...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.
Cphter 4 of the
history book. Write an esay. Essay.
