by John Marsden
Despite that a reflex was bringing my rifle up and making my finger curl around the trigger. I started feeling very weird, like all the air had left my lungs, left my body. It wasn’t a desperate feeling exactly, just the sensation that I’d been emptied of air. I didn’t think about it particularly; it was just a very strange aspect to the whole thing.
Six against three. In fact that wasn’t quite right. It was seven against four, only I didn’t know it. Seven of them, four of us. The fourth for us was Kevin. The seventh for them was a woman soldier abseiling down the rock face, swinging out over the steepest cliff in Satan’s Steps. As Kevin cut the rope.
I wonder how much warning she got. She must have known something was wrong, something was terribly wrong, as the rope began to ripple and shudder. The first I knew was the scream as she fell. God, that scream. Her voice filled Hell. It was a wail, it was a shriek, it was pure agony. Every time I think about it the skin on the back of my neck goes cold, like someone’s put an ice block there. Time freezes over and I forget what I’m doing, I go a bit catatonic, reliving that scream.
Funny, that’s what happens now when I think about it. At the time my mind worked a little better than that. Somewhere in my most primitive being I knew that the scream of the falling woman, a scream that would curdle milk and curdle blood, a scream that seemed to last half a minute, a scream that came from the deepest pit of hell itself, gave us our only chance.
While the enemy soldiers stood transfixed, as though a funnel-web spider had injected them with a paralysing venom, I squeezed the trigger with my right index finger.
The bang-bang-bang-bang of the automatic weapon, with the background of screams as the woman fell and fell, made the most horrible music I’ve ever heard.
It only lasted for a moment. The thump of the woman hitting the ground put an end to it. I hardly noticed that. Already other bodies were falling. They didn’t have so far to go, but their destination was the same. Another noise joined in, as Homer and Lee began firing. I don’t think they were more than a second behind me, but a lot of living and dying can happen in a second.
We kept firing for a bit longer but there was no need. Where a moment before there had been half-a-dozen soldiers alive and alert, now there were bodies torn apart by the force of bullets. Blood and pieces of flesh and scraps of uniform were everywhere, and my beautiful Hell had been destroyed forever. There was nothing but death in front of us. It truly was hell now.
Oddly enough the most intact body was that of the woman who fell.
Homer hurried to her, the one whose death scream had saved our lives, and checked her pulse. It didn’t take long. But it was Lee who caught my attention. He swapped his rifle, which had jammed, for one of the dead soldier’s and straightening up said to me, ‘One of them got away’.
‘Oh no.’
‘Yeah, he ran off past the cliff there. But he left his rifle.’
‘What the hell do we do about him?’
Homer came over to join us. ‘Leave him,’ he said briskly. I was about to interrupt, to protest strongly, but Homer went straight on.
‘He hasn’t got a rifle. We could waste a week looking and still not find him. We’d be better off to get Fi and the ferals and join up with Kevin and Ryan again. In the long term that’s the only way to go.’
As so often happened, Homer had seen the problem clearly and figured out the solution. Well, maybe not the solution, but the best plan.
I was very conscious that Fi and the little kids would have heard the shots and the screams and be in a state of panic. Even Gavin would have just about heard the noise, and that’s saying something. It seemed pretty important to get to them fast, before they did anything stupid.
I hesitated another moment then followed the two boys. One thing was for sure, there was nothing I could do back there at the foot of Satan’s Steps.
We were only ten metres from the track. As soon as I met up with it again I swerved right and set off towards the clearing. Suddenly I heard a clamour of voices. Not girls’ voices and not little kids’ voices, not Fi and the ferals, but Homer and Lee and some other guy. The other guy sounded unhappy. Like, majorly unhappy. Like, crying and groaning and pleading.
I cocked my rifle again and started jogging. But I didn’t have to jog far. In this thick bush sound only travelled a short distance. Two more bends in the track and there they were.
If they ever run a show on TV called War’s Funniest Home Videos, with lots of amusing film of people getting wounded, blown up and killed, they’d have to find room for this one.
I’d never given a thought to the mantraps that Jack and Gavin had worked on so busily. Fair dinkum, if Booby Traps was a school subject, those two should have given a presentation at Speech Night.
To be honest, though, I’d never taken them seriously. Even though I’d nearly broken my ankle in Jack’s corrugations myself, I never believed in them.
Well, that had to change now.
Gavin’s main contribution had been a hole for people to fall in. He’d covered it with leaves and stuff. The trouble was, being Gavin, he’d thought it was a fantastic idea, and started on it with huge enthusiasm, but after a few hours digging, spread over a few days, he’d given up. Even with Lee’s help it hadn’t ever reached its potential. The original idea was to have it so deep that an enemy soldier would be impaled on sharp sticks at the bottom. But it was only a metre deep and there were no sharp sticks in it at all.
Perhaps that was just as well, because I don’t think I could have stomached seeing someone impaled the way Gavin planned.
What had happened though was that the soldier, running frantically from the massacre at the back of the cliffs, had dropped into it so heavily that it looked like he’d broken his leg.
Gavin was always getting the last laugh in this war. It was quite aggravating.
I wasn’t totally sure the man had broken his leg. He might have snapped a tendon or something. Whatever, he was in agony, twisting and turning around, and talking nonstop in his own language. I don’t know what he was saying. Half the time he sounded like he was begging, half the time like he was really angry. He’d dragged himself up over the edge of the hole but had stopped trying to get any further. He was in too much pain. Pain’s like that. No matter where it is on your body it still gets you in the gut.
None of us could be bothered with him. God I can’t believe how brutal we were getting, how callous. Homer just said: ‘Well, he isn’t going to give us any more trouble for a while.’ Lee and Homer started off again but I stopped them and said: ‘Look, hold the phone a sec, I think we’d better have someone go up the top, make sure there’re no more soldiers, and that Kevin’s OK.’
They stood there taking that in, thinking about it, then Lee said: ‘Yeah, you’re right, I’ll go.’
‘What about Ryan?’ Homer asked.
‘He’ll have to wait.’
It was getting so confusing, people everywhere, but we had to stay calm. We were all ready to faint with weariness, but somehow the energy had to be found, to keep on keeping on. We agreed with Lee on a signal, his green T-shirt tied to a tree on Wombegonoo if things were under control, Homer’s brown one if there was trouble. Homer pulled off his shirt with a primeval grunt and gave it to Lee who slipped away up the track, a phantom of the bush.
Watching him go, I felt that there was nothing out there that he couldn’t handle, no enemy too smart or too strong for him. I had at last learned to trust him again, completely.
Chapter Three
Homer said: ‘Let’s take it slow and steady along the side of the ridge and watch out for the slightest sign of trouble.’
We were all packing it pretty heavily. Fi had been beside herself when she heard the gunshots, and the kids were hysterical with fear. Even Gavin was the most nervous I’d ever seen him. When we went past the guy with the wrecked leg they stared at him like he had three heads and a bright-blue bum.
Fifty metres up the track we met Kevin and Lee, wh
o were bringing the prisoner down into Hell. Lee had suggested that the two soldiers should be together, so they could help each other, but I don’t think this woman was going to be much help to anyone. She looked off her head. It was like she wasn’t seeing anything. Her eyes didn’t focus on us. She had slobber drooling out of her mouth, and she was talking to herself in this strange singsong voice. She was young and strong, but being caught by us might have done something funny to her mind. Or maybe she was like that normally. Maybe she was on drugs, I don’t know.
I went back with Lee and we tied her to a tree, with constrictor knots. I had to harden my mind to do it, because there was always the chance that she wouldn’t get out of them and I kept having images of her skeleton still tied to the tree, years after she’d starved to death. But I honestly believed that in a few hours she’d get them undone. That was all the time we’d need. She ranted and raved while we were doing it, and she was certainly aware of us then, because she hissed and growled at me like a feral cat in a corner. What with that and the bloke with the crook leg, moaning and crying and begging, it was an ugly scene all round, and I wasn’t too unhappy about leaving them there and hurrying up to the top with the others.
No sooner had we got there, puffing and panting, than Gavin paid his way again. He was taking a leak against a tree trunk, half-a-dozen metres off the track. Just as he finished, he started waving urgently to us. A glint of metal, further in the bush, had caught his eye.
We ran in there. In a neat circle were the soldiers’ packs, along with two radio sets. There was no time to open anything. We carried the lot to a cliff and dropped them into the thickest patch of undergrowth we could see where they should be safe for a few hundred years.
We tiptoed along Tailor’s Stitch, our nerves on edge and stomachs churning. There was just no telling what new treats this war might have in store: patrols, helicopters, snipers, who knows? I wouldn’t have been surprised if a tank had come lumbering along the narrow track, blasting rocks and trees and wombats and us out of its way.
Every section of the track that we got through was a relief. To reach that gum tree. To reach that white rock. To make it around the next bend. To come at last to the turn-off, near Mt Martin, where the four-wheel-drive track started down to our property.
Ryan was waiting in there, not all that far from where we’d left him. He was holed up among a pile of rocks with a good view to the left and right of Tailor’s Stitch.
To give him his due, he was genuinely ecstatic to see us five. We must have bonded with him faster than we’d realised. He was about as ecstatic to see us as he was dismayed to see the feral kids. At least he had the good sense not to say anything, but every time he looked at them he shook his head like he was a deputy principal and they were on daily detention.
He had nothing to report though. He’d seen and heard nothing, not even our rifle fire. I was surprised that the walls of Hell sealed the place so well. It sure had been a perfect hiding place. Later, maybe, I’d have more time to feel sad about losing it.
I gave him a quick news bulletin.
‘We need to get out of this area fast,’ I said. ‘If you’re willing to trust my judgement, there’s a part of our property that should be safe. We’ll have to retrace our steps a bit.’
‘I have to trust your judgement,’ was all he said.
I found myself warming to him. Maybe it was the pressies. One of the backpacks he’d told us to bring was stuffed with goodies. Fresh bread, oh God, what a luxury that was. Avocados. Weet-Bix. Two bottles of Diet Pepsi. Kit-Kats. Iced Vo-Vos. Vegemite. We couldn’t stand around having breakfast, but on the other hand we couldn’t go any longer without food. We needed it for physical energy, and we needed it even more for emotional energy.
We grabbed whatever looked good, stuffing as much as we could into our pockets while looking around anxiously, then set off down the track, Homer and I leading, Lee and Ryan bringing up the rear, eating as we went. It was kind of messy. Every dozen or so steps I’d reach into my pocket for another smidgin of food, at the same time as I was keeping a lookout.
So I was scooping into my pocket, bringing out a couple of fingers-full of mushed avocado, or the crumbs of a broken Kit-Kat, or a torn piece of bread. I’ve often tried to picture what my stomach would look like after a meal of, say, pasta, with ice-cream and chocolate sauce for dessert, plus a glass of wine if my father was feeling generous. I mean, if you could see what was in your tummy, it’d be so utterly disgusting you’d never want to eat again. But I reckon if I’d looked into my pocket of food that morning I’d have found a pretty fair approximation.
It wasn’t long before I was stuffed full. Jack was the ultimate chocolate mouth, but this time Fi and I gave him a run for his money.
I wondered as I licked the Kit-Kat crumbs from my fingers who’d packed these goodies. I bet it wasn’t Colonel Finley. I don’t know whether he would have bothered, and I also wasn’t too sure that he cared enough about us to bother with luxuries. At least though he’d taken the trouble to ask on the radio what we wanted. Maybe he had more imagination than I’d given him credit for.
The kids were totally in awe of Ryan, in spite of the pressies. They were so shy they wouldn’t speak to him at all for the first couple of hours. It had been a long time since they’d met any adults who were on their side. Gavin went into one of his furious sulks, refusing to go near him, or even to accept any food directly. It had to be passed on by Homer. I guess it was fair enough in a way, because the kids had been very suspicious of the food adults gave them in Stratton. Seemed like maybe the soldiers had put poisoned stuff out for them.
Casey hid behind me when she first met Ryan, and when we set off again stayed as close to me as I’d let her. Natalie shadowed Fi in the same kind of way. Jack was a real dickhead for a while, showing off and being stupid, prancing around trying to be smart. We shut him up fast. We couldn’t afford any noise.
I was embarrassed about the kids being so rude to Ryan, and disappointed in them. He seemed decent enough, and I think he really did feel bad about not being allowed to come with us when we went after the patrol. He certainly tried to make up for it in every way possible, helping with packs, and tying straps and encouraging everyone to take food.
When we got down the track a good way he even showed a bit of a sense of humour. Well, too try-hard at times, but basically decent, and you couldn’t help laughing at some of the things he said.
We belted along at a hell of a pace, as fast as we could go without the kids falling over. I led, heading for our back paddocks. At least with the food inside us we could push it a bit. The first couple of hours were really fast, then we had to slow down. But by then we had covered a lot of ground, and felt safer. We were out of the mountains now and into the flatter country, where you could see for miles. Our danger in this area was more likely to come from the air, so we kept turning 360s, and scanning the hazy horizon. There was no time for relaxation. If we were no longer safe in Hell, we weren’t safe anywhere.
When the ferals couldn’t keep going any longer we stopped, in a dreary little patch of bush near the creek in one of our paddocks, Nellie’s. At that point Ryan got very serious again. I’d hardly swallowed my last mouthful of Pepsi when he asked us to get rid of the kids. Homer and Kevin took them to a clearing a bit further along the bank, so we could still see them. In my pack I always had paper and pens, so I gave them those and told them to write a story or draw a picture.
‘Or go to sleep,’ Homer said optimistically.
They seemed almost relieved to have something normal to do. They’d been so pleased to see us when we came trotting into the campsite in Hell – I’d been moved by how pleased they were. Fi had got them to hide in the undergrowth, but I think they were all sure they were going to be killed. When we arrived and they realised it was safe they threw themselves at me like I was a gum tree and they were koalas.
Led by Homer and Kevin they trudged off along the creek with their pens and paper. As
soon as they were out of range Ryan said: ‘Well, they’re a real complication.’
‘Tell us something we didn’t know,’ I said. I guess I sounded a bit unfriendly, but I didn’t mean to be. I was still so off-balance after the terrible encounters with two patrols in as many days, plus I was nervous at what Ryan might want.
Anyway it was no news to us that the kids were a complication. They’d been a complication ever since we first had anything to do with them.
Ryan continued: ‘We’ll have a chat about them later and see what’s to be done.’
I just shrugged and started picking up Kit-Kat wrappers. We didn’t talk again until the boys were back.
‘OK, let’s get on with it,’ Homer said, as we sat down for the big conference. ‘Why are you here?’
By then we were busting with impatience.
‘OK,’ Ryan began. ‘You want to know why I’m here? Basically, it’s because Colonel Finley believes you can help us in the next phase of the war. Before I start though, I have to say that everything I tell you is absolutely top-secret. I can’t emphasise that strongly enough. If any of this reaches the wrong ears ...’
I sighed, closed my eyes, and leaned my head against a tree trunk. Seemed like I’d been here before. I didn’t blame Ryan though. Some stuff you just have to say, you feel you can’t go to the next stage until you’ve said it, like teachers, when we stopped for lunch on excursions, and they’d say, ‘Make sure you pick up all your rubbish; don’t go to the toilet on your own; make sure you’re back here by half past one ...’
So Ryan made his speech, only he got into some very heavy stuff which we hadn’t been put through before, not so specifically anyway.
‘If you get caught,’ he said, ‘your first line of defence is that you don’t know anything. “I know nothing.” You’re just kids acting on your own initiative. You’ve never seen me. You may have noticed that I didn’t bring any newspapers or magazines, and if you look closely at the food you’ll find all the processed stuff has got labels from Stratton, and use-by dates that suggest it was made before the invasion. That’s so if, God forbid, you get caught, there’s nothing to prove you’ve had a visit from New Zealand. You could have picked up all this stuff locally.
