The Hunted

by Gabriel Bergmoser

  Then the creaking again, quieter and quieter.

  A door opening, metres and thin walls away.

  Maggie stood.

  The pain like fire again.

  She’d started to walk.

  Frank could hear the voice, reverberating through his mind again and again. You’ve only got fifteen left, mate. The taunting delight had made his skin crawl. He knew the truth, behind all the false promises of mercy. Once we’ve got the girl, you’ll get just the same as her. Can’t have any witnesses. He’d known how this would go from the start. He’d known men like this.

  ‘You don’t wanna leave this to the last minute,’ the voice said. ‘The boys will get impatient and that won’t go well for you.’

  As if in response, the revving of every engine out the front filled his ears. A savage roar. A threat of snarling motors and beeping horns, a car backfiring somewhere drowned out by the sheer scale of the noise.

  The sound died off. Frank’s ears still rang.

  ‘Clock’s ticking, mate.’

  Allie followed as Maggie limped up the hallway. Reg’s blood was still warm on her face. Maybe she should have been more horrified. But all she felt was a deep, wonderful gratitude.

  Maggie opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. There was no sound. Allie came up beside her.

  ‘Where are we?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘This is Frank’s house. My grandad.’

  ‘Where’s your grandad?’

  Allie went to reply, then stopped. Something thorny crept through her stomach. When Charlie had heard the gunshot, he had run towards Delilah. She hadn’t even thought about Frank. She had been too scared to worry if he was even alive. And now she had no idea. With horrible clarity she saw herself returning to her parents, trying to explain what had happened and what she had done. She swallowed. Her parents. They didn’t know what was happening. That they probably weren’t ever going to see her or Frank again.

  ‘Hey,’ Maggie said.

  Allie pointed.

  ‘That doesn’t help.’

  ‘The roadhouse.’

  ‘Where I stopped?’

  Allie nodded.

  ‘Is he alone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Allie’s voice sounded small and scared.

  Maggie looked at her. Then back in the direction of the roadhouse. ‘He hasn’t come back. Which probably means he isn’t.’

  The door beside Frank opened again and Delilah crawled out.

  ‘They’re really keen for an answer,’ Frank said.

  Delilah closed the door and crouched against it. She took a deep breath. ‘We have to hand her over.’

  Frank looked away.

  ‘We should have done it straight away,’ Delilah said. ‘I get why we didn’t – it’s a horrible thing to do and I know that, but we can’t . . . we can’t all die for someone we don’t know. Someone who might have done something really bad.’

  Frank didn’t reply.

  ‘We can work something out,’ Delilah said. ‘Be smart about it. Let them keep one of us, then send the other to the house.’ Frank went to speak, but Delilah wasn’t finished. ‘I mean you,’ she said. ‘Go to the house. That way, whatever happens, you can protect Allie.’

  Frank met her eyes. He could see how scared she was. But there was a tightness to her jaw and a hardness to her expression that said it didn’t matter anymore.

  ‘There’s no guarantee they won’t still kill us.’

  Delilah shrugged. ‘They probably will, right? But this way we have at least something of a chance.’

  Frank said nothing.

  ‘Frank,’ Delilah said. ‘If they kill us in here, then Allie has no protection. At all.’

  Allie stood alone in the doorway as Maggie returned from her bedroom. ‘No phone in his pockets.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Allie asked.

  ‘We need a plan,’ said Maggie, ‘but first I need some water, food, whatever you have. I don’t suppose there are any painkillers in that first-aid kit?’

  They returned to the living room. Maggie rifled through the kit as Allie doubled back to the kitchen, found her empty water bottle where she’d left it, another lifetime ago, on the sink, and filled it at the tap. There wasn’t much in the fridge. Mostly Frank brought food home from the roadhouse. She looked at the box of cereal on the table, grabbed it and headed back to Maggie.

  After swigging the water and shoving down a few handfuls of dry cereal, Maggie moved to the front door and looked out to the grass. It was still, silent, like a breath held. ‘If that prick got in here, that means more of them will be around. Maybe waiting in the grass. You said your grandad took the car keys?’

  Allie nodded.

  ‘Then I don’t see us getting to the roadhouse fast. And I’m not running any marathons any time soon.’ Maggie shifted on the spot and winced. ‘We have to find a way to get their attention. Lure them somewhere clear and attack.’

  ‘How?’

  Maggie had another swig of water. Leaned against the frame of the front door. It struck Allie then how weak she looked. Like she could fall over at any second.

  ‘We use what we have. Somehow.’ She turned to face Allie. ‘What do we have?’

  Something behind Maggie caught Allie’s eye. They both turned.

  A pair of headlights was approaching from across the grass.

  Then another. And another. Until the headlights grew into suns and a wall of blazing light burned away the night.

  Something had enveloped her, a giant hand that tightened until she couldn’t move or breathe.

  ‘Inside,’ Maggie said. ‘Now.’

  There was no fear in her voice.

  Allie backed into the house. Through the front door, Maggie stood alone, silhouetted against the blinding light, shotgun in hand.

  Somewhere in Delilah’s head, the voice of everything she had ever believed was screaming at her, telling her that she couldn’t condone this, couldn’t allow another woman to be handed over to these animals. It was all too easy to guess what would happen, because it was all too easy to guess how this would end for her if she was found by them.

  She tried to tell herself, as she crawled through the door, that it wasn’t self-preservation that pushed her to give up the girl. That it was in fact the most selfless thing she could possibly do. Charlie was out there somewhere, along with Allie. She couldn’t let them all die for the sake of some stranger who had almost certainly done something to deserve—

  She stopped. No. She couldn’t think that way. If she made this choice, she would make herself remember it every day, without compromise, justification or convenient assumption.

  She stood, took a deep breath, and crossed the hall to the storeroom. She would tell Greg the plan. She would make herself meet his eyes and make sure they all knew exactly what they were doing and exactly what this choice made them.

  She turned the door handle, opening her mouth to explain before she could change her mind. She stepped into the storeroom.

  Alone on the porch, Maggie stood as the cars drew closer, lurching and jumping as they crossed the uneven landscape.

  She looked down at the shotgun in her hand. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Her thoughts felt thick and sluggish. She couldn’t focus. Every move she made caused her leg to scream. She could hardly stand.

  What did she have?

  The first time she had asked herself that question had been years ago. Back with Ben and Debbie. She’d made herself wait until the next camping trip, observed everyone’s movements, waited until all eyes were away and Hamish was tending the fire. Ready, not rigid. Waited until he stepped forwards. She moved fast. His foot snagged on hers. With a cry he fell, face first into the flames.

  She’d had nothing but herself. But she was fast and she was willing to do what others wouldn’t and she watched as Hamish screamed, as he tried to stand, as Ben’s worried yells neared from the rustling bush, as Ted’s face filled Maggie’s mind. Then she brought her boot down hard on the back o
f Hamish’s head.

  What did she have?

  A terrified young girl. A house that looked like a strong breeze could knock it over. A shotgun with only a handful of cartridges. And seconds left until those cars were in shooting range.

  But there was something else, something that had taken over back in the trees, something that had pulsed through her as she veered across the highway trying to escape, something that kept her standing even now as hope slipped away. That same something that had caused her to run in the first place. That something that had always scared her because she could never get away from it. A furnace, deep and white hot, stoking a fire that she had always tried to hold at bay because to succumb to it was to become something less than human, something animal.

  She had been fighting it for too long.

  She hobbled back into the house and slammed the door behind her.

  The internal door burst open and Delilah was back, breathing heavily. She shook her head. ‘He’s not there.’

  Frank’s veins were ice.

  ‘He’s gone. I checked the kitchen and . . . he’s gone. He was heading for the back door before but . . . Oh god.’ Delilah put a hand over her mouth.

  Frank seized her shoulder. ‘Did he know? About the house?’

  Delilah didn’t remove her hand. There were tears in her eyes. She nodded.

  And just like that, none of it mattered. The siege, the weapons, the threats. None of it mattered because the fuckers knew about the house and his leverage was gone. Allie was stuck with only Charlie to protect her and it was his fault for not handing over the girl when he had the chance. He couldn’t breathe. His heart hammered. He went to stand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Delilah grabbed him by the arm.

  Frank shrugged her off. He had to get out of here. Had to get to the house.

  ‘Frank.’

  He pushed her away.

  Then—

  A hail of gunshots and the cacophony of shattering glass. Frank dropped hard as bullets slammed into the wall behind him.

  A whine filled his ears. He wasn’t sure if the gunshots were still coming, but he could hear them, distant and echoing, and with them laughter, laughter that didn’t belong to the here and now but to another place, to the night-time shadows of drooping gum trees where he had run from the shots and the catcalls, run even as Wayne’s shrieks of laughter seemed to come from everywhere and he couldn’t know if he would ever see home again.

  Delilah’s arms were over her head, eyes closed tight as she rocked back and forth.

  The trees and the laughter were gone. Allie. All that mattered was Allie. Keeping her safe.

  He took a deep breath and inhaled pungent fumes of petrol.

  He moved to the side and looked around the counter. It was hard to tell in the glare of the headlights, but it looked like figures were moving around the pumps.

  And like that, he understood.

  Greg had told them about the house. They had no need of Frank or Delilah, but they weren’t about to go charging in when Frank was armed. So instead they were using what the roadhouse had to their advantage, using the pumps to douse the place in petrol before setting it alight and burning them alive.

  Beneath the screen door, the glistening pool of golden petrol was spreading from outside, from where the bastards were using his own pumps to burn him alive.

  He could be scared later. He could be guilty later. But right now, he had to act. He concentrated. Put himself in the mindset he hadn’t been in for so long. The mindset where death didn’t matter and everything in his way was just an obstacle to be eliminated, the mindset where he was righteous and everyone else was guilty and to be punished. The mindset that was the only safe one behind bars, that he had tried to shake off only to be drawn back repeatedly, until finally all he could do was hide away from the world and anything that could trigger it again.

  It came to him. Its embrace warmer than any lover’s.

  And everything became clear.

  He grabbed Delilah by the shoulder. Extended a hand. ‘Give me your lighter.’

  ‘What?’ she looked at him, tears running down her face.

  ‘Now.’

  With fumbling hands, she did. Frank pushed the internal door open. ‘Out the back. Now.’

  ‘But they’re out there.’ Her voice was high pitched, strained.

  Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. But if they are.’ He pushed the gun into her hand. He felt the shock go through her. She stared at it as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing.

  Frank grabbed her by the chin. Made her look at him. ‘Don’t hesitate,’ he said. ‘If you see them, kill them. If you don’t, run. Into the grass. Get as far away as you can.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Go.’

  Delilah didn’t ask again. She slipped through the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The tray of the ute jerked and rattled beneath Greg. He tried to hold on and not meet the eye of the man sitting across from him.

  He was thin and appeared to be in his sixties. His hair was wispy and white, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken. He wore a singlet and ripped jeans. Over his shoulder was a long rifle. In his other hand was a can of beer. His mouth was set in a rictus grin, had been since he pushed Greg onto the tray. He had not looked away from Greg for a second.

  Greg turned his face skyward and took a long breath of the hot night air. The sky was clear, alive with stars. It seemed at odds with what was happening.

  Greg had taken his chance. He’d moved as fast as he could, through the back door with his hands in the air, ready to beg, ready to shout that he had information for them. He had expected raised guns, demands for him to get down, perhaps a sudden burst of pain and then darkness. What he got was laughter.

  ‘Don’t hurt me,’ he’d blurted, as the men in front of him erupted in jeering. They were spread out across two cars, sitting on trays and half-sitting in cabs, all flannelette shirts and ripped jeans, guns raised to the sky. Not a single one was pointed at him.

  Greg lowered his arms slowly. His pounding heart filled his whole body. He swallowed. ‘I can help you.’

  ‘Can ya, mate?’ A young man, heavily bearded with a lazy eye, said. His gun barrel slowly swung down to point at Greg.

  Greg stepped back. ‘There’s a house. Directly behind you, I don’t know exactly where, but, but that’s . . .’ He gritted his teeth and tried to look anywhere but the barrel of the gun. ‘That’s where the girl is.’

  Silence. It hit him then that he had given away the only card he held, the one thing that might stop them from killing him then and there. He thought of Phillipa. He thought of his kids. And he knew then with terrible clarity just how fucking stupid he had been. ‘I have information.’ His voice sounded feeble. ‘I can tell you who’s in the roadhouse. I can tell you what they told me. We can help each other. I’ve got nothing to do with this shit, okay? If I tell you everything I know, will you let me go home?’

  The only response from the bearded man had been, ‘Get on the tray.’

  On either side of the vehicle, more utes were moving. At least seven, almost in line with each other. In the dark it was hard to tell how many people were piled in the trays of each one. But the stark shapes of rifle barrels were unmistakable. The other man still hadn’t looked away. Greg turned and looked ahead. In the distance, he could see the approaching shape of the house, small and flimsy in the middle of the vast, grassy expanse.

  Allie jumped as the front door slammed, and backed further into the living room. After a moment, Maggie was there. She moved over to the curtains and started pulling them shut.

  ‘They’ll see,’ Allie said.

  ‘They know we’re here,’ Maggie said. ‘The high beams are to blind. So they can watch us, but we can’t watch them. We need to take any advantage we can. Bring me a knife.’

  ‘Why?’ Allie was confused. Maggie had a gun.

  ‘Now.’ There wa
s no room for questions in her tone.

  Allie hurried back to the kitchen, fumbled through the drawers and found the sharpest knife she could. She was only just back in the living room before Maggie had snatched it from her, returned to the windows, and started hacking at the curtains. She finished at one window, leaving three or four long tears in different spots, then moved to the next window and the next. The light from the cars came through the slits in narrow beams.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Allie asked.

  ‘Tears are hard to see in curtains,’ Maggie said. ‘They’re wavy and crumpled in places. And even if you can see them, you can’t keep track of them all at once. You never know where we might be looking through.’ She hefted the gun. ‘Or where we might shoot from.’

  ‘That only leaves the front of the house covered,’ Allie said.

  ‘It does,’ Maggie agreed. ‘Which is why you’re going to do the same in the kitchen. Then wait in the hall and listen. If you hear a window creak, a thud outside the house, you yell out to me. Immediately and loud. And Allie?’

  Allie stopped halfway across the room.

  Maggie was peering through one of the tears. ‘After you’re done with the curtains, hang on to the knife.’

  ‘Why?’

  Maggie didn’t look at her. ‘We don’t know how this is gonna go. If they get close and you have the knife in your belt, you might be able to use it. Do some damage.’

  Allie didn’t know what to say. The matter-of-fact way that Maggie spoke made her feel small and pathetic. This woman, this woman who wielded shotguns with ease and quickly came up with ideas like the tears in the curtains, thought that Allie was capable of doing something like that, that when the moment came, she wouldn’t just try to hide under the bed again. The shame that made her feel was worse than anything Hannah Bond had ever caused.

  Maggie looked back, over her shoulder. ‘You’re only as weak as you let yourself feel.’

  She returned her attention to the window.