by Mark Smith
She looks to Tahir and nods. He stands tall, the tattoos on his neck rising out of his shirt. ‘You are welcome to join us,’ he says. ‘We are striking back at Ramage. We want to live our own lives, free of fear. But we’ve only won a small battle here. The war is yet to come.’
The other No-landers cheer.
‘We are safer together,’ he continues. ‘We can organise, strike Ramage when he least expects it. We hunt for food, we have cattle and we grow crops. You will need to work and, when the time comes, to fight. We are leaving now. Gather what you have and come to the yard.’
Conversations break out all over the shed. Kids are running to get whatever they have—mostly clothes and chaff bags to keep them covered at night. I watch all this activity through blurred eyes. The water isn’t doing much to ease the throbbing pain in my arm.
Tahir climbs down the ladder and confronts Kas and me. ‘You lied to us about your sister,’ he says, his voice hard.
‘I know,’ Kas says, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘At the time, that was necessary.’
Tahir sizes her up. ‘Will you come with us?’ he asks.
‘No. We’re heading back to the valley. Our friends there will need us.’
I’m sure Tahir is about to challenge her, but Gabriel calls to him from the door. ‘Come on. We don’t have time to argue.’
Tahir backs away, his finger pointing at Kas. ‘Why don’t I trust you?’ he says.
‘Probably the same reason I don’t trust you,’ she fires back.
Daymu has been watching this exchange. She still wears the shorts and jumper Kas gave her back at Swan’s Marsh.
‘I told you I wouldn’t forget you,’ she says, smiling.
JT stands beside her, his arm around her shoulder.
‘We’re coming with you,’ JT says. ‘You’ll have a better chance with four than with two.’ He has one of the Wilders’ rifles.
Kas nods. She touches my shoulder and says, ‘Let’s look at your arm.’ She lifts it gently out of the water. The movement shoots pain right up to my shoulder.
‘It’ll hurt like shit for a week, but then it gets easier,’ JT says. He produces a jar of grey-white cream that smells like sheep’s wool. ‘They gave us this when they started the branding. Put it on everyday. It’ll help.’
I smear the cold cream on the wound then bind it with a strip of cloth JT gives me. Somehow it doesn’t feel quite as bad if I can’t see it.
‘We’ve got to get going,’ JT says.
‘There’s something I have to do first,’ Kas says. We follow her out of the shed and round the back. Tusker is propped up against the wall, his hands pinned behind his back. The other Wilders sit further along, their heads bowed.
Kas squats in front of Tusker. She pulls a knife from her belt and lifts his chin with the point. Her voice is calm, measured. ‘There’s something I want you to remember,’ she says. ‘You will never, ever own me.’ Kas turns the knife so the blade begins to cut under his chin. She flicks it forward, opening a gash an inch long. Blood drops onto his shirt.
‘That’s from Yogi,’ she says, standing up again.
‘You should finish me now,’ Tusker yells. ‘Take your chance. Cos when I catch you—and, believe me, I will catch you—I’ll kill you. And I will enjoy every minute of it.’
But Kas just smiles. ‘Catch me?’ she snorts. ‘You’ll never catch me. I’ll smell you coming.’
She turns and walks towards me, then stops and backtracks. ‘And one more thing,’ she says, looking down on him. ‘You’re the ugliest bastard I’ve ever seen.’
Back in the yard, Gabriel leads the kids and the No-landers out through the gates and they form a ragged group hurrying off down the main street. Danka is the last to leave. She hugs Kas and Daymu.
‘Stay safe,’ she says. ‘And if you need us, come and find us.’ She strides towards the gate, looks back briefly and disappears around the corner.
The four of us go into the shed, stopping just inside the door.
‘We’re going to the Ramsay place first,’ Kas says. ‘That’s where Hope is. After that, Swan’s Marsh. We’ve got some gear stashed there. You can choose what to do then—come with us to the valley or join the No-landers.’ Daymu and JT nod as she speaks.
As we step out of the shed there are distant gunshots.
We’ve got to go. Now.
The rain has eased to drizzle as we get to the main street. But Kas stops and looks. ‘I’m going to find Yogi,’ she says. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
‘That’s stupid, Kas.’ I can’t help myself. We haven’t got time to stuff around looking for a horse.
‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘When we get Hope we need to get her somewhere safe fast. And how long are you going to be able to walk with your arm as sore as it is?’
‘There’s a stable at the back of the pub,’ JT says. ‘I reckon that’s your best bet.’
‘Can you ride?’ Kas asks.
‘Shit, yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘Been riding since I was five.’
‘We’ll wait here,’ I say.
Daymu and I scout along the street a little and find a brick fence to hide behind. We don’t have to wait long. Kas and JT come down the road at a canter. Kas is on Yogi, bareback, and JT is on a black beast of a thing the size of a draft horse. Daymu has to climb on from the top of the fence. Kas pulls me up by my good arm and we take off along the main street.
The town looks pretty rundown but it’s nothing like Angowrie. The houses are still standing, and their roofs and windows are all intact. We follow the road. It’s the quickest way to the edge of town and, right now, speed is everything. There’ll be guards at the Ramsay place and who’s to say they’re not, right now, heading in our direction.
I hang on with one arm around Kas’s waist, trying not to knock the wound. The shooting pain has changed to a constant ache, but the cream has eased some of the burning.
The buildings start to thin out. After a few minutes, we see the high metal poles of the railway line and, down the slope to our left, the deserted station. On our right, a driveway lined by an overgrown cypress hedge winds its way up the side of a hill. A milk-container letterbox hangs by the gate. We can just read the faded red paint on the side: Ramsay.
The hedge gives us good cover until the house comes into view. It’s a red brick, double-storey place that looks like a big doll’s house. There’s an open area in front with no cover but there are trees on each side.
We tie up the horses. ‘We’ll split up, here,’ Kas says, ‘Finn and me to the right, you two to the left. Remember, JT, you’re the only one who’s armed. If this turns ugly, we’ll be relying on you.’
We make our way up the side of the house. All the curtains are drawn, but French doors at the back are open and we hear voices inside. Before we can move, a man steps outside and sits down at a table on the patio. He rests a shotgun in front of him and begins to roll a cigarette.
I haven’t seen anyone smoking in years. A girl, no older than me, walks out to join him. She sits in his lap and puts her arms around his neck.
‘Sylvia,’ Kas whispers.
The Wilder lights a match, draws on the cigarette and hands it to the girl.
‘I’m so sick of this,’ she says, leaning in and resting her head on the man’s shoulder. He’s younger than most Wilders, late twenties, maybe. He has a round face and a wispy beard. Sylvia’s the best-fed Siley I’ve ever seen. She’s bordering on fat.
‘Me too,’ the Wilder says. He slides his hands up under her top.
JT stands up behind them, his rifle raised. The Wilder tries to push Sylvia off his lap and grab his shotgun, but Daymu is too quick for him. She grabs his gun and steps back.
Kas and me run up onto the patio.
‘What the…?’ the Wilder says.
‘Where’s the baby?’ Daymu demands, using the Wilder’s shotgun to nudge Sylvia.
‘The baby’s Ramage’s,’ Sylvia says.
Kas has no interest in the argum
ent. She walks into the house and her footsteps echo on the wooden floor.
The Wilder slowly picks up the cigarette and draws on it heavily. Smoke streams from his nostrils as he speaks. ‘And what d’you think Ramage is going to do when he finds out you’ve taken her?’
Kas walks back out onto the patio, carrying a baby. Tears fill her eyes.
‘Hope,’ she says.
Hope’s skin is dark and she has thick, black hair. She grabs Kas’s finger in her little fist.
‘What do you feed her?’ Kas asks Sylvia.
Sylvia is reluctant to answer, but eventually she says, ‘We found formula in a few of the houses in town, the ones that had lost babies to the virus. But the last couple of weeks we’ve tried stewed fruit and mashed veggies. We’re nearly out of formula.’
The Wilder seems unfussed, cocky even. He leans back in his chair and scratches his beard. ‘How are you going to look after a baby? You’ve got no idea.’
‘Ramage will kill us,’ Sylvia says, her voice frantic. ‘You don’t know what he’s like.’
‘I reckon I’ve got a fair idea,’ JT replies. He pulls his shirtsleeve up to show the branded ‘R’ on his forearm. ‘Now tell us what’s been going on in Longley.’
The Wilder looks wary but Sylvia squeezes his arm. ‘Tell them, Col,’ she says.
‘You probably know most of it,’ Col begins. ‘There’s been a rebellion at the valley farm. It was bad enough when Ramage heard Rat was dead, but he went crazy when he heard you’d killed him,’ he says, looking at Kas.
‘How many men did he take with him?’ Daymu asks.
Col shakes his head. He’s not going to answer. But Daymu points the shotgun at his head. ‘All he could spare,’ he says, finally. ‘He left a new bloke, Tusker, in charge. Complete bastard, dangerous.’
None of us says anything.
‘Do you have food?’ Daymu asks.
I’m keen to get moving but my stomach is empty. Hunger’s already slowing us down. And who knows when we’ll eat again.
Sylvia leads us inside. Col looks pissed off, now. JT keeps the rifle levelled at his back.
‘Most of the food grown on the farms comes back to Longley,’ Sylvia says. ‘The farmers get the dregs. Ramage’s got everyone under his control. No one’s stood up to him until now. You’ve heard about the Sileys gone feral?’
‘Not sure feral’s the right word,’ Daymu snaps. ‘They’re fighting back, that’s all.’
‘They’ve killed Wilders, stolen stock, burnt crops,’ Col says. ‘Ramage’ll crush them once he’s dealt with the upstarts in the valley.’
‘Don’t underestimate them,’ Kas says.
There are eggs to eat, and stale bread. Then Sylvia drops four chops into the frying pan. The smell of them sends my stomach into a spin.
‘Why are you doing this,’ JT asks. ‘Food is precious.’ He’s suspicious, smelling every forkful before putting it in his mouth.
‘I’m a Siley,’ Sylvia answers. ‘It’s been easier out here than at the feedstore, but I’m still a slave.’
‘We need clothes,’ Daymu says, hitching her shorts up.
‘You’ll find some upstairs,’ Sylvia says.
Kas hands Hope to me, then she goes upstairs with Daymu. Hope is heavier than I thought she’d be. I hold her on my hip with my good arm and her hands reach for my face. She has Rose’s eyes—deep brown and almond-shaped.
There’s something I’ve wondered, ever since Ramage first chased Rose into Angowrie. ‘I don’t get you Wilders,’ I tell Col. ‘You must’ve been ordinary people before the virus, farmers, mechanics, teachers. How did you end up falling in with Ramage?’
‘Don’t judge us all the same, kid. When Ramage took over, most of us had no choice. It was follow him or end up like Ken Butler, dragged from here to Swan’s Marsh behind a trail bike.’
I’m shocked to hear that name again. ‘You knew Ken Butler?’
‘I used to farm down near Nelson. I knew Ken since I was a kid.’
‘But you still followed Ramage. Why?’
‘Like I said, no choice. There are others like me, too. Blokes just waiting for their chance. But somehow Ramage always manages to find another animal, like Fenton or Wilson, blokes who’ll kill just for the fun of it.’
‘Wilson and Fenton won’t be killing anyone anymore, ever.’
‘Yeah, I heard that. Whoever it was that shot them, I’d like to pat them on the back.’
Kas and Daymu come down wearing jeans and warm shirts. They carry jackets and a bag of nappies.
‘There’s even undies!’ Kas says, excited.
I hand Hope to Kas, and JT and I head up to find clothes for ourselves. There’s a wardrobe full of them: long work pants, singlets, T-shirts and jumpers. I can’t believe our luck.
When we’re back in the kitchen, Sylvia explains. ‘Ramsay ran one of the biggest farms in the district. He had eight kids. They all went in the first wave of the virus. No one realised the place was empty for months.’
The chops are cooked and she forks them out onto plates, along with big dollops of mashed potato.
‘Ramage keeps us well stocked,’ she says.
After we’ve eaten, Sylvia shows us how to change Hope’s nappy. There’s nothing tender in the way she holds her. I get the feeling she’s happy to hand over the responsibility, even if it means Ramage will be as mad as hell.
She puts some mashed food in a couple of containers. ‘Just little spoonfuls at a time,’ she says. ‘She’ll cry if she gets an upset tummy.’ Kas listens carefully and asks lots of questions, but she looks more and more worried. We never really thought about how we’d look after a four-month-old. The sooner we can get her to Stella the better, though we’ve got no idea what we’ll find when we get back to the valley.
Sylvia goes to a cupboard and pulls out a funny-looking harness.
‘It’s a papoose,’ she says, showing Kas how to put it on. ‘You can carry the baby in the front when you walk.’
‘Or ride,’ Kas says.
JT and I take Col out to a shed in the yard, and lock him in. Sylvia’s not a threat—she can’t wait to get away, with or without Col.
Daymu has found a couple of saddlebags in the barn. The leather is cracked and dry, but they’ll do the job.
Finally we bring the horses around the front. Kas climbs carefully onto Yogi’s back, with Hope strapped in the papoose. I struggle up behind—my arm is almost numb by now. JT and Daymu mount the big black horse. He looks like a plough horse, with a wide arse and shaggy mane.
‘Try to keep up,’ Kas says, smiling.
‘Don’t worry about Black Bess, here,’ JT says.
‘Black Bess? Black Bus, more likely.’
Once we’re out on the road the jokes drop away. We have to get moving but we don’t want to make targets of ourselves.
‘I say we skirt around Longley and find the road to Swan’s Marsh,’ Kas says. ‘If any Wilders have followed the No-landers, they’ll be ahead of us. We’ll have to be alert.’
‘We don’t want to spend a night out in the open with Hope,’ I say. She’s already unsettled with all the movement.
The land rises into patchy forest above the town. We stay clear of the buildings on the outskirts, then turn south and gain cover in the trees. The farms here are still being worked and there are gates and fences that slow our progress. From the tree line we get a good view of the town. We don’t see anyone down there, but we’ve got to assume Tusker and the others at the feedstore will free themselves eventually, so we kick the horses into action.
Kas rides more upright, one hand on the reins and the other steadying Hope in the papoose. I loop my right arm around her waist and sit on the saddlebag straps to keep them in place. We don’t get past a steady canter, and JT and Daymu keep up pretty easily. The rain has cleared and the afternoon sun slants through the trees.
We reach the top of a small ridge and see the road to Swan’s Marsh winding through the foothills. I have a quick loo
k back at Longley, hoping it’s the last time I ever lay eyes on the place, then lean into Kas as she urges Yogi on. We stop a good distance from the road and ride parallel to it, even though it makes the going slower.
Kas tries to soothe Hope by talking to her quietly. Her voice takes on the rhythm of Yogi’s canter. After a while, Hope nods off and Kas kicks Yogi to quicken his pace. JT is right behind us. Black Bess may be bit slower but I reckon she’s bred tough. Daymu, though, looks as though she’s spent about as much time on a horse as I have. She hangs on tight around JT’s waist, her face turned and pressed against his back.
By the time the sun is low in the west, the bridge over the creek leading to the No-landers’ farm comes into view. Straightaway it doesn’t feel right. There’s something on the bridge—maybe the Wilders are guarding it. Fifty metres above it we dismount and pull the horses back up into the trees. JT and I agree to check it out, while Kas tries to keep Hope quiet. There’s not a breath of wind—any sound will carry for miles.
There’s not much cover between us and the bridge so we drop down to the creek and make our way along its bank, keeping low and out of sight. We run the last ten metres to get under the bridge then sit and listen. Nothing.
Edging our way up the side we see two Wilders lying face down. Blood has pooled under them and filled cracks in the bitumen. I climb over the railing and nudge them with my boot. Neither one moves. My stomach heaves and I dry-retch. JT turns away, taking deep breaths.
We whistle for Kas and Daymu to come down.
They bring the horses onto the bridge and JT kneels and examines the bodies, one hand over his mouth.
‘Shot in the back of the head,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Look at the way they’ve fallen—face first,’ he says. ‘I reckon they were on their knees.’
‘Executed?’ Daymu says, disbelief in her voice. ‘But who’d do that?’
‘There were lots of No-landers with guns,’ JT says.
This is such a long way from anything I could have imagined when me and Rowdy were living down in Angowrie on our own. How did I end up in the middle of this?