by Bren MacDibble
Tash adjusted her goggles and scanned the horizon. A low drone, barely audible, was the only clue that something was up there. She blocked the sun's glare with her hand. A dark shape slid into view, distorted by heat. It took Tash a few minutes to make out the shape of an old transport, an older series Kenworth Big Rig Flyer by the looks of it. The old hulks were the only things that stopped here now. New transports could get clear across the country without refuelling. Once all the old-style Flyers were scrapped, the station would close and Tash and her mum would have to leave.
Tash held her breath as the vehicle descended onto the concrete pad. Red alluvial dust billowed up, stuck to the sweat on her skin, and thickened her hair and clothes. The day was a stinker. She wasn't looking forward to braving the full blast of the sun.
The Flyer touched down with a clunk and its motor shut off. Tash snatched her slouch hat from the bench beside her, jammed it firmly on her head and strode over to the vehicle. She wasn't in the mood for work today. Not after what had happened last night.
-- to read the whole story buy a copy of Issue 2 --