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One hour into the flight, the first corella hit the windscreen. The rest of the flock smashed into the plane like horizontal hail. The propellers hacked through most of them, but one poor bird became lodged in the air intake underneath the engine. Landing was necessary, Dave said, to clean it out. He landed the Diamond DA40 on the runway in the middle of nowhere in the outback. Holes littered the tarmac, and the windsock was just a flapping piece of rotting fabric.
Anna and Dave stood on the wing, staring blankly at the shed-like structure, gawking at the dullest airport terminal they had ever seen. Flies began to lick their unblinking eyes. ‘Looks abandoned,’ she said, swishing away at least ten blowflies from her face.
Dave jumped down, lifted the waistband of his trousers and walked towards the shed. The dry gravel crunched under their shoes until they stopped. Above the timber door hung an old piece of timber upon which was painted two faded words, ‘Last’s Airport’. He peered into one of two windows that framed either side of the door.
‘Looks derelict.’ He tried the doorknob, and surprisingly, the door opened. He strolled in. ‘Hello, anyone here?’ Anna walked towards the side of the structure. Aside from a dead garden and some tumbleweeds rolling along the place was deserted.
