Wicked Bindup

by Paul Jennings

  A little group of flat furry things was floating along with the current. They looked like slippers that had been run over by a steamroller.

  I gave a shudder and turned back into the drain. Somewhere up ahead was Gramps.

  I hoped.

  I stood still and listened. Only the gurgling swirl of the foul water around my knees met my straining ears. I stumbled on blindly. Stretching my hands out in front of my face to protect myself. I touched the slimy concrete wall and followed it. On and on I went. The tunnel twisted and turned. I had no idea where it was going. No idea where I was.

  Suddenly I heard a new sound. The scamper of small feet. Squeaking and squealing. Rats. Somewhere above me, rats were rustling in the darkness.

  I felt so alone. So small. Just a kid who wanted his father. And his Gramps. I wanted to call out for Gramps. But what if Apple-head was nearby? He would know where I was. I couldn’t see a thing in the pitch-black drain.

  Finally I gathered courage. Enough to call into the evil night. ‘Gramps. Gramps. Where are you? It’s me. Rory.’

  There was no answer. Only more squealing from above.

  I staggered on. And on. And on. The water seemed to be flowing faster and faster. Had the rain outside turned into a downpour? The current swirled higher above my knees making it difficult to walk. Trying to push me backwards.

  I don’t know how long I forced my way against the current. An hour? Two? Fear made every second stretch into a year.

  Finally I stopped. Unable to go on. But wait. What was that? I strained my eyes. Yes. There was something ahead. Further along the tunnel. A dim glow. Hope?

  No.

  A furry figure in flittering shadows. On a small platform. Was it Gramps? Oh, please be Gramps.

  It wasn’t. It was Apple-head. He was carrying something heavy. Dragging it towards the edge of an underground jetty.

  Splash.

  Apple-head had thrown something or someone into the water.

  My heart froze. Gramps. Oh Gramps. Apple-head had killed him – I was sure of it.

  ‘Murderer,’ I screamed.

  I braced my legs in the water. His body would be coming my way. I had to catch it. I had to get poor old Gramps’ corpse out of there.

  I gritted my teeth and waited. And waited.

  Kerthump. Bang. A dead weight hit my legs and I felt my knees buckle underneath me.

  SEVEN

  All the way to the hospital my mind kept leaping back and foward. Back to the refinery and the pain waiting for Rory when he finally accepted his dad wasn’t there. I knew what that felt like, discovering a parent was gone.

  Then my mind would jump forward to the hospital and the pain waiting for Howard if he found his mum and got infected. I knew what that felt like too, having a parent hurt you without meaning to. Dad had never actually passed on an infection to me, but he’d still hurt me when he’d married Eileen.

  I wanted to help Rory as well as Howard. Guilt chewed at my insides. A couple of times I stopped on dark deserted street corners and wondered if I should turn back.

  I didn’t. I remembered what Dad always said. Better to do one thing properly than stuff up twice.

  I needed directions to the hospital. I decided I’d ask the first people I saw. I hoped the first people I saw would be Salvation Army women looking for lost people to give lifts to.

  They weren’t. They were rough-looking men drinking in a dimly lit pub. As a rule Dad didn’t like me talking to strangers in pubs, but this was an emergency.

  I took a deep breath and went in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said in a loud voice.

  Everyone stared. At first I thought it was because I was under-age. Then I remembered I hadn’t had a shower or changed my clothes for three days and I’d been sleeping rough and wrestling in the dust with a giant root.

  I smoothed my hair down.

  ‘Can you direct me to the Royal Prince Edward Hospital, please?’ I said.

  A couple of the men smirked. They reminded me of the steel sheep. ‘Why?’ said one.

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘my dad’s out in the car and he’s really sick.’

  The men stopped smirking. My neck started cramping. I hoped lying was okay if you had a really good excuse.

  A couple of other men stood up and peered out the door.

  ‘He’s got scarlet fever,’ I said hastily.

  The men sat down.

  After they’d given me directions I ran out of the pub and kept on running for about ten minutes in case they realised there was no car.

  Then I bush-hopped the rest of the way. Five minutes walking and five minutes running and five minutes walking and so on. I wanted to save my energy in case I had to wrestle Howard to the ground to stop him getting too dangerously close to his mum.

  It wasn’t easy. The footpath went over freeways with about a million steps involved and through dark tunnels where you had to run whether your five minutes walking was up or not.

  Plus there was the energy drain of getting lost eight times.

  It took me more than an hour to find the hospital. Once I was there, though, I couldn’t miss it.

  The Royal Prince Edward was huge. It had huge car parks and a huge number of floors. I stared up at it and my stomach sank.

  It wasn’t a laid-back country hospital you could sneak into with an op-shop disguise and an obliging pensioner.

  This hospital had boom gates. The only way you got into this hospital was if they invited you.

  I decided to get myself an invitation.

  One of the good things about a big city hospital, I discovered, was that it had toilets on the ground floor with soap and hand-dryers. I snuck in and tidied myself up.

  Another good thing was that the hospital chemist and newsagent stayed open at night, probably so bored patients could pick up some aspirin and another Joan Collins novel.

  I spent the last of my money on chocolate and textas and conditioner for permed or coloured hair.

  Back in the toilets I locked myself in a cubicle and gobbled most of the chocolate. I felt guilty because I knew Rory and Gramps must be starving too, but there was nothing I could do so I gobbled the last two squares. Then I smeared the conditioner all over my face and arms.

  When I was three I smeared Mum’s conditioner for permed or coloured hair all over myself and discovered I was allergic to it. My skin went all bumpy and blotchy.

  As I sat on the toilet in the Royal Prince Edward, I felt the same thing happening again.

  When my skin was really hurting, I went over to the mirror and coloured in my blotches with purple and yellow textas. Then I rubbed some more conditioner on to blend the colours.

  It didn’t look exactly like Rory and Eileen’s infection, but it was close enough.

  The nurse at the admissions desk was fooled.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘My step-mother Eileen Singer is in here with a mystery infection and I’d like to see her, please.’ I tried to sway and sound a bit brain-affected.

  The nurse stared. Then she grabbed her phone.

  Everything happened very quickly. In a couple of minutes I was on a trolley with a clear plastic lid over me. Medical people were wheeling me fast and saying urgent things to each other.

  We had to wait a few minutes for a lift. While we were waiting I tried to tell my heart to calm down. It was all okay. Eileen would be in a stable condition. I’d be able to stop Howard from being infected. Dad would be pleased to see me and willing to come back to the refinery to find Rory’s dad and a cure for the infection.

  That’s what I hoped.

  Suddenly we were in the lift. Going up. Everything was happening fast again. I was wheeled into a quarantine area just like the one I’d seen on telly. Double sliding doors with a microwave oven for handbags.

  Then I was wheeled into a room and put in a bed. ‘Rest quietly,’ said the nurse, ‘and we’ll be back shortly for tests and admission.’

  I rested quietly for about nine seconds. Just lon
g enough to remember the last time I’d been in a hospital. Infecting a snail had been easy compared to what I was trying to do here. Stopping a kid from getting close to the mother he’d never seen.

  As soon as the nurse had gone I got up and snuck out of the room. Just in time to see something that made me feel sick enough to be in the gastric ward. Howard, climbing out from under the sheet-draped trolley I’d been brought up on. He’d been lying on the base of the trolley all that time. Instead of stopping him I’d helped bring him to his doom.

  I should have stopped him there in the quarantine area. But I didn’t. Because I could tell from his face that he’d already seen her.

  His mother.

  His face was shining with so much love and sadness. It looked like mine felt when I thought of my mum. My brain was screaming ‘stop him’ but my heart just glowed.

  Howard walked into the room opposite mine, and there was Eileen. I gasped when I saw how bad she looked. Her face was almost unrecognisable. I’d have needed a dozen textas and three bottles of conditioner to get close.

  When she saw Howard she stared, trembling. Only when he sobbed ‘Mum’ did she struggle to sit up and hold her arms out.

  Suddenly my brain started working again.

  ‘Howard,’ I yelled. ‘Stay back.’

  Howard spun round, glaring, and when he saw me a terrible thing happened to his face. It twisted and distorted into an ugly mask of hatred.

  Just like Rory’s after he got infected.

  I stared at Howard, sick with shock.

  No, it couldn’t be. We’d protected him. We’d kept him in the car. I looked around wildly for a doctor so I could prove it was a mistake. Howard couldn’t be infected.

  Then I remembered.

  That last smouldering length of root. The one that had clamped onto his ankle. His sock mustn’t have been thick enough after all.

  I crouched down and pulled his jeans leg up. His ankle was swollen and purple. Gently pulsing blotches were already spreading up his leg.

  ‘Oh, Howard,’ I whispered, close to tears.

  He stared down at me, not ugly any more, just a very sad big brother.

  ‘Thanks for trying,’ he said, touching my shoulder. Then he turned and sank into his mother’s arms.

  I was still crouched there, dazed, when Dad walked in. At first I couldn’t understand why he was staring in horror at me instead of Howard. Howard was the one who was infected. Then I remembered my skin.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I said, standing up. ‘It’s just texta.’

  Dad grabbed my arms, tearful and furious. ‘How can you,’ he said. ‘How can you carry on with your stupid games when I’ve been worried sick about you and Eileen is dying and the doctors say there’s no cure.’

  He went over to Eileen, barely glancing at Howard who was kneeling by the bed stroking her hand. Eileen was slumped back on her pillow. She did look like she was dying.

  That’s when I knew Rory and me were their only hope. And we had to move quickly before Rory got as bad as Eileen. We had to find Rory’s dad and pray he had the secret to the infection.

  First I had to get out. I ran out of the room and down the corridor and round the corner.

  In front of me was a sheet-draped trolley like the one I’d come up on. As I climbed under the sheet and lay on the trolley base, I prayed I’d be as lucky getting out of the hospital as Howard had been getting in.

  Three lives depended on it.

  EIGHT

  I tried not to breathe. I closed my mouth and eyes as I was pushed under the foul water. I felt something bump overhead. Something hard. It wasn’t a body. Fantastic. I was so happy. Gramps could still be alive.

  But what was it that had banged into my legs and knocked me into the flow of the rushing drain?

  As it passed over me I reached up and grabbed it. A railway sleeper. Hurtling along at a terrific speed. Just what I needed – a raft. I dragged myself onto the slippery wood and felt a surge of relief. It was carrying me back along the tunnel to safety. Away from the terrible smells. Away from the fearful furry figure that had thrown the sleeper into the stream. Away from danger and darkness.

  Away from Gramps. Wherever he was. Just what Apple-head wanted. To knock me over and get rid of me.

  Without another thought I rolled off the sleeper. It bumped ahead of me into the darkness. The gurgling water washed me along after it on my backside. Desperately I grabbed at the concrete wall with my fingers. It was like running my hand across sandpaper. I could feel the skin on my fingertips breaking. The pain was terrible.

  Suddenly I felt something hard and smooth. A handle embedded in the wall. I grabbed it with one hand and stopped my rush down the tunnel with a jolt that nearly pulled my arm out of its socket. Slowly I pulled myself to my feet.

  I had to save Gramps. I couldn’t leave him to the revolting creature that I had glimpsed up ahead.

  But first I had to save myself. What if that furry apple-head sent another sleeper down the stream? In the pitch dark I wouldn’t see it. All I could do was listen. Listen for bumping. Knocking. The sound of wood on walls. I strained my ears trying to sort out the sounds. Water bubbling and splashing. Nothing else.

  Except …

  ‘Eeeeyow.’ A long drawn-out cry. A wailing yell of fury. Coming towards me. Borne down with the current. Oh, no. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No escape from the moaning monstrosity.

  ‘Eeeyow,’ came the cry. ‘Eeeyow, Apple-spy. I’ll be back. I’ll get you. You don’t get rid of a Finnigan that easy. Aaagh …’

  ‘Gramps,’ I yelled. ‘Gramps.’ It was him. Coming down the stream. Out of control. I couldn’t see anything. There was nothing I could do except brace my legs again and wait.

  I took a firm hold on one of the safety handles that seemed to line the edge of the tunnel.

  Thump. For a second time in a couple of minutes I was whacked in the legs. Gramps slammed into me and almost took me with him.

  ‘Gotcha, Gramps,’ I yelled. ‘You’re safe now.’

  Gramps hung on to my legs desperately as I slowly pulled him to an upright position.

  ‘Rory, boy,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Gramps,’ I spluttered. ‘It’s me. Let’s get out of here.’

  Gramps fought for breath. Finally he managed to get a few words out. ‘We have to kill the apple-spy. It’s turned into a, a … terrible mould-head. A foul, mouldy fiend. Strong like a snake. Sneaky. Rotten. Rotting. Urgh …’

  ‘Shoot,’ I yelled. ‘Let’s go. We have to get back to the car.’

  ‘No,’ said Gramps. ‘It’s too far. I can’t make it. Go forward. There’s a light further on. And a landing. It’s our only hope.’

  ‘But what about the …’ I didn’t finish. If we couldn’t go back to the entrance we had to go forward. But the thought of what we might meet up ahead was just too horrible. I tried and tried but I couldn’t push it out of my mind.

  ‘Hang on to my belt,’ I yelled. ‘And don’t let go.’

  I began to trudge on against the flow of the water. Deeper and deeper into the drain. I was getting weak myself. My bad leg was throbbing. My lungs were raw and my breath wheezed from my throat. The germs were attacking my muscles. I grew weaker with every step. Fear and anger swirled through my veins.

  I wouldn’t have been able to make it, not pulling Gramps after me, if it wasn’t for one thing. The thought of the people I loved. That thought kept me going. Gave me strength. I thought about them all. Gramps. And my father. And mother. And Big Bad … No, not her. Nuts to her.

  Thank goodness for the safety handles on the side of the tunnel. I couldn’t see them but they were evenly spaced in the wall. I grabbed each one and hauled us slowly forward.

  Every few paces we stopped for a rest.

  Gramps was too puffed to speak. And I wasn’t much better.

  I was scared of what was ahead. It was unknown. This was all too big for us. We needed the police. We needed the army. The mo
uldy apple-man needed to be flushed out with gas. Like a rat in a sewer. But first we had to get out of there.

  Then I felt a little ray of hope. Maybe Dawn and Howard had gone to the police. Maybe at this very moment they were bringing top scientists to our aid. But how would they know where we were? Dawn would think I had gone into the refinery to look for Dad.

  No one was going to come and help us.

  We trudged on and on and on. Against the stream in the darkness. Pulling our way further into danger. Forward. Rest. Forward. Rest.

  ‘Gramps,’ I finally managed to say. ‘What did you see down there?’

  ‘The apple-spy has grown and changed,’ he said. ‘It has mould all over its hands and face. It’s definitely one of Rommel’s men. I could have shot it. But I lost my .303. I was helpless.’

  Gramps was remembering the war again.

  ‘It’s horrible beyond belief, Rory. I shook so much I fell into the water.’

  ‘Gramps, I think you’re getting mixed up again,’ I said.

  ‘No, I saw its clothes,’ said Gramps. ‘It’s wearing the same uniform. AMPACO panzers.’

  We trudged on further. I couldn’t go on much longer. My legs were freezing. I was shivering and shaking with the cold. And I was tired. And I knew that if I felt like that, then Gramps must be even worse. His tottery old legs must just about be collapsing.

  ‘Look,’ yelled Gramps.

  I peered ahead. Yes, there it was. The flickering yellow light. Hope. A small, distant hope.

  On, on and on we went. Slipping and sliding. Resting and striding.

  I didn’t know how we did it. But in the end we reached the yellow light. It hung above a small platform where a ladder stretched down into the water. I hauled myself up and then grabbed Gramps’ hand and pulled him after me.

  We both lay there panting and shivering in the yellow light. A fatal fever was tearing at my guts. I was terribly weak. And I wasn’t the only one. I stared at Gramps’ feeble frame and wondered if he could go on.