Chickens and Storm Fronts

"Nothing tests a strained partnership quite like herding stubborn chickens whilst concussed. Somehow the poultry have more dignity than either of us right now."

The passenger door closed with a hollow thunk. I winced, fumbling with the seatbelt, my injured palm protesting as I gripped the buckle.

Two o'clock had arrived with the inevitability of bad weather. Karl had appeared at my desk precisely on time, takeaway coffee in hand like an offering to appease gods he'd offended. Flat white, extra shot, no sugar. He'd remembered. The gesture might have meant something yesterday. Today it just sat between us—acknowledged but insufficient.

The drive from the station had been mostly silent, that particular quality of quiet that pressed against the eardrums and made you hyperaware of breathing, of fabric shifting, of the engine's steady hum. Not hostile silence—we'd moved past that in the break room, or at least sidestepped it. More like the awkward quiet of two people who'd said too much and not enough simultaneously, who were trying to find their footing on ground that had shifted beneath them.

Professional partnership. That's what we were maintaining. Colleagues investigating a case. Nothing more complicated than that.

Except everything was more complicated than that, and we both knew it.

I'd gone home after the break room, managed an hour or so of rest on my sofa with a cold flannel across my eyes. Not proper sleep, but enough to take the edge off. Enough to function for a few more hours.

Now, as Karl navigated through Hobart's northern suburbs towards increasingly rural landscape, I kept my focus on the view outside my window. Safer than looking at him, than seeing the guilt still etched in the lines around his eyes. Easier to watch the scenery change, to let my detective brain catalogue details automatically.

The morning's brightness had been deceptive. Above us, wisps of white cloud drifted with deceptive laziness across blue sky, sunlight glinting off the car's bonnet with that particular crystalline quality that only cold, clear days possessed. Beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of weather that suggested the universe was fundamentally benign.

But to the west, visible through breaks in the tree line as the road climbed, dark banks of cloud were gathering on the horizon—dense, low, and rolling in fast with visible momentum. The contrast was stark and somehow prophetic: brilliance above, darkness approaching. The leading edge of the storm system looked almost solid, a wall of grey-black advancing across the landscape with the kind of inexorable purpose that made you instinctively want to seek shelter.

"We'd better make quick work of this investigation," Karl's voice broke the silence that had settled between us, his gaze shifting towards me. "I don't think we have much time before it hits."

I simply nodded. The silence that had enveloped us during the drive was a product of the unresolved tension from yesterday's incident—his outburst had left a palpable strain on our working relationship, and I found myself struggling to reconcile the Karl I knew with the man who had acted so irrationally.

Who had hurt me.

Who I'd protected anyway.

Earlier, a call had come in from a distressed neighbour about Karen and Chris Owen, who hadn't been seen for a few days. Under normal circumstances, it might not have warranted our immediate attention. However, given the recent spate of disappearances, our instructions had been clear—to respond and investigate.

From the quick research I'd managed, the Owens seemed like an integral part of the Tasmanian community, known for their unwavering commitment to environmental causes. Their dedication to the preservation of Tasmania's natural beauty was widely recognised. Given their line of work, it wasn't unusual for Karen and Chris Owen to be away from home for extended periods, travelling across the state for conservation projects.

This knowledge made me sceptical about our assignment to investigate their absence. It seemed unlikely that their disappearance was linked to our ongoing case. Yet, in the back of my mind, the recent string of missing persons kept nagging at me, suggesting that there might be more to their absence than met the eye.

The landscape changed as we travelled, the semi-rural outskirts of Hobart giving way to increasingly wild terrain. Eucalyptus forests pressed close to the road, their pale trunks ghostly in the strange light that preceded the storm. Ferns carpeted the understory, creating layers of green that seemed to absorb sound, that made the world feel muffled and remote.

The coffee Karl had brought sat in the cup holder between us, slowly cooling. I'd taken a few sips—the caffeine helped—but the heat had made my stomach rebel, and now I was avoiding it, letting it go cold whilst I focused on breathing steadily.

"Watch out!" I instinctively yelled, my hand almost reaching for the steering wheel as Karl's reaction was immediate, his foot slamming down on the brakes.

The sudden deceleration jolted me forward against the seatbelt. A flock of brown chickens scurried across the road with apparent disregard for traffic or their own mortality, feathers ruffling in indignation at our near-miss. The car jerked to a halt, just inches away from the feathered roadblock.

For a brief moment, Karl and I exchanged glances. There was a fleeting spark of humour in the absurdity of the situation—nearly ending our investigation and possibly our careers by running over someone's free-range poultry. But it quickly faded, overshadowed by the lingering tension from yesterday's events.

"We must be getting close," Karl said, breaking the silence as he refocused on the road ahead.

"We are," I responded. I pointed to a street sign just down the road. "That's the road to the Owens' property."

Karl beeped the horn, attempting to urge the lingering hens across the road. The first four obliged with offended squawks, strutting to safety with their dignity somewhat intact. However, the fifth one, a straggler bringing up the rear, seemed utterly unfazed.

I couldn't help but let out a slight snort of amusement. The chook paused, turning to look up at us with an expression that seemed to say we were the ones causing the inconvenience. Her beady eyes met Karl's with an almost determined defiance. As Karl honked again, she merely continued her leisurely pace, bobbing her head and pecking at the road, seemingly taking even longer with each successive beep.

The absurdity of it struck me—here we were, detectives investigating potential disappearances, stuck behind a chicken who'd apparently decided to make a point about road ownership. The ridiculousness would have been funny yesterday, before everything went wrong. Before violence and lies and incident reports written in dim offices.

Now it just felt like another obstacle, another delay, another frustration accumulating with remarkable efficiency.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered under my breath.

Unfastening my seatbelt, I swung the car door open and stepped out. We were on a tight schedule, and this unexpected poultry parade was the last thing we needed.

The cold air hit my face like a slap, sharp and clarifying. I breathed deeply, letting the chill fill my lungs.

Right. Chickens. Just shoo the bloody chickens.

I flapped my arms, trying my best to herd the stubborn bird off the road. It was a comical sight, I'm sure—a detective with a concussion and six fresh stitches, waving her arms at a chicken like some demented scarecrow. But we simply didn't have the time for this delay. The storm was coming and we had an investigation to conduct.

Finally, after some persistent herding that made my head spin with the movement, I managed to clear the road. The satisfaction was short-lived. As I turned to run back to the car—too quickly, my brain protested, the world tilting slightly—I realised that several of the hens had taken a liking to me and were now following me back onto the asphalt.

"Come on, you guys," I grumbled, half amused and half exasperated.

The chickens, however, seemed unfazed by my pleas, happily clucking and pecking their way back onto the road as if I were leading them to some promised land of premium feed and luxury coops.

I glanced back at Karl, who was watching the scene unfold with an expression of bemusement. For a fleeting moment, the tension between us seemed to lighten, replaced by the absurdity of the situation. The hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth—genuine amusement rather than the careful politeness we'd been maintaining.

It should have made me feel better. Should have been a moment of connection, of shared humour cutting through the awkwardness.

Instead, I felt a flash of irritation. He was sitting there comfortable, watching me chase chickens whilst I dealt with injuries he'd caused. The easy laughter whilst I struggled with something ridiculous.

I shook my head. This investigation had taken us down some strange paths, but chicken herding was definitely not something I'd anticipated.

"You shoo, I'll drive," Karl called out, his laughter echoing through his open window.

The sound made something tight wind in my chest. He could laugh. Could find this funny.

"Fine," I responded, exasperation in my voice as I rolled my eyes. What other choice do we have? These stubborn chooks clearly aren't going to move themselves.

Karl proceeded cautiously, ensuring he passed all the hens safely. He drove a few car lengths ahead and stopped, waiting for me. But as I began to make my way back to the vehicle, my newfound feathered friends decided to follow, clucking along behind me. It was as if I had unintentionally become the pied piper of chickens.

"Oh, shut up!" I shouted back at Karl when he burst into laughter again upon seeing my predicament.

The hens' determination was impressive, I had to admit. They followed me with the kind of single-minded focus usually reserved for trained dogs or obsessed detectives.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, a detective who couldn't even shake off a handful of chickens, who'd filed false reports and violated medical advice and was now chasing poultry whilst concussed.

What the hell was I doing?

"Karl! Wait!" I yelled, slightly out of breath as he teasingly began to drive the car slowly up the road without me.

The bastard. The absolute bastard.

I quickened my pace, trying to catch up. But the chickens kept following, their clucking growing louder with each step, creating a ridiculous procession.

Karl turned right onto the laneway leading to the Owens' property, still maintaining his slow pace like this was some kind of game. He finally stopped to let me catch up just as I reached the turn-off.

I glanced back and, to my relief and slight amusement, saw that the hens had finally decided to abandon their pursuit. They stood at the edge of the main road, watching as I hurried towards our car.

"I think the girls like you," Karl teased with a chuckle as I slid back into the passenger seat.

"Not funny, Karl!" I retorted, shooting him a glare. "There's a reason I don't do country."

My voice came out sharper than intended, edged with genuine irritation that went beyond chickens and into territory neither of us was quite ready to address directly.

"Sarah, you were born in the outback," Karl reminded me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "That's more country than country."

"That doesn't mean I liked it," I huffed, crossing my arms. The movement pulled at my injured hand, and I winced, adjusting my position.

Just because I was from a rural area didn't mean I had an affinity for it. City life had always been more appealing—fewer animals with their own agendas.

Karl chuckled again, clearly amused. "That's not what your brother says."

I gave him a swift punch on the shoulder—playful yet firm, though my hand protested. "Just drive."

Oscar was indeed a great storyteller, but he often embellished the truth to the point of fiction. His stories about our childhood in the outback were mostly exaggerated tales, and I rarely took them seriously. Especially the ones he apparently shared with Karl about me supposedly loving rural life, which was absolute rubbish.

We continued our drive, the car's tyres crunching over the uneven dirt road, navigating a patchwork of pebbles, rocks, and potholes. The vehicle rocked rhythmically. As I peered through the window, the dense native forest flanking either side restricted our view to just the track ahead. The tall trees formed a natural archway overhead, their twisted branches creating a tunnel-like effect that felt both enchanting and eerie.

The isolation was palpable. We were well and truly in the bush now, far from backup. The storm was rolling in behind us, cutting off easy retreat. And we were investigating a disappearance that might or might not be connected to our case.

What could possibly go wrong?

"Oh my god!" I couldn't help but exclaim as we emerged into a spacious clearing, the sudden openness a shock after the claustrophobic forest tunnel.

Before us stood an old stone and cedar cottage, nestled at the far end. It was small, probably no more than three bedrooms, rustically simple. Yet, there was an undeniable charm to it. Its modest size did nothing to detract from its allure. The undulating green shades of the native forest rising behind it framed the cottage perfectly, enhancing its quaint beauty.

The contrast of the wild, untamed forest against the structured simplicity of the cottage created a picturesque scene that momentarily penetrated through everything else. Under different circumstances—without the stitches, without the weight of yesterday's violence still hanging between us—I might have genuinely appreciated the beauty of it.

I stepped out of the car, drawn to the view despite my body's protests. The cold air hit me again, sharper now. I allowed myself a moment to simply gaze at the cottage's unassuming splendour, breathing deeply.

For a fleeting moment, the complexities of the case and the tension with Karl faded slightly, overshadowed by the peace and beauty of the natural surroundings. Almost enough to make me forget why we were here.

Almost.

"Bringing back memories?" Karl asked, his voice laced with a hint of teasing as a wide grin spread across his face.

I responded with a light smile despite everything, momentarily letting go of the grudge between us because the view genuinely was stunning, because sometimes beauty could cut through even the worst days, because for just a second I wanted to remember what it felt like before everything got complicated.

Just as I was about to answer, a movement in the periphery of my vision caught my attention.

"Look!" I exclaimed, pointing towards several small potoroos busily nibbling on the long grass at the shaded side of a large barn.

The animals were beautiful, their small forms moving with that particular grace wild creatures possessed. Something about watching them—creatures who knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing, who weren't injured or confused about their relationships with their partners—felt momentarily soothing.

Feeling a sudden surge of curiosity, I started to make my way carefully towards them. My hand was outstretched, fingers gently clicking in a soft, rhythmic pattern. My voice, soft and beckoning, floated on the wind.

I moved slowly, mindful of each step, captivated by the sight of the potoroos in their natural habitat. A rare and peaceful moment cutting through everything else.

It was a brief connection with nature that felt almost magical, something pure and uncomplicated in the midst of everything that had become twisted and difficult.

However, the serenity was abruptly shattered by the crackle of the dispatch radio. "CITY632. Are you there? Over," the voice of the dispatcher cut through the air, loud and jarring against the quiet.

I flinched at the volume.

The sudden noise startled the potoroos, and they quickly hopped away, disappearing into the safety of the underbrush. I stood there, disappointment washing over me.

The moment of peace was gone, replaced by the reality of our duty.

"Damn," I muttered under my breath, turning back towards Karl and the car.

As Karl leaned back into the car to grab the radio, I took a moment to survey the surrounding area more closely. The Owens' property was enveloped on all sides by thick, lush forest, providing isolation that was both beautiful and ominous. Remote. Private. The kind of place where things could happen without witnesses.

"CITY632. We're at the Owens' property now. Over," Karl responded with professional tone.

"CITY632. The neighbour that called this morning has just called back. She is pretty shaken. Said there was a lot of activity at the property. Went quiet about thirty minutes ago," the dispatcher informed us, her voice carrying urgency.

Activity. Recent activity. That changed things. Changed our approach, our caution level, the possibility that whoever had been here might still be close.

"Copy that, Dispatch," Karl replied, his voice calm, but I could sense the alertness in his posture, the way he straightened slightly, the way his eyes started scanning the property with renewed focus. "We'll proceed with caution."

The dispatcher's words set my nerves on edge. I instinctively moved closer to the car, my hand reaching for my gun.

Drawing it felt both familiar and foreign—muscle memory taking over. A surge of adrenaline cut through everything else, senses sharpening as I prepared for whatever might unfold.

"For once, you're actually right about the gun," Karl muttered under his breath, his tone an unusual mix of seriousness and resignation that might have been a callback to yesterday's disagreement, to the moment before everything went to hell.

He too unholstered his weapon. "Follow my lead," he instructed, his voice low but clear.

The instruction rankled slightly—follow my lead, as if I weren't a competent detective in my own right. But this wasn't the time for ego. He had more experience, and despite everything, I trusted his tactical judgement.

Even if I didn't trust much else about him right now.

As we advanced toward the front verandah, every sense was heightened. My steps were cautious, deliberately quiet as I veered to the left, scanning every inch for signs of disturbance or danger. Meanwhile, Karl moved directly towards the steps, his focus equally intent.

Amid the tension and focus, something peculiar on the edge of the verandah decking caught my eye. Crouching down for a closer look, I found a small bunch of white daisies, their petals fresh and vibrant. An unexpected sight, their simple beauty starkly contrasting the severity of our purpose there.

Daisies. Fresh daisies. Recently picked, from the look of them.

"Karl," I whispered sharply, drawing his attention.

As he turned towards me, his foot landed heavily on the second step. I held up the daisies for him to see, my injured hand protesting the grip. "These look like they've been freshly picked," I observed quietly.

The discovery was curious—the flowers seemed recently placed, as if someone had set them down momentarily and forgotten them. Or dropped them in haste. Or left them as some kind of marker.

"They were lying right here on the edge of the decking," I added, pointing to the spot.

"Daisies?" Karl questioned, his brow furrowing in thought.

"Yeah," I confirmed, turning the small bouquet in my fingers, careful not to disturb any potential evidence. "It's a bit odd. Maybe the neighbour was right. There were people here earlier. Do you think they're still around?"

The possibilities churned in my mind—could these flowers be a clue to the Owens' whereabouts, or were they left by someone else? Why daisies specifically? How long ago were they picked?

Karl paused, his gaze sweeping over the property, assessing the situation. "Not sure," he finally said. "It seems pretty quiet now. Why don't you go check out the barn?"

"Yeah, alright," I agreed, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination.

The barn could hold more clues, or it could be another dead end. Or it could contain an active threat. Any of those options felt equally possible right now.

"Sarah," Karl called out in a loud whisper as I began to move away from the verandah, his voice carrying a note of concern that might have been genuine or might have been guilt disguised as care. "Be careful."

I nodded appreciatively in response despite the tension that had been between us, despite yesterday, despite everything. A small smile graced my lips as I turned my back on Karl, stepping into the unknown with my gun ready and my head pounding and my hand throbbing and the storm rolling in behind us.

Professional partnership. That's what we were maintaining. Colleagues watching each other's backs.

Even when one of you had been the source of the injury in the first place.

My mind was alert—or as alert as it could be under the circumstances—ready for any sign or clue that might present itself. The barn loomed ahead, its old structure a silent witness to events that had unfolded here, secrets it might be keeping, dangers it might be hiding.