The Caravan
Phoebe Robertson (Victoria University of Wellington)
(1) You wake up from a nightmare, sweat beading on your skin, but you cannot remember what it was about. The metal walls of the caravan radiate heat, stifling and unrelenting. The once sage-green paint is chipped, rusted brown streaks clinging to the chrome rims. You rented this out when you and your ex were still together. Now, it’s just you, parked in the middle of dry, cracked ranges, with nothing but the shimmering heat of a dusty road and the scorched remains of fire pits. The thin walls trap the warmth, and the roof feels low and oppressive. The sheets stick to your skin like cheap fabric dipped in glue. The air is thick and suffocating. It’s time for bed; do you sleep through the night? Go to (2) for a restless sleep, (3) for a good night’s rest.
(2) It’s the middle of the night, but the air hasn’t cooled. Your skin feels too tight, swollen in the relentless heat. Outside, there’s a sound that doesn’t belong. A rustle. Then a dragging sound on the hot, sun-baked gravel. Rustle. Drag. Rustle. Drag. Even the birds sound restless, issuing shrill cries into the heavy, hot air. Your heart races. Do you go outside and investigate? If yes, go to (8) if no, go to (9).
(3) Sliding open the faded, papery curtains, you look out into the hazy dawn. The distant horizon shimmers, the early morning sun already promising another sweltering day. Close by, a magpie perches, its feathers shining with sweat-like iridescence, almost oppressive in the thick, humid air. If it’s time to get up, go to (4) if you want to go back to sleep, go to (1).
(4) Breakfast is cooked on a small gas burner, the humidity making every movement feel slow and sticky. Uncle Ben’s cinnamon and brown sugar porridge feels too heavy, clinging in thick clumps to the inside of your throat. Washing your bowl in the thin stream, the water is lukewarm, offering no relief. The sun blazes down on the clearing, beads of sweat forming on your skin. Is it time to go home? If yes go to (5) if no, you have a quiet day then go to sleep go to (2).
(5) Camping was always your ex’s thing. You sit in the driver’s seat, the leather hot against your skin. The sun heats the dashboard so intensely it’s almost unbearable to touch. As you turn the key, the heat waves rise from the road, already blurring the horizon. Do you feel like going to your ex’s (6), or your bestfriend’s house? (7).
(6) Your ex apologises.
(7) Wrapped in a blanket, your best friend hugs you, and you cry.
(8) In sweatpants, your skin sticks to the fabric, and the air feels even thicker. The noise now sounds closer, right outside the door. It’s not a rustle; it’s a static hum, but the heat warps the sound, making it almost unbearable. A sour, burning smell, like rubber tires melting under intense heat, invades the caravan through the loosely installed insect screen. Your hand is on the door, palm slick with sweat. Do you open it? If yes go to (10) if no, go to (11).
(9) You pull the covers over your head, shaking. Eyes squeezed tightly closed, you wrap yourself into a little ball. You can feel your breath as it hits off the blanket in front of you. It’s getting hot. It’s staying cold. The blanket starts to feel claustrophobic, as if it could wrap itself around your throat and knot until it merges in a fleshy squelching sticky moment. One more breath and you’ll suck the stale wool into your mouth and down your windpipe and it will suffocate you from the inside out. You can’t breathe. You are afraid to poke your head out of the sheets. You can still hear the dragging. You can still hear your heartbeat. You’re sticky from sweat. Do you eventually fall asleep? If yes go to (3) if no, go to (8).
(10) You stumble out of the caravan, catching your foot on the top step you fall, hitting the dirt with a low ache and breath gone from your chest. You’re coughing up dirt, your palms are stinging, your arm is bent wrong, the wrist and hand bending right back toward you. You want to scream but you have no breath. You want to scream but then you see your bone. You want to scream but it’s still out here. You gaze down at your bone, exposed and gleaming in the harsh light. It juts out at an awkward angle. The metallic smell fills your nostrils, almost suffocating. You feel dizzy and weak, but can’t tear your eyes away. And then you hear it panting. No longer static it now sounds so incredibly animal. So incredibly human. This can’t be real. Is it real? If it is, go to (19) if it’s not, go to (1).
(11) You pull your hand back, it feels waxy, like it belongs to someone else. The humming sound is louder. You went scuba diving once, and when you got deep you felt the pressure that wrapped around your head. Like your head was being squished by the palm of an invisible giant. Something bangs on the door, louder. Do you scream? Yes (12), no (13).
(12) Your throat is closed and all that comes out is a squeak. Your vision feels like opening your eyes underwater. The bug screen covering the window is warping back and forward. Is it being pushed? (13) Is it the wind? (14)
(13) The bug screen pushes inward once more and you see a massing swarm of black bugs as they pour in through the window’s absence. The bugs start crawling on your face, their tiny, hairy legs on the wet corners of your lips. You are opening your mouth to scream, but the bugs are there. You feel them climbing onto your tongue and into your throat. You can feel their buzzing vibrating you from the inside out and the static sound is even louder. Closing your mouth, your teeth crunch on the bugs and their wings get stuck in between your gums. The taste is sour and foul and they’re crawling even further now. You’re gagging, but the spit and bile is stuck. If this is where it ends go to (15) if not, go to (1).
(14) You retreat back to your bed, go to (9).
(15) You die, the end.
(16) Without thinking, you lunge for the beast. Attempting to grab its sagging flesh you reach an arm up, aiming for its nose. It growls as it ducks out from behind your punch and you fall back on your injured arm. A sharp, searing pain races through your body like a wave of fire, from bottom to top. As you hit the ground with force, you are unable to protect your head. The beast cries a loud cry and you hear others reply. Your vision blurring. There’s heat running from your hand. With your last strength you roll onto your back and into the eyes of the animal. Slowly, it glares at you as it lowers its head, its jaws locking around your throat. Go to (15).
(17) Without thinking, you turn around. Cradling your injured arm close to your body you scramble up the steps of the caravan. With your good arm, you force the door closed as your breaths come in ragged gasps. A loud thud echoes as something heavy slams against the door, causing it to rattle in its frame. The handle shakes violently, but somehow manages to hold its ground against the force trying to break through. You let out a blood-curdling scream as you desperately push against the door, hoping to keep whatever is on the other side at bay. Does it go away? If yes go to (18) if no, go to (15).
(18) Scrambling, you get to your seat and turn the key. The engine chokes. You swear. You turn the key again, it chokes. You scream as something heavy forces itself once more against the door. But the door doesn’t open. You try the key one more time, and this time the engine lets out a low rumble. You floor the pedal and flick on the lights as you escape. Gasping for air, you slide the worn-out tires on the parched earth, struggling to maintain control of the steering wheel as you navigate through the narrow path ahead. Do you feel like going to your ex’s (6), or your bestfriend’s house? (7).
(19) The putrid stench of decaying flesh assaults your senses as a monstrous creature, its four legs propelling it forward in a bounding stride, charges towards you. Its lips are pulled back in a fierce snarl, revealing yellowed teeth and drool dripping from its jowls. As it stands on its hind legs, towering over you, you can see the malnourished state of its body – fur hanging loosely on its chest and ribs protruding from its sides. A low growl emanates from the depths of its throat, a clear warning that it is ready to attack. Does fight (16) or flight (17) kick in?
Phoebe Robertson is a Pākehā author who has recently completed her MA in Creative Writing at the IIML. She was commended in the Charles Brasch Young Writers Essay Competition and holds further awards from Poetry New Zealand Yearbook, Young NZ Writers, and National Flash Fiction Day. Her work has appeared in the last four editions of Mayhem Literary Journal and various other online platforms.
