The dust had settled over Nullarbor Flats by
2037, but not the kind that clings to skin and
lungs—it was the silence between the cracks of a
world that had forgotten how to grow food. The
old rail line was now a trade route for
survivors, and among them was Eliza Hart, a
woman who wore her grief like a second skin. Her
husband, a former soldier, had vanished during
the Great Dustfall, leaving behind only a rusted
dog tag and a ledger filled with names she
couldn’t pronounce.
She’d taken over his station, Blackwater Creek,
after the last of the government rations ran dry.
It was a place of lean meat and leaner hope,
until a convoy rolled in one night—six men, one
woman, and a truck full of stolen seed stock.
Among them was Jack Marlowe, a man with a limp
and a scar that split his brow like a lightning
strike. He’d been part of the last ANZAC Guard,
a militia that had tried to hold the borders
when the world collapsed. Now he was just
another refugee, but Eliza knew his name from
the ledger.
The rules were clear: no outsiders stayed long.
But the convoy had a deal—protection for the
seed stock, and shelter for the night. Eliza
agreed, though not without a fight. She didn’t
trust strangers, especially ones who carried the
weight of war like it was a second skin.
By morning, the seeds were gone. So was half the
water supply. The station’s well had been
tampered with, its pump sabotaged. Someone had
known exactly where to look. Eliza found the
culprit in the storeroom—Jack, crouched beside a
crate of heirloom wheat, his hands shaking as he
poured the last of the grain into a canvas
satchel.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice
low. “We could share what we’ve got.”
He looked up, eyes hollow. “I’m not stealing.
I’m saving. My brother’s buried in a grave I
can’t find. If I don’t plant this, there won’t
be any of us left.”
The forced proximity turned into something else—
necessity, then reluctant understanding. They
worked side by side, rebuilding the well,
trading stories of dead relatives and lost
places. Jack showed her how to read the land,
how to find water in the bones of the earth. In
return, she taught him how to keep records, how
to remember the names of those who had died.
By the time the next storm rolled in, they had
more than enough to survive. The station was no
longer just a relic of the past—it was a promise
of something new. The family dynasty wasn’t
about blood, it was about what you chose to
carry forward.
Eliza stood at the edge of the creek, watching
the rain fall. For the first time in years, she
didn’t feel alone.
