95 Million Killers

  95 Million Killers

  Copyright Gary Weston 2012

  Smashwords Edition

  95 Million Killers

  Forward

  New Zealand has a problem. Ninety five million little problems to be more precise. In 1837, it had seemed like a good idea to introduce possums from Australia into the bush of New Zealand, for recreational hunting and to establish a fur industry. This introduction continued as late as 1959. Not a bad idea on paper, but nobody understood how the little creatures would multiply out of control, with devastating affect on the native bush. In the 21st century, dropping tons of 1080 poison into the bush and hunting to kill them barely keeps the population in check. It was time for something more drastic but the consequences were deadly!

  Common Brushtail Possum: Trichosurus Velpecula.

  The male adults weigh in at around 2.4 Kgs (a little over 5 pounds). Their claws and teeth are sharp. Corner a possum it could do serious damage as it tried to escape. They can breed at most times of the year and are not restricted to a season. Their gestation period is a mere 16 to 18 days and they are ready to mate in one year. They do not pair for life and the males can impregnate many females. The females usually give birth to one or two young each time, and care for them without any input from the males. New Zealand possum population? Nobody knows for sure, but 95 million is quite possible.

  Chapter 1

  The near future

  Alex Gordon was in his element. Out hunting in the bush, hopeful of bagging a boar or a deer to fill the family freezer. He had driven north out of Whanganui, in the North Island of New Zealand, along the Great North Road, passing the Kai Iwi Tavern. After a few miles he took a right turn heading east, passing the Bushy Park Homestead with its acres of conservation land, home to kiwi and black robin.

  The battered ute's tyres crunched the rough dirt road, sending dry dust clouds behind in their wake. As he headed inland, the dirt road became narrower, down to a single lane, until overhanging branches were scraping the roof. A few more miles and he pulled up and got out. He was in no hurry. To Gordon, this was as much about becoming one with nature, as it was about the hunting.

  He leaned with his back against the ute to admire the view, looking down into a valley, one mass of greenery and native trees. As far as he could see, the low hills and valleys rolled continuously to the horizon. The air was hazy, giving the landscape soft pastel shades of greens, blues and greys. It was entirely possible that some areas hadn't yet felt the footsteps of man.

  Times were hard and free food was a blessing. Fifteen minutes walking along the familiar path into the bush Gordon paused, knowing the stream's watering hole was just another hundred yards around the next bend. He licked his forefinger and raised a hand above his head which caught the gentle breeze blowing from the direction of the stream. Perfect.

  A fantail flitted around him, snatching from the air the insects his movements disturbed. In the distance, a white throated Tui called and a Bellbird sang sadly and sweetly. He knew it was possible that if he clapped his hands, a rare black robin could come and check him out. He didn't put that to the test, because he had no wish to announce his arrival.

  Before the bend, Gordon got down on his belly and wriggled along, keeping his head down and his gun out of the dirt. Another twenty yards and he was where he wanted to be, hidden behind a low bush, his jacket and hat providing camouflage.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, savouring the earthy scent of the ground beneath him. To Gordon, the bush was a living entity, with everything interconnected in a magical and mysterious way, including himself. Through the high canopy of the trees, the late morning sun filtered softly down, turning everything into a dappled wonderland of shadows and secrets.

  Between a forked branch he had a clear view of the stream where it opened wider and a little deeper allowing the animals to gain easy access either to wallow in the soft mud or drink from the cool water. The hollow was deserted, but he could make out the muddy hoof prints on the far side, where a path disappeared into the deeper bush. It was just a waiting game so he made himself comfortable and as invisible as possible. A few minutes later, he heard a rustling noise, but behind him and high up, not from the hollow.

  He turned to look and there, about twenty yards away, was a possum. It was roughly the same size as a fat domestic cat, its tail long and its fur a patchy mix of browns. It stared at him as he stared at it. Apart from being out in broad daylight, the creature wasn't anything to be alarmed about. What was unusual however, was the fact that the possum wasn't the normal solitary creature, out feeding on the bush.

  Gordon counted at least three others in the same tree. That just didn't happen. All of them were staring at him. He knew they could be nasty little beggars if cornered, but he just had to ignore them and concentrate on the job in hand.

  After twenty more minutes, with a little cramp beginning to annoy his lower back, a young male boar appeared. The black tusker would weigh in about a hundred pounds, a good enough prize to wrap around his shoulders and carry the beast back to his ute.

  The boar looked around him, making sure he was alone, snorting as he sniffed the air. Gordon was sure the beast had seen him and was staring right at him. He held his breath, moving slowly and deliberately, ready to shoot if the animal fled. The animal didn't run, its thirst the priority.

  Gordon lined up for a clean head-shot, willing the boar to move closer and concentrate on the waterhole. It moved forwards until its front feet were in the stream and then bowed its great head to drink. This was the moment. Gordon lined up the shot, aiming between the eyes. Slowly he began to squeeze the trigger.

  Before he could make the shot, dozens of possums fell out of the trees and bushes on the far side of the stream, completely covering the boar that was frantically trying to free itself of the creatures. They weren't about to let go, even when two of them were pierced by the boar's tusks, to be tossed easily aside.

  Even though they were injured, they simply turned and flew at the pig, joining the pack that was ripping into the screaming animal, biting and tearing its flesh, working as a frenzied mob. The stream was turning red with the blood, and all Gordon could do was to lay transfixed and watch the carnage.

  The sight was so bizarre and impossible, Gordon could not believe the scene playing out in front of him. Possums simply didn't behave this way. Then the thought hit him. Once they had finished killing and eating the boar, there was nothing to stop them taking him down the same way.

  The boar was down, and it let out a final death squeal and died; the possums intent on eating every last morsel. Gordon knew if he didn't sneak away while they were preoccupied he was next on the menu.

  Carefully he turned, but before he could get to his feet, he saw that the tree where minutes previously four possums had been, was now covered in at least twenty. Against that number the six bullets in his gun wouldn't be enough. He thought about firing off a shot to scare the possums away, but after witnessing the way they had brought down the boar, he knew they didn't scare easily.

  Gordon slowly got to his feet, all the time feeling dozens of pairs of eyes staring down at him. Taking small measured steps, he reached the path. He stopped dead in his tracks when before him were more possums than he could possibly count. Every branch of every tree had at least one or more of the animals. He needed to get past them so he could run for the safety of his vehicle.

  As he walked, gun ready to fire, the path narrowed and there were possums so close he could have reached out and touched them. Gordon had never seen these animals behave this way. They were nocturnal, vegetarian loners for the most part. Hunting large animals in broad daylight and in packs was a nightmare that shouldn't be happening.

  Cold sweat t
rickled uncomfortably down between his shoulder-blades and he could only guess at his heart-rate. He felt sharp claws rake the top of his right arm, claws sharp enough to shred his jacket and shirt, and carve out bloody gouges in his flesh.

  Instinctively he reacted and smashed the butt of the rifle hard into the possum's head. It screeched from the pain and hissed angrily but backed away from him, taking refuge behind a score of its fellow creatures.

  Gordon pressed onwards, feeling his warm sticky blood running down his arm. He reached the halfway point and there didn't seem to be any thinning of their numbers. If he could only hold his nerve and keep going, perhaps he could get to his ute.

  He had barely made a few more steps when there was a thud as a possum dropped out of a tree and landed on his back. He let out a bellow of pain as the animal sank its teeth into the back of his neck.

  Reaching over his shoulder he grabbed a handful of fur and yanked the animal off his back, hurling it hard on the ground and then he kicked it. It was like a signal to open the floodgates and in seconds he was swamped. He staggered on, hardly able to move under the weight of the possums as they clawed and bit into him.

  He fired the gun and they dived off him, and with his blood oozing from everywhere, he started to run. The possums regrouped and attacked him again, not stopping when he shot one of them in the heart.

  Gordon couldn't see because his head was covered, but screamed as his left eye was gouged out. He fell to his knees, pulled the trigger twice more, not knowing if he had killed anything. Teeth and claws tore into him, and as he crawled blindly along on his belly, his head began to swim with the loss of blood.

  The sheer weight of them made it almost impossible to breathe. He could smell their fur as they smothered him, and his own blood was filling his throat. His right arm was completely gone and he could no longer feel his legs. He let out a gargled scream spraying blood out of his mouth as sharp teeth found his groin. He was almost unconscious and had no more than another couple of minutes of excruciating death to look forward to.

  He prayed he had one bullet left and fought to get the gun turned around until the end of the barrel was in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The chamber was empty.

  Thoughts of his family filled his mind and he was thankful he hadn't brought his son David with him. As his strength ebbed away, a strange calmness descended upon him, his blood flowed freely from every part of his body, soaking the rich bush he loved so much, becoming a part of it.

  All he could do was to lie with his face in the dirt and feel his life ebb away, and slowly die.

  Chapter 2

  Londoner Martha Ringpole hated her husband. Thirty nine years of being married to a weak minded apology of a man did that to a woman. It wasn't one thing in particular, just the complete package. It had come as a complete shock to both of them that Trevor had actually gotten his own way regarding their holiday destination. She had wanted a cruise, he wanted to tour New Zealand in a mobile home.

  The fact that she had picked out and planned every one of their thirty nine annual holidays together irrespective of his wishes, had given the little weasel just enough backbone to stand up to her. He had retired a year early, with encouragement from the new company Chief Executive Officer, and it was time to do something he wanted to do for a change.

  'But New Zealand?' Martha had said.

  Trevor had puffed out his chest and stuck out what could be laughingly called his chin and fixed her with what he thought was a steely stare. 'I always wanted to go there. It wasn't practical with only two weeks holiday. We can take three weeks now I'm retired.' He had given a little shrug. 'Maybe longer if we want.'

  Martha had closed her eyes and shuddered at the very idea of sharing a little box on wheels for a whole month with Trevor, thinking it was too repulsive to even contemplate. The reasons she always chose mini cruises around the Mediterranean were basically two fold. One, she could usually find some activities to do on her own, and two, the persistent dreams she had about throwing him overboard when nobody could see them was something that gave her hope.

  Martha had taken a deep intake of breath that had made her ample bosom stand out like nuclear missiles, and nodded. 'Okay. I know I'm going to regret this, but we'll do it. But you do all the organising and all of the driving. Got that?'

  Trevor had grinned like a Cheshire cat when for once he had gotten his own way. 'I'll make it a holiday of a lifetime,' he promised.

  'I've no doubt it will be unforgettable,' said Martha, taking off for the conservatory with her glass of red wine, chocolate and her Mills and Boone.

  And so it was after an interminable flight, economy of course, cramped up in a seat that had her ample frame spilling over into the aisle, the briefest of flight changes in L. A., they had finally touched down in the Land of the Long White Cloud. After sleeping the clock round in a budget motel in downtown Auckland, they had loaded up the two berth economy camper van with their luggage, and with Trevor getting them lost within the first two miles, were finally free of the city and heading south.

  Chapter 3

  Susan Milligan still wasn't convinced. Her husband of five months actually crackled with excitement, however.

  'Kevin. This is still completely nuts.'

  'Just look at that view,' Kevin insisted, holding her from behind. 'And just listen to that.'

  'Listen to what? I can't hear anything.'

  'My point exactly. Nobody and nothing for miles. Just the three of us out here, miles from anywhere, in our own patch of heaven.'

  Susan took his hands in hers and rubbed them over her bump. 'We should have saved the money for the baby.'

  Kevin had heard this before. 'We couldn't turn down an acre of bush for free, now could we. God bless Uncle Garf.'

  'Well thank you very much Uncle Garf. It'll cost thousands to get the hut in a state we could actually stay in. Beats me what's holding it up.'

  'It'll be fine. I'll do all the work and Dad's letting me have the timber at cost price.' He turned her around to face him. 'It'll be worth a small fortune when it's done up. Just give it a go, and if you still don't like it, we can sell it and bank the money. How does that sound?'

  'With no arguments about it?'

  Kevin kissed her cheek. 'None. Just give it a fair go and if you want it sold, we'll sell it.'

  Susan looked over Kevin's shoulder at the one room hut with the broken windows and sagging roof and sighed. 'I still think it's nuts. But okay. We'll get it fixed up and try it out.'

  Kevin grinned. 'And that's exactly why I love you, Mrs Milligan.'

  Chapter 4

  Police Sergeant Bill Prickle knew he was in for a beating, but he wasn't about to back down. The big Maori stood in front of him with the snooker cue in his hands, ready for action.

  'Another ten bucks on this last shot, or is that too rich for you, Prickle?'

  Prickle looked down at the table and studied the angle. Charlie Matai was good, but Prickle didn't think he was that good. Not only that, but Charlie had already taken twenty off him and this was a way to get some of it back.

  'You're on, mate.'

  'Get your wallet out, Prickle,' grunted Charlie, pushing back a mop of frizzy grey hair big enough to give Don King a run for his money. Charlie lined up his shot, didn't like it, moved to the other side of the table, didn't like that either, returning to his original position.

  'Having second thoughts, Charlie?'

  'No worries, mate.'

  Charlie took his shot, the ball hitting one cushion, then the next one, struck the target at an angle, and the final black rolled slowly to the corner pocket. It moved as if in slow motion, stopped on the lip of the pocket and both men held their breath. Then the ball obliged and dropped in.

  Prickle sighed and handed over his last ten bucks. The two old friends took their beer to their usual table. Prickle sipped his beer, happy to be off duty and chatting to his lifelong pal Charlie Matai, in their usual corner of the bar in the Nagging Bladder pub.
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  'Too bloody lazy to make a cow cockie*, them boys of mine,' Charlie was saying.

  * Dairy farmer.

  'I thought young Rickie was keen,' said Prickle.

  Charlie ran calloused fingers through a wild thatch of long grey hair. 'Being keen is one thing. Getting out of bed for the four o'clock milking is something else. No, mate. I reckon the farm ends with me. I'll sell up in a few years and put my feet up for a change.'

  'Good on yer, mate. You'll have earned it.'

  'What about you, Bill. You gonna hang up your handcuffs anytime soon?'

  Prickle shook his head. 'When that pension hits that sweet spot. Besides. Pam wouldn't want me hanging around the house all day. Being a cop out here in the wopwops* suits me just fine.'

  * Out in the countryside.

  'Pam got any idea we're holding a party in here for her?'

  'Not that I'm aware of, but you know women. Don't get me anything special for my birthday is woman speak for get your bloody wallet out.'

  Matai picked up the jugs to take to the bar for a refill. 'I reckon she's wearing well for fifty, seeing as how she's been married to you all these years.'

  As Matai made his way to the bar, Prickle sighed contentedly. He had pretty much been the law in the tiny community of Patch Creek for more than a quarter of a century. He knew everyone, and they all knew him.

  Serious crime was a rarity in the area, but there was enough variety to make his working life interesting. The last arrest he had made had been Charlie Matai's two sons, Rickie and Stevie. Stoned on marijuana, homegrown on an as yet undiscovered patch on Charlie's farm, the boys had followed on with a few too many beers and got into the ongoing dispute over Mary Longford. That young Mary had no interest in either of them was irrelevant.

  It was just an excuse to trade punches. With Charlie's blessings, Bill had banged them up for two nights in the cell at the back of the police-house. Charlie had handed over both his boys weeks wages to landlady Maggie Driver, which more than paid for the damage. Rickie and Stevie apologised to Maggie and apart from a final caution from Bill Prickle, the incident was over.