by Mark Smith
There’s a large wattle that’s been uprooted completely and its branches form a shelter close to the ground. We crawl inside and wait. I’ve got Rowdy by the collar and I tap his nose like I did so many times when we were hunting in Angowrie. I want to hold him and breathe in his familiar smell.
I guess it’s about fifteen minutes before we venture out again. If the Wilders knew which way we’d come, they would’ve been on us by now. We’ve bought ourselves some time, though who knows how long it’ll be before they work out we’ve backtracked.
‘What now?’ Willow asks.
‘We can’t go any further without water,’ I say. ‘I reckon we go down to the farmhouse.’
Willow and JT look at me like I’m crazy. And, to be honest, I don’t know if I am or not. The lack of food and water makes it hard to think straight. JT stands up and walks to the edge of the bush. He looks up and down the valley, weighing our chances of getting to the house and back without being caught.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But one of us needs to go first. If it’s a trap, the other two have the option of running.’
‘It’s my idea,’ I say. ‘I’ll go. Wils, hang onto Rowdy so he doesn’t follow me.’ I think about handing the rifle to JT, but change my mind.
Willow pins me with her gaze. ‘Be careful.’
I pat Rowdy and pass him to Willow, who holds him by the collar. I take a deep breath, check the road one more time—and run. My eyes are fixed on the house rather than on what’s under my feet and the ground is steep. I nearly fall half a dozen times and the rifle butt slaps against my hip. But I make it to the road without hearing any shouting or being shot at. I slide into a ditch, gasping for air. After I’ve settled myself, I crawl up the embankment, check the road and sprint for the side of the house. I peer through a broken window. There’s bedding on the floor and empty cans strewn around. At the rear, a door hangs by one hinge, creaking in the wind.
I do a quick check, then signal to JT and Willow. At the tank stand I reach up, turn the tap and the coolest, sweetest water I have ever tasted pours into my mouth. I let the water shower over me. I gulp at it, snorting like a horse. When I’ve had enough, I peer around the corner towards the road.
Willow comes next, racing through the dry stubble of the paddock. Rowdy bounds ahead of her and reaches me before she’s halfway down. She doesn’t stop at the road, coming straight across, passing me and heading for the tank. Once she’s made it, JT leaves the safety of the trees.
Willow is standing under the flowing water, her face turned up to meet it. ‘Oh, my god,’ she says, over and over. ‘This is so good.’
JT arrives, drops his gear and nudges in beside her. The wind whips the spray sideways and they jump about to catch it.
I push open the door to the house. It has a lived-in smell. There are dishes in the sink and knives and forks on the bench. I find a bowl and walk back out to the yard. JT and Willow are soaked. They’ve found some plastic bottles and they’re filling them. Once they’re done I hold the bowl for Rowdy. He laps at it until it’s empty—then I fill it up again.
‘I don’t like it here,’ I say. ‘There’s been someone living in the house.’
Wils and JT go in to have a look. ‘Hey.’ JT’s voice rises above the wind.
When I come inside he’s standing in front of an open cupboard. The shelves are almost bare but there are three cans without labels and a stack that looks like sardines. Willow has found a small daypack. The straps have rotted away but there’s a loop at the top that’s still attached. We throw the cans in, looking around the kitchen for anything else. We take a can opener, a kitchen knife and two spoons. Then we force the water bottles into the pack with them, and run out into the yard.
‘One more thing,’ Willow says. She walks to the tank and turns the tap on, leaving it running. ‘Now they can be thirsty, too.’
We cross the road, barely bothering to stop and look, and begin the climb. By the time we get to the trees, our clothes are dry and we’re nearly as thirsty as we were fifteen minutes ago.
We crawl under the fallen tree. Willow spreads the cans out on the ground. The sardines have ring-pulls and we peel two lids back and have a sniff. They’re oily and salty, but we’re so hungry we don’t care. When I offer a couple to Rowdy he wolfs them down.
JT opens one of the bigger cans. ‘Shit and preservatives, anyone?’ he says, sounding more like the JT I know.
It’s some sort of stew or thick soup but we pass it around. It’s sticky and glutinous and probably way out of date, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything as good.
Willow hands around a water bottle. ‘Just a few sips,’ she says. ‘We have to make it last.’ Every time she says something like this, something adult and sensible, I hear Stella’s voice.
‘What?’ she says, seeing me looking.
‘Nothing, Wils. Good thinking, that’s all. Rationing the water, I mean.’
She smiles.
My stomach is nowhere near full, but it feels so much better to have something in it. I can’t stop burping.
‘You’ve got fish breath,’ Willow says, forcing up a burp herself.
JT has stuck his head outside. ‘Shh,’ he says.
All I can hear is the wind roaring through the branches above us but JT climbs back in, shoves the remaining cans into the pack. ‘Come on,’ he says.
We gather our gear and crawl out. JT is already running further up the hill, so Willow and I follow. Rowdy is ahead with JT.
‘Wait,’ I call. The last thing we need now is to get lost. We catch up to JT, each of us breathing hard again. ‘What did you hear?’ I ask.
‘The truck. Heading for the house,’ he says, his breath coming in gasps. ‘They’ll know we’ve been there.’
‘Shit,’ I say.
‘Shit,’ Willow agrees.
‘Which way do you reckon?’ JT asks.
It seems my life since the virus has been a string of quick decisions. I never know whether they’re right or wrong until things either go pear-shaped or they don’t. Mostly they’re guesses. But I’m getting better at making them.
‘Our best chance of making it to Wentworth is to follow the highway—or at least to keep it in sight,’ I say.
I’m sure we’re all thinking the same thing. We could walk straight into the Wilders if they’ve figured out what we’ve done. And why was the truck heading back to the farmhouse if they think we’re moving east?
JT has been listening carefully, his head turning one way then the other, calculating the odds. ‘Okay,’ he says, finally. ‘But we need to go higher. If they’re coming back to meet the truck, they’ll most likely be in the open where the going’s easier. Let’s climb to the top, keep the sun at our left shoulder and see how far we get.’
The ground is stonier and less stable here but we feel safer the higher we go. Eventually we spy another rock outcrop above the treetops. We drop our gear at its base and circle around to find the easiest way up. We can see the plains in the distance and the power poles along the railway line but the trees block any view of the farmhouse. At least we can orientate ourselves now. The wind has finally backed off a bit, though it’s still hard to hear anything above it.
We continue for about an hour, getting slower the further we go. Finally, JT calls a rest and we slump into the bracken. Rowdy lies next to me. He’s panting hard and licking my skin looking for moisture. I tip a little water into my hand, and he laps it up. I feel like JT is judging my every action. He watches closely, knowing every drop Rowdy has is less for us.
‘I’m stuffed,’ JT says, eventually. ‘Let’s rest here for a while and move on when it’s cooler.’
He gets no argument from Willow or me. We make ourselves as comfortable as we can on the rough ground and doze. Rowdy nuzzles at the scar on his hip. When I scratch him under his chin he closes his eyes and groans quietly. I’ve lost him so many times over the past year but somehow we manage to find each other again. And now, even though he’s safe,
I still feel I need to keep him close.
I must have slept because the sun is slanting low through the trees when Willow gives me a nudge. JT is standing on a log, trying to get his bearings. ‘How far do you reckon we’ve come from the farmhouse?’ he asks.
‘It’s been pretty rough going but I’d guess two k’s,’ Willow replies.
‘Yeah, I’m thinking the same,’ JT says.
‘So?’ I ask.
JT moves his head from side to side. ‘Maybe we should head north while we’ve got the sun to navigate by—get a bit lower where we can see the highway again. If the Wilders have backtracked, they’ll be in the valley we crossed by now. Besides,’ he says, sweeping an arm to take in the bush surrounding us, ‘we’ll never make it to Wentworth struggling through this country.’
The heat has finally started to leave the forest and the wind has dropped to a breeze as we start to pick our way downhill. It takes longer than we’d expected, and the sun is dipping behind the ridges to the west when the paddocks come into view. We stop for a minute, peering through the trees and listening for any sign of danger. When we’re confident it’s okay, we keep moving, slower now, with me gripping Rowdy by the collar.
The last trees are low-slung stringybarks, like the ones down on the coast. We edge forward until we can take in the whole scene in front of us. The glow from the setting sun catches the surface of dams dotted over the plains, lighting them like tiny sheets of gold. Closer to us, the highway stretches out—the flat asphalt rising above the stubble and bare ground. Next to it, the railway tracks head west to Longley, east to Wentworth.
‘What’s that?’ Willow says, pointing to where a dirt road coming in off the plain meets the highway. The sun catches something large and metallic by the side of the road.
‘A sign, maybe?’ I say.
‘And what do road signs say?’ JT asks.
‘Distance to the next town,’ Willow says.
We know we need a plan to rescue Kas and Daymu, but we have to know where we are and how far we’ve got to travel.
‘It’ll be dark in half an hour,’ JT says. ‘Let’s wait, then go down and check it out.’
It’s the perfect spot to watch the night fall on the plain. We look for any sign of movement along the highway or through the paddocks but everything is still and calm after the heat of the day. Rabbits move out into the open to nibble at the patchy grass. They don’t worry about us, coming within a few metres of where we’re sitting. Rowdy twitches beside me, ready to spring. Moving almost in slow motion, Willow eases an arrow into her bow. She raises it to her shoulder, pulls the arrow back, then releases. A rabbit scuttles sideways, trying to find its feet again, the arrow piercing its side. Willow is on it in an instant, grabbing it by the back legs and quickly stretching its neck. She retrieves her arrow then throws the rabbit to Rowdy. ‘Here you go, boy. We can’t risk a fire, but you’re probably not fussed about eating it raw.’
Rowdy drags the carcass back into the bush and tears at the flesh.
JT looks on, his eyes wide.
‘I told you,’ I say, feeling like I need to get back on even terms with him. ‘Don’t cross Willow. She’ll put an arrow in you!’
Once it’s fully dark, we cross the paddock to the highway. Rowdy carries a bloodied hindquarter of the rabbit in his mouth. There’s a rusty wire fence, then an embankment leading up to the road. We stay in its shadow and walk towards the sign. One of the timber legs has sagged into the soil and the writing is faded but we can make it out.
Wentworth 37 km.
‘We can walk that in two days,’ I say, ‘if we don’t have any hold-ups.’
‘We’re here now,’ JT adds. ‘We should stay on the road—at least until the moon rises.’
It seems stupid to expose ourselves like this, but we can make good distance, and walking in the open is the last thing the Wilders will expect us to do.
After the long day in the sun, the cool of the night is a relief. But my lips are cracked and blistered and I’ve got a lump in my throat that feels like the sardines have stuck there. It must be fourteen hours since we took off from the No-landers’ camp. My body aches from the endless running and walking, and I’m constantly on edge knowing that Tusker won’t rest until he finds us.
The road goes straight for a while before curving to the left and crossing the railway line. After another hour, there’s a faint glow on the horizon and the moon appears above the hills to the east. It’s bigger again than last night, strong enough to cast shadows once it gets up. It makes us feel more exposed, with nothing but flat paddocks either side of the road. We quicken our pace.
JT has been walking ahead of us but now he waits for Willow and me to catch up. ‘Look,’ he says, pointing to a building about a hundred metres along the road. The shell of a petrol station takes shape in the shadows of a row of manna gums. A fallen sign marks the entrance, surrounded by knee-high weeds, and nearer to the building, two bowsers stand like sentries, their hoses ripped out and lying on the ground.
We push through the front door, the crunch of broken glass under our feet. Tables line one wall and there’s a servery opening to a kitchen at the back. I stick my head through. There’s an oven, a sink, a deep fryer and the sharp smell of rancid cooking oil.
Out the back, a ute sits on its chassis, its wheels long gone.
JT finds a broom and sweeps out a storeroom. We lie down and try to get comfortable.
‘We should keep watch,’ I say. ‘I’ll go first.’
I take a chair out the front, positioning it next to one of the bowsers. Rowdy lies across my feet and I prop the rifle against my thigh. I’m exhausted but anxious enough to stay awake. Compared to the forest, there’s not much noise out here, the occasional hoot of an owl and the scrambling of rats in the rubbish heaped at the side of the main building.
I wonder who made a living out of this place before the virus. Maybe farmers dropped in for a coffee and newspapers, talking beef prices and the cost of fertiliser. Long-haul truckers pulling in for a feed in the early morning—bacon and eggs, sausages and baked beans on toast. My mouth waters at the thought. There would have been a constant stream of traffic on the highway: holidaymakers hauling caravans down towards Nelson and the west coast, local boys in hotted-up utes drag-racing their mates to Longley for the night, families taking a toilet break while mum or dad filled up with petrol and washed the windscreen. Something in my heart aches for the everyday things we’ve lost.
I may have dozed for a while but Rowdy brings me back. He’s standing to attention, his coat bristling and his nose pointed along the road towards Longley. He growls low and long.
I grab the rifle and walk towards the road. It’s perfectly still now, not a breath of wind and the moon is high and as bright as it’s been all night. The sound begins as a faint whirring but it quickly gathers strength to become a low rumble. It’s a truck.
I race back inside and wake the others. We scramble to gather our gear then take cover in the kitchen. There’s a door heading out the back to the workshop but we’re out of time—the truck is almost on us. JT clears the shelves under the stainless steel servery bench, sweeping pots and pans out onto the floor until there’s enough space to crawl into.
The truck slows, revving as it changes down gears.
It’s stopping.
The bulk of the truck fills the whole space at the front of the station, darkening the kitchen. The driver cuts the engine and it’s quiet enough to hear the motor ping and click as it begins to cool.
I squeeze Rowdy between me and the wall and hold my hand over his muzzle. I scratch him behind his ear to calm him. Boots drop onto the concrete and there’s the sound of piss hitting the ground.
A voice I know barks, ‘Check it out. One inside, one around the back.’ It’s Tusker.
Cautious footsteps approach. Someone leans through the servery window and the bench groans under their weight.
‘Anything?’ I hear Tusker ask.
There�
��s a short hesitation, then, ‘Why are we even looking here? Their trackers are active. They’re in Wentworth.’
‘Someone had been at the house, stealing food. And the water was left running.’
‘It could have been rebels.’
Rowdy starts to fidget and I bury my face in his coat to reassure him.
‘I don’t trust the trackers,’ Tusker says, his voice low and menacing. ‘And that dog was on the scent of something.’
‘Could’ve been a rabbit. Could’ve been anything.’
Tusker snorts. ‘They’re kids—they’ll make a mistake eventually. We’ll patrol the road. And anyway, if they try to get to Wentworth, they’ll never get through the fences.’
Tusker’s voice trails off as he moves out the front, but the other Wilder stays where he is. Then, he walks through the door into the kitchen. He doesn’t have a torch so it’s only the moonlight coming through the window that allows him to see anything at all—shadows and a jumble of cooking gear spread across the floor. He pauses, listening and sniffing the air. I hadn’t even thought of what we must smell like, how that might give us away. I hope the stench of rancid cooking oil blankets our scent.
‘All right, let’s go,’ Tusker calls from outside.
The man in the kitchen stays. He’s so close I could reach out and touch his leg. Finally, he walks slowly out, his footfalls soft, as though he’s still listening.
The truck engine comes to life and diesel fumes waft into the kitchen. It moves off slowly, heading towards Wentworth.
‘Woah!’ JT says as the motor fades into the distance. ‘That was close.’
Willow exhales hard, as though she’s been holding her breath. Rowdy pushes past me and stretches once he’s on the floor.
‘You heard what Tusker said,’ I say. ‘They’re going to patrol the highway.’
‘There’s no way we’re going to be on the road during the day,’ JT says. ‘But we can hear them coming at night. It gives us a chance to hide.’
‘We were lucky,’ I say. ‘If they’d come earlier we’d have been caught in the open.’
‘Everything’s a risk, Finn. It’s a risk having Rowdy with us.’ There’s an edge to his voice again. He hasn’t let go of our fight this afternoon.
