Standing bare-chested in the women’s toilet, Sam watched the door as Dettie scrubbed cold water into his T-shirt. He could smell old urine, his own vomit, and the wet lemon towelette she’d used to wipe his lips. Dettie’s hands knifed through the water, wringing out the material so hard that the neckline stretched. A sliver of yellow soap was smeared in her palm, excreting feeble bubbles. ‘How are you feeling now, Sammy? A little better?’
He flinched as a gust of wind entered from the open ice freezer outside.
‘You let me know if you feel sick again. There’s an ice-cream container in the car if you need it.’
Each breath was cold, straight through his neck into his belly. His hands shook.
‘This doesn’t look like it’s coming out. I might—’As she spoke the tap gouged her ring finger, spitting red into the porcelain bowl and over his T-shirt. ‘Blast it!’ she yelped, and sucked the cut, taking soapsuds into her mouth.
Snatching his T-shirt from the sink, she led Sam back through the door and out to the car, leaving behind a trail of dribbling water. ‘We may as well get you something else to wear,’ she said, and tossed it over the bonnet.
Dettie popped the boot and fished through their spare clothing.
‘Oh, blast!’ she said again.
One of the juice boxes they had packed had been crushed and leaked all through the plastic bags. It had left a sticky, pulpy purple mess, its sweet aroma soured by the heat.
Katie rolled down her window. ‘We should have packed more,’ she said.
Dettie dropped the bag onto the ground and pulled out a first-aid kit from beside the spare tyre. ‘Katie, I said that your mother is going to be bringing all your clothes with her when she comes.’
‘When can we see Mummy?’
‘When we get there.’ Dettie picked through bandages and ointment. ‘We’ve discussed all this. We’re going on ahead. She’s going to meet us.’
‘How long is it to Perth?’
‘Katie, will you stop holding me up?’ Dettie’s thumb was pressed to the cut to stop the bleeding. ‘I have to get your brother a new shirt or he’s going to burn to a crisp. Is that what you want?’
She elbowed the boot closed, a bandaid curled in her fingers, and led Sam inside to the petrol-station counter. The news on the radio was warning of a strict fire ban. The man at the register hadn’t shaved. His black stubble was flecked with silver. His hair was white. Sam noticed his bloodshot eye as he punched in their bill. ‘That’ll be seventeen forty-eight, darlin’.’
He smiled at the top of Dettie’s head as she fished in her purse for change. When he noticed Sam behind her, he nodded.
Suddenly, Sam realised he wasn’t wearing a shirt and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles in his legs tightened up. There were goosepimples standing out on his skin, bubbled and hard under his fingertips.
The shopkeeper’s eyes flickered to Sam’s neck. The smile drained from his face. It was a gesture that Sam had become familiar with: the whip of a stranger’s face from curiosity to alarm. Each time, at first, people thought his vent was some kind of strange necklace; only then would the shock register. The shopkeeper dipped his head as Dettie counted coins into his palm. The radio trumpeted out of its news report and into the weather.
Newly self-conscious, Sam wandered out of view to the magazines. Most had women in bathing suits arched over motorbikes or kneeling stiffly on rugs. On the shelf behind them were the comic books. He fanned them out and flicked through the covers. There were dog-eared copies of Richie Rich and several different faded Phantoms. There was a Mad magazine, some Archies and a digest of reprinted newspaper strips—but no copies of Batman. No Justice League.
There was one comic that caught his eye. It was called Tales of Fear. On the cover a horde of zombies was tearing open a car, exposing the terrified passengers within. He slid it from the rack.
Dettie and the man behind the counter was listening to the weather report sign off. In its place a syrupy country song unsettled the store with a nasal twang.
‘Fires are a worry,’ the shopkeeper was saying. He dug his thumb in his one red eye and rubbed. ‘You heard about all that? They reckon it’s kids. Bloody hooligans. Should round ’em up to be shot.’
Dettie hummed and snapped shut her purse, still sucking on her finger. ‘Do you sell any clothes?’ she asked, gesturing towards Sam.
The shopkeeper ambled across to a rotating display of souvenirs tilted in the corner. Dettie followed him over and began spinning the rack past key rings and hats and stuffed koala toys. None had price tags.
‘How much for a singlet?’ she said.
‘Oh, let’s see what we can do, darl.’ He clicked his tongue and drummed one hand on his thigh. ‘How about a fiver?’
The zombies pulled at a woman’s yellow hair and bit into her face. She was kicking at them, screeching. The word Heeelllp!!! spilled out of the panel, inflated and shuddering. Sam turned the page. Another zombie, in a tattered business suit, had torn a mouthful of flesh from the woman’s neck. It swung from his teeth like shreds of torn fabric. It reminded Sam of the dead kangaroo. But drawn like this, colourful and exaggerated, it wasn’t scary so much as exciting. The damaged flesh didn’t look dry or leathery. Here, even with blood spraying everywhere, the wound was pink and clean. He lifted the comic closer until the colour separated into tiny red dots. He traced each line around the woman’s ripped neck, her wide mouth, the dark hollow of the cavity in her throat.
Back outside, Sam pulled on the new singlet and tucked it into his shorts. It was yellow across the shoulders and green on the chest where Australia was spelt out in thick white letters. It was snug around his stomach, and he wished it were something with a collar.
Dettie stopped sucking the cut on her finger and wrapped a bandaid around it. Telling the children to wait, in the car, she ducked back into the toilet to rinse the juice out of their clothing, and returned, laying each article on the floor of the boot to dry. She tucked the first-aid kit away in the back of the car, slid into her seat, fastened her seatbelt, and paused with her hand above the ignition. In the phone booth, near the shop, a teenage girl was giggling into the receiver and scribbling on the wall with a pen. Dettie looked at the dashboard. She was staring at the small St Christopher magnet standing on top. The glue beneath his feet was stretched. He was leaning back awkwardly, held up by the windscreen and faded by the sun. Her shoulders tensed, clutching the keys. Waiting. Staring at his lopsided, placid face. Finally, with a huff, she let out the breath she had been holding and turned the ignition.
‘We’re off!’ she said, and the engine kicked to life.