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.
But not for much longer. They maneuvered Owen over a low-hanging tree branch. His ankles got stuck and they had to stop and lift his feet over one by one.
It took forever.
Heather looked over her shoulder. No sign of the teenager following them, but they could hear the O’Neill clan coming toward them across the heath.
“What do we do?” Petra asked.
Heather knew she couldn’t reason with them. Not after what they’d done to Hans. They were capable of anything. They could do anything they wanted on their island. Eventually the police would come looking for the four of them. She had to pin all her hopes on that.
“Hide and stay alive as long as possible,” she said.
They got Owen through the trees, and there was Olivia, standing there, hands on hips, refusing to move. “I told you to keep going, didn’t I?” Heather snapped.
“I don’t want to go by myself!” Olivia wailed.
“Just go!”
“And leave my brother? I can’t.”
“They’re probably going to catch the three of us,” Heather said. “You can run ahead by yourself. You have a chance.”
Olivia shook her head.
“Just frigging go!” Heather insisted.
“You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my mom,” Olivia said.
“That’s Owen’s line, Olivia. You need some of your own goddamn material. Come on, now, be a good girl and get the hell out of here!”
“And then what?”
“Just keep going as long as you can until dark. They’ll go back to the farm then. Especially if they have us.”
“Then what? If I do get away today, what am I supposed to do by myself?” Olivia said, sounding lost and bereft like the fourteen-year-old girl she was.