Page 123 of The Island

She shivered.

Woke.

The fire was dying. It was cold.

She sat up.

Breathed deep.

“Heather, do you think Dad is in heaven?” Olivia asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

Heather’s dad said there was no one looking out for you—no God, no dead ancestors, no angels. Just medics and corpsmen. Her mother said she never thought about it, but her mother’s mother, Heather’s grandmother, had told her stories about the Great Spirit, about the mountain gods, about the old religion.

She’d try a prayer to all of them.

She grabbed the rifle and got to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.

“The dogs will find us tomorrow unless I take care of them,” she said.

Olivia took a second to process what that meant and then nodded. “Be careful,” she said.

Heather handed her the cigarette lighter. “Keep the fire going. That eucalyptus wood burns well.”

“Can you see if you can get more food?” Owen asked. “But no more wombat. I don’t think humans are supposed to eat that.”

“I’ll look for something else. Keep the mouth of the cave covered.”

“What if you don’t come back?” Owen asked.

“I’ll come back.”

“But if you don’t?”

“You and your sister hide until the police get here. The police will come. I promise you.”

Owen left it there. If the police didn’t come, they were dead. If they surrendered to the O’Neills, they were dead.

Heather ruffled his dirty hair and hugged Olivia. “Look after your little brother, OK?”

“OK.”

The charcoal of the eucalypt skewers had coated the palms of her hands. She raised them to her face and ran a line of charcoal down her left cheek.

“Why are you doing that?” Owen asked.

“So I’ll be harder to see,” she said. She walked to the cave mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” she said.

She stepped outside.

The first priority was to kill the dogs.

Then she’d see what she could do to make the O’Neills hurt. Maybe if she could make them hurt enough, they’d give her the ferry.

That seemed unlikely.

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