Land of Fences

by Mark Smith

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said not to try to follow them.’

  ‘She would say that.’

  ‘It’s good advice. Wentworth is even more dangerous now that you’re Sileys.’

  ‘Everywhere is dangerous,’ I say.

  She forces a quick smile. ‘Things are changing, Finn. The army’s growing tired of Ramage.’

  The guard steps into the room and stands over us. ‘Get on with it,’ he says, his hand on the gun in his holster.

  Angela lifts my left hand and lays it palm down on the top of the trolley. Then she slides open a drawer and takes out something that looks like a staple gun. She inserts a small black square of plastic about a quarter the size of a matchbox into the chamber. My tongue touches the piece she hid in my mouth. It’s the same. ‘This is going to hurt,’ she says. She squeezes the trigger and pain shoots up my arm. I reel away and jam my hand under my armpit.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s not my choice to do this.’

  ‘All right,’ the guard interrupts. ‘Enough of that bullshit.’ He picks me up by the arm and pulls me towards the door.

  ‘Stay safe,’ Angela says.

  ‘Have you seen Rowdy?’ I call back. But the door closes and I don’t hear her answer.

  When I get to the cell, JT is taken away.

  I pull the live tracker from my mouth and slip it into my pocket, then flex my fingers to try to get some movement into my hand. The implant forms a red lump and blood trickles from the entry point. I knead it with my fingertips and brace myself to try and force it out the way it went in. But it feels like it has wire arms pushing outwards, holding it in place.

  Five minutes later, the door opens and JT is shoved through. Like me, he’s holding the back of his hand and wincing with the pain. ‘Shit!’ he says. ‘That’s as bad as the branding.’

  I wait until the door has been closed and bolted before shuffling over to him. ‘Did Angela say anything to you?’ I whisper.

  ‘No. The guard was with us the whole time,’ he says. He opens his mouth and shows me the tracker sitting on his tongue. ‘But I’m guessing you can explain this.’

  I tell him what Angela said.

  ‘So, the ones in our hands don’t work,’ JT says.

  ‘Nope, but they’ll think they do as long as we keep the active ones on us.’

  ‘But if we escape, we ditch the live ones?’

  We both take a few seconds to try to figure out what sort of advantage this gives us.

  ‘At least we know one thing,’ I say. ‘The tracking devices are active.’

  ‘It still doesn’t make sense,’ JT says. ‘They only have electricity for a few hours a day, as best we can tell. Tracking like this is done by satellite. But you have to have a home base to connect to. And that needs electricity to run.’

  ‘Maybe they can only track for short periods each day,’ I say.

  ‘It’s possible. Problem is, we don’t know when they have power and when they don’t.’

  ‘We’d know if we were in Wentworth,’ I say.

  I tell JT about Kas’s message. ‘It’s not like we have a choice, is it?’ he says. ‘They’re going to take us there anyway.’

  Three days later, in the middle of the afternoon, we’re loaded onto the truck. No one tells us where we are going, but we drive through Longley this time, out onto the highway towards Wentworth. We’ve hidden the live trackers in the seams of our shirts.

  Grey clouds roll in and there’s rain coming. The humidity is high and it’s like a sauna under the tarpaulin on the back of the truck. JT and I are cable-tied behind our backs but not bound together.

  We have three guards: Murphy and Jackson from the courthouse, and Sweeney, who’s come along to collect the bounty and return it to Ramage. He’s acting cocky, telling the soldiers about the number of Sileys he’s captured.

  ‘They’re easy pickings for experienced hunters,’ he says to Jackson.

  The soldier doesn’t seem interested.

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, easy pickings,’ I say. ‘Last time we saw you, you were tied up like a Christmas turkey, hopping around without your boots.’

  A smile passes between the two soldiers.

  ‘Ah, so our young friend has found his voice,’ Sweeney says, smiling to show his gums. ‘That is a voice is it—that growling and grunting noise?

  ‘Stop it,’ JT says. ‘That smile of yours is blinding me. What toothpaste do you use? I’ve gotta get myself some.’

  Sweeney moves to kick JT, but Jackson reaches out and grabs him by the arm. ‘Sit down,’ he barks.

  Sweeney shrugs the hand away. ‘That mouth is going to get you in trouble one day,’ he says to JT.

  ‘Oh, you mean my mouth full of teeth,’ JT says with an exaggerated smile.

  ‘I’ll smash them down your fuckin’ throat if you’re not careful,’ Sweeney snarls.

  The truck is slow and lumbering. After an hour or so, we pull over and the flap is lifted at the back. ‘Have to check the motor,’ the driver calls. ‘We’re losing power.’

  ‘Piss stop, then,’ Murphy says.

  We slide carefully down, landing on our feet in the gravel by the side of the road.

  ‘We can’t piss tied up like this,’ JT says.

  ‘Cut the ties, Murph,’ Jackson says. ‘We don’t want them pissing their pants in the truck.’

  ‘You sure?’ Murphy asks.

  ‘Where are they gonna run?’ Jackson says, sweeping his arm to take in the country around us. The road stretches out in either direction, the railway line running parallel as far as the eye can see. The plains spread out under a haze of low cloud and mist rising off the paddocks. The air is thick and still. To the south the hills rise towards heavily treed ridges, fold after fold, until they merge with the hanging cloud. I wonder whether there are watchers up there somewhere, looking down on us and trying to figure out why this truck has stopped where it has.

  The cable ties are cut, and JT and I wander to the side of the road to piss. He’s scanning the tree line, too. ‘Get the feeling we’re being watched?’ he whispers.

  ‘Yeah.’

  A hissing noise erupts behind us and we turn to see steam shooting out from under the truck.

  ‘What the—?’ Jackson says.

  The driver has been looking underneath. Now, he reaches behind the cabin and undoes a series of clips before tipping it forward to expose the motor.

  ‘Useless piece of shit,’ he says. ‘I told ’em the cooling system was leaking.’

  Jackson is on edge, a finger on the trigger of his rifle and his eyes darting about. ‘Not a place we want to be stuck,’ he says, looking up to the hills. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’ he asks the driver.

  ‘Winston, sir,’ he replies. He’s young, maybe only in his early twenties, thin and rangy, with a shadow of whiskers on his chin.

  ‘How serious is it?’ he asks, nodding towards the truck.

  ‘Not sure. I’m not a mechanic.’

  Sweeney reaches behind his back and pulls a gun from under his shirt. Jackson swings his rifle towards him, but Sweeney throws his hands in the air. ‘Whoa, whoa,’ he says, a jitter in his voice. ‘Just for protection.’

  ‘Put it away,’ Jackson says.

  Sweeney eyes me with a smile and pushes the gun back into his belt.

  Horizontal lightning sheets across the plain. A few seconds later, thunder grumbles in reply. A thin rain starts to fall. The afternoon is wearing on—the dim outline of the sun is barely visible through the clouds to the west.

  The three soldiers huddle in front of the truck speaking in low voices. Jackson points up towards the ridge.

  ‘I know motors,’ JT calls to them. ‘Worked on them all the time on the farm.’

  Jackson walks over to us. He lifts JT’s chin with the barrel of his rifle and moves in closer. ‘Truck engines?’ he asks.

  ‘Tractors, mostly,’ JT says, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘But a motor’s a motor.’

  ‘He�
��s lying,’ Sweeney spits. ‘Why would he fix it?’

  The soldier jerks his rifle so JT is standing on tiptoes. ‘Because if he doesn’t, I’m going to shoot him,’ he says. ‘Bounty or no bounty.’ To reinforce his point, he slams his fist into JT’s stomach, dropping him to his knees.

  JT gasps for breath. When he can speak again he says, ‘Do you want me to fix it or not?’

  Jackson looks at Murphy and Winston, then Sweeney. They’re not convinced, but they don’t have much choice. Jackson jerks his rifle towards the truck and says, ‘Try anything and I’ll kill you without a second thought.’

  Sweeney is clearly pissed off, but he stays quiet.

  It’s a little victory and JT knows it. He swaggers past Sweeney and gives him a wink. The more I see of JT, the more he reminds me of kids I knew at school—the smartarses with the confidence to pull it off. They joked with the teachers, got them onside then went ahead and did what they liked.

  JT leans over the engine, has a quick look then climbs underneath to check it from another angle. There’s no steam visible anymore, but there’s a continuous hissing noise coming from somewhere towards the front of the motor.

  ‘A hose clamp’s come loose at the back of the radiator,’ JT says. ‘We got any tools?’

  Winston pulls open a metal box attached to the tray. ‘What do you need?’ he says.

  ‘Multigrips and a Phillips-head screwdriver,’ JT calls back.

  Murphy takes the tools from Winston and crawls under the truck. ‘I’ll be watching everything you do,’ he says to JT.

  ‘No worries, fat fella, but give me some elbow room, will you,’ JT says.

  I hear a yelp. Murphy must have kicked him.

  It takes a few minutes but eventually the two of them slide out and stand up. JT gives me a look I can’t interpret. ‘We need to top up the radiator,’ he says. ‘Otherwise we’re going nowhere.’

  ‘We’ve only got our water bottles,’ Jackson says. ‘I’m guessing that won’t be enough?’

  ‘Not even close,’ JT replies.

  Jackson looks around warily. ‘We passed a dam a little way back,’ he says. ‘Winston, what have you got we can carry water in?’

  Winston reaches into a compartment behind the cabin and pulls out a fuel container. It’s full and he staggers under its weight. He opens the cap on the top of the fuel tank and begins to pour.

  The rain has become heavier. Visibility has dropped and the thunder is coming closer. I reckon there’s only a couple of hours of daylight left. Murphy is getting fidgety too—there’s sweat pouring down his face. ‘How do we do this?’ he asks Jackson.

  ‘You and Winston head back to the dam, quick as you can. Run if you have to. I’ll stay here with the prisoners and—what was your name again?’

  ‘Sweeney.’

  ‘Sweeney, the toothless hunter,’ JT chips in.

  ‘Shut up, kid,’ Jackson yells. ‘Sweeney, you stay here.’ He pokes a finger into Sweeney’s chest. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about that gun of yours.’

  ‘Oh, I’m staying, all right,’ Sweeney spits. ‘I’m not letting these two out of my sight.’

  The soldiers set out along the road, Winston carrying the fuel can and Murphy struggling to keep up. Jackson orders us into the truck. At least it’s dry under the tarp. In the confusion, they’ve forgotten to tie our hands. Sweeney watches us. This is an important job for him, transporting two prisoners, collecting the bounty and returning to Longley. He plays with the gun in his hands, spinning it on one finger like a gunslinger. He’s enjoying himself.

  Jackson eyes him warily, but says nothing.

  An hour passes. The light is fading, a combination of the thickening rain and the dropping sun. Eventually Jackson jumps out and we hear his boots as he paces up and down.

  Sweeney leans in to us and says, ‘If anything happens here, any of your rebel mates turn up, you’re the first two I’m going to shoot.’

  ‘Shoot us and there’ll be no bounty,’ I say. ‘What would Ramage say about that?’

  ‘He’d say a dead collaborator is better than one roaming the countryside causing havoc,’ he says.

  ‘The only people causing havoc are Wilders like you,’ I say.

  He smiles. ‘You know the difference between you and me? This.’ He holds his gun in front of my face. ‘And, unlike you, I’ve got the guts to use it.’

  Jackson’s head appears at the back. ‘Shut up in there.’ He strains forward, staring out along the road. ‘You hear that?’ he asks.

  We all listen. Above the beating of the rain on the tarp I pick up a faint sound. It’s muffled by the thickness of the air but I’m certain it’s a diesel engine. Slowly it becomes louder until the lights of another truck appear over a small crest in the road.

  There’s nothing cautious about the way the truck approaches—it doesn’t slow until it’s almost on us. It pulls up alongside with a hiss of air brakes. The stench of livestock fills the air. I hear a door open and a muffled conversation. Sweeney leans out the back, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  The rain is belting down now, and we can’t hear anything of what’s happening outside. JT whispers urgently, ‘Give me your tracker.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t argue.’

  I inch the tracker out of the lining of my shirt and pass it to him. Just then Jackson orders us out of the truck. Sweeney is suspicious and keeps his gun where we can see it.

  On the road, there are two more soldiers. They pull jackets over their heads to protect themselves from the rain. The cattle truck has picked up Murphy and Winston, who are now pouring water into the radiator. When it’s full, they cap it again. Winston pulls the cabin back into position and climbs in. He turns the motor over and it takes.

  Suddenly, JT drops to the ground and scuttles under the second truck. He pauses briefly then slides all the way through and out the other side. Before he can get more than a few metres the two soldiers tackle him to the ground and one of them sits on his back.

  Sweeney is quickly beside them, keeping an eye on his property. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ he yells. ‘I need that bounty.’

  JT is hauled to his feet. Sweeney is in his face. ‘You’re so much dumber than I thought, kid. Where were you going to go? And how far would you get with this?’ He grabs JT’s hand and turns it round to show the implanted tracker.

  The cattle truck moves off, the glow of its tail lights gradually fading into the distance. We climb into the tray and Winston starts to grind through the gears. We pick up speed but we’ve only gone another ten minutes when the engine coughs and cuts out. We keep rolling as Winston tries to restart the motor, but eventually we come to a halt. This time there’s the sound of water gushing onto the road, along with the familiar hissing of steam.

  Murphy grabs JT by the shirt and shakes him. ‘What have you done?’

  JT is all innocence and wonder. ‘Don’t look at me. You were watching. I fixed the clamp back on and tightened it far as it’d go.’

  Murphy pushes him back against the metal ribbing holding the tarp.

  ‘That’ll do, Murph,’ Jackson barks. Then, looking at JT and me, ‘Stay here! Don’t move!’ He jumps out the back.

  The gloom has turned to dark and the rain has eased to a thin drizzle. The night seems to close in on us prematurely. We hear shuffling under the cabin and plenty of swearing. After a few minutes, Jackson and Winston climb in with us.

  ‘It’s not the clamp,’ Winston says. ‘The hose has split.’

  Murphy looks at JT as though somehow he’s still to blame but eventually drops his gaze. As for JT, he seems pretty pleased with himself.

  ‘We’ve got no choice,’ Jackson says. ‘We’ll have to wait here. There’s another truck coming through tomorrow. In the meantime, we sit tight.’

  Sweeney is not impressed. ‘What sort of operation are you running here? You’re supposed to be the army! You can’t even keep your machinery going.’

  ‘I don’t know wheth
er you’ve noticed,’ Jackson shoots back, ‘but resources are stretched. We have to take three trucks apart to cobble one together.’

  ‘And hasn’t that worked well for you?’ Sweeney can’t keep the sneer from his voice.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Murphy cuts in. ‘You Wilders answer to no one. We know what you’ve been doing these past two years.’

  ‘Doing?’ Sweeney spits. ‘You mean keeping order while you lot hide away in Wentworth, too afraid to venture out and help us.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve kept order,’ Murphy says. ‘But your methods would be illegal in any sort of civilised society.’

  ‘We haven’t had a civilised society since the virus,’ Sweeney says, his voice getting more arrogant by the minute. ‘We do what we have to.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ I can’t help myself. I’ve been listening to them argue as though we’re not here. I pull up my shirt sleeve and show the branded R on my arm. ‘You had to do that, did you? Brand kids like cattle. Murphy’s right, you’re animals and one day you’ll face the law.’

  Sweeney laughs. ‘The law?’ he says. ‘We are the law. I thought you’d understand that by now.’

  Jackson has heard enough. ‘All right, that’ll do,’ he snaps. ‘I’ll take first watch.’ He slips off into the darkness.

  The night is still and quiet, apart from the crunching of gravel under Jackson’s feet as he circles the truck again and again. The only other sound is the occasional birdcall—the hoot of a barn owl or the call of a nightjar. We try to get comfortable but the metal tray makes it impossible. I doze, waking when Jackson swaps sentry duty with Murphy.

  ‘Anything?’ Murphy asks as they clamber around each other.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jackson says. ‘But stay alert.’

  I must have dropped off again but I’m woken by a louder birdcall—a high-pitched whistle like a hawk.

  Hawks don’t hunt at night.

  I nudge JT, but he’s already awake. He takes my hand and guides it to his hip. I feel the outline of a screwdriver in his pocket. The others don’t seem to have noticed the call. Only Sweeney is awake, watching us.

  I can’t hear Murphy outside. He might be sitting in the cabin.

  The deep silence of the night is broken by the sudden rip of an arrow piercing the tarp behind Sweeney’s head. He ducks and sprawls on the floor.