Remote Rescue (4 page)

‘The main road,' Dawson blurted out, a burst of hope in his chest. ‘The Outback Highway! We can stop a passing car.'

‘That's a long way,' said Sam, still panting.

But Dawson was determined. ‘It's my turn,' he said. ‘You take Em to Dad and wait.'

Without waiting for a response, Dawson
turned and started jogging. He didn't go too fast. He knew he wasn't a strong runner … certainly not as swift as Sam. But he figured that if he kept a steady pace he would be able to make it.

He passed the entrance to the town, with the large signs on either side of the dirt road. Unlike the town itself, which was falling apart, they were in good condition, built specifically for tourists.

He looked over his shoulder as he jogged. On the left, the sign said ‘Farina', on the right, ‘est. 1878'.

It needs another sign
, he thought.
One that says when it became a ghost town.

Dawson remembered Dad saying that people started to leave the area in the early 1900s, but that the last person didn't go
until the 1980s. Did it become a ghost town the moment that last person left? Or did it have to fall apart first? And how did that happen so quickly? Thirty years didn't seem all that long. Or was it already falling to pieces while a few people were still living there?

Falling apart.

Falling.

Fall!

The word stuck.

In his mind, he saw Dad falling.

In slow motion.

It was a much longer fall than in reality, which he hadn't actually seen anyway. The imaginary fall took a long time. It was from a great height. And Dad was screaming. When he hit the ground, his leg crumpled
beneath him – a crunching, snapping sound echoing around as the screaming abruptly stopped.

Dawson briefly shut his eyes, trying to wipe the image from his mind. Then he looked down at his feet, watching as his worn runners crunched on the gravel and compacted earth of the road. He concentrated on his shoes, the white edges stained orange from the dirt, and his jogging steps. He tried not to think of Dad lying in the cellar, his leg bent, a patch of blood spreading through the fabric of his jeans.

Dawson glanced back over his shoulder. He hadn't got very far. He increased his speed a little. It was up to him to get help. His responsibility. And again, images of
Dad worked their way into his mind. He increased his speed again.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been running when he started to slow down. His lungs were burning, his legs were aching and his head pounded. He'd tried to run too fast and couldn't keep it up. In fact, he was now doubting his ability to make it all the way to the main road.

I have to keep going
, Dawson told himself.
I can't let Dad down.

Dawson's left calf cramped and he stumbled, only just managing to not fall flat on his face. He bent over and rubbed at the cramp, then lifted his leg and flexed until the stiffness and tension eased.

Straightening up, he looked at the long road ahead of him. It seemed as if he had
barely covered any distance. He felt his chest tighten, and the sting of tears threatened his eyes. He took a deep breath to calm and focus himself then started forward, walking briskly, trying to persuade his tired legs to move into a jog. But he had to slow down again as he felt his calf twinge.

His chest tightened and he felt a lump rising in his throat. It was all getting too much … when he spotted something.

Dust!

Up ahead on the road, way in the distance, was a small cloud of dust. His face broke into a smile.

It could mean only one thing – a car.

Revitalised, he surged ahead, first into a jog and then a run.

Dawson was hobbling by the time the
Land Rover came into view. But he kept going, raising his arms and waving.

As the vehicle approached, it flashed its lights at him. Dawson, out of breath, moved to the side of the road, watching it. It was a dirty grey colour.

The car ground to a halt beside him, its wheels kicking up gravel and dirt. Dawson coughed and waved a hand to clear the air. As the dust settled, he saw that the car was actually white under all the grime. It had enormous wheels, and the cabin sat high. He had to look up when the window slid down.

A wrinkled face with a muddle of silvery hair stared down at him.

‘What's the matter, dear?' asked the elderly woman.

‘My … dad …' panted Dawson. ‘He fell … and … he's hurt. Need help!'

‘Emmie!' Dad sighed with relief when he saw her.

‘I'm okay!' Em announced, standing in the doorway and looking down into the cellar. Her expression clouded. ‘Are you okay?'

‘I've been better.' He winced and stifled a groan.

Sam jumped into the cellar and then lifted Em in after her. She crouched down and Em plonked herself onto the ground next to Dad. She patted his head tentatively.

‘Poor Daddy.'

‘I think your leg's broken,' said Sam,
biting at her lip. She remembered the awkward angle of the leg when Dad had first fallen, and how he had screamed when she'd straightened it. She shivered and pushed the image from her mind.

Dad nodded. ‘Yep. And … cut as well.' He pointed to the blood-soaked leg of his jeans. He spoke in ragged gasps, each word a struggle. ‘Not too deep … So I don't think … the blood loss is … bad. Banged my head … too.' He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to bring the pain under control. ‘But I'm going to need … medical attention … R … FDS.'

‘The flying doctors and nurses,' said Em, who seemed pleased with herself for having remembered. Then her face crinkled up. ‘Are you going to be all right?'

‘I will be … but I need … RFDS.'

‘I know.' Sam nodded. ‘Daws is running to the highway to flag down a passing car.'

‘What?' Dad looked concerned. ‘That's a long … run. Why?'

‘The other campers are gone,' explained Sam. ‘And there's no one at the farmhouse. There's no mobile phone reception here.'

‘Could have broken … window into farmhouse … used phone … emergency.'

Sam's face fell. She had thought about it, but was worried about alarms and guard dogs.
Maybe I should have done it after all?

‘It's okay.' Dad tried to smile again and failed. ‘Maybe … it's better you didn't. I'm sure … Daws will get someone.' He closed his eyes and bit his lip until it bled.
‘But there's something else … could do … while waiting.'

‘I could sing to you,' offered Em, eyes wide, desperate to help in some way. ‘To make you feel better.'

‘Thanks, Emmie,' said Dad. ‘And while you do that … Sam could go back to camp … first-aid kit?'

The first-aid kit? Sam felt like smacking her palm into her forehead. How could she have left that behind? It's because she'd been panicking. If she'd stayed calm, she would've been able to think things through.

‘Right on it, Dad.' Sam jumped to her feet. ‘Em. You take care of Dad till I get back. Okay?'

Em nodded – her expression a mixture of enthusiasm and uncertainty. Sam thought
her little sister might burst into either laughter or tears at any second.

Carefully, she pulled herself up through the doorway. As she jogged out of the building she could hear Em singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'.

They returned to the ghost town at the same time – Sam racing down the street, clutching the first-aid kit; Dawson sitting between an elderly couple in a Land Rover.

Sam ran up to the vehicle as the driver's side door opened and a man with greying hair climbed out. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and belted shorts that were way too high around his portly waist.
And knee-high white socks with blue runners. Sam thought he looked like some comical explorer ready to go off into a jungle, or down a river … or into a ghost town in the middle of nowhere.

‘You'd be Samantha, I gather,' said the man, extending a hand. ‘I'm Burt.'

Sam tentatively shook his hand as Dawson jumped out of the car.

‘Found help,' Dawson said to his sister.

‘Yes,' said Burt. ‘Now, my wife Gwen's on the satellite phone trying to get through to the RFDS. While she does that, we'd better go check on your father.'

Sam gave Dawson a quick smile, relieved that he had found someone. Then she led the way into the building and to the cellar.

Em was still sitting with Dad. They had moved on from singing to game-playing. Well, it was mostly Em doing the playing. She'd drawn a grid in the sandy earth and was using her finger to place noughts and crosses into the squares.

‘I win again!' she announced. Then looked up at Burt. ‘Hello!'

‘Good to see you've been keeping busy down there,' called Burt.

Dad looked up. There was obvious relief on his face.

‘The RFDS is being organised as we speak,' continued Burt. ‘But it's likely to be a while before they arrive, so we really should tend to your wounds. I'm Burt, by the way. Your son flagged us down.' He searched for a way into the cellar, but
there was nothing around. ‘I'm afraid that my legs and back are in no condition to be jumping in there, so we'll have to place you in the capable hands of your children.' He indicated for Sam and Dawson to go down to Dad. ‘First thing to do is to assess the situation.'

‘My leg,' said Dad through gritted teeth, his voice raspy. ‘Broken … also cut during fall … broken bricks.'

‘And he's hurt his head,' added Dawson.

‘Right,' said Burt. ‘Well, you're conscious, so your head can't be too bad. Best to concentrate on the leg.' He turned his attention to Sam. ‘Samantha, see if there's a pair of scissors in the first-aid kit.'

After quickly searching the box, she found a pair.

‘Excellent. Now, you're going to have to cut the jeans so that you can examine the leg.'

Sam held up the scissors and hesitated.

‘Here, I'll do it.' Dawson took the scissors and manoeuvred into position. He lowered his voice and spoke to Sam. ‘Maybe you should take Em out of here. There's going to be blood.'

Em was sitting to one side, eyes wide again, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment.

Sam nodded and scurried to her feet. ‘Come on, Em. Let's go see the big car that Burt came in.'

But Em seemed unwilling to leave his side. ‘What about Dad?'

‘Daws will take care of him.'

‘Okay, I guess.' She reluctantly allowed Sam to lead her away.