Drought Kills

Arthur

Arthur swallowed a mixed odor of dust, flies, and dead cows.

Midnight. Something was wrong. Arthur heard stampeding.

Arthur looked at his cows in the pen. They had 120,000 head of beef cattle, and still not enough water for them to drink, but the drought forced them to drink, tasting the black mixture of flies, and remnants of dead cows.

“Come with me. Let’s look,” he told his fifteen-year-old son.

Even though it was a full moon and the stars shone brightly, Arthur’s son touched Arthur’s shoulder lightly as they sauntered toward the cows.

Touching the dead grass, Arthur tried to encourage new roots, using water he had brought from the kitchen. The grasslands had given up their lifeblood and long since died. It was the fourth year of the drought. Their water dam had shrunk to a shriveled pit. Not enough for their cattle to drink. The scent of the hay from the barn, that Arthur had bought for this season, caught their nostrils, as they walked toward the huddled cows.

“Dad, why are our cattle huddled together?”

“Something has spooked them, for sure.”

Caressing his 20 gauge shotgun, as if it were his wife, Arthur looked through the sights. He moved it left to right, then saw his next-door neighbor behind his cows attempting to cut a large hole in the wire fence.

“There’s Peter again. He is trying to disguise himself by wearing a khaki uniform and a brown hat, to match the light brown color of our cows.”

Arthur fired a few meters above the dark figure. As the shotgun bucked against his shoulder, the powerful smell and taste of cordite hit his nostrils and tongue. Peter heard the shot, then saw the house door splinter.

“Bloody bastard,” Arthur screamed.

They ran towards a stunned Peter. When they got there, he was gone. They picked up the pliers and his straw hat. Peter had finished cutting the wire fence, which had fallen off its wooden posts. Arthur was fuming and fired another shot towards Peters’ homestead. Arthur’s son could hear his dad’s anger.

“Son, get a replacement fence for this while I stay here.”

Arthur’s wife home-schooled their son in the mornings, and they spent time in the afternoons making fences they could use to replace damaged ones. After watching the sun drown over the bear horizon, they went to dinner.

Peter

“We have to do something, my love,” said Peters’ wife.

“I know. I’m trying. Did you hear that shot? It was Arthur.”

Peter had a smaller farm of 75,000 head of beef cattle. His dam was a dust hole. They were desperate for their cows to drink from Arthur’s water dam. There had been no offers made. The abattoir was not interested in his problems. His next-door neighbor had committed suicide, which was common in central Australia.

They looked every day to see when Arthur’s cows were drinking, so he could cut a hole in the fence and steer his cows into Arthur’s farm. He used a mask to prevent him from choking.

“I’ll go back in an hour.”

Dressed in black, Peter painted his face with a mixture of charcoal and fly spray, which was a formula used in the Angolan war in 1975 by South African paratroopers. It worked well but had a horrible smell and taste. The flies still roamed around your eyes.

“Darling, I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Please be careful.” Peter got a slap on his bum.

Tucking his 9 mm Parabellum into his belt at his back, Peter stepped out of the house into the moonlight.

“I watch and listen from our upstairs bedroom window.”

“Thanks for last night. I can still taste you,” he told his wife of 15 wonderful years.

The edge of his property was 300 meters from the fence, that he had cut earlier. As he got to the fence, Peter lay on his stomach and began to leopard crawl. The light of the full moon touched his entire body.

Hearing a shuffle, Peter froze.

Silence, except for the movement of the cows near the fence. Once it was quiet again, Peter crawled. Left leg. Right leg. Each time he made a move, he watched the dust that he had disturbed float into the moonlit air.

“Yuck,” as a pile of dung hit his nostrils.

Suddenly, there was a gap between the cows. Peter took his gun out from behind his back.

Something has disturbed the cows, thought Peter.

Pointing the Parabellum towards the gap, he saw a dark figure walking towards the fence.

It’s got to be Arthur, he thought.

He waited till the figure was close enough, then fired twice in quick succession.

Hearing a knock at the front door, Peters’ wife called out.

“Who is it?” she said, leaning against the thick oak door.

“It’s me, darling.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I shot Arthur,” he said, with a shaking look in his golden brown eyes.

Peter’s wife ran over to him and gave him a bear hug.

“A bullet narrowly missed me, hitting the frosted window where I was standing.”

Arthur

Arthur hit his head as he fell backward into the dust at the edge of his half-full dam.

“I hope dad was shooting. Have a look,” said Arthur’s wife to their son.

Carrying his AK-47 rifle at the ready, he headed for the kitchen door into the silvery light of the moon. Arthur had given the rifle to him, including 400 rounds of ammunition on his fifteenth birthday.

“Stay back,” Arthur whispered to his son.

He disobeyed and ran to where his dad was lying. He could hear gargling coming from Arthur’s voice.

“Dad, are you okay?” leaning over his dad.

“Peter shot me in the stomach.”

Arthur’s son checked his stomach to see where blood might be evacuating.

“The bullet has gone right through, dad, so you’re going to be okay.”

“Peter shot at me twice, so there might be another one.”

“I think it’s missed the vital organs. I can’t see another hole. ”

“Bloody bastard. All this fighting to get water for our cows. It’s ridiculous for both of us. We’ve got to end it all.”

Peter’s wife saw the red tracer bullets flying toward her. One hit the window frame inches away. Shattered glass and wood sprayed toward her, hitting her on the shoulder. Arthur’s son had fired the entire magazine of rounds toward Peters’ farmhouse.

“Dad, don’t speak. I’ll get help.”

“Mom, bring warm water and towels. Peter shot Dad in the stomach. Make it quick.”

She grabbed 4 fresh tea towels from the melamine kitchen counter. Stuffing the tea towels into the wound, Arthur’s son cradled his dad’s head in his lap, stroking his head.

Minutes later, Arthur’s wife appeared, dust flying behind her.

“Son, get matches from the kitchen. I want you to set fire to Peter’s barn.”

It was 3 in the morning.

Peter

The smoke rocketed from the barn through the shattered bedroom window.

“What’s that smell?” asked Peter’s wife.

“Shit. The barn is on fire,” replied Peter.

Peter knew it was too late, but he was going to try.

“Darling, come with me. We need to get the livestock out of the barn!” he screamed.

Running down the stairs, he tripped on the bottom step and let out a groan as he hit his head on the wooden floorboards. Arthur’s son stayed at the barn and kept lighting the sides.

It took off like a rocket when it was dry.

Peter picked himself off the floorboards and limped to the kitchen door.

Peter fired two rounds from his pistol at the dark figure near the barn. Arthur’s son had swapped the empty magazine with a full one. He wanted to pour the entire magazine of 20 rounds into Peter but held his nerve. Peter’s wife heard the disturbing sound of gunfire, then saw Peter collapse.

“Peter, my love,” she screamed. She dived on him to protect him from the barrage of red tracer bullets.

“Quiet Peter. Arthur’s son has seen us,” she whispered.

“Why did you shoot my dad?” he asked, pointing his rifle at them.

“Please don’t shoot. Please. You are a good kid. We wanted to get water for our cows,” she begged.

Madness in Arthur’s son’s eyes, he let out the last 10 rounds of his AK-47.