Tomorrow 6 - The Night is for Hunting

by John Marsden

  I ran back to the motorbike. As I did I glanced behind me. Someone turned the corner into the cor­ridor at that exact moment. I couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman, young or old, but I saw their rifle. I swung around and fired from the hip and they ducked back as fast as they’d appeared.

  My problem now was that Homer might be crouched by the keyhole and he mightn’t be able to hear my voice through the thick door. The noise of the motorbike didn’t help. I couldn’t afford to turn the bike off in case it didn’t start again. I knew there was a risk that I was about to shoot my best mate, but I had to take the risk. I yelled through the door, ‘Homer, I’m going to shoot the lock,’ and I pressed the end of the barrel to the keyhole. I pulled the trigger. It only made a little hole but it seemed to have blown away the vital bits. I kicked the door open.

  Well, I hadn’t shot Homer, but I nearly knocked him out with the swinging door. I guess I did kick it pretty hard. The first sight I had was of him spinning backwards as the door struck his shoulder. He was a pretty frightening sight anyway: dried blood all over him, his clothes torn, and a horrible messy open wound on one knee. For a second I thought the bul­let had got him, but then common sense told me he would be a lot worse off if I’d shot him at that range. Anyway I could see where the bullet had hit. It mightn’t have done much damage to the door lock but it made up for that when it hit the back wall. Slabs of plaster were still falling as I stood there.

  I virtually ignored Homer, just grabbed the bike, pulled it up, and got on. I didn’t need to tell Homer what to do. I felt the bike sag as he threw himself on behind, then felt his big arms grab me round the waist. Even after all he’d been through the strength was still there. ‘Get the rifle,’ I yelled back at him, and I felt one arm release my waist, so I assumed he had it. I straightened the bike and took off. Instead of going the way I’d come I went the only other possible way, down a new corridor to my right.

  It was a short corridor and a moment later we came burning into a huge area that seemed to be a breakfast room or something. I didn’t exactly get time to study it in detail, but there was a big dining table and a bunch of old stuffed armchairs, and a wall full of books. Two or three people scattered as we charged in. To avoid one of them I did a quick turn around one of the armchairs. Homer wasn’t expecting it so the turn ended up being pretty slow, with his weight working against me. As we did it though, he fired a shot. I accelerated, knocking over a small table. A collection of jugs and vases went fly­ing. Even above the engine noise I heard the crash as they hit the floor and shattered. We burned out of that room with the rear of the bike fishtailing, threw a right, and charged through the proper dining room. The table was set for a meal and I realised, glancing sideways, that Homer was holding the rifle out and running it along the whole length of the table. Dishes and cups were spinning in all directions, but they all ended up in the same place: fragmenting on the pol­ished wooden floor.

  It was the same story in the lounge room. I had a strong feeling that behind me, Homer was enjoying getting his revenge. There was so much furniture scattered around the lounge room that I had to use my feet a lot to balance, to turn, to get around arm­chairs and coffee tables. It was like a slalom course, with Homer amusing himself by smashing every­thing within reach. I gripped the handles so tightly that I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to get my hands open again. The exhaust fumes, and the continuous roaring of the loud engine in the enclosed spaces had my head throbbing and my ears going deaf. But even through my blocked ears I heard Homer’s next shot. Mainly because he fired past my right ear. It hap­pened so quickly that I nearly fell off the bike in shock. There was a flash and a blast and a burning blur of flame that scorched my neck.

  Bloody Homer. I should have left him in his cell. That wasn’t the kind of thing we’d been taught to do with guns.

  I think he was just clearing the way. And a moment later we were in the kitchen. That took me by surprise, a bit, because I didn’t think we were even near it. I’d gotten confused by all the different rooms, the twists and turns. But there we were, back on familiar territory. In fact our packs were still there, on the bench next to the sink. From my quick glance I thought they’d unpacked one of them but left the others still stuffed. Guess our visit had been a bit late for them to bother with tidying up. I braked sharply beside them.

  ‘What?’ Homer shouted.

  ‘Grab them!’ I said.

  He hesitated, but I guess one advantage of being so stubborn and pig-headed is that people sometimes find it easier to go along with what I want than have a stand-off. Homer grabbed one pack then another and shoved them in between us. With his wide arms he could hold them OK but two was all he could manage.

  The stop for the packs was a bad idea though. There hadn’t been time for it. At the other end of the kitchen was the door to the outside. That was our tar­get. I revved the bike, planning to ride the length of the kitchen, then have Homer open the door. Suddenly though, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Suddenly we were in big trouble. A guy came from the sitting room and another guy came from some­where down the end, to the left. I don’t know how he got in; I hadn’t noticed a door there last night, but maybe it was an exit to the coolroom or the laundry.

  The trouble was they were both armed and both shooting as they came. They weren’t stupid, these two. It was like they were using the bullets as their shield.

  It’s hard to shoot someone when you’re being shot at. We both ducked as low as we’ve ever been, and I accelerated along the side of the kitchen, hoping the big solid benches would give us protection. It all happened in a flicker. I wondered what we’d do at the end of the benches. It was lucky the Whittakers had such a big kitchen, but that luck was about to give out.

  The shooting was wild. These guys had their guns on automatic and they seemed to have unlimited ammunition. Windows shattered to my right, in a continuous noisy waterfall of glass, and the contain­ers and appliances on the shelves exploded. We were in as much danger from flying fragments of glass and porcelain as from bullets. It was like hundreds of mosquitoes screaming around the room. The noise was unbelievable, beyond pain. I’ve never been caught inside a computer game and never likely to be, but that’s how it felt. I got stung on the cheek, thought for a horrible moment that it was a bullet but realised straightaway that it couldn’t be, started to brake as we got to the end of the kitchen, still did­n’t have a clue what to do, then, almost like a dream saw the door open in front of me, gunned the bike, put my head down again, and went for it, not sure who or what had opened the door, not sure who or what would be on the other side, just knew it was our last and only chance. I felt a bullet whiz above my head as we went through, and suddenly, there we were out in beautiful daylight and open air.

  And then found to my horror that I had to stop.

  Just at the moment when I thought we had a chance. Just at the moment when I could see the soft blue hills in the distance.

  Gavin again. That little bugger. We owed him our lives but it was a confusing moment. It was like he’d given us a glimpse of freedom, then snatched it away. It seemed cruel. I slammed on the brakes as Gavin slammed the kitchen door shut behind us. He was no fool, that kid. He knew what an extra second was worth. Then, like a regular little stuntman, he took a racing dive onto the bike, on top of the packs, between Homer and me. I realised I hadn’t even needed to stop completely. We were still slowing down and there he was, wriggling around behind me. I didn’t wait to see if he was OK, just turned the throt­tle up again. Maybe we still had a chance after all.

  We must have looked a bizarre sight. Three people and two packs on one bike. I discovered how overloaded the whole thing was when I tried to make a fast turn to the left, and nearly lost it. Nearly put it down. The front wheel wobbled wildly and the back one slid away. I planted a leg and with sheer strength pulled it back up. But I knew we couldn’t go far like this. It would have been OK in peacetime, just going out to a paddock. I’d often taken unbalanc
ed loads on a bike. I usually had a couple of dogs, for a start and I sometimes came back with a sheep on my knees over the petrol tank. But here, even if we pulled off a miracle and got clear of the house, we wouldn’t get far before the inevitable pursuers caught us.

  I decided on one more risk. I saw two older men running around the corner of the building, fifty metres to my right, but they weren’t armed. They were yelling to people I couldn’t see, and they gave the general impression they didn’t quite know what to do. I’m sure there were people at the other end of the house too, but the machinery shed, where I wanted to go, would be just out of their sight.

  I skidded the bike around in another tight turn and accelerated into the shadows of the shed. Last time I’d been here, locked in the car boot, it had been a place of terror and darkness. I was astonished to think that was probably only ten minutes ago. Now our one chance of escaping this nightmare was in the machinery shed.

  I pulled up next to the best bike left there, a Suzuki. Homer didn’t need any instructions; neither did Gavin. Homer seemed to leap from one bike to the other. I’ve never seen him move so fast. As he started the Suzuki, Gavin chucked a pack in front of Homer, then jumped back on behind me. I appreci­ated the vote of confidence. In fact I was surprised by it. His tense hands gripped my hips. He couldn’t grab much else with the swollen pack stuck between us. As soon as Homer’s bike was running, I was off. I didn’t wait for him. I mono’d my Yamaha through the shed to the other side, then, once we were in sunlight again, spun it round, put my head down, and slaugh­tered it.

  Wow, did we move. Gavin had been hanging on tight before but now he gripped me like he was free-falling and I had the only parachute. We went along the flat faster than electricity. I glanced around and saw the dust furling out behind us, and Homer a bit further back, swerving and zigzagging. Which reminded me that I should be doing the same thing. We were going fast all right, but not as fast as a bul­let. At least with Gavin’s light weight on the back it was easier to keep the bike balanced.

  As the flat started to run out I swerved to the right and up the hill. We kangaroo-hopped over a hundred metres of corrugations, then jolted at a crazy speed through a rabbit warren. An old fenceline lay ahead, but it was easy to find a gap. And through that was the black bitumen of the road.

  I flung the bike to the right in a racing turn. I was kind of admiring my style when Gavin spoilt it by bashing me hard on the shoulder. It scared me. I thought he was warning me of something, most likely people chasing us. I didn’t think they’d have been that quick though. I glanced around at him, reluctant to slow down or lose my concentration.

  He pointed behind us, and as I looked at him a moment longer, trying to work out what the hell he was on about, he shouted, above the roar of the engine: ‘Fi.’

  I still had no idea what he meant, but I knew I couldn’t keep going towards safety while Gavin was pointing in the opposite direction and yelling Fi’s name.

  I skidded to a halt. A second later Homer ripped up beside us. ‘What did you stop for?’ he yelled. His face was all covered with dust. That’s what happens when you come second.

  ‘I think Fi’s back there,’ I yelled at him.

  Kicking down into first I swung the bike around. As I blasted away Homer, who was still turning, got another faceful of dust. I had other things on my mind though. Just when I thought we were getting clear of the Whittakers’, we had to ride back into the jaws of the place. It seemed incredibly unfair.

  Luckily we only had to go a few hundred metres. We rounded a small bare hill, and suddenly, from out of the bushes at the base of the hill came a wild-looking figure. She could have been a distressed angel, blonde hair all mussed up, distraught look on her face, arms reaching out. ‘I’ve lost Gavin,’ she said. Then she saw him. She didn’t seem to know whether to embrace him or hit him. But there wasn’t time for either. She hesitated but I yelled at her, ‘Get on Homer’s.’

  I spun around yet again and took off flat chat. I didn’t see Fi’s reaction when she saw Homer’s blood­ied face and body, but I did catch a glimpse of Homer as Fi climbed on behind him. That sleazebag, even at a time like this he had a little smile when Fi’s arms went around his waist. She wasn’t hanging on too tightly though. It looked like she’d fly off at the first bad pothole.

  Maybe she was safer that way.

  We raced along the road for a couple of kilo­metres. I got the Triton up to 110 k’s. I’d love to have stayed on the road longer, enjoying the smooth ride, but we had to assume the people at the house would have been on the phone to the authorities ten minutes ago, so the chase could be coming from two different directions. I kept searching right and left for the best place to leave the road, and finally found it when a big patch of rocks loomed up ahead. Rocks were perfect for us because we’d leave no tracks.

  Homer and Fi had dropped a bit behind – their Suzuki wasn’t as fast as our Yamaha – but they were still in sight, so they could see what we were doing. I didn’t need to put on the blinkers to make my turn.

  It was a tough gig, going up those rocks. There were plenty of patches of grass, but I wanted to stay off them as much as possible. The flat stretches of rock were fine, but quite steep, and of course there was no traction. I had to manhandle the big heavy bike up a lot of it. I think Gavin on the back was hav­ing some kind of reaction to all the excitement, which wasn’t surprising. He sat there crouched over like a little jockey, not helping at all.

  I didn’t have time to do anything about him: all my energy and concentration were on getting up that hill.

  We were about halfway up when the road started getting busy. A couple of four-wheel drives raced past, going towards the Whittakers’. I was more-or-less walking the bike at the time so I heard them coming and was able to get into the shadows and lean the bike against a tall boulder while I struggled to get my breath. Looking down the hill I saw Homer and Fi hiding behind another boulder. I wondered how Homer was going, with all his injuries. At least he had Fi to help him. Gavin seemed to have lost all his strength.

  As soon as the cars had gone we resumed the long grunt. There was one big flat area, quite unexpected, all grass, and I left tracks on that. We accelerated across it, and from then on the going was better: not so steep, with smaller rocks. I went another two kilo­metres, then stopped again. I put the bike on its stand and waited for the other two. They got there about four minutes later.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve got to keep going,’ Homer said. He looked awful, grey and sweaty, although not so bloody now. ‘They got such a good look at us at the airfield, and once they sit down and compare notes with the people at the farm ...’ He had to pause for breath. ‘It won’t take them long to work out that we’re number one on the most wanted.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, impatient about all that stuff. I’d already figured that out. ‘But which way do we go?’

  ‘What about out around the Mingles?’ Homer said. ‘And then across the bridge near Holloway. They won’t be able to follow us that far, and even if they did, it wouldn’t point them to Hell.’

  ‘Have you got enough petrol?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, should get us most of the way, if the gauge is accurate.’

  I didn’t have the breath or the energy to argue. I pushed the bike off its stand. Gavin said, ‘I’m going with Homer,’ and jumped on his bike. Fi shrugged and got on mine. We blasted away again, over the last of the rocks and into the bush.

  Some of that day was actually pretty good. Sure the tiredness got worse and worse. The physical exer­tion of the climb, after a sleepless night on an empty stomach, and the emotional exhaustion after such a series of horrible events combined to steal my legs of strength and my heart of courage. I kind of blanked out for a while – in fact for most of the morning – and rode in a coma. Fi kept prodding me to keep me awake. But there’s something about the bush that calms you. I try not to get sentimental about it, because I know how cruel it can be, and
I saw what it did to Darina, but all the same, sometimes it does make you feel better. We’d have visitors from the city, and they’d get all gooey and sentimental. I remember two friends of Mum’s looking out across the creek at a flock of ducks on the other bank, and saying, ‘Aren’t they beautiful? What a peaceful scene.’ I just stared at the ladies in total disbelief. At the time the ducks were engaged in a screaming brawl, a full-on civil war, racing around with wings flapping, feathers fly­ing, voices squawking, like they wanted to kill each other.

  So it’s no good kidding yourself about the bush, or about nature for that matter.

  I knew all that, but I still couldn’t resist the power of the place. At one stage we were riding through a euca­lypt forest, trees quite widely spaced, no undergrowth. It was so easy, so relaxing. Tall white trunks, fawn bark peeling off them, little brown birds darting from one to the next. There were no bright colours to hurt the eye. Quiet, fresh, self-contained. It wasn’t paradise – far from it – but it would do me.

  Just after noon my bike ran out of petrol and we dumped it in a billabong. We shared the other bike for another hour. It carried two people and the two packs. We agreed that when Homer’s bike ran out we’d shout ourselves lunch. We were being tough, making ourselves wait, but we needed to be a long way from the farm before stopping. I found myself waiting desperately for a cough or splutter from the Suzuki, hoping for a signal that it was nearly empty.

  At last, at 1.15, it gave its last sad shudder and died. We chucked it in a patch of blackberries.

  The silence felt weird. I’d become so used to the roaring of the motorbikes and it took a while to get used to the difference. We had a nice picnic though. Gavin watched wolfishly as we opened a pack. It had been so long since we’d stolen the food that I couldn’t remember what we’d put in them. Sadly, it seemed like we hadn’t brought the pack with my favourite cashews and the other nuts. We did find rice snacks, and the bananas and oranges I’d thrown on the top at the last minute.