The Island(65)

She tried to catch Owen’s eye. She didn’t want to shake her head, because if she did, Jacko would almost certainly spot the gesture and spin around, and, startled, he might pull the trigger.

“Your life is worth nothing out here, Heather. Not after what you done to Ellen. I could bloody kill you right now and nothing would happen. No cops. No nothing. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I completely understand.”

Owen was walking closer. It was madness. That spindly branch would barely irritate Jacko if Owen got near enough to swing it.

She tried telepathy. Go back, go back, go back! Go back to the bush and run!

Owen’s chin was jutting out and he was biting his lower lip the way he did when he was set on doing something. Olivia was sitting up now. She was going to try to do something too.

Oh my God.

“OK, OK. Look, I’m sorry,” Heather said. “Please don’t shoot. I’ll get up. I’ll get up slowly and I’ll call Owen, OK? You were right. He’s in the bush waiting for me. I’ll get up now, OK? And I’ll yell for him to come.”

Jacko nodded and took a step back from her while keeping the gun pointed at her head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re quite the bullshit artist, aren’t you? But I saw through you,” he said in a snarl of triumph.

She stood up awkwardly, blinking in the sunlight, and stumbled two steps toward the machete lying in the sand. Jacko didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. What could she do with death only a hair-trigger-pull away?

She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Get away, Owen! Run! I have a plan! Run!” she screamed.

Owen hesitated.

“Get away from here! Run!” she yelled.

Jacko turned and saw Owen vanish into the undergrowth. “You really are one stupid bitch, aren’t you?” he said. He deftly flipped the rifle, took half a stride forward, and clubbed her in the face with the butt. The brass cover on the wooden stock caught her on her left cheek and left eye.

She staggered backward, tripped over her feet, and collapsed.

Her forehead was bleeding. Blood was pouring out of her nose. The cut on her foot reopened.

“Come back, you fat little shit!” Jacko yelled and ran after Owen.

Heather tried to get to her feet. Her left leg responded but her right had a mind of its own. The landscape was swimming. Her head throbbed. She spit blood.

Swayed.

Two horizons. Two suns.

The day seemed to pulse its wings. The wind picked up.

Thick wool carpets of heat.

Unappeasable sunlight.

Olivia had risen and was scrambling after Jacko.

“No! Wait!” Heather said. She rubbed her eyes.

There was the sound of a gunshot.

Her heart missed a beat. She couldn’t breathe.

She stood on the machete handle. She picked it up and hobbled after Jacko.

The crow was still watching her from the lightning-struck eucalyptus tree. Still waiting for the body.

She reached the mangrove bushes.

“Little bastard. Won’t get far, I tell you that,” Jacko was saying into the walkie-talkie.

He was walking back toward the beach.

Walking through the trees.

The wind freshened even more.

Didn’t he hear that roaring?

What was all that noise?

Why couldn’t he see her?

She could see him.

He was holding the rifle vertically in his right hand, the walkie-talkie in his left. There was no sign of either Owen or Olivia.

Suddenly Jacko froze. “What’s that?” he said.

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.