head in his hand, or maybe Meg, dead and bloodless. Gasping, he worked the window catch and forced it open. The night air rushed in, carrying the scent of dust and cow shit. He opened the window as far as it would go. Winced as the damn thing gave an almighty squeak. No footsteps. But no time to lose. Up and out, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, surprising himself with his balance.
He ran for the creek, that dark line of trees at the bottom of the slope the only decent cover in miles. Which way to town, to home? Right, he thought, with the moon behind him; his shadow a soft uncertain thing, preceding him over the stubble and the dirt as he sprinted, waiting for the gunfire, for the racing steps, for the motors. But there was nothing, just his footfalls, and he realised he could see well - very well - as he dodged the bumps and hollows, the stray logs. His breath came shorter and shorter; his vision narrowed. The ground tilted. He tripped, fell. He scrabbled to the windmill, clutched the rust-spotted frame for support and stared back at the house. No pursuit, no nothing. He lurched away, stumbling down the slope where water glittered dully in a pool surrounded by shrubs and trees, and farther down there was a crossing, the barest of trickles across the packed earth, the cutting indented with tyre tracks and hoof prints. He knelt by a pool, the scent of mud and rotting vegetation closing over him, but he splashed his face anyway, aware of the grittiness of the muddy water but relishing the cool shock. His stomach heaved with contractions. His vision blurred, the moon a wavering silver fingernail in the ripples he'd caused, the world shimmering till he could barely tell if he was looking at the moon in the pond or in the sky.
Reality slipped through his fingers like water; he held onto one thought - he had to get home. The charcoal ruins. He had to find his mother and Meg. Screaming. Had to know they were safe. Bleeding. Had to hold them. Bleeding! Had to.
He ran, sobbing, gasping, trying to stay beneath the level of the bank. Christ, he was hot. Burning up. He felt so empty, his guts wrapping around his spine. A bird called, the shrill, sharp cry of a curlew like a child crying for its mother, and somewhere a cow lowed, sounding scared. He staggered along, tripping over rocks and branches, skidding in mud holes, splashing through stagnant puddles. Then he smelled it - a new staleness, a cloying fragrance that belonged to abattoirs. Carcasses swinging on hooks, the concrete awash with red, the patter of it falling, the pungent scent of raw meat and fresh blood, the stench of shit and fear, fearful eyes bulging white in the crush.
Ahead, a twin cab four-wheel-drive lay crumpled nose-down in the creek bed. A broken tree and flattened grass and churned earth showed where it had rolled over the bank. He recognised the vehicle. He'd replaced its shock absorbers not that long ago, the victims of too many miles of corrugation and stock grids. He crept toward it. A smear on the rear door. Mud? He knew better than that. He knew, deep down. And yet he reached, flesh and shadow joining across the white paint to rest on that silver handle. He heaved the door open. The cab light, strikingly stark, threw crazy shadows from overhead. A midnight raid on the fridge, light spilling out. He stared at the heaped pile of arms and legs, heads, naked flesh like candle wax. One child gazing sightlessly at him, his head bent backward over someone's thigh, his throat torn into pale shreds and hollow blackness. Mrs Crawford, stripped to bra and knickers, half covered in the middle of the tangle, long hair matted, lips torn, a frown on her face as though appalled to be seen in her underwear. Rusty streaks on her chest, staining the white of her bra. One nipple stuck out over the rim of the cup. He resisted the urge to tuck it back. Her husband, bare back arched toward him at the bottom of the pile, head and shoulder hidden in the foot recess.
Kevin stepped closer and closer, breath frozen, vision locked on the nest of flesh, the vacant eyes, the road maps of dried blood. He lifted a dangling child's hand, cold and soft. The smell of rot and blood and shit filled him. The smell of death. He sniffed, rolled that bony wrist between his fingers. Lowered his face, eyesight angling down, filling with a layer of crusted brown smears caking the tanned flesh, knobs of bone stretching the skin. Cold against his lips, so very cold. Raw chicken against his tongue.
Movement - an arm falling, a roll of head. He dropped the hand, jerked back, fell, barely registered the impact of stone on his palm, the other finding a splash of water and mud. He crawled away, eyes transfixed on the open door and the bodies within. He hit the bank and stayed still, cowering under an eroded overhang, roots like cobweb in his hair, the smell of earth wrapping around him; earth and mud and blood. He drew his knees up and stared and stared but the carnage remained. He sat there, too scared, too hungry, to move.
'Kevin?'
He blinked. Meg?
Shapes in the creek, approaching. Their shadows reached long and inhuman toward him. Reality crashed down as his senses returned, bright and clear and knife-sharp. He'd been biting his own hand. The dimpled flesh looked as if it had been pounded with a meat tenderiser.
'It's all right, Kevin.'
Fear in Kala's voice. Suspicion, too. Acacia followed her; the whiny surfer dude, Nigel, brought up the rear. He carried a military-looking rifle, like someone had shrunk an M-16 in a microwave.
'Taipan's gonna freak if he hears the pup saw this,' Nigel said.
'If he hears,' Kala snapped.
'Hey, that's not my worry. Taipan wants to go makin' any bit of trash he comes across-'
'Damn right it's no concern of yours,' Kala said. They walked spread out, as though through a minefield, converging on Kevin's hiding spot. 'Go and bring the van down, close as you can.'
'You want this?' Nigel held out the rifle.
'Take it, we won't need it,' Kala said, but Acacia grabbed the gun and sent him on his way with a jerk of her head.
Rocks and dirt cascaded where Nigel dug his way up the bank, but Kevin's concentration was on Kala, reaching out toward him as though he was a frightened kitten, even as Acacia said, 'Careful, girl, he's off his tree.'
'Kevin, come with us. We can help you. Honest. No-one's gonna hurt you.'
She was over-heating. An engine block boiling with oil. He could smell her, all coppery, rich like freshly ploughed soil.
He moved and she stepped back. 'That's right. Come with me. We can get you cleaned up. Get you sorted.'
'Jesus,' Acacia said, and her voice sounded so distant, as though she was speaking through a long tube. 'He's got the tremors, got 'em bad.'
'Let's get him back to the house,' Kala said.
'Hold this,' Acacia said, passing the rifle to Kala.
Acacia stepped up, a blur of motion.
He was on the ground, staring at the night sky, and then her face was over him, filling his vision. Something slammed into his chest, sank in, choking him from the inside out, and when she pulled away, so he could see again, he realised there was a length of round, smooth timber in his chest - a cricket stump.
Well and truly stumped. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, to share the joke, to stand and grab Kala and kiss her and kiss her, but he couldn't move. Not so much as a twitch of a finger. He screamed but the sound was only inside his head, over and over, louder and louder, until the night came slamming down on him, starless and moonless and as silent as the grave.
ELEVEN
Confused, he wishes for wakefulness, but sleep has him fixed to the trail of dreams, and dreaming is remembering, even if the memories are not all his own.
Making love to Meg on a blanket beside the
