Tracks of the missing, p.9
Tracks of the Missing, page 9
‘Argh, get off!’ I growl, kicking out with my feet. ‘Get away!’
I grab at the branches and snap off the ones I can, throwing them towards the dogs at the base of my grandfather’s tree. The pack run between the two trees barking, jumping and biting. Grandfather can’t risk moving in case he shakes the tree. I look around desperately and notice that I am almost within arm’s reach of the rock wall. Edging out onto the branch further I am just able to grab a handful of rocks and begin throwing them towards the dogs. I hit one on the side of the head, sending it whimpering back towards the bag. I throw again and hit the dog nipping at my grandfather’s feet. It strikes it on the hind leg, the strong muscle absorbing some of the pain; it turns around towards me growling. I throw again, hitting it on the muzzle. It yelps and backs up, as if judging its chances, and then runs.
We wait, ears straining to hear where they have gone in the dark. Grandfather jumps down from his tree with a thud. I climb down quickly to join him.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, scanning his body and supporting him up.
‘I’m fine,’ he replies, voice tight. ‘Bloody mongrels shredded your bag through.’
We move towards where the wild dogs had been feasting. A scattering of rubbish remains. The pack itself is nowhere to be seen. My shoulders slump. I drop to the ground searching though the remaining items. Another map, some ripped packets of food. No UHF. A new type of fear grips my body. Not that the UHF had proven all that useful so far but it was our lifeline to the outside world.
I collect up the other items again in silence and follow Grandfather back to our camp site. I know our camp fire will keep the wild dogs away; I shouldn’t have let it die down. I stuff the remaining items into the old man’s bag and lie down on my blanket. I feel responsible for him and lie awake, alert, listening. As the adrenaline leaves my body I’m just left numb. I sleep. I dream of monsters.
11
GUILT
I wake up with a sore back, disorientated. It takes a couple of seconds for the realisation of where I am to settle in … and then the memory of why. I quickly look around for my grandfather and see him still asleep in the low morning light. He looks frail and old. I am reluctant to wake him so I set about putting water and dirt on the fire that is still burning strongly.
‘Grandfather,’ I gently shake him awake, ‘we should get going.’
He too wakes up dazed and as the veil of dreams slips from his eyes, he says urgently, ‘We are close, and there is great danger. I can feel it.’
I shiver. I know he is right.
‘We lost the UHF,’ I whisper, I hold out my hand to help him up.
‘Us mob have been signalling each other long before those contraptions, my boy,’ Grandfather grunts as he rolls up his sleeping gear. I grab it off him and stuff it in the remaining pack. I walk over to check for any last cooking things that might be on the ground.
Grandfather bends down to put the pack on his back. I rush over and grab it instead. A younger grandfather would have pushed me off and ruffled my hair. I can see that this trip is taking its toll. He stoops to fill up our water bottles with the fresh, clean water from a soak he has dug by the edge of the waterhole and motions that we should leave.
We finally rejoin the fire track. The tyre marks are easy to spot. Grandfather sets a quick pace. It makes me more nervous. It’s the coolest part of the day and I am thankful for the slight breeze that brushes my sweaty face.
After what feels like too long Grandfather stops. He bends down and picks up something black from the ground.
‘Rubber from a tyre. Looks like it was punctured,’ Grandfather declares, gathering his breath. My heart sinks. ‘Look at how the tyre track changes from here. We must be close.’
He hands me the piece of tyre. A small, jagged piece of metal still stuck in it.
A punctured tyre out bush isn’t that uncommon. Neither is old scraps of metal. It could be anyone’s tyre. But inside I know it isn’t.
I point up ahead to where the red dirt road rounds a bend already breaking into a run.
‘They can’t have limped much further up here,’ I shout back to him.
‘Stay close, who knows what shape they’ll all be in after a few days in the bush,’ Grandfather calls out behind me.
I look back at the old man following with an urgent pace. I can’t stop. I can hardly breathe. As I reach the bend, I hold my breath, afraid of what I might see.
The orange, four-wheel drive bus is on its side; the shredded tyre is blurred by the shadows of the nearby trees. I quickly scan the area remembering my first-aid training to look for ‘danger’, hoping not to see the bodies of the 12s but steeling myself for the worst. I reach the bus seconds before Grandfather. Feathers are scattered across the road. There are no tents to show the year 12s set up a camp. I pull myself up onto the bus and scramble to the bent door.
I pull hard on the bent door just as Grandfather catches up. It comes away with a loud crack. Heart racing I lower myself down.
The chairs creak violently under my added weight. Frustrated, I wait trying to see into the darkness. Shattered glass, belongings strewn around. No people. No dead bodies. Yet.
‘No one in there,’ I say as I climb back out, ‘but it looks like lots of luggage was left behind.’
Grandfather grabs my hands to pull me up. Blood covers my skin.
12
GROUND ZERO
‘Shit, you’re bleeding!’
I rub my hands over my pants, ‘Don’t worry about me, we have to find them.’ Grandfather pours the water over my bloodied hands and holds it out for me to take a sip from.
‘It’s not your blood,’ Grandfather says, eyes watering as his voice breaks.
‘There is a fair bit of blood in there,’ I reply, thinking of the splatters on the smashed windows.
I try to process this piece of information. Does that mean the year 12s are injured or dead? Does that mean I killed them?
‘So where are they?’ I manage to stutter. In shock the possibility of one of the Creation beings devouring them feels more real. ‘We have to find them.’
‘I didn’t say they were dead,’ Grandfather replies quietly, the reality of the situation clear in his sombre voice. ‘But if they are out there injured they will be a lot easier to find.’
Why would they leave the bus? Why didn’t they just follow the road back the way they had come? Or wait it out?
My knees feel weak. I’m not worthy of finding the group. There should be a whole police and rescue team helping. Why hadn’t Officer Thomas caught up? I just want to go sink in the dirt. I just want to forget this day and pretend I had never mucked around with the tyres.
My uncles would probably just be arriving back out bush ready to look for the 12s again. The police should be coordinating today’s air search. I wish they would hurry up and find us. This isn’t the job of an old man … and a murderer. Can’t I take it all back? Reverse time. I want the safety of my room, the distraction of my phone, the warmth of some hot toast and tea. I can’t wind back time, I’m here. We are all here because of me. More importantly, I want to be moving and finding them … now.
My mind runs through a million courses of action and tries to figure out which one is the best right now. How do we get to them and get them help? I point back down into the bus, ‘They’d have a UHF in there, right?’
Grandfather nods. He is sitting cross-legged on the side of the bus, face contorted, deep in thought. I’m going to have to get in there again. Carefully I lower myself into the bus, moving my feet around until they find leverage on the side of a bus seat. I monkey climb to the front dashboard and disconnect the UHF speaker from its cradle.
‘Officer? Ranger? Anyone?’ I radio. ‘Mayday. Urgent backup requested!’ When there is no response, I yell, ‘Why aren’t we getting anyone?’
‘The hills around here. Obstructing the signal,’ Grandfather replies with a frown. ‘Hand me up that handset.’
‘Bus located – approximately thirty ks northwest of old camp site on old fire access track. Tracking missing persons. Urgent police and ambulance requested. Copy?’
Silence.
Grandfather repeats his directions.
‘Bus … west of … Copy?’ the crackled reply comes through. My heart leaps, eyes open wide with relief.
Grandfather repeats his message again.
‘… sending support … await backup … ETA … hour …’ the reply comes.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘At least the choppers will be closer to our location, even if they didn’t get the whole message,’ Grandfather sounds more confident than I have heard him all day.
‘Check in the bag if the flares are still there,’ I tell Grandfather, remembering some of the contents of the old emergency kit from the hut.
Grandfather tears the flare package and aims it high. He clicks the trigger. Nothing.
He hits it against the side of the bus and aims again. It splutters and misfires. A small fire burns at the gun mouth. Slipping off the bus, Grandfather grabs some grass off the ground and lights it in the middle of the dirt road.
‘We can’t let off a flare, but they will see the smoke of this fire,’ he motions for me to grab twigs and leaves to build the fire up. He places lots of leaves and grass on top to make it smoke.
I’m glad he has placed it in the middle of the road. At the end of the dry season the bush is like tinder. The fire across the highway was evidence of the intensity these fires can burn at. A few years back now some marathon runners were brutally burnt in a scrub fire that the organisers had underestimated. You can never be too careful with fire in the bush. Especially when we don’t know where the busload of teens are.
‘Let’s get going,’ I say, spotting some blood on the track. Fear builds in my belly.
‘From the look of that blood, it’s been pooling for a while, maybe days,’ Grandfather reasons. ‘They might not have water, food or shelter … and bleeding … If the heat of the days and cold of the nights haven’t weakened them then they’d need to watch out for wild dogs, snakes, spiders … monsters. We don’t have time to waste. I know this forest better than the police. You are right, let’s go.’
My heart aches when I think of my cousins, when I think of Jenny’s beautiful face covered in blood. I’m scared, my legs are shaking. But I’m determined. The knowledge that I caused this and now knowing clearly the danger makes me want to vomit.
Grandfather clasps my shoulder. ‘I am glad you came. You are stronger than me these days both ways. You’ve made me proud.’
I nod. Unable to respond. Shame fills me up. I take a deep breath and slowly pace around the bus searching for clues in the small details using my new knowledge from the past day plus my years of tracking animals in the bush. I duck down to touch a puddle of blood on the dirt. I motion into the bush.
‘That way.’
‘Why would they go into the bush?’ Grandfather whispers as we start towards the tree line, shaking his head.
‘To hide …’ There is a growing tightness in my stomach as we walk forward. As I say the words I wonder if I am right.
13
ACCIDENTS
At first there is a decent, steady trail of blood, but thankfully also a lot of footprints to follow. Grandfather hardly needs my young eyes to spot them. His body is transformed from the exhausted, almost defeated man to the strong Elder I remember him as. After ten minutes of following the gruesome track, my mind swirling with the possibilities of what we might uncover, Grandfather stops to look at something I can’t see.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, huddling close, not taking my eyes off the bush ahead of us.
‘It’s hard to tell. See here? The footprints are smudged and broken,’ he replies in a hushed tone.
I hadn’t noticed. It looks the same as the others at first glance, but I can see what he is talking about. It is as if someone had stepped on something leaving their print either side and the part in the middle the same texture as the ground. Grandfather points to another interrupted track. The edges are smudged and blurred. Another looks as though half the print had never even been there.
‘What do you think it is?’ I whisper, my body tensing. I pick up a sharp rock from the ground. I notice Grandfather touch the bag pocket where his knife is carried.
‘There is only one thing I know that might leave a track like that,’ Grandfather pauses. ‘The Lightfoot.’
Shivers shoot down my spine and my hairs stand on end. My body reacting to the name.
Grandfather adds, ‘They leave no tracks.’
‘What … what does it want?’ Shame as I stumble on my words. I’ve heard enough rumours and stories.
‘They carry out retribution to those who have done terrible things. It’s what the other Elders feared for Mr Henry yesterday,’ Grandfather explains the old time story. My head spins. It makes sense old Henry getting payback. But why now? Sly grog has ruined enough lives and now people are overdosing on the harder drugs old Henry helped bring into town. The old people won’t even look at pictures of dead people. Michael’s brother’s death still hurts, fresh.
‘Do you remember the details of who was hurt by that girl in the hit and run?’ Grandfather asks.
I remember the details well; we’d been in town for a funeral. The story had been all over the local news. There had been a candlelight vigil out the front of the hospital where that little girl lay for three nights. She died on the fourth day. There was community outrage when Hannah was let off with a suspended sentence and community work. The young girl’s family called it corruption – everyone knew Hannah’s city mother had connections to the State Government. It would have helped that her father’s side of the family owned one of the largest cattle stations in our area. Our teachers gave us the school’s official spiel about the word of the law being the end of it, that bullying wouldn’t be tolerated, and that Hannah was just as welcome at our school as everyone else. I’m sure the family’s generous donations might have had something to do with how the teachers spoke. I remember feeling amazed that she had the guts to come back to school. And even more so that she didn’t seem a bit remorseful.
But who was I to judge? My prank might have just cost Brooklyn and Jenny their lives.
‘Yes, Grandfather. She was only four,’ I reply. ‘An only child. Her parents have moved away now.’
‘It might all be connected. The two things that drew the Lightfoot out to rebalance our Law,’ he says solemnly. ‘At least we know what we might be up against.’
‘What will you do if we see it?’ I ask, trying to remember back through all the stories told around camp fires when I was young.
‘I don’t know. I know they are fast. Quiet. Stealth is their biggest strength. And it’s not ours,’ Grandfather motions towards my injured leg and his.
‘I want to get to higher ground,’ I say. ‘We need to signal again, Grandfather.’
Grandfather considers my request looking towards the sky, searching for the smoke of our previous signal fire. He nods.
‘Yes, we can assess what’s up ahead as well. Plan to our advantage if we are dealing with a Lightfoot.’
The fact that we are even discussing the possibility of the mythical is crazy. And yet I feel its existence with every bone in my body. Bones I hope to keep in my body.
‘This way. I know a songline that leads to a good vantage point at the top of the next rise.’
My legs ache as we climb the steep slope. Rocks tumble and I wonder how far our noise is travelling.
Grandfather stops. We look out over the top of the thick bushland below us. I look back to where I think we have come from. I see a thin line cutting through the bush and rocks, it wouldn’t be clear unless you knew it was there.
I search for a clear spot to start a signal fire. Seeing a wide boulder I motion my grandfather over. He nods his approval of the location. I hunt around to find stones to build a wind block and build a small fire.
14
BLOOD
Grandfather sits down and stares out over the valley.
‘We need to get back down there. They don’t stand a chance against a Lightfoot without us,’ Grandfather’s voice is edged in fear.
I look at my frail grandfather. I hadn’t really noticed how old he had gotten until now. Back in community, doing everyday things he is still a strong role model. He still bosses the rest of us around.
‘You wait up here. Hail a chopper if it comes?’ I try to convince my grandfather.
Even if it isn’t a Creation being that awaits us, even if it is just feral dogs or snakes or spiders, even if it is just massive bleeding injuries … All we have is a little knife and a small first-aid kit.
‘We have ancient blood lines. I have shared with you many of our Creation stories. I have taken you hunting and camping on Country since you were small. I’ll be blowed if you are going to dump me too,’ Grandfather argues. ‘We have something … even if I haven’t remembered what yet.’
I want to tell him of my role in the accident … that it wasn’t an accident, that it was my fault. But I am filled with shame and guilt and can’t bring myself to let him down.
We walk down the hill again, Grandfather keeping a fast pace. I lead us back to the blood trail and soon we are moving forward to the unknown.
The sounds of the bush set me on edge.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of white. I turn. The bushes shake and rustle.
‘Grandfather, over there,’ I whisper. He reaches into his bag for his knife. I slowly bend down and grasp a branch. I feel exposed.
