Graham shrugged. “Come on Pete. We will do this better as a team. Dr Williams, you had better get on your phone to the police then get back where you can watch the front gate. We will meet you there.”
Willy’s father again protested but they turned their backs on him and grouped at the fence. Graham went and pulled his jacket out of his pack. “I will throw this over the barbed wire,” he said.
“Wait! Use this old rug,” Willy’s father called. He pulled an old rug out of the Range Rover and handed it to Graham. Graham pulled on his jacket and flung the rug up over the top strands. Then he stood braced against the fence, head down, right knee and right shoulder against the wire, left leg bent back behind him.
“OK Steve, same as the obstacle course,” Graham ordered.
Stephen walked back twenty paces and took a short run. He placed one boot on the calf muscles of Graham’s left leg, the next onto his shoulders. Then he sprang upwards. In an instant he was lying across the top of the fence. He moved to sit astride the fence. As soon as he was ready Peter followed.
Once Peter was astride the fence he reached down. “OK Graham, up you come,” he called.
“Wait! I’m coming,” Marjorie said.
“No. It might be dangerous,” Stephen answered.
“I don’t care. I’m coming and you can’t stop me. If you go without me I will just climb over somehow and follow anyway,” she said.
Peter sighed. “Alright. Get my jacket out of my pack and put it on to cover that white pullover.”
Marjorie did so. Then she climbed awkwardly up over Graham, helped by Willy’s father.
“Oh! Am I hurting you?” she asked Graham as she balanced precariously on his shoulders.
She was and Graham wanted to say that speed was the way to do it but instead he just grunted. “No.”
“No brain, no pain,” Peter added, grabbing Marjorie’s arms. They hauled her up and lowered her on the other side. Graham then went back for a run up and sprang. Peter and Stephen leaned down to grab his arms and they hauled him up and over. He dropped to the ground. They then lowered themselves down.
Willy’s father stood watching anxiously. “Oh be careful you children! Oh, I wish you weren’t doing this!”
Graham grinned. “We’ll be alright sir. We are good at this sort of thing.” He breathed in and felt the adrenalin surge. This was better. This was action and excitement. He took out his compass, set it, and plunged into the rainforest, followed by the others.
Inside the forest was quite cool. The evening shadows made it gloomy as well. But Graham and his friends were no strangers to tropical rainforest. They moved quickly through it, with the ease of experience. They dodged clumps of ‘Wait-a-while’ vines which had dozens of dangling barbed tendrils, avoided several stinging trees, slipped between tree trunks and hanging lianas.
Within a hundred paces they came out on an old logging track. The trees met overhead to form a tunnel. Blocked from the sunlight by the overhanging foliage there had been very little regrowth.
Graham pointed along the old track. “This goes our way,” he said. He set off along the track at a brisk walk, his eyes having assured him there was no sign of anyone else having used it in a long time. After a couple of hundred paces the track dipped down across a small jungle creek near the head of the valley. There was more undergrowth here, wild ginger, long grass and weeds.
On the other side of the creek the track curved left around the side of the hillside. In places it was blocked by fallen trees, some of them years old and covered in moss and lichen. The teenagers scrambled over or round these and pushed on as fast as they could.
After about five minutes walk Graham slowed down and pointed. “There’s a clearing up ahead,” he whispered. From then on he began scouting carefully as they advanced at a slow walk.
A minute later they were crouched among weeds and long grass on the edge of a large clearing. A huge mound of sawdust and woodchips blocked the old road. Just to the right an overhead pipe led out over the sawdust pile from a jumble of scaffolding and machinery beside an open-sided shed which was tucked right back against the jungle.
Graham made his way cautiously along the edge of the jungle until he could see inside the shed. The others followed. It was now quite gloomy from the overcast and the interior of the shed was in shadow but a glance was enough.
Peter nodded grimly. “So we were right,” he murmured.
Marjorie caught up with them. “What is it?” she whispered. Then she answered her own question. “A sawmill.”
“Ssh!” Graham hissed. “I can hear voices. Quick! Hide!”
They scrambled in behind stacks of timber and a massive saw bench in the corner of the shed. Graham raised his head to peer around a machine. Into view came two men and Graham had to stifle a cry when he saw that they were half-carrying, half-dragging Willy. Marjorie did let out a gasp. Graham turned to frown at her but she had already placed her own hand in her mouth.
What happened next was so unexpected that for some moments all four were stunned into immobility. They watched the men drop Willy on the ground and noted that he was bound hand and foot. Then a man walked over to a control panel where he stood with his back to them. He pushed a large button and the machine beside the shed whirred into life and a conveyor belt began moving. The second man began tossing branches from a tree onto the conveyor. These were taken up by the conveyor to a hopper which was level with the roof of the shed. The steady whine of the machine changed to a grunting grumble as the logs fell in.
It was Stephen who realized first. The moment he saw the two men hoist Willy up and dump him on the conveyor belt he just knew.
“They are going to murder him!” he cried. He sprang up and ran around the bench; jumping beams, rails, chains and assorted machinery.
Graham did not hesitate with that example before him. “Pete, run along under the shed and distract them. I’ll go up the ladder,” he called.
Just beside him was a set of steel steps leading up to a walkway which went across the rafters from one side to the other, presumably to give access to the overhead gantry crane. He began racing up them, trying to keep one eye on Willy and one on the men. Even as he pounded up the steps his brain did the calculations. Willy was nearly half way up. He would be too late!
As Graham reached the overhead catwalk he saw that the conveyor had carried Willy up to the same level, to the very lip of the hopper. Graham shouted in despair as he started to run, knowing he was too late.
CHAPTER 32
POETIC JUSTICE
At that moment the machine stopped. As he ran Graham glanced down and saw Stephen at the control panel. He had switched it off! There was a chance!
The two men were looking up in alarm. The thud of Graham’s boots on the steel catwalk echoed loudly. Stephen yelled. So did Peter who also threw a steel pipe. Metal clanged on metal. One man, dressed in a lumberjack shirt ducked, then turned to run. The other, wearing a safety helmet, grabbed at him and shouted, pointing at Stephen.
Graham reached the end of the catwalk and scrambled over a safety rail. As he did he glanced down into the hopper. In the bottom of it were massive steel teeth which meshed together, amongst which were the shredded remains of some pulped timber. Willy’s head overhung the edge of the hopper. His eyes stared wildly at Graham.
In a moment Graham was on the rubber conveyor belt. He grabbed at the ropes which bound Willy and crouched to study the knots. A glance showed he had no chance of quickly untying them. His hand darted into his pocket and came out with his clasp knife. As he opened the blade with his teeth he became aware of the belt shaking.
Graham glanced around in alarm and saw that the man in the ‘hard hat’ was running up the belt, shouting obscenities and waving a large sheath knife.
At the sight of the murderous intent in the man’s eyes Graham almost fled. There was shouting down below but Graham had no time for that. He grabbed Willy and, with a gut-wrenching effort, hauled him off the conveyor
belt and up onto the safety railing, then tipped him over onto the catwalk. Intensely aware of the approach of the man with the knife Graham scrambled across after Willy, heedless of bumps and bruises. In the process he lost his balance and fell heavily, banging elbows and knees against steel rails and pipes. Terrified he scrambled to his feet and turned to face the man.
By then the man was almost up to him. The man’s face was contorted with rage and his knife gleamed dully in a beam of watery sunlight. Graham felt his stomach tighten and lurch and he had to overcome the urge to flee. ‘I must save Willy,’ he told himself.
The man reached the top of the conveyer belt and he reached out to wards the railings. Licking dry lips Graham stepped forward to try to stop him. ‘This si going to be bloody grim!’ he thought, wondering with the back of his mind if one of the others might come to his aid.
Suddenly the machine roared into life. The conveyor belt started with a jerk which threw the man off balance. He jigged and skipped and tried to regain his footing but another jerk sent him tumbling sideways down onto the now rapidly moving belt. The man shouted and scrabbled to regain his feet, dropping the knife as he did. Within another second he was carried up to the lip of the hopper.
As the man became aware of the horrific reality of his position he reached out desperately for the safety railing, his hand clawing frantically. Graham saw with horror that the man was in great danger and he leaned over and reached out to grab him. Their fingers touched.
Then the man was gone.
As he thudded down into the steel hopper bin the man let out a piercing scream. Graham could only watch, appalled and shocked. He distinctly saw the massive steel teeth suddenly tear at the man’s shirt. An arm was caught and instantly mangled. Blood spurted. There were horrible crunching noises and the man’s scream ended abruptly. Graham looked away, his stomach churning.
Grrrrr... Grrrrungh..... Whurrunggg.... Grrrrrr! went the pulping machine. Graham couldn’t help himself. He looked down. The steel teeth were meshing in a blur of polished steel and blood. A leg clad in torn and bloodstained jeans was dragged in and the boot squashed as it was soaked in red.
In a few seconds the man was gone. At the end of the pipe a sticky red mist began spraying onto the top of the woodchip pile.
For a minute Graham was too stunned by the sheer speed and brutality of it to react. Then he glanced below and saw Peter and Stephen also transfixed by horror. Near them, at the control panel, stood the man in the lumberjack shirt, his face a mask of sickly guilt.
A movement behind Graham made him spin round. Marjorie was there, trying to untie Willy’s bonds. Graham knelt and began cutting. Below him the man in the lumberjack shirt switched off the machine, stared wildly around, then fled through the sawmill, yelling for help.
“Quick!” Graham yelled. “Steve, find that knife. It fell down there somewhere. Pete, keep watch and warn us if anybody comes.”
He turned and sawed at the ropes. They were thick sisal, oily and hard to cut. It seemed he had to sever every fibre individually. As he worked he noted that Willy’s hands were black from lack of circulation.
Stephen came clambering up a flight of steps beside the hopper. His face was white with shock and he held the sheath knife. “Did you see that!” he gasped, gesturing towards the hopper.
Graham nodded as he glanced that way. A trickle of blood still dribbled from the pipe. He felt his stomach heave. “Shut up and cut Willy’s feet free,” he snarled.
Marjorie helped. As soon as a rope was cut she worked it loose and began to unravel it from around Willy. In a few moments Willy was free. He gasped and cried out. Tears clouded his eyes and he trembled in every muscle. Marjorie helped him into a sitting position and clasped his head to her bosom.
Graham noted Willy’s fingers all bunched up and black. “Massage his wrists and legs. Get the circulation going. Quick! We’ve got to get out of here. There might be more of them.”
“There are,” Willy moaned. “Five or six of them. And they are killers. They were going to murder me...” He choked up and coughed. His body shook and a dribble of bile trickled out. Marjorie wiped his face while Graham and Stephen pummelled and massaged. Willy inclined his head towards the hopper. “They were going to put me through that.”
Stephen looked towards the hopper, his freckles standing out on the sickly pale skin of his face. “We know. We saw,” he replied.
Willy nodded. “That... that bastard was the man who murdered Uncle Ted.”
“Good!” Marjorie snapped. “Poetic justice then.” She began to vigorously massage Willy’s left leg. He cried aloud at the pain of it and trembled with shock.
Peter came running back. “Someone coming,” he called.
Graham stood up to look. “Come on! Let’s go,” he ordered. He and Stephen reached down and they hoisted Willy to his feet. Again he cried in pain.
“Cramp!” he gasped. “I can’t move my legs.”
“Hop on my back,” Graham said. He pocketed his knife and then turned and crouched on the step. Stephen and Marjorie hoisted Willy up ‘piggy back’. Graham gripped Willy’s arms across his chest with one arm, grabbed the safety railing with his other hand and struggled to a crouch. He did not dare stand straight in case Willy slipped off.
The steel steps went steeply down and through a 180 turn at a landing half way down. Graham went down them, gripping the rail with his free hand, Willy’s feet bumping on each step. Stephen and Marjorie followed.
An agitated Peter met them at the bottom. “Two blokes. One has a shotgun. They are just up past the next hut.”
“Grab Willy’s other arm,” Graham ordered. He and Peter took Willy between them and began to run. They skirted the woodchip pile and crashed through tall weeds and ferns.
“Where’s that bloody track?” Graham snarled. He was scared and sickened and felt as though he was running in a nightmare, his feet too heavy to lift.
“Here it is,” Stephen cried. They blundered through more long grass and weeds.
“No it’s not. It’s a different one,” Graham said. “This one goes downhill.”
“It will bloody do for the moment,” Stephen replied.
Graham didn’t argue. They began running down the overgrown timber track, Willy dragging between them. He tried to help by using his own feet but the pain made him groan and cry out.
As he was dragged over a fallen log Willy cried out. “Stop! Put something in my mouth; a handkerchief or something. It hurts too much. Aargh! If I get a cramp I might scream.”
Marjorie stuffed a handkerchief into Willy’s mouth and gave him a loving stroke in the same movement.
Behind them they heard voices.
“Keep moving, run!” Peter urged. They broke into a shambling run for fifty paces, then had to halt to negotiate a huge rotten log which blocked the track. Once past it they stumbled on, Willy doing what he could to help.
As he ran Graham kept looking around. “We are going the wrong way,” he panted. “We are going away from the gate.”
“At least it’s downhill,” Stephen replied.
Peter looked anxiously back. “Let’s keep going this way for a bit more,” he said. “I think we have given them the slip for the moment.”
“They will soon find our tracks,” Graham answered.
“And don’t forget the dogs,” Stephen added.
Dogs! That idea increased their speed. Already they were all sweating and tiring. Marjorie began to fall behind. She was red in the face and puffing. Willy was gasping and trembling but still trying to help. His legs were now running as much as they were stumbling or dragging.
The friends had to clamber over several more logs and detour around a clump of ‘Wait-a-while’ which blocked the track. Their pace slowed to a gasping walk. The track curved downhill to the right, then left. Graham looked ahead and, for a moment, puzzled over what he could see. The end of the ‘tunnel’ of forest appeared to be blocked by something dark grey and smooth. Too smooth to be cloud.
Then, through a gap in the trees he saw what it was. He came to a standstill as he realized what he was looking at. The others stopped running as well and they all stared in amazement. There in front of them was the colossal bulk of the airship. It seemed to fill the whole valley like a monstrous egg. The bottom was painted black. This mottled into dark grey on the sides, then into splotches of dark green. The top was green camouflage.
“It’s huge!” Stephen gasped.
“I think it is one of those ‘Goodyear’ Blimps,” Willy said. He tottered painfully forward without the support of the others to get a better look.
Open-mouthed Peter moved his head from side to side as he took in the scene. “What an incredible set-up!” he exclaimed.
Across the top end of the valley stretched a massive roof. This was painted mottled green. In places it had been built around large trees which helped hide it. Weeds, vines and bushes were growing on the roof. The front end had an irregular edge and extending down from this was a giant camouflage net. The net had live creeper and vines growing on it and had been drawn aside by steel wire ropes attached to winches, like a vast curtain.
Along the bottom of the valley on steel scaffolding ran a sort of railway track. This extended from inside the shed to the end of the camouflage net. Sitting on the rails was a long, low machine with its wheels hooked into the rails. Gripped to this machine was the cabin of the airship, which was moulded to the underside of the balloon. Two propellers in protective swivelling nacelles protruded from either side of the rear of the cabin.
Three men were busy at the door of the cabin passing up suitcases and other items of luggage. The sight of them sent Graham behind a bush and he frantically signalled for the others to take cover as well.
Peter moved to crouch beside him. “They are loading up,” he observed.
Willy had moved to lean on a tree nearby. He was trembling like a tree in a storm. “Yes, they are going to do a flit as soon as it is dark,” he replied. “That old bastard with the white hair is the boss. Dr Eckenheim, a German.”
Airship Over Atherton Page 36