by Tony Davis
Eventually the sound of the piano drifted in from next door. Mr Carey was playing his most irritating piece, the one with the twiddling high notes.
‘Now?’ yelled Beeper.
George shrugged. ‘At least if we leave while Mr Carey’s playing, he won’t see us.’
George opened the front door and saw something move. It didn’t matter that it was only a small rabbit, disappearing down a warren next to the wall; he thought he would throw up everything in his stomach. He slammed the door shut. Could he really do this?
‘Three, two, one,’ George chanted. ‘This is it!’
He reopened the front door and peered across the road. There was no-one around. He could see the skull-house across the road. Everything beyond it was hidden in the red haze. The visibility was fifty or sixty metres — about normal.
He took a deep breath and grabbed Beeper’s hand. Nervously peering around, he dragged the door shut behind them. He listened for the noise of the lock barrel clicking, then gave the key to Beeper, who ran around the corner of the house to a spot between the empty rainwater tank and the metal barricade that sealed off the back yard.
Once Beeper had hidden the key, the boys clumped past the dry fishpond, the tree stumps, and the tattered hedge. Puffs of dust rose around their feet.
George flipped the back of the letterbox, even though there hadn’t been a mail truck in weeks, maybe even months. There was sand on the bottom, spider webs on top. He snapped the flap closed, coughed, then led Beeper through the gateway, across the footpath, and onto the road.
George hadn’t walked on this road without his father for a couple of years. He squeezed Beeper’s hand too tightly and scanned the landscape for signs of dogs or wanderers.
‘Is that girl going to come back, Torgie?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Is she a wanderer?’
‘Suppose.’
‘Why do wanderers rob and hurt people?’
‘They don’t,’ George said, hoping to talk down the threat. ‘Not all of them. They come from other towns or cities. Or maybe their houses have been destroyed, and they have no way of getting food.’
‘I don’t think she’s a wanderer. I think she looked sad.’
‘Sad? No, she looked bad. She won’t get back in. I’ve fixed the door.’ George disgusted himself with this lie, but couldn’t help it. He had to say it as much for himself as for Beeper.
Away from the crest of the hill, the sand on the road was thick and rippled. Swarms of flies followed the boys; the ground was covered in red ants. Fortunately, there was no-one else in sight.
Many of the houses were boarded up, or roofless, or both. Others had cables across their roofs and bars on the windows. George wondered if anyone was spying through peepholes, noticing two young boys walking around on their own.
The land fell away on one side of the road. There, high drifts of sand were pushed up against the walls of houses. Some drifts were a couple of metres high. A house in a gully was buried so deeply that only the chimney stuck out. A car was parked nearby, covered up to its roof.
The boys stepped over squashed drink cans, broken glass, plastic bottles and building debris flung around by the last blaster. A pair of rabbits chewed at a small clump of pale shrubs that pushed through the sand.
In fifteen minutes they reached the bottom of the hill and then the school. It was surrounded by high wire fences. Dunes covered the playground, pushed hard up against the sides of buildings, spilled through windows. The school had closed down, just before Beeper was due to start kindergarten. Just before their mother went missing.
‘What are we going to say if anyone asks us why we’re out here?’ said Beeper, who had picked up a small cloth wallet filled with nothing but sand.
‘We’re not going to say anything. We’re going to just keep walking.’ George gave his brother a quick hug around the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry I was so angry before.’
Beeper pulled himself free. ‘Yuck!’ he shouted, as he pointed to his left. A dead dog lay on its back at the side of the road. Its body was half buried, its mouth full of sand.
‘Caught out in a blaster, Beeps.’
Beeper pushed the dog with his foot. It was rigid.
‘Leave it,’ said George.
The air was clear enough for them to breathe without their masks. The sun that glimmered through the haze forced them to squint. George cast his view down the road and saw something move up ahead. He grabbed Beeper’s hand again.
A man was walking towards them, down the centre of the road. Even in the dust fog, George could see the man was too thin and stooped to be his father. The man carried a bundle in one hand. The bundle was wriggling.
George relaxed a little. ‘Keep walking, Beeper. I know who it is. Don’t look at him. If I give the word, we run straight back home.’
‘Rabbitohs!’ the man yelled. His voice was croaky. He called to one side of the street, then the other. ‘Bunny for money, or bunny for water.’ In the man’s left hand were a dozen or so live rabbits. He held them by the rear legs, which were tied together with string. ‘Rabbitohs! Bunny for money, or bunny for water.’
The boys slowed to a shuffle. Five houses ahead of them, a woman wearing a dust mask ran out of a barricaded front door carrying a jug. She quickly filled the man’s large plastic cup. He handed her a wriggling rabbit and she hurried back into her house without saying anything.
The man guzzled the water and put the cup back into his canvas shoulder bag. ‘Cure your woes — with rabbitohs!’
George steered Beeper to the far side of the road.
‘Rabbitohs, boys?’ the man asked as they passed. His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘Plenty of meat, and a pleasure to eat.’
George ignored his own advice and turned around. The man’s eyes were bright blue, but bloodshot and tired. He had a straggly beard; his hair was thin and clumped together with dirt. His clothes were baggy and almost rags. He was so bony and fragile, even Beeper could have knocked him over.
‘Just a little money for a bunny … sonny?’ He held up a rabbit to show them. The rabbit didn’t look like it had plenty of meat or would be a pleasure to eat. It was as filthy and fragile as the man holding it. Anyway, Dad said rabbits these days were full of diseases.
‘We don’t have any money,’ said George. He gave his brother a push in the back to move him along, but Beeper was fascinated by the rabbit and didn’t budge.
‘Then water?’
‘We need our water,’ said Beeper, staring at the rabbits. ‘We’re searching for our fa …’ He stopped and reddened.
‘Searching for your father?’ The rabbitoh man tipped his head at an angle.
‘No,’ said George, quickly. Beeper had opened his mouth again! ‘We’re searching for our father’s car.’ George’s stomach lurched. That sounded stupid. This man could report them.
‘Your father’s car?’ the man repeated with a quiet chuckle. He was still holding out the wriggling rabbit. ‘Well, good luck. Be careful now, and stay on the main roads. The Good Lord will take care of you. I know it.’
The boys waited on the side of the road until the man had shuffled further up the hill.
‘Rabbitohs!’ he continued to cry. ‘Bunny for money, or bunny for water.’
The heat pounded off the sandy surface. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Beeper …’ George began, then stopped. He knew who had made the first eye contact with the man, and it wasn’t Beeper.
‘Is he a wanderer?’ asked Beeper. He coughed and spat on the sand.
‘Don’t think so. I’ve seen him before, but not for a long while.’
‘I was ready to run. But he seemed nice.’
‘We have to be careful, Beeper.’
They crossed one side street after another. There was no shade.
As they moved closer to the mall, both sides of the road were lined with cars. Most hadn’t been moved in a long time. Beeper stopped next to a car with sand-drifts up to its windows. It was b
lue, or once had been. He wiped a patch of the windscreen and George peered in. ‘Wrong colour seats, Beeper. And it’s the wrong blue, anyway. We can’t stop for every parked car.’
Beeper did not reply. He scampered towards another and scraped some grime off the bonnet.
‘Look, it’s blue,’ said Beeper. ‘The right blue.’
George wiped more dust off the bonnet. Maybe, just maybe. ‘Oh!’ he sighed. He pointed to the blue oval badge on the bonnet. It was not Dad’s car. ‘Come on, let’s get to the hospital.’
Further on, the boys passed the padlocked front door of a church. The bell tower had collapsed and punched a hole in the slate roof. The noticeboard was still standing in the yard, tipped over on a sharp angle.
‘What does it say, Torgie?’
George read the sign aloud, though without slowing the pace of his walking.
‘The LORD shall make the rain of your land powder and dust. From heaven it shall come down upon you, until you are destroyed.’
Deuteronomy 28:24.
‘Why, Torgie? The rabbitoh man said …’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s just …’ George had no idea how to finish the sentence. The sign made him angry. But it seemed to be describing exactly what was happening, too.
The sand was deeper now. They slowed their pace. It was harder to walk. Two more figures were approaching: an old man and woman, both hobbling awkwardly. The woman was carrying a heavy bucket. The man was as jumpy as George. ‘Leave us alone,’ he hissed, waving his walking stick. ‘It’s our water. We bought it.’
George said nothing. ‘Head down, keep moving,’ he said to Beeper out of the side of his mouth. His stomach had never been pulled so tight.
They were now only a block or two from the mall, and there were more people about. Some people were heading in the same direction as the boys; some were leaving. A young man hurried towards them with a jerry can and a hatchet. A woman as frail and dirty as the rabbitoh man had a cloth bag in her hands, stuffed with something.
Almost everyone was coughing and wheezing. Most people didn’t even look up. They watched their feet as they trudged along. But George felt sick each time he saw someone. He wanted to go home.
The boys arrived at one end of the mall. Parched, tired people stood around in the shade of shop awnings, parts of which had collapsed. Most of the shops were boarded up, or had steel shutters covering their windows. Small groups of people gathered around tables covered with things for sale. A work crew halfheartedly shovelled sand into wheelbarrows to clear the road. A bulldozer was parked nearby, but one of its tracks was broken.
‘Dad’s not here,’ Beeper whispered.
‘Of course not.’
George found what he was seeking: a sign with a faded red cross. Above it, an arrow pointed straight ahead. ‘Come on, Beeps, let’s make this quick.’
They picked up their step. George tried to check as many of the grey and hungry faces as he could, without catching anyone’s eye. It was pointless, he knew. Yet he couldn’t help it. He just wanted to see one familiar face, to hear a fatherly voice suddenly say, ‘George, Beeper, there you are!’
Instead he heard his brother. ‘Torgie!’
‘What?’
‘There are police over there.’
Two officers were playing cards at a table outside what was once a fast-food restaurant. Their uniforms were filthy. Neither of them took their eyes off their cards, but George went into a panic.
He grabbed Beeper’s arms and pushed him left through the twisted and broken wire security doors of the Central Square shopping centre. He had no idea what was in there. His heart was racing too quickly for him to speak. He just had to hope he could find a way through the shopping centre that would bring them out further along the mall, past the police. He kept pushing Beeper along, looking from side to side for any signs of other police, or Welfare, or any other dangers.
The skylights high above had caved in. There were people standing outside empty shops, as if waiting for someone. Others were sitting along walls in the shade, avoiding the direct sun that poured through the ruined roof.
The boys were heading parallel with the mall, George hoped. Next to a stalled escalator, its treads jammed with sand, was a supermarket. A handwritten sign on the metal grille that covered its doors said: OPEN TUESDAY — OR WEDNESDAY. The shelves were mostly empty.
Further on, a bald man with shoulders like a weightlifter sat outside an empty and locked-up shop, behind a table made from an upturned cardboard box. George didn’t like the look of him, but they had to go past to reach the EXIT sign beyond.
The man had a dozen plastic bottles of murky water and seven or eight battered tins of food lined up on his table. ‘Beans for ten dollars, boys,’ the man said.
Beeper tried to stop and take it all in, George wrenched him along.
‘Some salmon for twenty,’ the man added. ‘Ration coupons, too.’
‘That’s a lot of money,’ Beeper whispered when they were well past him. ‘We could sell our tins down here.’
‘What would we eat, then?’
They took the exit, climbed over some debris from a collapsed wall and were finally back on the mall. George was too scared to glance back to see if the police were still there. He began to walk even faster.
They passed the Mayor’s office, which no longer had any doors or a roof, and the old library. Another sign with a red cross pointed straight ahead, which was good. But the longer they were out, the more scared George became. On each side of the road were half a dozen crooked poles topped with sandblaster sirens. They were blaring out messages.
‘Civic authorities have again warned everyone to be on their guard and to report wanderers,’ said a woman’s voice. It was dull and flat, like a robot’s. It was the same voice the boys heard coming from trucks that sometimes drove around the streets broadcasting news and warnings. The voice told of the National Emergency Government’s efforts to bring rain, stronger punishments for criminals, changes to the night curfew, an extended term of office for the General, a new city fence to keep out wanderers.
‘Our children are our future,’ the mechanical voice droned. ‘They must be moved to a place where they can be taken better care of. Rewards will be paid.’ The voice then started from the beginning again: ‘Civic authorities have again warned everyone to be on their guard …’
One block further on, the boys swung right into the long driveway with EME G NCY written above it. George sighed with relief. He’d done it! He’d got them there. And surely a hospital would be one place that was safe.
They strode towards the large grey building at the end of the driveway, eventually breaking into a run. George wanted to scream out loud: ‘Dad! Dad! Dad!’
When they reached the main entrance, he stared with disbelief. The doors were missing; so was most of the roof. The foyer was empty. The whole building had been abandoned to the sand.
NINE
George felt like he’d been punched in the face. All that effort, and all that risk for nothing. Worse still, no Dad.
A handwritten sign said: ALL INPATIENT CARE NOW AT NEW BROOK. George didn’t know what that meant, or where New Brook was.
He squeezed Beeper’s hand. He had to be strong. There was an old bus shelter nearby, with a small crowd around it. He had to put aside his fears and find out why those people were there. Maybe even talk to someone.
Half a dozen adults were inside the shelter, reading a noticeboard that covered the entire back wall. Dozens of pieces of paper were taped on, or held up with pins. Maybe there was something about New Brook. Or about Dad.
George led Beeper inside. He held his brother in front of him, and scanned the headlines on the notices.
MISSING: Peter.
MISSING: Louisa.
FOR SALE: Steel cable.
FOR RENT: Garage with good roof. Sleeps six.
Many of the notices had cut-out photos glued to them. There were pictures of old women, young men, even dogs a
nd cats. Many of the missing were children, Beeper’s age or younger. A few notices had addresses, most had meeting times: ‘Outside the old Mayor’s Office at 11 any morning. I’ll be waiting.’ There was nothing about New Brook. There was nothing about Dad.
‘Let’s go outside,’ George whispered into Beeper’s ear. ‘Get ready to run if anything goes wrong.’
George dragged himself towards a family standing in a circle. ‘Excuse me,’ he said in a shaky voice. He wanted to cough and spit but managed to stop himself. ‘Do you know where the new hospital is?’
‘No,’ replied the father curtly.
Someone behind George spoke.
‘They’re using the old high school at New Brook.’ It was a grey-haired woman who had been inside the shelter, reading the notices. ‘But you need plenty of money,’ she added, rubbing her fingers together.
‘Where is New Brook?’ George asked.
‘On the main road. East.’
‘How far?’
‘Eight or nine k’s, maybe more. Not sure.’ The woman pulled out a photo and pushed it under George’s nose. ‘I’m looking for my Angel.’ It was a blurred snapshot of a ginger tabby. ‘She’ll be missing me terribly.’
‘No, we haven’t seen …’ said George, and the woman immediately walked up to some other people.
George pulled the drink bottles out of his backpack and gently shook them. There were no more than a few sips left in each. He put them away for later.
‘Which way is east, Torgie?’
‘The direction we’ve been walking. But eight or nine kilometres, that’s too far. It’d be too dangerous. We’ll have to wait for Dad at home.’
‘You promised, Torgie. We have to go there to find him.’
‘We probably couldn’t even get to the hospital by dark, and he might not be there. And we’d still have to get back. Or he could be at the port. That’s further again. He might be at a different hospital. He might have run out of petrol somewhere. Anywhere.’