The pair turned and sprinted for the cave mouth, ignoring the creature’s incoherent shouting erupting behind them. Dan worked the bolt of his weapon, reloading another round as he moved. They ran clear of the cavern. Dan skidded to a halt, turned, brought the rifle to bear and paused. Cold dread, worse than before, grasped his bowels with slick tendrils. The last time he'd been gripped by such fear was in the trenches of Lone Pine, fighting hand-to-hand against a ferocious, determined Turkish enemy.

In the light of day, he saw the creature for what it was. Standing close to nine feet tall, its skin was black as pitch. The creature’s arms and legs long and spindly, its earlobes elongated, hanging either side of its jaws. Lips curled back in a snarl revealed sharp incisors. The blood-red eyes darted from one man to another, deciding upon who it would feed first.

The .303 spoke again, the round grazing its flank. It charged straight towards Dan. I'm in a spot of bother, here. He reloaded, dropped into a kneeling position and discharged his weapon, the bullet slamming into the Quinkin's chest. Baird be damned, they were fighting for their lives now. The shot would have dropped a horse, but the creature simply screeched in pain and continued in a headlong run.

The former soldier reversed his weapon so as to use the buttstock as a bludgeon. Taking two steps back, he swung hard, the hardwood of the stock smashing against the neck of the Quinkin. It spoke a short sentence in its guttural language followed by a deep staccato Dan took as laughter, then it collided with him, driving him to the ground. His head hammered onto the dirt, causing him to see stars. Putrid breath blew against his face. Opening his eyes, Dan saw the demon was crouched over him, blood-red eyes the size of a man’s fist boring into him, mouth partly open to reveal sharp teeth, saliva hanging in threads. His arms were still free. He reloaded his rifle.

The creature spoke in its strange tongue, each word formed with a snarl. When it finished speaking, its mouth widened into a cruel grin.

Dan returned the grin. “See you in hell.” He slammed the barrel of the weapon into the creature’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

The devil pushed the .303 away and spoke once more as if nothing had happened. I'm going to die. The weapon had done nothing to the creature. Hadn’t even wounded it. The demon had somehow absorbed the bullets.

Resigned to his fate, he lay upon the cold earth. He looked over the creature’s shoulder and watched a flock of cockatoos fly overhead, calling to one another. Opening its mouth, the demon came for him, razor-sharp fangs slick with saliva. It would all be over in seconds.

Bill began chanting. The result was immediate, the Quinkin leaned back and clasped its head in pain as if it were about to explode. Dan took advantage of the opportunity and pushed himself clear of the creature. The Aboriginal warrior advanced towards them, chanting in his native language. The devil swung blindly around, Dan ducking under a flailing arm. But Bill wasn't so lucky. The Aborigine was sent flying, his chanting fell silent. He hit the ground with a dull thud and lay still.

The Quinkin blinked, turned to Dan and sprinted for him, hatred lining its face. It wanted to finish him. He'd never turned his back on an enemy and he'd be damned if was starting now. He reloaded the last round and fired. The bullet snapped the creature's head back. As before, the round did no damage. The demon barged into him. Agony ripped through his side causing him to cry out.

Again the creature leaned back and clasped its head in pain, eyes clamped shut. Bill was chanting once more, although his voice was distant, muffled by the pain searing up Dan’s side. The Quinkin sank to its haunches, holding its head, rocking backwards and forwards, groaning in agony.

Shouting erupted in the distance and the thuds of booted feet blundering through the forest grew in volume until a small group of men from the airstrip ran into view behind Bill. The gunshots must have drawn their attention. One of them held a shotgun. He pointed the weapon at the sky and released a deafening shot. Then the group stood in silence, eyes wide, mouths dangling open, staring at the tall, fearsome figure straight from nightmare. They backed away from the scene and fled the way they'd come yelling and screaming. The gunshot startled the Aborigine, his voice falling silent for a moment. It was all the chance the Quinkin needed. The creature was on its feet in an instant. This time the demon’s target was the Aboriginal warrior. Before Bill recommenced his chant, the devil slammed him to the ground. He started chanting, but the creature clamping a massive hand over his mouth, rendering him silent.

Roaring in fury, Dan pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward, blood dripping from his chin. His left flank was on fire and warm liquid slid down his leg, filling one boot.

* * *

Bill lay staring up at the Quinkin, watching as its clawed hand swept towards his throat. He knew it would kill him. It had been close to twenty years since he had battled a Quinkin, the effort marked by the mighty scar running down his back. He was proud of that scar. He'd be remembered well by his tribe. They'd sing and dance in his honour.

* * *

Dan crashed into the demon, causing it to lose balance and fall to the ground. His arm curled around its throat and clenched tight, cutting off the windpipe. Climbing to its feet, as if Dan was a rag doll, it shrugged him free and turned to Bill. But the reprieve had given the Aboriginal precious time. Once more the chanting started. The creature fell to its knees. Chanting louder, the tribal warrior pulled a vine from a nearby tree and wound it around the Quinkin's neck. The urgency in Bill's voice increased. He tied the vine tight around the demon's throat, although not tight enough to cut off the air supply. Detaching the prongs from his spear, Bill's voice continued to ring out as he skewered each deep into the vine, one either side of the Quinkin's neck and the third at the rear. Then the chanting stopped.

Dan reached into his pocket, withdrew a fresh magazine and replaced the spent one, loading a new bullet. He expected the Quinkin to attack, but it simply rose to its feet, its arms hanging paralysed by its side. It opened its mouth to speak, but no sound was forthcoming.

Bill pointed at his flank. “You hurt, boss.”

“It's no bother, Bill. Nothing a few stitches won't fix.”

The Aborigine nodded and gestured at the silent demon towering over them. “He's our prisoner now. Can lead him anywhere with this 'ere.” He opened one hand to reveal the length of vine laying across his palm.

“Let's get back to the airstrip.” Dan grinned and slapped the tall creature on the arm. “You ever flown before?”

It appraised him with a baleful glare and sneered.

Bill led the way, tugging on the vine, the Quinkin following, arms dangling uselessly.

“I dunno what kind of private army Graeme Baird is building.” Dan gestured at their captive striding in front of him. “But if this bastard is anything to go by, I wouldn't want to be an enemy of the Baird estate.”