Carrier (12 page)

‘You didn't wake me.' I rubbed at my gritty eyes and wiped the drool away from my chin.

Aside from the light of the fire, the cave was still dark, but a dim, dawn light peeked through the entry. Birds warbled outside.

The storm had well and truly passed. I sat up and stretched my limbs out before muttering a quiet and croaky, ‘Good morning.'

‘Morning,' Patrick said, not looking up and keeping himself busy turning the long, thin spit he'd balanced on two forked branches poked into the cave's earth on either sides of the fire. There was a medium-sized bird, headless and plucked, turning on the spit. Although it smelt good and made my empty belly rumble, I couldn't help my mind from racing back to the conversation we'd shared through the fence, the one where he had said he couldn't hunt anymore because of his bad sight.

I crawled over to my bag and patted the front pocket where the two pairs of glasses lay wrapped in my dad's handkerchief. They were still there.

Did this mean he'd been lying? But why would he lie? There was nothing for him to gain from it, except, perhaps my trust, and if he was planning something sinister, he'd had all night to do so.

I shuffled backwards until my spine hit the cool, smooth cave wall. My hands fossicked around in my open backpack until it felt the cool heavy weight of my pocketknife. It may be blunter than Mum's but it could still inflict damage if swung with enough force.

‘What's wrong?' Patrick frowned. He leaned forward and followed my gaze to the turning bird and shook his head, a look of realisation widening his eyes.

‘I know what you must be thinking, but it's not like that.' He stopped turning the bird and faced me directly, a small, shy smile curving the corners of his mouth.

‘You're not going to believe this. This morning, I woke up early and went to gather more wood to replace the other dryer stuff we'd used. You know, for next time. I decided to break some branches off a tree. Well, I did, but what I didn't know or see — '

He paused, his face dead serious. ‘This bit isn't funny by the way…there was a mother bird and her babies in a nest. The mother tried to protect her young but the full weight of the branch fell across her neck and broke it. The babies are fine but I had to put their mum out of her misery.' He looked at the bird and began turning it again. ‘It didn't feel right, wasting her body for nothing.'

Feeling stupid, I slipped the knife into my pocket, hoping he hadn't noticed.

‘Where are the babies?'

Without a word, Patrick ducked out of the cave entrance. I quickly got up and joined him outside, the bright, sunlit landscape making my eyes water after all the darkness. In his arms he cradled a shirt which had been twisted into the shape of a nest. Inside were two baby birds, their tiny eyes mere slits in a mass of grey fuzz. They made raspy, dry tweets. Patrick smiled down at them before meeting my eyes.

There was something sweet about the way he cradled those birds, and I remembered then that he would have had a lot of experience caring for his little brothers.

Patrick sniffed at the air, his eyes wide.

Bitter smoke tickled my nose.

‘Shit, the bird!'

He carefully set the bundle down and crawled back into the cave, where the sharp stench of burnt meat came wafting out. I ran in after him and found him staring at the charcoal bird, which had caught fire, rendering it inedible.

‘What a waste,' he groaned. ‘Christ, I can't hunt and I can't cook.' He breathed in through his teeth. ‘My brothers are probably doing better without me,' he added, sounding angry and melancholy all at once.

‘Let's bury it before it stinks up our gear,' I suggested and he nodded, following me out of the cave, carrying the bird on the stick.

We buried it in as deep a grave as the earth would allow, beneath the tree it had nested its babies in. I made a chain of wildflowers and laid it on top of the patted earth. The small mound made me think of my dad, and of Alice, and mostly of the third mound that had joined them beneath the salmon bark. The mound I was certain Patrick's dad rested beneath.

Patrick bent down and met my eyes, which were stinging with tears.

‘Hey, are you crying?' He checked his pockets and patted his shirt, searching for something he couldn't find. Then he unrolled the sleeve of his shirt and offered the thin, ragged material to me, his arm outstretched. ‘Here. Dry yourself with this.'

I swallowed thickly and mumbled, ‘Thanks,' before awkwardly bending my head and pressing the soft material of Patrick's shirtsleeve against my eyes.

The hair that grew along his arms tickled my cheeks and his skin smelt fresh and clean, like the earth after the rain. It made me want to graze my lips against the inside of his arm.

‘Thanks,' I said.

He was gazing intently at me when I looked up, making my insides feel all swirly.

‘I think the birds need feeding,' he said, his voice soft and quiet.

I watched him walk back to the cave entrance where he scooped up the birds and took them over to the nearest bush, to look for insects, perhaps.

Later on, when I suggested that we pack our things and get moving, Patrick shook his head.

‘I'm thinking we should hide out here for another day. Do some hunting. Then leave early in the evening. That way nobody can see or track us through the night.'

The idea of roaming out in the open at night, with the threat of Carriers, motor vehicles and abnormally tall, pale men scared the crap out of me.

‘Have you seen anybody while you've been out looking for…' My voice trailed off, the silence emphasising what I'd almost said.

He shook his head. ‘No. Only last week Dad was saying that he comes across less and less Carriers now than in the past. It's like they've all disappeared…or finally died.' He kicked at the ground and snorted bitterly. ‘Maybe Dad had grown careless and didn't watch his back this time.'

Flies hovered around my fingers. They could smell the mashed worm I'd handfed the birds earlier.

Patrick, who was now cradling them, leant his back against the wall of the cave, deep in thought, the place between his eyes crinkling up against the strength of the afternoon sun.

‘So, what are the ages and names of your little brothers?' I asked, to make conversation, and in effort to take away the troubled look in Patrick's eyes.

Patrick looked at me and blinked, as though he was seeing spots from the sun instead of my face.

‘I keep wondering how they're doing,' he said, ignoring my question. ‘James, who's fifteen, should be able to hold the fort until late tonight, tomorrow at the latest. There's an emergency stash, some strips of smoked roo that dad kept in the cellar in case we ever found ourselves without. I just hope he remembers.'

‘I'm sure he will,' I added, even though I had no way of knowing if that was true.

Patrick half-smiled, but his eyes remained sad and far-off. Even I, who had yet to meet the boys, was desperate to reach them and assure their safety, so I could only imagine how badly it must have been for Patrick himself.

‘I just hope that car isn't bad news. I hope it didn't find the track that leads to our house.' Patrick stroked the tiny heads of the birds to which they raised their little slit-eyed heads, beaks open in raspy tweets. ‘It's overgrown with weeds, though, and yesterday's rain should have covered it up.'

‘What if the people in the car are here to tell us that they've found an antidote or a vaccine and that the rest of the country is rebuilding?' I shrugged. ‘Imagine moving to the coast and going fishing and — '

‘Walking into a shop and just buying some bananas and apples and some bread.'

We shared a smile.

‘My mum used to talk about ice-cream,' I said, before adding, ‘back when she allowed herself to remember the past.'

Patrick nodded, slowly, his eyes staring far off into some memory.

‘So did mine. She said it was heaven on your tongue and the first thing she was going to buy when the country righted itself again.' Patrick hung his head and fussed with the birds.

My own throat thickened at the thought of losing my mother, like Patrick and his little brothers had. Pain stung my eyes I rubbed at them until it went away.

‘You'll have to eat an ice-cream for your mum one day,' I said, and Patrick looked at me with a slightly raised brow.

‘If we ever get the chance,' he said, shaking his head. He set the birds down and ran a hand through his hair before resting his head back against the wall. ‘For some reason I doubt it. I expect if we ever found our way to the coast we'd find a wasteland — dead bodies and carnage and chaos left behind from the panicked escape. It would be a ghost city.'

I nodded but stayed quiet. I didn't want to admit how much the idea of going to the coast appealed to me, even if it meant finding a ghost of a city. At least it would be better than the barren land out here. Though the dead bodies I could do without.

‘Do you ever wonder if there are others out there like us?' I asked. ‘Searching and hoping?'

‘All the time. But with each passing year, the less people we come across, the more that hope fades. This disease is a killer, remember.'

We sat in silence for a while, before I finally spoke up.

‘I wonder if I'm one of the few girls left. Me, Mum…'
Sapphire,
I wanted to say, but I had promised her. ‘There can't be too many of us.'

‘It all depends. We're in the outback here, so less people. There might be places in the city with some kind of order. Maybe they've managed to keep the women and men separate.' He shrugged. ‘Not that I can see that happening. But who knows?'

I nodded and thought about how twisted it was for the females to die and the men to be Carriers. How women and girls had died at the hands of their own loving fathers and sons and brothers and friends — perhaps with a simple kiss on the cheek, infected saliva seeping into a sore or a pimple, then a hellish death. It was cruel. Our population was going to die out. And even if, years later, the disease was somehow cured, I doubted anybody would consider making babies in a world like this.

‘What are you thinking about?' Patrick asked softly.

‘How the population is dying. How there will be none of us left to tell our tale. We should be writing this down, in a diary for others to find. Like a time capsule. So at least the people of our country — in the future — if there are any, know what it was like for us.'

My stomach growled at that moment, and our eyes met and we both stared at each other's lean faces as if registering for the first time how dire our situation was. Everything was more depressing on an empty stomach.

‘Now who's giving up hope?' He smiled softly. ‘We don't know. There could be pockets of the country unaffected. Small country towns even — with children like my little brothers.

‘If a cure is found in the next couple of years, they might be able to grow up and make children themselves.' He met my eyes; his were lit up. ‘Maybe you and I won't have to keep diaries. Maybe we'll live to tell the tale to our own kids.'

Heat bloomed in my cheeks at Patrick's words and I cast my eyes down.

‘I mean, the children we'll have when we are older and meet somebody — not you and me...and only if the disease is gone and everything is good again…' he broke off awkwardly and stood up, clutching at his stomach and grimacing. He didn't need to tell me about the hunger pain because I was feeling it right now.

‘I'm going to see if I can accidentally get us some food again,' he said with a wry smile.

‘I'll watch the birds,' I blurted. But really I wanted an excuse to get a pair of my dad's glasses and surprise Patrick with them. After rooting around in the backpack, I found them and headed outside, the birds in my arms.

Patrick was tossing rocks far into the distance, the clack against the stony earth almost loud in the silent, breezeless midmorning air.

‘Waiting for a rabbit to run past?'

He didn't turn around, just kept tossing stones.

‘Sorry, that was a bad joke,' I said, sucking in a deep breath.

‘Don't be sorry all the time.' He tossed another stone. ‘It's annoying.' He threw another and then stopped. ‘Why are you always apologising?'

‘Okay, so I'll go back inside and not give you your present, then.' I turned on my heel, pretending to leave, but I felt a gentle tug of my shirtsleeve.

‘Did somebody say
present
?'

‘As if you don't know what it is. Now close your eyes.'

He did and I unfolded the glasses, the frames delicate and elegant against my dirty, calloused hands. A sudden pang for my long dead father tugged at my heart, for the conversations we had never had, for the tender father-daughter moments we'd never shared. And yet, holding Dad's glasses in my hands, sharing them with Patrick — though there was no guarantee they'd help his eyes — it was as though Dad was somehow extending his support from the grave. Right now I felt a connection with him for the first time in years.

‘We're out of food, so I think we'd better go hunt for something,' I said, slipping the thin, sliver frames over the bridge of his nose, making sure the arms were tucked behind his ears, where his curls grew thick and wild.

Patrick's eyes flew open and I stepped back.

‘Well?' I asked, in a voice high with anticipation. ‘Can you see?'

He flinched, raised the glasses up, and then down again, his eyes widening at the difference. Then he turned, in a very slow circle, until he faced me again. ‘It's all so friggin' clear,' he whispered. ‘I can even see the leaves.' He did this again and again, walking around, spinning slowly and absorbing our surroundings with his new sight.

He tossed the rock that had been in his hand at a tree trunk and got it right in the centre, and did it again and again, then, finally, he turned to me and beamed a wide smile.