The ‘72 panelvan lurched off the highway just shy of 40 k’s from town. He glanced at the speedo knowing he needed .3 km more to the fork. He knew it, the van knew it.
“Continuity was such a good thing ", he mused.A crazy handbrake turn to the left cut out a bank of ferns with his rear quarter panel.Deeper in he drove.
He loved the bush, it cleansed his soul. Glen Frey competed with the cicadas as the 186S purred on confidently.
He knew he had one hour till the blow flies rose, two hours till walkers trudged through and three hours till manic picknickers arrived with rubber backed blankets and baskets full of crap. He had time.
No sound emanated from the back of the van now, except a dull clump whenever he crossed the ruts in the track.
" Good ", he thought, " the screaming and crying was starting to give me a headache anyway ".
On he drove.
Always wary of seeing old panel vans down bush tracks. What the fuck are they doing there ?