Longreach to Mt Isa

Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing here? Here I am, a fully grown man, shoes already pinching my toes like they’ve declared war, standing in the dry, arid hellhole that is Longreach, Queensland, waiting for a goddamn bus that’s got about as much reliability as a politician’s promise. I could’ve driven. Sure, my beat-up ute’s about as trustworthy as a used condom and only slightly less depressing, but at least I’d have control. Now, I’m surrendering myself to the good graces of whatever poorly maintained coach is supposed to drag me to Mount Isa.

Longreach. Christ, the name says it all. There’s nothing here but heat, flies, and dust. A whole fuckload of dust. It’s the sort of place that makes you wonder what unholy fuckery possessed people to settle here in the first place. Probably the same masochistic urge that makes me think this bus ride is a good idea. Or maybe it’s just that desperate itch to leave. See something else, even if that something else is Mount bloody Isa, which, let's be honest, isn’t exactly the crown jewel of civilization itself. But it’s a change of scenery. A fucking variation in the shades of beige, if nothing else.

I light a cigarette. God, the first drag tastes like relief and regret, and isn't that just a perfect metaphor for my whole bloody life? Smoke curls up, a twisted wisp in the scorching air, and I think about that job. The one that’s waiting for me in Mount Isa. How fucking uninspired. A job at a mine. Drilling into rock, breathing in particles of death, praying the earth doesn’t decide it’s fed up with us and caves the whole operation in. Just a shit pay check at the end of every day to show for it. But you know what’s more pathetic than that? Being stuck without the pay check, so here I am. Riding a bus for the promise of work.

The thing about long trips—goddamn long trips—is you’ve got too much time to think, and for someone with a head full of the kind of shit I’ve got, that’s dangerous. I can already feel the dread of eight hours stuck in my own goddamn brain, with only the occasional stop at some desolate pisshole of a town to remind me that the world outside exists. Why couldn’t I have done something more useful with my life? Fuck knows. I’m thirty-three, and all I’ve got to show for it is a bad back and worse decisions. Good job, mate. Slow fucking clap.

I flick the butt of my cigarette onto the ground, crushing it under my heel, because why not add one more piece of litter to this wasteland? The bus arrives. Finally. Groaning like it’s about to fall apart under its own weight. The driver looks as tired as I feel, like he’s had it up to here with idiots like me. And who could blame him? A hundred grumpy arseholes must pass through his care every day, all headed to places they don’t really want to be. I sling my duffel bag into the storage compartment, the damn thing stuffed full of sweat-soaked clothes and some old regrets, and climb aboard.

Inside, it smells like stale air conditioning and hopelessness. I find a seat. The faux leather is cracked, sticking to my skin almost immediately. I sit down, adjust myself, and mutter, “Here we fucking go,” to no one in particular. The bus lurches forward, and we’re off, leaving Longreach behind, that miserable slice of Queensland that now exists only in my rear-view memories.

Out the window, the landscape stretches on, empty and endless. A sea of nothing. Flat, brown. Beautiful in that haunting, oppressive way. And there it is. The start of the ride. Eight hours of soul-searching I didn’t ask for, of quiet desperation and shitty scenery. Eight hours to Mount Isa. Fuck me.

And so, the wheels on this oversized tin can keep turning, rattling over the cracked, sun-scorched roads that are probably older than God. I can feel every bump, every dip, vibrating through my spine and up into my skull like some bastardized symphony composed by sadists. Already my neck’s getting that familiar ache, the one that reminds me I’ve lived too hard for too long. Thirty-three feels like fifty-three. Every joint in my body likes to remind me what a piece of shit I am for putting it through everything I have.

I glance around. The bus is full of tired faces, people who all look like they’ve been ground down by this land in one way or another. A few tradies, their shirts stained with the kind of sweat and grease that never really washes out. A couple of sunburned tourists who clearly have no fucking clue what they’ve signed up for, bless their ignorant little souls. And then there’s this old bloke a few rows ahead, clutching a grocery bag like it’s the last thing tethering him to this world. He’s got a face that’s seen too many summers, leathery and etched with lines that probably tell a better story than mine, but hell if I’m going to ask him about it.

The woman next to me—who’s about as wide as the goddamn aisle—is chewing gum so loudly I’m already contemplating homicide. Each pop and snap of her jaw is like a gunshot straight to my nerves. But I say nothing. Because what the fuck’s the point? You don’t start fights on buses. Not unless you want to get left on the side of the highway with nothing but heatstroke and tumbleweeds for company.

Instead, I turn my head to the window and watch the world go by. Red dirt and wiry shrubs. The kind of landscape that could drive a person mad if they looked at it too long. There’s something eerie about this place, something that makes you feel small. Like the outback doesn’t give a rat’s arse whether you live or die, and maybe you’d be smart to remember that.

Hours crawl by, slower than a one-legged dog on a hot day. Eventually, we pull over at a rest stop that’s little more than a tin shed and a pair of toilets that probably haven’t seen proper maintenance since the nineties. Everyone files out of the bus, grateful for the chance to stretch their legs, and I step into the heat, which hits me like a goddamn punch in the face. The sun feels closer here, like it’s got a personal vendetta against me. I wipe sweat from my forehead, knowing full well it’s a losing battle.

I head over to a sad excuse for a vending machine, squinting at the glass, hoping for something that doesn’t look like it’s been sitting there since Kevin Rudd was prime minister. My reflection stares back at me—scruffy beard, sunburnt nose, and the eyes of a man who’s seen too many early mornings and too many late nights. The kind of eyes that are just tired of it all. I fish around in my pocket for change, shoving a few coins into the machine and punching the buttons with a little more aggression than necessary.

The can of Coke that drops feels like salvation, icy and dripping with condensation. I pop it open, the fizz burning my throat in the most satisfying way possible, and I lean back against the peeling paint of the shed. Around me, people are milling about, stretching and smoking, and there’s this kid throwing rocks into the dirt with the enthusiasm only a child could muster. I think about what it’d be like to be that age again, before life gets its claws in you, before you realize that dreams are just lies you tell yourself to get through another week.

“Long way to Mount Isa, isn’t it?” says a voice next to me. I glance over, and there’s this guy. Early forties, scruffy hair under a faded Akubra, and a tan that suggests he’s either a farmer or just some poor bastard who spends way too much time outdoors. He’s got a knowing smile, the kind that makes me immediately suspicious.

“Long enough,” I reply, taking another swig of Coke and wishing I could drown myself in it.

He chuckles, like he’s heard this conversation a hundred times before. Maybe he has. “You headed there for work or to run away from something?” he asks, like he’s got me figured out, like he knows that in places like this, people only travel when they need money or when the devil’s at their heels.

“Little bit of both,” I admit, because what the fuck, right? I’m not trying to impress anyone here.

He nods, as if that makes perfect sense. And maybe it does. Maybe everyone out here is running from something. A debt, a broken heart, a dream that died somewhere along the way. “Well, good luck to ya,” he says, tapping the brim of his hat before walking off.

I watch him go, feeling like there’s a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m too damn tired to figure it out. The driver calls for us to board again, and I drain the last of my Coke, chucking the empty can into a bin that’s seen better days. Back on the bus, back into the sweat and sighs and silent suffering of strangers. We’re moving again, this rickety beast carrying us further into the wild, into whatever lies ahead in Mount Isa.

And for just a second, I close my eyes and hope that whatever’s waiting for me there is worth the goddamn trip.

Back on the bus, I wedge myself into the same cracked seat that’s already starting to feel like it’s moulding to my arse in all the wrong ways. The air inside is stale, cloying, thick with the smell of reheated pies and exhaustion. I pull out my phone, even though I know damn well there’s no signal out here. It’s like some futile act of hope, a desperate clinging to the idea that civilization still exists somewhere, even if it’s miles away and totally out of reach. The screen’s cracked, and the battery icon is laughing at me with a smug little 17% in the corner. Great. Fucking fantastic.

The bus starts to roll again, a lumbering giant groaning back to life, and I settle in, resigning myself to the fact that I’m trapped in this metal prison for another eternity or so. The woman next to me has finally stopped chewing her gum, thank Christ, but she’s now decided to scroll through TikTok with the volume all the way up. Some screeching influencer blares from her phone, talking about mascara or some other irrelevant shit, and I can feel my blood pressure spike. But again, I say nothing, because in this tiny ecosystem of frustration and discomfort, you don’t rock the boat. You just grin and bear it, or at least bear it without the grin.

Out the window, the scenery remains the same unforgiving landscape, unchanging and endless. Dust devils dance across the ground, teasing tumbleweeds that look like they’ve lost all hope. The sun is a merciless bastard, painting everything in harsh light, and I wonder if it’s possible for a place to hate the people who live in it. Because that’s what the outback feels like sometimes—a giant middle finger from nature, daring you to survive.

I lose track of time. The bus has this way of erasing hours, blurring them together in a haze of heat and boredom. I drift off for a bit, half-dreaming of cold beers and lazy rivers, only to wake up every time my head bounces against the window, which feels like a punishment for daring to hope for a moment of peace. My mind wanders, as it always does, circling back to the job in Mount Isa. The drilling. The dust. The weight of a helmet on my head and the taste of metal in the air. It’s not the life I wanted, but then again, I never really figured out what that was.

Just as I’m about to disappear back into my thoughts, the bus jerks to a sudden, violent stop. My body jolts forward, and I swear loudly as the seatbelt digs into my chest. Around me, people start to grumble and curse, craning their necks to see what the fuck is happening. The driver gets on the intercom, his voice crackling through the ancient speakers. “Sorry, folks. Got a bit of a situation. Stay seated, yeah?”

A situation. Fucking perfect. I peek out the window and see what he means. There’s a rusted-out ute blocking the road, its bonnet popped open like it’s some defeated animal baring its guts. Standing beside it are two figures, both of them waving their arms, and from the look of things, they’ve been waiting a while. The driver sighs and grabs a ragged baseball cap from the dashboard, getting off the bus with all the enthusiasm of a man heading into a bar fight he knows he’s going to lose. He trudges toward the ute, and I watch him, partly because there’s nothing better to do and partly because I’m morbidly curious about what fresh hell this is going to turn into.

We all sit there, a captive audience. Someone in the back makes a crack about how this is “Outback fucking hospitality” at its finest, and a few people laugh, but it’s that nervous, brittle kind of laughter. The kind that only happens when everyone’s starting to realize just how alone we are out here. I mean, it’s not like there’s a bloody RACQ truck just waiting around the corner. If this bus breaks down too, we’re all fucked, left to fend off heatstroke and dehydration with nothing but our collective bad attitudes and a half-empty water bottle someone’s probably hoarding.

I lean forward, trying to get a better look, when suddenly the bus door hisses open again. The driver comes back, looking sweaty and pissed off. “Looks like they’ve got a busted radiator,” he says, wiping his forehead. “We’re giving them a lift to the next town.”

Of course we fucking are. Because why not? Just throw a few more poor bastards onto this traveling circus of misery. Sure enough, the two figures climb onto the bus—a wiry young bloke with sun-bleached hair and a woman who’s holding onto a little girl, maybe four or five years old. The kid looks tired, cheeks flushed with heat, and she clings to her mum’s neck like a koala. They make their way down the aisle, looking for seats, and the young bloke ends up right across from me.

He drops into his seat with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks, mate,” he says to the driver, who just waves him off and mutters something about getting a bloody move on. The bus shudders forward, and the kid lets out a small, tired whimper, burying her face in her mum’s shoulder.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I find myself leaning across the aisle, catching the bloke’s eye. “Rough day?” I ask, and I immediately feel stupid, because of course it’s a rough day. We’re all having a rough fucking day. But he just gives me a tired smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You could say that,” he replies. “Radiator shat itself out of nowhere. Been stuck there for hours.”

“Welcome to the middle of bloody nowhere,” I say, and he chuckles, a real laugh this time, even if it’s short-lived.

“Name’s Jack,” he says, holding out a hand. His grip is firm, calloused, the handshake of someone who works for a living.

“Steve,” I reply, and for a moment, the weight of the outback feels a little lighter, shared between two strangers. The bus rattles on, and I watch the young mum trying to soothe her kid, whispering soft words that only a mother knows how to say. And as we all settle back into the monotony, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this bus ride isn’t entirely hopeless. Because sometimes, all you have are the people sitting next to you, and sometimes that’s enough to get by. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere.

The bus groans onward, each mile stretching out into eternity, a dusty nowhere land that seems to mock our very presence. Jack, the bloke with the shit luck and the busted radiator, settles in beside his partner and the kid, trying to make them as comfortable as he can in this traveling sweatbox. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of ten lifetimes on his shoulders. I don’t blame him—out here, even the simple act of existing feels like a goddamn endurance sport.

I sink back into my seat and close my eyes, but my mind doesn’t give me any peace. It races through a shitstorm of worries, of half-formed plans and abandoned dreams. Mount Isa. I keep thinking about the town. About the mine. About the life I’m supposed to scrape together out there. I’ve heard the stories. Guys dropping dead at fifty because their lungs are blacker than coal. Bodies broken and discarded like used-up parts of a machine. But then there’s the pay check, that sweet, life-saving dose of money I need to drag myself out of the financial hellhole I’ve been drowning in for years. You’d think a thirty-three-year-old man would have his shit together by now, but hey, if I’d made good decisions, I wouldn’t be on this bus.

I’m jolted out of my self-loathing reverie by a small voice. A kid’s voice. The little girl who came on with Jack and his partner. She’s squirming in her mother’s lap, eyes wide, looking around like she’s trying to make sense of this metal behemoth full of sweaty, miserable strangers. Her face is still flushed, and she’s clutching a stuffed kangaroo, its ears chewed and matted. The mum, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, does her best to comfort her, but the kid is restless, that particular brand of uncomfortable that only children seem to master.

The little girl looks over at me, her big brown eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, I’m frozen. What the hell do you say to a kid when you’re a complete stranger on a bus to nowhere? I give her a half-hearted smile, and to my surprise, she smiles back—a small, shy grin that lights up her face like a match in the dark. Christ, when was the last time someone smiled at me like that? Like I wasn’t just another weary, washed-up prick? I don’t know, but it does something to my chest, something warm and unexpected.

“Roo’s thirsty,” the girl says, holding up her stuffed kangaroo.

I blink, not sure if I heard her right. Her mum looks mortified, whispering an apology and trying to shush her, but I hold up a hand. “It’s alright,” I say, digging into my bag. I pull out my own water bottle, half-empty and lukewarm but still drinkable, and unscrew the cap. “Here,” I say, holding it out. “Roo can have a drink. If you don’t mind sharing.”

The little girl’s eyes light up like Christmas, and she takes the bottle, pressing the plastic rim gently to the kangaroo’s stitched mouth. She makes a little slurping noise, as if Roo’s really drinking, and her mum watches, her tired face softening in relief. “Thank you,” she says, her voice almost breaking. “We ran out of water an hour ago. Didn’t want to ask.”

I feel a pang of guilt. I should’ve noticed. Should’ve done something sooner. But who’s looking out for who these days? We’re all just scraping by, heads down, hoping we don’t go under.

“No worries,” I mutter, more embarrassed than I should be. “Take as much as you need.”

The mum pours some of the water into her own cupped hand, helping her daughter drink a few sips, and I can’t help but think about how fucking fragile we are out here. A broken radiator, a couple of hours without water, and suddenly you’re in survival mode. I glance at Jack, who’s leaning forward, head in his hands. Stress and shame are etched into his face, and I know that look. The look of a man who feels like he’s failed his family. I’ve worn that look more times than I care to admit.

He catches me watching him and sits up, trying to put on a brave face. “Thanks, mate,” he says quietly. “We weren’t expecting the ute to crap out on us. Bloody hell, the universe has a sense of humour, eh?”

I chuckle, but it’s hollow. “The universe is a real bastard, that’s for sure.”

For a moment, there’s a shared understanding between us. Two men on the edge of breaking, trying to hold it together for the people they care about. It’s weird how connection can come out of nowhere, even on a goddamn bus in the middle of a goddamn desert.

The bus rumbles on, the sun sinking lower, painting the landscape in a deep, angry orange. The air cools, but just barely, and I start to think that maybe we’ll make it to Mount Isa before my sanity gives out. The little girl falls asleep in her mum’s arms, and the rest of us settle into a tired silence. Outside, the horizon stretches on, a promise of something better—or maybe just more of the same.

I lean my head back, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Maybe it’s not much, but for now, we’re moving forward. Together, for better or worse, rattling down this endless road to whatever the hell is waiting for us at the end of it. And sometimes, that’s all you can fucking ask for.

The bus rolls on, an iron beast lumbering through the outback, dragging all of us miserable souls with it. Darkness creeps in slowly, swallowing up the orange glow of the dying sun and leaving behind a sky littered with stars. Out here, with no city lights to fuck up the view, the stars are obscene. They spill across the sky in a way that feels ancient, mocking us with their eternity. It’s beautiful, sure, but also unsettling. Makes you realize how insignificant we all are. Just a bunch of assholes on a bus, trying to get to Mount Isa, while the universe couldn’t give two shits about any of us.

The road is quiet now, except for the constant hum of the engine and the occasional cough from some poor bastard in the back. The little girl is fast asleep, her head cradled against her mum’s chest. Jack’s dozed off too, though he’s twitching like a man haunted by bad dreams, his hand gripping his knee so tight his knuckles are white. I watch him for a moment, thinking about how much pressure must be crushing down on his shoulders. Hell, on all our shoulders.

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable, which is fucking impossible. My spine feels like it’s been twisted into a pretzel, and my arse is numb from the shitty cushion. My phone’s down to 5% now, so I switch it off entirely. No point in clinging to that last bit of hope, especially when there’s nothing but more dark, empty land between here and where I’m going. I wonder if anyone in Mount Isa is waiting for me. Probably not. Just a job, an address, and maybe a bed in some miserable share house with miners who snore and stink of sweat and disappointment.

A voice breaks through the silence, startling me. It’s the driver, muttering into the intercom again. “Quick rest stop coming up,” he announces, sounding as worn-out as the bus he’s driving. “Fifteen minutes. Get out, stretch your legs, do your business. Make it quick.”

The promise of fresh air—or at least air that doesn’t smell like human suffering—gets everyone stirring. The bus hisses to a stop in the middle of another nowhere place. The lights from the rest stop are dim and yellow, casting weird shadows that make everything look a little creepy. There’s a long row of toilets, a single picnic table, and a vending machine that looks like it’s been through a war. But hey, it’s a break from the hellish monotony.

I drag myself off the bus, legs stiff, joints cracking. The heat’s died down a little, replaced by a cool breeze that feels like a goddamn miracle. I walk a few paces away from the crowd, taking a deep breath, letting the fresh air burn my lungs. Around me, the world is vast and quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of silence that gets under your skin, that makes you feel like a trespasser in a place where nature would be just as happy to bury you in red dust and forget you ever existed.

Jack and his partner are out too, stretching and checking on their kid, who’s still conked out in her mum’s arms. Jack catches my eye and nods, a silent thanks for earlier. I nod back, because words feel too heavy, too serious for this tired moment. Instead, I wander over to the vending machine, eyeing its pathetic selection. Stale chips. Warm cans of Coke. Chocolate bars that have probably melted and re-hardened a dozen times. But I’m starving, so I dig into my pocket and fish out a couple of coins.

As I’m feeding the machine, a voice comes up behind me. “Bet you ten bucks that thing swallows your money and laughs at you.”

I turn to see a woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with wild curly hair that looks like it’s been fighting a losing battle with the humidity. Her face is flushed, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eye, the kind that’s rare to find on a bus full of exhausted travelers. She’s wearing a tattered flannel shirt and boots that look like they’ve seen some serious miles.

I snort, because she’s probably right. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. “It’s already robbed half the hope I had left.”

She laughs, a real laugh, and it’s infectious. “Name’s Ellie,” she says, sticking out her hand. Her grip is strong, firm, and her skin is rough, like someone who works with her hands. I feel the sudden, stupid urge to impress her, even if I look like I’ve been dragged through the mud.

“Steve,” I reply. “On my way to Mount Isa to earn a living, or die trying.”

She raises an eyebrow. “A miner, huh?” There’s something in her voice, a note of… I don’t know, curiosity? Maybe a bit of sympathy. “Tough gig. Better be careful. That town’s full of broken dreams and half-drunk blokes who never found their way out.”

“Sounds about right.” I give the vending machine a half-hearted punch, and to my utter surprise, a bag of chips actually drops into the tray. “Hah! Look at that,” I say, feeling triumphant over this small, shitty victory. “Take that, you piece of junk.”

Ellie smirks. “Careful, mate. You’ll scare the machine into a revolt.”

I tear open the bag and offer her some. “You headed to Mount Isa too?” I ask, because everyone on this bus has a story, and hers might be the first one I actually want to hear.

She hesitates for a second, like she’s weighing something, then takes a few chips and nods. “Yeah. Family stuff,” she says vaguely, her eyes drifting off into the distance, where the shadows are long and endless. “It’s… complicated.”

Isn’t it always? I don’t push her for details, because I know better than anyone that sometimes, the past is a heavy bastard that doesn’t need dragging out into the open. Instead, we share a quiet moment, eating stale chips under the endless sky, two strangers bound by nothing more than the same rattling bus and the same long, uncertain road ahead.

The driver calls us back, and I sigh, feeling the weight of the journey settle over me again. But as I climb back onto the bus, I feel a little less alone. Maybe it’s Ellie’s laughter still echoing in my head, or the way Jack nodded at me with that look of shared understanding. Or maybe it’s the stars, glinting above us, uncaring but constant, reminding me that even in this vast, uncaring wilderness, we’re all still moving forward. One mile at a time.

The bus heaves itself back to life, shuddering and groaning as it pulls away from the rest stop, dragging us deeper into the night. I collapse back into my seat, feeling the chips I just ate sitting heavy in my gut. Across the aisle, Ellie has settled in a couple of rows back, her face partially illuminated by the weak overhead lights. She’s got her head resting against the window now, curls spilling over her eyes, and she looks almost peaceful. Almost. But there’s something in her posture, a tension, like she’s carrying more baggage than just the old duffel bag she’s got under her seat.

Jack’s little girl is still asleep, and I watch as her mum gently strokes her hair, murmuring something soft. There’s a quiet resilience in that family, something both heartbreaking and oddly comforting. I don’t know why I care so much about these people I’ve only just met, but maybe it’s because we’re all trapped in this moving limbo together, in this rattling, diesel-belching purgatory. Funny how shared misery can do that—bind you to strangers in ways you don’t expect.

The road stretches on, endless and dark, and I feel that familiar heaviness in my chest. Not just from exhaustion, but from the nagging, gnawing sense that I’m on a collision course with something I can’t see yet. My brain won’t shut up, spiraling through thoughts I don’t want to have. What if the mine job falls through? What if the whole thing is a bust and I’m left stranded in Mount Isa, broke and defeated, just another asshole with a duffel bag full of failure? What if—

“Steve, right?” Ellie’s voice cuts through the noise in my head, and I turn, surprised to see her leaning forward from her seat.

“Yeah?” I reply, trying to mask how startled I feel. She’s got this intense look in her eyes, like she’s trying to read me, figure out what kind of person I am in the fifteen-second window she’s allotted herself.

She glances around, making sure no one else is listening, then drops her voice. “Can I ask you something weird?” There’s a nervous edge to her tone, but she’s masking it with bravado.

I shrug, because weird questions are basically the only kind I expect at this point. “Shoot.”

She hesitates, fiddling with the frayed hem of her flannel shirt. “Do you ever get the feeling like… I don’t know, like you’re running out of time? Like no matter what you do, there’s something big coming, and you can’t stop it?”

Christ. That hits me harder than I expect. I stare at her for a second, not sure how to answer, because it’s like she’s pulled the thought straight out of my goddamn head. I clear my throat, trying to play it off. “Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. “Every damn day, actually.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. “Yeah. Thought so,” she murmurs, leaning back. “Sorry, I just… you seemed like the type who’d get it.”

I don’t know what the hell “the type” means, but I get what she’s trying to say. Out here, on a bus to nowhere, surrounded by people all trying to escape something or find something or just survive, there’s a feeling that’s hard to shake. That sense of time slipping away, of fate catching up, like you’re living on borrowed hours. And I wonder what Ellie’s running from—or toward—that makes her feel that way.

Before I can say anything else, the bus lurches, and the lights flicker. There’s a sound like something grinding, metal against metal, and everyone tenses. The driver mutters something unintelligible over the intercom, and my stomach knots with that primal, animal fear. Please, for the love of God, don’t let this be the moment everything goes to shit.

But the bus keeps moving, albeit with an unsettling whine from somewhere deep in its guts, and the moment of panic passes. Around me, people exhale, and someone jokes about “classic outback buses” in a shaky voice. But Ellie’s not laughing. She’s staring at the floor, lips pressed tight, lost in thought.

I turn my gaze back out the window. The stars are still there, indifferent and cold, watching over us like a thousand tiny reminders that we’re nothing more than ants scurrying across the dirt. But then I notice something—a set of headlights, way off in the distance. A vehicle, coming up fast behind us, getting closer. It’s just a speck for now, a pair of lights cutting through the dark, but something about it sends a prickle of unease up my spine. Because who the hell would be barrelling down this road in the dead of night?

As the headlights grow brighter, I feel Ellie’s eyes on me again. She leans forward, her voice low. “You see that?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone that makes my heart thump harder. A quiet urgency, a hint of fear.

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “I see it.”

The vehicle gets closer, and I can hear the distant hum of its engine, louder and more aggressive than it should be. I exchange a look with Ellie, and for the first time, I feel like this bus ride might turn into something a lot more dangerous than a long, miserable slog to Mount Isa.

“What the hell’s that about?” I mutter, but Ellie doesn’t answer. She’s staring at those approaching headlights with a grim, almost resigned expression, like she’s been expecting them. Like whatever is coming for us, she knew it was only a matter of time.

The headlights behind us grow brighter, cutting through the darkness like a knife, and the uneasy hum of the engine swells into a full-blown roar. My gut twists, a sick feeling settling in, because there’s something about the way that vehicle’s barreling toward us that feels all wrong. Too fast. Too aggressive. Like it’s chasing us, not just traveling the same road.

The rest of the bus notices it too. People are turning, murmuring in low, worried voices, shifting in their seats. Jack’s partner cradles their sleeping daughter tighter, her eyes darting nervously between the driver and the back window. The driver, to his credit, seems to be doing his best to ignore it, gripping the wheel tighter and pushing the old bus a little harder, as if that’s going to make a goddamn difference. This thing is already on its last legs; there’s no way it could outrun anything.

Ellie doesn’t take her eyes off the headlights, her jaw clenched tight. “Shit,” she whispers, more to herself than to me, but I catch it.

I lean closer. “What’s going on?” My voice is low, urgent. “You know something about this?”

She hesitates, just for a second, and that second is enough to tell me that yes, she does know something. But she doesn’t answer. Not directly, anyway. Instead, she mutters, “We might want to brace ourselves.”

“Brace ourselves?” I echo, and before I can even process what the hell she means by that, the vehicle behind us swerves into the oncoming lane, pulling up alongside the bus.

It’s a truck. An old, beat-up Land Cruiser, caked in red dust and roaring like a demon. The kind of truck that looks like it belongs to someone who spends their days hunting feral pigs or doing other outback shit you’d only see in a nightmare. Two figures sit in the cab, shadows behind the glare of their headlights, but I can see enough to know that they’re not here for a friendly roadside chat.

“Holy fuck,” someone up front breathes, and the panic starts to ripple through the bus like wildfire. The Land Cruiser keeps pace with us, and one of the figures leans out the window, holding something long and unmistakably dangerous-looking. A fucking rifle.

I don’t have time to process the shock before the gunshot rings out, a deafening crack that makes everyone on the bus scream. The bullet shatters the side mirror, glass spraying like deadly glitter, and the driver swerves, cursing as he tries to keep us on the road. The bus lurches violently, and I grab the seat in front of me to keep from being thrown into the aisle.

“Everybody stay down!” the driver shouts, his voice cracking with fear, but that’s easier said than done when we’re all strapped into seats like sitting ducks.

The Land Cruiser pulls ahead, cutting in front of the bus and forcing the driver to slam on the brakes. The whole bus skids, tires screeching, and I feel my stomach drop as the vehicle shudders to a halt in a cloud of dust. We’re stranded, dead in the middle of nowhere, with these armed lunatics blocking our path. My heart is pounding so hard I feel like it’s going to burst out of my chest.

People are crying, swearing, clutching each other in blind panic. Jack has one arm around his partner, the other shielding his daughter, who’s woken up and is sobbing in terrified confusion. I turn to Ellie, and she looks pale, her hands trembling, but there’s something else in her eyes too—determination. Or maybe resignation. I can’t quite tell.

The doors of the Land Cruiser swing open, and two men step out. Rough-looking bastards, both of them. One’s got a beard that looks like it’s never met a razor, and the other has a shaved head covered in tattoos. The bearded one is still holding the rifle, and the other pulls a knife from his belt. They’re grinning, like this is some sick game to them, and I realize with a sick lurch that they probably do this often. Prey on travellers, take what they want, and leave no witnesses.

“Everyone out!” the bearded man shouts, his voice echoing in the stillness. “Now! No one tries anything stupid, and maybe you’ll live to see morning!”

A woman up front starts crying harder, and the rest of us exchange panicked, wide-eyed looks. My hands feel numb. My mind races, trying to think of any way out of this, but there’s no escape. No way to call for help. Nothing but the endless outback, and the two maniacs with their weapons.

I look at Ellie, desperate for some kind of plan, some sign that she knows what the fuck to do. And then I see it—a flicker of something in her expression. Like she’s made a decision.

“Stay close to me,” she says quietly, her voice tight but steady. “No matter what happens.”

“What—” I start to ask, but she’s already moving, reaching into her bag and pulling out something small and metal. At first, I think it’s a flashlight or a phone, but then I realize it’s a goddamn knife, the blade dull and scratched but still plenty dangerous.

“Ellie,” I hiss, panic spiking. “What the hell are you planning?”

She grips the knife, her knuckles white. “Just trust me,” she whispers, her eyes fierce. And in that moment, I know that whatever secrets she’s been keeping, whatever shadows are chasing her, they’re about to come out into the open.

And I have no choice but to go along for the ride.

The men from the Land Cruiser stand in front of the bus, weapons glinting in the pale glow of the headlights. Bearded Bastard keeps his rifle trained on us, a sick grin playing on his cracked lips, while his tattooed accomplice circles the bus door like a predator. I can feel the fear in the air, thick and choking, everyone frozen and praying they don’t become a fucking statistic in some outback horror story.

The driver, poor bastard, looks like he’s two seconds away from passing out, but he manages to hit the button to open the bus doors. With a hiss, they slide open, and Tattooed Prick hops on, his boots echoing against the metal floor. He’s grinning too, his knife glinting as he scans the terrified faces of the passengers.

“Alright, everyone,” he drawls, his voice full of twisted pleasure. “Out. Nice and slow. Leave your bags behind, and don’t do anything that’ll make my mate out there get twitchy with that rifle of his.” He waves the knife around for emphasis, and a few people flinch, clutching each other tighter.

My heart is a goddamn drumbeat in my chest, and I glance at Ellie, who’s gripping her knife so tightly I think she might snap the handle. Her face is set, eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and determination. I don’t know what the hell she’s planning, but it’s clear she’s not the type to go down without a fight.

Tattooed Prick starts ushering people off the bus, and I stand up slowly, trying to keep my movements calm, unthreatening. Jack and his partner are just ahead of me, holding their daughter between them, and I can see the way Jack’s jaw is clenched, his fists tight at his sides. He looks like he wants to rip the man apart with his bare hands, but the fear for his family keeps him in check.

“Come on,” Tattooed Prick snaps, jabbing his knife in our direction. “Move it, or I’ll make you move.”

We file off the bus, one by one, into the harsh glare of the headlights. The bearded man keeps his rifle aimed at us, the barrel gleaming ominously. The night is heavy and silent around us, the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.

I try to keep my breathing steady, but adrenaline is spiking through my veins, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back despite the cool night air. We’re all lined up now, a ragged row of hostages under the desert sky, and I can see the terror in everyone’s eyes. The bearded man steps forward, cocking his head.

“Right,” he says, his grin widening. “This is how it’s going to go. You’re going to hand over your wallets, jewelry, whatever valuables you’ve got on you. And if anyone tries to be a hero…” He swings the rifle, pointing it at Jack’s little girl, who’s crying softly into her mother’s chest. “Well, I think you get the idea.”

A collective shudder goes through the crowd, and I feel something inside me snap. Fuck this. But before I can do anything stupid, Ellie steps forward, her hands raised, her knife tucked out of sight behind her leg.

“Alright,” she says loudly, her voice carrying a hint of defiance. “Take whatever you want. Just leave the kid out of it.”

Bearded Bastard squints at her, clearly enjoying the power trip. “Smart girl,” he sneers. “Now hand over your shit and back off.”

Ellie doesn’t hesitate. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of crumpled bills, tossing them onto the dirt at his feet. “There,” she says. “That’s all I’ve got.”

The distraction is enough for me to catch the flicker of a plan in her eyes. My brain races, trying to piece together what the hell she’s doing. And then she gives me the tiniest nod. A signal.

My mouth goes dry. It’s a shit plan, whatever it is, but it’s the only one we’ve got.

I take a step forward, acting like I’m fumbling to get my wallet out of my jeans. Bearded Bastard shifts his aim just slightly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, and that’s when Ellie makes her move.

With a burst of speed, she lunges for the tattooed man, her knife flashing in the dim light. He’s caught off guard, too slow to react, and she plunges the blade into his arm, making him howl in pain. He drops the knife, clutching his bleeding limb, and Ellie twists away, shoving him hard enough that he stumbles backward into the side of the bus.

Chaos erupts. Bearded Bastard swings his rifle around, fury twisting his face, but before he can take a shot, Jack launches himself at the man with a roar, pure fucking rage driving him forward. He tackles the guy, and they both go down in a heap, the rifle discharging into the dirt with a muffled bang.

Screams fill the air, and I’m moving before I even realize what I’m doing. I grab Tattooed Prick’s dropped knife, the handle slick with his blood, and turn to see Ellie wrestling with him, her eyes wild. I rush in, kicking the bastard’s knee from behind, and he crumples, swearing viciously. Ellie uses the moment to wrench her knife free and slam her elbow into his face. He goes down, hard, blood spraying from his broken nose.

But it’s not over. Bearded Bastard is fighting Jack, trying to wrestle the rifle away, and I feel a surge of blind, desperate anger. I lunge forward, slashing with the knife, catching the man across the shoulder. He screams, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Jack grunts, straining to keep the barrel of the gun pointed away from the crowd.

“Help him!” Ellie screams at me, and I don’t think—I just act.

I drop the knife and grab a rock from the ground, swinging it as hard as I can at Bearded Bastard’s head. There’s a sickening crack, and his eyes roll back. The rifle falls from his hands, and Jack scrambles to grab it, gasping for breath.

Everything goes still for a moment. The attackers are down, groaning and bloodied, and the rest of us are frozen, stunned by the violence we just unleashed. Jack stands there, the rifle trembling in his hands, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. His partner clutches their daughter, who’s sobbing into her chest, and the rest of the passengers are huddled together, eyes wide with shock.

Ellie looks at me, her face pale but fierce. “Grab their keys,” she says, her voice shaking but steady. “We need to get the fuck out of here before they wake up.”

And just like that, we spring into action, adrenaline surging through us as we realize we might have a chance.

The air is electric, thick with the wild, raw energy of survival. I’m still clutching the rock, my hand trembling, adrenaline roaring through my veins like a runaway freight train. Ellie’s command echoes in my head, and I snap out of my stunned daze, lunging toward the Land Cruiser where the bastards’ keys must be.

Jack is still holding the rifle, his face pale and drawn, his chest heaving like he can’t catch his breath. His partner is whispering to their little girl, trying to calm her down, but the kid’s sobs cut through the air like a knife. The rest of the passengers look paralysed, unsure whether to run, scream, or drop dead from sheer panic.

I skid to a stop beside the Land Cruiser, yanking open the driver’s door. The keys are dangling in the ignition, and I grab them, my hand slick with sweat and the leftover blood from that knife. I turn back to the scene unfolding in the dirt: Bearded Bastard is groaning, blood trickling from the gash in his head, while Tattooed Prick is curled up on the ground, clutching his broken nose and spitting curses. They’re down, but they’re not out. And if they get back up before we’re gone, it’s all over.

I race back to Ellie, who’s keeping an eye on the two attackers, her knife still clutched in her hand. “Got the keys,” I pant, holding them up.

“Good,” she says, and her voice is tight, every word pulled taut with urgency. “We need to get everyone into the truck, now. The bus is a death trap if they get back up.”

She turns to the passengers, most of whom are still frozen in shock. “Move!” she barks, and there’s something commanding in her voice, something that snaps people into action. “Everyone, get to the Land Cruiser! We’re getting out of here!”

People start to stumble forward, dragging themselves out of their fear-induced paralysis. Jack’s partner grabs their daughter and runs, Jack following with the rifle clutched awkwardly in his hands. The rest of the passengers stumble after them, a desperate, chaotic scramble.

I help Ellie herd them toward the truck, trying to shove down the rising panic in my chest. The Land Cruiser isn’t big enough for all of us, but we’ll figure that out later. We just need to get the fuck away. Behind us, Bearded Bastard lets out a low, furious growl and starts to push himself up, blood dripping into his beard. My stomach lurches—he’s regaining his senses.

Ellie sees it too, and she swears under her breath. “We need to hurry,” she mutters, her voice quivering.

The first few passengers are piling into the back of the Land Cruiser, cramming themselves into the tray as best they can. Jack’s partner climbs into the front, their daughter still crying, and Jack himself takes the passenger seat, rifle propped across his lap. He’s breathing hard, his hands shaking as he tries to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with a weapon he’s probably never fired before.

I shove the keys into Ellie’s hand. “You drive,” I say, because she looks like she has half a clue and I’m too rattled to trust myself behind the wheel.

She nods, no questions asked, and jumps into the driver’s seat. I scramble into the back of the tray, pressing myself against the side, my heart thudding so loud I’m sure everyone can hear it. The last few passengers are climbing in, clutching each other, tears streaking down their dirt-smeared faces. We’re packed in like sardines, but at least we’re in.

“Go, go, go!” I shout, pounding my fist on the roof of the cab.

Ellie doesn’t need to be told twice. She slams the Land Cruiser into gear, and the tires spin in the dirt for a heart-stopping second before catching traction. We lurch forward, and the truck roars to life, tearing away from the bus and leaving those two bastards in the dust.

The wind whips past me, and I grip the edge of the tray with both hands, my knuckles white. The world blurs as we speed down the dark road, and I can feel the collective relief flooding through everyone crammed into the back. But relief is a fragile thing, and the reality of our situation is still a jagged edge pressing against my throat.

I glance over my shoulder, back at the bus shrinking in the distance. Bearded Bastard is on his feet now, swaying slightly but furious, and Tattooed Prick is stumbling to the Land Cruiser, where he must have some kind of backup plan—another vehicle, maybe, or God knows what. I can’t hear what they’re shouting, but their rage is palpable, a dark cloud hanging over us as we escape.

Ellie’s voice crackles through the cab window. “We can’t keep this speed up forever!” she shouts, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “This thing’ll burn through fuel fast, and we don’t have enough for a long run!”

“Then what do we do?” Jack yells back, his voice cracking. “They’re going to come after us!”

I look around, desperately trying to think, but my mind is a whirlwind. The road stretches on, empty and unforgiving, and the outback feels like a goddamn trap, a place with no exits. The only thing I know for certain is that if we stop, if those bastards catch up to us, we’re all dead.

Then Ellie glances at me in the side mirror, and I see a flicker of something in her eyes. “Steve,” she calls out, and there’s something grim but determined in her voice. “You trust me?”

My throat is dry. I have no reason to trust her. I barely know her. But after everything we’ve just been through, and the way she stood up to those bastards when everyone else froze… I don’t have much of a choice.

“Yeah,” I call back, swallowing hard. “I trust you.”

She bites her lip, as if steadying herself. “Then hang on,” she says. “I’ve got an idea. And it’s going to be fucking dangerous.”

The Land Cruiser roars down the empty highway, bumping and rattling over the rough terrain, and I tighten my grip on the edge of the tray, feeling every jolt rattle my spine. Dust kicks up behind us in a thick, choking cloud, but I know it won’t be enough to lose those two psychos. Not for long.

Ellie’s idea better be something fucking brilliant.

“Alright,” she shouts, her voice barely carrying over the roar of the wind. “Here’s the plan!” She’s white-knuckled on the steering wheel, her eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. “Up ahead, there’s an old dirt road that cuts off from the main highway. It leads to a dry riverbed. If we take it, we can lose them in the gullies, but—” she pauses, glancing back at us through the window, “—it’s a gamble. If the Land Cruiser gets stuck, we’re screwed.”

My heart slams against my ribs. A dry riverbed? It sounds insane, but staying on the highway isn’t exactly promising either. Behind us, the shouts of the two attackers have faded, but that doesn’t mean they’re giving up. I’m sure they’re already scrambling to get another vehicle, to hunt us down like animals.

Jack’s face is pale as a ghost, his grip on the rifle unsteady. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “That sounds like a death wish.”

Ellie gives him a hard look. “You got a better idea?” she snaps, her voice tight with adrenaline. “Because we’re running out of options, mate. Either we take our chances off-road, or we wait for those bastards to catch up and pick us off one by one.”

There’s a beat of heavy silence. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, and I can see the terror etched into the faces of everyone huddled in the back of the truck. The little girl clings to her mum, her sobs now quiet, almost exhausted. Everyone’s looking to me, like I have the authority to make the call, but fuck, I’m just as scared as they are.

I swallow, my mouth dry as sandpaper. “Do it,” I say finally, my voice cracking. “Take the riverbed.”

Ellie nods, a grim smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Hold on tight,” she warns, and then she jerks the wheel hard to the left.

The Land Cruiser veers off the highway, tires skidding and spitting gravel, and we all lurch violently. Someone screams, and I barely manage to keep myself from being thrown over the side, my body slamming into the cold metal of the tray. The truck plunges onto the dirt road, bouncing and fishtailing, and the whole world becomes a blur of dust and darkness. The headlights barely illuminate the narrow path, but Ellie pushes on, her determination a force of nature.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jack mutters, clutching the rifle as if it’s a lifeline. His partner has her arms wrapped protectively around their daughter, eyes squeezed shut, like she can’t bear to look.

I glance back, my heart pounding. The dust cloud we’ve left behind is thick, swallowing the highway, and for a brief, fragile moment, I think maybe—just maybe—we’ve got a chance. But then, in the distance, I catch a glimpse of headlights cutting through the haze. The bastards must have found another vehicle, and they’re coming after us. The lights are bouncing, moving fast, like a predator zeroing in on its prey.

“They’re still following us!” I shout, panic flooding back into my chest.

Ellie’s jaw tightens. “We’re almost there,” she calls back, and she sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than us. The road gets rougher, the bumps more brutal, and I’m thrown around like a rag doll. The gullies start to rise around us, steep walls of packed dirt and stone, the dry riverbed looming ahead. It’s treacherous terrain, a graveyard of ancient river rocks and hidden drop-offs, and I don’t know if our Land Cruiser is tough enough to handle it.

Ellie guns the engine, and the truck bucks and bounces like a rodeo bull, skidding dangerously close to one of the gullies. I feel my stomach lurch as we narrowly avoid a drop-off, the edge crumbling away under our tires. The headlights behind us are still gaining, and I can hear the faint, murderous roar of an engine getting closer.

“Shit!” Ellie curses, yanking the wheel to keep us from flipping. The truck’s engine is straining, growling in protest, but somehow, we keep moving, carving our way through the labyrinth of gullies. She’s driving like a madwoman, and I realize she’s either the best driver I’ve ever seen, or completely insane.

Maybe both.

“We need to buy more time!” she yells over the chaos, her eyes flicking to Jack. “Can you fire that thing?”

Jack looks down at the rifle in his hands, his face pale and clammy. “I—I don’t know,” he stammers. “I’ve never… I don’t know if I can hit anything!”

I look at him, and something inside me snaps. I get it. He’s terrified, more terrified than he’s ever been, but if we’re going to survive this, he has to step up. We all have to.

“Just aim and scare the fuck out of them!” I shout, my voice raw with desperation. “They’re not expecting you to be perfect! Just make them think twice!”

Jack takes a shaky breath, his hands trembling. He looks at his partner, at his daughter, and I see the fear harden into something else. Something fierce and protective. He swallows, nods, and shifts in his seat, rolling down the window. The headlights are closer now, and I can almost see the faces of our pursuers, twisted with rage.

Jack lifts the rifle, his whole body shuddering, and takes aim. “God help us,” he mutters, and then he pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening, echoing through the riverbed like a crack of thunder. The recoil nearly knocks the rifle out of his hands, and the shot goes wide, but the pursuing vehicle swerves, clearly startled. Jack fires again, this time closer, and the bastards back off for a moment, their headlights swinging wildly as they struggle to regain control.

Ellie takes the chance, slamming on the accelerator, and we lurch forward, gaining a few precious yards. The riverbed is narrowing, the gullies closing in around us, and it feels like we’re racing through a canyon made of bone-dry earth. I can’t see a way out, can’t see how we’re going to get away, but Ellie keeps driving, her eyes locked on the darkness ahead.

“Hang on!” she shouts, and I grip the edge of the tray even tighter, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

Up ahead, the riverbed forks. One path leads into a narrow, shadow-choked gorge, and the other curves sharply into what looks like a rockslide, boulders scattered like the aftermath of a disaster. Ellie hesitates for the briefest of moments, and then she makes her choice, jerking the wheel to the right.

The Land Cruiser hurtles into the gorge, and we disappear into the darkness, the walls of the canyon swallowing us whole.

The Land Cruiser plunges into the shadowy gorge, the headlights barely cutting through the darkness. The walls of packed earth and jagged stone rise up on either side of us, so close I can almost reach out and scrape my knuckles on them. Ellie has her foot jammed on the accelerator, and the truck bucks and bounces over rocks, its suspension groaning like a dying animal. Dust and grit fly into the air, choking the narrow space, and the roar of our engine echoes off the canyon walls, making everything feel louder, more desperate.

In the back of the truck, we’re clinging on for dear life. My teeth are rattling, my grip slipping on the metal tray with every jolt. Jack is still clutching the rifle, his face slick with sweat, but he’s not firing anymore—there’s no point. The walls of the gorge are too tight, too suffocating. There’s no room to shoot, no room to do anything except hold on and pray.

The pursuing vehicle hasn’t given up. I can hear the low, snarling growl of its engine, echoing behind us, and my pulse pounds in time with the noise. These bastards are relentless, and the narrowness of the gorge means they’re right on our tail. If they catch up to us here, we’ll have nowhere to run.

“Ellie!” I shout, barely able to hear myself over the chaos. “Do you even know where this goes?!”

She doesn’t turn, but I see her jaw clench in the rearview mirror. “I know it goes somewhere!” she yells back, her voice tight with a mix of fear and determination. “Just trust me!”

Trust. Right. Trust is all I have left, and it’s not fucking comforting. But I don’t have time to dwell on it, because suddenly the Land Cruiser hits a particularly deep rut, and the whole truck tilts dangerously to the side. The passengers in the back scream as we’re thrown against each other, and I feel my stomach drop, thinking this is it. But Ellie manages to wrestle the wheel, dragging the truck back onto even ground, and we keep barreling forward.

Up ahead, the gorge takes a sharp curve to the left. Ellie throws her weight into the turn, and the Land Cruiser skids, fishtailing so close to the canyon wall that I feel rocks scraping the side. My heart is in my throat. Behind us, the pursuing vehicle swings into the turn as well, and for a terrifying moment, I think they’re going to catch us. The headlights illuminate the back of the truck, blinding us, and I hear the roar of their engine getting louder, closing the gap.

Jack turns, lifting the rifle with shaking hands. He’s about to take another shot when something unexpected happens. The pursuing vehicle, still accelerating like a demon, suddenly skids on a patch of loose rock, and its tires lose traction. The truck wobbles, and then it slams into the canyon wall with a bone-shaking crunch. There’s an explosion of metal and shattered headlights, and the vehicle comes to a grinding halt, wedged sideways in the narrow space.

“Holy shit!” someone in the back cries, and a surge of wild hope rushes through me. The bastards are stuck. For now, at least.

But we’re not out of the woods yet—because even though the canyon has swallowed our pursuers, we’re still careening through this winding death trap at breakneck speed. Ellie’s eyes are wide, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, and I can tell she’s pushing the Land Cruiser to its absolute limit. The truck is groaning and shuddering, but she’s not letting up, not for a second.

Finally, I see a sliver of moonlight up ahead. The canyon walls are opening up, widening, and we burst out of the gorge and onto flatter ground, the sudden change almost making the Land Cruiser tip over again. Ellie wrestles it back under control, and we speed out into the open, the vast, moonlit desert stretching out before us.

She slams on the brakes, and the Land Cruiser skids to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust. For a moment, there’s a stunned, disbelieving silence. My whole body feels like it’s vibrating from the adrenaline, from the realization that we’re still alive.

Jack lets out a shuddering breath, lowering the rifle. His partner is sobbing, clutching their daughter, and the rest of the passengers are just staring into the darkness, as if they can’t quite believe we made it out.

Ellie leans her head against the steering wheel, her whole body shaking. “Fuck,” she whispers, barely audible, and there’s a rawness in her voice, the kind of vulnerability you only hear when someone’s used up every last scrap of strength they have.

I let out a nervous, half-hysterical laugh. “You did it,” I say, my voice hoarse. “You fucking did it.”

She lifts her head, turning to look at me. Her eyes are wide, tired, but there’s a glint of something like relief. “Yeah,” she says, her voice cracking. “For now.”

And she’s right. We’re not safe yet. We have no idea if those bastards will manage to free their vehicle or if they have more friends out here in the desert. But right now, in this fragile, exhausted moment, we’re still alive.

Ellie climbs out of the driver’s seat, and I stumble out of the tray, my legs wobbling like jelly. We look at each other, two strangers bound by chaos, and I want to ask her a thousand questions. Who she really is. Why she knew about that gorge. What she’s running from. But all I manage to say is, “Thank you. Seriously.”

She gives me a tired smile, wiping dirt from her face. “Don’t thank me yet,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, back toward the way we came. “We’re not out of the woods. We need to find somewhere safe, somewhere to hide until morning.”

The passengers are starting to gather around, looking to us—her, mostly—with expressions full of hope and fear. Jack’s still gripping the rifle, his partner holding their daughter close, and I can see that same question in everyone’s eyes: What the hell do we do now?

Ellie takes a deep breath, looking out over the vast, empty land. The moonlight glints off the rocks, casting long, ghostly shadows, and the desert stretches on, endless and silent. But there’s a steadiness in her gaze, a quiet determination that makes me think maybe—just maybe—we’ve got a fighting chance.

“Alright,” she says, her voice strong despite the tremor in it. “We need to keep moving. I know a place we can hide. But we have to stick together.”

And so, we prepare to venture into the darkness once more, a ragtag group of survivors with nothing but hope and adrenaline keeping us going. The desert is vast, unforgiving, and full of shadows. But for now, we’re still here, still fighting. And that has to be enough.

We stand there, catching our breath under the heavy, indifferent gaze of the moon, the desert around us vast and empty and so goddamn quiet it feels like the earth itself is holding its breath. My whole body is shaking with leftover adrenaline, and I can’t tell if it’s relief or the anticipation of more hell waiting just around the corner. Probably both.

Ellie takes command, and it’s obvious why. She’s the only one who seems to have some kind of a fucking plan. Even if we’re not totally sure what that plan is yet. The way the other passengers look at her—like she’s the last solid thing in this sea of chaos—makes me realize we’re all clinging to whatever hope we can find.

Jack stumbles over to his partner and daughter, the rifle finally lowering as he crumples beside them. His partner pulls him into a hug, their little girl wedged between them, still crying softly. The rifle falls to the dirt with a muted thud, and Jack buries his face in his partner’s shoulder. I look away, because this feels too raw, too private, even though we’re all stranded together in this nightmare.

I turn my attention back to Ellie, who’s already sizing up the situation. She looks exhausted, shadows under her eyes, sweat and dust streaking her face, but her gaze is steady. Determined. “Alright,” she says, her voice louder now, more confident. “Everyone listen up.”

The remaining passengers gather around, huddled close together. Fear still hangs heavy in the air, but there’s a hint of hope too—just enough to keep us moving, to keep us alive.

Ellie looks at each of us in turn, making sure she has our attention. “We can’t stay out in the open,” she says. “Those bastards might still come after us, and we’re sitting ducks here. But there’s an old cattle station a couple of kilometres north of here, abandoned for years. It’s got shelter, maybe some supplies. We can regroup there, wait for morning, and figure out our next move.”

“An abandoned cattle station?” one of the older passengers—a wiry man in his sixties with a sun-leathered face—scoffs. “How do you even know about that?”

Ellie’s jaw tenses, and I can tell she doesn’t want to answer. But after a moment, she sighs. “Because I used to live out here,” she admits, her voice tight. “My family owned a station not far from here. I know this land.”

There’s a beat of silence. Her confession hangs heavy in the air, and I can see the way people are looking at her, like they’re realizing she’s more than just some random traveller. There’s history here, pain she’s not talking about, but nobody has the energy to pry. Not now. We just need to keep moving.

The wiry old man’s scepticism melts into something like respect, and he nods. “Alright, then. Lead the way.”

Ellie turns to me, her eyes softer, grateful. “Steve,” she says, “help me get everyone organized. We need to move quickly. If we see any sign of headlights behind us, we get off the main path and hide.”

I nod, swallowing my fear. “Got it.”

She turns to Jack next. “You okay to carry that rifle?” she asks gently.

He lifts his head from his partner’s shoulder, his eyes red but resolute. “Yeah,” he croaks. “I’ll carry it.”

“Good,” she says, giving him a nod of respect. “Just keep your family close. We’ll get through this.”

The little girl looks up at Ellie with wide, tear-streaked eyes, and I see Ellie’s face soften, a flicker of something vulnerable and maternal breaking through her hard exterior. She crouches down, giving the kid a small, brave smile. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” she says softly. “You’re really strong.”

The girl doesn’t reply, just buries her face in her mother’s shoulder, but I can see her little hands unclench just a bit, like maybe she believes Ellie. Like maybe we all do.

With everyone gathered and ready, we start moving, leaving the Land Cruiser behind. It’s too loud, too much of a liability. We walk into the desert, the land stretching out before us like an endless ocean of shadows. The moon lights our way, casting long, ghostly shapes across the dirt and scrub. Every step feels heavier, weighed down by the knowledge that we’re one wrong move away from being caught.

I walk beside Ellie, trying to match her pace. “How far is this place, really?” I ask under my breath, just for her to hear.

She doesn’t look at me, but I see her shoulders tense. “Far enough that we’ll be tired as hell when we get there,” she says. “But close enough that we have a shot.”

I want to believe her. I really fucking do. But doubt gnaws at me, as stubborn as the fear still clinging to my gut. “You really used to live out here?” I ask, needing to understand, needing to know more about the person who’s taken charge of our fragile survival.

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she’s going to brush me off. But then she sighs. “Yeah,” she admits, her voice cracking just a little. “I grew up here. Thought I’d escaped for good. But life has a funny way of dragging you back to the places you swore you’d never see again.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, feeling the weight of whatever ghosts she’s carrying. The land around us is silent, except for the crunch of our footsteps and the occasional sob from one of the passengers. Every rustle of the wind makes my heart jump, every shadow looks like it could be hiding those bastards who attacked us. But Ellie keeps us moving, her presence a beacon of strength.

We march on, the desert stretching endlessly ahead, with nothing but moonlight and each other to keep the darkness at bay. And as we walk, I feel something strange—a fragile thread of hope, tangled with fear, but still there.

We’re not safe yet. We might not even survive the night. But for now, we’re still moving. And that’s something.