The fact is I’m trapped here and I’ve got to make sense of this new information.
‘Okay, okay, what it means is—’ I mutter. ‘Something.’
I pace around the coffee table, eyes on the .38 and the pile of blanks.
Is it possible Jack got them without realising their only use was to start races? I have to admit it is. But giving Jack the benefit of the doubt is a mistake I can’t afford to make. I asked for a gun twice back in Clearview. By giving me one he showed he had nothing to fear. By handing me a dud he made sure that was true.
‘Goddamn,’ I say, feeling small and stupid. ‘Bastard. You sneaky piece of shit.’
I picture what might’ve happened if I’d run into a killer on the road. There’s me blasting away with the .38. Maybe my attacker is scared off. But maybe he just laughs at what a terrible shot I am as he closes in for the kill—
Except that doesn’t add up either.
I pull Jack’s letter from the pocket of my jeans. Although I scrunched it up and threw it away last night, I retrieved it from the yard this morning, thinking that he might ask me if I still had it. I unfold and re-read it.
Dear Danby,
You saved me from fear & from myself.
I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you safe & happy. I’ve known since I first saw you that we’ll be together. Together we’ll make a better world for you & me & Evan.
While I’m not with you now, please know I’m with you in spirit.
You’re not even out of sight & I can’t wait to see you again!
You just joked that you were the last girl and that’s why I wanted you with me.
But I don’t think of you as the last girl.
You’re the only one for me.
All my love,
Jack
PS I hope your mum is fine. Please say ‘Hi!’ and tell her
I hope to meet her soon.
I hear Jack’s smooth voice, the honeyed tone, and feel ashamed that even now—after everything awful that he’s done—some part of me still feels flattered. So I focus on that postscript. Let it feed my anger.
Best I can tell he’s told the truth about how he feels about me and what he hopes for us. It’s like I imprinted on him when I appeared in his mind and accidentally offered him hope of salvation. Maybe his connection to me was forged by the trauma of what he’d just witnessed in Sydney, and the fear he’d die alone in that tunnel. Maybe I was just the last piece in some pre-existing puzzle in his psychotic personality.
What I do know is that since our first almost-fatal encounter Jack has done everything he can to suck up to me. Rescuing Evan, showing me his power, raising up “nobodies” at my request, renouncing violence, sending me off alone to find Mum: it’s all been to show me what a good dude he is and to make me choose to be with him of my own free will. What doesn’t make sense is that Jack would gamble my life on a gun loaded with blanks, leave me unable to defend myself against attack.
I sit down. Stare at the letter. Look for some hidden meaning. There’s no backwards message. There’s no acrostic like we did in primary school.
Then I see it. Staring me in the face. Written in plain English.
Everything in my power to keep you safe . . .
I’m with you in spirit . . .
You’re not even out of sight . . .
Jack could only give me a useless .38 if he knew I’d be safe. And he could only know I’d be safe if he was watching me. Jack likes his double meanings, can’t help showing off how smart he is. He’s telling me how much he likes me but he’s also telling me I’m literally not out of sight, that he won’t wait to see me again. He really could use his power to make sure I was safe by placing eyes ahead of and behind me on the highway. Jack was with me in spirit all right. Just in other people’s bodies.
Before I left Clearview, I heard motorbikes plural roaring off. My theory was one of them belonged to Mr November. But could Jack really rest his whole plan on just one guy? What if Mr November encountered a gun-toting desperado on the highway or a turf-defending redneck in Shadow Valley? To make sure the way was clear and to keep me safe, Jack would need a vanguard to race ahead and a quieter rearguard I wouldn’t hear.
When I reached Greenglen on the highway, I saw a newly dead guy with a machete surrounded by slaughtered dogs. When I stopped to look at him I heard what sounded like someone back down the highway. A second later I was shitting myself because savage barking dogs were coming to eat me. By the time I’d gotten to safety, I’d forgotten that noise.
I don’t think anyone could’ve followed me down Shadow Valley Road. Not closely anyway. I would’ve heard them on the dirt track. But if more than one motorbike had been sent here then it might mean that there was . . .
More than one killer.
If more Minions came with Mr November they could still be here.
It feels like I’m turning inside out. My mouth’s dry. I can’t breathe. Arms and legs go pins and needles. My heart has stopped—or is shuddering—I can’t tell which. Numb clouds cluster at the edge of my vision.
Panic attack. Madison described them like this. I do what she did at school. Grab the paper bag. Breathe into it with my head between my knees. After a while, it helps. My vision clears. I can feel my body again. All that’s left is cold sweat and terror.
I remember washing in the backyard and feeling like a girl in a slasher movie being stalked by the malevolence in the mountains. I shrugged off that feeling but I should’ve listened to my gut. I should’ve—
Oh, shit—last night, while I slept, someone could’ve—
I jump up, run into the kitchen and grab a knife.
Hello, is anyone there?—that’s what girls in the horror movies always say. Not me. I’m going to stab first, ask stupid questions later.
In the lounge room, I peer under the couch, where only Slenderman could hide. There’s no place in the hallway, either.
Mum’s bedroom. Under the bed’s crammed with market knick-knacks. Her cupboards are jammed solid with stuff. I check for shoes poking out from under the heavy velvet curtain. Nada.
I creep to the spare room, where I’ve been sleeping, tingling with fear, the hairs on my arms standing on end. But that room’s just a happy clutter.
There’s no one in the house but me.
I peer out the kitchen window at Mum’s studio, half expecting to see some retreating shadow in its doorway. But there’s nothing out of place. Tucking the knife down by my side, I force myself to stroll casually to the studio. There’s no one lurking inside.
Back in the house, I try to control my breathing and think clearly.
It’d make no sense for a Minion to get too close to me and risk being caught. Just as there’s also no reason to think one of Jack’s goons would hurt me. I set the knife on the counter and return to the couch in the lounge room.
Mum’s house is surrounded by mountains. There are plenty of places to watch me from up there. But if Jack’s been observing me the whole time, what has he seen and what have I given away?
I sit back, close my eyes, mentally replay everything I’ve done since arriving.
I found Mum dead in her studio and buried her. I returned to Mr November and rolled him over. My anger made me want to kick his head off, but sympathy took over. The handsome boy was as much a victim as my mum, so I used sandstone chunks from the roadside to build a rough tomb over his body. Returning to my mum’s house, I didn’t emerge again for almost a day. Last night I sat on her verandah and read Jack’s letter and stared into space. This morning I greeted the New Year with target practice.
I don’t know how Jack would interpret my behaviour. But I don’t think it’s hugely suspicious. Burying Mum’s the natural thing to do. Giving Mr November a grave could be an act of simple decency. Sleeping a lot and being kinda spacy makes sense for someone who’s grieving. Drawing an outline of a person and trying to shoot it could be me wanting to be sure I can protect myself before heading back to Clearv
iew. It’s not like Chalk Jack actually looks like Jack.
But only a moron wouldn’t realise the gun was loaded with blanks. If Jack’s watching, he knows I know that. If he knows I know, then I have to figure out how I can use that fact when I see him again.
‘Shit,’ I say, up again, circling the coffee table. ‘Shit.’
Thinking, doublethinking, triplethinking: it’s doing my head in. But I have to go into these wheels within wheels if I’m going to survive.
Everything I’ve done since I arrived in Shadow Valley can be explained innocently enough. But it’s what I haven’t done that’ll look suss. Jack couldn’t have known I’d waste my Lorazepam on my dead mum. Knowing me, he’d anticipate that I’d try to revive someone else down here. Knowing him, I fear he wouldn’t want me to have a comrade that he couldn’t control. But the only way to be sure of that would be to . . .
I shake my head. Against my fear of what he’s done. Against what I know I have to do next. But my life—and Evan’s and Nathan’s and hundreds or thousands of others—might depend on it.
Before I head back to Clearview, I have to check out the rest of Shadow Valley.
TWO
I stride down Mum’s driveway, the .38 reloaded and tucked into my belt. Blanks or not, it makes me feel tougher and might deter an attacker.
Shadow Valley has five other houses spaced a few hundred metres apart along either side of the road. Despite the remoteness, Mum wasn’t tight with her neighbours. Sure, if she ran into Les or Jill up at Jake’s store, she’d engage in chitchat about the weather or whatever. But Mum chose this as her home because she liked to keep to herself.
I crunch along Shadow Valley Road to the clay track that leads to Les’s weatherboard farmhouse. Cows in the neighbouring paddocks gaze up from the long grass, chewing lopsidedly, tails flicking flies. It’d be humane to open the gates so they can roam free. But then they’ll be feral competition for native species. What to do? Does that even matter now? I decide to ignore this dilemma. It’s the least of my worries. A big part of me surviving and staying sane is going to be my ability to focus on what matters.
I climb the stairs of the deep wraparound verandah.
‘Hello?’ I call out, wiping my boots on the mat, like that’s still a thing. ‘Anyone home?’
My voice hangs under the eaves with the spiderwebs.
The front door is shut but the frame around the lock is splintered. A light push with my sneaker and the door groans inwards.
‘Les?’
I walk along the hallway into the lounge room. The television is older than me. The mantelpiece is lined with photos of Les’s ancient wedding. A sideboard has a more recent portrait of the old widower posed beside his adult daughter and her family. In the three bedrooms, the beds are made, curtains are drawn, nothing’s out of place.
This is an old man’s castle and I breathe easier because dust, stale tobacco and a hint of mildew are the only scents.
It makes sense that Les isn’t here. Surely he spent Christmas with his people. Through his kitchen window, the carport is empty. I relax my shoulders, and start back along the hallway.
‘Hello.’
My every muscle locks. Surely I’ve imagined the voice. I don’t breathe.
‘Hello.’
It’s only a faint croak from the backyard but I rush to the kitchen.
‘Hang on, Les!’ I fumble with the back-door lock. ‘It’s Danby, Robyn’s daughter!’
I leap down the steps, sneakers sinking into the dewy lawn, expecting to see Les sprawled in his yard, possibly still where he fell and broke his hip days ago.
‘Hello!’ comes the voice again.
My eyes dart from shadowy carport to back fence, from toolshed to chookyard. I can’t see him anywhere.
‘Les?’
A wolf whistle cuts the air.
I whip out the .38 as a white flash swoops from the dappled purple of a jacaranda tree. But I’m too late. My attacker is inside my defences. Clutching my gun hand.
‘Hello!’ screeches Lachie.
Les’s semi-captive cockatoo has a black eye on me and his claws dig into my wrist.
‘Hello!’ he squawks.
I force myself to breathe.
Lachie bobs happily, shows off his crest of yellow feathers.
‘Hi-ho!’
‘You too,’ I say finally.
The bird clambers up my arm and perches on my shoulder.
I can’t believe I forgot about Lachie. Mum and I used to laugh whenever the breeze brought his chatter to her place.
‘All good?’
‘Hi-ho!’
‘Nice day!’
‘Here we go!’
Once he gets going, Lachie never shuts up. But I’m glad for his patter as I approach the silence of Jill and Andy’s property. Their mudbrick cottage is set on a bush block and can’t be seen from the road. But the family’s Range Rover and Prius are at the end of their long driveway. I swallow hard at what that means. I swallow hard. Force myself down the track. Tell myself there’s nothing to fear but fear and clowns. I don’t laugh now.
Closer to their house, roof solar panels shine through gum leaves and the smoky air is sour and sweet with decay. I wish I’d remembered a menthol rub for my nostrils. I wish more that I hadn’t noticed the kiddie bikes leaning by the cubbyhouse.
I pause outside the enclosed verandah. Above the wind’s whisper there’s a low mechanical hum and a hissing scrtt-scrtt-scrtt.
‘Jill? Andy?’
‘Hello!’ adds Lachie.
Nothing.
I take a deep breath, climb the three steps and open the wire door. Hippie Jill is half toppled out of a pink beanbag, hands clasped around a spilled bong, wearing old headphones that’ve come unplugged from a crackling antique stereo. The record spins—still juiced by the solar set-up I guess—but Jill’s skin colour says she’s long played out. I hold my breath while I make sure by feeling for hers. Nothing.
Husband Andy is the same shade of blue, sprawled in the lounge room amid Christmas toys. One of their twin sons—I can’t tell now if it’s Brett or George—is puffy faced in a cluttered bedroom. His brother is tangled dead in dirty washing in the laundry. The family aren’t Goners. They’re gone.
Lungs imploding, I burst from the house, Lachie flapping ahead as I bolt across the yard, gulping air only when I reach the treeline. Doubled over, I heave and hack, weeping and retching. It’s sad, so sad. I’ve tried to blot out all the dead kids I’ve seen because I don’t want to imagine Evan joining them. But now all their faces come cascading back. All those lives that’ll never be lived.
But the twins inside the house behind me are different. I don’t think they died of dehydration like so many others I’ve seen. Any more than their parents did. Any more than my mum did.
I spit into the grass, glad I’ve not had breakfast. Lachie descends to dig his claws into my shoulder, as though comforting me.
As we walk back to Shadow Valley Road, I catalogue what I’ve learned so far. One: Les wasn’t home when the Snap happened. Two: someone broke in to make sure no one was there. Three: Jill and Andy and their kids were home. Four: they’re all at approximately the same stage of decay.
I hike up a muddy path to a log cottage set high among mossy boulders and dense ferns. While still downwind, I pinch two fragrant spears from a lavender bush and push one into each nostril. Fat grubs languish among the leaves and I pick one off for Lachie.
‘Stay with me, okay?’ I say nasally, offering up the bribe.
Lachie pecks it, and grips my shoulder reassuringly.
I can’t remember if Mum ever told me who lived here.
‘Hello?’ I call from the bottom of the steps.
No reply. Just angry buzzing.
The stairs creak loudly under my sneakers.
On the balcony, a middle-aged woman sits stiff in a rocking chair at the centre of a cloud of blowflies. This lady’s surrounded by empty wine bottles, lagoons of dried vomit, platoo
ns of cigarette butts. Whoever she was, she checked out pretty soon after the Snap. Bloody froth bubbles from her nose and larvae writhe where blisters have burst. What’s left of her skin isn’t blue but a Wicked Witch green. This is what death looks and smells like after a week. Jill and family are days away from this stage of decomposition.
I lower my eyes, not in disgust but out of respect, like I’m at a graveside, which I guess I am. There’s a pair of big dry bootprints beside me. Someone else came up the wet track, stood here to look at the dead woman.
I follow the tracks into the house and to the dining room. Flies and fungus have claimed Christmas lunch and the man of the house lies dead by the legs of the table. This dead guy’s skin is cyan. He’s not yet blistered or infested. There are ridges of dirt in the pattern of thick soles on the floorboards by his shoulder. I don’t need to be a crime scene investigator to know he died later than his wife even though they probably crashed out at the same time. Likely he died in the same short window as my mum and Jill and her family. Probably killed the same way they were all killed. It could have been as simple as holding a hand over his nose and mouth for a few minutes.
The next house is open and empty. There aren’t any clues to what happened. Best I can figure is that whoever lived here fled.
The last house is farther up the hill, and the property is screened from the road by thick hedges. I unlatch the place’s wrought-iron gate.
It creaks inwards and I creep along the pebble driveway that’s flanked by hedges until it opens onto a gothic mansion straight out of a Grimm fairytale. The place has black shingles like rough reptile scales, brooding windows under the steep brow of a slate roof, twin chimneys rising like devil horns. No doubt the kitchen inside has an oven big enough to cook children. I really don’t want a reason to go inside.
The heavy front door is locked. I cup my hands to peer through the window. All the pieces of furniture hide under white sheets. This haunted house imagery actually makes me relax a little. This place has been closed up. Now I recall Mum dissing the wealthy owners for only using this mansion once or twice a year. She thought they should have given it to the homeless. I guess Chez Spooksville belongs to anyone who wants it now. I want to believe there’s no reason to investigate further. But I can’t shake the feeling in my stomach. It’s like there’s a ball of caterpillars in there, squirming around. Gut—I have to trust it.
The Last Shot Page 2