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The Outback Tracker

By

AngelRad

"You have got to be kidding me, right?"

"Sorry Sydney, not this time. You were personally picked by the president of the network to do this piece."

"But I am a hard-hitting, award-winning journalist. I have a Peabody, for crying out loud! Now I am reduced to going to interview some lunatic who boxes kangaroos for a living?"

"The Outback Tracker has never boxed kangaroos."

"And you would know this how?"

"Umm... I, umm... watched the show."

"Let me guess. She's cute, isn't she?"

"Yes but… Come on. Sydney. I cannot go upstairs and tell Ron Sykes you refuse to do the piece. My head would be rolling down the stairwell before I even got my next sentence out."

"Okay. Let's say I agree to do this piece. What's in it for me, Riley?"

"Well, you are due a vacation. How about an extra week down under... on the network?" he said hopefully.

"Nope, not good enough. Throw in my choice of my next assignment without a peep out of you about budgets or sweeps. Then we have a deal"

"Okay, but remember if Ron pitches a fit about any of this deal, it will fall squarely on your shoulders. Oh yeah, think of this as a high profile fluff piece, please," he said to lighten the mood in the office.

Sydney puffed at her too-long blonde bangs and directed a martyrish sigh at the paunchy editor. Abso-fucking-fabulous. So this is what happens when you do an expose on one of Ron Sykes' golfing buddies. I knew there'd be payback sometime.

"So yeah… enjoy…" Riley said, hopping off of the edge of Sydney's desk to beat a hasty retreat. "Bring me back one of those snowglobe thingies from the Outback, will ya?"

His star reporter sent him a glare that meant certain death. "It doesn't snow in the outback, Riley."

Too late. He was gone and she was committed to the assignment. Slumping back in her chair, she groaned. An unsettling rumble from her stomach accompanied this, her ulcer making an appearance again. Drawing upon the steely reserve that had gotten her this far in her career, she straightened her spine and started making notes.

Well, it can't be worse than being the A.M. weathergirl in Poughkeepsie. I got through that and I'll get through this.

***
Though her ears had popped somewhere over the Tropic of Cancer, she still had a hard time understanding the captain when the announcement finally came the plane would be landing within the hour. Flying was never her idea of a good time; transatlantic flights… tantamount to torture. How many times can a person watch Miss Congeniality, really? No matter how much she practiced her yoga breathing or listened to her soothing ocean sounds CD, she still ended up an exhausted and frazzled wreck by the time she touched down on the next continent. The Fasten Seatbelts light chimed on. Hastily pulling herself together, she gathered up the multitude of cookie wrappers and empty bottles of Evian from the vacant seat beside her, and gave them to a churlish flight attendant making a last sweep.

Time to get my game face on.

She gave her interview questions a quick glance as a refresher, looking over the one page bio, noting the blurry black and white photo stapled to the corner of the page. That kangaroo walker person was supposed to pick her up at the airport. She hoped she'd be able to recognize her.

A Tracker, huh… Why am I having Crocodile Dundee premonitions? Please God, don't let her be wearing a hat decorated with alligator teeth.

The woman was a local guide who'd made it big by carrying out a few miraculous, against all odds type rescues, saving people lost in the remotest parts of the Outback. Riding the wave of popularity, she had parleyed her sudden fame into an acting career of sorts. The network was hoping to cash in. They set her up with a prime time weekend spot. Her weekly television show was planning to feature what you'd expect; indigenous archeological finds, strange animals, and local color. The tag line was "Tour Lost Austrailia." It was going to be the newest sensation in syndication. But Sydney didn't see anything noteworthy about the show or its host and certainly didn't plan to spend a lot of her time or effort helping to feed the publicity machine. She figured she could have the interview done by the time the woman dropped her off at her hotel. Add a few shots of the Tracker gamboling about the local scenery and this humiliating piece of fluff would be quickly and painlessly over. Maybe she would even take those extra vacation days. That would shock the hell out of Riley. She couldn't remember the last vacation she'd taken. Singapore? Beijing? No, those had been assignments.

She remembered.

Cape Cod... a little white bungalow on the beach with Greg... their last shot at connubial bliss before they had decided to chuck a year's worth of marriage. And that had been how many years ago? Four? Six?

"Impossible," Sydney grimaced out loud, startling the lady across the aisle.

But it had been six years. And at least four of those had been spent in almost ecclesiastic abstinence.

Fine. So I'm stereotype girl now. All work and no play. Blah, blah, blah.

Before she had finished gathering all her notes and packing up her laptop, she had dismissed the embarrassing assignment from her thoughts and decided on a vacation. And so, as the landing gear skidded against the pavement, a rare smile brought out the dimples in her cheeks, erasing weary lines from her forehead and lighting up her deep green eyes. This trip might not be so bad after all, she decided.

***
Wilting like a head of lettuce left out in the sun, she shuffled through customs, slogged her way through the crowd at baggage claim, and then hauled all her luggage to the curb outside arrivals before she finally drooped, sprawling on top of her Samsonite and fanning herself with her ticket.

God, it's hot!

Checking her watch, she did a quick mental calculation to figure out local time, but it was too much for her limited brain functions at that moment. Whatever mental ability she had left was obliterated by the muggy heat. She'd forgotten the seasons were backwards in this hemisphere. It was a frigid January when she had left Chicago. Here, January meant balmy, almost beach weather.

She hoped she wasn't late in meeting this Aussie alligator wrestler person. Her flight had been on time. She was just considering getting a taxi and calling her interviewee from the hotel, when a red convertible mini screeched to a halt, one tire jumping the curb, inches away from Sydney's foot.

"Jeezus!" Sydney toppled backward, luggage tumbling underneath her, feet flying in the air. The palms of her hands smacked hard against the concrete, preventing her head from doing the same. One deep breath later, she began to untangle her limbs and pull herself upright.

"Need help?"

A shadow fell over her. Tangled blonde hair swung forward, grazing Sydney's arm as a hand reached down and pulled her to her feet. A moment later, that same hand swatted at the blonde hair, revealing an exceptionally pretty face grinning back at her.

"Sorry, 'bout that. I'm used to driving a Jeep on camera. Crazy clutch on these teensy cars." The high, childish voice had an American accent, but the face was unmistakable, even though the photo had been blurry. Same dark button eyes, same smile. It had to be the Kangaroo Walker.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Sydney." The hand swung back in Sydney's direction and the smile brightened. The woman was a little taller than Sydney, very tan, very blonde and very thin. She looked more like an extra on Baywatch than an Outback Tracker.

"Oh good," the woman breathed as she swiped at the unruly hair again. "I thought I'd missed you."

Sydney laughed. "No, you definitely didn't miss me."

The irony was lost on the woman. She simply smiled vacantly and nodded while reaching for Sydney's bags. "I'm so sorry. I'm Grace McAdams. My personal assistant usually handles this stuff." She gave an airy wave. "I don't even own a watch."

Having hoisted Sydney's lightest carry-on bag, the woman turned toward her car, glancing over her shoulder. "You all set?"

Sydney gritted her teeth and nodded, collecting the other two bags and her laptop case, carrying two and kicking the other toward the trunk. "Yes, I guess. So, do you mind if we start the interview in the car? I just have a few preliminary questions..."

The woman tilted her head to one side, the picture of regret. "Yeah... Oh, I'm sorry. I told Marla I'd wait until she could sit in. Plus, I have a facial in five and then a massage. Do you mind if we wait?"

***
"Noooo, I don't want his voicemail. You just tell him I called to thank him profusely for this historic opportunity. I'm all aglow with accomplishment. Now, I can tell my grandchildren 'You know, I was there the day the Tracker got her legs waxed. It was a beautiful moment.' You just tell him that, 'kay." Sydney punched the off button, flipped her cellphone and then threw it on the bed.

Damn... I'm such an ass. She reminded herself to apologize to Tina, Riley's secretary, when she got back.

The afternoon was a total wash and she was exhausted. Who would've expected the Outback Tracker would be such a prima donna? Not even the ocean sounds CD could make Sydney stop convulsively balling her hands into fists. Grace McAdams had been a total pain in the ass. Not only did she insist on carting Sydney around with her while she ran her "errands", she hadn't given her a single usable quote. A little pacing, a lot of swearing, and some mind-numbing television helped calm Sydney's rage to a dull roar. Around ten o'clock, jet lag kicked in. She started to yawn and couldn't stop. A quick, hot shower only made her more sleepy. Afterward, feeling warm and pleasantly drowsy, she slipped between cool sheets and let out an appreciative sigh. Very shortly thereafter, she was hugging a pillow, happily dreaming about ballroom dancing classes in the Pyramids at Giza. Somehow, while she was dancing, she'd ordered a pepperoni and black olive pizza and the pizza delivery guy was her father but it was also Ron Sykes. She was just in the middle of reading Ron's beads for leaving off the olives when a knock at the door roused her from the dream. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and scanning the room, dazed.

Oh shit, did I really order a pizza?

Slightly disoriented, she gathered the sheets around her and lumbered to the door. Squinting through the peephole, instead of her boss in a Domino's uniform, she saw a huge blue eye staring back at her.

"Who is it?"

"Mazzer here."

"Who?"

"Mazzer."

Sydney peered through the peephole again, an overly large head swam into view. Not a bad looking head, female, dark hair, nice cheekbones, pretty face, but not a familiar face. "I don't know any Mazzers?" she half-stated, half-queried through the door.
"No, you don't. Smart girl, eh? I'm Mazzer... er... Marla, Grace's... er... her mate, one of the producers on the show. Look, can I gab at you for a second? Just a word before the interview tomorrow? C'mon. She'll be apples."

Apples? Who will be apples? Australian accent… that explains it. Sydney unlatched the door and pulled it open.

Not just pretty. Breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. "Hi," was all Sydney could manage after getting a full, unobstructed view of her visitor. She swallowed hard, clutching the sheet tighter around her.

"G'day. Sorry to catch you in the nuddy, but I won't be long. No drama. Can I come in? Didn't interrupt you havin' a naughty, did I?"

"Um... sure..." Sydney stood back to let her pass by, quietly appraising the backside of the woman's hellacious figure.

Okay, so this interruption isn't all bad.

A messy black braid hung down the woman's back, wisps of dark hair escaping and curling at her neck. Long, denim clad legs and a tight khaki t-shirt made quite the first impression even though both were dusty and worn in places. "Wait a second..." Sydney did a double-take. "Having a what?"

Marla strode into the room, raising an eyebrow at the rumpled, empty bed. "Guess not," she said pointedly.

Swinging fully around to face Sydney, she ignored her question and unleashed a pearly white smile that charmed without really trying. "Listen, I don't want to yabber on. Here's your agenda for tomorrow and your questions." She slipped a hand into her right front pocket and retrieved a small, folded piece of paper. Thrusting it at Sydney, she winked, smiled again and hooked a thumb around her belt loop as if she were waiting for thanks.

Sydney glanced incredulously down at the soiled bit of paper in her hands and then back at the hot-looking lunatic who was keeping her from some much needed rest. "You brought me questions? I'm a journalist... comes with the package. I bring my own." Sydney took the piece of paper and held it back out to her with the tips of her fingers. "Thanks for the thought, but I don't need your questions."

Marla's charming smile vanished and her eyes narrowed, pale blue glittering like sparklers on the Fourth of July. "Yes, you do. This is a delicate situation. Maybe the network didn't explain it to you. Your editors agreed that I tee up the interview and I did. All you have to do is show up and smile, sweetheart. No worries."

Sputtering like a faucet in a public restroom, Sydney felt indignation descend from her brain to her gut and then claw its way back up again. She tried her best to control it. What did her therapist say?

Breathe in. Taste the colors in the air. Breathe out. Picture the shimmering waves of the rainbow.

Screw that.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Pivoting suddenly, the woman stalked toward her. Shock and anger detonated in Marla's blue eyes, shooting Sydney a look so fierce, the intrepid reporter, who had once traversed mine fields without a flutter of fear, stepped back a pace. The woman didn't appear to be the kind of woman who was often crossed.

"Fine," the woman growled. "No need to chuck a wobbly. Forget it. Forget the whole thing. I knew this was a mistake. I'll call Ron in the morning and tell him the interview is off."

"No. Wait. No. Don't drag him into this. Shit." Sighing heavily, Sydney resigned herself to the full reality of this crappy assignment. There was no way out of it, really. She tried unfolding the piece of paper with one hand, and failing that, tucked the sheet in snugly over her cleavage, and used both hands to open it. She scanned the questions…

Very vanilla. "Are we trying to put people to sleep? You really want me to ask these? This is network news, not Nickelodeon."

She tugged at the sheet again and glanced up at Marla only to catch the other woman giving her a calculating, but very appreciative look. "I want you…" Marla exhaled heavily and then cleared her throat. "um… to use those verbatim. Are we clear?"

The two women squared off, eyes locking before Sydney, nerves curiously a'tingle, looked away. "Not verbatim," she muttered. "I doubt I could say the word 'sheila' with a straight face. But okay. I'll use your questions."

"Aces," Marla said. "Till the morning, then."

Sydney dared a glance at her. She was still smirking! Infernal woman!

"Anyhow mate," Marla continued affably as if she hadn't just been blacker than a thundercloud two minutes prior, "I'll find you early and we'll grab a cuppa before the train. Sorry I had to give you a bit of a curry. I'll chuff off and let you catch some Z's now. You look completely nackered."

Sydney felt her face go red and her fists start to clench but the woman breezed by, winking as she passed. She stopped at the door.

"By the by," she drawled, turning to give Sydney a leisurely scan from head to bare toes before pointing at Sydney's breasts. "Your sheet's slipping."

Sydney yanked the thin fabric up, covering exposed skin, as Marla exited, quietly shutting the door while chuckling softly to herself.

Sydney didn't get much rest after that. In the morning, she woke, red-eyed, puffy, still angry and defensive. She'd had worse assignments, had even had questions dictated to her before. None had ever robbed her of sleep. So what had her all worked up? She vaguely recalled the dream she'd been having before the wake up call came… hot and heavy. Her mind veered away from the breathless, erotic imagery still lingering in her subconscious.

I wonder if those pale blue eyes change colors when she…

Sydney groaned and wiped her thoughts again. Hauling herself out of bed, she trudged to the bathroom and took a long shower. Rifling through her suitcase, she shook the wrinkles out of the lightweight khaki pantsuit. It suited her and it looked good on camera. She wasn't a vain girl, but she took extra pains with her appearance that morning, fiddling with her shoulder-length blonde hair until it settled in soft waves around her face. Tasteful, understated gold jewelry and khaki suede heels completed the elegant picture. She started to call the camera crew the network had requisitioned from a local affiliate but realized she had no idea where the shoot was happening. This irritated her. Sydney liked to be in control on an interview. It was all in the prep. Bored and longing for caffeine, she passed the time left fidgeting with her notes and flipping through the cable news channels. Finally, at 8:00 AM, Marla rapped on the door.

"Crikey..." Marla breathed when she saw her. "Um...You scrub up well."

Damn... So do you.

Sydney was speechless, swallowing hard in a dry throat. Gone were the dusty jeans, replaced with snug fitting denim cut off shorts, an equally tight white cotton tank top and hiking boots. The shorts revealed acres of taut, tan leg... and the tank top? Best not linger on what that reveals, Sydney chided herself. It is a little cold in here, I guess. Marla was clean, fresh from the shower if the long, wet hair cascading over her shoulders was any judge. Nerves amped and palms sweating, Sydney managed a weak, lovesick-puppy type grin.

Get a grip, Syd! This isn't Junior High!

"Ready then?"

Sydney gave herself a mental shake and pasted a more neutral smile on her face. "Ready."

Marla nodded, turning toward the elevators as Sydney gathered her recorder, her notes and the dirty slip of paper with the prescribed questions on it. Sighing, she made sure the door locked behind her and then joined Marla at the elevators.

"We have time for a bite before you and Grace have your chinnwag. I know a great place. It's just down the road a bit."

Just down the road turned into an hour and thirty minute trek in an open Jeep, out of the city, down some very dusty roads, to a tiny, dun-colored clapboard shack with a tin roof and a derelict porch. The faded sign over the door proclaimed "MAUDE'S CUT LUNCHES... finest in the province." Flies congregated in thick, jittery clusters on the screened door. A flickering neon beer sign in the window buzzed urgently.

Sydney felt the dust invade her whole body: between her teeth, coating her eyelashes, under her fingernails. She sat for a moment, hot sun beating down on her, too stunned to unfasten her seatbelt. Marla jumped down from the Jeep and crossed a dusty parking lot filled with dusty cars. Sydney ran her fingers through her hair and attempted to scour the dust from her face with the sleeve of her suit, watching in despair as brown smears ruined the expensive fabric.

"Great. Just great." she grumbled, unlatching her seatbelt.

Marla stopped near the porch, reached into a back pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Shaking one from the package, she motioned toward the door. "You go. I'm going to put another nail in the coffin." Pinching the cigarette between her lips, she began fishing in her pocket for matches and, after finding them, waved Sydney along. "Right behind you," she mumbled.

Sydney sighed for perhaps the 800th time that morning, pulled the creaking screened door open and ducked through the low doorway, blinking and seeing spots as her eyes focused in the dim light. The interior was just as unimpressive as the exterior. The oppressive heat skulked inside with her, sunlight slanting halfheartedly through the slatted shutters at the windows. The boards underfoot were blackened and smoothed by decades of scuffling boots. Rickety tin tables were packed in together, pushed to one side of the room. The pock-marked dart board on the opposite wall explained the open space. A long bar in the back spanned the width of the place, populated with patrons even at that early hour. As Sydney approached, heads craned in her direction. Rounded shoulders straightened. Rough hands curled around sweating beer bottles and then lifted automatically to cracked lips as shrewd eyes appraised her openly.

"Oy!" a seamed raisin of a man called to her.

She smiled back tentatively, swatting at the flies that had followed her in. "Um hi… Are you still serving breakfast?"

This statement was greeted with universal cackles and guffaws. Grins tumbled across the weathered and tanned faces. They telegraphed a look back and forth until someone silently elected to speak for the rest.

"To be sure," one of the taller men said, a leer wrinkling one side of his face. He had greasy gray hair that he'd pulled back into a ponytail and a face that was at once leathery and ruggedly handsome. He leaned on his elbows, supported by the bar behind him, one foot perched on a wobbly chair in front. He gestured toward the leaky beer taps to his right. "Have you a heart starter. Breakfast of Champions." He smiled at his joke.

"Uuuh huh." Sydney grimaced. "Actually, I was hoping for something a little more ordinary."

This caused more general hilarity. The gray-haired man chuckled, vaulting over the bar with his empty glass which he promptly refilled and then chugged. The men chuckled and settled back over their cups, turning their backs to her.

She heaved an irritated sigh, blew hair out of her eyes and wiped at the sweat trickling down the back of her neck. "I guess ordinary is out of the question around here," she said under her breath

The screen door slammed behind her causing her to jump and spin around as Marla entered. "G'day you old bastards!" Marla grinned at the assemblage at the bar, sauntering up to the crowd and slapping a few of the men on the back. She cocked her head toward the man that had spoken to Sydney. "Oy mate, where's mam? I could eat a horse and chase the jockey. A few snags oughta do the trick."

The man's face went curiously slack and he shook his head sorrowfully at Marla, though he clearly enjoyed being the bearer of bad tidings. "Gone up the road to fetch some of them doo-dahs yer asked her for last Wendsdee." Marla's jaw dropped before she collected herself and gave him a sly wink. "Come off the grass, Orly. She hasn't left for town in a month of Sundees. Where is she?"

"Don't lie to the girl, Orly." The men gasped in unison, parting suddenly to reveal a small, brown old man perched on a bar stool in the corner. Deep brown eyes, so large, so full of the sorrows of the world they looked utterly complacent, contrasted sharply with a nest of long white hair. The hair was reminiscent of photos Sydney had seen of Einstein. She immediately named him Einstein in her thoughts. His skin was the color of an icy mochaccino and as smooth as a baby's, though he was clearly advanced in years. Einstein was observably Maori; the eyes told her that much. Sydney decided that she liked him, though she couldn't say why. "Your mother's gone a walkabout, Marla," he continued. "She said not to tell you, but I thought you should be aware. I told her now is not the time. Not with the..."

Marla interrupted his clipped, precise speech, glancing nervously over her shoulder at Sydney.

"Pull your head in mate," Marla barked at him, obviously rattled. The man closed his mouth around the words, a reproachful look directed back at her. "It was bound to happen," he said softly in placid tones. It was a voice that might be discussing winning the lottery or the apocalypse. No matter which, it would remain a measured calm.

Marla acknowledged this with a weary nod. For a long moment, she seemed to consider and then she drew in a deep breath. "Well then. I'd best go." She spun around and stalked toward the door.

"Wait a..." Sydney began.

"Wait a tick!" Orly interrupted, pointing at Sydney. "What about yer baggage? You can't leave it here," Marla stopped suddenly and turned, biting her lip.

"Baggage?" Sydney put her hands on her hips, raised eyebrows questioning. Marla remained stoic, studying her. "What's going on here?" Sydney spat out finally in exasperation. "I flew through four time zones. I'm starving and I have a camera crew that has no idea where to be or what to point a camera at. I repeat... Fill in the blanks, please."

Marla tilted her head, gave Sydney the same measuring assessment she had the night before, and then shrugged.

"She'll come with me then," was her ambivalent solution, and, having decided, she pushed through the screen door and marched outside without another word.

Sydney tore after her, tripping down the stairs and rushing across the parking lot until she caught up with Marla's long-legged stride. Though she was incredibly peeved at being labeled 'baggage', reporter's instinct got the better of her. She tapped Marla on the shoulder. "Where are we going? To find your mother? Where is she? "

Marla gave a derisive snort. "You think I'd take a bit of city like yourself to the back of Never Never?" She shrugged off Sydney's hand. "That's a beaut. You've got a kangaroo loose in the top paddock, Sweetheart.." Reaching the Jeep, she swung into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. "I'm not suicidal. I'm dropping you off. Grace and your crew should be near ready for your interview now."

Sydney was strangely deflated by this news. "But…but you said you wanted to be there. Where will you be?"

"That… " Marla glared pointedly, ""is none of your business. Are you coming or not?"

Sydney reluctantly climbed into the Jeep and strapped herself in. "Fine," she mumbled.

An exasperated sigh was the only reply and then the car screamed out of the parking lot, long curls of dust arching behind it like rust-colored streamers. Wind and dust hampered further conversation. To Sydney. the silence was deafening It was not in her nature to suppress her curiosity, even under the most hostile conditions. But somehow, the thin set of the woman's lips made her keep her own clamped shut, though she ached to ask a thousand questions. The whine of the engine and the incessant rattle of assorted gear stored in the back only seemed to emphasize the irritating silence of her companion. Sydney refused to even look at her, staring down at her lap instead, until suddenly, Marla reached across Sydney, slipping her hands between Sydney's knees until she found the latch to the glove compartment. Sydney had to consciously stop herself from tensing up as Marla retrieved a pair of mirrored sunglasses and then slammed the latch shut. After that, Marla fished underneath the front seat with one eye on the empty road, (causing Sydney only minor heart palpitations as the Jeep swerved.) She pulled out a baseball cap and began tucking her long hair up underneath it. This complete, she turned to Sydney and flashed a mirthless grin, which dissolved the second she turned back to the road.

Squinting in the searing early-morning sun, Sydney cursed her own lack of foresight, as tendrils of white-gold hair repeatedly flogged her face. The rest of the drive was spent trying to keep the wild strands under control and out of her eyes. Because of this, she missed particulars of the scenery flashing by. When she finally got her hair under control, the landscape asserted it's latent beauty and she completely forgot herself and all her irritation. The small bent trees, twisted and gnarled by wind and weather into fantastical shapes, were scattered here and there in the emptiness. They merged with the colors of the dry landscape, becoming a blur of burnt umber and sage. Hummocks of earth rose and fell into the distance, never cresting tall enough to touch the bleak, sunny sky, never breaching her view of the horizon, only encasing it like a strange, arid picture frame. The stretch of barrenness seemed to never end.

Ahhh... Never Never… I get it now…

Somewhat humbled by the scene before her, Sydney studied the stoic woman's profile for a moment and chewed on her lower lip in indecision.

"Look," she said finally, turning fully in her seat. "I'm sorry if you're having some trouble. I could help... I mean, if you need it. I'll have you know, I've been in situations far more dangerous than a day's trek in the wilderness. This is nothing. I..."

"I know."

Sydney's mouth gaped in surprise as Marla aimed a look of mild amusement at her. "Why do you think I picked you for the interview?"

"You chose me for this? But I thought..."

Marla shrugged off the question in Sydney's voice and turned her attention back to the ever- dwindling road. It passed from asphalt to concrete and then to wheel tracks worn into the desiccated ground. Bearing right at a clump of spidery trees, they bobbled down a pitted track that led to the lee of a tiny pond. Two trucks and a compact RV basked like giant silver beetles at its edge. A camera crew was setting up at the far side, glancing up as the Jeep came to a squeaky halt. Marla turned off the ignition, took off her hat and swiped at the sweat beading on her brow. Surveying the scene, a smirk crept across her dust-streaked face. "I did my research. I had my reasons. You may have chatted up guerillas in South America and Dictators in the Middle East, but only a real professional has the guns to deal with that." Marla pointed and, at that moment, the door to the RV swung open. Grace, clad in a blindingly red, shockingly short silk kimono and fluffy pink slippers, descended, blinking and stretching, a gaudy butterfly emerging from her air-conditioned cocoon.

***

Maybe it was the crocodile bikini wrestling that made everything fall to pieces?

Sydney really couldn't pinpoint it exactly. Dry-mouthed and fuzzy-headed, stomach heaving like swells on a stormy ocean, facts came and went through the foggy turnstile of her brain, never lingering long enough to link together into coherent thought. Lying there, staring up at the bright cavernous sky, she couldn't help but idly wonder where it all went wrong. Could it have been that questionable tuna sandwich that the Grip had given her, (half of which was consumed by the garrulous Grace before she'd gotten half of her life story out of her mouth, only five minutes into the interview)? Maybe it had sat out in the sun too long?

She squinted feebly as the faces bending over her went dark, nimbuses of light circling their heads as they blotted out the sun. The garish red of Grace's lips folded in upon itself and Sydney could just make out a mild look of distress creasing the pretty woman's forehead.

"Do you think she got bit, then? She just keeled over, right when I was telling her about winning the Miss Petaluma Pageant."

Someone nodded and the sunlight flickered through, blinding Sydney for a moment.

Bit! Something bit me?

"Well the swelling's a dead giveaway, ain't it? I had an uncle what was nipped by one a' them and he had to have half his cheek scraped out. It laid eggs in his face!"

"Ugh! Disgusting!" Grace shrank away as if little hatchlings were somehow already swarming and then sunlight flooded Sydney's vision again.

Oh god! Anything but spiders!

The nausea currently churning her insides redoubled and she started to shiver in revulsion. Cold sweat matted her hair to her face and the back of her neck.
What the hell happened?

She vaguely remembered Marla leaving in a bit of a hurry and then the tedious wait for the interview to begin. (Grace's nails had to dry before she would even think of starting.) Sydney had hunted for something resembling breakfast. Thankfully, the Grip had taken pity on her. The crew had finished setting up and a two-man team, equipped with what looked like cattle prods and a long metal pole with a loop at the end of it, had taken their places near the water's edge. Sydney could only gape as Grace joined the two men with cattle prods. Grace had disrobed, revealing a miniscule, pink string-bikini and some very shapely curves. What followed was too surreal for Sydney to really comprehend. The two men stalked the shoreline for at least twenty minutes, peering into the glassy water, while a nearly-naked Grace chatted with her personal assistant.

And then suddenly, one of the men shouted and a calamitous uproar ensued as the two struggled in the rushes with something very large, scaly and uncooperative.

The camera crew scurried to get footage of the skirmish. Finally, as the crocodile wranglers grappled with the giant reptile to keep it still, Grace strolled over to the scene, waited for her cue, and then began to preen, bending and flexing in a very seductive manner while reciting a dry monologue on the creature's deadly characteristics. As Sydney watched in appalled fascination, she began to understand precisely what appealed to the show's demographic and why the network was so enthused. It was pure eye-candy in a nice, educational wrapper.

After an hour of shooting, someone yelled 'cut' and Grace donned her robe again. Before Sydney had a chance to take her aside for the interview, Grace wandered off with the camera man. That was probably when it happened. She had tried to find them, tromping through knee-high weeds, and had walked, face-first, into a lacy spider web that was stretched between two slender stalks. Sputtering, she had brushed the invisible strands aside and then turned back to wait for Grace's inevitable return.

Grace and the cameraman appeared fifteen minutes later, both glassy-eyed and giggling at everything. The interview began as the crew started to pack up. Sydney dutifully followed the bland questions scrawled on the rumpled piece of paper.

SYDNEY: [RECITING] "What do you love most about your adopted home, Australia?"

GRACE: [PAUSES TO THINK AND THEN CONTINUES IN HALTING, PRACTICED MANNER] "Oh, that's a tough one. I'd have to say the diverse climate combined with the charm of its people."

SYDNEY: "What brought you to Australia?"

GRACE: [PAUSES TO THINK. APPEARS PUZZLED. SHRUGS. CONTINUES.] "Well, I was doing some dinner theatre in Orlando, and my agent asked if I wanted to go snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef with him. So it really just started as a vacation."

SYDNEY: [READS DIRECTLY FROM PAPER] "I see. Well, you've had some pretty amazing adventures since that vacation. Tell me about rescuing that boy lost in the Outback. Why were you able to find him when others couldn't?"

GRACE: [PAUSES TO THINK. OPENS MOUTH TO SPEAK. STOPS. THINKS SOME MORE.] "I'm not sure. Oh wait. I know. It was pure instinct. The Outback was a challenge but I feel like I found myself out there. [BECOMES MORE ANIMATED] Plus, I totally love to camp. I even took some survival courses back in the States."

SYDNEY: "So would you consider yourself an adrenaline junkie?"

GRACE: [SEDUCTIVELY LICKS LIPS AT CAMERA ] "Totally. It's such a rush." [COLLECTS HERSELF] "And, lucky me, it's part of the job."

SYDNEY: [GRIMACES. PAUSES, APPEARING ILL. SHRUGS IT OFF AND THEN GLANCES WITH DISTASTE AT PIECE OF PAPER IN HER HAND. CRUMPLES PAPER INTO A BALL.] "So, let me get this straight, Grace. You're telling me that after a couple of camping trips and a survival course you were able to live without food or water for eight days in the Outback and still have the energy to carry an eight-year old boy forty miles to safety? That's pretty unbelievable."

GRACE: [ALARMED] "Huh?" [LOOKS AT CAMERA] "Can we cut for a sec? Cuz I thought you were supposed to ask about my inspirations next? See, then I was going to say that my mother was my inspiration, because she raised me and my four brothers after my father died. But honestly, I was thinking of changing that, because my vocal coach was key to winning the Miss Petaluma Contest and that's what really jumpstarted my career."

That's when it had happened, Sydney guessed. She'd felt the nausea first and then a strange prickling at her ankle that radiated outward. A few minutes later, dizziness followed and before she knew it, she was flat on her back staring up at the sky.

The cameraman rolled up her pant leg and whistled.

"Um... it's a bit of a worry." He scratched his head and then turned to the others. "It's a spider bite, all right and she's a beaut. Better take her to hospital up the road. Doctors are as scarce as hen's teeth out here."

Everyone agreed and the cameraman, (who reeked of hashish) lifted her up, carrying her to one of the trucks. After that, things got a little fuzzy... more blurry scenery, a terrible throbbing ache in her leg, Grace's incessant chattering... Sydney was grateful when unconsciousness finally claimed her.

"Don't piss in my pocket, Grace!" The gruff voice thundered through Sydney's consciousness, interrupting a disturbing dream involving spiders, her second-grade teacher, Mrs. Hamilton, and a lot of red jello. She winced, and tried in vain to roll over as the voice continued to roar. "I don't give a stuff about the truck or that you missed your bloody yoga class! How could you let her wander off alone? You were supposed to watch her! It was just a bloody interview, no worries, and now you've completely carked it up."

Sydney came fully awake, processing the anger in the familiar voice, the feel of something tight clamped around her leg and the rough, uneven turf under her back. She cracked open an eyelid.

"Well, it's not my fault. Babysitting reporters is not in my contract, okay?"

Grace stood with hands on hips, her back to Sydney, facing a glowing dot of red that flared and then dimmed in the shadows of fading twilight. She appeared to be standing in the hollow of a rocky protrusion, not quite a cave. The silence (with the exception of some affronted huffs on Grace's part) was something altogether new to Sydney. It was so heavy, so very thick and blanketing, she imagined the two arguing could easily hear her shallow breathing.

"Actually, sweetheart," the gruff voice continued, "it is in your contract." Smoke billowed from the tiny pocket of darkness within the almost-cave and, as the glowing dot sank lower, Sydney realized she was watching the motion of a hand clutching a cigarette. A figure, limned in shadows, emerged and Sydney's heart did a little impromptu tap dance. She hadn't expected to see the dark-haired producer again and it was a little unnerving that her body's reaction to her mere presence, even in its current state, was so out of her control. Listening quietly, she tried not to squirm, though the pressure on her leg was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

Grace sighed and gave a dramatic toss to her white-blonde curls, circling cautiously away from Marla who looked less than pleased.

"I know you wanted to give this whole business the flick, Gracie, but killing off the reporter wasn't an option. You're lucky I had the squawk-box turned on or she'd be cactus and you'd be bush-bait."

"No, you're lucky I'm willing to go through this whole tedious charade for you." Grace petulantly stamped a slinky, black-sandaled foot and a tiny cloud of dust mingled with the smoke of the small, guttering campfire struggling bravely to consume the tiny twigs propped like a teepee at it's center . "I get zero gratitude for putting my entire career on hold. It's ridiculous! I'm a serious actress! My talents are wasted out here! I was Bianca in the touring company of Taming of the Shrew, for goodness sake! That's, like, Shakespeare, you know!"

"I'm aware."

"And this gig was supposed to be temporary, remember? You said this show would be so ridiculous no network in their right mind would pick it up!"

Marla scratched her head, looking only mildly apologetic in the flickering light. "That was the idea. Can't blame me if those pommy bastards liked it. I tried everything I could think of to…"

She broke off as Sydney shifted position, trying to quietly dislodge a rock that was poking into her spine.
"She's alive and kicking, I see." Sydney heard the scuff of shoes against dirt and then Marla's face was looking down at her, dark hair swinging forward, dangling over her. Marla winked, looking genuinely pleased, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. "Danced with a brown mouse, did you?"

"Mouse? I... I didn't think it was a rodent."

Marla snorted, which, Sydney noted, was actually kind of a charming trait. "No luv, a brown mouse spider. They have a deadly nip, but she'll be apples once that poultice kicks in."

"Poultice?" Sydney sat up gingerly, still very light-headed, and looked down at her ankle. A rudimentary splint, consisting of two long, straight sticks and shoelaces, bound her leg, holding it straight, while a black leather belt, pulled very tight, made a very handy tourniquet.

"Lanced the bite. Poultice should draw out the rest of the poison, but keep it still for a day or so and you'll be running faster than a blue fly's ass in no time." She nodded, still smiling and then crouched down, patting Sydney lightly on her good leg. Sydney nodded back, suddenly shy for no reason she would willingly name.

"Well, thank you. I... I don't know what to say. Thank you. That was... um... very McGyver of you."

Marla quirked an eyebrow. "McGyver?"

"Nevermind." Sydney shook her head. "I appreciate it. I do."

Marla patted her on her good leg. "All right then. How about I muster some bush tucker for us? You should eat. It will help."

Sydney was afraid to ask what bush tucker might mean. She smiled weakly as Marla tromped off into the darkness. Hearing a rustling noise and a metallic creak, she guessed that Marla must be rummaging in the truck for something. She leaned back on her elbows. For the moment, she chose to ignore Grace, who sat on the ground, hugging her knees with a very sour expression on her pretty face. Instead she surveyed the limitless black beyond their campsite, like a thick velvet curtain draped over the landscape, and then the stars, so bright she thought she might reach out and rearrange them however she liked. Smiling at this, a thought occurred. She called out to Marla.

"Where are we exactly? I remember the shoot. I vaguely remember the truck, but this place? One plus one isn't equalling two here."

Marla reappeared holding a battered blue backpack. The other eyebrow shot up and a puzzled look replaced the smile. "You talk funny, you know that?"

"I'll tell you what happened," Grace piped in, rising to her feet and brushing the dust from her red denim mini skirt. "We almost died is what happened! We ran into a friggin kangaroo!"

AngelRad's Fiction

Dreamcatching