The Road to Winter (12 page)

‘Go,' she says.

And without a word I turn back down the hallway, through the kitchen and out into the yard. I pull the backpack on, get on my bike and ride out onto the street.

By the time I cross back over the footbridge, the clouds have cleared and the moon is bright enough to cast a shadow. I follow the track along the opposite bank of the river.

Within an hour, I'm lying low in the last of the bush before it meets the farmland, checking the hayshed for any sign of life. It all seems quiet. I need to ride parallel to the fence for a few hundred metres to the gate by the corner of the paddock. It's open. There's been no stock in there for ages, most killed by hunters in the early days, and the rest gone feral in the bush.

At the gate, my tyres drop into the wider wheel tracks made by the trailbike. This must be where Ramage rides in and out.

I'm halfway to the hayshed when the idea hits me. If I set fire to the shed, Ramage is likely to come ahead of the others on the trailbike to investigate. He'll come through that gate in a hurry, looking over at the burning shed…

I head back to the gate, risking turning the torch on to have a good look around. The tyre tracks are deep and spread wide, as though he has accelerated through. I walk along the fence looking for any loose wire.

It takes me a while, but eventually I find a length that's been broken at one end by a branch falling across it. I trace it back to the nearest post and start to work it up and down to break it.

The wire is hot in my hands but it soon comes free. I reckon it must be about five or six metres long—enough to stretch across the open gate at chest height. This is all eating up time when I should be sleeping. I'm going to need all my energy tomorrow to outrun the Wilders, but within half an hour I've tensioned off the wire on both sides of the gateposts. My hope is that Ramage won't see it and will hit it at speed. I'm not sure what I'll do then, but if I get to the trailbike I can do some damage to it.

By the time I'm bedded down in the hayshed the moon has set and the night has enveloped the paddock. I struggle to get to sleep—the plan keeps running over and over in my head—but eventually I drop off.

At first light, I start to get organised by riding my bike out along the track towards the road heading to Pinchgut Junction.
I hide it in the bush, marking its position by the hanging branch of a wattle.

Back in the shed I break open a few bales to loosen the hay. Then I drag a couple of dead branches out of the bush to keep the fire burning once the hay gets going. Finally, I empty the jerry cans over the top and I'm ready to put a match to it. The sun's been up for a good hour; I don't have time to waste. Still, I take a minute to rehearse the plan in my head one more time, knowing that once I light up the shed there'll be no going back. Then I strike the match, flick it from a distance and run.

The petrol makes the whole thing explode with a loud
whoomp
, and by the time I'm in my hiding place by the gate the fire has taken hold. I hadn't realised how quickly it would burn. The smoke plume, darkened by the burning petrol, rises well above the tree line and the northerly blows it down towards the coast. The flames take hold of the walls and roof, leaping wildly into the sky. I just hope the Wilders see it and panic.

It burns fast; the whole shed is consumed in about twenty minutes. Luckily, it keeps smoking even after the flames die down.

I'm not sure I actually hear it at first; the muffled noise of the trailbike is almost swamped by the sound of the wind and the final collapse of the shed's frame. But I pick it up again, louder this time and coming fast.

I bury myself in the low bracken and hold my breath. As I'd hoped, Ramage has come up from town the same way I did last night, straight up to the ridge and along the fence. He's in a rush too, throttling along, his head turned to the burning
shed. It's hard to judge his speed, but by the time he swings into the gateway he must be doing at least thirty or forty. He hasn't seen the wire.

He hits it with force and his body seems to prop in mid-air while the trailbike lurches and continues on for a few metres before falling on its side and stalling. Ramage lands on the ground with a thud and an eerie quiet falls across the paddock. All I can hear is the hissing of the exhaust pipe against the wet grass.

Ramage stays on his back, but I can see his hands moving as he tries to work out what has happened. I have to hit my legs to get them moving, jumping up and running towards the trailbike.

Ramage has rolled onto his side, but he's still too stunned to stand up. The bike is lying on its side. I take the knife from my pocket and start cutting into the hoses running along the side of the motor, hoping one of them is the fuel line. Eventually petrol starts to spurt out of one. My breath is coming in bursts and I'm gulping for air. My hands are shaking and I feel like throwing up.

As I walk back past Ramage his eyes follow me. He tries to put out his hand to grab my leg, but there's no strength in the movement.

After everything Rose has told me, it's strange to see him up close. I've only ever seen him from a distance, on the day Rose arrived and then again when he speared the man on the ground over next to the hayshed. He doesn't look as rough as the other Wilders I've seen. His hair is cut shorter and his
beard is more straggly than bushy. It's hard to guess his age with the dirt and blood covering his face, but I reckon he'd be forty, maybe fifty. Even with him lying on the ground, I can tell he's tall, six foot six, at least. He brings a hand to his face and smears blood from his forehead down his cheek and into his beard. Then he lifts the hand to his eyes. He focuses on me again and smiles a twisted smile.

‘Fucker!' he spits between bloodstained teeth. ‘I'll kill you, so help me God, I'll kill you.'

But he's vulnerable and he knows it. With my hands shaking even more now, I feel for the knife in my pocket again. I struggle to flick the blade into position. Before I realise what I'm doing, I've knelt down next to him and I'm holding the knife at his throat.

Everything up until now has been like a Boys' Own adventure story I could have read when I was a kid—the clever boy outsmarting the bad guys and saving the girl. But this is real, this holding a blade at a man's throat and looking him in the face. His eyes are opening and closing and there's blood gurgling in his throat as he tries to breathe. I know I can kill him with just a bit of pressure on the knife, but even though I feel that he doesn't deserve to live I can't bring myself to do it. Maybe it's Dad telling me there's always something good in everyone, or maybe it's something deep inside
me
that makes the decision.

Despite all of that, I still want to show him we're not afraid to fight back against him. I pick up his left wrist, turn his hand over and, looking away so I can't see the damage it does, I draw the knife across the back of his hand.

I'm shaking all over, dribbling snot everywhere and trying to form the words in my mouth.

Finally I say, ‘That's for Rose, you bastard.'

I drop his hand back onto the dirt, roll him onto his side to stop him choking and run off towards my bike.

Loud enough for him to hear, I call, ‘Grab the gear, Rose, we gotta head north before the others get here.'

I retrieve my backpack from the bracken and start running along the track to where I've hidden the bike. My legs are like jelly, but soon I'm pushing my way along the track that leads to the road north.

Once I hit the road I make good time. The wind has picked up again but the sun is out and there's no sign of rain. The bitumen surface is still pretty good, with only a few fallen branches blocking my way. I ride as hard as I can for about an hour before pulling to the side of the road, where I fall off and lie like a stranded turtle flipped on its back.

I reckon I'm about fifteen kilometres from the hayshed, which gives me a good three-hour headstart on the Wilders. Even then, Ramage will be slowing them down, if they haven't finished him off themselves. They could just abandon him there and try to track me without him.

I haven't eaten anything since I left Rose last night so I open the backpack and find the piece of chicken I pulled out of the pot before I headed off. I tear it in half and save the rest for later. It's dry and tough, but I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good. The smell of it reminds me of Rose, sitting
up in the bed with her hands wrapped around the cup of soup.

The warm wind and the sun on my skin bring me back to the roadside. It's time to get moving. It's still only mid-morning so I can make it to Pinchgut Junction before sundown if I hurry.

Before long, the road is too steep for me to ride. I decide to leave the bike, hide it by the side of the road and continue on foot. Up ahead, in a paddock to the right of the road, I see an old windmill next to a rusted-out tank. I stash the bike behind the tank and heave the pack onto my back again.

It feels strange to be walking at such a slow pace after the events of the morning. My legs are heavy now that all the excitement has settled down, but the sun is out and it's almost peaceful. I have to be on my guard against danger—and maybe not just from the Wilders behind me. It's likely they've left someone to guard the junction, keeping an eye on movements along the road. All I've done so far is buy myself time by damaging the trailbike and injuring Ramage. They'll still be coming after me and I've got no real idea how to go about finding Kas.

My hope is that she won't have strayed too far from the road, that she'll be watching for any sign of her sister coming back for her. Or that she'll be making her way to the coast.

Every few hundred metres I stop and listen, looking up and down the road for movement. But the afternoon passes and I find myself gradually climbing towards the junction by sunset. It's almost dark by the time I get up to the top of the cutting where I can look down at the road.

And, sure enough, there's the glimmer of a fire below me. I decide to bed down for the night and check them out in the
morning. I find some bracken fern that I can pull up and make a sort of bed. My stomach is calling out for food, but I can't risk a fire, so I open a can of beans and eat them cold before climbing into my sleeping bag, pulling the pack under my head for a pillow and collapsing into sleep.

Sometimes it's hard to pick the difference between a bad dream and reality, but I know I'm fully awake when I feel the weight of a man sitting on top of me, his hand over my mouth. My arms are trapped inside the sleeping bag so there's nothing I can do to defend myself. His face is so close to mine I can smell his stinking breath.

‘Not a word, boyo. Not a word!' he whispers.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can make out two other figures. The one that's been sitting on me pulls me to my feet and ties a gag around my mouth. He lifts me out of the sleeping bag so the third man can stuff it into the backpack. My hands
are tied behind my back and my boots shoved onto my feet, and then we're on the move.

I stumble and trip, but a rope has been tied to my wrists and I'm pulled back up each time I fall. I'm shit-scared but still alert enough to realise we're moving north.

We walk for what seems like hours. I've fallen over so many times I can feel blood running down into my boots from my knees. The first light of morning is creeping through the trees when we make our way out onto the road again. With the sun beginning to rise off to my right I realise we're heading towards Swan's Marsh. I hope this isn't the group that tried to capture Rose when she came through a few days ago. If it is, they'll hand me over to Ramage, for sure.

Eventually they slow down and the leader says, ‘We'll take a break here. Five minutes. No more.'

I'm dragged to the side of the road and pushed down until I'm sitting. The leader leans over me and releases the gag, but he doesn't untie my wrists.

‘Sorry, laddie,' he says. ‘We couldn't take any chances. There were men guarding the junction. I guess you saw them or you wouldn't have been up where you were.'