A Killing Frost

by John Marsden

  I could hear the vehicle revving and turning. The noise sounded like it was coming from all around us. There were a few shouts, then the engine settled down to a steady throb. And suddenly the container moved. Even though I'd been half expecting it, I took a grip on Homer's arm so tightly that I felt the bone. The container gave a quick lurch, then started moving slowly and steadily forward and upward, until it was at an angle that felt like 45 degrees, but probably wasn't quite so steep. A container of diesel not restrained by the fertiliser bags slid slowly downhill. I grabbed it as though I were drowning and it were a lifebuoy, clutching it hard and hoping the men outside hadn't heard the noise. Homer grabbed me and I realised that on the fear scale we were rating about the same figure. Then we really started moving. There was a clanking noise and slowly we felt ourselves bumping forwards. I wanted to cheer, but didn't. I knew that somewhere Robyn and Lee and Kevin and Fi would be watching, and wondered if they would be cheering, or whether they would be too scared for that. We hadn't talked about covering fire for us, but I'd taken it for granted that they'd have the shotguns out. I'd have lost too much face if I'd mentioned it, but now I prayed that they had them pointing straight at the truck.

  The ride down to Cobbler's Bay was uncomfortable and unpleasant. We couldn't see any of the bends, of course, so each of them took us by surprise. We used the fertiliser bags to save us from being thrown around too much. They weren't quite the same as air bags but they did the job. It was impossible to guess how far we'd come or how far we had to go: I thought we'd have reached the bay about ten minutes before we actually did. In fact I'd convinced myself that we'd made a terrible mistake and the container wasn't going to Cobbler's; we'd end up in some remote city, not even knowing where we were.

  The truck slowed and I could hear gears changing clown as we drove along in a straight line for the first time. Then we rocked slowly to a stop. By now my mouth was so dry I couldn't close it. I must have looked like a fish: in the dry coffin I was gasping for air but too panic-stricken to breathe properly. My mind was quite numb. I didn't seem able to think any more. I could hear voices and the throbbing of the engine but couldn't connect them to any meaning. I just sat there waiting for something to happen. After a minute it did: we began to move again, still on a smooth straight road. We swung to the right, then to the left, then went over a series of regular bumps, as though we were driving on a railway track. "We're on the wharf," Homer whispered in my ear. His voice was so unexpected that it shocked me back into thought. I realised he was right—we were suddenly breathtakingly close to our target. We'd gone right through the dreaded guard post at the gate without my realising it.

  After the shock of this quick change in our situation nothing happened for three hours. The time passed very slowly. We sat in silence, sweat running clown my face and stinging my eves. My neck and armpits and groin became horribly uncomfortable: prickly and damp. I could feel the hair sticking to my skin more and more. There was nothing we could do, of course. We were at their mercy. If they decided to leave us sitting on the wharf for a week, what would become of us? My mind still wasn't working enough to think of any possibilities. I suppose I just vaguely accepted that we'd have to break out and jump off the jetty and swim. I know every time I let myself think about water I longed for a drink with such desperation that I had to try to force a different image into my head. The thirst was certainly the worst thing, so much so that even the danger of being shot got pushed into the background.

  A thump on the roof was the first clue that anything had changed. It hit so hard that I jumped up in panic, choking back a scream, thinking that something was about to come right through the roof. I looked for Homer and saw his dark shape opposite mine. He too was standing with equal anxiety, looking up at the thin metal sheet above us, which was still trembling with the shock of the impact.

  We lifted, and I did give a small yelp. It felt so strange, to be floating in air, swinging around slightly as we rose. The container was tipping and tilting; I gazed at Homer. I saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled at me but even in the little light we had I could sec that his smile was forced, probably to stop his teeth chattering. I smiled back, an equally fake grin. With the rocking of the box, coming after the twisting drive down from the hills and the long hot wait on the wharf, I was scared I'd be sick. We could have been one metre off the ground or one hundred metres; there was no way of telling. I couldn't even figure out whether we were going up or coming down.

  And all at once we seemed to drop out of the bright hard light into a great blackness. It was cold and dark; for a stupid moment I thought we were dropping into Hell.

  Fourteen

  This time I grabbed Homer. There was a silence outside and that, with the sudden cold, made me feel we were not in Hell but in a freezer store. A few moments later the container came to rest, landing firmly on its base again. Something loud and heavy scraped across the roof and was gone. I was still holding Homer but he let me go and stepped away to peer through a thin crack in the side of the box. We'd tried peeping through these holes before but all we'd learned was how bright the sun was. The holes were just too small. Now Homer stayed riveted to this one for some time but I don't think he could see anything. There was nothing to tell us what was happening; nothing but the silence of our tomb.

  We stayed in there for another hour and a half. We quickly got cold and were soon shivering uncontrollably. I had spasms of intense violent shivering, then I'd go back to normal shivers, but I never stopped altogether. It was just the usual things, of course: fear and cold. I should have been used to both of them.

  In all that hour and a half there had not been a sound around us, and I reached a stage where I thought we had to do something or we'd be unable to move. The cold hadn't reduced mv thirst much but I thought some exercise might at least'take my mind off that, although I knew there'd be no bottle of ice-cold Pepsi waiting at the end of it. I moved over to Homer and touched his elbow, then whispered, "I'm going to have a look." He didn't answer, so I took that for agreement and started clambering over the fertiliser bags. I got to the door and, with numb fingers, fumbled with the handle. It squeaked as I turned it and I waited, heart thudding. Nothing happened, so I finished its turn until it felt loose in mv hands. Then I started nudging it down. Inch by slow grinding inch. Without looking round I could feel Homer's tension behind me. At last, with a final rasping stutter, the bolt came free. I leant against it with mv head on the cold metal, my eyes closed, holding the pole with both hands so that the doors wouldn't suddenly swing open. We were about to step out into a complete unknown. We could have been in the final moments of our lives.

  "Not yet," Homer murmured into my ear and I waited another three or four minutes before creaking the tall door open.

  Squeezing through the smallest possible gap I found myself in a vast dark space filled with containers identical to ours. The slight rocking under my feet, unnoticeable in the container, told me that we were indeed in a ship. I could hear creaks and moans from the steel of the hull. I looked around in wonder. We were seeking to destroy all this. If we achieved what we wanted we would turn our innocent box into a mighty bomb and, in a few hours, all of this would be at the bottom of the sea.

  I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The place smelt like fresh air had never reached it. Diesel fumes were mixed with salt and rope and paint and disinfectant. It wasn't pleasant but it was the way I'd imagined a ship would smell. It made a change from the ammonium smell in the container.

  There was no one there; that was obvious. The hatch above was closed and we could hear no human noises, nor sense any human presence. I turned to Homer, able at last to see him more clearly.

  "What do you think?" I asked.

  "Let's get ready. Let's set it up so all we have to do is light the fuse, then as soon as it's night-time we'll light it and go over the side."

  "OK. God, I could use some water."

  "I know. I can't believe we didn't bring any."

&nb
sp; We went back into our container, closing the doors loosely behind us, and set to work, coolly preparing the biggest weapon any of us had ever dreamed of. But it was strange: I did "it without thinking about bombs. I could just as easily have been getting feed ready for the poddy lambs at home. We didn't have to do a" lot. We cut the bags open and tipped the stuff out so the diesel would soak through it all, then moved the drums of fuel. Then we poured the diesel out. Kevin had worked out the ratio for us: six per cent by weight. We stirred it through the fertiliser. It was like making a tossed salad. I shoved my hand clown into the pile and brought out a handful. The little yellow grains were greasy without being wet. It felt right.

  The smell of diesel was getting really unpleasant. I tried to ignore it and, with Homer watching, I began to prepare the fuse and detonator. What I had to do was make a small bomb that would set off the big bomb. I used the length of pipe we'd found at the farm and filled it with anfo and the detonator. I had to crimp the end shut, which was pretty dangerous. We hadn't been able to find special crimping pliers which, according to Kevin, is what we should have used, so we had to go with the normal metal ones. The trouble was that one spark would set it off. I just had to be damn careful. I moved the pliers very gently, drying my hands every ten seconds to wipe away the sweat that was making them so slippery. It was a matter of not letting the pliers bang against the pipe. It would have been simple if I'd been doing it with an empty pipe.

  At last I finished. We couldn't find anything else to do then. So we shut the container doors, found a corner of the hold, and just lay down and waited. I was leaning against Homer, and he had his arm around me. Neither of us spoke. I enjoyed the feel of cuddling into his strong body and I actually went to sleep for a while. At some stage he produced' our food supply, a packet of Morning Coffee biscuits that were broken, stale and soft, and two packets of jelly crystals, one lime and one pineapple.

  I got to choose and I chose the pineapple.

  The trouble with this lunch was that it increased my thirst to a desperate stage. I couldn't think about anything else and the more I thought, the worse it got. I wondered about drinking diesel, and was sorry we hadn't saved a bit from the bomb. My mouth was hot and dry and my tongue felt large and thick. It was too hard even to talk, and anyway there was nothing left to talk about. I lay back against Homer's ribs again, feeling them rising and falling with each panting breath, and tried to will myself to sleep. But all I could do was long for evening.

  Gradually, with sickening slowness, the time moved on. At about half past five, by Homer's unreliable old wind-up watch, we started to get restless. As the air cooled even further we figured it must be close to dark outside. We estimated that the fuse would bum between twenty and twenty-five minutes, so there wasn't much margin for error. We found the exit from the hold: a steel ladder that climbed through the darkness to a metal trapdoor. This was not the main hatch cover, of course, but a little one for people. I suppose the sailors used it when they were at sea and wanted to check the cargo. Homer went up the ladder, gingerly, and gave the trapdoor a nudge. It lifted. So it seemed that getting out wouldn't be a problem. What we found when we got out: now that might be a problem.

  Homer's watch said seven o'clock. "Time for the ABC News," I thought. That had been one of the rituals in our house. Dad always had to watch the ABC News. Now there was no more ABC News and it was time for us to blow up a ship in Cobbler's Bay. Life had changed quite a bit.

  "What do you think?" I asked Homer, through dry peeling lips, with my swollen tongue. He looked equally terrible.

  "I can't stand this any longer," he said. "Let's do it."

  It was much earlier than the time we'd planned, but I was in total agreement with Homer, and that made it unanimous.

  We went back to the container. I felt strange, weightless, walking on air.

  "Reach?" Homer asked.

  I nodded. "Be funny if we'd forgotten the matches," I whispered. Homer didn't laugh. He stood by the container door as I rolled the fuse out to its limit. "There's no point both of us waiting here," I said. "You go up the ladder and have the hatch ready."

  He went off obediently and I got out the box and chose a match. It took a few strikes to light it, then it flared up, hurting my eves. "Well, here goes," I said out loud, but I waited for it to burn down a little before applying it to the fuse. The flame was at my fingers, scorching them slightly before the fuse caught alight. I shook the match out'quickly, and stood watching to make sure the fuse was burning. It was. I ran for the ladder.

  It had been cool in the hold but when Homer raised the trapdoor a fraction the night air felt really freezing. With our light clothing—shorts and T-shirts, nothing else—we had no protection against the chill. "Ready?" Homer asked, lowering the door on our heads again. We were jammed in together on the top of the ladder, our feet on the same rung. I nodded. He couldn't have seen my nod but he must have assumed it. "Straight to the left-hand rail and over it," he whispered.

  "Port," I said, but I don't think Homer heard. He lifted the hatch again and I shivered once more at the cold unfriendly air that blew in so quickly. I could see the dark sky; not a star in sight. Homer's head was now almost clear of the opening, looking around cautiously. All I could do was huddle in behind him and wait. I hated being so helpless, so dependent on someone else. I was nervous about how long we were taking, hanging around in this massive ticking time bomb. But suddenly Homer took off. He went so fast I almost thought he'd been lifted out of the hole by a hand grabbing his collar. But no, he was self-propelled. When I followed him I could sec that. He ran across the deck and took cover behind a steel mast. I closed the hatch, as carefully as I could, hating him for leaving me with that job, then joined him, trying to orientate myself. Which was the front of the ship and which was the back? Or the bow and stern, or whatever they call them. I looked to the right—starboard—and saw the long wide deck tapering as it disappeared in the darkness. So at least I knew where I was. But there was still a fair way to go to get to the side. Homer started out, and I followed straight away, but running at an angle, aiming for a different part of the rail.

  We got halfway there, and that's where things started to go wrong.

  With a horrible lurch of my stomach I saw a sentry, with a rifle slung across his back, appear suddenly from the left. He was walking quickly along by the'rail. I nearly called out but realised I couldn't. Homer saw the sentry a fraction of a second later, but by then the soldier had seen him. The man moved with amazing speed. Swivelling, so that his back was to the rail, he began to unsling his rifle. Although his eyes were on Homer I was actually closer to him. I ran straight at him. He was bringing the rifle up so quickly I thought he would be able to fire it into my stomach at point-blank range. I covered the last three metres in a frantic dive, not having any idea of what I was going to do, just desperate to stop him pulling the trigger. What I did was to hit him somewhere between his chest and stomach with my head. I felt a hard impact, hurting my head and jarring my neck, but above that I felt relief as he fell backwards. He hadn't been able to fire. I was all over him as he fell but, to my horror, we kept falling. I realised that we'd both gone over the rail. I was beating my arms in panic, trying to get away from him. We fell and fell. I just couldn't believe how far we fell. How high was this ship? I thought maybe we were in dry dock and I was about to land on steel and concrete.

  I heard a choking scream and realized it was the soldier, then there was a volley of shots right next to my head. His rifle was firing, I guess by accident. The sound completely deafened me. Then we hit the water. It felt like concrete: I hit it with my shoulder, and thought I'd broken my collarbone with the impact. I was about a metre from the sentry and I twisted by instinct and wriggled away under water to get a few more metres away. As I surfaced, I saw Homer enter the water in a perfect racing dive, about fifteen metres away. "Bastard," I thought, jealous of him for having such'an easy passage. I swam awkwardly towards him, looking all the time for the
soldier but seeing no sign of him. Maybe he'd sunk straight away. Maybe he'd accidentally shot himself. Maybe he'd swum under water and was'about to come up right in front of me.

  The shock to my shoulder was starting to wear off, although my neck was still hurting. As I got to within two metres of Homer there was a sudden spitting and foaming of water in a long line to my left. I thought of sharks. "What is it?" I yelled at'Homer. He looked equally shocked and confused. Then he took a funny sort of backward stroke, as if I'd slapped him in the face. "Bullets!" he screamed. His voice sounded thick and muffled through my deafened ears. I looked around in panic. Had the soldier resurfaced? Was he now firing at us? Impossible, surely. "Go under!" Homer yelled, and disappeared. I gasped at some air and turned turtle, swimming down deep deep deep, till my cars started to hurt. As I did so I realised the obvious:'that the bullets must be coming from the ship or the wharf. I swam as far and as hard as I could, ignoring my sore neck but not able to go very smoothly or quickly. My lungs were empty, my chest was contracting, my stomach cramping. I had to go up. I did so, popping out of the water into the cold night air and taking an immediate swift look around, even as I wheezed for air. I couldn't see anyone: the soldier or Homer. I couldn't hear anything. Then a strong light caught my eye. It was lifting into the sky. It was a helicopter leaving the wharf and heading my way. They sure weren't wasting time. At the same time, another row of splashes in the water ten metres to my right proved that bullets were still flying, even if I couldn't hear them. I could hear the chopper though, and could see the white searchlight from its belly turning towards me. I cursed and dived again. There was no time to look for Homer; I had to get going. The ship was clue to blow up in fifteen minutes and it was going to be bloody dangerous to be anywhere near it. I again swam as fast and far as possible, only coming up when my body was leeched of every molecule of air. I knew I'd breathe water if I stayed under a second longer.