"Crocs et 'em."

"Bullshit, Mick. No crocs this far south."

"There were. Sharks et 'em."

Bruce gave this all the dignity it deserved by staring levelly while taking a slow pull on an icy cold beer.

He had, in fact, seen one earlier in the week. It flopped pitifully atop the meat ant nest Bruce was using to scour his camp oven. The oven sparkled. The model three didn't sparkle but it did twitch. The ants were stripping it to the bone, utterly corporate in their lack of concern for its objections. Later on its bones might well sparkle, until the sun bleached them and sand-borne wind ground them to unrecognisable stubs. A faint echo of compassion spoke, and Bruce unslung an old carbine, crushing its skull and leaving before the ants noticed him. The model three could have done the same if it has been able to grasp the idea that the swarm doing the eating might be local.

"That," he drawled, "is bullshit of the sort reserved for tourists."

Glancing at the newcomer, Bruce introduced himself properly. "Reckon he likes you."

"He- OK?"

"Hasn't left. Isn't pretending to be nice."

"Orbital sensor plat-"

"Shot the flying ones. Missus doesn't like what they do to the fruit trees. Mick started a fire and that cleaned out the big ones."

"Started a fire? You'd need a hell of a fire to hurt anything over ten!"

Mick looked up and mumbled "'Come 'th me'." A battered old felt hat went on his balding head. It had the same weathered quality as the rest of him. The band was decorated with some sort of tooth, like an ancient movie prop. He walked out without waiting and slid lazily behind the wheel of a CX Landcruiser, built in the eighties, serviced in the nineties and washed never. It may have been buff coloured.

Astonishingly, it started. Bruce gestured at the left-hand side where a passenger door conspicuously wasn't, himself stepping up the tow ball to stand in the back, one hand on the rollbar. With a cough and a mighty backfire, cakes of dried mud fell from the wheel arches.

"You washed this thing lately?" asked Bruce.

"When's lately?"

"Ever?" asked the newcomer.

"Nup," said Mick, smashing his way into first and burping hugely. They set off, totally ignoring the road. This mattered less than it might have elsewhere. The land was an odd buff colour suspiciously similar to the cruiser, like old and dirty sand, which it mostly was, and perfectly flat to the horizon.

Forty minutes later and past that horizon lay a creek, if you could call it that, trickling down a shallow gully. Then the gully deepened and the trickled vanished into the ground. An ancient baobab showed shallow gnaw marks that had failed to seriously damage it. Not far away the desiccated remnant of a giant seed pod marked the centre of dry bones. A dingo lay in the shade of the baobab, such as it was, and gnawed on one of the bones.

"Garn, git" said Mick, advancing on the remains. The dingo backed away, not wishing to relinquish its prize.

"Did you do this?" the newcomer asked, coming to grips with reality.

"Nah, it's just what happens. Snakes, spiders, crocs, sharks, goannas-"

"I thought a goanna was a big lizard!"

"Bigger'n you. Well, longer. Claws like a bear. Thick skin. Fast. Anyway, that-" he gestured vaguely, "It's just a weed." He paused for thought. "Ever heard of prickly pear?"

"No?"

"Edible cactus. Some joker thought they'd make good drought food or something and introduced it. Nasty spines, go right through a tyre. Stock won't eat it. Spread all over the place. Cattle couldn't get to the dams for cactus, got torn up trying, poor bastards."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"I haven't seen any?"

"We killed it off. With a moth." He paused and gathered words.

"Not saying they aren't dangerous. Everything here is dangerous. Even the roos will gut yer with their claws if you annoy 'em in breeding season. It's just normal. As for them, there's not a lot to eat out here."

"But city people..."

"Will cope. Or not. It'll sort itself out."

A thought struck her. "When's breeding season?"

Bruce's grin split his face from ear to ear. "Days with a Y in 'em."

"Bankers" said Mick, without rancour, exposition or context. Eventually he acknowledged her puzzlement with "Lawyers too. Useless." They watched the sun dropping past the horizon. The baking heat eased notably. A snake slithered out from under some rock, undulating down to the water where it vanished from sight. Roos appeared, graceful and silent. The dingo was back. They left for the pub.

On the way, Mick explained about drop bears. While the newcomer considered calling him on this, the heavens breached and a pod slammed a furrow not two kilometres out from the pub. Angry men ran out, one arguing with a very large woman. People were writing. After a moment the newcomer realised they were taking bets.

Mick sighed and pulled up, rummaging behind the seats. He slung a weapon. It was not a local make.

She stared at him: "You. Are a samurai."

"More of a spin bowler, really."

He held up a hand and what looked like a cricket ball fell into it. With an odd accelerating run he did a strange half-stumble thing that somehow made him taller and launched the ball overarm at incredible speed. It bounced off the hardpack and the lead model threes bolted past it, but spin made it arc strangely and they weren't far enough away when it decided to be a grenade instead.

Mick dropped to one knee with surprising grace for an old bastard and a Grey-Nick fell into his hands with a soft whuff of displacement and a hiss of air as he swept up to knock a model one for six.

"No publicity," announced Mick, "is bad publicity-" he spun and belted another model one into the distance, "Listen to 'em talkin' on the radio!"

With a snort the newcomer realised he was singing, if you took an extremely relaxed view of what constituted music. She pulled out her own weapon and entered the fray.

"Lead em away from the pub."

"Civilians?"

"Bazza's had a skinful by now. He'll be in amongst it and he's not careful with- what?"

"There's some in the lake and he's out there playin with carbide."

"Fuck me. How much did he take?"

"All of it."

"Bloody hell, Shirl's not gunna be happy. How'd you know?"

A finger pressed to lips with an upturned ear produced attentive silence. Faint in the distance, a robustly female tirade soured the night air like an air raid siren. They looked guilty and got back to slaughtering aliens. A few minutes later there was an almighty dull thump. Bazza, retreating from the onslaught of domestic disapproval, had fallen out of his boat with 20kg of carbide.

"His shout then."

"I just want to know where aliens get Emu tinnies."