When you have no future.

...an extract from "The Bone Traders" -- After the Event. When you have no future, all you have left is the past...adapted from the original screenplay. 

Welcome to the town that your God, Law, Time, Nature and society has forgotten. A line of bungalows now stand brick deep in ever increasing mounds of shifting sand, their structures built from salvaged remains of brick, wood, plastic and metal. A shanty town that whispers of a past you may remember, but shouts of a sad present.

An army of salvaged wind-pumps turn angrily in the wind, their battle now to suck water from an unyielding soil. Three crippled wind generators turn in the stale air, probably creating enough power to light a bulb or two.

A hint of ill repaired solar panels can be seen perched on the crudely constructed roof tops.

A small Church offers its imperfect steeple to a cloudless sky. There is one shop, a general dealer. There are no cars, no gas pumps nor signs of children. The sight of a blossoming flower is rare. There is a monotonous twirling of dust and the ricocheting of bright sunlight off metal.

At the far end of the only street, outside a house, a group of people have gathered. There is also a cart and a donkey.

Inside the house, in a narrow bedroom, Reverend Dickinson, spectacled, stands looking out the window. He’s holding a Bible. Reverend Dickinson is stooped under God’s forgetfulness.  It is a heavy burden for him and the slope of his narrow shoulders demonstrates that.

Suddenly there is a woman’s scream from within the room and it scares the crap out of Reverend Dickinson. He spins on his heels.

“Well?” Reverend Dickinson asks the midwife that is bent over the prone body of the woman who is about to give birth.

The woman giving birth again screams. She is over the age of seventy and her wrinkled, sunburnt flesh contorts grotesquely. Rivulets of perspiration gather in the valley of her wrinkles.

The midwife, who is in her late sixties, glances quickly toward Reverend Dickinson. “It’s coming. Help me.”

“No!” The Reverend almost shouts his response.

The pregnant woman mumbles incoherently.

“I need light. Move away from the window.”

The Reverend Dickinson does, his glasses shining like mirrors in the heat. Through the small window, he can see the group of people gathered outside in the street. An elderly woman sits on a wooden stool. She is knitting a garment. It is pink and suited for a newborn child. The knitting needles click furiously in her hands.

The midwife works, her heavy face sweating profusely.

A bowl of bloody water is dipped into and out of.

“Please God,” whispers Reverend Dickinson, still hypnotised by the rhythm of the knitting needles. 

“Come on, Mary, come on...you have to push, Mary!  I can see the head!”

There is another scream and the tension shows in the Reverend’s shoulders. He wants to turn and look, but he cannot.

The midwife suddenly shouts. Her own breathing is heavy. “It’s out! It’s a...”

Reverend Dickinson spins on his heels. “It’s a what? Tell me.”

Reverend Dickinson makes eye contact with the midwife as he struggles not to look at the bloody mess that he knows the midwife must be holding.

The midwife holds the Reverend’s enquiring look momentarily, then she vomits.

Reverend Dickinson gulps in air and closes his eyes. He inhales and exhales and he tries to compose himself. He straightens his back, finding strength from somewhere.

“Wrap the...wrap it up,” he finally says with an edge of hostility.

Then he leaves the narrow room, the Bible clutched to his chest.

Out on the arid plain, a small swarm of locusts fly through the dry air, the sound of their wings like crackling flames. The swarm is flying directly toward the approaching vehicle whose pearly sheen mirrors the flaccid desert shrub.

On the rear of the truck, in a makeshift wire mesh cage, there is a collection of materials: canvas tents, a battered electric oven, spades and an assortment of crowbars. The carcasses of recently killed hares hang from a butcher’s hook close to the rear window.

The driver of the truck is Joe. He is in his early twenties. His skin is tanned. His attention is on the track ahead and the approaching swarm of locusts. The manner, in which Joe drives, his posture, hints that he is at peace out here in the new nothingness. He is a man in control of his personal journey. The pair of hands that grip the steering wheel are strong, their palms lined with callous.

Joe, to use an expression commonly used in the rapidly growing language of The Event, has come from ‘Out There.’

The swarm of locusts approach. The texture of the insects’ wings flare in the sun.

Joe studiously watches the swarm. There is no malice in his eyes, only a soft, intriguing smile on his lips. A song played by Deep Purple whispers from the reconstructed cassette player. Joe’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

Abruptly, there is a sound in the truck’s cabin: it is a ‘hiss’ like air escaping from a large inner tube. The noise is repeated, followed by shuffling – akin to shaking out a duvet – and then a muted ‘squawk’.

Joe doesn't shift his focus from the approaching swarm. “Not now, Dog. Not now,” he whispers.

The swarm of locusts is directly in line with the front of the moving vehicle. A collision is imminent.

The hissing and the shuffling sound again intrude into the cabin.

“I said not now, Dog!” Joe’s voice cracks like a whip.

The swarm of locusts is about to meet a windscreen. Only a few feet separate them.

But the insects do not pulverise themselves into the glass. As if parted by a miraculous force the swarm divides and flutters harmlessly either side of the vehicle’s huge bonnet, noisily passing by the passenger windows.

Joe exhales and his hands relax on the steering wheel. He shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, gathering himself like a man who has exited a tunnel.  Then he turns and glares across to the passenger seat.

“Next time you do that, it’s the cage for you. Understand.”  

Sitting on a makeshift perch on the passenger seat, is a vulture. The bird views Joe with fixed, hooded eyes as it shuffles its feathers.

“I was sharing the road, Dog -- never interrupt a man when he is sharing the road and trying to avoid a collision. It’s important to avoid a collision, Dog. That’s how people get hurt.” Joe leans over, turns up the music. “Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. Ends up with wreckage everywhere and it’s hard to pick up the pieces - hard to even FIND the pieces after a collision.”

Dog shifts on his makeshift perch and returns to staring at the dirt track ahead.

I am Dog. We have already met, as I flew over the canyon, some twenty years ago. I am a friend, in spirit, with the man Joe as he seeks out a similar carcass as I, but not for the same reason, as Time will tell.