by Mark Smith
‘You have time,’ I say. ‘A watch.’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘It helps to know when they’ll have power and when they won’t,’ she explains. ‘Two and a half hours every night—eight till ten-thirty. That’s when the lights come on and the factories start up.’
‘You might as well get comfortable,’ Ash says.
JT, Willow and I move to the back of the bus. Rowdy has made a new friend in Vidu. He loves the attention.
We keep our voices low. ‘I’m not giving up on Kas,’ I say.
‘Or Daymu,’ JT says, a little too loudly. The others come towards us, forming a half circle, blocking the light.
‘What did you say?’ Ash demands.
‘We said we’re not giving up on our friends,’ JT replies.
‘The names you used—what were they?’
‘Kas and Daymu,’ I say.
Ash drops to his knees and stares at me. ‘Daymu,’ he says. ‘Describe her.’
‘Short, straight dark hair, light brown skin. She’s Burmese.’
‘Karen,’ Ash corrects me.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
The others huddle around Ash. His body begins to shake.
I look at him closely now, the eyes, the high cheekbones. ‘You’re her brother!’ I say.
His eyes gleam. ‘Her twin,’ he says.
The lights go out just as Sarisi predicted. She and Ash have agreed to guide us into the city. The others will return to their base somewhere in the bush between here and the coast. JT and I try to convince Willow she should go with them but she won’t be persuaded. She’s sticking with us.
Sarisi refuses to take Rowdy. ‘You saw how he reacted to the drone,’ she says. ‘There’ll be more of them inside the fences. He’ll give us away for sure.’
JT flashes me a look that says I told you so.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vidu says. ‘I’ll look after him.’
Having only just found him again, it rips my heart out to leave him behind. ‘Sorry, boy,’ I say, giving him a hug. ‘I’ll come back and get you, I promise.’ Rowdy pushes his face into my chest. He knows I’m leaving.
We’re given dark scarves to cover our faces—not only to stay hidden, but to protect us from infection.
We begin by climbing through the shattered front windscreen of the bus, which leads to a network of tunnels among the debris. JT struggles with the rifle and Willow has to pass her bow and arrows through to me half a dozen times. There are animals in here—rats and lizards and, Ash tells us, snakes that like to hunt at night. And there’s the constant reek of something rotting. I don’t want to ask what it might be.
At times, we’re crawling on our bellies through dirt and mud—at others, climbing higher in the pile near the razor wire. Our bodies are cut and scratched. Eventually, we come out on top of a shipping container with a rope dropping into the no-man’s-land that separates us from the next fence.
‘This is as close as we can get,’ Sarisi whispers. ‘It’s three hundred metres across. Aim for the pile of bricks. You’ll know it when you see it. We go one at a time.’ She nods to Ash and he shimmies down the rope and zigzags through the open field, his head low and his legs pumping.
‘You next,’ she says to JT. He follows Ash’s route but stumbles and falls before he gets halfway. Somehow, he keeps his momentum, rolling forward and planting his feet under himself again.
‘Maybe Wils and I should go together,’ I say. Willow has been hanging onto my arm. Her hand is hot and sweaty.
‘Okay,’ Sarisi says. ‘Go!’
Willow slips down the rope easily and I follow close behind. We start our run towards the vague outline of the second fence. The ground has been ploughed recently and it’s boggy after last night’s rain. Claggy mud clings to our boots, but slowly the fence becomes more distinct and I see JT crouching by a pile of bricks.
Sarisi almost beats us there. She moves so quickly I get a fright when she sprints up next to us.
The second fence is higher and wider than the first, but there are no lights. Again, we follow a maze of tunnels and gaps, avoiding the razor wire, until we’re through to the other side.
I’m ready to run again when Ash grabs me by the shirt. ‘Not here,’ he says. ‘There are booby traps.’ He leads us further along the wall, until we come to a creek. We slide down into the reeds lining the bank. He steps into the water and immediately sinks to his waist. We follow. The water is up to Willow’s chest and she gasps with the cold.
We wade forward, every so often being forced to dive under where coiled wire crosses the creek. The water stinks of sewage and there’s plastic and rubbish everywhere. The scarves over our mouths protect us from the worst of it but I’m careful to block my nose and keep my eyes shut tight when we go under.
Up ahead, a huge pipe comes into view and eventually we crawl onto a concrete chute and into its gaping mouth.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sarisi says, smiling. ‘It’s just stormwater.’
‘Doesn’t smell like it,’ JT says, retching.
Willow is shivering and I rub the sides of her arms to try to warm her. She allows me to do it for a few seconds, then moves away and pulls the bow over her shoulder.
It’s easier going inside the pipe—the water is only ankle deep, though the smell is more concentrated. Sarisi has a torch to light the way. We run, the sound of our splashing boots echoing ahead of us. We come to a number of intersections with other pipes—some smaller, some as large—but Sarisi doesn’t hesitate. After about twenty minutes of hard going, she slows. ‘Not much further,’ she says.
A metal ladder appears in the torch beam. Sarisi nods, and Ash starts climbing. Willow is next, then me, JT and, finally, Sarisi. My boots are soaked and I struggle for grip on the metal rungs. I nearly fall a couple of times but JT steadies me from below.
We enter an access shaft thin enough for my shoulders to touch the sides as I climb. Finally, I see the night sky and we exit into a vast expanse of concrete.
‘It’s a holding basin for the city’s water,’ Ash explains. ‘Hasn’t been used for years.’
We run up the sloping wall and crouch at the top to look over the edge.
A three-metre-high wire fence stretches as far as we can see, curving away into the darkness. A bitumen road runs between derelict houses, leading to two large gates, protected by a maze of bollards. In the front yard of one of the houses hooded figures huddle around an open fire. Strangest of all, there’s something I haven’t heard in years—music. Someone is playing a guitar and people are singing a song that sounds familiar.
JT and I smile at each other for the first time in two days. ‘I miss music so much,’ he says.
‘Yeah, me too.’
I don’t remember the name of the song, but it sets off a kaleidoscope of memories: images of Mum dancing around the kitchen, Dad using a wooden spoon as a microphone, both of them singing at the top of their lungs.
‘Come on,’ Sarisi says, nudging us into action. ‘Let’s get closer.’
JT is first to his feet. He leans down and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up close to his face. ‘You and me,’ he says. ‘Together.’
Willow nudges him. ‘And me,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ JT says. ‘And you.’
We drop below the lip of the basin and move in the direction of the gates. When we climb to the top again, we’re nearer to the fence.
‘Fence three,’ Ash says. ‘The last one before the city.’
‘And those people?’ I ask.
‘Workers who haven’t been certified yet. They’re waiting for their IDs. Mostly survivors from out west. Once they get IDs they can enter the city, and move into one of the protected suburbs.’
‘How do they get an ID?’ I ask.
‘Four clean health checks in a month and someone inside to vouch for them,’ Ash says.
‘But you called them workers,’ JT says.
‘Between here and the city, there are small farms. They�
��re allowed in each day to work but they’ve got to be out by curfew.’
‘Is that how we get in?’ I ask.
‘Kinda,’ Sarisi says.
The house is a shell, everything stripped out of it. The carpet stinks and the walls are covered with graffiti. We’ve been here most of the night, waiting for Sarisi to return. Finally, not long before dawn, she steps through the door with a hooded and masked figure.
‘This them?’ a muffled voice asks.
Sarisi nods.
‘Five? It’s a lot to get through unnoticed.’ It’s a boy’s voice. He’s tall, but his clothes hang off him. His wrists are thin where they poke out from his sleeves and he wears fingerless gloves. ‘We’ll need payment,’ he says.
‘They don’t have anything,’ Sarisi says.
‘They have that,’ he says, pointing at the rifle.
‘No way.’ JT is on his feet. ‘We’re not trading it.’
‘Okay,’ the boy replies, and he turns and walks out the door.
‘Wait. Wait,’ Ash calls, pulling him back.
Ash takes JT and me aside. ‘It’s the only way,’ he says. ‘We’ll never find Daymu unless we get inside. Please.’
‘We’ll have nothing to defend ourselves with,’ JT replies.
Sarisi joins the conversation. ‘We can’t get it through the gate without being seen. We’d have to leave it here anyway.’
We’ve carried the rifle a long way and it’d be invaluable if we ever made it back to Angowrie. But that seems so far away I can’t even think about it.
‘Okay,’ I say.
JT is reluctant but he hands the rifle to Ash.
The guy in the hoodie takes it and checks the bolt. He’s familiar with weapons. ‘Ammo?’ he asks. I empty my pockets and give him the bullets. ‘Be ready in half an hour,’ he says. ‘Faces covered. And you two,’—he points at JT and me—‘make sure your hands are in your pockets. If they spot those trackers…’
We haven’t slept all night and every muscle aches. My clothes are still damp from walking in the creek and the stitches in my chin itch. Willow sees me touching them. ‘It’s a good sign,’ she says. ‘Means it’s healing.’
Before long, there’s movement outside. A crowd of about thirty people has gathered by the gates. The hooded boy, who Ash calls Rory, leads us into the middle of the group. It feels instantly strange—I haven’t been around this many people in years.
‘Some extra passengers this morning,’ he says, and everybody turns to look at us. They are dressed in a wild assortment of clothes, and there’s a collective stench to them, like vinegar and piss. All have their faces covered but there’s a lot you can tell from people’s eyes. There are hard stares and soft smiles that show in the lines at the sides. I try not to be obvious but I can’t help checking their eyes for signs of yellowing.
‘Spread them out,’ Rory says and we are pulled apart and shuffled along as the group forms a line. Willow is half a dozen places ahead of me. She’s hidden the arrows under her shirt and taken the string from her bow, which she holds like a walking stick.
Through the fence, I see a military vehicle approach, the sun emerging from the horizon behind it. Dust fills the air as it pulls up. A smaller gate to the side of the large ones is opened and the line begins to move. There’s a soldier on each side. They wear surgical masks, and they raise their voices, counting. But just as Willow is about to step through the gate, they stop. One points at the bow.
‘You there,’ he says to Willow, who pretends not to hear him.
‘Hey, captain,’ Rory calls from behind us, his voice loud, demanding. ‘When are we getting those water tanks you promised. We can’t pass health checks drinking shitty water.’
‘When we’re good and ready,’ the soldier replies, his voice muffled by his mask.
I push forward and force those ahead of me to shuffle through.
‘Here,’ Rory says, throwing him a plastic bottle full of murky water. ‘You try drinking this.’
‘Fuck off, Rory,’ the other soldier joins in.
‘Easy for you to say, soldier boy.’ Rory is getting more animated, throwing his arms around, forcing them to look at him. ‘I bet you go home to clean water and a hot meal. Probably some nice Siley girl in your bed, too.’
This brings laughter and jeers.
‘Shut up, Rory. I’m trying to count.’
‘What, did you run out of fingers?’ Rory scoffs.
Willow has kept walking and is now ten metres clear of the guards. The group closes around her and her bow disappears from view. The rest of us make it through unnoticed and are swallowed in the crowd.
I hear the gate creak behind us and a lock snapped into place.
‘Get moving,’ the captain calls. ‘And, oh,’ he says, putting on an American accent, ‘have a nice day.’
We move off the road to allow the vehicle through. The driver fishtails, shooting stones and dust into our faces. Once it’s out of sight, Sarisi pulls us from the group and we stop on the side of the road. The others continue without bothering to look back. Only Rory stops.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You saved us.’
‘Worth the rifle, then?’ he says.
‘Yeah, worth the rifle.’
He removes the glove from his left hand and turns it to show the scar across the back, before jogging to catch the others.
‘Where are the farms?’ I ask Ash.
‘Closer to the city,’ he says. ‘About an hour’s walk.’
‘Is that where we’re heading?’
‘No, we’re going to the river. There are patrols so we’ll have to stay off the roads. Getting through the gate was the easy bit,’ he says.
Sarisi leads us away from the road. ‘We need to stick close to the fence,’ she says. ‘Keep an ear out for drones.’
The sun has only been up for half an hour but the morning is already hot. We move at a fast pace. The sweat pours off me. Willow has restrung her bow—it’s our only weapon now.
From the top of a stony ridge, we get our first view of the outskirts of Wentworth. It’s totally different from what I remember travelling in on the school bus each morning. Back then, the farms ran right up to the new housing subdivisions that were gradually pushing south towards the coast. The hills were covered with trees and there were parks and shopping centres and football ovals. Now, whole areas look abandoned, the skeletons of houses stripped of any useful materials, their frames and roof beams exposed.
‘It’s not all like this,’ Sarisi says. ‘Everyone lives closer in. Safety in numbers.’
We reach the first of the protected suburbs by mid-morning. A paling fence follows the lie of the land, separating the houses from the dry country beyond. We edge closer, hiding behind rocks and fallen trees as we go. From here I pick up the sound of something so familiar I can almost picture the scene before we climb the fence and get a view of the road. Two kids, a boy and a girl, stand a few metres apart, talking and kicking a football between them. There’s the sound of shoes on leather and the slap of the ball hitting hands. Every now and then the boy tucks the ball under his arm, raising his voice to make a point. The girl shrugs and the kick-to-kick continues. They’re dressed in shorts and T-shirts. Their runners are dirty, but their hair is neat, the girl’s in a ponytail and the boy’s swept back off his face. They play in front of a house, one of half a dozen on the street that look inhabited. The windows are all intact, there’s some grass and a garden, and the front door is open. I pick up the smell of food cooking.
‘Harley,’ a man’s voice calls from inside. ‘Come and eat, son.’
Those words are enough to make my heart flip—kids playing, food cooking, a dad calling. This is what I remember, what I long for.
‘Can Maddy stay for lunch?’ the boy asks.
A man appears in the doorway, a tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Sure, she can,’ he says, smiling at the girl. ‘Just let your mum know, Maddy.’
JT is next to me. We climb back down and lean ag
ainst the fence. I suddenly ache for Mum and Dad, for all the little minutes that made up our lives—the conversations, the meals, the jokes and the arguments. I think I’d give anything to be that boy, to walk into that house, sit at a table and share a meal. Is this what life in Wentworth is like now?
Willow interrupts my thoughts. ‘How much further?’ she asks Sarisi.
‘We’re here,’ she says, jabbing a stick into the dirt. ‘And this is the river.’ She draws a squiggly line a metre to the left. ‘And here’—she moves the stick beyond the river—‘is where the factories and the convent are. There’s no guarantee Kas and Daymu will be there—they could have been on-sold by now—but if they only arrived recently, chances are they’ll be on work details.’
‘Doing what?’ I ask.
‘Working in the laundries or the abattoirs,’ she says.
‘All the shit jobs no one else wants to do, you mean?’
‘Yeah. So they can live like that,’ she says, pointing past the fence to the houses.
We skirt around the back of the houses towards the river.
‘We can get close this afternoon but we’ll have to wait for dark before we cross,’ Sarisi says.
‘What happens when we don’t pass back through the checkpoint tonight?’ I ask.
‘We’ve got that covered. There are a dozen or so workers roaming loose inside the fence. The army doesn’t keep track of who’s who. They go on the numbers in and out.’
‘Smart,’ JT says.
‘There’s an underground network operating right under their noses,’ she says. ‘They reckon they’re in control if no one’s openly fighting back.’
‘What about the No-landers?’ Willow says.
‘The No-landers are dangerous,’ Ash replies. ‘They think the only way to fight is openly. They give the army a reason to put up with Ramage and his mob.’
Ash is right. There’s more than one way to fight.
We walk for another hour until we reach the edge of what must once have been a series of sports ovals on the south side of the river. They’ve all been dug over and rows of vegetables push up through the dark soil. There are tomatoes, potatoes, melons and capsicums. Closer to the water, pumpkins spread along the fallen branches of redgums, and broad beans stand like rows of green soldiers. My mind throws back to Dad planting them in the backyard. He always said if you couldn’t grow broad beans you should forget about gardening altogether.