Home © 2003 Robert Muchamore.

The right of Robert Muchamore to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

This online version of Home has been made available for download on the website www.muchamore.com it is not to be reposted on other web sites or reproduced for any purpose execpt for non commercial publishing use.

Authors Note:

This is a draft of a complete novel. It has not been copy edited and so contains many small errors and mistakes. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

1. Maps

On a map, central Africa seems the same as anywhere else. Countries, rivers, cities, railway lines and roads. But these countries barely even exist. Governments are powerless. Roads are grown over. The cities are sewers and the railway tracks all got stolen and melted for scrap.

Only two things really matter: guns and food. There are plenty of guns and not much food. If you don’t have both, you won’t live long.

2. Corruption.

The heat whacks you in the tunnel between the plane and the terminal. Fifty miles off the equator, your lungs need a few breaths to get used to it. My little brother, Adam, had himself in a state thinking he’d left his Gameboy on the plane. Half his stuff fell out of his pack when he unzipped it to check. All the other passengers had to step over him while he scooted around picking everything off the floor. Dad was way ahead. You always got the sense he’d be miles in front before he missed you.

‘It’s in there,’ Adam said, standing back up.

He’d checked a thousand times already. He was more worried about losing the Gameboy than about all the injections before we left. Truth told, I was the one scared of injections, even though I was fifteen and Adam was only eight.

The airport was in a right state. It smelled like rotting food and piss. The carpet was all threads and crumbling black rubber. There were a few broken chairs and the TVs that showed flight information were either busted or stolen. All the shops were boarded up, but a woman in a headscarf sold fizzy drinks off a stall built from plastic crates.

We caught Dad up. He was smiling, shaking the hand of an airport guide.

‘Mr Leconte, we meet again,’ Dad said. ‘These are my sons: Jake and Adam.’

‘Ah Haaaa,’ Mr Leconte beamed. ‘Two handsome fellows.’

Mr Leconte shook our hands. His gut hung over his belt and his peach coloured shirt was covered with dark sweat patches. I’d learned the language from my parents, but the city dialect was a bit different. Mr Leconte rattled off words faster than my brain could grab them.

‘You’re almost as big as your Father,’ Mr Leconte said, looking at me.

It was only true if almost as tall meant thirty centimetres shorter. My Dad was massive. When I was little Dad told me he could have been a heavyweight boxing champion if he’d wanted to. I believed him until Mum heard about it; she practically fell off her chair laughing at the thought.

‘Boys, luck is on our side today,’ Dad said. ‘Mr Leconte is the man I always hope to meet when I get off the plane.’

Dad had warned us that getting out of the airport with your luggage and dignity intact was tricky. There were soldiers, police, customs and military police, plus the people working for the airline and the baggage handlers. Most of them were trying to steal your stuff or get a bribe. If you got the bribes wrong you ended up paying a fortune, or you didn’t pay enough and got put in a five hour queue waiting to be strip searched. An airport guide knows who to pay and how much to pay them. With a bit of luck, you’re through customs and out the door in a few minutes.

Nobody bothered to hide the fact they were taking bribes. Mr Leconte’s first trick was five dollars in the palm of an airline employee. This got us access to a small staircase, which led onto the tarmac where the bags were being taken off our plane. The jet engines turned gently, wafting the sickly smell of aviation fuel through the boiling air.

Once our bags emerged, Me, Dad and Mr Leconte grabbed two each. Mr Leconte gave a few bank notes to the baggage handlers. We crossed the tarmac, passing under the tails of three more jets, before going onto another staircase. By the time we made it up, my arms felt like they were coming out of their sockets.

Two government soldiers stood at the top of the stairs. Soldiers were everywhere in the city, wearing identical green uniforms, with cheap rubber boots and sunglasses. These two had M16 assault rifles slung across their chests. One soldier put our bags on a trolley. The other one palmed fifty dollars from Mr Leconte.

This part of the airport was deserted. It was built specially for the President and VIPs. There was air conditioning, fancy halogen lamps and TV’s showing a dubbed episode of Friends. Adam jumped on top of the luggage cart. Dad wheeled him towards the customs gate.

Mr Leconte waved money at a man standing in front of an x-ray machine. Judging by the braids and stripes on his uniform, he was someone important. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it started getting heated.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dad asked.

‘I always pay him a hundred dollars,’ Leconte said. ‘Today he wants a hundred, for each of you.’

‘You can have one twenty-five,’ Dad said angrily. ‘And that’s daylight robbery.’

The customs man looked at Dad as if he was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

‘There’s a four hour queue to get out of the main exit,’ the customs man said, casually. ‘Pay me three hundred, or go back and stand in line.’

‘I know the Minister of the Interior,’ Dad said. ‘I could make life very difficult for you.’

The customs man gave Dad a giant smile, ‘I also know the Interior Minister very well. I am even better acquainted with my Brother in Law, the President of this country.’

Dad couldn’t trump that. He looked furious.

‘What about two hundred gentleman?’ Mr Leconte suggested, trying to smooth things over.

The customs man eyeballed Dad:

‘No. This man dared threaten me. Now he must pay four-hundred dollars, or we will begin carefully inspecting his luggage.’

‘Two fifty,’ Dad said.

The customs man clicked his fingers. A soldier sitting behind the x-ray machine stood up and pointed his gun at Dad. Adam looked frightened and started sniffling.

‘OK, OK.’ Dad said. Four-hundred dollars,’

Dad reached in his pocket and handed over the cash. I told Adam to stop balling and pushed the trolley through the gate.

‘I think the customs man is drunk,’ Mr Leconte said. ‘Normally he’s very reliable. You’re a good client Mr Pascal. Forget my fee this time and I’m sorry for the unpleasantness.’

‘Not your fault,’ Dad grinned.

Dad patted Mr Leconte’s shoulder and tucked a roll of banknotes into his shirt pocket. Then he looked at his Rolex.

‘Twenty-one minutes to get out of the airport,’ Dad smiled. ‘Not a bad way to spend six-hundred dollars.’

Six-hundred dollars local currency was about forty pounds.

We piled our luggage into a battered Toyota taxi for the short drive to the cargo terminal. Dad let me sit up front next to the driver. He put his arm around Adam in the back.

‘What are you upset for, little soldier?’ Dad asked.

‘I thought that man was gonna shoot you.’ Adam sniffled.

‘Bullets bounce off me,’ Dad said. ‘I’m made of steel.’

Dad thumped his chest. Adam broke out in a little smile.

‘We should have gone to Disneyworld again,’ Adam said. ‘They never try and shoot you there.’

Dad’s huge laugh boomed around the inside of the cab.

‘Bloody Disneyworld. Never again,’ Dad laughed. ‘Forty bloody minutes in a queue for a ride that lasts thirty seconds. That place made me absolutely insane.’

Dad squeezed Adam and kissed his cheek.

‘Don’t you want to see your Grandma? And play with all your cousins?’

Adam smiled for Dad, but neither of us wanted to be here. Mum said she’d never go to Africa again. The last time she came, her wedding ring got stolen from the hotel room and some guy attacked her in the street. I don’t remember the trip, I was only a baby. Adam wasn’t even born.

. . .

Dad was in the import-export business. His company bought up empty space on container ships and sent junk to Africa. Poor man’s gold, Dad called it: worn tyres, used shoes, clothes, old fridges and microwaves, date expired tins of food.

You might throw away your hair drier, food mixer or whatever. It’s too much bother to get them repaired. But in Africa, there are men who strip all this stuff down and make it work again. Fill a container up with the right kind of junk, send it to Africa and you can make serious money.

Dad got rich off junk. He got a different Mercedes every year. Mum drove a big Range Rover. Me and Adam went to public school and we were always going abroad on holiday.

The business worked out of a semi-derelict warehouse at the back of Kings Cross station, in London. When I was little, I used to love running around inside. The roof leaked and I had to wear wellies because the floor was all muddy. People turned up all day long; from dustmen with collections of small electricals they’d found on their route, to huge lorries filled with cans of food.

The woman who drove the forklift used to let me sit on her lap as she picked the pallets out of the trucks. At one time my biggest ambition was to be allowed to touch all the levers and drive the forklift myself.

Course, by the time I was old enough to drive it, playing in a cold, muddy warehouse wasn’t my idea of fun anymore. At fifteen I had this big fantasy about how my life would go. I’d pass all my A-levels, study business and economics at university, then get a job at a merchant bank that paid big bucks. I’d wear handmade £1,500 suits, have my own executive box at the Arsenal and be married to a stunning babe who was resident DJ in a nightclub. I’d give Adam my share of the junk business when Dad retired; I wouldn’t need the money.

. . .

The tails of the cargo planes poked over the opposite side of the terminal building. The taxi driver piled our luggage on the pavement. It was a single storey building a couple of hundred meters long, but one end had burned out in a fire. A few families lived amongst the wreckage, in homes built from charred scraps. Two raggedy kids sat against the terminal wall, begging.

‘Why can’t they live in houses?’ Adam asked.

‘Probably farmers,’ Dad explained. ‘There’s a war between the government and rebels from the east. Soldiers destroy farms and steal all the food. The farmers that don’t get killed run away to the city, but there’s no work here and nowhere for them to live.’

Dad went in his trousers, peeled a five dollar note off his roll of cash and handed it to Adam.

‘See if that cheers them up.’

The beggars were about Adam’s age, but he probably weighed more than the pair of them. Adam was scared to go near them for some reason, he tugged my hand.

‘Come with us, Jake.’

The beggars looked worried as we approached. Loads of people must have given them a hard time. Adam reached out with the note and the bony little faces lit up like it was Christmas, Easter and pancake Tuesday rolled into one. One kid swept the note from Adam’s fingers and ran away. The other one scratched around on the concrete, picking up about fifteen cents in coins that people had dropped around him. When the boys were about ten metres away, they stopped running and waved at us.

‘Thank you Sirs.’

Then they disappeared into one of the little shacks.

‘How much is five dollars in English money?’ Adam asked.

‘About forty pence,’ Dad said. ‘It’s enough to buy half a sack of rice. They’ll eat well for the next few days.’

‘Then what?’ Adam asked.

Dad didn’t answer.

People rushed up to Dad as soon as he stepped inside the cargo terminal. A couple of guys grabbed our luggage. Before I knew it, half a dozen sweaty men were shaking my hand and patting my shoulder. Adam got it even worse. One guy picked him up and started carrying him around to some office women who gave him kisses. The look on Adam’s face was priceless. In England, Dad was a wealthy businessman and people respected him, but here it was like he was a pop star.

Once things settled down we got taken through to Dad’s office. Two guys sat at one end with their heavy boots on a glass topped coffee table. They both held glasses of scotch. Dad introduced us.

‘My bodyguards, Tim and Banky,’ Dad explained. ‘They’ll keep us safe while we’re staying at Grandma’s.’

The two guys crushed my hand as they shook it. They looked like absolute nutters. They both wore black fatigues, and had machine guns, hunting knives, pistols, ammo belts and grenades hanging off every place you could think of and probably a few you couldn’t. Adam was in love. He squeezed between Tim and Banky on the sofa and started pointing at all the weapons asking what they were called and what they did.

Dad got a satellite phone out of his desk. It was about 3 times the size of a normal mobile, and would work anywhere on the planet. You could get normal telephones in the city, but they were so unreliable you used a satellite phone if you were rich enough to have one.

Dad threw me the handset.

‘Call your Mum. It’s five quid a minute, so cut down on the rabbit.’

The number was in the speed dial. Mum picked up after a couple of rings.

‘Hey Mum, it’s me, we’re here.’

‘At Grandma’s?’

‘No, were still in the city. The flight from Paris was delayed five hours.’

‘How’s Adam?’

‘He slept most of the way. He’s hanging off my waist wanting to talk to you. I’ll put him on.’

‘OK Jake. See you in three weeks. Keep safe.’

‘No worries Mum. Love you... Here’s Adam.’

3. Flight

Dad’s company had three small cargo aeroplanes. They were Douglas DC3s; mirror finished, with Air Amanda logos and beautiful women with giant afros airbrushed on the sides. Amanda was my Mum’s first name. The planes were over sixty years old, with a propeller engine under each wing. Dad could have afforded newer planes, but he was a complete DC3 nerd. He had loads of books on them at home, there was a mahogany model of one on the desk in our study and he even belonged to the DC3 owners club.

It was a buzz standing on the tarmac looking at Dad’s planes. I’d only seen pictures before. They were probably the cleanest, best maintained things I saw my whole time in Africa.

Our plane was packed with cargo, waiting to leave. The pilot was this old white guy with a beard. Dad sat next to him in the front with Adam on his lap. I got into a battered jump seat behind the pilot. All the ancient switches and dials were lit up, and there was this great smell of old leather and oil. Banky and Tim had to make the best of it amongst the pallets in the cargo bay.

Outside, someone pulled the blocks out from under the wheels. The pilot started the engines. After a few metres taxiing, he turned onto the runway and opened up the throttles. The runway was full of cracks. The plane juddered over every one. I put my hands over my ears to cut out the noise.

It got smoother once we were off the ground. We had to stay low, to avoid the jets coming in and out of the main terminal. The city beneath us was a desperate place. Millions of shacks built out of timber and plastic sheets, open sewers and mountains of rubbish everywhere. Within a few minutes, the city was gone and all that lay ahead were thousands of miles of jungle, broken occasionally by farming villages and giant square holes cut out by logging companies.

The little plane stayed well below the clouds. The scenery was amazing: huge birds circling over the canopy of trees, mountains with giant waterfalls spewing into rivers. It was so beautiful it did my head in. I was finally starting to like the idea of Africa; experiencing a different way of life and meeting Dad’s family. Most people would never get a chance to see stuff like this. I felt guilty that all I’d done was moan that we weren’t going to Spain or Florida.

‘I need to go,’ Adam said.

There was no toilet on the plane. Dad had brought an empty plastic Coke bottle. Adam stood in the corner behind Dad and peed into it. He was shaking himself off when there was a grinding noise, like a car missing a gear. I looked out the side of the plane in time to see the right propeller shatter and a ball of flame blasting back under the wing. My guts shot into my mouth. About ten buzzers and alarms started going off.

‘Extinguishers,’ the pilot shouted.

Dad pulled on a lever above his head. A sea of white foam squirted out around the engine, quenching the flames almost instantly.

‘Shit,’ Dad laughed, holding his hand over his chest. ‘My old heart can do without too many of those.’

‘Think we hit a bird or something,’ the pilot said. ‘Are you boys OK?’

We were a both shaken up. Adam got back on Dad’s lap and gave him a hug.

‘Can we fly on one engine?’ I asked.

‘We can even take off with one engine with a long enough runway,’ the pilot said. ‘Although we’re much slower. It’s safest if we put down at the nearest airstrip and get one of the other planes to fly up with a mechanic.’

‘How do we know if it’s safe when we land?’ Dad asked. ‘There’s a bloody war going on down there. If the rebels are controlling that area, they’ll steal the plane and probably kill us as well.’

‘You’ve got Banky and Tim, and It’s mostly government controlled until you get much further east,’ the pilot said.

‘I’ve heard stories about DC3’s flying thousands of miles on one engine,’ Dad said.

The pilot weighed it all up:

‘I suppose the chances of rebels ambushing us at an airstrip are a lot greater than the chances of the other engine failing; besides your sons look tired. Lets finish the journey and sort out the aeroplane in the morning.’

With one engine the plane was quieter. It felt skittish, like it was fighting against the wind. The pilot calculated the journey would take an extra hour on one engine, two hours altogether.

The sunset over the jungle was about the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Deep oranges and purples flooding over the scenery, but the transition from bright sunlight to blackness only took a few minutes. We’d been travelling for twenty hours, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I was woken up by Dad shouting. There was no engine noise, just air rushing against the outside of the plane.

‘I’m trying to restart it,’ the pilot said.

Dad hammered a gauge with his knuckle, hoping it wasn’t telling the truth.

‘There’s no pressure in the fuel system,’ Dad said.

The pilot was franticly rocking switches and pulling levers. Banky’s head came in through the cockpit door.

‘Is that the other engine gone?’

‘We’re working on it,’ the pilot shouted. ‘No need to panic yet.’

‘Adam, I need you out of the way,’ Dad said ‘Go and sit with Jake.’

Adam scrambled onto my lap and put his arm round my neck.

‘How long can we stay up without engines?’ I asked.

‘We’re not that high. Ten, maybe twelve minutes,’ the pilot said. ‘I don’t think we’ll be able to restart. There’s three parachutes in the back. If anyone wants to jump, they’ve got to do it in the next four minutes or we’ll be too low.’

‘But there’s six of us,’ I said. ‘Why only three parachutes?’

‘It’s a cargo plane,’ Dad said. ‘Two crew, one passenger.’

‘There’s a chute for the two boys,’ the pilot said. ‘Third chute is between you and the two bodyguards. You’ll have to draw lots.’

Adam’s fingers dug into my back. I don’t know why it took so long, but it only hit me now that most of us were going to die. I had this image in my head of my class coming back after summer holidays. My desk is empty and my form teacher is telling everyone that I’m dead. I started to shake all over.

‘What about you?’ Dad asked.

The pilot smiled, ‘The Captain always goes down with his ship. I’ll keep this crate up for as long as I can; try and ditch somewhere flat. You never know, we might get a miracle.’

We heard this rushing noise from the back of the plane. Dad opened the door into the cargo bay. Banky and Tim had put on parachutes and opened the rear passenger door.

Banky jumped out. Tim gave my Dad an arrogant wave and followed him into the blackness. Me and Adam were standing behind Dad. We both worked it out instantly: Dad had to pick one of us to get the last parachute.

‘Jake, come here.’ Dad shouted.

Dad grabbed the parachute. I couldn’t look back at Adam. I put my arms though the shoulder straps and Dad fastened the harness around my stomach. I wondered why he’d picked me, Adam was the littlest.

‘Don’t pull the cord straight away.’ Dad said, placing it in my hand. ‘If you don’t build a bit of speed first, the parachute will tangle up. But don’t leave it too long. Count to about six seconds after you jump, then pull.’

‘OK,’ I said.

It was hard to speak. There were tears round my eyes, but I was too shocked to sob.

‘Adam, come here,’ Dad shouted.

Dad had a plan. He got Adam to jump onto me, wrap his arms around my shoulders and lock his feet together behind my thighs. Our noses were almost touching. Dad stripped his belt out of his trousers. It was big enough to go around both our tummies. Dad strapped us together so tight we could hardly breathe.

‘Grip each other as tight as you can. If the rush of air gets between your bodies, it will tear you apart.’

I nodded.

‘Have you still got the cord in you hand?’

‘Yes Dad,’ I said.

‘How many seconds Jake?’

‘Six seconds,’ I said

‘Try and bend your knees when you hit the ground.’

‘What about all the trees?’ I asked.

‘You’ve just got to hope for the best.’

I couldn’t see where I was going because Adam’s head was in the way, and I could hardly stand with all the weight strapped to me. Dad shoved his Swiss army knife in the back of my shorts.

‘You might need that,’ Dad said.

The pilot shouted in from the cockpit, ‘Going below safe parachute height in about fifteen seconds.’

Below a certain height, you smash into the ground before the parachute has time to slow you down. I stood in the open doorway, the air was pushing me back inside.

‘Good luck boys.’

I saw Dad’s face for the last time as he kissed us both on the cheek.

‘Look after each other. I love you.’

‘I love you Dad,’ I shouted over the wind

‘Five seconds to go,’ the pilot shouted. ‘Get them out of here, now.’

It was pitch black. I’d die if I stayed on the plane, but I still didn’t have the guts to jump. Dad gave me an almighty shove and I started to fall.

I was absolutely shitting myself. It was dark, the wind blasted my ears. Then I realised, I’d forgotten to count. How long had it been? Were we going fast enough?

‘Pull it now you idiot,’ Adam shouted, ‘It’s already eight seconds.’

I yanked the cord. It seemed to take forever, but the silk spilled out behind my head. It felt like we were being jerked upwards, but that was the chute slowing our rate of descent.

Now all I could think about was the ground. I’d seen loads of war movies and people who parachuted into trees always seem to end up getting strangled. I couldn’t see what was below me, but in the middle of the jungle, crashing into trees seemed like a good bet.

I felt my trainer hit something, then it was like we were getting sucked into tunnel of leaves. Adam was screaming in my ear. I felt this sharp pain like someone had torn off the back of my head. I was out cold.

4. Trees

It was light when I came around. Adam must have hit the release. The parachute was trapped in the leaves about ten metres above. The back of my head surged with the most unbelievable pain. I ran my hand around. There was a flap of loose flesh hanging off the back of my head and dried blood soaked through my t-shirt. I’d also got burns across my back where Dad’s belt snapped.

I turned my head a bit. I was about two metres off the ground, suspended awkwardly between branches. There was no sign of Adam, but the trees cut out most of the light and it was tough to see. I grabbed one branch with both hands, then pulled my legs off the other one so I was dangling by my fingers. I let go and tried to land upright, but I’d lost loads of blood and there was no strength in me. I rolled up on the ground, coughing.

My legs and arms started tickling. Hundreds of insects crawled onto me. Spiders, beetles, flies, giant millipedes, ants. I was desperate to get up, but I was too weak to move. Then they started getting in places. In my ears, up my shorts, down my back.

I don’t now how long I was out for. Adam pinched my cheek to wake me up.

‘Are you dead Jake?’

I could hear him, but everything looked blurry and my mouth wouldn’t move.

‘Jake.’

‘Jake… Please wake up.’

Adam sounded really desperate.

‘Please wake up Jake.’

I moved my lips and croaked.

‘Aaaa.’

Adam smiled a bit.

‘You look terrible.’ Adam said. ‘I tried to find the plane.’

‘It’s not near here,’ I said.

The plane was going at nearly two hundred kilometres an hour. If it crashed five minutes after we jumped out, it would be fifteen kilometres away.

Adam gave me a bit of help to sit up. He started flicking all the bugs off me.

‘What’s around here?’ I asked. ‘Did you find any water?’

‘Nothing,’ Adam said, ‘There’s trees wherever you go. There’s this massive yellow snake up in the branches.’

I leant against a tree trunk and tried to stand. It was roasting and I felt all light headed. I wouldn’t last long without something to drink. I dug Dad’s knife out of my shorts. It had a tiny compass in the side, as well as a little saw and a blade.

‘Pick one direction and try going in a straight line,’ I said. ‘Hopefully we’ll find a path or something.’

‘Downhill is easier,’ Adam said. ‘And it usually leads to water.’

‘Who says it leads to water?’

‘I learned it at Beavers,’ Adam said.

‘We’ll move as fast as we can. I’m not gonna last long in this state.’

‘But what if they’re coming to rescue us? Adam asked. ‘Shouldn’t we stay here?’

‘Nobody will come looking out here. Even if they did, how would they spot us under the trees?’

In mature jungle, the giant trees suck all the light and goodness from the soil. Only a few mosses and fungi grow in the creepy spaces between trunks. Adam had to help me move. I found a walking stick, but I was still all over the place. I started wondering if Adam’s best chance would be if he went on his own. He’d cover loads more ground without me.

I was so out if it, I don’t know how long we walked. I gave up flicking off flies and tics, there were too many of them. Everything looked like green and orange blurs. My muscles all felt tight and hard. The only thing in my mind was the pain and thirst. Every step was a fight with part of myself that didn’t want to carry on and it seemed to keep getting bigger.

There was no water and no sign of rain. More earth, more wood, more steps. Adams voice begging me to keep going. The jungle went for thousands of kilometres. It felt hopeless: we could be days away from human contact.

Late afternoon we finally reached a dirt road. It was about a truck’s width and it was all the excuse my body needed to give up. I collapsed. I ran my hand over my hair and it was dry. My body was too dehydrated to sweat and my skull was hot to touch. I looked for Adam, he was all blurry.

‘I’m gonna pass out.’

I rolled on my side and heaved like I was throwing up, but I only managed a dry rasp.

‘You better go along the road,’ I said. ‘Try and find someone before it gets dark.’

‘There’s tire tracks in the dust,’ Adam said. ‘We could stay together. Cars must go down here.’

‘There’s no point me holding you up any more,’ I said. ‘You’ll be as sick as me if you don’t get some water soon.’

Adam stood in front of me and put out his hand. I couldn’t work out what he wanted.

‘Shake hands,’ Adam said.

So I did. It seemed weird, I’d never shaken his hand before. Occasionally we hugged, but mostly we got on each others nerves. I was in such a state, Adam was sure I’d be dead before he found help. He thought shaking hands was a proper, grown up, way to say goodbye.

I crawled to the edge of the road and watched until he disappeared around a bend. The last few steps, all I could see was his arm swinging. Once he was gone I slumped into the dust.

When I closed my eyes everything turned white. It felt like all my energy was getting sucked into a hole. I’d seen it on TV; like when people come out of a coma and they describe death as this white light that’s calling them. I thought dying would come as a relief, but once I saw the light I was desperate to fight it.

I sat back up and opened my eyes. Every time I felt myself start to drift out of consciousness, I jammed my finger into the cut on my head and the pain and nausea sparked me up. I tried to keep my mind occupied. I started humming a tune. I couldn’t work out what it was for ages, then I realised it was the music from the Thomas the Tank Engine video Adam had when he was about three. He’d put the damn video on and watch it over and over, until it made me want to scream. I hated that music, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I started imagining I had bottle of Sprite in my hand. Really cold, with all condensation dribbling down the side. Twisting off the plastic lid. Tiny bubbles hitting my top lip and gulping the fizz down my throat.

That’s when I heard an engine. I was half convinced it was my head playing tricks. I tried to stand up but I couldn’t, so I crawled into the middle of the road and laid on my belly. They either had to stop or run me over.

It was a Subaru pickup. Dents, cracked glass in the windscreen, a sprinkling of bullet holes and bald tyres with repair patches everywhere. The driver was going at about 30 kilometres an hour, which doesn’t sound fast, but looks it when you’re spraying up dust and jamming into a pothole every few seconds. I thought they were gonna run me over. There was only a couple of meters between me and the radiator when it stopped moving.

A man got out the drivers side of the cab. He looked about seventeen. I found out later he was called Ben. He had army boots, a rifle on his back, camouflage trousers and a filthy Madonna t-shirt full of rips and holes. The passenger was smaller, wearing full camouflage with a pistol drawn. They both looked around, suspecting an ambush. It was only when the smaller one spoke that I realised it was a girl.

‘Where did you crawl out from?’ The girl asked.

‘Water,’ I croaked.

‘He’s worthless Sami,’ Ben said. ‘I should have squished him. Lets roll.’

Sami walked up. She put her boot on my head, rocked it to one side and inspected the cut.

‘He wont last long in that state,’ she said. ‘Might be kinder if we finish him.’

‘Who gives a shit?’ Ben laughed, ‘Waste of a bullet. Someone’s left him out here to die for a reason. He’s probably a government traitor.’

Sami crouched down low and pressed the pistol against my temple. She looked about a year older than me. She had big round eyes with curled lashes. It was tough to believe she was about to kill me.

‘Looks like the end of the line Mr Traitor,’ she said.

‘Don’t,’ I begged. ‘Give us some water.’

She got a plastic bottle out of her jacket and rattled the water inside.

‘How bad do you want it?’ She asked.

‘Please,’ I gasped.

She unscrewed the lid and tipped some of the water into the dust. I’d have cried if there’d been enough liquid in me to make a tear.

‘Spilled some,’ she giggled. ‘What will you do for me?’

‘Anything.’

‘Come on Sami,’ Ben shouted. ‘Were vulnerable out here. Stop messing.’

Sami smiled at me, ‘Lick my boot, traitor.’

I crawled forward and ran my tongue up Sami’s boot. It was all dusty and smelled like she’d stepped in animal shit or something. She laughed, then handed me the plastic bottle. I drank the whole lot down in three massive gulps. I needed a lot more.

‘Screw it,’ Sami said. ‘Help me load him on the back.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Ben said. ‘He’s worthless. What can we do with him?’

‘I don’t know. He’s only a kid. I can’t kill him and leaving him here to die is even worse.’

‘Fine, give us the pistol and I’ll do it,’ Ben said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, we’re a sitting target if the army turns up.’

‘No. Help us lift him on the back.’

Sami put her hands under my armpits and started dragging me. Ben dashed over and grabbed me by the ankles. I got tossed onto the open rear platform of the pickup, amongst cans of petrol and sacks of food.

They got in the cab, stuck the pickup in gear and tore off. Every bump in the road threw me off the dusty metal floor. Sami slid through the back window of the cab while Ben was still driving and sat near my head.

‘So who are you mystery man?’ She asked, not expecting an answer.

She undid my G-Shock watch and put it on her arm. Then she went in my shorts and found the knife. She picked out all the different blades and looked impressed.

‘That must have cost some serious dollars, traitor,’ she said. ‘It was worth picking you up just for that.’

She pocketed the knife. Then she cradled my head and tipped more water in my mouth. Half of it missed, because the pickup was jerking everywhere. I coughed a couple of times. She found a piece of fruit in one of the sacks, crushed it in her hand and dribbled the pieces into my mouth. I hadn’t eaten for a whole day, it tasted amazing. Then she got a plastic tub out of her jacket and let me suck grains of cooked rice off her fingers.

‘My plane crashed,’ I gasped.

‘I didn’t see any plane,’ Sami laughed. ‘You must think I’m soft in the head.’

The pain was still hell, but my mind felt clearer after a drop of liquid. I knew I had a chance.

‘I lost my brother,’ I said. ‘He walked the way you came. Did you see him?’

Sami shrugged, ‘I saw a little guy.’

‘He’s eight,’ I said. ‘In a green striped shirt.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can we go back for him?’

‘I should have already killed you,’ Sami said. ‘Don’t push your luck.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Back to our camp. You’re gonna be asked a lot of questions, so you better drop that dumb aeroplane story and start making some sense.’

We turned off the main road into a clearing not much wider than the car. Sami jumped out the back. She moved loads of branches and swung a giant log out the way, revealing another road. I doubt I could have lifted the log, she had biceps like Popeye. Ben drove the car a few meters, then they both got out and replaced the log and everything so the road was hidden again. Sami got back in the cab.

The road was steep; a thirty degree slope. A couple of times the Subaru lost it’s grip and slid downwards. Ben had to roll back and attack the path at speed. I grabbed the sides of the pickup, frightened I’d get flung out. A can of petrol fell on my guts and my back slammed the metal a couple of times. When the road got too narrow, there was a spot for the pickup to park under trees alongside a truck and a Nissan 4WD. Ben and Sami picked up palms and branches and covered the car with them.

They loaded themselves up with food sacks from the pickup.

‘It’s a kilometre to camp,’ Sami said. ‘Mostly uphill. You up to it?’

‘I’ll try,’ I said.

‘We’ll I’m not carrying you,’ Ben said. ‘And now you know where our camp is, we can’t let you escape. So if you don’t make it…’

Ben made a gun with his fingers and pointed it at my head.

‘Bang.’

5. Captain.

The rebel camp was built around the administrative office of an abandoned copper mine. It was long concrete shed with a corrugated metal roof, surrounded by the shacks where everyone lived. These were made out of scrap: clapboard, wood, plastic sheeting.

I got washed and bandaged by a woman called Amo and her twelve year old son, Beck. They gave me a bowl of hot mashed banana and what looked like white sausages. The cut in my head still killed me and I was covered in insect bites, but it was nothing compared to a few hours earlier. When I closed my eyes the white light wasn’t there. If I fell asleep now, it wouldn’t be forever.

The sun had gone and the only light came from a couple of flickering candles. I’d been dumped on the floor in the concrete building. Everyone who lived on camp sat around me. Nine People, twelve if you included the little ones fighting sleep. The discussion was about if I should be allowed to live.

Leading the no voters were two guys standing against one wall called Don and Amin. Muscular chests, glazed in sweat. Don said I was a security risk. He offered to take me outside and strangle me. He looked hard enough to do it as well. In fact, he looked hard enough to do it, laugh while he was doing it and never have a twinge of conscience for as long as he lived. Every time I looked their way, their eyes were drilling into me. It was like getting touched by death.