Tomorrow 2 - The Dead Of The Night

by John Marsden

  ‘Let’s get off the road,’ Robyn said. ‘In fact, let’s get out of here.’ Even as she spoke I caught a glimpse of lights in the distance: the dimmed headlights of a convoy beginning the long climb up the road towards the cutting. The thoughts were queueing up in my mind so fast that they were crashing into the back of each other. The convoy was coming from the oppo­site direction to the way the soldier had fled. How long would it take her to get help? Would she be able to communicate with the convoy? I grabbed Chris.

  ‘Check the road. Where did they drop their guns?’

  ‘Just back here.’

  ‘Grab them. And anything else. Everyone else up to the cutting. Fi, you take Homer. Put the nails out and be ready.’

  I ran back with Chris. We picked up two guns, one an old .303; the other a more modern automatic weapon that I didn’t recognise. With them was a small pack. I tore it open and pulled out what I’d hoped to find: a small two-way radio. Chances were they wouldn’t have more than one radio in each patrol.

  ‘Where’s your stuff? Yours and Homer’s?’

  ‘Still in there.’ Chris pointed to the bush behind us. I grabbed my torch and looked at Chris.

  ‘What if they’re still alive?’ he asked.

  I paused, then shrugged, and led the way into the scrub. We only had to go a few metres of course. In the torchlight I could see blood on the grass, then some scratched up earth. That led me to a body: a soldier on his back, eyes open, but dead. His chest looked like two giant hands had taken it and ripped it open. I swung the torch around and saw the two packs, and the bloodied sawn-off shotgun near them. Chris picked up the packs as I got the shotgun, trying not to shudder as my hands touched the sticky butt. I straightened up and at that moment heard the worst sound in the world, a sob and a squeal. I swung the torch around. I could see his boots, about ten metres away, sticking out from under a little acacia. I walked over there, as Chris backed away. I despised him for that, but wished I could have done the same. I parted the branches of the bush and shone the torch down on the man. It was amazing that he’d been able to crawl even those few yards. He was lying twisted to one side, with his right hand stretched out to the trunk of the wattle, holding it lightly. His other hand was holding his stomach. He was whimpering occa­sionally but I don’t think he was conscious. There was blood all around him, some of it smeared across the ground but fresh red blood pumping out from under his stomach. It looked thick and treacly. His hand was trying to hold bits of his stomach in but I could see all kinds of things, disgusting things, entrails and stuff. I walked over to Chris. I knew how my face must have looked to him: cold and hard, no expression. ‘Which is Homer’s pack?’ I asked him. He gave it to me and I searched inside. There were at least a dozen shells rolling around loose. I only took one, loaded the shotgun, and went straight back to the soldier and held it to his temple; then, Jesus help me, without thinking about it, deliberately not letting myself think, I pulled the trigger.

  After that everything was a wild rush. I figured we had about two minutes. My ears were ringing with the noise of the shotgun. I ignored that and ignored what I’d just done. We ran like hell up the road to the cutting. The others had put out the nails. I almost trod on one. They were fifteen centimetres long, each hammered through a piece of wood which served as a base and kept them upright. Fi was waiting for us. She was so white I thought she’d gone albino.

  ‘What was the shot?’ she asked, trembling all over.

  ‘Nothing Fi. Be brave.’ I touched her arm and ran up to the other three. ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Yes, but ... what about the one who escaped? Won’t she ...?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I found a two-way. I can’t believe they’d have more than one radio.’

  ‘Hope you’re right,’ said Robyn.

  ‘She’s right,’ said Lee, grimly.

  In one of those strange crazy flashes of intuition I realised how much Lee wanted us to make this attack; if tanks had been rolling straight at us I don’t think he would have moved. He was very into honour, and revenge.

  Homer looked calmer but he hadn’t spoken. He had a bottle in each hand.

  I could hear the trucks now; the leading ones were dropping a gear, so were probably close to the cutting. I grabbed my bottles, and fished out the cigarette lighter. The dull headlights of the first truck were starting to show through the trees. The convoys always had their headlights covered by some stuff that kept the light down to a soft glow. I guess they were scared of air attacks, but we didn’t see too many of our planes these days, so I’d say these drivers felt pretty safe.

  We were hoping to change that.

  Now the straining engines relaxed; there were several quick gear changes and the trucks started to roll, gathering speed through the cutting. We had placed ourselves on a bank so that as they came out of the cutting we’d be above them, on a curve. We reckoned they would be travelling fast, easing across the road towards us as they entered the bend. And we were right. They sure did accelerate. They seemed to be there in an instant. The roar of the engines was suddenly coming straight at us, unobstructed by any more trees or banks. I had a good view of the first three, all of them trucks, dark green in colour, tray-tops, with gates and tarps. Then everything went wild. The first truck seemed to blow both its front tyres at the same moment. It was like a bomb going off. There was an almighty explosion. I couldn’t believe how loud it was, nor how much smoke. Bits of rubber, strips of rubber, went shredding across the road. The truck slid straight across the road at high speed, back tyres screaming, and slammed against a tree. The second truck must have missed all the nails, because it kept its tyres intact; but in trying to miss the other vehicle it wobbled wildly across the road as the driver fought to keep control. It finally straightened up again fifty metres past us and accelerated away. I was disgusted. I couldn’t believe that the driver would desert his mates like that. But I was more interested in the next few in the convoy. The third one blew out a front tyre with another huge bang, and so much more white smoke poured out that it became hard to see anything. But I saw enough to satisfy me, as this truck followed the same route as the first. It slewed wildly across the road and slammed heavily and hard into the back of the other one. The fourth one blew a rear tyre and did a 360, ending up fifty metres away and in the middle of the road. The fifth one stopped so hard that it sat there shuddering for a moment before the one behind it slammed into its rear. I heard a couple more crashes back in the cutting, but it was now impossible to tell what was happening. There was so much smoke, and the noise was like the end of the world.

  I saw a flaming torch fly through the air towards the fifth truck, and realised Lee had gone into action. I needed that to spur me back into life. I lit my first cocktail, waited a second, and threw it in the same direction as Lee’s, then followed fast with my second one. The others had joined in. For a minute the air was full of hot shooting stars. I could see plenty of flame through the smoke, so something was burning, but there were no explosions. A gun opened up; an automatic weapon of some kind, firing wildly at first, through the trees above us, but gradually lowering its aim until it was just above our heads.

  We all got out fast, crouching low and snaking through the tearing, wild, brambly scrub. Homer was just ahead of me; I realised he was still carrying his Molotov cocktails. He hadn’t thrown them. I called out ‘Drop the bottles Homer’, which he did, and for a moment I thought I’d caused a disaster, because at the exact moment the bottles hit the ground there was an explosion so vast that the ground heaved under my feet. It took me a second to realise that the explosion was behind us, and hadn’t come from Homer’s bottles at all. Then a shock wave hit me, almost knocking me over, followed by a blast of heat, a dry airless heat. It felt like someone had opened the door of a steel furnace. I steadied myself, got my balance again, and started to run. The others – the ones I could see – were doing the same. I heard trees screeching as they split and fell behind me. We sure as hell weren’t going
to win any conservation awards. I ran on. I wasn’t too frightened though. I knew that they could never and would never follow us through the bush. This was our natural environment. I felt as much at home here as the possums and wombats and galahs. Let no stranger intrude here, no invader tres­pass. This was ours, and this we would defend.

  Chapter Five

  I was feeling pretty unusual, walking back across the paddocks. I imagined a huge shadow of me was moving across the sky, attached to me, and keeping pace with my little body on the earth. It scared me, really scared me, but I couldn’t escape it. It loomed over me, a silent dark creature growing out of my feet. I knew that if I reached out to feel it I would feel nothing. That’s the way shadows are. But all the same, the air around me seemed colder and darker, as the shadow clung to me. I wondered if this was the way my life would always be from now on, and if for every person I killed the shadow would grow larger, darker, more monstrous.

  I looked across at the others. I tried to focus my gaze on them, and gradually, by doing that, my shadow faded away. Then, as though I’d had a rush of blood to the eyes, I suddenly started seeing them very strongly. I became very aware of everyone, of the way they all looked. Maybe it was the light or some­thing. Suddenly they were on a huge movie screen, with the clouds and the darkening sky behind. It wasn’t like I was seeing them for the first time; it was like I was seeing them as others would have. I was seeing them the way strangers, outsiders would.

  We were all wearing clothing that camouflaged well. We did that as a matter of course, these days. I sometimes had a terrible longing to wear bright and colourful clothes again, but there was no chance of that yet. And this day I wanted only my khaki and grey; I wanted it to cling to my body, to be my mourning suit.

  We were spread out across two paddocks in quite open country. It was dangerous but probably not too bad. The only real risk was from the air, but we thought we’d hear planes or helicopters in enough time to take cover. There were plenty of trees around.

  It had been a long walk. God I was tired. We all were. Chris had his head down and was trailing a bit. With my new vision I saw how small and lightly built he was: a fair-haired serious boy who looked a bit younger than the rest of us. Across from him, and fifty metres in front, was Fi, who even now in her exhaustion walked gracefully, as though her feet needed only to brush the ground on each step to keep propelling her forward. She was looking around as she walked, like a wild swan searching for water. Not for the first time I wished I had a quarter of her style. When you looked at her you forgot that her clothes were as grubby as yours, her body as smelly and dirty. She had class without being conscious that she had it; that was her secret, and because I knew that, I would never have it.

  Well, that was one reason I would never have it.

  A hundred metres to my left was Homer, almost out of sight among a line of thin poplars that had been planted as a windbreak. He was big and burly, looking more like a bear than ever as he walked with his shoulders hunched up, his face closed against the cold wind. It was hard to tell what he was going through. He’d been in trouble so many times in his life that he should have been used to it. But this was just a bit different. I still didn’t know whether to be angry at him or not. He’d broken one of our agreements, but my anger at that was overlaid with my pity and horror at what he’d done, and my confusion because he’d probably been right and we’d been wrong. There’d been no time to check how he was feeling, to see if he was OK. That would have to wait till we were back in the peace and safety of Hell. Meanwhile, thinking about how he might be feeling helped me avoid thinking about how I was feeling.

  On the other flank was Robyn. Looking at her I thought of those old-time heroes. Those old kings for instance, who’d all had titles to go with their names: Edward the Confessor, Ethelred the Unready, Wil­liam the Conqueror. Robyn was Robyn the Daunt­less. When things were going quietly and normally she kept a low profile. But when the going got tough, Robyn grabbed the axe, swung it round her head, and charged. In the most frightening times, the most horrifying moments, she was at her best. Nothing seemed to deter her. Maybe she felt nothing could touch her. I don’t know. Even now she was walking along quite casually, head up. I had the impression that she was singing something even, by the way she was tapping her left hand on her thigh.

  The other one who was pretty up was Lee. The night we wrecked the bridge he was happy, but he hadn’t been able to do much because of his wounded leg. This time we’d done a lot of damage – we knew that – and Lee had been in the thick of it. Lee always moved like a thoroughbred racehorse when we were out in the open or walking a big distance, and now he moved along eagerly, head pointing forward, long legs covering k after k. Occasionally he looked across and smiled at me, or winked. I didn’t know whether to be pleased that he was feeling so proud, or worried that he was enjoying killing people and wrecking things. At least it made life less complicated for him.

  As for me, my mind was so crowded that thoughts were being squeezed out of my ears. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find them dripping from my nos­trils. There was just too much to cope with. Instead I shoved it all away and started going through French irregular verbs. Je vis, tu vis, il vit, nous vivons, vous vivez, ils vivent. Je meurs, tu meurs, il meurt, nous mourons, vous mourez, ils meurent. It seemed safer doing that than thinking about our ambush, and it seemed to keep my huge dark shadow from haunting me for a little bit longer.

  We got back to my place in the last moments of daylight. I didn’t go in the house this time. Already it was starting to look unfamiliar, as though it were just an old building we’d lived in once, a long time ago. You could tell it was unoccupied. The lawn had grown wildly, all straggly and confused. One of the bow windows in the dining room had cracked right across, I don’t know how. Maybe a bird had flown into it. Half the grape vine had fallen off the trellis and was now dragging across the path and garden. That was my fault. Dad had told me a dozen times to tie it on better.

  The faithful Land Rover was waiting patiently in the bushes, hidden from prying eyes. I drove it to the shed and filled it with petrol. We were lucky we had our petrol in an overhead tank, so I could gravity-feed it to the car. Eventually though, we’d run out of petrol. I didn’t know what we’d do then. I sighed, twisted the hose to cut off the flow, and climbed back up onto the tank to shut down the valve. Running out of fuel was only one of so many problems.

  Our work for the evening was just beginning. We drove out to a property right up in the hills. It was a small place that I’d forgotten about, owned by people called King, whom I’d only met once, at the Post Office. He was a part-time social worker at the Hospi­tal and she taught music at the Primary School two days a week. But their real interest was in becoming self-sufficient. They’d built this little mud-brick place on some land they’d bought from Mr Rowntree – poor land too, and they’d paid a premium price. Dad thought they’d been ripped off. Anyway, they were out there at the end of a dirt road with no electricity and no phone, running a mixture of cattle and pigs and chooks and geese and coloured sheep, with a couple of very grubby, very shy kids.

  The scene there was the usual depressing sight. Decaying buildings and fences, too many carcasses, a paddock full of hungry sheep who’d eaten all the feed in it and were very thin and wonky. At least we saved them by opening their gates. I hoped the work parties were allowed to feed and move stock: a lot of animals would need hand-feeding to get them through win­ter, and some places should have started already, if they wanted the stock kept in prime condition.

  I’d half thought the Kings might have still been there, hiding, but there was no sign of them. I think Mrs King had some of her violin students performing at the Show, so they’d probably gone into town that day and been caught. But in the house, and in the shiny new galvanised-iron shed behind it, we struck a jackpot. Bags of spuds and flour, jars of preserves, a carton of canned peaches that they’d got cheap because the cans were dented. Chook food, tea and coff
ee, and a dozen bottles of homebrew, which Chris eagerly carried to the car. Rice, sugar, rolled oats, cooking oil, home-made jam, chutney. Tragically, no chocolate.

  When we’d finished, we grabbed all the bags we could find and headed off to the fruit trees. The trees were young but, despite the possums and parrots, were bearing well. I’ll never forget the first crunchy juicy bite of the first crisp hard Jonathan I picked. I’ve never seen anything so white and pure, never tasted anything so fruity. We’d eaten the apples at Corrie’s a few days earlier, but these seemed different. It wasn’t really that the apples were different of course; it must be that I was different. I was looking for absolution and in some strange way the fruit gave it to me. I know that once you lose your innocence you never can get it back, but the immaculate whiteness of the apple made me feel that not everything in the world was rotten and corrupt; that some things could still be pure. The sweet flavour filled my mouth, a few drops running down my chin.

  We stripped the trees. Johnnies, Grannies, Fujis, pears and quinces. I ate five apples and got a bit poohy again, but I felt a little better, a little more alive, after picking that beautiful fruit, that cool sharp evening.

  Our last pick-up was an impulse. We were back in the Landie, bumping slowly down the road, all very quiet. I had the parking lights on, because we were under a canopy of trees, so it seemed safe. Driving at night without lights is nightmarishly frightening. Of all the things we’d done since the invasion, that was almost the scariest. It was like driving in nothing, in a dark limbo. It was weird, and no matter how much I did it I never seemed to get used to it.

  Anyway, in the little light we had, I saw a couple of pairs of eyes peeping curiously towards us. Most of the stock we passed these days was already getting quite wild and running away, but these little critters didn’t. Bad luck for them that they didn’t. They were two lambs, about six months old, black wool, and probably twins. I’d guess their mother had died, but not till they were old enough to wean themselves. They were in good nick.