Wicked Bindup

by Paul Jennings

The car rocked and bumped and lurched along the road. The landscape was growing lonelier. And drier. All night we had camped without one car passing. I hoped and prayed that another car would come. But I knew it was unlikely. We were in this on our own. On the edge of the desert.

  The speedo was showing fifty-five miles an hour. Gramps read my thoughts. ‘About ninety kilometres an hour,’ he said. ‘We can’t keep this up.’

  He was right. The tendril was coming up fast behind, growing and stretching at enormous speed. ‘It’s catching us,’ I shouted.

  The tendril suddenly started tapping at the back window like the finger of death beckoning. It sent a shiver down my spine. Dawn screamed.

  ‘It’s after me, isn’t it?’ said Howard.

  I didn’t have time to answer. The tendril suddenly curled down and grabbed the Morris’ towbar.

  The car stopped with a bang, just as if it had hit a brick wall.

  SIX

  The jolt was so violent that my head snapped forward and my chin banged onto my chest. Then my head flew back and smacked against the rear parcel shelf.

  My brains turned to curried egg.

  Something was holding me tight around the middle and for a moment I thought it was Mum’s strong arms. Thanks, Mum, I thought. Without you I’d have gone over those front seats and through the windscreen.

  My eyes cleared. I looked down. It was only the seat belt. Same difference, but. Mum had made Gramps put those seat belts in.

  ‘What did we hit?’ mumbled Gramps.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rory. ‘The root grabbed the towbar.’

  ‘Flamin’ towbar,’ growled Gramps. ‘I should have listened to Louise. She told me it was a dopey idea putting a towbar on a Morris Minor.’

  ‘Start the engine,’ said Rory. ‘Quick.’

  ‘No point,’ said Howard. ‘Even if we can snap the root again, it’s faster than us.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Gramps.

  From under the car came a scratching, slithering sound. The root was wriggling around the chassis, looking for a way in. I gripped Mum’s shoe but it was no good. There were too many ways in for one shoe.

  ‘Block up all the holes,’ I yelled.

  We tore off our windcheaters and socks and clambered over each other, stuffing them into rust holes and the gaps around the clutch and brake and accelerator pedals.

  Then we held our breaths and listened.

  Scratch, scratch.

  Slither, slither.

  Suddenly the root shot across the windscreen. Halfway up it stopped, pulled back from the glass and swivelled from side to side, white hairy tip pointing towards us like a blind snake sensing the movements of its lunch.

  I tried not to tremble.

  ‘Flamin’ mongrel,’ muttered Gramps. ‘If I had my rotary mulcher in here, you’d be history.’

  The root ignored him. It slithered across the bonnet and into the front of the engine.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rory. ‘It’s going to try and come in through the dash.’

  We stuffed more socks into the air vents. I’d been wearing the same pair for two days and two nights, so I hoped the infection had given the root a strong sense of smell.

  Then we heard another sound. The squeak of metal turning against metal.

  ‘What’s it doing?’ breathed Howard.

  I had a horrible vision of the root slowly undoing all the nuts and bolts until the car fell to pieces and we were left sitting in the middle of a pile of spare parts.

  But it wasn’t doing that. ‘It’s unscrewing the radiator cap,’ said Gramps.

  The squeak was replaced by a slurping sound, like liquid being sucked thirstily up a straw.

  ‘It’s drinking the water in the radiator,’ said Rory.

  Gramps rummaged under his seat. He pulled out a metal tyre lever.

  ‘No mongrel drinks my radiator water,’ he yelled, opening his door.

  ‘Gramps, don’t,’ I shouted. I pointed out the window at the flat dusty plain all around us. ‘There’s hardly anything growing out there. That means no water. Once the root’s finished the radiator it’ll want to drink you.’

  To a thirsty root Gramps would have looked like one of those dried goatskin water bags from Greece only more wrinkly.

  I pulled Gramps’ door shut and locked it.

  The slurping sound stopped.

  ‘What now?’ said Rory.

  ‘I think I should go out there,’ said Howard quietly.

  We stared at him.

  ‘It’s here because it wants to infect me,’ he went on. ‘I really appreciate you protecting me, but let’s get it over with and then perhaps the root’ll leave us alone and we can go and find Dad.’

  ‘No,’ said Rory.

  ‘Why not?’ said Howard.

  I opened my mouth to give Howard a couple of million reasons, but Rory got in first.

  ‘Because,’ he said quietly, ‘there might not be a cure.’

  He looked so scared and lost when he said that, and so brave, that I wanted to put my arms around him. I didn’t. Kids got really embarrassed if you hugged them in front of their older brothers.

  ‘You and Mum are infected,’ said Howard. ‘If there’s no cure, I don’t want to be left …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence. His voice choked and his eyes filled with tears.

  Rory leant over and hugged him. ‘Dad’ll have a cure,’ he said. ‘He’s got to.’

  I had a strong urge to ask Rory how Karl would have a cure if he was just the next innocent victim, but I didn’t.

  Rory stopped hugging Howard. ‘You’re not going out there,’ he said fiercely.

  ‘Okay,’ said Howard.

  ‘You’re a brave lad for volunteering,’ said Gramps. ‘When we get out of this I’m going to recommend you for a medal and a job in the bank.’

  Howard gave a little smile. I could tell he was starting to like his new step-grandfather.

  Then I saw a movement outside the car. A thin hairy root tendril was wriggling through the dust towards Howard’s door. We heard it scrabbling its way up the duco. We waited for it to appear at Howard’s window. It didn’t.

  ‘Where’s it gone?’ said Howard after a couple of minutes.

  I was trying to see it through my window but I couldn’t.

  ‘Perhaps it’s given up,’ I said.

  No such luck. A faint rattling sound came from inside Howard’s door. What was it doing? We strained our ears.

  Suddenly I noticed something that sent a chill through my guts. The handle on the inside of Howard’s door was vibrating slightly. Howard had decided not to open his door, so the root was going to open it for him.

  ‘It’s inside the lock,’ I yelled. ‘It’s trying to pick it.’

  Anger surged through me. How dare that slimy, sneaky apple-man root threaten a kid who was prepared to sacrifice himself for us?

  I grabbed Mum’s shoe and pressed it against the inside of the door as close as I could to the lock.

  ‘Cop that,’ I hissed.

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Gramps. ‘I wish I had my spray gun.’

  But this time the shoe didn’t have any effect on the root at all. I didn’t understand it. The rattling continued. Then Howard’s door unlocked with a snap. I threw myself forward and pushed the handle into the locked position and held it there. Howard put his hands on mine and we pushed till our knuckles were white and we were dripping with sweat.

  Rory and Gramps leaned over the other side of Howard and pressed their hands against ours. We stayed that way for what seemed like hours. It was hot and cramped and painful and every second I expected the root to burst in through the base of the handle and rip the skin off our hands.

  But something made me stay there. Something apart from fear and desperation and the fact that Howard and Rory and Gramps were pressing so hard I couldn’t have got my hands off the handle even if I’d wanted to.

  Crouched there shoulder to shoulder with my two step-brothers I felt something unexpected. I felt li
ke I was in a family. It was a good feeling and I didn’t want to lose it.

  The root had other ideas.

  Suddenly it changed tactics. We saw it shoot up the outside of Howard’s window. It slithered across the roof, shot down the outside of Gramps’ window and scrabbled under the floor before climbing up my window.

  We fell back into our seats and watched in horror as the root wound itself round and round the car. It didn’t stop until it had wrapped itself around us about twenty times.

  ‘Why’s it doing that?’ whispered Rory.

  I didn’t know.

  I didn’t want to imagine.

  SEVEN

  My apple-man had started off okay. But germ-carrying slobberers had grown in him. And now he had become infected himself. He had put down roots and turned into a wicked plant. It wanted to get Howard. And it would kill anyone who tried to stop it.

  My apple-man had been my friend for so long.

  Now it was our enemy. My heart was aching at the thought. Dad’s gift was trying to kill us. I couldn’t bear to think about it. But I had to.

  One thing I had was a good imagination. I could let my mind wander and take me into all sorts of places. And I could see what that crawling, writhing finger was capable of.

  If I tried to protect Howard the tendril could wrap itself around my neck and squeeze until my eyeballs bugged out. It could choke off my windpipe so that I couldn’t breathe.

  It could get Gramps and drag him out of the car by his legs. It could send little suckers into every hole in his body. I shuddered at the thought.

  Then it would go for Dawn. She was strong. She was tough. She would put up a good fight. But in the end it would get her. Wrap itself around her lovely hair. And pull her down into the earth. Suck her into a rabbit burrow. Bury her forever.

  It was strong was that tendril. As strong as steel rope. And it was growing stronger by the minute. Little apple leaves were sprouting along its length. Taking in energy from the sun. Giving it strength. And it was putting down more roots. Suckers pushed down into the ground looking for moisture. It was building itself up for the final attack.

  On Howard.

  What would it do to him? It would leave him alive. To infect another plant or animal. Which could then infect Dad.

  First it would put a tiny sucker into Howard’s mouth. And infect him. Or drop a little seed into his ear. Then roots would grow. Eating into his brain. Tracking through his veins and nerves. Feeding on the anger and fear inside him. Spreading the germs into every cell.

  Just like the infection was doing to me.

  I stared outside at the bleak landscape. Nothing. Not a person to help. The sun beat down fiercely on the Morris Minor. Heating it up. Heating us up. We had no water. No food. Nothing to look forward to. Except death.

  Death in the form of a vine that was slowly tightening its grip on our metal prison.

  An hour ticked by. And another. We couldn’t get out. And we couldn’t stay.

  ‘We need water,’ said Howard. ‘Or we’ll die of thirst. I’m going to get out and fight the rotten thing. It’s only a plant.’

  ‘No,’ I said in a dry, rasping voice. ‘Look.’

  Something was moving on the horizon. Far in the distance I could see smooth shapes moving. Yes, yes, yes. Help was coming. Just in time. I strained my eyes, trying to see.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Dune buggies.’

  ‘Panzers,’ said Gramps.

  ‘No,’ said Dawn. ‘They’re not machines. And they’re not people either.’

  ‘Oh no, not frogs,’ I croaked. ‘Please don’t let it be frogs.’

  The brown shapes grew larger. Running on four legs. Not frogs. They looked like running rocks. Smooth animals. Moving towards us at a fast pace. About ten of them.

  ‘Pigs,’ yelled Howard. ‘Feral pigs.’

  We slumped down into the seat. If only it had been dune buggies. Pigs were no use.

  Or were they?

  The pigs trotted furiously in a straight line towards us. What did they want?

  The tendril, that’s what. The pigs started scratching and chewing at the plant and its roots. They worried at the earth with their slimy snouts and dripping green teeth. They dug and pawed with their claws. They began munching and chewing. Ripping and tearing. There wasn’t much food in this dry country. The pigs were starving hungry.

  ‘Hooray,’ shouted Gramps. ‘Reinforcements.’

  We all smiled and cheered. And patted each other on the back. The feral pigs were attacking the terrible tendril.

  But the plant was not so easily defeated. A thin, whip-like sucker shot out and wrapped itself around the biggest pig’s tail. The plant lifted the whole pig up by the tail and started swinging it in a circle. Faster and faster like a propeller on a plane. The pig squealed and grunted in terror. It was nothing but a blur. Its squeal became a high-pitched whine.

  The other pigs suffered the same fate. Suckers grabbed them all by the tail and swung the terrified animals around in the air at a furious speed.

  Suddenly the plant let go. The pigs arced up into the air. Higher and higher as if they had been shot out of the barrel of a cannon.

  Then they began to fall. Down, down, down. Twisting and turning. Squeaking in terror. Each pig hit the ground with a soft, sickening thud. One or two of the poor creatures twitched and then lay still. The others didn’t even move.

  They were all dead meat.

  Like we would be if we didn’t do something.

  The vine began to squeeze the car. It creaked and groaned under the strain. The roof began to buckle and collapse. We all ducked our heads and slid down in the seats.

  There was no one to help. We were on our own. My whole body was wracked with fearful shaking. My head felt like it was filled with a million bees. I hated this plant. I hated the germs.

  I was only a kid. I didn’t want to die in the desert.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I shrieked.

  My head seemed to spin and twirl. The floor underneath me bumped and shook. I felt the wheels turning. I heard the engine groaning. The exhaust backfired loudly. I looked along the row of seats and stared at all the kids from school. Laughing and joking and shoving each other.

  I winced as the gears crunched and groaned. Morris Minors didn’t have synchro on first gear.

  Neither did 1975 Leyland buses.

  EIGHT

  Rory’s eyes opened wide. He sat up staring. For a second I thought he’d seen something on the back of Gramps’ neck. A root tip wriggling out of Gramps’ collar or something.

  My heart thumped.

  But Gramps’ neck was okay. Rory’s eyes weren’t even focussed on Gramps.

  ‘Waylan,’ he shouted excitedly.

  I didn’t understand. The only Waylan we knew was Waylan Hicks who used to be in our class in first year. I peered through the windscreen into the heat haze. Had Rory seen Waylan Hicks coming towards us across the scorched plain with a really big pair of gardening shears?

  It seemed unlikely, though when you’re suffocating in a car surrounded by dead pigs and an evil tree root, anything’s possible.

  ‘Waylan,’ yelled Rory. ‘Sit over here.’

  My heart went from sheep-dip pump to fence-post excavator. Suddenly I realised what was happening. The thing I’d been praying for since yesterday.

  Gramps and Howard had turned round and were looking at Rory anxiously.

  I put my finger to my lips. ‘He’s back on the bus,’ I whispered.

  Suddenly I didn’t care about the root or the pigs or the heat. I wanted to grab Rory and beg him to tell me everything he was seeing and hearing of my mother’s last hour of life. But I didn’t. Even though I’d never actually seen a person having an hallucination before, something told me I should keep quiet.

  I waited, sweat pouring off me, for Rory to give more clues.

  Rory started swaying from side to side in his seat as if he was being driven along a bumpy road. That made sense. The road out of
town to Rory’s old place was bumpy all right.

  Suddenly he gave a jolt and stopped swaying. ‘See ya, Lochie,’ he shouted. ‘See ya, Ellen.’

  Kids I hadn’t thought of for years suddenly tumbled into my memory. Lochie Dunbar who moved to Adelaide. Ellen McIntyre whose mum made her change schools after the accident because she reckoned our school bus was too dangerous. Which was a slander on Mum.

  I blinked back tears.

  A thought hit me. I glanced anxiously at the root wrapped around the car to see if Rory’s shouting was affecting it. Enraging it and making it more determined to get us.

  It wasn’t moving. Its strands were still stretched tightly across the windows. Except they didn’t seem to be quite as tight as before.

  I didn’t look for long because Rory was swaying again. Then he stopped with another jolt. ‘Bye, Kylie,’ he yelled.

  Gramps and Howard were staring at him, open-mouthed. ‘He thinks he’s on the bus,’ Gramps whispered to Howard. ‘With Alan Fosdyke and Des Kyle. The German bus we nicked from Rommel.’

  I didn’t try and explain to Howard. There wasn’t time. My brain was working feverishly.

  Rory’s place had been the last drop-off on Mum’s afternoon school-bus run. He used to live way out of town, over the river. The drop-off before that had been … had been …

  ‘See ya, George,’ called Rory.

  Of course. George Dale.

  Rory started swaying again. George must have just got off. That meant the bus was on the last leg of its journey. The ten-minute drive from the Dales’ place to Rory’s place across the bridge. With Rory the last person on the bus.

  Except for Mum at the wheel.

  I felt dizzy with heat and thirst and excitement. In ten minutes I’d know the truth. The truth I’d been waiting five years for.

  Then something happened that almost made me faint.

  Rory spoke again. ‘Pretty good, thanks, Mrs Enright,’ he said. ‘Though my dad’s a bit sick.’

  Mrs Enright. That was Mum. Rory was speaking to Mum.

  I heard myself give a cry. I couldn’t stop it and I couldn’t stop the tears filling my eyes.