Page 8

Chapter Eight

T he high-pitched squeal from a flock of lorikeets snapped Mackenzie from his sleep and it took him a moment to orientate himself. As he rubbed sleep from his eyes, he looked toward the wreck. His heart wrenched at the sight of Rodney’s body, and swallowing the lump in his throat, he snapped his gaze away.

He walked to a towering gum tree that had to be at least four stories high to relieve himself. The tree’s smooth bark was like velvet, and thin strips had peeled off and curled at the edges that had darkened as they had dried out.

Returning to the plane, shafts of sunlight speared through the overcrowded tree canopy. He held his palm into a beam and was amazed at how intense the heat was. He followed the light to the canopy where only small patches of pale blue sky were visible, and a new reality hit him.

If I can’t see the sky, how’s a rescue party going to see me?

At the dead fire he kicked the remains of a log, and it snapped in half and fell into the cold grey ash. Abigail stared at him in silence. Her eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn’t decide if it was from lack of sleep or because she’d been crying.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes … and no.” Her voice was a brittle whisper .

He knew what she meant. This situation was crazy. It seemed ridiculous to be doing nothing, but he had no idea what to do.

He was confronted by a complete feeling of inadequacy.

He’d never been camping or done anything even remotely outdoorsy. One glance at Abigail was enough to know that she was well out of her comfort zone.

She was still wearing high heels!

Unable to ignore a sting in his leg anymore, he flopped onto the dew dampened grass, rolled up his jeans and winced. A small, jagged piece of metal stuck out of his calf and streaks of dried blood lined the wound. He yanked out the metal and fresh blood oozed from the open cut.

“Oh God, what happened?” Abigail gasped.

“I had this stuck in my leg.” He tossed the sliver of metal onto the ashes.

“Is it okay?”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s too deep.” Mackenzie hobbled to the bags, took out one of his T-shirts and as he tied it around his leg, an image of Rodney winding a bandage around his hand filled his mind. Mackenzie had cut his palm while slicing an onion and although he’d tried to bandage it, he was hopeless. But when Rodney came home, he reapplied the bandage with genuine care.

He ran his finger over the scar that had faded so much it was barely visible.

Those little moments were the ones he was going to miss the most.

Back at the ashes he shoved a few sheets of paper between new layers of twigs and flicked the lighter. The fire sprang to life.

His grumbling stomach was loud enough that Abigail looked at him with guilt-ridden eyes. Ignoring her and his twisting hunger pains, he stared into the dancing flames.

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” Abigail moaned as she pushed up from the ground and walked away, wrestling with her high heels on the grass.

After a brief stint in the bushes, she dashed out of the greenery as if being chased by a bear. “Have you heard any planes?” She dusted off her skirt.

“No.”

Abigail scanned the area around the fire with her face twisted in disgust, possibly looking for a place to sit. Shaking her head, she walked to the luggage, and started dragging her suitcase to the fire.

Mackenzie dusted his hands. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not sitting on the dirt anymore.”

He strolled to her. “Here let me do it.”

“Oh. . . thank you. Can you put it here?” She indicated to one of the few patches of grass near the fire.

She release a heavy sigh when she sat on her case. “Did you find any more food?”

“No.”

They shook heads at each other, and Mackenzie couldn’t stand waiting any more. He had to do something.

He tightened the shirt around his leg and returned to the plane. A circular glass panel in the cockpit winked in the sun and he kept his eyes trained on the light as he pulled himself toward it.

Avoiding looking at the pilot’s body, he checked out the equipment. He snatched up a microphone that dangled above the floor on a black spiral cord and pressed the red button. It was dead.

He jabbed buttons and flicked switches. Still nothing.

“Shit!” He tossed the microphone and it thudded into the metal floor and bounced like a bungee.

Not recognizing anything else useful, he stepped away from the doorway.

The entrance door with the built-in steps was at his side. Twisting the latch, the door thumped backwards, and he climbed onto the top step to look out over the forest.

“What are you doing?” Abigail yelled across the clearing.

“Trying to find another way to the luggage.” He ran his fingers along a metal band framing the edge. The two-inch strip was held in place by dozens of screws.

“Can you help me up?” Abigail called from the back of the plane.

Sighing, he reluctantly sidled to the back of the wreck and lifted her into the cabin.

“What can I do?” The bruise on her forehead was still deep purple despite a layer of fresh makeup that also added a dash of colour to her cheeks and glossed her lips pink.

“Well.” He ran his finger over the scar on his chin, knowing it would be more obvious after a day’s beard growth. But he didn’t mind. This was a scar he was proud of. “I need to find something I can use as a screwdriver.”

She turned to her husband’s body. “Spencer always carried a fancy knife in his pocket.” She cringed as she patted the front of his jeans. “Here it is.”

The heavy one-inch thick multi tool housed a dozen gadgets. Mackenzie flicked out tools one by one—several knives, scissors, a small saw, a corkscrew, pliers and both a slotted and a Phillips-head screwdriver.

The process to remove all the screws in the trimming was painfully slow and with each passing minute the temperature in the cabin intensified. Sweat dripped down his temple, back and underarms, but with the determination of a hungry man, he continued until the trimming finally released with a metallic twang. He wedged the knife under the floor panel to peel it back like the lid on a sardine can.

Leaning on the edges, he peered into the hole.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

“I can’t see yet. We need to open it more.”

After several hours, he’d removed a section large enough to fit his head through and when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognised shapes in the gloom. “Hey, we’re in luck, the luggage is still here.”

He fed his arm into the space, raised a duffle bag, and wrestled it through the hole. Resisting the urge to look inside the bag, he tossed it aside, reached back into the hole, touched the curved edge of a case, and felt around for the handle.

The case was damn heavy. Maybe it’s a piece of the plane, or cargo .

He couldn’t make it fit through the hole, but its floral pattern confirmed it was indeed a suitcase. Finally, he gave up and dropped it.

“Hey, careful! That’s my bag.”

He glared at her . “You’ve got to be kidding. The fucking plane crashed, and you want me to be careful with your case.” He shook his head. “Help me make the hole bigger.”

“There’s no need to swear at me.” She pouted her lips.

Mackenzie pulled the metal, and it was a fierce tug of war to finally make it large enough for him to climb through.

He dropped into the narrow space and in the back corner a hole about the size of a milk crate had been punched through the plane’s wall, giving him just enough light to see around.

The petrol fumes were suffocating, but gasping through the stench, he reached for the floral case and wrestled it through the hole. “Grab the handle. Pull!”

“I am!”

Finally, it passed through the hole and landed with a thud above him. He crawled to the next case, repeating the process. With all the cases removed it revealed a cargo net stretched across the back of the hold, shielding a jumble of cardboard boxes.

“Hey, we have baked beans.”

“What?”

“We have food.” The netting fell into a crumpled heap as he pulled it down.

A burnished brown sack was wedged into a corner, he tugged it free. “There’s flour, too.”

“Flowers?”

Mackenzie bit back a sarcastic reply. The next bag was made of thick, brown paper and white crystals flowed from the crushed corner. Sugar . He manipulated the bag upright, careful not to lose any more grains and then scooped up what had spilled out.

“What are you doing?” Abigail’s voice was distant above him.

“Collecting spilled sugar.”

“What else is in there?”

Beyond the box of baked beans was a large wooden crate. He choked back petrol infused air as he crawled toward it. Several wooden planks on the crate had shattered in the crash and he peeled one back. It screeched as the nail released its hold and popped free. He repeated the process with the next one and a metal cylinder rolled out. In the dim light its circular lid looked like a dulled headlight.

He gathered the tin and read the label. Yes! “We have coffee. I hope you like International Roast.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

Of course you haven’t. Reaching into the crate, he removed seven more coffee tins to reveal a parcel wrapped in black plastic. The vacuum sealed black film gave him little indication of what was inside. Using the knife, he sliced across the plastic .

The smell hit him like a long-forgotten nightmare.

Although he hadn’t smoked marijuana since he was a teenager, he’d never forget its pungent smell. Resting on his haunches he absorbed the enormity of the find.

“What else is in there?” Abigail jolted him back to the present.

“You don’t want to know,” he mumbled to himself.

The plastic covered bundle was about the size of two beer cartons, and he knew from experience that if it was full of dried marijuana then it was worth a lot of money.

This changed their situation drastically.

“Are you okay?” He couldn’t decide if she was frustrated or concerned.

Hiding the drugs from Abigail was an option, however their presence affected them both, so she needed to know. But he had no intention of removing the plastic bundles until they discussed what to do with them.

“I’m coming now.” Gathering two coffee tins, he crawled to the opening and handed them through the hole. Once he’d passed all the food to Abigail, he crawled out of the stifling hole.

By the time they finished unloading the last parcel from the plane the sun was a searing hot ball above them and his hunger pains twisted as if they could smell the food.

Unable to wait another minute, he cut a bean can from the carton, and hacked off the lid.

Handing the can to Abigail, he salivated as he opened another tin for himself and gulped down the contents.

He’d already finished his tin before Abigail even started. The look on her face was of pure disgust as she pushed two fingers into the tin, scooped out a couple of beans and ate them. She huffed. “I never knew cold beans would taste so good.”

“You’re not kidding.” He grabbed another can and carried it to the fire. “I’ll heat this one up.” He stabbed the lid several times and then steadied it on the glowing coals.

Abigail scooped more beans from her can. “Why haven’t we heard any planes? It’s after three.”

He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “I don’t know.”

Mackenzie pulled a fresh T-shirt out of his suitcase to replace his sweat soaked one and when Abigail turned away, he changed out of his jeans too.

“There was something else in the plane.”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“Drugs.”

“What? Like Aspirin?”

He nearly laughed out loud at her naivety. “No. Marijuana.”

“What?” She gasped. “How do you know?”

“Believe me, I know.”

“But … how much is there?”

“A lot, way too much to be a private stash.”

“Show me,” Abigail demanded.

“It’s at the back of the cargo area. You’ll have to climb in to see it.”

“Can’t you just bring it out?”

“I’m not touching it.”

She tutted. “It’s not like we’re going to use it.”

“Exactly! So, we leave it where it is. It’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“I think the pilot was shipping drugs.”

A frown rippled her forehead. “So?”

“So. . . whoever is profiting from this deal might come after it.”

She blinked and he noted how long her eyelashes were. “Jesus. You think drug lords will come looking for it?”

He shrugged. In his experience, a large bundle like that was a serious amount of money and he couldn’t imagine the owner giving up on it easily.

“We should burn it.” Abigail’s eyes flared.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

Mackenzie threw his arms out in frustration. “What if they turn up and the drugs are gone?”

She put her hands on her hips. “We’ll just deny any knowledge of them, and they’ll think the pilot got rid of it.”

“Let’s just leave it for now.” Holding his palms up, he backed away. “We’ll be rescued soon, then the police can handle it.”

Mackenzie was amazed how quickly the sun disappeared below the trees, morphing the sky into a brilliant burnt orange colour. A chorus of bird songs intensified and as it grew darker, crickets joined in.

They were destined to spend another night in the bush.

“I can’t understand why they didn’t come today.” His tone was more aggressive than he intended.

Abigail shrugged. “Me neither. What would be taking them so long?”

“I don’t know.” Clenching his jaw, he looked at the collection they’d removed from the cargo hold; two sacks of flour, eight coffee tins, a bag of sugar and, after the four they’d already eaten, just forty-four cans of baked beans.

His stomach twisted with hunger. “I hope they’re here tomorrow, or we might have to do something with them.”

“Who?”

He groaned, annoyed that he had to spell it out. “The people in the plane.”

“Like what?” Her eyes bulged. “Bury them?”

“We can’t leave them like that, or the flies will ...” He lowered his gaze.

“Oh God.” She covered her face and burst into tears.

Fighting his own urge to cry, he placed his hand on Rodney’s suitcase and a lovely warmth emanated through the fabric.

Closing his eyes, Mackenzie did something he hadn’t done in eighteen years.

He prayed.