May 2025: Her Name is Shalahla – Robyn Knibb
Her Name is Shalahla
Shalahla bites and spits, but she’s a sweetheart beneath the bravado. At the culling, only those deemed useful obtained Worthy status and were permitted to sleep in The Bunker and share the accumulated rations.
My only skill is befriending animals. In a moment of pure genius, I came up with Camel Whisperer. It saved me from instant exile, from being thrown outside to the mercy of radiation sickness, starvation, marauding bands of Others.
I was given three days to prove my worth. Scouted a camel farm and returned with a balky adult and her calf. Next test? Build up a herd.
I rein Shalahla to an awkward halt and scan the derailed Ghan. There’s a chance it hasn’t been completely stripped already.
The stench hits me. I wind the scarf closer around my nose and mouth. The three Engineers are dragging out cables and fuel. They were on rec leave from Woomera when the strikes started. Our sole ‘Medic’, a veterinary nurse, is stockpiling medicines, tablets, ointments. I’m to scavenge food.
I picket Shalahla. The Squad’s already smashed out windows, forced doors. I try to ignore the screaming as they execute the useless. Any fit and able would’ve chanced the desert by now.
The galley is a mess but I’m able to fill two garbage bags with cans and packets. Dump them outside and head to a lounge car. Packets of nuts, alcohol, soft drink. Then into an empty passenger carriage where I rifle through suitcases and backpacks. Something moves and I turn, hand on my knife. It’s a child of about six. The Squad missed him. I freeze. I’m a whisperer not a murderer. But although it’s only weeks since the nukes, The Bunker’s rules play through my head like a mantra.
THE BUNKER MUST SURVIVE.
WORTHY OR USELESS?
KILL OR BE KILLED.
I visualise grasping a soft handful of hair, jerking back the neck, drawing the knife across the throat. The alternative? Even if he’s permitted to live, he’ll be slave labour. Stockpiles of canned goods won’t last. It’s imperative we grow food in this hostile desert. The useless will be ground to fertiliser.
I’ve considered cutting my own throat. We don’t know the full extent of the bombing or whether we’re going to die of radiation sickness anyway. Before all communication went down, news of the destruction of Darwin, Sydney, Perth came through. And then silence as the relay from Adelaide failed. Pure luck I’d been in an underground tourist shop in Coober Pedy. My Camel Whisperer ploy has worked so far. But a kill would give me a lot more cred.
The boy grins. Crunches through glass to the shattered window.
‘Is that a real camel?’
There’s something in his voice. Awe? Wonder?
Could I possibly convince The Bunker? He’s only small. He could share my bed and rations. I could train him to be useful. To help me build up the herd.
‘Her name is Shalahla. Want a ride?’
There are far worse fates than banishment.
Robyn Knibb
Right Left Write’s May prompt was Dystopia.
Find out more about Right Left Write at www.queenslandwriters.org.au/rightleftwrite.
Right Left Write’s May prompt was Dystopia.