Yara-Ma-Yha-Who (Part 2 of 4)

They set up their tent well before nightfall, a quick folding tent with flexible struts that snapped into position, three meters back from the stream. The falls were a series of small drops; still frigidly cold, and ultimately refreshing.

As the sun died so did the cicada’s song, giving way to crickets and frog calls. Patrick was wading knee deep when he yelled to Levi to come see the creature. It danced below the surface amidst the smooth rocks.

“It’s a Yabbie, not a lobster,” she laughed at him, but she could understand his mistake. “You can pick them up, just watch out for those nippers. I used to come out to places like this when I was young and hunt them with my parents. I got nipped a few times; had my thumb black-and-blue for a week.”

He exited the water, afraid for his toes. “We will start a fire, yah?” he asked, picking up his shirt and socks off the rocks, and hung them from the branches of a bush to dry.

“No, we can’t, the sign said no fires. Because it’s Bushfire season, you know.” It would have been romantic, she thought, but the fines were steep, the Rangers probably did patrol sometimes. Nine hours off the map, the ass end of nowhere, and still she was the good girl. Not another soul for miles, just the landscape, cradling them in its valley, this tiny crevice in the vast expanse of natural land. She felt liberated, but still a good girl.

They heated noodles on a gas cooker and dipped crackers into the stock as all golden light faded to blue, moon light, and once finished the meal they sat around the cooker, as it were a blazing fire, listening to the stream burble, and watching the light play upon the surface.

Levi felt Patrick’s hand slide into her own, and with a gentle tug he signaled her to come closer. She shifted across the tarp they had spread and came to rest under his arm. The cool air that came off the stream and the heat from Patrick’s sticky bare flesh motivated her. She looked up at him awkwardly from beneath his arm. If there was a time to kiss, this was it. He moved in to kiss her. And though her nose was crushed uncomfortably, and her neck ached, his soft kisses thrilled her, and his prickly beard tickling her face, giddy.

They had spread the two thin thermal sleeping bags on the floor of the tent, and with the thick layer of mulched leaves and sticks beneath them, they were comfortable enough. As much as Levi wished she could give herself over to the lust she felt, she had what she thought of as a healthy respect for her body, and that sharing it man, no matter how gorgeous, would only happen out of love for each other. When Patrick began to slowly work her panties down she took his hand, “No, sorry.” She said, “Not tonight.” Her singlet top and bra already lay discarded. She always found this to be a good way to test the feelings of a man. Here in the bush, nine hours from another soul would also be a true test of her ability to judge a man’s character.

“That’s ok,” he smiled, “No sex, yah. But there are other things we can do, you know.”

Levi snorted, “Oh yeah?”

“Yah, I want to taste you.”

Levi’s heart beat hard and her genitals throbbed. The smell of sex in the tent was intoxicating; she was going to fail in her conviction. She nodded, blushing. Patrick beamed and kissed her again as he got to his knees and positioned himself between her legs. He slowly pealed her panties up and traced them off her legs. She couldn’t bear looking at him, embarrassed and panicked, with anticipation. She closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. The thought of the long day hiking, the sweat, the smell suddenly stung her consciousness, fearful he may be put off by her smell. The fear broke a spell that had taken her off world, and she fell, and had abruptly awoken here on earth. Where something was wrong, something had changed.
As he began to kiss her inner thigh, her attention was somewhere else, on the missing something that bothered her, much like when the cicadas had abruptly been silenced this morning. That was it, there was no sound. All the insects and frogs and other wildlife sounds had ceased, and a throbbing bass was growing in her chest.
Patrick was looking at her, concerned, “What is wrong. I can stop if you don’t like.”

“No, I…” she began, when she sensed movement outside.

A great weight crashed upon them, for a moment pinning Patrick between her legs. The tent folded in upon Levi’s face, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out. Her nails scraped at the plastic, fighting to get free as Patrick began to scream in panic. She could feel heavy blows shuddering through his body. There were sounds of powerful pounding and ripping fabric. Patrick was struggling furiously, turning this way and that to dislodge his attacker, his thrashing pulled the tent up and they all began to roll. His foot contacted Levi’s face, and blinding white streaks flashed across her vision. Between the flashes, the torn tent fabric and the rapid movement, she caught a glimpse of Patrick, moonlight reflecting on blood. He struggled to his feet with something still upon his back, the tent hooked on his shoulders, Levi felt like she was trapped at the bottom of a pillow case. Patrick’s feet tangled in the sleeping bags, he lost his balance and toppled into sharp sandstone, his head contacting with a sickening clunk.

Curled in the ruined tent, hysterical with fear, she waited for the attacker to strike, to launch itself upon her in the same manner as it had attacked Patrick. She dared not move in case it noticed she was alive, trying desperately to not cry out, every muscle tensed, tears being forced from their ducts, her body shivering. Several desperate moments passed. She sensed Patrick’s body but dared not speak out to him. The same two phrases screaming in her mind, “oh God”, and “what is it”.

Several sharp hits landed simultaneously, they felt like blade strikes. She was to be stabbed to death.

She screamed like she had never screamed before, or ever imagined she could. It was a scream of complete resign to fear, a cry that might release her from the prison of her physical form. It was the only form of escape available to her.

The weight crushed on top of her, rapped in the tent, arms pinned to her chest. She rolled and kicked but the attacker rolled with her and the more she struggled the tighter the tent became wrapped about her, until it became so tight it contorted her face and screams. Her screams turned to cries, and her cries turned to whimpers. Her life was failing, she could feel its flow, and as it drained, she became oddly calm. The sensation was peaceful, like slipping closer to sleep within a warm bed, protected from the cold outside. She wished she could tell her family she loved them one last time. She wished this wasn’t the end, but the sleep drew her in, and peacefully, she succumbed.