Heath guns the engine. TheDeep Seaspeeds down the length of the net like it’s running a race. Luke scrambles to the rail, and I look down at his hands. He’s holding something. Whatever it is, he’s struggling with it. It’s tucked under his chin, spans the entire length of his chest. A barrel. Silver.
I watch as Luke sets it on the ledge, opening the top with a quick twist and spewing its contents into the water. Heath glances at Luke, and just as quickly turns his focus back to cruising alongside the net. There’s an urgency now to their work.Quick. Get it done. Get it done.
Get what done?
Luke’s at the kill tank again, hauling up another barrel. He drags it to the side of the boat, opens it. I hold the binoculars tight against my face, breathless. I squint hard, staring at the contents of the barrel as it spews into the water.
Blood. He’s dumping gallons of blood into the ocean. He empties it, throws it back into the kill tank. Reaches in with both hands, pulls something out.
Oh my God…
Luke throws kangaroo hunks into the water, hind legs and tails like he’s throwing a ball to a dog.
The cabin in the woods…the decapitated kangaroos. I staggerback, the binoculars slipping from my hand as the realization hitsme.
They’re not keeping the sharks away at all.
They never were.
They’re bringing them in.
Chapter 27
The next night, they come for him.
And my brother goes. Willingly.
The black utility truck pulls silently onto our shitty lawn. Headlights off. Waiting. There’s something predatorial about it, a shark on the hunt.
Heath pulls the front door closed behind him, stalking past the lounge room window, just another shadow in the night. I’ve seen this so many times before. Hushed voices walking off into the darkness. Only it was always Dad and Terry. I crouch at my bedroom window, calves tight, squinting through the dark.
My nose pokes the windowsill as I stare at the blond driver, heart tight.
It’s Luke.
Heath slinks into the passenger seat, head down. Luke half turns, arm hanging lazily from the wheel, watching Heath buckle himself in. Quietly, he pulls the car out, and I duck lower, race to the kitchen, and snatch up my car keys. When I’m sure the truck has pulled away, I peek through the blinds and make a break for the door. My jaw clenches when I slink into my car, shut the door, and start the engine. Headlights off, I follow.
—
It’s a warm, clear night,cloudless, but I can barely see Luke’s car. He speeds down the main street, merging with the darkness, and I trail carefully behind. This is going to be a long, tense ride.
But it’s not.
Less than ten minutes later, I raise my chin in surprise when thetruck turns sharply. I drive past, noting the sign:Neptune Road.I count to sixty and when I can’t see his taillights, I turn the wheel, looping back.
Neptune Road is a wide-open country strip stretching into a humid horizon. Cows munch behind barbed-wire fences, and a stray napkin flutters past bits of shredded tire and crushed beer cans. The road is lit only by a crescent moon and the flickering headlights of a flurry of cars pulling into a shack of a house.
I squint ahead, searching for Luke’s car, but I don’t find it. I pull slowly into a winding driveway, gasping when a red Holden swerves in front, cutting me off. I go to slam my palm into the horn, but stop just in time, glaring instead at its taillights.
The yard is the size of a football field. It’s sunbaked and potholed, crammed with cars. They’ve parked everywhere, blocking the driveway, nudging the mailbox, front bumpers so close the noses kiss. I parallel-park on the shoulder, facing the road, then kill the engine and wait. Watch.
Men lurch out their cars, red-faced and sloshing beer. They greet one another loudly, slapping backs, embracing drunkenly. There’s aneveryone’s shitfaced at the pubenergy thrumming in the air. That weighted atmosphere where beefy men start to get spitty and shovey, and women and children feel the need to tiptoe around them. Like me.
Uneasy, I count over forty cars, most of them utility trucks with enough Aussie pride stickers to start a shop: A frowning koala waving an Aussie flag that reads,Fuck off We’re Full.Yellow-and-green maps of Australia and nestled inside, the Southern Cross and a kangaroo mid-hop. Victorian license plates, mainly. I jot down their numbers and the handful of out-of-state plates.NSW. Queensland—
People stomp in and out of the squat house, past a kelpie dog tied to the porch, panting in the heat. Men carry icy coolers stuffed snugly with beer. Solemn women slump in deck chairs, balancing toddlers and swatting at mosquitoes.
But mostly…I lean forward, squinting. Mostly they ignore the house like they don’t even see it. Like that’s not what they came for.
