Burning for Revenge (13 page)

The gap seemed like nothing. There was no way we could miss it. The bluffs had been called. It was about to smash us apart.

And, at that moment, it lifted a little. Fi, who had been leaning across trying to snatch at the steering wheel, gave a loud cry. I started praying. I suppose a good soldier mightn't pray for an enemy jet to be saved, but that's what I prayed for. I just wanted that thing off the ground and in the air. But I didn't think it would get up. They'd left it too late.

I watched with all the intensity in me. I saw the nose quiver. It started to rise. I saw the tip go up a little and even saw daylight behind it.

But it was too late. I knew it was too late. I scrunched up my eyes, my face, my whole body, and waited for the impact.

It missed us by a centimetre, I'd say. They must have given it every last bit of throttle they could find. I don't know whether those things are turbo-charged or what, but this baby sure found something. The noise as it screamed over our heads was deafening—like a thousand dying pigs in perfect unison. It caused a terrible physical pain to my ears. And the slipstream! Unbelievable! The power of those planes was so great that I almost felt sorry we'd destroyed heaps of them. They were brilliantly made, perfectly put together. It seemed somehow wrong that a bunch of teenage hooligans could come along and destroy dozens of them as easily as you'd destroy a nest of European wasps.

The slipstream could have been fatal for us. We got blown along the runway with the engine racing, like a giant had exhaled behind us. In any lighter vehicle we would have been tipped head over heels, no risk. But the dump truck was so solid that it stayed on all four wheels. It even staved on the runway.

And suddenly, there we were. Out on our own in the middle of the airfield, about a kilometre from the nearest fence, about a kilometre from the burning buildings and burning aircraft, about a kilometre and a half from the still-intact control tower. It felt very lonely. We were awfully conspicuous out there. And it didn't take a genius to know that our problems were just beginning.

When we stopped being buffeted by the slipstream of the jet Homer swung the steering wheel. It seemed like we were going back into four-wheel-drive country. Sure enough, a moment later we were off the bitumen and bumping at maximum speed across the grass.

It was another teeth-snapping ride. The ground was very uneven, full of rabbit holes and ditches that we couldn't see in the long grass. There were no safety belts for anyone except Homer, and he wasn't wearing his. Maybe he wanted to show he was on our side, something I'd been seriously doubting the last few minutes. We grabbed onto anything we could, and I think both Fi and I were trying not to yell at Homer. We didn't want to put him off. We needed him to concentrate. It wasn't an easy piece of driving.

Kevin had slipped to the floor and was lying tangled around my feet. I don't know if he was conscious and I didn't care much, but he was probably having the best ride of anyone. He wasn't getting shaken around like me. But I pitied Lee, if he was still in the back. It wasn't the first time in this war that he'd had a painful and unusual ride. The time I'd scooped him up in the shovel of a truck, back in Wirrawee, when he was shot in the leg: that was rough.

At that moment Lee proved he was still with us. There was a sudden thump on the rear window, so loud and close to my ear that I thought the window was being smashed in. I spun around. Lee must have thrown something at the window, to get our attention. Now he was hanging over the edge of the dumpster, gesturing madly in the direction of the runway. For a second I thought he was telling Homer to go on the bitumen again. But that didn't make sense. Lee knew Homer well enough, and trusted him to make his own decisions. There must be something else going on. Something we hadn't seen. So I looked to where he was pointing.

And I saw that the chase was on in earnest. Three jeeps were racing down the runway. At any moment they'd be level with us, and then they'd turn and come straight across the grass. They'd handle the four-wheel-drive stuff better than the dump truck. They'd catch up with us at a rate of knots.

I wanted to do something about them. I had to. The trouble was I could only see them by looking across through Homer's window. They were on the wrong side for me to get off a shot. The only reason I could see them at all was that we were going at a slight angle to the runway. Obviously Lee couldn't hold them off on his own, with just one rifle. But how could I do anything, from my side?

I heard a shot from the back. We couldn't afford to waste ammunition now, but Lee must have had a target for a moment. I couldn't see if he'd done any damage. The jeeps were starting to come off the runway and close in on us. They were like dogs rounding up a renegade steer.

Desperate times, desperate action. I still felt sure we were going to die so there was no point being a wimp. Might as well go out in style. And the window beside me was already open.

I became a stunt woman. It wasn't as spectacular as staggering along the roof of a fast-moving train, or getting out on the wing of a plane, but for me it wasn't bad. I said to Fi, "Give me the rifle when I'm out there," and I started squeezing through the window. That part wasn't too hard. The problems started when I got my centre of gravity—my bum—out. I suddenly felt very vulnerable, very unprotected—I was sitting on the window frame, facing back over the roof of the cab—so I reached across the gap between the cab and the truck. The gap was quite big and I realised I'd have to do a Tarzan and trust that I could grab the side of the dumpster. Fi was watching anxiously through the window and I think she said something to Homer, because just as I held my breath and made the swing, the truck slowed down.

"I'll kill him," I thought. "If we ever survive this, I'll kill him." He'd thrown my rhythm completely out. Only the fingernails of my right hand caught the steel edge. My fingernails and the tips of my fingers. The ground was rushing past at frightening speed and if I fell I was dead. I'd be caught between the wheels of the truck, which wouldn't be pretty. It'd be quick, but not pretty. I dared not look down. I knew I'd only get one go at this. I tried to summon up all my courage, all my strength, all my energy. I've never done martial arts, but I know those guys break bricks by concentrating everything in their hand. I tried to concentrate everything into my swing. I knew if I waited too long the energy would drain away, so somehow, through all my terror, I had to make myself go for it.

One of the hardest things was keeping my eyes open.
I was so terrified I wanted to close them. But that was a luxury I couldn't afford. With my eyes open, staring, I made the big leap.

I nearly got it OK. The height was less of a problem than I'd expected and I might even have relaxed a split second too soon, thinking I was going to make it comfortably. But I didn't quite get to the top. And the problem then was to get a grip. My fingers started slipping straight away. I could feel the muscles on my right arm start to bulge and swell, with the strain of holding all that weight. I mean, sure, I didn't weigh much these days, but it was too much to hold by my fingertips for very long.

My hands were kind of operating separately, as though they were robotic. That
Terminator
feeling again. The right hand was told to grip, and it gripped, but it was also starting to slip, millimetre by millimetre. The other hand was scanning the surface of the truck as it slowly slid down, trying to feel by touch whether there was anything it could hold on to. It was weird. It seemed to me I was there for a long time, like I had all the time in the world to keep hanging and keep scanning. I felt quite cool, quite calm, quite detached—the only time during the whole morning that I'd felt that way.

It only lasted a few seconds. Suddenly I was back in the reality of it. The loud throbbing of the truck engine, so close to me; the thumping of the huge wheels over the grass; another massive explosion from the fires: my ears roared with these sounds again. I felt again the intense heat of the engine, which was working overtime. We hit a big bump and I nearly got thrown off right there: Homer wasn't slowing down now. We were shifting at a speed I wouldn't have believed possible. I think we were doing a big circle to get near the main gate. Homer probably figured he might have a chance to get through the gate somehow, with all the disruption the explosions had caused.

The tips of my fingers on my right hand had gone through pain and beyond, into some kind of extreme. I couldn't feel them properly any more. I knew they were still digging in, but I knew they couldn't dig in any longer.

And my left hand kept scanning. And at last connected with something. Not much. By God it wasn't much. I think, some sort of metal pin. All I could tell for sure was that it was metal and it wasn't a regular shape. There was a hard solid bit and then a bit of wire or something.

It wasn't much to stake my life on. But there was nothing else. There wasn't enough to hold, or to get my hand around. All I could do was use it as a springboard. Something to push against, to give me the resistance for one last leap at the top, one last leap at life. It would have to be enough, because there wasn't going to be any other chance.

My left fingertips were pressing into the little pin. My fingertips were all I could get on it. As my right fingers finally gave way, suddenly, with a horrifying irreversible quick slip, I pressed into the pin even harder and went for it. I was higher up than last time, but I was pushing against something so slight that I wasn't getting much lift.

With a feeling of wild and complete elation, I felt my hand get over the top. Funny how at times like that you concentrate on what's happening at the moment. Any second now we were going to get shot or blown up, but I was happy because I thought I'd saved my life. It figures: you have to be able to concentrate or you don't last long. I sure as hell had concentrated this last minute or so, but my problems weren't exactly over.

With my left hand gripping strongly, and because I was a bit higher this time, I got my right hand up quite easily. Then I arched mv back and planted my feet on the side of the dumpster. I rested like that for a second, then dropped my feet, did another big leap, and got on top of the truck-side. With a wriggle I worked myself up until I was hanging over the top. The hard metal cut into my stomach. I panted and gasped, but got right over, doing a sort of slow forward roll till I landed on my feet.

There was one thing that was so urgent, I had to worry about it before anything else. I turned straight away and leant back over the side, reaching out to the cab. Fi didn't fail me. I knew she wouldn't. She was already half out of the cab, holding the rifle towards me. She had the butt and I grabbed the tip of the barrel. Fi had worked out that I was stronger than her: if she tried to hold the rifle by the barrel I think the weight would have been too much and she'd have dropped it. That was a calamity we couldn't afford.

Even though I'm fairly strong, the weight was almost too much for me. I used every ounce of strength I had. I felt my muscles quivering with the strain. The rifle was going like a metronome as Fi let go and I tried to find the energy to bring it in. I imagine it was like landing a huge fish, except I've never landed a huge fish. But gradually, bit by bit, I hauled it up. I just hoped Fi remembered to have the safety catch on. With all this vibration it could easily go bang, and my guts would be splattered all over the airfield.

Only when I had it in my hands could I afford to look around.

It was a wild sight. Lee was there of course. I realised he hadn't even known about my struggle to get into the dumpster. He had his back to me and was peering over the edge of the right-hand side. His rifle was resting on the steel rim. I don't know how many shots he'd fired; I'd only heard the one. I got my rifle round the right way then headed over to him. It wasn't easy, doing a run across the wildly bouncing surface of the truck, but easier than the little jump and climb I'd done to get there.

I touched Lee on the shoulder. He nearly fell off the truck. But he didn't say much, just: "Thought you'd never get here."

I don't know why boys love playing these tough-guy roles.

I peeped over the edge. The jeeps had fanned out and were chasing us across the airfield.

"The truck's bouncing too much," Lee shouted. It was hard to hear him now that we had our heads out in the open. "I can't get off a good shot."

That was true, but it also meant they couldn't get a good shot at us. I saw occasional flashes of fire, so they were definitely trying. I heard a couple of loud pinging noises, which were probably bullets hitting the truck, but they didn't seem to do any damage. We'd picked the right truck. If we'd been in the old furniture van we'd have had more holes than a colander.

I got my head down again. Even though they were missing us at the moment, someone could still get a lucky shot. They could miss a thousand times but one hit would be enough. I didn't want my last words to be: "There's no way they could get us from that far..."

I checked the breech of the rifle and flicked the safety forward. The ride was getting really wild now. Homer obviously figured that now I was in the dumpster he could be creative. We were zig-zagging in crazy patterns. He was putting enormous pressure on the tyres. I hoped they could cope. But there were no more pings on the side of the truck. Then we suddenly straightened up.

Lee tapped me on the shoulder. "Don't look now," he shouted, "but he's going for broke."

I felt a shock of fear. Homer going for broke could mean anything. Nervously, I ignored Lee's advice and put my head up.

We were still a kilometre from the western fence, but it was obvious what Homer planned. The truck had a sense of purpose. We were going hell for leather at the fence. I couldn't believe it. The fence looked so strong, a high barrier with big steel poles and tightly strung wire. But I knew Homer was right; it was our only chance. And luckily this was a big truck. If anything had a chance of getting through, it was this baby.