A reddish haze had formed as the strong wind blew the sands off the dry barren earth from both sides of the road. I found myself speeding right through the reddish haze with my BMW K1100 police patrol bike. The tiny grains of sand bombarded my helmet visor with consistent sizzle, and occasionally, summer flies slapped my visor with a splat. In the wind, the sludge of the crushed flies slid off to the sides of my visor, forming networks of wrinkle-like trails.
Soon, my visor had collected enough filth from the dust, flies, and oil from the exhaust of other cars, that it became hard to see anything. So, I turned into a less travelled road as soon as I saw one and stopped at the side of it.
The quieter road was much cooler; there were plenty of shrubs and trees lining the sides of the road. I took my helmet off and placed it on the BMW's tank, then I removed my gloves and fanned my face with one. With the other hand, I removed my sunnies and slip them into my shirt pocket. I then reached for my water bottle, which was only slightly colder than the surrounding midday air.
I imagined the bottle smoking with ice-cold vapour, and instead of plain boring water, it was beer. I gulped it down gratifyingly, and splashed some on my face and hair, as one would with cologne.
I picked the helmet up, held it in front of me, and reached for the chamois in the left side-box of the BMW. As I wiped the gunk off, I began to realise how peacful it was at that side road.
"Hmm, I should relax here a bit," I thought.
No sooner had I started enjoying the serenity than a faint sound of engine roar caught my ears. I looked here and there but did not see anything. I stood still and focused, then the sound became more apparent—it was coming from the far end of the road ahead.
I slipped my cleaned helmet on and rode slowly ahead. The roar became louder as the shrubs and trees that shrouded the sides of the road cleared behind me. Approaching ahead near a bend, was a raised earth platform—a potential construction site for a private housing estate. Although I couldn't see the source of the sound from the lower road level, a rising cloud of dust made obvious the sound came from above.
I stopped by the side of the road, removed my helmet and placed it on the BMW's seat. Then, I walked to the foot of slope, and struggled a climb up two meters. As my hands gripped the top edge of the slope, I pulled myself up just enough for a peek.
What I saw, boggled me—about thirty meters away, an old black 1953 Chevrolet was going around in circles.
"What's gon on here?" I remember muttering.
I tried to make out if the person driving was all right, but the sun's reflection on the Chevy's windows made it impossible. Nervous, but curious, I pulled myself over the slope and stood at the edge of the raised ground, in total view of the driver.
I peered hard at the circling black Chevy, hoping to get the driver's attention. I thought, if he saw a cop eyeing him, he would surely behave. But the Chevy kept circling and plunging clouds of red dust into the air.
The sight was one of madness, yet intriguing. My mind began to wander involuntarily; maybe, the driver had been shot dead—execution style—and his foot remained pressed down on the accelerator pedal; or maybe, some hoons were playing around with a stolen car; or maybe this, or maybe that. I forced myself to stop assuming, and gather courage to investigate.
The sheer sight of the old Chevy, with its grille solemn and the unlit headlights staring coldly, drove shuddering chills up my spine. But I am a cop, and it was my duty to investigate, so I stood my ground and peered harder through the Chevy windows. Occasionally, when the glass windows weren't reflecting the sun, I could manage a glimpse of two people with long hair sitting in the front seats.
"Were they girls," I wondered.
Tapping on the side of my waist, I gained slight confidence knowing my revolver was with me. I then walked nervously towards the madly circling Chevy.
Only a mere twenty meters had I walked when the Chevy suddenly stopped. It faced directly at me. Its headlights, though unlit, seemed to stare like eyes of a living creature. I froze. My heart pounded fiercely against my ribcage and trails of sweat trickled down my face. The Chevy's cold stare seemed to mock me to approach it. But I stood still, shook like a little boy, and wished I hadn't been so curious.
The last cloud of dust had drifted off to the right and was settling. I could see quite clearly the two people inside the car. They were not moving at all. I took a deep breath and mustered enough courage to yell.
“Step out of the car, please!”
The two heads remained still, not even a twitch. I was more nervous than ever.
In a sudden fit of fear, I screemed at the top of my voice.
“STEP OUT OF THE VEHICLE NOW!”
The Chevy's two doors opened abruptly and in accord. Instictively, my right hand went to my holster and clutched the revolver's handle.
Then, as slow as snails, the two figures stepped out and stood by the car, behind the opened doors, facing me.
They were "no hopers." They were big, and dark, and tall too, really tall. They could have been seven feet tall.
I swallowed the ball of saliva persistent in my throat, but kept easy. The last thing I wanted to show was a wussie cop before them. I was worried about what could happen next. What if they dashed forward and attacked me? What should I do? Do I open fire at them? What do I write in my report—that I met eerie black giants in a circling Chevy? It all sounded troppo.
As I stood there with fear amassing, the two burly aborigines just looked at me with absolute calm in their eyes, as if they knew something I didn't. That, made me even more nervous. My hand gripped the revolver tighter, but I didn't draw.
“STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE." I yelled.
They stepped aside of the Chevy, in unison.
"PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND STEP FORWARD —SLOWLY!”
I yelled harshly, revealing more fear in my voice, but it was beyond my control. I knew I was trembling.
They walked but didn't put their hands up. And, they didn't stop neither! They walked towards me—closer and closer!
“STOP RIGHT THERE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”
I screamed even though I saw clearly they didn't have any weapons. I had totally lost my head that time.
They still didn't stop. Instead, they drifted apart from each other and walked a circular path around me. I turned my head, left and right. My right hand, wet in sweat, gripped the revolver tight, ready to draw.
I waited for a sudden move but there was none. They only gave me cold dead stares as they walked a save distance to my sides. When we were all in line, they looked away and carried on walking, behind me.
I thought, if I didn't do something, they would escape, so I turned around and fired into the air. They still didn't stop. I fired another shot in the air. That time they stopped—both in unison always—and turned their heads slowly to look at me.
My blood froze. My legs trembled. My body shook violently. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. What the hell was I looking at!
THE TWO MEN'S HEADS TURNED 180 DEGREES!! THEN, THEIR HEADS TURNED A FULL CIRCLE TO FACE THEIR FRONT AGAIN!! 360 DEGREES!!
My knees buckled, and I knelt on the ground gaping at the two huge aborigine men walking further and further away until they reached the edge of the flat land. Then, they jumped off.
Seeing them gone, I sighed and turned to look at the Chevy. I choked, and felt a sharp chill surged through my spine all over again—the Chevy was also gone!
My stomach churned and I felt the acids rising up my gullet. I closed my eyes and thought of my wife and children, and, of course, god.
I was praying for almost twenty minutes there because I could not stop trembling and my legs were too weak to stand.
I have not told anyone of this incident. I cannot afford to be called a troppo cop.
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