Cameron "Cam" Burrows waved at flies who were trying to take a share of his stew at Fat Nancy's. Minutes earlier a dark-haired young cop, since departed in his MFP Interceptor, had told him that the stuff came straight out of a Dinki-Di can, but at least Nancy herself had served it hot — it was certainly better than the gunk at some other roadhouses (and all transit camps).
With the Interceptor (and the jitney bus that had brought Cam here) gone, the only other visible wheels belonged to a pair of tow trucks and three motorbikes. The highway beyond the pumps was empty. Trees were dusty green and grass was toasting under the sun.
Cam turned his gaze back inside. He finished his stew, leaving its dregs to the flies. Three middle-aged men, farmers by the sunburned look, entered and went to a nearby table. The largest man, who had a crown of snow, was carrying a bottle of dark liquor.
"Nancy, how's about some beer and music?"
Nancy turned on the radio and everyone heard Willie Nelson singing Whiskey River. The men laughed. Nancy brought beer bottles and shot glasses for each of them. The snowy-mountain man filled the glasses from his bottle. "To these times," he said. The trio clicked glasses and drank, then reached for the beer bottles and clinked those. They sang, doing their best to drown Willie.
The growl of a diesel engine came from outside as a very old green Mercedes sedan pulled up. It had a crude TAXI sign on its roof. The driver switched off his engine.
Cam took his cane, left the table and limped to the till. He slapped down a hundred-dollar bill and said, "Keep the change."
The shy-looking cashier said, "Actually sir, it's not enough."
"Just a sec Zoe," Nancy said. To Cam: "You're a vet, aren't you?"
"Former sarge in the Army."
"Then this is close enough." Nancy eyed the taxi. "Some are more greedy than others."
"Thanks for the tip, which reminds me..." Cam pulled out his last two-dollar coin. He still had plenty of bills from his severance. He took his cane and limped to the exit.
The cabbie was a black man whose name tag read TARR. He restarted his engine after Cam sat down and gave the Priceville address he wanted.
"Yeesh, I've never smelled worse exhaust."
"Fuel's mixed with whale oil. Big one washed up two weeks ago and they're still at it, pressing out juice. Last of the big blues, maybe. Want music?"
"Only if you don't charge extra."
Tarr laughed. "Don't worry about it." He turned on the radio and the lazy baritone of Charlie Feathers' Can't Hardly Stand It filled the cab.
"You're just out, runnin' around..."
Cam hoped that his woman, Charlize, wasn't runnin' around like Feathers'.
Tarr guided his Mercedes to the highway. A visitor might think that the country was normal, but Cam's trained eye saw otherwise. The pasture across from Nancy's had not been baled, and no livestock was visible. There was no other traffic. After several minutes Cam could see the outskirts of Priceville. Even from this distance the houses looked sad. Cam was certain that he would find peeling paint, grimy sidings, and other evidence of poor maintenance ... like other parts of Australia that he'd seen since his discharge two days ago.
Feathers, with his weird lazy style, seemed to fit in with the decline of society. The media might be filled with tales of horror and violence, but Cam had seen none so far. Australia was certainly better than Dubai had been. But the apathy that had taken hold...
Cam felt drowsy, as if he was about to succumb to the stupor which seemed to be fogging so many others. He shook his head. Soon he would reunite with his family, and war wounds be damned he had to be strong.