Dark Sanity

The Wild, Wild East

The unmerciful sun blazed. Though it looked relatively normal, with the exception of a few black spots, the same could not be said for Earth; the planet lay on the brink of death, sizzling due to an unnatural heat wave that existed for thousands of years. Australia was the only continent where the intense temperature was slightly less severe, primarily around the Northern Territory.

Deep in the arid wilds, near Kings Canyon, a red-eyed cicada clung to the lower bark of a mulga tree’s trunk, singing its rasp song. Crickets and birds sang too. A black-breasted buzzard landed in its nest atop the boughs of a tree in the dry wilderness, a dead ibis in its beak. Upon settling down, it laid the carcass next to its two chicks.

The chicks squealed anxiously as they tried to poke their bills into the dead ibis. Their mother, however, blocked them while puncturing the corpse. She began to feed her chicks by regurgitating the bird’s flesh into their tiny beaks. Their squealing finally calmed down when they finished eating.

A long silence fell, broken only by the howl of a starving dingo. It knew the buzzards weren’t too far, and it could smell the remaining flesh of the dead ibis. The mangy animal circled the buzzards’ tree with a growl. It stopped when a cryptid beast made itself visible by the mulga tree. The bulky carnivorous animal with thick fur advanced in a quadrupedal galumph. Whatever it was, it wasn’t native. It lingered, sniffing the air, as though it had sensed something other than the dingo lurking around.

The creature rose on its hind legs, standing twelve feet tall. It continued sniffing, gazing at the eastern region of the wilderness. Since it didn’t see anything, it lowered itself back to the ground with a clamorous stomp. It was about to leave and hunt the dingo when an ear-piercing shell zoomed through the cluster of trees. The creature roared viciously as its shoulder tore open with blood.

Unaffected by the wound, the beast turned around and charged through the wilderness. It rose and pounded a tree in its way, continuing to thump forward. Then another shell pierced the beast’s skull. The animal croaked in a high-pitched bawl, which died out when it fell flat on the barren land.

“Yer may be gettin’ old, Flint,” said Joey Stalls, “but yer aimin’ ain’t.”

Flint Cross kept his Winchester rifle leveled, still aiming at the beast’s head. The brim of his hat shaded his wrinkled forehead as he squinted at the fallen beast. He had a scruffy, grayish goatee that looked just right on his aged face.

“Nice shot, dad,” said Tom Cross, a fair skinned and clean-shaven pretty boy with his father’s sky-blue eyes.

“I know,” said Flint, winking at his son.

He loved nothing more than being in the wide open outback of Australia, hunting. Flint knew that the world had fallen centuries—maybe millennia—ago, but there were still animals in the wild to track and shoot. Although fruits known here as bush tucker did justice, he yearned for a bit of meat. And, of course, the game made it worthwhile. As an old man, it had become his goal to be a great hunter. In fact, it was his goal because he was old. Getting older disheartened him since it meant that he’d have to eventually retire and would be forgotten in this world, like the rest of the continents that withered and died long ago. So hearing his son and best friend give him a compliment made him smile. In the end of it all, he wasn’t just a father, friend, or lucky shooter—he was a cowboy.

“Heya, Flint,” said Joey. “Are ya gonna check ta see if it’s still alive?”

Flint placed the Winchester rifle on his shoulder and approached the animal, spurs chinking. Reaching the beast, he placed a boot atop its head.

“Come on, you chickens,” he said.

Joey, a younger man with a bushy yet handsome mustache, stepped up first. Tom, who was a mere teenager, hesitated but joined them.

“Bloody hell,” said Joey. “I never thought I’d live ta see a yowie.”

“Don’t be so superstitious,” said Flint.

“Then what is it?” asked Tom, starring at the massive dead creature with a face of revulsion.

“It’s just an oversized bear,” said Flint.

“Bears ain’t native ’round here,” said Joey.

“Hardly anyone or anything is native here anymore. In fact, you’re the only one with an Aussie accent,” said Flint, extending his hand with a smug smile.

Joey sighed. “Shucks, looks like I’m broke again. I shoulda never made that bet wit ya,” he said, pulling out a few dented coins and slapping them onto Flint’s hand. “But I’ve gotta say, tha bet was worth it.”

“Worth’s the name of the game, Joey,” said Flint.

Currency was no longer in effect in this aged world of death. But it still had meaning to people who had it. Money became a great symbol of worth to those who were still alive in Australia. Though there wasn’t a real economy, coins were exchanged for gambling or making purchases because people like Flint saw them as tokens—artifacts to remember the days when civilization meant something.

Flint slung his rifle on his back and unsheathed a skinning knife from his belt. “Now comes the fun part,” he said. “I’ll let you do the honors, son.”

“Me?” said Tom, wincing.

“Don’t be such a wuss, Tommy,” said Joey, chuckling.

“I’m not a wuss!” snapped Tom.

Stepping forward with a nauseated expression, he unsheathed his weapon and dug it into the bear’s fur, beginning to skin it.

“Grah!” roared Joey.

Tom fell on his rear while the others laughed.

“Dad,” said Tom moodily.

“Sorry,” said Flint, coughing over a laugh. He glared at Joey, gesturing him to stop. He then gave his fifteen-year-old a helping hand. “Are you all right?”

Even though Tom felt embarrassed, he gave a faint nod.

“All right,” went on Flint, playfully twirling his dagger between his fingers. “Let’s get to work and bring us home some food.”

“I reckon ya keep tha head as a trophy,” said Joey.

Flint wore a devious grin, amused by the suggestion. Joey and Tom assisted him with the skinning by severing its limbs. The carcass soon turned into piles of blubber. Upon finishing, the trio rinsed their hands using the water in their wineskins. Flint stood up first, producing a loud whistle. Three horses emerged from a basin, trotting over. He rubbed his mare’s mane, taking a break. In the meantime, Joey tied up stacks of blubber on his stallion. Tom did the same with his mustang, though he carried less. Flint noticed his son struggling, so he came over and assisted him.

“Thanks, dad.”

Flint winked at his son, patting him on the back. They continued to load the meat on the horses. Once done, they mounted their steeds. Joey noticed the bear’s head that lay behind Flint and chuckled softly.

“Crikey,” said Joey, “I was just kiddin’ about tha trophy!”

“Your point?” replied Flint, raising an eyebrow.

Joey was impressed by his decision to take the head. Tom, on the other hand, gasped when he saw it.

“Mom’s gonna freak out when she sees that.”

“Maybe,” said Flint, shrugging. “But when she sees the food we’ve got, she’ll make due.” He pulled the reins of his mare. “Let’s go!”

The trio started to ride through the wilds. Departing the dreary region didn’t take them long. Upon leaving, they rode alongside Kings Canyon. The horseback riders felt a calm breeze as they traveled across the frontier, the sun beaming against them. Despite its vicious glare, they rode headlong through the barren expanse of the wild, wild east.