The Chokepoint

By Jeffrey Sheppard

Sven Lindstrom and his army of white supremacist neo-Nazis are killing everyone in their path who disagrees with them as they attempt to wipe out the Aboriginal population and take over what remains of the continent of Australia. Yet, Charlie and Amber along with their new clan have other ideas. If you’re a fan of violent, fast-paced action-packed stories you’ve clicked on the right book.
Read it for yourself and experience what a scary world 2046 is like.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Sheppard
• Release date: Nov 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215838341

Jeffrey Sheppard

In my early career I worked at Queensland Newspapers, the publisher of the Courier Mail, Brisbane's daily newspaper. Then I travelled a bit and ended up in Vienna, Austria, where I was lucky enough to get a job in the publication section of the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation, or UNIDO for short.Later on when I returned home I was employed by another daily newspaper, the Queensland Times in Ipswich, a major regional town outside of Brisbane. I followed that with a stint at Queensland Country Life, a weekly newspaper, that services the farmers and pastoralist of the huge state of Queensland.However I wanted to be my own boss, so I bought a small printing business here in Brisbane and ran that, along with my wife, Helen, for around 12 years. Sold it and retired to do what I do now, play some golf, travel, exercise and write.Writing came late to me, it's a passion and a hobby all rolled into one. Yet it can be time consuming, even though I'm retired sometimes my passion does feel like work. But . . . like lots of amateurs on Smashwords when someone, like yourself, downloads one of my books it gives me a thrill. So thanks for taking the time to read my musings.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

AS Charlie squatted quietly in the shade of his hiding place, consisting of two ghost gums and the ubiquitous Acacia shrubs, he wondered whether Amber and he would've been friends, lovers, and kindred spirits in the old world. On this fierce and hostile new planet, being friends and kindred spirits was an absolute necessity for the couple to survive. Being lovers simply made them human. The hiding place was ideal, and he'd used it plenty of times before. It was close to the chokepoint where the raging tide of the relatively new inland sea flowed through at such a pace that it was reminiscent of the infamous Jumpinpin Bar, 900 kilometres south between Moreton Island and North Stradbroke Island, with its rapidly flowing tidal surges between each island. However, the tidal phenomena at this chokepoint were dangerous and brutal. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his right hand when at last he heard an animal sound; he picked it up on the light zephyr—the sound was close. Feral pigs? Quickly, he stood, stretched his legs and calf muscles, brushed the red sandy soil of these shorts, and put a bolt in his crossbow.

In the blazing low 40-degree heat, five feral pigs wandered close to the ghost gums, mum, dad, and the three siblings. An unknown sound alerted them; this suspicious foreign noise had their pig ears twitching, and the group looked in his direction. Or was it his scent? Not important as the unsettled big male sniffed the breeze, tossed its head around, yet remained frozen to his spot for a heartbeat or two, grunted a loud warning, and then sprinted off towards the water. The rest of the family hesitated; for the piglet closest to him, it was a death sentence as his bolt rammed home deep into its side. The little pig squealed loudly, looked at him, then at the bolt, which was protruding from its short, coarse grey/brown hide, and collapsed. Feral pigs, just like cockroaches, were the survivors and were very tasty. Not so cockroaches. Like feral camels, they were plentiful. Smaller rock wallabies were numerous too, but the larger grey and red kangaroos were a rarity. Gone, sadly, it seemed forever, were the bilbies, wombats, koalas, platypuses, and bandicoots—all the marsupials that made Australia unique. Yet the ubiquitous dingo was omnipresent, and occasionally, when they hunted in large packs, these native dogs were a danger to humans. Yet now the once huge Australian continent was nothing more than a collection of smaller landmasses, like the Great Dividing Range, the Southern Alps, various highland regions, parts of Tasmania, and a series of outer islands that dotted around the much-enlarged Pacific Ocean. Even the vast state of Western Australia had been reduced to a handful of mountain ranges as the ocean devoured its large interior desert with ease. Global warming had come to the party much sooner than expected; any land mass under 200 metres in height was underwater, and in Charlie's lifetime, it would remain that way.

He sidled over to where the little feral piglet lay, picked it up, and joyfully tossed it in the air. He caught it and knew it would make good eating. He'd squeeze three meals out of the animal for Amber and him to consume, making a nice change from fish and wallaby. In the hazy distance, he noticed the larger pigs had stopped and were staring back at him, perhaps lamenting the loss of their young offspring. Charlie's job done for the morning, he paid them no heed, crammed the carcass into his backpack, and commenced the seven-kilometre walk back to their bolthole.

It was a walk he knew well, yet he varied his route each and every time, just as Amber did when she was out foraging for bush tomatoes, bush plums, witchetty grubs or yams, or any edible plant that could enhance their diet. This track variation was to protect their hideout from the crazies who occasionally caused them trouble. Cast out of their clans, the majority of the crazies had been mildly affected by the virus, which caused their weird behaviour. Many were anti-social, lacked empathy, and were opportunists, raiding campsites and stealing whatever they could lay their hands on. Of course, raping any female was equally high on their agenda too. So varying their route made it less obvious for the crazies to discover their bolthole. And with the occasional dust storms, any footprints vanished quickly.

•••••••••

Describing their home as a bolthole wasn't doing it justice. It was a former gem mine, which had a long main chamber of 80 metres with a couple of side tunnels branching off from each side. These were much smaller, each about 30 metres in length. Charlie discovered it years ago on one of his days off when he was living in Emerald and working as a mining engineer. The main entrance had been blocked by a roof collapse caused by an earthquake a few decades earlier. After he found out that little piece of information, he lost interest in the mine. Until one day five years ago, when he was living with the Bickman clan, commanded by the sometimes bizarre and unpredictable former Lieutenant Colonel William Bickman, formerly of the Australian Defence Force. On that particular day, he was out hunting and came across an interesting, large rock formation that occasionally gave up gemstones. This formation was very close to the old mine, and he wondered whether there was some kind of smaller entrance to the mine.

Soon enough, he found something of interest; it was well hidden by a huge slab of rock that millennia ago broke away from its larger brother and slid down the rock face, only to lean up against its bigger brother ever since. Wind and sand did the rest to hide the lower section of the rock. Certainly, the entrance wasn't big enough for him, yet with some work, it had possibilities. This was the beginning of his bolthole, and it was one in every sense of the word. At every opportunity, he worked on this potential hiding place, which he had no immediate ambitions to use. It was a just-in-case project. Eventually, after a year of hard graft, he crawled inside and was amazed that he'd broken into the head of one of the branch tunnels. His estimation that the new entrance was somehow linked to the old mine was spot on. Over the next nine months, he beavered away to make the bolthole habitable and as impregnable as possible. Surprisingly, he'd found a water source; it was located towards the rear of the main chamber when he first noticed a small stalactite formation that turned out to drip nine litres of drinkable water every 24 hours. This new domain was his big secret, and with things back at Bickman's compound becoming uncomfortable, it was a hiding place he thought could be useful in the future.

•••••••••

Charlie removed his backpack, got down onto his hands and knees, pushed it through the tiny entrance, and crawled into a dark abyss. He had a joke with himself and thought how lucky he was to be so trim, courtesy of his diet being virtually fat-free, because if he put on any more weight, he wouldn't be able to squeeze through, and he'd have to redesign the entrance. Tired and thirsty, he stood and sighed loudly. It was pitch black, a sure sign Amber wasn't back home yet. Bloody hell, he hoped she was alright. With a degree of familiarity, he felt his way along the tunnel wall, found what he sought, and turned on the solar-powered lights. The light was blinding; he blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted to the dazzling invasion of his pupils.

Subconsciously, he scanned their Garden of Eden. It was an old hat to the couple; they'd lived here for 15 months, and their home was always a work in progress. It had an earth floor with tattered and threadbare rug coverings in all the important areas, yet it was comfortable enough for the couple. With the hand tools at his disposal, he made the furniture in the huge room, including the large table, the two roughly made chairs, the two beds, plus all the storage boxes for eating utensils, food, and their limited amount of clothes. All were made out of an assortment of old bits of wood, metal, and timber he'd acquired, fashioned from fallen tree branches, or nicked from his compound. There was the all-important fireplace located at the end of their living area; constructing it was the easy part. Manufacturing a working chimney flue took up a lot of his energy and resources. However, the smoke needed to be exhausted from the mine site. Cooking was only done at night, and the tell-tale smoke was eventually vented out of one of the side walls, three metres above the ground, making it impossible for the crazies or anyone from Bickman's compound to see any lingering smoke.

Quickly, he gutted the piglet, stored it away, washed his hands, poured himself a cup of water, wiped the dust from his face and dirty clothes, sat down at the table, and wondered about Amber. If she wasn't back soon, he'd have to venture out in the heat of the day and look for her. Perhaps she tripped and sprained her ankle and was, at this moment, limping home. Or it could be something more serious; she might've fallen and broken her leg. That alone was almost enough to be a death sentence; it was concerning. For today's chores, she didn't have to walk much more than three kilometres away from their safe haven. He checked their circa 1990 wind-up alarm clock; it was her parents' alarm clock that came into her possession years ago after the virus took them. Charlie decided to give her 30 more minutes.

While the clock was doing its stuff, he filled up three canteens, took half a dozen pieces of wallaby jerky, some of their limited medical supplies, such as bandages, splits, and pain-killing tablets, and then packed them in his backpack. With the temperature nudging into the mid-forties, he donned his lightweight long-sleeved shirt and broad-brimmed hat, picked up his crossbow, grabbed five bolts, and, as a last-minute backup, decided to take the settler, his nickname for the Smith and Wesson revolver. He'd been working on refilling his cartridges; however, he was having trouble sourcing shell primers for the cartridges, so lamentably, Smith and Wesson was down to its last 15 rounds. He loaded the weapon with half a dozen of the precious bullets. Nevertheless, in this lawless part of Australia, with a revolver and crossbow, Charlie felt he had enough firepower to counter most problems. It was all for insurance; surely, at the very worst, she was currently dragging herself back home along some dusty track, no doubt in pain, but very much alive and repairable. They'd worked too hard for it to be anything else.

Outside, it was unsurprisingly hot, but still bearable as he jogged towards the area she was going to forage around. Despite the heat, he quickly covered the three kilometres, and as he jogged along the track, he told himself he'd come across her soon, but as he trotted on, sadly, there was no sign of his partner. Charlie tried to be positive; perhaps she was following some small prey, like a quail or water dragon; bush chickens they nicknamed them; certainly they didn't look like chickens, but fortunately they tasted a little like them. Somehow she lost track of the time and was returning to the bolthole at this moment. The sun was high in the sky; he could feel the heat blasting through his shirt onto his skin, yet that was the least of his concerns as he stopped and surveyed the area where she was supposed to be. Nothing, no sign of Amber anywhere, he decided to venture further afield and his logical brain came up with a 500-metre radius for the search. He wasn't overtly anal, but in his opinion, when a person he cared about was in trouble, anal thinking was very logical.

Disregarding some sand dunes, a smattering of trees, and two-metre-high shrubs, it was relatively open territory, and if Amber was vertical and walking around, he'd eventually see her. With his heart pounding, he scanned the area quickly, and apart from a murder of crows, the odd eagle, a few seagulls, and a lizard that seemed to have a death wish as it darted around the dunes in a frenzied manner, with the eagle eyeing it closely, there was no sign of Amber. Conserving energy was normally a priority, and he understood under the circumstances it wasn't possible, so he moved rapidly to the north of his imaginary 500-metre compass, found nothing, then quickly jogged in a clockwise direction to his next compass point, turned, and jogged back to his starting point, all the while searching the area for Amber. One hundred metres into his return journey, he suddenly stopped when he saw Amber's backpack lying a few metres off the rough track. The backpack seemed to have been cast aside in indecent haste, and it was completely out of character for Amber to discard it. Unless she was injured.

A quick check of her backpack revealed some bush tomatoes and some edible herbs inside of it. Around the site was some disturbed loose soil, indicating there may have been a recent scuffle here. Then, close by on a small leafy plant, there were some red spots that, in his heightened state of mind, he talked himself into believing to be blood. No doubt in his mind, Amber had been abducted, and at the top of his list were the crazies. Yet he couldn't discount the Bickman clan; ever since they made their escape, the clan was constantly searching for them. This far from the compound, they were a distant second; however, if some idiot from the clan abducted her, at least she'd be alive and relatively safe, albeit a sex slave for some of the upper echelon there. He compartmentalised all this new information, if it was the crazies, as he suspected there was no time to waste. She could even be dead already—raped, murdered, and left at the bottom of a sand dune. There was nothing he could do about that, but if she was alive, he was going to do everything in his power to get her back.

He wasn't a tracker, but he was sure that at least two crazies had done a number on her. Charlie followed their tracks and soon realised Amber was making life difficult for these morons. There was evidence she was being dragged along the track, something he could tangibly follow, and that gave him cause for optimism. The temperature was heading north quickly, and the crazies had a head start of at least three hours on him. If they were dragging Amber along for the ride, they would only cover 10 kilometres at most. She was a mere 10 klicks away, and that gave him motivation. If the crazies acted normally, which in itself was an oxymoron, they would've found a cool, shady spot by now to hold up until a few hours before sunset, when the temperature dropped to a bearable level, and they could continue their journey. Or do what they wanted to do with Amber, then . . .well, that conversation wasn't worth having.

The tracks were heading northeast, in the opposite direction to where he was hunting earlier in the day. Nevertheless, it seemed the inland sea was their goal, and that surprised Charlie. Unless they had a boat or canoe, there was nowhere for them to go. Just the usual open territory: mountains to the west, with plenty of sand dunes to the north, all covered by a smattering of hardy trees, shrubs, and spinifex by the truckload. He stared up at the sun for a moment, instantly regretted that decision, reached for his canteen, drank profusely from it, and threw some of the precious stuff on his face for good measure. His skin was hot; he needed to be careful travelling at this time of the day, but he wanted to do it for Amber.

After he calculated he'd covered around seven kilometres of walking and jogging, he hit a brick wall. Despite Amber's calamitous situation, he urgently needed to seek some kind of shade from the sun; otherwise, heatstroke would affect him and compromising her rescue. It wasn't much, but there was a small copse of gum trees and a couple of boab trees, along with a few desert oaks 100 metres away. It beckoned to him like some kind of oasis from heaven. That gave him shade and a place to rest. Combined with drinking another litre of water, he needed to urgently stop for a while. He made himself comfortable and sometime later, he woke with a fright and realised his nightmare was very true; Amber was missing. It wasn't the best rest he'd ever had, as he rubbed his face with both hands, but he felt refreshed. A quick glance at the sun, and he calculated he'd spent the best part of an hour lying under the desert oaks, resting, and hiding from the yellow ball. The ambient temperature was tolerable, and with no time to lose, he organised himself to hit the trail.

Upright, he dusted the residual red sandy soil off his clothes and headed towards the sea, where he hoped to find Amber. The crazies' trail was easy to pick up, and he fought the temptation to hustle hard; now he knew exactly where they were taking Amber. In this 180-kilometre chokepoint, there were a few isolated inlets where small boats could be anchored without too much concern of them being swept away in the ferocity of the tidal currents. Yet he felt sick in the stomach; if their destination was the other side of the chokepoint, he was screwed, and so was Amber. Without a boat, he wouldn't be able to follow them across the 10 kilometres to the opposite shore. Audibly, he let out a loud sigh—it was almost a wail—and shed a few tears at that frightening prospect, but knew it wasn't a done deal yet. If the opposite side was their destination, he still had time on his side; however, he needed to hurry. He might yet save her.

It was time to get his emotions under control; once again, he needed to call on his mining engineering logic. The red sun was already low in the western sky; in another hour, it would be dark, and by this stage, the crazies would have found a campsite and hopefully had a campfire lit. Simple really. Let the crazies show him where they were camping. The next ebbing tide would be about now, and unless they had a death wish, they'd wait until daylight to take advantage of the fast-flowing current to head back to wherever they came from. Crazies were unpredictable; they could be risking their lives as well as Amber's taking advantage of the tide and already be on the water with their new prize, excited to show her off to whomever. With a huge amount of effort, he put that horrible thought to one side and pushed on. A few more kilometres and darkness was all-pervasive, but he kept scanning the horizon for any sign of a fire.

Lamentably, all he saw was a red crescent in an otherwise inky skyline and a large flock of galahs going about their early evening aerial aerobatic ritual. Undeterred, he kept up his pace, knowing he had to be very close now. And there it was: as the sun disappeared, it was replaced by a small, yellow glow on the horizon, the beginnings of a campfire. Elation was an understatement; it was time to rescue his girl. And his plan to affect that was simple; his Smith and Wesson was front and centre of his thinking. He'd survey the campsite, make sure Amber wasn't too close to these clowns, and kill the first one that he saw. Followed by the other fuckwit. With Amber's rescue complete, in the morning, when the flood tide commenced, they'd take the vessel, assuming he could find it, and head back towards their bolthole. His plan to eliminate the crazies had all the subtle touches of a cage fight, but dead's dead, and that was all that mattered to him. With surprise on his side, he was beginning to feel confident in the outcome.

The last 80 metres were slow going; he couldn't make out the lay of the land and didn't want to stumble and trip over a fallen shrub, or put his foot in an old rabbit warren, twist his ankle, and cry out. Slowly he crawled towards the fire; he couldn't see Amber anywhere, but there were two men, older than him, mid- to late forties. They looked emaciated and were shabbily dressed in dirty khaki-coloured clothes; one had two sleeves of tattoos, the other didn't seem a convert of the ink; he was sans tattoos, as they sat close to the fire talking about their trip home. The one with the tatts was sitting on a log cooking something on the fire, and the other was sitting with his back resting against a tree, content to watch his mate do the work. Finally, he could see Amber, or her bound legs, because the rest of her body was obstructed by the fire. Great, she wasn't that close to these morons; relatively speaking, she was out of the immediate danger zone. He caressed the revolver, placed his crossbow on the ground; he'd pick it up later, and crawled closer and heard some more idle chit-chat. Then there was something about what they'd get for selling Amber to one of the compounds near where they had their camp.

That got him angry; it was showtime. He stood up and walked five paces before anyone even realised it. The crazie cook turned and faced him. With anger in his voice, he exclaimed, What the fuck, what do you want, arsehole? The other crazie was immediately on his feet and studied the unwelcome visitor.

Charlie grimaced, raised his revolver, and pointed it at them. Not a natural killer, his earlier bravado had melted; he thought if they walked away from the show, he'd let them live. I want my woman back; she belongs to me, not you, you lowlife crazies. So here's the deal: you boys piss off now; you can take your stuff. That way, waved the revolver in the air for some theatre, you both get to carry on your useless lives.

At this stage, the one who was cooking was on his feet too; he had a knife in his hand, sized up the situation, stared at Charlie, and slowly walked closer to him. No, mate, she's ours now; we've marked our territory, and we aren't leavin without her. Ah, just ask the bitch; we've both fucked her earlier on, and she loved it. No, she doesn't want to go back, she wants to stay with us. Go on, ask her.

He called out to Amber; there was a garbled response from her, but it was gibberish. At least she was alive. He turned his attention back to the crazies; it wasn't a debate; they kidnapped Amber and confessed to raping her. His previous largesse had disintegrated, and with a steely glaze in his eyes, he yelled, It's time for you boys to say good night. And I mean good night. He raised his revolver and fired at the tattooed one with the knife and hit him in his chest. Blood spurted out of the newly created wound, he staggered around for a moment and eventually he went down with his body still twitching. In the flickering campfire light, Charlie eyeballed him and assessed that he wasn't currently breathing and never would again.

The other stood frozen to the spot and yelled out, Jesus, why did yah have to kill me mate? Look, yah can have the bitch; I don't want her. Take her, and I'll do what yah say; I'll get me stuff together and fuck off. Happy with that?

Charlie had never felt this level of anger before; his right hand was shaking with rage. He exploded, Sadly, you fuck, it's too late for that. I gave you a chance, and you blew it. He pointed the gun at the remaining crazie and pressed the trigger, but nothing happened. He tried again and got the same result. The larger crazie charged him, they hit the ground, and he was on top of him in an instant, thrashing his head with both fists. Charlie ducked and weaved; a few of the punches missed, but some hit home, and they hurt. He managed to get a good blow away when he kneed his attacker in the nuts. He grunted but continued his attack in this life and death fight. Charlie heard Amber call out; it sounded like his name, and that gave him resolve. He needed to kill this arsehole, who was trying his hardest to kill him. When he fell to the ground, something dug into him. With his left hand, he reached around behind him and felt a stick. Grabbed it and instinctively forced it into the crazies' left ear, then repeated the process a few more times.

It worked; the crazie was screaming out in pain and rolled off him, stood up, and rubbed his damaged ear. That was all the invitation Charlie needed; he was quick to his feet and sprinted the 20 paces to where he left his crossbow and swiftly loaded a bolt into it. The crazie went in the opposite direction, picked up his mate's knife, then headed towards Amber, roughly dragged her up off the sleeping bag, positioned himself behind her, and had the knife at her throat. In this nightmarish situation all Charlie could do was keep his distance and try to negotiate her freedom. It was a bizarre sight, by now Amber was finally fully conscious and struggling to get away.

The crazie put a stop to that and yelled, Bitch, don't move because I'll cut yah throat and you'll bleed out right here on the red soil you stand on.

Charlie screamed, Jesus Amber, do what the idiot says; we can work something out.

The crazie responded, Yeah, Amber babe, do what this cunt says; otherwise, as I said, you're fuckin dead.

She stared at Charlie and nodded to him. It was a signal, or so he hoped. He positioned the crossbow on his shoulder and was interrupted by the crazie yelling out, No, no, put the bow down otherwise. . .

She didn't let him finish his sentence, And what prick? Unexpectedly, she bashed him in the gut with her right elbow—an action the crazie wasn't expecting.

Charlie was ready. As the crazie dropped his guard for a fraction of a nanosecond, Amber lurched sideways as the bolt nicked her right shoulder and continued on its journey into the right breast of the crazie. He dropped his knife, stared at Charlie, and tried to speak, but nothing came out. By then, it was way too late for him; the next bolt found his throat, and any prospects of speaking were physically impossible from that point forward. Like a stone, he dropped to the ground, and he was the one to bleed out on the red soil. Charlie rushed over to Amber; she was dishevelled, her t-shirt had been ripped away, and she was only wearing underpants, but she looked unhurt, physically at least. They hugged and kissed for an eternity.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER all the hugging, Amber wailed for a while, then cried on his shoulder. He soothed his girl, told her she'd be okay, and he'd get her safely back home tomorrow. It was all just a horrible nightmare, and their being together was the most important thing right now.

Abruptly, Amber pushed him away. She looked down at her exposed breasts, the prominent red teeth marks around her nipples, the congealed blood on her inner thighs, and her filthy body and howled. Charlie rushed to embrace her; she stepped back a few paces and held up her right hand. No, stop, stop, and listen. Darling, they did some horrible things to me. I was raped numerous times; it was hideous. I didn't fight back; I was too terrified they'd kill me. I just let them rape me. I'm such a coward. They were just fucking brutes, and you have to know the truth; otherwise, I couldn't live with myself.

Charlie looked at his partner. She was a beautiful woman; she wasn't a virgin when they first met, and this traumatic event didn't change his love for her. When they first met at Bickman’s compound, she, along with all the other women who weren't married, were ordered to spend one week every two months with one of the men. At the time, there were 68 men and 17 unattached females, and Bickman's rationale was simple: keep a lid on rapes and procreate the species. With all of the tumult over the previous eight years, most women had stopped menstruating due to the stress of losing loved ones, a lack of a decent diet, and the heat. It was nature's way of informing everyone that this wasn't a good time to have a child.

Amber honey, what they did to you doesn't change anything; you're my special girl, and I love you. Once more, I'd do what I did a hundred times over to save you.

Amber's crying was uncontrollable; she hurried towards him, hugged him, and between her tears exclaimed, Oh Charlie, I needed to hear you say that; you saved my life, and I couldn't imagine being without you.

Too tired to eat, the reunited couple laid down beside the campfire and held each other. Amber tossed and turned for 20 minutes, settled down, and was asleep soon after. It was Charlie's chance; he got up and dragged the dead bodies away from the campsite. He didn't want Amber to be reminded of the dreadful nightmare that these two subhumans forced upon her. Later on, he lay back down beside her and made himself as comfortable as he could. Amber was mumbling loudly in her sleep, and luckily she didn't wake up, which was a good thing; no doubt she'd benefit from her rest.

Sleep wasn't happening for Charlie; lying next to Amber, he tried to rid himself of all the superfluous rubbish running through his head. Certainly, having a boat would be very handy; it offered better opportunities for fishing and should make their tough lives a fraction easier. Mooring was going to be the problem, but compared to what happened earlier today, it's a problem he'd be happy to grapple with. With the spectacular star show playing out above him, Charlie knew he was getting too excited about the crazies' boat. He knew nothing about it; the crazies might've rowed here in a tiny canoe, the type used by the local Aboriginals in the area. Meanwhile, he was doing a few calculations, trying to work out when the flooding tide commenced, take advantage of it and sail the boat back home to the bolthole. He wasn't too experienced with boats, but in this long chokepoint, the main consideration was giving respect to the fast flow of the current. He figured the outgoing tide began about 3.30 am, so the flooding tide wouldn't commence until six hours later; he'd plan for them to leave then. It would give him plenty of time to familiarise himself with the boat, learn how to steer it the 15 kilometres south, and then find a suitable mooring. There was a small inlet he fished at often on the incoming tide. Charlie hoped this inlet was sufficiently protected for him to moor the boat and drag it out of the water above the high water mark.

Yet all of this was hypothetical; the only thing he knew was that it could be crewed by two men. Come sunrise, he'd begin looking for the place the crazies might have moored it. Sleep finally visited Charlie; sadly, it was all too brief. He woke early, and his head was fuzzy after a restless night. He didn't want to frighten Amber, so he patiently waited until she was awake before he left to explore the area. She told him she'd see what the crazies had in the way of food, and if it was any good, she'd organise something to eat when he returned. Charlie handed over some jerky he had in his backpack; he'd completely forgotten about it until she mentioned food. With a hug, a kiss, and a promise not to be too long, he was off over the undulating sand dunes for the two-kilometre walk to the water. The sun was only a tiny yellow crescent on the eastern horizon. He looked up, and as was normal these days, there wasn't a cloud to be seen in the sky. Charlie was excited at what his search would yield; it felt good to do something that could be worthwhile for the couple. They were both familiar with the area; they hunted together here often. Their house rules were that if either one of them wanted to venture further than 10 kilometres, they went together. It was safer that way, although yesterday's events blew that theory out the window. No doubt, in the future, they would always have to travel as a pair, which would limit the amount of food they could hunt and forage. It was a necessary evil because each of them couldn't survive alone.

The sun was fully awake now and starting to pack a punch as he climbed up a larger than normal sand dune, knowing it would give him a better view of the surrounding landscape. From 40 metres above the ground, Charlie could already see the ebbing tide current surging as it flowed mostly in a northerly direction, draining the chokepoint of millions and millions of litres of salt water every second. It made its own unique noise in the process, a distinctive roar along with a gurgling sound as various undercurrents collided and pushed up against each other, each trying to be the dominant current in this powerful and spectacular force of nature. Birds of prey were on point and having a field day as they picked off schools of baitfish that swirled and darted in and around the water. The schools were being physically thrust upwards near the water's surface by the conflicting currents, providing a smorgasbord of excellent fish choices for the birds. Whatever animosity there was amongst the different types of birds was temporarily put on hold in their feeding frenzy.

It was a phenomenon he'd witnessed many times, yet it held his interest only fleetingly. He scanned north and south, looking for a boat he hoped was somewhere there. Initially, he thought it was a large log, but soon he knew it was the boat he was seeking, and his pulse rose a notch or two at the discovery. Partially hidden by a smaller sand dune and barely 500 hundred metres to the northeast, the boat was sitting high and dry just above the high water mark. Excitedly, he reached for his canteen, took a large drink, and set out to cover the short distance. There was a temptation to increase his pace to claim his prize; however, in the end, common sense won out. Still feeling the effects of yesterday's forced march, he moderated his pace. Although, by his estimations, the temperature was in the early forties, it was relatively cool enough for the task he set himself, which was to assess the condition of the boat and see if he could drag it by himself a short distance to its natural habitat.

Waiting in the red sand was a six-metre sailing boat with an intact mast and a cabin big enough for two people to eat and sleep in, and that was seriously good news. Sadly, there weren't any sails on board, but it had a rudder at the rear and two paddles to row it out and catch the current. He assumed that's what the crazies did when they manned it—not bother with a sail, just catch the current and steer the boat. Something else got his attention; it had a centre lift-up keel, so if he could manufacture some sails, he'd be able to sail it properly in the open water and not be at the mercy of the ebb and flood tides. The bad news was that it was filthy, and judging by the buckets onboard, it pointed to a possible leak in its hull. A quick search revealed one small hole in the hull, certainly fixable, and after going over the boat again, he couldn't see anything seriously wrong with it. Now for the test, could he drag it across the wet sand that was rapidly becoming dry? He grabbed hold of the bow and pulled it to turn the boat around. It moved, so he tried again; this time he knew what he was up against, so he added some extra muscle to the task. The boat's bow was now pointed towards the water and was grudgingly sliding along the semi-firm sand. That was gratifying; certainly, with Amber's help, it would be relatively easy to drag it in and out of the water. Excitement was boiling inside of him; he couldn't wait to get back and tell her the fantastic news.

On the journey back, he'd nutted out the sail issue. Emerald, formerly the largest town in the area, was mostly under the sea these days, but higher areas survived, and there were a small group of intrepid entrepreneurs doing business there. You could trade your life away for a 4WD, a diesel or electric truck, a diesel generator, or a rifle that came with bullets. But as he found out to his detriment, some of the bullets were just rubbish. On a more modest level, there were lithium batteries of all shapes and sizes, hand and power tools to be had, solar panels, all types of hardware from rusted-out fencing wire to sheets of galvanised roofing iron, star pickets, used timber, bits of steel, and the thing he was most interested in, large bits of canvas. Nothing came with a guarantee; it was buyer beware. Most of the hardware was ancient; the electrical gear was made nearly a decade ago, and if the buyer wasn't careful, it wasn't worth the bother. The various entrepreneurs would only trade for meat, food, crude oil, or biofuel. And if you didn't have what they wanted, some would consider time spent with your woman as payment. Be it for an hour or two, or even a day, depending on the product you desire. Normally, the females didn't have a say in the trade; they were expected to spread their legs to get what was needed. It was after all the wild north-west, and it was survival of the fittest. These days, the flavour of the month for the entrepreneurs was oil or biofuel because