The Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror by Paula Guran Page A

says. “And all the other stuff made it really special. And I got the best dessert.”
    The night comes down. Before they got on the road, Jane didn’t know how dark night was. Without electric lights it is cripplingly dark. But the soldiers have lights.
    Jane says, “I’m going to go see if I can find out about the camp.”
    “I’ll go with you,” Nate says.
    “No,” Jane says. “They talk to a girl more than they’ll talk to a guy. You keep Franny company.”
    She scouts around the edge of the light until she sees the blond soldier. He says, “There you are!”
    “Here I am!” she says.
    They are standing around a truck where they’ll sleep this night, shooting the shit. The blond soldier boosts her into the truck, into the darkness. “So you aren’t so conspicuous,” he says, grinning.
    Two of the men standing and talking aren’t wearing uniforms. It takes her a while to figure out that they’re civilian contractors. They aren’t soldiers. They are technicians, nothing like the soldiers. They are softer, easier in their polo shirts and khaki pants. The soldiers are too sure in their uniforms, but the contractors, they’re used to getting the leftovers. They’re grateful. They have a truck of their own, a white pickup truck that travels with the convoy. They do something with satellite tracking, but Jane doesn’t really care what they do.
    It takes a lot of careful maneuvering, but one of them finally whispers to her, “We’ve got some beer in our truck.”
    The blond soldier looks hurt by her defection.
    She stays out of sight in the morning, crouched among the equipment in the back of the pickup truck. The soldiers hand out MREs. Ted, one of the contractors, smuggles her one.
    She thinks of Franny. Nate will keep an eye on her. Jane was only a year older than Franny when she lit out for California the first time. For a second she pictures Franny’s face as the convoy pulls out.
    Then she doesn’t think of Franny.
    She doesn’t know where she is going. She is in motion.

The protection of the devil you know is preferable to being meat to something else. Besides, you never know when a giant mutant possum might change the situation . . .
    Sun Falls
Angela Slatter
    I tap the fingers of one hand against the steering wheel, beating out a rhythm to replace the one that went missing when we got beyond the reach of any radio reception. It helps me to ignore the noises from the back seat.
    The window is down so I can blow away the smoke from a hand-rolled ciggie. Barry hates it when I smoke in his car. Few things in the world Barry loves more than this old Holden, with its mag wheels, racing stripes, flames painted on the bonnet, and the fluffy dice dangling from the rear view mirror like a pair of square, furry testicles. He adores it better than any woman. I wouldn’t be allowed to drive if it weren’t an emergency of the most urgent kind.
    Me? I think he looks like an idiot driving it, like some clueless pimp. But I’m not stupid enough to tell Barry that. Nope, not stupid enough at all. And it’s not as if I’m paid for my opinion. In fact, I’m not paid. Just here to shut up and earn my keep, as Barry says. Just like my Mum did before me and her mum before that, all serving Barry for as long as we can remember.
    Two hundred years give or take. It’s a long time to be a slave.
    Outside it’s cooling down, which is a blessing because the air-con died a few hours back. The sky is splashed garish pink by the setting sun and now it’s low enough to not hurt my eyes. I push the cheap sunnies to the top of my head, hook the earpieces into my hair so they stay put. I enjoy the rush of the breeze moving in and out of the car. In those brief moments when the engine doesn’t howl, I can hear the sounds of the night: cicadas, possums, snakes, lizards, hares, wallabies. All manner of nasties that don’t come out in the sunlight.
    Kinda like Barry.
    I can’t hear the words he’s shouting, but he