The Island(44)

Carolyn’s phone was dead. She really needed to get a new one. It was barely able to keep a charge now. She plugged it in, and, yup, a text came through from Heather herself. It was a photo of a bird. A parrot. Heather sure liked birds. There were no other texts. But would Heather want to hear her wee-hour ramblings about Star Trek?

Carolyn had been so worried about her going overseas. Heather had never even had a passport before, and she had gotten way skinny lately. Probably wasn’t eating right. Still, she was a grown-up and married, and Tom was Mr. Rich Capable Doctor Guy.

Carolyn lifted her electric guitar off the floor and noodled with a tune. She hadn’t written anything in a year or two. She and Heather had written dozens of songs when they’d been teenagers. Music and Star Trek series, they had shared.

She put the guitar back on the floor.

She typed, Have you seen the Voyager episode “Course: Oblivion”? and pressed Send.

Heather would reply as soon as she woke up or sobered up from her winery tour.





18



Heather now realized her mistake. Every few yards they had to duck under or climb over or go around or climb through the scrubby little mangrove trees. You couldn’t easily escape up this beach. Progress was nightmarishly slow.

Going around the bushes meant they were up to their knees in water, and the tide was coming in. She looked to her right to see where the high-water mark was and found a line of scum and seaweed two-thirds of the way up the bank.

We’re going to have to cut inland, she thought. But if they cut inland, they would be seen. It was afternoon now; the sun was heavy, huge, and orange in the northern part of the sky. Eventually it would sink into the mainland on the left, but that wouldn’t be for hours yet. Seven or eight hours, possibly.

She could hear the pursuers yelling to one another up on the mesa. They were getting closer.

At this rate of progress, they’d get caught in seven or eight minutes.

“Keep going,” Heather said as they fought their way through the bushes. The bark and the leaves weren’t particularly sharp, but still, they scratched at their skin. Skin that was already raw from thistle cuts and sunburn.

Headway was slow.

So stupidly slow.

Heather looked behind them. The tide was their enemy and their friend. It chased them and helped them. It hid their footprints, but in an hour this coastline would be underwater and they would have to move inland or swim.

Owen was fading fast. Even that sip of water left in the bottle would have helped. Should she run back and get it?

No. She’d be caught and then they’d all be caught.

She put one hand under his arm and helped him walk. “Any thoughts, anyone?” Heather asked.

“We could just stop,” Owen said.

“We can’t give ourselves up. Not now,” Petra said.

Heather’s throat was burning. She felt light-headed. The sun felt like it was draped just a mile or two above them. A watchful, proud, cruel sun. It was enjoying this. It was like the death ray from The War of the Worlds.

She’d never experienced anything like this heat. This was like her father’s description of Fallujah.

Her dad would know what to do now.

Tom would know what to do now.

She had no idea.

She looked at the ocean, but there were no answers there.

She brushed the flies from Owen’s face.

On the heath, Matt’s dog was barking.

People were yelling to one another like it was a scavenger hunt or a picnic.

When Jacko had mentioned the original Black Line of Tasmania, she hadn’t given it much thought. Jacko’s story was a historical curiosity. But now she understood what it meant. It meant massacre and murder and genocide.

This was how most creatures lived, had always lived, on Earth. The soothing nature posters in the waiting rooms of doctors and dentists were all a lie. In the bush, all the happy stories were written with white ink on a white page.

Owen slipped and fell. She pulled at his arm but he was unresponsive. Heather bent down next to him. He had passed out from dehydration or heat exhaustion.

Petra and Olivia turned to look.

“Run!” Heather said.

“We can’t leave you,” Olivia replied.

“Go! Just go, I’ll carry him,” Heather said.

Petra shook her head. “I’ll help. We’ll carry him between us.”

Heather nodded. “Olivia, you go on ahead.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“No! You go ahead!” Heather insisted. “Just go.”

“No.”

She propped Owen up under his left arm. Petra supported him on the right. He was groggy and groaning. Heather wondered if he was going to die. People did die from heat exhaustion. To save them, you needed IV fluids and rest and proper medical care.

“Have you got him?” Petra asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go, then,” Petra said.

The boy was deadweight between them. And the tide was coming in fast now. They were dragging him through wet sand, making hardly any progress at all.

That kid with the rifle on the beach would be able to see them soon. If the shoreline had been a flat bay or a curve, he would have already spotted them. As it was, the little Mandelbrot inlets and headlands protected them.

For now.