The Big Dry

by Tony Davis

  George stood, stepped towards Beeper and tried to put his arm around him. Beeper pushed it away. ‘We need to get her back, Torgie!’ he said as he ran down the hallway.

  George stared around the empty room for a few seconds and wondered how his success could have so quickly become so sour.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  George ran down the hallway, into the front yard, and onto the road.

  Beeper was running down the hill in the direction of the mall, already a tiny blurred silhouette in the dust fog.

  Mr Carey was in his front yard. ‘Over there!’ he growled, pointing furiously in the direction of the stadium.

  George ignored him and sprinted after his brother.

  As he ran, he spotted Emily’s misty shape further down the hill. She was about fifty metres ahead of Beeper. But Beeper was fast. He was closing the gap.

  The outside world was quiet, George’s breath unusually loud. His feet hit the sand with noisy thuds.

  ‘Beeper! Beeper!’ he yelled. Twenty or thirty more steps, and George would catch him. They had covered a lot of ground quickly.

  The temperature was dropping. George couldn’t catch his breath, so he stopped to cough and spit. He looked down and realised his arms were covered in goosebumps.

  George slowly turned around. Something was emerging from the fog. It was a blaster, rearing darkly over the crest of the hill, reaching for the sky. That’s what Mr Carey had been pointing to. And it was moments away from engulfing their house and everything else behind them.

  ‘Beeper! Stop!’ George yelled.

  Beeper kept running but Emily spun around. She glanced up at the billowing wall of dust and debris.

  ‘No, Beeper!’ she screamed and began running back up the hill.

  George arrived first, grabbing his brother’s arm tightly. Emily was there a second later. The blaster had engulfed the crest of the hill. It would reach them in less than a minute.

  The three stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the road, as dirt was flung into the air by the gusts moving ahead of the blaster. George pointed to a nearby house. It had no windows or doors, and only parts of its roof were in place. But any protection was better than none. ‘This one!’ he called out: ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Beeper didn’t move. He just stared at the blaster, rolling down the hill towards them like a black tsunami.

  George hoisted his brother onto his shoulder and staggered towards the house. Emily ran behind as the blaster sucked up the sound, the light, the air.

  They almost made it to the doorway, but were knocked to the ground by the swirling volleys of wind. Beeper was first to scramble to his feet. In a panic, he ran the wrong way. George gripped his shirt. Hauled him back over his shoulder. The blaster was thirty seconds from hitting them.

  Emily pushed at George’s back, herding him and Beeper into the house as the wind tried to fling them to the ground.

  George stumbled through the doorway. He checked that Emily was following. She grabbed each side of the door frame to steady herself.

  The front door led directly into a small room. There was an old fireplace on the wall to the right, with deep, heavy bookshelves on each side of it. These were the only shelter in sight. George pushed Beeper underneath the shelves closest to the door and squeezed in himself. Emily, a few steps behind, ran to the other side of the fireplace.

  George peered around the fireplace and saw that there was junk underneath Emily’s shelves. There wasn’t enough room for her to fully squeeze in and cover herself. She stared at George, her eyes wide with fear.

  The noise of the wind escalated into a roar. George leapt to his feet and beckoned for Emily to join them on their side of the fireplace. George wanted her to be safe. He wanted more than that. In those one or two seconds, he knew he wanted Emily to be with them. And not just through this blaster. Not just through these hard times. George wanted Emily with them even if Dad came home. Even when Dad came home.

  Emily hesitated then gave a small, lopsided grin. She slid out from beneath her shelf and stood up. George crawled back in beside Beeper. Space was going to be tight, but he pushed his brother further along to make more room as she came towards them.

  George kept one eye on the blaster through the empty window. Debris bounced and spun across its roiling face. He saw a thick wooden beam tipping and lurching among the raging dirt.

  For a moment the beam was lost among the other rubble. Then it fell to the ground and cartwheeled towards the house. It kicked up again, and was spat forth, ahead of the blaster. It clipped the top of the wall of the room, smashing the upper row of bricks as it burst in.

  Emily, now only three or four steps from the boys, tried to duck as it passed. The beam pounded against the shelves behind her. She fixed her gaze on George but she didn’t take another step.

  ‘Emily!’ George screamed.

  Then the blaster hit and everything went dark.

  TWENTY-NINE

  George and Beeper pulled their shirts over their faces. They sat sideways against the wall and doubled up their bodies, trying to protect their exposed arms and necks from being singed by the hot sand. Rubble pounded on the empty bookshelves above their heads; pieces of plaster and wood hit their feet and ankles.

  George pulled his shirt down a fraction. When the room was lit by a flash of static, he sneaked a glimpse through the gaps between his fingers. There was no sign of Emily.

  Long bolts of static electricity arced overhead. The wind ripped at the walls. Loose bricks tumbled from above. Large objects flew through the darkness. George kept one arm locked around Beeper’s shoulders and put his leg on the outside to try to protect him.

  He found his brother’s hand and interlocked their fingers. He squeezed tightly. Beeper squeezed back.

  The howl of wind, the blast of dirt and the crashing of debris seemed to go on forever. Let Emily be all right, George thought over and over, let Emily be all right.

  As soon as the storm eased a little, George pushed himself out of his shelter. Sand poured off his back, his legs, his shoulders. His arms and legs felt like they had been attacked with a mallet. The air burnt his throat.

  ‘Stay here,’ he yelled to Beeper. ‘Don’t move.’

  George crawled towards the far shelves. A gust of wind thumped him against the fireplace, making him dizzy, but he reached the space where Emily had first tried to hide.

  The beam that had flown past Emily had smashed the shelves into splinters. George pulled away some of the rubble. Emily was not underneath.

  George edged into a doorway at the far end of the room. He stepped into the next room and fell half a metre, banging his shins on an old wooden bearer. The whole world twisted and tumbled. The floorboards were gone. The room was empty.

  Right, through another doorway. The far walls of that room had gone completely. George was facing out into the back yard. Another gust almost blew him off his feet. Emily may have been pushed out of the house by the blaster, he decided. He’d have to check there.

  Visibility was no more than a few metres. George turned left and dragged his hand along the wall so he could find his way. He tripped over a pile of bricks. Dust spilled down his neck, poured into his shoes. He sheltered the top of his face with his right arm to stop the gritty wind tearing at his skin. Closing his eyes to a slit, George peered through his lashes. He sidled along the wall, looking out into the back yard. It was empty.

  Why did I call her out from under those shelves? George kept asking himself. Why did she stare that way? Her face had been at first filled with surprise, then a strange calmness. But she had stopped walking towards them. It was not because the beam had hit her, George repeated in his head. She ducked out of the way. She did, she did, she did.

  As he rounded a corner and headed towards the street, hot sand sprayed into his face. There was no sign of her at the side of the house. There was no point yelling her name. Not over the howling wind; not with a throat parched by dust.

  For a split seco
nd, a blast of static made everything inside George glow orange. But he kept moving forward. He kept searching, convinced that if he was brave enough and strong enough, he could make up for everything.

  He arrived in the front yard. All he found were drifts of dust. They swirled away and reformed around his feet.

  THIRTY

  It felt as though someone was pushing knitting needles into George’s eyeballs. Everything was blurred and distorted.

  He realised he couldn’t leave Beeper alone any longer. He had to hope that Emily had somehow made it to a safe place on her own.

  George lurched back into the house through the front door. He crawled to the shelves and gripped his brother in his arms.

  Hours passed. Most of them in bellowing blackness. George tried to imagine Emily holed up in the corner of a room that he had missed in his search. Or hiding underneath the floor on which the boys were now sitting.

  At least he’d called her towards them. He’d shown her that she belonged somewhere. Hadn’t he? No! It wasn’t nearly enough. And it was all much, much too late.

  At some point George drifted off. When he awoke, the world was still. His face was windblown and sore to the touch. His throat was so stripped, he couldn’t swallow.

  His brother was still there, locked in his arms. Beeper heaved up a dark paste then coughed at least twenty times in succession. The boys opened their stinging eyes, pulled themselves to their feet, and shook off the worst of the dirt and rubbish that covered them.

  They limped through the empty shell of the house. It was a clutter of sand, broken wood, stray bricks, empty cans, splinters of roof tiles. They checked the rooms that George had missed, but nothing else moved, or made a sound. George doubled over in a spell of painful coughing.

  The boys tramped out into the back yard, then through the front yard. They crisscrossed the blanched, windswept street. Kicked at dunes. Lifted sheets of iron. Dragged at lengths of wood. They wheezed out her name in the still, baked air. ‘Emily? Emily? Emily!’

  George found a gap in the foundations at the back of the house. He climbed through, and searched and yelled under the floorboards. No-one was there.

  The constant coughing sapped his strength and balance, but George hobbled again through every room in the house, with Beeper following closely behind. He wanted to try the surrounding yards, the ditches and the other shells of houses. But he collapsed on the front landing. He was too exhausted to stay on his feet, his body refused to move.

  Beeper walked around for a little longer. He came up to George on the landing, pointed at the road and croaked out: ‘There’s someone there!’

  George squinted through his swollen eyelids. ‘Emily?’ he rasped.

  ‘No,’ a man’s voice called in response.

  George’s ears were still ringing from the blaster. He couldn’t recognise the voice, but he wasn’t scared. He was too exhausted to be scared.

  A figure with wayward white hair came into George’s view. ‘Mr Carey?’

  The old man looked at the boys in turn. He was clutching a gun. The barrel was pointing at the ground. ‘Where’s the girl?’ he asked.

  George shook his head. Beeper dryly sobbed.

  Mr Carey put the butt of his gun down and rested the barrel against the wall in the front of the house. He unclipped a flask from his belt and removed the lid. He went to the landing, helped George into a sitting position, and handed him the flask.

  Beeper wiped his eyes with his filthy sleeve, leaving a streak across his face. He dropped down beside George. They passed the flask back and forth, gulping the water noisily.

  ‘It was all my fault,’ George managed to say.

  Mr Carey sat down beside them on the front porch. He scratched the back of his neck and seemed to examine the ground for a very long time. ‘What are you, George, twelve years old? Thirteen?’ He lifted his head a little. ‘I shouldn’t have left you to carry everything on your own. I wanted to help. But I just … I just couldn’t manage to …’

  His voice trailed off. He shook his head slowly and drew in air.

  George and Beeper finished the water. They helped each other to their feet. They told Mr Carey where they had last seen Emily. They pointed out where the beam of wood had come from, where it had landed. George explained how Emily had stopped and stared.

  George found enough strength to stand. He slowly walked over the front and back yards, visited the ruined house next door. He was in his own world, falling deeper and deeper into despair and gloom as his search came up with nothing.

  The pink sky began to glow red. The afternoon sun was now a broad smudge on the horizon.

  ‘Didn’t you say that she could open locked doors?’ Mr Carey said when George arrived in the front yard. ‘Maybe she made it somewhere safe. And maybe she’ll come back when she’s ready.’

  George scanned up and down the street, at the wrecked buildings, the fortresses, the ditches, the dunes of dust, dirt and sand. She could be anywhere.

  He turned to Beeper. ‘Some people do come back,’ he said. But the words were empty.

  It would soon be dark. Impossible to see anything, or find anyone. George put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. ‘We have to go home. To what’s left of it.’

  George steeled himself for the long trudge up the hill. After a few steps, he stopped and peered over his shoulder. ‘Mr Carey,’ he said. ‘We should all go together.’

  The old man picked up his gun. ‘Bill,’ he said, following. ‘It’s Bill.’

  It was right on the cusp of night-time. George’s steps shortened as the hill became steeper. His body was numb, his balance poor. His stinging, watery eyes were hardly working at all. His feet came to an almost complete stop. He desperately wanted to lie down.

  He raised his head briefly and noticed a dark shape further up the hill. It was distant and wavering, almost hanging in the air.

  George’s imagination was playing a trick. Or perhaps someone was standing on the roadway, his or her shape distorted by dust and failing light. It could be anyone, or anything. It could be Emily, it could be their father. It could be trouble.

  It was probably nothing at all. And George was just so tired.

  He squinted, but couldn’t really focus. Was that the shape of a dress he could make out? No, it was all just a cruel mirage.

  George once again searched for a place to lie down. A phrase began drumming inside his head. It was something Emily had said. ‘If you don’t have dreams, it’s just the same as giving in.’

  George fixed anew on the shimmery outline. It was true. If you don’t have dreams, if you don’t believe things will be better, it is the same as giving in.

  He took in a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. He felt his feet begin to move. At first slowly. Then faster, faster, faster.

  George was now sure he could make out those long, thin arms; that wild, wild hair. He was sprinting, with Beeper on his heels. Two boys yelled wildly, as the greyness around them began to take on every colour.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to a long list of people whose names end in the word Davis. Damian, Dolores, Glyn, James and William read the manuscript at various points and offered valuable feedback.

  Friends with varied surnames did likewise. Thanks Angela Abberton, Graham Harman, Mary-Ellen Hepworth, Glenn Morrison, Dave Mason-Cox, Alison Peters, Colleen Robertson and Michael Stahl.

  Junior manuscript road-testers included Elizabeth Flaherty, Alex and Will Wyche, Grace Abberton, Gabrielle Hepworth, Hannah Walsh and Lauren McNamara.

  I greatly valued every comment, suggestion and expression of sympathy as the manuscript went through version after version. Margrete Lamond played an important early role; it would have been a lesser novel without her encouragement and learned advice. Libby Volke was a great help, while Jude McGee offered sage (and brutally frank) advice.

  Lisa Berryman brought it all together for HarperCollins, Rachel Dennis worked sterlingly on the final edit.


  Biggest thank you of all goes to Carolyn Walsh: wife, muse and best friend.

  Each of the above deserves a large jar of well-strained water. Perhaps even lemonade.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tony Davis is based in Sydney, Australia. A successful newspaper journalist and editor, he has also written more than a dozen books for children and adults. His Roland Wright Future Knight novels, set in medieval times and aimed at upper primary readers, are published in Australia, America and Germany. Tony’s sport books have involved interviews with some of the world’s bravest and most eccentric athletes.

  COPYRIGHT

  Angus&Robertson

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia

  First published in Australia in 2013

  This edition published in 2013

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Tony Davis 2013

  The right of Tony Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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