 
The Mystery of Moreton Island

A Horror Novella

Robert Sullivan
Copyright © 2017 by Robert Sullivan
Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

1. Uncle Cecil

2. First taking

3. Crime scene

4. Second taking

5. Emergency

6. Search

7. The scientists

8. Unresolved

9. Something wicked...

# Acknowledgements

I would like to express my thanks for the suggestions, observations and advice provided by my wife Sheila, and my friends Jenny Buchan, Sharon Buckley and Jan Rasmussen. Your assistance is greatly appreciated.

# Uncle Cecil

"Maaate!"

It was Duncan Fuller, from the EPA. Charlie leaned his head back against the chair cushion, throwing his feet up on the desk. He tucked his hands behind his head and his phone against his shoulder. He'd been expecting Duncan's call.

"Hi Dunc. How's it going?"

"Good mate, good. But I've just checked the reports from last week. Another big nada? Not a single sighting?"

Duncan was the section head of the Biodiversity Programs Branch. His team monitored mammal populations throughout south-east Queensland, feeding it into other EPA programs. The EPA married the quantitative data with scientific data to produce reports covering changes in animal numbers, geographic dispersement, and underlying causes/behaviours. This information was used in EPA fauna preservation programs to mitigate the impact of human population growth and urban sprawl.

To assist in the process, the Parks Service allocated resources to gathering quantitative data within all national parks. As the only Parks officer on Moreton Island, the data-gathering task fell to Charlie. Working together by phone and email, Charlie and Duncan established a data collection program that covered the whole island. While Duncan and Charlie had never met face to face, they established a good relationship over the telephone.

They agreed to break the island into three 'data zones'. Within each zone, Duncan, with Charlie's advice on terrain and accessibility, selected a number of data points. To ensure broad coverage across the island, the data points were dispersed throughout each zone. As a result some points were difficult to access. Charlie's role was to visit all data points at least twice per week. Given the size of the island, and Charlie's other duties, his job now involved a heck of a lot of driving.

"Nothing mate, not a sausage."

"What about tracks or droppings?"

"Zippo. Nothing at the north end, and nothing in mid-island either. The only place I found any trace was along the spine in the south end, maybe three or four clicks north of Kooringal. What was that estimate again, based on the data reads? About twenty?"

"Yeah. About twenty. Probably no more than two packs. But that's less than fifty percent of the normal population. Have you found any dead animals?"

"I haven't found any dead dingoes, or anything else either. I would've noted it. The whole place has gone quiet."

"Yes, your data for November and December confirms a steady decline. At least it does in the northern half of the island. Most species are still represented in the south, but the numbers are down." Duncan was silent for a moment. "Have you had any fires? Have any water sources been contaminated?"

"No Dunc. We haven't had any fires, and no contaminations either. There's plenty of clean water on the island. Rainfall during spring was up twenty percent. We've had more than a hundred mills per month since then. It was really wet over Christmas, and I reckon we'll beat one-twenty for January."

"Ok. As far as you know there's been no specific event you can point to – so it's something else. Is there anything you can think of – anything at all - that might have disturbed the food chain?"

Due to their place in the local ecosystem, the dingo packs on the islands in Moreton Bay were closely monitored. This included the surrounding mainland national parks. The dingo populations tended to rise or fall depending on environmental conditions, but in recent years there had seen a significant spike. This appeared to be the result of increased tourism, which had distorted the natural balance for many native species. Dingoes, in particular, had benefited from easy access to food disposed of by tourists. But the subsequent growth in dingo numbers had proved to be disastrous for other species. As a result, strict waste control measures had been introduced throughout all parks. The measures were a key issue for all administrators, and had become a topic of heated discussion among holidaymakers, due to the heavy fines involved and the rigid approach of Parks and council officers. But now the dingo numbers were in free fall. Duncan's concerns reflected those of his agency. When there were significant diebacks it was important to isolate the cause as soon as possible.

"Plastic?"

"Plastic?"

"Yep. Plastic. It's impossible to avoid. Nearly everything tourists bring over from the mainland is pre-packed, mostly in plastic containers – plastic bags, plastic boxes, plastic jars - and it all has to go somewhere. The waste bins are stuffed with it. And some of it gets loose. Could this be getting into the food chain? I reckon it could. I saw an article on TV the other week. Apparently the oceans are full of the stuff. It breaks down into smaller and smaller pieces until it's microscopic. Fish ingest it, and then we eat the fish. Surely other species must be eating it as well."

"Yeah. I saw the report. It could be something like that I guess, but then you'd find evidence. There'd be animal and bird remains everywhere. But from the numbers you've reported – or lack of numbers I should say \- I think it's something else. It might even be a natural rebalancing. It isn't new, you know. This sort of thing's happened before."

"Must have been before I started" said Charlie. "I've been here for over two years, but I don't recall anything like this."

"Maybe five or six years back" said Duncan. "I pulled the reports. I've got them in front of me. We had a sudden drop, right across the board, from Fraser Island all the way down to Ballina. And the hinterland was the same, though not as bad. Almost sixty thousand square kilometres were affected. The papers were screaming 'massive species die-off. You must have read about it."

"No, I didn't read about it. You reckon it could be the same thing?"

"No idea mate. And that's the trouble" said Duncan. "The Department spent a motza on it in '08, but the results were inconclusive. A lot of reasons were considered. I've got 'em right here. Listen to this; 'waterborne parasitic outbreak' – never proven; 'climate related heat induced ecosystem degradation' – data didn't back this up; 'invasive species – zero, not even enough toads yet to have an impact; 'emerging apex predator – not really considered; and the best one – 'human habitat expansion and unforeseen ecosystem amenity penetration'. Seriously? Who writes this stuff?"

"You guys do." Charlie couldn't help himself. "So, it was never resolved?"

"You're a funny man Charlie, very funny. But to answer the question – no, never properly resolved. But it's similar to what you're reporting right now – no evidence of live animals across wide areas, but no animal remains either, and thus no evidence of die-back. It's odd to have all populations crash so quickly, so it's likely to be something environmental. When it's not species specific it's usually something in the food chain. Or some other form of broad-spectrum exposure. But it's puzzling, because either way there should be animal and bird remains everywhere." Duncan was silent for a moment. Charlie could hear him tapping a pen or finger against the side of the phone as he mulled it over. "Best bet is probably a mixture of things. Could be all of those I mentioned, plus a few extras. When's your next data run?"

"The next data run's scheduled for Wednesday. That's five days. I'll cover all the designated data points. I can also do some walk-throughs in the nearby dunes if it helps. It might throw up something. I'll be doing a maintenance run up north in the meantime, but only to check campgrounds and facilities. I usually keep maintenance jobs separate from your stuff to save time."

"Five days is good. We won't be able to use anything from the walk-throughs, but some observations might be helpful" said Duncan. "Keep me posted. We get a bit twitchy when things like this occur. The heavies start worrying that some sort of virus or pathogen is on the loose, particularly since the swine and avian flu outbreaks. Mention the words 'cross-species' and they get hysterical."

"I'm with you mate. None of that cross species stuff. Nasty." said Charlie.

"Are you still in Kooringal by the way? Is the move to Bulwer still on?"

Charlie sighed. "It's still on, just a bit on the never-never. Evans told me last week it's likely to slip to next year."

"Well, that's only a few months away. I assume you're talking financial year?"

"Yes mate. I'm talking financial year. But in suit-speak that means it's anywhere between six months and eighteen months. There's plenty of time for something else to crop up."

"How'd the Ranger station end up in Kooringal anyhow? It seems a bit inconvenient, you know, right at one end of the island."

"Yes. It is a bit inconvenient. But it was established forty years ago. Heavens knows what they were thinking back then. Close to the airstrip maybe? Cost? Bureaucrats not paying attention? The quickest ferry? Whatever. I don't think we're going anywhere in the short term."

"Did you get any help after the last bid?"

"Yep. Evans caved. But only for two days a week" Charlie snorted. "The usual double talk. But I've got a young bloke from Kooringal helping out, Col Simpson. He does the weekend shifts. He looks after the maintenance."

"Isn't it the weekend now?"

Charlie laughed. "Yes. It is. But he's on leave."

Duncan laughed with him. "There you go mate. Our lives are in the hands of the lunatics."

"That's for sure Dunc. But anyhow, take it easy mate. I'll be in touch."

"No sweat. Have a good one."

* * *

After Duncan ended the call Charlie dropped his phone back into the cradle and scratched his chin. There was a topographic map pinned to the wall above his desk. He repositioned his boots on the corner of the desk and leaned back, his eyes moving across the map. Dunc was right about the station being in the wrong spot. The shape of the island was, loosely, that of a lamb cutlet. Slightly more than forty kilometres in length, and up to thirteen kilometres wide at the north end, tapering to barely a kilometre at the southern tip. Placing the Rangers station in the far south of the island had been a stroke of pure genius.

Charlie's eyes traced the map. He could still do the data run to the north end on Wednesday, and Col, on his return from leave, could do the south on Saturday. Really didn't matter, it was all pretty onerous. No matter how you cut it, it was the driving that burned your time. None of the roads on the island were sealed. It was a four-wheel drive heaven for tourists, but if you lived and worked on the island it could get a bit tedious. And the road system certainly couldn't be called extensive. It gave adequate access up and down the island, and traversed the interior in several spots, but its limited coverage meant large swathes of the island could only be accessed on foot.

He glanced at his job sheet for the weekend. There wasn't much left to be done. The chain on the chainsaw needed looking at, and he had half a dozen invoices to certify before he sent them over to Scarborough for payment. He glanced at his watch as he mulled it over. Maybe he could do a run through middle island. The extra data couldn't hurt, and it might give Dunc a leg up. He checked the location of Duncan's data points. There were six; one half way up the Western Beach Track and one at the end; three more at various points along the Mirapool Track; and one at the end of the old Waterpoint Trail. Overall not more than a forty kilometer round trip. If he found any data at all it would be on Waterpoint. The decision was an easy one. He could knock over the outstanding jobs tomorrow.

* * *

Charlie picked up his keys, hat and jacket and shoved data forms and a pen into his daypack. He added water and a packet of dry biscuits and swung the pack onto his shoulder. Then he headed out to the truck. As he walked over to the Landcruiser he glanced along Midgen Street. The sandy avenues of Kooringal were looking a little ragged. The council road maintenance team hadn't been around for months, and many of the road surfaces had become heavily corrugated. Charlie sniffed. At least the main tracks up and down the island were maintained regularly.

Kooringal sat at the 'toe of the boot', on the south-western tip of Moreton Island and, while the village was distant from the other main tourist spots – Cowan Cowan, Bulwer and Tangalooma Resort – it was still one of the island's main points of access. As a result, the resident population - usually less than 100 - could grow ten-fold during the summer tourist season and school holidays. Even winter could become a little busy. The village was small, barely a few sandy streets of mostly timber houses. There was a pub called 'The Lazy Lobster', and a corner store that doubled as a supermarket, newsagent and post office. There were two B&Bs, a Ranger station, a CWA hall, a community hall, and a council parking lot that was usually filled with empty skips and, sometimes, a lone road grader.

The Ranger station was a three-room timber cottage, built in the 1930s by an oyster farmer, but purchased and converted by the Parks Service in the 1970s. It sat on the corner of Midgen and Kakoogun Streets and, as it often is with things institutional, had a colour scheme and fittings that were equally depressing throughout; cracked tan linoleum (obviously laid before Noah was born), dull khaki walls, and dark tan doors. The light fittings seemed to be an afterthought, the bathroom an exercise in pink, the kitchen fitted out with a worn laminex bench and hollow wooden cupboards. But in a concession to either common sense, or maybe a wild stab at beach context, the exterior of the house was painted pale yellow, with window exteriors and front door in white. The roof was galvanized iron, the corrugations streaked with rust.

A community hall sat directly opposite the station, a faded sign above its doors. For some reason the community hall always reminded Charlie of the pictures he'd seen of WWII Quonset huts. The hall had the same curved roof and the same dated, forgotten air he'd seen in old photos. A couple of doors further north along Midgen there was the CWA Hall, one of the few brick buildings in the village. It was built of brown brick and had a small porch entry closed off by a low brick balustrade. There was a brown and yellow sign above the front doors. The doors, eves and windows were all painted in soft yellow. Looking back to the south, across Kakoogun Street, there was a park that ran down to the edge of the beach. And to the east of the park, on the other side of Midgen, there was a campground. The grass in both the campground and the park was sparse.

As he pulled out of the driveway Charlie noted there wasn't much traffic around. The school holidays were coming to an end and the campground was almost empty of tents and caravans. Charlie gave a grunt of appreciation. He didn't relish sharing the narrow sandy tracks with tired holidaymakers. He decided he'd start on the eastern side of the island, where he had the advantage of better light. The western side tended to shade early in the day, particularly along the Western Beach Track, where there were high dunes close to the water. Better to be on the western side later in the day, when the sun was high. Same for any walk-throughs. Many of the gullies in the centre of the island were deep, and filled with thick scrub. The sun needed to be pretty much directly overhead to provide any visibility at all.

While he mulled over the route, Charlie also considered the driving conditions. Once he hit the eastern beach it was a straight run north to the turnoff on the Waterpoint Trail. This would take him into the middle of the island. But he'd have to be careful on the run up the beach. There were quite a few spots where small creeks flowed across the sand, often cutting deep channels in the beach, particularly after heavy rain. These channels also moved around quite frequently, the result of storms and tides. But the sandy base usually remained firm, and few creeks ever exceeded a metre in depth. So Charlie wasn't too worried. Most of the creeks were easily fordable, if you took your time. With all the rain they'd had, he'd just have to keep an eye out.

Charlie was renting a four-room weatherboard on Tainan Street, a kilometre north of the station. As he drove towards the Short Point turnoff he passed by the property. To call it modest would be a compliment. Kitchen, lounge and bedroom, a combined bathroom laundry at the rear, a tiny wooden porch below the front door. The exterior was painted in faded yellow, the front door and windows rendered in peeling white. There was a short sand driveway on the left of the house, but no fences and no garage. A struggling Jacaranda lurked sullenly at the right side of the front porch. The galvanised iron roof was a mottled gun-metal grey, streaked and dented. The gutters and downpipes were painted white like the doors and windows, but had clearly been finished without adequate preparation. They were stitched with cankers of ruptured paint and bleeding rust.

The interior of the house was as spartan as the exterior was modest. All rooms were walled in sheets of masonite, each sheet attached to the house frame with metal studs. Over the years the masonite had warped and expanded, some sheets bulging away from the wall, others contracting into the wall. All the interior walls were painted a shiny off white. The floors were timber, covered with age-darkened linoleum, buffed and worn along the board joints. At certain times of the day and depending on the light, the reflections off the distorted wall panels, and the ripple effects of the worn lino, sometimes gave Charlie the impression he was walking under water.

He decided it all looked a little tired.

* * *

It was late-afternoon when Charlie turned back into the drive of the Ranger station. The trip had been uneventful, but had taken a longer than he'd allowed. As he collected his gear from the tray he glanced at the speedometer. It showed he'd covered fifty-three kilometres. He'd checked six data points and four campgrounds, and had managed two short walk-throughs, one at Waterpoint and the other at the end of the Western Beach Track. Both walk-throughs had been difficult. The seaward dunes were tall and unstable, and scrub in the landlocked area behind Waterpoint was all but impenetrable. He'd been reduced to scrabbling on hands and knees on several occasions, just to get to the tops of the dunes. And then, when he crested the first row of dunes, he found the scrub unforgiving, tightly grown and treacherous, sharp twigs and leaves tearing at his hands and face until he was covered in scratches.

Despite the terrain and the tangled scrub, he'd guessed he'd covered at least two kilometres on foot. But at both sites he saw no animals and no droppings, and, other than a 'potential' on Waterpoint, no tracks. The day was a wash out for data, but Charlie decided to call Duncan anyhow. He knew Dunc was a workaholic, so it was odds on he was still in the office. He'd probably appreciate the early 'heads-up.'

The Ranger station seemed airless when Charlie walked in, so he left the door ajar and cracked the window above his desk. A light breeze ruffled the piles of office correspondence and unpaid invoices. He pushed the papers aside and dropped his pack on the desk. He took out the data sheets and ran his eye over each one. All were 'Nil' returns except for some comments he'd added to the Waterpoint report. He'd written _'Limited evidence of animal presence, spoor degraded. Unable to confirm.'_ He frowned and recalled what he'd seen.

The Waterpoint Trail ran west from the eastern beach for almost three kilometres, before it came to an abrupt end in the middle of the island. There was a truncated turning circle carved in the sand, with barely enough width to manoeuvre the vehicle, and a small sign bolted to a wooden pole alongside a garbage bin. Charlie had been forced to do a five-point turn to position the truck pointing back down the track. The he had walked a circular route off the end of the track. He guessed he'd covered at least two kilometres, maybe more.

The scrub at Waterpoint was dense, and there were several vaguely defined animal trails. But nowhere did Charlie see any animal prints, or even evidence of human traffic. The surface of the sand everywhere was smooth and even, some areas showing evidence of light run-off after the rain, some pocked and cut where water had sluiced off the foliage. But in one area, about five hundred metres west of the truck, he had come across a small clearing that appeared to have been torn up. The clearing was adjacent to the start of a heavily overgrown gully, and though the surface of the clearing had been softened and smoothed by the rain, it looked as if it had been attacked with a shovel or a hoe. The sand appeared to have been gouged out and turned over, much like the sods in a ploughed field, but in a random fashion.

Charlie inspected the clearing carefully. Apart from the unusual surface pattern, he found nothing that suggested the presence of any animals. There were several deep gashes in the sand, but these had been partly filled with sand washed in by the rain. He wasn't able to determine whether the gashes were natural phenomena or not. He could think of nothing on the island, animal or human, that might have produced this pattern. And it didn't seem possible that it was a natural phenomenon. After dithering for a while and grumbling to himself, he made a short note on what he'd seen. He also took several photos with his phone. Maybe Dunc could make something of it.

* * *

Charlie dropped the data sheets on the desk and picked up the phone and dialed. It was picked up after only two rings, Duncan's voice rasping over the line.

"Fuller. Biodiversity."

"Dunc. It's me. Charlie. How're you going?

"Charlie. Mate. It's been too long. What's the goss?"

"Well, after our talk this morning I decided I'd take a run round the south sector and see what's happening."

"Good man. Thanks for that. Did you do all the data points?"

"Yep. All data points, and a couple of walk-throughs."

"And?"

"Pretty much the same again. I didn't find anything. I had no sightings, and I found no evidence of animals at any of the data points. The waste bins were all intact, there was no spoor, and no droppings." Charlie hesitated for a moment. "But...I did find something unusual out on Waterpoint."

"Unusual in what way? What was it?"

"I took some photos so it's probably best I send those through. You might be able to make something of it. I couldn't."

"Photos are good, but what was it? Describe if for me."

"Well, it was near the base of some large dunes, about five hundred metres west of the parking area, give or take. It was a small clearing and it was really torn up. It was like someone had taken a scarifier to it. The rain's washed a lot of it away but it's churned up as if a herd of wild pigs came through. Except, of course, there are no pigs on the island. It just looked weird. That's why I took the photos."

"Hmm. Ok. Send 'em through mate. I'll take a gander. Tourists maybe? They were probably after bait."

"No, too remote. No one's going to dig for bait up there. But then, who knows? You never know what people get up to."

'Strewth mate, you're right. You never know." Duncan often came across as a throwback to the fifties. He'd once told Charlie he had a passion for trams and sleeve garters. Charlie wondered if he was older than he sounded.

"One other thing Dunc. There were no birds around. I only remembered when I thought back on it. I'll note it on the sheets before I send them through."

"That's unusual?"

'Well yes, it is. We have a lot of bird life on the island – nearly two hundred species. It's pretty unusual to go bush and not run into magpies or kookaburras. And there's a million mynas. You can always hear them. Lorikeets, honeyeaters, topknots, the works. But it was dead silent out there."

"It's weird alright. I don't know what to make of that mate. But note it on the data sheet and I'll think about it. Could be it's all related."

Charlie nodded to himself. "Yes. It was a bit eerie. But I'll write it up, and scan the sheets and send them through today" said Charlie. "I'll email photos as well."

"Molto grazie mate. But I won't be able to look at 'em until tomorrow. Italiano tonight. Me and Iris at the Bella Rosa. A cold white and some carbonara. You beauty!"

Charlie considered his dinner prospects. They were a bit thin. There was nothing in the fridge, so a stop at Barry Eather's store was in order.

"Sounds good Dunc. Enjoy the pasta."

"Will do. Talk soon mate. And thanks again. Hasta la vista."

* * *

It was after six by the time Charlie finished with the data sheets and photos. The combined printer/scanner/copier never worked properly, so he spent an hour scanning and attaching copies of data sheets and photos to emails. The printer had always evaded him, though he'd seen Col using it without a problem. He grunted. He had the same difficulties with his mobile phone.

Charlie pulled into the drive on Tainan Street right on six thirty. He could hear the phone ringing loudly inside the house as he opened the door to the laundry, but it stopped almost immediately. Charlie dropped his gear next to his boots, then turned and opened the screen door to the kitchen. As soon as he stepped into the kitchen the phone began to ring again, its bell jarring in the empty house.

"Hi. Charlie here."

"Charlie boy. That you?" Charlie felt his heart drop. It was Uncle Cecil. That meant one of three things – first: someone in the family was dead; second: Uncle Cecil was coming to visit; or third (the best option, but still not a good one): Uncle Cecil had called for a chat, in which case Charlie knew he wouldn't get off the phone for two hours. As he considered the options, Charlie immediately felt guilty. Was he being disloyal to Uncle Cec? He stared glumly at the floor. He went through the same emotions every time Uncle Cecil called, and he felt bad every time.

Charlie hooked a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down, casting his eyes around the kitchen. It wasn't much. A set of timber cupboard were hung on an internal wall. An L-shaped bench ran below the cupboards and along the side wall below a single window. There was a scratched stainless steel sink with scaly hot and cold faucets. A new white stove with four hot plates stood at the end of the counter, a cheap microwave beside it on the counter top, both attached to the same power point. The fridge stood alone on the far wall. At some stage, obviously many years earlier, someone had tried to be creative, removing a sheet of masonite from above the stove and replacing it with pegboard, no doubt as a spot to hang utensils. But, like the other masonite sheets, this had also warped, and now operated as a trap for grease and dust. A small square table, a self-assembly from Ikea, backed up against the wall beside the fridge, three white plastic chairs clustered around it. An old black telephone with a circular dial sat in the middle of the table. The receiver crackled in his ear.

"Charlie? You there?" Uncle Cecil's voice had become reedy in recent years. It squeaked over the landline.

"Uncle Cec. Great to hear from you. How's it going in Coonamble? All good I hope."

"Charlie boy. Mate. All good. We thought we'd give ya a call. We're down with Beattie an' Ron. Havin' a great time."

Charlie's eyebrows rose. Uncle Cecil and Mavis lived in Coonamble, a small country town on the western plains of New South Wales. Both he and Mavis were long retired, Cecil after twenty years at the local abattoir, and Mavis off and on at the Post Office. It was unusual for Cecil and Mavis to venture far from home. He was glad they were visiting Mum and Dad.

"I hope they're looking after you. How's the weather in Sawtell anyhow?"

Uncle Cecil cackled. "Better than Queensland mate. Down here it's perfect one day, _and_ perfect the next."

"So how long are you staying with Mum and Dad?"

"We're down for three weeks. Mavis is havin' her eyes done in Coffs. One eye this week, an' the other in two weeks if everything's ok." Charlie heard Mavis' voice call out in the background.

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. No one was dead. And Uncle Cec wasn't coming to stay. He settled back, resigned to a long chat.

"Mavis says hullo" said Uncle Cec.

"Say hi for me. So, the eyes, is it the cataracts?"

"Yep. She's legally blind the doc reckons."

"It's pretty routine these days Uncle Cec. I don't think it's even day surgery. She'll be right as rain."

"Yeah, I reckon she will. I had one done last year. Piece o' cake. Only wear glasses for readin' now. But enough o' that. How ya been? We haven't heard from ya for ages. Ya should come an' see us. It's an easy drive." Charlie grimaced silently. Coonamble was eight hundred kilometres southwest. It was a full day's drive. He decided not to comment.

"Things are easing off up here Uncle Cec. The school holidays are finished so everyone's heading home. Should be quiet for a month or two. But we're having a bit of a dieback in the dingoes. The propeller heads are excited but they reckon it's natural. We had it a few years ago."

"What? Same as on the Tweed? Ya remember the Tweed?" Uncle Cec's voice pitched up an octave.

"Vaguely." Charlie remembered it well, but he didn't want to revisit it. He wished he hadn't mentioned it. Uncle Cec on his soapbox was formidable. Even if it was rampant nonsense.

"Vaguely? Crikey Charlie! I told ya what was goin' on. It's the same thing again. It always is. It's the bunyip." Charlie felt his heart sink again. The bunyip! The never-ending bunyip.

" The bunyip? You know what I think about the bunyip Uncle Cec. It's a myth."

"No it ain't. Ya remember what Ecka told us? Ya know, from when he was down the Lachlan? He seen it one night. He told me at the pub in Condobolin. It was dinkum mate."

"Uncle Cec, that was thirty years ago. And it's not real. It's part of indigenous mythology."

"Mythology me foot" said Uncle Cec. "Eck said he seen it. An' that's enough for me. He said they was losin' sheep along the Lachlan an' right up Treal Lagoon, an' further down too, down Kaiga Creek. They knew what it was. They set traps for it."

"But caught nothing."

"No mate. They didn't catch it. It's too slick for that. But they seen it. Eck reckons he seen it twice, once on the Lachlan, and once on the Kaiga."

"Seriously Uncle Cec, we had this discussion years ago. What did he see?"

Uncle Cecil's voice took on a defiant note. "Young people" he snorted. "Ya don't pay attention ta nothin'. It was nighttime. So he seen it, yeah, but not clear. He said it had tentacles, like an octopus. Grab ya right off the bank it would, so the sheep an' cows, comin' down like they do for a drink, they'd be easy meat."

"But Uncle Cec, we're a thousand kilometres from Condobolin. And we're on an island anyhow. How's it going to get here?" Charlie regretted even asking the question. He heard Auntie Mavis say something, and a mutter as Cecil turned away from the phone.

"Mavis says I should stop botherin' ya. But I ain't botherin' ya, am I?"

"Never" said Charlie. "But I reckon your story's got warts on it."

"Warts? Warts? How do ya think it gets around? In the water! It swims. It follers the river system. Everywhere! An' maybe there's more than one. Could be hundreds. Have ya thought o' that?" _Well, no! I haven't!_ thought Charlie. Uncle Cecil continued.

"They can get around in the water. They move quick. That's why the cockies were losin' stock up an' down the river."

"But an island?"

"Caves Charlie. Caves boy. That's what I told ya about the Tweed. Remember?" Cecil didn't wait for an answer. "They use the rivers an' caves. All those mountains back o' the Tweed? They're riddled with caves mate. Riddled. An' that's how they get up to the island. Caves. The caves are full o' water, an' they stretch right up the coast."

"And this is all based on Uncle Eric's stories?"

"Ecka's ridgy didge mate. Ya know that. He was shearin' down the Darling an' the Condamine for years. He seen it all mate. Some really weird stuff. An' remember Eck's mate Whitey Hunt? He seen it too. He told me."

"And they weren't drinking when they told you this?"

"Well, ya know Eck's always liked a beer, but he knows what he's talkin' about. But Whitey gets a bit wobbly sometimes. He reckons the lemon essence kicks like a mule."

Charlie tried to change the subject. "How is Uncle Eric? Is he still living in Stanthorpe?"

"Yep. He's havin' trouble with his feet, can't walk too far, but he's getting' by. Doreen lives in Stanthorpe too, so she keeps an eye on him." Doreen was Uncle Eric's daughter, and Charlie's cousin. Charlie hadn't seen her for many years but remembered her as a tall, strong girl. When they were all growing up in Stanthorpe she had regularly bashed Charlie. This went on until their mid teems, when a growth spurt suddenly put Charlie at a distinct physical advantage. She left him alone after that.

"Are Mum and Dad there, Uncle Cec? Maybe I could have a quick chat."

"They're down the Bowlo mate. Chook raffle an' dinner special for seniors. Shepherd's Pie for mains an' milk puddin' for dessert. Two dollars fifty. An' they chuck in five free tickets for the raffle."

Charlie laughed. "That sounds great. Why didn't you go?"

"Mavis didn't feel like it. We wanted chops an' veg anyway."

"Well, say hi to Mum and Dad for me. I'll try to ring next week. And good luck again to Auntie Mavis with her eyes."

"Thanks Charlie. Look after yaself up there. I'm not kiddin' ya know. Ya gotta watch out. 'Specially at night. Don't go nowhere near the waterholes at night. It's that bunyip, I tell ya. It'll grab ya."

After many reassurances that he wouldd make a visit to Coonamble, very soon, and he would take care, and tell his colleagues to take care, and pass Uncle Cecil's message on to the police and the scientists and everyone who need to know, he rang off. He checked his watch. Forty eight minutes. Nearly a record. He thought back over what Uncle Cec had said. It was almost exactly the same conversation he had with Cecil six years ago, when there was a spate of disappearances in the Border Ranges National Park. Seven people had disappeared over a period of eighteen months. At the same time farmers were reporting large numbers of missing stock. But despite a significant police effort focused on cattle rustling and land searches, nothing had ever been found. The disappearances were never solved, no stock was ever recovered, and no bunyip ever showed itself. But this hadn't stopped both Uncle Eric and Uncle Cecil keeping him on the phone for hours, with mildly terrifying tales of the bunyip and its nefarious habits; how it had always ate from the head down, that it had a particular penchant for fresh meat, and that cattle were its meal of choice. All backed up with utmost scientific rigour.

' _Ridgy didge mate. Ridgy didge.'_

Charlie shook his head and turned on the kettle. Maybe a cup of tea, a biscuit and the 7.30 Report would clear his head. While the kettle hummed he mulled over the situation. No dingoes anywhere. No other animals or birds either. It was a puzzle indeed. It would be interesting to see what turned up on the next data run.

# First taking

The Beast stirred, small irregular sounds disturbing its deep slumber. It could feel vibrations through the sand, dull thumps echoing against its spiny carapace, and faint cries like gulls, distant and bell-like. It shifted its great bulk slowly, pushing the sounds and vibrations away, seeking the darkness. For an age it slept in silence, its presence a mere whisper on the face of the mighty dune, a slight indentation where dust devils swirled.

Then suddenly the sounds returned, a metallic keening that rang through the Beast's head, causing it to squirm and shudder, its foul jaws opening in silence then snapping shut, its twenty centimetre teeth grinding hard together. It heard the cries again, high-pitched and filled with laughter, then a long slither passed by overhead, accompanied by more squeals and sharp cries. The Beast's eyelids flickered open and its metre-long tongue moved across its snout. It was awake. For the first time in a thousand nights.

The Beast stretched itself slowly beneath the sand, easing the stiffness of the many months of sleep. It had not eaten in over three years, and it could feel the pain building in its stomach. Dimly, in the deep recesses of the Beast's memories, the strange flavour of its last meal lingered. The Beast had prowled early that night, venturing from its lair as dusk was falling, the hunger that burned in its belly driving it out before it was fully dark. The Beast was loping along the beach, its six clawed feet pounding at the edge of the waves, when it saw a strange creature emerging from the water. The Beast attacked instinctively, cutting the creature down and tearing it to pieces. The creature's skin was dark and thin, yet strangely resilient to the Beast's mighty teeth. But once the soft skin was broken, the flesh was sweet. The Beast growled deep in its throat with the memory, and felt its stomach roil. It sensed the day was ending, as the sand around its nest cooled. Soon it would be time to go out and feed. Maybe there would be walkers. They were easy prey, their flesh bloody and pungent. They made strange high cries when they saw the Beast, and tried to run, but the Beast always took them in a single bound.

High above the Beast's lair, day-trippers and tourists were making their way back to four-wheel drives and family vans, dragging surf boards, umbrellas and coolers through the sand. As the many vehicles began their journey to the ferry, their lights curled across the sands like broken caterpillars. But some stayed on, camping high on an overgrown dune, or in one of the well-appointed camping grounds set behind the long white sandy beaches. Barbeques fired up and music and the smell of cooking wafted through the air. The night sky began to sparkle as the sun fell towards the horizon. The Milky Way burned its way through the haze, the Big Dipper cut from crystal, the bright silver crucifix of the Southern Cross low in the evening sky. The sea breezes were cool, and many campers set fires and sat chatting around the leaping flames. Many of the campers were families with children. They were at the end of their annual holiday.

As the sand cooled and night fell, the Beast began to move, stretching its massive bulk and working its thick shoulder and chest muscles. The bone-like armoured plates on its body grated together, the joints filled with sand. It itched. The Beast needed air and water to cleanse itself. And food to fill its belly. Even through the sand it could sense the faint tang of cooking meat, and its maw filled with saliva. Again it growled. It was time.

* * *

Tim Henderson ran toward the water, throwing his skimmer hard out in front. He leapt onto the board, whooping in glee as he sped across the receding wave, cutting a long arc down the light slope of the beach. The Hendersons were nearing the end of a three-week vacation, and Tim, and his brother Ryan and his sister Rebecca, were extracting every ounce of fun out of the remaining three days. Then it was back to Toowong, and back to school. It didn't bear thinking about.

As he neared the end of his run Tim could hear Ryan, somewhere behind him, shouting with delight and screaming to their friend Angelo. The Totsis were staying in the same camp ground as the Hendersons, their 4X4 and camp trailer set up on the next pad. The Hendersons and Totsis had known each other for years, but this was the first time they had holidayed together. Every night Andrea and Maria prepared a great meal, while Jack and Vincenzo cooked fish or steaks or sausages on the barbeque. After dinner, while the parents talked and sipped wine, the kids would usually take a couple of powerful torches and go exploring the dunes.

Tim came to a spectacular halt as his skimmer ran down the beach with the receding wave and crashed into the surf. He emerged from the waves in time to see Ryan follow his example. They watched Angelo perform a similar feat of aerobatics then carried their skimmers back up the beach, the sand and the water glowing gold in the last rays of the afternoon light. The evening breezes were just starting to freshen, lifting sand gently off the tops of the high dunes behind the beach and chilling the water on their bodies. As they walked back towards their camp they could tell that Jack and Vincenzo had fired up the barbeque. Tantalising aromas of frying onions, and sausages and toasted scones floated through the air.

Tim and Ryan climbed to the peak of the high dune and stared down toward the camp, close by the side of the Black Lagoon. The billabong was at least a kilometre from the beach, and Tim could never understand why his Mum and Dad and the Totsis liked camping there so much. He had never really liked the campground, and had always thought this part of the island to be a little eerie. In the gloom of the evening, and especially at night, the billabong had an air of forboding. And it smelled. Every now and then horrible smells bubbled out of the water, mostly in the early evenings before it was fully dark, filling the air with the stench of rotted meat and decaying vegetation. But only he and Rebecca appeared to notice.

"Don't you think it's a bit creepy around here sometimes" asked Angelo, as they made their way down the side of the dune. He was trying to be nonchalant but, like Tim, found the campsite uncomfortable, and more than a little frightening.

"Nah" said Ryan. "It's great. We're close to the beach and we have good showers. You don't get hot water at the other campgrounds." Tim sighed and nodded in agreement. If it was a choice between 'creepy' or good showers, the showers won hands down. Suddenly, he felt a shudder beneath him, as if the dune had shifted.

"Whoa" shouted Ryan, dropping his skimmer and throwing his arms and legs wide in a star formation. "What was that?"

"Felt like a mini earthquake" said Angelo.

They waited for a few moments, but the dune was quiet. Ryan's skimmer had slipped to the bottom of the slope, so they slithered down the face of the dune and collected it, then walked towards the camp. Jack and Vincenzo were at the barbeque, busily sizzling an assortment of hamburger patties, onions and corncobs, while Andrea and Maria sat chatting under a spindly she-oak.

Tim and the others were almost back at the campsite when Tim felt a strange chill run down his back. He stopped and looked back to the dunes, but all he could see was a broad sward of green grass, backed by tall sand dunes. The peaks were touched by the last of the sun, glowing orange and red against a cobalt sky. It was beautiful, but the colours were fading into darkness even as he watched. For no reason he could identify an alarm bell rang faintly in Tim's head and, when he turned back toward the camp and saw the billabong's darkening waters, he felt the hair prickle at the nape of his neck. His discomfort was palpable.

But why?

* * *

The Beast felt the chill creeping into its carapace. The sun-warmed sand was cooling rapidly as night fell over the island, the onshore breezes bringing a faint chill to the air, and a welcome relief from the heat of the day. It eased itself upright within its nest. Though it could not detect its own odour, the stench of the Beast was appalling. Its nest was filled with the debris of bones and waste and its teeth dripped a terrible saliva of rotted meat and bone fragments. But the Beast noticed none of these things. Its sole focus was the hunger burning in its belly.

The Beast began to push its way out the nest, mighty shoulders and powerful rear legs driving through the wall of sand. The Beast had burrowed into the sand three years earlier, making its nest deep under the slope of a large dune. But winds and tides had eroded the dune while the Beast slept, and it found cool air touching its enormous pig-like snout after only a few metres. Cautiously it pushed its massive head out into the evening air, its nostrils quivering and flexing as if with a life of their own, savouring the aromas of saltbush and ozone and, more distant but even more tantalizing, the smell of food.

As it tested the wind the Beast's eyes adjusted quickly in the gloomy darkness. Even though it was not yet a full moon, it was as bright as daylight to the Beast after three years in its tomblike nest. A faint tinkle of music came to the Beast's ears, and its head turned slowly in the direction of the sound. In the distance, little more than a kilometre, it could see the walkers. The Beast's eyesight was acute, and the bright camp lights and barbeque lit the walkers like characters on a stage. As the smell of the barbeque caressed the Beast's nose a growl rose deep in it's throat, and a burst of saliva filled its mouth. The hunger was unbearable.

Gulping down the moisture the Beast pushed its body out onto the face of the dune. The Beast was hidden in the darkness and the twisted scrub, but its body was a fearsome sight. Almost five metres from the tip of its snout to the end of a short muscular tail, it stood more than two metres tall at the shoulder, its chest two metres in width. The Beast's body was covered in layers of heavy, ridged plates, much like a rhinoceros, its hide more than ten centimetres thick. The front legs of the Beast were roped in muscle, its feet huge cloven pads, each with six razor sharp claws. The rear legs were even more massive, huge coils of muscle and bone, with curved claws longer and even more vicious, ready to bind its prey in an agonizing embrace.

But the truly fearsome thing about the Beast was its head. Its neck was short and enormously strong, supporting a head as big as a small car, its eyes sunk deep into dark sockets, their colour a shiny yellow in daylight but a hideous red in the night. The Beast's jaws were greater than a metre in length, filled with serried rows of twenty centimetre fangs, many broken and rotting, many snaggled and twisted where they were pushed aside by new growth. The Beast was a throwback, a wrong turn on the evolutionary timeline, a series of mistakes that endowed it with a size and ferocity no other animal could match.

As it stretched its cramped muscles the plates on its back cracked and scraped, the sand cascading silver from its body in the pale moonlight. Behind the smell of the cooking meat it sensed the wet rot of the dark billabong, and a memory of danger surfaced in its small brain. Many years before, on the edge of the dark water, it had pursued several walkers. But before it could strike, it had seen them taken by a terrible presence, one from which even it must flee. The arms of the presence had snaked from the dark water in a second, plucking the walkers soundlessly into the billabong. One arm had also wrapped itself around the Beast's rear leg and, though the Beast had torn free easily, still a large chunk of flesh and hide were taken.

The Beast threw back its head and drew deeply on the wind, luxuriating in the cool freshness of the breeze and the agonizing aromas. It felt energy flowing into its body as it sucked oxygen into its huge lungs. Then the Beast's mouth opened and it roared its presence, sending a reverberating howl far across the island, and signaling again, after three years of sleep, it was back. It was time to feed.

* * *

The evening was winding down, and Jack and Vincenzo had muted the gaslights near the barbeque. They had both decided to take up smoking, at least while on holiday, and sat with new pipes held to their mouths, puffing contentedly. They had been banished from the camp by their wives, and had taken themselves off to the edge of the billabong, where they sat on upturned milk crates. Every now and then a large bubble broke the surface, releasing a foul odour that floated across the black water towards the two men. But they noticed nothing except the clouds of aromatic smoke. Meanwhile, Maria and Andrea sat in low deck chairs at the rear of the Tsotsi's 4X4, stirring late evening cups of tea and chatting in low tones. All the kids had finished dinner and were exploring the dunes.

On the far side of the billabong Tim, Ryan, Rebecca and Angelo were climbing a steep dune. Vincenzo had told them that if you climbed to the highest point, you could see the lights of Brisbane and, if you lay down at the top and looked up at the Milky Way, maybe, just maybe, you would see some shooting stars. And so they set off after dinner to climb to the top of the tallest nearby dune, each carrying a waterproof torch. They were under orders to be back within an hour. But climbing the dune was far harder than it looked. So far they had been gone nearly twenty minutes, and they weren't even at the top.

"We'll just have to slide back down the dune" said Rebecca, who was always the practical one.

"But I had a shower" whined Ryan. Ryan was the fusser of the group. He was picky about his clothes and his room was perfect. He even rolled up his sleeping bag every morning. Tim told him regularly that he had a problem.

"Forget it" said Tim. "Let's just get to the top and check out the view. It's not far. We'll be back on time."

They clambered up the remaining twenty metres to the top, carrying their runners in one hand, torch in the other, the sand cold and silky between their toes. As they reached the peak of the dune the lights of Brisbane showed bright on the horizon, a flickering line of orange bubbles. They stared a while at the lights of the city then out over the ocean to the east. Here and there they could see the lights of ships, perhaps a tanker or a container ship plowing its way south to Newcastle, or maybe a cruise ship heading east into the Pacific. Looking back towards camp they saw that an evening fog had started to roll in, filling the hollow with a filmy ground mist that reduced the camp lights to a milky glow.

They decided to check out the shooting stars, and lay in a row across the top of the dune, using their runners as pillows. Above them the Milky Way burst across the sky like a shower of diamonds, a billion stars twinkling in the clear air. Every minute or two they saw a bright streak flash across part of the sky, a meteor burning itself up in a fiery rush.

"What are you doing?" asked Tim, as Angelo started to flash his torch into the sky.

"I'm sending messages to the aliens. You know. Just in case they're watching. So they'll know someone's here."

"Yeah!" said Tim grabbing his torch. Ryan grabbed his torch as well and together they starting flashing signs to the stars. Rebecca propped herself up on her elbows, frowning at them and shaking her head.

"You guys are crazy" she said.

Suddenly the air shivered and throbbed as if alive, the sound coming at them through the dark night, pulsing through the still air like a deep groan, filled with agony and hunger, then building to a howl that shook the trees and sent sleeping mynas squawking into the sky. The water in the billabong shimmered and skipped as the noise bounced from dune to dune. In the camp the gaslights flickered and dimmed.

The kids froze, staring at each other fearfully, their eyes raking the shadows. In a moment the darkness closed in around them, blacker than ever and filled with menace. Tim looked towards the camp, but the mist was heavier, the lights now only bloated halos in the coils of fog. His sense of danger was now stronger than ever, and he knew immediately that his earlier premonition had been right. Suddenly it was a long way back to camp. Last that there hadn't been a problem. But last night there hadn't something else out there, something else on the island. Now he knew that they weren't alone.

* * *

The Beast padded lightly down to the edge of the water, its snout quivering in the clean sea air. It stopped and settled in the shallows, and let the water swirl around its body, carrying away three years of sand and grit. It pushed its body into the waves, submerging both its head and shoulders, letting the cool water ease the heat of its slumber, and soothing the itch and scratch of the heavy bone-like plates. Then it threw back its head, glittering necklaces of water cutting high silver arcs in the moonlight. It rose from the water, and began to run.

Two kilometres further down the beach, Ronnie Cox and his girlfriend Shana lay on their unopened sleeping bags, close by the embers of their dying campfire. Ronnie's new 4x4 was parked close by, its polished chrome and paint flickering with red and orange gleams as the small fire sparked and crackled. Behind the 4x4 lay their sea kayaks, still salty after a day exploring the sandy coast of the island.

Ronnie and Shana lay watching the fire fade away. They had spent an enjoyable weekend on the island, but it was time to pack up and head home. Ronnie looked at his watch and groaned. They would have to hurry if they wanted to catch the last ferry. He frowned a little as he listened to the thumping in the distance. It sounded like a helicopter. _Must be coming from the Gold Coast_ he mused. He sighed and looked back at the fire. _What a great weekend. But back to work tomorrow_.

"Time to go" he said to Shana who was almost asleep. "Let's toss the kayaks on the back and move out."

"Uurggh!" grunted Shana, sitting up and grimacing. "I feel like lead. Why did you let me go to sleep?"

"Guess I was asleep too" said Ronnie. "But it's time to go, so let's get the gear stowed. It's over half an hour to the ferry." As he said this he noticed that the thumping of the helicopter was louder. Weirdly, it seemed to be coming from further down the beach.

"What's that noise?" he said, almost to himself, as he stood and stared into the darkness. In the poor light he could see only a thin white line of surf, breaking quietly on the sand, and a pale blade of beach stretching away into the gloom. The thumping was definitely louder, and now it was accompanied by the sound of splashing. Now it sounded as if a truck was speeding along the beach, its tyres in the water, its suspension pounding the corrugations in the sand.

"Hurry!" he said to Shana urgently. "Get up. There's a truck or something coming down the beach. We'd better get out of the way."

They picked up the kayaks and pushed them into the back of the 4x4, then threw the sleeping bags in through the window. The thumping was getting louder every second. It was definitely on the beach and coming straight at them. It sounded as if it was almost on top of them as they ran to the doors of the truck. Ronnie threw open his door and leapt in. Shana was a second behind him. While Shana madly wound the window shut, Ronnie pushed the key into the ignition. He was turning the key when the thumping suddenly stopped. Ronnie paused, one hand gripping the key, the other the steering wheel. He peered out through the windscreen into the darkness. Beside him Shana was slouched down low in her seat, only her eyes visible over the edge of the door. They couldn't see anything in the dark.

"What is it?" asked Shana breathlessly. Her voice trembled.

"It's ok" said Ronnie. "It's probably just the surf." But his voice cracked. It was too loud to be the surf.

For several minutes they sat, silent and unmoving. There was no sound from outside the truck. Ronnie peered from side to side but could see nothing. He licked his lips. "I'll try the lights." He turned on the headlights.

The truck was facing the water and the beams speared out across the rippled sand in a white arc, the sand stark and cold and banked in small hillocks. Beyond the sand they could see the faint movements of the breakers. But nothing else. "What the heck?" he said. "Pass me the torch. I'll go take a look and see if there's anything out there."

"No way you're going out there" said Shana in a loud whisper. "No way! Let's get out of here." Ronnie could see that Shana was terrified. He turned in his seat and stared out the rear window of the truck. In the faint glow of the taillights he could see the shapes of small clumps of saltbush and clumps of grass, but little else. "I can't see anything" he said. He reached for the door handle. Shana made to stop him but Ronnie opened the door and stepped out of the truck, torch in hand. As he switched on the torch its powerful beam lit up the beach for fifty metres, throwing more black shadows across the white sand. Ronnie swept the beam in a circle around the truck. The light flickered over low dunes and small shrubs, the sand a blinding white, the shadows black and impenetrable. There was nothing there. He flicked the torch off and turned back to Shana.

"There's nothing out here" he said, the relief evident in his voice. "Must have been the wind." Then he saw Shana's eyes. They were wide with horror.

"The...the...there's some...something behind...behind you" her voice cracked as she spoke. Ronnie turned around fearfully. There was something there, emerging from the saltbush. Something huge and hulking, a blacker, deeper shadow in the darkness, a presence more felt than seen. And a smell. A smell so foul it made his breath catch. Then he heard a snuffling, deep and clotted, like tortured breathing. He thumbed the switch of his torch.

Shana screamed.

# Crime scene

The wheel bucked and kicked in Charlie's hands as he sped along the hard white sand, the tidal corrugations slamming hard into his spine through the worn suspension. It was still early, the sun barely above the horizon, the surf a wonderful translucent blue/green as it rose in perfect waves in the face of a brisk offshore breeze. The call had come in early to the Ranger station, a distraught mother reporting her daughter and boyfriend overdue from a weekend trip to the island. Charlie had jerked upright at 4.30am, dragged awake by the jangling bell of the phone. He fell out of bed and clumped clumsily through the debris of his small living room to pick up the call.

"She's never late. And tomorrow we have a practice for Michelle's wedding. Shana's the Maid of Honour. She'd die before she missed it."

Charlie groggily reassured Mrs. Martin that he would check all the campgrounds, and other likely camping spots. He asked for names and IDs and a description of the car, a new 4x4 by the sound of it, then hung up saying he would call back as soon as he returned to base. Half an hour later he was speeding along a bumpy beach at the crack of dawn, unwashed and unshaven, holding a half empty cup of bitter coffee in one hand and trying to steer with the other. _Thank God it's automatic_ he thought.

Charlie flashed by several campgrounds, but each was now all but empty, only a few hardened campers remaining. Nowhere did he see a red 4X4. Mostly it was people movers and cars, with caravans nearby. No 4x4s in sight this morning. Charlie wound down his window and spat, the saliva flicking away in the wind. As the breeze buffeted his face he breathed the smell of the salt water, the slightly rotten smell of sea grass washed onto the beach, and the burnt wood smell of the saltbush. He saw that he was coming up on a rocky outcrop, a small headland, so he turned off the beach and sped across the dunes, the road no more than a set of tyre prints in the sand, cutting through stunted saltbush and wind bent trees.

The Toyota bumped over the last of the rutted tyre tracks and settled smoothly onto the eastern beach. It was a long stretch. Ten kilometres of pure white flat sand. The tide had washed the beach during the night, smoothing the hundreds of tyre tracks and wheelie marks that tourists felt compelled to leave. Charlie smiled to himself as he recalled a gang of university students from last summer. They had come to the island for the weekend and, unfortunately, had managed to drive one parent's very expensive Range Rover over the top of a very hard rock. Charlie had been on the scene quickly but there was little danger. No one was injured, apart from some egos, but the car didn't have any suspension left.

The Toyota tore through several shallow run-offs, the channels in the sand little more than a few centimetres deep. But, as his mind drifted, he underestimated the depth of Spitfire Creek. The creek had cut a deep path through the beach sand and, when his truck dived into the bed of the creek, its suspension bellied out with a bang. He felt he'd been lucky he hadn't bitten his tongue off.

Charlie was still massaging his jaw when suddenly, in the distance, he saw a speck of red and a glint of silver. As he sped down the beach the vehicle became clear. It was a red 4X4, and from Mrs. Martin's description it had to be the one he was looking for. But as he closed on the truck Charlie could see that something was wrong. He leaned forward and peered through the windscreen. With the bumpy ride it was hard to focus, but something definitely wasn't right. He pulled up thirty metres short of the the red truck. The tray of the truck was smashed and buckled, the sides torn away and the whole rear end flattened onto the springs. The tyres were blown, and behind the truck he could see the shattered remains of what looked like canoes. Small pieces of fiberglass and plastic lay scattered on the sand, mixed with pieces of cloth and tangled cords. Beside the broken truck, a paddle lay in the sand, snapped in half.

Charlie stepped out of the Toyota. He noticed immediately that it was eerily quiet. Apart from the whisper of the wind and the soft wash of the surf he couldn't hear anything. Normally there were gulls and gannets on the beach, and mynas and finches in the saltbush. But today there was nothing. He peered cautiously up and down the beach, then swallowed nervously and stepped past the front of his truck to get a better view. There was no sign of Shana or Ronnie.

"Shana" he called. "Ronnie. It's Charlie Mularczyk from the Ranger station. Everything ok up here?"

Charlie's shout seemed to disappear into the sand, instantly sucked away by the awful quiet. There was something really bad about this. Charlie could feel it. It was physical, as if a huge weight was pressing down on him. Suddenly he was frightened, more frightened than he had ever been. Something terrible had happened here, he was sure of it. He hesitated for a few seconds then eased forward, keeping one hand on the bonnet of his vehicle, then leaned out and tried to peer past the other vehicle. Yes, there was something on the sand. A blanket, or something like it. Perhaps they were still asleep he thought, hope flaring briefly in his chest, then fading as quickly. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, then stepped forward.

What he saw made him stop and pull back in surprise. The side of the red truck was full of holes. It looked like a pincushion. The door was partly torn away, there were large dents and gashes cratering the roof of the cab. The driver's window pillar and the glass in the windows and windscreen had all been smashed, and both doors hung askew. 'What on earth is going on?' he breathed to himself. He could feel his heart pounding, his breath loud and coarse in his ears. When he peered round the bonnet of the truck the blood roared in his ears and his vision blurred. He threw out a hand, desperately grasping the grill in an attempt to hold himself upright. He was gulping air liked a stranded fish.

Between the truck and the edge of the water, a huge area of sand was covered in sprays of red, slowly turning black in the salt air. Embedded in the spray, small pieces of cloth fluttered weakly in the breeze. A strange coppery smell filled the air. Charlie felt his head spin and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He had to hold it together. He knew it was blood. It was just that his brain wasn't processing it. Then his boot touched something, and he looked down. There between his feet was a human hand. It was severed at the wrist, the fingers hooked like claws, wristwatch glinting in the early sunlight. Charlie didn't hold it together after that. His eyes almost popped out of his head and he vomited all over his trousers and boots.

Then he fainted.

* * *

It lay prone in the wet sand and the darkness, deep under an overhang on the leeward side of a tall dune. The winds had formed the dune over many years, the sands peaking in a sweeping crest then falling steeply into a dark gully. Trees and shrubs had populated the dune, the twisted roots and long green strands of coastal grasses stabilizing the shifting sands. Only the lower section at the edge of the creek remained fragile, its form rendered unstable by heavy rain and flooding. For eleven months of the year the creek was an idle stream, but sometimes, after particularly heavy summer rains, it could fill rapidly with stolen earth and grasses, washing mud and broken timber and fallen limbs rapidly past the base of the dune and out over a short flat plain into the dark water in the middle of the island. One summer, many years before, the swollen creek had torn by the base of the dune, carving away the hard packed sand, creating a darkened, wet cave, its entrance overhung with a curtain of tangled tree roots and long grass. It was in this cave that the Beast now lay, its pig-like nostrils quivering wetly, snuffling the rich air. It sensed danger, faint but ominous.

The Beast's stomach growled and it belched, the air of the cave suddenly ripe with the odour of raw flesh. Long strings of saliva drooled from the corner of the Beast's mouth, and its long tongue flickered briefly. Its belly was full, but its hunger still burned, enough to drive it out into the darkness once again. The Beast's memory still held the images and smells of the night before, the flickering lights, the scent of the walkers and their cooking, and the sharp metallic tang of blood as it fed on the walkers on the beach.

As its tongue dragged across broken teeth the Beast growled again. The walkers had been accompanied by another animal, a quiet one that stood nearby while the Beast tore the walkers apart, making no move to defend them or to defend itself. For a few moments after eating, the Beast stalked in circles around the other, until finally, with a roar of rage, it attacked. The other beast had not fought back, but its hide had been tough, tougher than anything the Beast had ever encountered. And though the Beast had savaged and torn at the other still it did not fall, leaving the Beast panting, with broken teeth and a bloodied tongue. The Beast had finally turned away, content that the other did not present an immediate threat, but aware now of its size and potential. It would not forget.

A half moon began to brighten the island, bringing a muted silver sheen to the sand, buffing the scrub and trees in a grey-green light, turning the shadows to ink. The Beast's eyes glowed red in the darkness, its nighttime vision a hundredfold more acute than in daylight. Its eyes followed as a small animal with a long tail run along the floor of the gully. But it was only a taste, not even a mouthful. The Beast needed more.

The Beast snuffled to itself as it crouched in the damp gloom. It knew that soon it would go out into the darkness. It would feed again. It would take another walker. But still, deep in its memory the presence moved, long arms snaking from the dark water, tearing flesh and hide, and snatching a squealing walker. The Beast growled deep in its throat as it felt the muscles twitch near its hip, where a ragged scar still showed as evidence of the ferocity and power of the presence. The Beast knew there was something out there, an entity that waited, longer even than it had waited. An entity with the patience of the rocks and the sands, an entity that was older and more evil than the Beast itself. Of course the Beast did not really think these thoughts. They were simply part of its instincts, the vibrations of a million years of evolution that empowered it to detect and evaluate in the slow blink of a hooded eye. The Beast growled again, its rage surfacing as it reacted instinctively to the danger, and its muscles coiled, ready to attack. It growled again, and its muscles relaxed as it settled back into the cool, comforting darkness. Tonight it would feed. For now it would sleep.

* * *

A night and day passed. The dunes baked as the sun rose and moved across the sky. Deep in its gully, the Beast slept in cool darkness, shifting every now and then as its stomach growled for food. The last holidaymakers packed their caravans and tents and began to drift toward the ferry crossing. By late afternoon only a few fisherman and a couple of groups of campers remained on the island. As the sun fell below the horizon its last beams flashed across the tops of the dunes, lighting the saltbush with slashes of orange and purple. Then darkness fell, and deep shadows settled between the dunes and the stunted trees. The island was strangely quiet. And as far as the fishermen and campers were aware, it was empty. They would know before morning how wrong they were.

The Beast woke with a snort as a soft curl of cool air brushed over its head. It rolled upright, shaking sand and leaves from its hide. The long tongue flickered again and it gulped dryly. Its stomach burned. It needed water. It growled in anger, unknowingly expressing its frustration. Its hunger was almost insatiable. It needed meat, fresh red meat swimming in blood, bones spilling pungent juices into its maw as they shattered under its mighty teeth. Only then could it nest.

The Beast shook its huge head and moved forward, crouching under the low roof of the cave until its snout pushed through the hanging curtain of vines and roots. For a few moments it tasted the night air, its nostrils quivering as they sniffed the scents; the sweet smell of grasses, the hot toasted smell of the baked saltbush, a strange bright scent unknown to the Beast but one it associated in its ancient brain with the walkers, a harsh, sharp odours of fresh meat and burning wood and, beneath the others, faint in the background but ominous and warning of danger, the black, sour smell of the dark water.

The Beast growled again. Its hunger was driving it forward, but still it hesitated. All was quiet, yet danger lurked. The Beast growled again, and felt the scar tissue tighten on its rear leg. Its head jerked back and its jaws snapped at the distant memory of pain and blood. For a few moments it hesitated, then, with a single leap that spanned twenty metres, it began to run. It was no longer safe to be on the island.

The playground had become the hunting ground.

* * *

"What? Ya fainted?" Bulmer's voice was derisive, his grin wide as he chuckled at Charlie. "Lucky it didn't come back and get ya."

Charlie groaned. Roger Bulmer was a police constable from Cleveland. He and his boss Alan Buchanan had rolled off the ferry less than three hours after Charlie's call. They drove a high clearance white Land Cruiser with blue and white checkerband along the sides. The vehicle was fitted with racks and bull bar, spotlights and a winch. A light-bar stretched across the top of the cab. They were followed by an ambulance and two white Pathfinders from the State Emergency Service, each one with orange and white checkerband and blue signage. One of the Pathfinders was pulling a long trailer. The ambulance was a white Mercedes van with red, yellow and black bars on each side. The light bar on the ambulance was strobing silently. Buchanan introduced Charlie to the SES team, Bob Eldridge and Brian Anderson in the first Pathfinder, John Williams and Dao Phan in the second. He didn't introduce the ambos.

Buchanan and Bulmer were both wearing white overalls with caps trimmed in blue and white police check. Heavy black leather belts at their waists held handcuffs, sidearm, Taser, and a cylindrical pouch for a collapsible baton. The SES team wore bright orange overalls with silver reflective bands at chest and knee and SES roundels at the shoulder. Each member wore a navy SES cap with orange and white check trim, except Dao, who had a Miami Heat basketball cap pushed back on her head, its brim pointing at the sky. Dao was also the only one wearing the dark blue uniform tee shirt. The ambulance team were clad in short-sleeved teal blue outfits with red trim, no hats.

As he shook hands with the SES group Charlie noted with envy a large yellow Pelican flashlight, hung from a black webbing sling at Dao's shoulder. Dao had a strong grip and bright eyes. "Call me Spud," she said. He raised his eyes questioningly at the "Spud!" Dao grinned and gave him the thumbs up. "In-house joke" she said. "Tell ya later." Charlie saw straight away she was the 'smarts' of the group.

Buchanan was asking the questions. He was tall and sunburned, his face spotted with freckles, his thatch of dark brown hair tinged with salt at the temples. He appeared to be a fit man, maybe late forties, though his rugged features could be as much to do with an outdoor life as his age. "So when did you get the call? And from whom?"

"The girl's – Shana's – mother, Mrs. Martin, rang about 4.30. It was pretty early. She said that Shana and her boyfriend were due back on Saturday, but they didn't turn up. She hadn't heard from them, and she couldn't raise them on the phone, so she called the station."

"Well, one day overdue doesn't sound too bad, but why did she call the Ranger station? Had she been in touch with the police?"

"Yep. She said she'd called the Northlakes station, but they told her there had been no reports of any serious traffic accidents. They suggested she check to see if there'd been any ferry delays. So she called the ferry office, MICAT, but everything was running on time. They suggested she try the Ranger station."

"But they could have been anywhere. On the island or off the island. And if they were on the island where would you start? Why go north?"

"Not a lot of thought to it Alan. I was going to do a loop of the island to see if I could locate them. Mrs. Martin gave me a description of the vehicle. I figured it shouldn't be too hard to spot if it was still around."

"And you found them - when was it - around six this morning?"

Charlie grimaced at the questions. He knew Buchanan was just doing his job, but he would have preferred they just get on with it. He nodded and gestured toward the wrecked truck. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bulmer smirking. "Yeah. Around six. Maybe a little later. By the time I covered the north beach and drove up here it was easily six o'clock. It was only by chance that I even came in this direction. I could just as easily have headed south." He hesitated for a second then shook his head and rubbed his forehead. "It was terrible."

Eldridge and Spud were both nodding slowly, their thumbs stuck in their belts. Anderson and Williams stood unmoving. Bulmer looked bored. Buchanan scratched his chin, his eyes on the shattered truck. "Ok" he said. "We're treating this as a crime scene. Obviously. This will take us a while, so keep your distance, and don't move about too much. It all looks messy I know, but it always looks messy. Now we try to make sense of it."

For the next two hours Buchanan and Bulmer 'worked the scene'. Stakes were thrust into the sand in a broad perimeter around the blood spray and the 4X4, then looped with yellow tape printed with 'Police Line – Do Not Cross'. The ambulance team hung back until the police had photographed the site. Charlie watched grudgingly as Bulmer showed his professional side. He might be an ass but he seemed to know what he was doing.

Bulmer took photographs from all sides, ensuring he captured both distances and details. He took many close up photographs of 'objects' embedded in the bloody sand – Charlie didn't even want to guess what these were – and many more of the damage to the wrecked truck. Bulmer paid particular attention to the holes in the sides and turret of the vehicle. "If I didn't know better" he mused, "I'd say it was either a machine gun or an awful big set of teeth."

While Bulmer took care of the photography, Buchanan was mapping the scene, marking the location of each 'object', confirming distances, and holding a short ruler against the damaged metal for sizing, while Bulmer took the close ups. Finally, after the police were happy they'd done as much as possible, the ambulance men began collecting anything they could find. It wasn't much. Bulmer ensured that each item collected was bagged and clearly labeled and marked off on Buchanan's map. Many other pieces of debris, car parts and scraps of clothing were also bagged and labeled, their positions also noted on the site map. Charlie stood watching silently.

Finally, Buchanan groaned and straightened up, then moved over to stand next to Charlie. He drew a long breath through his nose and glanced at Charlie. "You know what's interesting?" he said.

"What?" said Charlie.

"No footprints. And only one set of tyre tracks. And those were from the SUV." said Buchanan, shaking his head. "I don't get it. Whatever happened here, whoever did this, they had to have a way in and a way out. So what did they do? Fly?" Charlie had no answer to that. "Who's gonna call Mrs. Martin?" he asked.

Buchanan pushed his cap back high on his head, his expression pained. "That'd be me" he said. "I hate this part of the job." He swayed back and forth for a moment then shook his head. "We're going to have to get the parents down to confirm their identities. Best I can do is show them a watch. There's nothing much else to show." He hesitated and frowned. "There's nothing else I want to show."

"What about all the other tourists?" asked Charlie. "They'll need to be warned."

Buchanan nodded. "You're right. But warning won't be enough. We'll have to clear the island. How many you reckon you have out there at the moment?"

Charlie shrugged. "Dunno. Most have probably headed back by now, but it's a big island. Upwards of a hundred maybe. Maybe twenty or thirty vehicles, tops."

Buchanan turned to Bulmer. "Roger, you can help with this." Bulmer started to protest but Buchanan waved him off. "No. You and Charlie can split this end of the island. I'll do the other. But first I'll call the ferry people and have all services canned. No one comes to the island or leaves the island until we get control of this. Meanwhile you two visit all known camping spots and tell people to get themselves somewhere close by the ferry wharf. ASAP! That means now. There's the old cricket oval. They can use that. It has lights? Right?"

"Affirmative" said Charlie.

Buchanan ran his hands through his hair then looked around. "I'm calling this in to the CIB. We're not set up to manage this one."

"Jesus" said Bob Eldridge. "The place'll be crawling with suits by tonight."

"That's what I want" said Buchanan. "I want the place crawling with suits. I want every nook and cranny crawling with suits. I want every nook and cranny looked at. Whoever did this will have nowhere to run."

"Unless they've already gone" said Eldridge.

"Yep. But we're here now and we do what we can." As Buchanan walked off Charlie turned to Bulmer, who scowled and shot him a finger. _Well that helps_ thought Charlie.

Buchanan and the SES team walked over to the 4X4. While they poked around and readied the destroyed vehicle for loading onto the trailer, Charlie walked back to his Toyota. His coffee was still jammed firmly into its holder in the dashboard. There was maybe two centimetres of cold coffee in the bottom, slowly congealing. Charlie gulped it down, the bitter taste cutting through the metallic tang at the back of his throat.

He sat watching as the ambulance men finished up and headed down the beach, lights still strobing slowly on the turret. Meanwhile the SES team struggled with the wrecked SUV until, after two or three aborted attempts, the wreck was finally loaded to the SES trailer. The wrecked truck sat tilted crazily on the bed of the trailer. The SES team secured it with chains and cables.

Finally the small caravan of vehicles set out, led by Buchanan and Roger in the Land Cruiser, followed by the trailer, with Spud driving, Eldridge and Anderson in the second SES Pathfinder at the rear. Charlie noticed that all vehicles stayed close to the water, where the sand was firm, sheets of spray arcing off the wheels, leaving long silver plumes of water droplets hanging in the air.

Charlie watched them out of sight, shading his eyes with his hand. He'd forgotten his sunglasses when he was leaving the Ranger station, and the late afternoon sun was still bright, though the colours were softening. When he finally lost sight of the cars he turned and followed the tyre ruts back to the spot where the SUV had been destroyed. Now the only sign that something untoward had occurred was the churned up sand, remnants of blood spray, black and congealed, and the flapping streamers of crime scene tape stretched between the pickets.

As he stood thinking, Charlie's gaze wandered along the beach and across the tops of the dunes. A sudden cold chill ran over his body. He realized with a shock that he was alone, and there was no saying who or where the murderer was. The shadows were lengthening, and the dunes and the salty grey/green bushes took on a new colour, at once dark and menacing. The only sound he could hear was the sound of the waves washing across the sand. Even the soft sigh of the wind had disappeared. The saltbush and dunes loomed around him, silent and unmoving. He felt a spear of ice run up his spine.

Charlie jumped into the cab and fired the motor and spun the wheel. He ran the truck in tight circle that took it axle deep into the water, then he headed south, following the police as quickly as he could. He glanced in the rear vision mirror and for a second he thought he saw a dark shadow flow across a gap in the bushes near the top of a dune. The movement seemed strangely heavy, but at the same time graceful. He blinked and looked again, but it was gone. _I'm going nuts_ he muttered to himself, _I need some sleep_. But he knew that sleep was going to be a long time coming. First he would have to catch Bulmer at the ferry wharf and discuss how they were going to quarter the island. He shook his head. It was going to be a long day and a late night.

As the Toyota clattered south along the beach, the dark shadow rose again in the bushes. It watched, unmoving, as the hard skinned creature moved away. Its stomach still groaned for food, but it had sensed the danger. There were many walkers, but there were also many of the strange hard skinned beasts. It had watched the other hard skinned creatures carry away the one that it fought with and, though it did not know the concepts of life or death, it sensed a victory, and a feeling of power coursed through its body. Its massive head turned skyward and it brayed its primacy to the clouds. But this time there was no one to hear it. This time there would be no warning.

# Second taking

The Hendersons and the Totsis had decided to stay for one more day. They figured everyone else would be heading home, and so the roads and ferries would be crowded. And Maria hated crowds. That was one of the reasons they started coming to the island in the first place. She and Vincenzo loved the quiet, and the sense of adventure. The barbeque cooking, the early morning dips, the tall dunes, the wide golden beaches that seemed to go on forever, the smell of the ocean and the saltbush. It was a freedom they didn't feel in the busy suburbs of Brisbane.

But now the campgrounds were full throughout the summer. The cold-water showers, quaint and uncomfortable and reminiscent of childhood holidays, had long been replaced with new brick amenity blocks, with hot water, clean white tiles and large mirrors. Even the van sites had power and running water. Secretly Maria was a little disappointed. Now it was just like home. There was even a shop at the ferry wharf. But even though the island had changed, she had to agree it was handy to have hot water and electricity. Mostly. And yes, the shop was probably ok too. Mostly.

As she packed up the barbeque equipment Maria stared across the Black Lagoon. She had never really liked the billabong. It had an unpleasant sour smell, not quite rotten but almost, and the water was nearly black, like strong tea. She remembered the first few years they camped, how the water had been clear and pale green. You could even drink from it. But even then the placid waters had filled her with unease. She had never allowed the family to swim there.

Behind the billabong, high on the dunes above the camping area, she could see the kids floundering in the saltbush. She waved, but dropped her arm when they didn't respond. It was late in the afternoon, the sun starting its slide behind the taller dunes, its light golden and bright where it struck the sand, but dark and impenetrable in the shadows. A cool breeze fanned her cheek and Maria shivered. Suddenly the colours faded and she felt a cold ball form in her chest. She felt her skin crawl and she shivered again, her eyes suddenly anxious, roaming the dune tops for the youngsters.

She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped out of the tent. The tops of the dunes were still bright in the weakening sunlight, but the grasses and saltbush had turned from grey/green to an inky black. She looked around for Vincenzo. He was fifty metres away, helping Jack Henderson tidy up some fishing gear. They were packing rods and boxes into the Henderson's trailer. She turned and gazed at the dunes. Even as she stared the shadows darkened. Night was falling rapidly.

"Time for some dinner?" Vincenzo's voice startled her. Vincenzo and Jack had finished whatever they were doing to the trailer. They were carrying a small ice chest between them. Andrea was right behind them carrying a basket.

"Chicken sandwiches tonight" said Andrea, putting the basket down next to the ice chest. The Totsis had folding chairs and everyone took one and sat down. Jack and Vincenzo decided it was time for a beer, but Maria and Andrea opted for a crisp white. Maria took a sip, and felt an odd surge of relief when she heard the shrieks and saw the kids running across the grass.

After dinner the kids sat under the awning of the Totsi's tent, playing video games while the parents sat in a small circle around a gaslight and chatted. The sun had long set, and the night sky was awash with stars. They were just opening another bottle of wine when they heard the grind of a motor and saw the headlights coming around the base of the dunes. It sounded like a four-wheel drive. The truck rattled to a stop nearby and the door opened with a creak. It was the ranger, Charlie Mularczyk.

"Hi folks" said Charlie. "How's it going?"

"Fine" said Jack. "Come and join us."

Maria fetched another fold up chair and Charlie sat down. Jack introduced him to Maria and Andrea while Vincenzo poured him some lemonade.

"So" said Vincenzo. "Everything ok?" He nodded towards the dunes. "We heard some sirens earlier today."

Charlie nodded. "Yep. You did hear some sirens. We had some problems up on Main Beach."

"Nothing serious I hope" said Maria.

Charlie sighed. "Pretty serious. A couple of young people have disappeared. A search is under way, but we think there's a possibility they might have been attacked." Both the Totsis and the Hendersons were immediately alarmed.

"Attacked" said Vincenzo. "How were they attacked? Were they hurt?"

Charlie shook his head. "We don't know. We couldn't find them." He ed at the concerned parents, wondering how much he should tell them. He decided it would be best to be circumspect.

"We aren't sure they've been attacked, but we haven't been able to locate them, so we have concerns. Their truck was also badly damaged." This brought a surprised gasp from the adults. For a minute or so there was silence, the only sound the beeping of the video game.

"Have the police been called?" asked Maria.

Charlie nodded. "The police are here already. They're coordinating a search for the couple. We have teams out searching north and south. Two of us are checking this end of the island right now. Most holidaymakers have left by now, but to assist in the search, we're asking those remaining – yourselves included – to think about moving to the oval near the wharf. Precautionary only of course."

"Precautionary my foot" exclaimed Jack. "What exactly is going on? Are we in danger?" Andrea and Maria glanced worriedly at the kids under the awning.

"Look" said Charlie. "It would help the police if you could move down to the oval. That way we get a quick count on everyone left on the island, and the police also have a chance to speak to everyone...in case anyone's seen anything." Charlie thought this all sounded a bit weak. He waved his arm around the campsite. "It seems like you're pretty much packed anyhow."

The adults stood up and clustered around Charlie, peppering him with questions. But Maria held back. It was now quite dark, and suddenly she didn't want to be there any longer. The smell of the black lagoon was sour and pungent, and stronger than usual. The wind had also picked up, and there was cold edge to it, tinged with something else, something faintly rotten and oily. She looked uneasily towards the tall dunes, feeling a small shock of fear when she saw a flicker in the darkness. She frowned and stared hard at the spot, halfway up the side of the nearest dune. It was probably three hundred metres away, so she knew she might be mistaken. Then she saw it again. She frowned and squinted her eyes. It looked like two pinpricks of light, faintly red. While she watched they flickered again. Suddenly she had the ominous feeling that she was being watched. She felt her skin crawl, and the feeling of dread reassert itself. She moved closer to Vincenzo and touched his shoulder.

"There's someone on the dune" she whispered.

"What? Where?" asked Vincenzo. She pointed. They all turned and stared.

"I can't see anything" asked Charlie. "Where did you see it Mrs. Totsi?"

Maria pointed again. "Just there. About halfway up." She saw the pinpricks flicker again. The feeling of dread grew worse.

"Hang on a second" said Jack. "I'll get a light."

"Yeah" cried Vincenzo. "I got one too."

They were both back in a moment, each with a large spotlights. The brilliant white beams speared through the night. The men directed the lights at the face of the dune, throwing the stunted bushes and trees into sharp relief against the sand. But the pinpricks of light disappeared as soon as the spotlights were switched on. Jack and Vincenzo held the beams steady then let them move slowly across the face of the dune. All they could see was a dense grey/green cover of saltbush and stunted trees. In two or three places the sides of the dune were slashed with dark gullies, overgrown with shrubs and vines. The gullies were black gashes on the face of the dune.

They played the beams all over the dune but saw nothing. After a few moments Vincenzo switched off his light and set it down beside his chair. Charlie stood next to Jack while he continued to slide his beam slowly up and down across the dune. Jack steadied the light on the spot where they first saw the pinpricks of light.

"Doesn't look like there's anything there. Maybe it was a fox or something. Or maybe one of them dingoes that caused trouble a couple of years back."

"Maybe" said Charlie. But he wasn't convinced. He was about to turn away when he noticed something move at the edge of the beam. Something darker than the bush around it. "There" he cried. "What's that?"

Jack immediately turned the beam back across the dune. The beam steadied on the black gash of a gully. Charlie thought he saw a sinuous movement at the edge of the gully, but he blinked and it was gone. He stared. _Had he really seen it? Had he seen anything at all?_ He looked at Jack. Jack shook his head and shrugged.

Jack played his light over the surrounding dunes for another two or three minutes before he noticed the light was weakening. He turned it off and he and Charlie joined the others. While they were watching the dune, Andrea, Maria and Vincenzo had decided they would move down to the oval near the ferry. They had already rolled up the sleeping bags and other gear and packed everything into the trailers. The annex was secured and the chairs and ice chest packed and stowed. The kids were in the vans and ready to go.

Charlie shook hands with everyone and waited while they drove off. He hopped into the cab and switched on the overhead light to check his map of the island. It was almost nine o'clock and he still had five sites to visit. It really was going to be a long night. He groaned and dropped the map on the seat beside him, then reached for the starter. He kicked the engine over a couple of times before it coughed grudgingly into life. Charlie pumped the accelerator two or three times, then switched on the headlights. In the distance there was a movement in the bushes near the base of the dune. Charlie froze. Then he switched the headlights to high beam.

Nothing. Nothing but the dark green of saltbush, trees and shrubs. And the black gashes of gullies filled with inky shadows. Then that pinprick flicker again. Near the same spot at the base of the dune. Charlie felt his hair stand on end. There was definitely someone out there. He watched for a moment more, but nothing moved. Suddenly the truck motor stumbled. Charlie felt a rush of fear. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck out here alone with a broken down truck.

He revved the motor a couple more times and took a last long look at the dune. Then he knocked the truck into gear and turned the wheel. Five more sites he thought. With luck he might be finished by midnight.

* * *

As Charlie's truck rumbled back onto the sandy track and accelerated into the gloom, a dark shape separated itself from the shadows in a deep gully. It slid soundlessly down onto the grass area, its mighty head turning slowly back and forth, its nostrils quivering and wet in the cool breeze. The grass was cool under its massive feet, and it worked its claws into the grass several times, tearing huge gashes in the soil. Its eyes flashed red in the darkness, sore and weeping after the searing flashes from the walkers. It did not fear the walkers, but it knew they could inflict pain.

After the first burst of light burned itself into the Beast's retina it had recoiled, backing lower into the saltbush and scrub, shaking its head from side to side, its eyes streaming. When the second flash came the Beast was protected by the foliage around it, but still the light seared its eyes. It watched as the strange hard skinned beasts had gone into the night, their roars muffled and coarse, taking with them the bright smell of the walkers. The odour of the hard skinned beast still hung in the air, a sharp tang that caused the Beast's nostrils to flare and drip. It dimly sensed there were many of these creatures, and somewhere in its ancestral memory a warning chimed, a clouded image of the one pursued by the many. The Beast always hunted alone, and while its very savagery was so frightening as to drive off most potential attackers, still a large group might be enough to overpower it. To the Beast, the smell of the hard skinned beasts was the smell of danger.

The Beast tasted the air again, and yet again it sensed the threat of the dark water. A growl rumbled in its throat and it turned back to the dune. It was troubled. The valley was long and narrow between the high dunes, its floor flat and green between the dark water and the sand, entry and exit possible only via the narrow road that snaked west between two overgrown dunes. The Beast's instincts, always, were to flee or to fight. It knew no other creed. Its instinct were telling it to flee the valley, that danger lurked on many fronts, unseen and unknown.

The dune behind the Beast was high and sandy. The gullies were filled with scrub, but the face of the dune was only cold loose sand, which gave no purchase to the Beast's claws. To climb to the top of the dune the Beast forced its way into the nearest gully, pushing aside saltbush and vines and driving itself upwards, its powerful legs flexing with muscle as it ripped and tore at the vegetation.

The gully ran diagonally across the lower face of the dune, becoming almost perpendicular as it neared the peak. The Beast had to scrabble in shifting sand and snapping roots to drag itself finally to the summit. With a final thrust of its enormous hind legs, its claws tearing at roots and branches, the Beast drove itself to the top of the dune, its mighty chest heaving as it sucked oxygen back into its screaming muscles.

In the distance it could see flickers of light where, unknown to it, the remaining campers were converging on the ferry wharf. The Beast's nose twitched again, but the smell of danger had faded from the wind, the breezes now filled instead with the pungent aromas of the saltbush and the sea. The Beast's shoulders flexed instinctively, the energising feel of the salt water a distant memory. It gulped hungrily and pushed itself to its feet. It knew it must feed again, the feast of the night before already forgotten. The Beast's stomach groaned, noisily demanding more meat, more bone, more blood. Saliva dripped from the Beast's jaws. Its head turned to the northeast, to the farthest point of the island. A faint light glittered in the darkness.

In the Beast's small brain a memory stirred, of the creature at the water's edge, a creature with soft black skin and sweet flesh. Another burst of saliva filled the cavernous maw and again its stomach growled in anticipation. The Beast threw back it head and screamed its hunger at the stars. Then it slid silently down the side of the dune to the beach. It could wait no longer.

* * *

Rocky Matteo sat on the narrow rock shelf, his feet dangling in the water of the pool below. He leaned back, his arms spread wide behind him, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He felt good. A four-foot swell, a nice off shore breeze, a left to right break off the rocks. The day had been perfect. Water so green and clear you could see right though it, and Drea a million bucks in a new bikini. And then, when he finished surfing, some delicious steaks on the barbeque. What could be better?

Rocky and his fiancé Drea had driven up from Tallebudgera to share a few romantic days on Moreton Island. Rocky worked as a panel beater in Robina. Drea managed a doctors' office only a few blocks away. It suited them for the moment, but Rocky's plan was to save enough set up his own business. So far everything was on schedule.

With the campgrounds filled with holidaymakers he and Drea decided to try the unserviced camping spots along the northern side of the island. But it seemed everyone had the same idea. All the camping areas were filled with tents and 4X4s. Rocky and Drea didn't find the solitude they wanted until they hit North Point, a wide flat grassy area at the base of golden dunes. There was a gorgeous rock pool at the edge of the water, and long white beaches on either side. And no other campers.

Behind him he heard the squeak of rubber sandals on rock as Drea made her way to the edge of the pool. She spread out a towel and sat down, her leg touching his. To the east he could see the faint line of the horizon, the colours morphing from the black of the ocean into the deep purple of the night sky. It was a clear evening, the cool air filled with the smell of salt water and seaweed. A half moon hung low on the horizon, its silver beams a rippling path across the water. Drea had left the radio playing in the van, the faint tinkle of Kenny Rogers barely audible. Rocky and slid his arm around Drea's shoulders.

The pool was several metres wide and perhaps two metres deep. Rocky and Drea sat on an overhanging ledge, the small grotto below filled with oysters, the waving sea grasses flickering against the sandy bottom of the pool. Every now and then a wave broke over the edge of the pool, the water lapping at their feet and rolling cool and slippery around their ankles.

Near the horizon Rocky could see the lights of a ship. It was probably a cruise ship he mused, its length covered in furry balls of white light. Further south they could see the faint glimmer of the high rises of the Gold Coast. Every now and then there was a bright twinkle from one of the skyscrapers. Above it all, a dull, yellow glow from city lights covered a third of the southern sky.

A large wave broke over the edge of the pool, spray feathering in the evening breeze and settling in a shiver across their shoulders. The temperature seemed to drop suddenly, the chill raising goose bumps on their arms and legs. Drea squeaked and pulled her feet out of the water.

"I'm going to get a jacket" she said, jumping up and setting off across the rocks.

While he waited for Drea to return Rocky kicked his feet in the water and rocked back and forth. He took a huge breath and released it, letting out a deep sigh. Another few days would have been great. He took another deep breath. But this time he almost gagged. He dropped his cigarette and pulled his feet from the water. He stumbled upright, a hand across his mouth, his face contorted. The air was filled with a filthy stench. He grabbed his towel and held it to his mouth, then turned to make his way across the rocks to their camp. That's when Drea screamed.

Rocky froze. "Dre" he yelled. "What's up? You alright?" Then he started across the rocks again, staring into the darkness as he picked his way over the uneven surface. Drea had left the gas lamp burning so he could see the tent and the near side of the SUV. But the bright light of the lamp threw everything else into dark shadow. Drea was standing by the side of the tent, still and silent, staring into the darkness of the dunes.

"Dre" he called. "Dre. You ok?" Rocky stumbled over the last few pieces of rock and stepped onto the grass. Drea was only a few metres away, but she was backing towards him, still staring into the darkness. Her hands were shaking. Rocky hesitated for a second then stepped forward. As he did so the smell intensified. He could almost feel it in the air, a foul odour that rolled across his skin like a touch of grease. And suddenly he could hear a strange snuffling. A wet, throaty sound that turned his skin cold and raised the hairs on his arms. As his arm snaked round Drea's back, he felt her body shiver.

"Dre. Dre. It's ok. It's ok." He tried to gather her to him but she pushed him away, still backing towards the water.

Rocky peered from side to side in gloom. _What the heck is she talking about? And what's that stink?_ These were the last thoughts of Rocky Matteo. Suddenly Drea screamed and ran. As she ran across the rocks, Rocky turned, and as he turned the darkness opened, and something from the deepest bowels of hell stepped into the light.

His blood froze.

# Emergency

A hundred police and emergency workers had converged on the island, and by late afternoon the command centre was packed, the car park filled with vehicles. The Cleveland Police were again in charge, with Alan Buchanan acting as Coordinating Officer. Buchanan already looked as if he was about to explode. He had set up the command centre in the community hall.

Charlie had always liked the hall. It was plug ugly, but it had a timelessness that new buildings couldn't emulate. The faded sign above the narrow porch read _Moreton Mechanics Institute 1939_ , in scaly gothic lettering. Perhaps the letters were etched in silver when first painted seventy years ago. Now they were barely shadows against the bleached wood. Beneath the sign, the warped timber doors of the hall were painted a dull khaki, but the remainder of the building, inside and out, was coated in a nauseating institutional yellow.

The hall was two hundred feet long, but only the right hand wall had any windows. All the interior walls were unlined, but no ceiling had ever been fitted. As a result the underside of the aged sheets of the galvanised iron roof were exposed, as well as the spindly iron ceiling beams. All were darkened with years of rust. Without insulation or lining, the hall was little more than a large hollow drum, the sound of the rain on its metal roof a muted roar. Twenty soviet era factory lights hung from the ceiling beams. These ran in two rows the length of the hall, each light painted a dull green and attached to its supporting beam by sturdy links of chain. After the darkness outside the lights seemed prodigiously bright. Charlie felt like he needed shades. Towards the rear of the hall, a dozen rows of cinema seats sat beneath the lights. The seats were covered in a worn purple fabric, and had clearly seen plenty of use before their journey to Kooringal.

On the left hand side of the hall a single open doorway and a linked serving hatch let into a kitchen. The kitchen was a late addition, long and narrow and constructed entirely of fibro sheets attached to the side of the hall. Inside the kitchen there was a yellow refrigerator, a white stove with three hotplates, a black and silver microwave, a tall cylindrical silver electric urn, a stainless steel sink set into green laminex cabinets, and a battered green formica table with half a dozen unmatched plastic and steel chairs nearby. Charlie saw that the cabinet top was scattered with the remains of biscuits and several torn plastic biscuit packets. Several jars with coffee and tea bags sat behind them. The tabletop was littered with coffee mugs and a partly empty plastic milk container.

Charlie pushed his way past several orange-jacketed emergency staff from Redcliffe and walked quickly to the back of the hall, where Alan Buchanan sat at a stained wooden table. There were maps and papers all over the table. A huge map of the island hung on the wall behind the table. There were several small red buttons attached to the map in the northern part of the island. Charlie noticed several buckets set to one side of the table. Each was already half full of water. He wasn't surprised. He knew that maintenance of old buildings came a long last in the Park's budget. No reason why the local council would be any different.

"Hi Alan" said Charlie. "Sorry to barge in but I've only heard some sketchy reports. What's happened?"

Alan glanced up. "You heard we lost another one?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, but no details."

Alan rubbed a hand across his forehead. "It was called in early this morning. A family heading back to the early ferry came across a young woman wandering on the beach near Yellow Patch. She was incoherent, so they brought her into the hospital. She was ranting about an animal, but she wasn't making any sense. They finally found out that she and her fiancé were camping up at North Point. She's been knocked out ever since."

"Has anyone been up to North Point?"

"Of course. Laurie Wells and Max Potts. They drove up there straight away. It wasn't late. Must have been around eight. They found a tent, or what was left of it, a van, pretty much in the same condition as the 4X4 we took off the beach near Rous the other day. They called it in, secured the site and came straight back. We had a full team up there first thing."

"What about the fiancé?" asked Charlie.

Alan shook his head. "Not a thing. Only some scraps of torn clothing, and a lot of blood." Alan paused and check his watch. "We've got a briefing in twenty minutes. You want to wait for that?"

Charlie shook his head. "I'd prefer a quick heads-up. But only if I'm not getting in the way. I won't be able to get the details in a big meeting."

"Okay – I can give you five minutes – no more. The team got back at two thirty. Pretty much the same report as Wells and Pottsy except for one thing. Tracks."

"Tracks? What sort of tracks?"

"Animal tracks."

"Animal tracks?"

"Yep. You remember how messed up everything was at the Cox-Martin camp? Crap everywhere, truck destroyed, all the sand churned up?" Charlie nodded. He remembered all too well.

"Well this time they found prints. Big ones too, and very strange. They've sent them over to a couple of guys at the Zoology Department at the University of Queensland."

"What was strange about them? And how big were they?"

Alan held his up and spread them almost two feet apart. "Massive. And deep. One print showed six toes plus an imprint of at least one huge claw. Other prints indicated multiple claws. They measured one of the claw holes." Alan held up his hands again. "It was nearly thirty centimetres deep."

"Blimey!" said Charlie. "If the claws are a foot long then how big's the animal?"

"That my man is the million dollar question" said Alan. "If it is an animal of course. And if it is, it's an almighty big one."

"I saw Ronnie Cox's truck. It was a mess. It'd have to be...something enormous...to do that much damage."

Alan nodded and stood up. "You're right there. It would have to be darn big. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was a just group of thugs. We don't know for sure who or what it is at the moment. I'm just glad I called the CIB yesterday. If I hadn't called we would have lost a whole day." He picked up some papers and stepped from behind the desk. "You might want to grab a seat. We're ready to start the briefing. I'm leading off. Jim Owen from the CIB is filling in the details." Alan pointed towards the small group of 'suits' standing near the map.

"So what's with the CIB? What have they achieved so far? Like zip?" Like all officials with a jurisdiction, Charlie bristled at the thought of 'suits' or 'head office' types moving in whenever convenient. It was usually for political reasons, and it often resulted in confusion and chaos and, when the dust cleared, the blame always settled on the locals.

Alan shrugged. He didn't seem fazed. "The Premier's asked the CIB to run the case. Apparently the disappearances are big news. They think it might be related to those disappearances in the Northern Rivers a few years back. I'm happy to be second chair on this one. Let Owen deal with the politics."

Charlie nodded. He understood what Alan meant. He also believed they were a little alike. Charlie had neither the desire nor the ability to mix it in political circles. He didn't understand politics and he never wanted to understand it. In fact, he had no time for it. But he knew it didn't matter what he thought. There were those who ran the state and its bureaucracies, and it was their call. But he blew out a long breath as he considered what Alan had said. _An animal?_ Uncle Cecil's words were echoing in his ear.

As Alan walked over to join the CIB detectives, Charlie turned to take a seat. The hall had filled and he saw that most of the seats in the first ten to fifteen rows were taken, a gaudy display of red, orange and white overalls of emergency services staff interspersed with the light blue/dark blue of the police. Nearly everyone seemed to have a cup of tea or coffee. Many were munching on biscuits.

There was one seat left in the front row and Charlie took it. As he sat down he noticed Roger Bulmer was sitting only three seats to his left. As usual Bulmer was smirking. Charlie acknowledged him with a curt nod. Bob Eldridge, Brian Anderson and Dao Phan from the SES were sitting next to Bulmer. They all nodded in greeting. Dao still had her Miami Heat cap on. She flicked the brim of the cap with her middle finger and winked at him.

Charlie had barely settled in the chair when Alan Buchanan's voice cut through the chatter. He rapped the bottom end of an old wooden duster on the table to attract everyone's attention. Buchanan was standing next to his desk and in front of the large wall map. In his other hand he held a long wooden pointer. A CIB detective stood on his left, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, hands on hips. Charlie noticed the cut of the trousers and the chisel-toed shoes.

"Afternoon everyone. First of all, a big thanks for getting here so quickly. I think you're all aware of the gravity of the situation so I won't waste any time. I'll provide a brief overview, then hand over to Detective Jim Owen of the CIB who'll bring us all up to date. Jim will be leading the investigation. Cleveland is providing all coordination."

Alan half turned and tapped the pointer against the map, pinning it to the wall. "Three disappearances in three days. In each case we've found indications of violence, so it's possible these disappearances are GBHs, if not homicides. First disappearance three days ago, on the southeast side of the island, a couple of kilometres north of Rous. Two missing persons. Shana Martin, 23, from Southport, and Ronnie Cox, 24, from Toowong. Damaged vehicle and human remains found early on Monday morning by Charlie Mularczyk from the Ranger station." He shifted the pointer to the top of the map and continued.

"Third disappearance last night at North Point – at the top of the island. One missing person, name of Rocky Matteo, 28, from Robina. Mr. Matteo's partner, Drea Alborichi, 25, also of Robina, was picked up early this morning near Yellow Patch, two kilometres southwest of North Point. Ms. Alborichi had only superficial injures but was airlifted to Brisbane Hospital where she has been sedated. The few words we were able to get from her indicated that she and Mr. Matteo may had been attacked by some sort of animal. Apparently she survived by diving into a rock pool. But that's about it. She was in no state to tell us more." He tapped the map again.

"Both sites have been roped off as crime scenes. The forensics team has been over each site." Buchanan gestured towards the CIB officer who still hadn't moved. "I'll hand over now to Jim."

"What sort of human remains?" A voice came from somewhere behind Charlie. He resisted the urge to turn around.

"What sort of animal?" came another voice.

"First things first. At the first site we found a human hand. We found nothing else. The hand has been identified as male, but we haven't yet linked it to Mr. Cox. The CIB may have some more up to date information on this. As for the animal, who knows? It seems highly unlikely there's a large animal loose on the island, but the evidence suggests otherwise."

"What about the girl that was brought in? Did she do it?"

Buchanan shook his head. "No, we don't believe she's implicated. For either incident. But clothing and blood samples have been collected from both sites. DNA testing will be complete in several days." Buchanan paused expectantly, but when there were no further questions he turned to the CIB officer and offered him the floor.

The CIB detective was younger than Buchanan. Younger, in fact, than most of the other people in the room. He had a sharp face, a bladed nose and dark hair. When he spoke Charlie was mildly surprised to hear a faint Irish accent. He thought the detective looked like Anthony Lapaglia.

"Hi folks. And thanks to Alan for the introduction. As you'd be aware the Premier has asked that the CIB become involved in this case. This isn't to discredit any of the other agencies. It's a chance for us to work together, to pool our resources and, hopefully, achieve a quicker outcome. This is a nasty business, and it's already high on the public radar. And after only two days." Owen paused and cast his eyes around the room, then settled back on the edge of the table.

"I need to put this in a bit of context, to clarify why it's so high on the Premier's radar. Many of you may recall the Eight Mile Plains and Mile End cases from several years back." There were quite a few nodding heads and a low rumble of agreement. Owen continued.

"These cases were very similar to what we see here, namely a series of unexplained disappearances, all surrounded by evidence of violence. But, as we have here, no bodies. We put a lot of resources into those cases, but they've never been solved. Needless to say we're pretty embarrassed they're still open after so many years. For the sake of the families, we have an imperative to solve those cases, as well as these new ones. We need to know who, what and why."

Dao leaned across and whispered to Charlie. "Maybe they need to solve them to reclaim some credibility." Charlie frowned at her and shook his head, shushing her. She grinned and fired a finger gun at him. Owen continued.

"And finally, as you all know, we have a history of this sort of thing in Queensland. Disappearances I mean. We have more disappearances in Queensland than all the other states combined. So the Premier's very keen to see this one solved and put to bed as soon as possible."

Following Owen's words a rumble of disquiet spread through the room. Charlie felt the worm of frustration crawl through his chest. Same old, same old. A political speech to kick off. He glanced at Alan who was watching Owen expectantly. Owen batted the air to quiet the room. "Okay" he said. "You're right. I had to say that. But it doesn't make it wrong. We have a far greater chance of solving this if we work together." He turned and pointed to the map.

"Take a look if you will. Nearly forty kilometres long. Up to thirteen kilometres wide. That means we have almost two hundred square kilometres to search. And more than eighty percent of the island is thick scrub. And half of it all but impenetrable." He paused to let it sink in. Charlie licked his lips. He didn't have to be told. He knew how big the island was.

"Okay. It's a big ask. But with this force we can make it smaller. We have more than one hundred on the team. We'll keep the command centre small, and we'll have a small team vetting all the traffic leaving the island. This will still allow us to put ninety personnel in the field." He paused and glanced at his watch. "Unfortunately it's almost nine p.m. And the weather's terrible. The island's simply too rugged for a safe night search in these conditions, so we start early." There was a chorus of groans.

"C'mon. You didn't think it was going to be a holiday. Get something to eat and drink and kip down. We head out at 5 am. Sharp! So be ready. We're going to run three groups, Red Group, Blue Group and Yellow Group. Each group will be made up of three teams, simply named Teams One, Two and Three. Each team has ten operatives. To set up each team we started with jurisdictional groupings, then we mixed it up based on skill and seniority. Each team has a team leader. Each group has a coordinator. I've chosen the coordinator in each case. Sorry about that, but sometimes democracy is just going to slow us down. All the coordinators are CIB by the way. They'll report directly to the command team. That's myself, Alan Buchanan from Cleveland, and Charles Mochrie of the SES. Team and group details are posted on the boards next to the kitchen, including the ferry group." He pointed toward the left side of the hall, then turned back to the map and tapped it with the pointer.

"We'll broken the island into three sectors." He drew the pointer across the map. "Red Group will take Sector A in the northernmost part of the island. Sector A will cover the area between North Point and a line level with the Black Lagoon turn-off." The pointer tapped its way from the Black Lagoon on the eastern coast of the island to a point a kilometre above Cowan Cowan on the western side. "You'll note we've split the sectors based on terrain. Between Cowan Cowan and the Black Lagoon turn-off there's heavy scrub, and the terrain is...difficult... so it's a natural boundary.

Blue Group will tackle Sector B, the area south of the Cowan Cowan line and above Tangalooma Resort. Red and Blue groups should note that the bulk of the island's bushy areas are contained in Sectors A and B, so be careful. These areas are the most inaccessible parts of the island." The pointer moved down the map past the Tangalooma turnoff.

"The lower half of the island will comprise Sector C. Yellow Group will search this sector. This area covers the longest and narrowest part of the island. It's not as difficult as the northern end, but it still presents some challenges due to the height of the central dunes, plus the lack of access roads." He turned and ran the pointer across the map.

"Use the terrain to your advantage. Note the natural boundaries in each search area - beaches, access roads, dune summit lines, watercourses. Use these to quarter your search areas. Make sure all team members understand this. And note the terrain. It's tough. Follow the contours as much as possible. You'll save time and energy and avoid most of the steep climbs, but not all. And a further point - try to maintain sight-lines with your colleagues at all times."

Owen paused for a moment and consulted his notes. "Another thing. The weather forecast isn't good. Rain and low cloud are expected for the next twenty-four hours, along with escalating storm conditions. A stack of wet weather gear has been brought in. It's in the CWA Hall next door if you need it." At this point Owen glanced at his watch again.

"Team leaders and coordinators have already been briefed. I suggest they get together immediately to finalise equipment checks and numbers. The rest of you check your teams and get something to eat. I think you're going to need it. Any questions before we close?"

"Any idea what we're searching for?" Charlie turned in his seat. A tall, sandy haired SES worker was standing up, several rows back. He had the long rangy build and colouring of a man who worked outdoors. His face was heavily lined and his skin was an even brown.

Jim Owen rubbed his chin with one hand and pushed out his bottom lip. "To be honest? We aren't sure. As Alan said, it seems pretty damned unlikely there's a savage animal loose on the island. Sure, it's nearly two hundred square kilometres in area, but how long have people been coming here? For years! And this is the first time anything like this has happened? That seems doubtful. So if it's an animal, where did it come from? How did it get here? I think it's unlikely. Not impossible maybe, but pretty unlikely." Jim took a glass from the desk and sipped before continuing. "The most likely scenario is drugs."

There was an affirmative rumble through the room as he said this. Even Charlie found himself nodding. The SES man spoke again.

"You think there's a connection between these incidents and drugs?"

Jim shook his head. "It's early days in the investigation, and so far we have nothing that indicates any of the victims – and we'll assume they're victims in the absence of bodies – has a history with drugs. But the violence that appears to frame each incident could be drug related. Particularly if someone is trying to send a message."

"If it's drug related then the perpetrators have probably already left the island." This came from Alan Buchanan.

Jim nodded. "That's definitely a possibility. Even so, and as you're all aware, all vehicles still on the island are being searched prior to loading to the ferry. All occupants are also being interviewed and IDs checked."

Alan Buchanan spoke again. "So our chances of finding anyone on the island are pretty slim?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't know. The search and interview process was in place less than four hours after Alborichi was brought in. That's reasonably quick, so there's still a chance the perpetrators are on the island."

"What about boats Jim?" This came from Charles Mochrie.

"Good question, but not necessarily a good answer. If the perps are waterborne, it's quite possible they were gone before Alborichi was found. In fact, it's almost certain. As you know, the area's infested with craft of all sizes. And the shoreline up and down the coast has a million kilometres of waterways. We have only two patrol craft available, one for each side of the island. They'll monitor all water traffic."

"How long will they be on station?"

He held his hands out, palms up. "We have them for three days. I know it's limited, but it's the best we could do."

"And weapons?" Again, it was Mochrie.

"Another good question. That's why we have the mixed teams. CIB and police officers will carry side arms. But no one else. For safety reasons we'll issue a taser to each member of the search teams. All team leaders will also carry a GPS. And note – the group coordinators will explain rules of engagement, and they must be observed. Also remember that the Alborichi girl did mention an animal. So keep your eyes peeled. Time's running out. Let's get going. "

There was a loud rumble as the meeting broke up, groups and individuals making their way to their staging points. Charlie stood and pushed his way to the notice board to check which team he was allocated to. He was pleased to see he was in Blue Group in Team Two, with Graham Moss as Team Leader. Mal Coolidge was the group coordinator. Charlie headed out to the staging point for Sector B. It was at the far end of the car park. From there they would commence a grid search of some of the deepest and darkest gullies and canyons on the island. And some of the most overgrown. Charlie figured if anyone or anything was looking for a hiding place, then Sector B was the place to choose.

Charlie felt a shiver of anticipation. Then he remembered the condition of Ronnie's truck, and the worm of dread crawled through his chest again. He realised that no one really knew what they were up against. Was it an animal of some sort? Alan's reports of claws and huge footprints seemed fantastic. And unbelievable. There simply weren't any animals of that nature or size in Australia. Or anywhere else in the world for that matter. From Alan's description it sounded like a cross between a sabre tooth tiger and an elephant. Or some kind of vicious dinosaur. To Charlie it sounded like nonsense, but he'd long given up trying to understand the thought processes of senior bureaucrats. He shook his head. It didn't make sense. What did make sense was a group of violent drug runners with a bent for destruction. But whoever it was, or whatever it was, it was dangerous. Jim Owen had issued a sober warning. Extreme vigilance at all times!

# Search

The light faded rapidly as the sun sank below the horizon, bringing almost immediate gloom to the deep canyon. The dense overhang of grass and tangled roots created a stygian darkness in the cave, a darkness filled with menace. The Beast was uneasy. Its instincts told it there was danger nearby. The cave was silent and dark, but its senses, born over so many millennia, sensed a shift. The pig like nostrils flared, testing the wind, but there was no danger in the breezes, only the familiar tang of saltbush and ozone. Of course the Beast did not recognise odours, they were simply part of its ancient memory, recognized instinctively as the elements that nurtured it. In this sense such smells conjured in the Beast's mind a feeling that might be best described as comfort, or rest. Other smells, also linked to primordial memories embedded deep in the Beast's ancestry, might conjure fear and rage, or hunger and pain. The Beast did not think or ponder; it simply existed. But this time the Beast could not rest. Its senses pulsed with fear and rage, its unease causing the Beast to writhe and growl, its huge maw opening in a silent snarl of hate, its muscles coiling as if to strike at an unknown adversary.

The Beast's hearing, like its eyesight, was highly developed. The armour-like hide surrounding the ears moved slightly, widening in order to solicit even the faintest of sounds. To the human ear it was deathly silent. To the Beast it was a symphony. It heard the soft scuttlings of beetles in the sand, the rustle as a family of field mice moved through the undergrowth. It heard the heavier furtive tread of the dingo, and the impossibly distant cry of an owl. And far beyond that, something else. It was the faintest of vibrations, yet a harbinger of great danger.

The Beast belched and again the rich, ripe odour of raw flesh and blood filled the cave. The Beast had fed well the night before. It had taken the first walker easily, tearing it to pieces in a moment. But the second walker had fled into the water and, though the Beast pursued it among the rocks, it could not be dislodged. Eventually the Beast retreated to the top of the dune to lie in wait. Throughout the night the Beast watched in silence as the walker moved about in the water, but it never ventured forth. Finally, as the first bright rays of the early sun began to burn through the ground mist, the Beast was forced to seek shelter.

The Beast squirmed on the floor of the cave, rolling and kicking cool sand and damp earth across its hot carapace. It snapped at the faint memory of pain in its rear leg then raised its mighty head. The vibrations came again. The Beast could feel them through the sand. The fear that coursed through its body turned to rage and the Beast backed up against the rear of the cave, its stomach growling and burning. It relieved itself in the darkness, adding to the already overpowering stench. Its body was readying itself for battle.

* * *

Far above the Beast, and several kilometres to the south, six SES four-wheel drives ground their way along the sandy track. The vehicles moved slowly through a heavy downpour, windscreen wipers slapping, the rain a forest of silver arrows in the bouncing headlights. Each of the 4X4s was set up as a troop carrier, with thinly padded seating on each side, and low hanging racks attached to the ceiling. A thirty centimeter deep cage was bolted to the floor directly behind the driver and passenger seats, and filled with equipment. The vehicles were fitted with all-terrain tyres and carried heavy roof racks. Metal racks were bolted to the exteriors of the rear doors. Large plastic jerry cans were locked into each rack, orange for fuel, blue for water.

Each vehicle was crowded with personnel and equipment. Charlie was in the back of the third 4X4, driven by Graham Moss, Dom Aiello in the passenger's seat. Charlie sat crunched between two beefy cops from Cleveland, his anorak still slick with water, his boots tangled with those of the equally beefy SES workers sitting opposite. He felt hot and bothered. And small.

Charlie was wearing overalls, anorak and heavy waterproof boots. As he'd jumped into the back of the 4X4, one of the SES men had tossed him a pack. It sat on his lap, heavy with water, ropes and other safety equipment, and some small items of food; a block of chocolate, two muesli bars, a bag of nuts. Charlie marveled at how well prepared they were. He'd also left his helmet on, torch secured at the front with a rayon strap that circled the helmet. Like the others Charlie slouched in the seat to avoid knocking his helmet on the ceiling racks.

He leaned forward and peered over Graham's shoulder. It was the cusp of darkness and dawn, the shadows beginning to leach away, the shapes of bushes and stunted trees emerging slowly from the gloom. But visibility was still poor due to the low cloud and the rain. Cool air and spatters of rain came in bursts through the driver's open window, and Charlie could taste the burnt smell of the saltbush. There was a faint overlay of ozone and rotting sea grass. The familiar odours comforted him.

The 4X4s were winding their way up the Telegraph Track past the Mt Tempest turn-off. Mal Coolidge, the coordinator, was in the leading vehicle. As they stood in the early morning drizzle outside the CWA hall in Kooringal, sipping coffee, he'd advised them that they would start their search two kilometres north of Mt Tempest. From there they would push east for two kilomtres, then sweep south-east until they hit the beach. This would enable them to follow the primary contours of the dune system. It also ensured a more comprehensive sweep of the search area. Coolidge said that he planned a grid search, with searchers spread out at thirty metre intervals over some nine hundred metres. After they reached the beach they would regroup and return, a parallel search to the northwest to a rendezvous back on the Telegraph Track. If time permitted, an afternoon sweep was planned for the western side of the island. Team Leaders checked that all operatives were issued with heavy-duty flashlights. Everyone had water, a rope and a small hatchet.

Somehow Charlie didn't like the odds. He had a bad feeling. _I mean, heck, what if it is some bloody great animal that's been killing people? What then? Run? Only the CIB men and the cops had guns. What if the bloody thing jumped up in front of someone without a gun? That'd be brilliant. What were you supposed to do then? Shoot it with a Taser? The nearest guy with a gun might be fifty metres away, and fifty metres was a long way in mid-island. Crikey, in this gloom you'd be lucky to see anyone, even if they were only ten metres away._ Charlie started to wonder whether it was even safe to have guns. They might end up shooting each other.

_And what if it was drug runners? Those guys are ruthless. They always have machine guns, and names like Knuckles, or Cueball._ Charlie knew this was true because he'd seen several documentaries about Mexican drug cartels. _Blimey. It was frightening all right. Was the search even a good idea?_

The rain seemed to increase as they pushed past the Mt Tempest turn-off. The track curled along the base of the tall inland dunes then rose steadily as it followed sweeping curves into the centre of the island. The 4X4s ground their way forward, the rain falling in sheets, and low cloud and mist gusting through the scrub. As they swung into a lay-by cut from the saltbush, each 4X4 disgorged its occupants. Charlie clattered out through the back doors, wriggling into his pack and testing the flashlight. He saw Spud and the two other team leaders move over to speak with Coolidge. Up ahead he could see the 4X4s of the Red Group, their headlights shining dimly through the murk. They had already set up and were commencing their search from the same point, but in their case they would search to the north.

After speaking with Coolidge and checking the GPS, Moss led them back along the track for several hundred metres, then started peeling off team members at thirty metre intervals. Charlie glanced over his shoulder and saw a line of searchers disappearing into the rain, their positions marked by the flicker of their flashlights. He guessed the other teams were spread out behind them along the winding path of the Telegraph. This meant the search line had a front of almost a kilometre. They were three kilometres inland so the search would cover an area of approximately three square kilometres as it moved to the beach. The sweep back would cover another three square kilometres. Charlie pursed his lips as he considered their prospects. Ninety personnel, heavy rain, difficult terrain, dense vegetation, poor visibility, and a search area the size of a small town. He shook his head. It didn't auger well.

There was a crackle of walkie-talkie noise and some muted commands, and the line of searchers began to move. Charlie stepped off the track into field grass that was almost knee high. The sand under the grass was reasonably stable, but it was hard going, the grass tussocky and lumpy under their feet, roots tugging at their ankles, sharp branches slapping at their knees. Water was cascading off his helmet and, after only a few steps, he felt it begin run down his neck. He twitched the hood of his jacket and pulled it over the top of his helmet. Immediately he was cocooned in a tight bubble of sweaty dampness, the rain beating a loud tattoo on his head and shoulders, his breath scratchy and coarse and, suddenly, unnaturally loud. Charlie felt himself starting to perspire.

Charlie could see only the man on each side, all others obscured in the heavy rain. Sounds were muted, as if coming from the inside of a large drum, like truncated echoes. Charlie blinked the water from his eyes and tried to refocus. He felt like he was having an out of body experience. Whatever that was.

* * *

Over the next three hours, the members of Blue Group moved slowly across an undulating landscape of rolling sandhills, making their way along the sides of dunes that increased in height as they moved south-east towards the beach. The taller dunes were split by narrow gullies, eroded by wind and water and cut deeply into the sides and intersections of the dunes. Most gullies were no more than a few feet deep, but some were much deeper. And they were beginning to flood. Several times the men encountered fast moving currents in the bottoms of deeper gullies and were forced to clamber quickly to higher ground.

Charlie was at the base of a deep canyon known as Shrapnel Gully, a kilometre south of Mt Tempest, water running fast around his knees. He watched as a soup of sand and mud and broken branches swept by, as thick and dark as treacle. The walls of the canyon were steep, carved from the face of the dune by heavy flooding in years gone by. Now the walls were covered with grass and shrubs, the twisted vines and foliage forming a green arch over the watercourse. Water poured through the overhanging vegetation as if from a huge showerhead, cascading down the sides of the canyon. Charlie knew he didn't have long. The canyon could fill with water in a minute.

Charlie cast his eyes to the right then the left. The dim light filtered through the vegetation, creating a cave-like atmosphere. _A perfect hiding place. Exactly where someone could jump you._ Suddenly Charlie felt exposed and alone, and a shiver ran through him. This time it wasn't the cold water running down his back. Charlie looked up, but he could see only a tightly woven canopy of vegetation. Water dripped into his eyes, causing him to squint. He couldn't hear a thing, only the sound of the water swirling at his knees. He snapped on the powerful flashlight, sweeping the beam to the left and right. _Jesus! Where is everybody?_ _It's so bloody dark you'd think you were underground._

To his left the muddy brown water emerged from a tangled mess of vines, broken timber and tree roots. To his right it disappeared down a slight incline and around a bend, until it plunged down towards the beach. Some water slipped into his boot, cold and gritty, and he felt a strange apprehension grip him.

Charlie turned and began to scramble up the bank, following the same path he had used to climb down. As he pushed aside the shrubs and branches, forcing his way up the steep side of the wash-away, a sudden burst of foul air struck him, causing him to gag. He realised he must have disturbed a lair, or possibly the carcass of a dead animal. In his haste, he had no desire to stop and confirm what it was, but he made a mental note to mention it to Duncan. He pushed on, breathing through his mouth. As he neared the peak of the dune he saw one of the SES men watching him. It was his team leader, Graham Moss. Graham moved towards him. "Anything down there?"

Charlie pulled himself up the final couple of feet and sat down. He shook his head. "Nothing. Just water. But it's like a cave in there. We're going to have trouble finding anything. There are just too many places like this."

Graham squatted beside him. "You're probably right. I spent a couple of weeks in the Snowy years ago, searching for some snowboarders. Talk about needles in a haystack." He shook his head. "This is just as bad."

Suddenly there was a crackle of static. Graham put the walkie-talkie to his ear. He grunted a couple of times then dropped it. It hung round his neck on a yellow lanyard. "Coolidge" he grunted. "Let's get a move on."

The rain had eased a little, improving visibility and lifting the gloom, at least momentarily. Charlie could see the lights of the other members of the group, a ragged line of wavering halos in the drizzle. Unsurprisingly, and given the undulating nature of the terrain, the plan to separate team members by thirty metres had fallen apart almost immediately. The terrain was so problematic that most searchers were now clustered along the tops of several parallel dunes. Gaggles of searchers were following the spine of each dune as closely as possible, venturing down the sides of the dunes at intervals to check gullies and wash-aways. Charlie didn't think this was entirely efficient, but he sympathized. It was hard going, and this was probably the only practical way to get the job done. And Graham was right too. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. He wondered if the police had any idea how difficult it was going to be. The island was almost two hundred square kilometres in area. One hundred personnel simply wasn't enough. To properly search the island it was going to require a lot more feet on the ground. Charlie knew that was never going to happen.

* * *

One hundred metres south-west of Graham and Charlie, deep in the bowels of a dank gully, the shadows moved. The heavy tangle of vines and roots parted in the darkness as the Beast pushed its enormous head through the curtain of vegetation, out into the gloom of the canyon. Its nostrils twitched at the bitter smell of the mud and the rotting debris scoured from the sides of dunes. The water swirled into the Beast's lair beneath the overhang, moving in slow eddies around the edges of the cave, mixing sand and leaves with the Beast's droppings. The Beast stood unmoving as the water curled around its clawed feet, working its pads into the gravel beneath the sand. Then it lowered itself into the water and rolled on its back, cooling its hide and washing away the sand and itching mites that infested it. Then it drank greedily.

But the Beast was agitated. The distant grinding vibrations had ceased, and for a time the Beast had rested. Then its senses detected another sound, transmitted faintly through the deep layers of sand. An irregular, scraping sound that marched steadily towards the Beast. As these vibrations increased, so the Beast's unease became intolerable. Its acute hearing began to detect faint cries, interspersed with the steady tramp of many feet.

Again the Beast's primordial memory served it, bringing dim and faded images of dark walkers moving in a bleached landscape of rock and sand. The dark walkers carried strange round objects that emitted loud booming sounds, when struck, sounds that registered danger to the Beast's ancestors, sounds that drove them further into the narrow valleys, further into the killing ground. This time the sounds were closer. Suddenly the bright smell of a walker penetrated the cave, filling the Beast's mouth with saliva and causing its stomach to boil with pain. The Beast moved closer to the curtain of vines. It could hear the walker, invisible behind the vines, yet only centimetres from the strike of a mighty claw. The Beast's muscles coiled on themselves, and another burst of saliva struck its mouth. It readied itself for attack.

But in the second before the Beast burst through the overhanging vines, a beam of bright light flickered across the front of the cave, the white beam piercing the overhanging vegetation and striking like a lightning bolt on the Beast's retina. The Beast reared back, momentarily blinded in one eye, its mouth snapping, a huge claw striking blindly in the dark. The Beast's instincts were strong, and it eased its massive body silently towards the rear of the cave. Better to suffer in silence and live, than to attack in anger and die. In the Beast's ancestry there had been no room for stragglers.

As the smell of the walker faded the Beast settled on the floor of its cave. Its stomach still growled with hunger but it knew it must wait until dark. It sensed the vibrations moving away, the tread of feet becoming faint, lost finally in the sound of the swirling water and the rain. With its body supported on a bed of wet sand, the Beast rested, its hide cooled, its hooded eyes slowly closing. Soon, the darkness would come.

# The scientists

Charlie glanced at his watch as he climbed down from the troop carrier. Six p.m. Nine hours! And nothing to show except a million mosquito bites and a thousand scratches. He groaned as he splashed his way towards the command centre. He shrugged off his jacket as he walked, even though it was still raining. He felt like he'd been in a sauna all day. The weather had broken around five and the sky had begun to clear, but now it was starting to pour again. As he walked over to the community hall he noted idly that the streetlights had come on.

When he came through the door, Charlie saw Alan Buchanan standing beside the wooden table at the far end of the hall. Alan was talking to Jim Owen. Mal Coolidge and Graham Moss had walked in ahead of Charlie, and stood close by Alan and Jim. Graham saw Charlie and waved him over. Charlie dropped his pack near the door, then paused as the smell of freshly brewed coffee washed over him. He gazed longingly towards the kitchen. There were two SES guys in there, one fiddling with the urn, the other one washing up. Charlie took a step towards the kitchen but he could see Mal and Graham watching him. Graham beckoned him again and Charlie sighed. Coffee would have to wait.

"No luck" asked Coolidge as Charlie hooked a chair round with his boot and sat down. Not that he really needed to ask. If they'd found anything everyone would have known in a minute. Charlie shook his head.

"Nada. We crawled into every gully and bolthole we could find, but not a thing. Not even a sign of anything."

Just then one of the SES men dropped three coffees on the desk. Charlie grabbed one gratefully, then dragged another chair over and propped his feet on it, legs crossed. Alan pulled up a chair nearby and Jim leaned against the table. Mal and Graham leaned against the wall, arms folded. Everyone looked like they needed a good night's sleep. Mal Coolidge took a sip of coffee and spoke to Alan. "No luck with the other teams?"

Alan shook his head. "No luck anywhere. But... something's come back from the University." He turned and picked up some paper from the desk. There was a loud crash as one of the front doors slammed in a burst of wind and they all looked up, startled, as a chatter of rain flashed across the windows. Alan grimaced. "We're going to be lucky if we can find our own backsides out there" he said. The others all nodded in silent agreement.

"Okay." Alan crossed his arms across his chest, coffee cup in his right hand. "Something has come back. And if I said it's a bit weird, I'd be lying. It's unbelievably weird." He took a sip of his coffee and continued.

"You recall the tracks we found up at North Point yesterday? Well, we took some casts, and sent them to the Zoology Department at the University of Queensland. Late last night I get a call from a Professor Ian Summers. Talk about excited. He asked me, at least a dozen times, was I sure that the casts were accurate, that someone hadn't made a mistake. I told him they were accurate. I said I'd watched them being taken, and no, the prints weren't corrupted. I thought he was going to blow a boiler the way he carried on. Anyhow he rang off and promised to get back to us in the morning."

"Why was he so excited?" asked Jim.

Alan shook his head. "Just wait till you hear what he had to say. About mid-morning I get a call. Turns out he's been up all night examining the cast and researching it." Alan shook his head again, as if to clear it. "I still can't believe what he told me" he said. "I think it's more of a fable than anything else." He paused. "But what the heck? Who knows? These days anything can happen?"

Jim raised his eyebrows. Charlie grunted.

Alan read from the paper he had taken from the desk. "Turns out Summers has a mate in the Palaeontology Department at the Uni. Bloke by the name of Matthews. Apparently Summers took one look at the cast and called Matthews. They hadn't seen anything like it. At least, not in this part of the world. You have to understand these guys. They generally have pretty quiet lives, lots of research and so on, but nothing much happens. So when something unusual or new comes up in their field they go ballistic. Anyhow, they hadn't seen anything like this before. Closest thing they could reference was some ancient sloth – from Africa or North America or wherever – nearly 500,000 years ago. Only other thing like it was the Sabre Tooth Tiger, but even it didn't have claws that long." Alan paused again and took another sip of coffee.

"Then Summers remembered something his old Dean from Oxford – he said his name was Redpath – had told him years before. It related to an unsubstantiated story from Egypt. Apparently some archaeological stuff was discovered way back – in the late forties - there was a lot of rebuilding going on in Egypt after the war. Anyhow, during the rebuilding they came across an old burial site in Alexandria. It contained a couple of ancient coffins and other stuff. All very exciting for the scientists of course. And this is where it gets really weird. Creepy even. It was claimed at the time that some of the items they found in the tomb came from Australia."

"What sort of stuff?" asked Charlie. ,

"Summers didn't say" said Alan. "He just said that some items were identified as similar to those of pre-European Australia."

"But whatya mean, pre-European?" asked Mal. "You mean someone stored this Aussie stuff in the tomb? Was it really Aussie or was it just look-a-likes?"

Alan shook his head. "They were more than look-a-likes. They were the real thing. And they didn't store them. Summers said these items were placed there at the time the tomb was sealed. More than three thousand years ago."

Mal's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "How did stuff from Australian get to Egypt three thousand years ago?"

Alan nodded. "It was more like three and a half thousand years ago actually. And that's the key question. It's got them really excited. All sorts of talk about indigenous seafarers, ancient navigators, and so on. But the other question is the cast, and what that means."

"What about the cast?" asked Charlie.

Alan rubbed his forehead. "Well, Summers thinks we might have an animal loose on the island. Problem is we don't know what it is, or where it is."

"Did Summers say anything else?" asked Jim. "Anything about the animal, if it is an animal, or how big it might be?"

"We gave him the cast and the details of depth of tracks, distance between imprints and so on. He was a bit reluctant to speculate, understandably I guess, but he said the animal that made the prints would have to be something the size of a rhinoceros. But heavier"

"Crikey!" said Jim. "Now that'd be something to see charging round on the island. But seriously Alan, you've got be kidding. Right? Surely this is fantasy. Something that size is going to be easy to find. The island's just not big enough. And it's going to leave a trail anyhow. Are you sure we haven't been sold a red herring on this? That someone's created the tracks to confuse things?"

Charlie interrupted before Alan could respond. "But Alan – what's the connection with our case? Why did Summers bring up something he heard years ago? What the heck does any of this have to do with Moreton Island?"

"Good question Charlie. It's also the question Owen asked. And it's what I asked Summers. He said the tomb contained several carvings. One was quite ornate and cut from a single piece of ivory. Turned out Redpath had a theory that it was from the tooth of a Sabre Tooth Tiger. Apparently he wrote a couple of papers on the topic, but didn't get too far because the Egyptian government clammed up shortly after the tomb was opened. Redpath only got to see a couple of items. Of course Summers was familiar with the papers, and when he saw our cast it took him straight back to the drawings in Redpath's work from the early fifties."

They were all silent for a moment, each contemplating the strange confluence of events and ideas. Charlie pursed his lips and shook his head. "But again, what's the link between the tomb and what we've got here? I still don't get it."

"There are two items of relevance, as Summers put it. Though I think he's really stretching it. He said that Redpath's papers contained a lot of work on hieroglyphics, and that they referenced a whole tranche of scrolls that were found in the tomb. All the scrolls were stored in jars, and all were in relatively good nick. Both the hieroglyphics and the scrolls mentioned a war the Egyptians fought against a terrible plague of beasts. Or something like that. To be honest it sounds like something out of a horror story, and Summers said that's all it might be. But both the hieroglyphics and the scrolls referred consistently to this plague. He said several descriptions were used. Variously, the plague was referred to as _The Taker of Souls_ or _The Djinn of the Sands_ , plus a few other variations. All ominous of course, and all probably confected, but who knows? So, that's one point of relevance, however crazy you think it is. The second point relates to the carving. Redpath's papers included measurements of all tomb artefacts, including the carved tooth. Summers said that he saw straight away that the measurements for the tooth vastly exceeded anything ever attributed to the Sabre Toothed Tiger. But he also noticed that the measurements matched closely with the cast we sent to them. Summers is convinced we've got an animal loose on the island. One with some sort of genetic link to the past." Buchanan shrugged and raised his hands. "What can I say? It sounds inconceivable."

There was a stunned silence. _What the heck?_ thought Charlie. _I think I'd make it a little stronger than that. Maybe like 'Totally Off the Wall!'_

"Nope. This is nuts" said Mal Coolidge. "No way there's some sort of dinosaur running round out here. I don't care what Summers' old professor said to him, or what he thinks about carvings, or old teeth, or plagues, or whatever. What we have here is a real life, flesh and blood villain. We saw the blood, we saw the trucks, there are people missing. This is no mythical monster. No way. It, or they, are alive and out there. And if they're out there, then we're gonna find 'em."

"Like your spirit Mal" said Alan. "And you're right. Whether it's man or beast it's out there somewhere. Trouble is we've got the island saturated with personnel and we're aren't having any luck."

"What's the hap team?" It was Spud, accompanied the other Blue Group team leaders, Bob Addison and Barry Kerr. All held a doughnut in one hand, a coffee in the other. Charlie felt his stomach growl. Spud took a bite of the doughnut and waved it at him. "Yummmm." Charlie grimaced.

Alan shook his head. "No news I'm afraid. We've covered upwards of a third of the island today, but no luck. I've called all the teams in. We'll head out again before first light. And yes, I know we lose certainty by breaking our timeline, but it is what it is. I can't have teams out in this weather, not in this terrain. It's too dangerous."

"So, whoever it is we're looking for, they could move into an area we've already searched?" It was Barry Kerr.

Alan nodded. "Yes. They could. But they'd have know where we've searched, and frankly, in this weather and without some sort of aerial surveillance, how would they? I think we're a safe bet they'll stay put, if they're still on the island." Alan stopped speaking and tapped his watch. "It's nearly nine" he said. "Get something to eat and a good night's sleep. We roll again at five a.m."

Everyone stood, nodding thoughtfully, but by this time Charlie's thoughts were focused only on the doughnut and coffee. Above them, the rain continued to drum on the roof of the hall. Charlie glanced out through the windows, the streetlights flickering in yellow shards in the water streaked glass. As the conversation wound down he caught Spud's attention. He made a drinking gesture with his hand and jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen. Spud held her cup upside down and nodded.

* * *

"You were going to tell me about _Spud_ " Charlie and Dao were sitting at the kitchen table. Charlie propped his elbows on the scratched formica top and cradled his tea in both hands. There was a plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches on the table, the clear-wrap stripped off, a tray of don-nuts close by. Half of the sandwiches and all but three of the doughnuts were gone. Dao sat nearby, leaning back into a red plastic chair, her feet propped on another. She held her coffee in one hand and a half eaten doughnut in the other. She took a bite of the doughnut. "Maybe one was enough" she mused. She dropped the remains of the doughnut on a paper plate and pushed it away.

"Spud? Well...in Vietnamese my name means _Sweet Potato_ , so it's not much of a stretch. It's a standing joke at the coffee shop at home. I dropped in one Saturday and someone asked what my name meant. I was _Spud_ before I left the café."

"Better than Rubber Duck I guess."

"Ten four Good Buddy."

Charlie chuckled. "How long have you been with the SES?"

"Ten years. Part time though."

"What's your full-time job then?"

"Work for the cops. HR."

Charlie shook his head. "I don't know how you fit it all in. I struggle with one job and cooking dinner."

Dao laughed. "Yes. It's sometimes a bit like that. But tell me about yourself. How long have you been with Parks?"

Charlie sipped his coffee and rearranged himself in the plastic chair. The chairs were contoured but hardly comfortable. "Eight years with Parks. Before that I worked for CSIRO. Field operations in Canberra."

"We're a long way from Canberra."

"Canberra didn't work for me. I thought it was stifling. Anyhow, I got out and joined Parks in 2008. First position was in Murwillumbah. There's quite a few national parks in the area. We covered the Nightcap and the Wollumbin. And the Border Ranges and part of the Lamington."

"That sounds like a lot of ground to cover. How big was the office?"

"Five rangers, regional manager, some admin people. It kept us busy." Charlie paused. "You know" he said, "the situation we've got here reminds me a little bit of something that happened when I was working in Murwillumbah. Jim Owen mentioned it last night."

"What happened in Murwillumbah?"

"Well it wasn't actually in Murwillumbah. It was south of Murwillumbah, in the Nightcap. We'd had a series of reports, over a long period, more than a year, of people going missing. Some were camping, some were just travelling through. And around the same time we had a lot of farmers reporting stock going missing. Some of the _cockies_ reported seeing an animal near where they lost the stock. We had reports of panthers, cougars, even a Yowie." Charlie leaned over and picked up a sandwich. "All the reports were followed up by either cops and the SES, but no luck. Anyhow, eventually the police, the SES and Parks all got together. We spent solid month in the Park, but we found nothing. Finally it was all passed over to the CIB."

Dao half laughed, half snorted. "A Yowie? That'd be right. But why would the CIB get involved? I wouldn't have thought they'd get involved in missing persons. And certainly not Yowies."

Charlie nodded and took a bit of his sandwich. "Correct. But one of the teams found some personal items in a creek bed back behind Huonbrook. It's pretty isolated up there, and rugged."

"What did they find?"

"Wallets and a wedding ring. They belonged to two of the missing people."

"Wallets and a wedding ring? But they might have simply lost them."

"True. But this was different. Actually it was freaky. I think it put the wind up a few of the team. The wallets and ring were found in a pile of animal excrement."

Dao dropped her boots to the floor and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "So they left the wallets on the ground and then an animal took a dump on them?"

"Nope. Weirder than that. The cops said it appeared that the wallets and ring had been excreted."

Dao leaned back, her eyebrows crawling up her forehead. "What? Something ate them? That sounds crazy." She frowned and shook her head. "You're really creeping me out you know."

"Sorry, but yeah, crazy indeed. And worse, they found a bone in the excrement as well. It was the knucklebone of a little finger. Human. Didn't that go down like a lead balloon!"

"Crikey Charlie. Stop that. It's awful. But what happened? Is this when the CIB stepped in?"

"Pretty much. They were talking kidnapping, murder, devil worship, you name it. That was it for us. We faded out of it after that. I think we were all glad to go. But I never heard whether it was ever resolved."

"Crikey. Sounds exciting. But why does it remind you of our situation here?"

"Similar sorts of things are happening; missing people, human remains, inconsistent and confusing conditions, purported animal sightings. This was what happened down south." Charlie paused and drank some more coffee. "And Uncle Cec is on my case again. Same as before. He and Uncle Eck never let up. They were on the phone to me a hundred times while we were searching the Nightcap. I always thought they were on the sauce. I still do, sort of. I had Uncle Cec on the line last night. Same thing again."

"What same thing?" Dao asked, frowning.

Charlie had the grace to colour up a bit. "It's nuts" he said. "You'll think they're nuts, and you'll think I'm nuts for even mentioning it."

Dao started waving her hands around. "Jesus Charlie, speak!"

"Ok. Ok. They reckon it was the bunyip. And now Alan's talking about a wild animal running around on the island." Charlie raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Why am I even talking about this?"

Dao started cackling. "The bunyip! Of course! That's it! It's gotta be the bunyip!" She fell back in her chair laughing. Charlie felt deflated.

"I told you it was nuts. But they've been at it for years. You know how it is with families. After a while it becomes part of the dialogue, not quite fair dinkum, but at the same time, not quite unbelievable either."

Dao propped her feet up on the chair again. "So what have they been telling you...about the bunyip?" She was grinning widely.

"They're both retired now. Cec lives in Coonamble and Eric lives in Sawtell. When they were younger, in their teens and twenties, they were shearers. They followed the sheds from the Riverina right up to the Darling Downs. Cec got married a bit earlier than Eck and got out of shearing in the seventies. He and Mavis lived in Euabalong for a while, then they moved to Coonamble. Cec worked at the abattoir until he retired. Eck, on the other hand, kept shearing right through. I think he was over sixty when he finished up. It's hard work. I don't know how he did it.

Anyhow, while he was shearing, he travelled up and down the Darling, the Lachlan, the Murray, the Murrumbidgee. He's never stopped telling us about the bunyip. He reckons he's seen it at least twice. Some of his mates have seen it as well. It lives in the billabongs, and it takes sheep and cattle when they come to drink. And sometimes people. It uses the rivers to get around, particularly during the floods. Eck reckons it's taken a lot of people over the years, as well any other sort of animal it might come across. And it's been around for thousands of years. That's why it crops up so much in indigenous mythology."

There was silence for a long moment while Dao stared at Charlie, her expression a cross between concern and derision. Finally, she shook her head. "Mate...seriously? Yowies? Bunyips? It's not the Outer Limits you know. If Buchanan hears us talking about this he'll have us committed."

Charlie nodded sadly. "I dunno. I'm too scared to mention it after what he was saying earlier." Charlie stared glumly at Dao. "Anyhow, I was just saying. Problem is right now we're flying blind."

"Yeah, well, I don't think Uncle Eck's theory holds any water – that's not a play on words by the way - but I wouldn't be mentioning it to anybody around here. Just make you look like a flake."

Charlie laughed. "What, more than the usual flakiness you mean?"

"That's an affirmative." Dao slapped her hands together and stood up. "I think it's time to hit the hay. What time's kick-off?"

# Unresolved

Charlie groaned and rolled out bed at 4 a.m. After a speedy shower and shave he was turning into the parking lot at the community hall by 4.30, his wipers cutting arcs across his windscreen. The windows of the hall gleamed gold through the early morning darkness. After parking between two police 4X4s he headed into the hall. He saw immediately he was one of the last to arrive. The hall was filled with yellow and white overalls. Nearly everyone was holding coffee and munching on doughnuts. Many were already seated. Charlie felt a faint burst of admiration for Buchanan. Getting coffee and doughnuts to a hundred people before five in the morning was quite a feat. _The man's a magician_ thought Charlie. He ducked into the kitchen and quickly filled a cup from the urn. There was a dribble of milk left in the milk bottle, barely enough to change the colour of the coffee. Its taste was strong and bitter.

As Charlie took a seat, Alan Buchanan stepped to the front of the group. He stood in front of the map of the island. Jim Owen stood to one side of Buchanan. Charlie thought he looked like he hadn't slept. Buchanan reached out and laid his hand on the map, moving it slowly as he spoke.

"Ok. I'll keep this short. Red Group, this is the area in Sector A that you covered yesterday. Today you move south. The same protocols apply. Use the natural boundaries of the area – roads, beaches, cliffs, landforms – to control your search area. As before, remember to use the terrain to your advantage. Don't go against the grain, try to follow it." Buchanan moved his hand down to the middle of the island, marking the search areas for Blue Group. He did the same for Yellow Group.

As Buchanan spoke Charlie cast his eyes over the map. He examined the search area where Blue Group would concentrate its efforts for today's search. He saw that the new search area was about two kilometres south of the intersection of the Telegraph and Black Lagoon Tracks, but this time they would need to search to both east and west of the Telegraph. The map indicated that they could expect more accommodating terrain than the treacherous gullies and steep dunes they had encountered the day before. But Charlie was familiar with the island, and he knew the dunes to the east were as bad, and often worse, than those further north. It was going to be another long day. Alan Buchanan's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"A final point. The weather isn't getting any better. Visibility remains poor, rain is forecast to continue for the rest of the week. Watch yourself out there. There'll be a lot of water in the creeks, and some of the dunes might be unstable. If you have any doubts about the situation, turn back. Keep your radios on, and try to maintain line of sight with your team members. Good luck. Let's hope we get a resolution today."

As if on cue the radio at Alan's elbow burped and crackled. He picked it up and hit receive. He held to his ear and listened for a moment. "Ok. That was Max, from Team 3, Red Group. His team went out early. One of his men has reported something sliding into a gully west of the Black Lagoon. It wasn't identified. Time to move out."

Charlie grabbed his packs and headed out into the weather to the Blue Group staging point. The downpour has eased into a steady shower, the parking area a sea of water. The early morning light was beginning to soften, but it was still dark enough that streetlights threw wobbling silver glows through the curtains of water.

As he walked quickly through the rain, Charlie heard a voice at his elbow. It was Dao.

"Morning mate. Ready for another day in the trenches?" Dao was wearing an orange overall and a bright orange and silver wet weather jacket with the collar turned up. She was still wearing the Miami Heat cap, its bream spilling water like a spigot. She had a heavy black nylon bag hung across one shoulder, one hand gripping the webbing strap. In her other hand she held the bright yellow Pelican flashlight.

"Morning Spud. Ready as I'll ever be. You driving today?"

"Nope. Kenny's the driver today. I'm a mere foot soldier."

"Gotcha" Charlie sighed. "Another six hours or seven hours in the scrub? I can't wait."

"Ask not what your country can do for you..." Dao pointed a loaded finger at him, dropping her thumb as she veered off towards her 4X4. Charlie saluted, touching the brim of his cap, then climbed into the 4X4 with his team. He stowed his pack in the racks set under the roof and settled back, pushing back the hood of his jacket. The other team members were already packed into the rear of the vehicle. Bulked up with their overalls and wet weather gear they sat shoulder to shoulder, steaming in the damp warmth of the cabin.

As they pulled out of the parking lot Charlie stared out through the front windscreen. Dom Aiello and Graham Moss had switched roles, so Dom was driving today, sausage-like fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. Graham sat in the passenger's seat. The wipers slapped hopelessly as a sudden burst of heavy rain struck the windscreen. Charlie leaned across and tapped Graham on the shoulder.

"Same plan for today?"

Graham leaned back, glancing over his shoulder and nodding. "We'll use the same search pattern as we did yesterday. Straight line of search from the road to the beach, regroup, and back again. Then we repeat it on the western side. We kick off at the Ben Ewa campground today. We'll sweep south-east to the eastern beach, then reform and come back. Pickup is the intersection of Middle Road and the Tangalooma By-Pass. We have more ground to cover today, but the terrain should be a little easier."

Charlie knew better, but chose not to say anything. "The weather hasn't improved. We'll have to watch ourselves in the creeks."

Graham turned sideways in his seat, casting his eyes at the team in the back. "That's right. There'll be a huge amount of run-off. So watch yourselves if you're down in a gully. Stay out of the creeks, and watch where you are at all times. Don't get in under any overhangs or into any narrow gullies. The sand will be soft and treacherous. We don't want to be digging people out. Same goes for anyone high on the dunes. And maintain line of sight with your colleagues at all times. In this weather that'll be about twenty yards max." As he turned back to face the windscreen Dom was guiding the 4X4 through some bumpy puddles at the start of the Telegraph. Rain was falling in a steady downpour, low cloud and fog swirling through the scrub on each side of the track. They drove in a bubble of light, the sodden landscape unreeling in the headlights. Visibility was no more than thirty metres.

Graham stared into the gloom for a few moments, then snorted and shook his head. "Hope you all had your Wheaties. It's going to be another long day."

* * *

Two hours later Charlie was two kilometres west of the campground, pushing his way through heavy scrub and clumps of small trees. He was on the southern side of a narrow valley, his visor clouded with condensation, perspiration running down his temples and his back. He felt like he was in a sauna. Other members of his team were scattered down the slope. Further up the side of the dune, several others picked their way though the scrub.

The rain had eased after they left the campground and now fell in a light drizzle. But the clouds still hung low over the island and visibility had not improved. Charlie knew they were less than a kilometer south of Mt Tempest. The peak stretched almost one thousand feet above sea level, but it was invisible in the swirling grey. He felt a moment of sympathy for Barry Kerr's team. They were covering the area directly to the north, and this included Mt Tempest and its surrounding slopes. That was a climb Charlie could do without.

Many of the creeks had also filled with run-off, and proved to be impassable. And the valley floor, at least three hundred metres wide, was now laced with several rushing torrents of mud filled water that carved deep gouges in the sand. As a result the team had been forced to split. Several members of the team were scrambling across the slopes of the dunes on the northern side of the valley. On the southern side, Graham Moss and three others were gathered in a loose huddle. Graham was holding his GPS, pecking at it repeatedly with his index finger. As a further complication, and due mainly to the difficult terrain, two members from Kerr's team, Dao Phan and Kenny Thomas, had also become mixed up with Graham's group. Graham was less than pleased with the whole situation.

"Ok. Once we get through the end of this valley we reform. We should have a fairly easy run to the eastern beach. Relatively flat, no big dunes, no major watercourses. Meantime spread out. The rain's eased but keep it to about twenty metres. And you, Phan and Thomas, you're included, but make sure you rejoin Team One as soon as we hit the flats."

"Roger that" said Dao, tapping the brim of her cap. Kenny nodded.

The team began to separate, forming a front over two hundred metres long across the slope. Charlie found himself at the bottom of the line, close to the floor of the gully. To his right he saw Dao Phan and, a little further up the slope, he could see Dom Aiello picking his way daintily through the scrub. The rain had eased and Charlie had pushed back his visor, welcoming some fresh air. Now at least he didn't feel like he was an extra in a Lloyd Bridges movie. But the wet weather gear was still as good as a hot bath, so he unzipped his jacket, allowing more cool air to flow around his body. He glanced at his watch. Ten a.m. Two more hours to the eastern beach. Three to four hours back to the collection point. Graham was right. It was going to be a long day. And, for the record, he hadn't eaten his Wheaties.

* * *

One hour later. They had reached the end of the valley and were descending toward the flat plain to the south of Mt Tempest. The weather had deteriorated again and heavy gusts of wind and rain buffeted the team as they moved clumsily down the slope, pushing aside dripping branches and sliding in the wet sand. The tall dunes at the head of the valley fell sharply to the plain, their sides torn with minor landslips and deep gullies. All the gullies were filled with rushing brown water, their sides steep and treacherous, and covered with overgrown scrub and short trees. In some gullies the scrub and trees were so closely grown, their roots and branches so twisted and tangled, they formed a virtual roof over the gully below, so tightly woven that sand and other debris was captured, forming a base for new growth.

Charlie walked slowly along the side of the gully. The terrain was steep and sandy yet still covered in overgrown bush. Charlie was forced to walk with a crabbing motion, propping his right foot higher up the slope than his left. His feet slipped in the sand and hooked on roots and branches. It was tough going, and often so difficult to maintain balance that his focus was only on the ground immediately in front. He paid little attention to his surroundings. He was surprised when everything suddenly darkened.

Charlie stopped and looked around. He realized that his crabbing motion on the steep side of the dune, and his lack of attention, had caused him to descend slowly to the floor of the gully. Water still rushed by in a muddy flow but there was a wide fan of sand and mud along one side of the creek. Above him the vegetation had closed over the gully and hung low to the water, a heavy curtain of twisted roots and leaves. The combination of rain and low cloud, closely grown trees and poor light made it almost as dark as night in the gully. Charlie grunted and fumbled for his torch, which had twisted on its lanyard and now hung in the centre of his back. As he reached for the torch he stumbled, falling to his knees in the soft wet sand.

As he fumbled for the torch, Charlie heard a creaking sound from the hanging curtain of foliage, as if something large had pushed against it. It was followed by a low rumble, then the sound of a heavy body shifting in the water. A burst of foul air engulfed him. Charlie felt a shiver of ice course down his back and along his neck, and, for a moment, he knelt frozen in the darkness.

But he jerked back into life in a second, swearing, and tearing at the torch, his fingers clutching wildly for the switch. He lurched to his feet, bringing the torch around and toggling the switch. But the torch was coated in mud and sand and Charlie's fingers were driven by panic. Another burst of foul air rolled over him. Charlie knew, suddenly, that he was in mortal danger. He abandoned the torch and lurched towards the steep bank, scrabbling up the side of the gully, his hands grasping at roots and branches, his toes slipping in the sandy ground. Then he heard the crackle and snap of vines and roots behind him and he froze again, his head turned back towards the curtain of foliage.

It was difficult to see anything in the wet darkness of the gully, only flickers of dim light penetrating the overhead, But Charlie could see enough. The foliage began to shake and bulge as he stared. The blood roared in his head, the noise as loud as a V8 motor. His muscles and feet felt as if they were made from cement. Suddenly a beam of light pierced the darkness, and a voice cut through the bubble of fear.

"What's the hap Blue Leader? All good down here?" It was Spud.

Charlie almost fainted in relief. Spud was perched on the side of the gully, a few feet above him, boots propped against tussocks of grass, water dripping from the brim of her cap. She was shining the Pelican's beam almost directly into his eyes, and Charlie couldn't see much because of the glare. He held up one arm, his hand shading his eyes. With his other arm he pointed towards the curtain of vegetation. Spud stared down at him for a second, then spun the beam down the gully. As he turned his head, Charlie heard the undergrowth begin to crackle, as if an enormous weight pushed against it, shifting it aside.

Spud and Charlie watched, frozen in fear, as the curtain of vines and roots shuddered and shook. Then, in a snapping of roots and a cascade of sand and leaves, an unspeakable horror emerged into the light, its hide as grey/green as the vegetation around it, its eyes burning red in deep sockets, its yellow fangs framing an enormous maw. For a long second neither Charlie nor Spud could comprehend what they saw. Then, with a shrieking intake of breath, Spud's screech of terror and Charlie's yell of 'Jesus' came together. Spud lost her footing and fell into the gully, bringing she and Charlie down into the muddy water in a tangle of limbs. The light of the Pelican was immediately extinguished. This brought another shriek from Spud. Charlie found himself facedown in the wet sand, his helmet pushed deep into the sand under Spud's weight. He could feel water running into his visor and a stone of fear in his chest.

He cursed and tried to wriggle out from under Spud, but she was making squawking sounds and flapping around on top of him like a stranded fish. Finally she rolled off his back and into the water, and Charlie was able to haul himself upright. He grabbed at his torch, bringing it round in front, his fingers pushing at the on-switch. Spud was still kneeling in the sand, close by his side. She had recaptured her light, and was scrabbling at it with both hands. She was making short gasping gobbling sounds. Then both Charlie's torch and Spud's Pelican burst into life at the same time, their beams boring holes in canyon gloom. Charlie could hear strange grunts and cries in the distance. He realized dimly that they were his own.

But the beams showed nothing, only the sides of the deep gully, steep and laced with shrubs and vines, and its floor, cut with dark runnels filled with black water. Above, in the overhead, the vegetation hung in looping greens and greys, dripping with water. There was nothing to remind them of the image burned into their retinas only seconds before, when Spud first turned her torch into the dark canyon, nothing but dripping vines and broken roots. Even the foul odour had dissipated. But a sense of malevolence lingered in the air like a pall of humidity. Or was it fear? Spud turned her head up to stare at Charlie, her mouth still open in horror, her eyes wide, her hands shaking. Charlie wasn't any better.

"Jesus Charlie. What was it?" Spud gasped, her voice high and cracking. But Charlie wasn't waiting. He stumbled to the bank, dragging Spud with him.

"Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

Spud and Charlie sat in the sand, a hundred metres west of the gully, leaning against the trunk of a stunted tree. Their hearts were still pounding like jackhammers, their lungs screaming for air. Their lurching, mindless, grasping rush up the side of the gully had left them breathless but they had stumbled on, putting some sort of safe distance between themselves and whatever it was they'd seen in the dark cave.

While they were down in the gully the rain had strengthened yet again. It fell in a steady stream, and even though it was the middle of the day, visibility remained poor, barely fifty metres. Leaden clouds hung low over the island, swirling slowly around the dunes and through the scrub, turning everything a sodden khaki. Charlie could feel his body shaking. He looked at Spud. She stared back, wide-eyed, black hair plastered wetly across her forehead.

"Was I seeing things?" she asked. "Crikey! Tell me I was seeing things."

Charlie's breath was still ragged. "I dunno. I dunno what I saw, but it scared the daylights out of me."

"Scared the daylights? It more than scared the daylights out of me" Spud was biting her lip. "It was that animal Owen was talking about, wasn't it?"

Charlie shook his head. "I dunno. It looked like some sort of animal, but that big? Was I imagining it."

"Imagining? Both of us? You reckon both of us?" Spud voice rose an octave.

Charlie hung his head, again shaking it from side to side. He suddenly felt exhausted. "I dunno" he said. "But I'm not going back down there."

Spud propped her elbows on her knees and leaned her shoulder against Charlie's. "Man. I felt like I was in horror movie for a minute there. I was paralysed. Like totally." Charlie nodded slowly.

"Me too." He held up his forearm and sniffed at it. "Blimey I was scared. I can smell it on me. It stinks." Charlie dropped his arm and cast his mind back to the canyon bottom. Had he really seen anything? He wasn't sure. And neither was Spud. They'd certainly managed to frighten themselves, but he wondered if they were feeding off each other's fatigue. And maybe a little bit of hysteria. It was dark, wet and uncomfortable, and they were tired. Mix that with the stories put out by Owen and Buchanan, plus the damaged trucks, the disappearances and the blood, and you had a true 'witches brew'. Charlie pursed his lips. The image at the canyon floor was burned into his mind. He shook his head. He'd never thought he had that much imagination.

"Hoy!" Charlie and Spud both jumped. Charlie saw that Kenny and Graham were picking their way through the scrub towards them from downslope, their yellow parkas unnaturally bright beneath the overcast. They tramped up to the tree where Charlie and Spud sat and fell to their knees in the wet sand. Graham swiped water from his face. Kenny, as always, managed to stay impeccably neat.

"I can't believe they've got us out in this weather" grumbled Graham. "Bloody pointless. We can't see a thing." He brushed more water from his face and looked from Charlie to Spud, then back to Charlie, sensing that something was wrong. "Are you guys ok?" he asked. "You look a bit shaky."

Charlie glanced at Spud. "We think we saw something down in the gully. But it was dark, dead set, so I can't be sure. Dao?"

Spud nodded. "We think we saw something. It could have been the animal Owen mentioned, but it was only for a second. It could have been anything."

Graham climbed to his feet. He touched the radio at his belt. Charlie heard a burble come back. Graham was on the open channel. He called the team in, a 'return to centre' command that brought the line together and then back to their rendezvous half way up the slope of the dune. After a brief explanation, and a few grunted monosyllables from Charlie and Spud, Graham gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "Let's go. You'll need to show us where you had contact."

Charlie and Spud climbed glumly to their feet and followed Graham back to the edge of the gully. Graham spread the team out over a hundred metre arc and all descended into the canyon, Graham leading, Charlie and Spud close behind. Kenny also stuck close, hanging on Graham's words. Charlie wondered how he managed to stay so clean. For some reason he was reminded of James Bond. _Maybe he's wearing a tux under the wet weather gear._

When they came to the overgrown section of the gully, Graham and Kenny pushed through the hanging curtain of vegetation. The gully continued behind the curtain of vines and roots but was narrow and dark, almost a small grotto. Charlie followed Graham and Kenny into the grotto, his eyes wary. Their lights lit the grotto completely. The smell was dank and sour, and the sand at the edges of the gully had been churned up, but there was no evidence of any animals. No prints, no droppings, nothing. The team searched the gully for several hundred metres to each side of the grotto, but after forty minutes Graham called the search off and ordered the team to regroup. He turned to Charlie. He was sympathetic

"Nothing down here Charlie. So who knows what you saw. The weather's terrible and we're all a bit overdone. Maybe it was a dingo?" Kenny stood nearby nodding. Charlie glared at him. _Definitely not James Bond. More like Homer Simpson!_

"You're right Graham" sighed Charlie, rubbing his hand across his eyes. He felt hot, scratchy and wet, and his feet hurt. And he wanted to get out of the gully as soon as possible. He didn't think it was a dingo, not for a second, but what was it? Whatever it was, he knew for sure that he didn't want to meet it.

* * *

The strong smell of a walker poured into the grotto. The Beast moved closer to the curtain of vines. The walker splashed through the water of the canyon, invisible behind the veil. The Beast's stomach burned as it readied itself for attack. It pushed forward slowly, parting the hanging vines with its enormous head, its muscles poised for a final lunge.

But again the walker was spared, a blinding beam of light striking the Beast's eyes and throwing it back into the grotto. As it rolled in the wet sand, clawing at its eyes, the Beast heard faint cries and splashing. In the Beast's lizard brain the alarm sounded. This time there was more than one walker. And the walkers had struck against it twice, burning its eyes with flames. This would not happen again. Now the instinct of the Beast was to retreat to safety. It rose from the sand and turned, silently making its way down the ever-narrowing gully, its eyes weeping. There were many caves, many dark places where it could rest. It came quickly upon another cutaway in the steep side of the canyon, and pushed its body inside, crouching in the cool darkness. It knew it must wait until dark.

The Beast lay in the darkness, its snout quivering wetly as it sniffed the air, its eyes pulsing red in the darkness. The Beast's head moved slowly from side to side, probing, seeking, but there was nothing, just the heavy flow of the run-off, filled with sand and mud and leaves. Its eyes fastened on a small movement among the roots and vines of the overhang. A small lizard moved, dislodging a piece of damp earth that struck the Beast on the snout. But the Beast lay silent in the darkness. The fearful maw opened wide, and a belch of fetid air filled the overhang as the Beast yawned. Its jaws snapped together loudly. It's huge tongue slowly emerged and licked at the moisture on its skin. The red hooded eyes blinked slowly. The muddy water swirled around its enormous body, the air filled with the smell of mud, and rotting vegetation, and saltbush and ozone. But these were comforting smells, smells that the Beast's tiny brain processed and relegated instinctively. As with day or night, wind or rain, friend or foe, it processed these concepts without thought. With its body supported on a bed of wet sand, the Beast rested, its hide cooled, its hooded eyes slowly closing. It could feel the hunger building in its body, but instinct told it to stay, that it was not yet time to venture from the cave. Later, it would feed.

* * *

On their return to base, Charlie, Spud and Graham were debriefed by Owen and Buchanan. Charlie noted with resentment that Bulmer was lurking in the background, the usual smirk creeping around his lips. _What a turd!_ thought Charlie.

Owen and Buchanan spent a solid hour with them. They asked what they had seen. They asked that it be described in detail. They asked about its size, its length, its height, what it sounded like, how certain they were that they'd seen anything, what were the light conditions, what was the time of day, was it raining, was it not raining. By the time the debrief was finished Charlie felt like he'd done another ten clicks in the scrub. He could see that both Spud and Graham felt the same. Spud leaned over and whispered to Charlie.

"Who's the muffin top lurking over there near the door?"

'That's Bulmer. He a cop from Cleveland."

"Bullwinkle?" Spud grinned.

"Yeah. Bullwinkle. What else?" Charlie grinned back.

"What's he doing here?"

"Lurking I guess."

"Well, he looks like Bullwinkle, and he's a smirker too."

"That's what he does. He lurks and smirks."

Then Jim Owen's voice cut in. "Ok folks. I reckon we're done. Thanks for the heads up, but you've brought us little to go on. Now it's possible you saw something, though you've all confirmed the light was poor. You also found nothing when you returned and searched the canyon, no droppings, no tracks. You found zip. My guess is that you've seen a dingo, and the poor conditions and bad light have exaggerated the sighting. Now that's not a criticism, so don't go all twitchy on me. I understand how difficult it is out there." Owen turned to Buchanan, who stepped forward.

"We're two days into a three day search. We don't have the resources to extend beyond that, so tomorrow's our last day in the field. So far we've had three possible sightings reported, including yours. The other two came from north island but were no more conclusive than yours. We think all are a result of the combination of bad weather, unfriendly terrain, and possibly fatigue. To echo Jim's words – we know it's difficult, and the weather isn't helping." Buchanan looked at his watch. "It's after six. Get some tea and tucker in and be back for the group debrief at eight. We'll have another full day tomorrow."

"But what are the chances? We've resolved nothing so far." This came from Graham Moss.

Buchanan and Owen stared at Moss. Buchanan spoke. "Like I said before. It is what it is. We're here. We search. We report. That's all we can do."

As Owen, Moss and Buchanan moved off, Charlie and Dao climbed to their feet. Charlie glanced towards Bulmer, who immediately took the opportunity to shoot him the finger. Charlie rolled his eyes and looked away, but Dao noticed it, and tapped him on the arm.

"Do you want me to fry the muffin top?"

"Good idea. What with?"

"Napalm?"

"Crikey! I didn't know the SES was so well equipped."

"We're like the Boy Scouts mate. Always prepared."

# Something wicked...

Charlie sighed as he settled back in his chair. He'd just been on the phone to head office. The 'pencil necks' in Accounts now wanted all expenditures pre-approved. _Pre-approved!_ Even for basic maintenance and operations expenses. Charlie tapped his fingers on the desk for a long minute, then grunted. He'd just have to get organized – list all the expenses each week - then send them in for approval. He nodded to himself. It was just procedure.

Through the open windows Charlie could see the sun burning off the waters of Moreton Bay. A nice breeze, neither hot nor cold, fanned his face and fluttered papers on the desk. The weather was starting to cool down a little, the warm days of March and April morphing into the colder days and nights of June. But the humidity was stubbornly high. Charlie reckoned it was going to be a mild winter.

He leaned over and picked up some data forms from the corner of his desk. He had collected them two days earlier on the West Coast Track. There was plenty of data for Duncan; he'd noted animal droppings, spoor and bird sightings along the whole track. In fact, Charlie's data runs showed that animals and birds had returned to all parts of the island. But Dunc, so far, had little to impart in regard to the resurgence of wildlife. Charlie decided to call him. As always, Duncan answered on the first ring.

"Fuller. Biodiversity."

"I love it when you say that."

"Charlie. Maaaate! How's it going out there in the boondocks?"

"All good Dunc. All good. What'd ya think of the last data set I sent through? Big changes from last year n'est-ce pas?"

"Oui oui monsieur. Big changes indeed. And I didn't know you spoke French."

"I don't. I read it somewhere."

"That's the way Charles. Everyone loves an erudite man."

"Erudite! Strewth Dunc! I'll use it in the next report. But what about the data?"

"Well. What a change eh? Six months and we're seeing huge growth in numbers, right along the coast. Animal numbers up. Bird numbers through the roof. The boss is putting on a couple of extra analysts to help us examine trends. And we're getting two environmental chemists from Health to look at the food chain."

"We had this conversation last year mate, when everything went backwards. We haven't see anything anywhere on the island that could have this sort of effect, positive or negative. Nothing."

"Well there must be something Charlie. There's something going on somewhere that's having a mighty big impact. Question is: what is it? And, of course, where is it coming from? One of the chemists is already suggesting it's waterborne. He's claiming it's probably petro-chemical. He's calling it a 'pan-species sequestered vector stimulant."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I rest my case. What's your solution?"

"Terminate with extreme prejudice I reckon. It's the only way I'll keep my sanity."

Charlie laughed. "Dead right Dunc. I don't know how you do it. Anyhow, next data run's in two days. That's Friday. I'll be heading up the Telegraph." Charlie felt mildly queasy when he mentioned the Telegraph Track.

"Thanks mate. I'll keep you posted on our 'sequestered vector stimulants' or whatever. We're hoping we can avoid these widespread die-backs in future, if we can get on top of it. Whatever _it_ is." Duncan hesitated for a second, then spoke again. He had asked Charlie the same question several times. "So, no further clues on what happened in January?"

"No mate. Like I said before, we never found out for sure what happened. It was a terrible outcome for the families. No closure. Pretty embarrassing for the cops too. We searched the island three days but then the CIB and the other cops were gone. The usual story – resources and other priorities. Apparently the CIB crawled round it for a few months but eventually they closed it out as drug related. What rubbish! We never found anything that suggested drugs. I think it was all political in the end. Too much heat for the pollies and the department heads."

"Drugs! Dingoes! Disappearances. And you thought life in Parks was gonna be a breeze."

Charlie chuckled again. "Fancy alliteration there Dunc. But yes, I did. Well, to a degree anyhow. I sure didn't expect what happened last year. "

"Alliteration! More big words from the boondocks. They say over here that you guys in Parks have trouble walking and chewing gum at the same time." Duncan cackled.

"Very old, very stale and very unoriginal Dunc. Bit like your socks."

Duncan cackled again. "Hang in there pardner. Send me the next data set on Friday. But it's a long time to knock-off and my in-box is full, so I may not have time to process it until the weekend. Oh, one more thing - you still have help on the weekends?"

"Nope. Had to let Col go. No more funds available. But I did get a new truck, and a coffee maker. I guess they were sweeteners, or something."

"What about the move to Bulwer? Still on the never-never?"

"It's on the never-never alright. Forever. Evans canned it. Same again. No funds available."

"Well, don't work too hard mate. Our HR's all over us about work-life balance. But then the boss comes in and complains we're too slow. You can't win. Anyhow, give you a ring Monday."

"No sweat. See ya."

"See ya Chuckie."

* * *

After Duncan rang off Charlie locked up and headed down to the wharf. The cops were finally setting up an office on the island. The office would be staffed seven days a week during peak period – November/January \- but only Friday to Sunday at all other times. The office was attached to the boatsheds at the Kooringal wharf, three rooms in an unlined weatherboard shed with a galvanised roof and oil stained khauri floors. The boatsheds were owned by two oyster farmers from Redcliff and were used primarily for storage – oyster crates and racks, rubbers buffers, nets, tools and other boat paraphernalia. They'd jumped at the offer from the cops.

The police were arriving on the one p.m. ferry, and Charlie was heading down to meet them. He was due for a new printer, and Head Office, through some labyrinthine process, had managed to get the police to agree to carry a printer over to the island when delivering their own hardware.

Charlie parked his truck at the side of the boatsheds and walked the fifty metres to the ferry ramp. He wasn't entirely surprised to see Roger Bulmer sitting in the passenger seat of the police four-wheel drive as it rolled off the ferry, because the office was staffed out of Cleveland. Bulmer was wearing dark sun glasses. He nodded at Charlie as they drove past. Charlie followed them over to the boatsheds where they'd parked next to his truck.

"Afternoon Mularczyk. How's it going?" Bulmer was gruff, holding out his hand. His face was sunburned. He gestured to his colleague. "This is Peter Shanahan. He'll be here this week. Pete, this is Charlie Mularczyk from Parks. Keep him in the loop." He looked at Charlie as he and Peter shook hands. "Right Charlie?"

"Right Rog. How are things in Cleveland by the way. And congratulations I think? You've been promoted?" Charlie had seen Bulmer's promotion to Senior Constable in the government gazette three months earlier. _Wonders never cease_ he thought for the fiftieth time.

"Yep. A few months back, but thanks, appreciate it." Roger leaned back inside his vehicle, and dragged a medium sized box across the seat. "Present from the bean-counters I think."

Charlie took the box and slipped it on to the passenger seat of his truck. Shanahan had unlocked the police offices and he and Bulmer were now busy unloading. With Charlie's assistance they had the police car unloaded in twenty minutes. Charlie was impressed with their office. A few coats of paint, some new electrical and furniture and it was twice as good as the Parks office. And twice the size. _Big heads, big bucks_ thought Charlie to himself.

"I'm heading back on the four o'clock, so I have plenty of time." said Bulmer. "You feel like a cuppa – tea or coffee?" Bulmer laid his hand on top of a family box of Arnott's biscuits. "Monte Carlos, Iced Vo-vos, Scotch Fingers?" He raised one eyebrow.

Charlie gave him a thumbs-up. "Sounds good. Tea's ok with me."

While Shanahan made tea, Bulmer and Charlie sat opposite each other at one of the four desks in the room. All the chairs were modern chrome and black netting. When Charlie settled into the chair he marveled at its comfort.

"So, all good on the island?" asked Bulmer.

"It's been a busy summer but it's starting to slow down. No dramas. Not since January anyhow." Bulmer nodded, but said nothing.

"You've finished all your investigations?" asked Charlie.

Bulmer shrugged. "Pretty much. The suits closed it down months ago." Shanahan dropped tea and biscuits on the desk. Charlie noticed there weren't any Monte Carlos. He picked up his tea and a Scotch Finger.

"So after all that we found nothing?" he said. "Doesn't seem possible does it?"

"Depends on who you listen to." Bulmer hesitated. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk, his tea clasped in two hands. "But we did find something you know."

"Like what? Everything was discussed in the debriefs."

"No it wasn't. Not this anyhow. We came across something on the edge of the Black Lagoon. But Owen closed it down straight up. Didn't want to know about it. Even Buchanan wasn't keen. But someone leaned on them. That's for sure."

"What did you find?" Charlie peered intently at Bulmer. Bulmer seemed sincere. For a change. He also seemed uncomfortable.

"Well, what we did find was confusing. There was evidence – perhaps indication is a better word – there was an indication of a large disturbance at the edge of the lagoon. We found blood and hair and what appeared to be pieces of hide scattered across a wide area near the campground. And mixed in with it were pieces of flesh – again, maybe not quite the right word, but anyhow - flesh that vaguely resembled the flesh of the octopus." Charlie heard the faint bell ring again in his head.

Bulmer was nodding in sympathy. "Ok. I see the look on your face, but I kid you not. That's what we were told. Octopus! Give me a break! The forensics said they were baffled. They were baffled? I reckon everyone was baffled. We searched the lagoon, we dragged it, we put down two divers. We found nothing, except that the Lagoon is unusually deep – more than sixty metres." Charlie frowned and interrupted Bulmer.

"Crikey Rog, that's a lot of water. Surely that's too much to be all run-off."

"Spot on. It isn't all run-off. Sure, the Lagoon's partly filled by run-off, but turns out its filled mainly from an underground aquifer that comes up in the middle of the island. The forensics aren't sure, but they believe it's possible the aquifer might originate in the mountains south-west of Coolongattta. This might also account for its colour."

The bell in Charlie's head chimed again. _Caves Charlie. Caves boy._

"And what about the blood and hair? And what about the darn octopus?"

"We were told the blood and hair was canine. Likely from dingoes fighting over mates or food." Bulmer paused and peered at Charlie. "And like, what, we hadn't seen a dingo in, how long was it, say three months?"

"More like five or six" said Charlie. "But what about the octopus? Was it octopus? And how did it get there?" Charlie was shaking his head.

"That was it. We didn't hear another thing about it. The investigation wound up. The cause of the disappearances was officially found to be the result of dingo attack. We didn't hear a peep about the other evidence we collected. In fact, the case was closed down so quickly it felt like it had been throttled. Politically I mean."

"Jesus Rog, dingoes, octopuses, blood, hair, you're totally freaking me out. I used to like my job but I now get the wind up every time I go bush, especially when I'm up the Telegraph Track. But seriously, why wasn't any of this stuff aired? Surely it was important enough?"

"I hear you. I thought it was important. So did Buchanan. But not the CIB, and their orders were coming straight from George Street. I just know I'll be happy not to go bush on the island for a long time. But you're welcome to it. I'd want an extra set of eyes, some iron underpants, and a cannon.' Bulmer stopped and stared at Charlie. "And maybe a transfer?"

Charlie blew out his cheeks. "You might be right. I've been here nearly three years. Maybe it's time to head back to the mainland."

"Closer to your mate Spud." Bulmer grinned at Charlie.

Charlie frowned and faked some mild confusion. "Whatya mean?"

"Sure Charlie. Let me give you some advice. _Don't play poker. You'll lose_."

Charlie shrugged and grimaced. "Yeah...well...whatever. But, getting back to the Black Lagoon, you found, hair, blood, octopus? That was it?"

"Nope. During our search we found prints."

"Animal prints?"

"Yep. Animal prints."

"But we found prints elsewhere. Why was that significant?"

"Because we found lots more prints. More than one set."

Charlie's mouth dropped open. "Hell. There's another one? You've got to be kidding." Bulmer remained silent.

"So how many sets of prints did you find?" asked Charlie

Bulmer stared at him for a long time.

'Eleven."

