‘We don’t want anyone to see the flames,’ Emery says, looking up at the smoke as it disappears into the clouds above us in the darkening sky, rubbing the back of his neck.
Having as much to eat as you want is amazing, but less amazing if it’s potatoes. After two, I can’t fit any more in. They’re dry in my throat. I give each of the dogs a potato to stop them all staring at me and licking their lips. It’ll fill their bellies... or gum up their throats, either way they’ll stop begging. Oyster’s happy to wait until it’s her turn for a potato and Maroochy doesn’t growl at her sitting so close. It seems like they’re all learning to get along.
I have a few plums and lots of water cold from the creek to wash down the stodgy potato.
Two days later, with the sky turning pink as the sun sinks behind the bank, we have a backpack full of fruit and cold boiled potatoes, a bucket of raw potatoes, a dead roo and two possums hanging from our cart, all ready to go the next morning. Even the dogs are in their harnesses and the gang line laid out so they only need to be clipped in. They’re a bit confused when we tell them it’s time for sleep not running.
I’m terrified to be going out into the world again. I can’t hardly believe it was me sneaking through the dark of the city just five days ago.
In the dark, I whisper to Emery, ‘Maybe we should just stay here forever?’
Emery whispers back, ‘We’ll run out of roos for the dogs soon, and other people will be heading out of the city, find the fruit and potatoes, find us. Plus Dad and Jackie will be worried.’
‘You think they’re okay?’ I ask.
‘They’re fine, Els. They’ll be travelling to Ma’s too by now. And we’re fine and it’s all gonna be okay,’ Emery says.
‘You can’t promise that,’ I whisper. ‘You don’t have to. I’m tough.’
‘Yes you are,’ Emery says.
‘We’ll do it together,’ I say.
It’s not even light when the zipper goes and Emery lets the dogs out. I scramble up, pull on my boots and roll the sleeping bags up tight and stow them on the cart. There’s a touch of light at the edge of the sky. And somehow Emery is managing to pull down the tent in the dark.
‘How will we see where to go?’ I ask.
‘I’ve had a look at the first bit yesterday, and the sky will lighten up real quick. We have to get moving because there’s two towns we have to sneak past and if we can’t keep below hills, we’ll really stick out and have to stop somewhere till it gets dark again,’ he says.
We set off and the sun does come up quickly. Emery gives me the map, and we check it constantly as we try to stay low on the land, following the creek first, then between two hills, even though we see farmhouses on the top who could be looking down on us. There’s a road ahead so we turn off and go over the hill and into another dip in the land. From the top of the hill, the dead land spreads out below us. A town sits in the distance, low houses and trees strung out along a railway line, and at one end of the town, like giant guards, stand tall pale towers, five of them. Silos, ready to load grain onto the trains. Silent, empty silos, waiting for grain that won’t come and trains that don’t run. They look sad, standing there so tall and proud, like they’re now full to the top with the town’s memories of better times.
The sun climbs higher and it’s so dry here that behind us plumes of red dust are being kicked up by dog paws and tyres. We’re leaving a red trail, wafting up and pointing to us like a giant red arrow in the sky.
‘Emery!’ I say.
‘Woah!’ he says, and ‘Slow, Roochy, slow!’, and we slow the cart right down so it’s just a tiny puff of dust we’re kicking up. The dogs aren’t happy about not running fast. They love to run fast. We keep going till the sun’s burning our heads and the stink of the dead possum is making me feel ill. There’s another road ahead, so we turn away again and go looking for somewhere to hide. Eventually we find a dried-out pond between the two hills that is still damp enough to keep a couple of twisty old willow trees alive and we scoot in there under the hanging branches. I take the dogs off the gang rope and tie them to the trees, then give each of them some water while Emery carves up a possum and one of the legs of the roo.
‘I think I’d like a nice piece of roasted roo,’ Emery says, waving a chunk of bone with a bit of meat on under my nose.
I screw my nose up and turn away. I’m not so sure that’s gonna be tasty even fried in batter. We’ve not had anything fried up in batter for a couple of years now. I miss it so much I probably would eat old roo battered.
The dogs eat and sleep. And we get through a couple of potatoes and some fruit, and kick back in the shade too. Sometimes the rumble of a truck or whir of a car drifts over the hill from down on the road, but it’s not really busy down there.
Emery unrolls the map and follows the roads with his finger. ‘We’ll cross the road later in the day. We have to cross it here to sneak between the towns. After that, far less people. It’s mostly country all the way up to Ma’s.’ He runs his finger right up between towns and roads winding around patches of bushland and little lakes almost to the river border.
‘Easy!’ I say, and we both laugh coz it’s not gonna be easy, and we’re not even halfway yet.
Late afternoon, with the sun real low, we give the dogs more water and clip their harnesses back to the cart. I ride the cart, working the brakes as Emery leads Maroochy up the hill between us and the road.
‘Woah, now! Woah!’ he tells all the dogs to make them quieten down. He gets them all sitting and staying and then he climbs to the top of the hill alone and looks all around.
He comes back shaking his head. ‘There’s still a heat haze on the road.’
‘There’s only been a few cars and things down there all day,’ I say.
Emery nods. ‘Let’s just go then. There’s a patch of bush and a gully the other side, we’ll just go straight for that.’
‘Line!’ he yells, and the dogs leap up on the gang lead, pulling it straight. They start up yelping like they can’t wait to be moving, as Emery takes over the handlebars from me and pushes the cart off. ‘Mush! Hike! Hike!’ he yells.
The dogs throw themselves into the harness, barking like wild things, like they’re telling the whole world we’re here, but they quieten down with the strain of heaving us two over the top of the hill, then we’re off down the hill, flat out, bouncing over the rough dirt, giant trail of red dust kicking up behind us, prickles whipping at my shins.
Emery is working the brakes so the cart don’t bounce into Oyster and Squid’s legs, and calling, ‘Haw a bit, Haw a bit!’ so we’re lined up towards that patch of bush and the gully, so far away it seems. He slows them down to cross the ditch beside the road, then we’re up over the road and down into the ditch on the other side, and then up into the wide dirt paddock.
Three tyre tracks and dog prints for miles when I look back. Cut into that bare hillside like a blazing sign that we went this way. Cut into the land this side of the road. Hopefully when the dust settles and night falls nobody will see them, and maybe some wind will be along overnight to blow them away.
There’s something moving up on the road, but I can’t hear a thing. The heat haze off the black road is fuzzing up the shape, even as the sun dips down behind the hills ahead of us. It’s not a car, it’s too small and broken to be a car. Maybe two people walking or on bikes. But no. They’re moving too fast.
‘Someone’s coming!’ I yell.
‘Hike! Hike!’ Emery urges the dogs, already flat out running.
Lights come on, one light on each shape, and they’re too big to be little bike lights, they’re running too smooth to be torches. They must be motorbikes but still no sound. No roar, no whine...
‘They’re electric motorbikes!’ I yell. They’ll catch us on motorbikes!
We’re way across the flat, crossing an old fence line at a place where it’s clear of wires, though it’s hard to see little wires in this light. From where the bikes are, we probably j
ust look like a ball of dust. And it’s getting darker fast. Maybe they won’t bother following us.
The bikes slow and climb down off the road and start across the paddock after us. Their lights are white stripes bouncing around, lighting up the almost-dark behind us. All they have to do is follow our tyre trail. The bush and the gully are ahead, and I don’t know if we’ll make it to the gully before the bikes catch up.
‘Hike! Hike!’ Emery shouts, and the dogs are running hard. They like to run hard, they don’t care why, they always give it their best, but I don’t think they got enough to outrun a motorbike.
Emery is yelling at me. ‘Take the handlebars. Get to the gully, unhook the dogs if you have time, if not just hide!’
‘What?’ I say.
‘I’ll catch up,’ he says. ‘Keep going!’
‘Wait!’ I yell, but he’s thrown himself down into the dirt and he’s rolling behind a couple of tree stumps, scrabbling around for rocks, and the cart goes on.
And I want to stop the cart. I want us all to fight those bikers together, but the dogs keep running and I steer the cart behind them, straight at that patch of bush. And a track opens up ahead of me like I wished for it, like a vehicle has been into the bush from here before, and I tell the dogs to ‘Haw!’ and they turn down it, and with big trees either side of me, it’s almost too dark to see anything.
‘Woah!’ I yell, and the dogs slow, and I shove the brake on. ‘Woah!’
A gunshot cracks the night. My heart leaps into my throat and I croak out a scream. Lights are waving around cutting through the dark behind me and another shot cracks off. And Maroochy is growling.
I drive the cart into the bush beside the trail, tip it over and wrap it around a tree trunk. I won’t leave Emery there to die. I have to go back for him. One light is bouncing around coming for the trail behind me. I feel around for a stick or something to fight with, but all I find is that roo carcass, fallen off the cart, and that’s what I grab.
I run back up the track, dragging the skinny roo with the one back leg missing, making it lighter. The dogs are all yelping and barking behind me. They wanna be helping Emery too.
The light aims square down the trail and I dive into the trees.
The dogs are lit up, bouncing and pulling on their harnesses, yelping, coz the cart’s stuck on the tree, and the bike picks its way down the rough trail towards them. The light blinds me as it gets real close, and I shut my eyes so it don’t ruin my night vision. Then, when the whir of the electric motor is on me, I step out, dragging the roo by the tail. I swing it up around my head once and bash the rider across the back. He crashes down and the bike slides ahead. At the edge of the light, a revolver bounces on the track. I run after it, pick it up and run around the man trying to get to his feet. I use the butt of the gun to bash the bike’s headlight in. Three goes, it takes, that thing is solid! Then I bash in the red tail light and I’m blind, seeing spots, but I stumble towards the sound of dogs. I roll my ankle, crash to my knees and jump up again. I run smack into Maroochy’s bouncing black fur and unclip her harness from the gang rope, and then Wolf and Bear. I leave the two white dogs stuck there, because the man on the ground is already up yelling and fighting Maroochy off, dragging his bike, trying to get it up maybe.
He flicks on the indicator lights, and in the orange flashes, he sees us, circling him, three dogs and me standing pointing his revolver.
Maroochy’s got him by the leg or something. He’s yelling, bashing an arm at her, and Wolf and Bear are trying to get a chunk of him too, following her lead. He better not hurt my dogs.
Then the bike crashes back down and boots thud as the man runs for it. Dogs on his heels, him whacking them away, or kicking them away. It’s a mess of noise in the dark. Just dogs growling, claws scrabbling, and the white bits of Wolf and Bear’s faces, teeth showing in orange flashes as they help Maroochy chase that man away.
I chase the man back up the track too. I’m terrified, I’m mad, filthy angry at what they done. But mostly I have to get to Emery. Nothing else matters. The man’s running to the path of light from a stopped bike. Stopped back up near the stumps where Emery is.
‘Rooch!’ I say. ‘Get Emery!’
I stay out of the light. Trying to run silently. Without being seen. But the dogs cross the light every now and then.
‘There’s a pack of wild dogs down there!’ the man we’re chasing yells. ‘And a kid with my gun!’
‘Where?’ the other man yells, and I aim for that sound. Point my gun and pull the trigger. My heart’s slamming in my chest, but the gun doesn’t go off. I feel around the top of it for a switch or a lever or something. A safety catch like in the movies. By the time I find it and flick it, I don’t know where the other man is no more, so I can’t shoot. Not with Emery and our dogs out there somewhere.
Another shot cracks the air so loud, so close, I jump out of my skin. Dog claws go scrambling. The white face of Bear shoots past, eyes panic-wide, tongue flapping. He’s getting out of here. My heart crawling for my stomach, I circle round on the bike. Skirting the pool of red brake light. There’s a rifle stuck in a holder near the handlebars. I slide that out, then I smash out the white headlight, one blow this time, tuck the rifle under my arm and run.
The men swear, run to the bike. I stop running, line up the revolver, hands shaking like crazy, shoot at them, but even holding the handgun in two hands the blast makes my arms fly up in the air and the bullet too probably.
I skirt round back to where I think the stumps are, looking for Emery. There’s black fur and a panting right at my hip. Rooch is here. Maroochy didn’t run away, she’s right here with me.
The men swear. ‘Stay low. We’ll come back for the other bike in the morning,’ one says. The bike starts up, a quiet hum. In the red brake light, there’s an arm with another handgun pointing my way and I hit the dirt, pulling Maroochy down with me. A man runs past the red light and gets on the back. Another gunshot cracks off, making me and Roochy jump.
‘I’m pretty sure that kid that hit me with the rock is dead,’ the man says.
My heart stops, all the air that’s in me falls out, and I think I’m gonna suffocate. Emery. My Emery. My big brother. He can’t be dead. He can’t be. I should never have left him.
The bike takes off, dust kicking up into that red-light puddle trailing behind it, and sobs burst out of me. Emery. I don’t know what to do. Me and Maroochy in the dirt in the dark, and I can’t let her go, coz then I’ll be alone. What if she runs away like Bear?
But Emery. He can’t be dead. I don’t know how to go on without him.
‘Find Emery, Roochy!’ I say. ‘Emery.’ And peel my fingers from her fur.
She’s off into the dark and I’m crawling after her. Red spots in my eyes, staggering, bending down, arms out to find those stumps or Emery’s body.
‘Emery!’ I call.
Nothing. Just the whirring of that stupid bike bumping across the paddock looking for the road, its hazard lights on now, to see in front of itself in orange flashes.
Maroochy is whining, snuffling. I head towards her. And he’s there. Emery’s on the ground. I wrap myself around him, pressing my ear to his chest to hear his heart. He’s alive. He’s breathing. I hug him. ‘Emery, wake up. Tell me what to do. Tell me where you’re hurt!’ But Emery doesn’t move, and I don’t have a light. The lighter’s back on the tipped-over cart. I don’t know where Emery put his little torch.
I feel him all over. His head is damp on the side. I sniff my fingers. Blood. Blood from his head!
I’m crying, tears pouring down my face. I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him.
‘Rooch, sit!’ I say and feel her parked down beside Emery’s body. I press her down. ‘Stay, Rooch. Stay!’
She yowls, and she’s moving her head, licking his face most likely, like she can make him better.
I need to get the cart. I need the lighter to see Emery and we need to get away from here
, but I can’t leave Emery alone, no matter how much I need Maroochy to help me get the cart.
I head back out into the dark, heading for that flashing bike still lying down on the trail. As I run, I call to Wolf and Bear. I imagine the sun coming up and finding them dead or wounded by those shots. But there’s a snuffling beside me as I head down the trail and Bear is there.
‘Good Bear!’ I tell him. ‘Good doggo.’ I keep telling him he’s good. He’s good for staying by me. He’s good for helping me even though he’s not a brave dog. He’s found me again.
Oyster and Squid are making yelpy noises of welcome at us heading back down to them, and I pat them and tell them they’re good too.
In the flashing orange light from the fallen-over bike, I pull the cart out from the tree, stand it back up, and shove all our gear back into it. Shove in that rifle I stole, flick the safety back on the handgun and shove that into a little pouch between the handlebars. I find the lighter in the pocket of my backpack and shine it all around on the ground quickly to make sure I’ve got everything. Then I use it to find the clips to clip Bear to the gang rope and lead him and the cart back up to the bike, flashing out orange warnings in the night. I pick up the dead roo and hang it back on the cart, then I feel around for the bike’s key and turn it off, pull out the key and throw it away into the bush.
Really dark now. The bare paddock ahead is a lighter black than the trail we’re on, and with floating spots in my eyes, I walk, leading Bear by the gang rope up the trail.
‘Where’s Roochy?’ I ask him. His nose is great, he’ll find her.
I trip over a branch lying at the side of the trail. It’s some kind of scrubby tree, smells fresh-broken like maybe the man we chased ran through it. I pick that up and drag it along too. I’m thinking I need to get Emery out of here, and I don’t want to be leaving no trail like the one we already left on the hillside. I’m really missing grass now for a whole new reason. Grass would’ve hid our tracks.
Bear leads me straight to Rooch and Emery. I check Emery all over with the lighter. There’s blood on his head, and his arm’s bent like maybe it’s broken. He’s groaning now, not making any sense. I grab him under the armpits and drag and haul him across the basket of the cart, slump him in on his side so his head is on the sleeping bags, tuck his legs in and put his bent arm on top.
The Dog Runner Page 6