Free Blacky Blasts Back by Barry Jonsberg

there. Phil and Jimmy told us that we wouldn’t need it this time, because we were going to be travelling in a group and there’d be no chance of becoming separated. That’s what you think , I said to myself. But the techniques might hold us in good stead for the future.
    I paid particular attention. If Blacky was taking us into the bush, this information might save our lives. Blacky has many good qualities – well, I assume he has – but I suspected he wasn’t going to come equipped with a GPS or an assortment of distress flares. Rolling in foul messes is all well and good, but it’s rarely the difference between life and death.
    Maybe I’m wrong, though. The last time I smelled Blacky I wanted to die.
    We made lunch. Sandwiches and cordial. Then, in the afternoon, we played games. Instructional games, problem-solving by communicating within the group. The sun made an appearance around two o’clock. It wasn’t a warm sun, but it lifted our spirits.
    It wasn’t the only thing to make an appearance.
    We had just started a trust-building exercise that involved falling backwards into the arms of a waiting team member. I’d been paired with John. This meant I had to stand a considerable distance away and catch something the size and weight of a mature ironbark tree. I was bracing myself, confident I’d be crushed like a bug, when an eerie sound drifted through the air.
    â€˜Cooeee.’
    We all froze. What was that? The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention and an icy chill ran down my spine. I gazed at the surrounding forest and an ominous silence gathered.
    â€˜Cooeee.’
    Around a bend in the track, two people appeared, buried under a mass of camping equipment. They carried colossal rucksacks. Pots, pans and tents dangled from every available strap. I’ve seen department stores that weren’t as well stocked. It wouldn’t have surprised me to spot a five-burner gas barbecue with wok side-burner and an industrial fridge. They teetered towards us and stopped, the mountains on their backs swaying alarmingly. The gentle melody of tinkling pans faded and died.
    â€˜G’day!’ said the mound on the right in a frighteningly cheerful voice.
    It was, I think, a female mound. She wore glasses as thick as beer bottles which made her eyes look like pee-holes in the snow. They swam above a huge smile, exposing teeth like tombstones. If you’d stumbled across this apparition on a dark night it would have prompted an involuntary bowel movement. The other mound was probably male. It was difficult to tell.
    â€˜G’day,’ said Phil, who was the first to recover his voice. ‘Camping, huh?’ he added, thus proving that nothing subtle gets past him.
    â€˜Absolutely,’ said The Teeth. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Actually, we are hunting.’ If anything, her grin became wider. It was difficult to believe a human mouth could accommodate so many gnashers. Think of a very short-sighted beaver and you’ll get the general idea.
    â€˜Really?’ said Phil. ‘And what are you hunting?’
    â€˜The thylacine.’
    She’d lowered her voice even more, for reasons that weren’t altogether clear. Did she think some government department might have bugged the forest? We were forced to lean closer.
    â€˜Ah,’ said Phil, plucking at his earring. ‘Caught many?’
    â€˜No,’ she said seriously. ‘We’ve been coming here every year for twenty years, determined to get photographic evidence. Plenty of close encounters, but no hard proof. But that’s about to change. “This time, Gloria!” I said to myself. We can feel it, can’t we, George?’
    The other mound nodded, setting off another round of pot-clashing.
    â€˜Oh yes,’ Gloria The Teeth continued. ‘This is definitely the year. Well, mustn’t dally. We heard your voices and thought we’d