by Mark Smith
Rowdy sniffs everything, peeing against posts and fences. Otherwise, he stays close.
With a soldier behind, prodding us with his rifle, we shuffle towards the big corrugated-iron shed next to one of the dormitories. It looks like a machinery workshop. Out the front, a lone petrol bowser sits in the sun, a chain pulled tight through the nozzle and padlocked to the side. In the shed, there are block-and-tackle hoists hanging from a steel gantry and four pits in the concrete floor for working under vehicles. JT and I are pushed towards the steps that drop into one of the pits. We have to edge our way down sideways to stop from falling.
Our guard seems to notice Rowdy for the first time. ‘What’s this, then?’ he says. ‘A boy’s best friend?’ He coaxes Rowdy towards him before grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. Rowdy wheels around and tries to bite him, but the soldier is too quick. He slides a length of rope through Rowdy’s collar and drags him to the wall to tie him up.
The shed’s iron roof and walls magnify the heat, and the floor of the pit is greasy with oil. Sweat is streaming off me, and it feels like the wound on my chin has opened up again. JT and I lean against each other and wait. The guard has pulled a chair over and he sits on the lip of the pit, his rifle resting in his lap. He seems bored, constantly checking the doorway as though he’s expecting someone.
‘How long are you going to keep us here?’ JT asks, but the guard ignores us. ‘What about some water?’ JT tries again.
This time JT gets his attention. He pulls a drink flask off his belt, unscrews the lid slowly and takes a long drink. He gives an exaggerated, ‘Ahhh…’ when he’s finished, even allowing a little trickle to run down his chin and drip onto his shirt.
When we turn away he becomes agitated, leaning forward in his chair. ‘You’re collaborators,’ he says. ‘Do you have any idea the damage Sileys are doing? They brought the virus in the first place and now they’re trying to take over.’ He pauses for effect, pointing at us. ‘And you,’ he says. ‘What do you do? You hide them from us. Where’s your loyalty? You’re both patriots aren’t you?’
Patriots. It’s a word I heard on the news when they first started bringing Sileys from offshore. There were big rallies—protesters with their faces covered by balaclavas, holding flags and chanting anti-Siley slogans. They faced off against the other side, the pro-Siley groups objecting to the slave auctions. ‘Patriots!’ Dad had said, turning the TV off. ‘More like thugs and dickheads.’
‘Have you ever met a Siley?’ JT asks. ‘They’re no different from us.’
The soldier laughs. ‘You’ve been brainwashed by the bleeding-hearts. No wonder the country’s on its knees. We’re trying to rebuild something here, but idiots like you are undermining us at every turn. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.’
I try to ignore him but his words sting. Kas and Daymu are gone, we’re at the mercy of Ramage and there’s no way of pleading our case.
Sometime around midday, there’s movement in the yard and the sound of voices. Steps echo across the concrete floor, and our guard gets to his feet. Three people appear above us, two men and a woman. The woman doesn’t wear a uniform and she has a band around her arm with a red cross on it. A mask covers her nose and mouth. She descends into the pit, looks at my eyes and puts her hand to my forehead.
‘How long have they been here?’ she asks. There’s nothing in her voice to tell me her standing with the soldiers.
‘Not long,’ the guard answers.
‘All morning,’ JT says, his mouth so dry his voice is barely a whisper.
The woman turns and climbs out of the pit. ‘Bring them to the infirmary,’ she says, as she leaves.
The two soldiers who came with her step down and lift us to our feet.
‘Take your time,’ our guard spits. ‘Make her wait.’
Rowdy strains at his rope, barking and fretting. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I call to him, not knowing whether it’s true or not.
Our boots are coated with oil and grease so our feet keep sliding out from under us as we’re pulled into the hot morning. Each time we slip, the cable ties cut further into our wrists. The sun hits us like a sledgehammer. We are taken to one of the brick buildings. There are vines growing up a trellis onto the roof. Inside, it’s cool and dark. Along a wide corridor, open doors lead to rooms with empty beds with clean sheets and pillows.
In the last room, the woman sits, drumming her fingers on the desk. She tells the guards to wait outside, shuts the door and pulls a pair of scissors from her pocket to cut the cable ties. JT and I have hardly got the strength to move, but we shake our arms and flex our wrists, trying to get the blood flowing to our hands again.
‘Bastards,’ the woman says, loud enough for us to hear, but not the guards outside. She fills two glasses with water and hands them to us. I pull the handkerchief away from my chin. It’s dry and it tears at the wound. We drink quickly and she refills the glasses.
She shines a small torch into our eyes, double checks, then removes the mask from her face.
Her skin is light brown, her eyes dark and her black hair is cut short but neat. We’re reluctant to sit down because our clothes are filthy, but she insists. She squats in front of us. ‘Where did they capture you?’ she asks.
JT gives me a sideways glance and shakes his head.
‘On the coast,’ I say, warily.
She raises her eyebrows. ‘The coast? I didn’t know there was anyone left alive down there.’
I shrug. The way she acts towards the guards makes me want to trust her but I’m wary—why would she be here if she wasn’t working with the army?
On the back of her left hand I spy a familiar lump. She stands up and leans on the desk, touching the tracking device under her skin. ‘Yeah, I’m a Siley,’ she says.
‘But you’re…’
‘A doctor? Yes. I get sent out to the zones to check on any survivors brought in. Make sure they’re not virus carriers.’
I find myself warming to her, wanting to trust her. She doesn’t seem to be holding anything back from us. ‘Where are you from? Originally, I mean?’ I ask.
‘Originally?’ she says. ‘I was born here. But my parents came years ago—so I got reclassified when the virus hit. They don’t care anymore. It’s difference they’re scared of—anyone with dark skin, a different religion, a strange language.’
I change tack, trying for more information. ‘So,’ I ask, ‘are the tracking devices working again?’
She takes her time to answer.
‘No one knows for sure, but there are more Sileys being caught every day.’
There’s a sharp rap on the door and a male voice, ‘Hurry up.’
She slips on a pair of latex gloves and starts to check us over. She takes our temperature and blood pressure. ‘That cut needs stitches,’ she says, gently lifting my head to examine the gash. ‘It’s going to hurt. I don’t have any anesthetic, sorry.’
She pulls out two syringes and apologises again. ‘I have to take blood samples. Check for the virus.’
JT cuts in. ‘Who are you?’ he asks.
She smiles, showing even white teeth. ‘I’m Angela,’ she says.
I need to take a chance. She’s been open with us, as best we can tell. Maybe she knows about the feedstore. ‘When we were captured,’ I say. ‘There were four of us. Me, JT, Kas and Daymu.’
‘Girls?’
‘Yeah. Sileys. And Ramage has them.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, writing their names down on a pad on her desk.
As we roll up our sleeves I whisper, ‘What’s happening in the cities?’
She tightens a strap around my bicep and speaks low and fast as she works. ‘Wentworth is recovering,’ she says. ‘The army’s in control but they need Sileys to do a lot of the work. They’re tolerating Ramage for now, but I can’t see him lasting. They’ve made him a commissioner, but he’s just a criminal.’
I’m tempted to tell her everything that’s happened with Ramage over th
e past year, but we don’t have time. ‘Yeah, we’ve met him,’ is all I say.
‘And you’re alive,’ she says. ‘You’ve done better than most.’ Her fingers trace the brand on my forearm. ‘Not unscathed, though.’
She draws blood into the syringe and eases the needle from my arm, before moving on to JT. She works quickly and efficiently and in a minute she has a vial from both of us.
‘What about the virus?’ I ask.
She doesn’t hesitate. The more she speaks the more I think she’s on our side. ‘It’s still active and it mutates fast. As soon as they think they’ve isolated it, a different strain crops up somewhere else. The only thing they know for sure is that it’s airborne.’
‘Airborne?’
She sighs. ‘It’s almost impossible to contain. And, the symptoms are changing.’
‘How?’
‘There’s a new strain. It shows in the eyes first—the irises turn yellow and the lids get crusty.’
‘We haven’t seen anything like that.’
‘If you do, run.’
‘And what about the rest of the country?’
‘Communications are still very basic. We just don’t know, but I’ve heard towns are turning into fortresses—fenced and guarded. And the weather is crazy—cyclones further south, drought, bushfires in winter. So much infrastructure destroyed.’
She opens a sealed packet with swabs and a curved needle. ‘I’ll be as gentle as I can,’ she says. ‘Try not to move.’
She takes the needle, pinches the skin under my chin and draws the thread through. I grip the arms of my chair and try not to shake too much. I distract myself by thinking of Rose, sitting at my kitchen table and sewing her own hand. Tears well in my eyes and Angela wipes them away with a piece of gauze. ‘Nearly done,’ she says.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ JT asks, his voice low and urgent.
‘If you escape,’ she says, ‘stay away from Wentworth. Head back to the coast. Forget the girls.’
She gives the thread a final tug and ties it off.
‘You’ll have a scar to show for it,’ she says. ‘But it’ll heal as long as you keep it clean.’ She pushes a couple of packets of sterile swabs into my hand. ‘Keep these out of sight,’ she says.
There’s knocking at the door again and this time the guard steps into the room. Angela leans into us. ‘Stay safe,’ she says.
‘You too,’ I say.
‘Come on,’ the guard says, louder than necessary. ‘Get a move on.’ He grabs us by the back of our shirts and pulls us to our feet. He notes the cable ties on the floor and glares at Angela, who does her best to ignore him.
‘One more thing,’ I say before we’re bundled out of the room. ‘Rowdy, my dog. He’s tied up in the shed.’
‘No promises,’ she says, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’
Outside we are led to one of the dormitories with bars on the windows. Inside it’s hot and stuffy. We’re hustled into the first cell before we can see if there are any other prisoners here. The door is shut and we hear a bolt slide into place. The floor is concrete and the only window, high in the back wall, allows the wind to heat the room even more. We sit against the wall and stretch our legs out in front of us.
‘What do you make of the doc?’ JT asks.
‘She seems pretty genuine,’ I say.
‘What she said about Wentworth—’
‘Yeah, I know. But if that’s where they’re sending Kas and Daymu—’
‘We have to get there, somehow.’
‘Agreed.’
When I start to cramp, I ease myself onto the floor and JT does the same. It’s cooler down low but the concrete digs into my hips. My chin feels tights and sore. I touch it with my thumb, feeling the little prickles of each stitch.
‘Closest you’ll come to growing a beard,’ JT says. I don’t turn to look at him but I can tell he’s smiling.
‘Smartarse,’ I say.
Sometime later in the day, the door opens and a tray of food is pushed along the floor. There’s only one bowl of thin soup, but there’s a plastic bottle of water next to it. We take a swig each, being careful not to lose a drop.
The night, when it comes, is long and uncomfortable. The temperature drops away and we huddle together for warmth. It’s a shitty situation but I’m grateful not to be on my own. A couple of times during the night I wake to the sound of a dog barking. It comes from a long way off and I can’t tell if it’s Rowdy.
When I do manage to sleep, it’s from pure exhaustion. I dream of Kas, her face close to mine, her mouth open like she’s screaming but no sound comes out. I reach for her but her body dissolves at my touch.
Deep in the night, we’re woken by torches flashing in our faces. Strong hands lift me and I’m dragged through the door and across the corridor to another room.
A large figure sits at a desk, waiting. He stands up, strikes a match and lights a lamp hanging from the ceiling.
It’s Ramage.
Ramage looks much older than he did last spring. His beard has been roughly clipped. His hair is cropped short and it’s streaked with grey. The scar where I cut him rises in a ridge across the back of his hand.
‘Sit down,’ he says. He sounds tired, unwell.
He takes a pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and makes a point of rolling a cigarette slowly and deliberately, looking at me the whole time. He strikes another match, lights the cigarette and tilts his head to blow smoke into the air above us. He coughs and his chest rattles.
He leans back in his chair and waves the guards to leave.
Each drag of the cigarette sets off a coughing fit. He brings up phlegm and spits it into a rubbish bin.
‘So, here we are again, Finn,’ he says, smoke wafting around his face. ‘The boot’s on the other foot this time, though, isn’t it. You had your chance, and now’—he lifts both his hands, palms up—‘now it comes to this.’
In my head, I’m scrambling for ideas, trying to figure a way of helping Kas. ‘We were no threat to you, down on the coast,’ I say.
‘You were a threat to everyone. What did you expect—that we’d leave you there? Pretend you hadn’t broken the law? Killed people?’
I shouldn’t antagonise him but I can’t help myself. ‘You’re the expert at killing people,’ I say.
Ramage draws a few more puffs from the cigarette before he stubs it, half smoked, in an ashtray on the desk. His fingers are stained yellow and his nails are long and chipped. ‘Let’s start this conversation again,’ he says, scratching the stubble on his chin. ‘You and your friend are both strong, fit young men. You know the country. The way I look at it, it’d be a waste to send you to Wentworth to spend the rest of your days working in some rat-infested factory or on the killing floor of an abattoir.’
He waits, giving me time to work out where he’s heading. I can see him baiting his hook, preparing to lure me in.
‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ he says, finally. ‘There’s an alternative.’
‘And what’s that?’ I say.
‘You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can guess.’
‘Stay here and be your slave instead?’ I say.
‘No,’ he says. ‘No, no, no—not a slave.’ His voice has changed, like he’s letting me in on some secret. He winks. ‘We rule this part of the country. The army is only interested in Wentworth. All they want from us is a food supply. We provide it and they leave us alone.’
He takes the rollies from his pocket again and nudges the packet across the desk. ‘Smoke?’ he says.
I ignore it. ‘You want us to join you?’ I ask.
He nods—and a smile creeps across his lips again. ‘We need new blood. The world’s changed, Finn. And…’ He pauses, as if deciding how much to tell me. ‘I’m not well.’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘I need lieutenants who know the country.’
‘You seem to have enough of those already,’ I say.
‘True, but not many with your skills. I co
uld use you and your friend. And I can make your life so much easier.’
‘What about Kas and Daymu?’ I ask.
‘The Sileys?’ Ramage sighs, his eyes wandering around the room. ‘I can’t help you there. I get cattle and seed for them.’
He focuses his attention back on me.
‘Forget about them,’ he says, his voice softening again. ‘I know it’s hard, but you have to move on. Adapt. I’m offering you a new start. Land, livestock, a place of your own if you want it.’
‘In exchange for what?’ I ask.
‘Your loyalty.’
‘Become Wilders, you mean?’
‘We don’t call ourselves that—never did.’
‘So, what do you call yourselves?’
‘Settlers.’
‘I prefer Wilders,’ I say.
The longer the conversation goes, the more Ramage thinks he’s winning me over. He lays his hands flat on the desk, eyeballing me. ‘I’m the commissioner, Finn. I can make this happen. Trust me.’
I’m reminded of the last time I spoke with Ramage in the valley—the way he twists things until they almost sound reasonable, so confident his offer is irresistible. He stands now, looking like he’s going to reach out and shake my hand.
‘Oh, there’s one more thing,’ he says, almost laughing. ‘Guard!’
The door opens and a soldier appears holding Rowdy by the collar. As soon as he sees me, Rowdy frets and strains, his paws slipping on the lino floor.
I try to get out of my chair, to touch him, but Ramage’s hands are on my shoulders, his mouth close to my ear. ‘He hasn’t stopped whining since you were dragged away.’ He pauses, increasing the pressure on my shoulders. ‘Join us and you can keep him. But if you reject my offer, well, the dog’s just another mouth to feed.’
All I want is to hold Rowdy, to pat him and tell him he’ll be okay. Ramage is digging his fingernails into my skin now. A howl comes from deep inside, so dark with hate and fear I can hardly believe it’s me. ‘No!’ I yell. My voice is high and broken and spit flies out of my mouth.
