‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘So much. All of you. For helping him.’ I get weary nods and smiles from everyone except Alex.
‘If we’re going to be all kumbaya,’ Oscar says. ‘Thanks for waiting for me and Alex back there.’
Alex chews sullenly and stares at the ground.
I nod. ‘No worries.’
He looks at me. ‘Can you help me check out the road?’
The two of us creep along the path as the others hang back in the bush.
I reach the gravel verge first. He comes alongside me. It’s too dark to see the death in front of our faces. But we can smell it. We listen. I realise what I can’t hear. Flies. I wonder if they’ve knocked off for the day.
‘Whayyathink?’ Oscar says, breathing through his mouth.
‘Lemme take a look,’ I reply, sounding as nasally.
Given it’s pitch-black, I won’t be able to see much of anything. I just hope no one sees me.
I secure my rifle over my shoulder and feel my way across the bitumen, sweeping my boot in front of me for bodies. When my hands touch a car panel, I follow it to the front end, gently step onto the bumper and crawl across the bonnet and up the windshield to the roof. Even standing slowly is dizzying in complete darkness, only gravity telling me what’s up and down, but when I’m steady I turn myself through a full circle. There’s no light anywhere. The map said this was a gunbarrel road in both directions. Any headlamp would shine like a lighthouse. Of course, there could be a dozen Minions out there in the night, waiting for a noise or flicker of light before they open fire.
I let myself drop off the car, curse softly as broken glass crunches under my boots. But guns don’t flare and bullets don’t slice through the air.
‘I think we’re good,’ I whisper to Oscar.
‘Give the sign.’
I point my rifle back at the bush and flash a K.
The bush glows red as the others scurry from the path with the backpacks, duck across the road between cars and fold themselves into the forest. Back in the trees, we rally around, breathing deeply, nodding that we’re all okay.
Crossing the road safely. Something you learn when you’re a kid. Now it’s a major accomplishment.
But as we make our slow way along this new track, I realise all we’re doing is playing Jack’s game of hide and seek. Not thinking about helping anyone else. Louis was right. We would’ve left that woman—just like we left everybody else in that suburb. We’ve passed maybe a few dozen people since. Most have been dead but it’s not like we checked. No one’s raised the question of reviving anyone again. I certainly haven’t.
I have to remind myself that waking even one person would be like firing a flare. Jack’s forces would be on us in minutes. Fury burns in me that he has made compassion futile and suicidal. Our only hope is to outsmart and outrun him. But we’re forgoing our humanity. We’re like cockroaches scattering when a kitchen light’s turned on.
I try to shake off my bad vibes. Once we’re out of the radius we can help people. Do some good. Make it right. Take the fight to Jack. But to do any of that we must survive. One step at a time. That’s how to stave off despair and live through this.
We trudge on through the red bush.
When we stop to rest—11.45, 1.03, 2.17—we keep as quiet and still as we can so we’ll be able to hear distant choppers or motorbikes. But the only sounds are our ragged breaths and us slapping at whining mosquitoes.
Through the night, we rotate who’s on point, who brings up the rear. Everyone gets a turn. Except Alex. We don’t ask him to shoulder any responsibilities. No one trusts him with an assault rifle. There’s no way I’ll let him carry Evan. He might drop him—or threaten him so he can get away. Not that Alex offers to help. He hasn’t said a word since I cut him free. But at least he’s stopped complaining.
A dirt road traces the lip of a quarry whose craters are bottomless to our flashlights. We pass mountains of gravel, scattered tin sheds, a graveyard of rusting machinery. I see movement in every ruby shadow and my finger’s forever dancing over my rifle’s safety lever.
On the other side of the quarry, we crunch back into the trees and group around Oscar. He shows us our green spot on the phone. Four-fifths of the way there. After another stretch of bush and then we’ll come out in farmland east of Richmond and hopefully clear of any Minions who’ve been sent there. Then we’ll skirt around the racecourse and the air force base and cross the bridge over the river.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he says. ‘Not far now.’
I feel electric. We’ve nearly made it. Another few hours and we can find a car and get outside the radius. Hole up someplace safe. Rest and recuperate and revive people. Decide on a game plan.
Oscar leads, walking faster, and we try to match his pace.
For a while we do.
Marv needs a breather at 3.57.
Fifteen minutes later Tajik has to rub out a cramp.
Nathan asks for a break at 4.30. We pass around water, and have to wake Alex up to keep moving.
I’m carrying Evan when exhaustion grips me. ‘Guys, hang on a sec,’ I say to the swaying shadows around me. It’s 5.12 in the morning.
‘We’re not going to make it across the river before dawn,’ Oscar says, finger tapping the oval of the racecourse. ‘We should stop in here, get some rest, move again when it’s dark.’
I want to say no. Insist we keep going. Jog if we have to. Anything to get free sooner rather than later. But I can’t argue any of that, not with my companions’ faces so weary in the phone light, not when my jaw’s clenching to suppress a yawn.
We start again. Steady but slow. We reach the edge of the bush and hold a barbed wire fence open for each other so we can step into farmland. It slopes gradually, rectangles of pasture, criss-crossed by more fences. In the distance, there are barns, plastic-wrapped hay bales and a grandstand behind a cyclone fence and pine trees.
‘Racecourse,’ Oscar says. ‘Nearly there.’
Despite our tiredness, we pick up the pace.
Above us, the sky brightens, smoke clouds tinted yellow, purple and green like old bruises. A drone or chopper skimming along the bottom of that pastel murk would have enough light now to see us in these weedy paddocks. We’re dead if that happens.
Cows stare from the other side of a fence. They look puzzled by our presence. I wonder if they’ve already started to forget humans.
‘Down!’ Marv says ahead of me, throwing himself into the tall grass.
I drop to my knees, pivot onto my side to ease Evan onto the ground. When I peek up, the others have disappeared into the weeds around me. I can hear backpacks being taken off, rifles being made ready—and Alex whimpering out the last moments of his life.
‘Ssssh!’ Oscar hisses from his hiding spot. ‘Marv, what is it?’
‘Those buildings.’ I can just make out Marv through the tall grass ahead of me. Bunched dreadlocks, body hunched around his weapon. ‘Something’s flying over them.’
I push up into a squat. Sight along my rifle at the nest of white sheds ahead of us and then raise my weapon at the dark shapes circling in the mucky sky.
Nathan rustles to my side. ‘Are they drones?’
‘It’s fine,’ I say loudly. ‘Take a look.’
Tajik, Oscar, Alex, Marv pop up like meerkats.
The sky ahead is busy with eagles, hawks and owls. At least that should mean the immediate area’s clear of Minions.
A black bird folds its wings, swoops to the ground and then flaps back into the sky with talons wrapped around wriggling prey. Another predator makes a similar dive and catch.
‘Let’s get moving,’ Oscar says. ‘We’re sitting ducks out here.’
We hurry through the field. Birds of prey drop all around and shoot into the air with writhing rewards. Mice and rats seethe through the grass, their bodies sticky with blood and seeds and feathers.
‘Eew, gross,’ I say, unable to help myself.
Nathan laughs. ‘Where�
�d they all come from?’
The answer hits us like a chemical weapon. We all gasp and retch at the stench as we break into a run for clear air. Eyes streaming, hands over noses and mouths, we stagger up a slight rise, still reeling but at least upwind and able to breathe again. We gather, spitting at the ground, straightening up, staring back at the birds diving for vermin.
‘There,’ says Nathan, face scrunched in disgust. ‘Fowl.’
I groan because the largest of the sheds, which stretches the length of a football field, bears the ‘Primo Poultry’ logo of a cheery cartoon chicken.
It’s been over a week since man or machine fed or watered the tens of thousands of birds caged under those roofs. Their bodies have brought the rodents, who’ve brought the raptors. Already, just in this paddock, the ecosystem’s changing.
We push on, cross a narrow sealed road and hurry between hay bales on another farm. My eyes are never far from the sky, wary that we’re as helpless as the mice and rats.
A dozen horses gaze at us from where they graze in an adjoining pasture. There’s a sign on the side of a big barn for ‘Ride On Adventures!’ A figure is sprawled in the dirt by a weeping willow and I wonder if his or her last conscious act was setting these beloved animals free to roam and feed.
We cross another road, approach the racecourse. Through the pine trees and perimeter fence, an avenue leads between stables to the grandstand. My mouth curves into a smile at the big message painted on its tall rear wall: ‘Get yer backside trackside!’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Marv mutters.
I don’t know how safe being trackside will make us. We could literally be fencing ourselves in if Jack’s guys turn up. But I can’t see much choice.
‘It’s our best bet,’ Oscar says. ‘Just as long as we keep ourselves hid—’
The rising thrum of rotor blades blows the exhaustion from our faces.
No time to figure out which direction the chopper’s coming from.
Only time to bolt.
I skid into the cover of the pine trees. Huddle with Evan and Nathan in the shadows. Glance at the others. Similar curled postures. Expressions caught between hope the dense foliage will hide us and fear it’s too late because we’ve already been seen. Oscar has one arm around Alex. His other hand rests on the .38 in his waistband. He doesn’t want to kill in cold blood but I think he’ll put a bullet in Alex if he tries to break cover.
The chopper’s drumbeat crescendos. The bird blasts low overhead. Downdraft swirls dirt and pine needles. For a second I’m sure it’s about to swoop on us. But the machine rumbles on, follows the avenue of stables, rises over the grandstand, circles over the track, men pointing guns from its open doors, and then banks north.
No one speaks until it’s gone—as though the enemy will somehow hear the slightest sound even over their mechanical thunder.
‘That wasn’t the same chopper as last night,’ Nathan says.
He’s right.
The helicopter that’s just passed over is bigger and wider, yellow and blue, with red-and-white rotor blades. Angel Flight. A week ago it meant rescue for lost bushwalkers and air lifts for car-crash victims. It used to deliver salvation. Now being found by it equals damnation.
‘He’s got two helicopters?’ Tajik says softly.
At least: I think but don’t say.
Nathan uses the metal shears to snip a hole in the racecourse fence. We scurry through and run along the avenue between the stables. I try to ignore the whinnying horses trapped inside. We hurry through an open gate, race alongside the grandstand and charge up its tiered concrete steps between steep rows of plastic chairs until we’re up where the seats and roof nearly meet.
We crouch in these gloomy heights, eyes and rifles on the glare of the racecourse below and the shimmering strip of Hawkesbury Road and beyond that an expanse of air force base runways with distant silver planes too large even for the rows of huge hangars. Somewhere on the other side of all that is the river and our escape route north.
But at least nothing moves out there.
‘Everyone okay?’ Oscar asks.
‘Define okay,’ Alex says.
His first words in hours send everyone into gales of laughter.
Alex’s scowl says he didn’t mean it as a joke.
Whatever.
Nathan holds the backpack while I ease Evan from it and stretch him out across three seats.
‘Respiration, pulse, temperature,’ Nathan says, looking up at me. ‘He’s comfortably not here. God, I wish I could say the same for myself.’
I take Nathan’s hand. He squeezes it a second and reassures me with an easy smile.
‘He’s going to be okay,’ he says. ‘But I want to give him another little dose and some fluids.’
Sitting in the row behind Evan, I realise this is the most secure I’ve been since the Snap happened. I’m holding a plastic bag that’s drip feeding my little brother the fluids he needs to stay alive. Right next to me is the man whose knowledge saved Evan’s life and whose bravery and loyalty saved mine. To my left and right are people I trust with my life. Freedom and safety are just on the other side of daylight and another few hours of travel. I almost feel safe.
That is, until I send my mind out.
Tregan and Gary are on mountain bikes. Weaving furiously in and out of stalled vehicles. Desperate to get away from the Angel Flight chopper streaking across fields.
They know enough to know it’s not coming to help them.
‘Please no,’ Nathan says next to me. ‘Leave her alone.’
Bloody-girl-bloody-Nathan-started-war-Not-our-fault-Not-fair-we-have-to-die-Not-hurting-anyone-Faster-baby-faster!
Their thoughts are entwined, desperate, doomed.
TWENTY-ONE
‘Faster, baby!’ Tregan screams.
She jumps her bike over a shredded truck tyre. But behind her, Gary loses his nerve, skids and slaloms, comes off hard and tumbles.
Uhhhh!
Gary-no!
Tregan brakes, throws the bike down, and sprints back to her guy. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Go!’
You-keep-going-baby-Go-Shit-you-can’t-outrun-but-I-I—‘I’ll try to talk to them!’ Gary yells as he grabs his bleeding elbow.
Not-leaving-not-now-I’m-too-scared-can’t-go-alone.
Tregan hugs him to her and together they watch the chopper descend into the pasture beside them, engulfing them in its dust and noise.
Love-you-Could-be-better-Tregan-I-wish-Oh-shit-I-don’t-wanna . . .
Tajik and Marv and Oscar look at each other with grim expressions. Alex’s shocked face says he’s scared he’s getting a preview of his own imminent death.
Nathan has his head in his hands. He’s about to see his friends shot. Evan’s saline bag is empty. I set it down and put my arm around Nathan’s shoulder. He looks at me with an expression of pure despair.
‘My fault,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘Mine.’
The truth is it’s our fault. If he hadn’t revived Tregan she wouldn’t have revived Gary and they would’ve both just faded away painlessly. If I hadn’t stabbed Jack they might’ve been free to live out their new lives. Our guilt binds us like glue.
Minions jump from Angel Flight’s open doors and spread out around the chopper with their assault rifles pointed every which way—except at Tregan and Gary. The Minion I know as Damon strides across the paddock towards them with hands out to show he’s not armed.
‘Tregan? Gary?’
He’s a foot away from them.
‘My name is Damon,’ he yells over the chopper’s thrum. ‘Are you guys okay?’
Tregan and Gary are too shocked at still being alive to answer.
‘We’ll get that arm fixed up,’ Damon says. ‘Can you come with us?’
‘Do we have a choice?’ Tregan shouts.
Gonna-kill-us-Do-it-now-Better-if-it’s-quick-I-love—
‘Of course,’ Damon yells.
Think
-he’s-telling-the-truth-We’d-be-dead-if . . .
Damon nods. ‘But it’s not secure here,’ he says, glancing around the roads and fields. ‘You’re safer with us.’
Is-he-telling-the-truth?-We’d-be-dead-if-he-wasn’t-But-why’s-it-dangerous-here?-Ah-my-elbow-Focus!-They’re-tricking-What-if-they’re-with-the-Biker?-He-coaxed-that-woman-Jackie-Killed-her-anyway-They’re-not-This-guy-Damon’s-with-Jack-Saw-him-on-the-bridge-Oh-shit-what-do-we-do? Tregan and Gary’s thoughts jumble with those of the other Revivees, who share their terror.
‘I need you guys to see and hear some things,’ Damon says. ‘That’s all. When we’re done, we’ll bring you back. Right here if you want—or anywhere you wanna go. Chopper’s faster than a coupla bikes, yes?’
No-choice-babe-I-think-they’ll-kill-us-if-we-say-no . . .
I can’t tell if Damon can hear their thoughts like we can.
‘Okay?’ he asks.
Tired and scared—and tired of being scared—Tregan and Gary let Damon and another Minion help them to their feet and escort them to the chopper’s cabin. The ground drops away beneath them and the countryside spreads out like a mortally wounded body, road after road scarred with cars and corpses, suburb upon suburb broken or blackened, brown and orange smoke and fire consuming the horizon like a cancer.
Damon hands them headsets like the one he wears.
Where-are-you-taking-us? Tregan shouts it in her head. Where-are-you-taking-us?
‘So much worse from up here,’ Damon’s voice crackles in their headphones. ‘Just terrible.’
‘Where,’ Gary says into the little microphone at his mouth, ‘where are we going?’
Damon angles around in his seat and points over the pilot’s shoulder. The Blue Mountains are visible as a shadow in the haze.
‘Clearview,’ Damon says. ‘In the lower mountains.’
Just a week ago I asked Jack the very same question and got the same answer. I could never have imagined where it’d lead. And I have no idea where he’s now going with Tregan and Gary.
‘Is it safe?’ Tregan asks. Can-you-hear-what-I’m-thinking? ‘Flying in these conditions?’
‘Nothing’s safe now,’ Damon says. ‘But we’re better off up here than down there.’
The Last Shot Page 21