Land of Fences by Mark Smith

Author:Mark Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2019-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

It only takes a few minutes to reach the tree line to the north. A small rise hides us from the farmhouse. We can see as far as the intersection where the dirt road meets the highway. Sure enough, there are two men standing in the middle of the bitumen, rifles across their shoulders. The paddocks here are dry and bare of grass but there are trees dotted through them.

‘One at a time or all together?’ JT asks.

‘One at a time,’ I say, although I’m not convinced either option will work.

Willow turns and sprints for the first tree, her bow across her shoulders and the arrows in one hand. JT follows. He continues to the next tree, which has a large bough that’s fallen to the ground. He slides in behind it and signals to me.

I take a last look at the Wilders on the highway, hold the rifle out in front of me and start my run. My legs are heavy—maybe from the lack of water and food, but just as likely from fear. I drop behind the tree with JT, while Willow moves further down the hill. We leapfrog each other like this until there are no trees between the highway and us. From here, we can see a concrete drain running under the dirt road. It’s hard to tell how wide it is, but if we can fit through we can get to the paddock on the other side. I point it out to JT and Willow.

I can see the two Wilders better from here. They’re sitting by the signpost at the intersection. Maybe the heat’s getting to them, too. Sweat smears the dirt on our faces and arms.

We’re about thirty metres from the drain when we hear the truck coming.

‘Go!’ I say, and we sprint for the side of the road.

The drain is about a metre wide but it’s partially blocked with clumps of grass and dirt. I scramble in feet-first, pushing the debris ahead of me. Willow and JT crawl in behind and we wait for the truck to pass overhead. It takes forever to reach us, finally rumbling over the top of us and moving on towards the intersection.

But the sound of the motor stays within earshot. They must have stopped. We can only guess at what’s happening but about five minutes pass before the truck crosses us again, retracing its route to the farmhouse.

‘Maybe they changed the guards,’ JT whispers.

I brace myself against the concrete walls and start kicking at the debris blocking the drain. Slowly, the sand and grass and branches give way and I see daylight. I shuffle forward but freeze when I hear voices and the sound of boots on gravel.

‘You tell him,’ one voice says.

‘Yeah, sure,’ another replies. ‘Tell Tusker he’s got it wrong? He’d love that. Probably shoot me for my trouble.’

‘Nah, he wouldn’t. Cut your balls off, maybe.’

Both men laugh.

‘They’ll be with the rebels by now. Way up in the main range. We’re not gonna find them out there.

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