Blacky Blasts Back (11 page)

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘She fell badly, broke a hind leg. But at least the men couldn't get to her. Not without going a long way round. Tess took the opportunity to crawl away. Four or five kilometres in all. She found a place to hide. But those hunters will not give up. It's been over a week. They'll find her, if we don't get to her first.'

I passed all this on to Dyl.

‘That's so sad,' he said. ‘If someone sees a Tassie tiger – the last tiger in the world – why would they hunt her down? Isn't it enough just to have
seen
her?'

‘Apparently not,' said Blacky. ‘I imagine there's plenty of money to be made by catching the last tiger in the world. And fame, of course. You humans can't resist fame and fortune. I just wonder what you'll do when you've finished destroying the entire earth. You might be famous and rich. But that won't make crops grow. Or bring back a single living thing you've destroyed.'

‘Not all humans are like that, Blacky,' I said.

‘No,' he agreed. ‘Not all. But – unfortunately for the future of the world – enough.'

I couldn't argue with that.

‘So you want us to fix her broken leg? That's the mission?' I thought about it. I knew you had to do something with splints, keep the leg encased in a rigid structure until the bones healed properly. I just wasn't sure I had the skill.

‘I can do that,' said Dyl. I realised I had been talking out loud. ‘That's part of the curriculum for the special boys unit. First aid. I've got a certificate.'

‘That
was
the mission,' said Blacky. ‘But now it's more complicated. We have more to worry about than a broken leg.'

‘What?'

‘You'll see,' Blacky said. ‘But time is running out. We must hurry.'

I pulled out the torch from my backpack.

‘Then a little light won't hurt,' I said.

I snapped the switch on the torch and a broad beam of light illuminated a huge tree.

And then it died.

The beam, not the tree. Though if it had, I wouldn't have been able to see it.

I joggled the switch. I shook the torch. I bounced it a couple of times against the palm of my hand. Stop me if I'm getting too technical here. But whatever I did, the torch remained lifeless. It was a worry. If everything else in the pack was similarly made, my emergency supplies would probably be a few woodchips and matches made of asbestos. At least the tent worked. I knew that from considerable experience.

Dyl pulled his torch out. That didn't work either.

‘Fabulous,' I said. ‘About as much use as a chocolate teapot. Blacky, we might be in a rush, but until dawn arrives we are going to have to creep through this forest.'

‘Terrific, tosh,' snorted Blacky. ‘What is it with humans and their senses? You couldn't find your own bum in a darkroom if it had a bell on it. Deaf as rocks, a sense of smell as acute as the average refrigerator's and blind as bats. Actually, that is a great insult to bats, who can navigate in total darkness on account of their use of sonar—'

‘Yeah, all right, Blacky,' I replied. ‘At least we can see in colour, which dogs can't.'

‘Oh yes. Very useful under these circumstances. Exactly what colour
is
the black all around you, then?'

I sighed.

‘I'm just saying . . .'

‘Hang on!'

There was silence, broken by a faint rustle in the bush off to my right. I could sense Blacky's concentration. There was something out there. Something that he found very interesting.

‘What is it, Blacky?' I whispered in my head. I have no idea why I was whispering in my head. It seemed a natural thing to do. ‘Is it dangerous?'

My head was full of images of powerful, sleek bodies moving purposefully through the night. Sharp, yellowed teeth. Razor-like claws. Padding towards us.

The silence stretched.

‘Stay here,' hissed Blacky eventually. ‘I need to investigate. Don't move a step.'

And he was gone.

‘B
LACKY!
' I yelled. ‘What is it? Where are you?'

But there was no reply. The skittering in the undergrowth was louder now. And getting closer. I stretched out my hand and touched Dyl on the arm. It was comforting to make contact with someone who didn't understand the concept of fear. Not that that would prevent him from being ripped to pieces, I reminded myself. He'd just be cool about it. I, on the other hand, would fill my thermal underwear.

‘What's happening, Marc?' said Dyl.

I explained that Blacky had gone to investigate something urgent.

‘It's getting lighter, mate.'

He was right. The darkness was patched with grey. I could still see nothing. But I could see slightly more nothing than before. It was a relief. I was hungry, tired, cold and wet with morning dew. I could do without the additional blindness.

So when Dylan took a step backwards, I didn't exactly
see
him, unless you count the shift and blur of a wedge of darkness across my eyes. It was more sensing it. What I
didn't
have to sense was his cry of alarm and his hand slipping across the fabric of my jacket. I tried to grab him but it was too late. Without thinking, I took a step towards where he had been.

Something slipped and gave under my shoes. I wind–milled backwards, tried to keep my balance. But the ground dissolved beneath me. I felt a small rush of soil and stones under my footing and then nothing.

I fell.

In an emergency, I suppose the body does things without being conscious of it.

I twisted and flung my hands forwards, scrabbled at the ground. For a moment, my fingers dug in and I hung precariously over the unseen drop. Then the soil shifted and sieved through my grasp. Centimetre by centimetre, I slipped further over the edge.

For all I knew, the drop beneath me was less than a metre. Maybe I'd fall, yelling and shrieking, for a tenth of a second. Land on Dyl. But it
felt
as though I was on the edge of the world. Somehow I knew that if I fell, my plunge would last forever.

I've heard that, on the point of death, people become calm, accepting of their fate.

It's not true.

Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, despite the bitter cold. They ran into my eyes and stung. My arms were on fire and my fingers, hard as steel, were digging, digging, slipping. My life did
not
flash before my eyes. Just as well. Most of it had involved being tortured by Rose and I certainly didn't want the last thing I'd ever see to be her ugly mug.

I could feel the strength draining from me. My fingers uncurling. Slowly. I shifted another centimetre. I had only seconds left.

A hand grasped my wrist just as my fingers clutched at thin air. I didn't stop to wonder. I kicked my feet in front of me, found a solid surface, scrabbled to gain a foothold. Whoever had hold of me strained to take my weight, pull me up.

It was still progress that could be measured in centimetres, but this time I was heading in the right direction.

Finally, I managed to hook my elbows over the edge of the drop and squirm my way to safety. When I stood my legs felt as if they were made of rubber. I nearly collapsed. And not just because of fear. It was getting lighter by the second and I could make out the identity of my rescuer.

John Oakman towered over me.

I had questions, but they could wait.

I flung myself on my belly and yelled out over the drop. Despite the brightening dawn, I couldn't see anything.

‘Dyl!' I screamed.

There was silence for a heartbeat or two. All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears and the faint echo of my voice mocking me. Then the sound came. Faint.

‘Yo, Marc! What's going down, dude?'

You, apparently
, I thought. I almost said it as well, the relief was so great.

‘Where are you, Dyl? I can't see anything.'

‘Me neither, mate. As far as I can tell, I'm floating.'

Floating? He must have been hysterical.

‘Don't worry, Dyl,' I shouted. ‘Help is on its way.'

‘I'm not worried, Marc,' came the reply. ‘It's kinda cool floating here. Take your time.'

I hadn't quite worked out what help I was talking about, let alone how it was on its way, but I thought it important to keep his spirits up. Not that Dylan's spirits ever get down. Not even when he does a plunge over a cliff face. The only good thing, apart from the fact he was obviously still alive, was that the light was growing stronger. It would only be a matter of minutes before I could see where he was and assess the situation better.

In the meantime I found a rock and tossed it over the edge. I was careful to throw it well away from Dyl's voice. He wouldn't be too happy to be brained with a large rock. Though, with Dyl, you could never be sure about stuff like that. I listened for the sound of the rock hitting the bottom. Nothing. This was not a good sign.

I waited. John Oakman lay by my side and we both peered into darkness. Until Dyl was safe I didn't want to talk, but the silence was unsettling. My nerves were shot. So I figured this was a good time to get an answer or two. A conversation would help the minutes tick away.

‘John, what the hell are you doing here?'

‘Saw you leave, Mucus. Followed.'

As always, John dished out words as if they were in short supply and likely to run out at any moment. He spat each one out. Cold and hard, like marbles.

‘Why?'

‘You. Can't escape me.'

It was testimony to John's hatred that he was prepared to get up in the middle of a freezing cold night and track me through a hostile forest in the pitch dark. It couldn't have been easy following us. Then I spotted the flaw. ‘So why did you rescue me then, John?'

He mulled this one over. It was as though I'd asked him to explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Most questions are tricky for John. Asking him his name is liable to short-circuit a few neural synapses and cause smoke to issue from his ears.

‘You. Don't escape that easy,' he said, just when I was beginning to give up hope of an answer.

Easy?
I shuddered to think what he had in mind, if hurling yourself off a cliff was too simple.

Luckily, I didn't have time to consider the implications. The gloom had cleared and I could see what we had to deal with. To be honest, when I could see, I wished I couldn't.

Firstly, the drop wasn't a metre. More like two hundred. Far beneath, a river wound its slow course through the bottom of a gorge. If John hadn't grabbed me . . .

The second reason was Dyl. He'd fallen about ten metres. Straight onto a gnarled tree that had managed to attach roots to the sides of the gorge. The top strap on his backpack had miraculously become entangled in the branches. No wonder he felt like he was floating. He swung gently over the drop like some kind of peculiar fruit. He had his arms stretched out as if flying. In one hand was an open can of cola.