As if things couldn't get much worse.
Case in point, today. Oh sure, it started out alright. We ended up through a copse of Eucalyptus, spotted a koala (which of course the Yank mistook for a Drop Bear until Neville corrected him), and eventually had to stop to refill water and eat. It was about that time when some bloke on a camel passed by, heading back the way we'd come from, looking weary. Pleasant enough fellow, even joined us for lunch a bit, though when we asked precisely where he was going, what he said gave us pause.
"Well, I'm heading out to Meekatharra," he explained, sipping water from his canteen. "Tried heading out East to stake my claim, heard they had gold out that way, but all I found was trouble."
"Trouble?" Ludwig asked, brows furrowing. "What sort of trouble?"
"Strange things, mate. The ground shakes out there sometimes, too short to be an earthquake if you ask me. Huge bat swarms out in the desert during the day and night. Koori natives vanishing, and my other camel just vanished on me, like he never was there... To Hell with that place."
We looked to each other knowingly, nervously. If he'd had trouble out there, and that journal of that MacWhirr fellow also showed them having trouble... then what did that mean for us? But then, I couldn't rightly just give up on it, could I? These lot need my help. They can't survive out here alone, and to be honest I know Neville won't help them, the blunt bastard. I have to continue... even if it kills me.
Either way, we eventually said our goodbyes and packed back up, continuing along the Canning Stock Route until dark threatened. There was a small spring nearby, so we were able to set up camp easily and eat. We ended up washing off in the spring to get the grime and dirt off, but as the Yank was dressing himself afterwards and grabbed his boots to put them on, I stopped him.
"You bloody daft? Check your boots, mate."
Sure enough, he shook one of the boots out, and out fell a goddamned Funnelweb. Deadly bastards, and of course the idiot was more shaken by the size of the damn thing.
"Good way to get yourself killed," I said, checking my own footwear.
"Tell me, Lucas," he said, pale from the near-death encounter. "Is there anything in Australia that doesn't want to kill you?"
"Well, I guess the Eucalyptus is safe enough," I replied wryly, half-joking.
Maybe these lot are starting to grow on me, or maybe I'm growing soft. Hey, someone has to keep an eye on these morons. Might as well be me, then, yeah?
-- Lucas Bradford, Starting to Like These Bastards (August 4th, 1928)
Why? Well, they're talking about some Chinese cult they apparently fought in Shanghai to the other two Aussie natives, for one, and for another, they're after some sort of giant bloody bat. They say it's worshiped by certain Koori tribes, and that some whitefella is in charge of it and they're looking for him. They think he went out to the site of the failed MacWhirr Expedition, and what's worse is that Professor Dodge is encouraging all this.
It gets better than that, of course. The German bloke is almost always drinking, and even the Aussies are loony - one of them, Neville I think, keeps talking about how he met aliens or something, and the other says they went to some place called Alcheringa in their sleep back in Yirrimburra, and saw magic cause a fire there. I don't feel safe with any of these people, except maybe the Yank's blackfella friend he keeps calling "Chief", and even he's a paranoid and alert wreck. Can't read a damn thing behind those bandages he wears, it's absolutely eerie.
I'm definitely keeping an eye on them, because they're likely to get us all killed if we're not careful. All I know is that I'm keeping a journal, starting now, just in case something does happen. I just don't trust this lot, and as a Graduate Student I'd had hoped that Professor Dodge would have prepared me more for this. I guess that was too much to ask for though, wasn't it?
The day moved decently along. We were starting to edge out of where the trees are. We'll hit desert soon, and that means a lot of heat and frequent stops. Made good progress and are camping out now, though we did have a scare with the Yank earlier. No, he didn't try to kill us or anything, more like something tried to kill him. You see, we were all woken in the middle of the night by an alarmed cry to find him stock still in his sleeping bag, looking white as a sheet.
"What's the matter?" I asked, and he glanced to me.
"I felt something in the sleeping bag, it's coiled up... It's a snake I think, and it doesn't seem happy..."
Immediately I became serious, told him to be very careful, and helped him start to ease out of the bag. At just that moment, the serpent struck, agitated by the movement, but mercifully its fangs hit only the wall of the bag, mere inches from the man's one good leg. Thinking fast, I spotted where the fangs pierced and grabbed below where the head would be, letting him slip out while I took care of the snake.
"You alright, mate?" I glanced to the stammering man.
"Yeah... yeah, didn't bite me, I think," he said, mopping the sweat from his brow. "Aimed for the wrong leg, thankfully."
"You're lucky," I responded, carefully maneuvering the bag to release the snake back into the Bush and away from camp. It slithered out rather quickly, its banded marks clear as it disappeared into the foliage. "That was a tiger snake. They're deadly venomous... You almost lost your life, forget the leg."
"Yeah, not the only time something's tried to kill me," he responded, and from there we were both too nervous to sleep, so we spent the time talking.
It was at this point I found out he'd been a pilot in the War, lost his leg in a terrible plane crash, and had to survive in enemy territory for several days while lost in the forests there. It was only after another troop rescued him that he was able to get back home. Hell of a tough guy for a Yank, and makes me think maybe that's part of what drove him crazy. Sure as hell would have driven me out of my mind, and I can't fault the Yank for being bitter about it. Lord knows the War killed a lot of good men, Aussie and American both, for no damn good reason - and wounded and drove insane many more.
I don't know, maybe he's not so crazy, but I'm still keeping an eye on him. Half these bastards are ex-military, and I was just a kid fighting off a case of measles when they were busy fighting off the Huns. I'm sure as hell not going to argue with them, because I know they'll likely kill me if I do.
Ah well, I'm stuck with these loony fuckers now. Might as well connect with them, right?
-- Ken Bishop, Graduate Student on a Suicide Mission (August 5th, 1928)
It is remarkable how much like Egypt's deserts, to which McCloud and myself have traveled frequently, are alike to this one. However, in Egypt there are fewer strange spire-like formations and eerie windswept boulders, and far fewer pockets of scrubby vegetation. This desert, in comparison, is almost an oasis, and not nearly as oppressively hot. All the same, I long for my homeland, and I am sure the others long for theirs as well. Dr. Hildebrand seems especially homesick, and I am worried he may overexert himself out in this climate.
Travel was smooth the first part of the day, but that changed so quickly. It was Lucas who noticed and pointed out the deep reddish-brown band on the horizon, hazy and faint. We at first assumed it was simply a distant storm, until it began to approach rapidly closer and closer, at an alarming pace. It was then that both McCloud and myself, along with the Australian natives, realized what was coming for us - a sandstorm, and a large one at that.
We scrambled frantically for the tarp in the back of one of the jeeps, and all hurried underneath for shelter. It was the best we could do as we huddled down in the back of the vehicle, tarp pulled over us for safety, and endured for three hours the power of nature's own fury. The grains of sand scraped paint from the jeeps and smoothed and softened the rough tarp, like sandpaper, and by the time it died down and we peeked out from under the cover, we found the jeeps half-buried. The camels seemed fine, but were also covered in sand.
Thankfully, there was a nearby, stunted and windswept tree where we ended up resting in the shade, taking turns amongst us to dig ourselves out. I am certain we used much of our supply of water and salt tablets during the course of the digging, which was quite slow, and we were still only about halfway done when we noticed two figures on the horizon. Two men, carrying spears and dark-skinned, nearly naked save for protection around their waists, their scarified and tattooed faces marked with concern and confusion as they spoke a language none of us understood. Eventually, one of them approached, and the other followed, apparently concerned about our situation - or perhaps seeing my dark skin, similar to theirs, and feeling safer knowing that someone like them was there.
"They're Abo natives," Lucas pointed out. "Hunting party. They likely don't speak English. Maybe they'll help if we ask?"
"That is a good point," I responded, and we turned to attempt speaking with them. Lucas was correct that they spoke very little English, using a sort of Pidgin to speak. Fortunately, I knew what they meant, having dealt with Pidgin-only speakers before during my own travels, and was able to translate.
We explained what had happened, and they seemed willing to help. Their help did indeed make the digging go much quicker, taking most of the rest of the day, but by evening things had proceeded to the point of being able to pull both jeeps out easily. By that point, they seemed much more amiable, and in return for their help we allowed them to have some of our food and supplies. It was the least we could do for their aid. The rest of the evening followed in vague conversation and a brief dinner, which we shared, and from there we were able to ask other questions.
"Hey Chief, ask what they know about Sand-Bat," said McCloud. "Maybe they have information we don't."
I translated, and the Aboriginals' faces turned cold. They murmured amongst themselves, eventually drawing images in the sand and speaking in hushed tones. They told us that Sand-Bat had returned as a white man with wild hair, and that he had revived a very dangerous cult. They drew the bat-like symbol we had seen so often, inked onto the skin of those acolytes, and then another. This strange, five-toed footprint symbol of a sort was large, and even Sand-Bat had no control over the beings that made them. These creatures had murdered the people that came before men with strong winds, and could not be harmed by normal means. They would be known by their whistling, like a wind through a stone gap, and hearing such a sound was always an indicator to run.
We thanked them for their information, and turned back to more pleasant conversation, though the tone was still tense. By the time the sun fully set, we were exhausted and they had left, leaving us. Fortunately, the next day travel went much more smoothly, and Neville and Lucas even hunted for some food to supplement our supply. They refer to this as "bush tucker", and tell me it is good. I must admit that I did not think such strange, and sometimes deadly, beings could be edible, but edible they are.
We are now well on our way to the city, resting in a small patch of forested area. The Outback is admittedly quite beautiful and strange in that beauty, though I still long for home. Perhaps it is something I may get used to in time. For now, I am tired, and must rest. We have traveled a long way from Cuncudgerie, and have much travel yet to go. I merely hope the rest of our travel is smoother, with no setbacks and much less danger - but I am not enthusiastic that this shall be the case. I sense tension in the ranks between McCloud and Neville - they simply do not get along. One of them will likely kill the other, and that is what I fear. I simply hope that things do not come to that... or that something else does not kill either of them first.
-- Muuzaji, Homesick and Anxious (August 8th, 1928)