Allie made for the kitchen.
The cars had stopped. Three were spread out across the front of the run-down little house, the others were around the back, encircling the place, trapping the occupants inside just like they had at the roadhouse. In the glare of the headlights the windows were dark. There was no sound from within. Greg hoped, momentarily, that it was as abandoned as it looked. But the idea of where that would leave him banished that hope fast.
Car doors opened and people climbed off trailers with thuds of movements and the dry rustle of long grass. Greg looked around, wondering if somebody would speak to him, give him orders, but no-one did. The other man was getting down from the tray.
‘Hey,’ Greg said.
The man stopped. Looked at him. The grin still set.
‘I helped,’ he said. The words sounded like a squeal. ‘I told you where she was. Can I . . . This has nothing to do with me. Can I go?’
The man beckoned.
Maggie watched through one of the rips. As she did, she held the shotgun barrel to the curtain.
Allie kept back. The fear was still there. It hadn’t lessened. But it felt distant, somehow.
‘Alright, you fuckers,’ Maggie muttered. ‘Come and get me.’
Frank found an old rag under the counter, oily and more black now than the beige it had started as. He scrunched it into a ball, then found a rubber band, looped it around the cloth then looped again until he had a tight, compact ball of fabric. He looked down at the zippo in his hand. He was aware of his beating heart and hot blood. Of a prayer, somewhere in his mind, trying to get in, a prayer he pushed away because it wouldn’t affect what happened next.
He flicked the zippo open. The tiny flame ignited. He put it to the rag. It took only a few seconds to catch alight.
He threw it around the corner of the counter.
He grabbed the door. Dived through the gap into the hall. Scrambled to his feet just as the roar of igniting petrol and a rush of hot air filled the roadhouse. Charged into the storeroom as cries from out the front announced that the fire had raced from the pooling petrol up to the nozzle from which it was coming.
He smashed through the back door as the cries vanished and the sound of tearing metal and wrenching concrete were drowned out by the inferno.
He ran. He could see nothing in front of him. He ran as scorching heat filled the air and then a force from behind slammed into him, sending him flying. Maybe he screamed, but if he did he couldn’t hear it. He hit the ground hard but even pain was an echo. He gasped for air and what he took in burned. Everything was dark.
You gone pussy, have you, mate?
Wayne’s voice in his ear. He knew this wasn’t happening. But he heard it, as clear and as cold as if he’d stepped back in time. And just as clearly, he heard his own reply.
‘I don’t want to do this anymore.’
He couldn’t explain. He couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand.
‘I can’t.’ If he said it now or then, he didn’t know. ‘I can’t. I need to go home. I need to get back.’
Don’t wanna head back in the dark, Frankie. The bush is a rough place at night. And we can’t see what we’re shooting at.
The laughter again, from all of them. Electrified by speed and Bundy and the rush of the hunt. Eyes wild and lolling. And then the shots and the running and the endless night all around him, with no light to guide him out.
Later, he’d told himself that they just wanted to scare him. But it hadn’t been with anything like certainty.
Frank.
That wasn’t Wayne.
‘Frank!’
The sound of crackling and burning was in his ears. The heat was heavy, holding him down. He opened his eyes. The grass. The roadhouse. Allie.
There were hands under him, trying to pull him up. He tried to stand, fell, then managed it. His vision blurred. Delilah was in front of him, saying something he couldn’t hear or understand. He turned.
Flames reached up from what remained of the roadhouse. Most of the back wall was still intact, dark and cracked with fire clear through the shattered windows, fire that even now was getting lower because there was nothing left to keep it alive.
‘What did you do?’ Delilah asked.
Frank swallowed. He tasted blood. He took a step forwards then stopped as his head throbbed and his mind swam. The blurriness cleared but was still at the fringes of his vision.
‘Frank?’
‘I blew up the roadhouse.’ The words were distant and matter-of-fact. He couldn’t remember his mouth forming them. He breathed in slowly, wincing at the slight burn and taste of acrid fumes. ‘Give me the gun.’
‘They weren’t out here. It was totally clear.’ Delilah handed him the gun.
He’d guessed as much. He raised the gun and moved to the right, past the side of the roadhouse. Every step felt unsteady. He wasn’t sure he could aim properly even if he did see someone. But it didn’t matter. He had to be sure.
What had once been the front of the roadhouse was now just a smouldering crater. The concrete below the pumps had been blown wide open as the fuel tanks beneath exploded. He could just make out the remains of the counter he had been hiding behind, a black husk in the scorched, twisted, ripped-open wreck of what had been his livelihood. Small fires still burned, casting flickering yellow light over what was left. The heat was immense.
But Frank wasn’t interested in the roadhouse.
Resting among the cracks and chasms where the pumps had once been were the skeletons of five cars. One was the van. One was Greg’s. The other three were utes, by the looks of them. He scanned the area.
Only three.
There had been a lot more than three surrounding them.
Greg was led to a pair of people standing between a panel van and a ute, surveying the front of the house. One of them turned at the sound of their approach, a tall, fit-looking man. His hair was cropped short and his brow was heavy. He wore a knife at his waist and held a rifle. The woman next to him was short, with stringy grey hair hanging to her shoulders and heavy bags under hollow eyes. She wore a faded jumper and jeans, and a cigarette was in her clenched jaw. She didn’t look at Greg as he approached. She only had eyes for the house.
‘What you got for me, Mal?’ the tall man said.
The older man gestured to Greg. ‘This bloke left the servo, Trent. Told us about the girl.’
Trent surveyed Greg. ‘City?’
Greg nodded.
‘Yeah. Thought so. Thought I smelt piss.’
Mal gave a wheezing chuckle.
‘I did . . . I told you,’ Greg said. ‘About the girl.’
They all heard it at the same time. An earth-shaking boom of what could only be an explosion behind them. Everyone turned. Tall flames danced in the distance, then receded.
‘So much for the brave old bastard,’ Trent said.
Greg tried not to think about Delilah or the man who had aimed a gun at him. He made himself meet Trent’s gaze. ‘I gave you what you wanted.’
Trent turned back to the house, putting the rifle over his shoulder.
‘We should go in.’ That was the woman. ‘The bitch is outnumbered, even if she is alive.’
‘She’s alive, alright,’ Trent said. ‘If she wasn’t, Reg would have been out here the moment we pulled up. Looks like little Maggie’s still holding her own.’
‘I gave you the information.’ Greg couldn’t keep the wail out of his voice.
Trent was on him in seconds, hand around his neck, face right in Greg’s. ‘You gave me fuck-all,’ he snarled. ‘You gave me too little, too late. If you’d come out straight away, another one of my mates might not be dead. So right now, I don’t think I owe you jack shit. Right now, I think you should count yourself very fucking lucky I’m not blowing your fucking head off. Right now, I think you should thank me.’
Greg couldn’t speak.
‘Well?’ Trent said.
‘Thank you,’ Greg mumbled.
Brie
f, hard pressure on his neck, and Greg was sent sprawling.
‘You’re staying right here,’ Trent said. ‘You might be useful. Might not.’ He turned away again.
Greg, struggling to breathe, staggered to his feet.
‘Reg could be alive but hurt,’ the woman said.
‘What, like she left Steve?’ Trent’s tone was dry.
‘Steve would have goaded her. He would have . . .’ Her voice cracked.
‘Fair enough,’ Trent said. ‘Reg is smarter than that. It’s not hard to be smarter than Steve.’
‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ the woman spat.
‘Am I wrong, Janice?’ Trent sounded almost bored. ‘I told you. I told Kev. Letting him lead the hunt was never gonna end well. Because you don’t leave a hunt until it’s done. Ever. But Steve saw something shiny and just had to bring it back to show off, and now look where we fucking are. The pretty little thing killed your son and his fuckhead mates and now we have to clean up the mess.’ There was a roiling anger to his tone, something heated and barely contained. He exhaled. ‘Alright. What we need is a better idea of what we’re up against.’ He turned to Mal. ‘Head around the back of the house.’
Greg’s relief mingled with confusion.
‘Stay out of the lights,’ Trent said. ‘Straight to where the boys are keeping an eye on the back door. Once you’re there, find a rock and chuck it through a window.’
‘On it, Trent.’ Mal vanished into the dark.
‘What are you doing?’ Janice asked.
‘We don’t know who else is in there with the girl,’ Trent said. ‘If she’s got ten fuckers covering every window, then we’re in for a tough night. If it’s just her, well.’ He shrugged. ‘Changes things. Smash the window, see how she reacts – it’ll tell us what we need to know.’
He raised a hand. A murmur went through the warm air, followed swiftly by silence. He brought his rifle down and moved forwards, to right behind the lights. Around them, shapes and silhouettes shifted into position without further command. Trent’s hand was still up. It balled into a fist.
The silence was heavy.
And then, faint and masked by the house, the sound of shattering glass.
Maggie focused on the pain. She let it have all her attention, let it bite and burn and demand. Because the pain kept her awake and alive. She knew how much danger they were in. She’d heard the blast, earth-shaking even from far away, heard it and assured Allie it might have been nothing even though she knew that was a lie. Her energy and adrenaline were depleted and sleep beckoned, grabbing at her with increasing aggression, making her eyelids droop and her thoughts sag. But the pain – red hot and alive – brought her back each time.
‘What are they doing?’ Allie, from the doorway, asked.
Maggie looked at her. She didn’t have an answer. But Allie’s eyes, bright with fear, were another lifeline. Another reason to stay right here and fight even though she doubted she could anymore.
The sound was sudden, all too loud in the still house; the impact of stone on glass then the tinkling rainfall of shards. Maggie was up – the pain soared – and then an instinct, a realisation, an idea faint and unformed shot across her groggy mind.
‘Duck,’ she yelled at Allie.
She fired off a couple of rounds at the ragged curtains.
She stumbled into the hall, past Allie’s cowering form. Her leg gave way; she just managed to heft the suddenly too-heavy gun again, fumble to load the slugs she’d taken from Steve’s pocket, and pull the trigger, shooting the back door. She hit the ground as gunshots filled the house, as more glass shattered and wood exploded in ragged splinters around her. She tried to breathe. Forced herself up onto her knees. God, she was tired. The gunshots had stopped.
‘Maggie.’ Allie’s voice: scared, low behind her. ‘They’re coming to kill us.’
Maggie shook her head. Wincing, she shifted backwards until she was against the wall. ‘Listen.’
Allie, crouched beside her, did.
‘There’s no-one in the house,’ Maggie said. ‘The rock was to test us. To see where we’d shoot from.’
Allie’s eyes were still scared. Just like Ted’s. Just like Simon’s.
‘And now . . .’ Allie swallowed. ‘Now they think there are more of us.’
‘I don’t know what they think,’ Maggie said. ‘But they’re not attacking.’
The curtain in the shattered window was torn to rags and smoking. Everything was still. Greg’s ears were ringing, his legs jelly.
‘Reckon we got her?’ Trent said.
‘No,’ Janice replied flatly.
Trent’s eyes scanned the front of the house. What was left of the curtain shifted in a rise of gentle wind.
Footfalls and wheezing. Mal was back, out of breath. ‘Fucking bitch shot right through the back door.’ He said, hands on his knees. ‘Got Jay’s ute. Almost got me.’
‘So they’ve got both entries covered,’ Janice said to Trent. ‘Satisfied?’
Trent hadn’t looked away from the house. ‘If you had to guess, how much time was between the two shots?’
Janice shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Seconds. Does it matter? There’s more than just her in there.’
‘Maybe,’ Trent said. ‘Unless the house has a central hallway from front door to back. She could cover both exits that way.’
‘Walk on in and take a fucking look then,’ Janice said. ‘It doesn’t make a difference. She’s still in there and we’re still out here. Is this your plan? Test and poke and prod all night until you’re sure of where she is or until the cops rock up to see what’s happening?’
If that was bait, Trent didn’t rise to it. His attention remained on the house. ‘My plan is the one that ends with everyone in that house dead and the rest of us alive. Unless you reckon I should do a Steve.’ His expression was calm. His eyes were fire. ‘Four of us, Janice. Cousins, uncles, brothers, friends. Five if you count Reg, which I’m pretty sure we should at this stage. You wanna bitch and moan about respecting Steve’s memory, then fine, but it doesn’t change the clusterfuck he left us in.’
‘Then take some fucking action instead of pissing our time away.’
Trent and Janice considered each other.
‘Alright,’ Trent said. ‘Let’s try the bait. You can do the honours.’
For a cold, dreadful moment, Greg wondered if they were talking about him.
Janice took a step forwards. She was still behind the lights, as good as invisible to anyone inside the house.
‘You’re surrounded,’ she called out. Her voice was cold and hard. ‘Know who I am?’
Silence.
‘See, I’m Janice,’ she shouted. ‘My old fella was Kev. My son was Steve.’
Silence.
‘Suit yourself,’ Janice said. ‘But we can wait for you all night. And the longer we wait, the more it’ll hurt, Maggie.’
There was no sign of movement from the house.
‘In the meantime,’ Janice said, ‘let’s see how you feel when the people who tried to protect you start going down in your place.’
Trent got into the nearby ute. He started to reverse. Greg looked at the vehicle, unsure of what was happening. For the first time, he noticed that Trent’s ute was equipped with a small crane on the back, from which hung a swaying hook.
The only thing that stopped him from crying was the knowledge that he, at least, had never tried to protect Maggie.
Delilah hung on to Frank as the quad bike lurched and bumped across the field. Parked well behind the roadhouse, it had managed to escape the explosion. She had been sure the sound of the motor would give them away, but the closer they got, the clearer it became that they were the least of anyone’s concerns.
From the slight rise in the land they’d just climbed, the house looked as if it had been put under a spotlight. Vehicles surrounded it in a ring, high beams lighting it up from every direction. Even from here she could hear the rumble and revving of engines, a din that
was fast drowned out by a succession of gunfire.
‘Fuck,’ Frank whispered.
He slowed the quad bike. They were a few hundred metres away, but even from the rise it was hard to see much.
Frank’s hands were on his head. Delilah didn’t need to see his face to know what he was thinking.
‘She’s alive,’ Delilah said. ‘They wouldn’t be firing on the house if she wasn’t.’
Frank moved to accelerate again.
‘Wait.’ Delilah grabbed his arm. ‘You can try to draw them away, but then we’re all dead. We have to be smart about this.’
Frank looked back at her. Even in the dark his face looked tired and worn. ‘And how the fuck do you suggest we manage that?’
Delilah was about to reply when something caught her eye. She got off the quad bike and took a few steps forwards, through reaching, rustling grass. Hoping that she wasn’t seeing what she thought she was. Hoping it was all some mistake and the rising grasp of panic in her chest was misplaced.
One of the utes had pulled out of the ring and was now reversing back into the light. It was moving slowly, because somebody was hurrying just ahead of the rear of the vehicle.
‘No,’ Delilah whispered. ‘No.’
It was him. The clothes, the hair. He was stumbling and his hands looked to be bound. And—
It was as though she’d been punched. She stepped back.
Above Charlie’s head was a small crane attached to the back of the car. From it hung a rope. A rope tied around his neck.
‘No,’ Delilah said, louder now.
Frank was behind her, hand over her mouth.
‘Smart,’ he hissed. ‘We have to be smart.’
Delilah bit.
Frank swore and stumbled back. Delilah ran. She was screaming something, but she didn’t know what. It didn’t matter. She just had to stop them. She tripped, landed hard. Her hands were scraped by rock, stung by dirt. She got to her feet. Closer but not enough. She saw heads turn at the sight of her. But none of that mattered. She focused on Charlie, so clear now, so close. He turned. She could see from here that he was bloodied, beaten, his face a mess of bruises.
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