Page 111 of The Island

“We all drink again, then,” she said.

They drank and they were so thirsty they finished the last of the precious water.

“I’m sorry for saying that you were weak and shit back there,” Owen said. “You’re not.”

“It’s OK, honey, everything’s OK,” Heather said. She screwed the canteen cap back on and strapped the rifle over her back.

They hid Jacko’s body in the undergrowth and covered it with dirt and branches. The others might not find it for a day or two, which would give them an information edge.

Heather bathed her wounds and they set out north.

They saw the drone again hovering around where Jacko had been.

Then they heard the ATV and the dogs and the Toyota.

They cut inland through hilly terrain and stopped at a grove of four gum trees, big old trees that had somehow survived dozens of fires and droughts and blights and efforts to turn them into useful things. It was a spooky place. A long time ago, someone had crashed an old bus up here, and over the decades it had rusted and fallen apart and become part of the landscape. An exposed rock face near the trees was covered with handprints that looked as though they were thousands of years old.

The flies were fewer here, and there was a hint of a breeze and the heady smell of eucalyptus.

They stopped to rest in the shade of the trees. Heather applied a leaf poultice to the cut on her foot, and Olivia cleaned the wound on her face.

They were on a hill and they had a view south over the heath. It seemed to be the highest point on the island.

Heather took out Jacko’s walkie-talkie.

“Do you think we can risk an SOS?” she asked the children.

They both nodded.

She pressed Talk.

“Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? My name is Heather Baxter. I’m on Dutch Island. We need the police!” She tried every channel but all she heard was static and, on one channel, Matt’s voice drifting in and out.

“Not enough range,” Owen said.

Heather looked west over the sea at the landmass over there—a continent the color of sand and pine needles that was not answering her call.

They sat under the shade of the biggest tree, catching their breath, recovering. Waiting for the drone or the dogs or the men with guns.

“What do you think a bunyip is?” Owen asked.

“You heard him say that?” Heather asked.

“In the book I was reading, they said it was a mythical Australian monster,” Olivia said.

Heather nodded. If it was a monster they were afraid of, she’d become that monster now that she had a rifle.

“So frickin’ lit. What type of gun is that?” Owen asked.

“It’s a Lee-Enfield Number Four. I shot one once when I was a girl. It belonged to a friend of my dad, a Canadian guy. This is an old one—see all the scoring on the stock and how the sight’s worn down? It’s from World War Two, I think.”

“Cool! Can you show me how to use it?”

She thought about that. Tom would have said no. But if she got hurt or killed and they had the rifle, they’d need to know what to do.

“Both of you, come here,” she said. “Like I say, I’ve only ever had an afternoon with a Lee-Enfield, but most bolt-action rifles operate on the same principles. It’s actually pretty easy. Let me show you guys how it works.”

She took off the bolt and removed the magazine. It looked like it hadn’t been serviced in years. It needed gun oil, and the walnut was cracked, but she cleaned it the best she could.