John crawled to the side of the road and spewed profusely into the thin vegetation. Pete was thankful none of the vomit was in or on his precious car. Of the men, he was the only one who owned a vehicle - a tool which was absolutely necessary to get to the nearest pub in Kangaroo's Crossing from the reeking, cesspool of Raglan, a town situated in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere.

They stood for another ten minutes in the oppressive desert heat, waiting for John to finish emptying his guts, but he showed no signs of becoming well. He lay prone on the side of the road, gripping the worn, white fence in one hand and pressing his tormented stomach with the other. He groaned and panted, his whole body shuddering. John's friends shared a cigarette and sweated, one hand waving a desert salute to ward off the flies that hovered around them, buzzing noisily.

"Maybe he'll make it to Raglan without spewin' now," Matt suggested when the cigarette was finished.

John dry retched and Pete shook his head, "I doubt it. C'mon. We're leavin'. I'm already late for work. Gotta earn money for petrol and grog, mates, or we'd still be in Raglan now."

"Just sleep it off 'ere, John," Dave told him. "See you later!"

John struggled to his knees as they clambered into the dusty Daewoo, "You can't just leave me here! It's still an hour's drive to Raglan!"

"So walk!"

"C'mon! I'm fine now!" he coughed and retched, "Do you still want the discount I give ya on the weed? I don't have to sell it to youse for that price, ya know! Where else are ya goin' to get it from?"

Pete revved the engine as an answer and drove away. John watched it fading into the distance, knowing they would come back for him. Hoping they would relent and rescue him from the sorry, stinking piece of dirt he occupied. But they drove away and left him lying in dirt. Theirs was an odd friendship. They associated together, drank together; they'd known each other for years. But it was a relationship born of necessity more than anything else: they were close in age, had the same interests (beer, pot and women) and none of them wanted to spend their youth drinking alone.