Blacky Blasts Back (13 page)

Maybe a fart
would
improve things.

John's legs stretched outside the tent flaps. We'd pitched it close to the fire, thinking we'd need the warmth. But three bodies generated enough heat to do without it. As I tried to sleep, I wondered if John's legs would fall across the dying embers and barbecue themselves overnight.

At least it would take care of breakfast.

It was a restless night. I'd wake up and wonder where I was. Then it would all come flooding back and I'd try to get my nose out of John's armpit. If anyone moved, everyone woke. This did nothing for our mood.

Once, I woke and thought I saw something moving just outside the tent. I blinked groggily.

‘Blacky?' I said in my head. ‘Is that you?'

No reply.

And then I saw it. Correction. I
think
I saw it. Between the flaps of the tent. A head. Thin, long jaws stretched in a grim smile. Rows of sharp teeth. I jolted upright and the violence of my action snapped Dyl and John to attention. John nearly put a hole in the tent's roof with his head.

‘What the . . .' said Dyl.

There was nothing there. I stared at the opening in the tent. Blank. No sudden shifting of an animal alarmed at our movement. I must have imagined it. A nightmare.

‘Sorry, guys,' I said. ‘I thought I saw something.'

We settled down and I closed my eyes. When I opened them a moment later, John's face was a centimetre from mine. His eyes bored into me. I nearly jolted upright again.

‘You will, Mucus,' he croaked.

‘What?' I whispered.

‘See something. My fist. In your eye.'

On that cheerful note, I drifted off. The day had been a disaster. We were starving, wet and alternately freezing cold and suffocatingly warm. Surely things would improve tomorrow?

If I'd known what the next day held, I probably wouldn't have slept at all.

I was woken by the sound of helicopter blades.

At first I didn't pay much attention, tried to brush the noise away as if it was an irritating fly. Then my eyes snapped open. At the same time, I heard Blacky's voice in my head.

‘Hurry, tosh. They're coming for you.'

Jimmy and Phil! It had been a day since we left. They would have searched for an hour or so by themselves. The note I'd left wouldn't have stopped them. Now the approaching helicopter told me they'd enlisted help.

We got the tent down in thirty seconds, brushed away the remains of the camp fire and found shelter among the trees. The thrumming of the blades swelled to a roar, then faded. I let out my breath. I hadn't realised I'd been holding it.

I made to go back out to the clearing, but John Oakman took me by the arm.

‘Why, Mucus?' he said.

It was a fair question. I knew that. And I knew he deserved an answer. I just couldn't give him one.

‘I can't tell you, John,' I said. ‘Sorry. But me and Dyl can't go back. Not yet. We have something important to do. But
you
can, mate. Stay here in the clearing, light another fire. Put on plenty of green leaves. The smoke'll bring the helicopter back. You could be eating breakfast in an hour.' The thought of breakfast made my stomach rumble again.

John fixed me with his eyes. They were light blue. I hadn't noticed the colour of his eyes before.

‘No,' he said. ‘Go with you.'

‘But, John . . .'

‘Go with you.' His tone wasn't firm. It was set in concrete. There was no point arguing.

I stashed the tent away in my backpack. Ten minutes after waking, we were ready for another fascinating trek in the wilderness. Blacky once more led the way. The three of us trailed behind him. We didn't talk. We were still tired. No. Weary. Starving. The day stretched before us and held no promise.

‘People!' whispered Dyl. ‘I hear voices.'

I almost bumped into him. I had been walking asleep and everything in the outside world had merged into a dream. Now I stopped. John, in turn, almost bumped into me. I had no idea where Blacky was. It took a moment or two for me to focus. Dyl was right. Voices. There were people ahead.

Dylan padded softly forward, put his head around a tree. John and I followed.

We had stumbled upon a clearing and in its centre were two mounds of camping equipment on legs. Two familiar mounds.

Our tiger hunters had obviously stopped to have lunch. Remnants of food were scattered across a picnic blanket. George and Gloria stood about ten metres away from the blanket. They were examining a map.

‘What should we do, Blacky?' I whispered. ‘Skirt around them? We could head into the forest, then circle back. They wouldn't hear us.'

I have no idea what Blacky's response would have been because at that moment the tiger hunters turned their backs to us. Tombstone Teeth tapped the map and pointed into the bush. Dyl, meanwhile, slipped out from behind the tree and headed straight towards them. I tried to catch his arm but it was too late. I couldn't even call out.

What an idiot! He was going to blow everything.

Dyl moved almost soundlessly across the intervening ground, and stopped at the picnic blanket. Then I realised what he was doing. Food!

What a genius! He was going to save our lives.

Now, I don't want to give the impression I think stealing is okay. It isn't. But we were starving and they obviously had plenty of provisions. My conscience was rumbling. But my stomach was rumbling louder.

Dylan crouched at the blanket for a few seconds then spun away and raced back. I held my breath. My face must have been so purple you could have mistaken me for an eggplant. Only when he slipped behind our tree did I let my breath out. Dyl grinned triumphantly and held out a large bottle of cola.

What an
idiot
!

John and I stared at him.

‘I'm going to kill you, Dyl,' I whispered.

I even went to put my hands around his neck, but John stopped me. ‘No, Mucus,' he said. ‘Can't kill Dyl.'

This struck me as generous from someone whose life's ambition was to suffocate people. I looked upon John with renewed respect.

‘
I
kill him,' he continued, reaching for Dyl's neck with
his
hands. Dylan probably wouldn't have resisted. That would have meant dropping the cola and I suspect you would have needed a chisel to pry it from his grasp.

Luckily, death was averted. When Dyl realised that John and I considered
food
to be essential to survival – I suspect he thought we were being eccentric – he legged it back and returned with a couple of foil-wrapped packages. Our tiger hunters remained blissfully unaware. I reckon we could have removed their underdaks and they wouldn't have noticed. Given they were hoping to sneak up on the most elusive creature in Australia, their inability to spot Dyl at five paces didn't inspire confidence.

We ripped the packages open.

Sandwiches.

Cheese and tomato sandwiches.

Look, I would have eaten them if they'd been Brussels sprouts sandwiches.

We tore into the food like wild animals.

It's amazing how much better I felt with something in my stomach. I rolled up the sandwich foil and put it into my pocket. Then I stowed the empty cola bottle into my backpack. I don't litter. Not since I found out how much damage it does to the environment.

Time to get moving again. I took a couple of paces and then heard another set of voices.

Behind us, this time.

Close.

What was going on? I was beginning to wonder how a wilderness area could become so crowded. At the rate it was going we could organise our own full-strength rugby match. Including spectators.

‘Hide!' hissed Blacky's voice in my head.

Trouble was, where? The voices behind were so close that taking off sideways into the bush would have been a dead giveaway. And we couldn't move quietly away from the voices without running straight into the tiger hunters. I glanced up. The tree we were under had no branches close to the ground.

That left only one direction.

Down.

I don't think I would have been able to burrow into the undergrowth if I hadn't just had an injection of cheese-and-tomato-sandwich energy. In ten seconds, the three of us were nestled under a carpet of twigs, yellowed leaves and rotting vegetation. Three seconds later the owners of the voices stopped right beside us.

Jimmy and Mr Crannitch.

You are probably amazed at my powers of deduction, since we were completely covered. And quite right, too. You see, I was staring at a boot only a few centimetres from my eye. I had to squint through a gap in the leaves. But, even with limited vision, I could tell by the small scratches and scuffs that this boot belonged to a person who spent time outdoors. The tufts of springy hair poking out at the ankle indicated the owner was genetically comparable to an orang-utan. The rest was elementary for someone of my intellect. Sherlock Holmes could have taken my correspondence course.

Then again, Jimmy was yelling. That may have provided a small clue.

‘Ah dinnae ken where those boggin' weans huv got tae. Gies a break, an' at. Knaw what ah mean, eh?'

Mr Crannitch was obviously still ill, because his words were slurred.

‘Oh, my God. Three! I've losht three kids. Wassa school goin' to shay? Wassa parents goin' to shay?'

‘Och, quit yer greetin, stop bumpin' yer gums an' put a sock in yer bletherin, ya galoot. We cannae give up oan 'em yetawhile.'

It would have been fascinating to follow this conversation further, if only to see whether I could understand
anything
Jimmy said. But at that moment the Scotsman lifted his boot and brought it down on my outstretched fingers. I choked back a scream. Jimmy might be small but he packed weight. It felt like my hand was on fire. Then Mr Crannitch shifted his foot and brought it down on my other hand. Pinned to the ground by two gibberish-speaking adults, I discovered I'd lost my powers of concentration.

There was more talking, accompanied by grinding of heels into my bruised and battered pinkies. Through the haze of pain, I managed to gather some information. Apparently, search parties were combing the gorge for our remains. They'd found Dyl's ripped, battered backpack and jumped to conclusions. But Jimmy, it seemed, wasn't convinced. He'd followed a trail
away
from the cliff's edge and taken Mr Crannitch with him. Phil, I imagined, was looking after the rest of the group.

At this stage, my fingers felt as if they'd been clamped in a vice and then had acid poured over them. To make matters worse, an ant had crawled up my left nostril in search of quality accommodation and a sneeze was building. I fought to control it. The pressure in my head was such that I worried the top of my skull would explode, spewing brains into the air like a volcanic eruption. And being splattered with grey matter might alert Jimmy and Mr C to our hiding place.

Luckily they noticed the tiger hunters at this point and moved away. Thirty seconds later, we heard the low murmur of conversation, punctuated occasionally by bursts of high-decibel gibberish from Jimmy. I flexed my fingers and wondered whether I would be able to play the piano. I hoped so. I'd never been able to play it before.

We lay for ten minutes while the ant continued to explore my nostril. It was probably considering where to set up its plasma
TV
with surround-sound and what colour to repaint the walls.

The buzz of conversation was brief. Then we heard the tinkle of pots and pans fading into the distance. Jimmy's voice dwindled and died.

Silence.

‘Hurry up, tosh,' came Blacky's voice. ‘Time is running out.'

We jumped up from our hiding place and brushed leaves from our clothes. I carefully evicted the ant from my nose and placed it on the ground. It wasn't keen to leave. In fact, I suspect it was calling its mates to tell them it had found the perfect apartment. Vacant, apart from the odd booger, and with exceptionally reasonable rent. What's more, there was another one next door.