The Road to Winter

by Mark Smith

  ‘Does Kas know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rose says, quietly. ‘I had to tell someone. She’ll be worried sick.’

  I walk out into the kitchen. This plan seems to make sense, though I need to work it through in my mind. Rose will have to look after herself while I’m gone. But what’s the alternative? It could take another couple of weeks for her to be well enough to travel and that’s another couple of weeks further into her pregnancy. She’s only going to get slower and there’s always the possibility of harming the baby. Or worse: both of us being caught by Ramage and his men. Maybe I can draw Rose a map to Ray’s place and if I’m not back in a week she could go out there on her own?

  All of this is streaming through my head as I cut the chicken into pieces and put it into a big pot with the last of the onion and garlic, along with a couple of Ray’s carrots and potatoes. I’d prefer to roast it all. I can’t remember when I last had roast chicken, but I know the soup will be easier for Rose to eat. And if I go ahead with the plan I can take some of the meat with me.

  Once I’ve turned the gas on and set it to cooking, I look in on Rose. She’s sleeping. The light is coming in through a crack in the curtains and it’s spilling across the bed. She’s got one shoulder out of the sheets now and the sun catches the little hairs at the back of her neck.

  The smell of the soup soon fills the house. I sit back at the table and put my head on my arms. I must doze for a few minutes because the next thing I know Rose, wrapped in a sheet, is shaking me.

  She puts her fingers to her lips. ‘Shh. Listen.’

  At first all I can hear is the wind in the trees, but then, when it dies down for a few seconds, I hear the unmistakable sound of a motor. A trailbike. Not revving out, just putting along, like they’re taking their time, checking things out.

  The first thing I do is turn the gas off and put the pot with the chicken into the bottom cupboard. If we can smell it in here, they might be able to out there as well. Then I draw all the blinds.

  Rose has the same look on her face as she had when I first saw her on the beach: fear and anger rolled into one. She pulls me down onto the floor, then huddles against me. Rowdy gets up and growls, his tail and ears standing to attention. I motion him over to us and we hold onto him like a life jacket in the ocean.

  We can hear voices but they’re not close yet, maybe twenty metres away, which would put them out by the front gate. I know they won’t be able to see our place. There’s a screen of tea tree across what used to be the access track from the road to our house at the back of the block.

  After a few minutes they move off down the street towards the river, the put-put of the trailbike dropping out of earshot. I decide to go and check things out.

  I scout through the yards of the houses lower down the street and find a spot where I can get a view closer to the river. The trailbike has gone ahead of the pack—about five Wilders I can count from here—to what looks like a makeshift camp on the riverbank. Smoke rises from a fire and furniture that must’ve been pulled out of nearby houses is arranged around it. The men wander across the main road and they all huddle around the fire.

  Back in the house Rose is still sitting on the kitchen floor.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘They’re camping down on the riverbank.’

  Her shoulders slump forward as another glimmer of hope is snuffed out. I try to stay positive, though I know this is a disaster. We can’t stay here and I can’t leave Rose. The Wilders will eventually find us and our stores.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she says. ‘I’ve brought you too much trouble already. Maybe I should just hand myself in and go back to Longley with them.’

  ‘Give up, you mean?’

  I don’t intend it to sound so aggressive. She sticks her chin out and some of the defiance returns to her eyes.

  ‘If things are going to fuck up,’ I say, ‘let’s at least make it hard for them.’

  She smiles at this.

  ‘So, the first thing,’ I say, ‘is to finish cooking the chicken. But I have to check the wind first.’

  The north-westerly has picked up, meaning the smell of the cooking will be pushed away from the riverbank where the Wilders are camped. I get the pot out of the cupboard, put it back on the stove and light the jets. My mind is racing, trying to see a way that will keep Rose safe, get the Wilders to leave and give me the chance to find Kas.

  But it’s Rose, sitting up at the table again, who speaks first.

  ‘The trailbike,’ she says. ‘That’s the problem. Without that, you could outrun them, lead them away from town. You need to get them to follow you, but they have to be on foot. Like you.’

  ‘Not on foot…’

  I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.

  ‘I’ve got my mountain bike back at our old house. In the shed. I haven’t used it because I never needed to go far and it was useless for hunting. If we can damage the trailbike in some way, I can easily outrun them. They must have petrol somewhere to keep it running. I know there’s none in town.’

  ‘Probably up on the farms,’ says Rose. ‘They all had their own tanks, mostly diesel for the tractors, but they would’ve had another storage for running the farm bikes.’

  ‘The hayshed!’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There were red containers up there. Jerry cans. That must be where they’re storing it. If I can get to them, they’ll have no fuel to run it.’

  This is about as much as Rose has energy for. I help her up and get her back to the bedroom where she crawls under the blanket.

  ‘I’ll wake you when the soup’s ready,’ I say, though I’m sure she’s already asleep.

  Sometimes decisions are made for you. All you have to do is find the best way forward, and right now that’s the least dangerous way of dealing with a dangerous situation.

  I know that I have to get up to the hayshed as quick as I can, before they have the chance to refuel. But first I need to get my bike from our old place. I’m not going to risk moving out in the open while it’s light, so I’ll have to wait until tonight.

  Over the next few hours, while Rose sleeps, I set up the place so she can get by here on her own—bring food in from the store, pump water into the header tank and make sure the gas bottle is full.

  I need to get my stuff ready, too. The backpack with some supplies, matches, a knife, cans of beans, a map, some rope and a sleeping bag. It’ll be a lot to carry on the bike, but I’ll just have to find a way.

  I’ve been so busy I’ve almost forgotten about the chicken. I break up the meat into the stock and add a little bit more salt and pepper. It will be easier for Rose to drink it so I ladle it into a cup and take it into her.

  ‘You know how to keep a girl waiting,’ she says, grinning. ‘I’ve been lying here smelling that chicken for hours.’

  She sits up in the bed, plumping the pillow behind her.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she says. ‘Real chicken.’

  I want to joke with her again, but I’m too preoccupied with what I need to do.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ she says, between mouthfuls.

  I try to keep it simple. I want her to believe it’s possible. To be honest, I need to believe it’s possible too.

  ‘I’m going to get my bike soon and bring it back here. I’m packed and ready to go, so I’ll check out the Wilders camp first then ride up to the hayshed.’

  I take a big breath here because this is where it gets risky.

  ‘I need to get them to follow me—to have them think we’re both trying to escape north—so they’ll abandon their camp and try to track us. I’ll sleep up near the hayshed and in the morning I’m going to set it on fire, petrol and all. They’ll see the smoke and come running.’

  I stop there to see her reaction. Her eyes widen but, whether it’s the fever, or tiredness, or even that she sees it’s a good idea, she just nods and goes back to sipping at her soup.

  ‘As soon as I�
�ve lit the place up I’ll ride towards Pinchgut Junction. There’s no guarantee they’ll follow, but I’m hoping they’ll head that way too because they’ll need to find more fuel. They might leave someone here to guard their camp so you’ll have to be careful. Stay inside. I’m going to leave Rowdy with you. He’ll warn you if there’s trouble. I’ve got no idea how long I’ll be gone so I’ve drawn you a map to Ray’s place. It’s hidden under the sink, in the old flour tin. Keep it safe and destroy it when you’ve used it. I’m leaving you the bow and arrows, too. If I’m not back in a week and you’re well enough, go out to Ray’s and stay there with him. There’s food in the kitchen and some honey from Ray. Mix it with hot water. Keep taking the antibiotics and change the bandage every day. I’ve torn up a sheet and the pieces are in the lounge room on the chair.’

  I stop to draw breath and to give her time to say something, anything, to convince me it’s not the stupidest plan she’s ever heard. She’s almost finished her soup and I can see a little bit of colour returning to her cheeks.

  ‘I don’t deserve this, Finn.’

  ‘You deserve a chance,’ I say. ‘I always worried about Wilders coming and changing everything, but I never thought there’d be someone else on my side—someone I’d want to fight for.’

  I’ve said more than I meant to and it sounds like something out of a war movie. But she sits back against the pillow and looks straight at me.

  The afternoon is fading and the light in the room is dropping away. She slides to the side of the bed and pats the blanket for me to sit next to her.

  ‘Stay with me for a few minutes,’ she says. ‘Until it gets dark. Until you have to go.’

  I prop myself against the bedhead and we sit there with just our shoulders touching. I can feel the warmth of her through my shirt.

  ‘What was it like for you, Finn? When your parents died?’

  This isn’t what I was expecting. I thought she’d want to hear more about the plan. How I would go about finding Kas. Outrunning the Wilders. The danger of it all.

  ‘When Dad died,’ I say at last, ‘I still had Mum, and I felt like I’d be safe. I didn’t realise how hard it must’ve been for her. We had no support in the town; it was dog-eat-dog by then. So we just threw ourselves into surviving, neither of us owning up to the big hole Dad had left in our lives. But when I lost Mum too, it was like time stopped. Even the simplest things were hard—like breathing. For weeks after that it was as though the world had tipped a little bit and everything was out of balance. I stumbled around trying to do things I’d been doing for years, but I just couldn’t find a way through them. I guess I gave up.’

  ‘But you made it through.’

  ‘It was Ray. Just having that contact with someone again, someone to talk to. Funniest thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The whole time, he never said anything about the way I talk—growly.’

  She nudges me then, just being playful. And I nudge her back.

  ‘You’re still a bit hard to understand, dog boy, but I’m getting used to it.’

  The light’s dropped away altogether now and we sit in the dark of the room. I’m almost drifting off to sleep myself when she nudges me again.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Yep. Just.’

  ‘I think your plan might work.’

  Then, quietly in the dark, I feel her moving closer to me. She nuzzles into my neck. After a couple of minutes I feel a slight tremor go through her body and she sits up.

  ‘Feel this,’ she says, excited.

  She presses my hand against her belly, but I don’t feel anything.

  ‘Wait,’ she says.

  And then, there it is, kicking. The baby.

  Everything tonight is fizzing and cartwheeling—it’s like there’s too much to take in. Everything has been happening slowly for two years and now it’s like time is going twice as fast, spinning and sliding out of control. I’m struggling to keep up.

  ‘I can’t do this on my own, Finn,’ she says. ‘You have to come back safely, okay? And you have to bring Kas.’

  She lies back down with her head against my chest. We sit like this for ages until she pulls away.

  ‘You won’t save the world sitting here, dog boy,’ she says.

  ‘It’s just us I’m trying to save. The world can look after itself.’ I slide off the bed and make my way back to the kitchen.

  She calls from her room, ‘Hey, any more of that soup going?’

  After I’ve fetched her another cup of soup, I’m out the back door, careful to make sure Rowdy doesn’t slip through and follow me. I keep to the shadows and make my way down the street towards the river to check on the Wilders.

  I can see the glow of their campfire before I’m halfway there. Edging closer, I make out the shapes of six men, standing around the fire with their hands held out to the flames. To the left of them the light dances off the metal of the trailbike. I’m pretty sure they are all there so I head back up the street and walk parallel to the main road until I get to the bridge. Just as I’m about to break cover I notice a shape sitting with its back to the railings, midway across.

  They’re guarding the bridge.

  ‘Fuck,’ I breathe.

  I should have expected this. It means I have to go further upriver to the footbridge. I back away and follow the trail along the bank to the old kids playground with its rusted swings and the seesaw angling into the sky. They built the footbridge when I was about ten, to encourage more kids to walk to school from this side of town. In summer we dived off it into the muddy water, knowing exactly where it was deep enough. I check it out in the moonlight for a good ten minutes before I make a move. There’s no sign of it being watched so I cross quickly. From here, I run up the hill and cut through to the back lane that leads to our old house.

  For that first year after Mum died, I used to come back here now and then to visit Dad’s grave. But the memories became too much to cope with, haunting.

  The door to the shed is rusty on its hinges. Dad would never have allowed that to happen. When I force it open and pull the torch from my back pocket, it’s like everything inside has been frozen in time, with only a few cobwebs to show how long it’s been since anyone came in here.

  My mountain bike is where I left it, wedged in behind the foldaway table-tennis table. I’m pretty sure there are no punctures since the tyres aren’t fully flat. Shining the torch around sends a stab of pain right through me. Dad was a stickler for keeping the shed neat and tidy and the whole side wall is marked with the outlines of saws and hammers and chisels and screwdrivers. None of the actual tools are left—they were stolen early on—but the outlines are like their ghosts, as though someone has been using them on a building project and forgotten to put them back. The sight of the empty wall hits me harder than I can put into words. It’s about Dad and me and everything we had before the virus.

  I find the pump on the floor. With the tyres holding air, I rustle around under the bench and find an old oilcan, one of those ones with the small plunger for your finger and a long nozzle. It’s perfect for oiling the chain and gears. Then I wheel the bike into the yard and scooter out to the road.

  Riding the bike again feels good. I realise I haven’t moved this fast for ages—maybe surfing on a big day, but not on land. In a couple of minutes I’m back over the footbridge and following the river track. I slow down to check the sentry on the road bridge then turn further inland to wind my way back home.

  I’m barely in the back door when I hear Rose call me. I flick on the torch and see she’s sitting up, the empty soup cup on the bedside table.

  ‘I’ve thought of something,’ she says. She’s got the leather strap with the ring attached wound around her fingers. ‘Take this. Kas will recognise it. It will help her to trust you when you find her.’

  She loops it over my head, then puts her hand over the ring and pushes the cool metal into my chest.

  Out in the kitchen, I put the
backpack on to check its weight, then ease it off onto the table. Rowdy gets up and starts leaping against the back door. I bend down and cup his face in my hands.

  ‘Sorry, old boy, you have to stay here and look after Rose. She needs you.’

  Then I go back to say goodbye to Rose.

  ‘Don’t turn on the torch,’ she says as I stand in the doorway. So I have to try to picture her sitting there, the blanket hugged up around her chest and her hair falling over her face. It seems there’s nothing to say that we haven’t said already, and I listen to the silence.

  ‘Go,’ she says.

  And without a word I turn back down the hallway, through the kitchen and out into the yard. I pull the backpack on, get on my bike and ride out onto the street.

  By the time I cross back over the footbridge, the clouds have cleared and the moon is bright enough to cast a shadow. I follow the track along the opposite bank of the river.

  Within an hour, I’m lying low in the last of the bush before it meets the farmland, checking the hayshed for any sign of life. It all seems quiet. I need to ride parallel to the fence for a few hundred metres to the gate by the corner of the paddock. It’s open. There’s been no stock in there for ages, most killed by hunters in the early days, and the rest gone feral in the bush.

  At the gate, my tyres drop into the wider wheel tracks made by the trailbike. This must be where Ramage rides in and out.

  I’m halfway to the hayshed when the idea hits me. If I set fire to the shed, Ramage is likely to come ahead of the others on the trailbike to investigate. He’ll come through that gate in a hurry, looking over at the burning shed…

  I head back to the gate, risking turning the torch on to have a good look around. The tyre tracks are deep and spread wide, as though he has accelerated through. I walk along the fence looking for any loose wire.

  It takes me a while, but eventually I find a length that’s been broken at one end by a branch falling across it. I trace it back to the nearest post and start to work it up and down to break it.