Plague Island

by Justin D'Ath

  Colt hit the water running. Yes, running! Even he could hardly believe it. He had to do a double-take. But it was true – he was on the water and he was running. Classic!

  For a mad moment, he went churning across the lake’s surface like a barefoot skier on steroids. Nothing but his speeding feet, and his determination to save Birdy, was holding him up. But he’d lost his chance. Already the seaplane’s big, kayak-shaped floats were a metre above his head and rising.

  Superclown might be able to run on water, but he couldn’t fly.

  Then he saw the rope.

  It trailed from one of two sturdy metal struts that connected the right-side float to the seaplane’s fuselage. The pilot must have used the rope to moor the plane at the lake’s edge while he waited for Ranga and Hoodie to arrive with the stolen birds. But when the police arrived, there mustn’t have been time to unhitch it. Now the forgotten rope dangled about two metres to Colt’s right. He lunged.

  Colt’s feet left the water again as he grasped the rope. This time he held on with all ten fingers. Wherever the seaplane was going, he was going too. Its huge reflection raced across the lake below him. He saw his own reflection, as well, swinging beneath it like Spider-Man.

  Then Colt looked ahead and saw something else – the wall of trees at the end of the lake.

  ‘Shashlik!’ he gasped, realising how close they were.

  And how tall.

  The seaplane was still only five or six metres above water and less than 100 metres from the trees. It was climbing, but not fast enough.

  Colt remembered what James had said about the bird thieves not taking extra cargo on their long flight to Bintalu. How they would most likely leave Birdy behind because she’d make the seaplane heavier. But the police had chased them to the lake, forcing them to bring their hostage on board, or else be captured.

  And now there was even more weight, because Colt had hitched a ride, too. More weight meant the seaplane couldn’t climb so fast.

  It was going to hit the trees!

  Colt almost let go. He would probably survive another dip in the lake. But then he remembered Birdy, held prisoner inside the plane, and hesitated. That was all it took.

  Wham!

  The plane had a very narrow escape. Its pilot just managed to lift it safely over the treetops. But Colt was three metres lower, clinging to the end of the trailing rope. He hit the trees at 100 knots and went crashing through a green-and-brown blur of splintering branches, like a human wrecking ball. Bang, bash, thump!

  He was absolutely going to die this time!

  Will it hurt? he wondered.

  He didn’t find out. Suddenly his stomach dropped away as the seaplane dragged him up into the sky. When he looked down, the trees were so small they looked like weeds. He felt a bit sick. Superheroes weren’t supposed to be scared of heights. Clenching his teeth, eyes raised to avoid the ever-expanding view, Colt hauled himself hand-over-hand up the rope. When he reached the top, he grabbed the strut and used the last of his fading energy to drag himself up onto the big, wide float. Straddling it, one leg on each side like a horserider in an old 2D movie from the Animal Days, he closed his tired eyes and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  Made it!

  He was on his way to Bintalu with Birdy, her kidnappers and 120 million dollars worth of stolen firebirds. It was like a James Bond movie, but without spies.

  Unless the other James had been lying and he actually was a spy.

  Stay awake! Colt told himself.

  As always after using his superpowers, he was growing drowsy. And to fall asleep on the seaplane’s float would be fatal. Because if he fell asleep, he might fall off.

  He needed food. Now.

  Wrapping one arm around the strut, Colt used his other hand to dig into one of his pockets. He still had some rat food left, but the lake water had turned it to sludge. Still, sludge was better than nothing. It didn’t taste much worse than it had when it was dry – and it was easier to swallow. But he could only scoop out a little bit at a time, otherwise the wind from the seaplane’s propeller sluiced it out of his cupped hand before he could get it to his mouth.

  One pocket at a time, Colt scooped out quarter-handfuls of the unappetising brown gloop and carefully transferred it to his mouth. It was good stuff. Slowly the drowsiness left him. He began to feel stronger.

  And as Colt’s strength returned, so did his sense of feeling.

  His legs felt hot. It was strange. Because the rest of him was cold. Now that the plane had climbed quite high, the air had a definite chill factor. Colt risked a quick look down. Shashlik! His legs were a total mess! From knee to ankle, every square centimetre of bare skin was crisscrossed with angry red scratches, weeping grazes and deep, blood-filled cuts. It must have happened when he was dragged through the treetops. Superhero or not, Colt was surprised he hadn’t felt anything. But he was feeling it now – not pain, exactly, just a strange throbbing heat.

  It was the heat of healing.

  Colt watched, fascinated, as his blood clotted before his eyes. Grazes slowly faded; red scratches became pale pink lines; the edges of a gruesome-looking cut drew together as if an invisible zipper was being run along it.

  I am totally weird! Colt thought.

  But weird in a good way. If his body wasn’t healing itself, he might have bled half to death. There was no other way to treat his injuries while he clung on in the Force 10 gale created by the seaplane’s propeller. All he could do was keep eating to help the healing process.

  He changed hands and began digging in the pockets on the other side of his shorts. In the top one, his fingers found something solid among the gunky rat food. Flat, rectangular, smooth on one side. James’s phone, Colt realised with a twinge of guilt.

  I’ll have to give it back, if ever I see him again, he thought. If the lake water hasn’t wrecked it.

  The seaplane moved into some clouds. It became even colder. Colt shovelled in some more gloop to keep his blood circulating. You needed to be superhuman just to survive at this temperature. He hoped he had enough of James’s secret formula left to last the full journey.

  Rat food! he thought. Why would anyone keep rats?

  A sudden movement caught his eye. There was a window in the side of the plane about a metre above Colt’s head. He had to look up at a sharp angle, so he couldn’t see much – just a man’s shoulder and a hand. The hand was scratching the shoulder – that’s what had attracted Colt’s attention. It was a large hand, covered in freckles and little red hairs. Ranga. Obviously he had no idea Colt was just outside, but if he leaned close to the glass and looked down, he couldn’t miss seeing Colt.

  Game over.

  Colt took stock of his situation. He sat straddling the seaplane’s right-side float, halfway between the two struts that connected it to the fuselage. He needed to move back, out of Ranga’s line-of-sight, in case he looked out his window.

  The float was like a long, narrow kayak with no cutaway section to sit in. Its skin was sleek and really slippery. Colt lay down and hugged it with both arms, then carefully eased himself backwards until he was pressed hard up against the rear strut. Still holding on with one arm, he reached behind him with his other hand until his fingers found the strut. The wind from the propeller rippled his cheeks and tore at his damp clothing. He couldn’t afford to make one wrong move. Taking a deep breath, he raised his body into the full force of the wind, twisting at the waist as he did so. The wind pummelled him like a barrage of invisible fists trying to punch him off his perch, but Colt didn’t panic. He had both hands around the strut now. Slowly, moving one leg at a time, he manoeuvred his body around the support strut until he straddled the back part of the float. Once he’d done that, Colt lowered himself onto his stomach again and locked one arm around the float, still gripping the strut with his other hand. It was narrower here and not as comfy, but now Colt was less likely to be seen by the guys in the seaplane.

  There was another window behind Ranga’s. It wa
s almost directly above Colt’s head. Stacked against the glass was a pile of white shoeboxes with holes in the top and the sides. Colt knew what was in them.

  The regent firebirds were the cause of all this. Ten million dollars each! Prince Rezak must really love birds, Colt thought. And Ranga and Hoodie must really love money. He wondered what they were planning to do with Birdy now that they had made their escape.

  Some time in the past few minutes, the seaplane had moved out of the clouds. The slanting afternoon sun warmed Colt’s back. He glanced over his shoulder. And blinked a couple of times – just to be sure. A small, blurry shape emerged slowly from the cloudbank behind them. It was another aeroplane.

  A white-and-blue Cessna.

  James!

  The Cessna was flying in the seaplane’s blind spot, where it couldn’t be seen by those inside. But Colt was outside the seaplane. He had a clear view from the float. He zoomed his eyes and waved, but got no response from James. Of course not. The tall man’s eyes weren’t nearly as good as his.

  The Cessna kept its distance. It followed them for about three-quarters of an hour, then banked sharply to the left and dipped towards a scatter of tiny buildings that must have been a town. Colt guessed it needed petrol.

  Then he saw another reason why James might have given up the chase. A line of coral-white beaches was passing slowly beneath his dangling feet. They were crossing the coast. Now there was nothing ahead of the seaplane but wide blue ocean.

  Next stop, Bintalu.

  Well, maybe not, Colt thought. He remembered what James had said – it was too far to fly all the way there non-stop. The seaplane would have to land and refuel at a number of little islands along the way.

  The first time it put down would be when Colt made his move.

  But what would that move be? he wondered. Counting the pilot, there had to be at least three men in the plane. And at least one gun. The odds weren’t good.

  Colt’s only hope was to take them by surprise.

  BANG!

  Colt had never been shot at before. At first he didn’t even know he had been shot at. The gunshot was hardly louder than the monotonous roar of the seaplane’s engine.

  It took him a couple of moments to realise what had happened. The passenger door was partway open and a hand was poking out. In the hand was a smoking pistol. Just visible through the gap, his face twisted in rage, was Ranga.

  He must have turned around to take one last look at the coast and spotted Colt on the seaplane’s float. He’d opened his door and taken a shot at him.

  And missed! Colt saw why. Four strong brown fingers gripped Ranga’s arm, just above the wrist. Some sort of struggle was going on. A man was shouting inside the cabin. Ranga was shouting back. The seaplane rocked and dipped as he fought with the person who had grabbed him. Whoever it was had saved Colt’s life.

  But Ranga still had the gun.

  It dangled from his hand outside the plane as the two men shouted and grappled.

  Colt saw his chance. Gripping the strut with both hands, he swung himself forward feet-first. His sneakers hit the door with a heavy jolt, slamming it against Ranga’s wrist. There was a howl of pain. The bird thief’s fingers straightened, releasing their grip on the pistol. Colt watched it go spiralling down towards the ocean far, far below. By the time Colt raised his eyes again, Ranga’s hand had disappeared back inside the seaplane and the door was all the way closed.

  I’ve done it now, Colt thought. If they’ve got another gun, I’ll have to jump.

  But it was several thousand metres down to the ocean. And James was probably right – Superclown probably would die if he got hurt badly enough.

  But would it be better to jump than to be shot?

  Luckily, Colt didn’t have to make that decision. The next time the seaplane’s door opened, it was Birdy, not Ranga, looking out at him. There were a thousand questions in her eyes – and Colt had lots of things to say to her, too – but now wasn’t the time for conversations. Anyway, it was too noisy.

  ‘COME IN!’ she yelled.

  Colt scrambled inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He had to squeeze past Ranga, who was nursing his right wrist and giving him a murderous look.

  The dark-skinned pilot didn’t seem pleased to see him, either. But he’d saved Colt’s life, so Colt smiled and said, ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hello,’ said the pilot. ‘Go in the back, please.’

  Colt squashed in next to Birdy in the middle seat. Hoodie sat by the window. He scowled at Colt but didn’t say anything. The seat on the other side was taken up by the twelve white shoeboxes of stolen firebirds.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ asked the pilot. He spoke with an accent.

  With its door closed, the seaplane’s cabin was better sound-proofed than the Cessna’s. It was possible to talk without microphones and headsets, as long as you spoke fairly loudly.

  ‘I hitched a ride back at the lake,’ Colt said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because this girl is my friend’ – he squeezed Birdy’s hand – ‘and these guys kidnapped her.’

  ‘You might have been killed,’ the pilot said.

  ‘I know. Thanks for stopping him from shooting me.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to shoot you,’ Ranga said sullenly. ‘The gun went off accidentally when Ali grabbed me.’

  The pilot, Ali, looked at Ranga with distaste. ‘My uncle said no-one is to be hurt.’

  ‘So this is my fault then?’ Ranga asked, raising his swollen wrist.

  ‘It is justice,’ said Ali. ‘The gods look darkly on a man who harms children.’

  Colt was beginning to like Ali – even if he was one of the bad guys. He asked, ‘Is your uncle Prince Rezak?’

  ‘The prince is not my true uncle,’ Ali said. ‘But he and my father all their lives have been friends, so I call him Uncle.’

  ‘How do the gods look on men who steal birds?’ Colt asked.

  Hoodie nudged him in the ribs. ‘Don’t get smart, kid!’

  ‘But it is a fair question to ask,’ said Ali. ‘What is your name, young man?’

  ‘Colt.’

  ‘And what is your friend called?’

  ‘Birdy,’ said Birdy.

  Ali was silent for a few moments as he adjusted a small wheel at the bottom of the control panel. ‘Colt and Miss Birdy, I must first apologise for what has happened. My uncle did not wish anyone to be kidnapped.’

  Ranga snorted. ‘If we didn’t take the girl, how else would we have got away?’

  ‘Please allow me to answer this boy’s question!’ Ali said sharply. In a milder voice, he continued: ‘You must understand, Colt and Miss Birdy, that the regent firebird is much treasured in my country. It is on our flag; it is in our stories. Even there are songs about it. In the language of the Old Ones, the name of this bird means Heart of Bintalu. So how can it be stealing to bring them home?’

  ‘But these ones aren’t yours!’ cried Birdy. ‘They belong to Captain Noah. He saved them from extinction!’

  ‘And my people are all very grateful to Captain Noah,’ Ali said. ‘But his wonderful Lost World Circus is not the true home for the regent firebird. Bintalu is their home.’

  ‘It’s still stealing,’ Birdy said stubbornly.

  Colt squeezed her hand again. It was no use arguing. Ali firmly believed the regent firebirds belonged in Bintalu. And maybe he had a point.

  ‘What are you going to do with us?’ Colt asked.

  Ali took a moment to reply. ‘We will leave you on an island.’

  ‘What island?’

  Ali slid a map from a folder on the aircraft’s dashboard. Steadying the control lever with his knees, he held up the map so Colt and Birdy could see. ‘This one,’ he said, pointing to a tiny speck of land in the middle of a huge area of blue ocean.

  ‘Are there people there?’ asked Birdy.

  It was Ranga who answered. And for the first time since Colt had climbed into the seaplane, the red-headed bird thief didn’t se
em grumpy.

  ‘No people,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But don’t worry, kid, you won’t be lonely. I hear there’s lots of night-life on Plague Island.’

  What night-life? Colt wondered. But he wasn’t game to ask. Just the name, Plague Island, sounded scary enough.

  But three hours later, any island would have been okay. The world seemed to be made entirely of water. Colt, who had never been overseas – who had never even flown until today – hadn’t realised how vast an ocean could be. How it could go on and on and on, without any sign of land, seemingly forever.

  Everyone else was growing nervous, too. When the needle on the fuel gauge had sunk all the way to empty, the mood in the crowded seaplane became tense. It looked like they’d be making an emergency landing in the middle of the endless ocean.

  Ranga blamed Colt. ‘As if breaking my wrist wasn’t enough,’ he complained, ‘now Indiana Jones here is going to cause us to crash.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’ asked Indiana Jones (aka Colt).

  ‘We didn’t count on your extra weight when we loaded up with fuel.’

  ‘If you and your buddy hadn’t kidnapped Birdy,’ Colt said, ‘I wouldn’t have had to hitch a ride in the first place.’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea to kidnap anyone,’ said Hoodie.

  Ranga swivelled in his seat. ‘So how else were we going to get away when the cops came after us?’

  His fellow-bird thief shrugged. ‘Maybe they wouldn’t have come after us if you hadn’t added child-snatching to our repertoire.’

  ‘Do you think they’d have just let us go on our merry way?’ Ranga sneered. ‘We stole a hundred-million dollars worth of Lost World birds, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘A hundred-and-twenty million,’ Hoodie corrected him.

  ‘Stop arguing, guys!’ Birdy said crossly. ‘It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. And anyway, how bad can it be if we have to land on the sea? This is a seaplane.’

  ‘And then what do we do?’ asked Ranga.

  ‘Start rowing,’ suggested Colt.