Crocnami Pt 2 - the maelstrom

... which wasn’t likely, ‘cause no bastard was around. The usual sounds of life had completely disappeared. Like completely. No distant sounds of chainsaws hacking their merry way through wood harder than a glass asshole. No air-conditioners rattling their last breath on the roofs. Nothing. He hadn’t noticed the absence of human activity because of bloody John and his dulcet refrains. 

“Fuck” Kev muttered. 

He turned on his heel and ran, well shambled, back inside. “Bruce!” He yelled, “where the fuck are ya! We gotta go fella...” The verandah door slammed shut behind him with a clang. 

Dashing into the hallway Kev burrowed into the hall cupboard and fished out his backpack. Thankfully still half full from his last sojourn into the outback, 3 months ago. ‘Well,’ Kev thought, ‘if there are any dirty clothes in there they’ll be ticketyboo by now.’ Running to his room, then to the pantry, or what passed for a pantry - which was really just a couple of shelves suspended in mozzie netting above a hole in the floor, Kev stuffed whatever he could think of into the backpack. Throwing on a pair of Target’s finest shorts and a pair of Blundy’s, he grabbed two bottles of water, a couple of tinnies (after debating the merits of beer over water for an extra tinny vs the second bottle of water) and one of the dead looking packets of tobacco on the table. 

Out onto the verandah, he yelled for Bruce again, grabbed for his trusty warratah, Bruce the Slayer of Things (Bruce for short, oddly) and fucked off into the bush toward the river. ‘The river, hang on’ Kev thought, something about going near water was a really really bad idea when there was a giant wave coming at you from a few hundred miles away.’ Bruce (the dog) caught up with him just as  Kev hairpinned it for the nearest hill instead, a couple of k down the road.

8 minutes later Kev had cleared the main part of the town and was about halfway toward the hill. Puffing. Only problem was, he realised, he was heading toward the ocean, not away from it. Another really, really bad idea when a wave the size of a mountain was coming. Apparently. He reached into his shirt pocket for his baccy to roll a smoke - to calm his jangled nerves ...and pulled out the pack. As it exited his pocket he got a whiff of something like mint. “Fucknuckle. Wrong pack!” he cursed. This one just wouldn’t do right now. It was what was left of his wonder weed from last night. Kev stuffed it back into his shirt. For later. 

The track he was following skirted by the estuary - which by now should have been swirling with the detritus that only the north eastern part of the Great Southern Land could provide. Living and dead. 

Only it wasn’t swirling. It wasn’t even there. There was just... mud. And flopping things. 

‘Uh oh’ thought Kev. 

Then he heard the noise. Like a jet. Not just any jet. But one that was fast. And noisy. 

Bruce yelped and took off toward the hill. “Bruce!” Kev yelled, “get back here ya yellow bastard.” Bruce wasn’t listening. 

“Fuck!” Kev yelled, and tore off after the dog. 

It was only later that Kev realised the little fucker probably saved his life. He was about 50 feet up the hill when he felt the rumbling, turning to his right he looked out over toward what passed for a beach in Cooktown - well in name only, you certainly couldn’t swim there. There were six kinds of  thing that would kill you before you got within two feet of the water and countless things that would kill you if you dipped even a toe into it. And that was just the stuff that breathed air. 

Now that water was coming right at him.  As a writhing hill of foam, wood and what appeared to be thousands of crocs. Big ones. With mainly teeth. Like Sharknado, only with legs. 

“Fuck!” Kev yelled again, he tore his gaze away from the vision of hell and ran as fast as his legs could carry him... lungs screaming and threatening to burst forth from his chest in a maelstrom of blood and aveoli. 

The noise was unreal, like the soul of the earth was being torn from its bosom. A screaming, louder than Shazza in full flow on all fours. 

Kev was now, by all accounts, fair shitting himself. He rounded a corner to see the wave, below him, thank fuck... smashing itself into the headland. Bits of croc flew high into the air off the rocks, like a torrent of sashimi.  

He crested the hill and collapsed, watching the wave flow round the headland and continue toward the town. Scouring everything in its path. 

Flopping onto his back to stare at the sky, Kev called for his dog. “Bruce! Bruce! Come here mate” He heard a wine from underneath a log and saw Bruce’s poor excuse for a tail sticking out, “come on fella,” he said “its ok, its over.”

“Its not over yet,” a voice piped up from across the hill, “its only just begun, digger, there’ll be more. This is the end of days” It was Dino, or as the locals called him ‘The Wandering Wog’. Suffice to say he was as crazy as a bag of cut snakes.

“Whaddya mean more?” Kev shot back, “that was the tsunami mate, it isn’t as if they are queuing up for a free hand job” 

“They come in waves” replied Dino. 

“No shit” said Kev. 

“No, no, they come in lots of, well lots...” said Dino. 

“What the fuck are you talking about Dino?” asked Kev, who by now thought the crazy bugger was serious.

“I mean that this is the first of a few such waves and quite possibly not the biggest one either,” Dino replied, all too confidently for Kev’s liking, usually he was quite servile and well... weird. This was the longest conversation Kev had had with Dino, in fact anyone had had with Dino. Dino preferred to talk in grunts and hand gestures. And not ones that a nun would be comfortable with either... 

“Okay, so are you telling me that we are due for more sashimi as well?” Kev asked.

“‘Fraid so mate, that was the vanguard, the main battlefront is on its way.... and they’ll be pissed methinks”

“Didn’t know Crocs drank” quipped Kev.

“Not funny mate, we’re fucked. The buggers will be looking for somewhere to dry out. Do you see any other hills around?” Dino shot back. 

‘Strewth, the bastard's right’ thought Kev. He took stock of the current lay of the land. 

Yep. They were fucked. No escape. The headland was now an island surrounded by a mass of croc bits and every other living thing that, in one way or another, will fuck you up.  

He heard a low growl coming from the log. Bruce was now standing to attention, tail out and pointing his muzzle down the track. Kev heard a lot of noise coming from that general direction. Lots of snarling and crunching. What sounded like crocs... Crocs didn’t generally discern between prey and their own family... if it was remotely edible and it was moving, or even if it wasn’t and had been lying in the sun for four days, it was fair game. 

It didn’t sound like it was a party he wanted to go to. More like the sort of party for footy players, a kilo of coke and a ton of jelly.   

“Dino mate?” Kev yelled, “Do you have anything that might stave of a horde of pissed off and hungry crocs? ‘Cause I think the buggers are heading this way...”

There was no answer. 

“Dino?” Kev looked around, Dino was no where to be seen. “Dino, where the fuck are ya?” Kev yelled again. He couldn’t have gone far. There was nowhere to go. Like nowhere... 

More growls ...and in the distance, just coming round the corner, the butt ugly leg of what was no doubt many more legs heading his way. There also seemed to be lots of writhing around the legs. Snakes! Fuck! Kev hated snakes. Minions of the underworld they were. With their legless antics. Slipping and sliding like a German supermodel in a pot of strudel. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” Kev muttered. He looked around. The only thing he saw was his trusty warratah. Bruce the Slayer of Things. Well he called it Bruce the Slayer of Things because for some reason, whenever he carried it, chicks flocked to him - like moths to a flame.  Well, there were no chicks here. Only pissed off reptiles. He had never understood why chicks dug his rod of iron. Maybe it gave him an air of the knights of old. ...Sir Kev - Knight of Northern Queensland. Now a knight about to have his ass eaten by a rabid horde of crocs. It was not how he thought he would exit this world... 

Kev grabbed his warratah and hefted it, feeling its familiar weight. No broadsword here. Only a rusty piece of iron. Fuck.    

Looking towards the track, he waited...