I was in the bookshop at Peregian Beach over the weekend and heard the owner chatting with someone who was after ‘the new Tim Winton’.
I did not roll my eyes. I’m better than that. And Tim is pretty fucking gnarly with the ol’ wordsmithing, to be honest. But I wasn’t looking for another heart breaking work of staggering genius, so I moved on. Until…
“It’s about the end of the world, or something…”
Whaaat?
Winton’s working my side of the street?
I went looking for the offending new release and found it, of course, up the front of the shop.
Flicked through a couple of pages, and sure enough. It’s about the end of the world. The opening pars read a lot like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, with some grizzled old bloke shepherding a kid through the apocalyptic wastelands.
So I drive until first light and only stop when the plain turns black and there's nothing between us and the horizon but clinkers and ash.
I pull up. Drop the sidescreen. The southern air is mercifully still this morning, and that's the only stroke of luck we've had in days. I know what wind does to an old fireground. In a gale, the ash can fill your lungs in minutes. I've seen
comrades drowning on their feet. Clambered over the windrows of their bodies.
I wrap the scarf over my nose and mouth. Hang the glasses from my neck. Crack the door. And step down. Testing the surface as gently as I can. Ankle-deep. To the shins at worst. No sound out here but the whine of our rig's motors.
Stay there, I call.
I know she's awake, but the child, slumped in the corner of the cab, does not move.
So far, so good.
Not much splodey in the first few pages, but I figured the Mad Max adjacent content can’t be too far off, so I grabbed a sample for my Kindle and will have a closer look over the next few days.