Grk Undercover (31 page)

“I’ve got to get Grk back,” said Tim.

“Of course you do, mate. But you don’t want to die trying.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” said Shane. “My phone doesn’t have a signal out here, so we can’t call for help. I haven’t got a gun. Or even a knife. I can barely walk. And you’re just a kid. I’m very sorry, mate, but I think I’ve landed you in the middle of a horrible mess. I should have left you with your mum.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Tim. “I wanted to come and help Grk.”

“You won’t help him if you’re dead.”

“I know,” said Tim. “But there must be something we can do. We just need a brilliant plan.”

“I’m not very good at brilliant plans,” said Shane.

“Nor am I,” said Tim. “But let’s try and think of one.”

They sat with their backs to the tree, staring at the bleak landscape, and thought until their heads hurt.

Every few minutes, different strange noises echoed out of the bushes: a chirrup or a shriek, a cry or a warble, the noises of mysterious animals and reptiles.

Around them, there were a few signs of life: an eagle circling overhead; a snake slithering through the dust; a pair of kangaroos lolloping between the spiky bushes. But the outback mostly looked dry and dusty and worryingly dead. Tim knew that if they stayed here, leaning against this tree, without food or water, he and Shane would soon be dead too. He had to think of something. An idea. A plan. A brilliant scheme to rescue Grk from Red Jelly.

He thought through the events of the past few days. He tried to remember everything that he knew about the Red Jelly Gang. He imagined what Grk must have seen and felt. He thought about Dead Dog Creek and the bags of money and the four helicopters that had flown here from Sydney. And then he had an idea.

“Tim,” hissed Shane. “Hey, Tim, wake up.”

For a moment, Tim wondered why someone was talking to him in an Australian accent. Then he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“An hour before dawn.”

They were whispering, although there was no need to. Even if they shouted, they wouldn’t be heard by anyone except a few snakes, lizards and a couple of kangaroos.

Tim had a pee behind the tree; then they set off, walking along the road at a slow but steady pace.

Last night, before the sun set, Tim had searched the local area and returned with two long branches. Shane had torn strips from his shirt and attached one branch to his leg as a splint. Now he was using the second branch as a crutch.

Overhead, the stars faded as the first glimmer of dawn crept across the sky. Looking through the gloom at the road ahead,
they could see the silhouettes of buildings, gradually growing bigger and more distinct.

They came to a signpost by the side of the road. In the frail light, they could just distinguish the black letters painted on the white board:

Population:
210
93
26
11
2
0

“Zero?” said Tim. “How can a town have a population of zero?”

“Everyone must have gone.”

“But where?”

“Somewhere with water, I guess. And jobs. There are a few of these towns in the outback. They sprang up during the gold rush back in the eighteen hundreds. Someone found a nugget. Other people heard about it. They came running. Built a hotel, a few houses, a church. Then the gold ran out. So everyone left.”

They carried on walking.

The sun rose just as they reached Dead Dog Creek.

On the outskirts of the town, they found four black helicopters standing in a field like horses, waiting to be ridden.

That was where they said goodbye.

They shook hands.

“Good luck,” said Shane.

“You too,” said Tim.

Without another word, they went in different directions.

Shane hobbled through the dust to the nearest helicopter. He propped his crutch against the undercarriage and swung himself into the cabin, groaning gently to himself when he knocked his leg against the door.

Tim walked briskly into Dead Dog Creek. The first beams of the rising sun lit up the roofs of the buildings. He could hear a noise that he couldn’t immediately identify, and then he realized it was a pop song. Who would be playing music at this time of the morning? He’d find out soon enough. He walked slowly and carefully between two houses, then poked his head round the corner and peered down the main street of Dead Dog Creek.

In fact, it was the only street.

Dead Dog Creek consisted of a single long street and a few derelict buildings and just about nothing else.

Shane was right about the gold rush. Over a hundred years ago, the small town had been built to house the sudden arrival of several thousand prospectors and miners hoping to find enough yellow metal to earn their fortune.

The Dead Dog Creek Hotel offered them a bed for the night where they could rest their weary limbs at the end of a long day’s digging.

The Dead Dog Creek Bank stored their newfound nuggets or exchanged them for paper money.

However, there wasn’t much money to be made in Dead Dog Creek. The new arrivals soon realized that there was no gold to be found. They went home empty-handed.

The locals had nothing to put in the bank and nothing to take out either. No one wanted to sleep in the hotel. The town emptied. A few residents stayed in their houses, scraping a
living from the dry soil, and then they died or went elsewhere, and the population shrank to zero.

Since then, the bank, the hotel, the church, the school and all the other houses in Dead Dog Creek had stood here, lonely and empty, forgotten and unused, crumbling a little more every year. The windows had no glass. The doors hung open. Every roof was punctured with holes.

It was the strangest town that Tim had ever seen.

And the strangest thing was this: twenty men were sprawled in the road. Some were lying facedown in the dust. Others were slumped against a wall or a tree trunk.

At first, Tim thought they must be dead. Then he realized that they were sleeping.

Their bodies were surrounded by what looked like the remnants of a wild party. Empty cans of beer were scattered everywhere, mingling with plastic plates and forks, half-eaten loaves of white bread, piles of burnt sausages and half-chewed bones.

A radio was mumbling gently to itself, playing pop songs, but the Red Jelly Gang slept through the noise. They had been drinking all night, and they had no reason to wake up this morning.

A ute was parked at the opposite end of the street.

Near the ute, a huge man was lying on his back in the dust, his big belly sticking out of the earth like a mountain. It was Red Jelly. He was fast asleep. And so was the little white dog who was lying beside him.

Tim stared at Grk. Finally, he’d found him. But now he didn’t know what to do.

Should he creep closer? And try to attach a leash to Grk’s collar? But he didn’t want to get too close to Red Jelly. He preferred staying where he was, out of range of a heavy fist or a leather boot.

Then he had an idea.

He pursed his lips and whistled very quietly.

He whistled so quietly, in fact, that he couldn’t even hear himself.

He tried again, a little louder.

Not loud enough to wake any sleeping criminals, but loud enough to wake a dog with very sensitive ears.

Red Jelly didn’t even stir, but Grk sat up and looked around. His nostrils twitched. His ears waggled. He sprang to his feet, turning his head from side to side, searching for the source of the noise. Then he saw Tim.

For a moment, Grk couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he barked with delight—
Woof! Woof! Woof!—
and sprinted through the dust as fast as his little legs would carry him.

“Shhh!” hissed Tim, putting his finger to his lips.

Grk took no notice. He was too happy, too excited. He sped down the main street of Dead Dog Creek, his tail wagging and his mouth open.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Red Jelly opened his eyes. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. He rubbed his big bald head with his chubby fingers. He stretched his long arms. Then he looked for Bingo.

Where had that dog gone?

He heard a noise.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Red Jelly sat up.

That was when he saw the thief.

He couldn’t believe it.

What was a boy doing here? Who was he? How had he got to Dead Dog Creek? And why did he want to steal Bingo?

Grk could have talked for hours. There was so much to say. He would have asked a hundred questions and then he would have described all the crazy things that had happened to him over the past few days. But he couldn’t talk, so he simply threw himself into Tim’s arms and licked the tip of Tim’s nose and then barked as loudly as he could.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Tim liked having his nose licked. He would have been happy to roll in the dust, tickling Grk’s belly and messing about. But he knew they had to get out of Dead Dog Creek as fast as possible.

“Come on,” he said. “This way.”

He turned and ran down the main street. Grk sprinted happily alongside him, his tail wagging faster than it had ever wagged before.

Red Jelly stared at the boy and the dog.

He could have run after them. But they had a head start. And he didn’t like running. There were much better ways to catch people.

You could use a gun, for instance. A bullet travels fast enough to catch even the speediest sprinter.

He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his trousers and took aim.

But he didn’t shoot.

He had just woken up and his head ached from last night’s party. If his hand wobbled, he might miss that nasty little thief and hit Bingo instead. He didn’t want to hurt his new best friend. He tucked his pistol into his waistband and lumbered across the street to the ute.

Red Jelly hauled himself into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. Then he pressed his fist on the horn.

A deafening PAAAAARRRRPP! echoed up and down the main street of Dead Dog Creek.

Three of Red Jelly’s men slept thought the noise. The others rolled over, clutching their heads and groaning and wondering what that awful noise was.

Red Jelly pressed the horn again. PAAARRRPP! Wake up, he was saying. Come and help me. We’ve been attacked. Then he released the hand brake and thrust his foot on the accelerator. The wheels spun and the ute leaped forward, leaving a cloud of dust.

The more quick-witted members of his gang understood immediately what had happened. Someone was trying to steal their newfound wealth. They sprang to their feet, grabbed their weapons and sprinted down the street in pursuit of their leader.

Tim and Grk dashed across dirt and dust that hadn’t felt a human foot for many years. They dodged down a narrow gap that ran between the bank and the hotel and headed for the bush.

The sun was higher in the sky now, and its fierce glare shone straight into their eyes.

Tim didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from Red Jelly. He put his head down and sprinted away from the town. He didn’t even glance at Grk, but he knew he didn’t have to. He was confident that the little dog would be galloping alongside him, keeping up with every stride.

Behind them, there was a massive crash.

What was that? A bomb? A bazooka?

Tim knew he should keep running, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to see what had exploded behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.

A moment ago, he and Grk had run down a narrow gap between two ancient buildings.

That gap no longer existed. It had been filled with bricks knocked out of the bank and the hotel.

Spilling debris into the dust, the truck was heading straight for Tim and Grk.

Through the dark windscreen, Tim could see the vast bulk of the driver, taking up twice as much space as any ordinary man.

“Run!” shouted Tim.

They couldn’t possibly go faster than a truck. But they had to try.

There was a small, spindly tree up ahead. Tim dodged to the left. Grk went to the right. They met on the other side and kept running.

The truck accelerated after them.

Red Jelly hunched over the steering wheel. His eyes were wide and his hands were sweaty and he was smiling to himself.

“Come here, Bingo,” he whispered. “Come back home.”

With an ear-shattering CRUNCH, Red Jelly’s ute drove through the tree, knocking the trunk to the ground.

Through the dust and the dirt and the mess of broken branches, Red Jelly could see the boy and the dog. He headed straight for them.

Red Jelly had a sudden memory of himself, years and years ago, rolling in the dust with Bingo.

That was before his accident, of course. He hadn’t been Red Jelly then. He had been Sidney O’Sullivan, a miserable kid living a miserable life in a miserable town.

He hated his family, his town and his life. But he had one good friend—a little white dog. Together, the two of them sneaked out of the town and found a quiet spot under a tree. And there, sometimes, Sidney would manage to forget how unhappy he was.

Until Bingo died. And he was left alone.

He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Bingo was back, and this time, no one was going to take him away.

Up ahead, the boy and the dog peeled to the left, trying to use their agility to outwit and escape the vast truck.

Red Jelly yanked the steering wheel.

The tires screeched in protest. The ute lurched and wobbled and finally turned a tight corner, spraying dust under the wheels and smashing through another spindly tree.

Tim knew he had only one way to escape.

He couldn’t fight a truck. Or outrun it.

But he could weave and dodge and double back.

And by weaving and dodging and doubling back, Tim and Grk did indeed manage to gain a few moments of freedom. Then the truck was bearing down on them again, coming closer and closer.

Tim had the weird sensation that he could feel the heat of the engine on the back of his neck. This is it, he thought. I’m
going to be squished like a grape under a big man’s boot, unless I can run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. He put his head down and gulped air into his lungs and tried to find a last reserve of energy.