Vulture's Gate

by Kirsty Murray

  ‘Mr Pinkwhistle is not a toy,’ said Bo. ‘We hunt together.’ She snapped her fingers and Mr Pinkwhistle jumped into her arms.

  Roc looked up and noticed Callum, glaring from the edge of the track.

  ‘Hey, Scab,’ he called. ‘Come here.’

  Callum climbed back down onto the dock. ‘My name is Callum, not Scab.’

  ‘If you’re going to be a Fester you need a real name.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a Fester. I don’t need to live off garbage. I was chosen. I have two fathers who are happy to raise me. Tomorrow, me and Bo are going to find them,’ said Callum.

  ‘Maybe you will,’ said Roc, smiling coldly. ‘But if you don’t, you’ll need me. Remember what I named you when you come crawling back and ask for my help.’

  ‘And you,’ he said, taking one of Bo’s hands and pulling her close to him so she could feel his warm breath on her face, ‘you can be Ebola. You’ll make a lethal Disease.’

  A shout from one of the younger boys caught Roc’s attention and, with a nod to Bo, he pushed past Callum and sauntered away, following his Festers up the winding bush track.

  ‘What a strange boy,’ said Bo.

  ‘Strange? Psycho more like it,’ said Callum.

  ‘I think he’s interesting.’

  ‘You thought Mollie Green was interesting.’

  Bo ignored him and set off along the track, following Roc. Callum grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘How can you be so smart and so dumb at the same time? We shouldn’t have come with them. Those Festers, they probably want to barbecue us for their dinner.’

  ‘You have to take a chance on people sometimes,’ said Bo. ‘I took a chance on you when I found you in the desert.’

  ‘Yes, but I am not a Fester. You can’t give yourself away to everyone. Festers are factory fodder gone feral.’

  ‘No, they’re people. Like you and me.’

  ‘They’re not like me. My fathers chose me.’

  ‘People are people. Where we come from isn’t as important as who we choose to become.’

  ‘Once a freak, always a freak.’

  ‘Like me?’ said Bo sharply. She strode ahead of him, catching up to the tribe of Festers. She followed the path the boys had made and emerged from the scrub onto a wide, cracked bitumen road. Piles of rubble lay strewn along the broken footpaths but weeds and vines sprang up through every crack. Unlike the ravaged city on the south side, everything on the north side was covered with a mantle of green. Nature was reclaiming the landscape. They crossed a stream that flowed swiftly over the side of a crumbling stone wall and turned into the driveway of a dilapidated mansion. The glass was broken in most of the windows and the front entrance was a gaping cavern, but the boys tramped inside regardless. Roc was waiting on the threshold for Bo.

  ‘This is our base for the moment. The North Shore is full of empty old places. We move around a lot so the Colony can’t track us, but we meet here to plan our attacks.’

  Inside the mansion, Bo discovered Festers camped in every room. Every corner was filled with crowds of boys. The air reverberated with their voices as they crowed Roc’s name, acknowledging his return. He led Bo to the rear of the building and they passed through broken French doors into an overgrown garden.

  A boy with a mane of russet hair sat on the edge of an old swimming pool with a net, fishing the lily-covered water. Further, in a clearing beyond the pool, an area that was once tennis courts, boys were hauling bracken and wood into a huge pile.

  ‘Hey, Festie,’ called Roc.

  The boy who was fishing secured his line and then jogged over to join them.

  ‘This is my baseman,’ said Roc. ‘He runs the place when I’m away. Festie, I found a new Disease. I’ve named him Ebola.’

  Festie’s right arm hung limply by his side but he slapped Bo firmly on the shoulder with his strong left hand. He smiled at her, his expression warm and welcoming. At that moment, Callum came charging across the garden, skidding to a stop beside Bo.

  ‘Thanks for waiting for me,’ he said.

  ‘This is Callum,’ said Bo.

  Roc looked at her coldly. ‘No, he’s Scab.’

  ‘Ebola and Scab?’ asked Festie.

  ‘I’m Callum, he’s Bo,’ said Callum, looking at Roc pointedly. ‘There’s no one called Scab or Ebola.’

  ‘We used to have a Scab,’ said Festie, looking confused. ‘We lost him a few weeks back. I thought you’d come to take his place. Your name needs to show you belong.’

  ‘Maybe we don’t belong here,’ said Callum.

  Roc frowned and turned on him. ‘Look, you’re lucky I brought you here. You can go back to the city and get gunned down, you can head out into the scrub and get baited or starve for all I care.’

  Roc walked away and was immediately surrounded by a swarm of small boys demanding his attention.

  ‘You shouldn’t wind him up,’ said Festie. ‘We’d all be dead without him. He’s the boss around here.’

  ‘He’s not our boss,’ said Callum.

  ‘You should wish he was,’ replied Festie.

  Callum folded his arms across his chest and looked away. Bo wanted to shake him but she turned to Festie instead. She liked his pale, freckled face, his gentle manner. She felt she could trust him.

  ‘Roc means a lot to you,’ she said.

  ‘I was the first boy he saved. He fished me out of a dumpster, brought me here. Made me whole again. He’s saved hundreds since me.’

  ‘What do you mean “saved”?’ asked Bo.

  ‘I was dying.’ He pushed up his sleeve and displayed his wizened, twisted right arm. ‘He called me Festie cause I smelt bad – rotting flesh and all. But he healed me. He used to fish us wounded boys out of dumpsters when we were given up for dead, bring us over to the North Shore and give us time to heal. Now he don’t need to do that any more. Now we got runaways, dumpster kids, all types. Lots of them are whole. Not like me.’

  Bo gently touched Festie’s scars.

  ‘What were you doing in a dumpster?’

  ‘When drones get injured bad or too sickly to work, the boss men chuck you in dumpsters. They’re not meant to but it happens all the time. Drones don’t count as anything to the Colony.’

  ‘You can’t be a drone,’ said Callum. ‘Drones are made from pigs and sheep. They’re not the same as regular people. They’re not like us.’

  ‘Where did you hear that garbage?’ asked Festie.

  Bo looked across the pool at the crowd of boys foraging beneath the trees. Were they really made from pigs and sheep?

  ‘You two need to know your place,’ said Festie. ‘It don’t matter how you was brewed. It’s what you do that counts.’ He turned to Callum. ‘Ebola, he has to go on missions with Roc ’cause that’s what Diseases do. If Roc reckons you’re Scab, means you’re a Clot, like me. We stay here at the base and help look after the wounded and the little ones. That’s what Clots do. We make everything stick together.’

  ‘I’m not staying! And what is it with these gross names, Ebola and Scab, Blister and Flakie? They sound disgusting.’

  ‘They’re meant to. They’re meant to make you think. See, we’re like sores on the skin of Vulture’s Gate. That’s why Roc gives us names like that. He says we’re a scourge and that once the Diseases become like a plague, we’ll get rid of all the men who hurt boys, and make the city for the young ones, the way it should be.’

  ‘But everyone grows old one day,’ said Bo.

  ‘Not us,’ said Festie. ‘We’re brewed different. Genetically manured.’

  ‘He means genetically manufactured,’ said Callum.

  Festie kept his focus on Bo, ignoring Callum. ‘Roc says most of us GM boys will be lucky to get twenty years. He knows how boys get cooked. He was a Colony kid.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this,’ said Callum. He ran away from them, beating his way through the grass with a stick. Bo watched him until he stopped in the shade of a giant More
ton Bay fig tree and slumped in the tangle of roots at its base. All of a sudden, she wondered if she’d been right to persuade him to come with the Festers.

  Apologising to Festie, she followed the path Callum had beaten through the long grass. When she knelt beside him, he put his arms around her neck and pulled her close.

  ‘Did you tell Roc?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Did you tell him you’re really a girl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think he knows,’ said Callum. ‘Why else would he want you to be one of his Diseases?’

  Bo frowned. ‘Because he likes me and I like him.’

  Callum scowled and pushed her away. ‘You like him? He’s a killer!’

  ‘He’s not like an Outstationer,’ argued Bo. ‘I think he wants to do good things for these boys and make a proper home for them.’

  ‘But we don’t need him. If we can find my fathers, we’ll have our own proper home.’

  Bo drew a deep breath. She didn’t want to say it but she had to make Callum face the truth. ‘What if we can’t find your fathers? They weren’t at the Tower. We don’t know where they are. Perhaps, for now, we do need Roc. Perhaps we should be his friend.’

  ‘You don’t want someone like Roc to be your friend. You don’t need him. You have me.’

  Bo sighed. She put Mr Pinkwhistle on the ground beside her and drew Callum close. ‘You are my first friend, Cal. There will never be anyone like you. You will always be my first.’

  Callum went limp in her arms and buried his face against her neck.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ he said. ‘I wish it was night so we could lie down and sleep. I wish we were still in the desert, just the two of us.’

  They lay entwined for a long time, listening to the peaceful sound of each other’s breathing. Suddenly, Bo was aware that someone was watching. She looked up into the branches of the Moreton Bay fig. In every bough of the tree, a small boy sat watching. Scores of small faces stared down at them. Callum followed her gaze and groaned.

  ‘I hate this place,’ he muttered. He grabbed Bo’s hand and dragged her away from the watchers, into the bright, harsh sunlight.

  21

  DANCING WITH THE FESTERS

  They spent what was left of the afternoon wandering through the garden, exploring the rooms of the dilapidated mansion. Boys were clustered everywhere. Some lay curled up asleep on battered mattresses in the ballroom. Others were at work in the messy kitchen, sorting through piles of fruit and seeds. Everywhere Bo looked, Festers were busily doing chores. All through the day, hordes of them tramped in and out of the mansion with armloads of food that they had caught or foraged in the scrub.

  Late in the afternoon, a messenger came to tell Bo that Roc wanted to see her in the old chapel. It was almost dark when Bo and Callum found the ruined building. It was buried under a tangle of blackberries. Inside, Roc and the boys he called his ‘Diseases’ were having a meeting. When Roc saw Bo and Callum at the door he gestured them inside.

  ‘Scab, you should be in the ballroom with the other Clots. Report back to Festie.’

  ‘He’s with me for now,’ said Bo. ‘I need him.’

  Roc ignored her remark but slapped the ground beside him, indicating she should sit. She glanced around the room, at the small assortment of weapons stacked in one corner and the tangle of wires, explosives and paraphernalia piled in the middle of the chapel. Several of the boys were attempting to unravel some of the wiring but she could tell they weren’t adept at their task.

  ‘Is this your munitions store?’ she asked.

  Roc frowned and kept his gaze down as he spoke.

  ‘We need a better method of detonating the bombs. The way we’re doing it isn’t good enough,’ he said. ‘We lost Scurvy today. He was placing a bomb and it detonated too soon. It took years to get this tribe strong. We don’t want to lose any more of the older boys. Especially not any of you Diseases.’

  Bo squatted down beside Roc and tapped Mr Pinkwhistle on his spine. The roboraptor ambled forward, pushing his snout into the tangle of wires and pulling a piece of slapper foil from the pile.

  Carefully, Bo smoothed the foil between her fingers. ‘This could be helpful,’ she said, handing the foil to Roc.

  ‘You know something about explosives?’

  ‘A little bit,’ she said. She raked through the wires on the floor and then examined the prototype bomb that Roc had devised. She looked at the fuses and the detonators and shook her head. ‘Most of this is useless. Or dangerous. You should be using a chemical detonator to time the explosions, not all these dinky mechanical ones. If you design it properly, your enemies’ sensors won’t find it so easily.’

  Roc and the other boys listened attentively as Bo showed them a better technique for assembling their blasting caps. Every now and then she glanced at Callum, wishing he’d sit down beside her instead of standing awkwardly near the doorway.

  As it grew darker in the chapel, the boys began to drift out into the night garden but Roc and Bo stayed on, locked in conversation. Suddenly Bo realised everyone was gone except Callum.

  Roc stood up and dusted his hands. ‘We should go. Tonight we have our Last Day celebration. The boys will be waiting to start. We have to move on tomorrow.’

  ‘What about all this?’ asked Bo, gesturing towards the munitions.

  ‘The Diseases will take care of it. We move regularly so the Colony can’t track us. The Worms are in charge of finding new homes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Two brothers. We call them Tape and Ring.’ Bo scrunched up her nose and Roc laughed. ‘When you meet them, you’ll understand. It suits them.’

  In the fading light, Bo hurriedly lined up the tins and packets of chemicals that were scattered around the chapel, checking the supplies one last time. ‘You need to add some mercury fulminate to this lot. Can you forage some?’

  ‘You can’t scavenge any of this stuff. We have to buy it.’

  ‘Who from?’ asked Bo.

  ‘I have my sources. But they want gold. You can’t barter for weaponry and explosives.’

  ‘We have some gold. You can have it. We haven’t used it,’ said Bo, turning to Callum expectantly.

  Callum was outraged. He clutched his belt, covering the green leather wallet with both hands. ‘Forget it! I’m not giving him my gold! He wants to blow up the Colony, Bo. I’m not helping him.’

  ‘You don’t have to give me anything,’ said Roc. ‘I could take it from you if I wanted.’

  Bo instantly regretted her suggestion. She stood up and crossed the chapel to stand beside Callum. ‘I’m on Callum’s side. If he doesn’t want to help you, then neither do I.’

  Roc put his hands on his hips. ‘Listen, boy,’ he said, looking straight at Callum, ‘I’m not your enemy. I grew up in the Colony too. I understand you better than you think. You’re scared I’m going to hurt your old men. But I’m not interested in destroying South Head right now. There are factions in the city that trade in lost boys and run sweatshops where kids work until they drop. They’re my next target and they’re enemies of the Colony. Haven’t you heard that saying, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend”? For now, we’re on the same side.’

  ‘Flakie said you’re going to bring down the Nekhbet Tower,’ said Callum.

  ‘Most of the Colony have abandoned it so you shouldn’t care. Your old men are probably on South Head. So I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll leave the Tower alone for now and help you get into the Colony.’

  ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘If you have gold, we can make an exchange. My knowledge for your stash.’

  ‘You said you could take it.’

  ‘I’m not a bully. I’m a leader. I never force a boy to do anything if I can bargain with him first.’

  Bo put one arm around Callum. ‘Do what you think is right,’ she said. Even though Callum’s expression was fiercely angry, she could feel him hesitating. Suddenly, she realised how much she wanted him to part with the gold. She bit her tongue to
stop herself from arguing Roc’s case. Mr Pinkwhistle started to growl and his spine undulated with anxiety. Bo knew he was sensing the tension in the air: fear, uncertainty and indecision.

  Callum untied the green leather bag from his belt and threw it at Roc’s feet.

  ‘Good call,’ said Roc. ‘Let’s go and join the celebrations.’

  Behind the dilapidated mansion, in the open space that was once tennis courts, the Festers had built a bonfire. Teams of bigger boys stood raking the coals at the edge of the fire, while the small ones picked among the ashes, flicking smouldering chunks onto container lids.

  ‘Dinner,’ said Roc, inviting Callum and Bo to join a group squatting around a wide dish covered with small, smoking brown lumps.

  Bo reached down and picked one up. It smelt warm and nutty but it was hard to identify by firelight.

  ‘Try it,’ said Roc.

  Callum picked one up too and popped it in his mouth. ‘Crunchy,’ he said.

  ‘Mine’s chewy. Chewy and nutty,’ said Bo, reaching for another. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Roasted cicada,’ said Roc. ‘Maybe a few roasted crickets too – they’re the crunchy ones. Cicada’s mostly chewy.’ He scooped up a handful of bugs and crammed them into his mouth.

  Callum gagged and spat a mangled cricket back into his hand but Bo took another cicada and bit it in half. Roc smiled at her, his pale eyes sparkling in the firelight.

  When the meal was finished, the Festers threw more timber on the bonfire, building it high. Some boys went to sit in the trees, some in the long grass, or they clustered in small groups on the edge of the tennis courts. Suddenly, as one, they all began to hum. The sound rose up into the night air like the whirr of small wings.

  Festie picked up a stick and began to slowly tap out a rhythm on a broken tin. Then Roc walked to the front of the crowd with four of the other boys and started to clap a different rhythm that worked in and around the beat Festie was drumming.

  Bo tipped her head to one side and listened closely. The rhythms made her heart change its pace. When the beat was established, six of the bigger boys started to make a deeper humming noise that rolled under all the other sounds. Bo’s skin felt warm, as if the sound was making it tingle. Tier after tier of boys joined in with their own cries, while the steady beat of Festie’s makeshift drum wove in and out of the voices and around the clapping.