A Killing Frost

by John Marsden

  I took a few staggering steps, trying to get mv balance, but couldn't get it properly, so continued to stagger.

  I could see what Robyn was doing now: she was pulling weapons from a body on the ground. It was one of the guards who patrolled the top of the outside walls all day. He must have been blown off the wall before he could get to a shelter. Somehow his ammunition and grenades hadn't exploded. I left Robyn and blundered towards the main entrance, where both sets of gates were down and there was a twenty-metre gap in the wall. It seemed to offer the quickest exit. I tried to yell to Kevin but I didn't have the breath for it: he wouldn't have heard anyway. Robyn saw me though, and came after me. She was holding the guard's rifle and I think she had the hand grenades in her shirt, because she was bulging around the stomach. "Better you than me," I thought, but I had time to be amused that Robyn, the great pacifist, was now so heavily armed.

  Then Lee and Homer came rushing across from my left, jumping over piles of stone and timber. They were both covered with dust and blood but there was no time to ask if they were all right. Lee grabbed Fi and carried her. I still couldn't get my breath to say anything, but I pointed to Kevin, and Homer ran across to get him. My back was hurting like hell, and now my leg was too, but I didn't dare look at it. Lee and F, were already ahead of me; I saw Fi suddenly come to life and start struggling to get down. Robyn was through the gate. I checked for Homer and saw him leading Kevin by the hand: they were heading in the right direction, so I left them to it and followed Robyn.

  I ran out into the prison driveway. It was free air I was breathing now, but I wasn't thinking of that. I was just trying to make my mind work, hoping I wouldn't get shot, wondering what I'd find out there. The driveway was relatively clear but to the right was an enormous crater, only a hundred metres from the prison wall. I seemed to remember that there'd been a little park, quite a few trees, around Stratton Prison, but they were all gone. Not a leaf was left.

  At the bottom of the driveway was a blue Mercedes, slewed sideways with the driver's door open as though it had been abandoned in a hurry. In the middle of the driveway was Major Harvey, holding a gun at Robyn's face. Robyn had thrown her rifle on the ground and was standing there with her arms folded across her stomach. I stopped dead, feeling a terrible tightness in my chest. Major Harvey looked across at me. I realised at that moment how much he hated me. "All right, boys and girls," he shouted. "The party's over. Everyone lie down on the ground." I heard him clearly, so my ears must have come unblocked again. When no one moved he screamed: "Quickly, or I shoot this one." I began to kneel. The other four did the same. Only Robyn remained standing. She was a metre from Harvey but he was not watching her, confident now that he had the situation under control. I saw her hand slip inside her shirt. I screamed, but no sound came out. I tried again and this time made a hoarse hacking noise. I knew it was already too late. Major Harvey looked across at me, triumphant. I screamed again and at last said her name. It was the last present I could give her: the knowledge that I knew. She looked across at me and gave a scared little smile as if she didn't know what she had done, or whether she should have done it. Harvey glanced at her and at the last instant realised: he must have seen the pin of the hand grenade. He opened his mouth, dropped his gun and took a step towards her. He reached out a hand, like he was begging. Then they both disap peared. That was all. They disappeared. There was a bang, of course, but it seemed slight, compared to the bombs; so did the shock wave that hit me an instant later. But they had disappeared, that was the thing. Robyn was there, she was alive, she was real, she was a person and then she disappeared; she had ceased to exist.

  Twenty-eight

  After that we had some luck. God knows we deserved it. But it didn't mean much to any of us. We took Harvey's car and drove a couple of k's, but suddenly found ourselves getting shot at from the air, so we abandoned that pretty fast. We were in the middle of the biggest air mission that the Kiwis had launched for the whole of the war, although we didn't know that at the time, of course. They were using planes supplied by the Americans but piloted by New Zealanders and our guys, and they did a lot of damage. There wasn't much left of the Stratton factories by the time they'd finished.

  Anyway, where we got lucky was that we saw a plane go down on the highway. There was smoke pouring out of it and the pilot dropped it on the road fast. He braked it so hard that it almost stood on its nose, then he came scrambling out of the cockpit onto the wing and jumped to the ground. We were less than a k away. There were still bombs falling on the other side of town, grey smoke everywhere and terrible toxic fumes that made breathing horrible. We ran towards the pilot—don't know why, just instinct, I suppose. It was the obvious thing to do.'Maybe we thought he was an angel dropped out of the sky to save us. He was, too, in a way. He was running like crazy to get away from the plane', scared it'd blow up. We met in a paddock beside the highway.

  "Where'd you come from?" he asked, gasping and puffing and sweating. "God, this is a madhouse."

  He was red-haired, about twenty-four, tall and skinny, with ginger eyebrows and lots of freckles. But he had nice eves and he was grinning, like it was all a big party.

  Another roll of thunder spread across the sky and there was a flash of fire on the horizon.

  "Big hit," he said.

  "How are you getting out of here?" Fi screamed at him.

  "Stick around and you'll see. I'll be gone in three minutes."

  "What do you mean?" I asked, grabbing his sleeve.

  He pulled 'a little grey gadget, no bigger than a remote control, out of his pocket. A red light on it was flashing furiously. "This is my mayday button," he said. "It's activated already. They'll be here in a couple of shakes."

  "Take us with you," Fi screamed. She seemed unable to talk normally; everything was a scream. The pilot was looking at us like we were crazy.

  "I can't," he said.

  "We're all injured," I said.

  "I can see that. You look like you've been through hell. But I'm sorry, I can't take you."

  The sound of a helicopter, a giant throbbing noise, penetrated the smoke and the grey. The pilot turned away from us and started looking up, trying to see the aircraft. I could tell he was losing interest in us; worse, he was starting to see us as nuisances, people who were going to try to make things complicated for him.

  "Wait," Homer said. Since we left the prison he hadn't spoken. Tears had been running down his face continuously, just a constant flow from his eyes that he made no attempt to brush or lick away. "Wait. Did you hear about Cobbler's Bay being blown up, couple of months back? And everything was wrecked?"

  "Yeah, yeah, course I did. A mate of mine took photos of it. It was in all the papers."

  "That was us," Kevin said.

  The pilot looked at us again, this time for several long moments. Homer, still crying endlessly, Kevin with snot hanging out of his nose,' Fi with her face twisted in a terrible expression of pain and her shirt saturated with blood, Lee, his face blackened and bleeding. Behind him a huge helicopter, looking like a pregnant heifer, lowered its belly onto the road. The wind from its rotor blew hard across us. It was tough to stand up, to hear, to see.

  "Hurry up," he said, turning abruptly and running for the chopper.

  We followed as best we could, a limping, sobbing group of five. I held Fi, and Homer helped Kevin. Only-Lee got there alone. The pilot was already half in the chopper and I could see him gesturing to the people in there. Then he turned to help us in.

  If the crew hadn't wanted to take us they didn't show it. As soon as we were in they took off, fast. Even as we were rising they were wrapping blankets around us and laving us on stretchers that were strapped to the floor. I couldn't believe how big the aircraft was, how much room there was inside. I'd never been in a helicopter before. A water bottle was at my lips: for a minute I tried to push it away with my mouth but then I gave in and let them force'the stuff into me. Fi and I were side by side, gripping hands so tightly We sta
yed that way ah across the Tasman, never once letting go. Even now I get terrified if she leaves the room for a few seconds and I don't know where she's gone.

  Epilogue

  When we'd arrived at Stratton Prison people had crowded around the truck wanting to sec us. When we arrived at Wellington, coming in low across the water, through the choppy air to the beautiful hilly city, there was a crowd there, too. I don't know that there was much difference between the two crowds. Both were drawn by curiosity.

  We'd been scrubbed up by the time We armed at Wellington, of course. We'd spent two weeks in an Air Force medical centre at Astin Base, where we'd first landed. We each had a long list of injuries. Mine read: shock, cracked vertebrae, fractured patella, malnutrition, cuts and abrasions, acute anxiety state, head lice ... I think that was all. I'm still on crutches. Fi was probably the worst, with concussion, shock, a cracked collar bone, a ruptured ear drum, and a long scar on her face that she'll remember every time she looks in a mirror.

  The things we'd clone did get a lot of publicity. The war had been going badly for a long time and only recently had there been any good news. They were anxious for heroes, I guess. So there were a lot of people at Wellington Airport, and we went to a special press room to talk to reporters and get our photos taken. Every second question from the reporters seemed to start with, "How did you feel when...?" We didn't do very well on those ones.

  I don't know what to think about it all. I suppose we did the right thing. Everyone here seems to think we did. The Army Intelligence guy, Lieutenant-Colonel Finley, explained the effect of some of the stuff we'd done,' and although none of us said anything at the time, we were pleased about that. The ship we sank was meant to have been the pride of their fleet or something. I guess that was a score.

  So, there it is. Sometimes, as we lie around here—we're in a sort of convalescent place outside Wellington—I wish we could wind the clock back a year or two. It all seems so idyllic when I look back. I only remember the good things: the smell of scones in the Aga, the sycamore seeds whirring through the air, the worms writhing in the rich compost, the walks across the paddocks with Dad, and the cups of tea with Mum. I don't remember the dog with its stomach ripped open by a kangaroo, or the possum with blood on its snout that died in front of me after eating rat bait, or the flyblown body of a mouse that I found behind the kitchen dresser, 'i don't remember Dad veiling at Mum when she drove the car five k's on a flat tyre or Mum veiling at Dad when he criticised some of her friends.

  It seems like a lost world that I keep reaching out for.

  Meanwhile, our parents and families are still prisoners and we can't do a thing to help them. We just have to wait.

  And so we sit around, lie around, or hobble around, in my case. Nothing happens here, nothing at all. We've been living on adrenalin for so long that it's strange when it's suddenly cut off. Other people are doing the fighting now. They're making some-progress, too. Colonel Finley thinks the peace talks are getting pretty serious: the more territory the Kiwis recapture the more serious the peace talks get. Maybe one day I'll be able to think about the future again.' At the moment all I think about is the past. I don't even notice the present. When I first started writing about what happened to us it was because we all wanted our stories to be known, wanted to be remembered. None of that matters to us now. What I want is for Robyn to be remembered, for what she did to be known! I never stop thinking about her. I used to think heroes were tough and brave. But that last look on Robyn's face: it wasn't tough or brave. It was scared and uncertain.

  I learned something very important from Robyn: you have to believe in something. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Well, it's not. It's not for me and it wasn't for Robyn. But she did it, and I'm going to keep looking and keep trying till I do, too.

  That's the real trouble with our politicians: they don't believe in anything except their own careers.

  You have to believe in something. That's all.