The Stranger had begun to die.
A large wheel of black-red blood had pooled at the base of a thin, white-barked tree, beside a pair of deep footprints buried into the powder snow, where the Stranger had stood for some time. Adrenaline had fuelled a beating pace for over five kilometres, through a thin rock canyon and into the sparsely treed plateau beyond, but here his heart had begun to slow and the cold numbness of the wound was replaced with stabs of pain like lightning strikes, rebounding about his body. He had taken rest behind the skeletal tree, removing his hand from his lower torso to inspect the depth of the wound. Blood, hot and wet, slicked his hand; he had vainly smeared his fingers down the smooth bark trying to wipe it off, the red tarn soaking through the fabric of his ruined shirt making it glisten in the harsh morning light. A thick trickle of blood flowed down his left leg, forming a deep crimson pool at his feet.
Jane's fingers dug into the cherry stain, feeling the hovering warmth of the blood still lingering despite the ice. Not far, Jane thought. The Stranger had stood here not more than five minutes before, feeling each breath beginning to ache with an unsubsiding pain that seemed to amplify with each passing moment, and slowly the Stranger had realised a fragile truth: He was about to die.
Blood led off in a delicate lace of drops and smears across the snowfield; now the boot marks that paralleled the trail had begun to sink deeper into the soft snowpack as the gait of the fleeing Stranger had slowed. Jane held her .44 Revolver gripped in one hand, probing the thin alpine brush with her eyes. If the Stranger had planned to backtrack and ambush her in his pursuit, this was the ideal place for it, where the distance of sightlines were low and undulations in the snowpack gave rise to areas of crud-filled dead ground. Even so, the pace and fall of the boot prints had begun to shorten as the Strangers endurance had finally given out, and leaving the trees, the ground sloped slowly upwards into a long soft hill; bald, white, virgin snow except for a thin trail of boot marks trod over its peak and out of sight.
The carcass of the aircraft looked more like a dead bird than a machine, the fractures that ringed its tubular hull and broke the wings made it appear limp, like a lifeless gull washed up on a white sand shoreline; rotting and stagnant. Drifts of pure white snow had partially buried the grey skin of the aircraft. The tail was completely missing, replaced by a dark cavity leading into the body of the beast; the string of footprints led into the darkness.
The aircraft had come to rest in a shallow saddle between the soft hill behind and a steep, craggy peak ahead; a fortress-like spire of razor rocks thinly veiled under drifts of snow, its mighty frame now dwarfed by both distance and the size of the mountain beyond. Above, the clear dome of pure blue sky and the ring of snow-capped mountains that formed the horizon framed the crash site; of a dying Stranger sheltering in the body of a dead bird, amidst the overwhelming enormity of the Tasmanian wilderness. Jane paused, then slowly sat down, her eyes playing upon the lonely image, feeling the soft but biting wind play across the snow, the land beneath her and the sky above.
The Sun had almost reached its zenith by the time Jane moved again. She took her time, paralleling the footprints in the snow until she reached the open wound in the tail of the aircraft. Snow had accumulated over time to form a solid floor amongst the rows of chairs that formed the cabin. Parts of the interior façade had been stripped away, baring the aluminium skeleton of the aircraft, like the giant ribcage of a dead whale. Jane moved with caution, handgun at her side, through the shadow filled cabin until she found the Stranger.
He had obviously been living here for some time; there was a fire pit built with rocks, and kindling piled in one corner. A bed roll was laid down, although the Stranger himself had died with his back to the wall, legs flayed, eyes glassy and open, an old .45 Auto still gripped in his hand. It had been hours, and in the cool the body had stiffened quickly and was already beginning to turn grey. A pool of blood had fanned out around him, like black ink in the shadow. Jane checked for a pulse but there was none: Jane had killed him. She breathed for a moment, considering this, and then set her mind to what had to be done.
After the Stranger was buried, Jane lit the small fire inside the belly of the aircraft, kicking a few logs on and watching the wicked flame dance and spit fireflies into the cold air. It took a long time for the sun to go down, and even when it finally did dip below the horizon it was never truly dark.
Jane left the frame of the aircraft before the sun came up, backtracking along the line of footprints until she reached the creek line, where she and the Stranger had encountered each other the previous morning.
Jane had been following the creek line for a few days, running steadily south. She used a rock and had cracked a hole in the ice, using the water to brush her teeth, sitting in quiet still of the morning sun.
There was a sound behind, and Jane had turned with a start. The Stranger already had his pistol up, facing her from the edge of the clearing forty meters distant, his feet dug into the creamy soil that lined the embankment leading down to the frozen creek line. The pistol was a .45 cal, and if the Stranger were any kind of shot he wouldn't miss a static target at that range. Jane was stunned; unable to run or fight. Dead to rights.
His foot slipped. The Stranger stumbled as the ground gave out from below his boot, tilting him back he squeezed a single round into the sky as he fell, the resounding echo of the gunblast slapping Jane from her daze. She dove behind the log she had been using to place her belongings, pulling her pack down into the shadow and pulling a Nickel-plated .44 revolver from inside. A big heavy thing; Jane rose up and used the log to steady her weapon, head low, searching for a shot.
The Stranger had dropped from sight, rolling into low cover at the base of the embankment. He rose up firing wildly, his pistol barking, rounds lancing into the frozen cap of the creek, splintering the shell of ice with fountains of foam that burst upward like the water below was held pressurized below the ice crust.
Jane fired, the revolver suddenly burning hot in her hands. A single round scythed into the trees beyond the Stranger, landing with a solid crack. The Stranger fired back, finding his footing and taking cover behind the bulk of a fallen tree. His pistol held more rounds than the revolver, and could be reloaded faster, and the Stranger played out rounds with far greater pace than his opponent. Jane was careful, picking her shots. The Stranger peaked above the tree, and Jane fired again, the weapon jumping in her grip, wood splintering apart centimeters below the Strangers face.
He fired again, two shots; they cracked and sung as they passed on each side of Jane's head. There was a metallic crunch, and the Pistol silenced abruptly. Jane heard him swear. Jammed!
Jane hurdled the Log, advancing the twenty paces toward the Strangers position in a few seconds. The Stranger was lying prone, desperately reefing on the slide of the old Army-Issue Auto pistol, trying to clear the brass shell jammed in the feed port. He rolled over as Jane's shadow came above him, aiming the useless weapon upward. Jane fired; a single round pierced into his gut, the raw force of the burning bullet slamming against the Stranger, forcing the pistol from his hand. He tried to suck air, but was winded; his hand went to the wound as blood leached into the material of his clothing like Ink blots on writing paper. He came up from the ground, swinging with his free hand, his fist slammed into Jane's face, knocking her backward. Jane raised the pistol again and pulled the trigger, but the cylinder revolved with a dull click. The Stranger was already on her, throwing his weight against her, his forehead arching forward to connect with Jane's face, impacting with a solid thud. Jane hit the ground, sprawling on her back. The Stranger was panting, still gripping the weeping wound, standing above her. Their eyes had locked for a moment.
They both knew it: The Stranger had begun to die.
The Stranger turned and ran.
The line of footprints the Stranger had left where still cut into the snow, advancing up the steep cut of the rivers bank and out of sight. Jane walked back to where she had sheltered: Her pack still lay there, covered by a thin film of frost. The Stranger must've been carrying a pack too, and dropped it as he had lost his footing and fell down onto the creek shore. A green army-looking thing, Jane turned it over and let the content spill out onto the filthy snow. A Blanket, lighter, fishing wire and a hook, canteen, a box of .45 cal soft nose rounds, a plastic bag with dried meat inside, and a metal compass; Jane inspected each and placed them inside her bag – even if she had no need for them, they may be good for trade. The .45 cal rounds would be useful for the pistol she had acquired, along with a switchblade knife she had found on the body. Jane swept the base of the bag with one hand, and felt something: a black plastic film canister. She shook it and felt something moving inside – a piece of paper folded up. Unfolded, it was deeply creased and clearly old, stained the colour of coffee; it showed lines and crosses, intersecting at places. The top had been coloured in blue, and someone had written 'sea'. It showed a coastline, and rivers, mountains and roads, all marked slightly differently. In the centre, it showed a conglomeration of buildings all surrounding a single giant hole – like a gouge taken from the earth. Next to it were three words, underlined and circled.
City of Prospect.