Airship Over Atherton

by Christopher Cummings

  “We are both doctors,” Willy’s mother replied. “It is very important or we wouldn’t be here.”

  After some persuasion the nurse relented. They were led through to the ward. Roger’s mum and dad were there and were not too happy but agreed when it was put to them that Willy was still missing. Roger was woken up. He was quite groggy until he had washed his face and had a drink.

  “Have you found Willy?” he asked.

  “No!” Marjorie said.

  Stephen sat on the bed. “Willy, can you remember what time you were over Malanda last night?”

  “Did I go over Malanda? I seemed to drift over lots of places. Strewth I was scared! And cold! I shivered all bloody night. I’ve never been so uncomfortable and frightened in my whole life.”

  “You did want a ride on an airship,” Peter said.

  Roger snorted. The others managed a laugh.

  Graham then asked: “Roger, what exactly happened when you got caught in the tree? Tell us every little thing. It is important.”

  Roger described how Willy had helped him up and how the airship had suddenly broken free in the gust of wind.

  “And this tree. How close to the top of the mountain was it?” Graham asked.

  “Almost right on the crest. I could see Tinaroo Dam,” Roger replied.

  “What happened then?” Stephen asked.

  “The airship blew off down the side of the mountain,” Roger replied. “I was terrified it was going to crash into the jungle, but it didn’t. Then I thought it was going to crash into the lake.”

  “Into Lake Tinaroo? How low were you?” Stephen asked.

  “Not very high, only fifty metres or so,” Roger replied.

  “Are you sure?” Graham asked. “The airship looked much higher than that to us.”

  “Of course I’m sure. There was still enough light to see perfectly well,” Roger replied.

  Graham glanced at Stephen. “What time were you over the lake?” he asked.

  “Just on sunset,” Roger answered.

  Graham looked at the others, and then asked: “You are saying that it was still daylight when you were down over the lake.”

  Roger nodded. “Yes. I could see campers in a picnic area and called to them. It was only a few minutes after the airship broke loose.”

  Peter spoke next. “So Tina was right,” he said.

  “Looks like it,” Stephen agreed.

  Graham asked, “Roger, did you get blown back up the mountain after it got dark?”

  “No. I drifted slowly south across the lake to near a town I think was Yungaburra. Then I floated on south over lots of farms and low hills, but no mountains,” Roger replied.

  Peter punched his right fist into his left palm. “Then there are two airships,” he said emphatically. “The one we saw was on top of that mountain nearly two hours after dark; at about eight forty.”

  “Eight forty nine,” Willy’s father agreed. He looked very thoughtful.

  “So now we know where to look!” Stephen cried. “We followed that other airship and watched it land at the egg place. That is where Willy is. Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER 30

  A NIGHTMARE COME TRUE

  Willy struggled hard but the man who held him was too strong. In desperation Willy kicked out and in return received a stinging backhander to the side of his head that made his ears ring. He was then punched twice in the stomach. Winded and doubled over with pain he was hauled around in front of a vehicle’s headlights.

  An American voice snarled at him: “Who the hell are you?”

  “William Williams,” Willy gasped. He licked at his numb lip and tasted blood.

  “So what’s the story kid? How did you discover us?” the American demanded.

  “I didn’t. It was an accident. My airship got out of control and got caught in the tree.”

  “Your airship! What the hell are you talking about?”

  Willy told the man how they had built the airship and how it had been blown away by a gust of wind. As he did he looked around. There were four men present: the thin American who was questioning him, a middle-aged man in a pullover, overalls and gum boots, an old man with white hair wearing rough work clothes and the man who held him.

  The American listened to his story then snorted derisively: “Do you expect us to believe that!”

  “It’s true,” Willy snapped back.

  “Mind you manners kid. Now, what’s this you said about a murder?”

  Willy was instantly gripped by icy terror. With an effort he made himself speak in what he hoped sounded like a normal voice. “My Uncle Ted. He was murdered by a man with a chain saw. The men were cutting down a tree in the middle of the night on his farm.”

  The men looked at each other. The middle-aged man snarled: “I think we’d better wait till Hank and Bill get back.”

  A fifth man joined them. He was bull-necked and had a black moustache. He wore a brown leather jacket with fleece lining showing at the collar. “Better we wait for the doctor to come,” he said, in a voice with a European accent.

  “Yeah. I guess. Lock the interfering little turd up till the doctor gets back,” the American ordered.

  Willy was dragged off by the man who held him. The middle-aged man went with them and Willy noted that he was carrying a shotgun. As they walked along Willy looked around. He saw that they were on a gently sloping hillside. To the right was a large shed which had no walls. It was full of machinery and Willy surmised it was the saw mill as the log lay outside it and there were stacks of sawn timber inside. Beside the saw mill, extending up the slope in a row, were five very long huts with lights on in them. The noise and smell told Willy that they were full of poultry. Several other huts and a house formed the other side of a gravel ‘street’. Beyond the glow of the lights was a dark wall of jungle. There was no sign of the airship. A semi-trailer was parked in the roadway. Emblazoned on its side was:

  FRESH EGGS ARE BEST

  BUY BUNGABOO EGGS TODAY

  Willy was taken to a hut opposite the poultry sheds. It was some sort of storeroom. The middle-aged man unlocked the door and then did a lot of swearing and cursing as he carried out tools, bottles and tins until the room was nearly empty. Willy was then shoved inside, the light turned out, and the door locked.

  As soon as his eyes were accustomed to the semi-darkness Willy began to explore his prison. It was difficult in the blackness, as there was no window, but he managed to feel his way around. He tested the door, probed the walls and sounded the floor, then climbed up to see if the roof offered any chance of escape. Everything was secure and Willy’s hopes plummeted. He felt some sacks full of what he presumed was chicken feed and sat on them to consider his next move.

  For several hours Willy sat there in silent dejection. Fear grew and gripped him. He was also hungry and very thirsty, and cold. But, in spite of it all, he was curious. Where was the crook’s airship? What was it like? How did they hide it? Where did they get it from? Who were these men? Who was the doctor?

  After about an hour he heard a vehicle arrive and stop. Doors slammed and there was a buzz of conversation. The voices approached and Willy swallowed and tried not to crumple as fear turned his insides to liquid. The door was opened and the light turned on. In the doorway stood Hank, still wearing his yellow safety helmet.

  “Yep,” Hank said. “That’s him.”

  Without another word the door was slammed and locked and the men went away. ‘At least they left the light on,’ Willy thought. Aided by that he began a more detailed exploration of his prison in the hope of finding an escape route. There were empty shelves along one wall and the interior of the room was lined with some sort of pressboard panelling. Willy studied it closely. ‘Not Fibro. Must be Masonite. I can probably smash through that,’ he thought. But it was obvious that it would be a noisy process. ‘They will hear me for sure, and there is bound to be some sort of outer wall.’

  After searching the interior thoroughly Willy went round a second
time, testing every nail, joint and panel. “I’m sure these are the men who murdered Uncle Ted. That means they will murder me because I know too much. I must get out,” he reasoned.

  As he worked Willy was amazed at how calm he felt. ‘I suppose I’ve had so many nasty shocks recently that my emotions have gone numb.’

  He gave up on the walls and turned his attention to the roof. Carefully he climbed up the shelves and studied it. ‘This is better. No ceiling. Just corrugated iron nailed to rafters.’

  Willy tested all of the roof that he could reach, then climbed out along each rafter, hanging like a sloth, pushing and probing. His arms quickly grew too weak to keep that up for more than a few minutes so he returned to the top shelf. For about ten minutes he forced himself to lie still and rest. Then increasing cold as much as fear urged him back into action.

  By lying on his back on the top shelf Willy could place his shoes against the roof. The angle wasn’t quite right but he could at least brace himself firmly. He pushed with all his might.

  “Uuunngh! Umpf! Bugger it! It didn’t move at all,” he panted. He tried again. No luck. He tried a third time, and yet again. A tiny metallic screech rewarded his efforts. “Strewth! I’ll bust a gut. Still, I must keep trying.”

  Willy pushed and pushed, but to no apparent gain. He began to sweat and puff. The he became angry. Fear fuelled his strength.

  “Bugger you, give!” he snarled. Out of sheer frustration he kicked hard. There was another metallic screech. He stopped to recover his breath, then sat up and pressed with his fingers.

  Yes! The iron now had a bit of free movement in it; millimetric to be sure, but still hopeful.

  Willy redoubled his efforts. Again he pushed until he was panting and perspiring. It seemed pointless. ‘However hard I push it doesn’t seem to make any difference!’

  He stopped and climbed down, searching for something he might use as a tool. The only other things in the room were the smelly Hessian bags full of shell grit. He pulled one aside, disturbing several large cockroaches. Nothing! He examined the shelves to see if they could be dismantled or broken up.

  “I need a lever,” he muttered.

  Thwarted, Willy reverted to the use of what little brute force he possessed. He climbed back up and pushed. No movement. Furious at his impotence he lashed out with both feet. The rubber soles of his gym boots hammered on the iron and there was a most rewarding metallic noise.

  “That’s it. Solid blows. But I’d better be careful or those men will hear me.”

  For several minutes Willy lay still to recover his breath and to listen. There was no sound indicating there were people outside. He began to systematically kick and press at the roof. For over an hour he kept this up, managing at least one really solid kick every five minutes. Slowly but surely the sheet iron began to work free as the nails in the rafters pulled loose. Willy’s spirits began to rise. He changed position to kneeling. After pressing with his shoulders for a while he carefully explored with his fingers.

  Yes! He could push his hand out. The cold night air seemed to clasp it.

  ‘I wonder what time it is?’ Willy thought. He hoped nothing more would happen to him that night. ‘I had better be gone before morning,’ he thought grimly.

  Driven by a growing sense of desperation Willy kept on working. At least another hour went by. By then he felt utterly wrung out. His tongue was dry, his eyes scratched, and he was shaking from cold and over-exertion. Worse, his fingers and hands were cramping. At least one finger nail had been torn half out and the pain was excruciating. His hands bled from several cuts. But he had now forced one whole row of nails right out.

  ‘I’d better not try to push out more. I will try to squeeze through now,’ he decided.

  Willy stood up in an awkward crouch on the top shelf and pressed up. By strenuous exertions he was able to force the sheet iron to buckle upwards slowly. It crinkled loudly as it did so. Willy stopped to recover his breath. There was no sound from outside. He pushed some more and was able to get his arm out, then his shoulder, and finally his head.

  Nails snagged at him but he was able to squirm free of them and pushed his other arm out. He found he could see out over the farm and felt a fierce surge of emotion. Nearly free! Another hail snagged his clothes as he tried to squirm right through. He eased back and put his left hand in to unhook it. Then he slowly and carefully pulled his left leg up through the gap so that his body was out on the cold iron roof. ‘Nearly there. Only the right leg to go,’ he thought exultantly.

  A hand closed on his right ankle.

  “You cunning little mongrel!” snarled a man’s voice.

  Willy went stiff with shock then tried to kick free.

  “Stop kicking kid or I’ll break your leg,” the man snarled. Willy felt sick despair. The man hauled at him savagely, dragging him back down through the gap. In the process nails raked across his back and the iron cut his forehead and forearm. Willy screamed in pain but the man ignored him and kept pulling until he tumbled back into the room, falling heavily onto the concrete floor.

  The fall half-stunned Willy. He lay there for a moment, looking up at a big, burly man wearing a checked flannel shirt. The man glowered down at him. Hank appeared beside him, without his helmet. Fair hair, Willy noted.

  “Little smart-arse was nearly through the roof. I wondered what that thumping noise was. Thought at first it might have been a possum,” the man in the checked shirt said.

  “Tie the little rat up,” Hank snapped. “I’m not going to stay up and guard him all night.”

  A rope was brought and Willy’s hands were tied behind his back. These were then fastened to his feet, which were bound together. Securely trussed he was rolled over on the cold concrete floor and the man kicked him in the ribs. The middle-aged man appeared and was told what had happened. Swearing and cursing he went outside and a few minutes later the roof was hammered back on, new nails being added. Then the men left, the door being locked but the light left on.

  Willy lay there almost oblivious to his discomfort as fear and despair surged within him in sickening waves.

  He lay there for the remainder of the night. The ropes had been tied by a man who knew his job and all efforts to work himself free were unavailing. The pain gave way to numbness, except for spasms of fierce cramp which made Willy cry out. He shivered uncontrollably as it grew colder and colder. As he lay there he forced himself to face death. With an effort of willpower he composed himself and considered his life.

  “Well, if I have to die then that’s that. It’s a pity. I haven’t really lived,” he told himself. He tried to confess his sins and to make peace with God but that only made him conscious that even his worst transgressions were, in reality, trivial misdemeanours. In the midst of these thoughts he was horrified to find the regret creeping in that he had not taken the opportunity to have sex with Marjorie.

  “Stop thinking like that!” he berated himself, fearing that God would be offended by such thoughts in the midst of his prayers. “Please God! Forgive me.”

  The ordeal went on hour after hour. Time and again Willy had to fight back bouts of terror which left him physically sick as he contemplated what it might be like to die. For minutes at a time he would shiver and shake then lie still, feeling utterly drained. As the trembling stopped the sweat would chill and he would start shivering again. Then the thoughts of death would come creeping back in. Each time he would try to resist but they seemed to seep in anyway, usually with vivid flashbacks to Uncle Ted’s mutilated body. His flesh would cringe in frightened anticipation and his scalp would tingle and crawl. It was the thoughts of his own flesh being torn and minced that were worst. They made the bile rise in his throat.

  “Oh God, please make it quick,” he prayed.

  At length he fell into a sort of stupefied slumber. When he woke he realized it was daylight from the light coming under the door. The fear returned, accompanied by a splitting headache. His breath came in rapid pants and all his muscl
es kept alternately tensing and quivering. His arms and legs were completely numb. Thirst nagged at him and hunger made his empty stomach grumble. He also badly needed to go to the toilet but feared to call out. Finally, and with tears of humiliation and revulsion he wet his pants.

  Willy woke to hear the door open. A man’s voice said: “Yeah, he’s still here.” The door slammed and the man’s footsteps receded. Willy tried to roll over and after much grunting and painful squirming succeeded. His mind felt so fuzzy and he was so worn out that he could not think straight:- until awareness of impending death struck him like a physical blow.

  Hours dragged by. The sun’s shadow moved. Willy dropped off into exhausted sleep and woke at what he guessed was late afternoon. For a time he wrestled with his bonds, then wriggled into another position and wracked his brains on how to escape. Once again he slipped into restless slumber.

  He was roused by a boot which roughly rolled him over.

  “Wake up you little troublemaker. The doctor wants to talk to you,” said the burly man in the ‘Lumberjack’ shirt.

  ‘Doctor?’ Willy puzzled. He shook his head to clear it. The man grabbed his collar and hoisted him up to sit against the sacks of shell grit. Five more men crowded into the room. Willy tried to focus his eyes and to sort out who was who. In the centre was a thin, elderly man wearing glasses. He had deeply sunken cheeks which gave his face a skull-like appearance. His head was topped by sparse white hair parted in the middle. He was dressed in a grey business suit and from the way the others treated him it was obvious he was ‘The Doctor’ and ‘The Boss’. Next to the Lumberjack stood Hank and his offsider (Bill?). On the other side was the thin American who had questioned him briefly the night before and the bull-necked man with the black moustache.

  Willy tried to determine who they all were. He knew there were at least two more men somewhere:- the middle-aged unkempt fellow in overalls and an old man. Then his attention was focused on the Doctor.

  “So!” hissed the Doctor through thin, bloodless lips. “Ve haf der intrepid balloonist.”