He spun around. His eyes were wild. He was spooked.
He fired the rifle into the bushes.
His back was to her. He was only ten feet away.
The air was full of sand and blowing leaves. Grit in her eyes and mouth.
There were two of him, phasing in and out.
She waited for the two to merge and when they did, she ran at him and swung the machete at his right shoulder. The blade went in two inches and hit bone. Jacko screamed, dropped the rifle. She tugged out the machete for another go.
“Bitch!” Jacko yelled and turned fast and kicked her in the gut.
The air was knocked out of her.
Legs liquefying.
But it wasn’t as good a kick as he thought.
She steadied herself.
Jacko bent to pick up the Lee-Enfield and didn’t see her next blow coming. The machete tore open his cheek and pulled right through to his lips.
He screamed again, fell to one knee, and scrabbled around in the dirt until he found the rifle.
He aimed it at her and pulled the trigger.
At point-blank range.
He couldn’t miss.
But he hadn’t ejected the spent cartridge or chambered a new round. He looked at the Lee-Enfield in bafflement.
Heather swung the machete a third time. He was a stationary target.
She couldn’t miss.
With a clang and a sickening thud, the machete hit him between the shoulder and the neck. He was knocked back onto his haunches.
The blood was pouring from his mouth now. She tugged the rifle from his hands. She pulled back the bolt and chambered another .303 cartridge. Jacko made a last desperate lunge at her.
She shot him in the gut.
Their eyes met.
He was confused.
“Do you smell that?” he muttered.
The smell was cordite and saltwater marsh and red blood cells.
“I smell it,” she said.
“The bunyip,” Jacko said, then keeled over and died.
31
Owen and Olivia had watched the whole thing. They hadn’t run. They should have, but they hadn’t.
They ran to her now.
She hugged them and kissed them and hugged them again.
They hugged her back.
“Is he dead?” Owen asked, pointing at Jacko.
“He’s dead,” Heather said, gasping.
She had killed a human being. A living man. He had been trying to kill her, but that didn’t matter. He had been a person with a brain and ideas and experiences and it was all gone now and she had taken it. It was a terrible thing to do when you thought about it.
She sank to her knees. I’m sorry it had to be this way. I’m sorry we came. I’m sorry for all of this.
“Can I touch him?” Owen asked.
Heather got to her feet. “No. We have to move fast. You guys wait over there while I see what he’s got,” Heather said.
“Here’s your shoes,” Owen said, handing them to her.
“Thank you.”
She searched Jacko and found a tin canteen a third full of water, some money, cigarettes—her cigarettes—a cigarette lighter, 8x50 binoculars, a plastic shopping bag with loose .303 ammunition, and the walkie-talkie. She took everything, including Jacko’s belt, shoelaces, socks, and hat, which she put backward on Owen’s head.
She put her sneakers on and examined Olivia’s face. Her lip was still bleeding a little. “Where did he hit you?” she asked.
“It was just a slap. He saw me and I tried to run, but he was too fast.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Heather said.
“Forget it. It doesn’t hurt. What do we do now?” Olivia asked.
“We have to get away from here. North, I think. Take a drink,” she said, handing them Jacko’s canteen. They both gulped the water.
“You drink something,” Owen said, handing her the canteen.
“I’m OK.”
“You haven’t drunk anything,” Olivia said. She was standing with her hands on her hips, feet apart, blocking Heather’s path.
“Get out of my way. We have to get moving,” Heather said.
“We’re not going anywhere until you drink something,” Owen said.
Owen’s serious, resolute brown eyes again. Olivia’s equally strong-minded blue eyes.
Heather reflected on how much they’d changed since…
Yesterday.
“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?”