The Wanderers.

Trigger warnings: Murder, extreme violence, swearing, violence, drug psychosis, mental health, sexual and supernatural themes.

Part 1: Dropped Stitches

Hawk gazed at the sky. It looked like an inverted ocean. Mesmerized, she positioned her camera to catch where the fiery waves stratified into sullen grey and blue foam.

Click. Checking - Yes, the photo popped that clouds' violent freedom. Perfect, she thought, as the town clock chimed four.

​

​Her phone buzzed. Dad. She didn’t need to read past the preview: We need to talk—

​She swiped it away. "When are you going to let me grow up?" she muttered, angrily turning off her tracking device.

Cooling down, Hawk came to. She sheepishly pulled her winter gear from her pack. While throwing on her hoodie and beanie, she glanced around the bus stop to see if anyone had heard her outburst. Relieved that no one cared, she slid on her bulky, fingerless gloves, her eyes hooking on the thick knots of wool , the dropped ones she’d sewed together. Every dropped stitch said his love but he wasn't gunna pull her strings?

The bus was late. She was tempted to do a fast-walk home.

Part 2: The Crossroads

At the crossroad, Hawk checked the time—4:40 p.m. Veering left, she decided it was still okay to go through the Reserve, promising herself to just take the first exit and not do the full tour. A faint alarm bell sounded in her stomach, but she brushed it off. To stay in control, she calmly switched her headphones to optimum transparency for safety.

Twelve minutes later, the pedestrian path was slightly longer than she remembered. Then footpath suddenly narrowed, as the bridge suddenly dipped into a judging obscurity. Anxiety stung her. She whirled and looked elsewhere.

Across the way, the sharp, chiseled limestone rock faces, scarred by old mining, offered a muted comfort to her—but the dense trees did not! They acted like shifty witnesses on the stand, while the massive line of rust-coated water pipes, submitted to the setting sun, becoming a bruised, muddy brown colour who chose to stay out of it.

​Twilight in Australia always feels fleeting—like a ten-second warning before the computer shuts down. Hawk's father’s voice spoke in her mind: You made a bad decision, Georgie. That was her pet name—Georgie.

Part 3: The Encounter

She was just being foolish, she thought. Overriding her gut feeling, Hawk drew on her own resilience and paced up the hill. Ahead, the entrance to the Reserve seemed to shrink away, the australian green compressing into a heavy, damp shadow.

​

Suddenly, the place lit up. An unfiltered roar echoed from an approaching vehicle hugging the centerline of the wide road. It didn’t look good. Hoping the ute would pass, she stopped. Resting her foot on a roadside bench, she bent over and untied her shoelace.

At the wide street's bend, its brakes screeched. The vehicle arced off the bitumen. With a loud thump, it drove over the curb to land onto the grass strip, where the driver instantly killed the motor. Like a hearse, the silent, heavy vehicle rolled toward her—the high beams clawed out, but missed her.

​Keeping her head bowed, she tightened the shoelace bow. To crush her rising panic, she drew a rapid breath in, then slammed another sudden breath right on top of it. That done, she allowed her eyes to scan the trouble: a sandy-bronze, four-door Hilux. Driver alone.

​No number plates!

​Her breath hitched. This was something more. Her mind screamed Danger. She couldn’t go back the way she came; the path was isolated with no exits, and he’d easily catch her. She had to go forward.

​Then, the headlights went completely black.

​Inside the cabin, the driver's bearded face was suddenly illuminated by a stark, blue glow. He was clasping his phone with both hands, typing fiercely with fingers and thumbs. Then, he released one hand and gave a grand, aggressive jab at the screen with his pointer finger—his eyes locking directly onto Hawk's silhouette—he sent the text message.

​At that exact microsecond, Hawk's phone buzzed from her pocket. She instinctively glanced down at the top of the screen tilting out—Warning: 3% battery—and shoved it deeper into her pocket.

Part 4: The Predator

The driver swung the door open, grunting an irritated reply into his phone. A muffled female voice rambled low out of the speaker. Wedging the phone between his shoulder and chin, the man paced along the fiberglass canopy and opened the back hatch, starting a menacing rummage. "I'm telling you, she’s here," he hissed. "I can see her."

​Another car approached from the opposite direction. As the passing headlights swept over her, Hawk took her cue. Act normal, she fiercely told herself. Hunching her shoulders, she aligned herself with the Reserve entrance and walked casually. The wash of wind from the speeding vehicle flipped the pages of an adult magazine, spilling it from the cabin onto the grass, and sent a loose plastic bag tumbling toward the road.

​The man dived at the windblown bag as if it were incredibly important. Seizing the gap, Hawk scanned the cluttered tray: two number plates piled together, a dented, open metal tradesperson’s toolbox, a dirty, crushed-sideways bong, an Esky, duct tape, and coils of rope. He was dangerous.

​As he snatched the plastic bag snagged on the curb and shoved it into his coat pocket, he saw her pry. Hawk shuddered and immediately feigned weakness. Snuffling, she pulled a tissue from her hoodie and coughed loudly.

​Behind her, she heard the man step back to his vehicle and drag the metal toolbox over an uneven surface. Overhead, a hidden surveillance camera triggered, casting a brief, faint flash as it snapped a photo of the male and the rear view of a female wearing a backpack, jeans, and a beanie.

​At the same time, Hawk visualized a horrifying image: a massive black handle the width of a man’s fist, housing a long, glistening blade.

​Her eyelid twitched. She tried to tell herself it was just her nerves—that in her sheer terror she was only imagining things—but then came the unmistakable sound of a heavy press stud snapping shut against a stiff, molded plastic or leather sheath, followed by the sharp tear of Velcro. A sideways glance confirmed her worst fear: he had secured something large directly to his thigh over his jeans.

​Breathing hard, she knew running blindly wouldn't help. There was no telling what he was capable of.

Part 5: Cheryl

​The male closed the hatch, and the lock clicked. Through his drug-warped vision, he didn't see her heavy winter gear; his eyes locked instead onto the illusion of a tight little black dress, silhouetted in the shadows ahead.

"Cheryl? Cheryl, is that you there, darlin'?"

Hawk’s thick-set hips froze. Be brave, she thought.

Pretending she hadn't heard the name, she broke her paralysis and forced her weight forward, resuming her gait to stay just out of reach.

He called again, his tone deeper and completely different. "Cheryl?"

Hawk listened to his footsteps following her, they were raw, heavy, and proud like he wanted her to hear them. Left boot scrape—something's wrong with his hip. Shallow breathing. Intermittent wheezing. Good signs for her.

Risking everything, she powered up her pace. The man's step held tight. Thinking the headphones blocked out his voice, he called out again, louder, closer, his aggression spiking from being ignored. "Headphones, bitch! Where did you stash the take?"

Pivoting, Hawk jerked off her headphones. The male reeled back, his massive, blown-out pupils could not register the sudden change. His warped depth perception, trailed a hallucinated blur of Cheryl’s swinging, bobbed blonde hair over Hawk's actual beanie. Hawk knew something and closed the distance right into his face as his vision distorted further. Cheryl lowered her dark sunglasses.

“Hi, Vance,” he heard, as Cheryl sneered.

"Cheryl..." he breathed through yellow, chipped teeth.

His twitching eyes moved fast. Hawk stayed rigid, though her back rippled in horror. Amphetamines- had no barriers.

Slipping her left hand into her hoodie pocket, she pulled out her phone as a decoy. With her dominant hand, she fiercely gripped her umbrella.

Delusive, Vance lunged at Cheryl’s handbag. "Little Missy, Give me that!"

"Hey Gemini. Emergency!" Hawk commanded loudly, the phone instantly pinging an crisis location alert to her father.

Then, a sudden, God-man realization hit him—that bitch had trapped him. Freaked, he snatched the device and pitched it over the bridge. He jeered as it crashed onto the granite boulders in the creek bed, sparking once before it sank. “Think you can outsmart me, whore.” His right hand clawed at the knife sheath on his thigh.

Hawk flinched. Aiming straight for the front of his face, she swung the heavy umbrella with all her might, roaring in her deepest, most aggressive voice, "There's always a Cheryl!"

Thwack! It shattered his nose. She sprinted.

In front of her, a startled group of kangaroos straightened their necks and took off too.

Her father's bush wisdom echoed in her chest: "Roos don’t just blindly flee, Georgie. They track the lines of the land—where the earth energy flows. If you get lost, follow the roos."

Hawk locked onto her escape route and dived into the dark right behind them. The bush path was bare and flattened by many years of bouncing legs and strong balancing tails. As she followed the mob, her feet felt light as the subtle force of electricity underneath her filtered into her nervous system as she followed the mob.

Part 6: The Circuit

Outside the Reserve, a police car pulled over—a routine, non-urgent check for suspicious activity. The officer clicked on his torch, its beam cutting sharp through the Ute’s back glass. He inspected the dark cabin, catching the registration plates tossed inside: KITTY97.

"Clumsy," he smirked.

Stepping back, he logged into his portable terminal, typing the characters into the database. Possible stolen vehicle. Requesting a read on license number K-I-T-T-Y-9-7. The system flagged it immediately: a stolen car, linked directly to an active, high-risk missing person broadcast for Cheryl Jane Listerna.

Miles away, Dan loaded a bolt-action rifle into the backseat of his car. As a veteran dealing with severe PTSD, owning a firearm was a heavily regulated burden—but right now, he didn’t give a damn. Nor could he forgive Hawk’s stubbornness. During a heated argument that morning, he had accidentally leaked, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." She had retaliated calling him a control freak before storming out of the house.

Hawk was in deep. He knew it. All day he couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was on the horizon. His mind rewiring routine was to crochet and watch SBS or the ABC on the TV but it didn't work.

"Let's go, my little beauty," he muttered to his old Holden as it roared to life, its loose exhaust backfiring as it reversed out of the driveway.

He flattened the accelerator, the speed building. Then—code red. His chest tightened and dragged at his heart; the telepathic tether Hawk yanked whenever she was in dire straits. She’d done it right from birth; when she fell down the stairs at school, when she sat her school finals, and when that idiot boyfriend dumped her. And where was her mother? That galah! Abandoned his nameless daughter at the base hospital! Ran off with his best mate!

He glared through the windscreen, Hawk’s fierce adult eyes appeared—those very eyes that had earned her first name Hawk—pleading she mouthed “Help”.

​Part 7: The Twisted Trees

​It was like invisible strings had jerked Vance upright and snapped him back onto his feet. On the go, he sprinted at a blind, unnatural speed. Driven by another lightning-fast, drug-fueled instinct, he cut through the trees toward that glimmering pinhead of open space.

​A sharp crunch of a broken branch echoed from somewhere much closer than Hawk expected. Panting, she spun, trying to find her bearings as the twisting trees of mismatched heights encircled her like toadstools in a fairy ring.

​Another wanderer had told her about this place—a dreaming space, a vortex where all the leylines converged. But Hawk didn't care about the eerie landscape; she only cared about getting the safety of a neighborhood back in her grasp.

​She drew another breath. Breaking cover, she sprinted low over the frosty yellow lawn and crouched pressing tight against a green wheelie bin chained to a post. Peeping around, she saw the boundary fence. It split in two. The narrow walkway wasn't too far.

​Without her realizing, a stealth of a dull amber shadow began to stretch over her, just as her father’s voice erupted in her head: I’m at your coordinates, Hawk. Where the bloody hell are you?

​Part 8: The Abyss

​Vance gloated, waiting for her to realize his location. He had been hiding behind the toilet block all along. Casually picking at the dried blood in his nose, he spoke out, “Stupid bitch.”

​Alarmed, Hawk spun. Seeing the shining blade, she shrieked. The telling white dust smudged on his knuckles and wrist mocked her. With great strength, he wrenched her up to his eye level, pinning her back against the wheelie bin. Breathing heavily, he pressed in close as he meticulously slid the cold steel down the flat of her cheek, turning the blade edge inwards, pushing deep enough to draw blood.

​"Hey, Cheryl baby, you know..." he wheezed, his words slurring. "...If you gaze into the abyss, darlin' honey-rabbit... the abyss looks back at you."

​As he licked the blade, taking advantage of the pause, Hawk refused to give up. She swiveled her hip and shoved him. "My name is HAWK!" she defiantly yelled, pulling free. Her beanie fell. Chasing her, he dived snagging her flying hair, swinging her body around so she slammed to the ground near the barbecue. "Liar!" he barked. ​Clenching her teeth, she threw her legs out in a desperate kick at his calves. Vance didn't flinch. Absorbing the blow, he raised his knife.

​

Hawk screamed. Sheltering her head with her arms, she rocked once, then rolled, forcing a tumble out of his line of fire.

​Vance's vision blurred; he felt dizzy. Struggling onto her knees, Hawk crawled around to the back of the barbecue shelter. Just as he reached her, she ripped her canvas backpack off her shoulders and thrust it upward as a shield.

​Cornered, she watched as his blade grew frantic, bludgeoning into the heavy fabric with a sickening tear, burying itself deep into her notebooks and puncturing her empty water bottle several times.

​Smiling at his near misses, he stopped. Laughing as Hawk cowered next to the barbecue, he narrowed his eyes, angled his knife, and struck again.

​At first, the pain didn't sting—it was a freezing, heavy shock. Then came the heat, paralyzing her as a violent rush of blood poured down her neck, cascading over her collarbone and pooling in a dark, hot flood right over the muscle of her upper arm.

​Knowing this time "Cheryl" was dying, Vance stayed to watch, listening to make sure she was dead.

​In agony, Hawk rolled from the cement of the barbecue shelter and spluttered, coughing flat on her back. "Dickhead, at the end of the game…” The pain overtook her. She started again, “…at the end of the game, the king and the pawn go into the same..." Exhaling, she whispered, "...the same wooden—box."

​That defiance angered him even more. Vance wrenched the bloodied blade free, raising it high for a final strike to her heart.

Hawk needed the sky. As she gulped blood, the firmament stretched, and listening to her coughing, the pointer stars came close.

Part 9: The Shift

Meanwhile, two black Rottweilers tore at their harnesses, dragging their owner to the end of the walkway. Breaking entirely free, they bolted toward the scene, the hair on their spines standing up like razor wire.

​"Chuck! Heel! Chandra! Get back here!" their mistress yelled into the dim park, gasping as she saw the horror unfolding. Backpedaling in terror, she screamed into her device, "Alexa, emergency alert!"

​The dogs let out deep, guttural growls, their heavy paws tearing up the dirt as one rounded on the assailant. The other hurled its massive body through the air, bowling Vance straight to the ground.

​Suddenly, everything froze. The air grew hot as a torch flared with primordial fire. Distorted shadows stretched across the landscape, and thick footsteps crunched to a halt right next to Hawk.

With a sharp, low command from the newcomer, the hounds broke their trance and instantly submitted—dropping into a sit, whimpering with flattened ears as they licked their jaws.

​Under a different law, Vance vanished.

​Hawk’s eyes pushed wide as she forced an exhale, her endorphins only allowing her to look through slow, heavy blinks at the void beneath a dark hood.

​When the elemental spoke—vibrating from the rings of tree trunks who remember—the sound was entirely non-human. A loud, overlapping chorus of different pitches and tempos emulated male, female, and children's voices, alongside two unknown languages, all speaking at once:

​"Cast down thy gaze from the sky, Little Hawk. We forbid thy passing!"

Part 10: Inversion

At hyper-speed, the world snapped backward. The smoke from the veil keeper's torch sucked into the vortex. Hawk's blood trickled upward, her skin folded over, as the wounds disappeared. The kangaroos were swallowed back to the darkness of the bridge. The Ute reversed wildly up the street. The sun itself was pulled from the earth.

Hawk looked down at her phone screen. The clock read 4:08 p.m. Warning: 3% battery.

Her neck and shoulder throbbed. Trembling, she pulled back the shredded fabric of her t-shirt. Her skin was perfectly whole—except for a large, dark, newly formed birthmark exactly where the knife had pierced.

She dialled her father.

"Sorry, Dad," she whispered, shaking uncontrollably. "Yeah... can you pick me up? I'm at the Bell Street bus station. I don't feel safe."